john-of-the-woods by abbie farwell brown illustrations by e. boyd smith houghton mifflin company boston and new york the riverside press cambridge copyright, , by abbie farwell brown all rights reserved published october to j.d. and k.d. kindest of neighbors and best of friends to all the world and its animal kingdom contents i. the tumblers ii. the fall iii. the runaway iv. the ox-cart v. the hunchback vi. the silver piece vix. the wanderer viii. the rescue ix. the animal kingdom x. the hermit xi. the pupil xii. the beau xiii. a forest ramble xiv. the wolf-brother xv. the green stranger xvi. the hunt xvii. the messenger xviii. the carrier pigeon xix. the journey xx. the arrival xxi. the palace xxii. the prince's chamber xxiii. the cure xxiv. the king xxv. the fete xxvi. the talisman conclusion illustrations the three tumblers gigi runs away have you got my boy? a quaint pair of wanderers the circle of animals watched him john talked with them you shall not kill my friend the bear the king sends for you a strange company john was protected by powerful friends he stroked the soft ball of fur i wish i could do it myself john urged the clumsy fellow to dance to me, my brothers! the king and princess came to visit him john of the woods i the tumblers it was late of a beautiful afternoon in may. in the hedges outside the village roses were blossoming, yellow and white. overhead the larks were singing their happiest songs, because the sky was so blue. but nearer the village the birds were silent, marveling at the strange noises which echoed up and down the narrow, crooked streets. "tom-tom; tom-tom; tom-tom"; the hollow thud of a little drum sounded from the market-place. boys and girls began to run thither, crying to one another:-- "the tumblers! the tumblers have come. hurry, oh, hurry!" three little brothers, beppo, giovanni, and paolo, who had been poking about the market at their mother's heels, pricked up their ears and scurried eagerly after the other children. jostling one another good-naturedly, the crowd surged up to the market-place, which stood upon a little hill. in the middle was a stone fountain, whence the whole village was wont to draw all the water it needed. in those long-ago days folk were more sparing in the use of water than they are to-day, especially for washing. perhaps we should not be so clean, if we had to bring every bucket of water that we used from the city square! "tom-tom; tom-tom; tom-tom"; the little drum sounded louder and louder as the crowd increased. men and women craned their necks to see who was beating it. the children squirmed their way through the crowd. on the highest step of the fountain stood a man dressed in red and yellow, with little bells hung from every point of his clothing, which tinkled with each movement he made. in his left hand he held a small drum, from which hung streamers of red and green and yellow ribbon. this drum he beat regularly with the palm of his skinny right hand. he was a lean, dark man, with evil little red-rimmed eyes and a hump between his shoulders. "ho! men and women! lads and lasses!" he cried in a shrill, cracked voice of strange accent. "hither, hither quickly, and make ready to give your pennies. for the tumbling is about to begin,--the most wonderful tumbling in the whole round world!" stretching out his arm, he pointed to the group below him. the crowd pressed forward and stood on tiptoe to see better. beppo and giovanni and paolo wriggled through the forest of legs and skirts and came out into the open space which had been left about the fountain. and then they saw what the backs of the butcher and baker and candlestick-maker had hidden from them. from the back of a forlorn little donkey that was tethered behind the fountain a roll of carpet had been taken and spread out on the ground. beside this stood the three tumblers. one of them was a thin, dark man, small and wicked-looking, dressed, like the drum-beater, in red and yellow. the second tumbler was a huge fellow more than six feet tall, with a shaggy mane of black hair. his muscles stood out in great knots under the suit of green tights which he wore. "a giant he is! faith, he could toss me over his shoulder like a meal-bag!" muttered the blacksmith, who stood with crossed arms looking over the heads of the crowd. "and the wicked face of him! ugh! i would not wish a quarrel with him!" but the little boys in the front row were most interested in the third tumbler, who stood between the other two, with his arms folded, ready to begin. this also was a figure in green, with short trunks of tarnished cloth-of-gold. but beside the giant, in the same dress, he looked like a pigmy or a fairy mite. this third tumbler was a little fellow of about eight, very slender and childish in form, but lithe and well-knit. instead of being dark and gypsy-like, as were the other three of the wandering band, this boy was fair, with a shock of golden hair falling about his shoulders, and with a skin of unusual whiteness, despite his life of exposure to sun and hard weather. and the eyes that looked wistfully at the children in front of him were blue as the depths into which the skylarks were at that moment diving rapturously. on the upper eyelid of the boy's left eye was a brown spot as big as an apple-seed. and this gave him a strange expression which was hard to forget. when he was grave, as now, it made him seem about to cry. if he should smile, the spot would give the mischievous look of a wink. but gigi so seldom smiled in those days that few perhaps had noted this. on his left cheek was a dark spot also. but this was only a bruise. bruises gigi always had. but they were not always in the same place. "oh, the sweet cherub!" said a motherly voice in the crowd. "i wonder if they are good to him. they look like cut-throats and murderers, but he is like the image of the little saint john in church. wolves, with a lamb in their clutches! save us all! suppose it were my beppo!" at these words of his mother's, beppo giggled, and the boy looked at him gravely. the hunchback with the drum had heard, too, and darted a furious glance into the crowd where the woman stood. then, giving a loud double beat on the drum, he signaled for the tumbling to begin. the three kicked off the sandals which protected their feet, stepped upon the carpet, and saluted the spectators. the giant stretched himself flat, and, seizing gigi in his strong arms, tossed him up in the air as one would toss a rubber ball. up, down, then back and forth between the elder tumblers, flew the little green figure, when he touched ground always landing upon his toe-tips, and finishing each trick with a somersault, easy and graceful. the boy seemed made of thistledown, so light he was, so easily he rebounded from what he touched. the children in the circle about him stared open-mouthed and admiring. oh! they wished, if only they could do those things! they thought gigi the most fortunate boy in the world. but gigi never smiled. at the end of one trick the giant growled a word under his breath, and made a motion at which the boy cringed. something had gone not quite right, and trouble threatened. he bit his lip, and the performance went on as before. now gigi had to do the most difficult trick of all. with the giant as the base, and cecco, the other tumbler, above, gigi made the top of a living pyramid that ran, turned, twisted, and capered as the great strength of the giant willed. at a signal they managed somehow to reverse their positions. all stood upon their heads; gigi, with his little green legs waving in the air, heard shouts of applause which always greeted this favorite act. but the sound gave him no pleasure. he was tired; he was sore from a beating of the previous night, and his head ached from the blow which had made that ugly mark on his cheek. gigi grew dizzy-- ii the fall suddenly a woman's voice screamed from the crowd:-- "ah! the cherub!" gigi had fallen from the top of the pyramid. he fell on his shoulder, and for a moment lay still. but presently he was on his feet, kissing his hand prettily to the crowd, and trying to pretend that he had fallen on purpose, as he had been taught. the giant and cecco were also quickly on their feet, and the three bowed, side by side, as a sign that the show was over. cecco hissed a word into gigi's ear, and he knew what to fear next. he shuddered and tried to draw aside; but the giant turned to him, livid with rage, and with one blow of his heavy hand struck him to the ground. "so! you spoil us again!" he muttered. "you good-for-nothing! i'll teach you! now take the tambourine and gather up the coins from the crowd. you'll get a beating anyway for this. but if you don't take up more than we had at the last town, you'll have such a trouncing as you never yet knew. now then!" dazed and trembling, gigi took the tambourine, and, shaking its little bells appealingly, went about among the people. they had already begun to scatter, with the wonderful agility of a crowd which has not paid. some, however, still lingered from curiosity and with the hope of a second performance. a number of small copper coins jingled into gigi's tambourine. he approached the good woman who had shown an interest in him. she stooped down and thrust a piece of silver into his hand, whispering,-- "it is for yourself, child. do not give it to the cruel men! keep it to spend upon a feast-day, darling!" gigi looked at her, surprised. people so seldom spoke kindly to him! the brown spot upon his eyelid quivered. he seemed about to cry. the woman patted him on the head kindly. "if they are cruel to you, i'd not stay with them," she whispered. "i'd run away.--hey, beppo! hey, giovanni! paolo!" she called, "we must be off." and she turned to gather up her young ones, who were shouting about the market-place, trying to stand upon their heads as gigi had done. gigi clasped the silver piece tightly in his hand, and went on, shaking the tambourine after the retreating crowd. but few more pennies were coaxed away. presently he made his way back to the group of tumblers, now seated on the fountain-steps. "well, what have you?" growled the giant. gigi presented the tambourine with the few pennies rattling around somewhat lonesomely. "humph!" snarled cecco. "less than last time. is that all?" "a beating you get!" roared the giant. gigi shivered. "no,--not all," he said. "here is a silver piece," and he held out the coin which the kind woman had given him. "ah, silver! that is better!" cried tonio the hunchback, with his eyes shining greedily. "give it here"; and he snatched it and thrust it into his pouch. tonio was the treasurer of the gypsy band. but the giant had been eyeing gigi with an ugly gleam. "he was keeping it!" he growled. "he did not mean to give it up. he would have stolen it!" "it was mine!" cried gigi with spirit. "she gave it to me and told me to keep it for a fiesta. but i gave it up because--because i did not want to be beaten again." "you did not give it up soon enough!" roared the giant, working himself into a terrible rage. "you shall smart for this, you whelp! after supper i will beat you as never a boy was beaten yet. but i must eat first. i must get up my strength. no supper for you, gigi. do you watch the donkey here while we go to the inn and spend the silver piece. then, when we are camped outside the town,--then we will attend to you!" iii the runaway it was but a step to the inn around the corner. off went the three gypsies, leaving gigi with the donkey beside the fountain. the poor animal stood with hanging head and flopping ears. he too was weary and heart-broken by a hard life and many beatings. his back was piled with the heavy roll of carpet and all the poor belongings of the band, including the tent for the night's lodging. for on these warm spring nights they slept in the open, usually outside the walls of some town. they were never welcome visitors, but vagrants and outcasts. gigi sat on the fountain-step with his aching head between his hands. he was very hungry, and his heart ached even more than his head or his empty stomach. he was so tired of their cruelties and their hard ways with him, which had been ever since he could remember. the kind word which the good woman had spoken to him had unnerved him, too. she had advised him to run away. run away! he had thought of that before. but how could he do it? tonio the hunchback was so wicked and sharp! he would know just where to find a runaway. cecco was so swift and lithe, like a cat! he would run after gigi and capture him. the giant was so big and cruel! he would kill gigi when he was brought back. the boy shuddered at the thought. gigi pulled around him the old flapping cloak which he wore while traveling, to conceal his gaudy tumbler's costume. if he only had that silver piece perhaps he could do something, he thought. much could be done with a silver piece. it was long since the band had seen one. they would be having a fine lark at the inn, eating and drinking! they would not be back for a long time. gigi looked up and around the marketplace. there was no one visible. the crowd had melted as if by magic. every one was at supper,--every one but gigi. what a chance to escape, if he were ever to try! the color leaped into the boy's pale cheeks. why not? now or never! he rose to his feet, pulling his cloak closer about him, and looked stealthily up and down. the donkey lifted his head and eyed him wistfully, as if to say, "oh, take me away, too!" but gigi paid no attention to him. he was not cruel, but he had never learned to be kind. without a pang, without a farewell to the beast who had been his companion and fellow-sufferer for so many long months, he turned his back on the fountain and stole down one of the darkest little side streets. he ran on down, constantly down, for the village was on the side of a hill, and the market-place was at its top. around sharp curves he turned, dived under dark archways and through dirty alleys, down flights of steps, until he was out of breath and too dizzy to go further. he had come out on the highroad, it seemed. the little brown cottages were farther apart here. it was more like the country, which gigi loved. he turned into an enclosure and hid behind a stack of straw, panting. [illustration: gigi runs away.] he wondered if by this time they had discovered his flight, and he shivered to think of what tonio and cecco were saying if it were so. he looked up and down the road. there was something familiar about it. yes, it was surely the road up which they had toiled that very afternoon, coming from the country and a far-off village. they had been planning to go on from here down the other side of the hill to the next village, gigi knew. but now would they retrace their steps to look for him? just then he spied a black speck moving down the road toward him. gigi's heart sank. could they be after him already? he crouched closer behind the straw-stack, trembling. they must not find him! nearer and nearer came the speck. at last gigi saw that it was a cart drawn by a team of white oxen, which accounted for the slowness of the pace. he sighed with relief. this at least he need not fear. as it came nearer, gigi saw that in the cart were a woman and three little boys of about his own age. and presently, as he watched the lumbering team curiously, he recognized the very woman who had given him the silver piece an hour before. these, too, were the little boys who had faced him in the crowd. a sudden hope sprang into gigi's heart. perhaps she would help him to escape. perhaps she would at least give him a lift on his way. he decided to risk it. iv the ox-cart gigi waited until the cart was nearly opposite, and he could hear the voices of the woman and the children talking and laughing together. then he crept out from behind the stack and stepped to the side of the road. the great, lumbering oxen eyed him curiously, but did not pause. the children stopped talking, and one of them pointed gigi out to his mother. "look, mama! a little boy!" "hello!" cried the woman in her hearty, kind voice, stopping the team. "what are you doing here, little lad?" she did not recognize gigi at once in his long traveling cloak. but suddenly he threw back the folds of it and showed the green tights underneath. "do you remember?" he said. "you told me to run away. well, i have done it!" "it is, the little tumbler! the tumbler, mama!" cried the boys in one breath, clapping their hands with pleasure. but the woman stared blankly. "my faith!" she said at last. "you lost no time in taking the hint. how did you get here so soon? we were homeward bound when you had scarcely finished tumbling. now here you are before us, on foot!" "i ran," said gigi simply. "i came not by the highway, which is long and winding, but down steep streets like stairs, which brought me here very quickly." "see the bruise on his cheek, mother!" cried beppo, the littlest boy, pointing. the good woman saw it, and her eyes flashed. "oh! oh!" she clucked. "the wicked men! did they do that to you?" "yes. and they will do more if they catch me now," said gigi. "i know. they have beaten me many times till i could not move. but if they catch me this time, they will kill me because i ran away. will you help me?" "why, what can i do?" asked the woman uneasily, looking up and down the road. "if they should come now! you belong to them. i shall get myself into trouble." gigi's face fell. "very well," he said. "good-by. you were kind to me to-day, and i thought--perhaps--" he turned away, with his lips quivering. "stay!" cried the woman. "where is the silver piece which i gave you? you can at least buy food and a night's lodging with that." "they took it from me," said gigi. "i had to give it up because there was so little money in the tambourine,--only coppers. they said people would not pay because i fell; and so they would beat me again." "they took it from you! the thieves!" cried the woman angrily. "nay, then i will indeed help you to escape. climb in here, boy, among my youngsters. we have still an hour's ride down the road, and you shall go so far at least." gigi climbed into the cart and nestled down among the children. the woman clucked to the oxen, and forthwith they moved on down the highroad. the shadows were beginning to darken, and the birds had ceased to sing. "hiew! hiew! come up! come up!" the woman urged on the great white oxen. "it is growing late, and the good man will wonder why we are so long returning from market. this has been our holiday," she explained to gigi. "and to think that the tumblers should have happened to come to the market this very day! the children will never forget!" beppo had been staring at gigi with fascinated eyes. "how did you learn?" he asked suddenly. "could i do it too?" gigi laughed. for the first time that day his face lost its sadness, and the brown spot on his eyelid, falling into one of the little creases, gave him a very mischievous look. he seemed to wink. immediately the whole cartful of peasants began to laugh with him, they knew not why. they could not help it. this was what happened whenever gigi laughed, as he seldom did. but soon gigi grew grave once more. "why do you want to learn?" he asked. "it does not make me happy. for oh! they are so cruel!" "do they beat you much?" asked paolo sympathetically. gigi nodded his head with a sigh. "very much," he said. "i am always black and blue." "am i too big to learn?" demanded giovanni, the oldest boy, who was perhaps twelve and heavier than gigi. "when did you begin?" gigi grew thoughtful. "ever since i remember, i have tumbled," he said. "ever since i was a baby, before i could even turn a somersault, they tossed me back and forth between them and made me kiss my hand to the people who stood about." "and did they beat you then?" asked beppo, doubling up his fists. gigi sighed again. "they always beat me," he said simply. "whatever i did, they beat me when they were ugly. and that was always." "do you belong to them?" asked the woman suddenly. "they are gypsies, black men. but you are fair like the people of the north. where did they get you, gigi?" gigi shook his head. "i do not know," he said. "i have belonged to them always, i think." "hark!" said mother margherita suddenly. "what's that?" there was a faint noise far off on the road behind them. gigi trembled. "they are coming for me!" he said. "what shall i do?" "no, no," said the woman. "i do not fear that. it is too soon, surely. but it is growing dark here in the valley. this is a lonely spot, and there are many wicked men about besides your masters, gigi." "thieves and villains!" whispered giovanni. "oh, mother, hide the bag of silver that you got at market!" "sh! sh!" warned the mother sharply. "do not speak of it! hiew, hiew! go on! go on!" and she urged the oxen faster. but the great beasts would not hasten their pace for her. the noise came nearer. they could hear that it was the trotting of hoofs. "there is only one animal," said gigi, whose ears were keen. "i can hear his four feet patter. i think it is the donkey!" "i can see him now!" cried paolo. "it is a little man on a donkey. he is bending forward and beating it hard." gigi strained his eyes to see. "it is tonio!" he whispered fearfully. "i know it! oh, the hunchback will kill me when he finds me! and he will take your silver, too!" "sh! sh!" commanded the mother. "he shall not find you. here, take this bag, gigi. it will be safer with you. and here, creep under my skirts and keep close. he will never guess where you are!" mother margherita spread out her generous draperies, which luckily were both long and wide, and gigi crept under them, being wholly covered. the other boys huddled close, shivering with a not wholly unpleasant excitement. this was an adventure indeed for a holiday! the rider drew nearer and nearer, lashing the poor donkey unmercifully. at last they could see his face, red and lowering. "halt!" he cried suddenly. "you in the cart there, halt!" v the hunchback the oxen stopped. the cart came to a standstill. the boys huddled closer, and gigi's heart beat like a tambourine. he was sure that tonio would hear it. "what do you want?" asked mother margherita, and her usually kind voice was harsh. "you seem to have a load of young cubs there," shouted tonio. "have you got my boy, gigi the tumbler, among them? some one has stolen the little monster." [illustration: "have you got my boy?"] "what are you talking about!" answered mother margherita sharply. "i am a respectable countrywoman returning from market-day with my children. what business have i with tumblers and vagrants!" "that i'll see for myself, woman," said tonio, jumping unsteadily down from the donkey and approaching the cart. tonio had been drinking, and his little eyes were red and fierce. "keep your hands off my children!" cried their plucky mother, brandishing her whip. but tonio was not to be kept away. "i will see them!" he snarled. he thrust his ugly face into those of the three boys, one after another, eyeing them sharply in the growing darkness. but there was little about these sun-browned, black-eyed youngsters to suggest the slender, fair-haired gigi. tonio peered into the cart. he even thrust his long, lean hand into the straw that covered the floor, and felt about the corners, while the boys wriggled away from his touch like eels from a landing-net. gigi held his breath. but mother margherita would not tamely endure all this. "get along, you vermin!" she cried, striking at his hands as he approached the forward end of the cart. "can't you see that the boy is not here? what would he be doing in my cart, anyway? i'll trouble you to let us go on our way in peace. my man in the house down yonder will be out to help us with his crossbow and his dogs, if we scream a bit louder. be off with you, and look for your boy in the village. is it likely he would have come so far as this, the poor tired little lad?" "the others are searching the village," growled the hunchback tipsily. "they'll find him if he's there. 'tis likely you are right. and then! i must be there to help at the punishing. oh! that will be sport!--have any other teams passed you on the road?" he asked suddenly. "have you overtaken no one on foot?" "we have passed no one," said mother margherita truthfully, starting up the oxen. "hiew! hiew! go on! go on," she clucked. "we must get home to bed." the hunchback withdrew from the cart unsteadily, and mounted his donkey. for a moment he looked doubtfully up and down the road, then he turned the poor tired animal's head once more toward the village, and they began to plod back up the slope. "the lord forgive me!" whispered mother margherita piously. "i told a lie, and before my children, too! but it was to spare a child suffering, perhaps death. surely, the lord who loves little children will forgive me this sin." so the good woman mused, as, faint with terror and gasping for breath, gigi came out from under her skirts. he handed back the bag of silver, and gave a sigh of relief. the little boys seized him rapturously. "you are saved, gigi!" cried paolo. "he will never find you now," said giovanni. "see, we are almost home! you shall come and live with us and teach us how to tumble!" cried beppo, hugging his new friend closely. but mother margherita interrupted him. "not so fast, not so fast, children," she warned. "gigi is saved for now. but we may be able to do little more for him. your father is master in the house, remember. your father may not be pleased with what we have done. never promise what you may not be able to give, my beppo." and she fell to musing again rather uneasily. the boys were all suddenly silent, and gigi, who had warmed to their kindness, felt a sudden chill. he had not thought of anything beyond the safety of the moment. he had made no plans, he had only hoped vaguely that these good people might help him. but now, what was to happen next? was there still something more to fear? suddenly the flash of a lantern lighted the road ahead. a man's voice hailed them loudly. "hello! hello! will you never be coming home?" "father! it is father!" cried the three boys in an answering shout. then with a common thought they all stopped short, and gigi felt them looking at him in the darkness. "what will he think of gigi?" he heard beppo whisper to his brothers. "sh!" warned mother margherita. and the man's voice sounded nearer. "hello, old woman!" it called gruffly. "well, you did come back, didn't you? i began to believe that you had all run away." "run away!" there was a little pause before any one answered. and gigi felt the elbows of the boys nudging him in the side. "father's angry!" they whispered. "father is terrible when he is angry. you had better look out!" then gigi knew that there was something else to fear that night. and his heart sank. was there to be no end of his troubles? vi the silver piece the team stopped in front of a stone cottage, from the window of which the light shone hospitably. they all jumped down from the cart, and under cover of the darkness mother margherita hustled gigi with the other boys into the house, while giuseppe, the father, cared for the oxen. the mother busied herself in preparing supper, and the boys scattered about on various errands. but gigi sat in a corner by the fire, too tired to move or speak. he had thrown off his long cloak, and the fire glanced brightly upon the green and gold costume of this quaint little figure, so out of place in the simple cottage. presently giuseppe entered with a heavy tread, and paused in amazement at what he saw on his hearthstone. "hello!" he cried gruffly. "what's this?" mother margherita came forward quickly. "it is a little tumbler," she said. "we saw him do his tricks at the market to-day. the gypsies beat him, and he has run away. let us give him at least supper and a shelter for the night, giuseppe?" her tone was beseeching. "hum!" grumbled giuseppe doubtfully. "a runaway! a tumbler! a thief, i dare say, as well. a pretty fellow to bring into an honest man's house! his master will be after him, and then we shall all get into trouble for sheltering a runaway. margherita, you were always a foolish woman! is this all you have to show for market-day? where is the money?" "here it is, giuseppe," said the mother, handing him the bag of silver, which he thrust into his pocket. "now let us have supper. you can count the silver afterward, and we will tell you about everything when that is over." with a very bad grace the father watched the little stranger timidly take his place at the board between paolo and giovanni, beppo crying because he could not have the tumbler next to him also. there was much to talk about at that meal. they had to describe the holiday at market, which was a great event for the little family. then there were the tumblers; and the adventure of gigi and the hunchback,--that was the most exciting of all. and how near they came to losing the bag of silver which they had earned by selling their vegetables at the market! giuseppe asked gigi many questions, not unkindly, but with a bluntness that made the boy wince. and often mother margherita spoke up for him, with a kind answer. gigi grew paler and paler, and his food lay almost untouched on his plate. he was too tired to eat. at last, when supper was finished. mother margherita rose and lighted a candle. "come with me, gigi," she said, "and i will show you where you are to sleep this night." gigi followed her readily, glad to escape further questioning, and eager to rest his aching head. the little boys called after him a hearty good-night. but giuseppe saw him go without a word, casting sidewise looks after the retreating figures, and grunting sourly. there was no room for gigi in the loft where the family slept. but out in the stable, beside the oxen, was a fresh pile of straw, a fine bed for the tired little wanderer. when mother margherita had bidden him a kind good-night and had closed the stable door behind her, gigi threw himself upon the straw and was almost instantly asleep. the oxen breathed gently beside him, chewing their cud. everything was still and peaceful. and the night passed. "cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed the first cock, speaking the same tongue that he learned at the beginning of the world, and that he always uses in every land, among every people. it was but a few moments later when gigi was awakened suddenly by a touch on his shoulder. the boy opened his eyes and stared about, bewildered. he did not know where he was. who was this bending over him in the dim light? not tonio; not cecco; not the giant? then he recognized mother margherita, stooping low with a pitiful expression on her face. she had a little bundle in her hand. "get up, gigi," she whispered. "you must be off. my man is so angry! he vows he will take you to the village to-day and give you up to your masters. he thinks you are a thief, gigi. but i do not believe that you stole the silver piece." "the silver piece!" cried gigi, still more bewildered. "sh!" cautioned the woman, laying a hand on his lips. "giuseppe must not know that i am here. he sleeps still. when we counted the money in the bag we found it short by one piece of silver, besides the one i gave you. that was my own to do with as i chose. but he believes that you stole another when you were holding the bag for me, hiding under my skirts." "i did not take it!" cried gigi, wide-awake now. "oh, i would not steal from you,--not from you, the only person who was ever kind to me!" "there, there! i told him so!" said the good woman soothingly. "i told him i must have lost it at the market when i was making change for somebody. but he will not believe. you must be off, gigi, before he wakes, or you will have to go back to those cruel fellows. giuseppe is so set! like a mule he is when he is angry!" gigi sprang to his feet and looked wildly around. "where shall i go? what shall i do?" he asked. mother margherita looked at the pale little lad and her eyes filled. "poor little fellow!" she sighed. "suppose you were one of my boys, beppo or paolo! but we must lose no time"; and she dashed the tears from her eyes. "here is your cloak to hide that gaudy dress. and here is a bundle of food,--all i could spare without the good man's knowledge. for it must seem that you have run away of your own accord. i know that will make him sure that you are a thief. but i dare not let him guess that i have warned you and helped you to escape. you do not know giuseppe's anger!--farewell, dear little lad, and may the saints have you in their keeping." she led him to the door and pointed out the direction, in the gray dawn. she showed him where, to the north, by a great tree, a lane branched from the highroad. "follow that," she said. "it will be safer in case you are pursued. and it comes at last to the great road into another country. there perhaps you will be safe and find friends who can help you more than i have done. though none can wish you better." and she hugged him close. "farewell, gigi!" vii the wanderer with a lump in his throat, gigi left the only roof that had ever shown him kindness. in the gray dawn he crept out to the highroad. there was no time to be lost, for already the east was growing pink, and soon the sun would be making long shadows on the open road. giuseppe would surely spy him and bring him back. as soon as he was outside the farm enclosure, gigi began to run. but he found that he was stiff and sore from his fall of the day before, and from the many beatings which he had received of late. every bone in his body ached, and especially his head, which throbbed so as to make him faint. still he ran on. for more than anything else he feared being captured and sent back to the gypsies. at last gigi came to the great tree where branched the cross-road to the north. here he turned aside. then he drew a deep breath, feeling safer. he ceased running, and presently, being hungry and tired, he sat down upon a stone and opened the bundle which mother margherita had given him. he found bread and cheese, and began to eat greedily, until he remembered that he knew not where he should find dinner and supper. he looked at the remnant of bread and cheese longingly, but at last wrapped it up and put it back into the little pouch which, as was the custom in those times, he wore at his belt. the lane upon which he was now traveling was shadier than the highroad, and as he went on the trees grew even taller and bigger. apparently the way was leading through the outskirts of a forest. the lane was more crooked, also. gigi could not see far either before or behind him, because of the constant turnings. suddenly, he stopped short and listened. there was a sound; yes, there certainly was a sound on the road behind him,--the noise of galloping hoofs. gigi was seized with a panic. without stopping to think, he plunged from the road into the forest, and began to run wildly through the underbrush. he did not care in which direction he went,--anywhere, as far as possible from the pursuing hoof-beats. on, on he plunged, sometimes sprawling over roots of trees, sometimes bruising himself against low branches or stumbling upon stones which seemed to rise up on purpose to delay him; torn by briars and tripped by clutching vines. but always he ran on and on, this way and that, wherever there seemed an opening in the forest, which was continually growing denser and more wild. how long he wandered he did not know. the sun was high in the heavens when at last, wholly exhausted, gigi fell upon a bank of moss. his weary bones ached. he was too tired to move, but lay there motionless, and presently he fell into a troubled sleep. when he awoke with a start, it was growing dark, and he was very hungry. he felt for the pouch into which he had put his bits of bread and cheese, but it was gone! he must have lost it when pushing through the bushes. what was he to do? he knew he must find his way back to the highroad, where he could perhaps beg a supper at some cottage. but how was he to know which way to go? he looked up and around him in despair. he was in the midst of the wildest kind of forest. the trees grew close together, and there was no path, no sign that men had ever passed this way. moreover, it was growing darker every minute. already the shadows behind the trees were black and terrible. gigi suddenly remembered that there were fierce animals in the forests. in those days, all over europe bears and wolves and many kinds of wild beasts, large and small, wandered wherever there were trees and hiding-places; in fact, one might meet them anywhere except in cities and towns. and sometimes in winter, when they were very hungry, bold wolves prowled even in the market-places. gigi shuddered. he dared not think of sleep, alone in this dreadful place. he must try to find the road. once more he crawled to his feet and began to stagger through the darkness, groping with his hands to ward off the branches which scratched his face and the thorns which tore his garments into rags. now there began to be strange sounds in the forest. the birds had ceased to sing, save for a chirp now and then as gigi's passing wakened some tired songster. but there were other noises which gigi did not understand, and which set his heart to knocking fearfully; the cracking of twigs far off and near at hand; little scurries in the underbrush as he approached; now and then the crash of something bounding through the bushes in the distance; sometimes a squeak or a chatter which sounded terrible to the little boy's unaccustomed ears. and finally, far off in the forest, came a long, low howl that set his teeth to chattering. was it a wolf? the thought was more than gigi could bear. he fainted, and fell forward into a bed of soft green moss. viii the rescue gigi must have lain all night where he fell. for when he opened his eyes the sun was shining dimly through the dense leaves of the tree overhead. he remembered only the last thing he had heard before his eyes closed,--that long howl in the darkness. so it was with a thrill of terror that he felt a strange touch on his face. something warm and wet was passing over his cheek. something soft and warm was cuddling close to his side. he thrust out his hand feebly, groping at something to help him rise. his fingers closed in thick, soft hair. suddenly gigi knew what was happening to his face. some big animal was licking it with a coarse but gentle tongue! was it the wolf that had howled? a dreadful thought! gigi screamed aloud. he struck at the creature with all the strength he had, which was little enough. "get away! go along with you!" he cried in gypsy gibberish. in answer, the animal uttered a whine, very gentle, very piteous; and it began to lick the hand which had struck it. gigi's eyes had now grown used to the half-light. suddenly he saw what had lain beside him, keeping him warm all night. it was a great shaggy dog, brown and white. around his neck was a heavy collar of leather studded with nails. gigi did not like dogs. the only ones he knew had always chased the tumblers and barked at them as they entered or left a village. sometimes they had snapped at gigi's heels so viciously that he had cried out. and then cecco would cuff him for making a fuss. but this dog seemed friendly. he looked up in gigi's face, and wagged his tail pleasantly. he whined and put his nose in gigi's hand; then he got to his feet and ran away a few steps, looking back at the boy and waiting. gigi did not know what it meant. but when the dog saw that the boy was not following, he went back and repeated his action. several times he did this, and still gigi lay looking at him, too tired and too weak to make an effort, even to think. at last the dog came back once more. this time he took gigi's hand between his teeth, very gently, and began to pull him in the direction toward which he had first gone. then gigi knew. the dog was trying to lead him somewhere! a throb of hope warmed his heart. perhaps this was a friend who would bring him out of the dreadful forest to some place where he could eat. for oh, he was so hungry! he dragged himself to his feet, and tried to follow, leaning a hand on the dog's neck. the creature was wild with joy, and began to bark and wag his tail furiously. even this motion made the boy totter, he was so weak. he took a few steps, then he had to stop. he was sore all over, dizzy and faint. he lay down on the ground with his head between his hands. and once more the good dog crept near and poked his wet nose into gigi's face, licking his cheek. the boy reached out a hand and patted him timidly. it was the first time gigi had ever felt friendly toward an animal! when the dog found that it was of no use to try to lead gigi on, he sat still and seemed to think for a few moments. then he came close and crouched in the moss beside gigi, whining softly and rubbing his nose against the boy's knee. evidently he wanted his new friend to do something. the boy looked at him wearily, and wondered. he took hold of the collar about the dog's neck. yes! that was it! the dog barked and wagged his tail, but did not move. he was still waiting. gigi looked at the big fellow lying there. he was almost as large as the little donkey who bore the luggage of the tumblers upon their journeys. he was big enough to carry gigi himself. was that what the creature meant? gigi lifted one leg over the dog's back, keeping hold of the collar as tightly as he could. the animal rose to his feet with a glad bark. yes, this was what he wanted. he began to move forward slowly, for gigi was a heavy burden and his feet nearly touched the ground. slowly they moved through the forest, a quaint pair of wanderers. sometimes gigi felt faint and ill, and lay forward, resting his head on the dog's soft neck. sometimes they stopped to rest. then gigi lay flat on the moss, with the dog stretched out close to his side. but they were both unwilling to waste many minutes so. [illustration: a quaint pair of wanderers.] ix the animal kingdom presently gigi and the dog came to a clearing in the forest. all about was as wild as anything they had passed. but here, quite alone, stood a little hut made of logs and branches twisted together. the first thing that gigi saw, after the hut itself, was an old man in a coarse gray gown, sitting on a stump, reading a book. his head was bare, and he had a long white beard. his feet were bare, too, and he wore leather sandals. a rope was tied about his waist. gigi had sometimes seen men so dressed plodding along the highroad or begging from the townsfolk. if he thought about them at all, he believed them to be some rival sort of performers, like the tumblers themselves. it seemed very queer to see one of the gray men here in the lonely forest,--and with such strange companions! gigi stared and stared again, rubbing his tired eyes to make sure that they saw aright. on the old man's knees was curled, asleep, a comfortable white cat. three little kittens played with the knotted ends of his girdle, swarming up and down the gray gown of the reader. on his shoulder perched a squirrel, busily eating a nut which he held in his little paws. close by, a brown and white deer grazed about the door of the little hut. a great black raven hopped gravely about the old man's feet, now and then picking up a bug. lying peacefully asleep in front of the hut door, like a yellow mat of fur, a fox was stretched. in and out among the rose-bushes of a tiny garden which was planted beneath the window of the hut, hopped several brown hares, seeming much at home. the old man's head nodded forward on his book. he could sleep soundly, it seemed, with all these little live things swarming about him. even as his gray locks swept the page, a thrush fluttered down and lighted gently on the bald crown, beginning to sing so sweetly that gigi held his breath. all this the boy saw in that first glimpse before he and the dog parted the bushes and came out into the clearing. in that instant everything changed. the dog gave a sharp bark of pleasure. the old man let the book fall from his hand, and sat staring. the animals leaped from their slumbers and scuttled away in every direction, some into the hut, some into the neighboring bushes, some melting as if by magic into the forest. the squirrel and the thrush took shelter in the treetops. only the raven, with ruffled feathers, remained at the old man's side, turning a fierce little eye upon the newcomer. by this time gigi had thrown himself from the dog's back, and stood feebly leaning against a tree. released from his burden, the dog bounded forward, and was soon leaping upon the old man's shoulders, covering his face and hands and feet with eager kisses. "down, brutus, down!" said the old man, in a tongue which gigi could not understand. "where hast thou been so long, good dog? and what new pet hast thou brought for my colony?" he looked towards gigi with keen, kind eyes. "come hither, my lad," he said in the same tongue. but gigi only stared, not understanding. he was growing afraid of this queer old man, who spoke a strange language and had wild animals for his friends; who read, too, in a great black book! gigi had heard of wicked wizards and sorcerers, and he believed that he saw one now. he turned about and tried to run away. but his poor head grew dizzy, and before he knew it he had fallen, and lay sobbing and shivering, unable to rise. presently he felt the dog's gentle tongue licking his face. a moment after, kind, strong arms lifted him and bore him into the little hut. the old man laid gigi on a cot beside the window, and after laying his hand on the boy's head and wrist, went away and returned with something in a cup. "drink this, my child," he said. and this time gigi understood. he drank and felt better. then the old man asked him in the tongue which gigi knew, "are you hungry, lad?" the boy nodded, and his eyes must have told how nearly starved he was. the old man went swiftly to a little cupboard in the wall, and soon came back with bread and milk in an earthen bowl. "eat," he said, lifting gigi's head on his arm. "eat this good bread, my son, and drink the warm milk of my friend the doe, which i had just set aside, not expecting you. then you shall sleep here on my pallet. and soon we shall be right smiling and happy all!" the kind old eyes beamed on gigi while he devoured his breakfast like a starved animal, without a word of thanks. when he had finished, the kind old hands brought water and bathed the tired body, bound up the bleeding hands and feet with refreshing ointment, and laid gigi back again to rest upon the cot beside the rose-screened window. there gigi lay and slept; slept and dreamed; dreamed and went over again by fits and starts the strange adventures of the past two days. but strangest of all, though by far the pleasantest, was that picture which he had seen when he came out into the clearing upon the back of brutus. and this picture, with queer variations, filled the foreground of gigi's dreaming. x the hermit _they shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain; for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the lord, as the waters cover the sea_.--holy writ. for three days gigi lay on the pallet of the good hermit, near to death. and for three days the great dog lay on guard by his side. the hermit went softly to and fro, taking tender care of the boy and giving him medicine made from wonderful herbs which he had found in the woods. often he knelt in a corner of the hut, before a rude wooden cross, and said prayers; this seemed to give him strength for his work and hope for its result. so that when he rose, his face would be bright and happy. this was he doing the third morning when gigi awoke, feeling better. the ache was gone from his limbs and the dizziness from his head. he awoke with a long sigh, and for the first time since he lay down on the hermit's pallet he looked around him with interest. at first he did not know where he was. the hut was small and bare. in one corner was a cupboard where the hermit kept his scanty supply of food and the medicines which he distilled. against the wall was a bench, beside a table made of a tree-stump, and on the table lay a great black book. opposite the bed was the cross of wood fastened to the wall, and below it the good hermit knelt with bowed head. gigi wondered what he was doing. he himself knew no prayers. gigi's eyes wandered to the door, which stood open. on the sill the cat and her kittens were playing. outside he could catch a glimpse of various animals frisking about the dooryard. birds sang merrily in the trees overhead and in the bushes just outside the window. the raven hopped into the doorway and stood looking saucily at gigi, with head on one side. it was all so peaceful, so quiet, so different from anything which gigi had known, that he thought it must be a dream. he sighed again, and turned over, stretching out his arm. in doing so he touched the hairy neck of brutus, who was still sleeping by his bed. instantly the dog sprang up and began to lick the boy's face. at the same moment, with a pious gesture, the hermit also rose and came toward the cot, smiling kindly. "you are better, my son?" he asked, laying a cool hand upon gigi's forehead. "ah, yes! you will soon be quite yourself." gigi stared up at him contentedly. "who are you?" he asked. he had never been taught manners, and he could no longer hide his curiosity. "i am a hermit," answered the old man. "i live here alone with my animals, as you see. i pass the days in prayer and meditation, studying the lord's holy book and the living works of his hands." "why do you live away from men?" asked gigi again. the hermit's face grew sad. "men are wicked and cruel, child," he said. "men hurt and kill one another. they love to slay the innocent animals for sport. in their kingdoms is no love. i have made myself here an animal kingdom, where all is love and peace." "do all animals know you?" asked gigi, wondering. "with time i can make friends with them all," said the hermit, smiling. "one has but to love and understand and be patient. see!" he gave a peculiar call. instantly there came tumbling into the hut, until it nearly overflowed, a strange medley of creatures,--hares, mice, birds, kittens, squirrels. last of all peered into the doorway a deer and her little speckled fawn. the dog sat quite still, not moving a muscle. he had been trained not to frighten his more timid neighbors. "follow the example of brutus, my son," said the hermit gently. "make no sudden movement and do not speak. they know my voice, and they will learn yours. but you are still a stranger to them, and must expect them to be shy." the animals crowded lovingly about the hermit, some springing upon his shoulders and knees, the birds flitting about his head. gigi thought he had never seen so wonderful a sight. "oh!" thought he, "if i could only do this, what money might i not take from a crowd on market-days!" after talking to his pets and caressing them tenderly, the old man dismissed them to the outdoor sunshine, so that he was alone with gigi, who could then be free to move and speak once more. "the beloved innocents!" said the hermit, with a sigh. "who could ever willfully injure one of them. god's creatures?--but now, my son, tell me about yourself," he broke off. "who are you? whence do you come? whither are you going?" "i do not know," said gigi simply, in answer to all three questions. and then he told his story as he had told it to mother margherita. the old man listened pitifully. "poor little lad!" he said. "men have been cruel to you, also. you have no home, no friends, no past, and no future. what shall we do with you?" "oh, let me stay with you!" cried gigi, clasping his hands. "you are so good and wise. teach me! teach me to be good and wise, too. take me into your animal kingdom, and teach me to make them all my friends. i could do such tricks with them,--far better than tumbling. i should grow rich!" the old man shook his head. "that cannot be," he said. "i cannot teach men to grow rich. nor would i see my animals made ridiculous for money. i came here to be a hermit. i vowed to have nothing more to do with human folk, only with the animals whom they persecute. but i never thought that a child would seek my roof." pie looked at gigi doubtfully. the boy returned the look, and the brown spot on his eyelid trembled piteously. the hermit blinked. "yes, you are a poor little animal, too," he said at last. "you are ignorant and innocent as they. i cannot turn you away. perhaps i can teach you better things than tricks. perhaps i can make you a disciple and a christian. if you are teachable, i can make you wise with the knowledge of herbs and healing. if i send back to the world which i have left one man useful, tender, strong, and good, perhaps he may be able to do more than i have done to stay the march of evil." gigi did not understand the words at all, but the tone was kind. he pushed the bandage from his head, looked up at the hermit, and smiled his own strange smile. "i think you will not beat me," he said. the brown spot on his eyelid gave him the wink of mischief. "beat you!" the old man's face broke into an answering smile, and he rocked to and fro with pleasure in gigi's little joke. then he bent forward suddenly, and stared into the boy's face with a keen look. "the wicked eye of him!" he said, talking to himself. "how like it is! strange, strange! about nine years old, he is. nine years ago--" he paused, gazing at gigi, and murmuring under his breath. "what are you wearing about your neck?" he asked suddenly. gigi put his hand to a tiny silver chain which just peeped above his green doublet, and drew out a flat piece of silver of strange shape, and with one side carved deeply with a notched cross. "where did you get this?" asked the hermit, strangely excited. "i do not know," said gigi, wondering. "i have worn it always. not even cecco dared take it from me. i have heard him say so. but i do not know why!" "the lost one!" cried the hermit, embracing gigi, with tears in his eyes. then, crossing himself, he added piously, "dear little lad! we are in the lord's hands. gigi, you shall stay with me until the time is come. but you wear the cross, a blessed emblem. i shall call you no more by that heathen gypsy name. you shall bear the beloved christian name of john, to which perhaps you have as good a right as any. ah! i will not tell you more. i will wait until i see if you be worthy indeed. if not--his son shall never know!" all this gigi did not understand. but he was happy to know that he might stay. and he began his new life as one of the hermit's animal kingdom by hugging close old brutus, his first four-footed friend, who had brought him safely to this haven. xi the pupil _but ask now the beasts and they shall teach thee, and the fowls of the air and they shall tell thee_.--holy writ. gigi the gypsy was now become john; no longer an outcast and a wanderer, but a happy little christian boy. surely no child ever lived so strange a life as he. surely no boy ever had such queer playmates, or studied in so wild a school. first of all he had to become acquainted with his oddly-mixed family of two-footed and four-footed brothers. brutus was his friend from the beginning. the great dog seemed to have adopted for his very own the boy whom, led by some kindly angel, he had found that night in the forest. but the other creatures were shy at first. they ran at the sound of john's shrill boyish voice, and shrank from his quick movements. they hid in the bushes when he came dashing and dancing into the clearing after a romp with brutus, and it would take some patience to coax them back again. john saw that this troubled the good old hermit, whom he loved better every day, and he tried to imitate his teacher's gentle voice and manner and his soft tread. the little tumbler was himself light as a feather, and graceful as the deer, his new-found sister. he was quick to learn and naturally gentle, though his cruel life had made him careless and rough. soon he had made friends with all the hermit's pets, so that they knew and loved him almost as well as they did the master of this forest-school. in his green doublet and hose, clumsily patched with pieces of gray serge from the hermit's own cloak, john rambled about the wild woods, looking like one of the fairy-folk of whom legends tell. often he went with the wise old man, who gave him lessons of the forest which he knew so well. john learned to steal on tiptoe and surprise the ways of the wood-folk,--the shy birds and the shyer little brothers who live in the moss and mould. he grew wise in the lore of flowers and herbs, and could tell where each one grew and when it blossomed, and which ones, giving their life-blood for the sake of men, could cure disease and bring comfort to the ailing. at night they watched the moon and the far-off, tiny stars. these, too, became friends, many of them known to john by name. he loved each one, for the hermit said that they also were his brothers and sisters, like the birds and beasts and fishes; all being the children of that father who had made this beautiful world to be the home where all should live together. but the book of nature was not all that john studied in these days. he learned to read also the written language of men, and studied the wise and holy words which have kept goodness before men's sight since knowledge began. until now john had never opened a book or held a pen. but the hermit taught him wisely and well, and soon he was in a fair way to become a scholar. a busy life he led, what with his studies indoors and out and his duties about the hut,--for the hermit taught him to be deft in all tasks, however simple and homely. john could cut up firewood or cook a porridge with as happy a face as he wore when he played with brutus or sang the morning hymn of praise at the good hermit's side. one thing his teacher would not have him forget. he must practice his tumbling every day. for the hermit said, "no skill once learned will ever come amiss, my son. you spent years and suffered hardly to gain this agility. it seems to me not frivolous nor undignified, but a beautiful thing, to keep one's body lithe and graceful even as are the free-natured animals. then practice, john; and some day even this skill may not come amiss." so the boy practiced daily in front of the cabin. he danced and tumbled; he turned somersaults and stood on his head; he leaped with a pole and swung nimbly as a monkey from the limbs of the overhanging trees. and the circle of animals watched him gravely, marveling no doubt at the strange antics of their brother; but, being now used to his voice and manner, neither annoyed nor shocked by anything which he might do. [illustration: the circle of animals watched him.] when the day was over, john would throw himself on a soft bed of moss under a tree, beside the hermit seated on a log. then they would read or talk, and tell stories of what they had seen in the world of men. brutus would be curled down between them. blanche and her kittens, big and little, would play with john's hair as he lay there. the squirrel, perched on the boy's doubled-up knees, would chatter and crack nuts. the brown hares would run to and fro over his feet, while the doe and her little fawn nibbled the grass close by, listening to the sound of the human voices as though they liked it. what a happy home it was! john wondered if ever any boy was so lucky as he. xii the bear john had grown to love the little four-footed brothers dearly, and they were great friends of his. but still the hermit seemed to have a charm about him which john lacked, and which drew even the strange new creatures to him and made them trust him from the first. john longed to learn this secret. but when he asked the old man about it he looked at the boy kindly and said,-- "it will come, my son, with time. love, live, and learn." john had been with the hermit some months, when happened an adventure that interested him more than anything which had befallen. he was walking one day with the old man in a part of the forest far distant from their hut. they were looking for a rare and wonderful herb which the sage needed to distill a certain precious balm. "this should be the spot," said the old man, going toward a heap of rocks around which grew a tangle of shrubs and creepers. "the plant which i seek is shy, and hides in the shadows of sheltered places. yonder is a cave, where first i made my dwelling when i came to the forest, before i built the hut in which we now live. and at the entrance, i remember, grew the herb of grace, which more than once has done me service in healing the hurts of my pets." the hermit plunged eagerly forward to the rocks. john followed close behind. at the entrance to the cave the old man stooped to pluck the herb which they had come so far to seek, and john, clambering beside him, bent curiously to peer into the cave. suddenly a sound from within made him start. the hermit paused in his task, and both stared motionless into the blackness of the cave. presently the sound came again,--a deep growl ending in a whine. "some animal in pain," whispered the hermit to john. "stay you here, my son. i will discover what it may be." "nay, father!" pleaded the boy. "it may be some fierce creature; it may hurt you. do not go!" the old man turned beaming eyes upon him. "never yet have i been hurt by an animal," he said gently. "my body bears only the scars of human hands. i am not afraid. but do you stay here, my son. you have not yet quite learned the language of dumb things." "i shall go with you!" said john to himself. he seized the staff which the hermit had dropped, and followed close upon his heels. soon their eyes became more used to the darkness of the cave, with which the hermit was already familiar. presently out of the shadows in a far corner they spied two red eyes glaring upon them. behind the eyes bulked a huge, apparently shapeless form. it half rose as they drew near, and again they heard the growl of anger. but as the creature made a sudden movement, the growl turned into a howl of agony, and it rolled back into the corner, whimpering. john plucked the hermit by his robe. "it is a bear!" he said. "i have met them sometimes upon the highways, traveling with mountebanks. and the men told me that they were very fierce and hard to tame. be careful, my father! go not near, i beseech you!" but the old man paid no heed to his words. bending forward, he made a strange sound in his throat, a soothing, cooing noise. the bear heard it, and ceased to whine. they saw the ugly head rear up and look at the hermit wildly. again he made the sound, and stooping without fear brought his face close to the bear's great body. the animal did not move. presently the hermit turned to john. "the poor beast has a wounded paw," he said. "an arrow has hurt it badly." he unfastened from his girdle a cup which he always carried in his wanderings. "here, my son," he said, "fill this at the spring which we passed yonder. the creature suffers from thirst." john hesitated. "is it safe to leave you here alone with this wild beast?" he asked. the hermit smiled. "quite safe," he said. "do you think i need your protection? brother bear will soon know me for his friend." when john returned he found the hermit sitting on the floor of the cave, with the bear's paw resting on his knee. the animal was quiet, save for a whimpering now and then. john could see his little red eyes fixed upon the hermit with a curious look of wonder and appeal. he seemed unable to move, and the hermit touched the beast quite naturally, as if he were a great kitten. the bear stirred and turned his eyes when john entered. "thanks, son," said the hermit, taking the cup from the boy's hand; and, turning again to' the bear, he held it to the animal's mouth. "drink, brother," he said. eagerly the bear lapped up the water. "now, my son," said the hermit to john, "go you to the entrance of the cave and pluck me a handful of the healing herb-leaves. i must bind up this suffering paw." "surely, father," begged john, "you will not try to touch the creature's wound. he will tear you to pieces!" the old man turned reproachful eyes upon him. "son," he said, "i have tried to teach you obedience. go, get me the leaves." without more words john hastened to do as he was bid. when he returned with a handful of the plant, he found that the hermit had bathed the wounded paw of the now quiet animal. he had torn a strip of linen from the shirt which he wore under his gray robe, and was making this into a bandage. soon he had crushed the leaves and had bound them upon the foot of the bear, who lay still and gentle under his hands. john stared, amazed. "now we will go home," said the hermit softly, "and you, john, shall return with food for this poor hungry brother. you will soon make him your dear friend also. for, you see, he asks only love and patience. men have been cruel to him. but we will be kind to our brother bear." thus john learned a new lesson of courtesy to the wilder, bigger beasts. that same day he made the long journey a second time, bringing the bear his dinner, with a comb of wild honey which the hermit had found on the way home. and he had the joy of seeing the creature act no longer like an enemy, but like a timid friend. day after day john went and ministered to the sick animal. at last, there came a joyous time when the bear rose to greet him on his approach. the injured paw was healed. and when john left the cave that night, the bear hobbled at his heels, even to the clearing where the hermit lived. he would not go farther at that time. he sat down on his haunches outside the border of tall trees, and when john tried to coax him he looked at the hut doubtfully. at the sight of brutus he made lumberingly away. a few evenings later, the bear came of his own accord to beg for his supper; and at last this became a custom. soon he also was accounted a member of the animal kingdom, and became good friends with them all. in time john taught him many tricks, such as he had seen the mountebanks do with their traveling bears. but unlike them, john taught only by kindness; and his bear learned the faster. xiii a forest ramble "father," said john one summer afternoon, when his tasks for the day were quite finished, "brutus and i are going for a long walk." "very well, my son," answered the hermit, "i will bide here and read my book, for the heat has made me somewhat weary. but see that you return before sunset." "yes, father," said john. slinging over his shoulder a little basket in which to fetch home any strange plants which he might find in the forest, john whistled to brutus, and the pair trotted away together as they loved to do. the hermit looked after them, and smiled. "john is a good boy," he said. "one day he will be a fine man. may the saints help me to make him worthy of his father and of the name he bears." then he turned to his beloved book. john and brutus went merrily through the forest, the boy singing under his breath snatches of the cheerful hymns that he and the hermit loved. the dog ran ahead, exploring in the bushes, sometimes disappearing for long minutes at a time, but ever returning to rub his nose in john's hand and exchange a silent word with him. they were not going for any particular errand to any especial spot. they were just rambling wherever the forest looked inviting; which is the nicest way to travel through the woods,--especially if one of you can be trusted to find the way home, however wavering may be the trail that you leave behind. it was what john loved to do more than anything in the world. the woods were cool and green and full of lovely light. it was so still and peaceful, too! the tiny queer noises all about, which once, before he knew the kingdom of the forest, had frightened him so much, now filled john with the keenest joy. often he paused and listened eagerly. he liked to feel that he was surrounded everywhere by little brothers, seen and unseen. with a word to brutus, which made the dog lie down and keep perfectly quiet, john would steal forward softly and peer through a screen of bushes, or into a treetop, and watch the housekeeping of some shy brother beast or bird. once he flung himself flat on the ground, and lay for a long time eagerly watching the antics of a beetle. a little later, with brutus patiently beside him, he sat cross-legged for ten minutes, waiting to see how a certain big yellow spider would spin her web between two branches of a rose-bush. they wandered on and on. a great golden butterfly rose before them from a bed of lilies, and together he and brutus ran after it; not to capture and kill it, oh no! for to john the wonder of the flower with wings lay in the life which gave it power to move about and pay calls upon the other blossoms that must be always stay-at-homes. john chased it gaily, as one brother plays with another. and when it lighted on a rose-bush or a yellow broom-flower, or poised on a swaying blade of grass, he crept up and admired its lovely colors without touching the fragile thing. but at last, as if suddenly remembering an errand which it had forgotten, the butterfly soared quickly up and away over the treetops and out of sight. "good-by, little brother!" called john after it. "i wish i could fly as you do and look down upon the kingdom of the forest! then indeed i would learn all the secrets of our friends up in the treetops there, who hide their nests so selfishly. oh, i should so love to see all the little baby birds! to be sure, some that i have seen in the ground-nests are ugly enough. oh, the big mouths of them! oh, the bald skins and prickly pin-feathers! ha! ha!" john laughed so heartily that brutus came running up to see what the joke was. "o brutus!" cried john. "i think i know why the father and mother birds build their nests so high. they are ashamed to have any one see their funny little ones before they are quite dressed!" brutus looked up in john's face and seemed to smile. the boy and the dog often had talks together in this wise. "i think i will ask them," said john. "now, brutus, lie still." he gave a peculiar whistle, waited a moment, and repeated it, twice, thrice. at the first call there was a fluttering in the branches overhead. at the second call one saw the silhouettes of tiny bodies dropping from branch to branch ever nearer to the boy below. at the third, there was a flutter, a rush of wings, and a flock of dear little birds came flying to john's shoulder, to his out-stretched arms, to his head; so that presently he looked like a green bush which they had chosen for their perch. john talked with them in his own way, with chirps and lisping of the lips, and they were no more afraid of him than of a good-natured tree. but after a while, a fly, which had been tickling brutus's nose, grew so impertinent that the poor dog had to punish him with his paw. at the sudden movement the birds fluttered away, and john looked reproachfully at his friend. but when he saw the drop of blood on the dog's nose he forgave him. [illustration: john talked with them.] "poor brutus!" he said. "you kept still as long as you could, i know. and indeed, it is time we were moving. come, brutus!" the pair continued their voyage of discovery. the woods are so full of thrilling stories for those who know how to read them! a field-mouse's nest in a tuft of grass; a beehive in a hollow tree; tracks of a wild boar in the muddy edge of the brook; a beautiful lizard changing color to match the leaves and moss over which it crept. john longed to carry this little brother home to join the circle of pets. but he knew it was kinder to leave him there, where perhaps he had a home and family. and oh, the flowers! so many kinds, so fragrant and so beautiful! john gathered a great armful to carry back to the hermit. and so the minutes went; the shadows began to lengthen, and it was time to turn homeward. xiv the wolf-brother john whistled to brutus, to call him for the home-going. but just then he spied a new plant whose name he did not know. he was stooping over to examine the lovely pink blossoms, when brutus came bounding up to him, behaving strangely. he whined and looked distressed; he started away into the bushes, begging john to follow. evidently he had found something which he wished john to see. the boy laid down his armful of flowers and ran after the dog, as swiftly and softly as he could; for he did not know what forest secret he might be about to discover. brutus led him straight to a hollow under a great rock. and there john soon saw the cause of the dog's excitement. stretched out on a bed of leaves were four little gray bodies. john ran up to them with a cry. "why, they are puppies!" he said. "brutus, you have found some little brothers of your own!" brutus whined and sniffed about the rock strangely. john bent over the little bodies, which lay quite still and seemed to be asleep. he touched one softly. it was stiff and cold. "oh, they are dead, poor little things!" said john. "i am so sorry. i hoped to take them home to my father. how came they here, i wonder? they must have starved to death!" just then john saw one of the puppies give a tiny shiver. its legs moved feebly and its eyes opened. "ah! one of them still lives!" he cried eagerly. "perhaps i can save its life, the dear little thing!" he took the gray body up in his arms and hugged it tenderly, but it made no response. then, laying it down again on the leaves, he drew from his basket a crust of bread which he had brought to nibble while he walked. (it is such fun to have something to nibble when one goes for a ramble in the woods!) john ran to the brook which babbled close by, and, dipping the bread in the water until it was soft, returned to put some in the mouth of the little gray thing that lay so pitifully on the leaves. "eat, little brother!" said john. brutus looked on gravely. the puppy opened its mouth feebly and swallowed a bit of bread. after the first taste it grew eager, and began to nibble hungrily. john gave it all he had, and was overjoyed to see it gradually gain strength. but still it could not stand on its weak little legs. "we must take him home, brutus," said john. "we will make him well and strong, then we shall have another little dog to be your baby brother." brutus said nothing, though perhaps he knew better. presently he was trotting homeward; tracing backward, as no human being could have done, the winding way by which they had come through the dense forest. behind him came john, carrying the little gray creature tenderly in his arms, and with the basket full of flowers on his back. and so at last they reached the hut, in the door of which stood the hermit, shading his eyes and looking anxiously for them. "my son!" he cried gladly when they appeared. "you were gone so long that i feared you were lost, even with brutus to guide you. it is after sundown. where have you been, and what do you bring there?" "we have been--i know not where," said john; "farther than i have gone since i came to the forest. it must be near the homes of men. for see! we have found a little dog! his brothers were lying dead beside him; i think they were starved to death. but this one lives, and some day i hope he will grow into a big dog like brutus,--though indeed he does not look much like him now!" so john prattled eagerly, laying the little creature in the old man's arms. but the hermit looked at it and looked again. then he smiled at john. "ah, son!" he said. "this will never be a dog like brutus. you have brought home a baby wolf!" "a wolf!" cried john. "he looks quite like a puppy, and he is gentle, too!" "they are much alike," said the hermit. "you saved this poor little cub in good time, john. he is very weak. probably his mother was killed by some hunters, who left her little ones there to starve. that is what they do, john, never stopping to think what suffering they cause. but let us now feed this little fellow with warm milk, and we shall soon have him as gay as ever. i am glad that you brought him, john. we needed a wolf-brother in our kingdom." "but, father! a wolf!" cried john, with a shudder. he had not forgotten the horror of his first night alone in the forest, and the long howl which had made him lose his senses. "oh, will he not grow big and eat us up, my father? yes; that was why brutus acted so strangely. he knew it was no puppy, although i told him so." "it is quite safe to keep him, john," said the hermit. "we cannot turn him out to starve, for he is too young to care for himself. you will see to-morrow that he will play like any puppy. brutus and he will be great friends,--they are relatives already. once upon a time brutus had a wolf for his ancestor. and as we ourselves know not from whom we may be descended, so must we treat all creatures as our brothers. yes, this wolfkin will grow up lean and ugly-looking, like any wolf. but we will teach him to be kind and gentle, john, even as brutus is." and the hermit was right. the wolf-cub soon became the pet and plaything of the animal kingdom. with food and care he grew into a round, roly-poly ball of fur. he played merrily with brutus and the kittens. and though at first he was a bit rough, they and john taught him better ways, so that he kicked and bit his friends no longer. as the months went by, they watched him change gradually from cub to wolf. they were sorry to see him lose his puppy looks and frisky manners. but what could they do? it is a great pity, but no one has yet discovered how to make babies of any sort remain babies. gradually he lost his roundness. he grew longer and longer, until he was stretched out into four feet of gaunt yellowish-gray wolf. but still he remained quiet and gentle with his friends, quick to learn and ready to obey. he was a perfectly good wolf, and he loved john so dearly that he could scarcely be separated from him. he followed the boy wherever he went, and lay down beside him when he slept, like any watch-dog. and though he was so gentle in the animal kingdom, the hermit knew that it would go hard with any one who should try to hurt wolf's little master. yet he and brutus were the best of friends. the good dog was too noble to be jealous. xv the green stranger for five happy years john lived with the good hermit, and became a sturdy lad of fourteen before anything new happened of great moment to the animal kingdom. in all this time he had seen no human creature except the hermit himself. their hut was so far in the forest that no travelers ever passed that way. but john was never lonely, for he had the kindest of fathers in the hermit, and the happiest of comrades and playmates in the circle of pets, ever increasing, who gathered about the abode of peace. brutus was still his dearest friend. but the wolf was almost as intimate. as for bruin, he was never a constant dweller with the colony, but came and went at will. sometimes he disappeared for weeks at a time, and they knew that he was wandering through the forest which stretched for miles in every direction, pathless and uninhabited. and sometimes they wondered what adventures the big brother might be enjoying. "if only he could tell me!" wished john. but this kind of gossip was still impossible between them. one day john was out in the forest, not far from the hermit's hut, cutting wood for the winter, which was near at hand. he was alone, for a wonder. the wolf had come with him, but had now trotted away into the forest on business of his own. the bear had disappeared some weeks before, on one of his pilgrimages. brutus was at that moment with the hermit in the hut; for the dog divided his attentions between the young friend and the old. john had lifted his axe to attack a certain tree when, with a scurry of little feet, a frightened hare came bounding past him, ears laid back and eyes bulging with fear. it was so strange to see a startled creature in this peaceful wood, that john dropped his axe wonderingly. then he noted that the birds were chattering nervously overhead, and his quick ear caught furtive rustlings in the underbrush all around him. the forest was alive with fears. presently the wolf came bounding past, with wild eyes, evidently making for the hut. john called, but the frightened creature did not pause. very soon john heard over his shoulder an unusual sound. he turned quickly, and saw a sight which made his heart rise in his throat. across an open glade in the wood his friend the bear was lumbering on all fours, wild-eyed, with lolling tongue and panting breath. close behind him came on foot a young man, several years older than john, dressed in a suit of green velvet, with a plumed cap. in his hand he bore a long spear, and he was charging upon the bear with a cruel light in his eyes. suddenly bruin made for a tree, and began to climb, clutching the bark frantically with his claws. at sight of his prey about to escape, the stranger gave a loud, fierce cry and dashed forward, at the same time drawing from behind his shoulder a bow such as men used in hunting. he fitted an arrow to the string, and was about to shoot, when john sprang forward with blazing eyes. "you shall not shoot!" he cried. "this is a peaceful wood. you shall not kill my friend the bear." [illustration: you shall not kill my friend the bear.] at this unexpected happening, the young man turned with a start and a snarl, like a dog from whom one would take away his bone. "who are you?" he cried angrily. "how dare you interrupt my sport! do you know who i am?" "i do not care who you are!" answered john. "you shall not hunt in these woods, you must go away." "go away!" the face of the stranger was white with rage. he turned from the tree in which the bear had now found a place of safety behind a crotch, and pointed his arrow at john. the lad saw his danger. even as the stranger drew the arrow to its head john leaped forward; before the other knew what was happening, john seized him in his arms and with a mighty effort wrenched away the weapon. it was wonderful how easily he mastered this fellow, who was some inches taller than himself. beside himself with rage, the stranger grappled with john, and then began a wrestling match strange to see. if the bear up in the tree knew what it all meant, he must have been very much excited. the two lads clinched, swayed, and finally fell to the ground, rolling over and over. the stranger pummeled and kicked, scratched and bit. john merely defended himself, holding his enemy firmly and trying to keep him under. it was easy to see that he was the stronger of the two. presently the young man began to weaken, and at last john felt the stranger's body grow limp in his clutch. he felt a thrill of triumph such as the hermit certainly had never taught him. but suddenly, remembering the duty of a noble foe, he rose to his feet, leaving the stranger lying where he was. he was not badly hurt. presently he also rose, sullenly, and pulled on his cap which had fallen off. john had taken possession of his spear and bow. he now gravely handed an arrow to the young man. "you may keep that," he said politely. "i think you can do no harm with that." the stranger turned crimson, and his face was wicked to see. "you shall pay for this!" he spluttered, with sobs in his voice. "no one can injure me without danger. you shall--" at this moment, not far away in the direction of the hermit's hut, a horn sounded. once, twice, thrice, it blew vigorously, as if giving a command. both john and the stranger started. "i must go!" muttered the latter to himself. "needs must at that call." and without another word or glance at john, he ran to his horse, which was tethered close by, and was soon galloping away in the direction of the bugle-call. trembling with excitement and with alarm at this coming of strangers to the forest which so long had been at peace, john hurried back to the hut. but bruin remained safe in his tree. he seemed to have no wish to come down and learn what all these strange doings meant. xvi the hunt john found the hermit sitting as usual beside the door of his hut, reading his book. he was surrounded by his family of pets. brutus bounded to meet john, but the boy was too excited to give him the usual caress. "father!" he cried, "have you heard or seen nothing? there are strangers in the forest, wicked strangers who hunt our friends the beasts. i have but now come from such a terrible scene!" he covered his face with his hands. the hermit started to his feet. "what has happened?" he quavered. "just now the wolf came leaping into the hut; but i feared nothing. your clothes are torn. your face is bloody. who has been hurting you, my son?" but before john could answer came again the call of a bugle, this time very near, "_tara_! _tara_! _tara_!" "huntsmen!" cried the hermit. "send brutus into the hut." john drove the dog inside, and some of the house-pets with him. already the others had taken alarm at the threatening noise and were scattering in every direction. nearer and nearer came the sound of galloping hoofs, the baying of hounds, the shouts of many men. john and the hermit stood with pale faces, waiting. suddenly into the clearing bounded a frightened deer,--a slender dappled creature with brown eyes. straight to the hermit she ran, and dropped panting at his feet. "it is our doe!" cried john, his face turning whiter. "o father! they are hunting her!" the old man said nothing, but stooped and threw his mantle over the trembling creature. hardly had he done so when the hounds burst into the clearing, barking fiercely, rushing towards the spot where the deer lay. the hermit raised his staff and stepped forward with a quick word. instantly the dogs paused, cringing. they snarled and snapped their teeth, but made no motion to draw nearer. there was another loud bugle-blast, and a group of horsemen burst into the open space. "hola! hola! the stand!" cried the foremost rider, flourishing his sword. the others clustered about this leader. he was a tall, oldish man, red-faced and fierce-eyed. like the stranger whom john had met, he was magnificently dressed in green velvet, with a gold chain about his neck, and a star blazing on his breast. he wore also a green cap bound with a gold band, from which a golden feather drooped to his shoulder. the gloves which he wore, the baldric of his bugle, and the hilt of the sword which he brandished aloft, glittered with jewels. when he spied the hermit standing with upraised staff over the deer, while the dogs cowered at his feet, he drew up his horse and gave a shout of wonder. then once more there was a moment of intense silence in that spot whose quiet had been broken by such a din. thereafter the splendid leader of the hunt spoke in a brutal voice. "ho! who are you who interrupt our hunt and stand between us and our quarry? stand aside, old man, whoever you are. this is no place for you. the deer is ours." he flourished his jeweled sword eagerly. "i shall not stand aside," said the hermit. "this doe is mine, my friend and companion. her milk has nourished me many a day, and she shall not die in this place which is my home." "shall not die?" cried the huntsman hoarsely. "do you know to whom you speak?" "i can guess," said the hermit quietly. "from his cruelty and his free speech i judge it must be he who calls himself king of the realm beyond this forest." "king of this forest and lord of all that dwell therein," shouted the huntsman ferociously. "and who are you who dare oppose me?" "i am a hermit," said the old man simply. "my service is to god, whom you dishonor. my friends are the creatures whom you hunt. my study is to save life, which you would destroy. depart, and leave in peace this place where life is sacred." "depart!" roared the king, while his nobles crowded around him, murmuring and bending threatening looks upon the hermit and the lad. "not till yonder animal is slain. ho, have at her!" with prick of spur he urged his horse forward. but quick as thought the hermit with his staff drew a circle around himself and john and the doe, which still lay panting at his feet, wrapped in the gray mantle. "dare not to cross this line!" he cried. "this ground is holy. years ago in the father's name i consecrated it. 'tis holy as any cathedral, and 'tis sanctuary for man and beast. hear what the lord says to you: 'they shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain.'" the hermit raised his hand and spoke a word to the horses that were being urged forward. with a shrill whinny they rose on their hind legs, pawing the air, and refused to advance. "what witchcraft is this!" cried the king, spurring his steed cruelly. but the animal, like the dogs, obeyed the hermit's will rather than the king's. "no witchcraft," said the hermit, still guarding the deer with his upraised staff. "it is the lord's will. you, who have ever disobeyed his holy word, perhaps know not how dear to him were the birds and beasts. his first companions. his childhood friends. and to this day, for he himself hath said it, not a sparrow falleth without his knowledge and pity. o wicked man! how then can you delight to kill?" the king gazed at the hermit like one in a dream. "how dare you say such things to me, your king?" he said at last. "you are no king of mine, thank god!" said the hermit. "i am an exile. i am of no land. this forest is my domain, my animal kingdom. depart, i beg, without more bloodshed. o king, already in time past the hunt has cost you dear. will you not take heed lest the lord punish you further for your sins?" the king turned pale. "this is certainly witchcraft!" he muttered. "what know you of the past?" he cried, almost as if against his will. "i know much," said the hermit calmly. "i know that hunting cost the life of your eldest son. will you not heed that warning, lest more ill befall?" there was a stir among the nobles, and john saw the young man with whom he had wrestled a short time before spur his horse forward to the king's side. his face was black and angry. "sire--father," he said. "will you not end this parley and slay them all? i would have a hand in it for the sake of that young cub there!" and he shook his fist toward john. but more he did not say; perhaps he was ashamed to tell how the wood-boy had got the best of him. "ay," said the hermit, pointing a finger at him and shaking it sadly. "the second son follows in the footsteps of his brother, and like his father is cruel, bloodthirsty, revengeful. beware, o king! beware, king's son! for happiness was never yet distilled from innocent blood, nor life from death." the king shuddered, as all could see. "i hunt," he said,--and it was strange to see how he was almost apologetic,--"i hunt all animals mercilessly, because through them the prince my son was slain. i will hunt them out of my kingdom, until not one remains. i will slay them until the ground is soaked with their blood! not an animal, save such as are of use, shall exist in all my land. i will have no pets--no singing birds. i hate them all!" "ay," said the hermit, shaking his head sadly, "you hate them all! but i love them all. and here they come to me. 'the sparrow hath found a house and the swallow a nest where she may lay her young.' i will protect them with my life. you dare not kill me, o king! godless though you are, once you were a christian, and you know the meaning of the words i spoke when i said that this was holy ground." he drew from his bosom the iron cross which he wore, and held it up before the king. the monarch shrank back and seemed to hesitate. suddenly he wheeled his horse and blew a blast upon his bugle. "back!" he cried somewhat bitterly. "we will not linger here for a paltry doe. let us leave this cursed wood and this crusty hermit. back to our own demesne, where we shall find sport enough, i dare say." once more he blew his horn and bounded forward out of the clearing; the nobles after him, and the cowed, disappointed dogs trailing at the rear with tails between their legs. john could not help feeling sorry for them. poor things! they at least knew no better. john was just stooping to pet the frightened deer, when an arrow whizzed over his shoulder and struck the creature in the haunch. the poor animal gave a cry of pain, and blood dyed the gray mantle of the hermit, the first blood shed in that place of peace. with a shout of anger john leaped up and looked over his shoulder. a familiar wicked face grinned back at him, as a horse and rider galloped into the forest. the king's son had skulked behind to shoot that shaft. "my son!" cried the hermit, laying trembling hands on john's shoulder. "it was meant for you. you would have died had you not stooped at that moment to caress the doe." "poor doe!" said john, kneeling beside her and busying himself with the arrow. "you have saved my life. now we must save yours. my father, i think she is not badly hurt." and he began to stanch the blood and bind up the wound with the skill which the hermit had taught him. but the old man stood for a long time gazing into the forest after the party of huntsmen. "a murderer and a coward," he said. "in sanctuary he has shed innocent blood. for many evil deeds the price will surely be paid. and the price is heavy." xvii the messenger the little deer was not greatly hurt by the cowardly hunter. john and the hermit nursed her tenderly, and so great was their knowledge of healing balms that she was soon nibbling the grass about their dooryard, as sprightly as ever, save for a slight lameness in one leg. bruin was with them once more, a constant guest in the little circle. the fright of that day when the hunters came to the forest had affected all the animals, who clung closely to their two human friends, and did not venture far from the hut. although john and the hermit had never spoken together of the king since that terrible day, the boy thought often about him, and about the young prince with whom he had wrestled for the life of the bear. and john was troubled by many things. he thought how great must be the suffering among the helpless animals when men so cruel were in power. if animals were treated so, how must the poor and lowly people fare at the hands of their lords and masters? were the mighty so cruel to one another,--to children and women and aged people? all these were weak and helpless, too. john remembered the hermit's tales of war and the wickedness of cities, and his heart grew sick. what a terrible world this was to live in, if the great and powerful were so bad! but when john was most unhappy, longing to change it all, he would look around the little hut where, surrounded by his animal friends, the dear old hermit sat under the wooden cross, reading out of the great book. then john grew happy once more. for the hermit had taught him well from that holy volume. "it will all come right some time," he said to himself. "some day the lord will teach men better, and all will be peace and love as it is here. but oh! if only i were big and strong and powerful, so that i could help to hasten that happy day!" one evening, several weeks later, they sat as usual in the midst of their circle of pets. the hermit, with the raven on his shoulder and the cat on his knee, was reading from the book. john, on a bench by the window, was using the last light of an autumn day to make a basket for gathering herbs. the gaunt wolf lay at his feet. beside him rested the bear, snuffling in his sleep; and stretched out between him and the hermit, brutus snored peacefully. on john's shoulders roosted their carrier pigeon, and several kittens played about his legs. the deer lay on a pallet in the corner. it was a very peaceful scene, and every one seemed to have forgotten the fright of a month before. suddenly john said: "father, tell me about the king." the old man started, and placing a finger in the book to mark the place, looked at john with surprise. "why should we speak of him?" he asked uneasily. "this is the hour of peace and meditation on pleasant things." "i have thought about him so much," said john. "i cannot tell why, but i am unable to forget him. i want to know more of him and of his son." the old man shook his head. "i am sorry," he said. "did you care so much for his gorgeous clothes and jewels, his horse and band of followers? have they turned your head, foolish boy? did you find anything to admire in their talk and manner and looks? i am disappointed, john!" "nay, i did not admire anything about them," john hastened to say. "i saw that the king was cruel. i believe well that he was also wicked. but he seemed to have friends. how can a bad man have friends? and why do the people allow him to be their king?" "ah, john!" cried the hermit, "it is not so easy to find a good king! perhaps his people do not care; perhaps they know no better. perhaps he is so powerful that they have no choice but to obey him." "is the king so wicked?" asked john, wondering how the hermit knew so much. "what has he done that is bad?" the old man hesitated; then he turned to john with a gesture that the boy did not understand. "listen, john," he said. "i will tell you some things that this king has done. it is well that you should know. years ago, before you were born, he was not the lawful king in this country. the true king was his brother cyril, who was good and kind, ruling wisely and well. but suddenly he died. those in his service guessed that his brother robert, this present king, had caused his death by poison. so robert became king. a stormy time he had of it, at first; for the whole land loved king cyril. many accused robert, and refused to do him honor,--especially one holy man, john, king cyril's friend and physician. yes, my son, he bore the same blessed name as yourself. this man the people loved dearly, for he was wise and generous with his wisdom. he healed them freely of their hurts. he went about the country doing good, bringing love and good cheer wherever he went. he was honored almost as a saint. but because he dared lift his voice against the king--he died. no one knew how it happened. at the same time his little son disappeared; men believed that he also was slain by the cruel king. the people were furious; they stormed and threatened. but alas! gradually the voices of their leaders were silenced. some died suddenly, as john had done. some disappeared. some were banished from the kingdom. some went away, broken-hearted; who knows where they may be now?" "oh, how could the people forget their king and the holy man who had been good to them?" cried john. "how could they allow that bad man to be their king?" "the people?" said the hermit sadly. "the people so soon forget! do you not recall how, ages ago, the people treated the best man who ever lived? these folk dared not seem to remember. they were selfish and lazy. the new king was rich and powerful. they found it easier to grumble and do nothing else. and when the king said, 'hunt!' they hunted. when he commanded, 'hate all animals; have no pets!' they obeyed him. but it is a gloomy land, a sad land, of which robert is king!" "oh!" said john, "how do you know so much, my father?" "do not ask," said the hermit. "one day i will tell you, but not now." "oh, he is a wicked king, who ought to die!" burst out john, throwing up his arm angrily. "would i were a man, and i would go kill him. but i will do it when i am grown!" at his rough tones and gestures the birds fluttered away, frightened, and the animals slunk into the corners, trembling. the peace of the little hut was rudely disturbed. "nay, my son, nay!" cried the old man in horror. "say not such wicked words! see how you frighten our peaceful friends. what have i tried to teach you? it is not yours to avenge. the lord himself will punish as he sees best. perhaps even now he chastens that wicked heart. already the king has lost his dearest, oldest son. he was killed five years ago while hunting a wild boar in the forest. but now--" at this moment there was a loud knock on the door of the hut. the hermit and john started and looked at each other in wonder. when had such a thing happened before! brutus and the wolf arose, bristling. the bear growled savagely. the raven gave a screech of fear and burrowed under john's cot. there was a moment's pause. then the hermit, crossing himself, called loudly,-- "enter, if your errand be peace. enter, in the name of the lord." quickly the latch clicked and the door flew open. into the midst of the startled group stumbled a man, breathless and covered with dust from head to foot. his hat was gone. his hair was disheveled, and his eyes bloodshot. "hasten!" he cried, turning to the hermit. "you are the man i seek,--you, skilled in herbs and healing. the king sends for you." [illustration: the king sends for you.] "the king!" the hermit and john spoke the word together, staring wildly. "yes, the king," repeated the man. "i have killed my horse to get here. he fell in the forest yonder, even as i spied the light from your window. there is no time to be lost. we must go on foot to the nearest town, where horses may be had. hasten, old man, and bring your herbs and balsams." "but whither? and for what purpose?" asked the hermit, still standing with one trembling hand on the holy book. "the king's son is wounded," cried the messenger. "five days ago he was hunting the deer, and an arrow, glancing falsely, pierced his breast. he was grievously hurt. even now he may be dying. why do we waste words? the physicians have done their best, but they have given him up at last. the king raved; he was beyond reason. suddenly, in his madness he spoke of you, the wizard of this forest. he recalled that day when you cursed him for the sake of your brute creatures. he vowed it was all enchantment. 'send for the wizard!' he cried. 'let him cure my son. he dare not refuse, for he claims to be a servant of god.'" the hermit was trembling now with emotion. "it is the lord's will!" he said. "he was wounded while hunting an innocent beast. on the strength and speed of another beast hung his chance for life. and now, only with the aid of another can we reach him in time.--nay, upon a fourth we must rely to find our way out of the forest. brutus only can help us. but let us hasten. come, my friend! back to the city once more." calling to the dog, he began to make hurried preparations for departure. john ran to him. "do not go to the wicked man!" he whispered. "they may kill you. oh, what should i do then?" the hermit shook his head. "i must go," he said. "it is written, 'do good to them that hate you.' there is no question of my duty." "oh, let me then go with you, father," pleaded john. the hermit laid his hand on the boy's head, and looked at him tenderly. "the time is not yet ripe, my son," he said. "who knows what all this may mean? wait a little longer. stay and care for our little friends. from the nearest village i will send brutus back to you. you will not be lonely, with your work and play as usual. do not neglect either. adieu, my dear son!" and he blessed john. embracing the boy and bidding farewell to the other friends, the hermit took his staff and bag of simples, and wrapped his cloak about him. "i trust you, john," he said at the door. "be patient, obedient, and wise." then in the folds of his cloak he took the carrier pigeon. "i will send you word by our friend, if need be," he said, as he went out into the darkness. brutus and the messenger followed him closely. the door banged behind them, and john was alone with the circle of frightened, cowering creatures. he threw himself on his knees before the hermit's table, and laying his head on the book, began to weep, he scarcely knew why. xviii the carrier pigeon a evening of the next day, just as john had finished his simple supper, he heard a scratching at the door. it was brutus, returning footsore and weary. tied to his collar john found a message from the hermit. "be of good cheer," it read. "we mount excellent steeds to ride to the king. if by god's help i may save the young man's life, i will return to you speedily thereafter. if it be the lord's will that other things befall, i will send the carrier pigeon with news. bear a good heart, my son. keep to your studies, your exercise, and your devotions as if i were with you. so when i return i shall find you a little stronger, wiser, a better champion of the good. farewell!" john read this letter eagerly, and set himself to obey the master's wishes. but now the days seemed long indeed. in spite of the many friends who shared the hut with him, john felt very lonely, and longed for the dear old man's return. but now he had something more to think of: the good king cyril and the holy man, his friend, who had borne the name of john. and he longed to be some day a man like that. the hermit had been gone for nearly a week. one day john was sitting by the door of the hut, busy with his studies, when he heard a _whir_ in the air overhead. glancing up, he saw the flash of snowy wings, and presently the carrier pigeon came fluttering down to his shoulder. "ah, my dear bird!" cried john, tenderly taking the creature in his hands and lifting it to peck at his lips as it always loved to do. "you have come to me safely from far away. you have come from the place where my dear father is. have you brought me word from him?" with a soft coo the pigeon nestled closer in john's arms. reaching under its wing, he found a scroll of writing tied there securely with a silken cord. "a letter from my father!" he cried, untying it eagerly. it was indeed a long letter in the good man's clear script. it told of their safe arrival, after a hard journey through the night; of their reception by the king. they had come almost too late. but when they arrived the prince was still breathing. they were ushered into his chamber, where he lay white and still. no one could rouse him to life or consciousness. by his bedside sat the king, his face like a mountain-top wrapped in clouds. "save my son!" he had cried when he saw the hermit. "save my son, sorcerer, and i will give you whatever your heart craves." "i am no sorcerer," the hermit had answered. "i am god's servant, with some skill in healing, because i have studied the work of his hands and the uses of his gifts. if it be his will, i may save the young man. if otherwise, we may not hope to prevail." "oh, he must not die!" cried the king. "you foretold it, i remember, in the forest. but think--he is my only son. he must be king after me. he must live!" "other sons have died," said the hermit solemnly. "other princes have not lived to reign. and what of them?" the king shuddered. "save my son!" he repeated. "only save this boy, and i will do whatever you ask." "then" (said the hermit's letter) "i did my best. i bathed the youth's wound with my healing balsam. i gave him soothing draughts to drink. i sat by his bedside and prayed that the lord's will might be done through me. and then came a change. a faint color blossomed in his cheeks. his lips trembled; his eyes opened and he looked at me. then he sighed and closed his eyes. what he thought i know not. but he had paused in his march towards death. from that day he mended. the prince's wound is now healed. the king's gratitude knew no bounds. he promised me rewards beyond belief,--which, as you know, mean naught to me. "but, john, a strange thing has befallen. the prince should now be well upon the road to health. he should be gaining strength every day. there seems no reason otherwise. but such happens not. he lies passive and dazed. he seems not to care whether he lives or dies. he never speaks nor smiles, only looks sometimes at me as if he wanted to ask me something. the doctors say that he is slowly dying. "and now, john," concluded the hermit's letter, "now comes the reason for these long, tedious words to you. i have done my utmost, but i am powerless. will you come? will you try what your own skill and youth may do? it may be your mission in life to save this lad who tried to kill you. i know that if he could but once smile, he would get well. therein lies your power. come, as quickly as you may. bring with you our animal friends who cannot be left behind. brutus will lead you to the village, and thence you must find your way to the capital. and one word more: if you find yourself in trouble or need, show the silver talisman which you wear about your neck, and i think all will be well. remember my teachings, john, and come as soon as may be." when john had finished the letter, he stood for a moment quite dazed. he was to leave this place where all was peace and happiness, and go back among men whom he feared! he was to go to the very king whose name he shuddered to remember,--the king who had killed his brother and that holy man john with his little son! he was to do all this for the sake of the enemy who had hunted the bear, who had injured the gentle deer, who had aimed to take john's own life! he grew sick at the thought. yet,--it was the hermit himself who summoned him. and he remembered the good man's teachings. "how i can help i know not," sighed john, "but i must go!" he laid his head upon the feathers of the carrier pigeon and shed some bitter tears. then, placing the bird gently on the tree beside him, he straightened himself bravely. "i will go!" he said. "i will go joyfully, as one should who hopes to be worthy to bear the name of john." just then brutus came sauntering from the hut, shaking himself lazily after his nap. "ho, brutus!" called john, snapping his fingers. "shall we go on a journey together, you and i? shall we take these little friends on a wonderful pilgrimage? and will you be my guide, as you were once before, good brutus?" the dog seemed to understand. he pricked up his ears, and leaped up to john's shoulders with a joyous bark. then, rushing to the edge of the wood, he looked back, inviting john to follow. "oh, let us be off!" he seemed to say. "i have been longing to go to our dear master. let us hasten, little brother!" "not so fast!" said john. "we have first to gather our provisions and make ready our company of pilgrims. i must take all the food i can. for i dare not trust wholly to the silver cross. what could my father mean by that?" still wondering, john set about his preparations. they did not take long. there was neither lock nor bolt on the door of the hermit's hut, nor aught of value to hide. when john's basket was packed with simple food, and the animals were gathered about him outside in the little clearing, he rolled a stone against the door, and they were ready to go. xix the journey a strange company they were, these citizens of the animal kingdom traveling to town! foremost went brutus, leading the way and feeling very important with a bundle bound upon his strong back. gray and gaunt, the wolf trotted along at his side, like another dog. next came john, with a knapsack on his shoulders, in which three little kittens slumbered beside the provisions for their journey; there were always new kittens in the animal kingdom. on his shoulder perched the raven, and by a rope he led the bear, whom he felt safer to have close by his side. sometimes the bear trotted on all fours. sometimes he walked upright like a big brown man, towering over john's head. now before and now behind them went blanche the cat, pretending as cats do that she was neither following nor leading, but traveling quite independently of them all. frequently she disappeared into the bushes or up a tree, but soon came scampering past, when she would stop to make a hasty toilet. overhead fluttered from tree to tree the carrier pigeon and the other birds, who were john's pets and bound to follow wherever he went. the deer and her fawn went part way with them, and the little rabbits hopped a staccato accompaniment for some time. but john did not urge them to follow. he knew they were better off in the forest, where they could take care of themselves. all day they fared on the uneven path by which, nose to earth, brutus led them. and at last, weary and spent, they came to the little village where the hermit had taken horse for the longer journey. john paused at the first house in the village and knocked at the gate. a burly fellow came to the door. "hello!" he cried. starting back when he saw the strange group gathered in his dooryard. "what means all this?" [illustration: a strange company.] "if you please," said john politely, "we go upon a journey to the king, and we seek shelter. will you let us sleep in your stable, friend?" "sleep in my stable!" muttered the man, "a beggar with a band of outlaw animals! a wolf and a bear! no, indeed. i have too much respect for the safety of my cattle and for the king's laws." he was about to shut the door in john's face. but the lad had a sudden thought. he would try at this first place the value of the hermit's hint. "stay," he said, "one moment, friend." fumbling in his breast, he drew out the silver medal which he wore about his neck. "i was to show this--" he began. but he saw the man start, and, shading his lantern with his hands, peer more closely at the object. then he stared at john's face with wonder. "in god's name!" exclaimed the man, "who are you who travel with this strange company?" john looked almost as surprised as he. "a poor pilgrim, on the king's errand," he said. "we ask only a corner of your stable with a bed of straw to lie on. give us shelter, kind friend, and to-morrow speed us on our way." the man still stared at john as though he saw a fairy. but now he threw the door wide open. "enter," he said. "i cannot refuse you. enter my house. you shall have a bed and supper, fair boy; but what of these?" and he turned troubled eyes upon the animals. "nay," said john simply, "i ask no better bed than theirs, my fellow pilgrims. thank you for your hospitality, kind friend. may we all sleep in your stable? my animals are quite safe company. they will hurt nothing that hurts not me." john smiled then in his happy, trustful way, and the face of the man looking into his brightened as if by reflection. his coarse mouth broadened into a smile. "they shall sleep soundly in the hay," said he kindly, "though it be against the law. i will risk even the bear and the wolf for the sake of that you wear about your neck. but the stable and the company of beasts are not fit for the like of you. that i know, though you be in rags. come into the house, young stranger." "have you forgotten," said john gently, "how once a stable sheltered the greatest king of all among the humblest beasts? i have often had worse beds than a pile of sweet straw. i shall be happy enough among my friends." the man hung his head for a moment, then raised it and looked at john strangely. "i _had_ forgotten," he said. "who are you? who are you who talk so wisely, and who wear that silver cross upon you?" "i am john, the hermit's pupil, and i am very tired," was the answer. "may we not rest now? to-morrow perhaps we will show you some pretty tricks to pay for our night's lodging." "_john_," mused the man, "that is a good name! i want no pay from any one who bears that name." and still eyeing john strangely, he led the way to the stable door. he bade them good-night; and thereupon the straw the two-footed and four-footed pilgrims rested peacefully together, nestled in a warm mass of fur and feathers, flaxen hair, and woolen rags. in the morning the farmer brought them food, and his family came with him to see the strange visitors. for so many animals had never before been seen together in that country. john put bruin and brutus through their tricks, and the children clapped their hands joyously at the sight. then john himself tumbled and danced for them, and they were in an ecstasy. at the end of the performance they clung about the boy's neck and flung themselves upon the animals, declaring that they must not go away, and begging them to stay forever. but john shook his head, smiling. "i must be off," he said. "i must do the king's errand." and so they went upon their way, the children watching them wistfully out of sight. but the farmer went with them some little distance to point out the road; and when he left them he spoke a last word of warning. "the king has no love of animals," he said. "there are none in all the kingdom save those for use and those he hunts to kill. there are no pets nor playmates for the children; no birds even in his forests. beware his wrath, my lad, when he has word of your caravan." "i am going to the king," said john simply. "we go to save the life of his son." the farmer stared again at john with a strange expression. "you, to save his life!" he muttered. "i cannot understand it all!" and he passed his hand over his forehead. "i have some skill at healing. farewell!" cried john gaily. "we shall be safe, i know." "ay, with that silver thing on your neck," said the man to himself, shading his eyes to watch them out of sight. "john; the hermit's pupil; a boy with the knowledge of healing, and a smile,--saint francis! what a smile! he is like our holy john come back again as a child. who can he be?" and he crossed himself devoutly as he went back to his work. but john and his friends went sturdily upon their way. up and down hills they traveled; along dusty roads; through lonely stretches of moor and plain. they caused great excitement in the villages through which they passed. it was years since the townsfolk had seen a dancing bear; years even since they had enjoyed the frolics of a cat and kittens. the raven was a source of delight. the birds that followed overhead and came at john's call, perching on his arms and shoulders, filled the children with envy. the wolf looked so fierce that they were afraid of him; but his brother brutus was petted in a way to spoil any ordinary dog. yet he kept his temper and his poise, and endured their homage meekly. often, in the country through which they passed, john found sick persons to whom he could bring relief, and gladly he used the knowledge which the hermit had taught him. it seemed that there were few in that land who had the skill of healing, and many of the sick had long suffered for lack of the simple remedies which john had often used for his pets. he saved several lives. oh! that was joy for john! the people were very grateful, and would have paid him anything he wished. but all he asked was food or shelter for himself and his friends. then they spoke his name softly and kissed his hands, which made john laugh. john found it easy enough to earn all the food he needed in the villages. remembering his mountebank days, he had but to hold a little performance in the public square. every one would hurry to see bruin do his tricks and john himself turn somersaults and walk on his hands; after which the bear would dance and pass the hat, into which the pennies rained generously. but it was harder to find lodgings for the night. knowing the king's hatred for animals, men feared to shelter this caravan. only when john would pull from his breast the talisman of silver would they soften and yield to his wishes, wondering and almost worshiping, as the farmer had done on that first day. john himself was the most wondering of them all. for he saw no reason why the silver cross should have such power. sometimes he wondered if it was bewitched; but he knew the good hermit would not have bade him rely on magic. yet it made him almost afraid, so that he used this power only when he had to for the sake of the weary animals. he himself was welcome everywhere,--perhaps for the sake of his yellow hair and blue eyes, which were a wonder in that country; but more likely for the smiling ways and cheerful speech of him, that made his passing through that gloomy land like the passage of a sunbeam through thick clouds; and blessings followed after him. and so, after six days of travel, they came at last to the king's city. xx the arrival about sundown john with his train came to the gates of the city where the king lived. they were all very hungry, dusty, and tired. a watchman on the wall, with telescope to his eye, had spied them afar off. "hello!" he cried. "what is this coming down the highroad? it seems a small caravan, creeping and writhing like a caterpillar. the head of it seems human. but, by my faith! the rest of it is like nothing i have seen for many years! what ho! let us be on guard. it may be an enemy of the king." the warders ran to arms. and so it happened that a crowd of them were gaping at the entrance when john and his companions came up. the lad was almost exhausted. but when he saw the way barred by a band of frowning armed men, he doffed his cap and smiled his own peculiar smile. "good-evening, friends," he said. "we have been long in reaching your city. we are glad to be at the gates at last." "who are you?" asked the captain gruffly, stepping forward and barring the way, while his companions gazed in amazement at the wolf and the bear who were huddled at john's side. "i come on an errand to the king," said john. "please guide me to him quickly, for it is an urgent matter." "to the king!" sneered the captain; and the warders echoed his laugh. "no one goes to the king in such company as you bring. you must know that. they are outlaws, all,--and you too, i dare say!" "i know not. but i must see the king, and that quickly," said john. "i come with these friends to heal the king's son, if i can." "ha! more sorcery!" interrupted the captain. "no, you shall not enter here. the king allows no animals in his domain. how you have brought them so far i cannot guess!" "well, i bear this," said john, drawing out the silver talisman. the men bent forward to look at it, then fell back, staring at one another with astonished faces. "who is he?" they whispered among themselves. "what shall we do?" "let me pass, good friends," begged john, looking up in their faces with his simple smile. "i will promise to do no harm. among friends my friends are quite harmless. but tell me, i pray you, where i may find the good hermit who healed the prince's wound? i come at his bidding." at these words the guards pulled themselves together and exchanged looks. they began to swagger. "ah, is it so?" growled the captain. "you are a friend of the wizard himself. we must let the king know of this. yes, you shall enter. here! take him captive! off with him to the prison." "to prison!" cried john in amazement. "for what ill deed, i pray?" but already the guards were pressing forward upon him. at the sight of their threatening looks brutus ran in front of john and began to growl warningly, crouching ready to spring upon the first who should lay hands on the boy. the wolf bristled and showed his fangs. and the bear, rising on his hind legs, growled and blinked his little red eyes so terribly that the men fell back. john was protected by powerful friends. the other animals shrank close to him, and the raven began to scream. [illustration: john was protected by powerful friends.] "have a care!" warned john. "my friends are armed with sharp teeth and claws, and they will not readily let a stranger touch me." "he is a wizard!" muttered the soldiers; but they shrank back, afraid to touch him. "why do you treat me thus?" asked john wistfully. "because you say you are a friend to that vile magician of the woods, by whose arts the prince was wounded, they say, and who yet holds him at death's door." so spoke the captain of the guards. "the prince still lives. but when he passes, the king has decreed that the wizard shall die the death. you come in time to share it, if you be his pupil!" "oh, hasten, hasten!" cried john, clasping his hands. "please take me to him! perhaps i may yet save the good old man. if it is not too late, perhaps i can also save the prince." "ay, we will take you to him fast enough, if you will call off your growling beasts," said the captain. "nay, we must all go together," answered john, who saw how they meant to trap him. "oh, come, let us be moving, for there is no time to lose!" grumbling, but afraid either to delay or to venture near john, the guards formed in a hollow square about him and his pets, and they all began to march in a strange company through the city streets to the palace. a crowd gathered as they passed. men, women, and children craned their necks to look at this group of animals, such as had not been seen in the city for years. they gazed, too, at the handsome yellow-haired boy, and whispered among themselves, "who is he? what has he done?" john noticed that the faces of the people who gazed at him were set and hard. they seemed sad and hopeless. he pitied them. "it is a kingdom without love," he said to himself. yet, as they looked, their faces changed. a new something came into their eyes. a whispering went around among the crowd, increasing to a murmur, like the sound of bees. they came at last to the palace, where the crowd was forced to pause. but, surrounded by the band of soldiers, john and his party went in and on, led by the captain himself, at whose word or gesture doors flew open and servants bowed. through long, glittering halls, lined with mirrors in which their rags and dust, draggled feathers and matted hair showed pitifully, limped john and his weary friends. up a grand marble staircase, with wondering footmen lining either side, pattered on muddy feet brutus and his gray brother, and the bear, clumsily erect at john's side. behind mewed the tired blanche, whose kittens john carried in his arms, while the carrier pigeon and the raven perched on his shoulder. but the other birds had remained outside in the trees of the palace garden. xxi the palace at last they came to a great hall, full of people who seemed met for some solemn purpose. at the door stood the grand chamberlain in lace and velvet, holding in one hand his staff, and in the other an hourglass at which he was gazing earnestly. "what is this?" he said sternly, as the captain approached with his prisoners. "do you not know that this is a moment of life and death?" in a few whispered words the captain explained matters. the chamberlain stared sullenly at john. "no more wizardry!" he said at last. "we have had enough of that. the king has just passed judgment on the sorcerer. in five minutes he is to die. the doctors declare this to be the only hope for the prince's life." "oh, let me see him! let me see my good father!" begged john, clasping his hands piteously. "i may yet save his life, i and these friends." as he said this, john had a sudden thought. he fumbled in his bosom for the silver cross, and held it out with trembling hands so that the chamberlain could see it. the man started back, turning pale and letting fall his staff of office. "what does this mean?" he cried, "who is this lad? how came he by this token?" once more the captain whispered to him. the chamberlain looked wildly at john, then at the hourglass, in which the last grains of sand had sifted down. "the time has come," he said; "the fatal moment is here! i should give the signal for which the executioners wait. but something holds me back. in heaven's name, what does it all mean? is it sorcery or--" "it is the lord's will," said john quietly. "oh, pray, let me see the king." "i do not understand," muttered the chamberlain hoarsely. "but, in the name of the talisman which you wear, enter. go alone. i dare not face the king with his order disobeyed." a broad aisle was left open down the hall through the ranks of lords and ladies. at the end of it was a tall gilt throne. and on the throne, clad in purple and gold, john saw a figure sitting, pale and terrible. it was the king. john knew his cold, cruel face, although the man had greatly altered in those weeks since the day of hunting in the park. for now the king's hair was snow-white and his body was bent like that of an old man. john fixed his eyes upon this figure and began to walk forward steadily. beside him paced brutus, looking up anxiously into the boy's face. in his right hand john led the bear, walking upright. the wolf slunk behind, with lolling tongue. in his arms john still carried the kittens, and on his shoulder perched the raven, while blanche trotted behind him. it was indeed a strange sight. a hush came upon the hall, and every one stared open-mouthed as they passed along. at last the king himself, who was sitting with bent head, noticed the silence and glanced up. john, with his queer group, was now almost at the foot of the throne. the king started up with a cry of rage and surprise. he glared at the lad and at the animals with blazing eyes. "what does this mean?" he shouted. but at that moment john himself gave a cry. he had seen a figure that he knew, and, forgetting all else, he was hurrying towards it. at one side of the throne stood the hermit, pale and sad, with his hands tied behind his back and a rope about his neck. he was guarded on each side by a man with a drawn sword. "my father!" cried john, throwing himself upon the good man's neck before the wondering guards could interfere. at the same time brutus gave a loud bark of joy and leaped upon his master. "my dear son!" cried the hermit, with tears in his eyes. "i thought not to see you again!" at the sound of his voice the cat gave a loud "miaou!" and ran to him. the kittens squeaked and tried to climb his gown. the bear growled contentedly and trotted to his side. the wolf leaped to him with fierce pleasure. the raven hopped to his feet with a scream of joy, and the carrier pigeon, with a soft "coo!" fluttered to his shoulder. to the watching men and women of that court it seemed a miracle. for a moment all was silent. then the king found voice. "what does this mean?" he cried again. "how have this vagrant and his vile beasts found entrance to my palace? it is the hour for execution, not for mummery. why is not the signal given?" "o king," said john timidly, "they let me in because i said that i came to cure your son, if may be." "more sorcery!" howled the king, beside himself with rage. "take him away! slay them all,--the old man, the boy, the animals! i have waited too long already. perhaps even now my son is dead!" he rose, trembling. but the hermit's voice rang out now, loud and clear. "o king," he cried, "enough talk of sorcery and magic. this boy has come to help your son, who sought to slay him. he has brought the animals whose lives you covet, to show you how much you may owe to them. lo, this carrier pigeon bore my message bidding him to come,--not for my sake. for i told him nothing of the danger in which i lay. this noble dog guided him to the village by a path which only he could follow. now with these other animals he hopes to amuse the prince and awaken him to life. there is no magic in this; only love, o king--the love which is lacking in your sad and sullen kingdom." there was a murmur in the crowd, which swayed forward toward john and the hermit. for some seconds the king stood speechless, staring at the hermit and the group around him. then, with a wave of his hand, he bade the guards stand back. he turned to a black-gowned man on his right who had just entered the hall. "does my son still live?" he asked in a choking voice. the doctor nodded gravely. "he still lives, sire. but he is very low. he cannot survive many minutes." the king paled. "let us hasten," he said. "it is the last chance. perhaps the boy has skill." then, turning to the little group of people from the forest, he beckoned grimly. "come with me," he said. "save my son's life, and you save your own. otherwise i swear that you shall all die the most hideous and painful of deaths." descending from the throne with tottering steps, for the king had grown a feeble old man, he led the way from the great hall. behind him came the doctor and the hermit. john followed, with the animals in his arms and close about his heels. so they came to the door of a room in one wing of the palace. xxii the prince's chamber at the door the king paused and turned back to the little company which followed him. "you may enter," he said, "and try your skill on the prince, who is near to death. if you cure him, i will give you whatsoever reward you may demand. but see that you do not fail!" the king's voice was full of menace. "enter, in the name of whatever magic you use." "in the name of love we come," said the hermit gently; "and in the name of love we shall do our best for your son, o king. enter softly, john. you must do without me now. leave our larger, clumsier friends outside with me." softly john tiptoed over the sill, carrying the kittens in his arms, with the dove on his shoulder, and the white cat following behind. in the centre of the room was a couch, hung with a splendid canopy of purple and gold. beneath a purple coverlet fringed with gold lay the prince, white as the lace of the pillow on which his black curls rested. his eyes were closed, and he looked still and lifeless. the hand which lay outside on the purple velvet was as white and transparent as the hand of a marble statue. on one side of his bed sat a doctor in a black velvet gown, and several attendants stood about with long faces and tired eyes. on the other side of the couch a little girl crouched on a low stool. she was a pale, pretty little thing, younger than john, and her dress of brilliant red made her sad, dark eyes look all the more sorrowful as she gazed at john wistfully. it was clare, the prince's only sister. as they entered the room the king made a sign to the doctor, who shook his head sadly. the king crossed to the bed and bent down over his son, touching the cold face. but it did not change. neither the lips nor eyelids trembled, and john could see no sign of life in that still body. how different, he thought suddenly, from the vigorous figure which had wrestled with him in the forest. how different that face from the one which had looked back at him triumphantly after the arrow had struck the poor deer! "he does not hear nor see," said the king gloomily. "he scarcely breathes. what will you do?" john hesitated. he had made no plan; he hardly knew with what hope the hermit had summoned him and his pets thither. it seemed a hopeless task. the king frowned at his daughter. "why is this girl allowed here?" he said gruffly. "leave the room." "oh, sire," pleaded the little princess, with tears in her eyes, "please let me stay! when my brother is so ill, surely my place is at his side. i will be quite still, indeed i will. only do not send me away!" john looked at her and thought how like a gentle little animal she was, so timid, and with such large, beseeching eyes. john had never known any little girls. now he thought they would be very pleasant things to have in an animal kingdom. "please let her stay, king," he said gently. "she can do no harm." "very well. let her stay," said the king impatiently. "but what will you do? what magic have you, boy?" suddenly john had an impulse. he stepped forward with the squirming kittens and laid them on the velvet coverlet close by the prince's marble hand. the doctor arose with a cry of horror; the attendants rushed forward. the little princess drew a long breath. but the king raised his hand. "let the boy alone," he commanded. "even this madness shall be humored. there is no hope now but in him." the kittens began to frisk and gambol about the velvet, and the old cat, with a contented purr, jumped up beside them. she was tired, poor thing, and glad to find a soft bed. at that moment those who were watching saw a change come upon the prince's face. his eyelids quivered. his lips moved slightly. the king raised his hands and trembled. then began a frolic upon that royal bed such as for ten years had not been seen in all the kingdom. up and down, around and around, the kittens chased one another. they rolled over and over, kicking and biting. they played with their mother's tail. they scampered over the still body of the prince himself, and one of them, coming to his hand, began to play with the white fingers, nibbling at them and licking them with warm little pink tongue. and what happened? slowly the prince's eyes opened. for a moment they gazed blankly at the frolicking kittens. then his lips gradually parted, and the flicker of a tiny smile came upon them. the king clasped his hands over his eyes, and gave a cry of joy. the little princess laid her head on the pillow beside her brother's and wept silently. the kitten which was playing with the prince's hand rolled over on its back and began to kick at the royal fingers. a tiny red scratch appeared on the milky skin. at the same moment a bit of color came into the prince's white lips and cheeks. he turned his head, and lifting his hand stroked the soft ball of fur. the little thing responded immediately, arching its back and beginning to purr. presently the prince's other hand stole out from under the coverlet. he drew the kitten feebly to his face and rubbed his cheek against the silky fur, and he smiled! [illustration: he stroked the soft ball of fur.] the doctor turned to the king. "he will live," he said. "it must be magic!" "he lives! my son lives!" cried the king, bending over the prince in a transport. the prince opened his eyes and looked at him, and a change came upon his face. the smile faded, and he closed his eyes wearily. "your majesty," said john, speaking gently, "if you will allow me to give the prince a healing draught which i myself have made from life-giving herbs, i think now he will sleep and waken refreshed." "do as you will!" cried the king. "whatever you wish shall be done in the palace. whatever you ask shall be given." with a word and a gentle touch john roused the prince, who swallowed the draught which the boy gave him. "now let us leave him to sleep," said john. but when they would have removed the cat and kittens, a cloud came over the prince's face, and his hand wandered feebly, as if craving the touch of the silky fur. "we will leave them here," said john. "they are what he needs." "oh, let me stay too!" cried the little princess, with shining eyes. and across the room she and john smiled at each other, as he nodded, saying, "yes, o king, i pray that you will let the little maid stay." so they withdrew from the chamber, and left the prince to dream with his new friends sleeping about him, and the little sister with her head upon the pillow at his side. and all night long he slept like a baby with a smile upon his face. the prince's cure had begun. xxiii the cure there was wonder and excitement in the palace, for the news of john's success had been told from mouth to mouth. the king ordered the hermit's chains to be removed, and he and his pupil were treated with utmost honor. but they refused all gifts which the monarch made them; and he was annoyed. in the morning john and the hermit went once more to see their patient. they found him and the little princess playing with the kittens, and both looked up with a smile when the visitors entered. but at sight of john the prince's color faded and the smile died on his lips. john bore the white pigeon in his hands, and going to the bedside bent over the prince with a gay manner. "you are better?" he asked. the prince's eyes looked into his wonderingly. "why do you try to help me?" he asked. "once i tried to kill you." the little princess gasped. "i came to heal and help you if i could," said john, laughing. "i brought my pets to cheer you. see, here is the dove of peace. she brought me the message which has saved your life. will you not love her as i do?" he placed the bird on the prince's breast, and with a gentle coo the creature nestled there confidingly. tears came to the prince's eyes. "you are very good," he said. "i tried to kill your pets in the forest." "o brother!" cried the little maid, clasping her hands with a sob. "how could you!" "let us forget that," said john brightly. "let us be friends. you will get well and learn to love the animals for their own sake." "oh, yes!" said the little girl. "i never saw any before, but how can one help loving these dear little pets,--and the lovely bird?" she stroked the white feathers tenderly. but the prince covered his face with his hands and seemed to be weeping. "i cannot forget!" he said brokenly. john felt very uncomfortable. "if only i could make him laugh, now!" he thought. then an idea came to him,--a funny idea which made his eyelids quiver and the brown spot wink. with a twist of his body he suddenly stood upon his head at the foot of the prince's couch, and, waving his feet in the air, began to walk about the chamber on his hands. the prince uncovered his eyes and gazed in astonishment at such antics. presently john regained his feet, and kissing his hand began to turn somersaults vigorously all about the apartment. the little princess clapped her hands and began to laugh. the prince watched him, fascinated. presently, as john's high spirits broke out into fuller pranks and gyrations, the prince's lips quivered. he began to grin. "oh, you are a tumbler," he said. "i am glad you have come here! do it again." so john did it again; and this time the prince, watching him, echoed the gay laugh of the little princess. "it is as good as a play," he said, feebly wiping the tears of merriment from his cheeks. "i wish i could do it myself!" [illustration: i wish i could do it myself!] "you must get well first," said john, laughing. "i will try," said the prince, with a new spirit in his tone. and from that moment he began to grow stronger. now came days when the palace was much happier than it had been for years. the presence of the animals was in itself a joy to the king's people, long starved for the lack of pets. and john's sunny face and quaint smile were reflected on all about him. there is nothing so catching as good humor, and john started an epidemic which spread through the palace, and indeed through the whole city. no one knew how it happened. but before long the flaxen-haired boy was the pet of the whole town. not only was he welcome always in the prince's chamber, but every door at which he knocked opened gladly to him, and he was at home wherever he went. only the king held aloof. he had grown strangely grim and sullen since his son's cure was assured. the king was jealous. what with the animals to play with and john's tumbling, the prince was continually in gales of laughter, and every day he grew plumper and more rosy. sometimes it was brutus who amused him; often the cat and kittens, his first friends. the raven became a great favorite after his introduction to the prince, which happened in this wise. john had delayed to bring the bird into the royal chamber, he was so mischievous. but one day when the prince seemed very merry, john slipped out and fetched the black fellow on his shoulder. on being invited to do so, the raven hopped gravely to the foot of the bed, where he perched, eyeing the prince with little round eyes and head cocked knowingly. presently the bird gave a queer screech, and began to imitate john's own laughter so exactly that the prince shook with mirth. at this the raven stood upon one leg gravely, and began to sidle along the footboard of the bed. presently he spied some fruit carved on the wooden uprights, and making a dart began to peck at the pears and peaches. then, discovering his mistake, once more he began to chuckle, this time so heartily that he seemed ready to have a fit. and as he listened the prince's mouth widened and he burst into roars of laughter. "hush, you foolish bird!" said john reprovingly. "be not so noisy in a prince's chamber. it is not good manners!" and he threw his handkerchief over the raven's head. but the prince protested. "let him do his pleasure," he said, laughing. "i have not seen anything so funny for many a day. i shall teach him many tricks." so the raven stayed with the prince, and learned many tricks. and the carrier pigeon stayed. and the others stayed,--all but the wolf, who would never leave john,--making themselves quite at home on the prince's velvet couch. and the little princess played with them, enjoying the happiest hours of her life. one only of the animals the prince had not seen. the hermit and john agreed that until he was stronger he must not see the bear whom he had once tried to kill. for they knew that now it would make the prince sad and ashamed to remember that day in the forest. such a change had come upon the young man! he was no longer hard and cruel, but tender and affectionate. the king felt the change, and it made him angry. xxiv the king daily, as the prince grew stronger, he became more and more devoted to the animals, to john and the good hermit. he could scarcely bear them out of his sight. when they were with him his face lighted with smiles, and he seemed to blossom as a flower does in sunshine. only in the presence of the king he grew silent and sad once more. the light passed from his eyes as he looked at the grim old man. a visit from the king was almost enough to undo the good effects of a whole day of happiness. the king knew this, and it made him furious. he did not see that it was his own fault; that it was the badness in him which made the prince shrink. he thought it was the doing of some one else. he grew to hate the hermit and john and the animals, of whom his son and daughter were so fond. in his heart he cared little for any one. he had never loved the princess clare, and the prince was dear only because one day he would be king. yet robert hated to see them love any one else. the king was resolved to put an end to this state of things as soon as might be. but he dared not do anything yet for fear of causing his son to fall ill again. he sat and brooded and planned in his wicked heart what he would do when the prince should be well once more. and for him the time went slowly which others found so happy. of all this the prince and john guessed nothing. for the king seemed to them no more gruff and grum than usual. all the wishes of the strangers were regarded, and they were treated like distinguished guests in the palace. but the hermit kept his eyes open. and one other was not blind to the king's hatred. clare, the little princess who had never been loved by her father, knew the meaning of the black looks which he sometimes cast upon the two forest-comers, and her heart was uneasy, for she loved them both. the prince grew so much better that he could walk about. one day he was lying upon his couch in a balcony overlooking the royal park. the hermit sat close by, reading aloud from the book which he was teaching the prince to love, as he had taught john. the little princess bent over her embroidery frame at the foot of the couch, and john himself, on the floor at her feet, was playing with brutus. the other animals and birds were straying about the balcony, or lay cuddled in the prince's lap. john thought how like this scene was to the animal kingdom in the woods; yet how unlike. and he glanced from the prince to the princess with a smile of content. it seemed hardly possible that this was the land where no pets were allowed; where hunting was the favorite sport of the king and his son! suddenly, in a pause of the reading, the prince put out his hand. "friends," he said, "you have taught me many things in these weeks that you have dwelt under this roof. you have cured me; you have made me laugh. i have been thinking much of late how it is that where you come folk are happy. your faces make the world smile. how different from my father and me! we have always made every one weep. there has been something wrong, i know not what. no one loves us,--not even clare here." "o brother!" protested the little maid, "i have always loved you. but never so dearly as now, when you have grown so kind." john spoke gently. "you will change all this when you are king," he said. the prince shook his head. "no, they will never love me as they do you. i would fain be different, but i can never be like you, john. you should be king, not i." john laughed. "and what would become of the animal kingdom then?" he said. "my father and i have been talking together. we must soon go back to our woods and our little friends there." "oh, you must not go!" gasped the prince, turning pale. "you must never leave me! i can never again be alone with the king!" he looked so terror-stricken that the hermit and john were silent for pity. "i have been thinking," went on the prince gravely, "that when i am king, if that time ever comes,--and they say that it must, since there is no other son of our house,--i shall need much help, for i am weak and not wise. you, good father, i would have you for my counselor. and you,"--he laid his arm affectionately on john's shoulder,--"you shall be my brother and share the throne with me." "nay, thrones cannot be shared thus," said the hermit, looking at both boys with some agitation. "you are a king's son. but we are of the woods, my prince. i at least have other work to do. as john says, there is the animal kingdom--what is to become of that?" "why, there will be no need for you to go to find it," answered the prince eagerly. "when i am king all shall be changed. this shall be the animal kingdom. there shall be no more hunting or killing here. there shall be pets,--more than in any other land. for i have seen how unhappy are folk who live without them." "now god be praised!" cried the good hermit, with tears in his eyes. and john embraced the prince heartily, while the little princess clapped her hands and cried with shining eyes, "oh! we shall all live together forever and ever, as happily as if this were the lovely forest which is john's home." "nay," said the hermit gravely, "i cannot live here. i must go back to my woods. i have vowed never again to live away from my forest kingdom. but you, john, have taken no vow. will you stay here with the prince, or will you go back with me? make now your choice." john looked wistfully at the prince and princess, for he loved them well. he looked at the animals who crowded around him and seemed to be listening to his words. he knew how eager they were to be back in the forest. he looked at the hermit. "oh, stay!" cried the prince. "stay and be my brother, and i will make you rich and powerful." "oh, stay!" begged the little princess. "stay and be my brother, too!" but john shook his head. "i cannot stay," he said. "if my dear father will have me for his pupil still, i will go back with him. for though it is pleasant here, i love best the life of the woods and the freedom of the forest. and i long to learn what no one in this kingdom can teach me: the art of healing and helping, as did that good john whose name i bear." the hermit's face beamed like may sunshine, but he said nothing. "then i will go to the forest with you!" cried the prince. "i will not stay here. i do not want to be king. i too would be free and happy in the kingdom of the forest." "and i will go also!" said the princess. "hush!" said the hermit gravely. "that may not be. your duty lies here. when you are king, my prince, you can make your kingdom into a happy place. then, little princess, you will be proud of it and of him. your duty is to the kingdom where you were born, and to the people of it, whom you can make happier and better. but perhaps, some day when i am gone to a still fairer kingdom, john will be able to help you, as another john once helped another king." at this moment there was a noise at the window which led to the balcony, and the king stepped out to them. how long he had been standing inside, how much of their talk he had heard, no one knew. the princess flushed; but the prince turned pale as he greeted his father respectfully. john and the hermit exchanged glances. they were not afraid for themselves, but they dreaded the king's wrath for his son and daughter, who had threatened to run away. the king stood for a moment, looking at the group with a frown. then a peculiar smile twisted his lips. "ah!" he said, "i have intruded, it seems, upon a council of state. i fear that i interrupt your plans, my son. but i trust that you and these noble visitors will pardon my desire to learn the state of your health. you must not be over-excited." he waved his hand toward the hermit and john, then bowed low to each of the animals in turn, with bitter mockery. the princess trembled, for she saw how angry the king was. "we have no secrets, my friends and i," said the prince with dignity. "we have nothing to conceal of which we are ashamed." the king looked at him quickly, as if suspecting that his words meant some reproach. but he only said, "that is well." then his manner changed. he tried to appear merry and genial. "and now, my son," he said, "since you are so much better, i wish to plan a festival in your honor, to celebrate your cure." the little princess looked at him quickly. she suspected some treachery. but the prince seemed pleased. "for me?" he said. "a festival in which these friends may share--these friends who saved my life?" "ay," answered the king, bowing to the group once more with a peculiar smile. "surely, it shall be also in honor of these friends to whom we are so grateful." the hermit and john bowed. the king went on suavely: "we will have a pageant, with music and games and singing. but chiefly the people clamor to see our young friend do the wonderful tricks of which they have heard. i myself would fain see what you, my son, have found so amusing. my lad,"--he turned to john with a strange tone in his voice,--"you shall dance and tumble and put your animals through their paces, for the applause of my people. i command you to appear before us this day week and do your sprightliest. it is not often that we have the honor of entertaining a mountebank at court." he spoke the word "mountebank" sneeringly, and john flushed. but seeing the hermit sitting with downcast eyes, he merely answered:-- "i shall obey your majesty's commands." "then that is settled," said the king, with a grunt of satisfaction. "and you,"--he turned to the prince,--"you will then be strong enough to sit at my side on the throne. it is well." he quite ignored the little daughter who with a pale face shrank in one corner. with one last glance at the group, the king swept from the balcony. "a fete!" said the prince, clapping his hands. "a grand fete in your honor, my kind friends. that will be rare sport! john, you shall make the whole city laugh, even as you have cured me." "i shall do my best," answered john. "yes, i will teach some of my little friends new tricks for that fete." and he laughed as he thought how the prince and princess would stare when they saw bruin dance. john and the prince left the balcony arm in arm, to talk over the plans for the fete. but the hermit still sat with bent brows, thinking. "why did he call john a mountebank?" he asked himself. "he hates us. he is planning some mischief, i believe. it is time we were back in our animal kingdom." he looked up. the princess was touching his arm and her face was very pale. "father," she said, for so the royal children loved to call the good old man. "father, there is mischief in the air. oh! do be on your guard. for i think it would break my heart if anything should happen to you or to dear john." the hermit stroked her hair gently. "dear child," he said, "we will take care of him, you and i and the animals." xxv the fete the day for the festival came at last. the prince was now quite strong and well, and had taken a joyous part in the preparations. the palace was decorated with flowers; bands were playing, fountains splashing in the courtyard; banquets were spread at all hours for any one who would partake. the palace was merrier than it had been for years; and the centre of all the joy, the core of the day's happiness, was john. his praise was on every one's lips. his name, even more often than the young prince's whose health they were celebrating, was spoken in love and tenderness. but all this john did not seem to know. he only saw that every one was very kind; that the world might be a very happy place to live in, if love ruled the kingdoms of it. and he made ready for his share in the merrymaking with a light heart. it was great fun to play at being a mountebank once more for the people who loved him! yet he was not sorry that the next day he and the hermit were going back to the kingdom in the forest. he was longing for the peace and quiet of the woods, and the little wild friends who awaited them there. the king he never saw. that monarch seemed anxious to keep out of his way as far as possible. john did not know that he and the hermit were being carefully watched by the king's spies, and that they were really prisoners in the palace. for they were treated honorably, and the king sent word that john must ask for whatever he wished to make his performance a success. john asked for little. upon one thing, however, he had set his heart. he had made for that occasion a tumbler's suit of green silk, with trunks of cloth-of-gold--just such a suit as gigi had worn when he was one of the mountebank company. but the boy who pranced gaily about the palace in this gorgeous attire was a very different fellow from the sad-eyed little gigi. john was tall and sturdy and full of life. his eyes sparkled with fun and good humor, and looked at the world frankly as if expecting kindness from every one. so much had five years of love and humanity done for the little wanderer. when john appeared in the courtyard ready for his performance, dressed in the familiar colors of long ago, he could not help chuckling to think how things had changed with him. instead of cecco and the giant, by his side waddled the great bear on his hind legs; while brutus walked sedately on his other side, and the gaunt wolf stalked behind. the park was thronged with people, soldiers and citizens and peasants from the country, jostling one another for a sight of john and his pets,--and whispering among themselves with an excitement which john could not understand. for after all he was going to give a simple little show of tumbling such as they must have seen many times. "it is the animals," he thought. "it must be the animals that they are so eager to see." john walked along, smiling into the faces which met his kindly, and the brown spot on his eyelid gave him the mischievous look which always made folk laugh. it was amid a ripple of good-natured laughter that he and his pets made their way to the platform which had been erected in front of the palace. here on a high seat sat the king, and beside him the prince, with a flush of pleasure on his thin cheeks. gaily dressed lords and ladies stood about the throne. but somewhat apart and surrounded by his pets sat the hermit in his gray robe, with folded arms. his hood was pulled over his face so that john could not see how grave he was. two armed men stood behind him, but by his side, with her hand on his shoulder, was the little princess. john smiled at her, when he bowed low to the people on the platform. and the little maid answered with a flash of affection; but her face was very pale, and her hand trembled on the hermit's shoulder. john led forward his animals and they began their tricks. the hermit saw the prince start when bruin appeared. evidently he recognized the animal which he had once tried to kill. merrily john urged the clumsy fellow to dance, and every one laughed heartily at the sight. only the king sat grim and sullen. [illustration: john urged the clumsy fellow to dance.] then john put a plumed hat on the bear's head, took his arm, and the two strutted about the platform like a pair of dandies. the audience burst into roars of mirth. even the hermit's sides were shaking, and the little princess rocked to and fro with merriment. straight up to the prince marched the twain, and at john's command the bear bowed and held out his hand politely. "he salutes you, his brother," said john to the prince. "he begs you to be friends with him always." the prince bowed in return, with a bright flush in his cheeks. "i salute you, brother," he replied. "never again will i hunt you or any animal, wherever i may be." from the foremost of the crowd who heard these words came a loud "hurrah!" and caps were tossed in the air. evidently the prince's sentiment was popular in the city. "tut, tut!" said the king, "we will see about that!" he bit his lip and bent a frown upon the group before him. the hermit saw him whisper a word into the ear of one of his courtiers, who bowed and disappeared. now john put brutus and the wolf through their tricks, which were wonderful indeed; for the dog was very intelligent, and had learned all that the best educated dog nowadays can do, and more beside. then the wolf's leaping was a thing to wonder at, he was so lithe and strong. over brutus he leaped, over john's head, over the bear, over john standing on the bear's broad back. at the end the prince applauded heartily, and calling up the dog and the wolf, placed a golden collar about the neck of each. "good friends," said the prince, "you helped to save my life, you and your brothers, and your masters. i give you these. but them i never can repay if i live to be as old as noah, who was the first to gather pets about him. i hope that in time there may be many pets throughout the kingdom." he glanced timidly at the king. "hurrah!" shouted the people. "long live the prince. long live john and his animals! hurrah! hurrah!" "no more of this!" the king made a gesture, and the shouting stopped, changing into sullen murmurs. the king was not popular, it seemed. "let the performance proceed!" he commanded. "i do not like these interruptions." once more the hermit saw him whisper to a servant, who went away quickly on some mysterious errand. now, with a happy face, john himself stepped forward and showed his skill and strength and grace. he turned somersaults backward and forward; he stood upon his head and danced upon his hands. he did all the old tricks which he had learned of the tumblers, and more of his own invention, till the people shouted rapturously, "bravo! bravo! hurrah for our john!" with his eye on the prince, john began to caper at his merriest. he danced high, leaping like a grasshopper, and seeming to bound like thistledown. all the while his eyes twinkled, and the people laughed with delight. "bravo! john, bravo!" shouted the prince, clapping his hands. "come here and let me decorate you, my friend." and as john bowed before him the prince placed upon his bosom a beautiful star of diamonds that gleamed and sparkled like a cobweb full of dew. "hurrah! hurrah! long life to john! john! john!" shouted the people, as if they loved the name. and the hermit saw that the king turned pale and shook with wrath at the sound. the next moment he grasped the arms of his chair and stared into the crowd eagerly. suddenly he arose, and, waving his sceptre, commanded silence. john bowed and turned to the king, waiting to hear his pleasure. but instead of the speech which every one expected, they saw the king gazing down into the crowd before him, and on his lips was a malicious smile. but he looked very old and sick, and he tottered as he held to the arm of his throne. xxvi the talisman john turned his head to see at what the king was staring. there was a movement in the crowd. men were being elbowed forward. a noise of harsh voices arose, and to the platform crowded three figures in rags and tatters. they forced their way directly in front of the platform, and stood staring up. john stepped forward to see what it meant, and in a moment fell back with a cry of dismay. he was looking into the eyes of cecco, tonio and the giant! "hi! master gigi!" cried tonio's hateful voice; "so here we find you setting up as a tumbler on your own account. your majesty," he cried, appealing to the king, who was listening with a wicked grin on his face, "this is our boy. we own him. he ran away, but he belongs to us. give him to us again!" the little princess screamed and clung to the hermit's arm; but he sat motionless, watching. the people began to murmur and jostle the three strangers. but the king raised his hand, and they listened to him. "we will hear these men," he said. then, turning to john, he added smoothly, "and after that, sirrah, you shall answer for yourself." the hermit rose and took a step forward, still holding the little princess by the hand. brutus broke away from the page who held him, and crouched growling at john's side. then tonio raised his voice, and cried louder, pointing at john with his skinny hand. "he is our boy," he said. "we taught him his trade; let him deny it. now he is robbing us of our fair dues. he is a runaway. give him back to us!" still john stared at him, too dazed to answer. but the hermit took another step forward, and said sternly:-- "he is your boy, you say. how did you come by him?" "we bought him for a gold piece," they said in chorus. "that was years ago. for ten years he traveled with us. and then he ran away. his life is ours; let him deny it if he can!" john stood silent, horrified at the fate which seemed to confront him. for in those days children who were bought and sold in this cruel way were the slaves of the masters who had purchased them. the prince had fallen back, pale and trembling. but the king now spoke again, gazing with malicious eyes upon the two wood-folk whom he hated. "what have you to say for yourselves?" he asked. "you who do not deny that you are a runaway; you, old man, who stole the lad and must be punished most severely therefor, have you any reason why i should not give the one of you up to these mountebanks, his lawful masters, and the other of you to punishment and death? speak!" the king's voice was harsh and cruel. his eyes glittered fiercely. still john was silent. "seize him!" commanded the king. "seize them both! off with them to prison!" the guards stepped forward, unwillingly enough. but at that moment john drew himself up. his eyes flashed; he grasped in both hands the staff over which he had made the wolf leap, and braced himself for defense. "they shall not take me!" he cried. "i will not go with them. i will die sooner. to me, my brothers!" and he gave a shrill, peculiar cry by which he and the hermit were wont to call their pets. [illustration: to me, my brothers!] instantly the hermit ranged himself at john's side. at the same moment brutus placed himself, barking and growling, before the twain. breaking from the leash by which he was held, the wolf came leaping towards them, and stood bristling beside the dog, showing his terrible fangs. with a savage growl bruin burst his chain and came lumbering to the defense of his friends, and the three devoted animals made a stout and terrible wall about them. but this was not all. from the corners where they were crouched came running the other, gentler pets. here scampered the cat and her kittens, mewing pitifully. across the platform hopped the raven. the carrier pigeon fluttered to the hermit's shoulder. and from the trees all roundabout came winging, with a call answering to john's, a flock of birds who had followed him from the forest, and who had been hidden in the forbidden trees of the king's park until this very hour. they fluttered like a cloud about the heads of the pair, so that one could scarcely see them. every one stood amazed; even the king sank back in his seat, stupefied. the guards fell back with lowered weapons. the crowd was silent, staring open-mouthed. then a murmur arose, and words passed from man to man. "a miracle! it is a miracle! they must be god's saints!" but tonio was not long silent. "tricks! tricks!" he cried. "gigi has become an animal-trainer. but he is our boy still. give him to us!" "seize them!" repeated the king in a choking voice. once more the guards made a rush forward. but the animals leaped up and stood at bay so fiercely that they dared not come nearer. the hermit raised his hand, and there was sudden silence. he faced the king and spoke sternly. "o king," he said, "you see that they will never take us alive. in sight of all these people will you add more deaths to your record?" the murmur of the crowd grew louder. "nay, all has not yet been said," he went on. "listen, o king. you judge too quickly. there is not proof enough of the lad's ownership." "not enough?" snarled the king. "i say there is enough and to spare. can this boy dispute the words of these men?" john now looked at the hermit eagerly. his heart beat with hope of something, he knew not what. the king sneered. "you see!" he cried triumphantly. but once more the hermit held up his hand. "will you not question these fellows further?" he asked. "dare you hear more, o king?" "dare i!" blustered the king, "and why not, pray? if there be more to say, tell it," he commanded the mountebanks. "ay," they answered eagerly, "we can indeed prove that the boy is ours." "tell how you came by him," interrupted the hermit, in a tone not to be disobeyed. tonio answered sullenly:-- "we have told already. we bought him for a gold piece, of a fisherman on a distant coast. he had found the babe, nearly dead with cold and hunger, floating in a basket on the sea. it was a castaway, a foundling; no one wanted it. we took it away with us, and had hard work to make it live." "is that all?" asked the hermit. "was there nothing to prove that this is the same child?" he said this in a loud voice so that every one could hear. "proof!" cried tonio, shaking his fist at john fiercely. "who can mistake him in that suit, the very one we gave him? look at his mop of yellow tow and his eye with the brown spot over it. no one who has seen it could forget that spot. ay, there is still another way to prove him ours. i see the gleam of silver around his neck. he still wears the chain and the bit of silver which he dares not remove, because there is magic in it, they say. it was on his neck when the fisherman found him. look, and see if we do not say truth!" john still stood motionless, looking in the hermit's face. but at these last words the old man stepped behind him and drew the silver talisman from the boy's breast, laying it out on his green silk bosom, where it glittered for all to see. cecco and tonio and the giant gave a cry of triumph. but from the crowd behind them rose a murmur of different meaning. men began to crowd forward eagerly. "yes, look!" cried the hermit, pointing at the medal. "the cross of the good man john, the friend of king cyril! which of you does not know and love it?" the murmur of the crowd swelled into a shout,--"who is he? who is the lad? we will know!" "who but john," answered the hermit, with kindling eyes. "who but john, the good man's son,--my brother's son. i know, for i christened the child, and i saw the king hang this cross about the baby's neck, a cross like the one he had given john himself. this is the child who disappeared fourteen years ago. the king sent him away to be killed. but the servant to whom the task fell was less cruel. the child was set adrift on the ocean, and escaped as you have heard. will you let him be lost again?" "no! no!" roared the crowd. "he shall not go! he shall not go!" and they seized the three mountebanks and hustled them away. with a shout the king's own guards rushed forward to help in this matter. there was a cry at the back of the platform. the king had fallen in a fit. but few at the moment were thinking of him. the people were throwing up their caps and dancing joyously. "john! john!" they shouted. "we knew the silver cross which the holy john always wore when he went about doing good to us. oh, we remember now! we shall never again forget! john! hurrah for his son john!" john himself stood bewildered, and the animals around him shivered and looked surprised. they were not used to such tumults. suddenly john felt his hand clasped softly. the little princess was at his side, looking up in his face and smiling through tears. "dear john!" she said. "now you are safe. now you will be our brother indeed!" "yes, he is safe," said the hermit, embracing the boy tenderly. "my john! my brother's son! oh, how i have longed to tell you and claim you for my nephew! but i vowed that i would wait until you had proved yourself worthy of him, worthy of the name by which i christened you. and you are worthy, o my dear john, even to wear the silver cross!" "i do not understand yet," said john. "who am i? and why do the people shout my name and seem to love me so much?" "you are the son of john, the holy friend of the people," answered the hermit. "but you, my father,--for so i must call you still," said john; "who are you, and how came you to be living in the forest?" "i was but a humble servant of god," said the hermit. "but when king cyril died, and my brother and you were gone, there was not happiness for me in the city of sorrow. i became an exile. i fled to the forest with the hunted animals who were my brother's friends. and there i made a home for them, a kingdom of my own, with brutus for my prime minister. and there, after many years, you came to find me, my dear son! it was a miracle!" now the prince came forward and laid his hand timidly on john's shoulder. "john," he said, "now you know how less than ever you have reason to love the rulers of this land. but oh, john! i beg you to forgive us. be my brother, john; and if you can forget, let me be your friend!" "my brother and friend!" cried john; and the two hugged each other affectionately, while brutus leaped up and licked the face first of one, then of the other, and the other animals frisked joyously. "hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the people, "they are like good king cyril and his friend the holy john. let it be so! let it be so! hurrah! hurrah!" conclusion and so it turned out to be. for soon the old king died, worn out by wicked passions, and prince hugh became king. then began a new order of things. the land was now a happy kingdom, full of love and peace. like his uncle, the new monarch became known as the good king. in his realm was never hunting or cruel sport. the houses of his subjects were full of pets. and the palace itself was a perfect menagerie, so that john called it "the ark." there were hundreds of new four-footed friends in the park and palace; and hundreds of two-footed friends in the trees and dovecotes. to and fro they went between the city and the forest. for all ways were safe now to wandering creatures. a highroad was made connecting the king's city with the hermit's wood. and the path to the door of the hut was worn smooth. for this soon became a favorite place of pilgrimage. there in the forest kingdom lived the good hermit and john his nephew, with their circle of pets. and these also went back and forth between the forest and the city. for john was the prince's dear friend and companion, and spent many weeks of the year in the palace with the two whom he loved. his pets were as eagerly welcomed there as he. brutus had his own rug by the young king's fireplace. the wolf made a faithful guardian of the palace gate, while john was inside. bruin wandered about the halls at his pleasure. the cat purred contentedly on the brocade furniture, with ever-new kittens frisking about her. the raven often perched on the back of king hugh's chair and made wise sounds. and while waiting to carry a message to the hermit in the forest, the carrier pigeon loved to nestle in the arms of the young princess, who grew prettier and prettier every day. to the kingdom in the forest came folk from everywhere. the quiet of the hermit's retreat was often broken. but nevertheless the old man was happy. for he saw his boy fast growing into the man he had hoped him to be, the copy of his father, beloved john. with the silver cross on his bosom, the strange, merry smile ever on his face, and a kind word always on his lips, john ministered to all who needed him; and he went far and wide to find them. he was always happy, whatever he might be doing; alone with the hermit and his animal friends; helping the troubled and the ailing; wandering with brutus and the wolf through the still lonely parts of the wood; studying the never-failing wonders of the kingdom in the forest. but he was happiest of all, perhaps, when the king and princess came to visit him, as they loved to do,--without servants or followers, with only an animal or two. for this country was the safest and most peaceful in the world. [illustration: king and princess came to visit him.] then they would all dress in simple green and brown and go out into the forest to ramble and to become acquainted with the wild creatures. there they met the old friends of the wood who had not gone with the others on that famous pilgrimage. and the deer, the fox, the squirrel, the rabbits, and the birds were always glad to see them. here john could teach the young king to tumble and turn somersaults to his heart's delight, without any one to say, "how undignified!" for whatever the friendly beasts and birds thought of these antics, they never spoke critically of the matter. here also john taught the princess the secret lore of the forest, so that she became almost as wise and skillful as he. but no one could say, "how unladylike!" for she grew sweeter and dearer every day. and the good old hermit watched them always with loving eyes. now or never or, the adventures of bobby bright. a story for young folks by oliver optic author of _the boat club_, _all aboard_, _in doors and out_, etc. boston: lee and shepard, publishers. new york: lee, shepard & dillingham, greene street to my nephew, charles henry pope. this book is affectionately dedicated. preface the story contained in this volume is a record of youthful struggles, not only in the world without, but in the world within; and the success of the little hero is not merely a gathering up of wealth and honors, but a triumph over the temptations that beget the pilgrim on the plain of life. the attainment of worldly prosperity is not the truest victory, and the author has endeavored to make the interest of his story depend more on the hero's devotion to principles than on his success in business. bobby bright is a smart boy; perhaps the reader will think he is altogether too smart for one of his years. this is a progressive age, and any thing which young america may do need not surprise any person. that little gentleman is older than his father, knows more than his mother, can talk politics, smoke cigars, and drive a : horse. he orders "one stew" with as much ease as a man of forty, and can even pronounce correctly the villanous names of sundry french and german wines and liqueurs. one would suppose, to hear him talk, that he had been intimate with socrates and solon, with napoleon and noah webster; in short, that whatever he did not know was not worth knowing. in the face of these manifestations of exuberant genius, it would be absurd to accuse the author of making his hero do too much. all he has done is to give this genius a right direction; and for politics, cigars, : horses, and "one stew," he has substituted the duties of a rational and accountable being, regarding them as better fitted to develop the young gentleman's mind, heart, and soul. bobby bright is something more than a smart boy. he is a good boy, and makes a true man. his daily life is the moral of the story, and the author hopes that his devotion to principle will make a stronger impression upon the mind of the young reader, than even the most exciting incidents of his eventful career. william t. adams. dorchester, nov. , . contents. chap. i.--in which bobby goes a fishing, and catches a horse. chap. ii.--in which bobby blushes several times, and does a sum in arithmetic. chap. iii.--in which the little black house is bought, but not paid for. chap. iv.--in which bobby gets out of one scrape, and into another. chap. v.--in which bobby gives his note for sixty dollars. chap. vi.--in which bobby sets out on his travels. chap. vii.--in which bobby stands up for certain "inalienable rights." chap. viii.--in which mr. timmins is astonished, and bobby dines in chestnut street. chap. ix.--in which bobby opens various accounts, and wins his first victory. chap x.--in which bobby is a little too smart. chap. xi.--in which bobby strikes a balance, and returns to riverdale. chap. xii.--in which bobby astonishes sundry persons, and pays part of his note. chap. xiii.--in which bobby declines a copartnership, and visits b---- again. chap. xiv.--in which bobby's air castle is upset, and tom spicer takes to the woods. chap. xv.--in which bobby gets into a scrape, and tom spicer turns up again. chap. xvi.--in which bobby finds "it is an ill wind that blows no one any good." chap. xvii.--in which tom has a good time, and bobby meets with a terrible misfortune. chat. xviii.--in which bobby takes french leave, and camps in the woods. chap. xix.--in which bobby has a narrow escape, and goes to sea with sam ray. chap. xx.--in which the clouds blow over, and bobby is himself again. chap. xxi.--in which bobby steps off the stage, and the author must finish "now or never." chapter i. in which bobby goes a fishing, and catches a horse. "by jolly! i've got a bite!" exclaimed tom spicer, a rough, hard-looking boy, who sat on a rock by the river's side, anxiously watching the cork float on his line. "catch him, then," quietly responded bobby bright, who occupied another rock near the first speaker, as he pulled up a large pout, and, without any appearance of exultation, proceeded to unhook and place him in his basket. "you are a lucky dog, bob," added tom, as he glanced into the basket of his companion, which now contained six good-sized fishes. "i haven't caught one yet." "you don't fish deep enough." "i fish on the bottom." "that is too deep." "it don't make any difference how i fish; it is all luck." "not all luck, tom; there is something in doing it right." "i shall not catch a fish," continued tom, in despair. "you'll catch something else, though, when you go home." "will i?" "i'm afraid you will." "who says i will?" "didn't you tell me you were 'hooking jack'? "who is going to know any thing about it?" "the master will know you are absent." "i shall tell him my mother sent me over to the village on an errand." "i never knew a fellow to 'hook jack,' yet, without getting found out." "i shall not get found out unless you blow on me; and you wouldn't be mean enough to do that;" and tom glanced uneasily at his companion. "suppose your mother should ask me if i had seen you." "you would tell her you have not, of course." "of course?" "why, wouldn't you? wouldn't you do as much as that for a fellow?" "it would be a lie." "a lie! humph!" "i wouldn't lie for any fellow," replied bobby, stoutly, as he pulled in his seventh fish, and placed him in the basket. "wouldn't you?" "no, i wouldn't." "then, let me tell you this; if you peach on me i'll smash your head." tom spicer removed one hand from the fish pole and, doubling his fist, shook it with energy at his companion. "smash away," replied bobby, coolly. "i shall not go out of my way to tell tales; but if your mother or the master asks me the question, i shall not lie." "won't you?" "no, i won't." "i'll bet you will;" and tom dropped his fish pole, and was on the point of jumping over to the rock occupied by bobby, when the float of the former disappeared beneath the surface of the water. "you have got a bite," coolly interposed bobby, pointing to the line. tom snatched the pole, and with a violent twitch, pulled up a big pout; but his violence jerked the hook out of the fish's mouth, and he disappeared beneath the surface of the river. "just my luck!" muttered tom. "keep cool, then." "i will fix you yet." "all right; but you had better not let go your pole again, or you will lose another fish." "i'm bound to smash your head, though." "no, you won't." "won't i?" "two can play at that game." "do you stump me?" "no; i don't want to fight; i won't fight if i can help it." "i'll bet you won't!" sneered tom. "but i will defend myself." "humph!" "i am not a liar, and the fear of a flogging shall not make me tell a lie."' "go to sunday school--don't you?" "i do; and besides that, my mother always taught me never to tell a lie." "come! you needn't preach to me. by and by, you will call me a liar." "no, i won't; but just now you told me you meant to lie to your mother, and to the master." "what if i did? that is none of your business." "it is my business when you want me to lie for you, though; and i shall not do it." "blow on me, and see what you will get." "i don't mean to blow on you." "yes you do." "i will not lie about it; that's all." "by jolly! see that horse!" exclaimed tom, suddenly, as he pointed to the road leading to riverdale centre. "by gracious!" added bobby, dropping his fish pole, as he saw the horse running at a furious rate up the road from the village. the mad animal was attached to a chaise, in which was seated a lady, whose frantic shrieks pierced the soul of our youthful hero. the course of the road was by the river's side for nearly half a mile, and crossed the stream at a wooden bridge but a few rods from the place where the boys were fishing. bobby bright's impulses were noble and generous; and without stopping to consider the peril to which the attempt would expose him, he boldly resolved to stop that horse, or let the animal dash him to pieces on the bridge. "now or never!" shouted he, as he leaped from the rock, and ran with all his might to the bridge. the shrieks of the lady rang in his ears, and seemed to command him, with an authority which he could not resist, to stop the horse. there was no time for deliberation; and, indeed, bobby did not want any deliberation. the lady was in danger; if the horse's flight was not checked, she would be dashed in pieces; and what then could excuse him for neglecting his duty? not the fear of broken limbs, of mangled flesh, or even of a sudden and violent death. it is true bobby did not think of any of these things; though, if he had, it would have made no difference with him. he was a boy who would not fight except in self-defence, but he had the courage to do a deed which might have made the stoutest heart tremble with terror. grasping a broken rail as he leaped over the fence, he planted himself in the middle of the bridge, which was not more than half as wide as the road at each end of it, to await the coming of the furious animal. on he came, and the piercing shrieks of the affrighted lady nerved him to the performance of his perilous duty. the horse approached him at a mad run, and his feet struck the loose planks of the bridge. the brave boy then raised his big club, and brandished it with all his might in the air. probably the horse did not mean any thing very bad; was only frightened, and had no wicked intentions towards the lady; so that when a new danger menaced him in front, he stopped suddenly, and with so much violence as to throw the lady forward from her seat upon the dasher of the chaise. he gave a long snort, which was his way of expressing his fear. he was evidently astonished at the sudden barrier to his further progress, and commenced running back. "save me!" screamed the lady. "i will, ma'am; don't be scared!" replied bobby, confidently, as he dropped his club, and grasped the bridle of the horse, just as he was on the point of whirling round to escape by the way he had come. "stop him! do stop him!" cried the lady. "whoa!" said bobby, in gentle tones, as he patted the trembling horse on his neck. "whoa, good horse! be quiet! whoa!" the animal, in his terror, kept running backward and forward; but bobby persevered in his gentle treatment, and finally soothed him, so that he stood quiet enough for the lady to get out of the chaise. "what a miracle that i am alive!" exclaimed she when she realized that she stood once more upon the firm earth. "yes, ma'am, it is lucky he didn't break the chaise. whoa! good horse! stand quiet!" "what a brave little fellow you are!" said the lady, as soon as she could recover her breath so as to express her admiration of bobby's bold act. "o, i don't mind it," replied he, blushing like a rose in june. "did he run away with you?" "no; my father left me in the chaise for a moment while he went into a store in the village, and a teamster who was passing by snapped his whip, which frightened kate so that she started off at the top of her speed. i was so terrified, that i screamed with all my might, which frightened her the more. the more i screamed, the faster she ran." "i dare say. good horse! whoa, kate!" "she is a splendid creature; she never did such a thing before. my father will think i am killed." by this time, kate had become quite reasonable, and seemed very much obliged to bobby for preventing her from doing mischief to her mistress; for she looked at the lady with a glance of satisfaction, which her deliverer interpreted as a promise to behave better in future. he relaxed his grasp upon the bridle, patted her upon the neck, and said sundry pleasant things to encourage her in her assumed purpose of doing better. kate appeared to understand bobby's kind words, and declared as plainly as a horse could declare that she would be sober and tractable. "now, ma'am, if you will get into the chaise again, i think kate will let me drive her down to the village." "o, dear! i should not dare to do so." "then, if you please, i will drive down alone, so as to let your father know that you are safe." "do." "i am sure he must feel very bad, and i may save him a great deal of pain, for a man can suffer a great deal in a very short time." "you are a little philosopher, as well as a hero, and if you are not afraid of kate, you may do as you wish." "she seems very gentle now;" and bobby turned her round, and got into the chaise. "be very careful," said the lady. "i will." bobby took the reins, and kate, true to the promise she had virtually made, started off at a round pace towards the village. he had not gone more than a quarter of a mile of the distance when he met a wagon containing three men, one of whom was the lady's father. the gestures which he made assured bobby he had found the person whom he sought, and he stopped. "my daughter! where is she?" gasped the gentleman, as he leaped from the wagon. "she is safe, sir," replied bobby, with all the enthusiasm of his warm nature. "thank god!" added the gentleman, devoutly as he placed himself in the chaise by the side of bobby. chapter ii. in which bobby blushes several times, and does a sum in arithmetic. mr. bayard, the owner of the horse, and the father of the lady whom bobby had saved from impending death, was too much agitated to say much, even to the bold youth who had rendered him such a signal service. he could scarcely believe the intelligence which the boy brought him; it seemed too good to be true. he had assured himself that ellen--for that was the young lady's name--was killed, or dreadfully injured. kate was driven at the top of her speed, and in a few moments reached the bridge, where ellen was awaiting his arrival. "here i am, father, alive and unhurt!" cried ellen, as mr. bayard stopped the horse. "thank heaven my child!" replied the glad father, embracing his daughter. "i was sure you were killed." "no, father; thanks to this bold youth, i am uninjured." "i am under very great obligations to you, young man," continued mr. bayard, grasping bobby's hand. "o, never mind, sir;" and bobby blushed just as he had blushed when the young lady spoke to him. "we shall never forget you--shall we, father?" added ellen. "no, my child; and i shall endeavor to repay, to some slight extent, our indebtedness to him. but you have not yet told me how you were saved." "o, i merely stopped the horse; that's all," answered bobby, modestly. "yes, father, but he placed himself right before kate when she was almost flying over the ground. when i saw him, i was certain that he would lose his life, or be horribly mangled for his boldness," interposed ellen. "it was a daring deed, young man, to place yourself before an affrighted horse in that manner," said mr. bayard. "i didn't mind it, sir." "and then he flourished a big club, almost as big as he is himself, in the air, which made kate pause in her mad career, when my deliverer here grasped her by the bit and held her." "it was well and bravely done." "that it was, father; not many men would have been bold enough to do what he did," added ellen, with enthusiasm. "very true; and i feel, that i am indebted to him for your safety. what is your name, young man?" "robert bright, sir." mr. bayard took from his pocket several pieces of gold, which he offered to bobby. "no, i thank you, sir," replied bobby, blushing. "what! as proud as you are bold?" "i don't like to be paid for doing my duty." "bravo! you are a noble little fellow! but you must take this money, not as a reward for what you have done, but as a testimonial of my gratitude." "i would rather not, sir." "do take it, robert," added ellen. "i don't like to take it. it looks mean to take money for doing one's duty." "take it, robert, to please me;" and the young lady smiled so sweetly that bobby's resolution began to give way. "only to please me, robert." "i will, to please you; but i don't feel right about it." "you must not be too proud, robert," said mr. bayard, as he put the gold pieces into his hand. "i am not proud, sir; only i don't like to be paid for doing my duty." "not paid, my young friend. consider that you have placed me under an obligation to you for life. this money is only an expression of my own and my daughter's feelings. it is but a small sum, but i hope you will permit me to do something more for you, when you need it. you will regard me as your friend as long as you live." "thank you, sir." "when you want any assistance of any kind, come to me. i live in boston; here is my business card." mr. bayard handed him a card, on which bobby read, "f. bayard & co., booksellers and publishers, no. ---- washington street, boston." "you are very kind, sir." "i want you should come to boston and see us too," interposed ellen. "i should be delighted to show you the city, to take you to the athenaeum and the museum." "thank you." mr. bayard inquired of bobby about his parents, where he lived, and about the circumstances of his family. he then took out his memorandum book, in which he wrote the boy's name and residence. "i am sorry to leave you now, robert, but i have over twenty miles to ride to-day. i should be glad to visit your mother, and next time i come to riverdale, i shall certainly do so." "thank you, sir; my mother is a very poor woman, but she will be glad to see you." "now, good by, robert." "good by," repeated ellen. "good by." mr. bayard drove off, leaving bobby standing on the bridge with the gold pieces in his hand. "here's luck!" said bobby, shaking the coin. "won't mother's eyes stick out when she sees these shiners? there are no such shiners in the river as these." bobby was astonished, and the more he gazed at the gold pieces, the more bewildered he became. he had never held so much money in his hand before. there were three large coins and one smaller one. he turned them over and over, and finally ascertained that the large coins were ten dollar pieces, and the smaller one a five dollar piece. bobby was not a great scholar, but he knew enough of arithmetic to calculate the value of his treasure. he was so excited, however, that he did not arrive at the conclusion half so quick as most of my young readers would have done. "thirty-five dollars!" exclaimed bobby, when the problem was solved. "gracious!" "hallo, bob!" shouted tom spicer, who had got tired of fishing; besides, the village clock was just striking twelve, and it was time for him to go home. bobby made no answer, but hastily tying the gold pieces up in the corner of his handkerchief, he threw the broken rail he had used in stopping the horse where it belonged, and started for the place where he had left his fishing apparatus. "hallo, bob!" "well, tom?" "stopped him--didn't you?" "i did." "you were a fool; he might have killed you." "so he might; but i didn't stop to think of that. the lady's life was in danger." "what of that?" "every thing, i should say." "did he give you any thing?" "yes;" and bobby continued his walk down to the river's side. "i say, what did he give you, bobby?" persisted tom, following him. "o, he gave me a good deal of money." "how much?" "i want to get my fish line now; i will tell you all about it some other time," replied bobby, who rather suspected the intentions of his companion. "tell me now; how much was it?" "never mind it now." "humph! do you think i mean to rob you?" "no." "ain't you going halveses?" "why should i?" "wasn't i with you?" "were you?" "wasn't i fishing with you?" "you did not do any thing about stopping the horse." "i would, if i hadn't been afraid to go up to the road." "afraid?" "somebody might have seen me, and they would have known that i was hooking jack." "then you ought not to share the money." "yes, i had. when a fellow is with you, he ought to have half. it is mean not to give him half." "if you had done any thing to help stop the horse, i would have shared with you. but you didn't." "what of that?" bobby was particularly sensitive in regard to the charge of meanness. his soul was a great deal bigger than his body, and he was always generous, even to his own injury, among his companions. it was evident to him that tom had no claim to any part of the reward; but he could not endure the thought even of being accused of meanness. "i'll tell you what i will do, if you think i ought to share with you. i will leave it out to squire lee; and if he thinks you ought to have half, or any part of the money, i will give it to you." "no, you don't; you want to get me into a scrape for hooking jack. i see what you are up to." "i will state the case to him without telling him who the boys are." "no, you don't! you want to be mean about it. come, hand over half the money." "i will not," replied bobby, who, when it became a matter of compulsion, could stand his ground at any peril. "how much have you got?" "thirty-five dollars." "by jolly! and you mean to keep it all yourself?" "i mean to give it to my mother." "no, you won't! if you are going to be mean about it, i'll smash your head!" this was a favorite expression with tom spicer, who was a noted bully among the boys of riverdale. the young ruffian now placed himself in front of bobby, and shook his clinched fist in his face. "hand over." "no, i won't. you have no claim to any part at the money; at least, i think you have not. if you have a mind to leave it out to squire lee, i will do what is right about it." "not i; hand over, or i'll smash your head!" "smash away," replied bobby, placing himself on the defensive. "do you think you can lick me?" asked tom, not a little embarrassed by this exhibition of resolution on the part of his companion. "i don't think any thing about it; but you don't bully me in that kind of style." "won't i?" "no." but tom did not immediately put his threat in execution, and bobby would not be the aggressor; so he stepped one side to pass his assailant. tom took this as an evidence of the other's desire to escape, and struck him a heavy blow on the side of the head the next instant the bully was floundering in the soft mud of a ditch; bobby's reply was more than tom had bargained for, and while he was dragging himself out of the ditch, our hero ran down to the river, and got his fish pole and basket. "you'll catch it for that!" growled tom. "i'm all ready, whenever it suits your convenience," replied bobby. "just come out here and take it in fair fight," continued tom, who could not help bullying, even in the midst of his misfortune. "no, i thank you; i don't want to fight with any fellow. i will not fight if i can help it." "what did you hit me for, then?" "in self-defence." "just come out here, and try it fair?" "no;" and bobby hurried home, leaving the bully astonished, and discomfited by the winding up of the morning's sport. chapter iii. in which the little black house is bought but not paid for. probably my young readers have by this time come to the conclusion that bobby bright was a very clever fellow--one whose acquaintance they would be happy to cultivate. perhaps by this time they have become so far interested in him as to desire to know who his parents were, what they did, and in what kind of a house he lived. i hope none of my young friends will think any less of him when i inform them that bobby lived in an old black house which had never been painted, which had no flower garden in front of it, and which, in a word, was quite far from being a palace. a great many very nice city folks would not have considered it fit to live in, would have turned up their noses at it, and wondered that any human beings could be so degraded as to live in such a miserable house. but the widow bright, bobby's mother, thought it was a very comfortable house, and considered herself very fortunate in being able to get so good a dwelling. she had never lived in a fine house, knew nothing about velvet carpets, mirrors seven feet high, damask chairs and lounges, or any of the smart things which very rich and very proud city people consider absolutely necessary for their comfort. her father had been a poor man, her husband had died a poor man, and her own life had been a struggle to keep the demons of poverty and want from invading her humble abode. mr. bright, her deceased husband, had been a day laborer in riverdale. he never got more than a dollar a day, which was then considered very good wages in the country. he was a very honest, industrious man, and while he lived, his family did very well. mrs. bright was a careful, prudent woman, and helped him support the family. they never knew what it was to want for any thing. poor people, as well as rich, have an ambition to be something which they are not, or to have something which they have not. every person, who has an energy of character, desires to get ahead in the world. some merchants, who own big ships and big warehouses by the dozen, desire to be what they consider rich. but their idea of wealth is very grand. they wish to count it in millions of dollars, in whole blocks of warehouses; and they are even more discontented than the day laborer who has to earn his dinner before he can eat it. bobby's father and mother had just such an ambition, only it was so modest that the merchant would have laughed at it. they wanted to own the little black house in which they resided, so that they could not only be sure of a home while they lived, but have the satisfaction of living in their own house. this was a very reasonable ideal, compared with that of the rich merchants i have mentioned; but it was even more difficult for them to reach it, for the wages were small, and they had many mouths to feed. mr. bright had saved up fifty dollars; and he thought a great deal more of this sum than many people do of a thousand dollars. he had had to work very hard and be very prudent in order to accumulate this sum, which made him value it all the more highly. with this sum of fifty dollars at his command, john bright felt rich; and then, more than ever before, he wanted to own the little black house. he felt as grand as a lord; and as soon as the forty-nine dollars had become fifty, he waited upon mr. hardhand, a little crusty old man, who owned the little black house, and proposed to purchase it. the landlord was a hard man. every body in riverdale said he was mean and stingy. any generous-hearted man would have been willing to make an easy bargain with an honest, industrious, poor man, like john bright, who wished to own the house in which he lived; but mr. hardhand, although he was rich, only thought how he could make more money. he asked the poor man four hundred dollars for the old house and the little lot of land on which it stood. it was a matter of great concern to john bright. four hundred dollars was a "mint of money," and he could not see how he should ever be able to save so much from his daily earnings. so he talked with squire lee about it, who told him that three hundred was all it was worth. john offered this for it, and after a month's hesitation, mr. hardhand accepted the offer, agreeing to take fifty dollars down and the rest in semi-annual payments of twenty-five dollars each, until the whole was paid. i am thus particular in telling my readers about the bargain, because this debt which his father contracted was the means of making a man of bobby, as will be seen in his subsequent history. john bright paid the first fifty dollars; but before the next instalment became due, the poor man was laid in his cold and silent grave. a malignant disease carried him off, and the hopes of the bright family seemed to be blasted. four children were left to the widow. the youngest was only three years old, and bobby, the oldest, was nine, when his father died. squire lee, who had always been a good friend of john bright, told the widow that she had better go to the poorhouse, and not attempt to struggle along with such a fearful odds against her. but the widow nobly refused to become a pauper, and to make paupers of her children, whom she loved quite as much as though she and they had been born in a ducal palace. she told the squire that she had two hands, and as long as she had her health, the town need not trouble itself about her support. squire lee was filled with surprise and admiration at the noble resolution of the poor woman; and when he returned to his house, he immediately sent her a cord of wood, ten bushels of potatoes, two bags of meal, and a firkin of salt pork. the widow was very grateful for these articles, and no false pride prevented her from accepting the gift of her rich and kind-hearted neighbor. riverdale centre was largely engaged in the manufacturing of boots and shoes, and this business gave employment to a large number of men and women. mrs. bright had for several years "closed" shoes--which, my readers who do not live in "shoe towns" may not know, means sewing or stitching them. to this business she applied herself with renewed energy. there was a large hotel in riverdale centre, where several families from boston spent the summer. by the aid of squire lee, she obtained the washing of these families, which was more profitable than closing shoes. by these means she not only supported her family very comfortably, but was able to save a little money towards paying for the house. mr. hardhand, by the persuasions of squire lee, had consented to let the widow keep the house, and pay for it as she could. john bright had been dead four years at the time we introduce bobby to the reader. mrs. bright had paid another hundred dollars towards the house, with the interest; so there was now but one hundred due. bobby had learned to "close," and helped his mother a great deal; but the confinement and the stooping posture did not agree with his health, and his mother was obliged to dispense with his assistance. but the devoted little fellow found a great many ways of helping her. he was now thirteen, and was as handy about the house as a girl. when he was not better occupied, he would often go to the river and catch a mess of fish, which was so much clear gain. the winter which had just passed, had brought a great deal of sickness to the little black house. the children all had the measles, and two of them the scarlet fever, so that mrs. bright could not work much. her affairs were not in a very prosperous condition when the spring opened; but the future was bright, and the widow, trusting in providence, believed that all would end well. one thing troubled her. she had not been able to save any thing for mr. hardhand. she could only pay her interest; but she hoped by the first of july to give him twenty-five dollars of the principal. but the first of july came, and she had only five dollars of the sum she had partly promised her creditor. she could not so easily recover from the disasters of the hard winter, and she had but just paid off the little debts she had contracted. she was nervous and uneasy as the day approached. mr. hardhand always abused her when she told him she could not pay him, and she dreaded his coming. it was the first of july on which bobby caught those pouts, caught the horse, and on which tom spicer had "caught a tartar." bobby hastened home, as we said at the conclusion of the last chapter. he was as happy as a lord. he had fish enough in his basket for dinner, and for breakfast the next morning, and money enough in his pocket to make his mother as happy as a queen, if queens are always happy. the widow bright, though she had worried and fretted night and day about the money which was to be paid to mr. hardhand on the first of july, had not told her son any thing about it. it would only make him unhappy, she reasoned, and it was needless to make the dear boy miserable for nothing; so bobby ran home all unconscious of the pleasure which was in store for him. when he reached the front door, as he stopped to scrape his feet on the sharp stone there, as all considerate boys who love their mothers do, before they go into the house, he heard the angry tones of mr. hardhand. he was scolding and abusing his mother because she could not pay him the twenty-five dollars. bobby's blood boiled with indignation, and his first impulse was to serve him as he had served tom spicer, only a few moments before; but bobby, as we have before intimated, was a peaceful boy, and not disposed to quarrel with any person; so he contented himself with muttering a few hard words. "the wretch! what business has he to talk to my mother in that style?" said he to himself. "i have a great mind to kick him out of the house." but bobby's better judgment came to his aid; and perhaps he realized that he and his mother would only get kicked out in return. he could battle with mr. hardhand, but not with the power which his wealth gave him; so, like a great many older persons in similar circumstances, he took counsel of prudence rather than impulse. "bear ye one another's burdens," saith the scripture; but bobby was not old enough or astute enough to realize that mr. hardhand's burden was his wealth, his love of money; that it made him little better than a hottentot; and he could not feel as charitably towards him as a christian should towards his erring, weak brother. setting his pole by the door, he entered the room where hardhand was abusing his mother. chapter iv. in which bobby gets out of one scrape, and into another. bobby was so indignant at the conduct of mr. hardhand, that he entirely forgot the adventure of the morning; and he did not even think of the gold he had in his pocket. he loved his mother; he knew how hard she had worked for him and his brother and sisters; that she had burned the "midnight oil" at her clamps; and it made him feel very bad to near her abused as mr. hardhand was abusing her. it was not her fault that she had not the money to pay him. she had been obliged to spend a large portion of her time over the sick beds of her children, so that she could not earn so much money as usual; while the family expenses were necessarily much greater. bobby knew also that mr. hardhand was aware of all the circumstances of his mother's position, and the more he considered the case the more brutal and inhuman was his course. as our hero entered the family room with the basket of fish on his arm, the little crusty old man fixed the glance of his evil eye upon him. "there is that boy, marm, idling away his time by the river, and eating you out of house and home," said the wretch. "why don't you set him to work, and make him earn something?" "bobby is a very good boy," meekly responded the widow bright. "humph! i should think he was. a great lazy lubber like him, living on his mother!" and mr. hardhand looked contemptuously at bobby. "i am not a lazy lubber," interposed the insulted boy with spirit. "yes, you are. why don't you go to work?" "i do work." "no, you don't; you waste your time paddling in the river." "i don't." "you had better teach this boy manners too, marm," said the creditor, who, like all men of small souls, was willing to take advantage of the power which the widow's indebtedness gave him. "he is saucy." "i should like to know who taught you manners, mr. hardhand," replied bobby, whose indignation was rapidly getting the better of his discretion. "what!" growled mr. hardhand, aghast at this unwonted boldness. "i heard what you said before i came in; and no decent man would go to the house of a poor woman to insult her." "humph! mighty fine," snarled the little old man, his gray eyes twinkling with malice. "don't bobby; don't be saucy to the gentleman," interposed his mother. "saucy, marm? you ought to horsewhip him for it. if you don't, i will." "no, you won't!" replied bobby, shaking his head significantly. "i can take care of myself." "did any one ever hear such impudence!" gasped mr. hardhand. "don't, bobby, don't," pleaded the anxious mother. "i should like to know what right you have to come here and abuse my mother," continued bobby, who could not restrain his anger. "your mother owes me money, and she don't pay it, you young scoundrel!" answered mr. hardhand, foaming with rage. "that is no reason why you should insult her. you can call _me_ what you please, but you shall not insult my mother while i'm round." "your mother is a miserable woman, and--" "say that again, and though you are an old man, i'll hit you for it. i'm big enough to protect my mother, and i'll do it." bobby doubled up his fists and edged up to mr. hardhand, fully determined to execute his threat if he repeated the offensive expression, or any other of a similar import. he was roused to the highest pitch of anger, and felt as though he had just as lief die as live in defence of his mother's good name. i am not sure that i could excuse bobby's violence under any other circumstances. he loved his mother--as the novelists would say, he idolized her; and mr. hardhand had certainly applied some very offensive epithets to her--epithets which no good son could calmly bear applied to a mother. besides, bobby, though his heart was a large one, and was in the right place, had never been educated into those nice distinctions of moral right and wrong which control the judgment of wise and learned men. he had an idea that violence, resistance with blows, was allowable in certain extreme cases; and he could conceive of no greater provocation than an insult to his mother. "be calm, bobby; you are in a passion," said mrs. bright. "i am surprised, marm," began mr. hardhand, who prudently refrained from repeating the offensive language--and i have no doubt he was surprised; for he looked both astonished and alarmed. "this boy has a most ungovernable temper." "don't you worry about my temper, mr. hardhand; i'll take care of myself. all i want of you is not to insult my mother. you may say what you like to me; but don't you call her hard names." mr. hardhand, like all mean, little men, was a coward; and he was effectually intimidated by the bold and manly conduct of the boy. he changed his tone and manner at once. "you have no money for me, marm?" said he, edging towards the door. "no, sir; i am sorry to say that i have been able to save only five dollars since i paid you last; but i hope--" "never mind, marm, never mind; i shall not trouble myself to come here again, where i am liable to be kicked by this ill-bred cub. no, marm, i shall not come again. let the law take its course." "o, mercy! see what you have brought upon us, bobby," exclaimed mrs. bright, bursting into tears. "yes, marm, let the law take its course." "o bobby! stop a moment, mr. hardhand; do stop a moment." "not a moment, marm. we'll see;" and mr. hardhand placed his hand upon the latch string. bobby felt very uneasy, and very unhappy at that moment. his passion had subsided, and he realized that he had done a great deal of mischief by his impetuous conduct. then the remembrance of his morning, adventure on the bridge came like a flash of sunshine to his mind, and he eagerly drew from his pocket the handkerchief in which he had deposited the precious gold,--doubly precious now, because it would enable him to retrieve the error into which he had fallen, and do something towards relieving his mother's embarrassment. with a trembling hand he untied the knot which secured the money. "here, mother, here is thirty-five dollars;" and he placed it in her hand. "why, bobby!" exclaimed mrs. bright. "pay him, mother, pay him, and i will tell you all about it by and by." "thirty-five dollars! and all in gold! where did you get it, bobby?" "never mind it now, mother." mr. hardhand's covetous soul had already grasped the glittering gold; and removing his hand from the latch string, he approached the widow. "i shall be able to pay you forty dollars now," said mrs. bright, taking the five dollars she had saved from her pocket. "yes, marm." mr. hardhand took the money, and seating himself at the table, indorsed the amount on the back of the note. "you owe me sixty more," said he, maliciously, as he returned the note to his pocket book. "it must be paid immediately." "you must not be hard with me now, when i have paid more than you demanded." "i don't wish to come here again. that boy's impudence has put me all out of conceit with you and your family," replied mr. hardhand, assuming the most benevolent look he could command. "there was a time when i was very willing to help you. i have waited a great while for my pay for this house; a great deal longer than i would have waited for anybody else." "your interest has always been paid punctually," suggested the widow, modestly. "that's true; but very few people would have waited as long as i have for the principal. i wanted to help you--" "by gracious!" exclaimed bobby, interrupting him. "don't be saucy, my son, don't," said mrs. bright, fearing a repetition of the former scene. "_he_ wanted to help us!" ejaculated bobby. it was a very absurd and hypocritical expression on the part of mr. hardhand; for he never wanted to help any one but himself; and during the whole period of his relations with the poor widow, he had oppressed, insulted, and abused her to the extent of his capacity, or at least as far as his interest would permit. he was a malicious and revengeful man. he did not consider the great provocation he had given bobby for his violent conduct, but determined to be revenged, if it could be accomplished without losing any part of the sixty dollars still due him. he was a wicked man at heart, and would not scruple to turn the widow and her family out of house and home. mrs. bright knew this, and bobby knew it too; and they felt very uneasy about it. the wretch still had the power to injure them, and he would use it without compunction. "yes, young man, i wanted to help you, and you see what i get for it--contempt and insults! you will hear from me again in a day or two. perhaps you will change your tune, you young reprobate!" "perhaps i shall," replied bobby, without much discretion. "and you too, marm; you uphold him in his treatment of me. you have not done your duty to him. you have been remiss, marm!" continued mr. hardhand, growing bolder again, as he felt the power he wielded. "that will do, sir; you can go!" said bobby, springing from his chair, and approaching mr. hardhand. "go, and do your worst!" "humph! you stump me--do you?" "i would rather see my mother kicked out of the house than insulted by such a dried-up old curmudgeon as you are. go along!" "now, don't, bobby," pleaded his mother. "i am going; and if the money is not paid by twelve o'clock to-morrow, the law shall lake its course;" and mr. hardhand rushed out of the house, slamming the door violently after him. "o bobby, what have you done?" exclaimed mrs. bright, when the hard-hearted creditor had departed. "i could not help it, mother; don't cry. i cannot bear to hear you insulted and abused; and i thought when i heard him do it a year ago, that i couldn't stand it again. it is too bad." "but he will turn us out of the house; and what shall we do then?" "don't cry, mother; it will come round all right. i have friends who are rich and powerful, and who will help us." "you don't know what you say, bobby. sixty dollars is a great deal of money, and if we should sell all we have, it would scarcely bring that." "leave it all to me, mother; i feel as though i could do something now. i am old enough to make money." "what can you do?" "now or never!" replied bobby, whose mind had wandered from the scene to the busy world, where fortunes are made and lost every day. "now or never!" muttered he again. "but bobby, you have not told me where you got all that gold." "dinner is ready, i see, and i will tell you while we eat." bobby had been a fishing, and to be hungry is a part of the fisherman's luck; so he seated himself at the table, and gave his mother a full account of all that had occurred at the bridge. the fond mother trembled when she realized the peril her son had incurred for the sake of the young lady; but her maternal heart swelled with admiration in view of the generous deed, and she thanked god that she was the mother of such a son. she felt more confidence in him then than she had ever felt before, and she realized that he would be the stay and the staff of her declining years. bobby finished his dinner, and seated himself on the front door step. his mind was absorbed, by a new and brilliant idea; and for half an hour he kept up a most tremendous thinking. "now or never!" said he, as he rose and walked down the road towards riverdale centre. chapter v. in which bobby gives his note for sixty dollars. a great idea was born in bobby's brain. his mother's weakness and the insecurity of her position were more apparent to him than they had ever been before. she was in the power of her creditor, who might turn her out of the little black house, sell the place at auction, and thus, perhaps, deprive her of the whole or a large part of his father's and her own hard earnings. but this was not the peculiar hardship of her situation, as her devoted son understood it. it was not the hard work alone which she was called upon to perform, not the coarseness of the fare upon which they lived, not the danger even of being turned out of doors, that distressed bobby; it was that a wretch like mr. hardhand could insult and trample upon his mother. he had just heard him use language to her that made his blood boil with indignation, and he did not, on cool, sober, second thought, regret that he had taken such a decided stand against it. he cared not for himself. he could live on a crust of bread and a cup of water from the spring; he could sleep in a barn; he could wear coarse and even ragged clothes; but he could not submit to have his mother insulted, and by such a mean and contemptible person as mr. hardhand. yet what could he do? he was but a boy, and the great world would look with contempt upon his puny form. but he felt that he was not altogether insignificant. he had performed an act, that day, which the fair young lady, to whom he had rendered the service, had declared very few men would have undertaken. there was something in him, something that would come out, if he only put his best foot forward. it was a tower of strength within him. it told him that he could do wonders; that he could go out into the world and accomplish all that would be required to free his mother from debt, and relieve her from the severe drudgery of her life. a great many people think they can "do wonders." the vanity of some very silly people makes them think they can command armies, govern nations, and teach the world what the world never knew before, and never would know but for them. but bobby's something within him was not vanity. it was something more substantial. he was not thinking of becoming a great man, a great general, a great ruler, or a great statesman; not even of making a great fortune. self was not the idol and the end of his calculations. he was thinking of his mother, and only of her; and the feeling within him was as pure, and holy, and beautiful as the dream of an angel. he wanted to save his mother from insult in the first place, and from a life of ceaseless drudgery in the second. a legion of angels seemed to have encamped in his soul to give him strength for the great purpose in his mind. his was a holy and a true purpose, and it was this that made him think he could "do wonders." what bobby intended to do the reader shall know in due time. it is enough now that he meant to do something. the difficulty with a great many people is, that they never resolve to do something. they wait for "something to turn up;" and as "things" are often very obstinate, they utterly refuse to "turn up" at all. their lives are spent in waiting for a golden opportunity which never comes. now, bobby bright repudiated the micawber philosophy. he would have nothing to do with it. he did not believe corn would grow without being planted, or that pouts would bite the bare hook. i am not going to tell my young readers now how bobby made out in the end; but i can confidently say that, if he had waited for "something to turn up," he would have become a vagabond, a loafer, out of money, out at the elbows, and out of patience with himself and all the world. it was "now or never" with bobby. he meant to do something; and after he had made up his mind how and where it was to be done, it was no use to stand thinking about it, like the pendulum of the "old clock which had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of complaint." bobby walked down the road towards the village with a rapid step. he was thinking very fast, and probably that made him step quick. but as he approached squire lee's house, his pace slackened, and he seemed to be very uneasy. when he reached the great gate that led up to the house, he stopped for an instant, and thrust his hands down very deep into his trousers pockets. i cannot tell what the trousers pockets had to do with what he was thinking about; but if he was searching for any thing in them, he did not find it; for after an instant's hesitation he drew out his hands, struck one of them against his chest, and in an audible voice exclaimed,-- "now or never." all this pantomime, i suppose, meant that bobby had some misgivings as to the ultimate success of his mission at squire lee's, and that when he struck his breast and uttered his favorite expression, they were conquered and driven out. marching with a bold and determined step up to the squire's back door--bobby's idea of etiquette would not have answered for the meridian of fashionable society--he gave three smart raps. bobby's heart beat a little wildly as he waited a response to his summons. it seemed that he still had some doubts as to the practicability of his mission; but they were not permitted to disturb him long, for the door was opened by the squire's pretty daughter annie, a young miss of twelve. "o bobby, is it you? i am so glad you have come!" exclaimed the little lady. bobby blushed--he didn't know why, unless it was that the young lady desired to see him. he stammered out a reply, and for the moment forgot the object of his visit. "i want you to go down to the village for me, and get some books the expressman was to bring up from boston for me. will you go?" "certainly, miss annie, i shall be very glad to go for _you_," replied bobby with an emphasis that made the little maiden blush in her turn. "you are real good, bobby; but i will give you something for going." "i don't want any thing," said bobby, stoutly. "you are too generous! ah, i heard what you did this forenoon; and pa says that a great many men would not have dared to do what you did. i always thought you were as brave as a lion; now i know it." "the books are at the express office, i suppose," said bobby, turning as red as a blood beet. "yes, bobby; i am so anxious to get them that i can't wait till pa goes down this evening." "i will not be gone long." "o, you needn't run, bobby; take your time." "i will go very quick. but, miss annie, is your father at home?" "not now; he has gone over to the wood lot; but he will be back by the time you return." "will you please to tell him that i want to see him about something very particular, when he gets back?" "i will, bobby." "thank you, miss annie;" and bobby hastened to the village to execute his commission. "i wonder what he wants to see pa so very particularly for," said the young lady to herself, as she watched his receding form. "in my opinion, something has happened, at the little black house, for i could see that he looked very sober." either bobby had a very great regard for the young lady, and wished to relieve her impatience to behold the coveted books, or he was in a hurry to see squire lee; for the squire's old roan horse could hardly have gone quicker. "you should not have run, bobby," said the little maiden when he placed the books in her hand; "i would not have asked you to go if i had thought you would run all the way. you must be very tired." "not at all; i didn't run, only walked very quick," replied he; but his quick breathing indicated that his words or his walk had been very much exaggerated. "has your father returned?" "he has; he is waiting for you in the sitting room. come in, bobby." bobby followed her into the room, and took the chair which annie offered him. "how do you do, bobby? i am glad to see you," said the squire, taking him by the hand, and bestowing a benignant smile upon him--a smile which cheered his heart more than any thing else could at that moment. "i have heard of you before to-day." "have you?" "i have, bobby; you are a brave little fellow." "i came over to see you, sir, about something very particular," replied bobby, whose natural modesty induced him to change the topic. "indeed; well, what can i do for you?" "a great deal, sir; perhaps you will think i am very bold, sir, but i can't help it." "i know you are a very bold little fellow, or you would not have done what you did this forenoon," laughed the squire. "i didn't mean that, sir," answered bobby, blushing up to the eyes. "i know you didn't; but go on." "i only meant that you would think me presuming, or impudent, or something of that kind." "o, no, far from it. you cannot be presuming or impudent. speak out, bobby; any thing under the heavens that i can do for you, i shall be glad to do." "well, sir, i am going to leave riverdale." "leave riverdale!" "yes, sir; i am going to boston, where i mean to do something to help mother." "bravo! you are a good lad. what do you mean to do?" "i was thinking i should go into the book business." "indeed!" and squire lee was much amused by the matter-of-fact manner of the young aspirant. "i was talking with a young fellow who went through the place last spring, selling books. he told me that some days he made three or four dollars, and that he averaged twelve dollars a week." "he did well; perhaps, though, only a few of them make so much." "i know i can make twelve dollars a week," replied bobby, confidently, for that something within him made him feel capable of great things. "i dare say you can. you have energy and perseverance, and people take a liking to you." "but i wanted to see you about another matter. to speak out at once, i want to borrow sixty dollars of you;" and bobby blushed, and seemed very much embarrassed by his own boldness. "sixty dollars!" exclaimed the squire. "i knew you would think me impudent," replied our hero, his heart sinking within him. "but i don't, bobby. you want this money to go into business with--to buy your stock of books?" "o, no, sir; i am going to apply to mr. bayard for that." "just so; mr. bayard is the gentleman whose daughter you saved?" "yes, sir. i want this money to pay off mr. hardhand. we owe him but sixty dollars now, and he has threatened to turn us out, if it is not paid by tomorrow noon." "the old hunks!" bobby briefly related to the squire the events or the morning, much to the indignation and disgust of the honest, kind-hearted man. the courageous boy detailed more clearly his purpose, and doubted not he should be able to pay the loan in a few months. "very well, bobby, here is the money;" and the squire took it from his wallet, and gave it to him. "thank you, sir. may heaven bless you! i shall certainly pay you." "don't worry about it, bobby. pay it when you get ready." "i will give you my note, and--" the squire laughed heartily at this, and told him, that, as he was a minor, his note was not good for any thing. "you shall see whether it is, or not," returned bobby. "let me give it to you, at least, so that we can tell how much i owe you from time to time." "you shall have your own way." annie lee, as much amused as her father at bobby's big talk, got the writing materials, and the little merchant in embryo wrote and signed the note. "good, bobby! now promise that you will come and see me every time you come home, and tell me how you are getting along." "i will, sir, with the greatest pleasure;" and with a light heart bobby tripped away home. chapter vi. in which bobby sets out on his travels. squire lee, though only a plain farmer, was the richest man in riverdale. he had taken a great fancy to bobby, and often employed him to do errands, ride the horse to plough in the cornfields, and such chores about the place as a boy could do. he liked to talk with bobby because there was a great deal of good sense in him, for one with a small head. if there was any one thing upon which the squire particularly prided himself, it was his knowledge of human nature. he declared that he only wanted to look a man in the face to know what he was; and as for bobby bright, he had summered him and wintered him, and he was satisfied that he would make something in good time. he was not much astonished when bobby opened his ambitious scheme of going into business for himself. but he had full faith in his ability to work out a useful and profitable, if not a brilliant life. he often said that bobby was worth his weight in gold, and that he would trust him with any thing he had. perhaps he did not suspect that the time was at hand when he would be called upon to verify his words practically; for it was only that morning, when one of the neighbors told him about bobby's stopping the horse, that he had repeated the expression for the twentieth time. it was not an idle remark. sixty dollars was hardly worth mentioning with a man of his wealth and liberal views, though so careful a man as he was would not have been likely to throw away that amount. but as a matter of investment,--bobby had made the note read "with interest,"--he would as readily have let him have it, as the next richest man in the place, so much confidence had he in our hero's integrity, and so sure was he that he would soon have the means of paying him. bobby was overjoyed at the fortunate issue of his mission, and he walked into the room where his mother was closing shoes, with a dignity worthy a banker or a great merchant. mrs. bright was very sad. perhaps she felt a little grieved that her son, whom she loved so much, had so thoughtlessly plunged her into a new difficulty. "come, cheer up, mother; it is all right," said bobby in his usual elastic and gay tones; and at the same time he took the sixty dollars from his pocket and handed it to her. "there is the money, and you will be forever quit of mr. hardhand to-morrow." "what, bobby! why, where did you get all this money?" asked mrs. bright, utterly astonished. in a few words the ambitious boy told his story, and then informed his mother that he was going to boston the next monday morning, to commence business for himself. "why, what can you do, bobby?" "do? i can do a great many things;" and he unfolded his scheme of becoming a little book merchant. "you are a courageous fellow! who would have thought of such a thing?" "i should, and did." "but you are not old enough." "o, yes, i am." "you had better wait a while." "now or never, mother! you see i have given my note, and my paper will be dishonored, if i am not up and doing." "your paper!" said mrs. bright, with a smile. "that is what mr. wing, the boot manufacturer, calls it." "you needn't go away to earn this money; i can pay it myself." "this note is my affair, and i mean to pay it myself with my own earnings. no objections, mother." like a sensible woman as she was, she did not make any objections. she was conscious of bobby's talents; she knew that he had a strong mind of his own, and could take care of himself. it is true, she feared the influence of the great world, and especially of the great city, upon the tender mind of her son; but if he was never tempted, he would never be a conqueror over the foes that beset him. she determined to do her whole duty towards him, and she carefully pointed out to him the sins and the moral danger to which he would be exposed, and warned him always to resist temptation. she counselled him to think of her when he felt like going astray. bobby declared that he would try to be a good boy. he did not speak contemptuously of the anticipated perils, as many boys would have done, because he knew that his mother would not make bugbears out of things which she knew had no real existence. the next day, mr. hardhand came; and my young readers can judge how astonished and chagrined he was, when the widow bright offered him the sixty dollars. the lord was with the widow and the fatherless, and the wretch was cheated out of his revenge. the note was given up, and the mortgage cancelled. mr. hardhand insisted that she should pay the interest on the sixty dollars for one day, as it was then the second day of july; but when bobby reckoned it up, and found it was less than one cent, even the wretched miser seemed ashamed of himself, and changed the subject of conversation. he did not dare to say any thing saucy to the widow this time. he had lost his power over her, and there stood bobby, who had come to look just like a young lion to him, coward and knave as he was. the business was all settled now, and bobby spent the rest of the week in getting ready for his great enterprise. he visited all his friends, and went each day to talk with squire lee and annie. the little maiden promised to buy a great many books of him, if he would bring his stock to riverdale, for she was quite as much interested in him as her father was. monday morning came, and bobby was out of bed with the first streak of dawn. the excitement of the great event which was about to happen had not permitted him to sleep for the two hours preceding; yet when he got up, he could not help feeling sad. he was going to leave the little black house, going to leave his mother, going to leave the children, to depart for the great city. his mother was up before him. she was even more sad than he was, for she could see plainer than he the perils that environed him, and her maternal heart, in spite of the reasonable confidence she had in his integrity and good principles, trembled for his safety. as he ate his breakfast, his mother repeated the warnings and the good lessons she had before imparted. she particularly cautioned him to keep out of bad company. if he found that his companions would lie and swear, he might depend upon it they would steal, and he had better forsake them at once. this was excellent advice, and bobby had occasion at a later period to call it to his sorrowing heart. "here is three dollars, bobby; it is all the money i have. your fare to boston will be one dollar, and you will have two left to pay the expenses of your first trip. it is all i have now," said mrs. bright. "i will not take the whole of it. you will want it yourself. one dollar is enough. when i find mr. bayard, i shall do very well." "yes, bobby, take the whole of it." "i will take just one dollar, and no more," replied bobby, resolutely, as he handed her the other two dollars. "do take it, bobby." "no, mother; it will only make me lazy and indifferent." taking a clean shirt, a pair of socks, and a handkerchief in his bundle, he was ready for a start. "good by, mother," said he, kissing her and taking her hand. "i shall try and come home on saturday, so as to be with you on sunday." then kissing the children, who had not yet got up, and to whom he had bidden adieu the night before, he left the house. he had seen the flood of tears that filled his mother's eyes, as he crossed the threshold; and he could not help crying a little himself. it is a sad thing to leave one's home, one's mother, especially, to go out into the great world; and we need not wonder that bobby, who had hardly been out of riverdale before, should weep. but he soon restrained the flowing tears. "now or never!" said he, and he put his best foot forward. it was an epoch in his history, and though he was too young to realize the importance of the event, he seemed to feel that what he did now was to give character to his whole future life. it was a bright and beautiful morning--somehow, it is always a bright and beautiful morning when boys leave their homes to commence the journey of life; it is typical of the season of youth and hope, and it is meet that the sky should be clear, and the sun shine brightly, when the little pilgrim sets out upon his tour. he will see clouds and storms before he has gone far--let him have a fair start. he had to walk five miles to the nearest railroad station. his road lay by the house of his friend, squire lee; and as he was approaching it, he met annie. she said she had come out to take her morning walk; but bobby knew very well that she did not usually walk till an hour later; which, with the fact that she had asked him particularly, the day before, what time he was going, made bobby believe that she had come out to say good by, and bid him god speed on his journey. at any rate, he was very glad to see her. he said a great many pretty things to her, and talked so big about what he was going to do, that the little maiden could hardly help laughing in his face. then at the house he shook hands with the squire and shook hands again with annie, and resumed his journey. his heart felt lighter for having met them, or at least for having met one of them, if not both; for annie's eyes were so full of sunshine that they seemed to gladden his heart, and make him feel truer and stronger. after a pleasant walk, for he scarcely heeded the distance, so full was he of his big thoughts, he reached the railroad station. the cars had not yet arrived, and would not for half an hour. "why should i give them a dollar for carrying me to boston, when i can just as well walk? if i get tired, i can sit down and rest me. if i save the dollar, i shall have to earn only fifty-nine more to pay my note. so here goes;" and he started down the track. chapter vii. in which bobby stands up for "certain inalienable rights." whether it was wise policy, or "penny wise and pound foolish" policy for bobby to undertake such a long walk, is certainly a debatable question; but as my young readers would probably object to an argument, we will follow him to the city, and let every one settle the point to suit himself. his cheerful heart made the road smooth beneath his feet. he had always been accustomed to an active, busy life, and had probably often walked more than twenty miles in a day. about ten o'clock, though he did not feel much fatigued, he seated himself on a rock by a brook from which he had just taken a drink, to rest himself. he had walked slowly so as to husband his strength; and he felt confident that he should be able to accomplish the journey without injury to himself. after resting for half an hour, he resumed his walk. at twelve o'clock he reached a point from which he obtained his first view of the city. his heart bounded at the sight, and his first impulse was to increase his speed so that he should the sooner gratify his curiosity; but a second thought reminded him that he had eaten nothing since breakfast; so, finding a shady tree by the road side, he seated himself on a stone to eat the luncheon which his considerate mother had placed in his bundle. thus refreshed, he felt like a new man, and continued his journey again till he was on the very outskirts of the city, where a sign, "no passing over this bridge," interrupted his farther progress. unlike many others, bobby took this sign literally, and did not venture to cross the bridge. having some doubts as to the direct road to the city, he hailed a man in a butcher's cart, who not only pointed the way, but gave him an invitation to ride with him, which bobby was glad to accept. they crossed the milldam, and the little pilgrim forgot the long walk he had taken--forgot riverdale, his mother, squire lee, and annie, for the time, in the absorbing interest of the exciting scene. the common beat riverdale common all hollow; he had never seen any thing like it before. but when the wagon reached washington street, the measure of his surprise was filled up. "my gracious! how thick the houses are!" exclaimed he, much to the amusement of the kind-hearted butcher. "we have high fences here," he replied. "where are all these folks going to?" "you will have to ask them, if you want to know." but the wonder soon abated, and bobby began to think of his great mission in the city. he got tired of gazing and wondering, and even began to smile with contempt at the silly fops as they sauntered along, and the gayly-dressed ladies, that flaunted like so many idle butterflies, on the sidewalk. it was an exciting scene; but it did not look real to him. it was more like herr grunderslung's exhibition of the magic lantern, than any thing substantial. the men and women were like so many puppets. they did not seem to be doing any thing, or to be walking for any purpose. he got out of the butcher's cart at the old south. his first impression, as he joined the busy throng, was, that he was one of the puppets. he did not seem to have any hold upon the scene, and for several minutes this sensation of vacancy chained him to the spot. "all right!" exclaimed he to himself at last. "i am here. now's my time to make a strike. now or never." he pulled mr. bayard's card from his pocket, and fixed the number of his store in his mind. now, numbers were not a riverdale institution, and bobby was a little perplexed about finding the one indicated. a little study into the matter, however, set him right, and he soon had the satisfaction of seeing the bookseller's name over his store. "f. bayard," he read; "this is the place." "country!" shouted a little ragged boy, who dodged across the street at that moment. "just so, my beauty!" said bobby, a little nettled at this imputation of verdancy. "what a greeny!" shouted the little vagabond from the other side of the street. "no matter, rag-tag! we'll settle that matter some other time." but bobby felt that there was something in his appearance which subjected him to the remarks of others, and as he entered the shop, he determined to correct it as soon as possible. a spruce young gentleman was behind the counter, who cast a mischievous glance at him as he entered. "mr. bayard keep here?" asked bobby. "well, i reckon he does. how are all the folks up country?" replied the spruce clerk, with a rude grin. "how are they?" repeated bobby, the color flying to his cheek. "yes, ha-ow do they dew?" "they behave themselves better than they do here." "eh, greeny?" "eh, sappy?" repeated bobby, mimicking the soft, silky tones of the young city gentleman. "what do you mean by sappy?" asked the clerk, indignantly. "what do you mean by greeny?" "i'll let you know what i mean!" "when you do, i'll let you know what i mean by sappy." "good!" exclaimed one of the salesmen, who had heard part of this spirited conversation. "you will learn better by and by, timmins, than to impose upon boys from out of town." "you seem to be a gentleman, sir," said bobby, approaching the salesman. "i wish to see mr. bayard." "you can't see him!" growled timmins. "can't i?" "not at this minute; he is engaged just now," added the salesman, who seemed to have a profound respect for bobby's discrimination. "he will be at liberty in a few moments." "i will wait, then," said bobby, seating himself on a stool by the counter. pretty soon the civil gentleman left the store to go to dinner, and timmins, a little timid about provoking the young lion, cast an occasional glance of hatred at him. he had evidently found that "country" was an embryo american citizen, and that he was a firm believer in the self-evident truths of the declaration of independence. bobby bore no ill will towards the spruce clerk, ready as he had been to defend his "certain inalienable rights." "you do a big business here," suggested bobby, in a conciliatory tone, and with a smile on his face which ought to have convinced the uncourteous clerk that he meant well. "who told you so?" replied timmins, gruffly. "i merely judged from appearances. you have a big store, and an immense quantity of books." "appearances are deceitful," replied timmins; and perhaps he had been impressed by the fact from his experience with the lad from the country. "that is true," added bobby, with a good-natured smile, which, when interpreted, might have meant, "i took you for a civil fellow, but i have been very much mistaken." "you will find it out before you are many days older." "the book business is good just now, isn't it?" continued bobby, without clearly comprehending the meaning of the other's last remark. "humph! what's that to you?" "o, i intend to go into it myself." "ha, ha, ha! good! you do?" "i do," replied bobby, seemingly unconcerned at the taunts of the clerk. "i suppose you want to get a place here," sneered timmins, alarmed at the prospect. "but let me tell you, you can't do it. bayard has all the help he wants; and if that is what you come for, you can move on as fast as you please." "i guess i will see him," added bobby quietly. "no use." "no harm in seeing him." as he spoke he took up a book that lay on the counter, and began to turn over the leaves. "put that book down!" said the amiable mr. timmins. "i won't hurt it," replied bobby, who had just fixed his eye upon some very pretty engravings in the volume. "put it down!" repeated mr. timmins, in a loud, imperative tone. "certainly i will, if you say so," said bobby, who, though not much intimidated by the harsh tones of the clerk, did not know the rules of the store, and deemed it prudent not to meddle. "i _do_ say so!" added mr. timmins, magnificently; "and what's more, you'd better mind me, too." bobby had minded, and probably the stately little clerk would not have been so bold if he had not. some people like to threaten after the danger is over. then our visitor from the country espied some little blank books lying on the counter. he had already made up his mind to have one, in which to keep his accounts; and he thought, while he was waiting, that he would purchase one. he meant to do things methodically; so when he picked up one of the blank books, it was with the intention of buying it. "put that book down!" said mr. timmins, encouraged in his aggressive intentions by the previous docility of our hero. "i want to buy one." "no, you don't: put it down.". "what is the price of these?" asked bobby, resolutely. "none of your business!" chapter viii. in which mr. timmins is astonished, and bobby dines in chestnut street. it was mr. bayard. he had finished his business with the gentleman by his side, and hearing the noise of the scuffle, had come to learn the occasion of it. "this impudent young puppy wouldn't let the books alone!" began mr. timmins. "i threatened to turn him out if he didn't; and i meant to make good my threat. i think he meant to steal something." bobby was astonished and shocked at this bold imputation; but he wished to have his case judged on its own merits; so he turned his face away, that mr. bayard might not recognize him. "i wanted to buy one of these blank books," added bobby, picking up the one he had dropped on the floor in the struggle. "all stuff!" ejaculated timmins. "he is an impudent, obstinate puppy! in my opinion he meant to steal that book." "i asked him the price, and told him i wanted to buy it," added bobby, still averting his face. "well, i told him; and he said it was too high." "he asked me twenty-five cents for it." "is this true, timmins?" asked mr. bayard, sternly. "no, sir, i told him fourpence," replied timmins boldly. "by gracious! what a whopper!" exclaimed bobby, startled out of his propriety by this monstrous lie. "he said twenty-five cents; and i told him i could buy one up in riverdale, where i came from, for six cents. can you deny that?" "it's a lie!" protested timmins. "riverdale," said mr. bayard. "are you from riverdale, boy?" "yes, sir, i am; and if you will look on your memorandum book you will find my name there." "bless me! i am sure i have seen that face before," exclaimed mr. bayard, as he grasped the hand of bobby, much to the astonishment and consternation of mr. timmins. you are--" "robert bright, sir." "my brave little fellow! i am heartily glad to see you;" and the bookseller shook the hand he held with hearty good will. "i was thinking of you only a little while ago." "this fellow calls me a liar," said bobby, pointing to the astonished mr. timmins, who did not know what to make of the cordial reception which "country" was receiving from his employer. "well, robert, we know that he is a liar; this is not the first time he has, been caught in a lie. timmins, your time is out." the spruce clerk hung his head with shame and mortification. "i hope, sir, you will--" he began, but pride or fear stopped him short. "don't be hard with him, sir, if you please," said bobby. "i suppose i aggravated him." mr. bayard looked at the gentleman who stood by his side, and a smile of approbation lighted up his face. "generous as he is noble! butler, this is the boy that saved ellen." "indeed! he is a little giant!" replied mr. butler, grasping bobby's hand. even timmins glanced with something like admiration in his looks at the youth whom he had so lately despised. perhaps, too, he thought of that scripture wisdom about entertaining angels unawares. he was very much abashed, and nothing but his silly pride prevented him from acknowledging his error, and begging bobby's forgiveness. "i can't have a liar about me," said mr. bayard. "there may be some mistake," suggested mr. butler. "i think not. robert bright couldn't lie. so brave and noble a boy is incapable of a falsehood. besides, i got a letter from my friend squire lee by this morning's mail, in which he informed me of my young friend's coming." mr. bayard took from his pocket a bundle of letters, and selected the squire's from among them. opening it, he read a passage which had a direct bearing upon the case before him. "'i do not know what bobby's faults are,'"--the letter said,--"'but this i do know: that bobby would rather be whipped than tell a lie. he is noted through the place for his love of truth.'--that is pretty strong testimony; and you see, bobby,--that's what the squire calls you,--your reputation has preceded you." bobby blushed, as he always did when he was praised, and mr. timmins was more abashed than ever. "did you hear that, timmins? who is the liar now?" said mr. bayard, turning to the culprit. "forgive me, sir, this time. if you turn me off now, i cannot get another place, and my mother depends upon my wages." "you ought to have thought of this before." "he aggravated me, sir, so that i wanted to pay him off." "as to that, he commenced upon me the moment i came into the store. but don't turn him off, if you please, sir," said bobby, who even now wished no harm to his discomfited assailant. "he will do better hereafter: won't you, timmins?" thus appealed to, timmins, though he did not relish so direct an inquiry, and from such a source, was compelled to reply in the affirmative; and mr. bayard graciously remitted the sentence he had passed against the offending clerk. "now, robert, you will come over to my house and dine with me. ellen will be delighted to see you." "thank you, sir," replied bobby, bashfully, "i have been to dinner",--referring to the luncheon he had eaten at brighton. "but you must go to the house with me." "i should be very glad to do so, sir, but i came on business. i will stay here with mr. timmins till you come back." the truth is, he had heard something about the fine houses of the city, and how stylish the people were, and he had some misgivings about venturing into such a strange and untried scene as the parlor of a boston merchant. "indeed, you must come with me. ellen would never forgive you or me, if you do not come." "i would rather rest here till you return," replied bobby, still willing to escape the fine house and the fine folks. "i walked from riverdale, sir, and i am rather tired." "walked!" exclaimed mr. bayard. "had you no money?" "yes, sir, enough to pay my passage; but dr. franklin says that 'a penny saved is a penny earned,' and i thought i would try it. i shall get rested by the time you return." "but you must go with me. timmins, go and get a carriage." timmins obeyed, and before mr. bayard had finished asking bobby how all the people in riverdale were, the carriage was at the door. there was no backing out now, and our hero was obliged to get into the vehicle, though it seemed altogether too fine for a poor boy like him. mr. bayard and mr. butler (whom the former had invited to dine with him) seated themselves beside him, and the driver was directed to set them down at no. ---- chestnut street, where they soon arrived. though my readers would, no doubt, be very much amused to learn how carefully bobby trod the velvet carpets, how he stared with wonder at the drapery curtains, at the tall mirrors, the elegant chandeliers, and the fantastically shaped chairs and tables that adorned mr. bayard's parlor, the length of our story does not permit us to pause over these trivial matters. when ellen bayard was informed that her little deliverer was in the house, she rushed into the parlor like a hoiden school girl, grasped both his hands, kissed both his rosy cheeks, and behaved just as though she had never been to a boarding school in her life. she had thought a great deal about bobby since that eventful day, and the more she thought of him, the more she liked him. her admiration of him was not of that silly, sentimental character which moon-struck young ladies cherish towards those immaculate young men who have saved them from drowning in a horse pond, pulled them back just as they were tumbling over a precipice two thousand five hundred feet high, or rescued them from a house seven stories high, bearing them down a ladder seventy-five odd feet long. the fact was, bobby was a boy of thirteen and there was no chance for much sentiment; so the young lady's regard was real, earnest, and lifelike. ellen said a great many very handsome things; but i am sure she never thought of such a thing as that he would run away with her, in case her papa was unneccessarily obstinate. she was very glad to see him, and i have no doubt she wished bobby might be her brother, it would be so glorious to have such a noble little fellow always with her. bobby managed the dinner much better than he had anticipated; for mr. bayard insisted that he should sit down with them, whether he ate any thing or not. but the rubicon passed, our hero found that he had a pretty smart appetite, and did full justice to the viands set before him. it is true the silver forks, the napkins, the finger bowls, and other articles of luxury and show, to which he had been entirely unaccustomed, bothered him not a little; but he kept perfectly cool, and carefully observed how mr. butler, who sat next to him, handled the "spoon fork," what he did with the napkin and the finger bowl, so that, i will venture to say, not one in ten would have suspected he had not spent his life in the parlor of a _millionnaire_. dinner over, the party returned to the parlor, where bobby unfolded his plan for the future. to make his story intelligible, he was obliged to tell them all about mr. hardhand. "the old wretch!" exclaimed mr. bayard. "but, robert, you must let me advance the sixty dollars, to pay squire lee." "no, sir; you have done enough in that way. i have given my note for the money." "whew;" said mr. butler. "and i shall soon earn enough to pay it." "no doubt of it. you are a lad of courage and energy, and you will succeed in every thing you undertake." "i shall want you to trust me for a stock of books on the strength of old acquaintance," continued bobby, who had now grown quite bold, and felt as much at home in the midst of the costly furniture, as he did in the "living room" of the old black house. "you shall have all the books you want." "i will pay for them as soon as i return. the truth is, mr. bayard, i mean to be independent. i didn't want to take that thirty-five dollars, though i don't know what mr. hardhand would have done to us, if i hadn't." "ellen said i ought to have given you a hundred, and i think so myself." "i am glad you didn't. too much money makes us fat and lazy." mr. bayard laughed at the easy self-possession of the lad--at his big talk; though, big as it was, it meant something. when he proposed to go to the store, he told bobby he had better stay at the house and rest himself. "no, sir; i want to start out to-morrow, and i must get ready to-day." "you had better put it off till the next day; you will feel more like it then." "now or never," replied bobby. "that is my motto, sir. if we have any thing to do, now is always the best time to do it. dr. franklin says, 'never put off till to-morrow what you can do to day.'" "right, robert! you shall have your own way. i wish my clerks would adopt some of dr. franklin's wise saws. i should be a great deal better off in the course of a year if they would." chapter ix. in which bobby opens various accounts, and wins his first victory. "now, bobby, i understand your plan," said mr. bayard, when they reached the store; "but the details must be settled. where do you intend to go?" "i hardly know, sir. i suppose i can sell books almost any where." "very true; but in some places much better than in others." mr. bayard mentioned a large town about eighteen miles from the city, in which he thought a good trade might be carried on, and bobby at once decided to adopt the suggestion. "you can make this place your head quarters for the week; if books do not sell well right in the village, why, you can go out a little way, for the country in the vicinity is peopled by intelligent farmers, who are well off, and who can afford to buy books." "i was thinking of that; but what shall i take with me, sir?" "there is a new book just published, called 'the wayfarer,' which is going to have a tremendous run. it has been advertised in advance all over the country, so that you will find a ready sale for it. you will get it there before any one else, and have the market all to yourself." "the wayfarer? i have heard of it myself." "you shall take fifty copies with you, and if you find that you shall want more, write, and i will send them." "but i cannot carry fifty copies." "you must take the cars to b----, and have a trunk or box to carry your books in. i have a stout trunk down cellar which you shall have." "i will pay for it, sir." "never mind that, bobby; and you will want a small valise or carpet bag to carry your books from house to house. i will lend you one." "you are very kind, sir; i did not mean to ask any favors of you except to trust me for the books until my return." "all right, bobby." mr. bayard called the porter and ordered him to bring up the trunk, in which he directed mr. timmins to pack fifty "wayfarers." "now, how much will these books cost me apiece?" asked bobby. "the retail price is one dollar; the wholesale price is one third off; and you shall have them at what they cost me." "sixty-seven cents," added bobby. "that will give me a profit of thirty-three cents on each book." "just so." "perhaps mr. timmins will sell me one of those blank books now; for i like to have things down in black and white." "i will furnish you with something much better than that;" and mr. bayard left the counting room. in a moment he returned with a handsome pocket memorandum book, which he presented to the little merchant. "but i don't like to take it unless you will let me pay for it," said bobby, hesitating. "never mind it, my young friend. now you can sit down at my desk and open your accounts. i like to see boys methodical, and there is nothing like keeping accounts to make one accurate. keep your books posted up, and you will know where you are at any time." "i intend to keep an account of all i spend and all i receive, if it is no more than a cent." "right, my little man. have you ever studied book-keeping?" "no, sir, i suppose i haven't; but there was a page of accounts in the back part of the arithmetic i studied, and i got a pretty good idea of the thing from that. all the money received goes on one side, and all the money paid out goes on the other." "exactly so; in this book you had better open a book account first. if you wish, i will show you how." "thank you, sir; i should be very glad to have you;" and bobby opened the memorandum book, and seated himself at the desk. "write 'book account' at the top of the pages, one word on each. very well. now write 'to fifty copies of wayfarer, at sixty-seven cents, $ . ,' on the left hand page, or debit side of the account." "i am not much of a writer," said bobby, apologetically. "you will improve. now, each day you will credit the amount of sales on the right hand page, or credit side of the account; so, when you have sold out, the balance due your debit side will be the profit on the lot. do you understand it?" bobby thought a moment before he could see through it; but his brain was active, and he soon managed the idea. "now you want a personal account;" and mr. bayard explained to him how to make this out. he then instructed him to enter on the debit-side all he spent for travel, board, freight, and other charges. the next was the "profit and loss" account, which was to show him the net profit of the business. our hero, who had a decided taste for accounts, was very much pleased with this employment; and when the accounts were all opened, he regarded them with a great deal of satisfaction. he longed to commence his operations, if it were only for the pleasure of making the entries in this book. "one thing i forgot," said he, as he seized the pen, and under the cash account entered, "to cash from mother, $ . ." "now i am all right, i believe." "i think you are. now, the cars leave at seven in the morning. can you be ready for a start as early as that?" asked mr. bayard. "o, yes, sir, i hope so. i get up at half past four at home." "very well; my small valise is at the house; but i believe every thing else is ready. now, i have some business to attend to; and if you will amuse yourself for an hour or two, we will go home then." "i shall want a lodging-place when i am in the city; perhaps some of your folks can direct me to one where they won't charge too much." "as to that, bobby, you must go to my house whenever you are in the city." "law, sir! you live so grand, i couldn't think of going to your house. i am only a poor boy from the country, and i don't know how to behave myself among such nice folks." "you will do very well, bobby. ellen would never forgive me if i let you go any where else. so that is settled; you will go to my house. now, you may sit here, or walk out and see the sights." "if you please, sir, if mr. timmins will let me look at some of the books, i shouldn't wish for any thing better. i should like to look at the wayfarer, so that i shall know how to recommend it." "mr. timmins _will_ let you," replied mr. bayard, as he touched the spring of a bell on his desk. the dapper clerk came running into the counting-room to attend the summons of his employer. "mr. timmins," continued mr. bayard, with a mischievous smile, "bring mr. bright a copy of 'the wayfarer.'" mr. timmins was astonished to hear "country" called "mister," astonished to hear his employer call him "mister," and bobby was astonished to hear himself called "mister;" nevertheless, our hero enjoyed the joke. the clerk brought the book; and bobby proceeded to give it a thorough, critical examination. he read the preface, the table of contents, and several chapters of the work, before mr. bayard was ready to go home "how do you like it, bobby?" asked the bookseller. "first rate." "you may take that copy in your hand; you will want to finish it." "thank you, sir; i will be careful of it." "you may keep it. let that be the beginning of your own private library." his own private library! bobby had not got far enough to dream of such a thing yet; but he thanked mr. bayard, and put the book under his arm. after tea, ellen proposed to her father that they should all go to the museum. mr. bayard acceded, and our hero was duly amazed at the drolleries perpetrated there. he had a good time; but it was so late when he went to bed, that he was a little fearful lest he should oversleep himself in the morning. he did not, however, and was down in the parlor before any of the rest of the family were stirring. an early breakfast was prepared for him, at which mr. bayard, who intended to see him off, joined him. depositing his little bundle and the copy of "the wayfarer" in the valise provided for him, they walked to the store. the porter wheeled the trunk down to the railroad station, though bobby insisted upon doing it himself. the bookseller saw him and his baggage safely aboard of the cars, gave him a ticket, and then bade him an affectionate adieu. in a little while bobby was flying over the rail, and at about eight o'clock, reached b----. the station master kindly permitted him to deposit his trunk in the baggage room, and to leave it there for the remainder of the week. taking a dozen of the books from the trunk, and placing them in his valise, he sallied out upon his mission. it must be confessed that his heart was filled with a tumult of emotions. the battle of life was before him. he was on the field, sword in hand, ready to plunge into the contest. it was victory or defeat. "march on, brave youth! the field of strife with peril fraught before thee lies; march on! the battle plain of life shall yield thee yet a glorious prize." it was of no use to shrink then, even if he had felt disposed to do so. he was prepared to be rebuffed, to be insulted, to be turned away from the doors at which he should seek admission; but he was determined to conquer. he had reached a house at which he proposed to offer "the wayfarer" for sale. his heart went pit pat, pit pat, and he paused before the door. "now or never!" exclaimed he, as he swung open the garden gate, and made his way up to the door. he felt some misgivings. it was so new and strange to him that he could hardly muster sufficient resolution to proceed farther. but his irresolution was of only a moment's duration. "now or never!" and he gave a vigorous knock at the door. it was opened by an elderly lady, whose physiognomy did not promise much. "good morning, ma'am. can i sell you a copy of 'the wayfarer' to-day? a new book, just published." "no; i don't want none of your books. there's more pedlers round the country now than you could shake a stick at in a month," replied the old lady petulantly. "it is a very interesting book, ma'am; has an excellent moral." bobby had read the preface, as i before remarked. "it will suit you, ma'am; for you look just like a lady who wants to read something with a moral." bravo, bobby! the lady concluded that her face had a moral expression, and she was pleased with the idea. "let me see it;" and she asked bobby to walk in and be seated, while she went for her spectacles. as she was looking over the book, our hero went into a more elaborate recommendation of its merits. he was sure it would interest the young and the old; it taught a good lesson; it had elegant engravings; the type was large, which would suit her eyes; it was well printed and bound; and finally, it was cheap at one dollar. "i'll take it," said the old lady. "thank you, ma'am." bobby's first victory was achieved "have you got a dollar?" asked the lady, as she handed him a two dollar bill. "yes, ma'am;" and he gave her his only dollar, and put the two in its place, prouder than a king who has conquered an empire. "thank you, ma'am." bidding the lady a polite good morning, he left the house, encouraged by his success to go forward in his mission with undiminished hope. chapter x. in which bobby is a little too smart. the clouds were rolled back, and bobby no longer had a doubt as to the success of his undertaking. it requires but a little sunshine to gladden the heart, and the influence of his first success scattered all the misgivings he had cherished. two new england shillings is undoubtedly a very small sum of money; but bobby had made two shillings, and he would not have considered himself more fortunate if some unknown relative had left him a fortune. it gave him confidence in his powers, and as he walked away from the house, he reviewed the circumstances of his first sale. the old lady had told him at first she did not wish to buy a book, and, moreover, had spoken rather contemptuously of the craft to which he had now the honor to belong. he gave himself the credit of having conquered the old lady's prejudices. he had sold her a book in spite of her evident intention not to purchase. in short, he had, as we have before said, won a glorious victory, and he congratulated himself accordingly. but it was of no use to waste time in useless self-glorification, and bobby turned from the past to the future. there were forty-nine more books to be sold, so that the future was forty-nine-times as big as the past. he saw a shoemaker's shop ahead of him; and he was debating with himself whether he should enter and offer his books for sale. it would do no harm, though he had but slight expectations of doing any thing. there were three men at work in the shop--one of them a middle-aged man, the other two young men. they looked like persons of intelligence, and as soon as bobby saw them his hopes grew stronger. "can i sell you any books to-day?" asked the little merchant, as he crossed the threshold. "well, i don't know; that depends upon how smart you are," replied the eldest of the men. "it takes a pretty smart fellow to sell any thing in this shop." "then i hope to sell each of you a book," added bobby, laughing at the badinage of the shoemaker. opening his valise he took out three copies of his book, and politely handed one to each of the men. "it isn't every book pedler that comes along who offers you such a work as that. 'the wayfarer' is decidedly _the_ book of the season." "you don't say so!" said the oldest shoemaker, with a laugh. "every pedler that comes along uses those words, precisely." "do they? they steal my thunder then." "you are an old one." "only thirteen. i was born where they don't fasten the door with a boiled carrot." "what do they fasten them with?" "they don't fasten them at all." "there are no book pedlers round there, then;" and all the shoemakers laughed heartily at this smart sally. "no; they are all shoemakers in our town." "you can take my hat, boy." "you will want it to put your head in; but i will take one dollar for that book instead." the man laughed, took out his wallet, and handed bobby the dollar, probably quite as much because he had a high appreciation of his smartness, as from any desire to possess the book. "won't you take one?" asked bobby, appealing to another of the men, who was apparently not more than twenty-four years of age. "no; i can't read," replied he, roguishly. "let your wife read it to you then." "my wife?" "certainly; she knows how to read, i will warrant." "how do you know i have got a wife?" "o, well, a fellow as good looking and good natured as you are could not have resisted till this time." "has you, tom," added the oldest shoemaker. "i cave in;" and he handed over the dollar, and laid the book upon his bench. bobby looked at the third man with some interest. he had said nothing, and scarcely heeded the fun which was passing between the little merchant and his companions. he was apparently absorbed in his examination of the book. he was a different kind of person from the others, and bobby's instinctive knowledge of human nature assured him that he was not to be gained by flattery or by smart sayings; so he placed himself in front of him, and patiently waited in silence for him to complete his examination. "you will find that he is a hard one," put in one of the others. bobby made no reply, and the two men who had bought books resumed their work. for five minutes our hero stood waiting for the man to finish his investigation into the merits of "the wayfarer." something told him not to say any thing to this person; and he had some doubts about his purchasing. "i will take one," said the last shoemaker, as he handed bobby the dollar. "i am much obliged to you, gentlemen," said bobby, as he closed his valise. "when i come this way again i shall certainly call." "do; you have done what no other pedler ever did in this shop." "i shall take no credit to myself. the fact is, you are men of intelligence, and you want good books." bobby picked up his valise and left the shop, satisfied with those who occupied it, and satisfied with himself. "eight shillings!" exclaimed he, when he got into the road. "pretty good hour's work, i should say." bobby trudged along till he came to a very large, elegant house, evidently dwelt in by one of the nabobs of b----. inspired by past successes, he walked boldly up to the front door, and rang the bell. "is mr. whiting in?" asked bobby, who had read the name on the door plate. "colonel whiting _is_ in," replied the servant, who had opened the door. "i should like to see him for a moment, if he isn't busy." "walk in;" and for some reason or other the servant chuckled a great deal as she admitted him. she conducted him to a large, elegantly furnished parlor, where bobby proceeded to take out his books for the inspection of the nabob, whom the servant promised to send to the parlor. in a moment colonel whiting entered. he was a large, fat man, about fifty years old. he looked at the little book merchant with a frown that would have annihilated a boy less spunky than our hero. bobby was not a little inflated by the successes of the morning, and if julius caesar or napoleon bonaparte had stood before him then, he would not have flinched a hair--much less in the presence of no greater magnate than the nabob of b----. "good morning, colonel whiting. i hope you are well this beautiful morning," bobby began. i must confess i think this was a little too familiar for a boy of thirteen to a gentleman of fifty, whom he had never seen before in his life; but it must be remembered that bobby had done a great deal the week before, that on the preceding night he had slept in chestnut street, and that he had just sold four copies of "the wayfarer." he was inclined to be smart, and some folks hate smart boys. the nabob frowned; his cheek reddened with anger; but he did not condescend to make any reply to the smart speech. "i have taken the liberty to call upon you this morning, to see if you did not wish to purchase a copy of 'the wayfarer'--a new book just issued from the press, which people say is to be the book of the season." my young readers need not suppose this was an impromptu speech, for bobby had studied upon it all the time he was coming from boston in the cars. it would be quite natural for a boy who had enjoyed no greater educational advantages than our hero to consider how he should address people into whose presence his calling would bring him; and he had prepared several little addresses of this sort, for the several different kinds of people whom he expected to encounter. the one he had just "got off" was designed for the "upper crust." when he had delivered the speech, he approached the indignant, frowning nabob, and with a low bow, offered him a copy of "the wayfarer." "boy," said colonel whiting, raising his arm with majestic dignity, and pointing to the door,--"boy, do you see that door?" bobby looked at the door, and, somewhat astonished replied that he did see it, that it was a very handsome door, and he would inquire whether it was black walnut, or only painted in imitation thereof. "do you see that door?" thundered the nabob, swelling with rage at the cool impudence of the boy. "certainly i do, sir; my eyesight is excellent." "then use it!" "thank you, sir; i have no use for it. probably it will be of more service to you than to me." "will you clear out, or shall i kick you out?" gasped the enraged magnate of b----. "i will save you that trouble, sir; i will go, sir. i see we have both made a mistake." "mistake? what do you mean by that, you young puppy? you are a little impudent, thieving scoundrel!" "that's your mistake, sir. i took you for a gentleman, sir; and that was my mistake." "ha, ha, ha!" laughed a sweet, musical voice, and at that moment a beautiful young lady rushed up to the angry colonel, and threw her arms around his neck. "the jade!" muttered he. "i have caught you in a passion again, uncle;" and the lady kissed the old gentleman's anger-reddened cheek, which seemed to restore him at once to himself. "it was enough to make a minister swear," said he, in apology. "no, it wasn't, uncle; the boy was a little pert, it is true; but you ought to have laughed at him, instead of getting angry. i heard the whole of it." "pert?" said bobby to himself. "what the deuse does she mean by that?" "very well, you little minx; i will pay the penalty." "come here, master pert," said the lady to bobby. bobby bowed, approached the lady, and began to feel very much embarrassed. "my uncle,", she continued, "is one of the best hearted men in the world--ain't you, uncle?" "go on, you jade!" "i love him, as i would my own father; but he will sometimes get into a passion. now, you provoked him." "indeed, ma'am, i hadn't the least idea of saying any thing uncivil," pleaded bobby. "i studied to be as polite as possible." "i dare say. you were too important, too pompous, for a boy to an old gentleman like uncle, who is really one of the best men in the world. now, if you hadn't studied to be polite, you would have done very well." "indeed, ma'am, i am a poor boy, trying to make a little money to help my mother. i am sure i meant no harm." "i know you didn't. so you are selling books to help your mother?" "yes, ma'am." she inquired still further into the little merchant's history, and seemed to be very much interested in him. in a frolic, a few days before, bobby learned from her, colonel whiting had agreed to pay any penalty she might name, the next time he got into a passion. "now, young man, what book have you to sell?" asked the lady. "'the wayfarer.'" "how many have you in your valise?" "eight." "very well; now, uncle, i decree, as the penalty of your indiscretion, that you purchase the whole stock." "i submit." "'the wayfarer' promises to be an excellent book: and i can name at least half a dozen persons who will thank you for a copy, uncle." colonel whiting paid bobby eight dollars, who left the contents of his valise on the centre table, and then departed, astounded at his good fortune, and fully resolved never to be too smart again. chapter xi. in which bobby strikes a balance, and returns to riverdale. our hero had learned a lesson which experience alone could teach him. the consciousness of that "something within him" inclined him to be a little too familiar with his elders; but then it gave him confidence in himself, and imparted courage to go forward in the accomplishment of his mission. his interview with colonel whiting and the gentle but plain rebuke of his niece had set him right, and he realized that, while he was doing a man's work, he was still a boy. he had now a clearer perception of what is due to the position and dignity of those upon whom fortune has smiled. bobby wanted to be a man, and it is not strange that he should sometimes fancy he was a man. he had an idea, too, that "all men are born free and equal;" and he could not exactly see why a nabob was entitled to any more respect and consideration than a poor man. it was a lesson he was compelled to learn, though some folks live out their lifetimes without ever finding out that. "'tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable men." some people think a rich man is no better than a poor man, except so far as he behaves himself better. it is strange how stupid some people are! bobby had no notion of cringing to any man, and he felt as independent as the declaration of independence itself. but then the beautiful lady had told him that he was pert and forward; and when he thought it over, he was willing to believe she was right, colonel whiting was an old man, compared with himself; and he had some faith, at least in theory, in the spartan virtue of respect for the aged. probably the nabob of b---- would have objected to being treated with respect on account of his age; and bobby would have been equally unwilling to acknowledge that he treated him with peculiar respect on account of his wealth or position. perhaps the little merchant had an instinctive perception of expediency--that he should sell more books by being less familiar: at any rate he determined never again to use the flowery speeches he had arranged for the upper crust. he had sold a dozen books; and possibly this fact made him more willing to compromise the matter than he would otherwise have been. this was, after all, the great matter for congratulation, and with a light heart he hurried back to the railroad station to procure another supply. we cannot follow him into every house where his calling led him. he was not always as fortunate as in the instances we have mentioned. sometimes all his arguments were unavailing, and after he had spent half an hour of valuable time in setting forth the merits of "the wayfarer," he was compelled to retire without having effected a sale. sometimes, too, he was rudely repulsed; hard epithets were applied to him; old men and old women, worried out by the continued calls of pedlers, sneered at him, or shut the door in his face; but bobby was not disheartened. he persevered, and did not allow these little trials to discompose or discourage him. by one o'clock on the first day of his service he had sold eighteen books, which far exceeded even his most sanguine expectations. by this time he began to feel the want of his dinner; but there was no tavern or eating house at hand, and he could not think of leaving the harvest to return to the railroad station; so he bought a sheet of gingerbread and a piece of cheese at a store, and seating himself near a brook by the side of the road, he bolted his simple meal, as boys are very apt to do when they are excited. when he had finished, he took out his account book, and entered, "dinner, cents." resuming his business, he disposed of the remaining six books in his valise by the middle of the afternoon, and was obliged to return for another supply. about six o'clock he entered the house of a mechanic, just as the family were sitting down to tea. he recommended his book with so much energy that the wife of the mechanic took a fancy to him, and not only purchased one, but invited him to tea. bobby accepted the invitation, and in the course of the meal, the good lady drew from him the details of his history, which he very modestly related, for though he sometimes fancied himself a man, he was not the boy to boast of his exploits. his host was so much pleased with him, that he begged him to spend the night with them. bobby had been thinking how and where he should spend the night, and the matter had given him no little concern. he did not wish to go to the hotel, for it looked like a very smart house, and he reasoned that he should have to pay pretty roundly for accommodations there. these high prices would eat up his profits, and he seriously deliberated whether it would not be better for him to sleep under a tree than pay fifty cents for a lodging. if i had been there i should have told him that a man loses nothing in the long run by taking good care of himself. he must eat well and sleep well, in order to do well and be well. but i suppose bobby would have told me that it was of no use to pay a quarter extra for sleeping on a gilded bedstead, since the room would be so dark he could not see the gilt even if he wished to do so. i could not have said any thing to such a powerful argument; so i am very glad the mechanic's wife set the matter at rest by offering him a bed in her house. he spent a very pleasant evening with the family, who made him feel entirely at home, they were so kind and so plain spoken. before he went to bed, he entered under the book account, "by twenty-six wayfarers, sold this day, $ . ." he had done a big day's work, much bigger than he could hope to do again. he had sold more than one half of his whole stock, and at this rate he should be out of books the next day. at first he thought he would send for another lot; but he could not judge yet what his average daily sales would be, and finally concluded not to do so. what he had might last till friday or saturday. he intended to go home on the latter day, and he could bring them with him on his return without expense. this was considerable of an argument for a boy to manage; but bobby was satisfied with it, and went to sleep, wondering what his mother, squire lee, and annie were thinking of about that time. after breakfast the next morning he resumed his travels. he was as enthusiastic as ever, and pressed "the wayfarer" with so much earnestness that he sold a book in nearly every house he visited. people seemed to be more interested in the little merchant than in his stock, and taking advantage of this kind feeling towards him, he appealed to them with so much eloquence that few could resist it. the result of the day's sales was fifteen copies, which bobby entered in the book account with the most intense satisfaction. he had outdone the boy who had passed through riverdale, but he had little hope that the harvest would always be so abundant. he often thought of this boy, from whom he had obtained the idea he was now carrying out. that boy had stopped over night at the little black house, and slept with him. he had asked for lodging, and offered to pay for it, as well as for his supper and breakfast. why couldn't he do the same? he liked the suggestion, and from that time, wherever he happened to be, he asked for lodging, or the meal he required, and he always proposed to pay for what he had, but very few would take any thing. on friday noon he had sold out. returning to the railroad station, he found that the train would not leave for the city for an hour; so he improved the time in examining and balancing his accounts. the book sales amounted to just fifty dollars, and after his ticket to boston was paid for, his expenses would amount to one dollar and fifty cents, leaving a balance in his favor of fifteen dollars. he was overjoyed with the result, and pictured the astonishment with which his mother, squire lee, and annie would listen to the history of his excursion. after four o'clock that afternoon he entered the store of mr. bayard, bag and baggage. on his arrival in the city, he was considerably exercised in mind to know how he should get the trunk to his destination. he was too economical to pay a cartman a quarter; but what would have seemed mean in a man was praiseworthy in a boy laboring for a noble end. probably a great many of my young readers in bobby's position, thinking that sixteen dollars, which our hero had in his pocket, was a mint of money, would have been in favor of being a little magnificent--of taking a carriage and going up-town in state. bobby had not the least desire to "swell," so he settled the matter by bargaining with a little ragged fellow to help him carry the trunk to mr. bayard's store for fourpence. "how do you do, mr. timmins?" said bobby to the spruce clerk, as he deposited the trunk upon the floor, and handed the ragged boy the four-pence. "ah, bobby!" exclaimed mr. timmins. "have you sold out?" "all clean. is mr. bayard in?" "in the office. but how do you like it?" "first rate." "well, every one to his taste; but i don't see how any one who has any regard for his dignity can stick himself into every body's house. i couldn't do it, i know." "i don't stand for the dignity." "ah, well, there is a difference in folks." "that's a fact," replied bobby, as he hurried to the office of mr. bayard, leaving mr. timmins to sun himself in his own dignity. the bookseller was surprised to see him so soon, but he gave him a cordial reception. "i didn't expect you yet," said he. "why do you come back? have you got sick of the business?" "sick of it! no, sir." "what have you come back for then?" "sold out, sir." "sold out! you have done well!" "better than i expected." "i had no idea of seeing you till to-morrow night; and i thought you would have books enough to begin the next week with. you have done bravely." "if i had had twenty more, i could have sold them before to-morrow night. now, sir, if you please, i will pay you for those books--thirty-three dollars and fifty cents." "you had better keep that, bobby. i will trust you as long as you wish." "if you please, sir, i had rather pay it;" and the little merchant, as proud as a lord, handed over the amount. "i like your way of doing business, bobby. nothing helps a man's credit so much as paying promptly. now tell me some of your adventures--or we will reserve them till this evening, for i am sure ellen will be delighted to hear them." "i think i shall go to riverdale this afternoon. the cars leave at half past five." "very well; you have an hour to spare." bobby related to his kind friend the incidents of his excursion, including his interview with colonel whiting and his niece, which amused the bookseller very much. he volunteered some good advice, which bobby received in the right spirit, and with a determination to profit by it. at half past five he took the cars for home, and before dark was folded in his mother's arms. the little black house seemed doubly dear to him now that he bad been away from it a few days. his mother and all the children were so glad to see him that it seemed almost worth his while to go away for the pleasure of meeting them on his return. chapter xii. in which bobby astonishes sundry persons and pays part of his note. "now tell me, bobby, how you have made out," said mrs. bright, as the little merchant seated himself at the supper table. "you cannot have done much, for you have only been gone five days." "i have done pretty well, mother," replied bobby, mysteriously; "pretty well, considering that i am only a boy." "i didn't expect to see you till to-morrow night." "i sold out, and had to come home." "that may be, and still you may not have done much." "i don't pretend that i have done much." "how provoking you are! why don't you tell me, bobby, what you have done?" "wait a minute, mother, till i have done my supper, and then i will show you the footings in my ledger." "your ledger!" "yea, my ledger. i keep a ledger now." "you are a great man, mr. robert bright," laughed his mother. "i suppose the people took their hats off when they saw you coming." "not exactly, mother." "perhaps the governor came out to meet you when he heard you was on the road." "perhaps he did; i didn't see him, however. this apple pie tastes natural, mother. it is a great luxury to get home after one has been travelling." "very likely." "no place like home, after all is done and said. who was the fellow that wrote that song, mother?" "i forget; the paper said he spent a great many years in foreign parts. my sake! bobby; one would think by your talk that you had been away from home for a year." "it seems like a year," said he, as he transferred another quarter of the famous apple pie to his plate. "i miss home very much. i don't more than half like being among strangers so much." "it is your own choice; no one wants you to go away from home." "i must pay my debts, any how. don't i owe squire lee sixty dollars?" "but i can pay that." "it is my affair, you see." "if it is your affair, then i owe you sixty dollars." "no, you don't; i calculate to pay my board now. i am old enough and big enough to do something." "you have done something ever since you was old enough to work." "not much; i don't wonder that miserable old hunker of a hardhand twitted me about it. by the way, have you heard any thing from him?" "not a thing." "he has got enough of us, i reckon." "you mustn't insult him, bobby, if you happen to see him." "never fear me." "you know the bible says we must love our enemies, and pray for them that despitefully use us and persecute us." "i should pray that the old nick might get him." "no, bobby; i hope you haven't forgot all your sunday school lessons." "i was wrong, mother," replied bobby, a little moved. "i did not mean so. i shall try to think as well of him as i can; but i can't help thinking, if all the world was like him, what a desperate hard time we should have of it." "we must thank the lord that he has given us so many good and true men." "such as squire lee, for instance," added bobby, as he rose from the table and put his chair back against the wall. "the squire is fit to be a king; and though i believe in the constitution and the declaration of independence, i wouldn't mind seeing a crown upon his head." "he will receive his crown in due time," replied mrs. bright, piously. "the squire?" "the crown of rejoicing, i mean." "just so; the squire is a nice man; and i know another just like him." "who!" "mr. bayard; they are as near alike as two peas." "i am dying to know about your journey." "wait a minute, mother, till we clear away the supper things;" and bobby took hold, as he had been accustomed, to help remove and wash the dishes. "you needn't help now, bobby." "yes, i will, mother." some how our hero's visit to the city did not seem to produce the usual effect upon him; for a great many boys, after they had been abroad, would have scorned to wash dishes and wipe them. a week in town has made many a boy so smart that you couldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. it starches them up so stiff that sometimes they don't know their own mothers, and deem it a piece of condescension to speak a word to the patriarch in a blue frock who had the honor of supporting them in childhood. bobby was none of this sort. we lament that he had a habit of talking big--that is, of talking about business affairs in a style a little beyond his years. but he was modest to a fault, paradoxical as it may seem. he was always blushing when any body spoke a pretty thing about him. probably the circumstances of his position elevated him above the sphere of the mere boy; he had spent but little time in play, and his attention had been directed at all times to the wants of his mother. he had thought a great deal about business, especially since the visit of the boy who sold books to the little black house. some boys are born merchants, and from their earliest youth have a genius for trade. they think of little else. they "play shop" before they wear jackets, and drive a barter trade in jackknives, whistles, tops, and fishing lines long before they get into their teens. they are shrewd even then, and obtain a taste for commerce before they are old enough to know the meaning of the word. we saw a boy in school, not long since, give the value of eighteen cents for a little stunted quince--boys have a taste for raw quinces, strange as it may seem. undoubtedly he had no talent for trade, and would make a very indifferent tin pedler. our hero was shrewd. he always got the best end of the bargain; though, i am happy to say, his integrity was too unyielding to let him cheat his fellows. we have made this digression so that my young readers may know why bobby was so much given to big talk. the desire to do something worthy of a good son turned his attention to matters above his sphere; and thinking of great things, he had come to talk great things. it was not a bad fault, after all. boys need not necessarily be frivolous. play is a good thing, an excellent thing, in its place, and is as much a part of the boy's education as his grammar and arithmetic. it not only develops his muscles, but enlarges his mental capacity; it not only fills with excitement the idle hours of the long day, but it sharpens the judgment, and helps to fit the boy for the active duties of life. it need not be supposed, because bobby had to turn his attention to serious things, that he was not fond of fun; that he could not or did not play. at a game of round ball, he was a lucky fellow who secured him upon his side; for the same energy which made him a useful son rendered him a desirable hand in a difficult game. when the supper things were all removed, the dishes washed and put away, bobby drew out his pocket memorandum book. it was a beautiful article, and mrs. bright was duly astonished at its gilded leaves and the elegant workmanship. very likely her first impulse was to reprove her son for such a piece of reckless extravagance; but this matter was set right by bobby's informing her how it came into his possession. "here is my ledger, mother," he said, handing her the book. mrs. bright put on her spectacles, and after bestowing a careful scrutiny upon the memorandum book, turned to the accounts. "fifty books!" she exclaimed, as she read the first entry. "yes, mother; and i sold them all." "fifty dollars!" "but i had to pay for the books out of that." "to be sure you had; but i suppose you made as much as ten cents a piece on them, and that would be--let me see; ten times fifty--" "but i made more than that, i hope." "how much?" the proud young merchant referred her to the profit and loss account, which exhibited a balance of fifteen dollars. "gracious! three dollars a day!" "just so, mother. now i will pay you the dollar i borrowed of you when i went away." "you didn't borrow it of me." "but i shall pay it." mrs. bright was astonished at this unexpected and gratifying result. if she had discovered a gold mine in the cellar of the little black house, it could not have afforded her so much satisfaction; for this money was the reward of her son's talent and energy. her own earnings scarcely ever amounted to more than three or four dollars a week, and bobby, a boy of thirteen, had come home with fifteen for five days' work. she could scarcely believe the evidence other own senses, and she ceased to wonder that he talked big. it was nearly ten o'clock when the widow and her son went to bed, so deeply were they interested in discussing our hero's affairs. he had intended to call upon squire lee that night, but the time passed away so rapidly that he was obliged to defer it till the next day. after breakfast the following morning, he hastened to pay the intended visit. there was a tumult of strange emotions in his bosom as he knocked at the squire's door. he was proud of the success he had achieved, and even then his cheek burned under the anticipated commendations which his generous friend would bestow upon him. besides, annie would be glad to see him, for she had expressed such a desire when they parted on the monday preceding. i don't think that bobby cherished any silly ideas, but the sympathy of the little maiden fell not coldly or unwelcomely upon his warm heart. in coming from the house he had placed his copy of "the wayfarer" under his arm, for annie was fond of reading; and on the way over, he had pictured to himself the pleasure she would derive from reading his book. of course he received a warm welcome from the squire and his daughter. each of them had bestowed more than a thought upon the little wanderer as he went from house to house, and more than once they had conversed together about him. "well, bobby, how is trade in the book line?" asked the squire, after the young pilgrim had been cordially greeted. "pretty fair," replied bobby, with as much indifference as he could command, though it was hard even to seem indifferent then and there. "where have you been travelling?" "in b----." "fine place. books sell well there?" "very well; in fact, i sold out all my stock by noon yesterday." "how many books did you carry?" "fifty." "you did well." "i should think you did!" added annie, with an enthusiasm which quite upset all bobby's assumed indifference. "fifty books!" "yes, miss annie; and i have brought you a copy of the book i have been selling; i thought you would like to read it. it is a splendid work, and will be _the_ book of the season." "i shall be delighted to read it," replied annie, taking the proffered volume. "it looks real good," she continued, as she turned over the leaves. "it is first rate; i have read it through." "it was very kind of you to think of me when you have so much business on your mind," added she, with a roguish smile. "i shall never have so much business on my mind that i cannot think of my friends," replied bobby, so gallantly and so smartly that it astonished himself. "i was just thinking what i should read next; i am so glad you have come." "never mind her, bobby; all she wanted was the book," interposed squire lee, laughing. "now, pa!" "then i shall bring her one very often." "you are too bad, pa," said annie, who, like most young ladies just entering their teens, resented any imputation upon the immaculateness of human love, or human friendship. "i have got a little money for you, squire lee," continued bobby, thinking it time the subject was changed. he took out his gilded memorandum book, whose elegant appearance rather startled the squire, and from its "treasury department" extracted the little roll of bills, representing an aggregate of ten dollars which he had carefully reserved for his creditor. "never mind that, bobby," replied the squire. "you will want all your capital to do business with." "i must pay my debts before i think of any thing else." "a very good plan, bobby, but this is an exception to the general rule." "no, sir, i think not. if you please, i insist upon paying you tea dollars on my note." "o, well, if you insist, i suppose i can't help myself." "i would rather pay it, i shall feel so much better." "you want to indorse it on the note, i suppose." that was just what bobby wanted. indorsed on the note was the idea, and our hero had often passed that expression through his mind. there was something gratifying in the act to a man of business integrity like himself; it was discharging a sacred obligation,--he had already come to deem it a sacred duty to pay one's debts,--and as the squire wrote the indorsement across the back of the note, he felt more like a hero than ever before. "'pay as you go' is an excellent idea; john randolph called it the philosopher's stone," added squire lee, as he returned the note to his pocket book. "that is what i mean to do just as soon as i can." "you will do, bobby." the young merchant spent nearly the whole forenoon at the squire's, and declined an invitation to dinner only on the plea that his mother would wait for him. chapter xiii. in which bobby declines a copartnership and visits b---- again. after dinner bobby performed his saturday afternoon chores as usual. he split wood enough to last for a week, so that his mother might not miss him too much, and then, feeling a desire to visit his favorite resorts in the vicinity, he concluded to go a fishing. the day was favorable, the sky being overcast and the wind very light. after digging a little box of worms in the garden back of the house, he shouldered his fish pole; and certainly no one would have suspected that he was a distinguished travelling merchant. he was fond of fishing, and it is a remarkable coincidence that daniel webster, and many other famous men, have manifested a decided passion for this exciting sport. no doubt a fondness for angling is a peculiarity of genius; and if being an expert fisherman makes a great man, then our hero was a great man. he had scarcely seated himself on his favorite rock, and dropped his line into the water, before he saw tom spicer approaching the spot. the bully had never been a welcome companion. there was no sympathy between them. they could never agree, for their views, opinions, and tastes were always conflicting. bobby had not seen tom since he left him to crawl out of the ditch on the preceding week, and he had good reason to believe that he should not be regarded with much favor. tom was malicious and revengeful, and our hero was satisfied that the blow which had prostrated him in the ditch would not be forgotten till it had been atoned for. he was prepared, therefore, for any disagreeable scene which might occur. there was another circumstance also which rendered the bully's presence decidedly unpleasant at this time--an event that had occurred during his absence, the particulars of which he had received from his mother. tom's father, who was a poor man, and addicted to intemperance, had lost ten dollars. he had brought it home, and, as he affirmed, placed it in one of the bureau drawers. the next day it could not be found. spicer, for some reason, was satisfied that tom had taken it; but the boy stoutly and persistently denied it. no money was found upon him, however, and it did not appear that he had spent any at the stores in riverdale centre. the affair created some excitement in the vicinity, for spicer made no secret of his suspicions, and publicly accused tom of the theft. he did not get much sympathy from any except his pot companions; for there was no evidence but his bare and unsupported statement to substantiate the grave accusation. tom had been in the room when the money was placed in the drawer, and, as his father asserted, had watched him closely while he deposited the bills under the clothing. no one else could have taken it. these were the proofs. but people generally believed that spicer had carried no money home, especially as it was known that he was intoxicated on the night in question; and that the alleged theft was only a ruse to satisfy certain importunate creditors. every body knew that tom was bad enough to steal, even from his father; from which my readers can understand that it is an excellent thing to have a good reputation. bobby knew that he would lie and use profane language; that he spent his sundays by the river, or in roaming through the woods; and that he played truant from school as often as the fear of the rod would permit; and the boy that would do all these things certainty would steal if he got a good chance. our hero's judgment, therefore, of the case was not favorable to the bully, and he would have thanked him to stay away from the river while he was there. "hallo, bob! how are you?" shouted tom, when he had come within hailing distance. "very well," replied bobby, rather coolly. "been to boston, they say." "yes." "well, how did you like it?" continued tom as he seated himself on the rock near our hero. "first rate." "been to work there?" "no." "what have you been doing?" "travelling about." "what doing?" "selling books." "was you, though? did you sell any?" "yes, a few." "how many?" "o, about fifty." "you didn't, though--did you? how much did you make?" "about fifteen dollars." "by jolly! you are a smart one, bobby. there are not many fellows that would have done that." "easy enough," replied bobby, who was not a little surprised at this warm commendation from one whom he regarded as his enemy. "yon had to buy the books first--didn't you?" asked tom, who began to manifest a deep interest in the trade. "of course; no one will give you the books." "what do you pay for them?" "i buy them so as to make a profit on them," answered bobby, who, like a discreet merchant, was not disposed to be too communicative. "that business would suit me first rate." "it is pretty hard work." "i don't care for that. don't you believe i could do something in this line?" "i don't know; perhaps you could." "why not, as well as you?" this was a hard question; and, as bobby did not wish to be uncivil, he talked about a big pout he hauled in at that moment, instead of answering it. he was politic, and deprecated the anger of the bully; so, though tom plied him pretty hard, he did not receive much satisfaction. "you see, tom," said he, when he found that his companion insisted upon knowing the cost of the books, "this is a publisher's secret; and i dare say they would not wish every one to know the cost of books. we sell them for a dollar apiece." "humph! you needn't be so close about it. i'll bet i can find out." "i have no doubt you can; only, you see, i don't want to tell what i am not sure they would be willing i should tell." tom took a slate pencil from his pocket, and commenced ciphering on the smooth rock upon which he sat. "you say you sold fifty books?" "yes." "well; if you made fifteen dollars out of fifty, that is thirty cents apiece." bobby was a little mortified when he perceived that he had unwittingly exposed the momentous secret. he had not given tom credit for so much sagacity as he had displayed in his inquiries; and as he had fairly reached his conclusion, he was willing he should have the benefit of it. "you sold them at a dollar apiece. thirty from a hundred leaves seventy. they cost you seventy cents each--didn't they?" "sixty-seven," replied bobby, yielding the point. "enough said, bob; i am going into that business, any how." "i am willing." "of course you are; suppose we go together," suggested tom, who had not used all this conciliation without having a purpose in view. "we could do nothing together." "i should like to get out with you just once, only to see how it is done." "you can find out for yourself, as i did." "don't be mean, bob." "mean? i am not mean." "i don't say you are. we have always been good friends, you know." bobby did not know it; so he looked at the other with a smile which expressed all he meant to say. "you hit me a smart dig the other day, i know; but i don't mind that. i was in the wrong then, and i am willing to own it," continued tom, with an appearance of humility. this was an immense concession for tom to make, and bobby was duly affected by it. probably it was the first time the bully had ever owned he was in the wrong. "the fact is, bob, i always liked you; and you know i licked ben dowse for you." "that was two for yourself and one for me; besides, i didn't want ben thrashed." "but he deserved it. didn't he tell the master you were whispering in school?" "i was whispering; so he told the truth." "it was mean to blow on a fellow, though." "the master asked him if i whispered to him; of course he ought not to lie about it. but he told of you at the same time." "i know it; but i wouldn't have licked him on my own account." "_perhaps_ you wouldn't." "i know i wouldn't. but, i say, bobby, where do you buy your books?" "at mr. bayard's, in washington street." "he will sell them to me at the same price, won't he?" "i don't know." "when are you going again?" "monday." "won't you let me go with you, bob?" "let you? of course you can go where you please; it is none of my business." bobby did not like the idea of having such a co-partner as tom spicer, and he did not like to tell him so. if he did, he would have to give his reasons for declining the proposition, and that would make tom mad, and perhaps provoke him to quarrel. the fish bit well, and in an hour's time bobby had a mess. as he took his basket and walked home, the young ruffian followed him. he could not get rid of him till he reached the gate in front of the little black house; and even there tom begged him to stop a few moments. our hero was in a hurry, and in the easiest manner possible got rid of this aspirant for mercantile honors. we have no doubt a journal of bobby's daily life would be very interesting to our young readers; but the fact that some of his most stirring adventures are yet to be related admonishes us to hasten forward more rapidly. on monday morning bobby bade adieu to his mother again, and started for boston. he fully expected to encounter tom on the way, who, he was afraid, would persist in accompanying him on his tour. as before, he stopped at squire lee's to bid him and annie good by. the little maiden had read "the wayfarer" more than half through, and was very enthusiastic in her expression of the pleasure she derived from it. she promised to send it over to his house when she had finished it, and hoped he would bring his stock to riverdale, so that she might again replenish her library. bobby thought of something just then, and the thought brought forth a harvest on the following saturday, when he returned. "when he had shaken bands with the squire and was about to depart, he received a piece of news which gave him food for an hour's serious reflection. "did you hear about tom spicer?" asked squire lee. "no, sir; what about him?" "broken his arm." "broken his arm! gracious! how did it happen?" exclaimed bobby, the more astonished because he had been thinking of tom since he had left home. "he was out in the woods yesterday, where boys should not be on sundays, and, in climbing a tree after a bird's nest, he fell to the ground." "i am sorry for him," replied bobby, musing. "so am i; but if he had been at home, or at church, where he should have been, it would not have happened. if i had any boys, i would lock them up in their chambers if i could not keep them at home sundays." "poor tom!" mused bobby, recalling the conversation he had had with him on saturday, and then wishing that he had been a little more pliant with him. "it is too bad; but i must say i am more sorry for his poor mother than i am for him," added the squire. "however, i hope it will do him good, and be a lesson he will remember as long as he lives." bobby bade the squire and annie adieu again, and resumed his journey towards the railroad station. his thoughts were busy with tom spicer's case. the reason why he had not joined him, as he expected and feared he would, was now apparent. he pitied him, for he realized that he must endure a great deal of pain before he could again go out; but he finally dismissed the matter with the squire's sage reflection, that he hoped the calamity would be a good lesson to him. the young merchant did not walk to boston this time, for he had come to the conclusion that, in the six hours it would take him to travel to the city on foot, the profit on the books he could sell would be more than enough to pay his fare, to say nothing of the fatigue and the expense of shoe leather. before noon he was at b---- again, as busy as ever in driving his business. the experience of the former week was of great value to him. he visited people belonging to all spheres in society, and, though he was occasionally repulsed or treated with incivility, he was not conscious in a single instance of offending any person's sense of propriety. he was not as fortunate as during the previous week, and it was saturday noon before he had sold out the sixty books he carried with him. the net profit for this week was fourteen dollars, with which he was abundantly pleased. mr. bayard again commended him in the warmest terms for his zeal and promptness. mr. timmins was even more civil than the last time, and when bobby asked the price of moore's poems, he actually offered to sell it to him for thirty-three per cent. less than the retail price. the little merchant, was on the point of purchasing it, when mr. bayard inquired what he wanted. "i am going to buy this book," replied bobby. "moore's poems?" "yes, sir." mr. bayard took from a glass case an elegantly bound copy of the same work--morocco, full gilt--and handed it to our hero. "i shall make you a present of this. are you an admirer of moore?" "no, sir; not exactly--that is, i don't know much about it; but annie lee does, and i want to get the book for her." bobby's checks reddened as he turned the leaves of the beautiful volume, putting his head down to the page to hide his confusion. "annie lee?" said mr. bayard with a quizzing smile. "i see how it is. rather young, bobby." "her father has been very good to me and to my mother; and so has annie, for that matter. squire lee would be a great deal more pleased if i should make annie a present than if i made him one. i feel grateful to him, and i want to let it out some how." "that's right, bobby; always remember your friends. timmins, wrap up this book." bobby protested with all his might; but the bookseller insisted that he should give annie this beautiful edition, and he was obliged to yield the point. that evening he was at the little black house again, and his mother examined his ledger with a great deal of pride and satisfaction. that evening, too, another ten dollars was indorsed on the note, and annie received that elegant copy of moore's poems. chapter xiv. in which bobby's air castle is upset and tom spicer takes to the woods. during the next four weeks bobby visited various places in the vicinity of boston; and at the end of that time he had paid the whole of the debt he owed squire lee. he had the note in his memorandum book, and the fact that he had achieved his first great purpose afforded him much satisfaction. now he owed no man any thing, and he felt as though he could hold up his head among the best people in the world. the little black house was paid for, and bobby was proud that his own exertions had released his mother from her obligation to her hard creditor. mr. hardhand could no longer insult and abuse her. the apparent results which bobby had accomplished; however, were as nothing compared with the real results. he had developed those energies of character which were to make him, not only a great business man, but a useful member of society. besides, there was a moral grandeur in his humble achievements which was more worthy of consideration than the mere worldly success he had obtained. motives determine the character of deeds. that a boy of thirteen should display so much enterprise and energy was a great thing; but that it should be displayed from pure, unselfish devotion to his mother was a vastly greater thing. many great achievements are morally insignificant, while many of which the world never hears mark the true hero. our hero was not satisfied with what he had done, and far from relinquishing his interesting and profitable employment, his ambition suggested new and wider fields of success. as one ideal, brilliant and glorious in its time, was reached, another more brilliant and more glorious presented itself, and demanded to be achieved. the little black house began to appear rusty and inconvenient; a coat of white paint would marvellously improve its appearance; a set of nice paris-green blinds would make a palace of it, and a neat fence around it would positively transform the place into a paradise. yet bobby was audacious enough to think of these things, and even to promise himself that they should be obtained. in conversation with mr. bayard a few days before, that gentleman had suggested a new field of labor; and it had been arranged that bobby should visit the state of maine the following week. on the banks of the kennebec were many wealthy and important towns, where the intelligence of the people created a demand for books. this time the little merchant was to take two hundred books, and be absent until they were all sold. on monday morning he started bright and early for the railroad station. as usual, he called upon squire lee, and informed annie that he should probably be absent three or four weeks. she hoped no accident would happen to him, and that his journey would be crowned with success. without being sentimental, she was a little sad, for bobby was a great friend of hers. that elegant copy of moore's poems had been gratefully received, and she was so fond of the bard's beautiful and touching melodies that she could never read any of them without thinking of the brave little fellow who had given her the volume; which no one will consider very remarkable, even in a little miss of twelve. after he had bidden her and her father adieu, he resumed his journey. of course he was thinking with all his might; but no one need suppose he was wondering how wide the kennebec river was, or how many books he should sell in the towns upon its banks. nothing of the kind; though it is enough even for the inquisitive to know that he was thinking of something, and that his thoughts were very interesting, not to say romantic. "hallo, bob!" shouted some one from the road side. bobby was provoked; for it is sometimes very uncomfortable to have a pleasant train of thought interrupted. the imagination is buoyant, ethereal, and elevates poor mortals up to the stars sometimes. it was so with bobby. he was building up some kind of an air castle, and had got up in the clouds amidst the fog and moonshine, and that aggravating voice brought him down, _slap_, upon terra firma. he looked up and saw tom spicer seated upon the fence. in his hand he held a bundle, and had evidently been waiting some time for bobby's coming. he had recovered from the illness caused by his broken arm, and people said it had been a good lesson for him, as the squire hoped it would be. bobby had called upon him two or three times during his confinement to the house; and tom, either truly repentant for his past errors, or lacking the opportunity at that time to manifest his evil propensities, had stoutly protested that he had "turned over a new leaf," and meant to keep out of the woods on sunday, stop lying and swearing, and become a good boy. bobby commended his good resolutions, and told him he would never want friends while he was true to himself. the right side, he declared, was always the best side. he quoted several instances of men, whose lives he had read in his sunday school books, to show how happy a good man may be in prison, or when all the world seemed to forsake him. tom assured him that he meant to reform and be a good boy; and bobby told him that when any one meant to turn over a new leaf, it was "now or never." if he put it off, he would only grow worse, and the longer the good work was delayed, the more difficult it would be to do it. tom agreed to all this, and was sure he had reformed. for these reasons bobby had come to regard tom with a feeling of deep interest. he considered him as, in some measure, his disciple, and he felt a personal responsibility in encouraging him to persevere in his good work. nevertheless bobby was not exactly pleased to have his fine air castle upset, and to be tipped out of the clouds upon the cold, uncompromising earth again; so the first greeting he gave tom was not as cordial as it might have been. "hallo, tom!" he replied, rather coolly. "been waiting for you this half hour." "have you?" "yes; ain't you rather late?" "no; i have plenty of time, though none to spare," answered bobby; and this was a hint that he must not detain him too long. "come along then." "where are you going, tom?" asked bobby, a little surprised at these words. "to boston." "are you?" "i am; that's a fact. you know i spoke to you about going into the book business." "not lately." "but i have been thinking about it all the time." "what do your father and mother say?" "o, they are all right." "have you asked them?" "certainly i have; they are willing i should go with _you_." "why didn't you speak of it then?" "i thought i wouldn't say any thing till the time came. you know you fought shy when i spoke about it before." and bobby, notwithstanding the interest he felt in his companion, was a little disposed to "fight shy" now. tom had reformed, or had pretended to do so; but he was still a raw recruit, and our hero was somewhat fearful that he would run at the first fire. to the good and true man life is a constant battle. temptation assails him at almost every point; perils and snares beset him at every step of his mortal pilgrimage, so that every day he is called upon to gird on his armor and fight the good fight. bobby was no poet; but he had a good idea of this every-day strife with the foes of error and sin that crossed his path. it was a practical conception, but it was truly expressed under the similitude of a battle. there was to be resistance, and he could comprehend that, for his bump of combativeness took cognizance of the suggestion. he was to fight; and that was an idea that stood him in better stead than a whole library of ethical subtleties. judging tom by his own standard, he was afraid he would run--that he wouldn't "stand fire." he had not been drilled. heretofore, when temptation beset him, he had yielded without even a struggle, and fled from the field without firing a gun. to go out into the great world was a trying event for the raw recruit. he lacked, too, that prestige of success which is worth more than numbers, on the field of battle. tom had chosen for himself, and he could not send him back. he had taken up the line of march, let it lead him where it might. "march on! in legions death and sin impatient wait thy conquering hand; the foe without, the foe within-- thy youthful arm must both withstand." bobby had great hopes of him. he felt that he could not well get rid of him, and he saw that it was policy for him to make the best of it. "well, tom, where are you going?" asked bobby, after he had made up his mind not to object to the companionship of the other. "i don't know. you have been a good friend to me lately, and i had an idea that you would give me a lift in this business." "i should be very willing to do so: but what can i do for you?" "just show me how the business is done; that's all i want." "your father and mother were willing you should come--were they not?" bobby had some doubts about this point, and with good reason too. he had called at tom's house, the day before, and they had gone to church together; but neither he nor his parents had said a word about his going to boston. "when did they agree to it?" "last night," replied tom, after a moment's hesitation. "all right then; but i cannot promise you that mr. bayard will let you have the books." "i can fix that, i reckon," replied tom, confidently. "i will speak a good word for you, at any rate." "that's right, bob." "i am going down into the state of maine this time, and shall be gone three or four weeks." "so much the better; i always wanted to go down that way." tom asked a great many questions about the business and the method of travelling, which bobby's superior intelligence and more extensive experience enabled him to answer to the entire satisfaction of the other. when they were within half a mile of the railroad station, they heard a carriage driven at a rapid rate approaching them from the direction of riverdale. tom seemed to be uneasy, and cast frequent glances behind him. in a moment the vehicle was within a short distance of them, and he stopped short in the road to scrutinize the persons in it. "by jolly!" exclaimed tom; "my father!" "what of it?" asked bobby, surprised by the strange behavior of his companion. tom did not wait to reply, but springing over the fence, fled like a deer towards some woods a short distance from the road. was it possible? tom had run away from home. his father had not consented to his going to boston, and bobby was mortified to find that his hopeful disciple had been lying to him ever since they left riverdale. but he was glad the cheat had been exposed. "that was tom with you--wasn't it?" asked mr. spicer, as he stopped the foaming horse. "yes, sir; but he told me you had consented that he should go with me," replied bobby, a little disturbed by the angry glance of mr. spicer's fiery eyes. "he lied! the young villain! he will catch it for this." "i would not have let him come with me only for that. i asked him twice over if you were willing, and he said you were." "you ought to have known better than to believe him," interposed the man who was with mr. spicer. bobby had some reason for believing him. the fact that tom had reformed ought to have entitled him to some consideration, and our hero gave him the full benefit of the declaration. to have explained this would have taken more time than he could spare; besides, it was "a great moral question," whose importance mr. spicer and his companion would not be likely to apprehend; so he made a short story of it, and resumed his walk, thankful that he had got rid of tom. mr. spicer and his friend, after fastening the horse to the fence, went to the woods in search of tom. bobby reached the station just in time to take the cars, and in a moment was on his way to the city. chapter xv. in which bobby gets into a scrape, and tom spicer turns up again. bobby had a poorer opinion of human nature than ever before. it seemed almost incredible to him that words so fairly spoken as those of tom spicer could be false. he had just risen from a sick bed, where he had had an opportunity for long and serious reflection. tom had promised fairly, and bobby had every reason to suppose he intended to be a good boy. but his promises had been lies. he had never intended to reform, at least not since he had got off his bed of pain. he was mortified and disheartened at the failure of this attempt to restore him to himself. like a great many older and wiser persons than himself, he was prone to judge the whole human family by a single individual. he did not come to believe that every man was a rascal, but, in more general terms, that there is a great deal more rascality in this world than one would be willing to believe. with this sage reflection, he dismissed tom from his mind, which very naturally turned again to the air castle which had been so ruthlessly upset. then his opinion of "the rest of mankind" was reversed; and he reflected that if the world were only peopled by angels like annie lee, what a pleasant place it would be to live in. she could not tell a lie, she could not use bad language, she could not steal, or do any thing else that was bad; and the prospect was decidedly pleasant. it was very agreeable to turn from tom to annie, and in a moment his air castle was built again, and throned on clouds of gold and purple. i do not know what impossible things he imagined, or how far up in the clouds, he would have gone, if the arrival of the train at the city had not interrupted his thoughts, and pitched him down upon the earth again. bobby was not one of that impracticable class of persons who do nothing but dream; for he felt that he had a mission, to perform which dreaming could not accomplish. however pleasant it may be to think of the great and brilliant things which one _will_ do, to one of bobby's practical character it was even more pleasant to perform them. we all dream great things, imagine great things; but he who stops there does not amount to much, and the world can well spare him, for he is nothing but a drone in the hive. bobby's fine imaginings were pretty sure to bring out "now or never," which was the pledge of action, and the work was as good as done when he had said it. therefore, when the train arrived, bobby did not stop to dream any longer. he forgot his beautiful air castle, and even let annie lee slip from his mind for the time being. those towns upon the kennebec, the two hundred books he was to sell, loomed up before him, for it was with them he had to do. grasping the little valise he carried with him, he was hastening out of the station house when a hand was placed upon his shoulder. "got off slick--didn't i?" said tom spicer, placing himself by bobby's side. "you here, tom!" exclaimed our hero, gazing with astonishment at his late companion. it was not an agreeable encounter, and from the bottom of his heart bobby wished him any where but where he was. he foresaw that he could not easily get rid of him. "i am here," replied tom. "i ran through the woods to the depot, and got aboard the cars just as they were starting. the old man couldn't come it over me quite so slick as that." "but you ran away from home." "well, what of it?" "a good deal, i should say." "if you had been in my place, you would have done the same." "i don't know about that; obedience to parents is one of our first duties." "i know that; and if i had had any sort of fair play, i wouldn't have run away." "what do you mean by that?" asked bobby, somewhat surprised, though he had a faint idea of the meaning of the other. "i will tell you all about it by and by. i give you my word and honor that i will make every thing satisfactory to you." "but you lied to me on the road this morning." tom winced; under ordinary circumstances he would have resented such a remark by "clearing away" for a fight. but he had a purpose to accomplish, and he knew the character of him with whom he had to deal. "i am sorry i did, now," answered tom, with every manifestation of penitence for his fault. "i didn't want to lie to you; and it went against my conscience to do so. but i was afraid, if i told you my father refused, up and down, to let me go, that you wouldn't be willing i should come with you." "i shall not be any more willing now i know all about it," added bobby, in an uncompromising tone. "wait till you have heard my story, and then you won't blame me." "of course you can go where you please; it is none of my business; but let me tell you, tom, in the beginning, that i won't go with a fellow who has run away from his father and mother." "pooh! what's the use of talking in that way?" tom was evidently disconcerted by this decided stand of his companion. he knew that his bump of firmness was well developed, and whatever he said he meant. "you had better return home, tom. boys that run away from home don't often amount to much. take my advice, and go home," added bobby. "to such a home as mine!" said tom, gloomily. "if i had such a home as yours, i would not have left it." bobby got a further idea from this remark of the true state of the case, and the consideration moved him. tom's father was a notoriously intemperate man, and the boy had nothing to hope for from his precept or his example. he was the child of a drunkard, and as much to be pitied as blamed for his vices. his home was not pleasant. he who presided over it, and who should have made a paradise of it, was its evil genius, a demon of wickedness, who blasted its flowers as fast as they bloomed. tom had seemed truly penitent both during his illness and since his recovery. his one great desire now was to get away from home, for home to him was a place of torment. bobby suspected all this, and in his great heart he pitied his companion. he did not know what to do. "i am sorry for you, tom," said he, after he had considered the matter in this new light; "but i don't see what i can do for you. i doubt whether it would be right for me to help you run away from your parents." "i don't want you to help me run away. i have done that already." "but if i let you go with me, it will be just the same thing. besides, since you told me those lies this morning, i haven't much confidence in you." "i couldn't help that." "yes, you could. couldn't help lying?" "what could i do? you would have gone right back and told my father." "well, we will go up to mr. bayard's store, and then we will see what can be done." "i couldn't stay at home, sure," continued tom, as they walked along together. "my father even talked of binding me out to a trade." "did he?" bobby stopped short in the street; for it was evident that, as this would remove him from his unhappy home, and thus effect all he professed to desire, he had some other purpose in view. "what are you stopping for, bob?" "i think you better go back, tom." "not i; i won't do that, whatever happens." "if your father will put you to a trade, what more do you want?" "i won't go to a trade, any how." bobby said no more, but determined to consult with mr. bayard about the matter; and tom was soon too busily engaged in observing the strange sights and sounds of the city to think of any thing else. when they reached the store, bobby went into mr. bayard's private office and told him all about the affair. the bookseller decided that tom had run away more to avoid being bound to a trade than because his home was unpleasant; and this decision seemed to bobby all the more just because he knew that tom's mother, though a drunkard's wife, was a very good woman. mr. bayard further decided that bobby ought not to permit the runaway to be the companion of his journey. he also considered it his duty to write to mr. spicer, informing him of his son's arrival in the city, and clearing bobby from any agency in his escape. while mr. bayard was writing the letter, bobby went out to give tom the result of the consultation. the runaway received it with a great show of emotion, and begged and pleaded to have the decision reversed. but bobby, though he would gladly have done any thing for him which was consistent with his duty, was firm as a rock, and positively refused, to have any thing to do with him until he obtained his father's consent; or, if there was any such trouble as he asserted, his mother's consent. tom left the store, apparently "more in sorrow than in anger." his bullying nature seemed to be cast out, and bobby could not but feel sorry for him. duty was imperative, as it always is, and it must be done "now or never." during the day the little merchant attended to the packing of his stock, and to such other preparations as were required for his journey. he must take the steamer that evening for bath, and when the time for his departure arrived, he was attended to the wharf by mr. bayard and ellen, with whom he had passed the afternoon. the bookseller assisted him in procuring his ticket and berth, and gave him such instructions as his inexperience demanded. the last bell rang, the fasts were cast off, and the great wheels of the steamer began to turn. our hero, who had never been on the water in a steamboat, or indeed any thing bigger than a punt on the river at home, was much interested and excited by his novel position. he seated himself on the promenade deck, and watched with wonder the boiling, surging waters astern of the steamer. how powerful is man, the author of that mighty machine that bore him so swiftly over the deep blue waters! bobby was a little philosopher, as we have before had occasion to remark, and he was decidedly of the opinion that the steamboat was a great institution. when he had in some measure conquered his amazement, and the first ideas of sublimity which the steamer and the sea were calculated to excite in a poetical imagination, he walked forward to take a closer survey of the machinery. after all, there was something rather comical in the affair. the steam hissed and sputtered, and the great walking beam kept flying up and down; and the sum total of bobby's philosophy was, that it was funny these things should make the boat go so like a race horse over the water. then he took a look into the pilot house, and it seemed more funny that turning that big wheel should steer the boat. but the wind blew rather fresh at the forward part of the boat, and as bobby's philosophy was not proof against it, he returned to the promenade deck, which was sheltered from the severity of the blast. he had got reconciled to the whole thing, and ceased to bother his head about the big wheel, the sputtering steam, and the walking beam; so he seated himself, and began to wonder what all the people in riverdale were about. "all them as hasn't paid their fare, please walk up to the cap'n's office and s-e-t-t-l-e!" shouted a colored boy, presenting himself just then, and furiously ringing a large hand bell. "i have just settled," said bobby, alluding to his comfortable seat. but the allusion was so indefinite to the colored boy that he thought himself insulted. he did not appear to be a very amiable boy, for his fist was doubled up, and with sundry big oaths, he threatened to annihilate the little merchant for his insolence. "i didn't say any thing that need offend you," replied bobby. "i meant nothing." "you lie! you did!" he was on the point of administering a blow with his fist, when a third party appeared on the ground, and without waiting to hear the merits of the case, struck the negro a blow which had nearly floored him. some of the passengers now interfered, and the colored boy was prevented from executing vengeance on the assailant. "strike that fellow and you strike me!" said he who had struck the blow. "tom spicer!" exclaimed bobby, astonished and chagrined at the presence of the runaway. chapter xvi. in which bobby finds "it is an ill wind that blows no one any good." a gentleman, who was sitting near bobby when he made the remark which the colored boy had misunderstood, interfered to free him from blame, and probably all unpleasant feelings might have been saved, if tom's zeal had been properly directed. as it was, the waiter retired with his bell, vowing vengeance upon his assailant. "how came you here, tom?" asked bobby, when the excitement had subsided. "you don't get rid of me so easily," replied tom, laughing. bobby called to mind the old adage that "a had penny is sure to return;" and, if it had not been a very uncivil remark, he would have said it. "i didn't expect to see you again at present," he observed, hardly knowing what to say or do. "i suppose not; but as i didn't mean you should expect me, i kept out of sight. only for that darkey you wouldn't have found me out so soon. i like you, bob, in spite of all you have done to get rid of me, and i wasn't a going to let the darkey thrash you." "you only made matters worse." "that is all the thanks i get for hitting him for you." "i am sorry you hit him, at the same time i suppose you meant to do me a service, and i thank you, not for the blow you struck the black boy, but for your good intentions." "that sounds better. i meant well, bob." "i dare say you did. but how came you here?" "why, you see, i was bound to go with you any how or at least to keep within hail of you. you told me, you know, that you were going in the steamboat; and after i left the shop, what should i see but a big picture of a steamboat on a wall. it said, 'bath, gardiner, and hallowell,' on the bill; and i knew that was where you meant to go. so this afternoon i hunts round and finds the steamboat. i thought i never should have found it, but here i am." "what are you going to do?" "going into the book business," replied tom, with a smile. "where are your books?" "down stairs, in the cellar of the steamboat, or whatever you call it." "where did you get them?" "bought 'em, of course." "did you? where?" "well, i don't remember the name of the street now. i could go right there if i was in the city, though." "would they trust you?" tom hesitated. the lies he had told that morning had done him no good--had rather injured his cause; and, though he had no principle that forbade lying, he questioned its policy in the present instance. "i paid part down, and they trusted me part." "how many books you got?" "twenty dollars worth. i paid eight dollars down." "you did? where did you get the eight dollars?" bobby remembered the money tom's father had lost several weeks before, and immediately connected that circumstance with his present ability to pay so large a sum. tom hesitated again, but he was never at a loss for an answer. "my mother gave it to me." "your mother?" "yes, _sir_!" replied tom, boldly, and in that peculiarly bluff manner which is almost always good evidence that the boy is lying. "but you ran away from home." "that's so; but my mother knew i was coming." "did she?" "to be sure she did." "you didn't say so before." "i can't tell all i know in a minute." "if i thought your mother consented to your coming, i wouldn't say another word." "well, she did; you may bet your life on that." "and your mother gave you ten dollars?" "who said she gave me ten dollars?" asked tom a little sharply. that was just the sum his father had lost, and bobby had unwittingly hinted his suspicion. "you must have had as much as that if you paid eight on your books. your fare to boston and your steamboat fare must be two dollars more." "i know that; but look here, bob;" and tom took from his pocket five half dollars and exhibited them to his companion. "she gave me thirteen dollars." notwithstanding this argument, bobby felt almost sure that the lost ten dollars was a part of his capital. "i will tell you my story now, bob, if you like. you condemned me without a hearing, as jim guthrie said when they sent him to the house of correction for getting drunk." "go ahead." the substance of tom's story was, that his father drank so hard, and was such a tyrant in the house, that he could endure it no longer. his father and mother did not agree, as any one might have suspected. his mother, encouraged by the success of bobby, thought that tom might do something of the kind, and she had provided him the money to buy his stock of books. bobby had not much confidence in this story. he had been deceived once; besides, it was not consistent with his previous narrative, and he had not before hinted that he had obtained his mother's consent. but tom was eloquent, and protested that he had reformed, and meant to do well. he declared, by all that was good and great, bobby should never have reason to be ashamed of him. our little merchant was troubled. he could not now get rid of tom without actually quarrelling with him, or running away from him. he did not wish to do the former, and it was not an easy matter to do the latter. besides, there was hope that the runaway would do well; and if he did, when he carried the profits of his trade home, his father would forgive him. one thing was certain, if he returned to riverdale he would be what he had been before. for these reasons bobby finally, but very reluctantly, consented that tom should remain with him, resolving, however, that, if he did not behave himself, he would leave him at once. before morning he had another reason. when the steamer got out into the open bay, bobby was seasick. he retired to his berth with a dreadful headache; as he described it afterwards, it seemed just as though that great walking beam was smashing up and down right in the midst of his brains. he had never felt so ill before in his life, and was very sure, in his inexperience, that something worse than mere seasickness ailed him. he told tom, who was not in the least affected, how he felt; whereupon the runaway blustered round, got the steward and the captain into the cabin, and was very sure that bobby would die before morning, if we may judge by the fuss he made. the captain was angry at being called from the pilot house for nothing, and threatened to throw tom overboard if he didn't stop his noise. the steward, however, was a kind-hearted man, and assured bobby that passengers were often a great deal sicker than he was; but he promised to do something for his relief, and tom went with him to his state room for the desired remedy. the potion was nothing more nor less than a table spoonful of brandy, which bobby, who had conscientious scruples about drinking ardent spirits, at first refused to take. then tom argued the point, and the sick boy yielded. the dose made him sicker yet, and nature came to his relief, and in a little while he felt better. tom behaved like a good nurse; he staid by his friend till he went to sleep, and then "turned in" upon a settee beneath his berth. the boat pitched and tumbled about so in the heavy sea that bobby did not sleep long, and when he woke he found tom ready to assist him. but our hero felt better, and entreated tom to go to sleep again. he made the best of his unpleasant situation. sleep was not to be wooed, and he tried to pass away the dreary hours in thinking of riverdale and the dear ones there. his mother was asleep, and annie was asleep; and that was about all the excitement he could get up even on the home question. he could not build castles in the air, for seasickness and castle building do not agree. the gold and purple clouds would be black in spite of him, and the aerial structure he essayed to build would pitch and tumble about, for all the world, just like a steamboat in a heavy sea. as often as he got fairly into it, he was violently rolled out, and in a twinkling found himself in his narrow berth, awfully seasick. he went to sleep again at last, and the long night passed away. when he woke in the morning, he felt tolerably well, and was thankful that he had got out of that scrape. but before he could dress himself, he heard a terrible racket on deck. the steam whistle was shrieking, the bell was banging, and he heard the hoarse bellowing of the captain. it was certain that something had happened, or was about to happen. then the boat stopped, rolling heavily in the sea. tom was not there; he had gone on deck. bobby was beginning to consider what a dreadful thing a wreck was, when tom appeared. "what's the matter?" asked bobby, with some appearance of alarm. "fog," replied tom. "it is so thick you can cut it with a hatchet." "is that all?" "that's enough.' "where are we?" "that is just what the pilot would like to know. they can't see ahead a bit, and don't know where we are." bobby went on deck. the ocean rolled beneath them, but there was nothing but fog to be seen above and around them. the lead was heaved every few moments, and the steamer crept slowly along till it was found the water shoaled rapidly, when the captain ordered the men to let go the anchor. there they were; the fog was as obstinate as a mule, and would not "lift." hour after hour they waited, for the captain was a prudent man, and would not risk the life of those on board to save a few hours' time. after breakfast, the passengers began to display their uneasiness, and some of them called the captain very hard names, because he would not go on. almost every body grumbled, and made themselves miserable. "nothing to do and nothing to read," growled a nicely-dressed gentleman, as he yawned and stretched himself to manifest his sensation of ennui. "nothing to read, eh?" thought bobby. "we will soon supply that want." calling tom, they went down to the main deck, where the baggage had been placed. "now's our time," said he, as he proceeded to unlock one of the trunks that contained his books. "now or never." "i am with you," replied tom, catching the idea. the books of the latter were in a box, and he was obliged to get a hammer to open it; but with bobby's assistance he soon got at them. "buy 'the wayfarer,'" said bobby, when he returned to the saloon, and placed a volume in the hands of the yawning gentleman. "best book of the season; only one dollar." "that i will, and glad of the chance," replied the gentleman. "i would give five dollars for any thing, if it were only the 'comic almanac.'" others were of the same mind. there was no present prospect that the fog would lift, and before dinner time our merchant had sold fifty copies of "the wayfarer." tom, whose books were of an inferior description, and who was inexperienced as a salesman, disposed of twenty, which was more than half of his stock. the fog was a godsend to both of them, and they reaped a rich harvest from the occasion, for almost all the passengers seemed willing to spend their money freely for the means of occupying the heavy hours, and driving away that dreadful ennui which reigns supreme in a fog-bound steamer. about the middle of the afternoon, the fog blew over, and the boat proceeded on her voyage, and before sunset our young merchants were safely landed at bath. chapter xvii. in which tom has a good time, and bobby meets with a terrible misfortune. bath afforded our young merchants an excellent market for their wares, and they remained there the rest of the week. they then proceeded to brunswick, where their success was equally flattering. thus far tom had done very well, though bobby had frequent occasion to remind him of the pledges he had given to conduct himself in a proper manner. he would swear now and then, from the force of habit; but invariably, when bobby checked him, he promised to do better. at brunswick tom sold the last of his books, and was in possession of about thirty dollars, twelve of which he owed the publisher who had furnished his stock. this money seemed to burn in his pocket. he had the means of having a good time, and it went hard with him to plod along as bobby did, careful to save every penny he could. "come, bob, let's get a horse and chaise and have a ride--what do you say?" proposed tom, on the day he finished selling his books. "i can't spare the time or the money," replied bobby, decidedly. "what is the use of having money if we can't spend it? it is a first rate day, and we should have a good time." "i can't afford it. i have a great many books to sell." "about a hundred; you can sell them fast enough." "i don't spend my money foolishly." "it wouldn't be foolishly. i have sold out, and am bound to have a little fun now." "you never will succeed if you do business in that way." "why not?" "you will spend your money as fast as you get it." "pooh! we can get a horse and chaise for the afternoon for two dollars. that is not much." "considerable, i should say. but if you begin, there is no knowing where to leave off. i make it a rule not to spend a single cent foolishly, and if i don't begin, i shall never do it." "i don't mean to spend all i get; only a little now and then," persisted tom. "don't spend the first dollar for nonsense, and then you won't spend the second. besides, when i have any money to spare, i mean to buy books with it for my library." "humbug! your library!" "yes, my library; i mean to have a library one of these days." "i don't want any library, and i mean to spend some of my money in having a good time; and if you won't go with me, i shall go alone--that's all." "you can do as you please, of course; but i advise you to keep your money. you will want it to buy another stock of books." "i shall have enough for that. what do you say? will you go with me or not?" "no, i will not." "enough said; then. i shall go alone, or get some fellow to go with me." "consider well before you go," pleaded bobby, who had sense enough to see that tom's proposed "good time" would put back, if not entirely prevent, the reform he was working out. he then proceeded to reason with him in a very earnest and feeling manner, telling him he would not only spend all his money, but completely unfit himself for business. what he proposed to do was nothing more nor less than extravagance, and it would lead him to dissipation and ruin. "to-day i am going to send one hundred dollars to mr. bayard," continued bobby; "for i am afraid to have so much money with me. i advise you to send your money to your employer." "humph! catch me doing that! i am bound to have a good time, any how." "at least, send the money you owe him." "i'll bet i won't." "well, do as you please; i have said all i have to say." "you are a fool, bob!" exclaimed tom, who had evidently used bobby as much as he wished, and no longer cared to speak soft words to him. "perhaps i am; but i know better than to spend my money upon fast horses. if you will go, i can't help it. i am sorry you are going astray." "what do you mean by that, you young monkey?" said tom, angrily. this was tom spicer, the bully. it sounded like him; and with a feeling of sorrow bobby resigned the hopes he had cherished of making a good boy of him. "we had better part now," added our hero, sadly. "i'm willing." "i shall leave brunswick this afternoon for the towns up the river. i hope no harm will befall you. good by, tom," "go it! i have heard your preaching about long enough, and i am more glad to get rid of you than you are to get rid of me." bobby walked away towards the house where he had left the trunk containing his books, while tom made his way towards a livery stable. the boys had been in the place for several days, and had made some acquaintances; so tom had no difficulty in procuring a companion for his proposed ride. our hero wrote a letter that afternoon to mr. bayard, in which he narrated all the particulars of his journey, his relations with tom spicer, and the success that had attended his labors. at the bank he procured a hundred dollar note for his small bills, and enclosed it in the letter. he felt sad about tom. the runaway had done so well, had been so industrious, and shown such a tractable spirit, that he had been very much encouraged about him. but if he meant to be wild again,--for it was plain that the ride was only "the beginning of sorrows,"--it was well that they should part. by the afternoon stage our hero proceeded to gardiner, passing through several smaller towns, which did not promise a very abundant harvest. his usual success attended him; for wherever he went, people seemed to be pleased with him, as squire lee had declared they would be. his pleasant, honest face was a capital recommendation, and his eloquence seldom failed to achieve the result which eloquence has ever achieved from demosthenes down to the present day. our limits do not permit us to follow him in all his peregrinations from town to town, and from house to house; so we pass over the next fortnight, at the end of which time we find him at augusta. he had sold all his books but twenty, and had that day remitted eighty dollars more to mr. bayard. it was wednesday, and he hoped to sell out so as to be able to take the next steamer for boston, which was advertised to sail on the following day. he had heard nothing from tom since their parting, and had given up all expectation of meeting him again; but that bad penny maxim proved true once more, for, as he was walking through one of the streets of augusta, he had the misfortune to meet him--and this time it was indeed a misfortune. "hallo, bobby!" shouted the runaway, as familiarly as though nothing had happened to disturb the harmony of their relations. "ah, tom, i didn't expect to see you again," replied bobby, not very much rejoiced to meet his late companion. "i suppose not; but here i am, as good as new. have you sold out?" "no, not quite." "how many have you left?" "about twenty; but i thought, tom, you would have returned to boston before this time." "no;" and tom did not seem to be in very good spirits. "where are you going now?" "i don't know. i ought to have taken your advice, bobby." this was a concession, and our hero began to feel some sympathy for his companion--as who does not when the erring confess their faults? "i am sorry you did not." "i got in with some pretty hard fellows down there to brunswick," continued tom, rather sheepishly. "and spent all your money," added bobby, who could readily understand the reason why tom had put on his humility again. "not all." "how much have you left?" "not much," replied he, evasively. "i don't know what i shall do. i am in a strange place, and have no friends." bobby's sympathies were aroused, and without reflection, he promised to be a friend in his extremity. "i will stick by you this time, bob, come what will. i will do just as you say, now." our merchant was a little flattered by this unreserved display of confidence. he did not give weight enough to the fact that it was adversity alone which made tom so humble. he was in trouble, and gave him all the guarantee he could ask for his future good behavior. he could not desert him now he was in difficulty. "you shall help me sell my books, and then we will return to boston together. have you money enough left to pay your employer?" tom hesitated; something evidently hung heavily upon his mind. "i don't know how it will be after i have paid my expenses to boston," he replied, averting his face. bobby was perplexed by this evasive answer; but as tom seemed so reluctant to go into details, he reserved his inquiries for a more convenient season. "now, tom, you take the houses on that side of the street, and i will take those upon this side. you shall have the profits on all you sell." "you are a first rate fellow, bob; and i only wish i had done as you wanted me to do." "can't be helped now, and we will do the next best thing," replied bobby, as he left his companion to enter a house. tom did very well, and by the middle of the afternoon they had sold all the books but four. "the wayfarer" had been liberally advertised in that vicinity, and the work was in great demand. bobby's heart grew lighter as the volumes disappeared from his valise, and already he had begun to picture the scene which would ensue upon his return to the little black house. how glad his mother would be to see him, and, he dared believe, how happy annie would be as she listened to the account of his journey in the state of maine! wouldn't she be astonished when he told her about the steamboat, about the fog, and about the wild region at the mouth of the beautiful kennebec! poor bobby! the brightest dream often ends in sadness; and a greater trial than any he had been called upon to endure was yet in store for him. as he walked along, thinking of riverdale and its loved ones, tom came out of a grocery store where he had just sold a book. "here, bob, is a ten dollar bill. i believe i have sold ten books for you," said tom, after they had walked some distance. "you had better keep the money now; and while i think of it, you had better take what i have left of my former sales;" and tom handed him another ten dollar bill. bobby noticed that tom seemed very much confused and embarrassed; but he did not observe that the two bills he had handed him were on the same bank. "then you had ten dollars left after your frolic," he remarked, as he took the last bill. "about that;" and tom glanced uneasily behind him. "what is the matter with you, tom?" asked bobby, who did not know what to make of his companion's embarrassment. "nothing, bob; let us walk a little faster. we had better turn up this street," continued tom, as with a quick pace, he took the direction indicated. bobby began to fear that tom had been doing something wrong; and the suspicion was confirmed by seeing two men running with all their might towards them. tom perceived them at the same moment. "run!" he shouted, and suiting the action to the word, he took to his heels, and fled up the street into which he had proposed to turn. bobby did not run, but stopped short where he was till the men came up to him. "grab him," said one of them, "and i will catch the other." the man collared bobby, and in spite of all the resistance he could make, dragged him down the street to the grocery store in which tom had sold his last book. "what do you mean by this?" asked bobby, his blood boiling with indignation at the harsh treatment to which he had been subjected. "we have got you, my hearty," replied the man, releasing his hold. no sooner was the grasp of the man removed, then bobby, who determined on this as on former occasions to stand upon his inalienable rights, bolted for the door, and ran away with all his speed. but his captor was too fleet for him, and he was immediately retaken. to make him sure this time, his arms were tied behind him, and he was secured to the counter of the shop. in a few moments the other man returned dragging tom in triumph after him. by this time quite a crowd had collected, which nearly filled the store. bobby was confounded at the sudden change that had come over his fortunes; but seeing that resistance would be vain, he resolved to submit with the best grace he could. "i should like to know what all this means?" he inquired, indignantly. the crowd laughed in derision. "this is the chap that stole the wallet, i will be bound," said one, pointing to tom, who stood in surly silence awaiting his fate. "he is the one who came into the store," replied the shopkeeper. "_i_ haven't stole any wallet," protested bobby, who now understood the whole affair. the names of the two boys were taken, and warrants procured for their detention. they were searched, and upon tom was found the lost wallet, and upon bobby two ten dollar bills, which, the loser was willing to swear had been in the wallet. the evidence therefore was conclusive, and they were both sent to jail. poor bobby! the inmate of a prison! the law took its course, and in due time both of them were sentenced to two years' imprisonment in the state reform school. bobby was innocent, but he could not make his innocence appear. he had been the companion of tom, the real thief, and part of the money had been found upon his person. tom was too mean to exonerate him, and even had the hardihood to exult over his misfortune. at the end of three days they reached the town in which the reform school is located, and were duly committed for their long term. poor bobby! chapter xviii. in which bobby takes french leave, and camps in the woods. the intelligence of bobby's misfortune reached mr. bayard, in boston, by means of the newspapers. to the country press an item is a matter of considerable importance, and the alleged offence against the peace and dignity of the state of maine was duly heralded to the inquiring public as a "daring robbery." the reporter who furnished the facts in the case for publication was not entirely devoid of that essential qualification of the country item writer, a lively imagination, and was obliged to dress up the particulars a little, in order to produce the necessary amount of wonder and indignation. it was stated that one of the two young men had been prowling about the place for several days, ostensibly for the purpose of selling books, but really with the intention of stealing whatever he could lay his hands upon. it was suggested that the boys were in league with an organized band of robbers, whose nefarious purposes would be defeated by the timely arrest of these young villains. the paper hinted that further depredations would probably be discovered, and warned people to beware of ruffians strolling about the country in the guise of pedlers. the writer of this thrilling paragraph must have had reason to believe that he had discharged his whole duty to the public, and that our hero was duly branded as a desperate fellow. no doubt he believed bobby was an awful monster; for at the conclusion of his remarks he introduced some severe strictures on the lenity of the magistrate, because he had made the sentence two years, instead of five, which the writer thought the atrocious crime deserved. but, then, the justice differed from him in politics, which may account for the severity of the article. mr. bayard read this precious paragraph with mingled grief and indignation. he understood the case at a glance. tom spicer had joined him, and the little merchant had been involved in his crime. he was sure that bobby had had no part in stealing the money. one so noble and true as he had been could not steal, he reasoned. it was contrary to experience, contrary to common sense. he was very much disturbed. this intelligence would be a severe blow to the poor boy's mother, and he had not the courage to destroy all her bright hopes by writing her the terrible truth. he was confident that bobby was innocent, and that his being in the company of tom spicer had brought the imputation upon him; so he could not let the matter take its course. he was determined to do something to procure his liberty and restore his reputation. squire lee was in the city that day, and had left his store only half an hour before he discovered the paragraph. he immediately sent to his hotel for him, and together they devised means to effect bobby's liberation. the squire was even more confident than mr. bayard that our hero was innocent of the crime charged upon him. they agreed to proceed immediately to the state of maine, and use their influence in obtaining his pardon. the bookseller was a man of influence in the community, and was as well known in maine as in massachusetts; but to make their application the surer, he procured letters of introduction from some of the most distinguished men in boston to the governor and other official persons in maine. we will leave them now to do the work they had so generously undertaken, and return to the reform school, where bobby and tom were confined. the latter took the matter very coolly. he seemed to feel that he deserved his sentence, but he took a malicious delight in seeing bobby the companion of his captivity. he even had the hardihood to remind him of the blow he had struck him more than two months before, telling him that he had vowed vengeance then, and now the time had come. he was satisfied. "you know i didn't steal the money, or have any thing to do with it," said bobby. "some of it was found upon you, though," sneered tom, maliciously. "you know how it came there, if no one else does." "of course i do; but i like your company too well to get rid of you so easy." "the lord is with the innocent," replied bobby, "and something tells me that i shall not stay in this place a great while." "going to run away?" asked tom, with interest, and suddenly dropping his malicious look. "i know i am innocent of any crime; and i know that the lord will not let me stay here a great while." "what do you mean to do, bob?" bobby made no reply; he felt that he had had more confidence in tom than he deserved, and he determined to keep his own counsel in future. he had a purpose in view. his innocence gave him courage; and perhaps he did not feel that sense of necessity for submission to the laws of the land which age and experience give. he prayed earnestly for deliverance from the place in which he was confined. he felt that he did not deserve to be there; and though it was a very comfortable place, and the boys fared as well as he wished to fare, still it seemed to him like a prison. he was unjustly detained; and he not only prayed to be delivered, but he resolved to work out his own deliverance at the first opportunity. knowing that whatever he had would be taken from him, he resolved by some means to keep possession of the twenty dollars he had about him. he had always kept his money in a secret place in his jacket to guard against accident, and the officers who had searched him had not discovered it. but now his clothes would be changed. he thought of these things before his arrival; so, when he reached the entrance, and got out of the wagon, to open the gate, by order of the officer, he slipped his twenty dollars into a hole in the wall. it so happened that there was not a suit of clothes in the store room of the institution which would fit him; and he was permitted to wear his own dress till another should be made. after his name and description had been entered, and the superintendent had read him a lecture upon his future duties, he was permitted to join the other boys, who were at work on the farm. he was sent with half a dozen others to pick up stones in a neighboring field. no officer was with them, and bobby was struck with the apparent freedom of the institution, and he so expressed himself to his companions. "not so much freedom as you think for," said one, in reply. "i should think the fellows would clear out." "not so easy a matter. there is a standing reward of five dollars to any one who brings back a runaway." "they must catch him first." "no fellow ever got away yet. they always caught him before he got ten miles from the place." this was an important suggestion to bobby, who already had a definite purpose in his mind. like a skilful general, he had surveyed the ground on his arrival, and was at once prepared to execute his design. in his conversation with the boys, he obtained, the history of several who had attempted to escape, and found that even those who got a fair start were taken on some public road. he perceived that they were not good generals, and he determined to profit by their mistake. a short distance from the institution was what appeared to be a very extensive wood. beyond this, many miles distant, he could see the ocean glittering like a sheet of ice under the setting sun. he carefully observed the hills, and obtained the bearings of various prominent objects in the vicinity, which would aid him in his flight. the boys gave him all the information in their power about the localities of the country. they seemed to feel that he was possessed of a superior spirit, and that he would not long remain among them; but, whatever they thought, they kept their own counsel. bobby behaved well, and was so intelligent and prompt that he obtained the confidence of the superintendent, who began to employ him about the house, and in his own family. he was sent of errands in the neighborhood, and conducted himself so much to the satisfaction of his guardians that he was not required to work in the field after the second day of his residence on the farm. one afternoon he was told that his clothes were ready, and that he might put them on the next morning. this was a disagreeable announcement; for bobby saw that, with the uniform of the institution upon his back, his chance of escape would be very slight. but about sunset, he was sent by the superintendent's lady to deliver a note at a house in the vicinity. "now or never!" said bobby to himself, after he had left the house. "now's my time." as he passed the gate, he secured his money, and placed it in the secret receptacle of his jacket. after he had delivered the letter, he took the road and hastened off in the direction of the wood. his heart beat wildly at the prospect of once more meeting his mother, after nearly four weeks' absence. annie lee would welcome him; she would not believe that he was a thief. he had been four days an inmate of the reform school, and nothing but the hope of soon attaining his liberty had kept his spirits from drooping. he had not for a moment despaired of getting away. he reached the entrance to the wood, and taking a cart path, began to penetrate its hidden depths. the night darkened upon him; he heard the owl screech his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will chant his cheery song. a certain sense of security now pervaded his mind, for the darkness concealed him from the world, and he had placed six good miles between him and the prison, as he considered it. he walked on, however, till he came to what seemed to be the end of the wood, and he hoped to reach the blue ocean he had seen in the distance before morning. leaving the forest, he emerged into the open country. there was here and there a house before him; but the aspect of the country seemed strangely familiar to him. he could not understand it. he had never been in this part of the country before; yet there was a great house with two barns by the side of it, which he was positive he had seen before. he walked across the field a little farther, when, to his astonishment and dismay, he beheld the lofty turrets of the state reform school. he had been walking in a circle, and had come out of the forest near the place where he had entered it. bobby, as the reader has found out by this time, was a philosopher as well as a hero; and instead of despairing or wasting his precious time in vain regrets at his mistake, he laughed a little to himself at the blunder, and turned back into the woods again. "now or never!" muttered he. "it will never do to give it up so." for an hour he walked on, with his eyes fixed on a great bright star in the sky. then he found that the cart path crooked round, and he discovered where he had made his blunder. leaving the road, he made his way in a straight line, still guided by the star, till he came to a large sheet of water. the sheet of water was an effectual barrier to his farther progress; indeed, he was so tired, he did not feel able to walk any more. he deemed himself safe from immediate pursuit in this secluded place. he needed rest, and he foresaw that the next few days would be burdened with fatigue and hardship which he must be prepared to meet. bobby was not nice about trifles, and his habits were such that he had no fear of taking cold. his comfortable bed in the little black house was preferable to the cold ground, even with the primeval forest for a chamber; but circumstances alter cases, and he did not waste any vain regrets about the necessity of his position. after finding a secluded spot in the wood, he raked the dry leaves together for a bed, and offering his simple but fervent prayer to the great guardian above, he lay down to rest. the owl screamed his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will still repeated his monotonous song; but they were good company in the solitude of the dark forest. he could not go to sleep for a time, so strange and exciting were the circumstances of his position. he thought of a thousand things, but he could not _think_ himself to sleep, as he was wont to do. at last nature, worn out by fatigue and anxiety, conquered the circumstances, and he slept. chapter xix. in which bobby has a narrow escape, and goes to sea with sam ray. nature was kind to the little pilgrim in his extremity, and kept his senses sealed in grateful slumber till the birds had sung their matin song, and the sun had risen high in the heavens. bobby woke with a start, and sprang to his feet. for a moment he did not realize where he was, or remember the exciting incidents of the previous evening. he felt refreshed by his deep slumber, and came out of it as vigorous as though he had slept in his bed at home. rubbing his eyes, he stared about him at the tall pines whose foliage canopied his bed, and his identity was soon restored to him. he was bobby bright--but bobby bright in trouble. he was not the little merchant, but the little fugitive fleeing from the prison to which he had been doomed. it did not take him long to make his toilet, which was the only advantage of his primitive style of lodging. his first object was to examine his position, and ascertain in what direction he should continue his flight. he could not go ahead, as he had intended, for the sheet of water was an impassable barrier. leaving the dense forest, he came to a marsh, beyond which was the wide creek he had seen in the night. it was salt water, and he reasoned that it could not extend a great way inland. his only course was to follow it till he found means of crossing it. following the direction of the creek, he kept near the margin of the wood till he came to a public road. he had some doubts about trusting himself out of the forest, even for a single moment; so he seated himself upon a rock to argue the point. if any one should happen to come along, he was almost sure of furnishing a clew to his future movements, if not of being immediately captured. this was a very strong argument, but there was a stronger one upon the other side. he had eaten nothing since dinner on the preceding day, and he began, to feel faint for the want of food. on the other side of the creek he saw a pasture which looked as though it might afford him a few berries; and he was on the point of taking to the road, when he heard the rumbling of a wagon in the distance. his heart beat with apprehension. perhaps it was some officer of the institution in search of him. at any rate it was some one who had come from the vicinity of the reform school, and who had probably heard of his escape. as it came nearer, he heard the jingling of bells; it was the baker. how he longed for a loaf of his bread, or some of the precious ginger-bread he carried in his cart! hunger tempted him to run the risk of exposure. he had money; he could buy cakes and bread; and perhaps the baker had a kind heart, and would befriend him in his distress. the wagon was close at hand. "now or never," thought he; but this time it was not _now_. the risk was too great. if he failed now, two years of captivity were before him; and as for the hunger, he could grin and bear it for a while. "now or never;" but this time it was escape now or never; and he permitted the baker to pass without hailing him. he waited half an hour, and then determined to take the road till he had crossed the creek. the danger was great, but the pangs of hunger urged him on. he was sure there were berries in the pasture, and with a timid step, carefully watching before and behind to insure himself against surprise, he crossed the bridge. but then a new difficulty presented itself. there was a house within ten rods of the bridge, which he must pass, and to do so would expose him to the most imminent peril. he was on the point of retreating, when a man came out of the house, and approached him. what should he do? it was a trying moment. if he ran, the act would expose him to suspicion. if he went forward, the man might have already received a description of him, and arrest him. he chose the latter course. the instinct of his being was to do every thing in a straightforward manner, and this probably prompted his decision. "good morning, sir," said he boldly to the man. "good morning. where are you travelling?" this was a hard question. he did not know where he was travelling; besides, even in his present difficult position, he could not readily resort to a lie. "down here a piece," he replied. "travelled far to-day?" "not far. good morning, sir;" and bobby resumed his walk. "i say, boy, suppose you tell me where you are going;" and the man came close to him, and deliberately surveyed him from head to foot. "i can hardly tell you," replied bobby, summoning courage for the occasion. "well, i suppose not," added the man, with a meaning smile. bobby felt his strength desert him as he realized that he was suspected of being a runaway from the reform school. that smile on the man's face was the knell of hope; and for a moment he felt a flood of misery roll over his soul. but the natural elasticity of his spirits soon came to his relief, and he resolved not to give up the ship, even if he had to fight for it. "i am in a hurry, so i shall have to leave you." "not just yet, young man. perhaps, as you don't know where you are going, you may remember what your name is," continued the man, good naturedly. there was a temptation to give a false name; but is it was so strongly beaten into our hero that the truth is better than a falsehood, he held his peace. "excuse me, sir, but i can't stop to talk now." "in a hurry? well, i dare say you are. i suppose there is no doubt but you are master robert bright." "not the least, sir; i haven't denied it yet, and i am not ashamed of my name," replied bobby, with a good deal of spirit. "that's honest; i like that." "honesty is the best policy," added bobby. "that's cool for a rogue, any how. you ought to thought of that afore." "i did." "and stole the money?" "i didn't. i never stole a penny in my life." "come, i like that." "it is the truth." "but they won't believe it over to the reform school," laughed the man. "they will one of these days, perhaps." "you are a smart youngster; but i don't know as i can make five dollars any easier than by taking you back where you come from." "yes, you can," replied bobby, promptly. "can i?" "yes." "how?" "by letting me go." "eh; you talk flush. i suppose you mean to give me your note, payable when the kennebec dries up." "cash on the nail," replied bobby. "you look like a man with a heart in your bosom."--bobby stole this passage from "the wayfarer." "i reckon i have. the time hasn't come yet when sam ray could see a fellow-creature in distress and not help him out. but to help a thief off--" "we will argue that matter," interposed bobby. "i can prove to you beyond a doubt that i am innocent of the crime charged upon me." "you don't look like a bad boy, i must say." "but, mr. ray, i'm hungry; i haven't eaten a mouthful since yesterday noon." "thunder! you don't say so!" exclaimed sam ray. "i never could bear to see a man hungry, much more a boy; so come along to my house and get something to eat, and we will talk about the other matter afterwards." sam ray took bobby to the little old house in which he dwelt; and in a short time his wife, who expressed her sympathy for the little fugitive in the warmest terms, had placed an abundant repast upon the table. our hero did ample justice to it, and when he had finished he felt like a new creature. "now, mr. ray, let me tell you my story," said bobby. "i don't know as it's any use. now you have eat my bread and butter, i don't feel like being mean to you. if any body else wants to carry you back, they may; i won't." "but you shall hear me;" and bobby proceeded to deliver his "plain, unvarnished tale." when he had progressed but a little way in the narrative, the noise of an approaching vehicle was heard. sam looked out of the window, as almost every body does in the country when a carriage passes. "by thunder! it's the reform school wagon!" exclaimed he. "this way, boy!" and the good-hearted man thrust him into his chamber, bidding him get under the bed. the carriage stopped at the house; but sam evaded direct reply, and the superintendent--for it was he--proceeded on his search. "heaven bless you, mr. ray!" exclaimed bobby, when he came out of the chamber, as the tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks. "o, you will find sam ray all right," said he, warmly pressing bobby's proffered hand. "i ain't quite a heathen, though some folks around here think so." "you are an angel!" "not exactly," laughed sam. our hero finished his story, and confirmed it by exhibiting his account book and some other papers which he had retained. sam ray was satisfied, and vowed that if ever he saw tom spicer he would certainly "lick" him for his sake. "now, sonny, i like you; i will be sworn you are a good fellow; and i mean to help you off. so just come along with me. i make my living by browsing round, hunting and fishing a little, and doing an odd job now and then. you see, i have got a good boat down the creek, and i shall just put you aboard and take you any where you have a mind to go." "may heaven reward you!" cried bobby, almost overcome by this sudden and unexpected kindness. "o, i don't want no reward; only when you get to be a great man--and i am dead sure you will be a great man--just think now and then of sam ray, and it's all right." "i shall remember you with gratitude as long as i live." sam ray took his gun on his shoulder, and bobby the box of provision which mrs. ray had put up, and they left the house. at the bridge they got into a little skiff, and sam took the oars. after they had passed a bend in the creek which concealed them from the road, bobby felt secure from further molestation. sam pulled about two miles down the creek, where it widened into a broad bay, near the head of which was anchored a small schooner. "now, my hearty, nothing short of uncle sam's whole navy can get you away from me," said sam, as he pulled alongside the schooner. "you have been very kind to me." "all right, sonny. now tumble aboard." bobby jumped upon the deck of the little craft and sam followed him, after making fast the skiff to the schooner's moorings. in a few minutes the little vessel was standing down the bay with "a fresh wind and a flowing sheet." bobby, who had never been in a sail boat before, was delighted, and in no measured terms expressed his admiration of the working of the trim little craft. "now, sonny, where shall we go?" asked sam, as they emerged from the bay into the broad ocean. "i don't know," replied bobby. "i want to get back to boston." "perhaps i can put you aboard of some coaster bound there." "that will do nicely." "i will head towards boston, and if i don't overhaul any thing, i will take you there myself." "is this boat big enough to go so far?" "she'll stand anything short of a west india hurricane. you ain't afeerd, are you?" "o, no; i like it." the big waves now tossed the little vessel up and down like a feather, and the huge seas broke upon the bow, deluging her deck with floods of water. bobby had unlimited confidence in sam ray, and felt as much at home as though he had been "cradled upon the briny deep." there was an excitement in the scene which accorded with his nature, and the perils which he had so painfully pictured on the preceding night were all born into the most lively joys. they ate their dinners from the provision box; sam lighted his pipe, and many a tale he told of adventure by sea and land. bobby felt happy, and almost dreaded the idea of parting with his rough but good-hearted friend they were now far out at sea, and the night was coming on. "now, sonny, you had better turn in and take a snooze; you didn't rest much last night." "i am not sleepy; but there is one thing i will do; and bobby drew from his secret receptacle his roll of bills. "put them up, sonny," said sam. "i want to make you a present of ten dollars." "you can't do it." "nay, but to please me." "no, sir!" "well, then, let me send it to your good wife." "you can't do that, nuther," replied sam, gazing earnestly at a lumber-laden schooner ahead of him. "you must; your good heart made you lose five dollars, and i insist upon making it up to you." "you can't do it." "i shall feel bad if you don't take it. you see i have twenty dollars here, and i would like to give you the whole of it." "not a cent, sonny. i ain't a heathen. that schooner ahead is bound for boston, i reckon." "i shall be sorry to part with you, mr. ray." "just my sentiment. i hain't seen a youngster afore for many a day that i took a fancy to, and i hate to let you go." "we shall meet again." "i hope so." "please to take this money." "no;" and sam shook his head so resolutely that bobby gave up the point. as sam had conjectured, the lumber schooner was bound to boston. her captain readily agreed to take our hero on board, and he sadly bade adieu to his kind friend. "good by, mr. ray," said bobby, as the schooner filled away. "take this to remember me by." it was his jackknife; but sam did not discover the ten dollar bill, which was shut beneath the blade, till it was too late to return it. bobby did not cease to wave his hat to sam till his little craft disappeared in the darkness. chapter xx. in which the clouds blow over, and bobby is himself again. fortunately for bobby, the wind began to blow very heavily soon after he went on board of the lumber schooner, so that the captain was too much engaged in working his vessel to ask many questions. he was short handed, and though our hero was not much of a sailor, he made himself useful to the best of his ability. though the wind was heavy, it was not fair; and it was not till the third morning after his parting with sam ray that the schooner arrived off boston light. the captain then informed him that, as the tide did not favor him, he might not get up to the city for twenty-four hours; and, if he was in a hurry, he would put him on board a pilot boat which he saw standing up the channel. "thank you, captain; you are very kind, but it would give you a great deal of trouble," said bobby. "none at all. we must wait here till the tide turns; so we have nothing better to do." "i should be very glad to get up this morning." "you shall, then;" and the captain ordered two men to get out the jolly boat. "i will pay my passage now, if you please." "that is paid." "paid?" "i should say you had worked your passage. you have done very well, and i shall not charge you any thing." "i expected to pay my passage, captain; but if you think i have done enough to pay it, why, i have nothing to say, only that i am very much obliged to you." "you ought to be a sailor, young man; you were cut out for one." "i like the sea, though i never saw it till a few weeks since. but i suppose my mother would not let me go to sea." "i suppose not. mothers are always afraid of salt water." by this time the jolly boat was alongside; and bidding the captain adieu, he jumped into it, and the men pulled him to the pilot boat, which had come up into the wind at the captain's hail. bobby was kindly received on board, and in a couple of hours landed at the wharf in boston. with a beating heart he made his way up into washington street. he felt strangely; his cheeks seemed to tingle, for he was aware that the imputation of dishonesty was fastened upon him. he could not doubt but that the story of his alleged crime had reached the city, and perhaps gone to his friends in riverdale. how his poor mother must have wept to think her son was a thief! no; she never could have thought that. _she_ knew he would not steal, if no one else did. and annie lee--would she ever smile upon him again? would she welcome him to her father's house so gladly as she had done in the past? he could bring nothing to establish his innocence but his previous character. would not mr. bayard frown upon him? would not even ellen be tempted to forget the service he had rendered her? bobby had thought of all these things before--on his cold, damp bed in the forest, in the watches of the tempestuous night onboard the schooner. but now, when he was almost in the presence of those he loved and respected, they had more force, and they nearly overwhelmed him. "i am innocent," he repeated to himself, "and why need i fear? my good father in heaven will not let me be wronged." yet he could not overcome his anxiety; and when he reached the store of mr. bayard, he passed by, dreading to face the friend who had been so kind to him. he could not bear even to be suspected of a crime by him. "now or never," said he, as he turned round. "i will know my fate at once, and then make the best of it." mustering all his courage, he entered the store. mr. timmins was not there; so he was spared the infliction of any ill-natured remark from him. "hallo, bobby!" exclaimed the gentlemanly salesman, whose acquaintance he had made on his first visit. "good morning, mr. bigelow," replied bobby with as much boldness as he could command. "i didn't know as i should ever see you again. you have been gone a long while." "longer than usual," answered bobby, with a blush; for he considered the remark of the salesman as an allusion to his imprisonment. "is mr. bayard in?" "he is--in his office." bobby's feet would hardly obey the mandate of his will, and with a faltering step he entered the private room of the bookseller. mr. bayard was absorbed in the perusal of the morning paper, and did not observe his entrance. with his heart up in his throat, and almost choking him, he stood for several minutes upon the threshold. he almost feared to speak, dreading the severe frown with which he expected to be received. suspense, however, was more painful than condemnation, and he brought his resolution up to the point. "mr. bayard," said he, in faltering tones. "bobby!" exclaimed the bookseller, dropping his paper upon the floor, and jumping upon his feet as though an electric current had passed through his frame. grasping our hero's hand, he shook it with so much energy that, under any other circumstances, bobby would have thought it hurt him. he did not think so now. "my poor bobby! i am delighted to see you!" continued mr. bayard. bobby burst into tears, and sobbed like a child, as he was. the unexpected kindness of this reception completely overwhelmed him. "don't cry, bobby; i know all about it;" and the tender-hearted bookseller wiped away his tears. "it was a stroke of misfortune; but it is all right now." but bobby could not help crying, and the more mr. bayard, attempted to console him, the more he wept. "i am innocent, mr. bayard," he sobbed. "i know you are, bobby; and all the world knows you are." "i am ruined now; i shall never dare to hold my head up again." "nonsense, bobby; you will hold your head the higher. you have behaved like a hero." "i ran away from the state reform school, sir. i was innocent, and i would rather have died than staid there." "i know all about it, my young friend. now dry your tears, and we will talk it all over." bobby blowed and sputtered a little more; but finally he composed himself, and took a chair by mr. bayard's side. the bookseller then drew from his pocket a ponderous document, with a big official seal upon it, and exhibited it to our hero. "do you see this, bobby? it is your free and unconditional pardon." "sir! why--" "it will all end well, you may depend." bobby was amazed. his pardon? but it would not restore his former good name. he felt that he was branded as a felon. it was not mercy, but justice that he wanted. "truth is mighty, and will prevail," continued mr. bayard; "and this document restores your reputation." "i can hardly believe that." "can't you? hear my story then. when i read in one of the maine papers the account of your misfortune, i felt that you had been grossly wronged. you were coupled with that tom spicer, who is the most consummate little villain i ever saw, and i understood your situation. ah, bobby, your only mistake was in having anything to do with that fellow." "i left him at brunswick because he began to behave badly; but he joined me again at augusta. he had spent nearly all his money, and did not know what to do. i pitied him, and meant to do something to help him out of the scrape." "generous as ever! i have heard all about this before." "indeed; who told you?" "tom spicer himself." "tom?" asked bobby, completely mystified. "yes, tom; you see, when i heard about your trouble, squire lee and myself--" "squire lee? does he know about it?" "he does; and you may depend upon it, he thinks more highly of you than ever before. he and i immediately went down to augusta to inquire into the matter. we called upon the governor of the state, who said that he had seen you, and bought a book of you." "of me!" exclaimed bobby, startled to think he had sold a book to a governor. "yes; you called at his house; probably you did not know that he was the chief magistrate of the state. at any rate, he was very much pleased with you, and sorry to hear of your misfortune. well, we followed your route to brunswick, where we ascertained how tom had conducted. in a week he established a very bad reputation there; but nothing could be found to implicate you. the squire testified to your uniform good behavior, and especially to your devotion to your mother. in short, we procured your pardon, and hastened with it to the state reform school. "on our arrival, we learned, to our surprise and regret, that you had escaped from the institution on the preceding evening. every effort was made to retake you, but without success. ah, bobby, you managed that well." "they didn't look in the right place," replied bobby, with a smile, for he began to feel happy again. "by the permission of the superintendent, squire lee and myself examined tom spicer. he is a great rascal. perhaps he thought we would get him out; so he made a clean breast of it, and confessed that you had no hand in the robbery, and that you knew nothing about it. he gave you the two bills on purpose to implicate you in the crime. we wrote down his statement, and had it sworn to before a justice of the peace. you shall read it by and by." "may heaven reward you for your kindness to a poor boy!" exclaimed bobby, the tears flowing down his cheeks again. "i did not deserve so much from you, mr. bayard." "yes, you did, and a thousand times more. i was very sorry you had left the institution, and i waited in the vicinity till they said there was no probability that you would be captured. the most extraordinary efforts were used to find you; but there was not a person to be found who had seen or heard of you. i was very much alarmed about you, and offered a hundred dollars for any information concerning you." "i am sorry you had so much trouble. i wish i had known you were there." "how did you get off?" bobby briefly related the story of his escape, and mr. bayard pronounced his skill worthy of his genius. "sam ray is a good fellow; we will remember him," added the bookseller, when he had finished. "i shall remember him; and only that i shall be afraid to go into the state of maine after what has happened, i should pay him a visit one of these days." "there you are wrong. those who know your story would sooner think of giving you a public reception, than of saying or doing any thing to injure your feelings. those who have suffered unjustly are always lionized." "but no one will know my story, only that i was sent to prison for stealing." "there you are mistaken again. we put articles in all the principal papers, stating the facts in the case, and establishing your innocence beyond a peradventure. go to augusta now, bobby, and you will be a lion." "i am sure i had no idea of getting out of the scrape so easily as this." "innocence shall triumph, my young friend." "what does mother say?" asked bobby, his countenance growing sad. "i do not know. we returned from maine only yesterday; but squire lee will satisfy her. all that can worry her, as it has worried me, will be her fears for your safety when she hears of your escape." "i will soon set her mind at ease upon that point. i will take the noon train home." "a word about business before you go. i discharged timmins about a week ago, and i have kept his place for you." "by gracious!" exclaimed bobby, thrown completely out of his propriety by this announcement. "i think you will do better, in the long run, than you would to travel about the country. i was talking with ellen about it, and she says it shall be so. timmins's salary was five hundred dollars a year, and you shall have the same." "five hundred dollars a year!" ejaculated bobby, amazed at the vastness of the sum. "very well for a boy of thirteen, bobby." "i was fourteen last sunday, sir." "i would not give any other boy so much; but you are worth it, and you shall have it." probably mr. bayard's gratitude had something to do with this munificent offer; but he knew that our hero possessed abilities and energy far beyond his years. he further informed bobby that he should have a room at his house, and that ellen was delighted with the arrangement he proposed. the gloomy, threatening clouds were all rolled back, and floods of sunshine streamed in upon the soul of the little merchant; but in the midst of his rejoicing be remembered that his own integrity had carried him safely through the night of sorrow and doubt. he had been true to himself, and now, in the hour of his great triumph, he realized that, if he had been faithless to the light within him, his laurel would have been a crown of thorns. he was happy--very happy. what made him so? not his dawning prosperity; not the favor of mr. bayard; not the handsome salary he was to receive; for all these things would have been but dross, if he had sacrificed his integrity, his love of truth and uprightness. he had been true to himself, and unseen angels had held him up. he had been faithful, and the consciousness of his fidelity to principle made a heaven within his heart. it was arranged that he should enter upon the duties of his new situation on the following week. after settling with mr. bayard, he found he had nearly seventy dollars in his possession; so that in a pecuniary point of view, if in no other, his eastern excursion was perfectly satisfactory. by the noon train he departed for riverdale, and in two hours more he was folded to his mother's heart. mrs. bright wept for joy now, as she had before wept in misery when she heard of her son's misfortune. it took him all the afternoon to tell his exciting story to her, and she was almost beside herself when bobby told her about his new situation. after tea he hastened over to squire lee's; and my young readers can imagine what a warm reception he had from father and daughter. for the third time that day he narrated his adventures in the east; and annie declared they were better than any novel she had ever read. perhaps it was because bobby was the hero. it was nearly ten o'clock before he finished his story; and when he left, the squire made him promise to come over the next day. chapter xxi. in which bobby steps off the stage, and the author must finish "now or never." the few days which bobby remained at home before entering upon the duties of his new situation were agreeably filled up in calling upon his many friends, and in visiting those pleasant spots in the woods and by the river, which years of association had rendered dear to him. his plans for the future too, occupied some of his time, though, inasmuch as his path of duty was already marked out, these plans were but little more than a series of fond imaginings; in short, little more than day dreams. i have before hinted that bobby was addicted to castle building, and i should pity the man or boy who was not--who had no bright dream of future achievements, of future usefulness. "as a man thinketh, so is he," the psalmist tells us, and it was the pen of inspiration which wrote it. what a man pictures as his ideal of that which is desirable in this world and the world to come, he will endeavor to attain. even if it be no higher aim than the possession of wealth or fame, it is good and worthy as far as it goes. it fires his brain, it nerves his arm. it stimulates him to action, and action is the soul of progress. we must all work; and this world were cold and dull if it had no bright dreams to be realized. what napoleon dreamed, he labored to accomplish, and the monarchs of europe trembled before him. what howard wished to be, he labored to be; his ideal was beautiful and true, and he raised a throne which will endure through eternity. bobby dreamed great things. that bright picture of the little black house transformed into a white cottage, with green blinds, and surrounded by a pretty fence, was the nearest object; and before mrs. bright was aware that he was in earnest, the carpenters and the painters were upon the spot. "now or never," replied bobby to his mother's remonstrance. "this is your home, and it shall be the pleasantest spot upon earth, if i can make it so." then he had to dream about his business in boston and i am not sure but that he fancied himself a rich merchant, like mr. bayard, living in an elegant house in chestnut street, and having clerks and porters to do as he bade them. a great many young men dream such things, and though they seem a little silly when spoken out loud, they are what wood and water are to the steam engine--they are the mainspring of action. some are stupid enough to dream about these things, and spend their time in idleness, and dissipation, waiting for "the good time coming." it will never come to them. they are more likely to die in the almshouse or the state prison, than to ride in their carriages; for constant exertion is the price of success. bobby enjoyed himself to the utmost of his capacity during these few days of respite from labor. he spent a liberal share of his time at squire lee's where he was almost as much at home as in his mother's house. annie read moore's poems to him, till he began to have quite a taste for poetry himself. in connection with tom spicer's continued absence, which had to be explained, bobby's trials in the eastern country leaked out, and the consequence was, that he became a lion in riverdale. the minister invited him to tea, as well as other prominent persons, for the sake of hearing his story; but bobby declined the polite invitations from sheer bashfulness. he had not brass enough to make himself a hero; besides, the remembrance of his journey was any thing but pleasant to him. on monday morning he took the early train for boston, and assumed the duties of his situation in mr. bayard's store. but as i have carried my hero through the eventful period of his life, i cannot dwell upon his subsequent career. he applied himself with all the energy of his nature to the discharge of his duties. early in the morning and late in the evening he was at his post, mr. bigelow was his friend from the first, and gave him all the instruction he required. his intelligence and quick perception soon enabled him to master the details of the business, and by the time he was fifteen, he was competent to perform any service required of him. by the advice of mr. bayard, he attended an evening school for six months in the year, to acquire a knowledge of book keeping, and to compensate for the opportunities of which he had been necessarily deprived in his earlier youth. he took dr. franklin for his model, and used all his spare time in reading good books, and in obtaining such information and such mental culture as would fit him to be, not only a good merchant, but a good and true man. every saturday night he went home to riverdale to spend the sabbath with his mother. the little black house no longer existed, for it had become the little paradise of which he had dreamed, only that the house seemed whiter, the blinds greener, and the fence more attractive than his fancy had pictured them. his mother, after a couple of years, at bobby's earnest pleadings, ceased to close shoes and take in washing; but she had enough and to spare, for her son's salary was now six hundred dollars. his kind employer boarded him for nothing, (much against bobby's will, i must say,) so that every month he carried to his mother thirty dollars, which more than paid her expenses. * * * * * eight years have passed by since bobby--we beg his pardon; he is now mr. robert bright--entered the store of mr. bayard. he has passed from the boy to the man. over the street door a new sign has taken the place of the old one, and the passer-by reads,-- bayard & bright, booksellers and publishers. the senior partner resorts to his counting room every morning from the force of habit; but he takes no active part in the business. mr. bright has frequent occasion to ask his advice, though every thing is directly managed by him; and the junior is accounted one of the ablest, but at the same time one of the most honest, business men in the city. his integrity has never been sacrificed, even to the emergencies of trade. the man is what the boy was; and we can best sum up the results of his life by saying that he has been true to himself, true to his friends and true to his god. mrs. bright is still living at the little white cottage, happy in herself and happy in her children. bobby--we mean mr. bright--has hardly missed going to riverdale on a saturday night since he left home, eight years before. he has the same partiality for those famous apple pies, and his mother would as soon think of being without bread as being without apple pies when he comes home. of course squire lee and annie were always glad to see him when he came to riverdale; and for two years it had been common talk in riverdale that our hero did not go home on sunday evening when the clock struck nine. but as this is a forbidden topic, we will ask the reader to go with us to mr. bayard's house in chestnut street. what! annie lee here? no; but as you are here, allow me to introduce mrs. robert bright. they were married a few months before, and mr. bayard insisted that the happy couple should make their home at his house. but where is ellen bayard? o, she is mrs. bigelow now, and her husband is at the head of a large book establishment in new york. bobby's dream had been realised, and he was the happiest man in the world--at least he thought so, which is just the same thing. he had been successful in business; his wife--the friend and companion of his youth, the brightest filament of the bright vision his fancy had woven--had been won, and the future glowed with brilliant promises. he had been successful; but neither nor all of the things we have mentioned constituted his highest and truest success--not his business prosperity, not the bright promise of wealth in store for him, not his good name among men, not even the beautiful and loving wife who had cast her lot with his to the end of time. these were successes, great and worthy, but not the highest success. he had made himself a man,--this was his real success,--a true, a christian man. he had lived a noble life. he had reared the lofty structure of his manhood upon a solid foundation--principle. it is the rock which the winds of temptation and the rains of selfishness cannot move. robert bright is happy because he is good. tom spicer, now in the state prison, is unhappy,--not _because_ he is in the state prison, but because the evil passions of his nature are at war with the peace of his soul. he has fed the good that was within him upon straw and husks, and starved it out. he is a body only; the soul is dead in trespasses and sin. he loves no one, and no one loves him. during the past summer, mr. bright and his lady took a journey "down east." annie insisted upon visiting the state reform school; and her husband drove through the forest by which he had made his escape on that eventful night. afterwards they called upon sam ray, who had been "dead sure that bobby would one day be a great man." he was about the same person, and was astonished and delighted when our hero introduced himself. they spent a couple of hours in talking over the past, and at his departure, mr. bright made him a handsome present in such a delicate manner that he could not help accepting it. squire lee is still as hale and hearty as ever, and is never so happy as when annie and her husband come to riverdale to spend the sabbath. he is fully of the opinion that mr. bright is the greatest man on the western continent, and he would not be in the least surprised if he should be elected president of the united states one of these days. the little merchant is a great merchant now. but more than this, he is a good man. he has formed his character, and he will probably die as he has lived. reader, if yon have any good work to do, do it now, for with you it may be "now or never." [illustration: "i'm big enough to protect my mother, and i'll do it." _p. ._] now or never or the adventures of bobby bright _a story for young folks_ oliver optic _new edition_ new york the mershon company publishers entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by william t. adams, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. copyright, , by william t. adams. now or never. to my nephew charles henry pope this book is affectionately dedicated preface the story contained in this volume is a record of youthful struggles, not only in the world without, but in the world within; and the success of the little hero is not merely a gathering up of wealth and honors, but a triumph over the temptations that beset the pilgrim on the plain of life. the attainment of worldly prosperity is not the truest victory; and the author has endeavored to make the interest of his story depend more on the hero's devotion to principles than on his success in business. bobby bright is a smart boy; perhaps the reader will think he is altogether too smart for one of his years. this is a progressive age, and anything which young america may do need not surprise any person. that little gentleman is older than his father, knows more than his mother, can talk politics, smoke cigars, and drive a : horse. he orders "one stew" with as much ease as a man of forty, and can even pronounce correctly the villanous names of sundry french and german wines and liqueurs. one would suppose, to hear him talk, that he had been intimate with socrates and solon, with napoleon and noah webster; in short, that whatever he did not know was not worth knowing. in the face of these manifestations of exuberant genius, it would be absurd to accuse the author of making his hero do too much. all he has done is to give this genius a right direction; and for politics, cigars, : horses, and "one stew," he has substituted the duties of a rational and accountable being, regarding them as better fitted to develop the young gentleman's mind, heart, and soul. bobby bright is something more than a smart boy. he is a good boy, and makes a true man. his daily life is the moral of the story, and the author hopes that his devotion to principle will make a stronger impression upon the mind of the young reader, than even the most exciting incidents of his eventful career. william t. adams. contents chapter page i. in which bobby goes a fishing, and catches a horse ii. in which bobby blushes several times, and does a sum in arithmetic iii. in which the little black house is bought, but not paid for iv. in which bobby gets out of one scrape, and into another v. in which bobby gives his note for sixty dollars vi. in which bobby sets out on his travels vii. in which bobby stands up for certain "inalienable rights" viii. in which mr. timmins is astonished, and bobby dines in chestnut street ix. in which bobby opens various accounts, and wins his first victory x. in which bobby is a little too smart xi. in which bobby strikes a balance, and returns to riverdale xii. in which bobby astonishes sundry persons, and pays part of his note xiii. in which bobby declines a copartnership, and visits b---- again xiv. in which bobby's air castle is upset, and tom spicer takes to the woods xv. in which bobby gets into a scrape, and tom spicer turns up again xvi. in which bobby finds "it is an ill wind that blows no one any good" xvii. in which tom has a good time, and bobby meets with a terrible misfortune xviii. in which bobby takes french leave, and camps in the woods xix. in which bobby has a narrow escape, and goes to sea with sam ray xx. in which the clouds blow over, and bobby is himself again xxi. in which bobby steps off the stage, and the author must finish "now or never" now or never or the adventures of bobby bright chapter i in which bobby goes a fishing, and catches a horse "by jolly! i've got a bite!" exclaimed tom spicer, a rough, hard-looking boy, who sat on a rock by the river's side, anxiously watching the cork float on his line. "catch him, then," quietly responded bobby bright, who occupied another rock near the first speaker, as he pulled up a large pout, and, without any appearance of exultation, proceeded to unhook and place him in his basket. "you are a lucky dog, bob," added tom, as he glanced into the basket of his companion, which now contained six good-sized fishes. "i haven't caught one yet." "you don't fish deep enough." "i fish on the bottom." "that is too deep." "it don't make any difference how i fish; it is all luck." "not all luck, tom; there is something in doing it right." "i shall not catch a fish," continued tom, in despair. "you'll catch something else, though, when you go home." "will i?" "i'm afraid you will." "who says i will?" "didn't you tell me you were 'hooking jack'?" "who is going to know anything about it?" "the master will know you are absent." "i shall tell him my mother sent me over to the village on an errand." "i never knew a fellow to 'hook jack,' yet, without getting found out." "i shall not get found out unless you blow on me; and you wouldn't be mean enough to do that;" and tom glanced uneasily at his companion. "suppose your mother should ask me if i had seen you." "you would tell her you have not, of course." "of course?" "why, wouldn't you? wouldn't you do as much as that for a fellow?" "it would be a lie." "a lie! humph!" "i wouldn't lie for any fellow," replied bobby, stoutly, as he pulled in his seventh fish, and placed him in the basket. "wouldn't you?" "no, i wouldn't." "then let me tell you this; if you peach on me, i'll smash your head." tom spicer removed one hand from the fish pole and, doubling his fist, shook it with energy at his companion. "smash away," replied bobby, coolly. "i shall not go out of my way to tell tales; but if your mother or the master asks me the question, i shall not lie." "won't you?" "no, i won't." "i'll bet you will;" and tom dropped his fish pole, and was on the point of jumping over to the rock occupied by bobby, when the float of the former disappeared beneath the surface of the water. "you've got a bite," coolly interposed bobby, pointing to the line. tom snatched the pole, and with a violent twitch, pulled up a big pout; but his violence jerked the hook out of the fish's mouth, and he disappeared beneath the surface of the river. "just my luck!" muttered tom. "keep cool, then." "i will fix you yet." "all right; but you had better not let go your pole again, or you will lose another fish." "i'm bound to smash your head, though." "no, you won't." "won't i?" "two can play at that game." "do you stump me?" "no; i don't want to fight; i won't fight if i can help it." "i'll bet you won't!" sneered tom. "but i will defend myself." "humph!" "i am not a liar, and the fear of a flogging shall not make me tell a lie." "go to sunday school--don't you?" "i do; and besides that, my mother always taught me never to tell a lie." "come! you needn't preach to me. by and by, you will call me a liar." "no, i won't; but just now you told me you meant to lie to your mother, and to the master." "what if i did? that is none of your business." "it _is_ my business when you want me to lie for you, though; and i shall not do it." "blow on me, and see what you will get." "i don't mean to blow on you." "yes, you do." "i will not lie about it; that's all." "by jolly! see that horse!" exclaimed tom, suddenly, as he pointed to the road leading to riverdale centre. "by gracious!" added bobby, dropping his fish pole, as he saw the horse running at a furious rate up the road from the village. the mad animal was attached to a chaise, in which was seated a lady, whose frantic shrieks pierced the soul of our youthful hero. the course of the road was by the river's side for nearly half a mile, and crossed the stream at a wooden bridge but a few rods from the place where the boys were fishing. bobby bright's impulses were noble and generous; and without stopping to consider the peril to which the attempt would expose him, he boldly resolved to stop that horse, or let the animal dash him to pieces on the bridge. "now or never!" shouted he, as he leaped from the rock, and ran with all his might to the bridge. the shrieks of the lady rang in his ears, and seemed to command him, with an authority which he could not resist, to stop the horse. there was no time for deliberation; and, indeed, bobby did not want any deliberation. the lady was in danger; if the horse's flight was not checked, she would be dashed in pieces; and what then could excuse him for neglecting his duty? not the fear of broken limbs, of mangled flesh, or even of a sudden and violent death. it is true bobby did not think of any of these things; though, if he had, it would have made no difference with him. he was a boy who would not fight except in self-defence, but he had the courage to do a deed which might have made the stoutest heart tremble with terror. grasping a broken rail as he leaped over the fence, he planted himself in the middle of the bridge, which was not more than half as wide as the road at each end of it, to await the coming of the furious animal. on he came, and the piercing shrieks of the affrighted lady nerved him to the performance of his perilous duty. the horse approached him at a mad run, and his feet struck the loose planks of the bridge. the brave boy then raised his big club, and brandished it with all his might in the air. probably the horse did not mean anything very bad; was only frightened, and had no wicked intentions towards the lady; so that when a new danger menaced him in front, he stopped suddenly, and with so much violence as to throw the lady forward from her seat upon the dasher of the chaise. he gave a long snort, which was his way of expressing his fear. he was evidently astonished at the sudden barrier to his further progress, and commenced running back. "save me!" screamed the lady. "i will, ma'am; don't be scared!" replied bobby, confidently, as he dropped his club, and grasped the bridle of the horse, just as he was on the point of whirling round to escape by the way he had come. "stop him! do stop him!" cried the lady. "whoa!" said bobby, in gentle tones, as he patted the trembling horse on his neck. "whoa, good horse! be quiet! whoa!" the animal, in his terror, kept running backward and forward; but bobby persevered in his gentle treatment, and finally soothed him, so that he stood quiet enough for the lady to get out of the chaise. "what a miracle that i am alive!" exclaimed she, when she realized that she stood once more upon the firm earth. "yes, ma'am, it is lucky he didn't break the chaise. whoa! good horse! stand quiet!" "what a brave little fellow you are!" said the lady, as soon as she could recover her breath so as to express her admiration of bobby's bold act. "o, i don't mind it," replied he, blushing like a rose in june. "did he run away with you?" "no; my father left me in the chaise for a moment while he went into a store in the village, and a teamster who was passing by snapped his whip, which frightened kate so that she started off at the top of her speed. i was so terrified that i screamed with all my might, which frightened her the more. the more i screamed, the faster she ran." "i dare say. good horse! whoa, kate!" "she is a splendid creature; she never did such a thing before. my father will think i am killed." by this time, kate had become quite reasonable, and seemed very much obliged to bobby for preventing her from doing mischief to her mistress; for she looked at the lady with a glance of satisfaction, which her deliverer interpreted as a promise to behave better in future. he relaxed his grasp upon the bridle, patted her upon the neck, and said sundry pleasant things to encourage her in her assumed purpose of doing better. kate appeared to understand bobby's kind words, and declared as plainly as a horse could declare that she would be sober and tractable. "now, ma'am, if you will get into the chaise again, i think kate will let me drive her down to the village." "o, dear! i should not dare to do so." "then, if you please, i will drive down alone, so as to let your father know that you are safe." "do." "i am sure he must feel very bad, and i may save him a great deal of pain, for a man can suffer a great deal in a very short time." "you are a little philosopher, as well as a hero, and if you are not afraid of kate, you may do as you wish." "she seems very gentle now;" and bobby turned her round, and got into the chaise. "be very careful," said the lady. "i will." bobby took the reins, and kate, true to the promise she had virtually made, started off at a round pace towards the village. he had not gone more than a quarter of a mile of the distance when he met a wagon containing three men, one of whom was the lady's father. the gestures which he made assured bobby he had found the person whom he sought, and he stopped. "my daughter! where is she?" gasped the gentleman, as he leaped from the wagon. "she is safe, sir," replied bobby, with all the enthusiasm of his warm nature. "thank god!" added the gentleman, devoutly, as he placed himself in the chaise by the side of bobby. chapter ii in which bobby blushes several times, and does a sum in arithmetic mr. bayard, the owner of the horse, and the father of the lady whom bobby had saved from impending death, was too much agitated to say much, even to the bold youth who had rendered him such a signal service. he could scarcely believe the intelligence which the boy brought him; it seemed too good to be true. he had assured himself that ellen--for that was the young lady's name--was killed or dreadfully injured. kate was driven at the top of her speed, and in a few moments reached the bridge, where ellen was awaiting his arrival. "here i am, father, alive and unhurt!" cried ellen, as mr. bayard stopped the horse. "thank heaven, my child!" replied the glad father, embracing his daughter. "i was sure you were killed." "no, father; thanks to this bold youth, i am uninjured." "i am under very great obligations to you, young man," continued mr. bayard, grasping bobby's hand. "o, never mind, sir;" and bobby blushed just as he had blushed when the young lady spoke to him. "we shall never forget you--shall we, father?" added ellen. "no, my child; and i shall endeavor to repay, to some slight extent, our indebtedness to him. but you have not yet told me how you were saved." "o, i merely stopped the horse; that's all," answered bobby, modestly. "yes, father, but he placed himself right before kate when she was almost flying over the ground. when i saw him, i was certain that he would lose his life, or be horribly mangled for his boldness," interposed ellen. "it was a daring deed, young man, to place yourself before an affrighted horse in that manner," said mr. bayard. "i didn't mind it, sir." "and then he flourished a big club, almost as big as he is himself, in the air, which made kate pause in her mad career, when my deliverer here grasped her by the bit and held her." "it was well and bravely done." "that it was, father; not many men would have been bold enough to do what he did," added ellen, with enthusiasm. "very true; and i feel that i am indebted to him for your safety. what is your name, young man?" "robert bright, sir." mr. bayard took from his pocket several pieces of gold, which he offered to bobby. "no, i thank you, sir," replied bobby, blushing. "what! as proud as you are bold?" "i don't like to be paid for doing my duty." "bravo! you are a noble little fellow! but you must take this money, not as a reward for what you have done, but as a testimonial of my gratitude." "i would rather not, sir." "do take it, robert," added ellen. "i don't like to take it. it looks mean to take money for doing one's duty." "take it, robert, to please me;" and the young lady smiled so sweetly that bobby's resolution began to give way. "only to please me, robert." "i will, to please you; but i don't feel right about it." "you must not be too proud, robert," said mr. bayard, as he put the gold pieces into his hand. "i am not proud, sir; only i don't like to be paid for doing my duty." "not paid, my young friend. consider that you have placed me under an obligation to you for life. this money is only an expression of my own and my daughter's feelings. it is but a small sum, but i hope you will permit me to do something more for you, when you need it. you will regard me as your friend as long as you live." "thank you, sir." "when you want any assistance of any kind, come to me. i live in boston; here is my business card." mr. bayard handed him a card, on which bobby read, "f. bayard & co., booksellers and publishers, no. --, washington street, boston." "you are very kind, sir." "i want you should come to boston and see us, too," interposed ellen. "i should be delighted to show you the city, to take you to the athenæum and the museum." "thank you." mr. bayard inquired of bobby about his parents, where he lived, and about the circumstances of his family. he then took out his memorandum book, in which he wrote the boy's name and residence. "i am sorry to leave you now, robert, but i have over twenty miles to ride to-day. i should be glad to visit your mother, and next time i come to riverdale, i shall certainly do so." "thank you, sir; my mother is a very poor woman, but she will be glad to see you." "now, good by, robert." "good by," repeated ellen. "good by." mr. bayard drove off, leaving bobby standing on the bridge with the gold pieces in his hand. "here's luck!" said bobby, shaking the coin. "won't mother's eyes stick out when she sees these shiners? there are no such shiners in the river as these." bobby was astonished, and the more he gazed at the gold pieces, the more bewildered he became. he had never held so much money in his hand before. there were three large coins and one smaller one. he turned them over and over, and finally ascertained that the large coins were ten dollar pieces, and the smaller one a five dollar piece. bobby was not a great scholar, but he knew enough of arithmetic to calculate the value of his treasure. he was so excited, however, that he did not arrive at the conclusion half so quick as most of my young readers would have done. "thirty-five dollars!" exclaimed bobby, when the problem was solved. "gracious!" "hallo, bob!" shouted tom spicer, who had got tired of fishing; besides, the village clock was just striking twelve, and it was time for him to go home. bobby made no answer, but hastily tying the gold pieces up in the corner of his handkerchief, he threw the broken rail he had used in stopping the horse where it belonged, and started for the place where he had left his fishing apparatus. "hallo, bob!" "well, tom?" "stopped him--didn't you?" "i did." "you were a fool; he might have killed you." "so he might; but i didn't stop to think of that. the lady's life was in danger." "what of that?" "everything, i should say." "did he give you anything?" "yes;" and bobby continued his walk down to the river's side. "i say, what did he give you, bobby?" persisted tom, following him. "o, he gave me a good deal of money." "how much?" "i want to get my fish line now; i will tell you all about it some other time," replied bobby, who rather suspected the intentions of his companion. "tell me now; how much was it?" "never mind it now." "humph! do you think i mean to rob you?" "no." "ain't you going halveses?" "why should i?" "wasn't i with you?" "were you?" "wasn't i fishing with you?" "you did not do anything about stopping the horse." "i would, if i hadn't been afraid to go up to the road." "afraid?" "somebody might have seen me, and they would have known that i was hooking jack." "then you ought not to share the money." "yes, i had. when a fellow is with you, he ought to have half. it is mean not to give him half." "if you had done anything to help stop the horse, i would have shared with you. but you didn't." "what of that?" bobby was particularly sensitive in regard to the charge of meanness. his soul was a great deal bigger than his body, and he was always generous, even to his own injury, among his companions. it was evident to him that tom had no claim to any part of the reward; but he could not endure the thought even of being accused of meanness. "i'll tell you what i will do, if you think i ought to share with you. i will leave it out to squire lee; and if he thinks you ought to have half, or any part of the money, i will give it to you." "no, you don't; you want to get me into a scrape for hooking jack. i see what you are up to." "i will state the case to him without telling him who the boys are." "no, you don't! you want to be mean about it. come, hand over half the money." "i will not," replied bobby, who, when it became a matter of compulsion, could stand his ground at any peril. "how much have you got?" "thirty-five dollars." "by jolly! and you mean to keep it all yourself?" "i mean to give it to my mother." "no, you won't! if you are going to be mean about it, i'll smash your head!" this was a favorite expression with tom spicer, who was a noted bully among the boys of riverdale. the young ruffian now placed himself in front of bobby, and shook his clenched fist in his face. "hand over." "no, i won't. you have no claim to any part of the money; at least, i think you have not. if you have a mind to leave it out to squire lee, i will do what is right about it." "not i; hand over, or i'll smash your head!" "smash away," replied bobby, placing himself on the defensive. "do you think you can lick me?" asked tom, not a little embarrassed by this exhibition of resolution on the part of his companion. "i don't think anything about it; but you don't bully me in that kind of style." "won't i?" "no." but tom did not immediately put his threat in execution, and bobby would not be the aggressor; so he stepped one side to pass his assailant. tom took this as an evidence of the other's desire to escape, and struck him a heavy blow on the side of the head. the next instant the bully was floundering in the soft mud of a ditch; bobby's reply was more than tom had bargained for, and while he was dragging himself out of the ditch, our hero ran down to the river, and got his fish pole and basket. "you'll catch it for that!" growled tom. "i'm all ready, whenever it suits your convenience," replied bobby. "just come out here and take it in fair fight," continued tom, who could not help bullying, even in the midst of his misfortune. "no, i thank you; i don't want to fight with any fellow. i will not fight if i can help it." "what did you hit me for, then?" "in self-defence." "just come out here, and try it fair!" "no;" and bobby hurried home, leaving the bully astonished and discomfited by the winding up of the morning's sport. chapter iii in which the little black house is bought but not paid for probably my young readers have by this time come to the conclusion that bobby bright was a very clever fellow--one whose acquaintance they would be happy to cultivate. perhaps by this time they have become so far interested in him as to desire to know who his parents were, what they did, and in what kind of a house he lived. i hope none of my young friends will think any less of him when i inform them that bobby lived in an old black house which had never been painted, which had no flower garden in front of it, and which, in a word, was quite far from being a palace. a great many very nice city folks would not have considered it fit to live in, would have turned up their noses at it, and wondered that any human beings could be so degraded as to live in such a miserable house. but the widow bright, bobby's mother, thought it was a very comfortable house, and considered herself very fortunate in being able to get so good a dwelling. she had never lived in a fine house, knew nothing about velvet carpets, mirrors seven feet high, damask chairs and lounges, or any of the smart things which very rich and very proud city people consider absolutely necessary for their comfort. her father had been a poor man, her husband had died a poor man, and her own life had been a struggle to keep the demons of poverty and want from invading her humble abode. mr. bright, her deceased husband, had been a day laborer in riverdale. he never got more than a dollar a day, which was then considered very good wages in the country. he was a very honest, industrious man, and while he lived, his family did very well. mrs. bright was a careful, prudent woman, and helped him support the family. they never knew what it was to want for anything. poor people, as well as rich, have an ambition to be something which they are not, or to have something which they have not. every person, who has any energy of character, desires to get ahead in the world. some merchants, who own big ships and big warehouses by the dozen, desire to be what they consider rich. but their idea of wealth is very grand. they wish to count it in millions of dollars, in whole blocks of warehouses; and they are even more discontented than the day laborer who has to earn his dinner before he can eat it. bobby's father and mother had just such an ambition, only it was so modest that the merchant would have laughed at it. they wanted to own the little black house in which they resided, so that they could not only be sure of a home while they lived, but have the satisfaction of living in their own house. this was a very reasonable ideal, compared with that of the rich merchants i have mentioned; but it was even more difficult for them to reach it, for the wages were small, and they had many mouths to feed. mr. bright had saved up fifty dollars; and he thought a great deal more of this sum than many people do of a thousand dollars. he had had to work very hard and be very prudent in order to accumulate this sum, which made him value it all the more highly. with this sum of fifty dollars at his command, john bright felt rich; and then, more than ever before, he wanted to own the little black house. he felt as grand as a lord; and as soon as the forty-nine dollars had become fifty, he waited upon mr. hardhand, a little crusty old man, who owned the little black house, and proposed to purchase it. the landlord was a hard man. everybody in riverdale said he was mean and stingy. any generous-hearted man would have been willing to make an easy bargain with an honest, industrious, poor man, like john bright, who wished to own the house in which he lived; but mr. hardhand, although he was rich, only thought how he could make more money. he asked the poor man four hundred dollars for the old house and the little lot of land on which it stood. it was a matter of great concern to john bright. four hundred dollars was a "mint of money," and he could not see how he should ever be able to save so much from his daily earnings. so he talked with squire lee about it, who told him that three hundred was all it was worth. john offered this for it, and after a month's hesitation mr. hardhand accepted the offer, agreeing to take fifty dollars down, and the rest in semi-annual payments of twenty-five dollars each until the whole was paid. i am thus particular in telling my readers about the bargain, because this debt which his father contracted was the means of making a man of bobby, as will be seen in his subsequent history. john bright paid the first fifty dollars; but before the next instalment became due, the poor man was laid in his cold and silent grave. a malignant disease carried him off, and the hopes of the bright family seemed to be blasted. four children were left to the widow. the youngest was only three years old, and bobby, the oldest, was nine, when his father died. squire lee, who had always been a good friend of john bright, told the widow that she had better go to the poorhouse, and not attempt to struggle along with such fearful odds against her. but the widow nobly refused to become a pauper, and to make paupers of her children, whom she loved quite as much as though she and they had been born in a ducal palace. she told the squire that she had two hands, and as long as she had her health, the town need not trouble itself about her support. squire lee was filled with surprise and admiration at the noble resolution of the poor woman; and when he returned to his house, he immediately sent her a cord of wood, ten bushels of potatoes, two bags of meal, and a firkin of salt pork. the widow was very grateful for these articles, and no false pride prevented her from accepting the gift of her rich and kind-hearted neighbor. riverdale centre was largely engaged in the manufacturing of boots and shoes, and this business gave employment to a large number of men and women. mrs. bright had for several years "closed" shoes--which, my readers who do not live in "shoe towns" may not know, means sewing or stitching them. to this business she applied herself with renewed energy. there was a large hotel in riverdale centre, where several families from boston spent the summer. by the aid of squire lee, she obtained the washing of these families, which was more profitable than closing shoes. by these means she not only supported her family very comfortably, but was able to save a little money towards paying for the house. mr. hardhand, by the persuasions of squire lee, had consented to let the widow keep the house, and pay for it as she could. john bright had been dead four years at the time we introduce bobby to the reader. mrs. bright had paid another hundred dollars towards the house, with the interest; so there was now but one hundred due. bobby had learned to "close," and helped his mother a great deal; but the confinement and the stooping posture did not agree with his health, and his mother was obliged to dispense with his assistance. but the devoted little fellow found a great many ways of helping her. he was now thirteen, and was as handy about the house as a girl. when he was not better occupied, he would often go to the river and catch a mess of fish, which was so much clear gain. the winter which had just passed had brought a great deal of sickness to the little black house. the children all had the measles, and two of them the scarlet fever, so that mrs. bright could not work much. her affairs were not in a very prosperous condition when the spring opened; but the future was bright, and the widow, trusting in providence, believed that all would end well. one thing troubled her. she had not been able to save anything for mr. hardhand. she could only pay her interest; but she hoped by the first of july to give him twenty-five dollars of the principal. but the first of july came, and she had only five dollars of the sum she had partly promised her creditor. she could not so easily recover from the disasters of the hard winter, and she had but just paid off the little debts she had contracted. she was nervous and uneasy as the day approached. mr. hardhand always abused her when she told him she could not pay him, and she dreaded his coming. it was the first of july on which bobby caught those pouts, caught the horse, and on which tom spicer had "caught a tartar." bobby hastened home, as we said at the conclusion of the last chapter. he was as happy as a lord. he had fish enough in his basket for dinner, and for breakfast the next morning, and money enough in his pocket to make his mother as happy as a queen, if queens are always happy. the widow bright, though she had worried and fretted night and day about the money which was to be paid to mr. hardhand on the first of july, had not told her son anything about it. it would only make him unhappy, she reasoned, and it was needless to make the dear boy miserable for nothing; so bobby ran home all unconscious of the pleasure which was in store for him. when he reached the front door, as he stopped to scrape his feet on the sharp stone there, as all considerate boys who love their mothers do, before they go into the house, he heard the angry tones of mr. hardhand. he was scolding and abusing his mother because she could not pay him the twenty-five dollars. bobby's blood boiled with indignation, and his first impulse was to serve him as he had served tom spicer, only a few moments before; but bobby, as we have before intimated, was a peaceful boy, and not disposed to quarrel with any person; so he contented himself with muttering a few hard words. "the wretch! what business has he to talk to _my_ mother in that style?" said he to himself. "i have a great mind to kick him out of the house." but bobby's better judgment came to his aid; and perhaps he realized that he and his mother would only get kicked out in return. he could battle with mr. hardhand, but not with the power which his wealth gave him; so, like a great many older persons in similar circumstances, he took counsel of prudence rather than impulse. "bear ye one another's burdens," saith the scripture; but bobby was not old enough or astute enough to realize that mr. hardhand's burden was his wealth, his love of money; that it made him little better than a hottentot; and he could not feel as charitably towards him as a christian should towards his erring, weak brother. setting his pole by the door, he entered the room where hardhand was abusing his mother. chapter iv in which bobby gets out of one scrape, and into another bobby was so indignant at the conduct of mr. hardhand, that he entirely forgot the adventure of the morning; and he did not even think of the gold he had in his pocket. he loved his mother; he knew how hard she had worked for him and his brother and sisters; that she had burned the "midnight oil" at her clamps; and it made him feel very bad to hear her abused as mr. hardhand was abusing her. it was not her fault that she had not the money to pay him. she had been obliged to spend a large portion of her time over the sick beds of her children, so that she could not earn so much money as usual; while the family expenses were necessarily much greater. bobby knew also that mr. hardhand was aware of all the circumstances of his mother's position, and the more he considered the case the more brutal and inhuman was his course. as our hero entered the family room with the basket of fish on his arm, the little crusty old man fixed the glance of his evil eye upon him. "there is that boy, marm, idling away his time by the river, and eating you out of house and home," said the wretch. "why don't you set him to work, and make him earn something?" "bobby is a very good boy," meekly responded the widow bright. "humph! i should think he was. a great lazy lubber like him, living on his mother!" and mr. hardhand looked contemptuously at bobby. "i am not a lazy lubber," interposed the insulted boy with spirit. "yes, you are. why don't you go to work?" "i do work." "no, you don't; you waste your time paddling in the river." "i don't." "you had better teach this boy manners too, marm," said the creditor, who, like all men of small souls, was willing to take advantage of the power which the widow's indebtedness gave him. "he is saucy." "i should like to know who taught _you_ manners, mr. hardhand," replied bobby, whose indignation was rapidly getting the better of his discretion. "what!" growled mr. hardhand, aghast at this unwonted boldness. "i heard what you said before i came in; and no decent man would go to the house of a poor woman to insult her." "humph! mighty fine," snarled the little old man, his gray eyes twinkling with malice. "don't, bobby; don't be saucy to the gentleman," interposed his mother. "saucy, marm? you ought to horsewhip him for it. if you don't, i will." "no, you won't!" replied bobby, shaking his head significantly. "i can take care of myself." "did any one ever hear such impudence!" gasped mr. hardhand. "don't, bobby, don't," pleaded the anxious mother. "i should like to know what right you have to come here and abuse my mother," continued bobby, who could not restrain his anger. "your mother owes me money, and she doesn't pay it, you young scoundrel!" answered mr. hardhand, foaming with rage. "that is no reason why you should insult her. you can call _me_ what you please, but you shall not insult my mother while i'm round." "your mother is a miserable woman, and----" "say that again, and though you are an old man, i'll hit you for it. i'm big enough to protect my mother, and i'll do it." bobby doubled up his fists and edged up to mr. hardhand, fully determined to execute his threat if he repeated the offensive expression, or any other of a similar import. he was roused to the highest pitch of anger, and felt as though he had just as lief die as live in defence of his mother's good name. i am not sure that i could excuse bobby's violence under any other circumstances. he loved his mother--as the novelists would say, he idolized her; and mr. hardhand had certainly applied some very offensive epithets to her--epithets which no good son could calmly hear applied to a mother. besides, bobby, though his heart was a large one, and was in the right place, had never been educated into those nice distinctions of moral right and wrong which control the judgment of wise and learned men. he had an idea that violence, resistance with blows, was allowable in certain extreme cases; and he could conceive of no greater provocation than an insult to his mother. "be calm, bobby; you are in a passion," said mrs. bright. "i am surprised, marm," began mr. hardhand, who prudently refrained from repeating the offensive language--and i have no doubt he was surprised; for he looked both astonished and alarmed. "this boy has a most ungovernable temper." "don't you worry about my temper, mr. hardhand; i'll take care of myself. all i want of you is not to insult my mother. you may say what you like to me; but don't you call her hard names." mr. hardhand, like all mean, little men, was a coward; and he was effectually intimidated by the bold and manly conduct of the boy. he changed his tone and manner at once. "you have no money for me, marm?" said he, edging towards the door. "no, sir; i am sorry to say that i have been able to save only five dollars since i paid you last; but i hope----" "never mind, marm, never mind; i shall not trouble myself to come here again, where i am liable to be kicked by this ill-bred cub. no, marm, i shall not come again. let the law take its course." "o, mercy! see what you have brought upon us, bobby," exclaimed mrs. bright, bursting into tears. "yes, marm, let the law take its course." "o, bobby! stop a moment, mr. hardhand; do stop a moment." "not a moment, marm. we'll see;" and mr. hardhand placed his hand upon the latch string. bobby felt very uneasy and very unhappy at that moment. his passion had subsided, and he realized that he had done a great deal of mischief by his impetuous conduct. then the remembrance of his morning adventure on the bridge came like a flash of sunshine to his mind, and he eagerly drew from his pocket the handkerchief in which he had deposited the precious gold,--doubly precious now, because it would enable him to retrieve the error into which he had fallen, and do something towards relieving his mother's embarrassment. with a trembling hand he untied the knot which secured the money. "here, mother, here is thirty-five dollars;" and he placed it in her hand. "why, bobby!" exclaimed mrs. bright. "pay him, mother, pay him, and i will tell you all about it by and by." "thirty-five dollars! and all in gold! where _did_ you get it, bobby?" "never mind it now, mother." mr. hardhand's covetous soul had already grasped the glittering gold; and removing his hand from the latch string, he approached the widow. "i shall be able to pay you forty dollars now," said mrs. bright, taking the five dollars she had saved from her pocket. "yes, marm." mr. hardhand took the money, and seating himself at the table, indorsed the amount on the back of the note. "you owe me sixty more," said he, maliciously, as he returned the note to his pocket book. "it must be paid immediately." "you must not be hard with me now, when i have paid more than you demanded." "i don't wish to come here again. that boy's impudence has put me all out of conceit with you and your family," replied mr. hardhand, assuming the most benevolent look he could command. "there was a time when i was very willing to help you. i have waited a great while for my pay for this house; a great deal longer than i would have waited for anybody else." "your interest has always been paid punctually," suggested the widow, modestly. "that's true; but very few people would have waited as long as i have for the principal. i wanted to help you----" "by gracious!" exclaimed bobby, interrupting him. "don't be saucy, my son, don't," said mrs. bright, fearing a repetition of the former scene. "_he_ wanted to help us!" ejaculated bobby. it was a very absurd and hypocritical expression on the part of mr. hardhand; for he never wanted to help any one but himself; and during the whole period of his relations with the poor widow, he had oppressed, insulted, and abused her to the extent of his capacity, or at least as far as his interest would permit. he was a malicious and revengeful man. he did not consider the great provocation he had given bobby for his violent conduct, but determined to be revenged, if it could be accomplished without losing any part of the sixty dollars still due him. he was a wicked man at heart, and would not scruple to turn the widow and her family out of house and home. mrs. bright knew this, and bobby knew it too; and they felt very uneasy about it. the wretch still had the power to injure them, and he would use it without compunction. "yes, young man, i wanted to help you, and you see what i get for it--contempt and insults! you will hear from me again in a day or two. perhaps you will change your tune, you young reprobate!" "perhaps i shall," replied bobby, without much discretion. "and you too, marm; you uphold him in his treatment of me. you have not done your duty to him. you have been remiss, marm!" continued mr. hardhand, growing bolder again, as he felt the power he wielded. "that will do, sir; you can go!" said bobby, springing from his chair, and approaching mr. hardhand. "go, and do your worst!" "humph! you stump me,--do you?" "i would rather see my mother kicked out of the house than insulted by such a dried-up old curmudgeon as you are. go along!" "now, don't, bobby," pleaded his mother. "i am going; and if the money is not paid by twelve o'clock to-morrow, the law shall take its course;" and mr. hardhand rushed out of the house, slamming the door violently after him. "o, bobby, what have you done?" exclaimed mrs. bright, when the hard-hearted creditor had departed. "i could not help it, mother; don't cry. i cannot bear to hear you insulted and abused; and i thought when i heard him do it a year ago, that i couldn't stand it again. it is too bad." "but he will turn us out of the house; and what shall we do then?" "don't cry, mother; it will come round all right. i have friends who are rich and powerful, and who will help us." "you don't know what you say, bobby. sixty dollars is a great deal of money, and if we should sell all we have, it would scarcely bring that." "leave it all to me, mother; i feel as though i could do something now. i am old enough to make money." "what can you do?" "now or never!" replied bobby, whose mind had wandered from the scene to the busy world, where fortunes are made and lost every day. "now or never!" muttered he again. "but, bobby, you have not told me where you got all that gold." "dinner is ready, i see, and i will tell you while we eat." bobby had been a fishing, and to be hungry is a part of the fisherman's luck; so he seated himself at the table, and gave his mother a full account of all that had occurred at the bridge. the fond mother trembled when she realized the peril her son had incurred for the sake of the young lady; but her maternal heart swelled with admiration in view of the generous deed, and she thanked god that she was the mother of such a son. she felt more confidence in him then than she had ever felt before, and she realized that he would be the stay and the staff of her declining years. bobby finished his dinner, and seated himself on the front door step. his mind was absorbed by a new and brilliant idea; and for half an hour he kept up a most tremendous thinking. "now or never!" said he, as he rose and walked down the road towards riverdale centre. chapter v in which bobby gives his note for sixty dollars a great idea was born in bobby's brain. his mother's weakness and the insecurity of her position were more apparent to him than they had ever been before. she was in the power of her creditor, who might turn her out of the little black house, sell the place at auction, and thus, perhaps, deprive her of the whole or a large part of his father's and her own hard earnings. but this was not the peculiar hardship of her situation, as her devoted son understood it. it was not the hard work alone which she was called upon to perform, not the coarseness of the fare upon which they lived, not the danger even of being turned out of doors, that distressed bobby; it was that a wretch like mr. hardhand could insult and trample upon his mother. he had just heard him use language to her that made his blood boil with indignation, and he did not, on cool, sober, second thought, regret that he had taken such a decided stand against it. he cared not for himself. he could live on a crust of bread and a cup of water from the spring; he could sleep in a barn; he could wear coarse and even ragged clothes; but he could not submit to have his mother insulted, and by such a mean and contemptible person as mr. hardhand. yet what could he do? he was but a boy, and the great world would look with contempt upon his puny form. but he felt that he was not altogether insignificant. he had performed an act that day, which the fair young lady, to whom he had rendered the service, had declared very few men would have undertaken. there was something in him, something that would come out, if he only put his best foot forward. it was a tower of strength within him. it told him that he could do wonders; that he could go out into the world and accomplish all that would be required to free his mother from debt, and relieve her from the severe drudgery of her life. a great many people think they can "do wonders." the vanity of some very silly people makes them think they can command armies, govern nations, and teach the world what the world never knew before and never would know but for them. but bobby's something within him was not vanity. it was something more substantial. he was not thinking of becoming a great man, a great general, a great ruler, or a great statesman; not even of making a great fortune. self was not the idol and the end of his calculations. he was thinking of his mother, and only of her; and the feeling within him was as pure, and holy, and beautiful as the dream of an angel. he wanted to save his mother from insult in the first place, and from a life of ceaseless drudgery in the second. a legion of angels seemed to have encamped in his soul to give him strength for the great purpose in his mind. his was a holy and a true purpose, and it was this that made him think he could "do wonders." what bobby intended to do the reader shall know in due time. it is enough now that he meant to do something. the difficulty with a great many people is, that they never resolve to do something. they wait for "something to turn up;" and as "things" are often very obstinate, they utterly refuse to "turn up" at all. their lives are spent in waiting for a golden opportunity which never comes. now, bobby bright repudiated the micawber philosophy. he would have nothing to do with it. he did not believe corn would grow without being planted, or that pouts would bite the bare hook. i am not going to tell my young readers now how bobby came out in the end; but i can confidently say that, if he had waited for "something to turn up," he would have become a vagabond, a loafer, out of money, out at the elbows, and out of patience with himself and all the world. it was "now or never" with bobby. he meant to do something; and after he had made up his mind how and where it was to be done, it was no use to stand thinking about it, like the pendulum of the "old clock which had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen, without giving its owner any cause of complaint." bobby walked down the road towards the village with a rapid step. he was thinking very fast, and probably that made him step quick. but as he approached squire lee's house, his pace slackened, and he seemed to be very uneasy. when he reached the great gate that led up to the house, he stopped for an instant, and thrust his hands down very deep into his trousers pockets. i cannot tell what the trousers pockets had to do with what he was thinking about; but if he was searching for anything in them, he did not find it; for after an instant's hesitation he drew out his hands, struck one of them against his chest, and in an audible voice exclaimed,-- "now or never." all this pantomime, i suppose, meant that bobby had some misgivings as to the ultimate success of his mission at squire lee's, and that when he struck his breast and uttered his favorite expression, they were conquered and driven out. marching with a bold and determined step up to the squire's back door,--bobby's ideas of etiquette would not have answered for the meridian of fashionable society,--he gave three smart raps. bobby's heart beat a little wildly as he awaited a response to his summons. it seemed that he still had some doubts as to the practicability of his mission; but they were not permitted to disturb him long, for the door was opened by the squire's pretty daughter annie, a young miss of twelve. "o, bobby, is it you? i am so glad you have come!" exclaimed the little lady. bobby blushed--he didn't know why, unless it was that the young lady desired to see him. he stammered out a reply, and for the moment forgot the object of his visit. "i want you to go down to the village for me, and get some books the expressman was to bring up from boston for me. will you go?" "certainly, miss annie, i shall be very glad to go for _you_," replied bobby, with an emphasis that made the little maiden blush in her turn. "you are real good, bobby; but i will give you something for going." "i don't want anything," said bobby, stoutly. "you are too generous! ah, i heard what you did this forenoon; and pa says that a great many men would not have dared to do what you did. i always thought you were as brave as a lion; now i know it." "the books are at the express office, i suppose," said bobby, turning as red as a blood beet. "yes, bobby; i am so anxious to get them that i can't wait till pa goes down this evening." "i will not be gone long." "o, you needn't run, bobby; take your time." "i will go very quick. but, miss annie, is your father at home?" "not now; he has gone over to the wood lot; but he will be back by the time you return." "will you please to tell him that i want to see him about something very particular, when he gets back?" "i will, bobby." "thank you, miss annie;" and bobby hastened to the village to execute his commission. "i wonder what he wants to see pa so very particularly for," said the young lady to herself, as she watched his receding form. "in my opinion, something has happened at the little black house, for i could see that he looked very sober." either bobby had a very great regard for the young lady, and wished to relieve her impatience to behold the coveted books, or he was in a hurry to see squire lee; for the squire's old roan horse could hardly have gone quicker. "you should not have run, bobby," said the little maiden, when he placed the books in her hand; "i would not have asked you to go if i had thought you would run all the way. you must be very tired." "not at all; i didn't run, only walked very quick," replied he; but his quick breathing indicated that his words or his walk had been very much exaggerated. "has your father returned?" "he has; he is waiting for you in the sitting room. come in, bobby." bobby followed her into the room, and took the chair which annie offered him. "how do you do, bobby? i am glad to see you," said the squire, taking him by the hand, and bestowing a benignant smile upon him--a smile which cheered his heart more than anything else could at that moment. "i have heard of you before, to-day." "have you?" "i have, bobby; you are a brave little fellow." "i came over to see you, sir, about something very particular," replied bobby, whose natural modesty induced him to change the topic. "indeed; well, what can i do for you?" "a great deal, sir; perhaps you will think i am very bold, sir, but i can't help it." "i know you are a very bold little fellow, or you would not have done what you did this forenoon," laughed the squire. "i didn't mean that, sir," answered bobby, blushing up to the eyes. "i know you didn't; but go on." "i only meant that you would think me presuming, or impudent, or something of that kind." "o, no, far from it. you cannot be presuming or impudent. speak out, bobby; anything under the heavens that i can do for you, i shall be glad to do." "well, sir, i am going to leave riverdale." "leave riverdale!" "yes, sir; i am going to boston, where i mean to do something to help mother." "bravo! you are a good lad. what do you mean to do?" "i was thinking i should go into the book business." "indeed!" and squire lee was much amused by the matter-of-fact manner of the young aspirant. "i was talking with a young fellow who went through the place last spring, selling books. he told me that some days he made three or four dollars, and that he averaged twelve dollars a week." "he did well; perhaps, though, only a few of them make so much." "i know i can make twelve dollars a week," replied bobby, confidently, for that something within him made him feel capable of great things. "i dare say you can. you have energy and perseverance, and people take a liking to you." "but i wanted to see you about another matter. to speak out at once, i want to borrow sixty dollars of you;" and bobby blushed, and seemed very much embarrassed by his own boldness. "sixty dollars!" exclaimed the squire. "i knew you would think me impudent," replied our hero, his heart sinking within him. "but i don't, bobby. you want the money to go into business with--to buy your stock of books?" "o, no, sir; i am going to apply to mr. bayard for that." "just so; mr. bayard is the gentleman whose daughter you saved?" "yes, sir. i want this money to pay off mr. hardhand. we owe him but sixty dollars now, and he has threatened to turn us out, if it is not paid by to-morrow noon." "the old hunks!" bobby briefly related to the squire the events of the morning, much to the indignation and disgust of the honest, kind-hearted man. the courageous boy detailed more clearly his purpose, and doubted not he should be able to pay the loan in a few months. "very well, bobby, here is the money;" and the squire took it from his wallet, and gave it to him. "thank you, sir. may heaven bless you! i shall certainly pay you." "don't worry about it, bobby. pay it when you get ready." "i will give you my note, and----" the squire laughed heartily at this, and told him that, as he was a minor, his note was not good for anything. "you shall see whether it is, or not," returned bobby. "let me give it to you, at least, so that we can tell how much i owe you from time to time." "you shall have your own way." annie lee, as much amused as her father at bobby's big talk, got the writing materials, and the little merchant in embryo wrote and signed the note. "good, bobby! now promise that you will come and see me every time you come home, and tell me how you are getting along." "i will, sir, with the greatest pleasure;" and with a light heart bobby tripped away home. chapter vi in which bobby sets out on his travels squire lee, though only a plain farmer, was the richest man in riverdale. he had taken a great fancy to bobby, and often employed him to do errands, ride the horse to plough in the cornfields, and such chores about the place as a boy could do. he liked to talk with bobby because there was a great deal of good sense in him, for one with a small head. if there was any one thing upon which the squire particularly prided himself, it was his knowledge of human nature. he declared that he only wanted to look a man in the face to know what he was; and as for bobby bright, he had summered him and wintered him, and he was satisfied that he would make something in good time. he was not much astonished when bobby opened his ambitious scheme of going into business for himself. but he had full faith in his ability to work out a useful and profitable, if not a brilliant, life. he often said that bobby was worth his weight in gold, and that he would trust him with anything he had. perhaps he did not suspect that the time was at hand when he would be called upon to verify his words practically; for it was only that morning, when one of the neighbors told him about bobby's stopping the horse, that he had repeated the expression for the twentieth time. it was not an idle remark. sixty dollars was hardly worth mentioning with a man of his wealth and liberal views, though so careful a man as he was would not have been likely to throw away that amount. but as a matter of investment,--bobby had made the note read "with interest,"--he would as readily have let him have it, as the next richest man in the place, so much confidence had he in our hero's integrity, and so sure was he that he would soon have the means of paying him. bobby was overjoyed at the fortunate issue of his mission, and he walked into the room where his mother was closing shoes, with a dignity worthy a banker or a great merchant. mrs. bright was very sad. perhaps she felt a little grieved that her son, whom she loved so much, had so thoughtlessly plunged her into a new difficulty. "come, cheer up, mother; it is all right," said bobby, in his usual elastic and gay tones; and at the same time he took the sixty dollars from his pocket and handed it to her. "there is the money, and you will be forever quit of mr. hardhand to-morrow." "what, bobby! why, where did you get all this money?" asked mrs. bright, utterly astonished. in a few words the ambitious boy told his story, and then informed his mother that he was going to boston the next monday morning, to commence business for himself. "why, what can you do, bobby?" "do? i can do a great many things;" and he unfolded his scheme of becoming a little book merchant. "you are a courageous fellow! who would have thought of such a thing?" "i should, and did." "but you are not old enough." "o, yes, i am." "you had better wait a while." "now or never, mother! you see i have given my note, and my paper will be dishonored, if i am not up and doing." "your paper!" said mrs. bright, with a smile. "that is what mr. wing, the boot manufacturer, calls it." "you needn't go away to earn this money; i can pay it myself." "this note is my affair, and i mean to pay it myself with my own earnings. no objections, mother." like a sensible woman as she was, she did not make any objections. she was conscious of bobby's talents; she knew that he had a strong mind of his own, and could take care of himself. it is true, she feared the influence of the great world, and especially of the great city, upon the tender mind of her son; but if he was never tempted, he would never be a conqueror over the foes that beset him. she determined to do her whole duty towards him; and she carefully pointed out to him the sins and the moral danger to which he would be exposed, and warned him always to resist temptation. she counselled him to think of her when he felt like going astray. bobby declared that he would try to be a good boy. he did not speak contemptuously of the anticipated perils, as many boys would have done, because he knew that his mother would not make bug-bears out of things which she knew had no real existence. the next day, mr. hardhand came; and my young readers can judge how astonished and chagrined he was, when the widow bright offered him the sixty dollars. the lord was with the widow and the fatherless, and the wretch was cheated out of his revenge. the note was given up, and the mortgage cancelled. mr. hardhand insisted that she should pay the interest on the sixty dollars for one day, as it was then the second day of july; but when bobby reckoned it up, and found it was less than one cent, even the wretched miser seemed ashamed of himself, and changed the subject of conversation. he did not dare to say anything saucy to the widow this time. he had lost his power over her, and there stood bobby, who had come to look just like a young lion to him, coward and knave as he was. the business was all settled now, and bobby spent the rest of the week in getting ready for his great enterprise. he visited all his friends, and went each day to talk with squire lee and annie. the little maiden promised to buy a great many books of him, if he would bring his stock to riverdale, for she was quite as much interested in him as her father was. monday morning came, and bobby was out of bed with the first streak of dawn. the excitement of the great event which was about to happen had not permitted him to sleep for the two hours preceding; yet when he got up, he could not help feeling sad. he was going to leave the little black house, going to leave his mother, going to leave the children, to depart for the great city. his mother was up before him. she was even more sad than he was, for she could see plainer than he the perils that environed him, and her maternal heart, in spite of the reasonable confidence she had in his integrity and good principles, trembled for his safety. as he ate his breakfast, his mother repeated the warnings and the good lessons she had before imparted. she particularly cautioned him to keep out of bad company. if he found that his companions would lie and swear, he might depend upon it they would steal, and he had better forsake them at once. this was excellent advice, and bobby had occasion at a later period to call it to his sorrowing heart. "here is three dollars, bobby; it is all the money i have. your fare to boston will be one dollar, and you will have two left to pay the expenses of your first trip. it is all i have now," said mrs. bright. "i will not take the whole of it. you will want it yourself. one dollar is enough. when i find mr. bayard, i shall do very well." "yes, bobby, take the whole of it." "i will take just one dollar, and no more," replied bobby, resolutely, as he handed her the other two dollars. "do take it, bobby." "no, mother; it will only make me lazy and indifferent." taking a clean shirt, a pair of socks, and a handkerchief in his bundle, he was ready for a start. "good by, mother," said he, kissing her and taking her hand. "i shall try and come home on saturday, so as to be with you on sunday." then kissing the children, who had not yet got up, and to whom he had bidden adieu the night before, he left the house. he had seen the flood of tears that filled his mother's eyes, as he crossed the threshold; and he could not help crying a little himself. it is a sad thing to leave one's home, one's mother, especially, to go out into the great world; and we need not wonder that bobby, who had hardly been out of riverdale before, should weep. but he soon restrained the flowing tears. "now or never!" said he, and he put his best foot forward. it was an epoch in his history, and though he was too young to realize the importance of the event, he seemed to feel that what he did now was to give character to his whole future life. it was a bright and beautiful morning--somehow it is always a bright and beautiful morning when boys leave their homes to commence the journey of life; it is typical of the season of youth and hope, and it is meet that the sky should be clear, and the sun shine brightly, when the little pilgrim sets out upon his tour. he will see clouds and storms before he has gone far--let him have a fair start. he had to walk five miles to the nearest railroad station. his road lay by the house of his friend, squire lee; and as he was approaching it, he met annie. she said she had come out to take her morning walk; but bobby knew very well that she did not usually walk till an hour later; which, with the fact that she had asked him particularly, the day before, what time he was going, made bobby believe that she had come out to say good by, and bid him god speed on his journey. at any rate, he was very glad to see her. he said a great many pretty things to her, and talked so big about what he was going to do, that the little maiden could hardly help laughing in his face. then at the house he shook hands with the squire and shook hands again with annie, and resumed his journey. his heart felt lighter for having met them, or at least for having met one of them, if not both; for annie's eyes were so full of sunshine that they seemed to gladden his heart, and make him feel truer and stronger. after a pleasant walk, for he scarcely heeded the distance, so full was he of his big thoughts, he reached the railroad station. the cars had not yet arrived, and would not for half an hour. "why should i give them a dollar for carrying me to boston, when i can just as well walk? if i get tired, i can sit down and rest me. if i save the dollar, i shall have to earn only fifty-nine more to pay my note. so here goes;" and he started down the track. chapter vii in which bobby stands up for "certain inalienable rights" whether it was wise policy, or "penny wise and pound foolish" policy for bobby to undertake such a long walk, is certainly a debatable question; but as my young readers would probably object to an argument, we will follow him to the city, and let every one settle the point to suit himself. his cheerful heart made the road smooth beneath his feet. he had always been accustomed to an active, busy life, and had probably often walked more than twenty miles in a day. about ten o'clock, though he did not feel much fatigued, he seated himself on a rock by a brook from which he had just taken a drink, to rest himself. he had walked slowly so as to husband his strength; and he felt confident that he should be able to accomplish the journey without injury to himself. after resting for half an hour, he resumed his walk. at twelve o'clock he reached a point from which he obtained his first view of the city. his heart bounded at the sight, and his first impulse was to increase his speed so that he should the sooner gratify his curiosity; but a second thought reminded him that he had eaten nothing since breakfast; so, finding a shady tree by the road side, he seated himself on a stone to eat the luncheon which his considerate mother had placed in his bundle. thus refreshed, he felt like a new man, and continued his journey again till he was on the very outskirts of the city, where a sign, "no passing over this bridge," interrupted his farther progress. unlike many others, bobby took this sign literally, and did not venture to cross the bridge. having some doubts as to the direct road to the city, he hailed a man in a butcher's cart, who not only pointed the way, but gave him an invitation to ride with him, which bobby was glad to accept. they crossed the milldam, and the little pilgrim forgot the long walk he had taken--forgot riverdale, his mother, squire lee, and annie, for the time, in the absorbing interest of the exciting scene. the common beat riverdale common all hollow; he had never seen anything like it before. but when the wagon reached washington street, the measure of his surprise was filled up. "my gracious! how thick the houses are!" exclaimed he, much to the amusement of the kind-hearted butcher. "we have high fences here," he replied. "where are all these folks going to?" "you will have to ask them, if you want to know." but the wonder soon abated, and bobby began to think of his great mission in the city. he got tired of gazing and wondering, and even began to smile with contempt at the silly fops as they sauntered along, and the gayly dressed ladies, that flaunted like so many idle butterflies, on the sidewalk. it was an exciting scene; but it did not look real to him. it was more like herr grunderslung's exhibition of the magic lantern, than anything substantial. the men and women were like so many puppets. they did not seem to be doing anything, or to be walking for any purpose. he got out of the butcher's cart at the old south. his first impression, as he joined the busy throng, was, that he was one of the puppets. he did not seem to have any hold upon the scene, and for several minutes this sensation of vacancy chained him to the spot. "all right!" exclaimed he to himself at last. "i am here. now's my time to make a strike. now or never." he pulled mr. bayard's card from his pocket, and fixed the number of his store in his mind. now, numbers were not a riverdale institution, and bobby was a little perplexed about finding the one indicated. a little study into the matter, however, set him right, and he soon had the satisfaction of seeing the bookseller's name over his store. "f. bayard," he read; "this is the place." "country!" shouted a little ragged boy, who dodged across the street at that moment. "just so, my beauty!" said bobby, a little nettled at this imputation of verdancy. "what a greeny!" shouted the little vagabond from the other side of the street. "no matter, rag-tag! we'll settle that matter some other time." but bobby felt that there was something in his appearance which subjected him to the remarks of others, and as he entered the shop, he determined to correct it as soon as possible. a spruce young gentleman was behind the counter, who cast a mischievous glance at him as he entered. "mr. bayard keep here?" asked bobby. "well, i reckon he does. how are all the folks up country?" replied the spruce clerk, with a rude grin. "how are they?" repeated bobby, the color flying to his cheek. "yes, ha-ow do they dew?" "they behave themselves better than they do here." "eh, greeny?" "eh, sappy?" repeated bobby, mimicking the soft, silky tones of the young city gentleman. "what do you mean by sappy?" asked the clerk indignantly. "what do you mean by greeny?" "i'll let you know what i mean!" "when you do, i'll let you know what i mean by sappy." "good!" exclaimed one of the salesmen, who had heard part of this spirited conversation. "you will learn better by and by, timmins, than to impose upon boys from out of town." "you seem to be a gentleman, sir," said bobby, approaching the salesman. "i wish to see mr. bayard." "you can't see him!" growled timmins. "can't i?" "not at this minute; he is engaged just now," added the salesman, who seemed to have a profound respect for bobby's discrimination. "he will be at liberty in a few moments." "i will wait, then," said bobby, seating himself on a stool by the counter. pretty soon the civil gentleman left the store to go to dinner, and timmins, a little timid about provoking the young lion, cast an occasional glance of hatred at him. he had evidently found that "country" was an embryo american citizen, and that he was a firm believer in the self-evident truths of the declaration of independence. bobby bore no ill will towards the spruce clerk, ready as he had been to defend his "certain inalienable rights." "you do a big business here," suggested bobby, in a conciliatory tone, and with a smile on his face which ought to have convinced the uncourteous clerk that he meant well. "who told you so?" replied timmins, gruffly. "i merely judged from appearances. you have a big store, and an immense quantity of books." "appearances are deceitful," replied timmins; and perhaps he had been impressed by the fact from his experience with the lad from the country. "that is true," added bobby, with a good-natured smile, which, when interpreted, might have meant, "i took you for a civil fellow, but i have been very much mistaken." "you will find it out before you are many days older." "the book business is good just now, isn't it?" continued bobby, without clearly comprehending the meaning of the other's last remark. "humph! what's that to you?" "o, i intend to go into it myself." "ha, ha, ha! good! you do?" "i do," replied bobby, seemingly unconcerned at the taunts of the clerk. "i suppose you want to get a place here," sneered timmins, alarmed at the prospect. "but let me tell you, you can't do it. bayard has all the help he wants; and if that is what you come for, you can move on as fast as you please." "i guess i will see him," added bobby, quietly. "no use." "no harm in seeing him." as he spoke he took up a book that lay on the counter, and began to turn over the leaves. "put that book down!" said the amiable mr. timmins. "i won't hurt it," replied bobby, who had just fixed his eye upon some very pretty engravings in the volume. "put it down!" repeated mr. timmins, in a loud, imperative tone. "certainly i will, if you say so," said bobby, who, though not much intimidated by the harsh tones of the clerk, did not know the rules of the store, and deemed it prudent not to meddle. "i _do_ say so!" added mr. timmins, magnificently; "and what's more, you'd better mind me, too." bobby had minded, and probably the stately little clerk would not have been so bold if he had not. some people like to threaten after the danger is over. then our visitor from the country espied some little blank books lying on the counter. he had already made up his mind to have one, in which to keep his accounts; and he thought, while he was waiting, that he would purchase one. he meant to do things methodically; so when he picked up one of the blank books, it was with the intention of buying it. "put that book down!" said mr. timmins, encouraged in his aggressive intentions by the previous docility of our hero. "i want to buy one." "no, you don't; put it down." "what is the price of these?" asked bobby, resolutely. "none of your business!" "is that the way you treat your customers?" asked bobby, with a little sternness in his looks and tones. "i say i want to buy one." "put it down." "but i will not; i say i want to buy it." "no, you don't!" "what is the price of it?" "twenty-five cents," growled timmins, which was just four times the retail price. "twenty-five cents! that's high." "put it down, then." "is that your lowest price?" asked bobby, who was as cool as a cucumber. "yes, it is; and if you don't put it down, i'll kick you out of the store." "will you? then i won't put it down." mr. timmins took this as a "stump;" his ire was up, and he walked round from behind the counter to execute his threat. i must say i think bobby was a little forward, and i would have my young readers a little more pliant with small men like timmins. there are always men enough in the world who are ready and willing to quarrel on any provocation; and it is always best not to provoke them, even if they are overbearing and insolent, as mr. timmins certainly was. "hold on a minute before you do it," said bobby, with the same provoking coolness. "i want to buy this book, and i am willing to pay a fair price for it. but i happen to know that you can buy them up in riverdale, where i came from, for six cents." "no matter," exclaimed the indignant clerk, seizing bobby by the coat collar for the purpose of ejecting him; "you shall find your way into the street." now bobby, as i have before intimated, was an embryo american citizen, and the act of mr. timmins seemed like an invasion of his inalienable rights. no time was given him to make a formal declaration of rights in the premises; so the instinct of self-preservation was allowed to have free course. mr. timmins pulled and tugged at his coat collar, and bobby hung back like a mule; and for an instant there was quite a spirited scene. "hallo! timmins, what does this mean?" said a voice, at which the valiant little clerk instantly let go his hold. chapter viii in which mr. timmins is astonished, and bobby dines in chestnut street it was mr. bayard. he had finished his business with the gentleman by his side, and hearing the noise of the scuffle, had come to learn the occasion of it. "this impudent young puppy wouldn't let the books alone!" began mr. timmins. "i threatened to turn him out if he didn't; and i meant to make good my threat. i think he meant to steal something." bobby was astonished and shocked at this bold imputation; but he wished to have his case judged on its own merits; so he turned his face away, that mr. bayard might not recognize him. "i wanted to buy one of these blank books," added bobby, picking up the one he had dropped on the floor in the struggle. "all stuff!" ejaculated timmins. "he is an impudent, obstinate puppy! in my opinion he meant to steal that book." "i asked him the price, and told him i wanted to buy it," added bobby, still averting his face. "well, i told him; and he said it was too high." "he asked me twenty-five cents for it." "is this true, timmins?" asked mr. bayard, sternly. "no, _sir_! i told him fourpence," replied timmins, boldly. "by gracious! what a whopper!" exclaimed bobby, startled out of his propriety by this monstrous lie. "he said twenty-five cents; and i told him i could buy one up in riverdale, where i came from, for six cents. can you deny that?" "it's a lie!" protested timmins. "riverdale," said mr. bayard. "are you from riverdale, boy?" "yes, sir, i am; and if you will look on your memorandum book you will find my name there." "bless me! i am sure i have seen that face before," exclaimed mr. bayard, as he grasped the hand of bobby, much to the astonishment and consternation of mr. timmins. "you are----" "robert bright, sir." "my brave little fellow! i am heartily glad to see you;" and the bookseller shook the hand he held with hearty good will. "i was thinking of you only a little while ago." "this fellow calls me a liar," said bobby, pointing to the astonished mr. timmins, who did not know what to make of the cordial reception which "country" was receiving from his employer. "well, robert, we know that _he_ is a liar; this is not the first time he has been caught in a lie. timmins, your time is out." the spruce clerk hung his head with shame and mortification. "i hope, sir, you will----" he began, but pride or fear stopped him short. "don't be hard with him, sir, if you please," said bobby. "i suppose i aggravated him." mr. bayard looked at the gentleman who stood by his side, and a smile of approbation lighted up his face. "generous as he is noble! butler, this is the boy that saved ellen." "indeed! he is a little giant!" replied mr. butler, grasping bobby's hand. even timmins glanced with something like admiration in his looks at the youth whom he had so lately despised. perhaps, too, he thought of that scripture wisdom about entertaining angels unawares. he was very much abashed, and nothing but his silly pride prevented him from acknowledging his error and begging bobby's forgiveness. "i can't have a liar about me," said mr. bayard. "there may be some mistake," suggested mr. butler. "i think not. robert bright couldn't lie. so brave and noble a boy is incapable of a falsehood. besides, i got a letter from my friend squire lee by this morning's mail, in which he informed me of my young friend's coming." mr. bayard took from his pocket a bundle of letters, and selected the squire's from among them. opening it, he read a passage which had a direct bearing upon the case before him. "'i do not know what bobby's faults are,'"--the letter said,--"'but this i do know: that bobby would rather be whipped than tell a lie. he is noted through the place for his love of truth.'--that is pretty strong testimony; and you see, bobby,--that's what the squire calls you,--your reputation has preceded you." bobby blushed, as he always did when he was praised, and mr. timmins was more abashed than ever. "did you hear that, timmins? who is the liar now?" said mr. bayard, turning to the culprit. "forgive me, sir, this time. if you turn me off now, i cannot get another place, and my mother depends upon my wages." "you ought to have thought of this before." "he aggravated me, sir, so that i wanted to pay him off." "as to that, he commenced upon me the moment i came into the store. but don't turn him off, if you please, sir," said bobby, who even now wished no harm to his discomfited assailant. "he will do better hereafter: won't you, timmins?" thus appealed to, timmins, though he did not relish so direct an inquiry, and from such a source, was compelled to reply in the affirmative; and mr. bayard graciously remitted the sentence he had passed against the offending clerk. "now, robert, you will come over to my house and dine with me. ellen will be delighted to see you." "thank you, sir," replied bobby, bashfully, "i have been to dinner"--referring to the luncheon he had eaten at brighton. "but you must go to the house with me." "i should be very glad to do so, sir, but i came on business. i will stay here with mr. timmins till you come back." the truth is, he had heard something about the fine houses of the city, and how stylish the people were, and he had some misgivings about venturing into such a strange and untried scene as the parlor of a boston merchant. "indeed, you must come with me. ellen would never forgive you or me, if you did not come." "i would rather rest here till you return," replied bobby, still willing to escape the fine house and the fine folks. "i walked from riverdale, sir, and i am rather tired." "walked!" exclaimed mr. bayard. "had you no money?" "yes, sir, enough to pay my passage; but dr. franklin says that 'a penny saved is a penny earned,' and i thought i would try it. i shall get rested by the time you return." "but you must go with me. timmins, go and get a carriage." timmins obeyed, and before mr. bayard had finished asking bobby how all the people in riverdale were, the carriage was at the door. there was no backing out now, and our hero was obliged to get into the vehicle, though it seemed altogether too fine for a poor boy like him. mr. bayard and mr. butler (whom the former had invited to dine with him) seated themselves beside him, and the driver was directed to set them down at no. --, chestnut street, where they soon arrived. though my readers would, no doubt, be very much amused to learn how carefully bobby trod the velvet carpets, how he stared with wonder at the drapery curtains, at the tall mirrors, the elegant chandeliers, and the fantastically shaped chairs and tables that adorned mr. bayard's parlor, the length of our story does not permit us to pause over these trivial matters. when ellen bayard was informed that her little deliverer was in the house, she rushed into the parlor like a hoiden school girl, grasped both his hands, kissed both his rosy cheeks, and behaved just as though she had never been to a boarding school in her life. she had thought a great deal about bobby since that eventful day, and the more she thought of him, the more she liked him. her admiration of him was not of that silly, sentimental character which moonstruck young ladies cherish towards those immaculate young men who have saved them from drowning in a horse pond, pulled them back just as they were tumbling over a precipice two thousand five hundred feet high, or rescued them from a house seven stories high, bearing them down a ladder seventy-five odd feet long. the fact was, bobby was a boy of thirteen and there was no chance for much sentiment; so the young lady's regard was real, earnest, and lifelike. ellen said a great many very handsome things; but i am sure she never thought of such a thing as that he would run away with her, in case her papa was unnecessarily obstinate. she was very glad to see him, and i have no doubt she wished bobby might be her brother, it would be so glorious to have such a noble little fellow always with her. bobby managed the dinner much better than he had anticipated; for mr. bayard insisted that he should sit down with them, whether he ate anything or not. but the rubicon passed, our hero found that he had a pretty smart appetite, and did full justice to the viands set before him. it is true the silver forks, the napkins, the finger bowls, and other articles of luxury and show, to which he had been entirely unaccustomed, bothered him not a little; but he kept perfectly cool, and carefully observed how mr. butler, who sat next to him, handled the "spoon fork," what he did with the napkin and the finger bowl, so that, i will venture to say, not one in ten would have suspected he had not spent his life in the parlor of a millionaire. dinner over, the party returned to the parlor, where bobby unfolded his plan for the future. to make his story intelligible, he was obliged to tell them all about mr. hardhand. "the old wretch!" exclaimed mr. bayard. "but, robert, you must let me advance the sixty dollars, to pay squire lee." "no, sir; you have done enough in that way. i have given my note for the money." "whew!" said mr. butler. "and i shall soon earn enough to pay it." "no doubt of it. you are a lad of courage and energy, and you will succeed in everything you undertake." "i shall want you to trust me for a stock of books, on the strength of old acquaintance," continued bobby, who had now grown quite bold, and felt as much at home in the midst of the costly furniture, as he did in the "living room" of the old black house. "you shall have all the books you want." "i will pay for them as soon as i return. the truth is, mr. bayard, i mean to be independent. i didn't want to take that thirty-five dollars, though i don't know what mr. hardhand would have done to us, if i hadn't." "ellen said i ought to have given you a hundred, and i think so myself." "i am glad you didn't. too much money makes us fat and lazy." mr. bayard laughed at the easy self-possession of the lad--at his big talk; though, big as it was, it meant something. when he proposed to go to the store, he told bobby he had better stay at the house and rest himself. "no, sir; i want to start out to-morrow, and i must get ready to-day." "you had better put it off till the next day; you will feel more like it then." "now or never," replied bobby. "that is my motto, sir. if we have anything to do, now is always the best time to do it. dr. franklin says, 'never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day.'" "right, robert! you shall have your own way. i wish my clerks would adopt some of dr. franklin's wise saws. i should be a great deal better off in the course of a year if they would." chapter ix in which bobby opens various accounts, and wins his first victory "now, bobby, i understand your plan," said mr. bayard, when they reached the store; "but the details must be settled. where do you intend to go?" "i hardly know, sir. i suppose i can sell books almost anywhere." "very true; but in some places much better than in others." mr. bayard mentioned a large town about eighteen miles from the city, in which he thought a good trade might be carried on, and bobby at once decided to adopt the suggestion. "you can make this place your headquarters for the week; if books do not sell well right in the village, why, you can go out a little way, for the country in the vicinity is peopled by intelligent farmers, who are well off, and who can afford to buy books." "i was thinking of that; but what shall i take with me, sir?" "there is a new book just published, called 'the wayfarer,' which is going to have a tremendous run. it has been advertised in advance all over the country, so that you will find a ready sale for it. you will get it there before any one else, and have the market all to yourself." "'the wayfarer'? i have heard of it myself." "you shall take fifty copies with you, and if you find that you shall want more, write, and i will send them." "but i cannot carry fifty copies." "you must take the cars to b----, and have a trunk or box to carry your books in. i have a stout trunk down cellar which you shall have." "i will pay for it, sir." "never mind that, bobby; and you will want a small valise or carpet bag to carry your books from house to house. i will lend you one." "you are very kind, sir; i did not mean to ask any favors of you except to trust me for the books until my return." "all right, bobby." mr. bayard called the porter and ordered him to bring up the trunk, in which he directed mr. timmins to pack fifty "wayfarers." "now, how much will these books cost me apiece?" asked bobby. "the retail price is one dollar; the wholesale price is one third off; and you shall have them at what they cost me." "sixty-seven cents," added bobby. "that will give me a profit of thirty-three cents on each book." "just so." "perhaps mr. timmins will sell me one of those blank books now; for i like to have things down in black and white." "i will furnish you with something much better than that;" and mr. bayard left the counting room. in a moment he returned with a handsome pocket memorandum book, which he presented to the little merchant. "but i don't like to take it unless you will let me pay for it," said bobby, hesitating. "never mind it, my young friend. now you can sit down at my desk and open your accounts. i like to see boys methodical, and there is nothing like keeping accounts to make one accurate. keep your books posted up, and you will know where you are at any time." "i intend to keep an account of all i spend and all i receive, if it is no more than a cent." "right, my little man. have you ever studied book-keeping?" "no, sir, i suppose i haven't; but there was a page of accounts in the back part of the arithmetic i studied, and i got a pretty good idea of the thing from that. all the money received goes on one side, and all the money paid out goes on the other." "exactly so; in this book you had better open a book account first. if you wish, i will show you how." "thank you, sir; i should be very glad to have you;" and bobby opened the memorandum book, and seated himself at the desk. "write 'book account,' at the top of the pages, one word on each. very well. now write 'to fifty copies of "wayfarer," at sixty-seven cents, $ . ,' on the left-hand page, or debit side of the account." "i am not much of a writer," said bobby, apologetically. "you will improve. now, each day you will credit the amount of sales on the right hand page, or credit side of the account; so, when you have sold out, the balance due your debit side will be the profit on the lot. do you understand it?" bobby thought a moment before he could see through it; but his brain was active, and he soon managed the idea. "now you want a personal account;" and mr. bayard explained to him how to make this out. he then instructed him to enter on the debit side all he spent for travel, board, freight, and other charges. the next was the "profit and loss" account, which was to show him the net profit of the business. our hero, who had a decided taste for accounts, was very much pleased with this employment; and when the accounts were all opened, he regarded them with a great deal of satisfaction. he longed to commence his operations, if it were only for the pleasure of making the entries in this book. "one thing i forgot," said he, as he seized the pen, and under the cash account entered, "to cash from mother, $ . ." "now i am all right, i believe." "i think you are. now, the cars leave at seven in the morning. can you be ready for a start as early as that?" asked mr. bayard. "o, yes, sir, i hope so. i get up at half past four at home." "very well; my small valise is at the house; but i believe everything else is ready. now, i have some business to attend to; and if you will amuse yourself for an hour or two, we will go home then." "i shall want a lodging place when i am in the city; perhaps some of your folks can direct me to one where they won't charge too much." "as to that, bobby, you must go to my house whenever you are in the city." "law, sir! you live so grand, i couldn't think of going to your house. i am only a poor boy from the country, and i don't know how to behave myself among such nice folks." "you will do very well, bobby. ellen would never forgive me if i let you go anywhere else. so that is settled; you will go to my house. now, you may sit here, or walk out and see the sights." "if you please, sir, if mr. timmins will let me look at some of the books, i shouldn't wish for anything better. i should like to look at 'the wayfarer,' so that i shall know how to recommend it." "mr. timmins _will_ let you," replied mr. bayard, as he touched the spring of a bell on his desk. the dapper clerk came running into the counting room to attend the summons of his employer. "mr. timmins," continued mr. bayard, with a mischievous smile, "bring mr. bright a copy of 'the wayfarer.'" mr. timmins was astonished to hear "country" called "mister," astonished to hear his employer call him "mister," and bobby was astonished to hear himself called "mister." nevertheless, our hero enjoyed the joke. the clerk brought the book; and bobby proceeded to give it a thorough, critical examination. he read the preface, the table of contents, and several chapters of the work, before mr. bayard was ready to go home. "how do you like it, bobby?" asked the bookseller. "first rate." "you may take that copy in your hand; you will want to finish it." "thank you, sir; i will be careful of it." "you may keep it. let that be the beginning of your own private library." his own private library! bobby had not got far enough to dream of such a thing yet; but he thanked mr. bayard, and put the book under his arm. after tea, ellen proposed to her father that they should all go to the museum. mr. bayard acceded, and our hero was duly amazed at the drolleries perpetrated there. he had a good time; but it was so late when he went to bed, that he was a little fearful lest he should over-sleep himself in the morning. he did not, however, and was down in the parlor before any of the rest of the family were stirring. an early breakfast was prepared for him, at which mr. bayard, who intended to see him off, joined him. depositing his little bundle and the copy of "the wayfarer" in the valise provided for him, they walked to the store. the porter wheeled the trunk down to the railroad station, though bobby insisted upon doing it himself. the bookseller saw him and his baggage safely aboard of the cars, gave him a ticket, and then bade him an affectionate adieu. in a little while bobby was flying over the rail, and at about eight o'clock reached b----. the station master kindly permitted him to deposit his trunk in the baggage room, and to leave it there for the remainder of the week. taking a dozen of the books from the trunk, and placing them in his valise, he sallied out upon his mission. it must be confessed that his heart was filled with a tumult of emotions. the battle of life was before him. he was on the field, sword in hand, ready to plunge into the contest. it was victory or defeat. "march on, brave youth! the field of strife with peril fraught before thee lies; march on! the battle plain of life shall yield thee yet a glorious prize." it was of no use to shrink then, even if he had felt disposed to do so. he was prepared to be rebuffed, to be insulted, to be turned away from the doors at which he should seek admission; but he was determined to conquer. he had reached a house at which he proposed to offer "the wayfarer" for sale. his heart went pit pat, pit pat, and he paused before the door. "now or never!" exclaimed he, as he swung open the garden gate, and made his way up to the door. he felt some misgivings. it was so new and strange to him that he could hardly muster sufficient resolution to proceed farther. but his irresolution was of only a moment's duration. "now or never!" and he gave a vigorous knock at the door. it was opened by an elderly lady, whose physiognomy did not promise much. "good morning, ma'am. can i sell you a copy of 'the wayfarer' to-day? a new book, just published." "no; i don't want none of your books. there's more pedlers round the country now than you could shake a stick at in a month," replied the old lady, petulantly. "it is a very interesting book, ma'am; has an excellent moral." bobby had read the preface, as i before remarked. "it will suit you, ma'am; for you look just like a lady who wants to read something with a moral." bravo, bobby! the lady concluded that her face had a moral expression, and she was pleased with the idea. "let me see it;" and she asked bobby to walk in and be seated, while she went for her spectacles. as she was looking over the book, our hero went into a more elaborate recommendation of its merits. he was sure it would interest the young and the old; it taught a good lesson; it had elegant engravings; the type was large, which would suit her eyes; it was well printed and bound; and finally, it was cheap at one dollar. "i'll take it," said the old lady. "thank you, ma'am." bobby's first victory was achieved. "have you got a dollar?" asked the lady, as she handed him a two-dollar bill. "yes, ma'am;" and he gave her his only dollar and put the two in its place, prouder than a king who has conquered an empire. "thank you ma'am." bidding the lady a polite good morning, he left the house, encouraged by his success to go forward in his mission with undiminished hope. chapter x in which bobby is a little too smart the clouds were rolled back, and bobby no longer had a doubt as to the success of his undertaking. it requires but a little sunshine to gladden the heart, and the influence of his first success scattered all the misgivings he had cherished. two new england shillings is undoubtedly a very small sum of money; but bobby had made two shillings, and he would not have considered himself more fortunate if some unknown relative had left him a fortune. it gave him confidence in his powers, and as he walked away from the house, he reviewed the circumstances of his first sale. the old lady had told him at first she did not wish to buy a book, and, moreover, had spoken rather contemptuously of the craft to which he had now the honor to belong. he gave himself the credit of having conquered the old lady's prejudices. he had sold her a book in spite of her evident intention not to purchase. in short, he had, as we have before said, won a glorious victory, and he congratulated himself accordingly. but it was of no use to waste time in useless self-glorification, and bobby turned from the past to the future. there were forty-nine more books to be sold; so that the future was forty-nine times as big as the past. he saw a shoemaker's shop ahead of him, and he was debating with himself whether he should enter and offer his books for sale. it would do no harm, though he had but slight expectations of doing anything. there were three men at work in the shop--one of them a middle-aged man, the other two young men. they looked like persons of intelligence, and as soon as bobby saw them his hopes grew stronger. "can i sell you any books to-day?" asked the little merchant, as he crossed the threshold. "well, i don't know; that depends upon how smart you are," replied the eldest of the men. "it takes a pretty smart fellow to sell anything in this shop." "then i hope to sell each of you a book," added bobby, laughing at the badinage of the shoemaker. opening his valise he took out three copies of his book, and politely handed one to each of the men. "it isn't every book pedler that comes along who offers you such a work as that. 'the wayfarer' is decidedly _the_ book of the season." "you don't say so!" said the oldest shoemaker, with a laugh. "every pedler that comes along uses those words, precisely." "do they? they steal my thunder then." "you are an old one." "only thirteen. i was born where they don't fasten the door with a boiled carrot." "what do they fasten them with?" "they don't fasten them at all." "there are no book pedlers round there, then;" and all the shoemakers laughed heartily at this smart sally. "no; they are all shoemakers in our town." "you can take my hat, boy." "you will want it to put your head in; but i will take one dollar for that book instead." the man laughed, took out his wallet, and handed bobby the dollar, probably quite as much because he had a high appreciation of his smartness, as from any desire to possess the book. "won't you take one?" asked bobby, appealing to another of the men, who was apparently not more than twenty-four years of age. "no; i can't read," replied he roguishly. "let your wife read it to you, then." "my wife?" "certainly; she knows how to read, i will warrant." "how do you know i have got a wife?" "o, well, a fellow as good looking and good natured as you are could not have resisted till this time." "has you, tom," added the oldest shoemaker. "i cave in;" and he handed over the dollar, and laid the book upon his bench. bobby looked at the third man with some interest. he had said nothing, and scarcely heeded the fun which was passing between the little merchant and his companions. he was apparently absorbed in his examination of the book. he was a different kind of person from the others, and bobby's instinctive knowledge of human nature assured him that he was not to be gained by flattery or by smart sayings; so he placed himself in front of him, and patiently waited in silence for him to complete his examination. "you will find that he is a hard one," put in one of the others. bobby made no reply, and the two men who had bought books resumed their work. for five minutes our hero stood waiting for the man to finish his investigation into the merits of "the wayfarer." something told him not to say anything to this person; and he had some doubts about his purchasing. "i will take one," said the last shoemaker, as he handed bobby the dollar. "i am much obliged to you, gentlemen," said bobby, as he closed his valise. "when i come this way again i shall certainly call." "do; you have done what no other pedler ever did in this shop." "i shall take no credit to myself. the fact is, you are men of intelligence, and you want good books." bobby picked up his valise and left the shop, satisfied with those who occupied it, and satisfied with himself. "eight shillings!" exclaimed he, when he got into the road. "pretty good hour's work, i should say." bobby trudged along till he came to a very large, elegant house, evidently dwelt in by one of the nabobs of b----. inspired by past successes, he walked boldly up to the front door, and rang the bell. "is mr. whiting in?" asked bobby, who had read the name on the door plate. "colonel whiting _is_ in," replied the servant, who had opened the door. "i should like to see him for a moment, if he isn't busy." "walk in;" and for some reason or other the servant chuckled a great deal as she admitted him. she conducted him to a large, elegantly furnished parlor, where bobby proceeded to take out his books for the inspection of the nabob, whom the servant promised to send to the parlor. in a moment colonel whiting entered. he was a large, fat man, about fifty years old. he looked at the little book merchant with a frown that would have annihilated a boy less spunky than our hero. bobby was not a little inflated by the successes of the morning, and if julius cæsar or napoleon bonaparte had stood before him then, he would not have flinched a hair--much less in the presence of no greater magnate than the nabob of b----. "good morning, colonel whiting. i hope you are well this beautiful morning." bobby began. i must confess i think this was a little too familiar for a boy of thirteen to a gentleman of fifty, whom he had never seen before in his life; but it must be remembered that bobby had done a great deal the week before, that on the preceding night he had slept in chestnut street, and that he had just sold four copies of "the wayfarer." he was inclined to be smart, and some folks hate smart boys. the nabob frowned; his cheek reddened with anger; but he did not condescend to make any reply to the smart speech. "i have taken the liberty to call upon you this morning, to see if you did not wish to purchase a copy of 'the wayfarer'--a new book just issued from the press, which people say is to be the book of the season." my young readers need not suppose this was an impromptu speech, for bobby had studied upon it all the time he was coming from boston in the cars. it would be quite natural for a boy who had enjoyed no greater educational advantages than our hero to consider how he should address people into whose presence his calling would bring him; and he had prepared several little addresses of this sort, for the several different kinds of people whom he expected to encounter. the one he had just "got off" was designed for the "upper crust." when he had delivered the speech, he approached the indignant, frowning nabob, and, with a low bow, offered him a copy of "the wayfarer." "boy," said colonel whiting, raising his arm with majestic dignity, and pointing to the door,--"boy, do you see that door?" bobby looked at the door, and, somewhat astonished, replied that he did see it, that it was a very handsome door, and he would inquire whether it was black walnut, or only painted in imitation thereof. "do you see that door?" thundered the nabob, swelling with rage at the cool impudence of the boy. "certainly i do, sir; my eyesight is excellent." "then use it!" "thank you, sir; i have no use for it. probably it will be of more service to you than to me." "will you clear out, or shall i kick you out?" gasped the enraged magnate of b----. "i will save you that trouble, sir; i will go, sir. i see we have both made a mistake." "mistake? what do you mean by that, you young puppy? you are a little impudent, thieving scoundrel!" "that is your mistake, sir. i took you for a gentleman, sir; and that was my mistake." "ha, ha, ha!" laughed a sweet, musical voice, and at that moment a beautiful young lady rushed up to the angry colonel, and threw her arms around his neck. "the jade!" muttered he. "i have caught you in a passion again, uncle;" and the lady kissed the old gentleman's anger-reddened cheek, which seemed to restore him at once to himself. "it was enough to make a minister swear," said he, in apology. "no, it wasn't, uncle; the boy was a little pert, it is true; but you ought to have laughed at him, instead of getting angry. i heard the whole of it." "pert?" said bobby to himself. "what the deuce does she mean by that?" "very well, you little minx; i will pay the penalty." "come here, master pert," said the lady to bobby. bobby bowed, approached the lady, and began to feel very much embarrassed. "my uncle," she continued, "is one of the best-hearted men in the world--ain't you, uncle?" "go on, you jade!" "i love him, as i would my own father; but he will sometimes get into a passion. now, you provoked him." "indeed, ma'am, i hadn't the least idea of saying anything uncivil," pleaded bobby. "i studied to be as polite as possible." "i dare say. you were too important, too pompous, for a boy to an old gentleman like uncle, who is really one of the best men in the world. now, if you hadn't _studied_ to be polite, you would have done very well." "indeed, ma'am, i am a poor boy, trying to make a little money to help my mother. i am sure i meant no harm." "i know you didn't. so you are selling books to help your mother?" "yes, ma'am." she inquired still further into the little merchant's history, and seemed to be very much interested in him. in a frolic, a few days before, bobby learned from her, colonel whiting had agreed to pay any penalty she might name, the next time he got into a passion. "now, young man, what book have you to sell?" asked the lady. "'the wayfarer.'" "how many have you in your valise?" "eight." "very well; now, uncle, i decree, as the penalty of your indiscretion, that you purchase the whole stock." "i submit." "'the wayfarer' promises to be an excellent book; and i can name at least half a dozen persons who will thank you for a copy, uncle." colonel whiting paid bobby eight dollars, who left the contents of his valise on the centre table, and then departed, astounded at his good fortune, and fully resolved never to be too smart again. chapter xi in which bobby strikes a balance, and returns to riverdale our hero had learned a lesson which experience alone could teach him. the consciousness of that "something within him" inclined him to be a little too familiar with his elders; but then it gave him confidence in himself, and imparted courage to go forward in the accomplishment of his mission. his interview with colonel whiting and the gentle but plain rebuke of his niece had set him right, and he realized that, while he was doing a man's work, he was still a boy. he had now a clearer perception of what is due to the position and dignity of those upon whom fortune has smiled. bobby wanted to be a man, and it is not strange that he should sometimes fancy he was a man. he had an idea, too, that "all men are born free and equal;" and he could not exactly see why a nabob was entitled to any more respect and consideration than a poor man. it was a lesson he was compelled to learn, though some folks live out their lifetimes without ever finding out that. "'tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable men." some people think a rich man is no better than a poor man, except so far as he behaves himself better. it is strange how stupid some people are! bobby had no notion of cringing to any man, and he felt as independent as the declaration of independence itself. but then the beautiful lady had told him that he was pert and forward; and when he thought it over, he was willing to believe she was right. colonel whiting was an old man, compared with himself; and he had some faith, at least in theory, in the spartan virtue of respect for the aged. probably the nabob of b---- would have objected to being treated with respect on account of his age; and bobby would have been equally unwilling to acknowledge that he treated him with peculiar respect on account of his wealth or position. perhaps the little merchant had an instinctive perception of expediency--that he should sell more books by being less familiar; at any rate he determined never again to use the flowery speeches he had arranged for the upper crust. he had sold a dozen books; and possibly this fact made him more willing to compromise the matter than he would otherwise have been. this was, after all, the great matter for congratulation, and with a light heart he hurried back to the railroad station to procure another supply. we cannot follow him into every house where his calling led him. he was not always as fortunate as in the instances we have mentioned. sometimes all his arguments were unavailing, and after he had spent half an hour of valuable time in setting forth the merits of "the wayfarer," he was compelled to retire without having effected a sale. sometimes, too, he was rudely repulsed; hard epithets were applied to him; old men and old women, worried out by the continued calls of pedlers, sneered at him, or shut the door in his face; but bobby was not disheartened. he persevered, and did not allow these little trials to discompose or discourage him. by one o'clock on the first day of his service he had sold eighteen books, which far exceeded even his most sanguine expectations. by this time he began to feel the want of his dinner; but there was no tavern or eating house at hand, and he could not think of leaving the harvest to return to the railroad station; so he bought a sheet of gingerbread and a piece of cheese at a store, and seating himself near a brook by the side of the road, he bolted his simple meal, as boys are very apt to do when they are excited. when he had finished, he took out his account book, and entered, "dinner, cents." resuming his business, he disposed of the remaining six books in his valise by the middle of the afternoon, and was obliged to return for another supply. about six o'clock he entered the house of a mechanic, just as the family were sitting down to tea. he recommended his book with so much energy, that the wife of the mechanic took a fancy to him, and not only purchased one, but invited him to tea. bobby accepted the invitation, and in the course of the meal the good lady drew from him the details of his history, which he very modestly related, for though he sometimes fancied himself a man, he was not the boy to boast of his exploits. his host was so much pleased with him, that he begged him to spend the night with them. bobby had been thinking how and where he should spend the night, and the matter had given him no little concern. he did not wish to go to the hotel, for it looked like a very smart house, and he reasoned that he should have to pay pretty roundly for accommodations there. these high prices would eat up his profits, and he seriously deliberated whether it would not be better for him to sleep under a tree than pay fifty cents for a lodging. if i had been there i should have told him that a man loses nothing in the long run by taking good care of himself. he must eat well and sleep well, in order to do well and be well. but i suppose bobby would have told me that it was of no use to pay a quarter extra for sleeping on a gilded bedstead, since the room would be so dark he could not see the gilt even if he wished to do so. i could not have said anything to such a powerful argument, so i am very glad the mechanic's wife set the matter at rest by offering him a bed in her house. he spent a very pleasant evening with the family, who made him feel entirely at home, they were so kind and so plain spoken. before he went to bed, he entered under the book account, "by twenty-six 'wayfarers,' sold this day, $ . ." he had done a big day's work, much bigger than he could hope to do again. he had sold more than one half of his whole stock, and at this rate he should be out of books the next day. at first he thought he would send for another lot; but he could not judge yet what his average daily sales would be, and finally concluded not to do so. what he had might last till friday or saturday. he intended to go home on the latter day, and he could bring them with him on his return without expense. this was considerable of an argument for a boy to manage; but bobby was satisfied with it, and went to sleep, wondering what his mother, squire lee, and annie were thinking of about that time. after breakfast the next morning he resumed his travels. he was as enthusiastic as ever, and pressed "the wayfarer" with so much earnestness that he sold a book in nearly every house he visited. people seemed to be more interested in the little merchant than in his stock, and taking advantage of this kind feeling towards him, he appealed to them with so much eloquence that few could resist it. the result of the day's sales was fifteen copies, which bobby entered in the book account with the most intense satisfaction. he had outdone the boy who had passed through riverdale, but he had little hope that the harvest would always be so abundant. he often thought of this boy, from whom he had obtained the idea he was now carrying out. that boy had stopped over night at the little black house, and slept with him. he had asked for lodging, and offered to pay for it, as well as for his supper and breakfast. why couldn't he do the same? he liked the suggestion, and from that time, wherever he happened to be, he asked for lodging, or the meal he required; and he always proposed to pay for what he had, but very few would take anything. on friday noon he had sold out. returning to the railroad station, he found that the train would not leave for the city for an hour; so he improved the time in examining and balancing his accounts. the book sales amounted to just fifty dollars, and, after his ticket to boston was paid for, his expenses would amount to one dollar and fifty cents, leaving a balance in his favor of fifteen dollars. he was overjoyed with the result, and pictured the astonishment with which his mother, squire lee, and annie would listen to the history of his excursion. after four o'clock that afternoon he entered the store of mr. bayard, bag and baggage. on his arrival in the city, he was considerably exercised in mind to know how he should get the trunk to his destination. he was too economical to pay a cartman a quarter; but what would have seemed mean in a man was praiseworthy in a boy laboring for a noble end. probably a great many of my young readers in bobby's position, thinking that sixteen dollars, which our hero had in his pocket, was a mint of money, would have been in favor of being a little magnificent,--of taking a carriage and going up-town in state. bobby had not the least desire to "swell;" so he settled the matter by bargaining with a little ragged fellow to help him carry the trunk to mr. bayard's store for fourpence. "how do you do, mr. timmins?" said bobby to the spruce clerk, as he deposited the trunk upon the floor, and handed the ragged boy the fourpence. "ah, bobby!" exclaimed mr. timmins. "have you sold out?" "all clean. is mr. bayard in?" "in the office. but how do you like it?" "first rate." "well, every one to his taste; but i don't see how any one who has any regard for his dignity can stick himself into everybody's house. i couldn't do it, i know." "i don't stand for the dignity." "ah, well, there is a difference in folks." "that's a fact," replied bobby, as he hurried to the office of mr. bayard, leaving mr. timmins to sun himself in his own dignity. the bookseller was surprised to see him so soon, but he gave him a cordial reception. "i didn't expect you yet," said he. "why do you come back? have you got sick of the business?" "sick of it! no, sir." "what have you come back for, then?" "sold out, sir." "sold out! you have done well!" "better than i expected." "i had no idea of seeing you till to-morrow night; and i thought you would have books enough to begin the next week with. you have done bravely." "if i had had twenty more, i could have sold them before to-morrow night. now, sir, if you please, i will pay you for those books--thirty-three dollars and fifty cents." "you had better keep that, bobby. i will trust you as long as you wish." "if you please, sir, i had rather pay it;" and the little merchant, as proud as a lord, handed over the amount. "i like your way of doing business, bobby. nothing helps a man's credit so much as paying promptly. now tell me some of your adventures--or we will reserve them till this evening, for i am sure ellen will be delighted to hear them." "i think i shall go to riverdale this afternoon. the cars leave at half past five." "very well; you have an hour to spare." bobby related to his kind friend the incidents of his excursion, including his interview with colonel whiting and his niece, which amused the bookseller very much. he volunteered some good advice, which bobby received in the right spirit, and with a determination to profit by it. at half past five he took the cars for home, and before dark was folded in his mother's arms. the little black house seemed doubly dear to him now that he had been away from it a few days. his mother and all the children were so glad to see him that it seemed almost worth his while to go away for the pleasure of meeting them on his return. chapter xii in which bobby astonishes sundry persons and pays part of his note "now tell me, bobby, how you have made out," said mrs. bright, as the little merchant seated himself at the supper table. "you cannot have done much, for you have only been gone five days." "i have done pretty well, mother," replied bobby, mysteriously; "pretty well, considering that i am only a boy." "i didn't expect to see you till to-morrow night." "i sold out, and had to come home." "that may be, and still you may not have done much." "i don't pretend that i have done much." "how provoking you are! why don't you tell me, bobby, what you have done?" "wait a minute, mother, till i have done my supper, and then i will show you the footings in my ledger." "your ledger!" "yes, my ledger. i keep a ledger now." "you are a great man, mr. robert bright," laughed his mother. "i suppose the people took their hats off when they saw you coming." "not exactly, mother." "perhaps the governor came out to meet you when he heard you were on the road." "perhaps he did; i didn't see him, however. this apple pie tastes natural, mother. it is a great luxury to get home after one has been travelling." "very likely." "no place like home, after all is done and said. who was the fellow that wrote that song, mother?" "i forget; the paper said he spent a great many years in foreign parts. my sake! bobby, one would think by your talk that you had been away from home for a year." "it seems like a year," said he, as he transferred another quarter of the famous apple pie to his plate. "i miss home very much. i don't more than half like being among strangers so much." "it is your own choice; no one wants you to go away from home." "i must pay my debts, anyhow. don't i owe squire lee sixty dollars?" "but i can pay that." "it is my affair, you see." "if it is your affair, then i owe you sixty dollars." "no, you don't; i calculate to pay my board now. i am old enough and big enough to do something." "you have done something ever since you were old enough to work." "not much; i don't wonder that miserable old hunker of a hardhand twitted me about it. by the way, have you heard anything from him?" "not a thing." "he has got enough of us, i reckon." "you mustn't insult him, bobby, if you happen to see him." "never fear me." "you know the bible says we must love our enemies, and pray for them that despitefully use us and persecute us." "i should pray that the old nick might get him." "no, bobby; i hope you haven't forgot all your sunday school lessons." "i was wrong, mother," replied bobby, a little moved. "i did not mean so. i shall try to think as well of him as i can; but i can't help thinking, if all the world was like him, what a desperate hard time we should have of it." "we must thank the lord that he has given us so many good and true men." "such as squire lee, for instance," added bobby, as he rose from the table and put his chair back against the wall. "the squire is fit to be a king; and though i believe in the constitution and the declaration of independence, i wouldn't mind seeing a crown upon his head." "he will receive his crown in due time," replied mrs. bright, piously. "the squire?" "the crown of rejoicing, i mean." "just so; the squire is a nice man; and i know another just like him." "who?" "mr. bayard; they are as near alike as two peas." "i am dying to know about your journey." "wait a minute, mother, till we clear away the supper things;" and bobby took hold, as he had been accustomed, to help remove and wash the dishes. "you needn't help now, bobby." "yes, i will, mother." somehow our hero's visit to the city did not seem to produce the usual effect upon him; for a great many boys, after they had been abroad, would have scorned to wash dishes and wipe them. a week in town has made many a boy so smart that you couldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. it starches them up so stiff that sometimes they don't know their own mothers, and deem it a piece of condescension to speak a word to the patriarch in a blue frock who had the honor of supporting them in childhood. bobby was none of this sort. we lament that he had a habit of talking big, that is, of talking about business affairs in a style a little beyond his years. but he was modest to a fault, paradoxical as it may seem. he was always blushing when anybody spoke a pretty thing about him. probably the circumstances of his position elevated him above the sphere of the mere boy; he had spent but little time in play, and his attention had been directed at all times to the wants of his mother. he had thought a great deal about business, especially since the visit of the boy who sold books to the little black house. some boys are born merchants, and from their earliest youth have a genius for trade. they think of little else. they "play shop" before they wear jackets, and drive a barter trade in jackknives, whistles, tops, and fishing lines long before they get into their teens. they are shrewd even then, and obtain a taste for commerce before they are old enough to know the meaning of the word. we saw a boy in school, not long since, give the value of eighteen cents for a little stunted quince; boys have a taste for raw quinces, strange as it may seem. undoubtedly he had no talent for trade, and would make a very indifferent tin pedler. our hero was shrewd. he always got the best end of the bargain; though, i am happy to say, his integrity was too unyielding to let him cheat his fellows. we have made this digression so that my young readers may know why bobby was so much given to big talk. the desire to do something worthy of a good son turned his attention to matters above his sphere; and thinking of great things, he had come to talk great things. it was not a bad fault, after all. boys need not necessarily be frivolous. play is a good thing, an excellent thing, in its place, and is as much a part of the boy's education as his grammar and arithmetic. it not only develops his muscles, but enlarges his mental capacity; it not only fills with excitement the idle hours of the long day, but it sharpens the judgment, and helps to fit the boy for the active duties of life. it need not be supposed, because bobby had to turn his attention to serious things, that he was not fond of fun; that he could not or did not play. at a game of round ball, he was a lucky fellow who secured him upon his side; for the same energy which made him a useful son rendered him a desirable hand in a difficult game. when the supper things were all removed, the dishes washed and put away, bobby drew out his pocket memorandum book. it was a beautiful article, and mrs. bright was duly astonished at its gilded leaves and the elegant workmanship. very likely her first impulse was to reprove her son for such a piece of reckless extravagance; but this matter was set right by bobby's informing her how it came into his possession. "here is my ledger, mother," he said, handing her the book. mrs. bright put on her spectacles, and after bestowing a careful scrutiny upon the memorandum book, turned to the accounts. "fifty books!" she exclaimed, as she read the first entry. "yes, mother; and i sold them all." "fifty dollars!" "but i had to pay for the books out of that." "to be sure you had; but i suppose you made as much as ten cents apiece on them, and that would be--let me see; ten times fifty----" "but i made more than that, i hope." "how much?" the proud young merchant referred her to the profit and loss account, which exhibited a balance of fifteen dollars. "gracious! three dollars a day!" "just so, mother. now i will pay you the dollar i borrowed of you when i went away." "you didn't borrow it of me." "but i shall pay it." mrs. bright was astonished at this unexpected and gratifying result. if she had discovered a gold mine in the cellar of the little black house, it could not have afforded her so much satisfaction; for this money was the reward of her son's talent and energy. her own earnings scarcely ever amounted to more than three or four dollars a week, and bobby, a boy of thirteen, had come home with fifteen for five days' work. she could scarcely believe the evidence of her own senses, and she ceased to wonder that he talked big. it was nearly ten o'clock when the widow and her son went to bed, so deeply were they interested in discussing our hero's affairs. he had intended to call upon squire lee that night, but the time passed away so rapidly that he was obliged to defer it till the next day. after breakfast the following morning, he hastened to pay the intended visit. there was a tumult of strange emotions in his bosom as he knocked at the squire's door. he was proud of the success he had achieved, and even then his cheek burned under the anticipated commendations which his generous friend would bestow upon him. besides, annie would be glad to see him, for she had expressed such a desire when they parted on the monday preceding. i don't think that bobby cherished any silly ideas, but the sympathy of the little maiden fell not coldly or unwelcomely upon his warm heart. in coming from the house he had placed his copy of "the wayfarer" under his arm, for annie was fond of reading; and on the way over, he had pictured to himself the pleasure she would derive from reading _his_ book. of course he received a warm welcome from the squire and his daughter. each of them had bestowed more than a thought upon the little wanderer as he went from house to house, and more than once they had conversed together about him. "well, bobby, how is trade in the book line?" asked the squire, after the young pilgrim had been cordially greeted. "pretty fair," replied bobby, with as much indifference as he could command, though it was hard even to seem indifferent then and there. "where have you been travelling?" "in b----." "fine place. books sell well there?" "very well; in fact, i sold out all my stock by noon yesterday." "how many books did you carry?" "fifty." "you did well." "i should think you did!" added annie, with an enthusiasm which quite upset all bobby's assumed indifference. "fifty books!" "yes, miss annie; and i have brought you a copy of the book i have been selling; i thought you would like to read it. it is a splendid work, and will be _the_ book of the season." "i shall be delighted to read it," replied annie, taking the proffered volume. "it looks real good," she continued, as she turned over the leaves. "it is first rate; i have read it through." "it was very kind of you to think of me when you have so much business on your mind," added she, with a roguish smile. "i shall never have so much business on my mind that i cannot think of my friends," replied bobby, so gallantly and so smartly that it astonished himself. "i was just thinking what i should read next; i am _so_ glad you have come." "never mind her, bobby; all she wanted was the book," interposed squire lee, laughing. "now, pa!" "then i shall bring her one very often." "you are too bad, pa," said annie, who, like most young ladies just entering their teens, resented any imputation upon the immaculateness of human love, or human friendship. "i have got a little money for you, squire lee," continued bobby, thinking it time the subject was changed. he took out his gilded memorandum book, whose elegant appearance rather startled the squire, and from its "treasury department" extracted the little roll of bills, representing an aggregate of ten dollars, which he had carefully reserved for his creditor. "never mind that, bobby," replied the squire. "you will want all your capital to do business with." "i must pay my debts before i think of anything else." "a very good plan, bobby, but this is an exception to the general rule." "no, sir, i think not. if you please, i insist upon paying you ten dollars on my note." "o, well, if you insist, i suppose i can't help myself." "i would rather pay it, i shall feel so much better." "you want to indorse it on the note, i suppose." that was just what bobby wanted. indorsed on the note was the idea, and our hero had often passed that expression through his mind. there was something gratifying in the act to a man of business integrity like himself; it was discharging a sacred obligation,--he had already come to deem it a sacred duty to pay one's debts,--and as the squire wrote the indorsement across the back of the note, he felt more like a hero than ever before. "'pay as you go' is an excellent idea; john randolph called it the philosopher's stone," added squire lee, as he returned the note to his pocket book. "that is what i mean to do just as soon as i can." "you will do, bobby." the young merchant spent nearly the whole forenoon at the squire's, and declined an invitation to dinner only on the plea that his mother would wait for him. chapter xiii in which bobby declines a copartnership and visits b---- again after dinner bobby performed his saturday afternoon chores as usual. he split wood enough to last for a week, so that his mother might not miss him too much, and then, feeling a desire to visit his favorite resorts in the vicinity, he concluded to go a fishing. the day was favorable, the sky being overcast and the wind very light. after digging a little box of worms in the garden back of the house, he shouldered his fish pole; and certainly no one would have suspected that he was a distinguished travelling merchant. he was fond of fishing, and it is a remarkable coincidence that daniel webster, and many other famous men, have manifested a decided passion for this exciting sport. no doubt a fondness for angling is a peculiarity of genius; and if being an expert fisherman makes a great man, then our hero was a great man. he had scarcely seated himself on his favorite rock, and dropped his line into the water, before he saw tom spicer approaching the spot. the bully had never been a welcome companion. there was no sympathy between them. they could never agree, for their views, opinions, and tastes were always conflicting. bobby had not seen tom since he left him to crawl out of the ditch on the preceding week, and he had good reason to believe that he should not be regarded with much favor. tom was malicious and revengeful, and our hero was satisfied that the blow which had prostrated him in the ditch would not be forgotten till it had been atoned for. he was prepared, therefore, for any disagreeable scene which might occur. there was another circumstance also which rendered the bully's presence decidedly unpleasant at this time,--an event that had occurred during his absence, the particulars of which he had received from his mother. tom's father, who was a poor man, and addicted to intemperance, had lost ten dollars. he had brought it home, and, as he affirmed, placed it in one of the bureau drawers. the next day it could not be found. spicer, for some reason, was satisfied that tom had taken it; but the boy stoutly and persistently denied it. no money was found upon him, however, and it did not appear that he had spent any at the stores in riverdale centre. the affair created some excitement in the vicinity, for spicer made no secret of his suspicions, and publicly accused tom of the theft. he did not get much sympathy from any except his pot companions; for there was no evidence but his bare and unsupported statement to substantiate the grave accusation. tom had been in the room when the money was placed in the drawer, and, as his father asserted, had watched him closely, while he deposited the bills under the clothing. no one else could have taken it. these were the proofs. but people generally believed that spicer had carried no money home, especially as it was known that he was intoxicated on the night in question; and that the alleged theft was only a ruse to satisfy certain importunate creditors. everybody knew that tom was bad enough to steal, even from his father; from which my readers can understand that it is an excellent thing to have a good reputation. bobby knew that he would lie and use profane language; that he spent his sundays by the river, or in roaming through the woods; and that he played truant from school as often as the fear of the rod would permit; and the boy that would do all these things certainly would steal if he got a good chance. our hero's judgment, therefore, of the case was not favorable to the bully, and he would have thanked him to stay away from the river while he was there. "hallo, bob! how are you?" shouted tom, when he had come within hailing distance. "very well," replied bobby, rather coolly. "been to boston, they say." "yes." "well, how did you like it?" continued tom, as he seated himself on the rock near our hero. "first rate." "been to work there?" "no." "what have you been doing?" "travelling about." "what doing?" "selling books." "was you, though? did you sell any?" "yes, a few." "how many?" "o, about fifty." "you didn't, though--did you? how much did you make?" "about fifteen dollars." "by jolly! you are a smart one, bobby. there are not many fellows that would have done that." "easy enough," replied bobby, who was not a little surprised at this warm commendation from one whom he regarded as his enemy. "you had to buy the books first--didn't you?" asked tom, who began to manifest a deep interest in the trade. "of course; no one will give you the books." "what do you pay for them?" "i buy them so as to make a profit on them," answered bobby, who, like a discreet merchant, was not disposed to be too communicative. "that business would suit me first rate." "it is pretty hard work." "i don't care for that. don't you believe i could do something in this line?" "i don't know; perhaps you could." "why not, as well as you?" this was a hard question; and, as bobby did not wish to be uncivil, he talked about a big pout he hauled in at that moment, instead of answering it. he was politic, and deprecated the anger of the bully; so, though tom plied him pretty hard, he did not receive much satisfaction. "you see, tom," said he, when he found that his companion insisted upon knowing the cost of the books, "this is a publisher's secret; and i dare say they would not wish every one to know the cost of books. we sell them for a dollar apiece." "humph! you needn't be so close about it. i'll bet i can find out." "i have no doubt you can; only, you see, i don't want to tell what i am not sure they would be willing i should tell." tom took a slate pencil from his pocket, and commenced ciphering on the smooth rock upon which he sat. "you say you sold fifty books?" "yes." "well; if you made fifteen dollars out of fifty, that is thirty cents apiece." bobby was a little mortified when he perceived that he had unwittingly exposed the momentous secret. he had not given tom credit for so much sagacity as he had displayed in his inquiries; and as he had fairly reached his conclusion, he was willing he should have the benefit of it. "you sold them at a dollar apiece. thirty from a hundred leaves seventy. they cost you seventy cents each--didn't they?" "sixty-seven," replied bobby, yielding the point. "enough said, bob; i am going into that business, anyhow." "i am willing." "of course you are; suppose we go together," suggested tom, who had not used all this conciliation without having a purpose in view. "we could do nothing together." "i should like to get out with you just once, only to see how it is done." "you can find out for yourself, as i did." "don't be mean, bob." "mean? i am not mean." "i don't say you are. we have always been good friends, you know." bobby did not know it; so he looked at the other with a smile which expressed all he meant to say. "you hit me a smart dig the other day, i know; but i don't mind that. i was in the wrong then, and i am willing to own it," continued tom, with an appearance of humility. this was an immense concession for tom to make, and bobby was duly affected by it. probably it was the first time the bully had ever owned he was in the wrong. "the fact is, bob, i always liked you; and you know i licked ben dowse for you." "that was two for yourself and one for me; besides, i didn't want ben thrashed." "but he deserved it. didn't he tell the master you were whispering in school?" "i was whispering; so he told the truth." "it was mean to blow on a fellow, though." "the master asked him if i whispered to him; of course he ought not to lie about it. but he told of you at the same time." "i know it; but i wouldn't have licked him on my own account." "_perhaps_ you wouldn't." "i know i wouldn't. but, i say, bobby, where do you buy your books?" "at mr. bayard's, in washington street." "he will sell them to me at the same price--won't he?" "i don't know." "when are you going again?" "monday." "won't you let me go with you, bob?" "let you? of course you can go where you please; it is none of my business." bobby did not like the idea of having such a copartner as tom spicer, and he did not like to tell him so. if he did, he would have to give his reasons for declining the proposition, and that would make tom mad, and perhaps provoke him to quarrel. the fish bit well, and in an hour's time bobby had a mess. as he took his basket and walked home, the young ruffian followed him. he could not get rid of him till he reached the gate in front of the little black house; and even there tom begged him to stop a few moments. our hero was in a hurry, and in the easiest manner possible got rid of this aspirant for mercantile honors. we have no doubt a journal of bobby's daily life would be very interesting to our young readers; but the fact that some of his most stirring adventures are yet to be related admonishes us to hasten forward more rapidly. on monday morning bobby bade adieu to his mother again, and started for boston. he fully expected to encounter tom on the way, who, he was afraid, would persist in accompanying him on his tour. as before, he stopped at squire lee's to bid him and annie good by. the little maiden had read "the wayfarer" more than half through, and was very enthusiastic in her expression of the pleasure she derived from it. she promised to send it over to his house when she had finished it, and hoped he would bring his stock to riverdale, so that she might again replenish her library. bobby thought of something just then, and the thought brought forth a harvest on the following saturday, when he returned. when he had shaken hands with the squire and was about to depart, he received a piece of news which gave him food for an hour's serious reflection. "did you hear about tom spicer?" asked squire lee. "no, sir; what about him?" "broken his arm." "broken his arm! gracious! how did it happen?" exclaimed bobby, the more astonished because he had been thinking of tom since he had left home. "he was out in the woods yesterday, where boys should not be on sundays, and, in climbing a tree after a bird's nest, he fell to the ground." "i am sorry for him," replied bobby, musing. "so am i; but if he had been at home, or at church, where he should have been, it would not have happened. if i had any boys, i would lock them up in their chambers if i could not keep them at home sundays." "poor tom!" mused bobby, recalling the conversation he had had with him on saturday, and then wishing that he had been a little more pliant with him. "it is too bad; but i must say i am more sorry for his poor mother than i am for him," added the squire. "however, i hope it will do him good, and be a lesson he will remember as long as he lives." bobby bade the squire and annie adieu again, resumed his journey towards the railroad station. his thoughts were busy with tom spicer's case. the reason why he had not joined him, as he expected and feared he would, was now apparent. he pitied him, for he realized that he must endure a great deal of pain before he could again go out; but he finally dismissed the matter with the squire's sage reflection, that he hoped the calamity would be a good lesson to him. the young merchant did not walk to boston this time, for he had come to the conclusion that, in the six hours it would take him to travel to the city on foot, the profit on the books he could sell would be more than enough to pay his fare, to say nothing of the fatigue and the expense of shoe leather. before noon he was at b---- again, as busy as ever in driving his business. the experience of the former week was of great value to him. he visited people belonging to all spheres in society, and, though he was occasionally repulsed or treated with incivility, he was not conscious in a single instance of offending any person's sense of propriety. he was not as fortunate as during the previous week, and it was saturday noon before he had sold out the sixty books he carried with him. the net profit for this week was fourteen dollars, with which he was abundantly pleased. mr. bayard again commended him in the warmest terms for his zeal and promptness. mr. timmins was even more civil than the last time, and when bobby asked the price of moore's poems, he actually offered to sell it to him for thirty-three per cent less than the retail price. the little merchant was on the point of purchasing it, when mr. bayard inquired what he wanted. "i am going to buy this book," replied bobby. "moore's poems?" "yes, sir." mr. bayard took from a glass case an elegantly bound copy of the same work--morocco, full gilt--and handed it to our hero. "i shall make you a present of this. are you an admirer of moore?" "no, sir; not exactly--that is, i don't know much about it; but annie lee does, and i want to get the book for her." bobby's cheeks reddened as he turned the leaves of the beautiful volume, putting his head down to the page to hide his confusion. "annie lee?" said mr. bayard with a quizzing smile. "i see how it is. rather young, bobby." "her father has been very good to me and to my mother; and so has annie, for that matter. squire lee would be a great deal more pleased if i should make annie a present than if i made him one. i feel grateful to him, and i want to let it out somehow." "that's right, bobby; always remember your friends. timmins, wrap up this book." bobby protested with all his might; but the bookseller insisted that he should give annie this beautiful edition, and he was obliged to yield the point. that evening he was at the little black house again, and his mother examined his ledger with a great deal of pride and satisfaction. that evening, too, another ten dollars was indorsed on the note, and annie received that elegant copy of moore's poems. chapter xiv in which bobby's air castle is upset and tom spicer takes to the woods during the next four weeks bobby visited various places in the vicinity of boston; and at the end of that time he had paid the whole of the debt he owed squire lee. he had the note in his memorandum book, and the fact that he had achieved his first great purpose afforded him much satisfaction. now he owed no man anything, and he felt as though he could hold up his head among the best people in the world. the little black house was paid for, and bobby was proud that his own exertions had released his mother from her obligation to her hard creditor. mr. hardhand could no longer insult and abuse her. the apparent results which bobby had accomplished, however, were as nothing compared with the real results. he had developed those energies of character which were to make him, not only a great business man, but a useful member of society. besides, there was a moral grandeur in his humble achievements which was more worthy of consideration than the mere worldly success he had obtained. motives determine the character of deeds. that a boy of thirteen should display so much enterprise and energy was a great thing; but that it should be displayed from pure, unselfish devotion to his mother was a vastly greater thing. many great achievements are morally insignificant, while many of which the world never hears mark the true hero. our hero was not satisfied with what he had done, and far from relinquishing his interesting and profitable employment, his ambition suggested new and wider fields of success. as one ideal, brilliant and glorious in its time, was reached, another more brilliant and more glorious presented itself, and demanded to be achieved. the little black house began to appear rusty and inconvenient; a coat of white paint would marvellously improve its appearance; a set of nice paris-green blinds would make a palace of it; and a neat fence around it would positively transform the place into a paradise. yet bobby was audacious enough to think of these things, and even to promise himself that they should be obtained. in conversation with mr. bayard a few days before, that gentleman had suggested a new field of labor; and it had been arranged that bobby should visit the state of maine the following week. on the banks of the kennebec were many wealthy and important towns, where the intelligence of the people created a demand for books. this time the little merchant was to take two hundred books, and be absent until they were all sold. on monday morning he started bright and early for the railroad station. as usual, he called upon squire lee, and informed annie that he should probably be absent three or four weeks. she hoped no accident would happen to him, and that his journey would be crowned with success. without being sentimental, she was a little sad, for bobby was a great friend of hers. that elegant copy of moore's poems had been gratefully received, and she was so fond of the bard's beautiful and touching melodies that she could never read any of them without thinking of the brave little fellow who had given her the volume; which no one will consider very remarkable, even in a little miss of twelve. after he had bidden her and her father adieu, he resumed his journey. of course he was thinking with all his might; but no one need suppose he was wondering how wide the kennebec river was, or how many books he should sell in the towns upon its banks. nothing of the kind; though it is enough even for the inquisitive to know that he was thinking of something, and that his thoughts were very interesting, not to say romantic. "hallo, bob!" shouted some one from the road side. bobby was provoked; for it is sometimes very uncomfortable to have a pleasant train of thought interrupted. the imagination is buoyant, ethereal, and elevates poor mortals up to the stars sometimes. it was so with bobby. he was building up some kind of an air castle, and had got up in the clouds amidst the fog and moonshine, and that aggravating voice brought him down, _slap_, upon terra firma. he looked up and saw tom spicer seated upon the fence. in his hand he held a bundle, and had evidently been waiting some time for bobby's coming. he had recovered from the illness caused by his broken arm, and people said it had been a good lesson for him, as the squire hoped it would be. bobby had called upon him two or three times during his confinement to the house; and tom, either truly repentant for his past errors, or lacking the opportunity at that time to manifest his evil propensities, had stoutly protested that he had "turned over a new leaf," and meant to keep out of the woods on sunday, stop lying and swearing, and become a good boy. bobby commended his good resolutions, and told him he would never want friends while he was true to himself. the right side, he declared, was always the best side. he quoted several instances of men, whose lives he had read in his sunday school books, to show how happy a good man may be in prison, or when all the world seemed to forsake him. tom assured him that he meant to reform and be a good boy; and bobby told him that when any one meant to turn over a new leaf, it was "now or never." if he put it off, he would only grow worse, and the longer the good work was delayed, the more difficult it would be to do it. tom agreed to all this, and was sure he had reformed. for these reasons bobby had come to regard tom with a feeling of deep interest. he considered him as, in some measure, his disciple, and he felt a personal responsibility in encouraging him to persevere in his good work. nevertheless bobby was not exactly pleased to have his fine air castle upset, and to be tipped out of the clouds upon the cold, uncompromising earth again; so the first greeting he gave tom was not as cordial as it might have been. "hallo, tom!" he replied, rather coolly. "been waiting for you this half hour." "have you?" "yes; ain't you rather late?" "no; i have plenty of time, though none to spare," answered bobby; and this was a hint that he must not detain him too long. "come along then." "where are you going, tom?" asked bobby, a little surprised at these words. "to boston." "are you?" "i am; that's a fact. you know i spoke to you about going into the book business." "not lately." "but i have been thinking about it all the time." "what do your father and mother say?" "o, they are all right." "have you asked them?" "certainly i have; they are willing i should go with _you_." "why didn't you speak of it then?" "i thought i wouldn't say anything till the time came. you know you fought shy when i spoke about it before." and bobby, notwithstanding the interest he felt in his companion, was a little disposed to "fight shy" now. tom had reformed, or had pretended to do so; but he was still a raw recruit, and our hero was somewhat fearful that he would run at the first fire. to the good and true man life is a constant battle. temptation assails him at almost every point; perils and snares beset him at every step of his mortal pilgrimage, so that every day he is called upon to gird on his armor and fight the good fight. bobby was no poet; but he had a good idea of this every-day strife with the foes of error and sin that crossed his path. it was a practical conception, but it was truly expressed under the similitude of a battle. there was to be resistance, and he could comprehend that, for his bump of combativeness took cognizance of the suggestion. he was to fight; and that was an idea that stood him in better stead than a whole library of ethical subtilties. judging tom by his own standard, he was afraid he would run--that he wouldn't "stand fire." he had not been drilled. heretofore, when temptation beset him, he had yielded without even a struggle, and fled from the field without firing a gun. to go out into the great world was a trying event for the raw recruit. he lacked, too, that prestige of success which is worth more than numbers on the field of battle. tom had chosen for himself, and he could not send him back. he had taken up the line of march, let it lead him where it might. "march on! in legions death and sin impatient wait thy conquering hand; the foe without, the foe within-- thy youthful arm must both withstand." bobby had great hopes of him. he felt that he could not well get rid of him, and he saw that it was policy for him to make the best of it. "well, tom, where are you going?" asked bobby, after he had made up his mind not to object to the companionship of the other. "i don't know. you have been a good friend to me lately, and i had an idea that you would give me a lift in this business." "i should be very willing to do so; but what can i do for you?" "just show me how the business is done; that's all i want." "your father and mother were willing you should come--were they not?" bobby had some doubts about this point, and with good reason too. he had called at tom's house the day before, and they had gone to church together; but neither he nor his parents had said a word about his going to boston. "when did they agree to it?" "last night," replied tom, after a moment's hesitation. "all right then; but i cannot promise you that mr. bayard will let you have the books." "i can fix that, i reckon," replied tom, confidently. "i will speak a good word for you, at any rate." "that's right, bob." "i am going down into the state of maine this time, and shall be gone three or four weeks." "so much the better; i always wanted to go down that way." tom asked a great many questions about the business and the method of travelling, which bobby's superior intelligence and more extensive experience enabled him to answer to the entire satisfaction of the other. when they were within half a mile of the railroad station, they heard a carriage driven at a rapid rate approaching them from the direction of riverdale. tom seemed to be uneasy, and cast frequent glances behind him. in a moment the vehicle was within a short distance of them, and he stopped short in the road to scrutinize the persons in it. "by jolly!" exclaimed tom; "my father!" "what of it?" asked bobby, surprised by the strange behavior of his companion. tom did not wait to reply, but springing over the fence fled like a deer towards some woods a short distance from the road. was it possible? tom had run away from home. his father had not consented to his going to boston, and bobby was mortified to find that his hopeful disciple had been lying to him ever since they left riverdale. but he was glad the cheat had been exposed. "that was tom with you--wasn't it?" asked mr. spicer, as he stopped the foaming horse. "yes, sir; but he told me you had consented that he should go with me," replied bobby, a little disturbed by the angry glance of mr. spicer's fiery eyes. "he lied! the young villain! he will catch it for this." "i would not have let him come with me only for that. i asked him twice over if you were willing, and he said you were." "you ought to have known better than to believe him," interposed the man who was with mr. spicer. bobby had some reason for believing him. the fact that tom had reformed ought to have entitled him to some consideration, and our hero gave him the full benefit of the declaration. to have explained this would have taken more time than he could spare; besides, it was "a great moral question," whose importance mr. spicer and his companion would not be likely to apprehend; so he made a short story of it, and resumed his walk, thankful that he had got rid of tom. mr. spicer and his friend, after fastening the horse to the fence, went to the woods in search of tom. bobby reached the station just in time to take the cars, and in a moment was on his way to the city. chapter xv in which bobby gets into a scrape, and tom spicer turns up again bobby had a poorer opinion of human nature than ever before. it seemed almost incredible to him that words so fairly spoken as those of tom spicer could be false. he had just risen from a sick bed, where he had had an opportunity for long and serious reflection. tom had promised fairly, and bobby had every reason to suppose he intended to be a good boy. but his promises had been lies. he had never intended to reform, at least not since he had got off his bed of pain. he was mortified and disheartened at the failure of this attempt to restore him to himself. like a great many older and wiser persons than himself, he was prone to judge the whole human family by a single individual. he did not come to believe that every man was a rascal, but, in more general terms, that there is a great deal more rascality in this world than one would be willing to believe. with this sage reflection, he dismissed tom from his mind, which very naturally turned again to the air castle which had been so ruthlessly upset. then his opinion of "the rest of mankind" was reversed; and he reflected that if the world were only peopled by angels like annie lee, what a pleasant place it would be to live in. she could not tell a lie, she could not use bad language, she could not steal, or do anything else that was bad; and the prospect was decidedly pleasant. it was very agreeable to turn from tom to annie, and in a moment his air castle was built again, and throned on clouds of gold and purple. i do not know what impossible things he imagined, or how far up in the clouds he would have gone, if the arrival of the train at the city had not interrupted his thoughts, and pitched him down upon the earth again. bobby was not one of that impracticable class of persons who do nothing but dream; for he felt that he had a mission to perform which dreaming could not accomplish. however pleasant it may be to think of the great and brilliant things which one _will_ do, to one of bobby's practical character it was even more pleasant to perform them. we all dream great things, imagine great things; but he who stops there does not amount to much, and the world can well spare him, for he is nothing but a drone in the hive. bobby's fine imaginings were pretty sure to bring out a "now or never," which was the pledge of action, and the work was as good as done when he had said it. therefore, when the train arrived, bobby did not stop to dream any longer. he forgot his beautiful air castle, and even let annie lee slip from his mind for the time being. those towns upon the kennebec, the two hundred books he was to sell, loomed up before him, for it was with them he had to do. grasping the little valise he carried with him, he was hastening out of the station house when a hand was placed upon his shoulder. "got off slick--didn't i?" said tom spicer, placing himself by bobby's side. "you here, tom!" exclaimed our hero, gazing with astonishment at his late companion. it was not an agreeable encounter, and from the bottom of his heart bobby wished him anywhere but where he was. he foresaw that he could not easily get rid of him. "i am here," replied tom. "i ran through the woods to the depot, and got aboard the cars just as they were starting. the old man couldn't come it over me quite so slick as that." "but you ran away from home." "well, what of it?" "a good deal, i should say." "if you had been in my place, you would have done the same." "i don't know about that; obedience to parents is one of our first duties." "i know that; and if i had had any sort of fair play, i wouldn't have run away." "what do you mean by that?" asked bobby, somewhat surprised, though he had a faint idea of the meaning of the other. "i will tell you all about it by and by. i give you my word of honor that i will make everything satisfactory to you." "but you lied to me on the road this morning." tom winced; under ordinary circumstances he would have resented such a remark by "clearing away" for a fight. but he had a purpose to accomplish, and he knew the character of him with whom he had to deal. "i'm sorry i did, now," answered tom, with every manifestation of penitence for his fault. "i didn't want to lie to you; and it went against my conscience to do so. but i was afraid, if i told you my father refused, up and down, to let me go, that you wouldn't be willing i should come with you." "i shall not be any more willing now i know all about it," added bobby, in an uncompromising tone. "wait till you have heard my story, and then you won't blame me." "of course you can go where you please; it is none of my business; but let me tell you, tom, in the beginning, that i won't go with a fellow who has run away from his father and mother." "pooh! what's the use of talking in that way?" tom was evidently disconcerted by this decided stand of his companion. he knew that his bump of firmness was well developed, and whatever he said he meant. "you had better return home, tom. boys that run away from home don't often amount to much. take my advice, and go home," added bobby. "to such a home as mine!" said tom, gloomily. "if i had such a home as yours, i would not have left it." bobby got a further idea from this remark of the true state of the case, and the consideration moved him. tom's father was a notoriously intemperate man, and the boy had nothing to hope for from his precept or his example. he was the child of a drunkard, and as much to be pitied as blamed for his vices. his home was not pleasant. he who presided over it, and who should have made a paradise of it, was its evil genius, a demon of wickedness, who blasted its flowers as fast as they bloomed. tom had seemed truly penitent both during his illness and since his recovery. his one great desire now was to get away from home, for home to him was a place of torment. bobby suspected all this, and in his great heart he pitied his companion. he did not know what to do. "i am sorry for you, tom," said he, after he had considered the matter in this new light; "but i don't see what i can do for you. i doubt whether it would be right for me to help you run away from your parents." "i don't want you to help me run away. i have done that already." "but if i let you go with me, it will be just the same thing. besides, since you told me those lies this morning, i haven't much confidence in you." "i couldn't help that." "yes, you could. couldn't help lying?" "what could i do? you would have gone right back and told my father." "well, we will go up to mr. bayard's store, and then we will see what can be done." "i couldn't stay at home, sure," continued tom, as they walked along together. "my father even talked of binding me out to a trade." "did he?" bobby stopped short in the street; for it was evident that, as this would remove him from his unhappy home, and thus effect all he professed to desire, he had some other purpose in view. "what are you stopping for, bob?" "i think you had better go back, tom." "not i; i won't do that, whatever happens." "if your father will put you to a trade, what more do you want?" "i won't go to a trade, anyhow." bobby said no more, but determined to consult with mr. bayard about the matter; and tom was soon too busily engaged in observing the strange sights and sounds of the city to think of anything else. when they reached the store, bobby went into mr. bayard's private office and told him all about the affair. the bookseller decided that tom had run away more to avoid being bound to a trade than because his home was unpleasant; and this decision seemed to bobby all the more just because he knew that tom's mother, though a drunkard's wife, was a very good woman. mr. bayard further decided that bobby ought not to permit the runaway to be the companion of his journey. he also considered it his duty to write to mr. spicer, informing him of his son's arrival in the city, and clearing bobby from any agency in his escape. while mr. bayard was writing the letter, bobby went out to give tom the result of the consultation. the runaway received it with a great show of emotion, and begged and pleaded to have the decision reversed. but bobby, though he would gladly have done anything for him which was consistent with his duty, was firm as a rock, and positively refused to have anything to do with him until he obtained his father's consent; or, if there was any such trouble as he asserted, his mother's consent. tom left the store, apparently "more in sorrow than in anger." his bullying nature seemed to be cast out, and bobby could not but feel sorry for him. duty was imperative, as it always is, and it must be done "now or never." during the day the little merchant attended to the packing of his stock, and to such other preparations as were required for his journey. he must take the steamer that evening for bath, and when the time for his departure arrived, he was attended to the wharf by mr. bayard and ellen, with whom he had passed the afternoon. the bookseller assisted him in procuring his ticket and berth, and gave him such instructions as his inexperience demanded. the last bell rang, the fasts were cast off, and the great wheels of the steamer began to turn. our hero, who had never been on the water in a steamboat, or indeed anything bigger than a punt on the river at home, was much interested and excited by his novel position. he seated himself on the promenade deck, and watched with wonder the boiling, surging waters astern of the steamer. how powerful is man, the author of that mighty machine that bore him so swiftly over the deep blue waters! bobby was a little philosopher, as we have before had occasion to remark, and he was decidedly of the opinion that the steamboat was a great institution. when he had in some measure conquered his amazement, and the first ideas of sublimity which the steamer and the sea were calculated to excite in a poetical imagination, he walked forward to take a closer survey of the machinery. after all, there was something rather comical in the affair. the steam hissed and sputtered, and the great walking beam kept flying up and down; and the sum total of bobby's philosophy was, that it was funny these things should make the boat go so like a race horse over the water. then he took a look into the pilot house, and it seemed more funny that turning that big wheel should steer the boat. but the wind blew rather fresh at the forward part of the boat, and as bobby's philosophy was not proof against it, he returned to the promenade deck, which was sheltered from the severity of the blast. he had got reconciled to the whole thing, and ceased to bother his head about the big wheel, the sputtering steam, and the walking beam; so he seated himself, and began to wonder what all the people in riverdale were about. "all them as hasn't paid their fare, please walk up to the cap'n's office and s-e-t-t-l-e!" shouted a colored boy, presenting himself just then, and furiously ringing a large hand bell. "i have just settled," said bobby, alluding to his comfortable seat. but the allusion was so indefinite to the colored boy that he thought himself insulted. he did not appear to be a very amiable boy, for his fist was doubled up, and with sundry big oaths, he threatened to annihilate the little merchant for his insolence. "i didn't say anything that need offend you," replied bobby. "i meant nothing." "you lie! you did!" he was on the point of administering a blow with his fist, when a third party appeared on the ground, and without waiting to hear the merits of the case, struck the negro a blow which had nearly floored him. some of the passengers now interfered, and the colored boy was prevented from executing vengeance on the assailant. "strike that fellow and you strike me!" said he who had struck the blow. "tom spicer!" exclaimed bobby, astonished and chagrined at the presence of the runaway. chapter xvi in which bobby finds "it is an ill wind that blows no one any good" a gentleman, who was sitting near bobby when he made the remark which the colored boy had misunderstood, interfered to free him from blame, and probably all unpleasant feelings might have been saved, if tom's zeal had been properly directed. as it was, the waiter retired with his bell, vowing vengeance upon his assailant. "how came you here, tom?" asked bobby, when the excitement had subsided. "you don't get rid of me so easily," replied tom, laughing. bobby called to mind the old adage that "a bad penny is sure to return;" and, if it had not been a very uncivil remark, he would have said it. "i didn't expect to see you again at present," he observed, hardly knowing what to say or do. "i suppose not; but as i didn't mean you should expect me, i kept out of sight. only for that darkey you wouldn't have found me out so soon. i like you, bob, in spite of all you have done to get rid of me, and i wasn't a going to let the darkey thrash you." "you only made matters worse." "that is all the thanks i get for hitting him for you." "i am sorry you hit him; at the same time i suppose you meant to do me a service, and i thank you, not for the blow you struck the black boy, but for your good intentions." "that sounds better. i meant well, bob." "i dare say you did. but how came you here?" "why, you see, i was bound to go with you anyhow or at least to keep within hail of you. you told me, you know, that you were going in the steamboat; and after i left the shop, what should i see but a big picture of a steamboat on a wall. it said. 'bath, gardiner, and hallowell,' on the bill; and i knew that was where you meant to go. so this afternoon i hunts round and finds the steamboat. i thought i never should have found it; but here i am." "what are you going to do?" "going into the book business," replied tom, with a smile. "where are your books?" "down stairs, in the cellar of the steamboat, or whatever you call it." "where did you get them?" "bought 'em, of course." "did you? where?" "well, i don't remember the name of the street now. i could go right there if i was in the city, though." "would they trust you?" tom hesitated. the lies he had told that morning had done him no good--had rather injured his cause; and, though he had no principle that forbade lying, he questioned its policy in the present instance. "i paid part down, and they trusted me part." "how many books you got?" "twenty dollars' worth. i paid eight dollars down." "you did? where did you get the eight dollars?" bobby remembered the money tom's father had lost several weeks before, and immediately connected that circumstance with his present ability to pay so large a sum. tom hesitated again, but he was never at a loss for an answer. "my mother gave it to me." "your mother?" "yes, _sir_!" replied tom, boldly, and in that peculiarly bluff manner which is almost always good evidence that the boy is lying. "but you ran away from home." "that's so; but my mother knew i was coming." "did she?" "to be sure she did." "you didn't say so before." "i can't tell all i know in a minute." "if i thought your mother consented to your coming, i wouldn't say another word." "well, she did; you may bet your life on that." "and your mother gave you ten dollars?" "who said she gave me _ten_ dollars?" asked tom, a little sharply. that was just the sum his father had lost, and bobby had unwittingly hinted his suspicion. "you must have had as much as that if you paid eight on your books. your fare to boston and your steamboat fare must be two dollars more." "i know that; but look here, bob;" and tom took from his pocket five half dollars and exhibited them to his companion. "she gave me thirteen dollars." notwithstanding this argument, bobby felt almost sure that the lost ten dollars was a part of his capital. "i will tell you my story now, bob, if you like. you condemned me without a hearing, as jim guthrie said when they sent him to the house of correction for getting drunk." "go ahead." the substance of tom's story was, that his father drank so hard, and was such a tyrant in the house, that he could endure it no longer. his father and mother did not agree, as any one might have suspected. his mother, encouraged by the success of bobby, thought that tom might do something of the kind, and she had provided him the money to buy his stock of books. bobby had not much confidence in this story. he had been deceived once; besides, it was not consistent with his previous narrative, and he had not before hinted that he had obtained his mother's consent. but tom was eloquent, and protested that he had reformed, and meant to do well. he declared, by all that was good and great, bobby should never have reason to be ashamed of him. our little merchant was troubled. he could not now get rid of tom without actually quarrelling with him, or running away from him. he did not wish to do the former, and it was not an easy matter to do the latter. besides, there was hope that the runaway would do well; and if he did, when he carried the profits of his trade home, his father would forgive him. one thing was certain; if he returned to riverdale he would be what he had been before. for these reasons bobby finally, but very reluctantly, consented that tom should remain with him, resolving, however, that, if he did not behave himself, he would leave him at once. before morning he had another reason. when the steamer got out into the open bay, bobby was seasick. he retired to his berth with a dreadful headache; as he described it afterwards, it seemed just as though that great walking beam was smashing up and down right in the midst of his brains. he had never felt so ill before in his life, and was very sure, in his inexperience, that something worse than mere seasickness ailed him. he told tom, who was not in the least affected, how he felt; whereupon the runaway blustered round, got the steward and the captain into the cabin, and was very sure that bobby would die before morning, if we may judge by the fuss he made. the captain was angry at being called from the pilot house for nothing, and threatened to throw tom overboard if he didn't stop his noise. the steward, however, was a kind-hearted man, and assured bobby that passengers were often a great deal sicker than he was; but he promised to do something for his relief, and tom went with him to his state room for the desired remedy. the potion was nothing more nor less than a table spoonful of brandy, which bobby, who had conscientious scruples about drinking ardent spirits, at first refused to take. then tom argued the point, and the sick boy yielded. the dose made him sicker yet, and nature came to his relief, and in a little while he felt better. tom behaved like a good nurse; he staid by his friend till he went to sleep, and then "turned in" upon a settee beneath his berth. the boat pitched and tumbled about so in the heavy sea that bobby did not sleep long, and when he woke he found tom ready to assist him. but our hero felt better, and entreated tom to go to sleep again. he made the best of his unpleasant situation. sleep was not to be wooed, and he tried to pass away the dreary hours in thinking of riverdale and the dear ones there. his mother was asleep, and annie was asleep; that was about all the excitement he could get up even on the home question. he could not build castles in the air, for seasickness and castle building do not agree. the gold and purple clouds would be black in spite of him, and the aerial structure he essayed to build would pitch and tumble about, for all the world, just like a steamboat in a heavy sea. as often as he got fairly into it, he was violently rolled out, and in a twinkling found himself in his narrow berth, awfully seasick. he went to sleep again at last, and the long night passed away. when he woke in the morning, he felt tolerably well, and was thankful that he had got out of that scrape. but before he could dress himself, he heard a terrible racket on deck. the steam whistle was shrieking, the bell was banging, and he heard the hoarse bellowing of the captain. it was certain that something had happened, or was about to happen. then the boat stopped, rolling heavily in the sea. tom was not there; he had gone on deck. bobby was beginning to consider what a dreadful thing a wreck was, when tom appeared. "what's the matter?" asked bobby, with some appearance of alarm. "fog," replied tom. "it is so thick you can cut it with a hatchet." "is that all?" "that's enough." "where are we?" "that is just what the pilot would like to know. they can't see ahead a bit, and don't know where we are." bobby went on deck. the ocean rolled beneath them, but there was nothing but fog to be seen above and around them. the lead was heaved every few moments, and the steamer crept slowly along till it was found the water shoaled rapidly, when the captain ordered the men to let go the anchor. there they were; the fog was as obstinate as a mule, and would not "lift." hour after hour they waited, for the captain was a prudent man, and would not risk the life of those on board to save a few hours' time. after breakfast, the passengers began to display their uneasiness, and some of them called the captain very hard names, because he would not go on. almost everybody grumbled, and made themselves miserable. "nothing to do and nothing to read," growled a nicely-dressed gentleman, as he yawned and stretched himself to manifest his sensation of _ennui_. "nothing to read, eh?" thought bobby. "we will soon supply that want." calling tom, they went down to the main deck where the baggage had been placed. "now's our time," said he, as he proceeded to unlock one of the trunks that contained his books. "now or never." "i am with you," replied tom, catching the idea. the books of the latter were in a box, and he was obliged to get a hammer to open it; but with bobby's assistance he soon got at them. "buy 'the wayfarer,'" said bobby, when he returned to the saloon, and placed a volume in the hands of the yawning gentleman. "best book of the season; only one dollar." "that i will, and glad of the chance," replied the gentleman. "i would give five dollars for anything, if it were only the 'comic almanac.'" others were of the same mind. there was no present prospect that the fog would lift, and before dinner time our merchant had sold fifty copies of "the wayfarer." tom, whose books were of an inferior description, and who was inexperienced as a salesman, disposed of twenty, which was more than half of his stock. the fog was a godsend to both of them, and they reaped a rich harvest from the occasion, for almost all the passengers seemed willing to spend their money freely for the means of occupying the heavy hours and driving away that dreadful _ennui_ which reigns supreme in a fog-bound steamer. about the middle of the afternoon, the fog blew over, and the boat proceeded on her voyage, and before sunset our young merchants were safely landed at bath. chapter xvii in which tom has a good time, and bobby meets with a terrible misfortune bath afforded our young merchants an excellent market for their wares, and they remained there the rest of the week. they then proceeded to brunswick, where their success was equally flattering. thus far tom had done very well, though bobby had frequent occasion to remind him of the pledges he had given to conduct himself in a proper manner. he would swear now and then, from the force of habit; but invariably, when bobby checked him, he promised to do better. at brunswick tom sold the last of his books, and was in possession of about thirty dollars, twelve of which he owed the publisher who had furnished his stock. this money seemed to burn in his pocket. he had the means of having a good time, and it went hard with him to plod along as bobby did, careful to save every penny he could. "come, bob, let's get a horse and chaise and have a ride--what do you say?" proposed tom, on the day he finished selling his books. "i can't spare the time or the money," replied bobby, decidedly. "what is the use of having money if we can't spend it? it is a first rate day, and we should have a good time." "i can't afford it. i have a great many books to sell." "about a hundred; you can sell them fast enough." "i don't spend my money foolishly." "it wouldn't be foolishly. i have sold out, and i am bound to have a little fun now." "you never will succeed if you do business in that way." "why not?" "you will spend your money as fast as you get it." "pooh! we can get a horse and chaise for the afternoon for two dollars. that is not much." "considerable, i should say. but if you begin, there is no knowing where to leave off. i make it a rule not to spend a single cent foolishly, and if i don't begin, i shall never do it." "i don't mean to spend all i get; only a little now and then," persisted tom. "don't spend the first dollar for nonsense, and then you won't spend the second. besides, when i have any money to spare, i mean to buy books with it for my library." "humbug! your library!" "yes, my library; i mean to have a library one of these days." "i don't want any library, and i mean to spend some of my money in having a good time; and if you won't go with me, i shall go alone--that's all." "you can do as you please, of course; but i advise you to keep your money. you will want it to buy another stock of books." "i shall have enough for that. what do you say? will you go with me or not?" "no, i will not." "enough said; then i shall go alone, or get some fellow to go with me." "consider well before you go," pleaded bobby, who had sense enough to see that tom's proposed "good time" would put back, if not entirely prevent, the reform he was working out. he then proceeded to reason with him in a very earnest and feeling manner, telling him he would not only spend all his money, but completely unfit himself for business. what he proposed to do was nothing more nor less than extravagance, and it would lead him to dissipation and ruin. "to-day i am going to send one hundred dollars to mr. bayard," continued bobby; "for i am afraid to have so much money with me. i advise you to send your money to your employer." "humph! catch me doing that! i am bound to have a good time, anyhow." "at least, send the money you owe him." "i'll bet i won't." "well, do as you please; i have said all i have to say." "you are a fool, bob!" exclaimed tom, who had evidently used bobby as much as he wished, and no longer cared to speak soft words to him. "perhaps i am; but i know better than to spend my money upon fast horses. if you will go, i can't help it. i am sorry you are going astray." "what do you mean by that, you young monkey?" said tom, angrily. this was tom spicer, the bully. it sounded like him; and with a feeling of sorrow bobby resigned the hopes he had cherished of making a good boy of him. "we had better part now," added our hero, sadly. "i'm willing." "i shall leave brunswick this afternoon for the towns up the river. i hope no harm will befall you. good by, tom." "go it! i have heard your preaching about long enough, and i am more glad to get rid of you than you are to get rid of me." bobby walked away towards the house where he had left the trunk containing his books, while tom made his way towards a livery stable. the boys had been in the place for several days, and had made some acquaintances; so tom had no difficulty in procuring a companion for his proposed ride. our hero wrote a letter that afternoon to mr. bayard, in which he narrated all the particulars of his journey, his relations with tom spicer, and the success that had attended his labors. at the bank he procured a hundred dollar note for his small bills, and enclosed it in the letter. he felt sad about tom. the runaway had done so well, had been so industrious, and shown such a tractable spirit, that he had been very much encouraged about him. but if he meant to be wild again,--for it was plain that the ride was only "the beginning of sorrows,"--it was well that they should part. by the afternoon stage our hero proceeded to gardiner, passing through several smaller towns, which did not promise a very abundant harvest. his usual success attended him; for wherever he went, people seemed to be pleased with him, as squire lee had declared they would be. his pleasant, honest face was a capital recommendation, and his eloquence seldom failed to achieve the result which eloquence has ever achieved from demosthenes down to the present day. our limits do not permit us to follow him in all his peregrinations from town to town, and from house to house; so we pass over the next fortnight, at the end of which time we find him at augusta. he had sold all his books but twenty, and had that day remitted eighty dollars more to mr. bayard. it was wednesday, and he hoped to sell out so as to be able to take the next steamer for boston, which was advertised to sail on the following day. he had heard nothing from tom since their parting, and had given up all expectation of meeting him again; but that bad penny maxim proved true once more, for, as he was walking through one of the streets of augusta, he had the misfortune to meet him--and this time it was indeed a misfortune. "hallo, bobby!" shouted the runaway, as familiarly as though nothing had happened to disturb the harmony of their relations. "ah, tom, i didn't expect to see you again," replied bobby, not very much rejoiced to meet his late companion. "i suppose not; but here i am, as good as new. have you sold out?" "no, not quite." "how many have you left?" "about twenty; but i thought, tom, you would have returned to boston before this time." "no;" and tom did not seem to be in very good spirits. "where are you going now?" "i don't know. i ought to have taken your advice, bobby." this was a concession, and our hero began to feel some sympathy for his companion--as who does not when the erring confess their faults? "i am sorry you did not." "i got in with some pretty hard fellows down there to brunswick," continued tom, rather sheepishly. "and spent all your money," added bobby, who could readily understand the reason why tom had put on his humility again. "not all." "how much have you left?" "not much," replied he, evasively. "i don't know what i shall do. i am in a strange place, and have no friends." bobby's sympathies were aroused, and without reflection, he promised to be a friend in his extremity. "i will stick by you this time, bob, come what will. i will do just as you say, now." our merchant was a little flattered by this unreserved display of confidence. he did not give weight enough to the fact that it was adversity alone which made tom so humble. he was in trouble, and gave him all the guarantee he could ask for his future good behavior. he could not desert him now he was in difficulty. "you shall help me sell my books, and then we will return to boston together. have you money enough left to pay your employer?" tom hesitated; something evidently hung heavily upon his mind. "i don't know how it will be after i have paid my expenses to boston," he replied, averting his face. bobby was perplexed by this evasive answer; but as tom seemed so reluctant to go into details, he reserved his inquiries for a more convenient season. "now, tom, you take the houses on that side of the street, and i will take those upon this side. you shall have the profits on all you sell." "you are a first rate fellow, bob; and i only wish i had done as you wanted me to do." "can't be helped now, and we will do the next best thing," replied bobby, as he left his companion to enter a house. tom did very well, and by the middle of the afternoon they had sold all the books but four. "the wayfarer" had been liberally advertised in that vicinity, and the work was in great demand. bobby's heart grew lighter as the volumes disappeared from his valise, and already he had begun to picture the scene which would ensue upon his return to the little black house. how glad his mother would be to see him, and, he dared believe, how happy annie would be as she listened to the account of his journey in the state of maine! wouldn't she be astonished when he told her about the steamboat, about the fog, and about the wild region at the mouth of the beautiful kennebec! poor bobby! the brightest dream often ends in sadness; and a greater trial than any he had been called upon to endure was yet in store for him. as he walked along, thinking of riverdale and its loved ones, tom came out of a grocery store where he had just sold a book. "here, bob, is a ten dollar bill. i believe i have sold ten books for you," said tom, after they had walked some distance. "you had better keep the money now; and while i think of it, you had better take what i have left of my former sales;" and tom handed him another ten dollar bill. bobby noticed that tom seemed very much confused and embarrassed; but he did not observe that the two bills he had handed him were on the same bank. "then you had ten dollars left after your frolic," he remarked, as he took the last bill. "about that;" and tom glanced uneasily behind him. "what is the matter with you, tom?" asked bobby, who did not know what to make of his companion's embarrassment. "nothing, bob; let us walk a little faster. we had better turn up this street," continued tom, as, with a quick pace, he took the direction indicated. bobby began to fear that tom had been doing something wrong; and the suspicion was confirmed by seeing two men running with all their might towards them. tom perceived them at the same moment. "run!" he shouted, and suiting the action to the word, he took to his heels, and fled up the street into which he had proposed to turn. bobby did not run, but stopped short where he was till the men came up to him. "grab him," said one of them, "and i will catch the other." the man collared bobby, and in spite of all the resistance he could make, dragged him down the street to the grocery store in which tom had sold his last book. "what do you mean by this?" asked bobby, his blood boiling with indignation at the harsh treatment to which he had been subjected. "we have got you, my hearty," replied the man, releasing his hold. no sooner was the grasp of the man removed, than bobby, who determined on this as on former occasions to stand upon his inalienable rights, bolted for the door, and ran away with all his speed. but his captor was too fleet for him, and he was immediately retaken. to make him sure this time, his arms were tied behind him, and he was secured to the counter of the shop. in a few moments the other man returned, dragging tom in triumph after him. by this time quite a crowd had collected, which nearly filled the store. bobby was confounded at the sudden change that had come over his fortunes; but seeing that resistance would be vain, he resolved to submit with the best grace he could. "i should like to know what all this means?" he inquired, indignantly. the crowd laughed in derision. "this is the chap that stole the wallet, i will be bound," said one, pointing to tom, who stood in surly silence awaiting his fate. "he is the one who came into the store," replied the shopkeeper. "_i_ haven't stole any wallet," protested bobby, who now understood the whole affair. the names of the two boys were taken, and warrants procured for their detention. they were searched, and upon tom was found the lost wallet, and upon bobby two ten dollar bills, which the loser was willing to swear had been in the wallet. the evidence therefore was conclusive, and they were both sent to jail. poor bobby! the inmate of a prison! the law took its course, and in due time both of them were sentenced to two years' imprisonment in the state reform school. bobby was innocent, but he could not make his innocence appear. he had been the companion of tom, the real thief, and part of the money had been found upon his person. tom was too mean to exonerate him, and even had the hardihood to exult over his misfortune. at the end of three days they reached the town in which the reform school is located, and were duly committed for their long term. poor bobby! chapter xviii in which bobby takes french leave, and camps in the woods the intelligence of bobby's misfortune reached mr. bayard, in boston, by means of the newspapers. to the country press an item is a matter of considerable importance, and the alleged offence against the peace and dignity of the state of maine was duly heralded to the inquiring public as a "daring robbery." the reporter who furnished the facts in the case for publication was not entirely devoid of that essential qualification of the country item writer, a lively imagination, and was obliged to dress up the particulars a little, in order to produce the necessary amount of wonder and indignation. it was stated that one of the two young men had been prowling about the place for several days, ostensibly for the purpose of selling books, but really with the intention of stealing whatever he could lay his hands upon. it was suggested that the boys were in league with an organized band of robbers, whose nefarious purposes would be defeated by the timely arrest of these young villains. the paper hinted that further depredations would probably be discovered, and warned people to beware of ruffians strolling about the country in the guise of pedlers. the writer of this thrilling paragraph must have had reason to believe that he had discharged his whole duty to the public, and that our hero was duly branded as a desperate fellow. no doubt he believed bobby was an awful monster; for at the conclusion of his remarks he introduced some severe strictures on the lenity of the magistrate, because he had made the sentence two years, instead of five, which the writer thought the atrocious crime deserved. but, then, the justice differed from him in politics, which may account for the severity of the article. mr. bayard read this precious paragraph with mingled grief and indignation. he understood the case at a glance. tom spicer had joined him, and the little merchant had been involved in his crime. he was sure that bobby had had no part in stealing the money. one so noble and true as he had been could not steal, he reasoned. it was contrary to experience, contrary to common sense. he was very much disturbed. this intelligence would be a severe blow to the poor boy's mother, and he had not the courage to destroy all her bright hopes by writing her the terrible truth. he was confident that bobby was innocent, and that his being in the company of tom spicer had brought the imputation upon him; so he could not let the matter take its course. he was determined to do something to procure his liberty and restore his reputation. squire lee was in the city that day, and had left his store only half an hour before he discovered the paragraph. he immediately sent to his hotel for him, and together they devised means to effect bobby's liberation. the squire was even more confident than mr. bayard that our hero was innocent of the crime charged upon him. they agreed to proceed immediately to the state of maine, and use their influence in obtaining his pardon. the bookseller was a man of influence in the community, and was as well known in maine as in massachusetts; but to make their application the surer, he procured letters of introduction from some of the most distinguished men in boston to the governor and other official persons in maine. we will leave them now to do the work they had so generously undertaken, and return to the reform school, where bobby and tom were confined. the latter took the matter very coolly. he seemed to feel that he deserved his sentence, but he took a malicious delight in seeing bobby the companion of his captivity. he even had the hardihood to remind him of the blow he had struck him more than two months before, telling him that he had vowed vengeance then, and now the time had come. he was satisfied. "you know i didn't steal the money, or have anything to do with it," said bobby. "some of it was found upon you, though," sneered tom, maliciously. "you know how it came there, if no one else does." "of course i do; but i like your company too well to get rid of you so easy." "the lord is with the innocent," replied bobby; "and something tells me that i shall not stay in this place a great while." "going to run away?" asked tom, with interest, and suddenly dropping his malicious look. "i know i am innocent of any crime; and i know that the lord will not let me stay here a great while." "what do you mean to do, bob?" bobby made no reply; he felt that he had had more confidence in tom than he deserved, and he determined to keep his own counsel in future. he had a purpose in view. his innocence gave him courage; and perhaps he did not feel that sense of necessity for submission to the laws of the land which age and experience give. he prayed earnestly for deliverance from the place in which he was confined. he felt that he did not deserve to be there; and though it was a very comfortable place, and the boys fared as well as he wished to fare, still it seemed to him like a prison. he was unjustly detained; and he not only prayed to be delivered, but he resolved to work out his own deliverance at the first opportunity. knowing that whatever he had would be taken from him, he resolved by some means to keep possession of the twenty dollars he had about him. he had always kept his money in a secret place in his jacket to guard against accident, and the officers who had searched him had not discovered it. but now his clothes would be changed. he thought of these things before his arrival; so, when he reached the entrance, and got out of the wagon, to open the gate, by order of the officer, he slipped his twenty dollars into a hole in the wall. it so happened that there was not a suit of clothes in the store room of the institution which would fit him; and he was permitted to wear his own dress till another should be made. after his name and description had been entered, and the superintendent had read him a lecture upon his future duties, he was permitted to join the other boys, who were at work on the farm. he was sent with half a dozen others to pick up stones in a neighboring field. no officer was with them, and bobby was struck with the apparent freedom of the institution, and he so expressed himself to his companions. "not so much freedom as you think for," said one, in reply. "i should think the fellows would clear out." "not so easy a matter. there is a standing reward of five dollars to any one who brings back a runaway." "they must catch him first." "no fellow ever got away yet. they always caught him before he got ten miles from the place." this was an important suggestion to bobby, who already had a definite purpose in his mind. like a skilful general, he had surveyed the ground on his arrival, and was at once prepared to execute his design. in his conversation with the boys, he obtained the history of several who had attempted to escape, and found that even those who got a fair start were taken on some public road. he perceived that they were not good generals, and he determined to profit by their mistake. a short distance from the institution was what appeared to be a very extensive wood. beyond this, many miles distant, he could see the ocean glittering like a sheet of ice under the setting sun. he carefully observed the hills, and obtained the bearings of various prominent objects in the vicinity which would aid him in his flight. the boys gave him all the information in their power about the localities of the country. they seemed to feel that he was possessed of a superior spirit, and that he would not long remain among them; but, whatever they thought, they kept their own counsel. bobby behaved well, and was so intelligent and prompt that he obtained the confidence of the superintendent, who began to employ him about the house, and in his own family. he was sent of errands in the neighborhood, and conducted himself so much to the satisfaction of his guardians that he was not required to work in the field after the second day of his residence on the farm. one afternoon he was told that his clothes were ready, and that he might put them on the next morning. this was a disagreeable announcement; for bobby saw that, with the uniform of the institution upon his back, his chance of escape would be very slight. but about sunset, he was sent by the superintendent's lady to deliver a note at a house in the vicinity. "now or never!" said bobby to himself, after he had left the house. "now's my time." as he passed the gate, he secured his money, and placed it in the secret receptacle of his jacket. after he had delivered the letter, he took the road and hastened off in the direction of the wood. his heart beat wildly at the prospect of once more meeting his mother, after nearly four weeks' absence. annie lee would welcome him; she would not believe that he was a thief. he had been four days an inmate of the reform school, and nothing but the hope of soon attaining his liberty had kept his spirits from drooping. he had not for a moment despaired of getting away. he reached the entrance to the wood, and taking a cart path, began to penetrate its hidden depths. the night darkened upon him; he heard the owl screech his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will chant his cheery song. a certain sense of security now pervaded his mind, for the darkness concealed him from the world, and he had placed six good miles between him and the prison, as he considered it. he walked on, however, till he came to what seemed to be the end of the wood, and he hoped to reach the blue ocean he had seen in the distance before morning. leaving the forest, he emerged into the open country. there was here and there a house before him; but the aspect of the country seemed strangely familiar to him. he could not understand it. he had never been in this part of the country before; yet there was a great house with two barns by the side of it, which he was positive he had seen before. he walked across the field a little farther, when, to his astonishment and dismay, he beheld the lofty turrets of the state reform school. he had been walking in a circle, and had come out of the forest near the place where he had entered it. bobby, as the reader has found out by this time, was a philosopher as well as a hero; and instead of despairing or wasting his precious time in vain regrets at his mistake, he laughed a little to himself at the blunder, and turned back into the woods again. "now or never!" muttered he. "it will never do to give it up so." for an hour he walked on, with his eyes fixed on a great bright star in the sky. then he found that the cart path crooked round, and he discovered where he had made his blunder. leaving the road, he made his way in a straight line, still guided by the star, till he came to a large sheet of water. the sheet of water was an effectual barrier to his farther progress; indeed, he was so tired he did not feel able to walk any more. he deemed himself safe from immediate pursuit in this secluded place. he needed rest, and he foresaw that the next few days would be burdened with fatigue and hardship which he must be prepared to meet. bobby was not nice about trifles, and his habits were such that he had no fear of taking cold. his comfortable bed in the little black house was preferable to the cold ground, even with the primeval forest for a chamber; but circumstances alter cases, and he did not waste any vain regrets about the necessity of his position. after finding a secluded spot in the wood, he raked the dry leaves together for a bed, and offering his simple but fervent prayer to the great guardian above, he lay down to rest. the owl screamed his dismal note, and the whip-poor-will still repeated his monotonous song; but they were good company in the solitude of the dark forest. he could not go to sleep for a time, so strange and exciting were the circumstances of his position. he thought of a thousand things, but he could not _think_ himself to sleep, as he was wont to do. at last nature, worn out by fatigue and anxiety, conquered the circumstances, and he slept. chapter xix in which bobby has a narrow escape, and goes to sea with sam ray nature was kind to the little pilgrim in his extremity, and kept his senses sealed in grateful slumber till the birds had sung their matin song, and the sun had risen high in the heavens. bobby woke with a start, and sprang to his feet. for a moment he did not realize where he was, or remember the exciting incidents of the previous evening. he felt refreshed by his deep slumber, and came out of it as vigorous as though he had slept in his bed at home. rubbing his eyes, he stared about him at the tall pines whose foliage canopied his bed, and his identity was soon restored to him. he was bobby bright--but bobby bright in trouble. he was not the little merchant, but the little fugitive fleeing from the prison to which he had been doomed. it did not take him long to make his toilet, which was the only advantage of his primitive style of lodging. his first object was to examine his position, and ascertain in what direction he should continue his flight. he could not go ahead, as he had intended, for the sheet of water was an impassable barrier. leaving the dense forest, he came to a marsh, beyond which was the wide creek he had seen in the night. it was salt water, and he reasoned that it could not extend a great way inland. his only course was to follow it till he found means of crossing it. following the direction of the creek he kept near the margin of the wood till he came to a public road. he had some doubts about trusting himself out of the forest, even for a single moment; so he seated himself upon a rock to argue the point. if any one should happen to come along, he was almost sure of furnishing a clew to his future movements, if not of being immediately captured. this was a very strong argument, but there was a stronger one upon the other side. he had eaten nothing since dinner on the preceding day, and he began to feel faint for the want of food. on the other side of the creek he saw a pasture which looked as though it might afford him a few berries; and he was on the point of taking to the road, when he heard the rumbling of a wagon in the distance. his heart beat with apprehension. perhaps it was some officer of the institution in search of him. at any rate it was some one who had come from the vicinity of the reform school, and who had probably heard of his escape. as it came nearer, he heard the jingling of bells; it was the baker. how he longed for a loaf of his bread, or some of the precious gingerbread he carried in his cart! hunger tempted him to run the risk of exposure. he had money; he could buy cakes and bread; and perhaps the baker had a kind heart, and would befriend him in his distress. the wagon was close at hand. "now or never," thought he; but this time it was not _now_. the risk was too great. if he failed now, two years of captivity were before him; and as for the hunger, he could grin and bear it for a while. "now or never;" but this time it was escape now or never; and he permitted the baker to pass without hailing him. he waited half an hour, and then determined to take the road till he had crossed the creek. the danger was great, but the pangs of hunger urged him on. he was sure there were berries in the pasture, and with a timid step, carefully watching before and behind to insure himself against surprise, he crossed the bridge. but then a new difficulty presented itself. there was a house within ten rods of the bridge, which he must pass, and to do so would expose him to the most imminent peril. he was on the point of retreating, when a man came out of the house, and approached him. what should he do? it was a trying moment. if he ran, the act would expose him to suspicion. if he went forward, the man might have already received a description of him, and arrest him. he chose the latter course. the instinct of his being was to do everything in a straightforward manner, and this probably prompted his decision. "good morning, sir," said he boldly to the man. "good morning. where are you travelling?" this was a hard question. he did not know where he was travelling; besides, even in his present difficult position, he could not readily resort to a lie. "down here a piece," he replied. "travelled far to-day?" "not far. good morning, sir;" and bobby resumed his walk. "i say, boy, suppose you tell me where you are going;" and the man came close to him, and deliberately surveyed him from head to foot. "i can hardly tell you," replied bobby, summoning courage for the occasion. "well, i suppose not," added the man, with a meaning smile. bobby felt his strength desert him as he realized that he was suspected of being a runaway from the reform school. that smile on the man's face was the knell of hope; and for a moment he felt a flood of misery roll over his soul. but the natural elasticity of his spirits soon came to his relief, and he resolved not to give up the ship, even if he had to fight for it. "i am in a hurry, so i shall have to leave you." "not just yet, young man. perhaps, as you don't know where you are going, you may remember what your name is," continued the man, good naturedly. there was a temptation to give a false name; but as it was so strongly beaten into our hero that the truth is better than a falsehood, he held his peace. "excuse me, sir, but i can't stop to talk now." "in a hurry? well, i dare say you are. i suppose there is no doubt but you are master robert bright." "not the least, sir; i haven't denied it yet, and i am not ashamed of my name," replied bobby, with a good deal of spirit. "that's honest; i like that." "'honesty is the best policy,'" added bobby. "that's cool for a rogue, anyhow. you ought to thought of that afore." "i did." "and stole the money?" "i didn't. i never stole a penny in my life." "come, i like that." "it is the truth." "but they won't believe it over to the reform school," laughed the man. "they will one of these days, perhaps." "you are a smart youngster; but i don't know as i can make five dollars any easier than by taking you back where you come from." "yes, you can," replied bobby, promptly. "can i?" "yes." "how?" "by letting me go." "eh; you talk flush. i suppose you mean to give me your note, payable when the kennebec dries up." "cash on the nail," replied bobby. "you look like a man with a heart in your bosom,"--bobby stole this passage from "the wayfarer." "i reckon i have. the time hasn't come yet when sam ray could see a fellow-creature in distress and not help him out. but to help a thief off----" "we will argue that matter," interposed bobby. "i can prove to you beyond a doubt that i am innocent of the crime charged upon me." "you don't look like a bad boy, i must say." "but, mr. ray, i'm hungry; i haven't eaten a mouthful since yesterday noon." "thunder! you don't say so!" exclaimed sam ray. "i never could bear to see a man hungry, much more a boy; so come along to my house and get something to eat, and we will talk about the other matter afterwards." sam ray took bobby to the little old house in which he dwelt; and in a short time his wife, who expressed her sympathy for the little fugitive in the warmest terms, had placed an abundant repast upon the table. our hero did ample justice to it, and when he had finished he felt like a new creature. "now, mr. ray, let me tell you my story," said bobby. "i don't know as it's any use. now you have eat my bread and butter, i don't feel like being mean to you. if anybody else wants to carry you back, they may; i won't." "but you shall hear me;" and bobby proceeded to deliver his "plain, unvarnished tale." when he had progressed but a little way in the narrative, the noise of an approaching vehicle was heard. sam looked out of the window, as almost everybody does in the country when a carriage passes. "by thunder! it's the reform school wagon!" exclaimed he. "this way, boy!" and the good-hearted man thrust him into his chamber, bidding him get under the bed. the carriage stopped at the house; but sam evaded a direct reply, and the superintendent--for it was he--proceeded on his search. "heaven bless you, mr. ray!" exclaimed bobby, when he came out of the chamber, as the tears of gratitude coursed down his cheeks. "o, you will find sam ray all right," said he, warmly pressing bobby's proffered hand. "i ain't quite a heathen, though some folks around here think so." "you are an angel!" "not exactly," laughed sam. our hero finished his story, and confirmed it by exhibiting his account book and some other papers which he had retained. sam ray was satisfied, and vowed that if ever he saw tom spicer he would certainly "lick" him for his sake. "now, sonny, i like you; i will be sworn you are a good fellow; and i mean to help you off. so just come along with me. i make my living by browsing round, hunting and fishing a little, and doing an odd job now and then. you see, i have got a good boat down the creek, and i shall just put you aboard and take you anywhere you have a mind to go." "may heaven reward you!" cried bobby, almost overcome by this sudden and unexpected kindness. "o, i don't want no reward; only when you get to be a great man--and i am dead sure you will be a great man--just think now and then of sam ray, and it's all right." "i shall remember you with gratitude as long as i live." sam ray took his gun on his shoulder, and bobby the box of provisions which mrs. ray had put up, and they left the house. at the bridge they got into a little skiff, and sam took the oars. after they had passed a bend in the creek which concealed them from the road, bobby felt secure from further molestation. sam pulled about two miles down the creek, where it widened into a broad bay, near the head of which was anchored a small schooner. "now, my hearty, nothing short of uncle sam's whole navy can get you away from me," said sam, as he pulled alongside the schooner. "you have been very kind to me." "all right, sonny. now tumble aboard." bobby jumped upon the deck of the little craft and sam followed him, after making fast the skiff to the schooner's moorings. in a few minutes the little vessel was standing down the bay with "a fresh wind and a flowing sheet." bobby, who had never been in a sail boat before, was delighted, and in no measured terms expressed his admiration of the working of the trim little craft. "now, sonny, where shall we go?" asked sam, as they emerged from the bay into the broad ocean. "i don't know," replied bobby. "i want to get back to boston." "perhaps i can put you aboard of some coaster bound there." "that will do nicely." "i will head towards boston, and if i don't overhaul anything, i will take you there myself." "is this boat big enough to go so far?" "she'll stand anything short of a west india hurricane. you ain't afeard, are you?" "o, no; i like it." the big waves now tossed the little vessel up and down like a feather, and the huge seas broke upon the bow, deluging her deck with floods of water. bobby had unlimited confidence in sam ray, and felt as much at home as though he had been "cradled upon the briny deep." there was an excitement in the scene which accorded with his nature, and the perils which he had so painfully pictured on the preceding night were all born into the most lively joys. they ate their dinners from the provision box; sam lighted his pipe, and many a tale he told of adventure by sea and land. bobby felt happy, and almost dreaded the idea of parting with his rough but good-hearted friend. they were now far out at sea, and the night was coming on. "now, sonny, you had better turn in and take a snooze; you didn't rest much last night." "i am not sleepy; but there is one thing i will do;" and bobby drew from his secret receptacle his roll of bills. "put them up, sonny," said sam. "i want to make you a present of ten dollars." "you can't do it." "nay, but to please me." "no, sir!" "well, then, let me send it to your good wife." "you can't do that, nuther," replied sam, gazing earnestly at a lumber-laden schooner ahead of him. "you must; your good heart made you lose five dollars, and i insist upon making it up to you." "you can't do it." "i shall feel bad if you don't take it. you see i have twenty dollars here, and i would like to give you the whole of it." "not a cent, sonny. i ain't a heathen. that schooner ahead is bound for boston, i reckon." "i shall be sorry to part with you, mr. ray." "just my sentiment. i hain't seen a youngster afore for many a day that i took a fancy to, and i hate to let you go." "we shall meet again." "i hope so." "please to take this money." "no;" and sam shook his head so resolutely that bobby gave up the point. as sam had conjectured, the lumber schooner was bound to boston. her captain readily agreed to take our hero on board, and he sadly bade adieu to his kind friend. "good by, mr. ray," said bobby, as the schooner filled away. "take this to remember me by." it was his jackknife; but sam did not discover the ten dollar bill, which was shut beneath the blade, till it was too late to return it. bobby did not cease to wave his hat to sam till his little craft disappeared in the darkness. chapter xx in which the clouds blow over, and bobby is himself again fortunately for bobby, the wind began to blow very heavily soon after he went on board of the lumber schooner, so that the captain was too much engaged in working his vessel to ask many questions. he was short handed, and though our hero was not much of a sailor he made himself useful to the best of his ability. though the wind was heavy, it was not fair; and it was not till the third morning after his parting with sam ray that the schooner arrived off boston light. the captain then informed him that, as the tide did not favor him, he might not get up to the city for twenty-four hours; and, if he was in a hurry, he would put him on board a pilot boat which he saw standing up the channel. "thank you, captain; you are very kind, but it would give you a great deal of trouble," said bobby. "none at all. we must wait here till the tide turns; so we have nothing better to do." "i should be very glad to get up this morning." "you shall, then;" and the captain ordered two men to get out the jolly boat. "i will pay my passage now, if you please." "that is paid." "paid?" "i should say you had worked your passage. you have done very well, and i shall not charge you anything." "i expected to pay my passage, captain; but if you think i have done enough to pay it, why i have nothing to say, only that i am very much obliged to you." "you ought to be a sailor, young man; you were cut out for one." "i like the sea, though i never saw it till a few weeks since. but i suppose my mother would not let me go to sea." "i suppose not; mothers are always afraid of salt water." by this time the jolly boat was alongside; and bidding the captain adieu, he jumped into it, and the men pulled him to the pilot boat, which had come up into the wind at the captain's hail. bobby was kindly received on board, and in a couple of hours landed at the wharf in boston. with a beating heart he made his way up into washington street. he felt strangely; his cheeks seemed to tingle, for he was aware that the imputation of dishonesty was fastened upon him. he could not doubt but that the story of his alleged crime had reached the city, and perhaps gone to his friends in riverdale. how his poor mother must have wept to think her son was a thief! no; she never could have thought that. _she_ knew he would not steal, if no one else did. and annie lee--would she ever smile upon him again? would she welcome him to her father's house so gladly as she had done in the past? he could bring nothing to establish his innocence but his previous character. would not mr. bayard frown upon him? would not even ellen be tempted to forget the service he had rendered her? bobby had thought of all these things before--on his cold, damp bed in the forest, in the watches of the tempestuous night on board the schooner. but now, when he was almost in the presence of those he loved and respected, they had more force, and they nearly overwhelmed him. "i am innocent," he repeated to himself, "and why need i fear? my good father in heaven will not let me be wronged." yet he could not overcome his anxiety; and when he reached the store of mr. bayard, he passed by, dreading to face the friend who had been so kind to him. he could not bear even to be suspected of a crime by him. "now or never," said he, as he turned round. "i will know my fate at once, and then make the best of it." mustering all his courage, he entered the store. mr. timmins was not there; so he was spared the infliction of any ill-natured remark from him. "hallo, bobby!" exclaimed the gentlemanly salesman, whose acquaintance he had made on his first visit. "good morning, mr. bigelow," replied bobby with as much boldness as he could command. "i didn't know as i should ever see you again. you have been gone a long while." "longer than usual," answered bobby, with a blush; for he considered the remark of the salesman as an allusion to his imprisonment. "is mr. bayard in?" "he is--in his office." bobby's feet would hardly obey the mandate of his will, and with a faltering step he entered the private room of the bookseller. mr. bayard was absorbed in the perusal of the morning paper, and did not observe his entrance. with his heart up in his throat, and almost choking him, he stood for several minutes upon the threshold. he almost feared to speak, dreading the severe frown with which he expected to be received. suspense, however, was more painful than condemnation, and he brought his resolution up to the point. "mr. bayard," said he, in faltering tones. "bobby!" exclaimed the bookseller, dropping his paper upon the floor, and jumping upon his feet as though an electric current had passed through his frame. grasping our hero's hand, he shook it with so much energy that, under any other circumstances, bobby would have thought it hurt him. he did not think so now. "my poor bobby! i am delighted to see you!" continued mr. bayard. bobby burst into tears, and sobbed like a child, as he was. the unexpected kindness of this reception completely overwhelmed him. "don't cry, bobby; i know all about it;" and the tender-hearted bookseller wiped away his tears. "it was a stroke of misfortune; but it is all right now." but bobby could not help crying, and the more mr. bayard attempted to console him, the more he wept. "i am innocent, mr. bayard," he sobbed. "i know you are, bobby; and all the world knows you are." "i am ruined now; i shall never dare to hold my head up again." "nonsense, bobby; you will hold your head the higher. you have behaved like a hero." "i ran away from the state reform school, sir. i was innocent, and i would rather have died than stayed there." "i know all about it, my young friend. now dry your tears, and we will talk it all over." bobby blew and sputtered a little more; but finally he composed himself, and took a chair by mr. bayard's side. the bookseller then drew from his pocket a ponderous document, with a big official seal upon it, and exhibited it to our hero. "do you see this, bobby? it is your free and unconditional pardon." "sir! why----" "it will all end well, you may depend." bobby was amazed. his pardon? but it would not restore his former good name. he felt that he was branded as a felon. it was not mercy, but justice, that he wanted. "truth is mighty, and will prevail," continued mr. bayard; "and this document restores your reputation." "i can hardly believe that." "can't you? hear my story then. when i read in one of the maine papers the account of your misfortune, i felt that you had been grossly wronged. you were coupled with that tom spicer, who is the most consummate little villain i ever saw, and i understood your situation. ah, bobby, your only mistake was in having anything to do with that fellow." "i left him at brunswick because he began to behave badly; but he joined me again at augusta. he had spent nearly all his money, and did not know what to do. i pitied him, and meant to do something to help him out of the scrape." "generous as ever! i have heard all about this before." "indeed; who told you?" "tom spicer himself." "tom?" asked bobby, completely mystified. "yes, tom; you see, when i heard about your trouble, squire lee and myself----" "squire lee? does he know about it?" "he does; and you may depend upon it, he thinks more highly of you than ever before. he and i immediately went down to augusta to inquire into the matter. we called upon the governor of the state, who said that he had seen you, and bought a book of you." "of me!" exclaimed bobby, startled to think he had sold a book to a governor. "yes; you called at his house; probably you did not know that he was the chief magistrate of the state. at any rate, he was very much pleased with you, and sorry to hear of your misfortune. well, we followed your route to brunswick, where we ascertained how tom had conducted. in a week he established a very bad reputation there; but nothing could be found to implicate you. the squire testified to your uniform good behavior, and especially to your devotion to your mother. in short, we procured your pardon, and hastened with it to the state reform school. "on our arrival, we learned, to our surprise and regret, that you had escaped from the institution on the preceding evening. every effort was made to retake you, but without success. ah, bobby, you managed that well." "they didn't look in the right place," replied bobby, with a smile, for he began to feel happy again. "by the permission of the superintendent, squire lee and myself examined tom spicer. he is a great rascal. perhaps he thought we would get him out; so he made a clean breast of it, and confessed that you had no hand in the robbery, and that you knew nothing about it. he gave you the two bills on purpose to implicate you in the crime. we wrote down his statement, and had it sworn to before a justice of the peace. you shall read it by and by." "may heaven reward you for your kindness to a poor boy!" exclaimed bobby, the tears flowing down his cheeks again. "i did not deserve so much from you, mr. bayard." "yes, you did, and a thousand times more. i was very sorry you had left the institution, and i waited in the vicinity till they said there was no probability that you would be captured. the most extraordinary efforts were used to find you; but there was not a person to be found who had seen or heard of you. i was very much alarmed about you, and offered a hundred dollars for any information concerning you." "i am sorry you had so much trouble. i wish i had known you were there." "how did you get off?" bobby briefly related the story of his escape, and mr. bayard pronounced his skill worthy of his genius. "sam ray is a good fellow; we will remember him," added the bookseller, when he had finished. "i shall remember him; and only that i shall be afraid to go into the state of maine after what has happened, i should pay him a visit one of these days." "there you are wrong. those who know your story would sooner think of giving you a public reception, than of saying or doing anything to injure your feelings. those who have suffered unjustly are always lionized." "but no one will know my story, only that i was sent to prison for stealing." "there you are mistaken again. we put articles in all the principal papers, stating the facts in the case, and establishing your innocence beyond a peradventure. go to augusta now, bobby, and you will be a lion." "i am sure i had no idea of getting out of the scrape so easily as this." "innocence shall triumph, my young friend." "what does mother say?" asked bobby, his countenance growing sad. "i do not know. we returned from maine only yesterday; but squire lee will satisfy her. all that can worry her, as it has worried me, will be her fears for your safety when she hears of your escape." "i will soon set her mind at ease upon that point. i will take the noon train home." "a word about business before you go. i discharged timmins about a week ago, and i have kept his place for you." "by gracious!" exclaimed bobby, thrown completely out of his propriety by this announcement. "i think you will do better, in the long run, than you would to travel about the country. i was talking with ellen about it, and she says it shall be so. timmins's salary was five hundred dollars a year, and you shall have the same." "five hundred dollars a year!" ejaculated bobby, amazed at the vastness of the sum. "very well for a boy of thirteen, bobby." "i was fourteen last sunday, sir." "i would not give any other boy so much; but you are worth it, and you shall have it." probably mr. bayard's gratitude had something to do with this munificent offer; but he knew that our hero possessed abilities and energy far beyond his years. he further informed bobby that he should have a room at his house, and that ellen was delighted with the arrangement he proposed. the gloomy, threatening clouds were all rolled back, and floods of sunshine streamed in upon the soul of the little merchant; but in the midst of his rejoicing he remembered that his own integrity had carried him safely through the night of sorrow and doubt. he had been true to himself, and now, in the hour of his great triumph, he realized that, if he had been faithless to the light within him, his laurel would have been a crown of thorns. he was happy--very happy. what made him so? not his dawning prosperity; not the favor of mr. bayard; not the handsome salary he was to receive; for all these things would have been but dross if he had sacrificed his integrity, his love of truth and uprightness. he had been true to himself, and unseen angels had held him up. he had been faithful, and the consciousness of his fidelity to principle made a heaven within his heart. it was arranged that he should enter upon the duties of his new situation on the following week. after settling with mr. bayard, he found he had nearly seventy dollars in his possession; so that in a pecuniary point of view, if in no other, his eastern excursion was perfectly satisfactory. by the noon train he departed for riverdale, and in two hours more he was folded to his mother's heart. mrs. bright wept for joy now, as she had before wept in misery when she heard of her son's misfortune. it took him all the afternoon to tell his exciting story to her, and she was almost beside herself when bobby told her about his new situation. after tea he hastened over to squire lee's; and my young readers can imagine what a warm reception he had from father and daughter. for the third time that day he narrated his adventures in the east; and annie declared they were better than any novel she had ever read. perhaps it was because bobby was the hero. it was nearly ten o'clock before he finished his story; and when he left, the squire made him promise to come over the next day. chapter xxi in which bobby steps off the stage, and the author must finish "now or never" the few days which bobby remained at home before entering upon the duties of his new situation were agreeably filled up in calling upon his many friends, and in visiting those pleasant spots in the woods and by the river, which years of association had rendered dear to him. his plans for the future, too, occupied some of his time, though, inasmuch as his path of duty was already marked out, these plans were but little more than a series of fond imaginings; in short, little more than day dreams. i have before hinted that bobby was addicted to castle building, and i should pity the man or boy who was not--who had no bright dream of future achievements, of future usefulness. "as a man thinketh, so is he," the psalmist tells us, and it was the pen of inspiration which wrote it. what a man pictures as his ideal of that which is desirable in this world and the world to come, he will endeavor to attain. even if it be no higher aim than the possession of wealth or fame, it is good and worthy as far as it goes. it fires his brain, it nerves his arm. it stimulates him to action, and action is the soul of progress. we must all work; and this world were cold and dull if it had no bright dreams to be realized. what napoleon dreamed, he labored to accomplish, and the monarchs of europe trembled before him. what howard wished to be, he labored to be; his ideal was beautiful and true, and he raised a throne which will endure through eternity. bobby dreamed great things. that bright picture of the little black house transformed into a white cottage, with green blinds, and surrounded by a pretty fence, was the nearest object; and before mrs. bright was aware that he was in earnest, the carpenters and the painters were upon the spot. "now or never," replied bobby to his mother's remonstrance. "this is your home, and it shall be the pleasantest spot upon earth, if i can make it so." then he had to dream about his business in boston and i am not sure but that he fancied himself a rich merchant, like mr. bayard, living in an elegant house in chestnut street, and having clerks and porters to do as he bade them. a great many young men dream such things, and though they seem a little silly when spoken out loud, they are what wood and water are to the steam engine--they are the mainspring of action. some are stupid enough to dream about these things, and spend their time in idleness and dissipation, waiting for "the good time coming." it will never come to them. they are more likely to die in the almshouse or the state prison, than to ride in their carriages; for constant exertion is the price of success. bobby enjoyed himself to the utmost of his capacity during these few days of respite from labor. he spent a liberal share of his time at squire lee's, where he was almost as much at home as in his mother's house. annie read moore's poems to him, till he began to have quite a taste for poetry himself. in connection with tom spicer's continued absence, which had to be explained, bobby's trials in the eastern country leaked out, and the consequence was, that he became a lion in riverdale. the minister invited him to tea, as well as other prominent persons, for the sake of hearing his story; but bobby declined the polite invitations from sheer bashfulness. he had not brass enough to make himself a hero; besides, the remembrance of his journey was anything but pleasant to him. on monday morning he took the early train for boston, and assumed the duties of his situation in mr. bayard's store. but as i have carried my hero through the eventful period of his life, i cannot dwell upon his subsequent career. he applied himself with all the energy of his nature to the discharge of his duties. early in the morning and late in the evening he was at his post. mr. bigelow was his friend from the first, and gave him all the instruction he required. his intelligence and quick perception soon enabled him to master the details of the business, and by the time he was fifteen, he was competent to perform any service required of him. by the advice of mr. bayard, he attended an evening school for six months in the year, to acquire a knowledge of book keeping, and to compensate for the opportunities of which he had been necessarily deprived in his earlier youth. he took dr. franklin for his model, and used all his spare time in reading good books, and in obtaining such information and such mental culture as would fit him to be, not only a good merchant, but a good and true man. every saturday night he went home to riverdale to spend the sabbath with his mother. the little black house no longer existed, for it had become the little paradise of which he had dreamed, only that the house seemed whiter, the blinds greener, and the fence more attractive than his fancy had pictured them. his mother, after a couple of years, at bobby's earnest pleadings, ceased to close shoes and take in washing; but she had enough and to spare, for her son's salary was now six hundred dollars. his kind employer boarded him for nothing (much against bobby's will, i must say), so that every month he carried to his mother thirty dollars, which more than paid her expenses. * * * * * eight years have passed by since bobby--we beg his pardon, he is now mr. robert bright--entered the store of mr. bayard. he has passed from the boy to the man. over the street door a new sign has taken the place of the old one, and the passer-by reads,-- bayard & bright, booksellers and publishers. the senior partner resorts to his counting room every morning from the force of habit; but he takes no active part in the business. mr. bright has frequent occasion to ask his advice, though everything is directly managed by him; and the junior is accounted one of the ablest, but at the same time one of the most honest, business men in the city. his integrity has never been sacrificed, even to the emergencies of trade. the man is what the boy was; and we can best sum up the results of his life by saying that he has been true to himself, true to his friends, and true to his god. mrs. bright is still living at the little white cottage, happy in herself and happy in her children. bobby--we mean mr. bright--has hardly missed going to riverdale on a saturday night since he left home, eight years before. he has the same partiality for those famous apple pies, and his mother would as soon think of being without bread as being without apple pies when he comes home. of course squire lee and annie were always glad to see him when he came to riverdale; and for two years it had been common talk in riverdale that our hero did not go home on sunday evening when the clock struck nine. but as this is a forbidden topic, we will ask the reader to go with us to mr. bayard's house in chestnut street. what! annie lee here? no; but as you are here, allow me to introduce mrs. robert bright. they were married a few months before, and mr. bayard insisted that the happy couple should make their home at his house. but where is ellen bayard? o, she is mrs. bigelow now, and her husband is at the head of a large book establishment in new york. bobby's dream had been realized, and he was the happiest man in the world--at least he thought so, which is just the same thing. he had been successful in business; his wife--the friend and companion of his youth, the brightest filament of the bright vision his fancy had woven--had been won, and the future glowed with brilliant promises. he had been successful; but neither nor all of the things we have mentioned constituted his highest and truest success--not his business prosperity, not the bright promise of wealth in store for him, not his good name among men, not even the beautiful and loving wife who had cast her lot with his to the end of time. these were successes, great and worthy, but not the highest success. he had made himself a man,--this was his real success,--a true, a christian man. he had lived a noble life. he had reared the lofty structure of his manhood upon a solid foundation--principle. it is the rock which the winds of temptation and the rains of selfishness cannot move. robert bright is happy because he is good. tom spicer, now in the state prison, is unhappy,--not _because_ he is in the state prison, but because the evil passions of his nature are at war with the peace of his soul. he has fed the good that was within him upon straw and husks, and starved it out. he is a body only; the soul is dead in trespasses and sin. he loves no one, and no one loves him. during the past summer, mr. bright and his lady took a journey "down east." annie insisted upon visiting the state reform school; and her husband drove through the forest by which he had made his escape on that eventful night. afterwards they called upon sam ray, who had been "dead sure that bobby would one day be a great man." he was about the same person, and was astonished and delighted when our hero introduced himself. they spent a couple of hours in talking over the past, and at his departure, mr. bright made him a handsome present in such a delicate manner that he could not help accepting it. squire lee is still as hale and hearty as ever, and is never so happy as when annie and her husband come to riverdale to spend the sabbath. he is fully of the opinion that mr. bright is the greatest man on the western continent, and he would not be in the least surprised if he should be elected president of the united states one of these days. the little merchant is a great merchant now. but more than this, he is a good man. he has formed his character, and he will probably die as he has lived. reader, if you have any good work to do, do it now; for with you it may be "now or never." [illustration: by england's aid by g. a. henty] the famous henty books the boys' own library mo, cloth g. a. henty has long held the field as the most popular boys' author. age after age of heroic deeds has been the subject of his pen, and the knights of old seem very real in his pages. always wholesome and manly, always heroic and of high ideals, his books are more than popular wherever the english language is spoken. each volume is printed on excellent paper from new large-type plates, bound in cloth, assorted colors, with an attractive ink and gold stamp. _price cents._ _a final reckoning_ a tale of bush life in australia _by england's aid_ the freeing of the netherlands _by right of conquest_ a tale of cortez in mexico _bravest of the brave_ a tale of peterborough in spain _by pike and dyke_ the rise of the dutch republic _by sheer pluck_ a tale of the ashantee war _bonnie prince charlie_ a tale of fontenoy and culloden _captain bayley's heir_ a tale of the gold fields of california _cat of bubastes_ a story of ancient egypt _cornet of horse_ a tale of marlborough's wars _facing death_ a tale of the coal mines _friends, though divided_ a tale of the civil war in england _for name and fame_ a tale of afghan warfare _for the temple_ a tale of the fall of jerusalem _in freedom's cause_ a story of wallace and bruce _in the reign of terror_ the adventures of a westminster boy _in times of peril_ a tale of india _jack archer_ a tale of the crimea _lion of st. mark_ a tale of venice in the xiv. century _lion of the north_ a tale of gustavus adolphus _maori and settler_ a tale of the new zealand war _orange and green_ a tale of the boyne and limerick _one of the th_ a tale of waterloo _out on the pampas_ a tale of south america _st. george for england_ a tale of crécy and poietiers _true to the old flag_ a tale of the revolution _the young colonists_ a tale of the zulu and boer wars _the dragon and the raven_ a tale of king alfred _the boy knight_ a tale of the crusades _through the fray_ a story of the luddite riots _under drake's flag_ a tale of the spanish main _with wolfe in canada_ the tale of winning a continent _with clive in india_ the beginning of an empire _with lee in virginia_ a story of the american civil war _young carthaginian_ a story of the times of hannibal _young buglers_ a tale of the peninsular war _young franc-tireurs_ a tale of the franco-prussian war the mershon company fifth avenue, new york rahway, n. j. flag of freedom series by captain ralph bonehill _three volumes, illustrated, bound in cloth, with a very attractive cover, price $ . per volume_ _when santiago fell; or, the war adventures of two chums_ captain bonehill has never penned a better tale than this stirring story of adventures in cuba. two boys, an american and his cuban chum, leave new york to join their parents in the interior of cuba. the war between spain and the cubans is on, and the boys are detained at santiago de cuba, but escape by crossing the bay at night. many adventures between the lines follow, and a good pen picture of general garcia is given. the american lad, with others, is captured and cast into a dungeon in santiago; and then follows the never-to-be-forgotten campaign in cuba under general shafter. how the hero finally escapes makes reading no wide-awake boy will want to miss. _a sailor boy with dewey; or, afloat in the philippines_ the story of dewey's victory in manila bay will never grow old, but here we have it told in a new form--not as those in command witnessed the contest, but as it appeared to a real, live american youth who was in the navy at the time. many adventures in manila and in the interior follow, giving true-to-life scenes from this remote portion of the globe. a book that should be in every boy's library. _off for hawaii; or, the mystery of a great volcano_ here we have fact and romance cleverly interwoven. several boys start on a tour of the hawaiian islands. they have heard that there is a treasure located in the vicinity of kilauea, the largest active volcano in the world, and go in search of it. their numerous adventures will be followed with much interest. _press opinions of captain bonehill's books for boys_ "captain bonehill's stories will always be popular with our boys, for the reason that they are thoroughly up-to-date and true to life. as a writer of outdoor tales he has no rival."--_bright days_. "the story is by captain ralph bonehill, and that is all that need be said about it, for all of our readers know that the captain is one of america's best story-tellers, so far as stories for young people go."--_young people of america_. "the story is excellently told, and will please any intelligent boy into whose hands it may fall."--_charleston (s. c.) news_. "we understand that captain bonehill will soon be turning from sporting stories to tales of the war. this field is one in which he should feel thoroughly at home. we are certain that the boys will look eagerly for the bonehill war tales."--_weekly messenger_. the mershon company fifth avenue, new york rahway, n. j. [illustration] mrs. l. t. meade's famous books for girls there are few more favorite authors with american girls than mrs. l. t. meade, whose copyright works can only be had from us. essentially a writer for the home, with the loftiest aims and purest sentiments, mrs. meade's books possess the merit of utility as well as the means of amusement. they are girls' books--written for girls, and fitted for every home. here will be found no maudlin nonsense as to the affections. there are no counts in disguise nor castles in spain. it is pure and wholesome literature of a high order with a lofty ideal. the volumes are all copyright, excellently printed with clear, open type, uniformly bound in best cloth, with ink and gold stamp. mo, price $ . . the following are the titles the children of wilton chase bashful fifteen betty: a schoolgirl four on an island girls new and old out of the fashion the palace beautiful polly, a new-fashioned girl red rose and tiger lily a ring of rubies a sweet girl graduate a world of girls good luck a girl in ten thousand a young mutineer wild kitty the children's pilgrimage the girls of st. wode's the mershon company fifth ave., new york rahway, n. j. [illustration] edward s. ellis popular boys' books mo, cloth purely american in scene, plot, motives, and characters, the copyright works of edward s. ellis have been deservedly popular with the youth of america. in a community where every native-born boy can aspire to the highest offices, such a book as ellis' "from the throttle to the president's chair," detailing the progress of the sturdy son of the people from locomotive engigineer to the presidency of a great railroad, must always be popular. the youth of the land which boasts of a vanderbilt will ever desire such books, and naturally will desire stories of their native land before wandering over foreign climes. the volumes of this series are all copyright, printed from large, new type, on good paper, and are handsomely bound in cloth, stamped with appropriate designs. price $ . . the following comprise the titles down the mississippi from the throttle to the president's chair up the tapajos tad; or, "getting even" with him lost in samoa lost in the wilds red plume a waif of the mountains the mershon company fifth ave., new york rahway, n. j. [illustration] the famous andrew lang fairy books the blue, red, green, and yellow fairy books never were there more popular books of fairy tales than these famous collections made by andrew lang. at his able hands the romantic literature of the world has been laid under contribution. the folk-lore of ireland, the romance of the rhine, and the wild legends of the west coast of scotland, with all the glamour and mystery of the scottish border, have contributed to this famous series of fairy tales. here are the tales that have delighted generations of children, some culled from old english versions of the eighteenth century, some modernized from quaint chap-books, and all handsomely and modernly illustrated. with the aid of a scholar such as mr. lang, the entire world has contributed to this famous series. there is material here for years of delight for children. each volume is profusely illustrated, printed on velvet-finished paper, bound in cloth, with a very attractive stamp in ink and gold. small mo, price cents. these books should be read in the following order: , the blue fairy book; , the red fairy book; , the green fairy book; , the yellow fairy book. the blue fairy book the red fairy book the green fairy book the yellow fairy book the mershon company fifth ave., new york rahway, n. j. "masterpieces of the world's literature" the premium library is extensively used by schools and colleges for supplementary reading. it is issued in attractive mo shape, paper covers, printed from clear, readable type, on good paper. many of the volumes are illustrated. they are published at the low price of _ten cents_ each, or books for one dollar. postage paid. special prices quoted to schools for larger quantities. . abbé constantin. ludovic halévy. . �sop's fables. . black beauty. anna sewell. . bracebridge hall. irving. . childe harold's pilgrimage. byron. . coming race. bulwer. . cranford. mrs. gaskell. . crown of wild olive. ruskin. . discourses of epictetus. . dreams. olive schreiner. . dream life. ik marvel. . drummond's addresses. . emerson's earlier essays. . ethics of the dust. ruskin. . frankenstein. mrs. shelley. . uncle tom's cabin. mrs. stowe. . lady of the lake. scott. . lalla rookh. thomas moore. . lamb's essays of elia. . lamb's last essays of elia. . lamb's tales from shakespeare, i. . lamb's tales from shakespeare, ii. . lays of ancient rome. macaulay. . lays of scottish cavaliers. . light of asia. sir e. arnold. . longfellow's poems. . lowell's poems. . mornings in florence. ruskin. . one of the profession. m. white, jr. . paul and virginia. b. st. pierre. . pleasures of life. sir j. lubbock. . poe's poems. . princess. tennyson. . queen of the air. ruskin. . rab and his friends. dr. j. brown. . rasselas. johnson. . reveries of a bachelor. ik marvel. . representative men. emerson. . sartor resartus. carlyle. . scarlet letter. hawthorne. . sesame and lilies. ruskin. . ships that pass in the night. beatrice harraden. . st. mark's rest. ruskin. . thoughts from marcus aurelius antoninus. . tillyloss scandal. j. m. barrie. . twice-told tales, i. hawthorne. . twice-told tales, ii. hawthorne. . in memoriam. tennyson. . vicar of wakefield. goldsmith. . whittier's poems. . autocrat of breakfast table. holmes. . heroes and hero worship. carlyle. . mosses from an old manse, i. hawthorne. . mosses from an old manse, ii. hawthorne. . autobiography of benjamin franklin. . song of hiawatha. longfellow. . evangeline, and poems. longfellow. . sketch book. irving. . stickit minister. s. r. crockett. . house of the seven gables. hawthorne. . poetical works of robt. browning. . paradise lost. milton. . hamlet. shakespeare. . julius cæsar. shakespeare. . book of golden deeds. yonge. . child's history of england. dickens. . confessions of an opium eater. de quincey. . ten nights in a barroom. arthur. . treasure island. stevenson. . tanglewood tales. hawthorne. all of the above titles can also be supplied in our famous standard series, handsomely bound in cloth, assorted colors, with an artistic design, at _fifteen cents_ per volume, postage paid. special prices quoted to schools for larger quantities. the mershon company fifth ave., new york rahway, n. j. [transcriber's note: the spelling of "engigineer" in the advertising pages has been retained.] willie the waif by minie herbert _fully illustrated_ london s. w. partridge & co. & paternoster row contents chap. page i. running away from home. ii. a friend in need iii. the mission school iv. a visitor for willie v. the christmas treat vi. little bertram willie the waif ---o--- chapter i running away from home one hot summer's day the sun was trying to shine into a poor, miserable alley in london. there are some places in that great city where even the sun cannot find its way, and primrose place was one of them. it was a very narrow court, and the houses on both sides were so high that the people who lived there had never seen the sunbeams shining on the pavement or glinting on the windows. but even supposing the sun could have shone into the court, it would not have been able to pierce into the rooms, for the windows were too dirty. most of them were broken and patched with brown paper. the doors of the houses always stood open, so that people could go in and out without knocking. very few of them could afford to pay enough rent to have two rooms all to themselves, so that a whole family was generally huddled into one room, in which they had to live during the day and sleep at night. but most of the daytime was spent by the inhabitants of primrose place out of doors, lounging about on the pavement, or sitting on the doorsteps. on this day, if you had walked down the court, you would have seen groups of women standing round the doors gossiping, with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows, and nothing on their heads. this was the way they all spent their time when they were not in the beershops, one of which stood, as usual, at each corner of the court. these women never had time to clean their rooms, even if they had known they were dirty. but this fact they did not know. they had never seen them any other way and they had become so used to their surroundings that they never noticed the dirt. the children ran about the court or played in the gutter, barefooted and bareheaded. poor little things! there was nobody in primrose place to love or care for them, or teach them to be good. their mothers would not be troubled by them, and the children kept out of their way as much as possible, and, of course, got into that of every body else. this was the cause of a great deal of quarrelling among the mothers, because, although they didn't care for their children themselves, they wouldn't let any one else find fault with them. at the present time three or four boys were playing at buttons. one of them accused another of cheating, which he denied. this led to angry words, then to blows, when suddenly one of the mothers called out:---"'ere, you tom, just you leave my bill alone, or i'll warm yer!" this was taken up by tom's mother, and the women fought the children's battle. in such scenes the children of primrose place grew up---miserable, dirty, and generally neglected. sitting alone on the pavement that evening, huddled close to the wall, was a little boy of six or seven years of age. his fair hair hung in tangled curls all round his head. his clothes, which had never been made for him, were much too large, and so ragged that they could scarcely hold together. as he sat there, with his little bare feet stretched out on the pavement, he seemed to be watching for somebody, for he kept continually; looking towards the end of the court which opened out on to the main road. all at once he started up eagerly as [the one for whom he had been watching turned the corner.] this was his brother, a boy about ten years of age, a tired, miserable-looking little fellow, carrying in his hand a broom. he had been spending the day trying to earn a few pence by sweeping a crossing. his anxious face changed the instant he caught sight of his little brother, for these two were all the world to each other. "i'm so glad you've come 'ome bob," said willie. "i've been waitin' such a long time for yer." "poor little chap! i'm a bit late to-day, and i s'pose yer feel lonely. ain't yer 'ad no one to play with?" "no," he replied. "all the boys tease and make such a noise. it makes my 'ead ache. but it's all right now you've come 'ome," he added cheerfully. bob looked down at the fragile little figure at his side and a great lump seemed to rise in his throat, almost choking him, as he thought how thin willie was; and he wished that he could make haste and grow up to be a man, so that he could earn a lot of money and buy nice things for him to eat. "but s'pose willie should die before then!" the thought was too dreadful, and he put it away directly it came. "see, willie," he said, "what i've got for yer!" and he held up a large penny bun before the child. willie clapped his hands. "oh, bob, is that for me, really? let's sit down 'ere and eat it." the child sat down on the kerbstone, pulled his brother down beside him, and broke the bun in halves. one half he handed to bob, and would take no refusal. so the two children soon devoured it between them. "i say, bob," said willie, when they had finished, "'ave yer 'ad a good day to-day?" "no," said bob sadly. "yer see there's no mud about and when there's no mud the people don't take any notice of yer----" "oh, dear!" said willie. "father'll whack yer. i wish yer 'adn't bought me the bun." "i don't, care," responded the other wearily "he may whack me if 'e likes, it don't matter, you shan't be 'ungry if i can 'elp it. is father indoors?" "yes," said willie, beginning to cry, "and i'm so frightened. 'e 'it me this morning. i dunno what's the matter. 'e's been awful angry all day, and now 'e'll beat you. oh, dear! oh, dear!" bob's face flushed, and he clenched his hands. for himself he didn't care, but he did care when anything hurt willie. he couldn't stand that, and he wouldn't. he sat still for a moment lost in thought. at last he sprang up, saying:---"come on, willie, we won't go 'ome to-night, we'll find somewhere to sleep. father shan't 'it yer again. we'll go right away." willie got up willingly. he had implicit faith in his brother. whatever bob said or did was sure to be right. he followed him without a word as bob led the way up one street and down another, till his little legs began to ache. but it didn't seem as though they could stop, for every time they sat down on a doorstep the policeman came and told them to "move on!" at last bob turned into the park, and they sat down under a tree, when willie soon fell fast asleep. bob laid the tired little head against his shoulder, and although he became cramped with sitting so long in one position, he would not move for fear of waking him. as he sat there he naturally began to think. what were they going to do? whatever happened he would take care of willie. he would have to find another crossing, and willie would have to go with him. at any rate they would always be together, and nobody should hit willie again. he knew his father wouldn't come to look for them. he would be only too glad to be rid of them. were all fathers like his? he wondered. he didn't think so, because he had seen some children running along by the side of their father, and they even laughed and looked as though they were glad. _he_ laughed sometimes at some of the queer things willie said, but he never laughed if his father was there. no, they couldn't all be alike. as he sat there thinking, it had become quite dark, and presently he heard the park-keeper calling, "all out!" very gently he roused the little sleeper, and again they trudged along, on and on, till at last they found themselves at covent garden market, and there bob resolve to stay for the night. they crept into an empty barrel, and locked in each other's arms they were soon fast asleep. chapter ii a friend in need the two boys were awake early next for business begins early in covent garden, and they soon had to leave the shelter of their barrel, for barrels had to be used for other purposes than to serve as bedrooms for little boys. besides, bob felt that he had no time now that he had willie to provide for. "come, willie," he said, "we must have a wash the fust thing, and then we must earn some money to buy our breakfast with." "why, where can we wash?" asked willie. "oh, i know a fust-rate place," answered rob. "i think it was just made for boys like you and me wot ain't got no 'ome." willie placed his hand in his brother's, and off the two boys ran, until they reached trafalgar square. willie shouted with glee at the sight of so much water. never had he enjoyed himself so much as he did that morning as he splashed about in the water, and never had he felt so clean as he did when he had finished. "now," said bob, "jist you run up and down 'ere as fast as you can; yer'll soon dry." willie did as he was told, and soon felt dry and quite hungry; but he was a thoughtful little fellow, and determined to wait bravely until bob could get something for him to eat. "are yer dry, willie?" asked bob. "should jist think i am," replied willie; "feel me." "come on, then; let's go and see if we can find some work. ain't yer 'ungry?" "little." said willie briefly. dame fortune was kind to these poor little waifs this morning, for they had not gone far on their travels when willie's sharp eye spied something on the ground. eagerly he ran forward, and picked up a small silver coin, which he held up with high glee for his brother to see. "why, willie," exclaimed bob, "you are lucky! that's a real silver sixpence. now you shall have a jolly good breakfast." "oh, yes," said willie, "i am 'ungry. ain't yer bob?" with light hearts the two boys went on, talking eagerly as to how the sixpence should be spent. to these two poor little street arabs it seemed almost unlimited wealth, for never in their short lives had they had so much money to spend. bob was determined to give willie a treat, so, without saying where they were going, he led the way to st. james's park, where they found a man in charge of a stall, with a cow standing near by. with a very important air bob marched up to the man, and asked for two glasses of milk. the man looked at them rather suspiciously. in their ragged clothes they looked very different from most of the people who came to buy milk. "have you any money?" he asked. "'course we 'ave," answered bob proudly. "show 'im, willie." willie held up his hand and showed the man the shining coin. "why, where, did you get that?" asked the man. that's a lot of money for a little chap like you to have." "i found it," said willie, "and now we're goin' to 'ave some breakfast, ain't we, bob?" the children ate their meal ravenously, the man watching them meanwhile. "what are you going to do now?" he asked when they had finished. "find a crossin', fust thing," answered bib. "well, good luck to you," said the man. but bob did not find it very easy work. it had been a dry season, and the crossings were not muddy, so that there was very little to do. one or two people, attracted by willie's sweet face, gave him a copper, and just before dinner a gentleman asked bob to hold his horse, for which he gave him threepence; and so they dragged on during the day, but it was very hot, and poor little willie soon got tired. "never mind, willie," said bob, "we'll go and sit in the park again presently. let's stay a little longer." so willie sat down on a doorstep and waited while bob tried to earn a little more. but at last he gave up in despair, and, taking willie's hand, they turned off into the park. bob brought some bread-and-cheese from his pocket, and with a drink of water from the fountain, they made their evening meal. "i wonder if father'll try to find us," said willie. "you won't ever let me go back, will yer, bob?" "not if i knows it," said bob. "yer'll 'ave to be my kid now, willie; some day yer shall 'ave a broom o' yer own. i'll 'ave to teach yer the bizness." willie clapped his hands delightedly. "that'll be jolly! then i shall be able to earn some money." that night, and many succeeding ones, were spent by the children in the open air. sometimes under archways or on doorsteps, and sometimes in the friendly shelter of the old barrels. while the summer lasted, and the nights were dry and warm, bob did not mind, he thought it would not hurt willie, but when the cold weather began it made him very anxious. "why don't yer try my place where i sleep?" said another crossing-sweeper to him one day, when he told him his trouble. "the little 'un 'ud keep warm there." and he painted in glowing colours the glories of the cheap lodging-house where he had slept the night before. "'ow much?" asked bob. "tuppence a 'ead," was the reply. so bob determined if he could possibly earn money that willie should have a roof over his head that night. by the time the day's work was ended he found he had just sixpence in his pocket. he thought he would spend two of the pennies for their supper and send willie into the lodging-house alone. then he would have two pennies left for their breakfast. but little willie would not hear of any such arrangement. "no, bob," he said piteously, "don't make me go away from yer. let me stay with yer to-night; i don't mind bein' cold." but to this bob would not consent. if willie would not go in alone, why, he must go with him. perhaps he would get a job early to-morrow, and that would pay for their breakfast. but it was a wretched night the children spent; the place was with men, some of whom crowding round the fire were trying to cook their suppers, while others were quarrelling in different parts of the room. the children lay locked in each other's arms too frightened to move, as the loud, angry voices fell upon their ears, and it was late at night before the noise ceased and they were able to sleep. they were wakened early in the morning, for some of the men were up and off almost before daybreak; and bob thought he had better be on the move too, for money must be earned somehow before willie could have his breakfast. they were just about to start when they heard the voice of the landlady calling to them. she had noticed how pinched and starved they looked when they came in the night before and felt sorry for them. "come in here, little 'uns," she said, putting her head out of the room door. "bless me, you look famished. got any breakfast?" "no," said bob; "we was going to see if we could earn some money, so's we could buy some." "where's yer mother?" she asked shortly. "she's been dead a long while," answered bob. "yes," chimed in willie. "mother's dead, and we've runned away from father. he beat us." "poor little chap!" said the woman, looking at the younger boy. and then she made him sit by the fire, while she poured out two cups of steaming hot coffee. it was very weak, hardly more than coloured water, but to the little waifs it was the most delicious thing they had tasted for months, and as they drank their coffee and ate their bread and butter, the woman's heart warmed towards them. she smiled several times at willie's chatter, as he told of the life on the streets. "soon's we can get enuf money," he said, "bob'll buy me a broom, then i'll 'elp." "wouldn't you like to help now?" she asked. "yes," he replied, "but brooms cost a lot o' money." "so they do," said the woman. "besides, you're not big enough yet, but you could sell some matches, couldn't you? see, i'll lend you this sixpence to get some with," and then she told bob the best place to buy them, and how his little brother was to sell them. willie's eyes gleamed with delight, but all he could say was, "oh, bob!" the little fellow proved a splendid salesman. however ragged his clothes might be, his face was always clean, for the boys never missed their morning wash in trafalgar square, and he found several customers, who were attracted by his bright face and cheery voice as he called out "box o' lights, sir! box o' lights!" and his happiness reached its height when he was able to put into bob's hand quite a heap of pennies, the result of his morning's efforts. when the evening came they made their way back to the lodging-house, buying, on their way, half a loaf and some cheese to take in for their supper. bob had a good day himself so that he had managed to save threepence towards paying back the sixpence their kind friend had lent them in the morning, and it was with a face flushed with pride that he offered it to her. "no, laddie," she said; "wait until you can afford it better." "please take it," he urged. "we've done well to-day, willie and me." so mrs. blair took the money, but she insisted on their lying down in a corner of her room, instead of going into the common kitchen. "and you must come every night," she said. "i've been thinking to-day that if i had a little boy of my own i should like one with a face like willie's. bless him!" and the kind woman kissed the child tenderly. "that was nice," said the child. "nobody ever did that afore." so the two children were always sure of a shelter for the night. sometimes they were gone in the morning before mrs. blair was about, but if not, she always put fresh water into her tea or coffee-pot and gave them a hot drink. she was a very poor woman herself and it was as much as she could do for the little ones. but she did it gladly. chapter iii the mission school the children were not always so successful as on the day when willie first began to sell his matches. sometimes, indeed, they took scarcely anything, and poor little willie would get tired and faint through having to go all day with nothing eat. one day bob saw a gentleman jump off his horse and look for some one to hold it while he went into a shops. he darted up to him and asked to be allowed to do it. "you don't look very big, my lad," said the gentleman; "but you may try. don't let him run away." bob found it hard work, for the gentleman was a long time, and the pony was restive, but he was a plucky little chap and would not give in. the gentleman had been keeping his eye on him through the shop-window, and when he came out he said--"well done, my boy! you'll make a fine man some day," and he thrust a shilling into the boy's hand. bob was overjoyed with his good fortune as he showed it to willie. "see 'ere, willie," he said. "we'll 'ave a tuck-in to-night." and on the way to mrs. blair's they stood some time before a pastrycook's, trying to make up their minds which of the good things they should buy. first they thought they would like one thing and then another, but at last decided upon some meat pies, which, nicely arranged in the window, looked very tempting to the hungry boys. mrs. blair was delighted to hear of their success. handing her the change, bob said--- "please'm, will yer mind this money for me?" he had long before paid her the remaining three-pence that he owed. "'course i will," she said. "are you saving up?" "yes'm; you see it's gettin' cold now, and willie's clothes is awful thin. i want to git 'im some more." "so they are," she answered. "yours too, i think." "oh, them don't matter," he replied. "but willie's on'y a little chap; i must take care on 'im." mrs. blair was often touched when she noticed this boy's devotion to his little brother. he never seemed to care what hardships he went through himself, but willie must be shielded at all costs. it took a long time to save up the required sum, but at length bob managed it, and one night the boy came in with an old coat and a pair of shoes tucked under his arm. of course the coat was not a very good fit, and the shoes were too large: but bob had picked up the two at an old clothes-shop for two shillings, and they were the best he could do. at any rate, they were whole, and they would keep willie warm. it was a miserably foggy evening in november. the roads were frightfully dirty, and bob worked with all his might to keep the crossing clean; but the people all seemed in too much of a hurry to take any notice of the little sweeper, and willie fared no better with his matches. fairly worn out and tired, the little fellow began to cry. "let's go 'ome, bob," he sobbed. "i'm so cold." "all right," returned the other. "seems no use to stop 'ere. folks ain't got nothin' for us to-night." bob shouldered his broom, and they turned off down a side street. they had not gone far when willie suddenly stopped. "'ark, bob! wot's that?" he whispered. "sounds like as if some one was a-singin'," was he answer. "p'raps we shall come to 'em in a minute. come on!" buoyed up by this suggestion willie quickened his footsteps, and presently they came to a small hall, which was brilliantly lighted. [the children stopped, and bob peeped in at the door.] the place seemed to be almost full of children, some of whom were quite as ragged as himself. they were all singing lustily, and the two boys could hear the words--- "suffer little children to come unto me." "don't it sound prime, willie?" said bob. shall we go in?" "yes, do; it'll be warm in there." so bob pushed open the door, and trying to make as little noise as possible, so as not to attract attention, the two boys shuffled in. in his anxiety, however, he managed to drop his broom, which fell with a thud on the floor, the noise of which caused all the children to stop their singing and turn round to look at him. this was too much for the poor little fellow, and he tried to get out again as quickly as he came in. just as he was turning to go, however, a lady with the most beautiful face he had even, came up, and, laying her hand upon his shoulder, said, "don't go away, dear. come and sit down!" and she led them to a form near the stove. at the same time, a man who was standing upon a low platform at the other end of the room called out in a quick voice--"attention, children!" and immediately the singing went on again. after the hymn was finished the children seated them-selves, and the gentleman spoke to them about the one who had said "suffer little children." he pictured to them the scene of jesus going on his journey surrounded by his disciples. he told them how the mothers came, bringing their little children along the hot dusty road to meet him, and how delighted they were when jesus took the little ones up in his arms and blessed them. and then he held up before them a picture, and, pointing to the central figure, he said--- "look, dear children, this man with the kind face is jesus. see how lovingly he looks at the little children. wouldn't some of you have liked to have been there?" a low murmured "yes!" came from the children as they listened breathlessly. "well, dear children," he went on, "jesus loves you as much as he loved those children. he is sorry for you when you are hungry and cold. he wants you to be good too, for it makes him very sad when you steal, or say bad words, or quarrel and fight. he is getting a beautiful place ready for you to live in; but you must let him help you to be good, and some day he will send his angel to fetch you to go and live in that beautiful place." after he had finished speaking, miss elton, the lady who had spoken to bob at the door, came up to the platform, and in a sweet, clear voice, so that the children could understand every word, she sang to them the well-known hymn--- "i think when i read that sweet story of old." there was a pin-drop silence in the room when she left off and then they all sang a hymn together, after which the gentleman prayed a short, simple prayer, and the meeting was over. with much noise the little ragged children departed to their homes, but bob sat on like one in a dream. presently miss elton came up to him, and said--- "well my little man, aren't you going home?" "please'm," he said eagerly, "do you think as 'ow 'e'll let me take willie to _'im?_" "what do you mean, dear?" she asked. "why 'im as we was told about to-night." "do you mean jesus?" she asked. bob nodded. "yes, dear," was the answer. "he wants willie and you too. have you ever heard about jesus before?" "no," was the answer. so she tried to explain in a very simple way, which both the children could understand, the sweet story of jesus. "he is watching you, and willie too," she said, "and he wants to help you to be good boys, so that you may grow up to be good he loves you very, very much. will you let him?" "i wish 'e would," said bob. "don't you, willie? on'y, i don't see as 'ow i can tell 'im." "well," was the answer, "if you kneel down, and shut your eyes, and speak to him ever so softly, he will hear you. listen!" and kneeling down beside the children she prayed--"dear jesus, these two little boys want you to help them to be good. they want to be made fit to live in your beautiful home. please help them. amen." the children looked at her for a moment or two, awed by her manner. then bob asked-- "did 'e 'ear yer?" "yes, dear, he did," was the reply; "and if you talk to him, he will hear you too. but now it is getting late and you must take this little chap home. will you come again another night, and hear some more about jesus?" "we'd like to, wouldn't we, willie?" willie nodded. he could hardly take his eyes off the beautiful face of the lady, and for once he felt too shy to say much, but when he was outside the door his tongue became unloosed. "wasn't she a pretty lady, bob? shall we go and see her again?" "'course we will," was the decided answer. "but, willie, wouldn't yer like to go an' see that kind man wot the gent told us about?" "yes," said willie; "but where is 'e, bob?" "i dunno," said bob; "but the lady said as 'ow 'e would 'ear us if we spoke to 'im. p'raps mrs. blair will tell us." when the children arrived, at the house they found mrs. blair becoming very anxious about them, for it was not often they were so late now that the evenings were dark and cold. "why, laddies!" she exclaimed, "i thought you were lost. wherever 'ave you been?" "mrs. blair," said willie eagerly, "can you tell us the way to jesus?" "bless the child!" she said, looking at bob. "what on earth does he mean?" "'ain't you ever 'eerd about 'im?" asked bob, looking very disappointed. "we've bin to a place where a lot o' children were singing about 'suffer little children,' and then a man talked about one as was called jesus, and 'e said 'e wanted all little boys like willie an' me to be good so's we could go and live with 'im some day; and willie and me wants to find the way, and now you can't 'elp us!" sadly and wistfully. "no, child," she said huskily, "i'm afraid i can't. be quick and get your suppers, for it's awful late, an' that little 'un ought to be in bed." "bob," whispered willie, "yer'll speak to jesus afore we go to bed, won't yer? the lady said 'e would 'ear." so the two little waifs knelt in their corner with their eyes tightly shut, and bob prayed in a low voice--- "please, sir, me an' willie wants to find yer. make us good boys, an' show us the way." "say 'men, bob," said willie, "like the lady did." and bob said "'men." chapter iv a visitor for willie what made mrs. blair sit up late that night, watching the fire, instead of going to bed quickly as she usually did? willie's question had taken her back in thought to the time when she was a little girl. she remembered the lovely village where she was born; she fancied herself a girl again, running about the sweet-scented lanes and the green fields. she could see the honeysuckle all out in bloom, as it climbed over the cottage door and peeped in at the windows; but, most of all, she thought of her mother and the prayer she taught her to say every night as she knelt at her knee. but her mother was dead, and she had not been near the village for many years. in that time she had forgotten all the lessons her mother had tried to teach her, and now when little willie wanted her to show him the way to jesus she was not able to do so. it was many years since she had taken the name of jesus upon her lips. she had been a hard-working woman all her life, and she had no time to think about him. but now she wished she had. she would have been glad if she could have told little willie what he wanted to know. from this time the boys never forgot to speak to jesus, as willie called it, every morning and evening. they went to the mission services regularly every week, and miss elton and her brother began to take a great interest in the children. the boys listened eagerly to every word that was said, and carried it faithfully home to mrs. blair, for she, poor woman, seemed quite as anxious to find jesus as the children had been. willie's "pretty lady" had quite won the children's hearts, so that willie had lost all his shyness with her; and as for the lady herself, she delighted to bear him chatter. bob told her all about their life in primrose place, and on the streets since, and what a good friend mrs. blair had been to them. "why, you see," she said, "jesus has been taking care of you all the time; only you did not know it." "'as 'e?" said bob wonderingly. "of course he has," was the reply. "don't you see how he has let you take care of willie? all the kind, loving thoughts that you have about are put into your mind by jesus. it was he made mrs. blair so kind to you. she wouldn't have looked after you so well if he had not put the thoughts into her head." so, little by little, the minds of the children began to open, and they understood something of the way in which jesus loved them. in spite of the new clothes that bob's careful saving up had procured for him, little willie seemed to feel the cold very keenly, and bob often felt very anxious about him. he caught cold, and that left him with a bad cough. several times bob had to leave him at home while he went to his crossing alone. but these were miserable days for the elder boy. he always declared that people took no notice of him when willie was not there, and it was very little he could earn. had it not been for mrs. blair, the children would often have had to spend the night out of doors. one very wet evening in december bob turned into the mission-room alone. willie had been too ill to go out with him in the morning, and he wanted to go straight home; he thought willie would be so lonely. but willie would not hear of it. "no, bob," he said; "go an' see my pretty lady, so's yer can tell me wot she says when yer come 'ome." miss. elton saw him come in at the door, and quickly missed her little favourite. "why, bob," she said, "where's willie?" "please'm," he answered, "'e ain't well. 'e couldn't come out with me to-day." "poor little chap!" said the lady kindly. "i hope he isn't very bad. i must come and see him. do you think he would like me to?" "i should jist think 'e would," answered bob. "very well, then, you must tell me the way, and i will come to-morrow." bob did so as clearly as he could, then went to his seat. but it was very little that he heard of the address that evening, for his head was so full of the visit that was to be paid that he couldn't take in anything else. directly the meeting was over he flew off as fast as his legs could carry him. "willie, willie!" he burst out, as soon as he got into the room. "guess wot i've got to tell yer! "can't," said willie. "do tell me, bob." "some one's comin' to see yer to-morrer." "to see me!" repeated willie. "who, bob?" "who should it be," said bob, "but yer lady!" "truth, bob? do yer mean it?" for it seemed almost too good to be true. "my pretty lady!" "yes," said bob. "ain't it prime? i know'd yer'd be glad." mrs. blair was almost as excited as the children themselves, at the idea of the visitor, and she declared she would have to be up an hour earlier, in order to be ready for the lady. the next morning willie very much wanted his brother to stay at home with him to see the lady, but bob knew he must not do that. "it won't do to lose a day now, willie," he said. "i must go an' earn some money, else wot'll we do?" and with a brave face he shouldered his broom and marched off. true to her promise, miss elton found her way that morning to mrs. blair's. she had some difficulty in following bob's directions, for they were not very clear. but she arrived there at lasts and found willie eagerly watching for her at the window. "why, willie, my little man," she said, "you didn't come to see me last night." "no," said willie, with glistening eyes. "i 'ain't been well; but---but," hesitatingly, "i'm glad you've come to see me." [miss elton sat down, and drew the boy to her side.] she thought what a frail little fellow he looked, with his flushed cheeks and shining eyes. she talked to him for some time about himself and his brother, and then she said---"now, willie, i want you to make haste and get well. do you know why?" willie shook his head. "well," she said, "christmas will be here in two weeks' time. do you know what christmas is?" "no," said willie, "i 'ain't ever see'd one." miss elton smiled. "you know who jesus is?" she asked. "yes" said willie. "we talks to 'im every mornin' an' night, bob an' me; an' we're tryin' to be good." "that's right," said miss elton. "well, jesus used to live down here on the earth once, and we called the day he came christmas day. so christmas day was his birthday. you know how he loves little children, and wants them to be happy, and we want to make them happy too. so what do you think we are going to do?" "dunno," said willie. "we are going to give the children a treat at the mission-room. we want you all to come and have tea there, and some nice games afterwards; but i'm not going to tell you everything, because i want to surprise you. that is why i want you to get well." "can bob come too?" he asked. "of course; we must have bob," she answered. "we couldn't get on without him." for some moments willie stood looking at her as though he wanted to say something. miss elton waited for him to speak. at last she said gently: "well, dear, what is it? "i wish----" he hesitated. "i wish you'd _sing_." "would you like me to?" she asked, smiling. "what shall i sing?" "'bout 'suffer little children.'" during the singing mrs. blair came into the room. miss elton spoke to her very kindly for minutes, and asked some questions about willie, thanking her for what she had done for the children. "lor', ma'am," she said, "who could help it; such children as they are? it's wonderful the way that boy looks after the little chap; and as for the little one, why, with his angel-face and pretty ways he'd get round the hardest woman." "it's very good of you, mrs. blair, and god will give you your reward, you may be sure. will you take this," slipping some money into her hand, "and get willie some food? he wants nourishment, poor little fellow! i must come and see him again. i want him to be well enough to come to the treat we are giving to the children at the mission-room. perhaps you would come up in the evening, and see them at play?" "thank you kindly, ma'am," she replied. "i'd be glad to come." before miss elton left she made willie very happy giving him a book of coloured pictures, telling him it was to keep him from being lonely while bob was at work. chapter v the christmas treat after miss elton's visit willie found plenty to amuse himself with that day, and he was very anxious for bob to come home that he might tell him the news. mrs. blair went out and bought some meat and other things with the money the lady had given her, and the little fellow feasted like a king. some of the good things he insisted on saving for bob, and it was in a state of high glee that he watched his brother eating his supper that night. the picture book was a source of great amusement to them. many of the pictures they recognized, having heard the stories at the mission-room, and it seemed as though willie would never tire of looking at them, especially one which showed jesus blessing little children. the boys looked forward with great interest to the coming treat, and often wondered what kind of a thing it would be, for they had never been to anything of the sort in their lives. miss elton kept her promise, and came several times to see willie, always giving mrs. blair something to buy food with, so that it would not be necessary for him to go out in the cold and wet to sell his matches. it was a red-letter day for bob when, once, miss elton happened to come along just where he was at work. he saw her coming some time before she recognized him, but when she stopped to speak to him he was so excited that he scarcely knew what he was doing. "why, bob," she exclaimed, "this is the first time i have seen you at business. how beautifully clean you have made your crossing!" bob coloured with pleasure. it was not often that people praised him, and he hardly knew what to make of it. "how is my little friend willie to-day?" she asked. "please'm, 'e's gittin' better now 'e don't 'ave to come an' stay out 'ere with me," was the answer. bob could always find his tongue when any one asked him about willie. "i'm so glad," said miss elton. "i want him to come to the treat." "yes," said bob, "'e ants to come." "do you always sweep this crossing?" she inquired. "yes'm," was the answer. "it's best jist to stay in one place. folks git to know yer, yer see. i have my reg'lar ones as gives me a penny most days. they wouldn't do that if i shifted about." "i see," said miss elton. "well i shall always look out for this crossing now," and with a bright smile and a coin as a parting gift she went on her way. but her heart ached for the little sweeper as she thought of the small old-looking face above the ragged clothes, thinking too of the numbers more who were like him in the great city, and how little she could do for them. the two weeks quickly passed away, and the long-looked-for day of the treat arrived. miss elton found time in the morning to come round to mrs. blair's to see if willie was able to come. "bless, you, ma'am," said that good lady, "you couldn't keep him back if you tried. he's that set on going. i'll be there to bring him home safely." "well," said miss elton, "he looks much better than when i first saw him. you are better, are you not, willie?" turning to the child. "yes, please'm," answered willie, with sparkling eyes. "i'm comin' to the treat. bob's comin' 'ome early to take me." there was great excitement at mrs. blair's that afternoon. bob arrived home in good time, and mrs. blair provided the boys with soap and water with which they rubbed their faces until they shone. then she produced a needle and thread, and much to bob's delight did what she could towards drawing his rags together. it was an almost hopeless task, and they really did not look much better when they were done; but bob was as proud of the stitches which prevented the wind blowing through the holes on to his little bare legs as a young prince would have been of a new suit of clothes, and it was with beaming, happy faces that the two children set off hand-in-hand to take their share of the good things provided for them. but when they entered the hall they almost thought they had come to the wrong place, for the room was completely changed. two long tables went down the length of the room, covered with clean white cloths, and loaded with heaped-up plates of bread-and-butter and cake. steaming urns of tea stood at each end, surrounded by cups and saucers. the walls had been prettily decorated with holly and evergreens, and the red berries glistened in the gaslight. the platform at the end of the room had been taken away, and in its place stood an enormous tree covered with toys and parcels. several of the children were standing round it in groups, for the most part in silence, as though overawed with the unusual sight. some of the bolder ones ventured nearer and proceeded to examine the articles hanging upon the tree. willie's eyes, however, were fixed upon one object in the middle of the room. a little girl, beautifully dressed in white, with a broad, blue sash, looking exactly like a fairy, was holding miss elton by the hand. willie had caught sight of her directly he entered the room, and stood looking as though fascinated. "look, bob," he whispered; "is she a angel?" "dunno," said bob. "should think she looks like one." just then miss elton turned her head and saw the two boys. keeping hold of the little girl's hand, she came towards them. ["see, gladys," she said; "this is my little boy willie."] "g'adys' 'ickle boy too," said the child, slipping her hand confidingly into the boy's. willie coloured to the roots of his hair; but was too overcome by the little lady's possession of him to speak. miss elton 'smiled "that's right, gladys. now you take him and show him all the pretty things," and she left the children together while she went back to her helpers. "come 'long, boy," said gladys. "see all ze pitty sings on ze tree," and, tugging at his hand, she pulled him down the long room, and very soon the little waif, and the daintily-dressed maiden were the best of friends, and chatting away as though they had known each other all their short lives. "now, children," said mr. elton, ringing a bell as he spoke to gain attention, "all who are hungry and want some tea must come and sit down at the tables." for the next five minutes all was confusion as the children noisily took their places, gladys and willie bringing up the rear. "miss elton, look!" exclaimed a young lady who had come to help attend the children. "did you ever see such an extraordinary likeness?" "likeness between whom?" asked miss elton. "why, your little niece and her ragged knight," said the young lady. "can't you see, now they are close together? their eyes are quite alike, and they have the same curly hair." "it is so indeed," said miss elton; "but it has never struck me before." "what a sweet face that boy has!" said her companion. "i should love to dress him in velvet and lace." there was no time for more to be said, for the children were hungry, and although miss elton had brought several friends to help her and her brother with their ragged visitors, they were kept exceedingly busy. many of the little waifs had never had such a feast in their lives, and it was astonishing to see the way in which they drank the tea and devoured the cake. after the children had eaten as much as they could, they were allowed to get down from the table, and while the tea was being cleared away they romped about in the room. miss elton taught them to play "oranges and lemons," "nuts and may," and other games which are familiar to most children, but quite strange to little london arabs such as were gathered together in that room. when they had tired themselves out with play they all sat down, and while they ate oranges mr. elton talked to them for a little while about the one whose birthday they were celebrating, and miss elton sang to them. the greatest event of the evening was left until the last. by this time some of the parents had come in, among whom was mrs. blair, and they seemed to enjoy the fun quite as much as the children. they looked on with great interest while a gentleman brought round a hat in which were a number of pieces of paper, each marked with a figure. "now, children," said mr. elton, "you must all take a paper out of the hat and see what the number is that is marked on it, and when i call out the number you must stand up and you will get something off the tree. now, then; attention! number fourteen!" instantly two boys stood up. "no, no," said mr. elton, "you haven't both number fourteen!" "please, sir, this chap's wrong," said a voice; "'e ain't got no fourteen." it was soon discovered that the boy had mistaken number forty-one for fourteen, and many other similar mistakes occurred, owing to the ignorance of the children. but there were many willing helpers, and at last the business was settled. each child received a toy and a warm article of clothing. for a few minutes the uproar was deafening, with the blowing of whistles, shaking of tambourines, beating of drums, etc., as each child proceeded to try his own particular toy. willie had been fortunate enough to obtain a box of soldiers and a pair of warm knitted cuffs, which were tried on and much admired by gladys, while bob was the happy possessor of a tin whistle and a thick woollen comforter. "wear it home," said miss elton, smiling at him; "you will find out how warm it is." it was late when the children separated, tired and happy. it was an evening never to be forgotten by them, and years after, when they had grown up to be men and women, some of them hardened by sin, this christmas treat at the mission school stood out in their memories as the one piece of happiness in their miserable lives. chapter vi little bertram "arthur," said miss elton to her brother, as they sat by the fire that evening talking over the events of the day, "has it ever occurred to you that there is a striking likeness between that little willie brown and our gladys?" "no, dear," was the answer, "i cannot say that it has. i have often thought him very superior to the other children, and he is not in the least like his brother bob." "well, nora graham called my attention to the fact this afternoon, and it has haunted me ever since. do you think, arthur, it _could_ be by any chance? little bertram would have been just about his age now," wistfully. "my dear winnie," returned her brother, "i should not allow myself to raise any such hopes on that point if i were you. you have been disappointed so often." "still," she persisted, "there is just a chance, and we dare not leave a single stone unturned to find poor marion's boy." "no," he replied, "but we have so little to go upon. it is four years now since marion died, and the only clue we could have at all is that tiny mark upon the shoulder." "well," she said, "if i go and see the child and find out what i can from him, will you go to primrose place and see if you can trace anything of his parents?" "certainly i will," was the answer. "you know, dear, i am as anxious to find the child as you are. it maddens one to think of the little chap being brought up in one of those filthy alleys. i don't wonder it killed his mother." "no, indeed," said miss elton, her eyes filled with tears. "poor marion!" some years before our story opens miss elton's only sister had married an artist living in a pretty village in surrey, and there about a year afterwards their little boy bertram was born. his parents idolized him, and he was the pet and plaything of every one who had anything to do with him. when he was just about one year old, his mother, mrs. vincent, had in her service a housemaid who had a violent temper. it happened that one day mrs. vincent had occasion to reprove her for some fault, and the girl was heard to declare that she would "pay her out for it." soon after mr. and mrs. vincent went to spend a day with some friends living at a distance, leaving little bertram in charge of his nurse, thinking her a woman they could trust. great was their dismay, however, when they returned to find both bertram and ellen, the housemaid, missing. the nurse seemed to be almost beside herself with terror, and they could get very little information from her. she said that ellen had offered to mind the baby while she went to dress. she missed them when she came down, but thinking that they were somewhere about the grounds, she took no notice but went on with some work in the nursery. when tea was ready she went out to look for them, but they were nowhere to be seen. feeling thoroughly frightened, she called the cook, and together they searched the house and grounds, but no trace of ellen or the baby could be found. poor mrs. vincent was almost out of her mind with grief when she realized that her darling baby was lost. the father haunted the police stations and hospitals longing for news of the boy. but it was all in vain, little bertram had completely disappeared. mr. and mrs. vincent never saw their child again; a month or two afterwards the father was thrown from a trap and killed, and when gladys was born soon after, the poor mother could not recover the shock and she followed her husband. on her death-bed she made her brother and sister promise that they would look after gladys, and also do all in their power to find bertram. faithfully these two kept their word. aunt winnie had been a good mother to little gladys, and in the hope that they might some day come across the little boy, they had started their mission among the waifs of london. so far, however, it had been all in vain. sometimes they fancied they had a clue, but it always led to nothing, and they had almost begun to think the task hopeless, when miss elton's attention was directed to willie brown. directly breakfast was over the next morning mr. elton and his sister set out on their errand of inquiry. in spite of her brother's counsel not to think too much about it, miss elton could not help feeling strangely hopeful, for something seemed to tell her that at last god had heard her prayers, and little bertram would be restored to those who loved him. on arriving at mrs. blair's house she encountered bob just marching off with his broom. "why bob," she exclaimed delightedly, "you will be late for business this morning. how is this?" "yes'm," he began awkwardly, blushing to the roots of his hair. it was the first time such a thing had occurred since he started his crossing, and he felt himself in disgrace. "well, ma'am, begging your pardon," broke in mrs. blair, "and who could blame him if he is? it isn't every day those two dear children go to a christmas party; not a wink of sleep did they get this blessed night long. little willie there was so full of that pretty little lady that took so much notice of him---'the little angel,' he calls her." "i am very glad you _were_ late this morning, bob," said miss elton, "for i want to talk to you both. so, willie," turning to the little fellow, "you like my girlie, do you? would you like to see her again?" "yes, please'm," said willie, his eyes sparkling. "well, then," was the answer, "bob must bring you to my house, and you must play with her there. but, now," she went on, "i want you to tell me all you can about yourselves. do you remember your mother, bob?" "yes'm," replied bob; "she used to drink awful." "has she been dead long?" "yes; she died when willie wor a kid. i know, 'cos 'e was jist a-tryin' to walk by 'isself. 'e 'ad no one then to look arter 'im but me," he added. "well," replied miss elton, "you have looked after him very well. i am sure willie has been very happy when he has been with you. he is a dear little fellow," drawing the child closer to her and gazing into his face. yes, he certainty was the image of gladys; she could see it plainly now. how strange that she had never noticed it before! she sat talking to them some time longer, and then, slipping a shilling into bob's hand, she asked him to stay and play with willie to-day. once outside the door she turned eagerly. "mrs. blair," she said, to that lady's astonishment, "do you think willie is really bob's brother?" "bless me, miss," was the answer, "i haven't never thought about it. he always calls him his brother." "they are not much alike," said miss elton. "no," replied mrs. blair; "but i don't know that that shows anything? "have you ever seen willie undressed?" went on her questioner. "lor' bless you, yes!" she replied. "why, only yesterday i gave him a good wash before he went to the tea-party." and she looked, at miss elton wonderingly. "did you notice anything about him--any particular marks about his body, i mean?" "no," was the answer. "stay, though, i think i did see a little red mark on his shoulder. but it was nothing much." "oh, thank you," said miss elton joyously, though her eyes were brimming over with tears. "no, i mustn't say anything yet; but, mrs. blair, will you bring the children up to my house this afternoon? this is my address," handing her a card. "you can get an omnibus near here that will take you all the way to west kensington." having mrs. blair's promise that she would be there in good time, miss elton hastened home. her brother had not yet returned, but she could settle to nothing till he came. she wandered about from the library to the drawing-room, then up to the nursery, where she caught gladys up in her arms and danced with her about the room, while the little one screamed with delight. at last the door-bell rang, and she rushed down to meet her brother in the hall. "well, dear," she cried, "what news?" "my dear winnie," replied her brother, "you are a perfect tornado. let me get inside;" "be quick, then," was the answer, and she pulled him into the drawing-room. seating himself in a chair, he proceeded to give her an account of his morning's work. when he arrived at primrose place he could not find any trace of the man brown. an old woman who lived in the same house said that he had left the place soon after the boys went away. she said she remembered the children quite well, but she did not think they were brothers, because she knew a young woman came there about five years ago, bringing a baby with her, which she left. mrs. brown always gave out that it was her own, but she didn't ever remember her having a baby, and she didn't think it was her own. brown himself was doing two years in gaol at the time mrs. brown died soon after he came out. she said that the children led a dreadful life with the man, and she was glad when they went away. "so you see, winnie," he concluded, "that is all i could find out, and it is not enough to go upon." "ah, well," she replied, shaking her head, "willie is coming here this afternoon, and then you will see. i am certain 'we have found bertram." and so sure was she, that her next business was to order the carriage and set off to the shop to buy a suit for willie. everything that the boy could possibly, want in the shape of underclothes was bought, and then the little velvet suit that nora graham had suggested, with the lace collar, was added. precisely at three o'clock mrs. blair appeared with the children. little gladys was delighted to see willie, and would sit next to him at the table while they had some tea. mr. elton came in and looked at them, and he, too, was struck with the likeness between the children. after tea miss elton took willie to the nursery saying she had some clothes for him and she wanted to see them on. "here, nurse," she said to the servant who was waiting; "this is the little boy i told you about." "bless his dear heart!" said the woman, catching him in her arms. "i should have known master bertie anywhere." miss elton was very glad now that bertram's old nurse had stayed on to look after gladys, for now that _she_ recognized the child she felt all her doubts laid to rest for ever, and she stood looking on while nurse took off the ragged clothes exposed to view the tiny mark on the little bare shoulder. "there, ma'am," she exclaimed, "that is proof enough. oh, if only my dear mistress had lived to see this day!" "we will believe she does see it," returned miss elton, "and i am sure she is glad with us." the dressing was quickly finished, and with his shining face and nicely-combed hair he looked, as miss elton said, "like a little prince." taking his hand, she led him down to the dining-room and exhibited him to the others. mrs. blair gazed at him open-mouthed. gladys ran to him, and, throwing her arms round his neck, kissed him delightedly, saying, "g'adys 'ove 'oo, 'ickle boy!" bob alone made no sign. he did not know what to make of this new willie. miss elton called him to her. "bob," she said, "many years ago my little nephew was stolen away from his home. i have searched for him everywhere, but could not find him; but to-day i have found out that you have been taking care of him for me all this time. are you glad that willie is my little boy?" "will 'e be always dressed like that?" asked bob. "yes," was the answer. "won't 'e be 'ungry and cold any more?" "no, my boy." "then i'm glad--but oh, willie," and he broke down sobbing. "why, what is the matter?" asked miss elton. "oh!" sobbed the boy, "i shan't never see 'im no more!" "why, bob," said miss elton, "what are you saying? of course you will see willie. do you think i would separate you after you have been so good to him? listen to me. would you like to come and live here with willie? then you could go to school, and still look after him as you always have done." and so it was settled. gladys was delighted with her new brother, and she ruled him like a little queen, while he became her willing slave and gave in to her in everything. they went down into the country to live, where bertram soon grew rosy and strong, while mrs. blair was given a pretty little lodge to live in at the gate, which she said reminded, her of her old home when she was a girl. bob was sent to a good school, where he himself so eager and quick to learn that mr. elton sent him on to college; and when he became a clergyman he chose a parish in the east end of london, where he devoted his life to working among boys who were as poor as he himself once was. -- a -- . selection . of illustrated books for girls & boys. ___.___ published by s. w. partridge & co. & , paternoster row, london, e.c. s. d. each. the british boys' library. a new series of books for boys. crown vo., i pages, cloth. illustrated. the adventures of ji. by g. farrow. missionary heroes: stories of heroism on the missionary field. by c. d. michael. andrew bennett's harvest; or, the shadow of god's providence. by lydia phillips. "brown ai"; or, a stolen holiday. by e. m. stooke. the pigeons' cave; or, a story of great orme's head in i . by j. s. fletcher. success: chats about boys who have won it. by c. d. michael. runaway rollo. by e. m. stooke. robin the rebel. by h. louisa bedford. well done! stories of brave endeavour. edited by c. d. michael. the wonder seekers. by henry j. barker, m.a. little soldiers. by kate l. mackley. will; or, "that boy from the union." by lydia phillips, noble deeds: stories of peril and heroism. edited by charles d. michael. ben: a story of life's byways. by lydia phillips. _and four others_. s. d. each. the british girls' library. a new series of books for girls. crown vo., i o pages, cloth. illustrated. the mystery baby; or, patsy at fellside. by alice m. page. zillah, the little dancing girl. by mrs. hugh st. leger. patsie's bricks. by l. s. mead. salome's burden; or, the shadow on the homes. by eleanora h. stooke. heroines: true tales of brave women. by c. d. michael. granny's girls. by m. b. manwell, author of "little miss," etc. mousey; or cousin robert's treasure. by eleanora h. stooke, author of "a little town mouse," etc. marigold's fancies. by l. e. tiddeman, author of "grannie's treasures," etc. the lady of greyham; or, low in a low place. by emma e. hornibrook. the gipsy queen. by emma leslie. kathleen; or, a maiden's influence. by julia hack. queen of the isles. by jessie m. e. saxby. the rajah's daughter; or, the half-moon girl. by bessie marchant. in self-defence. by julia hack. _and four others_. s. d. each. illustrated reward books. crown vo., cloth extra. fully illustrated. philip's inheritance; or, into a far country. by f. spenser. donald's victory. by lydia phillips, author of "in friendship's name," "frank burleigh," etc. sister royal. by mrs. haycraft, author of "the children of cherryholme," etc. grace ashleigh. by mary d. r. boyd. without a thought. by jennie chappell. edith oswald; or, living for others. by jane m. kippen. the eagle cliff. by r. m. ballantyne. the king's daughter. by "pansy." ester ried. by "pansy." the foster brothers; or, foreshadowed. by mrs. morton. the household angel. by madeline leslie. miss elizabeth's niece. by m. s. haycraft. the man of the house. by "pansy." three people. by "pansy." chrissy's endeavour. by "pansy." =============== everyone's library. a re-issue of standard works in a cheap form. s. each. tom brown's schooldays. by an old boy. the wide, wide world. by susan warner. life and adventures of robinson crusoe. by daniel defoe. uncle tom's cabin. by h. b. stowe. the old lieutenant and his son. by norman macleod. the coral island. by r. m. ballantyne. ---------------- shilling reward books. fully illustrated. crown vo., cloth extra. heroes all. a book of brave deeds. by c. d. michael. the old red scuool house. by frances h. wood. christabel's influence. by j. goldsmith cooper. true stories of brave deeds. by mabel bowler. the mystery of marnie. by jennie chappell. gipsy kit; or, the man with the tattooed face. by robert leighton. everybody's friend. by evelyn everett-green. the bell buoy. by f. m. holmes. saph's foster bairn. by rev. a. colbeck. vic: a book of animal stories. by alfred c. fryer, ph.d., f.s.a. caravan cruises: five children in a caravan---not to mention old dobbin. by phil ludlow. the wild swans; or, the adventure of rowland cleeve. by mary c. rowsell. george & co.; or, the choristers of st. anseim's. by spencer j. gibb. dick's desertion: a boy's adventures in canadian forests. by marjorie l. c. pickthall. fern dacre: a minster yard story. by ethel ruth boddy. little chris, the castaway. by f. spenser. tom and the enemy. by clive r. fenn. the children of the priory. by j. l. hoenibrook. through sorrow and joy; or, the story of an english bible in reformation times. by m. a. r. pets and their wild cousins: new and true stories of animals. by rev. j. isabell, f.e.s. other pets and their wild cousins. by rev. j. isabell, f.e.s. ruth's roses; or, what some girls did. by laura a. barter-snow, author of "harold," etc. a brother's need. by l. s. meld. in paths of peril: a boy's adventures in nova scotia. by j. macdonald oxley, author of "norman's nugget," etc. sunshine and snow. by harold bindloss. "crown jewels." by heather grey. donalblaine of darien. by j. macdonald orley. all play and no work. by harold avery. always happy; or, the story of helen keller. by jennie chappell. aileen; or, the love of christ constraineth us. by laura a. barter-snow. blossom and blight. by miss m. a. paull. bernard or ben? by jennie chappell. birdie and her dog, and other stories of canine sagacity. by miss phillips. bessie drew; or, the odd little girl. by amy manifold. cola monti; or, the story of a genius. by mrs. craik, author of "john halifax, gentleman." the children of cherryholme. by m. s. haycrapt. the fatal nugget. by e. harcourt burrage. harold; or, two died for me. by laura a. barter-snow. indian life in the great north-west. by egerton r. young, author of "by canoe and dog-train." jack the conqueror; or, difficulties over-come. by mrs. c. e. bowen. little bunch's charge; or, true to trust. by nellie cornwall. lost in the backwoods. by edith c. kenyon. little woodman and his dog caesar (the). by mrs. sherwood. nella; or, not my own. by jessie goldsmith cooper. our den. by e. m. waterworth. our duty to animals. by mrs. c. bray, author of "physiology for schools," etc. intended to teach the young kindness to animals. paul the courageous. by mabel quiller-couch, author of "some western folk," etc. pilg rim's progress (the). by john bunyan. pages. coloured and other illustrations. roy's sister; or, his way and hers. by m. b. manwell, author of "mother's boy," etc. sweet nancy. by l. t. meade. d. each. ninepenny series of illustrated books. pages, small crown vo., cloth. illustrated. kibbie & co. by jennie chappell. brave bertie. by edith c. kenyon. the little slave girl. by eileen douglas. marjory; or, what would jesus do? by laura a. barter-snow. marjorie's enemy: a story of the civil war of . by mrs. adams. lady betty's twins. by b. m. waterworte. a venturesome voyage. by f. scarlett potter. out of the straight; or, the boy who failed and the boy who succeeded. by noel hope. bob and bob's baby. by mary b. lester. the little captain: a temperance tale. by linde palmer. robin's golden deed. by ruby lynn. the runaway twins; or, the terrible guardian. by irene clifton. dorothy's trust. by adela frances mount. grannie's treasures; and flow they helped her. by l. b. tiddeman. his majesty's beggars. by mary b. ropes. faithful friends. by c. a. mercer. "only roy." by f. m. waterworth and jennie chappell. aunt armstrong's money. by jennie chappell, author of "carol's gift," etc. john blessington's enemy: a story of life in south africa. by e. harcourt burrage, author of "the fatal nugget," etc. won from the sea. by e. c. phillips (mrs. h. b. looker), author of "birdie and her dog." birdies' benefits; or, a little child shall lead them. by ethel ruth boddy. carol's gift; or, "what time i am afraid i will trust in thee." by jennie crappell. cripple george; or, god has a plan for every man. by john w. kneeshaw. cared for; or, the orphan wanderers. by mrs. c. b. bowan. rob and i. by carrie mercer. phil's frolic. by f. scarlett potter. how a farthing made a fortune; or, honesty is the best policy. by mrs. c. e. bowen. babes in the basket; or daph and her charge. how paul's penny became a pound. by mrs. bowen, author of "dick and his donkey." how peter's pound became a penny. by the same author. paul, a little mediator. by maude m. butler. a flight with the swallows. by emma marshall. bel's baby. by mary e. ropes. the five cousins. by emma leslie. for lucy's sake. by annie s. swan. giddie garland; or, the three mirrors. by jennie chappell. grandmother's child. by annie s. swan. john oriel's start in life. by mary howitt. love's golden key. by mary b. lester. the man of the family. by jennie chappell. d. each. the red dave series. new and enlarged edition. pages. handsomely bound in cloth boards. "roast potatoes!" by rev. s. n. sedgwick, m.a. his captain. by constancia sergeant. "in a minute!" by keith marlow. uncle jo's old coat. by e. h. stooke. the cost of a promise. by m. i. hurrell. farthing dips. by j. s. woodhouse. roy carpenter's lesson. by keith marlow. gerald's guardian. by charles herbert. where a queen once dwelt. by h. m. bird. wilful jack. by m. i. hurrell. willie the waif. by minie herbert. a sunday trip, and what came of it. by e. j. romanes. little tim and his picture. by beatrice way. midge. by l. e. tiddeman, author of "marigold's fancies," etc. the conjurer's wand. by henrietta s. streatfeild, author of "joyful service," etc. benjamin's new boy. enemies: a tale for little lads and lasses. cherry tree place. a tale of four foxes. by eva c. rogers. a little town mouse. by eleanora h. stooke, author of "polly's father," etc. the little governess. by irene clifton. left in charge, and other stories. a threefold promise. two little girls and what they did. _and sixteen others uniform in style and price_. d. each. new fourpenny series of cloth-bound books for the young. with coloured frontispieces. pages. well illustrated. handsome cloth covers. ronald's reason. from shadow to sunshine. a bright idea. the little woodman. jacko the monkey, and other stories. little dan, the orange boy. sybil and her live snowball. the church mouse. dandy jim. a troublesome trio. perry's pilgrimage. nita; or, among the brigands. ----------------- d. each. paternoster series of popular stories. _an entirely new series of books, medium vo. in size, pages, fully illustrated. cover daintily printed in two colours. d. each. titles as follows:_-- a candle lighted by the lord. by mrs. ross. grandmother's child. by annie s. swan. the babes in the basket; or daph and her charge. jenny's geranium; or the prize flower of a london court. the little princess of tower hill. by l. t. meade. the gold thread. by norman macleod, d.d. through sorrow and joy. by m. a. h. the little woodman and his dog caesar. by mrs. sherwood. cripple george. by j. w. kneeshaw. rob and i. by c. a. mercer. dick and his donkey. by mrs. bowen. the light of the gospel. unrivalled picture books for the young. beautifully printed on super-calendered paper, with handsome coloured cover. following jesus: a bible picture book for the young. size i / by i inches. contains i large and beautifully coloured old and new testament scenes, with appropriate letterpress, by d.j.d., author of "bible pictures and stories," "dapple and dobbin's picture book," etc. handsome coloured cover, paper boards with cloth back. (a charming gift book for young children.) _ s. d._ brought to jesus: a bible picture book for little readers. containing twelve large new testament scenes, printed in colours, with appropriate letterpress by mrs. g. b. morton, author of "story of jesus." size i / . by i in. handsome coloured boards with cloth back. _ s. d._ light for little footsteps; or, bible stories illustrated. by the author of "sunshine for showery days," etc. with beautiful coloured cover and frontispiece. full of pictures. _ s. d._ happy and gay: pictures and stories for every day. by d. j. d., with coloured and iii other illustrations. size by inches. handsome coloured cover, paper boards, and cloth back. _is. d._ anecdotes of animals and birds. by uncle john. with full-page and other illustrations by harrison weir, etc. fcap. to. pages. handsomely bound in paper boards, with animal design in i colours, varnished. _is. d._ shilling picture books. size i / by inches. bound in handsome coloured paper boards. full-page coloured and numerous other illustrations. a trip to storyland. by r. v. holiday hours in animal land. by uncle harry. animal antics. by the author of "in animal land." happy days. by r. v. old testament heroes. by mildred duff. feed my lambs: fifty-two bible stories and pictures. jesus, the good shepherd. a book of bible pictures in colour. tell me a tale! a picture story book for little folks. by j. d. little snow-shoes' picture book. by r.v. in animal land with louis wain. gentle jesus: a book of bible pictures in colour. the life of jesus. by mildred duff. ii pages. size. i by / inches. merry and free: pictures and stories for our little ones. by r. v. two little bears at school. by j. d., pussies and puppies. by louis wain. bible pictures and stories. old testament by d. j. d. bible pictures and stories. new testament by james weston and d. j. d. sixpenny picture books. crown to. fully illustrated. handsomely bound in paper boards, with design printed in colours. off to toyland! by uncle jack. going a-sailing! by j. d. follow the flag. by j. d. dollie dimple. by j. d. old mother bunnie! by j. d. off we go! by r.v. after the ball. pictures and stories for one and all. little snowdrop's bible picture book. sweet stories retold: a bible picture book for young folks. ================ new threepenny picture books, royal i mo. coloured frontispiece and numerous other illustrations. bound in paper boards with cover beautifully printed in colours and varnished. jack and jill's picture book. lady-birds pictures and stories. playtime joys for girls and boys. dolly's picture book. toby and kit's animal book. our little pets' alphabet. "pets" and "pickles." by the sea. bible stories. old testament.. bible stories. new testament. the best magazine for boys and girls. ---==========--- -\/\[]/\/- ========== the children's friend one penny monthly. full of illustrations. _____ contains--- excellent serial and short stories, indoor recreations, puzzles, prize competitions, etc., etc. _________ the yearly volume, _coloured paper boards, with cloth back and charming coloured frontispiece. s, d.; cloth, s.; gilt edges, s. d._ the infants' magazine. ___________ one penny monthly. ___________ full of charming pictures and pleasant rhymes to delight the little ones. ~~~~~~~~~~~ _printed in bold type. a sure favourite in the nursery_. ~~~~~~~~~~~ the yearly volume, coloured paper boards, with cloth back and beautiful coloured frontispiece, is. d.; cloth, s.; gilt edges, s. d. "_one of the very best gift-books for little toddlers who have not yet ventured far beyond the realms of one syllable._"--record. [illustration: aunt hannah and seth a story of some people and a dog. by james otis] [illustration: "'hi, limpy!' a shrill voice cried."] [illustration: _aunt hannah and seth by james otis author of "how tommy saved the barn" etc. new york thomas y. crowell & co. publishers_] copyright, , by thomas y. crowell & co. contents. chapter page i.--an advertisement, ii.--the country, iii.--aunt hannah, iv.--the flight, v.--an accident, vi.--sunshine, aunt hannah. chapter i. an advertisement. a small boy with a tiny white dog in his arms stood near the new york approach to the brooklyn bridge on a certain june morning not many years since, gazing doubtfully at the living tide which flowed past him, as if questioning whether it might be safe to venture across the street. seth barrows, otherwise known by his acquaintances as limpy seth, because of what they were pleased to speak of as "a pair of legs that weren't mates," was by no means dismayed by the bustle and apparent confusion everywhere around him. such scenes were familiar, he having lived in the city, so far as he knew, from the day of his birth; but, owing to his slight lameness, it was not always a simple matter for him to cross the crowded streets. "hi, limpy!" a shrill voice cried from amid the pedestrians in the distance, and as seth looked quickly toward the direction from which had come the hail, he noted that a boy with hair of such a vivid hue of red as would attract particular attention from any person within whose range of vision he might come, was frantically trying to force a passage. seth stepped back to a partially sheltered position beneath the stairway of the overhead bridge, and awaited the coming of his friend. "out swellin', are you?" the boy with the red hair asked, as he finally approached, panting so heavily that it was with difficulty he could speak. "goin' to give up business?" "i got rid of my stock quite a while ago, an' counted on givin' snip a chance to run in the park. the poor little duffer don't have much fun down at mother hyde's while i'm workin'." "you might sell him for a pile of money, limpy, an' he's a heap of bother for you," the new-comer said reflectively, as he stroked the dog's long, silken hair. "teddy dixon says he's got good blood in him----" "look here, tim, do you think i'd sell snip, no matter how much money i might get for him? why, he's the only relation i've got in all this world!" and the boy buried his face in the dog's white hair. "it costs more to keep him than you put out for yourself." "what of that? he thinks a heap of me, snip does, an' he'd be as sorry as i would if anything happened to one of us." "yes, i reckon you are kind'er stuck on him! it's a pity, limpy, 'cause you can't hustle same's the rest of us do, an' so don't earn as much money." "snip has what milk he needs----" "an' half the time you feed him by goin' hungry yourself." "what of that?" seth cried sharply. "don't i tell you we two are the only friends each other's got! i'd a good deal rather get along without things than let him go hungry, 'cause he wouldn't know why i couldn't feed him." "a dog is only a dog, an' that's all you can make out of it. i ain't countin' but that snip is better'n the general run, 'cause, as teddy dixon says, he's blooded; but just the same it don't stand to reason you should treat him like he was as good as you." "he's a heap better'n i am, tim chandler! snip never did a mean thing in his life, an' he's the same as a whole family to me." as if understanding that he was the subject of the conversation, the dog pressed his cold nose against the boy's neck, and the latter cried triumphantly: "there, look at that! if you didn't have any folks, tim chandler, an' couldn't get 'round same as other fellers do, don't you reckon his snugglin' up like this would make you love him?" "he ain't really yours," tim said after a brief pause, whereat the lame boy cried fiercely: "what's the reason he ain't? didn't i find him 'most froze to death more'n a year ago, an' haven't i kept him in good shape ever since? of course he wasn't mine at first; but i'd like to see the chump who'd dare to say he belonged to anybody else! if you didn't own any more of a home than you could earn sellin' papers, an' if nobody cared the least little bit whether you was cold or hungry, you'd think it was mighty fine to have a chum like snip. you ought'er see him when i come in after he's been shut up in the room all the forenoon! it seems like he'd jump out of his skin, he's so glad to see me! i tell you, tim, snip loves me just like i was his mother!" master chandler shook his head doubtfully, and appeared to be on the point of indulging some disparaging remark, when his attention was diverted by a lad on the opposite side of the street, who was making the most frantic gestures, and, as might be guessed by the movement of his lips, shouting at the full strength of his lungs; but the words were drowned by the rattle of vehicles and other noises of the street. "there's pip smith, an' what do you s'pose he's got in his ear now?" tim said speculatively; but with little apparent interest in the subject. "he's allers botherin' his head 'bout somethin' that ain't any of his business. he allows he'll be a detective when he gets big enough." seth gave more attention to the caresses snip was bestowing upon him than to his acquaintance opposite, until tim exclaimed, with a sudden show of excitement: "he's yellin' for you, seth! what's he swingin' that newspaper 'round his head for?" perhaps tim might have become interested enough to venture across the street, had master smith remained on the opposite side very long; but just at that moment the tide of travel slackened sufficiently to admit of a passage, and the excited pip came toward his acquaintances at full speed. "what kind of a game have you been up to, limpy?" he demanded, waving the newspaper meanwhile. seth looked at the speaker in astonishment, but without making any reply. "anything gone wrong?" tim asked, gazing inquiringly from one to the other. "i don't know what he means," seth replied, and pip shouted wildly: "listen to him! you'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, an' yet he's been ridin' a mighty high hoss, 'cordin' to all i can find out!" "who?" seth demanded, grown restive under pip's accusing gaze. "you, of course!" "but i haven't been up to any game." "you can't stuff me with that kind of talk, 'cause i've got it down here in black an' white." "got what down?" tim asked impatiently. "if there's anything wrong, why don't you come out with it like a man, an' not stand there like a dummy?" "seth barrows will find there's somethin' wrong when the whole perlice force of this city gets after him," pip replied, in what was very like a threatening tone. "listen to this, tim chandler, an' try to figger out the kind of a game limpy's been playin'!" then, with a tragical air, master smith read slowly from the newspaper he had been brandishing, the following advertisement: "information wanted of a boy calling himself seth barrows. said boy is about eleven years old; his left leg an inch shorter than the right, and is known to have been living in jersey city three years ago. he then sold newspapers for a livelihood, and resided with one richard genet. a liberal reward will be paid for any information concerning him. address symonds & symonds, attorneys-at-law." as he ceased reading, master smith looked at his companions with a certain gleam of triumph in his eyes; but this expression quickly changed to one of severe reproof as he met seth's bewildered gaze. "sellin' papers is good enough for me, though it ain't a business that brings in any too much money," he said sharply. "but i don't keep a fancy dog, so the cost of livin' ain't so high." "what does it mean?" seth asked in a low tone, as he gazed alternately at tim and pip. "mean?" the latter replied scornfully. "i reckon you can answer that better'n we could. when the bank on broadway was broke into there was the same kind of notice in the papers, for i saw it with my own eyes." "but i haven't been breakin' into any bank!" seth wailed, hugging snip yet more tightly to his bosom. "then what's that advertisement there for?" and master smith looked upon his acquaintance with an air of judicial severity. "how do i know?" now it was tim's turn to gaze at seth reproachfully; and as the three stood there one and another of their acquaintances, having heard the startling news, came up eagerly curious and positive that snip's master had committed some terrible crime. the lame boy gave ample token of mental distress, as well he might after hearing that two attorneys-at-law were desirous of finding him, and more than one of the throng set down the expression of trouble on his face as strong proof of guilt. although conscious that he had committed no crime, the boy was thoroughly alarmed at being thus advertised for. he knew that rewards were offered for information which would lead to the apprehension of criminals, and never so much as dreamed that similar methods might be employed in a search for those who were innocent. there was no reason, so he might have said to himself, why any lawyer in the city of new york would care to see him, unless he had been accused of some crime, but as he revolved the matter in his mind terror took possession of him until all power of reflection had departed. the number of alleged friends or acquaintances had increased, until seth and snip were literally surrounded, and every member of the throng knew full well that the gathering would be rudely dispersed by the first policeman who chanced to come that way. therefore it was that each fellow hastened to give his opinion as to the reason why the advertisement had been inserted in the columns of the paper, and, with five or six boys speaking at the same moment, it can well be understood that no one of them succeeded in making any very great impression upon the minds of his neighbors. seth understood, however, that every boy present was agreed upon the supposed fact that a great crime had been committed, although these young merchants might, upon due reflection, come to realize how improbable was such a supposition. when little snip, seeming to understand that his master was in sore distress, licked the boy's cheek, it was to seth almost as if the dog shared in the belief of those who were so ready to accuse him, and he could restrain his feelings no longer. leaning against the iron column which supported the staircase, with his face buried in snip's silky hair, the crippled lad gave way to tears, while his companions gazed at him severely, for to their minds this show of grief was much the same as a confession of guilt. a blue-coated guardian of the peace dispersed the throng before those composing it had had time to make audible comment upon this last evidence of an accusing conscience; but seth was so bowed down by bewilderment, sorrow, and fear as not to know that he stood alone with snip, while a throng of acquaintances gazed at him from the opposite side of the street. once the officer had passed on, and was at a respectful distance, seth's friends returned, and it could be understood from their manner that some definite plan of action had been decided upon during the enforced absence. "see here, seth, we ain't such chumps as to jump on a feller when he's down. if you don't want to tell us what you've been doin'----" "i haven't done a thing, an' you know it, tim chandler," the lad moaned, speaking with difficulty because of his sobs. "then what's the notice about?" tim asked in a severe, yet friendly tone. "i don't know any more'n you do." "where's the lead nickel mickey dowd says somebody shoved on you the other day?" teddy dixon asked sharply. seth raised his head, looked about him for a moment as a shadow of fear passed over his face, and, dropping snip for an instant, plunged both hands deep in his trousers pockets. withdrawing them he displayed a small collection of silver and copper coins, which he turned over eagerly, his companions crowding yet more closely to assure themselves that the examination was thorough. "it's gone!" seth cried shrilly. "it's gone; but i'll cross my throat if i knew i was passin' it!" snip, hearing his young master's cry of fear, stood on his hind feet, scratching and clawing to attract attention, and, hardly conscious of what he did, seth took the little fellow in his arms once more. "that settles the whole business," teddy dixon cried, in the tone of one who has made an important discovery. "you shoved it on somebody who'd been lookin' for counterfeit money, an' now the detectives are after you!" seth glanced quickly and apprehensively around, as if fearing the officers of the law were already close upon him, and the seeming mystery was unravelled. from that moment there was not even the shadow of a doubt in the minds of seth's acquaintances, and, believing that he had not intended to commit such a grave crime, the sympathies of all were aroused. "you've got to skip mighty quick," tim said, after a brief pause, during which each lad had looked at his neighbor as if asking what could be done to rescue the threatened boy. "where'll i go?" seth cried tearfully. "they know what my name is, an' there ain't much use for me to hide." "you can bet i wouldn't hang 'round here many seconds," one of the group said, in a low tone, glancing around to make certain his words were not overheard by the minions of the law. "if we fellers keep our mouths shut, an' you sneak off into the country somewhere, i don't see how anybody could find you!" "but where'd i go?" seth asked, his tears checked by the great fear which came with the supposed knowledge of what he had done. "anywhere. here's snip all ready to take a journey for his health, an' in ten minutes you'll be out of the city; but it ain't safe to hang 'round thinkin' of it very long, for the detectives will be runnin' their legs off tryin' to earn the money that's promised by the advertisement." seth made no reply, and his most intimate friends understood that if he was to be saved from prison the time had arrived when they must act without waiting for his decision. they held a hurried consultation, while seth stood caressing snip, without being really conscious of what he did, and then teddy and tim ranged themselves either side of the culprit who had unwittingly brought himself under the ban of the law. seizing him by the arms they forced the lad forward in the direction of broadway, tim saying hoarsely to those who gave token of their intention to follow: "you fellers must keep away, else the cops will know we're up to somethin' crooked. wait here, an' me an' teddy'll come back as soon as we've taken care of seth." this injunction was not obeyed without considerable grumbling on the part of the more curious, and but for the efforts of two or three of the wiser heads, the fugitive and his accomplices would have aroused the suspicions of the dullest policeman in the city. "you'll get yourselves into a heap of trouble if anybody knows you helped me to run away," seth said, in a tone of faint remonstrance. "it can't be helped," teddy replied firmly, urging the hunted boy to a faster pace. "we ain't goin' to stand by an' see you lugged off to jail while there's a show of our doin' anything. keep your eye on snip so's he won't bark, an' we'll look after the rest of the business." even if seth had been averse to running away from the possible danger which threatened, he would have been forced to continue the flight so lately begun, because of the energy displayed by his friends. tim and teddy literally dragged him along, crossing the street at one point to avoid a policeman, and again dodging into a friendly doorway when the guardians of the peace came upon them suddenly. had any one observed particularly the movements of these three lads, the gravest suspicions must have been awakened, for they displayed a consciousness of guilt in every movement, and showed plainly that their great desire was to escape scrutiny. seth was so enveloped in sorrow and fear as to be ignorant of the direction in which he and snip were being forced. he understood dimly that those who had the business of escape in hand were bent on gaining the river; but to more than that he gave no heed. finally, when they were arrived at a ferry-slip, teddy paid the passage money, and seth was led to the forward end of the boat, in order, as tim explained, that he might be ready to jump ashore instantly the pier on the opposite side was gained, in case the officers of justice had tracked them thus far. now, forced to remain inactive for a certain time, seth's friends took advantage of the opportunity to give him what seemed to be much-needed advice. "the minute the boat strikes the dock you must take a sneak," teddy said impressively, clutching seth vigorously by the shoulder to insure attention. "we'll hang 'round here to make sure the detectives haven't got on to your trail, an' then we'll go back." "but what am i to do afterward?" seth asked helplessly. "there ain't any need of very much guessin' about that. you're bound to get where there'll be a chance of hidin', an' you want to be mighty lively." "snip an' i will have to earn money enough to keep us goin', an' how can it be done while i'm hidin'?" "how much have you got now?" "'bout fifty cents." tim drew from his pocket a handful of coins, mostly pennies, and, retaining only three cents with which to pay his return passage on the ferry-boat, forced them upon the fugitive, saying when the boy remonstrated: "you'll need it all, an' i can hustle a little livelier to-night, or borrow from some of the other fellers if trade don't show up as it ought'er." teddy followed his comrade's example, paying no heed to seth's expostulations, save as he said: "we're bound to give you a lift, old man, so don't say anything more about it. if you was the only feller in this city what had passed a lead nickel, perhaps this thing would look different to me; but the way i reckon it is, that the man what put the advertisement in the paper jest 'cause he'd been done out'er five cents is a mighty poor citizen, an' i stand ready to do all i can towards keepin' you away from him." "look here, fellers," seth cried in what was very like despair as the steamer neared the dock, "i don't know what to do, even after you've put up all your money. where can snip an' i go? we've got to earn our livin', an' i don't see how it's to be done if we're bound to hide all the time." "that's easy enough," and tim spoke hopefully. "the city is a fool alongside the country, an' i'm countin' on your havin' a reg'lar snap after you get settled down. when we land, you're to strike right out, an' keep on goin' till you're where there's nothin' but farms with milk, an' pie, an' stuff to eat layin' 'round loose for the first feller what comes to pick 'em up. pip smith says farmers don't do much of anything but fill theirselves with good things, an' i've allers wanted to try my hand with 'em for one summer." seth shook his head doubtfully. although he had never been in the country, it did not seem reasonable that the picture drawn by pip smith was truthful, otherwise every city boy would turn farmer's assistant, rather than remain where it cost considerable labor to provide themselves with food and a shelter. "you'll strike it rich somewhere," teddy said, with an air of conviction, "an' then you can sneak back long enough to tell us where you're hangin' out. i'll work down 'round the markets for a spell, an' p'rhaps i'll see some of the hayseeders you've run across." the conversation was brought to a close abruptly as the ferry-boat entered the dock with many a bump and reel against the heavy timbers; and seth, with snip hugged tightly to his bosom, pressed forward to the gates that he might be ready to leap ashore instantly they were opened. "keep your upper lip stiff, an' don't stop, once you've started, till you're so far from new york that the detectives can't find you," tim whispered encouragingly, and ten seconds later the fugitive was running at full speed up the gangway, snip barking shrilly at the throng on either side. tim and teddy followed their friend to the street beyond the ticket office, and there stood watching until he had disappeared from view. then the latter said, with a long-drawn sigh: "i wish it had been almost any other feller what passed the lead nickel, for seth hasn't got sand enough to do what's needed, if he counts on keepin' out'er jail." and tim replied sadly: "if a feller stuck me with a counterfeit i'd think i had a right to shove it along; but after all this scrape i'll keep my eyes open mighty wide, else it may be a case of the country for me, an' i ain't hankerin' after livin' on a farm, even if pip smith does think it's sich a soft snap." then the friends of the fugitives returned to the ferry-boat, in order that they might without delay make a report to those acquaintances whom they knew would be eagerly waiting, as to how seth had fared at the outset of his flight. chapter ii. the country. seth had little idea as to the direction he had taken, save that the street led straight away from the water, and surely he must come into the country finally by pursuing such a course. neither time nor distance gave him relief of mind; it was much as if flight served to increase the fear in his mind, and even after having come to the suburbs of the city he looked over his shoulder apprehensively from time to time, almost expecting to see the officers of the law in hot pursuit. if it had been possible for snip to understand the situation fully, he could not have behaved with more discretion, according to his master's views. instead of begging to be let down that he might enjoy a frolic on the green grass, he remained passive in seth's arms, pressing his nose up to the lad's neck now and then as if expressing sympathy. the little fellow did not so much as whine when they passed rapidly by a cool-looking, bubbling stream, even though his tongue was lolling out, red and dripping with perspiration; but seth understood that his pet would have been much refreshed with a drink of the running water, and said, in a soothing, affectionate tone: "i don't dare to stop yet a while, snippey dear, for nobody knows how near the officers may be, and you had better go thirsty a little longer, than be kicked out into the street when i'm locked up in jail." a big lump came into the fugitive's throat at the picture he had drawn, and the brook was left far behind before he could force it down sufficiently to speak. then the two were come to a small shop, in the windows of which were displayed a variety of wares, from slate pencils to mint drops, and here seth halted irresolutely. he had continued at a rapid pace, and fully an hour was passed since he parted from his friends. he was both hungry and weary; there were but few buildings to be seen ahead, and, so he argued with himself, this might be his last opportunity to purchase anything which would serve as food until he was launched into that wilderness known to him as "the country." no person could be seen in either direction, and seth persuaded himself that it might be safe to halt here for so long a time as would be necessary to select something from the varied stock to appease hunger, and at the same time be within his limited means. for the first moment since leaving the ferry-slip he allowed snip to slip out of his arms; but caught him up again very quickly as the dog gave strong evidence of a desire to spend precious time in a frolic. "you must wait a spell longer, snippey dear," he muttered. "we may have to run for it, an' i mightn't have a chance to get you in my arms again. it would be terrible if the officers got hold of you, an' i'm afraid they'd try it for the sake of catchin' me, 'cause everybody knows i wouldn't leave you, no matter what happened." then seth stole softly into the shop, as if fearing to awaken the suspicion of the proprietor by a bold approach, and once inside, gazed quickly around. two or three early, unwholesome-looking apples and a jar of ginger cakes made up the list of eatables, and his decision was quickly made. "how many of them cakes will you sell for five cents?" he asked timidly of the slovenly woman who was embroidering an odd green flower on a small square of soiled and faded red silk. she looked at him listlessly, and then gazed at the cakes meditatively. "i don't know the price of them. this shop isn't mine; i'm tendin' it for a friend." "then you can't sell things?" and seth turned to go, fearing lest he had already loitered too long. "oh, dear, yes, that's what i'm here for; but i never had a customer for cakes, an' to tell the truth i don't believe one of 'em has been sold for a month. do you know what they are worth?" "the bakers sell a doughnut as big as three of them for a cent, an' throw in an extra one if they're stale." the lady deposited her embroidery on a sheet of brown paper which covered one end of the counter, and surveyed the cakes. "it seems to me that a cent for three of them would be a fair price," she said at length, after having broken one in order to gain some idea of its age. "have you got anything else to eat?" "that candy is real good, especially the checkerberry sticks, but perhaps you rather have somethin' more fillin'." "i'll take five cents' worth of cakes," seth said hurriedly, for it seemed as if he had been inside the shop a very long while. the amateur clerk set about counting the stale dainties in a businesslike way; but at that instant snip came into view from behind his master, and she ceased the task at once to cry in delight: "what a dear little dog! did he come with you?" "yes, ma'am," seth replied hesitatingly; and he added as the woman stooped to caress snip: "we're in a big hurry, an' if you'll give me the cakes i'll thank you." "dear me, why didn't you say so at first?" and she resumed her task of counting the cakes, stopping now and then to speak to snip, who was sitting up on his hind legs begging for a bit of the stale pastry. "how far are you going?" "i don't know; you see we can't walk very fast." "got friends out this way, i take it?" "well,--yes--no--that is, i don't know. won't you please hurry?" the woman seemed to think it necessary she should feed snip with a portion of one cake that had already been counted out for seth, and to still further tempt the dog's appetite by giving him an inch or more broken from one of the checkerberry sticks, before attending to her duties as clerk, after which she concluded her portion of the transaction by holding out a not over-cleanly hand for the money. seth hurriedly gave her five pennies, and then, seizing snip in his arms, ran out of the shop regardless of the questions she literally hurled after him. his first care was to gaze down the road in the direction from which he had just come, and the relief of mind was great when he failed to see any signs of life. "they haven't caught up with us yet, snippey," he said, as if certain the officers were somewhere in the rear bent on taking him prisoner. "if they stop at the store, that woman will be sure to say we were here." having thus spurred himself on, he continued the journey half an hour longer, when they had arrived at a grove of small trees and bushes through which ran a tiny brook. "we can hide in here, an' you'll have a chance to run around on the grass till you're tired," he said, as, after making certain there was no one in sight to observe his movements, he darted amid the shrubbery. it was not difficult for a boy tired as was seth, to find a rest-inviting spot by the side of the stream where the bushes hid him from view of any who might chance to pass along the road, and without loss of time snip set himself the task of chasing every butterfly that dared come within his range of vision, ceasing only for a few seconds at a time to lick his master's hand, or take his share of the stale pastry. it was most refreshing to seth, this halt beneath the shade of the bushes where the brook sang such a song as he had never heard before, and despite the age of the cake his hunger was appeased. save for the haunting fear that the officers of the law might be close upon his heels, he would have been very happy, and even under the painful circumstances attending his departure, he enjoyed in a certain degree the unusual scene before him. then snip, wearied with his fruitless pursuit of the butterflies, crept close by his master's side for a nap, and seth yielded to the temptation to stretch himself out at full length on the soft, cool moss. there was in his mind the thought that he must resume the flight within a short time, lest he fail to find a shelter before the night had come; but the dancing waters sang a most entrancing and rest-inviting melody until his eyes closed despite his efforts to hold them open, and master and dog were wrapped in slumber. the birds gathered on the branches above the heads of the sleepers, gazing down curiously and with many an inquiring twitter, as if asking whether this boy was one who would do them a mischief if it lay in his power, and the butterflies flaunted their gaudy wings within an inch of snip's eyes; but the slumber was not broken. the sun had no more than an hour's time remaining before his day's work in that particular section of the country had come to an end, when a brown moth fluttered down upon seth's nose, where he sat pluming his wings in such an energetic manner that the boy suddenly sneezed himself into wakefulness, while snip leaped up with a chorus of shrill barks and yelps which nearly threw the curious birds into hysterics. "it's almost sunset, snippey dear, an' we've been idlin' here when we ought'er been huntin' for a house where we can stay till mornin'. it's fine, i know," he added, as he took the tiny dog in his arms; "but i don't believe it would be very jolly to hang 'round in such a place all night. besides, who knows but there are bears? we must be a terrible long way in the country, an' if the farmers are as good as pip smith tells about, we can get a chance to sleep in a house." the fear that the officers might be close upon his heels had fled; it seemed as if many, many hours had passed since he took leave of tim and teddy, and it was possible the representatives of law would not pursue him so far into the country. he had yet on hand a third of the stale cakes, and with these in his pocket as token that he would not go supperless to bed, and snip on his arm, he resumed the flight once more. after a brisk walk of half an hour, still on a course directly away from the river, as he believed, seth began to look about him for a shelter during the night. "we'll stop at the first house that looks as if the folks who live in it might be willin' to help two fellers like us along, an' ask if we can stay all night," he said to snip, speaking in a more cheery tone than he had indulged in since the fear-inspiring advertisement had been brought to his attention. he did not adhere strictly to this plan, however, for when he was come to a farmhouse which had seemed to give token of sheltering generous people, a big black dog ran out of the yard growling and snapping, much to snippey's alarm, and seth hurried on at full speed. "that wouldn't be any place for you, young man," he said, patting the dog's head. "we'll sleep out of doors rather than have you scared half to death!" ten minutes later he knocked at the door of a house, and, on making his request to a surly-looking man, was told that they "had no use for tramps." seth did not stop to explain that he could not rightly be called a tramp; but ran onward as if fearful lest the farmer might pursue to punish him for daring to ask such a favor. three times within fifteen minutes did he ask in vain for a shelter, and then his courage had oozed out at his fingers' ends. "if pip smith was here he'd see that there ain't much milk an' pie layin' 'round to be picked up, an' it begins to look, snippey, as if we'd better stayed down there by the brook." master snip growled as if to say that he too believed they had made a mistake in pushing on any farther, and the sun hid his face behind the hills as a warning for young boys and small dogs to get under cover. seth was discouraged, and very nearly frightened. he began to fear that he might get himself and snip into serious trouble by any further efforts at finding a charitably disposed farmer, and after the shadows of night had begun to lengthen until every bush and rock was distorted into some hideous or fantastic shape, he was standing opposite a small barn adjoining a yet smaller dwelling. no light could be seen from the building; it was as if the place had been deserted, and such a state of affairs seemed more promising to seth than any he had seen. "if the people are at home, an' we ask them to let us stay all night, we'll be driven away; so s'pose we creep in there, an' at the first show of mornin' we'll be off. it can't do any harm for us to sleep in a barn when the folks don't know it." the barking of a dog in the distance caused him to decide upon a course of action very quickly, and in the merest fraction of time he was inside the building, groping around the main floor on which had been thrown a sufficient amount of hay to provide a dozen boys with a comfortable bed. he could hear some animal munching its supper a short distance away, and this sound robbed the gloomy interior of half its imaginary terrors. promising himself that he would leave the place before the occupants of the house were stirring next morning, seth made his bed by burrowing into the hay, and, with snip nestling close by his side, was soon ready for another nap. the fugitive had taken many steps during his flight, and, despite the slumber indulged in by the side of the brook, his eyes were soon closed in profound sleep. many hours later the shrill barking of snip awakened seth, and he sat bolt upright on the hay, rubbing his sleepy eyes as if trying to prove that those useful members had deceived him in some way. the rays of the morning sun were streaming in through the open door in a golden flood, and with the radiance came sweet odors borne by the gentle breeze. seth gave no heed just at that moment to the wondrous beauties of nature to be seen on every hand, when even the rough barn was gilded and perfumed, for standing in the doorway, as if literally petrified with astonishment, was a motherly looking little woman whose upraised hands told of bewilderment and surprise, while from the expression on her face one could almost have believed that she was really afraid of the tiny snip. "is that animal dangerous, little boy?" she asked nervously after a brief but, to seth, painful pause. "who--what animal? oh, you mean snip? why, he couldn't harm anybody if he tried, an', besides, he wouldn't hurt a fly. he always barks when strange folks come near where i am, so's to make me think he's a watch-dog. do you own this barn?" "yes--that is to say, it has always belonged to the morses, an' there are none left now except gladys an' me." "i hope you won't be mad 'cause i came in here last night. i counted on gettin' away before you waked up; but the bed was so soft that it ain't any wonder i kept right on sleepin'." "have you been here all night?" the little woman asked in surprise, advancing a pace now that snip had decided there was no longer any necessity for him to continue the shrill outcries. "i didn't have any place to sleep; there wasn't a light to be seen in your house. well, to tell the truth, i was afraid i'd be driven away, same's i had been at the other places, so sneaked in----" "aunt hannah! aunt hannah!" it was a sweet, clear, childish voice which thus interrupted the conversation, and the little woman said nervously, as she glanced suspiciously at snip: "i wish you would hold your dog, little boy. that is gladys, an' she's so reckless that i'm in fear of her life every minute she is near strange animals." seth did not have time to comply with this request before a pink-cheeked little miss of about his own age came dancing into the barn like a june wind, which burdens itself with the petals of the early roses. "oh, aunt hannah! why, where in the world did that little boy--what a perfectly lovely dog! oh, you dear!" this last exclamation was called forth by master snip himself, who bounded forward with every show of joy, and stood erect on his hind feet with both forepaws raised as if asking to be taken in her arms. "don't, gladys! you mustn't touch that animal, for nobody knows whether he may not be ferocious." the warning came too late. gladys already had snip in her arms, and as the little fellow struggled to lick her cheek in token of his desire to be on friendly terms, she said laughingly: "you poor, foolish aunt hannah! to think that a mite of a dog like this one could ever be ferocious! isn't he a perfect beauty? i never saw such a dear!" the little woman hovered helplessly around much like a sparrow whose fledglings are in danger. she feared lest the dog should do the child a mischief, and yet dared not come so near as to rescue her from the imaginary danger. there was just a tinge of jealousy in seth's heart as he gazed at snip's demonstrations of affection for this stranger. it seemed as if he had suddenly lost his only friend, and, at that moment, it was the greatest misfortune that could befall him. gladys was so occupied with the dog as to be unconscious of aunt hannah's anxiety. she admired snip's silky hair; declared that he needed a bath, and insisted on knowing how "such a treasure" had come into seth's possession. the boy was not disposed to admit that he had no real claim upon the dog, save such as might result from having found him homeless and friendless in the street; but willing that the girl should admire his pet yet more. "put him on the floor an' see how much he knows," seth said, without replying to her question. then snip was called upon to show his varied accomplishments. he sat bolt upright holding a wisp of straw in his mouth; walked on his hind feet with seth holding him by one paw; whirled around and around on being told to dance; leaped over the handle of the hay-fork, barking and yelping with excitement; and otherwise gave token of being very intelligent. gladys was in an ecstasy of delight, and even the little woman so far overcame her fear of animals as to venture to touch snip's outstretched paw when he gravely offered to "shake hands." not until at least a quarter of an hour had passed was any particular attention paid to seth, and by this time aunt hannah was willing to admit that while dogs in general frightened her, however peaceable they appeared to be, she thought a little fellow like snip might be almost as companionable as a cat. "of course you won't continue your journey until after breakfast," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "and gladys will take you into the kitchen where you can wash your face and hands, while i am milking." then it was that seth observed a bright tin pail and a three-legged stool lying on the ground just outside the big door, as if they had fallen from the little woman's hands when she was alarmed by hearing snip's note of defiance and warning. gladys had the dog in her arms, and nodding to seth as if to say he should follow, she led the way to the house, while aunt hannah disappeared through a doorway opening from the main portion of the barn. "there's the towel, the soap and water," she said, pointing toward a wooden sink in one corner of what was to seth the most wonderful kitchen he had ever seen. "don't you think snippey would like some milk?" "i'm certain he would," seth replied promptly. "he hasn't had anything except dry ginger cake since yesterday mornin'." a moment later master snip had before him a saucer filled with such milk as it is safe to say he had not seen since seth took him in charge, and the eager way in which he lapped it showed that it was appreciated fully. the fugitive did not make his toilet immediately, because of the irresistible temptation to gaze about him. the walls of the kitchen were low; but in the newcomer's eyes this was an added attraction, because it gave to the room such an hospitable appearance. the floor was more cleanly than any table he had ever seen; the bricks of the fireplace, at one side of which stood a small cook-stove, were as red as if newly painted; while on the dresser and the mantel across the broad chimney were tin dishes that shone like newly polished silver. a large rocking-chair, a couch covered with chintz, and half a dozen straight-backed, spider-legged chairs were ranged methodically along the sides of the room, while in the centre of the floor, so placed that the fresh morning breeze which entered by the door would blow straight across it to the window shaded by lilac bushes, was a table covered with a snowy cloth. "well, if this is a farmer's house i wouldn't wonder if a good bit of pip smith's yarn was true," seth muttered to himself, as he turned toward the sink, over which hung a towel so white that he could hardly believe he would be allowed to dry his face and hands with it. he was alone in the kitchen. snip, having had a most satisfactory breakfast of what he must have believed was real cream, had run out of doors to chase a leaf blown by the wind, and gladys was close behind, alternately urging him in the pursuit, and showering praises upon "the sweetest dog that ever lived." "folks that live like this must be mighty rich," seth thought, as he plunged his face into a basin of clear water. "it ain't likely snip an' me will strike it so soft again, an' i expect he'll be terrible sorry to leave. i reckon it'll be all right to hang 'round an hour or so, an' then we must get out lively. i wonder if that little bit of a woman expects i'll pay for breakfast?" chapter iii. aunt hannah. with a broken comb, which he used upon snip's hair as well as his own, seth concluded his toilet, and, neither the little woman nor the girl having returned to the house, stood in the doorway gazing out upon as peaceful a scene as a boy pursued by the officers of the law could well desire to see. on either hand ran the dusty road, not unlike a yellow ribbon upon a cloth of green, and bordering it here and there were clumps of bushes or groves of pine or of oak, as if planted for the especial purpose of affording to the weary traveller a screen from the blinding sun. the little farmhouse stood upon the height of a slight elevation from which could be had a view of the country round about on either hand; and although so near to the great city, there were no settlements, villages, or towns to be seen. surely, the lad said to himself, he had at last arrived at "the country," and if all houses were as hospitable-looking, as cleanly, and as inviting in appearance as was this one, then pip smith's story had in it considerably more than a grain of truth. "it must be mighty nice to have money enough to live in a place like this," seth said to himself. "it would please snip way down to the ground; but i mustn't think of it, 'cause there's no chance for a feller like me to earn a livin' here, an' we can't always count on folks givin' us what we need to eat." then aunt hannah came out from the barn, carrying in one hand a glistening tin pail filled with foaming milk, and in the other the three-legged stool. seth ran toward her and held out his hand as if believing she would readily yield at least a portion of her burden; but she shook her head smiling. "bless your heart, my child, i ought to be able to carry one pail of milk, seeing that i've done as much or more every day since i was gladys's age." "but that's no reason why i shouldn't help along a little to make up for your not bein' mad 'cause snip an' me slept in the barn. besides, i'd like to say to the fellers that i'd carried as much milk as a whole pail full once in my life--that is, if i ever see 'em again," he added with a sigh. "then you came from the city?" "yes, an' i never got so far out in the country before. say, it's mighty fine, ain't it?" and as aunt hannah relinquished her hold on the pail, seth started toward the house without waiting for a reply to his question. after placing the stool bottom up by the side of the broad stone which served as doorstep, the little woman called to gladys: "it's time white-face was taken to pasture, child." "do you mean the cow?" seth asked. "yes, dear." "why can't i take her to the pasture; that is, if you'll tell me where to find it?" "unfasten her chain, and she will show you the way. it's only across the road over yonder." seth ran quickly to the barn, and having arrived at the doorway through which aunt hannah disappeared when she went about the task of milking, he halted in surprise and fear, looking at what seemed to him an enormous beast with long, threatening horns, which she shook now and then in what appeared to be a most vicious fashion. only once before had seth ever seen an animal of this species, and then it was when he and pip smith had travelled over to the erie yards to see a drove of oxen taken from the cars to the abattoir. it surely seemed very dangerous to turn loose such a huge beast; but seth was determined to perform whatsoever labor lay in his power, with the idea that he might not be called upon to pay quite as much for breakfast, and, summing up all his courage, he advanced toward the cow. she shook her head restively, impatient for the breakfast of sweet grass, and he leaped back suddenly, frightened as badly of her as aunt hannah had been of snip. once more he made an attempt, and once more leaped back in alarm, this time to be greeted with a peal of merry laughter, and a volley of shrill barks from snip, who probably fancied seth stood in need of his protection. "why did you jump so?" gladys asked merrily. seth's face reddened, and he stammered not a little in reply: "i reckon that cow would make it kind'er lively for strangers, wouldn't he?" "and you are really afraid of poor old white-face? why, she's as gentle as snippey, though of course you couldn't pet her so much." then gladys stepped boldly forward, and snip whined and barked in a perfect spasm of fear at being carried so near the formidable-looking animal. "now, you are just as foolish as your master," gladys said with a hearty laugh; but she allowed the dog to slip down from her arms, and as he sought safety behind his master, she unloosened the chain from the cow's neck, leading her by the horn out of the barn. then it was that snip plucked up courage to join the girl who had been so kind to him, and seth, thoroughly ashamed at having betrayed so much cowardice, followed his example. "i want to do something toward paying for my breakfast," he said hesitatingly; "but i never saw a cow before, and that one acted as if he was up to mischief. i s'pose they're a good deal like dogs--all right after a feller gets acquainted with 'em." "some cows are ugly, i suppose," gladys replied reflectively, taking snip once more in her arms as the little fellow hung back in alarm when white-face stopped to gather a tempting bunch of clover; "but aunt hannah has had this one ever since she was a calf, and we two are great friends. she's a real well-behaved cow, an' never makes any trouble about going into pasture. there, she's in now, and all we've got to do is to put up the bars. by the time we get back breakfast will be ready. did you walk all the way from the city?" there was no necessity for seth to make a reply, because at this instant an audacious wren flew past within a dozen inches of snip's nose, causing him to spring from the girl's arms in a vain pursuit, which was not ended until the children were at the kitchen door. the morning meal was prepared, and as gladys drew out a chair to show seth where he should sit, aunt hannah asked anxiously: "what does the dog do while you are eating?" "you'll see how well he can behave himself," snip's master replied proudly, as the little fellow laid down on the floor at a respectful distance from the table. much to seth's surprise, instead of immediately beginning the meal, the little woman bowed her head reverentially, gladys following the example, and for the first time in his life did the boy hear a blessing invoked upon the food of which he was about to partake. it caused him just a shade of uneasiness and perhaps awe, this "prayin' before breakfast" as he afterward expressed it while going over the events of the day with snip, and he did not feel wholly at ease until the meal had well nigh come to an end. then the little woman gave free rein to her curiosity, by asking: "where are you going, my boy?" "that's what i don't just know," seth replied, after a short pause. "pip smith, he said the country was a terrible nice place to live in, an' when snip an' i had to come away, i thought perhaps we could find a chance to earn some money." "haven't you any parents, or a home?" aunt hannah asked in surprise. "i don't s'pose i have. i did live over to mr. genet's in jersey city; but he died, an' i had to hustle for myself." "had to what?" aunt hannah asked. "why, shinny 'round for money enough to pay my way. there ain't much of anything a feller like me can do but sell papers, an' i don't cut any big ice at that, 'cause i can't get 'round as fast as the other boys." "did you earn enough to provide you with food, and clothes, an' a place to sleep?" "well, sometimes. you see i ain't flashin' up very strong on clothes, an' snip an' i had a room down to mother hyde's that cost us eighty cents a week. we could most always get along, except sometimes when there was a heavy storm an' trade turned bad." "i suppose you became discouraged with that way of living?" the little woman said reflectively. "well, it ain't so awful swell; but then you can't call it so terrible bad. perhaps some time i could have got money enough to start a news-stand, an' then i'd been all right, you know." "why did you come into the country?" "you see we had to leave mighty sudden, 'cause----" seth checked himself; he had been very near to explaining exactly why he left new york so unceremoniously. perhaps but for the "prayers before breakfast" he might have told this kindly faced little woman all his troubles; now, however, he did not care to do so, believing she would consider he had committed a great crime in passing a lead nickel, even though unwittingly. neither was he willing to tell so good a woman an absolute untruth, and therefore held his peace; but the flush which had come into his cheeks was ample proof to his hostess that in his life was something which caused shame. aunt hannah looked at him for an instant, and then as if realizing that the scrutiny might cause him uneasiness, turned her eyes away as she asked in a low tone: "do you believe it would be possible for you to find such work in the country as would support you and the dog?" "i don't know anything about it, 'cause you see i never was in the country before," seth replied, decidedly relieved by this change in the subject of conversation. "pip smith thought there was milk an' pies layin' 'round to be picked up by anybody, an' accordin' to his talk it seemed as if a feller might squeak along somehow. if i could always have such a bed as i got last night, the rest of it wouldn't trouble a great deal." "but you slept in the barn!" gladys cried. "yes; it was nicer than any room mother hyde's got. don't boys like me do something to earn money out this way?" "the farmers' sons find employment enough 'round home; but i don't think you would be able to earn very much, my boy." "i might strike something," seth said reflectively. "at any rate, snip an' i'll have to keep movin'." "then you have no idea where you're going?" and aunt hannah appeared to be distressed in mind. "i wish i did," seth replied with a sigh, and gladys said quickly: "you can't keep walkin' 'round all the time, for what will you do when it rains?" "perhaps i might come across a barn, same's i did last night." "and grow to be a regular tramp?" "i wouldn't be one if i was willin' to work, would i? that's all snip an' me ask for now, is just a chance to earn what we'll eat, an' a place to sleep." aunt hannah rose from the table quickly in apparently a preoccupied manner, and the conversation was thus brought to an abrupt close. snip, who had already breakfasted most generously, scrambled to his feet for another excursion into the wonderful fields where he might chase butterflies to his heart's content, and seth lingered by the open doorway undecided as to what he should say or do. gladys began removing the dishes from the table, aunt hannah assisting now and then listlessly, as if her mind was far away; and after two or three vain efforts seth managed to ask: "how much will i have to pay for breakfast an' sleepin' in the barn?" "why, bless your heart, my boy, i wouldn't think of chargin' anything for that," the little woman said, almost sharply. "but we must pay our way, you know, though i ain't got such a dreadful pile of money. i don't want folks to think we're regular tramps." "you needn't fear anything of that kind yet a while, but if it would make you feel more comfortable in mind to do something toward payin' for the food which has been freely given, you may try your hand at clearin' up the barn. gladys an' i aim to keep it cleanly; but even at the best it doesn't look as i would like to see it." seth sat about this task with alacrity, although not knowing exactly what ought to be done; but the boy who is willing to work and eager to please will generally succeed in his efforts, even though he be ignorant as to the proper method. it was while working at that end of the barn nearest the house at a time when aunt hannah and gladys were standing at the open window washing the breakfast dishes, that he overheard, without absolutely intending to do so, a certain conversation not meant for his ears. it is true he had no right to listen, and also true that the hum of voices came to his ears several moments before he paid any attention whatsoever, or made an effort to distinguish the words. then that which he heard literally forced him to listen for more. it was aunt hannah who said, evidently in reply to a suggestion from gladys: "it is a pity and a shame to see a child like that poor little lame boy wandering about the country trying to find work, when he isn't fitted for anything of the kind. but how could we give him a home here, my dear?" "i am sure it wouldn't cost you anything, aunt hannah. with three spare rooms in the house and hardly ever a visitor to use one of them, why couldn't he have a bed here?" "he can, my dear, and it's my duty to give him a home, as i see plainly; but you can't imagine what a cross it will be for me to have a boy and a dog around the old place. i have lived here alone so many years, except after you came, that a new face, even though it be a friendly one, disturbs me." "surely you'd get used to him in a few days, and he's a boy who tries to do all he can in the way of helping." "i believe so, my dear, and, therefore, because it seems to be my duty, i'm goin' to ask him to stay, at least until he can find a better home; but at the same time i hold that it will be a dreadful cross for me to bear." seth suddenly became aware that he was playing the part of a sneak by thus listening; and although eager to hear more, turned quickly away, busying himself at the opposite side of the barn, where it would not be possible to play the eavesdropper in even so slight a degree. until now it had never come into his mind that this little woman, whose home was so exceedingly inviting, might give him an opportunity to remain, even for the space of twenty-four hours; but as it was thus suggested, he realized how happy both he and snip would be in such a place, and believed he could ask for nothing more in this world if it should be his good fortune to have an opportunity to stay. there was little probability the officers of the law would find him here, however rigorously the search might be continued, and it seemed as if every day spent in such a household must be filled with unalloyed pleasure. he stopped suddenly in his work as the thought came that it had already been decided he should have an invitation to remain, and a great joy came into his heart just for an instant, after which he forced it back resolutely, saying to himself: "a feller who would bother a good woman like aunt hannah deserves to be kicked. she's made up her mind to give me a chance jest 'cause she thinks it's something that ought'er be done; but i ain't goin' to play mean with her. it's lucky i happened to hear what was said, else i'd have jumped at the chance of stayin' when she told me i might." at that moment snip came into the barn eager to be petted by his master, and wearied with the fruitless chase after foolish and annoying birds. "it's tough on you, little man, 'cause a home like this is jest what you've been achin' for, an' they'd be awful good to you," seth whispered as he took the dog in his arms. "how would it be if i should sneak off an' leave you with 'em? i ought'er do it, snippey dear; but it would most break my heart to give up the only family i've got. an' that's where i'm mighty mean! you'd have a great time here, an' by stickin' to me there ain't much show for fun, unless things take a terribly sudden turn." snip licked his master's chin by way of reply, and seth pressed the little fellow yet more closely, saying with what was very like a sob: "i can't do it, little man, i can't do it! you must stick to me, else i'll be the lonesomest feller in all the world. we'll hold on here a spell, an' then hustle once more. it must be we'll find somebody who'll give us work, providin' the detectives don't nab me." then he turned his attention once more to the task set him by aunt hannah, and snip sat on the threshold of the door watching his master and snapping at the impudent sparrows, until gladys came out with an invitation for the dog to escort her to a neighbor's house, where she was forced to go with a message. "i'll take good care of him," she called to seth, as snip ran on joyously in advance, "and bring him back before you finish sweeping the barn." "i'm not afraid of his comin' to any harm while you keep an eye on him; but i believe he's beginnin' to like you almost better'n he does me," seth replied, with a shade of sorrow in his tone, whereat gladys laughed merrily. then the boy continued his work with a will, and ample evidence of his labor was apparent when aunt hannah came out, looking very much like the fairy godmothers of "once upon a time" stories, despite the wrinkles on her placid face. "it looks very neat," she said approvingly. "i never would have believed a boy could be so handy with a broom! last spring i hired william dean, the son of a neighbor, to tidy up the barn and the yard; but it looked worse when he had finished than before." "have i earned the breakfast snip and i ate?" seth asked, pleased with her praise. "indeed you have, child, although there was no reason for doing anything of the kind. when we share with those who are less fortunate, we are doing no more than our duty, an' i don't like to think that you feel it necessary to pay for a mouthful of food." "it was the very nicest breakfast i ever had, miss--miss----" "you may call me 'aunt hannah,' for i'm an aunt to all the children in the neighborhood, accordin' to their way of thinking. would you be contented to stay here for a while, my dear?" "indeed i would!" was the emphatic reply, and then seth added, remembering the conversation he had overheard: "that is, i would if i could; but snip an' me have got to hunt for a chance to earn our livin', an' it won't do to think of loafin' here, even though it is such a fine place." aunt hannah smiled kindly and said, with a certain show of determination, as if forcing herself to an unwelcome decision: "you an' the little dog shall stay for a while, my boy, and perhaps you can find some kind of work nearabout; but if not, surely it won't increase my cost of living, for we'll have a garden, which is what i'm not able to attend to now i've grown so old. why did you leave the city, my child?" had it not been for that "praying before breakfast" seth would have invented some excuse for his flight; but now he could not bring himself, as he gazed into the kindly eyes, either to utter a deliberate falsehood or to make an equivocal reply. "i'd like to tell you," he said hesitatingly, after a long pause, during which aunt hannah looked out across the meadow rather than at him. "i'd like to tell you, but i can't," he repeated. "i don't believe you are a bad boy, seth," she said mildly, but without glancing toward him. the lad remained silent with downcast eyes, and when it seemed to him as if many minutes had passed, the little woman added: "perhaps you will tell me after we are better acquainted. gladys declares, an' i've come quite to her way of thinking, that you should remain with us for a time. i don't believe you could find work such as would pay for your board and lodging, unless it was with an old woman like me, and so we're to consider you and snip as members of the family." seth shook his head, feebly at first, for the temptation to accept the invitation was very great, and then decidedly, as if the decision he had arrived at could not be changed. "would you rather go away?" aunt hannah asked in surprise. "no, i wouldn't!" seth cried passionately, the tears coming dangerously near his eyelids. "i'd do anything in this world for the sake of havin' such a home as this; but all the same, snip an' i can't stay to bother you. we'll leave when he comes back." "listen to me, my child," and now the little woman spoke with a degree of firmness which sounded strangely from one so mild, "you are not to go away this day, no matter what may be done later. we will talk about my plan after dinner, and then perhaps you'll feel like explaining why you think it necessary to go further in search of work after i have given you a chance to earn what you and the dog may need." then gladys' voice was heard in the distance as she urged snip on in his pursuit of a butterfly, and aunt hannah went quickly into the dwelling, leaving seth gazing after her wistfully as he muttered: "i never believed there was such a good woman in this world!" chapter iv. the flight. neither gladys nor snip came into the barn immediately after their return, probably because the former had some report to make as to the message with which she had been entrusted, and seth was left alone to turn over in his mind all that aunt hannah had said. a very disagreeable half hour he spent in the conflict between what he believed to be his duty and his inclination. it seemed that all his troubles would be at an end if he might remain in that peaceful place, as the little woman had suggested, and he knew full well that he could never hope to find as pleasant an abiding place. as the matter presented itself to his mind, he was not at liberty to accept the generous invitation unless the story of why he left new york was first told; and once aunt hannah was aware that he had transgressed the law by passing counterfeit money, it seemed certain she would look upon him as a sinner too great for pardon. he believed it was better to go without explanations than be utterly cast off by the little woman whom he was rapidly beginning to love, and, in addition, forfeit her friendship forever. so long as she could only guess at the reasons for his flight, she might think of him kindly, and, perhaps, in time, he would be able to prove that he was worthy of confidence. "i'll come back when i'm a man, an' then she'll have to believe i didn't mean to do anything so terrible bad when i passed the lead nickel," he said to himself, in an effort to strengthen the resolution just made. "it would be mighty nice to live here, an' what a good time snip could have!" then he tried to convince himself that his pet should be left behind; but the thought of going away from that charming home--which might have been his but for the carelessness in handling the counterfeit money--leaving behind the only friend he had known for many a long day, brought the tears to his eyes again. "i'll have to take the poor little man with me, an' it'll come mighty rough on him!" he said with a sob. "i reckon he thinks this kind of fun, when he can chase butterflies an' birds to his heart's content, is goin' to last, an' he'll be dreadfully disappointed after we leave; but i couldn't get along without him!" gladys interrupted his mournful train of thought, and perhaps it was well, for the boy was rapidly working himself into a most melancholy frame of mind. she and snip came tearing into the barn as if there was no other aim in this life than enjoyment, and so startled the sorrowing seth that he arose to his feet in something very nearly resembling alarm. "if you jump like that i shall begin to think you are as nervous as aunt hannah," she cried with a merry laugh. "she insists that between snip and me there will no longer be any peace for her, unless we sober down very suddenly; but do you know, seth, that i've lived here with no other companion than the dear old woman so long, it seems as if some good fairy had sent this little fluff of white to make me happy. i had rather have him for a friend than all the children in the neighborhood, which isn't saying very much, in view of the fact that the two dean boys and malvinia stubbs are the only people of nearabout my age in this section of the country." "i believe snip thinks as much of you as you do of him," seth replied gloomily. "i never knew him to make friends with any one before; but perhaps that was because he saw only the fellers who liked to tease him. if i wasn't mighty mean, he'd stay here all the time." "of course he'll stay," gladys cried as she tossed the tiny dog in the air while he gave vent to an imitation growl. "aunt hannah and i have arranged it without so much as asking your permission. you two are to live here; snip's work is to enjoy himself with me, while you're to make a garden, the like of which won't be seen this side of new york. what do you think of settling down to being a farmer?" "i'd like it mighty well, but it can't be done." and seth gazed out through the open door, not daring to meet miss gladys' startled gaze. "wait till you've talked with aunt hannah," she exclaimed after the first burst of surprise had passed. "we've fixed everything, an' you'll find that there isn't a word for you to say." "i have talked with her," seth replied gloomily. "we'd both love to stay mighty well, but we can't." "i'd like to know why"; and now gladys was on her feet, looking sternly at the sorrowful guest. "neither you nor snip have got a home, an' here's one with the best woman who ever lived--that much i know to a certainty." "i believe you, but it can't be done." and the boy walked to the other side of the barn as if to end the conversation. gladys looked after him for a moment in mingled surprise and petulance, and then, taking snip in her arms, she walked straight into the house, leaving him seemingly more alone than ever. during the remainder of the forenoon neither aunt hannah, gladys, nor snip came out of the door, and then the little woman summoned him to dinner. seth entered the house much as a miserable culprit might have done, and, after making a toilet at the kitchen sink, sat down at the table in obedience to aunt hannah's instructions. this time he half expected she would pray, and was not mistaken. not having been taken by surprise, he heard every word, and his cheeks crimsoned with mingled shame and pleasure as she asked her heavenly father to bless and guide the homeless stranger who had come to them, inclining his heart to the right path. aunt hannah did not use many words in asking the blessing; but to seth each one was full of a meaning which could not be mistaken, and he knew she was pleading that he might be willing to confess his sins. perhaps if the good woman had asked at the conclusion of the prayer why he left new york, seth would have told her everything; but no word was spoken on the subject, and by the time dinner had come to an end he was more firmly convinced than ever that she could not forgive him for having passed the counterfeit money. nothing was said regarding his departure or the proposition that he should become a member of the household; but gladys gave the outlines of a journey she proposed making with snip that afternoon, and the heavy-hearted boy understood that it was not her purpose to return until nightfall. then aunt hannah asked if he felt equal to the task of spading up a small piece of ground behind the barn, where she counted on making a garden, and he could do no less than agree to undertake the task. therefore did it seem to him as if he was in duty bound to remain at the farm during the remainder of that day at least; but there was in his mind the fact that he must continue his aimless journey that very night, or be willing to give a detailed account of his wrongdoing. immediately after the meal had been brought to a close seth went out with the little woman to begin the work of making ready for a garden. when she had explained what was necessary to be done he labored at the task with feverish energy, for it seemed to him as if the task must be concluded before he would be at liberty to leave the farm, and go he must, because each moment was it becoming more nearly impossible to bring himself to confess why he and snip were fugitives. some of the neighbors called upon aunt hannah that afternoon, therefore she was forced to leave him alone after having described what must be done in order to make a garden of the unpromising looking land behind the barn; and he knew that gladys and snip would not return until time for supper, because the girl had plainly given him to understand as much during the conversation at the dinner-table. his hands were blistered, and his back ached because of the unaccustomed labor; but the work was completed to the best of his ability before sunset, and then aunt hannah found time to inspect the result of his toil. "i declare you have done as well as any man i could have hired, an' a good deal better than some!" she exclaimed, and a flush of joy overspread seth's face as he arose with difficulty from the grass where he had thrown himself for a much-needed rest. "william dean tried to do the same thing, but when he had finished the ground looked as if it had no more than been teased with a comb. you have turned it up till it is the same as ploughed, an' we'll have a famous garden, even though it is a bit late in the season." "i'm glad you like it," the boy replied. "of course i could do such work quicker after i'd tried my hand at it two or three times." "i didn't expect you'd more than half finish it in one day, an' now there's nothing to be done but put in the seeds. we'll see to that in the morning. i must go after white-face now, or we shall have a late supper. have you seen anything of gladys?" "she hasn't been here. say, why can't i get the cow?" "i suppose you might, for she's gentle as a kitten; but you must be tired." "i reckon it won't hurt me to walk from here to the pasture." and seth started off at full speed, delighted with the opportunity to perform yet more work, for there was in his mind the thought that aunt hannah would think kindly of him after he was gone, if he showed himself willing to do whatsoever came in his way. it did not seem exactly safe to walk deliberately up to that enormous beast of a cow; but since gladys had done so he advanced without any great show of fear, and was surprised at discovering that she willingly obeyed the pressure on her horns. he led her into the cleanly barn, threw some hay into the manger, and then fastened the chain around her neck, all the while wondering at his own bravery. "is there anything more for me to do?" he asked, as aunt hannah came out of the house with the three-legged stool and the glistening tin pail. "you've earned a rest, my dear," the little woman said cheerily. "sit down on the front porch and enjoy the sensation which comes to every one who has done a good day's work. we poor people can have what rich folks can't, or don't, which amounts to much the same thing." seth did not avail himself of this permission; but stood on the threshold of the "tie-up" watching the little woman force out the big streams of milk without apparent effort, until the desire to successfully perform the same task was strong upon him. "don't you think i could do that?" he asked timidly. "i dare say you might, my child; there isn't much of a knack to it." "would you be willin' to let me try?" "of course you shall," and aunt hannah got up quickly from the stool. "be gentle, and you'll have no trouble." seth failed at first; but after a few trials he was able to extract a thin stream of the foaming fluid, although white-face did not appear well pleased with his experiments. then aunt hannah took the matter in hand, and when she had finished seth carried the pail for her, arriving at the kitchen just as gladys and snip entered, both seemingly weary with their afternoon's frolic. bread, baked that forenoon, and warm milk, made up the evening meal, and again aunt hannah prayed for the stranger, much to his secret satisfaction. while they were at the table the little woman said, in a low tone of authority, such as did not seem suited to her lips: "you are to stay here until morning, seth, and then we will have another talk. i'm an old-fashioned old maid, an' believe in early to bed an' early to rise, therefore we don't light lamp or candle in the summer-time, unless some of the neighbors loiter later than usual. you are to sleep in the room over the kitchen, my boy, and when we have finished supper i guess you'll be glad to lie down, for spading up a piece of grass land isn't easy work." understanding from these remarks that he was expected to retire without delay, seth took snip in his arms immediately the meal had come to a close, and said, as he stood waiting to be shown the way to his room: "you've been mighty good to us, miss--aunt hannah, an' i hope we'll have a chance to pay you back some day." "you've done that this afternoon," gladys cried laughingly. "aunt hannah has wanted that garden spot spaded ever since the snow went away, and the boys around here were too lazy to do it. all hands, including snip, will have a share in the planting, and i wouldn't be surprised if we beat our neighbors, even though it is late for such work." seth would have liked to take leave of these two who had been so kind to him, for he was still determined to leave the house secretly as soon as was possible; but he did not dare say all that was in his mind lest his purpose be betrayed, and followed aunt hannah as she led the way to the room above the kitchen. "you won't forget to say your prayers," she said, kissing him good-night, an act which brought the tears to his eyes; and seth shook his head by way of promise, although never did he remember having done such a thing. after undressing, and when snip had been provided with a comfortable bed in the cushioned rocking-chair, seth attempted to do as he had promised, and found it an exceedingly difficult task. there was in his heart both thanksgiving and sorrow, but he could not give words to either, and after several vain efforts he said reverentially: "i hope aunt hannah will have just as snifty a time in this world as she deserves, for she's a dandy, if there ever was one!" then he crept between the lavender-scented sheets and gave himself up to the pleasure of gazing at his surroundings. never before had he seen such a room, so comfort-inviting and cleanly! there were two regular pillows on the bed, and each of them enclosed in a snowy white case which was most pleasing to the cheek, while the fragrant sheets seemed much too fine to be slept on. snip was quite as well satisfied with the surroundings as his master. the chair cushion was particularly soft, and he curled himself into a little ring with a sigh of content which told that if the question of leaving the morse farm might be decided by him, he and his master would remain there all their lives. weary, as seth was, he found it exceedingly difficult to prevent his eyes from closing in slumber; yet sleep was a luxury he could not indulge in at that time, lest he should not awaken at an hour when he might leave the dwelling without arousing the other inmates. perhaps it would have been wiser had he not undressed himself; but the temptation of getting into such a bed as aunt hannah had provided for his benefit was greater than he could withstand, therefore must he be exceedingly careful not to venture even upon the border of dreamland. it is needless to make any attempt at trying to describe seth's condition of mind, for it may readily be understood that his grief was great. more than once did he say to himself it would be better to tell aunt hannah all; but each time he understood, or believed he did, that by such a course he should not only be cutting himself off from all possibility of remaining longer at the farm, but would be forfeiting her friendship. to his mind he would be forced to leave the farm if he told the story, and he could not remain without doing so; therefore it seemed wisest to run away, thus avoiding a most painful scene. then came the time when his eyelids rebelled against remaining open; and in order to save himself from falling asleep it seemed necessary to get out of bed. crouching by the window, after having dressed himself, he gazed out over the broad fields that were bathed by the moonlight, and pictured to himself the pleasure of viewing them night after night with the knowledge that they formed a portion of his home. and then, such a revery being almost painful, he nerved himself for what was to be done by taking snip in his arms. the dog was sleeping soundly, and seth whispered in a voice which was far from being steady: "it's too bad, old man; but we can't help ourselves. you'll be sorry not to see gladys when you wake; but you won't feel half so bad as i shall, 'cause i know what a slim chance there is of our ever strikin' another place like this." then he opened the door softly, still holding snip in his arms. not a sound could be heard; he crept to the head of the stairs and listened intently. it was as if he and snip were the only occupants of the house. seth had no very clear idea as to how long he had been in the chamber; but it seemed as if at least two hours had passed since aunt hannah bade him good-night, and there was no reason why he should not begin the flight at once. with his hand on snip's head as a means of preventing the dog from growling in case any unusual sound was heard, seth began the descent of the stairs, creeping from one to the other with the utmost caution, while the boards creaked and groaned under his weight until it seemed certain both aunt hannah and gladys must be aroused. in trying to move yet more cautiously he staggered against the stair-rail, squeezing snip until the little fellow yelped sharply; and seth stood breathlessly awaiting some token that the mistress of the house had been alarmed. he was surprised because of hearing nothing; it appeared strange that any one could sleep while he was making such a noise, and yet the silence was as profound as before he began to descend. never had he believed a flight of stairs could be so long, and when it seemed as if he should be at the bottom, he had hardly gotten more than half-way down. the descent came to an end, however, as must all things in this world, and he groped his way toward the kitchen door, not so much as daring to breathe. once he fancied it was possible to distinguish a slight, rustling sound; but when he stopped all was silent as before, therefore the fugitive went on until his hand was on the kitchen door. the key was turned noiselessly in the lock; he raised the latch, and the door swung open with never a creak. the moonlight flooded that portion of the kitchen where he stood irresolute, as if even now believing it might be better to confess why he had been forced to come away from new york; and as he turned his head ever so slightly to listen, a sudden fear came upon him. he saw, not more than half a dozen paces distant, a human form advancing. a cry of fear burst from his lips, and he would have leaped out of the open door but that a gentle pressure on his shoulder restrained him. "where are you going, my child?" a kindly voice asked; and he knew that what he had mistaken for an apparition was none other than aunt hannah. seth could not speak; his mouth had suddenly become parched, and his knees trembled beneath him. he had been discovered while seemingly prowling around the house like a thief, and on the instant he realized in what way his actions might be misconstrued. "where are you going, seth dear?" "i wasn't--i had to run away, aunt hannah, an' that's the truth of it!" he cried passionately, suddenly recovering the use of his tongue. "why didn't you tell me at supper-time?" "i was afraid you and gladys would try to stop me, an' perhaps i couldn't stick to what i'd agreed on." "do you really want to leave us, seth?" "indeed i don't, aunt hannah! i'd give anything in this world if i could stay, for this is the very nicest place i ever was in. oh, indeed, i don't want to go away!" "then why not stay?" "i can't! i can't, 'cause i'd have to tell----" seth did not finish the sentence, but buried his face in snip's silky hair. "is it because you can't tell me why you left the city?" and the little woman laid her hand on the boy's shoulder with a motion not unlike a caress. seth nodded, but did not trust himself to speak. "then go right back to bed. you shall stay here, my dear, until the time comes when you can confide in me, and meanwhile i will not believe you have been guilty of any wickedness." chapter v. an accident. filled with shame and confusion, seth made no resistance when aunt hannah ordered him back to bed; but obeyed silently, moving stealthily as when he began the flight. he was trembling as with a sudden chill when he undressed and laid himself down, while snip lost no time in curling his tiny body into a good imitation of a ball, wondering, perhaps, why he had thus been needlessly disturbed in his "beauty sleep." seth was no longer capable of speculating upon the problem in which he had been involved through a lead nickel and an advertisement in the newspapers. he could only realize that aunt hannah had good reason to believe him a thief, or worse, otherwise she would not have been waiting to discover if he attempted to prowl around the house while she was supposed to be asleep, and his cheeks burned with shame at the thought. he wished that the night might never come to an end, and then he would not be forced to meet her face to face, as he must when the sun rose. "of course she'll tell gladys where she found me, an' both of 'em will believe i'm the worst feller that ever lived!" he whispered to himself; and then tears, bitter and scalding, flowed down his cheeks, moistening the spotless linen, but bringing some slight degree of comfort, because sleep quickly followed in their train. seth was awakened next morning by aunt hannah's voice, as she called gently: "it's time to get up, my dear. the sun is out looking for boys an' dogs, an' you mustn't disappoint him." snip ran eagerly down the stairs as if to greet some one for whom he had a great affection, and seth heard the little woman say to him: "i really believe gladys was in the right when she said i would come to like you almost as much as if you were a cat. do you want a saucer of milk?" "she won't talk so pleasantly when i get there," seth said to himself. "i'd rather take a sound flogging than have her look at me as if i was a thief!" the lad soon came to know aunt hannah better than to accuse her of being cruel even in the slightest degree. when he entered the kitchen she greeted him with a kindly smile, and said, much as if the events of the previous night were no more than a disagreeable dream: "you see i'm beginning to depend on you already, seth. gladys isn't up yet, and i've left white-face in the barn thinkin' you'd take her to the pasture. the grass is wet with dew, an' i'm gettin' so old that i don't dare take the chances of wetting my feet." seth did not wait to make his toilet, but ran swiftly to the barn, rejoicing because of the opportunity to perform some task. when the cow had been cared for he loitered around outside, picking up a stick here and a stone there as if it was of the highest importance that the lawn in front of the house be freed from litter of every kind before breakfast. his one desire was to avoid coming face to face with aunt hannah until it should be absolutely necessary, and while he was thus inventing work gladys came out in search of snip. seth understood at once that the girl was yet ignorant of his attempt to run away, and his heart swelled with gratitude toward the little woman who had thus far kept secret what he would have been ashamed to tell. just then snip was of far more importance in the eyes of aunt hannah's niece than was his master, and after a hasty "good-morning" she ran away with the dog at her heels for the accustomed exercise before breakfast. "come in an' wash your face, my dear. breakfast will be cooked by the time you are ready to eat it, and such work as you are doing may as well be left until a more convenient season." seth felt forced to obey this summons promptly; but he did not dare meet the little woman's glance. had he observed her closely, however, it would have been seen that she studiously avoided looking toward him. aunt hannah was averse to causing pain, even to the brutes which came in her way, and at this particular time she understood very much of what was in the boy's mind. seth feared lest in the "prayer before breakfast" some reference might be made to what he had attempted to do during the night; but his fears were groundless. the little woman asked that her father's blessing might fall upon the homeless; but the words were spoken in the same fervent, kindly tone as on the evening previous, and again the boy thanked her in his heart. when the morning meal had come to an end gladys was eager seth should join her and snip on an excursion through the grove where squirrels were said to be "thick as peas," and under almost any other circumstances the guest would have been delighted to accept the invitation; but now he insisted that there was very much work to be done before nightfall, which would force him to remain near the house. "we've only to plant the garden," aunt hannah interrupted, "an' then there's no reason why you shouldn't enjoy a stroll among the trees." seth remained silent, but determined to do all in his power to atone for what seemed to him very nearly a crime, and gladys decided that she must also take part in the sowing of the seeds. until noon the three, with snip as a most interested spectator, worked industriously, and then, as aunt hannah said, "there was nothing to be done save wait patiently until the sun and the rain had performed their portion of the task." seth did not join gladys and snip in their afternoon romp, but continued at his self-imposed tasks until night had come, doing quite as much work with his mind as his hands. twenty times over he resolved to tell the little woman exactly why he was forced to run away from new york, and as often decided he could not confess himself such a criminal as it seemed certain, because of the advertisement, he really was. "i couldn't stand it to have her look at me after she knew everything," he repeated again and again. there was no idea in his mind as to how the matter might end, save when now and then he had the faintest of faint hopes that perhaps she might forget, or learn the truth from some one other than himself. during three days he struggled between what he knew to be duty and his own inclination, and in all that time the little woman never showed by word or look that there was any disagreeable secret between them. seth tried to ease his conscience by working most industriously during every moment of daylight, and then came the time when it was absolutely impossible to find anything more for his hands to do. he had swept the barn floor until it was as clean as a broom could make it; the wood in the shed had been piled methodically; a goodly supply of kindlings were prepared, and not so much as a pebble was to be seen on the velvety lawn. gladys had tried in vain to entice him away from what she declared was useless labor, and snip did all within the power of a dog to coax his master into joining him in the jolly strolls among the trees or across the green fields, and yet seth remained nearabout the little house in a feverish search for something with which to employ his hands. "it's no use, snippey dear," he said on the fourth night of his stay at the farm, after the family had retired, "i can't stay an' not tell aunt hannah, an' it's certain we won't be allowed to stop more'n a minute after she knows the truth. if i could talk to her in the dark, when i couldn't see her face, it wouldn't seem quite so bad; but we go to bed so early there's no chance for that. we must have it out mighty soon, for i can't hang 'round here many hours longer without tellin' all about ourselves." he was not ready for bed, although an hour had passed since he bade aunt hannah and gladys good-night. the moon had gilded the rail fence, the shed, and the barn until they were transformed into fairy handiwork; the road gleamed like gold with an enamel of black marking the position of trees and bushes, and seth had gazed upon the wondrous picture without really being aware of time's flight. having repeated to snip that which was in his mind, the boy was on the point of making himself ready for a visit from the dream elves when he heard, apparently from the room below, what sounded like a fall, a smothered exclamation, and the splintering of glass. only for a single instant did he stand motionless, and then, realizing that some accident must have happened, he ran downstairs, snip following close behind, barking shrilly. once in the kitchen an exclamation of terror burst from his lips. the room was illumined by a line of fire, seemingly extending entirely across the floor, which was fringed by a dense smoke that rose nearly to the ceiling, and, beside the table, where she had evidently fallen, lay aunt hannah, struggling to smother with bare hands the yellow, dancing flames that had fastened upon her clothing. it needed not the fragments of glass and brass to tell seth that the little woman had accidentally fallen, breaking the lamp she carried, and that the fire was fed by oil. like a flash there came into his mind the memory of that night when dud wilson overturned a lamp on the floor of his news-stand, and he had heard it said then that the property might have been saved if the boys had smothered the flames with their coats, or any fabric of woollen, instead of trying to drown it out with water. he pulled off his coat in a twinkling, threw it over the prostrate woman, and added to the covering rag rugs from the floor, pressing them down firmly as he said, in a trembling voice, much as though speaking to a child: "don't get scared! we can't put the fire out with water; but i'll soon smother it." "you needn't bother about me, my child; but attend to the house! it would be dreadful if we should lose the dear old home!" "i'll get the best of this business in a jiffy; but it won't do to give you a chance of bein' burned." "there is no fire here now." and aunt hannah threw back the rugs, despite seth's hold upon them, to show that the flames were really quenched. "for mercy's sake, save the house! it's the only home i ever knew, an' my heart would be wellnigh broken if i lost it!" before she had ceased speaking seth was flinging rug after rug on the burning oil, for aunt hannah, like many another woman living in the country, had an ample supply of such floor coverings. not until he had entirely covered that line of flame, and had danced to and fro over the rugs to stamp out the last spark of fire, did he venture to open the outside door, and it was high time, for the pungent smoke filled the kitchen until it was exceedingly difficult to breathe. the little woman remained upon the floor where seth had first found her, and it was only after the night breeze was blowing through the room, carrying off the stifling vapor, that the boy had time to wonder why she made no effort to rise. "are you hurt?" he cried anxiously, running to her side. "never mind me until the fire is out." "there is no more fire, an' i'm bound to mind you! are you hurt?" "it doesn't seem possible, my dear, an' yet i can't use either ankle or wrist. of course the bones are not broken; but old people like me don't fall harmlessly as do children." seth was more alarmed now than when he saw the flames of the burning oil threatening the destruction of the building, and he dumbly wondered why gladys did not make her appearance. the first excitement was over, and now he had time in which to be frightened. "what can i do? oh, what can i do?" he cried, running to and fro, and then, hardly aware of his movements, he shouted loudly for gladys. "don't waken her!" aunt hannah cried warningly. "if you can't help me there is nothing she can do." "ain't she in the house?" seth asked nervously. he feared aunt hannah might die, and even though she was in no real danger, to stand idly by not knowing how to aid her was terrible. he failed to observe that snip was no longer in the room; but just at that moment his shrill barking was heard in an adjoining apartment, and seth knew the dog had gone to find his little playmate. "you mustn't get frightened after the danger is all over, my dear," aunt hannah said soothingly. "but for you the house would have been destroyed, and now we have nothing to fear." "but you can't get up!" seth wailed. "that wouldn't be a great misfortune compared with losing our home, even if i never got up again," the little woman said quietly. "but i'm not going to lie here. surely you can help me on to the couch." "tell me how to do it," seth cried eagerly, and at that moment gladys appeared in the doorway. "lean over so that i may put my arms around your neck," aunt hannah said, giving no heed to the girl's cry of alarm. "she fell an' hurt herself," seth said hurriedly to gladys, as he obeyed the little woman's injunction. and then, as the latter put her uninjured arm over his neck, he tried to aid the movement by clasping her waist. "if you can help me just a little bit we'll soon have her on the couch," he cried to gladys, who by this time was standing at his side. aunt hannah was a tiny woman, and the children, small though they were, did not find it an exceedingly difficult task to raise her bodily from the floor. then gladys lighted a lamp, and it was seen that, in addition to the injuries received by the fall, aunt hannah had been grievously burned. "yes, i'm in some pain," she said in reply to seth's anxious questioning; "but now that the house has been saved i have no right to complain. get some flour, gladys, and while you are putting it on the worst of the burns, perhaps seth will run over to mrs. dean an' ask if she can come here a few minutes." "where does mis' dean live?" the lad asked hurriedly, starting toward the door; and he was already outside when gladys replied: "it's the first house past the grove where snip and i went this afternoon!" seth gave no heed to his lameness as he ran at full speed down the road; the thought that now was the time when he might in some slight degree repay aunt hannah for having given shelter to him and snip, lending speed to his feet. the dean family had not yet retired when he arrived at the farmhouse, and, stopping only sufficiently long to tell in fewest possible words of what had happened, seth ran back to help gladys care for the invalid, for he was feverishly eager to have some part in the nursing. aunt hannah was on the couch with her wounds partially bandaged when the boy returned, and although her suffering must have been severe, that placid face was as serene as when he bade her good-night. "mis' dean is comin' right away. what can i do?" "nothing more, my dear," the little woman replied quietly. "you have been of such great service to me this night that i can never repay you." "please don't say that, aunt hannah," seth cried, his face flushing with shame as he remembered the past. "if i could only do somethin' real big, then perhaps you wouldn't think i was so awful bad." "i believe you to be a good boy, seth, and shall until you tell me to the contrary. even then," she added with a smile, "i fancy it will be possible to find a reasonable excuse." the arrival of mrs. dean put an end to any further conversation, and seth was called upon to aid in carrying aunt hannah to the foreroom, in which was the best bed, although the little woman protested against anything of the kind. "i am as well off in my own bed, sarah dean. don't treat me as if i was a child who didn't know what was best." "you are goin' into the foreroom, hannah morse, an' that's all there is about it. that bed hasn't been used since the year your brother benjamin was at home, an' i've always said that if anything happened to you, an' i had charge of affairs, you should get some comfort out of the feathers you earned pickin' berries. we'll take her into the foreroom, boy, for it's the most cheerful, an' she deserves the best that's goin'." "you can bet she does!" seth exclaimed with great emphasis; and then he gave all his attention to obeying the many commands which issued from mrs. dean's mouth. when the little woman had been disposed of according to her neighbor's ideas of comfort, seth was directed to build a fire in the kitchen stove; gladys received instructions to bring all the old linen to be found; and snip was ordered into the shed. aunt hannah protested vehemently against this last order, with the result that the dog was banished to gladys' chamber, and then mrs. dean proceeded to attend to the invalid without giving her a voice in any matter, however nearly it might concern herself. seth took up his station in the kitchen when other neighbors arrived, summoned most likely by mr. dean, and here gladys joined him after what had seemed to the boy a very long time. "how is she?" he asked when the girl came softly into the room as if thinking he might be asleep. "her hands and arms are burned very badly. why, seth, there are blisters as big as my hand, and mrs. dean says she suffers terribly; but the dear old woman hasn't made the least little complaint." "that's 'cause she's so good. if i was like her i needn't bother my head 'bout what was goin' to happen after i died. it would be a funny kind of an angel who wasn't glad to see aunt hannah!" "she'd have burned to death but for you." "that ain't so, gladys. i didn't do very much, 'cept throw the rugs an' my coat over her." "she's just been telling mrs. dean that you saved her life, and the house." "did she really?" seth cried excitedly. "did she say it in them very same words?" "aunt hannah made it sound a good deal better than i can. she said god sent you to this house to help her in the time of trouble, an' she's goin' to see that you always have a home here." "wasn't she kind'er out of her head?" seth asked quickly. "i've heard mother hyde say that folks got crazy-like when they ached pretty bad." "aunt hannah knew every word she was saying, and it's true that she might have burned to death if you hadn't been in the house, for i never heard a thing till snippey came into my room barking." "i hope i did do as much; but it don't seem jest true." "don't you think the house would have burned if some one hadn't put out the fire very quickly?" "perhaps so, 'cause the flames jumped up mighty high." "and since she couldn't move, wouldn't she have been burned to death?" "i hope so." "why, seth barrows, how wicked you are!" "no, no, gladys, i didn't mean i hoped she'd have burned to death; but i hoped i really an' truly saved her life, 'cause then she won't jump down on me so hard when i tell her." "tell her what?" "why snip an' i had to run away from new york." "is it something you're ashamed of?" gladys asked quickly and in surprise. seth nodded, while the flush of shame crept up into his cheeks. gladys gazed at him earnestly while one might have counted ten, and then said, speaking slowly and distinctly: "i don't believe it. aunt hannah says you're the best boy she ever saw; an' she knows." "did aunt hannah tell you that, or are you tryin' to stuff me?" and seth rose to his feet excitedly. "i hope you don't think i'd tell a lie?" "of course i don't, gladys; but if you only knew how much it means to me--aunt hannah's sayin' what you claim she did--there wouldn't be any wonder i had hard work to believe it." "she said to me those very same words----" "what ones?" "that you was the best boy she ever saw, an' it was only yesterday afternoon, when you were splitting kindling wood, that she said it." then, suddenly, to gladys' intense surprise, seth dropped his head on his arm and burst into a flood of tears. chapter vi. sunshine. mrs. dean had taken entire charge of the invalid and the house, and so many of the neighbors insisted on aiding her that gladys and seth were pushed aside as if they had been strangers. at midnight, when one of the volunteer nurses announced that aunt hannah was resting as comfortably as could be expected under the circumstances, gladys, in obedience to mrs. dean's peremptory command, went to bed; but seth positively refused to leave the kitchen. "somethin' that i could do might turn up, an' i count on bein' ready for it," he said when the neighbor urged him to lie down. "snip an' i'll stay here; an' if we get sleepy, what's to hinder our takin' a nap on the couch?" so eager was the boy for an opportunity to serve aunt hannah that he resolutely kept his eyes open during the remainder of the night lest the volunteer nurses should fail to waken him if his services were needed; and to accomplish this he made frequent excursions out of doors, where the wind swept the "sand" from his eyes. with the first light of dawn he set about effacing so far as might be possible all traces of fire from the kitchen, and was washing the floor when mrs. dean came out from the foreroom. "well, i do declare!" she exclaimed in surprise. "hannah morse said you was a handy boy 'round the house, but this is a little more'n i expected. i wish my william could take a few lessons from you." "i didn't count on gettin' the floor very clean," seth replied modestly, but secretly delighted with the unequivocal praise. "if the oil and smut is taken off it'll be easier to put things into shape." "you're doin' wonderfully, my boy, an' when i tell hannah morse, she'll be pleased, 'cause a speck of dirt anywhere about the house does fret her mortally bad." seth did not venture to look up lest mrs. dean should see the joy in his eyes, for to his mind the good woman could do him no greater service than give the invalid an account of his desire to be useful in the household. "is aunt hannah burned very much?" he asked, as the nurse set about making herself a cup of tea. "i allow it'll be a full month before she gets around again. at first i was afraid she'd broken some bones; but mrs. stubbs declares it's only a bad sprain. it seems that she had a headache, an' came for the camphor bottle, when she slipped an' fell against the table. the wonder to me is that this house wasn't burned to the ground." then mrs. dean questioned seth as to himself, and his reasons for coming into the country in search of work; but the boy did not consider it necessary to give any more information than pleased him, although the good woman was most searching in her inquiries. then gladys entered the kitchen, and the two children made preparations for breakfast, after seth had brought to an end his self-imposed task of washing the floor. mr. dean came over to milk white-face, and seth insisted that he be allowed to try his hand at the work, claiming that if aunt hannah was to be a helpless invalid during a full month, as mrs. dean had predicted, it was absolutely necessary he be able to care for the cow. the old adage that "a willing pupil is an apt one" was verified in this case, for the lad succeeded so well in his efforts that mr. dean declared it would not be necessary for him to come to the morse farm again, so far as caring for the cow was concerned. very proud was seth when he brought the pail of foaming milk into the kitchen with the announcement that he had done nearly all the work, and gladys ran to tell aunt hannah what she considered exceedingly good news. during the next two days either mrs. dean or mrs. stubbs ruled over the morse household by virtue of their supposed rights as nurses, and in all this time seth had not been allowed to see the invalid. gladys visited the foreroom from time to time, reporting that aunt hannah was "doing as well as could be expected," and seth had reason to believe the little woman's suffering would now abate unless some unexpected change in her condition prevented. the neighbors sent newspapers and books for gladys to read to her aunt during such moments as she was able to listen, and while the girl was thus employed seth busied himself in the kitchen, taking great pride in keeping every article neat and cleanly, as aunt hannah herself would have done. then came the hour which the boy had been looking forward to with mingled hope and fear. he had fully decided to tell all his story to the little woman who had been so kind to him, and was resolved that the unpleasant task should be accomplished at the earliest opportunity. it was nearly noon; the good neighbors were at their own homes for a brief visit, and gladys came from the foreroom, where she had been reading the daily paper aloud, saying to seth: "aunt hannah thinks i ought to run out of doors a little while because i have stayed in the house so long. there isn't the least bit of need; but i must go, else she'll worry herself sick. she says you can sit with her, an' i'll take snippey with me, for he's needing fresh air more than i am." just for a moment seth hesitated; the time had come when he must, if ever, carry his good resolutions into effect, and there was little doubt in his mind but that aunt hannah would insist upon his leaving the farm without delay once she knew all his wickedness. gladys did not give him very much time for reflection. with snip at her heels she hurried down the road, and seth knew he must not leave the invalid alone many moments. aunt hannah's eyes were open when he entered the foreroom, and but for that fact he might almost have believed she was dead, so pale was her face. the bandaged hands were outside the coverings, and seth had been told that she could not move them unaided, except at the cost of most severe pain. "i knew you would be forced to come when gladys went out, and that was why i sent her. we two--you an' i--need to have a quiet chat together, and there is little opportunity unless we are alone in the house." seth's face was flushed crimson; he believed aunt hannah had come to the conclusion that he must not be allowed to remain at the farm any longer unless he confessed why it had been necessary to leave new york, and his one desire was to speak before she should be able to make a demand. "i ought'er----" he stammered and stopped, unable to begin exactly as he desired, and the little woman said quietly, but in a tone which told that the words came from her heart: "you have saved the old home, an' my life as well, seth. even if i had hesitated at making you one of the family, i could not do so now, after owing you so much." "don't talk like that, aunt hannah! don't tell 'bout what you owe me!" seth cried tearfully. "it's the other way, an' snip an' i are mighty lucky, if for no other reason than that we've seen you. wait a minute," he pleaded as the invalid was about to speak. "ever since you got hurt i've wanted to tell everything you asked the other day, an' i promised snip an' myself that i'd do it the very first chance. if it----" "there is no need of your tellin' me, my child, unless you really think it necessary. i have no doubts as to your honesty, and truly hope that your wanderings are over." "we shall have to go; but i'm bound to tell the truth now, 'cause i know you think i was tryin' to steal somethin' when we were only goin' to run away so's you wouldn't know what i've done." "my dear boy," and aunt hannah vainly tried to raise her head, "i never thought for a single minute that you came downstairs for any other purpose than to leave the house secretly." "an' that's jest the truth. now don't say a word till i've told you all about it, an' please not look at me." then, speaking hurriedly lest she should interrupt him in what was an exceedingly difficult task, seth told of the advertisement, of the counterfeit money he had unwittingly passed, and of his flight, aided by teddy and tim. "i didn't mean to do it," he concluded, amid his sobs; "but i reckon i'd tried to get rid of it some time, 'cause i couldn't afford to lose so much money. of course they'll put me in jail, if the detectives catch me, an' if i should be locked up for ever so many years, won't you let gladys take care of poor little snippey?" "come here an' kiss me, seth," aunt hannah said softly. "i wish i could put my hand on your head! and you've been frightened out of your wits because of that counterfeit nickel?" she added when he had obeyed. "you poor little child! if you had told me, your troubles would soon have come to an end; but you must understand that in this world the only honest course is to atone for your faults, rather than run away from them. the good book says that 'your sins shall find you out,' and it is true, my dear, as true as is every word that has come to us from god. but i'm not allowin' that you have committed any grievous sin in this matter. do you know, gladys read your story in the paper before i sent her for a walk, and that is why i wanted to be alone with you." seth looked up in surprise which was almost bewilderment, and aunt hannah continued with a bright smile that was like unto the sunshine after a shower: "take up the newspaper lying on the table. i told gladys to fold it so you might find the article i wanted you to read." seth did as she directed, but without glancing at the printed sheet. "can you read, dear?" "not very well, 'cause i have to spell out the big words." "hold it before my eyes while i make the attempt. there isn't very much of a story; but it will mean a great deal to you, i hope." seth was wholly at a loss to understand the little woman's meaning; but he did as she directed, and listened without any great show of enthusiasm to the following: messrs. symonds & symonds, the well-known attorneys of pine street, are willing to confess that they are not well informed regarding the character of the average newsboy of this city, and by such ignorance have defeated their own ends. several days ago the gentlemen were notified by a professional brother in san francisco that a client of his, lately deceased, had bequeathed to one seth barrows the sum of five thousand dollars. all the information that could be given concerning the heir was that he had been living with a certain family in jersey city, and was now believed to be selling newspapers in this city. his age was stated as about eleven years, and he owed his good fortune to the fact that the dead man was his uncle. "it is not a simple matter to find any particular street merchant in new york city; but messrs. symonds & symonds began their search by advertising in the newspapers for the lad. as has been since learned, the friends of the young heir saw the notice which had been inserted by the attorneys, and straightway believed the lad was wanted because of some crime committed. the boy himself must have had a guilty conscience, for he fled without delay, carrying with him into exile a small white terrier, his only worldly possession. the moral of this incident is, that when you want to find a boy of the streets, be careful to state exactly why you desire to see him, otherwise the game may give you the slip rather than take chances of being brought face to face with the officers of the law." it was not until aunt hannah had concluded that seth appeared to understand he was the boy referred to, and then he asked excitedly: "do you suppose the seth barrows told about there can be me?" "of course, my dear. isn't this your story just as you have repeated it to me?" "but there isn't anybody who'd leave me so much money as that, aunt hannah! there's a big mistake somewhere." "do you remember of ever hearing that you had an uncle in california?" "indeed i don't. i thought snip was all the relation i had in the world." "why did the man in jersey city allow you to live with him?" "i don't know. i had pretty good clothes then, an' didn't have to work, 'cause i was too small." "well," the little woman said with a sigh, as if the exertion of talking had wearied her, "i don't pretend to be able to straighten out the snarl; but i'm certain you are the boy spoken of in the newspaper story, for it isn't reasonable to suppose that two lads of the same age have lately run away from new york because of an advertisement. the money must be yours, my dear, and instead of being a homeless wanderer, you're quite a wealthy gentleman." "i wouldn't take the chances of goin' to see about it," seth said thoughtfully, "'cause what we've read may be only a trap to catch me." "now, don't be too suspicious, my dear. i'm not countin' on your going into that wicked city just yet. i've sent for nathan dean, an' you may be sure he'll get at the bottom of the matter, for he's a master hand at such work." then mrs. dean entered to take up her duties of nurse once more, and seth went into the barn, where he could be alone to think over the strange turn which his affairs appeared to be taking. gladys joined him half an hour later, and asked abruptly: "what did aunt hannah say to you?" "why do you think she counted on talkin' to me?" "because i read that story in the newspaper. then she wanted me to go out for a walk, and said i'd better ask mr. dean to come over this afternoon. i couldn't help knowing it was about you; but didn't say anything to her because mrs. dean thinks she oughtn't to be excited. did you tell her why you and snippey ran away?" "of course i did, an' was countin' on doin' that same thing the first chance i had to speak with her alone, though i made sure she'd send me away." then seth repeated that which he had told aunt hannah, and while he was thus engaged mr. dean entered the house. during the two days which followed, gladys and seth held long conversations regarding the possible good fortune which might come to the latter; but nothing definite was known until the hour when aunt hannah was allowed to sit in an easy-chair for the first time since the accident. then it was that mr. dean returned from new york, and came to make his report. there was no longer any question but that it was really seth's uncle who had lately died in san francisco, or that he had bequeathed the sum of five thousand dollars to his nephew. it appeared, according to mr. dean's story, as learned from messrs. symonds & symonds, that daniel barrows had cared for his brother's child to the extent of paying richard genet of jersey city a certain sum of money each year to provide for and clothe the lad. mr. genet having died suddenly, and without leaving anything to show whom seth had claims upon, the boy was left to his own devices, while his uncle, because of carelessness or indifference, made no effort to learn what might have become of the child. there were certain formalities of law to be complied with before the inheritance would be paid, among which was the naming of a guardian for the heir. aunt hannah declared that it was her duty as well as pleasure to make the lame boy one of her family, and to such end mr. dean had several conferences with symonds & symonds, after which the little woman was duly appointed guardian of the heir. there is little more that can be told regarding those who now live on the morse farm, for the very good reason that all which has been related took place only a few months ago; but at some time in the future, if the readers so please, it shall be the duty of the author to set down what befell aunt hannah, seth, gladys, and snip after the inheritance was paid. that they were a very happy family goes without saying, for who could be discontented or fretful in aunt hannah's home? and in the days to come, when father time lays his hand heavily upon the little woman, seth knows that then, if not before, he can repay her in some degree for the kindness shown when he and snip were fugitives, fleeing from nothing worse than a newspaper advertisement. the end. the little clown by thomas cobb author of 'the bountiful lady,' 'cooper's first term,' etc. london: grant richards _contents_ . _how it began_ . _jimmy goes to london_ . _at aunt selina's_ . _aunt selina at home_ . _at the railway station_ . _the journey_ . _jimmy is taken into custody_ . _jimmy runs away_ . _the circus_ . _on the road_ . _jimmy runs away again_ . _jimmy sleeps in a windmill_ . _the last_ the little clown chapter i how it began jimmy was nearly eight years of age when these strange things happened to him. his full name was james orchardson sinclair wilmot, and he had been at miss lawson's small school at ramsgate since he was six. there were only five boys besides himself, and miss roberts was the only governess besides miss lawson. the half-term had just passed, and they did not expect to go home for the christmas holidays for another four or five weeks, until one day miss lawson became very ill, and her sister, miss rosina, was sent for. it was on friday that miss rosina told the boys that she had written to their parents and that they would all be sent home on tuesday, and no doubt jimmy might have felt as glad as the rest if he had had a home to be sent to. but the fact was that he had never seen his father or mother--or at least he had no recollection of them. and he had never seen his sister winnie, who was born in the west indies. one of the boys had told jimmy she must be a little black girl, and jimmy did not quite know whether to believe him or not. when he was two years of age, his father and mother left england, and although that was nearly six years ago, they had not been back since. jimmy had lived with his aunt ellen at chesterham until he came to school, but afterwards his holidays were spent with another uncle and aunt in london. his mother wrote to him every month, nice long letters, which jimmy always answered, although he did not always know quite what to say to her. but last month there had come no letter, and the month before that mrs. wilmot had said something about seeing jimmy soon. when he heard the other boys talk about their fathers and mothers and sisters it seemed strange that he did not know what his own were like. for you cannot always tell what a person is like from her photograph; and although his mother looked young and pretty in hers, jimmy did not know whether she was tall or short or dark or fair, but sometimes, especially after the gas was turned out at night, he felt that he should very much like to know. on monday evening, whilst jimmy was sitting at the desk in the school-room sticking some postage-stamps in his album, he was told to go to the drawing-room, where he found miss rosina sitting beside a large fire. 'is your name wilmot?' she asked, for she had not learnt all the boys' names yet. 'james orchardson sinclair wilmot,' he answered. 'a long name for such a small boy,' said miss rosina. 'it is very strange,' she continued, 'that all the boys' parents have answered my letters but yours.' 'mine couldn't answer,' said jimmy. 'why not?' asked miss rosina. 'because they live such a long way off.' 'i remember,' said miss rosina; 'it was to your uncle that i wrote. i asked him to send someone to meet you at victoria station at one o'clock to-morrow. but he has not answered my letter, and it is very inconvenient.' 'is it?' asked jimmy solemnly, with his eyes fixed on her face. 'why, of course it is,' said miss rosina. 'suppose i don't have a letter before you start to-morrow morning! i shall not know whether any one is coming to meet you or not. and what would miss roberts do with you in that case?' 'i don't know,' answered jimmy, beginning to look rather anxious. 'i'm sure i don't know either,' said miss rosina. 'but,' she added, 'i trust i may hear from your uncle before you start to-morrow morning.' 'i hope you will,' cried jimmy; and he went back to the school-room wondering what would happen to him if his uncle henry did not write. whilst the other boys were saying what wonderful things they intended to do during the holidays, he wished that his father and mother were in england the same as theirs. he could not go to sleep very early that night for thinking of to-morrow, and when the bell rang at seven o'clock the next morning he dressed quickly and came downstairs first to look for miss rosina. 'please, have you had a letter from uncle henry yet?' he asked. 'no, i am sorry to say i have not,' was the answer. 'i cannot understand it at all. i am sure i don't know what is to be done with you.' 'couldn't i stay here?' cried jimmy. 'certainly not,' said miss rosina. 'why not?' asked jimmy, who always liked to have a reason for everything. 'because miss lawson is not going to keep a school any more. but,' exclaimed miss rosina, 'go to your breakfast, and i will speak to you again afterwards.' chapter ii jimmy goes to london as he sat at breakfast jimmy saw a large railway van stop at the door, with a porter sitting on the board behind. the driver climbed down from his high seat in front, and the two men began to carry out the boxes. jimmy saw his clothes-box carried out, then his play-box, so that he knew that he was to go to london with the rest, although miss rosina had not heard from his uncle. 'jimmy,' said miss roberts after breakfast, 'miss rosina wants to see you in the drawing-room. you must go at once.' so he went to the drawing-room, tapped at the door, and was told to enter. 'it is very annoying that your uncle has not answered my letter,' said miss rosina, looking as angry as if jimmy were to blame for it. 'he couldn't answer if he didn't get it,' cried jimmy. 'of course not,' said miss rosina, 'but i sincerely hope he did get it.' 'so do i,' answered jimmy. 'perhaps he will send to meet you although he has not written to say so,' said miss rosina. 'perhaps he will,' replied jimmy thoughtfully. 'but,' miss rosina continued, 'if he doesn't send to meet you, miss roberts must take you to his house in brook street in a cab.' 'only suppose he isn't there!' exclaimed jimmy. 'at all events the servants will be there.' 'only suppose they're not!' 'surely,' said miss rosina, 'they would not leave the house without any one in it!' 'if uncle henry and aunt mary have gone to france they might.' 'do they often go to france?' asked miss rosina. 'they go sometimes,' said jimmy, 'because aunt mary writes to me, and i've got the stamps in my album. and then they leave the house empty and shut the shutters and put newspapers in all the windows, you know.' whilst jimmy stood on the hearth-rug, miss rosina sat in an arm-chair staring seriously at the fire. 'have you any other relations in london?' she asked, a few moments later. 'no,' said jimmy. 'think, now,' she continued. 'are you sure there is nobody?' 'at least,' cried jimmy, 'there's only aunt selina.' 'where does your aunt selina live?' asked miss rosina, looking a great deal more pleased than jimmy felt. he put his small hands together behind his back, and took a step closer. 'please,' he said, 'i--i don't want to go to aunt selina's.' 'tell me where she lives,' answered miss rosina. 'i think it's somewhere called gloucester place,' said jimmy;' but, please, i'd rather not go.' 'you silly child! you must go somewhere!' 'yes, i know,' said jimmy, 'but i'd rather not go to aunt selina's.' 'what is her number in gloucester place?' asked miss rosina. 'i don't know the number,' cried jimmy much more cheerfully, because he thought that as he did not know the number, miss rosina could not very well send him to the house. 'what is your aunt's name? is it wilmot?' miss rosina asked. 'no, it isn't wilmot,' said jimmy. 'do you know what it is?' she demanded, and jimmy began to wish he didn't know; but aunt selina always wrote on his birthday, although it wasn't much use as she never sent him a present. 'her name's morton,' he answered. 'mrs. morton or miss morton?' 'miss morton, because she's never been married,' said jimmy. 'very well then,' was the answer, 'if nobody comes to meet you at victoria station, miss roberts will take you in a cab to brook street, and if your uncle henry is not there----' 'i hope he will be!' cried jimmy. 'so do i,' miss rosina continued, 'because miss roberts will not have much time to spare. she will take you to brook street; but if the house is empty, then she will go on to miss morton's in gloucester place.' 'but how can she if she doesn't know the number?' said jimmy. 'miss roberts will easily be able to find your aunt's house,' was the answer. 'oh!' cried jimmy in a disappointed tone, and then he was sent back to the other boys. when it was time to start to the railway station miss rosina went on first in a fly to take the tickets, and they found her waiting for them on the platform. they all got into a carriage, and jimmy sat next to miss roberts, who asked him soon after the train started, why he looked so miserable. 'i do hope that uncle henry will send some one to meet me,' he answered. 'i hope so too,' said miss roberts, who was much younger than miss rosina, 'because i have to travel to the north of england, and it is a very long journey. i shall only just have time to drive to the other station to catch my train.' 'but suppose you don't catch it?' asked jimmy. 'that would be extremely inconvenient,' she explained, 'because i should either have to travel all night or else to sleep at an hotel in london. but i hope your uncle will come to meet you.' long before the train reached london, jimmy began to look anxiously out at the window. presently it stopped on a bridge over the thames, and a man came to collect the tickets, and soon after the train moved on again jimmy saw that he was at victoria. the door was opened, and all the other boys jumped out, and whilst they were shaking hands with their fathers and mothers jimmy stood alone on the platform. he looked wistfully at every face in the small crowd, but he did not know one of them, and it was plain that nobody had been sent to meet him. he followed miss roberts towards the luggage van and saw his own boxes taken out with the rest, and then one by one the boys got into cabs and were driven away, and jimmy began to feel more miserable than ever. his boxes stood beside miss roberts's, and she looked up and down the platform almost as anxiously as the boy, for she was in a great hurry to go. 'well, jimmy,' she said, 'nobody seems to have come for you.' 'no,' answered jimmy. 'it is really very annoying!' cried miss roberts, looking at her watch. 'perhaps uncle henry has made a mistake in the time,' said jimmy. 'i think the best thing we can do is to take a cab to brook street,' was the answer. 'mightn't we wait just a little longer?' he asked. 'no,' said miss roberts, 'we have lost quite enough time already. hi! cab!' she exclaimed, and a four-wheeled cab was driven up beside the boxes. then a porter lifted these, one by one, and put them on top of the cab. 'get in,' said miss roberts, and with a last glance along the platform, jimmy entered the cab and sat down. then miss roberts stepped in also, the old cab-horse started, and jimmy was driven out of the gloomy railway station. 'i hope uncle henry will be at home,' he said presently. 'so do i,' answered miss roberts. 'i have not a minute to spare.' 'perhaps you won't have time to take me to aunt selina's!' exclaimed jimmy. 'what do you suppose i am to do with you then?' she asked. 'i don't know,' he said; 'only i don't want to go there!' 'i am sure i don't want to have to take you there,' was the answer, as the cab passed hyde park. jimmy had been the same way every holiday since he had gone to miss lawson's school, so that he knew he was drawing near to brook street. as the cab turned the corner, he put his head out at the window and looked anxiously for his uncle's house. 'oh!' he cried, drawing it in again. 'what is the matter?' asked miss roberts. 'i believe the shutters are up,' said jimmy. chapter iii at aunt selina's jimmy was quite right. miss roberts leaned forward to put her head out at the window on his side of the cab, and she saw that every shutter was shut, and that there was a sheet of newspaper in each window. 'what a nuisance!' she exclaimed, sitting down again as the horse stopped. the cabman got down to open the door, and jimmy jumped out, on to the pavement. 'i daresay they've gone to france,' he said, as she followed him. 'still there may be some one left in the house,' answered miss roberts. 'i don't suppose there is,' said jimmy, looking as if he were going to cry. 'at all events i will ring the bell,' she answered, and miss roberts pulled the bell. jimmy heard it ring quite distinctly, but nobody came to open the door. 'do ring again,' he said, and once more miss roberts pulled the bell. then a policeman came along the street, and she went to meet him. 'do you know whether this house is empty?' she asked. 'been empty the last fortnight,' said the policeman. 'thank you,' said miss roberts. and then she turned to jimmy: 'go back into the cab,' she continued, and very unwillingly he took his seat again. 'gloucester place, cabman,' she said, with her hand on the door. 'what number?' asked the cabman. 'we--we don't know the number,' cried jimmy, putting his head out. 'stop at a shop on the way,' said miss roberts as she entered the cab and sat down; 'if i waste any more time i shall lose my train.' 'but suppose aunt selina isn't at home either?' exclaimed jimmy, as the horse started once more. 'in that case i don't know what is to become of you,' said miss roberts. 'because she may have gone to france with uncle henry!' jimmy suggested. 'we will not imagine anything of the kind, if you please!' 'no,' said jimmy, 'but suppose she has gone to france, you know.' as he spoke, the cab stopped before a large grocer's shop, and without losing a moment miss roberts stepped out of the cab, followed by jimmy. 'will you kindly let me look at a directory?' she asked; and the tall young man behind the counter said-- 'certainly, miss.' he brought the thickest red book which jimmy had ever seen, and miss roberts opened it at once. 'miss selina morton--is that your aunt's name?' she asked, looking round at jimmy. 'ye--es,' he answered sorrowfully, for he guessed that she had found out the number. 'come along then,' said miss roberts, and jimmy walked slowly towards the door. 'thank you, i am very much obliged,' she continued, smiling at the shopman; but jimmy did not feel in the least obliged to him. miss roberts told the cabman the number, and when the horse started again she turned cheerfully to the boy-- 'we shall soon be there now!' she said. 'i wish we shouldn't,' answered jimmy. 'don't you like your aunt selina?' asked miss roberts. 'not at all,' said jimmy. 'why don't you like her?' asked miss roberts. 'you ought to like an aunt, you know.' 'i don't know why, only i don't,' was the answer. it did not take many minutes to drive to gloucester place, and although jimmy did not know what would happen to him if aunt selina was out of town, still he almost hoped she had gone to france. but the shutters were not shut at this house, although each of the blinds was drawn exactly a quarter of the way down. jimmy saw a large tortoise-shell cat lying on one of the window sills, whilst a black cat watched it from inside the room. 'if they do not keep us long at the door,' said miss roberts, as she rang the bell, 'i can manage just to catch my train.' it was past two o'clock, and jimmy thought he could smell something like hot meat. he supposed that if he stayed at aunt selina's he should have some dinner, and that would be a good thing at any rate. the door was opened by a tall, thin butler, who looked very solemn and important. he did not stand quite upright, and he had gray whiskers and a bald head. if he had not opened the door, so that jimmy knew he was the butler, he might have been mistaken for a clergyman. 'is miss morton at home?' asked miss roberts. 'no, miss,' said the butler; and he stared at jimmy first and then at the boxes on the cab. 'how extremely annoying!' cried miss roberts. 'can you tell me how long she will be?' 'i don't think miss morton will return before half-past three,' said the butler, whose name was jones. 'miss morton has gone out to luncheon, miss.' 'this is her nephew,' answered miss roberts. 'good-morning, sir,' said jones, rubbing his hands. 'good-morning,' said jimmy. 'i have brought him from miss lawson's school at ramsgate,' miss roberts explained, whilst jimmy stared into the butler's face. 'i don't fancy miss morton expected him,' said jones. 'no,' cried jimmy, 'she didn't.' 'miss lawson is so ill,' miss roberts continued, 'that all the boys have been sent home. i took master wilmot to his uncle's house in brook street, but it was shut up. so i have brought him here.' 'i don't know what miss morton will say----' miss roberts looked at her watch and interrupted the butler before he had time to finish his sentence. he spoke rather slowly and required a long time to say anything. 'i am not going back to ramsgate,' said miss roberts, 'but i have no doubt miss rosina will write to miss morton.' 'i beg pardon,' answered jones, 'but i don't think miss morton would like you to leave the young gentleman here.' 'i--i don't want to be left,' cried jimmy. 'miss morton is not particular fond of young gentlemen,' said the butler. 'cabman,' exclaimed miss roberts in a greater hurry than ever, 'carry in the boxes. the two smaller boxes, please.' jimmy stood on the doorstep, and jones stood just inside the hall, and miss roberts held her watch in her right hand, whilst the cabman got off his seat and took down the trunks. 'please be quick,' she said, 'or i shall miss my train after all.' the butler stroked his chin as the cabman carried the clothes-box into the house and put it down near the dining-room door; then he brought in the play-box, and after that he wiped his forehead with a large red handkerchief and climbed up to his seat again. 'good-bye,' said miss roberts, putting away her watch and taking jimmy's hand. 'i wish you would take me too,' answered jimmy rather tearfully. 'i can't do that,' she said, 'and i am sure you will be very happy with your aunt.' jimmy felt quite sure he shouldn't be happy, and he certainly did not look very happy as miss roberts was driven away in the cab; and when he saw it turn the corner, he felt more lonely than he had ever felt before. 'well, this is a nice kettle of fish,' said the butler. 'is it?' asked jimmy, not understanding in the least what he meant. 'i wonder what miss morton will say about it?' cried jones. 'what do you think she'll say?' asked jimmy, staring up at the butler's face. 'well,' was the answer, 'you had better come indoors, anyhow,' and jimmy entered the house and stood leaning against his clothes-box, whilst jones shut the street door. 'step this way, sir,' said jones; but although he took jimmy to the dining-room, unfortunately there was no sign of dinner. he saw the black cat still sitting on a chair watching the tortoise-shell cat outside the window, and on the hearth-rug lay a tabby one, with its head on the fender, fast asleep. 'you had better sit here until miss morton comes home,' said the butler. 'do you think she'll be very long?' asked jimmy. 'about half-past three,' was the answer, and jones opened the coal-box to put some more coal on the fire as he spoke. 'because i haven't had any dinner at all,' said jimmy. 'oh, you haven't, haven't you?' cried jones, as he stood holding the coal shovel. 'no,' said jimmy, 'and i'm rather hungry.' 'well, i don't know what miss morton'll say about you,' was the answer. 'so,' he added, as he put away the shovel, 'you think you'd like something to eat?' 'i'm sure i should--very much,' cried jimmy. the butler went away, but he soon came back with a folded white cloth in his hands. whilst jimmy kneeled down on the hearth-rug rubbing the head of the tabby cat, jones laid the cloth, and then he went away again and returned with a plate of hot roast-beef and yorkshire pudding and potatoes and cauliflower. he placed a chair with its back to the fire, and told jimmy to ring when he was ready for some apple-tart. when jimmy was alone eating his dinner and enjoying it very much, he began to think it might not be so bad to stay at aunt selina's after all. the black cat came from the chair by the window and meowed on one side of him, and the tabby cat meowed on the other, and jimmy fed them both whilst he fed himself. when his plate was quite empty, he rang the bell and jones brought him a large piece of apple-tart, with a brown jug of cream. then presently the butler took away the things, and jimmy sat down in an arm-chair by the fire with one of the cats on each knee. every few minutes he looked over his shoulder to see whether aunt selina was coming, and by and by the bell rang. jimmy rose from his chair and the cats jumped to the floor, and, going close to the window, he saw his aunt's tall, thin figure on the doorstep. chapter iv aunt selina at home miss morton had been to lunch with a friend, and she naturally expected to find her house exactly the same as she had left it. she was a lady who always liked to find things exactly the same as she left them; she did not care for fresh faces or fresh places, and she certainly did not care to see two boxes in her hall. miss morton was a little short-sighted, but the moment that she entered the house she noticed something unusual. so she stopped just within the door before the butler could shut it and put on her double eye-glasses, and then she stared in astonishment at jimmy's boxes. 'what are those?' she asked. 'boxes, miss,' was the answer. 'please don't be stupid,' said miss morton. 'i beg pardon,' replied the butler. 'i see quite distinctly that they are boxes,' she said. 'what i wish to know is, whom the boxes belong to.' 'to master wilmot,' said the butler. miss morton gave such a violent start that her eye-glasses fell from her nose. 'master wilmot!' she exclaimed. 'yes, miss.' 'you do not mean to tell me that the boy is here!' 'he's been here since about two o'clock,' said the butler. 'surely he did not come alone?' cried miss morton. 'no, miss.' 'who brought him?' 'a young lady who seemed to be his governess,' the butler explained. 'she said that miss lawson was ill, and that she'd sent all the young gentlemen home.' 'this is certainly not his home,' said miss morton. 'no, miss,' answered jones. 'i told the young lady you wouldn't be best pleased, but she insisted on leaving him.' 'where is master wilmot?' asked miss morton. 'in the dining-room,' was the answer, and the butler opened the door. miss morton had spoken rather loudly, quite loudly enough for jimmy to overhear every word she had said. it made him feel uncomfortable, and as the door opened he stood with his back to the window, with his hands in his jacket pockets, waiting until his aunt selina entered the room, and the butler shut the door after her. she put on her eye-glasses again, and it seemed a long time before either she or jimmy spoke. she moved her head as if she were looking at him all over from top to toes. jimmy began to feel more uncomfortable than ever, and at last he thought he really must say something. 'good-morning,' he cried. 'why did the people send you here?' asked aunt selina. 'you see,' said jimmy, 'aunt mary and uncle henry were out and the house was shut up.' 'i always said it was foolish to travel at this time of year,' was the answer. 'so miss roberts brought me here,' said jimmy. 'well,' exclaimed aunt selina, 'i am sure i don't know what is to be done with you.' 'i didn't want to come,' answered jimmy. 'don't be rude,' said his aunt. 'now you are here, i suppose i must keep you for to-night. but there is no accommodation here for boys.' 'i had a very nice dinner, though,' said jimmy. 'have you washed your face?' she asked suddenly. 'no,' he answered, for washing his face was a thing he never felt anxious about. miss morton walked to the bell and rang it. a few moments later the butler re-entered the room, standing with one hand on the door. 'jones,' she said, 'take master wilmot to the spare bedroom to wash his face; and give him a comb and brush to do his hair.' jones took jimmy upstairs to a large bedroom, and poured some water into a basin. then he brought a clean towel, and showed jimmy where to find the soap and the comb and brush. the butler then left him alone, and the boy took off his jacket and dipped his hands in the water. when he thought his hands were clean enough, he washed a round place on his face, and having wiped this nearly dry, he went to the looking-glass and brushed the front of his hair where he had made it wet. when he had put his coat on again he wondered whether he ought to wait for the butler or to go downstairs alone; but as jones did not come back, jimmy opened the door and went down. he saw miss morton sitting in an arm-chair, and now that she had taken off her bonnet and veil he thought she looked more severe than ever. 'come here, james,' she said, as he stood near the door. no one else had ever called him james. 'when did you hear from your mother?' she asked. 'i didn't have a letter last month,' he answered. 'i asked when you did have a letter,' said aunt selina,--'not when you didn't have one.' 'i think it was about two months ago,' said jimmy. 'did she say anything about coming home?' asked aunt selina. 'she said i might see her soon,' cried jimmy. 'i do hope i shall.' 'very likely you will,' said his aunt, 'although your mother has not written to me for six months.' 'then how do you know?' asked jimmy. 'because she wrote to your aunt ellen at chesterham, and your aunt ellen wrote to me. i should not be surprised if your father and mother were on their way home now. they may arrive in england quite soon.' 'it would be nice,' said jimmy, and he began to laugh. 'will they come here?' he asked. 'certainly not,' was the answer. 'i have no accommodation for visitors.' 'there's the spare bedroom,' cried jimmy. 'i have no doubt,' said aunt selina, 'that they will go to aunt ellen's at chesterham----' 'couldn't i go to aunt ellen's?' asked jimmy eagerly. 'and pray who is to take you?' demanded miss morton. 'why, couldn't i go alone?' said jimmy. miss morton did not answer, but she put on her eye-glasses again, and looked jimmy up and down from head to foot. 'ring the bell,' she said, and when he had rung the bell and the butler had come, aunt selina told him to send hannah. jimmy stood on the hearth-rug--whilst the black cat rubbed its back against his leg--wondering who hannah might be. when she came, he saw that she was one of the servants, with a red, kind-looking face; and aunt selina told her to take him away and to give him some tea. when they were outside the door hannah took his hand, and he felt that he liked having his hand taken, and she led him downstairs to a small room near the kitchen where she gave him such a tea as he had never had before. there were cake and jam, and hot scones, and buttered toast, and although it was not very long since dinner, jimmy ate a good meal. he told hannah all about his father and mother and winnie, and how that miss morton had said perhaps they were on their way home; and he told her he hoped that his aunt would send him to chesterham. 'because,' he said, 'i know i could go all right alone.' hannah put an arm round him and kissed him, but jimmy did not much like being kissed; still he felt lonely this afternoon, and he did not mind it so much as he would have done sometimes, especially if any of his schoolfellows had been there. 'now,' said hannah presently, 'i think you had better go back to miss morton.' 'must i?' asked jimmy. 'because i like being here best.' but she led him back to the dining-room, and as soon as he entered the door aunt selina asked what time he went to bed. 'eight o'clock at school,' he answered, 'but when i am at aunt mary's she always lets me stay till half-past.' 'aunt mary always spoils you,' said miss morton. 'sit down,' she added, and jimmy took a chair on the opposite side of the fire-place. 'i suppose you don't remember your mother,' she said. 'no,' answered jimmy. 'shall you be glad to see her?' asked aunt selina. 'yes, very glad,' said jimmy. 'shan't you?' he asked, looking into his aunt's face. 'of course i shall be pleased to see my sister,' was the answer. 'and i shall be glad to see winnie, too,' said jimmy. but aunt selina's words had put a fresh idea into his mind. he seemed never to have realised until now that the mother whom he had never seen, although he had thought about her so much, was his aunt selina's sister. he thought that sisters must surely be very much alike; but if his mother was like her sister, why, jimmy did not feel certain it would be nice to have her home again after all. he forgot that he was staring at his aunt until she asked him what he was looking at. 'is my mother as old as you?' he asked. 'i cannot say they teach politeness at miss lawson's,' aunt selina answered. 'but is she?' asked jimmy, for it seemed very important that he should know at once. 'your mother is a few years younger than i am,' said his aunt, 'but she would be very angry with you for asking such a question.' 'can she be angry?' asked jimmy. 'she will be very angry indeed when you are naughty,' said miss morton. for a few minutes jimmy sat staring into the fire. 'is--is she like you?' he asked. 'she is not quite so tall.' 'but is she like you?' asked jimmy. 'we used to be considered very much alike,' was the answer, and jimmy felt inclined to cry. then aunt selina said it was his bed-time, and he came close to her and kissed her cheek. 'am i to go to aunt ellen's?' he asked. 'i shall not tell you until to-morrow morning,' said aunt selina; and jimmy fell asleep in the large spare room wondering whether he should go to-morrow to chesterham or not. chapter v at the railway station when jimmy awoke the next morning he found that hannah was drawing up his blind. the sun-light fell into the room, and the smoke rose from the can of hot water on the wash-stand. 'you must get up at once,' said hannah, 'or you will be late for breakfast, and miss morton won't like that.' he would have liked to lie in the warm bed a little longer, and when at last he jumped out he felt rather cold. jimmy was not used to dressing himself quite without help, for at school miss roberts had always come to tie his necktie and button his collar. he found it difficult to button it this morning with his cold little fingers; and as for the necktie, it was not tied quite so nicely as it might have been. still he was ready when he heard a bell ring, and he ran downstairs two steps at a time, and almost ran against aunt selina at the bottom. she looked more stiff and severe in the morning than she had looked last night, and not at all the sort of person you would like to run against. 'good-morning,' said jimmy, as she entered the dining-room. she shook hands with jimmy and her hand felt very cold; but when once he was seated at the table the coffee was nice and hot, and so were the eggs and bacon, and jimmy had no time to think of anything else just yet. but just as he was wondering whether he should ask for another rasher of bacon, his aunt spoke to him. 'when you have _quite_ finished,' she said, 'i wish to speak to you,' and after that he did not like to ask for any more. so jimmy pushed back his chair, and his aunt selina rose from hers and went to stand by the fire. 'i did not wish to tell you last night for fear of exciting you and keeping you awake,' she said, 'but i wrote to your aunt ellen while you were having tea.' 'oh, thank you, i'm glad of that,' answered jimmy. 'i told her i should send you to chesterham by the half-past twelve train,' miss morton explained, 'and i asked her to meet you at the station.' 'hurray,' cried jimmy, 'then i am to go this morning.' 'it is not quite certain yet,' was the answer. 'i asked your aunt ellen to send me a telegram if she could receive you. if the telegram arrives before twelve, you will go by the half-past twelve train.' 'but suppose it doesn't come?' said jimmy. 'i sincerely trust it will,' was the answer. 'so do i,' cried jimmy. 'i have ordered a packet of sandwiches to be prepared,' said miss morton. 'ham or beef?' asked jimmy. 'ham--do you like ham?' 'oh yes, when there's no mustard,' said jimmy. 'i told jones not to have any mustard put on them,' answered his aunt; 'and,' she continued, 'if you go to-day i shall give you half-a-crown.' 'shan't i have the half-crown if i don't go to-day?' asked jimmy eagerly. 'i hope you will go,' she said. 'but you must not spend it in waste.' 'i won't,' cried jimmy. 'i don't suppose you will stay with your aunt ellen long,' said miss morton, 'because there is no doubt your father and mother will soon be in england, and then they will be able to look after you. now,' she added, 'if you think you can keep still and not fidget, you may sit down by the window and watch for the telegram.' jimmy lifted the tabby cat off the chair, and took it on his knees as he sat down. while he sat stroking the cat he really did not feel much doubt about the telegram. he wanted it to come so much that he felt sure it would come soon, and surely enough it arrived before eleven o'clock. jimmy rose from his chair as jones brought it into the room on a tray, and the tabby cat dug its claws into his jacket and clung to him, so that jimmy found it rather difficult to put it down. he did not take his eyes from miss morton's face all the time she was reading the telegram. 'it is extremely fortunate i wrote yesterday,' she exclaimed. 'am i to go?' asked jimmy eagerly. 'yes,' she answered, 'and who do you think will meet you at chesterham station?' 'not mother!' cried jimmy, very excitedly. 'your father and mother,' said miss morton. 'and winnie?' 'they are not likely to take a child to meet you,' she answered. 'they arrived only last night, and if they had not received my letter they would have gone to ramsgate to-day. as it is they will meet you at the station, and they think it will be quite safe for you to travel alone if i see you safely in the train.' 'shall you?' asked jimmy. 'i shall send jones,' was the answer. 'what time does the train get to chesterham?' asked jimmy. 'at four o'clock,' she said; and then she took out her purse and found two shillings and a sixpence, which she gave to jimmy. 'where will you put them?' she asked. 'i've got a purse, too,' he answered, and he put his hand in his jacket pocket and brought out a piece of string, a crumpled handkerchief, a knife, and last of all a small purse. in this he put the two shillings and the sixpence, and then he could think of nothing but the joy of seeing his mother and father. he stood by the window watching the passers-by and wondering whether his mother was like any of them, and at least he hoped that she might not be so very much like his aunt selina. he went in search of hannah and told her all about the telegram. he longed for the time to come to start for the station, and when he saw his boxes being taken out to the cab, he danced about the hall in a manner which made miss morton feel very pleased he was going. he put on his overcoat, and held open the pocket whilst hannah forced in the large packet of sandwiches, and although they bulged out a good deal jimmy did not mind that at all. he shook hands with his aunt and entered the cab, and jones stepped in after him. 'my father and mother are going to meet me at chesterham,' said jimmy as soon as the horse started. he talked of them all the way to the railway station--not the same station at which he had arrived with miss roberts yesterday, but a much larger and a rather dirtier looking one, with a great glass roof. but before jimmy reached that part of it, he went with jones to take his ticket. 'you are to put it in your purse,' said the butler, 'and mind you don't lose it.' 'i shan't lose it,' answered jimmy, taking out his purse, and as he put the ticket away he looked to make sure that the half-crown was all right. 'now,' said the butler, 'we'll go and find the train.' it was not very difficult to find the train for chesterham, because it was waiting all ready at the platform; but when they got to the train it took jones a long time to find jimmy a suitable first-class compartment. at last he stopped at one which contained an old gentleman and two ladies. the old gentleman was sitting next to the door, reading a newspaper, and he did not look at all glad when jimmy sat down opposite to him. 'i think you'll do now,' said jones. 'very nicely, thank you,' answered jimmy, as the butler stood by the door, but he was beginning to feel just a little nervous. you must remember he was not quite eight years of age; he was only a small boy, and he had never travelled quite alone before. he felt sure he should like travelling alone, and in fact he did not much mind how he travelled so that his mother met him at the end of his journey. still, now that he had taken his seat and the butler was going away in a few minutes, jimmy began to feel a little nervous. 'got your sandwiches?' asked jones, with a hand on the door. 'yes, i've got them,' answered jimmy, feeling them to make certain. 'i've never seen them before, you know,' jimmy added. 'what, the sandwiches?' asked jones. 'no, my father and mother,' said jimmy. 'they're going to meet me.' 'oh, i see,' answered the butler, and he ought to have understood, for jimmy had told him a great many times since they left aunt selina's house. 'you're just going to start,' jones added. 'good-bye,' cried jimmy, and he put his hand out of the window and the butler shook it. 'good-bye, sir,' he answered, and jimmy felt quite sorry when jones let go his hand. but the train was beginning to move; the butler stepped back and took out his pocket-handkerchief and waved it, but it was to dry his eyes that jimmy took out his; for when the train glided away and he could not see jones any more jimmy felt very much alone, especially as the old gentleman opposite kept lowering his paper and looking down at his trousers and then frowning at him. chapter vi the journey for the first quarter of an hour after the train started jimmy was contented to gaze out of the window, but presently, growing tired of doing that, he turned to look at the two ladies at the farther end of the compartment. as jimmy moved in his seat, his boots touched the old gentleman's black trousers. laying aside his newspaper the old gentleman leaned forward to look at them, and then he brushed off the mud. a few moments later jimmy's boots touched his trousers again, and the old gentleman began to cough. 'i should feel greatly obliged,' he said in a loud voice, 'if you would not make a door-mat of my legs.' 'i beg your pardon,' answered jimmy, and he tucked his feet as far under his seat as they would go. 'you should be more careful,' said the old gentleman, and then one of the ladies suggested that jimmy should sit by her side. 'i wanted to look out at the window,' he answered. 'well, you can look out at my window,' she said, and so jimmy went to the other end of the compartment, and she gave him her seat; and for an hour or more the train went on its way, stopping at one or two stations, until presently it came to a standstill again. 'where is this?' asked one of the ladies. the other looked out at the window and said-- 'meresleigh.' 'we ought not to stop here,' answered her friend. at the other end of the compartment the old gentleman let down his window: 'hi, hi! guard, guard!' he cried, and the guard came to the door. 'why are we stopping here?' asked the old gentleman. 'something's gone wrong with the engine, sir.' 'how long shall we stay?' asked the gentleman. 'maybe a quarter of an hour, sir,' said the guard. 'we've got to wait for a fresh engine, but it won't be long.' 'we may as well get out,' cried one of the ladies, and as soon as they had left the carriage the old gentleman also stepped on to the platform, and jimmy did not see why he should not do the same. so he got out, and seeing a small crowd near the engine he walked along the platform towards it. the engine-driver stood with an oil-can in one hand talking to the station-master, but there being nothing interesting to see, jimmy began to look about the large station. it was then that he began to feel hungry. his feet were very cold, and the wind blew along the platform, so that jimmy turned up his overcoat collar as he stamped about to get warm. as he walked up and down he noticed a good many people going in and out at a door, and looking in he saw that it led to the refreshment room. now, jimmy had two shillings and a sixpence in his purse, and had no doubt that lemonade could be bought at the counter where a good many persons were standing. feeling a little shy, he went to the counter, and presently succeeded in making one of the young women behind it see him. 'what do you want?' she asked. 'a bottle of lemonade--have you got any ginger-beer?' asked jimmy. 'which do you want?' said the young woman. jimmy could not make up his mind for a few moments, but he stood thinking with his hands in his pockets. 'is it stone-bottle ginger-beer?' he asked. 'yes,' was the answer. 'i think i'll have lemonade,' cried jimmy, and she turned away impatiently to get the bottle. it was rather cold, but still jimmy enjoyed his lemonade very much, and before he had half finished it, he put his sixpence on the counter. he thought it was a little dear at fourpence, and he looked sorry when he received only twopence change. then he emptied his glass, and went outside again, thinking he would eat his ham-sandwiches. but the wind blew colder than ever, and seeing another open door a little farther along the platform jimmy cautiously peeped in. the large room was quite empty, and an enormous fire was burning in the grate. he thought it would be far pleasanter to sit down to eat his sandwiches comfortably beside the fire than to eat them whilst he walked about the cold, windy platform. before he entered the room he looked towards the train, which still stood where it had stopped. there was quite a small crowd near the engine, and whilst some persons had re-entered their carriages, others walked up and down in front of theirs. pushing back the door of the waiting-room, jimmy went to the farther end, and sat down on a bench close to the fire. then he tugged the sandwiches out of his pocket, untied the string, and began to eat them. he did not stop until the last was finished, and by that time he began to feel remarkably comfortable and rather sleepy. he made up his mind that he would not on any account close his eyes, but they felt so heavy that they really would not keep open; his chin dropped on to his chest, and in a few moments he was sound asleep. then for some time all the busy life of the great railway station went on: trains arrived, stopped, and started again; other trains whistled as they dashed past without stopping; porters hurried hither and thither with piles of luggage, and still a small dark-haired boy sat on the bench in the waiting-room, unconscious of all that was happening. presently jimmy awoke. he opened his eyes and began to rub them, thinking at first that the bell which he heard was rung to call the boys at miss lawson's school. but when he looked around him, he soon discovered that he was not in the school dormitory, and then as he became more wide-awake he remembered where he really was and began to fear that he had slept too long and missed his train. starting up in a hurry, jimmy ran out to the platform, and there to his great joy he saw a train standing exactly where he had left one. a good many people were waiting by the doors, but jimmy looked in vain for the two ladies and the old gentleman. 'take your seats!' cried a porter, 'just going on;' so that, afraid of being left behind, jimmy jumped into a carriage close at hand. it happened to be empty, but he did not mind that, and he was only just in time, for the next minute a whistle blew and the train began to move. it had not long started, before he noticed that the afternoon had become much darker; he did not possess a watch, but as far as he could tell it must be very nearly tea-time. however, he supposed that it could not be long now before he arrived at chesterham, and he began to look forward more eagerly than ever to seeing his father and mother on the platform. the train went on, stopping at several stations, and at each one jimmy looked out at the window and tried to read the name on the lamps. but he felt no fear about going too far, because he knew that the train stopped altogether when it reached chesterham. it seemed a long time reaching there, however, much longer than he had imagined; but at last it came to a standstill, and, looking through the window, jimmy saw that many more persons got out than usual. he leaned back in his seat, feeling tired and cold, and waiting for the train to go on again, when presently a porter stopped at the window. 'all change here!' he said. 'but i don't want to change,' answered jimmy. 'this isn't chesterham, is it?' for he had read the name of barstead on one of the lamps. 'chesterham!' cried the porter, 'i should say not. chesterham is fifty miles away on another line. this is barstead. and if you don't want to stay all night on the siding the best thing you can do is to get out.' chapter vii jimmy is taken into custody jimmy stared at the porter in great astonishment. his eyes and his mouth were opened very widely, and he felt extremely frightened. he rose from the seat and stepped out on to the dark platform. 'i want to go to chesterham,' he said. 'well, you can't go to chesterham to-night,' was the answer. 'where's your ticket?' jimmy felt in his pocket for his purse, and opening it took out his ticket. 'you'd better come to speak to the station-master,' said the porter; and jimmy, feeling more frightened than ever, followed him to a small room, where a tall red-bearded man sat writing at a table which seemed to be covered all over with papers. when jimmy entered with the porter the station-master rose and stood with his back to the fire, whilst the porter began to explain. 'you can't get to chesterham without going back to meresleigh,' said the station-master presently. 'chesterham is on a different line, and there is no train to-night.' 'then what am i to do?' asked jimmy, turning very pale. 'that's just what i should like to know!' was the answer. 'but you can't get back to meresleigh until to-morrow morning, that's certain.' 'but where shall i sleep?' cried jimmy. 'how was it you got out of the train at meresleigh?' asked the station-master. 'you see,' faltered jimmy nervously, 'there was an accident to the engine and we all got out.' 'then why didn't you get in again?' 'i did,' said jimmy. 'you didn't get into the right train,' answered the station-master, 'or you wouldn't be here. tell me just what you did, now.' 'why,' jimmy explained, 'i went into the waiting-room to eat my sandwiches and then i fell asleep.' 'how long were you asleep?' 'i don't know. it didn't seem very long. when i woke i went on to the platform and saw a train waiting just in the same place, and i thought it was the same train.' 'well, it wasn't,' said the station-master. 'whilst you were asleep the chesterham train must have started, and the train you got into was the barstead train, which is more than an hour later. a nice mistake you've made.' at this jimmy put his sleeve to his face and began to cry. he really couldn't help it, he felt very tired, very cold, very miserable, and very frightened. he could not imagine what would happen to him, where he should spend the night, or how he should ever reach chesterham. he thought of his father and mother going to meet the train and finding no jimmy there, and he felt far more miserable than he had ever felt in his life before. the station-master began to ask him questions, and amongst others where his friends in chesterham lived. jimmy did not know the exact address, but he told the station-master his aunt's name, and he said that would most likely be enough for a telegram. 'i shall send a telegram at once to say you're all safe here,' he said; 'and then to-morrow morning we must send you on.' 'but how about to-night?' cried jimmy. 'where am i to sleep?' 'i must think about that,' was the answer; and then there was a good deal of noise as if another train had arrived, and the station-master left his room in a great hurry. he was a very busy man and had very little time to look after boys who went to sleep in waiting-rooms and missed their trains. at the same time he did not intend jimmy to be left without a roof over his head. so he saw the train start again, and then he sent for coote. coote was tall and extremely fat, with an extraordinarily large red face, and small eyes. he was dressed as a policeman, but he did not really belong to the police. he was employed by the railway company to look after persons who did not behave themselves properly, and certainly his appearance was enough to frighten them. but the station-master knew him to be a respectable man, with a wife and children of his own, and a clean cottage about half a mile from the station. so he thought that coote would be the very man to take charge of jimmy until the next morning. he explained what had happened, and coote said he would take the boy home with him. 'i'll see he's well looked after,' he said, 'and i'll bring him in time to catch the . train to meresleigh in the morning.' 'you'll find him in my office,' answered the station-master, and to the office coote went accordingly. now, if he had acted sensibly in the matter he would have spared jimmy a good deal of unpleasantness, and jimmy's father and mother much anxiety. but coote was fond of what he called a 'joke,' and instead of telling the boy that he was going to take him home and give him a bed and some supper, he opened the office-door, put his great red face into the room, and stared hard at jimmy. jimmy was already so much upset that very little was required to frighten him still more. when he saw the face, with a policeman's helmet above it, he drew back farther against the wall. 'none o' your nonsense now, you just come along with me!' cried coote, speaking in a very deep voice, and looking very fierce. 'i--i don't want to come,' answered jimmy. 'never mind what you want,' said coote, 'you just come along with me.' 'where--where to?' asked jimmy. 'ah, you'll see where to,' was the answer. 'come along now. no nonsense.' very unwillingly jimmy accompanied coote along the platform and out into the street. it was quite dark and very cold, as the boy trotted along by the policeman's side, looking up timidly into his red face. 'nice sort of boy you are and no mistake,' said coote, 'travelling over the company's line without a ticket. do you know what's done to them as travels without a ticket?' 'what?' faltered jimmy. 'ah, you wait a few minutes, and you'll see fast enough,' said coote. what with his policeman's uniform, his red cheeks, his great size, jimmy felt more and more afraid, and he really believed that he was going to be locked up because he had travelled in the wrong train. instead of that the man was thinking what he should do to make the boy more comfortable. he naturally supposed that jimmy's friends would reward him, and as it seemed likely that mrs. coote might not have anything especially tempting for supper he determined to buy something on the way home. after walking along several quiet streets they came to one which was much busier. there were brilliant lights in the shop windows, and in front of one of the brightest coote stopped. chapter viii jimmy runs away it was a ham and beef shop, and in jimmy's cold and hungry condition the meat pies and sausages and hams in the window looked very tempting. 'you just wait here a few moments,' said coote, as he came to a standstill, 'and mind it's no use your thinking o' running away, because i can run too.' with that he entered the ham and beef shop, leaving jimmy outside alone on the pavement. perhaps jimmy would never have thought of running away if the man had not suggested it; but he was so frightened that he felt it would be better to do anything rather than go with the policeman. you know that sometimes a boy does not stay to consider what is really the best, and jimmy did not stay to think now. whilst he saw coote talking to the shopman in the white apron, through the window, he suddenly turned to make a dash across the road. 'look out!' cried a man, and jimmy only just escaped being run over by a one-horse omnibus. he dodged the horse, however, and running towards the opposite pavement, he knocked against an old woman with a basket. the basket grazed his left arm, and to judge by what she said he must have hurt the woman a good deal. but jimmy did not wait to hear all she had to say; he only thought of getting away from coote, and ran on and on without the slightest notion where he was going. up one street and down another the boy ran, often looking behind to see whether he was being followed, and at last stopping altogether, simply because he could not run any farther. he sat down on the kerb-stone, and then he saw for the first time that it had begun to rain quite fast. it was a great relief to know that coote must have taken a wrong direction, for if the policeman had taken the right one he would have caught jimmy by this time. still he did not intend to sit there many minutes in case coote should be following him after all, so a few minutes later jimmy got up again and walked on quickly. he felt very miserable; it must be past his usual bed-time, and yet he had nowhere to sleep. he wished he were safely at chesterham; and he made up his mind that he would never fall asleep in a waiting-room again as long as he lived. until now jimmy had been making his way along streets, but very soon he saw that there were houses only on one side of the way. he had in fact come to what looked, as well as he could see in the dark, like a small common, with furze bushes growing on it, and a pond by the roadside. but a little farther on, jimmy fancied he heard a band playing, and then he saw what appeared to be an enormous tent, and there were lights burning near, and curious shadowy things which he could not make out at all. jimmy was always an inquisitive boy, and now he almost forgot his troubles in his wish to find out what was happening on the common. so he walked towards the large round tent, and the band sounded more loudly every moment. by one part of the tent stood a cart, and in this a man was shouting at the top of his voice. and around the cart a crowd had gathered, chiefly of rather shabbily-dressed people, and one or two of them stepped out every minute or so and went inside an opening in the tent, where a stout woman stood to take their money. near the cart was a large picture, and jimmy stared at it with a great deal of interest. the picture represented a lion and a clown, and the clown's head was inside the lion's mouth; whilst a little way off a very small clown, of about jimmy's own age, stood laughing. jimmy had always an immense liking for lions, and also for clowns, and when they both came together and the head of the one happened to be in the mouth of the other, the temptation was almost more than he could resist. 'now, ladies and gentlemen, walk up, walk up!' cried the man in the cart. 'all the wonders of the world now on view. now's the time, the very last night; walk up, ladies and gentlemen, walk up.' jimmy thought that he really might do worse than to walk up. for one thing he would be able to sit down inside the tent, and for another he could take shelter from the rain, which now was falling fast. he put his hand into his pocket to feel for his purse, and recollected that he had still two shillings and twopence left out of aunt selina's half-crown. 'how much is it?' he asked, going towards the stout woman at the opening. 'well,' she answered, 'you can go in for twopence, and you can have a first-class seat for sixpence. but if you ask me, a young gent like you'd sooner pay a shilling.' 'yes, i think i should,' said jimmy proudly; and, taking out a shilling, he gave it to the woman and at once entered the tent. there were so few persons in the best seats that a great many of those in the cheaper ones turned to look at jimmy as he walked in. but jimmy was quite unaware of this, for no sooner had he sat down than he began to laugh as if he had not a trouble in the world. he forgot that he had nowhere to sleep, he forgot the red-faced policeman, he even forgot that he ought to be at chesterham. it was the clown who made jimmy laugh. he was a little man with a tall, pointed white felt hat like a dunce's cap; he wore the usual clown's dress, and generally kept his hands in his pockets as if he were a school-boy. a girl in a green velvet riding-habit had just finished a wonderful performance on horseback, and after she had kissed her hands to the people a good many times, she jumped off the horse, which began to trot round the ring alone. the clown was evidently trying to repeat her performance on his own account, but each time he tried to mount the horse it trotted faster, and the clown always fell on his back in the sawdust. nothing could be more comical than the way he got up, as if he were hurt very much indeed, and rubbed himself; unless, indeed, it was his alarm when the two elephants were brought into the ring and he jumped over the barrier close to jimmy in the front seats. jimmy felt a little disappointed not to see the clown put his head into the lion's mouth, but then there were plenty of things to make up for this; and besides, jimmy was beginning to feel really very sleepy again, when the band played 'rule britannia' out of tune, and all the people rose to leave the tent. as it became empty, jimmy began to feel very wretched again. he wondered where he should sleep, and he could hear that it was raining faster than ever outside. why shouldn't he wait until everybody else had gone and then lie down on one of the seats and sleep where he was? of course he had never slept in such a place before, and he did not much like the idea of sleeping there now, but then he had nowhere else to go, and at any rate it would be better than going outside in the rain. so jimmy made up his mind to stay where he was, and he would have been lying down and perhaps asleep in another moment, for he was very tired, when he saw the clown enter the tent. he had taken off his pointed hat, and had put on a long loose overcoat over his clown's dress. as he had been laughing or making fun all the time he was in the ring, jimmy thought that he never did anything else; but the clown looked quite solemn now, and the paint on his face had become smudged after getting wet outside in the rain. 'hullo!' he exclaimed on seeing jimmy. 'what are you doing here?' 'nothing,' answered the boy. 'suppose you do it outside!' 'but i shall get so wet outside,' said jimmy. 'lor! where's your nurse?' asked the clown. 'i haven't got one,' cried jimmy, a little indignantly. 'i go to school.' 'be quick then and go,' said the clown. 'but i've nowhere to go,' answered jimmy sadly, 'and i don't know where anybody is.' 'mean to say they've gone away and left you?' asked the clown. 'they haven't been here.' 'oh, so you came to the show by yourself?' said the clown. 'yes,' replied jimmy. 'well,' was the answer, 'you're a nice young party'; and the clown sat down on the barrier. 'come now,' he said, 'suppose you tell us all about it.' so, in a very sleepy voice, jimmy began to tell the clown his story. he told him how he had fallen asleep in the waiting-room, and where he had been going to; but he did not say anything about coote, because he felt afraid that the clown might send for the policeman, who would, after all, put him into prison for travelling in the wrong train. chapter ix the circus the clown listened to the story very attentively, but jimmy gaped a great deal while he told it. by the time he finished he could scarcely keep his eyes open. 'you seem a bit sleepy,' said the clown. 'i'm hungry, too,' answered jimmy. 'well, you can't sleep here,' said the clown, 'and you don't see much to eat, do you?' 'no, there isn't much to eat,' jimmy admitted. 'but,' he added, 'i don't see why i couldn't sleep here.' 'because the tent's going to be taken down,' said the clown. 'we've been here three days, and we're going on somewhere else.' jimmy looked disappointed. he rather liked the clown; at all events he liked him a great deal better than coote, and he did not feel at all afraid of him. 'just you come along with me,' said the clown, 'and i'll see what i can do for you. here, jump over! that's right,' he added, as jimmy climbed over the barrier which separated the seats from the ring in which the performance had taken place. 'you come with me,' said the clown, 'and we'll soon see whether we can't find you something to eat and a place to lie down in.' they left the tent, and outside the clown stopped to speak to the man who had shouted from the cart and to the stout woman who had taken the money. they often glanced at jimmy while they talked, so that he guessed they were talking about him. 'all right,' said the man, 'do as you like; it's no business of mine'; and then the clown came back to jimmy and they walked away from the tent together. they seemed to be walking in and out amongst a number of curious-looking carts and ornamental cars, the colour of gold, with pictures on their sides. there were several vans too, like small houses on wheels, with windows and curtains painted on them, such as jimmy had often seen at ramsgate, with men selling brooms and baskets, walking by the horses. there were no men selling brooms or baskets here, although they all seemed to be very busy: some being dressed just as they had left the ring, and others leading cream-coloured and piebald horses, instead of going to bed, as jimmy thought it was time to do. 'come along,' said the clown, as the boy seemed inclined to stop to look on. 'where are we going?' asked jimmy. 'you'll see,' was the answer. 'but where is it?' asked jimmy. 'where i live,' said the clown. 'oh, we're going to your house,' cried jimmy, feeling pleased at the chance of entering a house again, for it seemed a very long time since he had left aunt selina's. 'well,' said the clown, 'it's a sort of house. you might call it a house on wheels, and you wouldn't be far out.' suddenly jimmy seized the clown's arm and gave a jump. 'what's that?' he exclaimed. 'don't be frightened,' said the clown. 'only what is it?' asked jimmy, with a shaky voice. 'he won't hurt you,' was the answer. 'it's only old billy, the lion.' jimmy heard him roar as if he were only a yard or two away, and he felt rather alarmed, until they had left his cage farther behind. 'is that the lion who had your head in his mouth?' asked jimmy. 'well,' said the clown, 'it isn't in his mouth now, is it?' 'i didn't see the little clown,' exclaimed jimmy, and the clown stared down at the ground. 'no,' he answered, as if he felt rather miserable, 'we shan't see him again ever.' then they stopped at the back of one of the vans, and jimmy saw that there was a light inside it. 'up you get,' said the clown, and jimmy scrambled up a pair of wide steps which put him in mind of a bathing-machine. the door seemed to be made in halves, and whilst the lower part was shut the upper part was open. through this jimmy could see inside the van, and it looked exactly like a small room, only rather dirty and untidy. as jimmy stood on the steps staring into the van, with the clown close behind him, a girl came out from what seemed to be a second room behind the first. she had yellow hair, and her face looked very white; but although she must have changed her dress, jimmy felt certain she was the same girl who had worn the green velvet riding-habit. 'hullo!' she cried, seeing jimmy, but not seeing her father. 'what do you want?' 'all right, nan, all right,' said the clown, and he put an arm in front of jimmy to push open the door. whilst jimmy felt glad to find shelter from the rain, the clown went to the back room, which must have been extremely small, and carried on a conversation with the girl whom he called nan. jimmy felt certain he was telling her all about himself. presently they both came out again, and nan went to a shelf and brought some rather fat bacon and bread, and a knife and fork with black handles. there were two beds--one in the back part of the van and one in the front. jimmy sat down on the one in the front to eat his supper, and before he had finished nan gave him a mug of tea, which made him feel much warmer, although it did not taste very pleasant. the clown had gone away again, and jimmy wondered why there was such a noise outside the van. 'they're only putting the horses in,' said nan, when he questioned her. 'i should have thought they would be taking them out at this time of night,' answered jimmy. 'we always travel at night,' she explained, 'and then we're ready for the performance in the daytime.' 'but when do you go to sleep?' asked jimmy. 'when we get a chance,' she said. 'but the best thing you can do's to go to sleep now. suppose you lie down in there,' and she pointed to the room which was boarded off behind. 'whose bed is it?' he asked. 'father's, when he gets time to lie in it,' was the answer. 'but he can't if i'm there,' said jimmy. 'he's got a lot to do before he thinks of bed,' exclaimed nan. 'he's got to see to the horses. but i'll lie down as soon as we start, and presently father and i'll change places.' chapter x on the road it all seemed very strange to jimmy, and he would not have felt very much surprised if he had suddenly awakened to find himself back in the dormitory at miss lawson's, and all his adventures a dream. the bed did not look very clean, and jimmy thought at first that he should not care to lie down on it. he felt too tired to waste much time, however, and he did not even take off his clothes, but lay down just as he was, and in half a minute he fell fast asleep. and though the horse was put between the shafts, and there was a loud shouting as the long line of carts and vans began to move, jimmy did not open his eyes for some time. he might not have opened them even then if nan, who had also been asleep, had not risen and opened the door and let in a whiff of cold air. as jimmy sat up in the dark and rubbed his eyes, he thought at first that he must be in a boat, because whatever he might be in, it rolled about from side to side. remembering presently where he really was, he got off the bed, and peeped into the other half of the van. seeing that nan was not there, he went to the door, the upper half of which she had left open. the rain had quite left off, and the night was very beautiful. a great many stars shone in the sky; jimmy had never looked out so late before, he had never seen the heavens such a dark blue nor the stars so large and bright. it was four o'clock in the morning, the air felt very cold, and he could see that they were going slowly along a country road. about a yard from the back of his own van, a grey horse jogged along between the shafts of another van, with a rough brown pony tied beside it. feeling curious to see as much as he could, jimmy opened the door, and climbed carefully down the steps. then he ran to the side of the road, although he always took care to keep close to the clown's van. in front he saw ever so many carts and vans, and behind there were as many more. there were horses in groups of five or six, and men walking sleepily along by the hedge. now and then the lion roared, but not very loudly; now and then one of the men spoke to his horses; now and then a match was struck to light a pipe. but for the most part it seemed strangely silent as the long line wound slowly along the country road. for a good while jimmy scarcely heard a sound, but presently, after he had been in the road a few minutes, he did hear something, and that was the clown's voice. 'hullo,' it said, 'what are you doing out here? just you get inside again'; and jimmy scampered away and ran up the steps and lay down on the bed. he was soon asleep again, and when he re-opened his eyes it was broad daylight. he found that the caravan had come to a standstill, but when he looked out at the door everything seemed as quiet as when they were on the march. it was not so quiet inside the house, for the clown lay on the bed which nan had occupied earlier, and he was snoring loudly. jimmy wondered where nan had gone, but whilst he stood shivering by the door he saw her carrying a wooden pail full of water. 'is that for me to wash in?' asked jimmy, for he was surprised to find that there were no basins and towels in the van. 'not it,' answered nan. 'that's to make some tea for breakfast.' he watched whilst she brought out three pieces of iron like walking-sticks, tied together at the ends and forming a tripod. having stuck the other ends in the ground, nan collected some sticks, and heaping these together, she soon made a good fire. 'can i warm my hands?' asked jimmy; and leaving the van, he crouched down to hold his small hands over the blaze. then nan hung a kettle over the fire and stood watching whilst it boiled. and men and women gradually came out of the other vans, which stood about anyhow, and they all looked very sleepy and rather dirty, especially the children who soon began to collect round jimmy as if he were the most extraordinary thing in the caravan. if he had felt less cold and hungry jimmy might have enjoyed it all, for there was certainly a great deal to see. they seemed to have stopped on another common, but there were small houses not very far away. the worst of it was that wherever he went he was followed by a small crowd of children who made loud remarks about him. still he wandered in and out amongst the vans, and stopped a long time before the cage which contained the lion. the lion was lying down licking his fore-paws, but he left off to stare at jimmy, who quickly drew farther away from the cage. a little farther he met two elephants, a big one and a little one, with three men who were taking them down to a pond to drink. jimmy saw some comical-looking monkeys too; and what interested him almost more than anything were the men who had already begun to fix the large tent in an open space. it looked rather odd at present, because they had only fixed the centre pole, and the canvas hung loosely in the shape of the cap which the clown had worn last night. on returning to the van, still followed by the boys, jimmy saw the clown sitting on the steps eating an enormous piece of bread and cheese, and drinking hot tea out of a mug. 'come along,' said the clown, 'come and have some breakfast'; and jimmy sat down on the muddy ground, and nan gave him another mug and a thick slice of bread; but jimmy was by this time so hungry that he could have eaten anything. still he felt very anxious to hear how he was to reach chesterham without meeting coote again. 'i _should_ like to see my father and mother to-day,' he said, as he ate his breakfast. 'not to-day,' answered the clown, 'but it won't be long, so don't you worry yourself. we're working that way, and we're going to have a performance there.' 'at chesterham!' cried jimmy, feeling extremely relieved. 'you'll be there before the end of the week,' said the clown; 'and i should think your father would come down handsome.' now jimmy began to feel quite contented again, and there was so much to look at that he forgot everything else. when he was at school at ramsgate he had seen a circus going in a procession through the town, and now nan told him that this circus was going in a procession, and that it would start at half-past twelve. everybody seemed very busy making ready for it, men were attending to the horses, and the gilded chariots were being prepared, and presently nan began to dress. 'what are you going to be?' asked jimmy, as she took a bright-looking helmet from under her bed. 'don't you know?' she answered. 'why, i'm britannia.' a little later she left the van with the helmet on her head, and a large thing which looked like a pitchfork in one hand. in the other she carried a shield, and her white dress had flags all over it. by this time one of the gilded chariots had been made very high; it seemed to be almost as high as a house, and on the top was a seat. nan climbed up to this seat and sat down, and then a black man led billy the lion out of his cage with a chain round his neck, and it was funny to see the lion climb up to the place where nan was sitting and quietly lie down by her side. the clown was standing on a white horse, with a long pair of reins driving another white horse; but the black man who had led the lion drove eight horses, and then there was a band, in red, and two elephants, and everybody in the circus except some of the children and a few women formed a part of the long procession. chapter xi jimmy runs away again now, jimmy thought that he also would like to be in the procession. he would have liked to dress up as nan had done, although perhaps he would not have cared to sit quite so close to the lion. they seemed to have forgotten all about him, and he was left to do just as he liked. so what he did was to walk beside the procession into the town, and then to run on ahead to find a good place to see it pass. he got back to the van long before nan and her father, and being quite alone, he began to look about him. hanging on a peg, he saw a lot of old clothes, which seemed rather interesting, especially one suit that must have belonged to the little clown. jimmy looked at the dress again and again. there were long things like socks, of a dirty white colour, with a kind of flowery pattern in red along the sides. then he saw what looked like a very short and baggy pair of light red and blue knickerbockers, and also the jacket of light red and blue too, with curious loose sleeves. he would very much have liked to put them all on just to see how he looked in them, only that he felt afraid that nan or her father might return before he had time to take them off again. no sooner did they come back than they began to prepare for the evening performance, and still everybody seemed too busy to give many thoughts to jimmy. 'whose is that little clown's suit?' he asked, while nan was busy about the van. 'ah,' she answered, 'that was my little brother's,' and she spoke so unhappily that he did not like to say any more about it. but jimmy wanted more and more to try the suit on himself only just for a few moments, and he thought it could not possibly do any harm. presently nan, who had taken off britannia's dress, put on her green velvet riding-habit, and jimmy could hear the band playing close by, and he guessed that the performance was soon going to begin. 'you can go to bed whenever you like,' said nan, before she left the van. 'thank you,' he answered, and when she had gone he stood at the door looking out into the darkness. he could see the flaming naphtha lamps, and hear the music and a loud clapping inside the great tent, and now they seemed all so busy that it might be a good time to put on the little clown's dress. first of all jimmy shut the upper part of the door, so that nobody who happened to look that way could see inside the van. he took down the clothes from the peg, and removed his own jacket and waistcoat and knickerbockers as quickly as possible. then he found that he must take off his boots and stockings, and he sat down on the floor of the van to draw on those with the pattern on each side. they did not go on very easily, but he managed it at last, and then it was a simple matter to put on the loose knickerbockers and the jacket. as his feet felt cold, he put on his own boots again, and then he stood on a chair without a back to take down the piece of broken looking-glass which he had seen nan use that day. he could not get a very good view of himself, but he could see that his face was much dirtier than it had ever been before in his life, and this was not to be wondered at, because he had not washed it since he left his aunt selina's yesterday morning. and yesterday morning seemed a very long time ago. he stood in the middle of the van, trying to look at himself in the glass, when suddenly it fell from his hand and broke, and jimmy gave a violent jump. for to his great alarm he heard distinctly the voice of coote, the railway policeman, just outside the van. now coote had been greatly astonished last night, on coming out of the ham and beef shop, to see no sign of jimmy. he had spent two hours looking for him, and then he gave him up as a bad job. when he told the station-master what had happened, he was ordered to do nothing else until he found the boy again, and so coote had spent the whole day searching for him. and coote's instructions were, on finding the boy, to take him direct to his aunt's house at chesterham. coote, after looking all over barstead, thought that perhaps jimmy had gone away with the circus people, so he took a train and followed them. but jimmy felt as much afraid as ever; he made sure that if coote caught him he would be locked up in prison. thinking that the policeman was coming into the van, he looked about for a place to hide himself, and at last he made up his mind to crawl under the bed. it was not at all easy, because the bed was close to the floor; but still, jimmy managed it at last, and lay quite still on the floor, expecting every moment that coote would enter. then he remembered that he had left his own clothes on the floor, so that if coote saw them he would guess that their owner was hiding. jimmy felt that he would do anything to get safely away, and he lay on the floor scarcely daring to breathe, until coote's voice sounded farther off. crawling out from under the bed again, presently, without stopping to think, jimmy opened the door of the van, ran down the steps, and on putting his feet to the grass, he at once dodged round the van and set off at a run away from the tent. he ran and ran until he was quite out of breath. he seemed to have reached a country lane; it was very quiet and dark, and the stars shone in the sky. jimmy sat down by the wayside, feeling very hot and tired, and then he remembered that he was wearing the clown's clothes. he remembered also that he had left all his money and his knife behind him; but still he did not think of going back, because if he went back he would be certain to fall into the hands of coote. no, he would not go back; what he would do was to make his way to chesterham. it could not be very far, for the clown had said he should be there in a few days, although the caravan travelled slowly. why shouldn't he walk to his aunt's house, and then he would see his mother and father, who no doubt would look surprised to see him dressed as a clown. if his mother was really like aunt selina she might be very angry, but then he hoped she wasn't like his aunt, and, at all events, jimmy thought she could not be angry with him just the first time she saw him. but, then, he might not be in the right road for chesterham, and he did not wish to lose his way, because he had no money to buy anything to eat, and already he was beginning to feel hungry. the sooner he got along the better, so he rose from his seat beside the road and walked on in the hope of seeing some one who could tell him the way. he walked rather slowly, but still he went a few miles, passing a cottage with lights in the windows now and then, but not liking to knock at the door. but presently he felt so tired that he made up his mind to knock at the next. when he came to it he walked up to the garden gate, but then his courage failed. he stood leaning against the gate, hoping that some of the people whose voices he could hear might come out; but presently the windows became dark, and jimmy guessed that, instead of coming out, the people in the cottage had gone to bed. now that he knew it must be very late, jimmy began to feel a little afraid. it seemed very dull and lonely, and he longed to meet somebody, never mind who it was. there was only one thing which seemed to be moving, and that was a windmill standing on a slight hill a little way from the road. it seemed very curious to watch the sails going round in the darkness, but jimmy could see them rise and fall, because they looked black against the blue sky. the mill was so near that he could hear the noise of the sails as they went round, it sounded like a very loud humming-top, and there were one or two patches of light to be seen in the mill. jimmy thought that perhaps he might be able to lie down near to it, although the difficulty was to get to it. but when he had walked on a little farther, he saw a dark-looking lane on his right hand, and after stopping to think a little, he walked along it. with every step he took the humming sounded louder, but presently jimmy stopped suddenly. chapter xii jimmy sleeps in a windmill 'hullo!' said a voice close in front of him, and looking up jimmy saw a man smoking a pipe. of course it was too dark for him to see anything very distinctly, but still his eyes had become used to the darkness, and he could see more than you would imagine. 'what are you after?' asked the man. 'please i was looking for somewhere to sleep,' answered jimmy. 'well, you're a rum sort of youngster,' said the man. 'here, come along o' me.' jimmy followed him along a path which led to the mill, and as they drew near to it the great sails seemed to swish through the air in a rather alarming manner. the man opened a door and jimmy looked in. the floor was all white with flour, and dozens of sacks stood against the walls. the man also looked nearly as white as the floor, and he began to smile as the light fell upon jimmy. but the boy did not feel at all inclined to smile. 'why,' he asked, 'you look as if you've come from a circus?' 'i have,' answered jimmy, feeling quite stupid from sleepiness. 'run away?' said the man. 'have you?' 'yes,' answered jimmy, gaping. 'got nowhere to sleep?' asked the miller. 'no,' was the answer. 'hungry?' asked the miller. 'i only want to go to sleep,' said jimmy, gaping again. 'come in here,' said the man, and without losing a moment, jimmy followed him into the mill. there the man threw two or three sacks on to the floor, and told jimmy to lie down. there seemed to be a great noise at first, but jimmy shut his eyes and soon fell sound asleep, too sound asleep even to dream of coote or the clown. he was awakened by the miller's kicking one of the sacks on which he lay, and looking about to see where he was, jimmy saw that it was broad daylight, and that the sun was shining brightly. 'now, then, off with you,' cried the miller, 'before i get into trouble.' 'what time is it, please?' asked jimmy sleepily, as he stood upright. 'it'll soon be six o'clock,' was the answer. jimmy thought it was a great deal too early to get up, and he felt so tired that he would very much have liked to lie down again, but he did not say so. 'here, take this,' said the man, and he put twopence into jimmy's hand. 'mind they don't catch you,' he added. 'please can you tell me the way to chesterham?' asked jimmy. 'chesterham's a long way,' answered the miller; 'but you've got to get to sandham first. go back into the road and keep to your left. when you get to sandham ask for chesterham.' 'thank you,' said jimmy, and with the twopence held tightly in his hand he walked along the lane until he reached the road. it was a beautiful morning, but jimmy could do nothing but gape; his feet felt very heavy, and he wished that he had never put on the clown's clothes and left his own behind. still he made sure that he should be able to reach chesterham some day, and presently he passed a church and an inn and several small houses and poor-looking shops. with the twopence in his hand he looked in at the shop windows wondering what he should buy for breakfast, and seeing a card in one of them which said that lemonade was a penny a bottle, jimmy determined to buy some of that. the woman who served him looked very much astonished, and she called another woman to look at him too. but jimmy stood drinking the cool, sweet lemonade, and thought it was the nicest thing he had ever tasted. as he stood drinking it his eyes fell on some cakes of chocolate cream. 'how much are those?' he asked. 'two a penny,' said the woman. 'i'll have two, please,' said jimmy, and he began to eat them as soon as he left the shop. but he was glad to leave the village behind, because everybody he met stared at him and he did not like it. three boys and a girl followed him some distance along the road, no doubt expecting that he was really and truly a clown, and would do some tumbling and make them laugh. but at last they grew tired of following him, and they stopped and began to call him names, and one boy threw a stone at him, but jimmy felt far too miserable to throw one back. chocolate creams and lemonade are very nice things, but they don't make a very good breakfast. the morning seemed very long, and presently jimmy sat down by a hedge and fell asleep. he awoke feeling more hungry than ever, and no one was in sight but a man on a hay cart. but it happened that the cart was going towards sandham, and jimmy waited until it came up, and then he climbed up behind and hung with one leg over the tailboard and got a long ride for nothing. he might have ridden all the way to sandham, only that the carter turned round in a rather bad temper and hit jimmy with his whip, so that he jumped down more quickly than he had climbed up. he guessed that he was near the town, because there were houses by the roadside, and passing carts, and even an omnibus. if jimmy had had any more money he would have got into the omnibus; as he had none he was compelled to walk on. it was quite late in the afternoon when he entered sandham, and he had eaten nothing since the chocolate creams. he was annoyed to find that a number of children were following him again, and as he went farther into the town they crowded round in a ring, so that jimmy was brought to a standstill. he felt very uncomfortable standing there, with dozens of children and a few grown-up persons round him. they cried out to him to 'go on,' and this was just what jimmy would have liked to do. he felt so miserable that he put an arm to his eyes and began to cry, and then the crowd began to laugh, for they thought he was going to begin to do something to amuse them at last. but when they saw he did nothing funny as a clown ought to do, but only kept on crying, they began to jeer at him, and one boy came near as if he would hit him. jimmy took down his arm then, and the two boys, one dressed in rags and the other in the dirty clown's dress, stood staring at each other with their small fists doubled, when jimmy felt some one take hold of his arm, and looking round he saw a rather tall, dark-haired lady, with a pretty-looking face. her hand was on his arm, and her eyes wore a very curious expression, almost as if she were going to cry also, just to keep jimmy company. but from the moment that jimmy looked at her face he felt that things would be better with him. 'come with me, dear,' she whispered, and taking his hand in her own she led him out of the crowd. 'where to?' asked jimmy, wondering why she held his hand so tightly. 'i think the best thing to do will be to put you to bed,' she answered. 'yes,' said jimmy, 'i should like to go to bed--to a real bed, you know--not sacks.' 'you shall go into a real bed,' she answered. 'i think i should like to have something to eat first,' he cried. 'oh yes, you shall have something to eat,' she said. if a good many persons had stopped to stare at jimmy when he was alone, many more stared now to see a dirty-faced, poor little clown being led away by a nicely-dressed lady. but the fact was that jimmy did not care what they thought. they might stare as much as they liked, and it did not make any difference. he felt that he was all right at last, although he did not in the least know who his friend could be. but he felt that she _was_ a friend, and that was the great thing; he felt that whatever she did would be pleasant and good, and that she was going to give him something nice to eat and a comfortable bed to sleep in. somehow he did not feel at all surprised, only extremely tired, so that he could scarcely keep his eyes open. things that happened did not seem quite real, it was almost like a dream. the lady stopped in front of a house where lodgings were let, although jimmy knew nothing about that. the door was opened by a pleasant, rosy-cheeked woman in a cotton dress. 'well, i _am_ glad!' she cried; and jimmy wondered, but only for a moment, what she had to be glad about. 'i think some hot soup will be the best thing,' said the lady, 'and then we will put him to bed.' 'what do you think about a bath?' asked the landlady. 'the bath will do to-morrow,' was the answer. 'just some soup and then bed. and i shall want you to send a telegram to the post office.' 'you're not going to send a telegram to the policeman,' exclaimed jimmy; but as the landlady left the room to see about the soup, the lady placed her arm round him and drew him towards her. jimmy thought that most ladies would not have liked to draw him close, because he really looked a dirty little object, but this lady did not seem to mind at all. suddenly she held him farther away from her, and looked strangely into his face. 'what is your name?' she asked. 'james--orchardson--sinclair--wilmot,' said jimmy with a gape between the words. then she pressed him closer still, and kissed his face again and again, and for once jimmy rather liked being kissed. perhaps it was because he had felt so tired and lonely; but whatever the reason may have been, he did not try to draw away, but nestled down in her arms and felt more comfortable than he had felt for ever so long. it was not long before the landlady came back with a plate of hot soup, and jimmy sat in a chair by the table and the lady broke some bread and dipped it in, and jimmy almost fell asleep as he fed himself. still he enjoyed the soup, and when it was finished she took him up in her arms and carried him to another room where there were two beds. she stood jimmy down, and he leaned against the smaller bed with his eyes shut whilst she took off the clown's dress, and the last thing he recollected was her face very close to his own before he fell sound asleep. chapter xiii the last it was quite late when jimmy opened his eyes the next morning, and a few minutes afterwards he was sitting up in bed, wondering how much he had dreamed and how much was real. had he actually got into the wrong train, and run away from a policeman, and travelled in the van, and put on the little clown's clothes, and then run away again? had he really done all these strange things or had he only dreamed them? but if he had dreamed them, where was he? and if they were real, where had the clown's dress gone to? as jimmy sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, he hoped that he had not been dreaming; because if it had been only a dream, why, then, he had only dreamed of the lady also, and he felt that he very much wished her to be real. why, she was real! for there she stood smiling at the open door, with a tray covered with a white cloth in her hand, and on it a large cup of hot bread and milk, and two eggs. 'i am glad!' said jimmy. 'what are you glad about?' she asked, as she placed the tray on his bed. 'that you're quite real,' he answered. 'well,' she said, 'your breakfast is real too, and the best thing you can do is to eat it.' jimmy began at once. he began with the bread and milk, and the lady sat at the foot of the bed watching him. 'where am i going after breakfast?' he asked. 'into a nice hot bath,' she said. 'but after that?' 'how should you like to go to see your father?' she asked. 'do you know him?' asked jimmy, laying down his spoon in his astonishment. 'very well indeed.' 'and my mother too?' 'yes, and winnie too.' 'is she like aunt selina?' asked jimmy, as the lady began to take the top off his egg. 'do you mean winnie?' she said. 'no, my mother. because aunt selina said they were like each other, but i hope they're not.' 'well, no,' answered the lady, 'i really don't think your mother is very much like aunt selina.' 'do you think she'll be very cross?' he asked. 'i don't think so. why should she be cross?' as she spoke she took away the empty cup and gave jimmy the egg. she cut a slice of bread and butter into fingers, and he dipped them into the egg and ate it that way. 'this _is_ a nice egg,' said jimmy. 'but,' he continued, 'i thought perhaps she'd be cross because i got into the wrong train.' 'why did you run away from the policeman?' asked the lady. 'because he said he should lock me up.' 'but he was only joking, you know.' 'was he?' asked jimmy, opening his eyes very widely. 'that's all,' was the answer, and jimmy looked thoughtful for a few minutes. 'i don't think i like policemen who joke,' he said solemnly. 'then,' asked the lady, 'why did you run away from the circus? you seem to be very fond of running away.' 'i shan't run away from you,' said jimmy. 'only i heard the policeman's voice outside the van and i thought i'd better.' 'well,' she answered, 'if you had not run away you would have found your mother much sooner.' 'i do hope she isn't like aunt selina,' he said wistfully. 'what should you wish her to be like?' asked the lady. 'why, like you, of course,' he cried, and then he was very much surprised to see the lady lean forward and throw her arms about him and to feel her kissing him again and again. and when she left off her eyes were wet. 'why did you do that?' asked jimmy. 'she _is_ like me, you darling!' said the lady. 'my mother?' cried jimmy. 'you dear, foolish boy, i am your mother,' she said. 'oh,' said jimmy, and it was quite a long time before he was able to say anything else. a few moments later mrs. wilmot rang the bell, and a servant carried a large bath into the room, then she went away and came back with a can of very hot water, and then she went away again to fetch a brown-paper parcel. mrs. wilmot opened the parcel at once, and jimmy sat up in bed and looked on. he saw her take out a suit of brown clothes, a shirt, and all sorts of things, so that he should have everything new. then he got out of bed, and had such a washing and scrubbing as he had never had before. he was washed from head to foot, and dressed in the new clothes, and when he looked in the glass he saw himself just as he had been before he left miss lawson's school at ramsgate. 'now,' said mrs. wilmot, 'i think you may as well come to see your father and winnie.' 'are they here?' he asked. 'oh yes,' she explained, 'i sent to tell them last night, and they arrived early this morning. not both together, because we left winnie with aunt ellen at chesterham, whilst father went to look for you one way and i went another.' 'then you were really looking for me?' cried jimmy. 'why, of course we were,' she answered. 'we knew you were walking about the country dressed as a little clown. but come,' she said, 'because your father is anxious to see you.' 'i should like to see him too,' said jimmy. 'i hope he's as nice as you are,' he cried as they left the bedroom. 'he is ever so much nicer,' was the quiet answer. 'i don't think he could be,' said jimmy, as his mother turned the handle. then he remembered what the boys had said at school. 'winnie isn't really black, is she?' he asked. 'black!' cried his mother; 'she is just the dearest little girl in the world.' 'i'm glad of that,' said jimmy, and then he entered the room and saw a tall man with a fair moustache standing in front of the fire, and, seated on his shoulder, was one of the prettiest little girls jimmy had ever seen. 'there he is!' she cried. 'there's my brother. put me down, please.' 'good-morning,' said jimmy, as his father put winnie on to the floor. but the next moment mr. wilmot put his hands under jimmy's arms and lifted him up to kiss him, but the odd thing was that when he was standing on the floor again he could not think of anything to say to winnie. 'i've got a dollie!' she said presently, while their father and mother stood watching them, 'and i'm going to have a governess.' then they all began to talk quite freely, and jimmy soon felt as if he had lived with them always. presently they went out for a walk to buy jimmy some more clothes, and when they came back the children's dinner was ready. 'i do like being here,' said jimmy during the meal. 'i am glad you got found,' cried winnie. 'so am i,' he answered. 'but suppose,' he suggested, 'that i hadn't been found before you went away again.' then winnie solemnly laid aside her fork--she was not old enough to use a knife. 'why,' she said, 'you do say funny things. we're not going away again, ever.' 'aren't you?' asked jimmy, looking up at his father and mother. 'no,' answered mrs. wilmot, 'we're going to stay at home with you.' 'are you really--really?' asked jimmy, for he could scarcely believe it. 'yes, really,' said mr. wilmot. 'it will be nice,' said jimmy thoughtfully, and then he went on with his dinner. the end the dumpy books for children i. the flamp, the ameliorator, and the schoolboy's apprentice, _by e. v. lucas_ ii. mrs. turner's cautionary stories iii. the bad family, _by mrs. fenwick_ iv. the story of little black sambo. illustrated in colours, _by helen bannerman_ v. the bountiful lady, _by thomas cobb_ vi. a cat book, portraits _by h. officer smith_, characteristics _by e. v. lucas_ vii. a flower book. illustrated in colours _by nellie benson_. _story by eden coybee_ viii. the pink knight. illustrated in colours _by j. r. monsell_ ix. the little clown, _by thomas cobb_ by the same author cooper's first term. illustrated by gertrude m. bradley. _a new series._ the larger dumpy books for children. i. a six-inch admiral. by g. a. best. ii. holidays and happy days. by e. florence mason. with verses by hamish hendry. iii. pillow stories. by s. l. heward. with illustrations by gertrude m. bradley. the adventures of tom sawyer by mark twain (samuel langhorne clemens) part chapter xviii that was tom's great secret--the scheme to return home with his brother pirates and attend their own funerals. they had paddled over to the missouri shore on a log, at dusk on saturday, landing five or six miles below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the town till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and alleys and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a chaos of invalided benches. at breakfast, monday morning, aunt polly and mary were very loving to tom, and very attentive to his wants. there was an unusual amount of talk. in the course of it aunt polly said: "well, i don't say it wasn't a fine joke, tom, to keep everybody suffering 'most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity you could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so. if you could come over on a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give me a hint some way that you warn't dead, but only run off." "yes, you could have done that, tom," said mary; "and i believe you would if you had thought of it." "would you, tom?" said aunt polly, her face lighting wistfully. "say, now, would you, if you'd thought of it?" "i--well, i don't know. 'twould 'a' spoiled everything." "tom, i hoped you loved me that much," said aunt polly, with a grieved tone that discomforted the boy. "it would have been something if you'd cared enough to think of it, even if you didn't do it." "now, auntie, that ain't any harm," pleaded mary; "it's only tom's giddy way--he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of anything." "more's the pity. sid would have thought. and sid would have come and done it, too. tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's too late, and wish you'd cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so little." "now, auntie, you know i do care for you," said tom. "i'd know it better if you acted more like it." "i wish now i'd thought," said tom, with a repentant tone; "but i dreamt about you, anyway. that's something, ain't it?" "it ain't much--a cat does that much--but it's better than nothing. what did you dream?" "why, wednesday night i dreamt that you was sitting over there by the bed, and sid was sitting by the woodbox, and mary next to him." "well, so we did. so we always do. i'm glad your dreams could take even that much trouble about us." "and i dreamt that joe harper's mother was here." "why, she was here! did you dream any more?" "oh, lots. but it's so dim, now." "well, try to recollect--can't you?" "somehow it seems to me that the wind--the wind blowed the--the--" "try harder, tom! the wind did blow something. come!" tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious minute, and then said: "i've got it now! i've got it now! it blowed the candle!" "mercy on us! go on, tom--go on!" "and it seems to me that you said, 'why, i believe that that door--'" "go on, tom!" "just let me study a moment--just a moment. oh, yes--you said you believed the door was open." "as i'm sitting here, i did! didn't i, mary! go on!" "and then--and then--well i won't be certain, but it seems like as if you made sid go and--and--" "well? well? what did i make him do, tom? what did i make him do?" "you made him--you--oh, you made him shut it." "well, for the land's sake! i never heard the beat of that in all my days! don't tell me there ain't anything in dreams, any more. sereny harper shall know of this before i'm an hour older. i'd like to see her get around this with her rubbage 'bout superstition. go on, tom!" "oh, it's all getting just as bright as day, now. next you said i warn't bad, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more responsible than--than--i think it was a colt, or something." "and so it was! well, goodness gracious! go on, tom!" "and then you began to cry." "so i did. so i did. not the first time, neither. and then--" "then mrs. harper she began to cry, and said joe was just the same, and she wished she hadn't whipped him for taking cream when she'd throwed it out her own self--" "tom! the sperrit was upon you! you was a prophesying--that's what you was doing! land alive, go on, tom!" "then sid he said--he said--" "i don't think i said anything," said sid. "yes you did, sid," said mary. "shut your heads and let tom go on! what did he say, tom?" "he said--i think he said he hoped i was better off where i was gone to, but if i'd been better sometimes--" "there, d'you hear that! it was his very words!" "and you shut him up sharp." "i lay i did! there must 'a' been an angel there. there was an angel there, somewheres!" "and mrs. harper told about joe scaring her with a firecracker, and you told about peter and the painkiller--" "just as true as i live!" "and then there was a whole lot of talk 'bout dragging the river for us, and 'bout having the funeral sunday, and then you and old miss harper hugged and cried, and she went." "it happened just so! it happened just so, as sure as i'm a-sitting in these very tracks. tom, you couldn't told it more like if you'd 'a' seen it! and then what? go on, tom!" "then i thought you prayed for me--and i could see you and hear every word you said. and you went to bed, and i was so sorry that i took and wrote on a piece of sycamore bark, 'we ain't dead--we are only off being pirates,' and put it on the table by the candle; and then you looked so good, laying there asleep, that i thought i went and leaned over and kissed you on the lips." "did you, tom, did you! i just forgive you everything for that!" and she seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him feel like the guiltiest of villains. "it was very kind, even though it was only a--dream," sid soliloquized just audibly. "shut up, sid! a body does just the same in a dream as he'd do if he was awake. here's a big milum apple i've been saving for you, tom, if you was ever found again--now go 'long to school. i'm thankful to the good god and father of us all i've got you back, that's long-suffering and merciful to them that believe on him and keep his word, though goodness knows i'm unworthy of it, but if only the worthy ones got his blessings and had his hand to help them over the rough places, there's few enough would smile here or ever enter into his rest when the long night comes. go 'long sid, mary, tom--take yourselves off--you've hendered me long enough." the children left for school, and the old lady to call on mrs. harper and vanquish her realism with tom's marvellous dream. sid had better judgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he left the house. it was this: "pretty thin--as long a dream as that, without any mistakes in it!" what a hero tom was become, now! he did not go skipping and prancing, but moved with a dignified swagger as became a pirate who felt that the public eye was on him. and indeed it was; he tried not to seem to see the looks or hear the remarks as he passed along, but they were food and drink to him. smaller boys than himself flocked at his heels, as proud to be seen with him, and tolerated by him, as if he had been the drummer at the head of a procession or the elephant leading a menagerie into town. boys of his own size pretended not to know he had been away at all; but they were consuming with envy, nevertheless. they would have given anything to have that swarthy suntanned skin of his, and his glittering notoriety; and tom would not have parted with either for a circus. at school the children made so much of him and of joe, and delivered such eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not long in becoming insufferably "stuck-up." they began to tell their adventures to hungry listeners--but they only began; it was not a thing likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish material. and finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely puffing around, the very summit of glory was reached. tom decided that he could be independent of becky thatcher now. glory was sufficient. he would live for glory. now that he was distinguished, maybe she would be wanting to "make up." well, let her--she should see that he could be as indifferent as some other people. presently she arrived. tom pretended not to see her. he moved away and joined a group of boys and girls and began to talk. soon he observed that she was tripping gayly back and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes, pretending to be busy chasing schoolmates, and screaming with laughter when she made a capture; but he noticed that she always made her captures in his vicinity, and that she seemed to cast a conscious eye in his direction at such times, too. it gratified all the vicious vanity that was in him; and so, instead of winning him, it only "set him up" the more and made him the more diligent to avoid betraying that he knew she was about. presently she gave over skylarking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once or twice and glancing furtively and wistfully toward tom. then she observed that now tom was talking more particularly to amy lawrence than to any one else. she felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once. she tried to go away, but her feet were treacherous, and carried her to the group instead. she said to a girl almost at tom's elbow--with sham vivacity: "why, mary austin! you bad girl, why didn't you come to sunday-school?" "i did come--didn't you see me?" "why, no! did you? where did you sit?" "i was in miss peters' class, where i always go. i saw you." "did you? why, it's funny i didn't see you. i wanted to tell you about the picnic." "oh, that's jolly. who's going to give it?" "my ma's going to let me have one." "oh, goody; i hope she'll let me come." "well, she will. the picnic's for me. she'll let anybody come that i want, and i want you." "that's ever so nice. when is it going to be?" "by and by. maybe about vacation." "oh, won't it be fun! you going to have all the girls and boys?" "yes, every one that's friends to me--or wants to be"; and she glanced ever so furtively at tom, but he talked right along to amy lawrence about the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the great sycamore tree "all to flinders" while he was "standing within three feet of it." "oh, may i come?" said grace miller. "yes." "and me?" said sally rogers. "yes." "and me, too?" said susy harper. "and joe?" "yes." and so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had begged for invitations but tom and amy. then tom turned coolly away, still talking, and took amy with him. becky's lips trembled and the tears came to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety and went on chattering, but the life had gone out of the picnic, now, and out of everything else; she got away as soon as she could and hid herself and had what her sex call "a good cry." then she sat moody, with wounded pride, till the bell rang. she roused up, now, with a vindictive cast in her eye, and gave her plaited tails a shake and said she knew what she'd do. at recess tom continued his flirtation with amy with jubilant self-satisfaction. and he kept drifting about to find becky and lacerate her with the performance. at last he spied her, but there was a sudden falling of his mercury. she was sitting cosily on a little bench behind the schoolhouse looking at a picture-book with alfred temple--and so absorbed were they, and their heads so close together over the book, that they did not seem to be conscious of anything in the world besides. jealousy ran red-hot through tom's veins. he began to hate himself for throwing away the chance becky had offered for a reconciliation. he called himself a fool, and all the hard names he could think of. he wanted to cry with vexation. amy chatted happily along, as they walked, for her heart was singing, but tom's tongue had lost its function. he did not hear what amy was saying, and whenever she paused expectantly he could only stammer an awkward assent, which was as often misplaced as otherwise. he kept drifting to the rear of the schoolhouse, again and again, to sear his eyeballs with the hateful spectacle there. he could not help it. and it maddened him to see, as he thought he saw, that becky thatcher never once suspected that he was even in the land of the living. but she did see, nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her fight, too, and was glad to see him suffer as she had suffered. amy's happy prattle became intolerable. tom hinted at things he had to attend to; things that must be done; and time was fleeting. but in vain--the girl chirped on. tom thought, "oh, hang her, ain't i ever going to get rid of her?" at last he must be attending to those things--and she said artlessly that she would be "around" when school let out. and he hastened away, hating her for it. "any other boy!" tom thought, grating his teeth. "any boy in the whole town but that saint louis smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is aristocracy! oh, all right, i licked you the first day you ever saw this town, mister, and i'll lick you again! you just wait till i catch you out! i'll just take and--" and he went through the motions of thrashing an imaginary boy --pummelling the air, and kicking and gouging. "oh, you do, do you? you holler 'nough, do you? now, then, let that learn you!" and so the imaginary flogging was finished to his satisfaction. tom fled home at noon. his conscience could not endure any more of amy's grateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the other distress. becky resumed her picture inspections with alfred, but as the minutes dragged along and no tom came to suffer, her triumph began to cloud and she lost interest; gravity and absent-mindedness followed, and then melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her ear at a footstep, but it was a false hope; no tom came. at last she grew entirely miserable and wished she hadn't carried it so far. when poor alfred, seeing that he was losing her, he did not know how, kept exclaiming: "oh, here's a jolly one! look at this!" she lost patience at last, and said, "oh, don't bother me! i don't care for them!" and burst into tears, and got up and walked away. alfred dropped alongside and was going to try to comfort her, but she said: "go away and leave me alone, can't you! i hate you!" so the boy halted, wondering what he could have done--for she had said she would look at pictures all through the nooning--and she walked on, crying. then alfred went musing into the deserted schoolhouse. he was humiliated and angry. he easily guessed his way to the truth--the girl had simply made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon tom sawyer. he was far from hating tom the less when this thought occurred to him. he wished there was some way to get that boy into trouble without much risk to himself. tom's spelling-book fell under his eye. here was his opportunity. he gratefully opened to the lesson for the afternoon and poured ink upon the page. becky, glancing in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the act, and moved on, without discovering herself. she started homeward, now, intending to find tom and tell him; tom would be thankful and their troubles would be healed. before she was half way home, however, she had changed her mind. the thought of tom's treatment of her when she was talking about her picnic came scorching back and filled her with shame. she resolved to let him get whipped on the damaged spelling-book's account, and to hate him forever, into the bargain. chapter xix tom arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt said to him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an unpromising market: "tom, i've a notion to skin you alive!" "auntie, what have i done?" "well, you've done enough. here i go over to sereny harper, like an old softy, expecting i'm going to make her believe all that rubbage about that dream, when lo and behold you she'd found out from joe that you was over here and heard all the talk we had that night. tom, i don't know what is to become of a boy that will act like that. it makes me feel so bad to think you could let me go to sereny harper and make such a fool of myself and never say a word." this was a new aspect of the thing. his smartness of the morning had seemed to tom a good joke before, and very ingenious. it merely looked mean and shabby now. he hung his head and could not think of anything to say for a moment. then he said: "auntie, i wish i hadn't done it--but i didn't think." "oh, child, you never think. you never think of anything but your own selfishness. you could think to come all the way over here from jackson's island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could think to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever think to pity us and save us from sorrow." "auntie, i know now it was mean, but i didn't mean to be mean. i didn't, honest. and besides, i didn't come over here to laugh at you that night." "what did you come for, then?" "it was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got drownded." "tom, tom, i would be the thankfullest soul in this world if i could believe you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never did--and i know it, tom." "indeed and 'deed i did, auntie--i wish i may never stir if i didn't." "oh, tom, don't lie--don't do it. it only makes things a hundred times worse." "it ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth. i wanted to keep you from grieving--that was all that made me come." "i'd give the whole world to believe that--it would cover up a power of sins, tom. i'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad. but it ain't reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?" "why, you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, i just got all full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and i couldn't somehow bear to spoil it. so i just put the bark back in my pocket and kept mum." "what bark?" "the bark i had wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating. i wish, now, you'd waked up when i kissed you--i do, honest." the hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a sudden tenderness dawned in her eyes. "did you kiss me, tom?" "why, yes, i did." "are you sure you did, tom?" "why, yes, i did, auntie--certain sure." "what did you kiss me for, tom?" "because i loved you so, and you laid there moaning and i was so sorry." the words sounded like truth. the old lady could not hide a tremor in her voice when she said: "kiss me again, tom!--and be off with you to school, now, and don't bother me any more." the moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a jacket which tom had gone pirating in. then she stopped, with it in her hand, and said to herself: "no, i don't dare. poor boy, i reckon he's lied about it--but it's a blessed, blessed lie, there's such a comfort come from it. i hope the lord--i know the lord will forgive him, because it was such goodheartedness in him to tell it. but i don't want to find out it's a lie. i won't look." she put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute. twice she put out her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained. once more she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the thought: "it's a good lie--it's a good lie--i won't let it grieve me." so she sought the jacket pocket. a moment later she was reading tom's piece of bark through flowing tears and saying: "i could forgive the boy, now, if he'd committed a million sins!" chapter xx there was something about aunt polly's manner, when she kissed tom, that swept away his low spirits and made him lighthearted and happy again. he started to school and had the luck of coming upon becky thatcher at the head of meadow lane. his mood always determined his manner. without a moment's hesitation he ran to her and said: "i acted mighty mean to-day, becky, and i'm so sorry. i won't ever, ever do that way again, as long as ever i live--please make up, won't you?" the girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face: "i'll thank you to keep yourself to yourself, mr. thomas sawyer. i'll never speak to you again." she tossed her head and passed on. tom was so stunned that he had not even presence of mind enough to say "who cares, miss smarty?" until the right time to say it had gone by. so he said nothing. but he was in a fine rage, nevertheless. he moped into the schoolyard wishing she were a boy, and imagining how he would trounce her if she were. he presently encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he passed. she hurled one in return, and the angry breach was complete. it seemed to becky, in her hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to "take in," she was so impatient to see tom flogged for the injured spelling-book. if she had had any lingering notion of exposing alfred temple, tom's offensive fling had driven it entirely away. poor girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself. the master, mr. dobbins, had reached middle age with an unsatisfied ambition. the darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty had decreed that he should be nothing higher than a village schoolmaster. every day he took a mysterious book out of his desk and absorbed himself in it at times when no classes were reciting. he kept that book under lock and key. there was not an urchin in school but was perishing to have a glimpse of it, but the chance never came. every boy and girl had a theory about the nature of that book; but no two theories were alike, and there was no way of getting at the facts in the case. now, as becky was passing by the desk, which stood near the door, she noticed that the key was in the lock! it was a precious moment. she glanced around; found herself alone, and the next instant she had the book in her hands. the title-page--professor somebody's anatomy--carried no information to her mind; so she began to turn the leaves. she came at once upon a handsomely engraved and colored frontispiece--a human figure, stark naked. at that moment a shadow fell on the page and tom sawyer stepped in at the door and caught a glimpse of the picture. becky snatched at the book to close it, and had the hard luck to tear the pictured page half down the middle. she thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out crying with shame and vexation. "tom sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a person and look at what they're looking at." "how could i know you was looking at anything?" "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, tom sawyer; you know you're going to tell on me, and oh, what shall i do, what shall i do! i'll be whipped, and i never was whipped in school." then she stamped her little foot and said: "be so mean if you want to! i know something that's going to happen. you just wait and you'll see! hateful, hateful, hateful!"--and she flung out of the house with a new explosion of crying. tom stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught. presently he said to himself: "what a curious kind of a fool a girl is! never been licked in school! shucks! what's a licking! that's just like a girl--they're so thin-skinned and chicken-hearted. well, of course i ain't going to tell old dobbins on this little fool, because there's other ways of getting even on her, that ain't so mean; but what of it? old dobbins will ask who it was tore his book. nobody'll answer. then he'll do just the way he always does--ask first one and then t'other, and when he comes to the right girl he'll know it, without any telling. girls' faces always tell on them. they ain't got any backbone. she'll get licked. well, it's a kind of a tight place for becky thatcher, because there ain't any way out of it." tom conned the thing a moment longer, and then added: "all right, though; she'd like to see me in just such a fix--let her sweat it out!" tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside. in a few moments the master arrived and school "took in." tom did not feel a strong interest in his studies. every time he stole a glance at the girls' side of the room becky's face troubled him. considering all things, he did not want to pity her, and yet it was all he could do to help it. he could get up no exultation that was really worthy the name. presently the spelling-book discovery was made, and tom's mind was entirely full of his own matters for a while after that. becky roused up from her lethargy of distress and showed good interest in the proceedings. she did not expect that tom could get out of his trouble by denying that he spilt the ink on the book himself; and she was right. the denial only seemed to make the thing worse for tom. becky supposed she would be glad of that, and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she found she was not certain. when the worst came to the worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on alfred temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to keep still--because, said she to herself, "he'll tell about me tearing the picture sure. i wouldn't say a word, not to save his life!" tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all broken-hearted, for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly upset the ink on the spelling-book himself, in some skylarking bout--he had denied it for form's sake and because it was custom, and had stuck to the denial from principle. a whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air was drowsy with the hum of study. by and by, mr. dobbins straightened himself up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book, but seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it. most of the pupils glanced up languidly, but there were two among them that watched his movements with intent eyes. mr. dobbins fingered his book absently for a while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read! tom shot a glance at becky. he had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit look as she did, with a gun levelled at its head. instantly he forgot his quarrel with her. quick--something must be done! done in a flash, too! but the very imminence of the emergency paralyzed his invention. good!--he had an inspiration! he would run and snatch the book, spring through the door and fly. but his resolution shook for one little instant, and the chance was lost--the master opened the volume. if tom only had the wasted opportunity back again! too late. there was no help for becky now, he said. the next moment the master faced the school. every eye sank under his gaze. there was that in it which smote even the innocent with fear. there was silence while one might count ten --the master was gathering his wrath. then he spoke: "who tore this book?" there was not a sound. one could have heard a pin drop. the stillness continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt. "benjamin rogers, did you tear this book?" a denial. another pause. "joseph harper, did you?" another denial. tom's uneasiness grew more and more intense under the slow torture of these proceedings. the master scanned the ranks of boys--considered a while, then turned to the girls: "amy lawrence?" a shake of the head. "gracie miller?" the same sign. "susan harper, did you do this?" another negative. the next girl was becky thatcher. tom was trembling from head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the situation. "rebecca thatcher" [tom glanced at her face--it was white with terror] --"did you tear--no, look me in the face" [her hands rose in appeal] --"did you tear this book?" a thought shot like lightning through tom's brain. he sprang to his feet and shouted--"i done it!" the school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly. tom stood a moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that shone upon him out of poor becky's eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred floggings. inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took without an outcry the most merciless flaying that even mr. dobbins had ever administered; and also received with indifference the added cruelty of a command to remain two hours after school should be dismissed--for he knew who would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and not count the tedious time as loss, either. tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against alfred temple; for with shame and repentance becky had told him all, not forgetting her own treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon, to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with becky's latest words lingering dreamily in his ear-- "tom, how could you be so noble!" chapter xxi vacation was approaching. the schoolmaster, always severe, grew severer and more exacting than ever, for he wanted the school to make a good showing on "examination" day. his rod and his ferule were seldom idle now--at least among the smaller pupils. only the biggest boys, and young ladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing. mr. dobbins' lashings were very vigorous ones, too; for although he carried, under his wig, a perfectly bald and shiny head, he had only reached middle age, and there was no sign of feebleness in his muscle. as the great day approached, all the tyranny that was in him came to the surface; he seemed to take a vindictive pleasure in punishing the least shortcomings. the consequence was, that the smaller boys spent their days in terror and suffering and their nights in plotting revenge. they threw away no opportunity to do the master a mischief. but he kept ahead all the time. the retribution that followed every vengeful success was so sweeping and majestic that the boys always retired from the field badly worsted. at last they conspired together and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling victory. they swore in the sign-painter's boy, told him the scheme, and asked his help. he had his own reasons for being delighted, for the master boarded in his father's family and had given the boy ample cause to hate him. the master's wife would go on a visit to the country in a few days, and there would be nothing to interfere with the plan; the master always prepared himself for great occasions by getting pretty well fuddled, and the sign-painter's boy said that when the dominie had reached the proper condition on examination evening he would "manage the thing" while he napped in his chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time and hurried away to school. in the fulness of time the interesting occasion arrived. at eight in the evening the schoolhouse was brilliantly lighted, and adorned with wreaths and festoons of foliage and flowers. the master sat throned in his great chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him. he was looking tolerably mellow. three rows of benches on each side and six rows in front of him were occupied by the dignitaries of the town and by the parents of the pupils. to his left, back of the rows of citizens, was a spacious temporary platform upon which were seated the scholars who were to take part in the exercises of the evening; rows of small boys, washed and dressed to an intolerable state of discomfort; rows of gawky big boys; snowbanks of girls and young ladies clad in lawn and muslin and conspicuously conscious of their bare arms, their grandmothers' ancient trinkets, their bits of pink and blue ribbon and the flowers in their hair. all the rest of the house was filled with non-participating scholars. the exercises began. a very little boy stood up and sheepishly recited, "you'd scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the stage," etc.--accompanying himself with the painfully exact and spasmodic gestures which a machine might have used--supposing the machine to be a trifle out of order. but he got through safely, though cruelly scared, and got a fine round of applause when he made his manufactured bow and retired. a little shamefaced girl lisped, "mary had a little lamb," etc., performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause, and sat down flushed and happy. tom sawyer stepped forward with conceited confidence and soared into the unquenchable and indestructible "give me liberty or give me death" speech, with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in the middle of it. a ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked under him and he was like to choke. true, he had the manifest sympathy of the house but he had the house's silence, too, which was even worse than its sympathy. the master frowned, and this completed the disaster. tom struggled awhile and then retired, utterly defeated. there was a weak attempt at applause, but it died early. "the boy stood on the burning deck" followed; also "the assyrian came down," and other declamatory gems. then there were reading exercises, and a spelling fight. the meagre latin class recited with honor. the prime feature of the evening was in order, now--original "compositions" by the young ladies. each in her turn stepped forward to the edge of the platform, cleared her throat, held up her manuscript (tied with dainty ribbon), and proceeded to read, with labored attention to "expression" and punctuation. the themes were the same that had been illuminated upon similar occasions by their mothers before them, their grandmothers, and doubtless all their ancestors in the female line clear back to the crusades. "friendship" was one; "memories of other days"; "religion in history"; "dream land"; "the advantages of culture"; "forms of political government compared and contrasted"; "melancholy"; "filial love"; "heart longings," etc., etc. a prevalent feature in these compositions was a nursed and petted melancholy; another was a wasteful and opulent gush of "fine language"; another was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly prized words and phrases until they were worn entirely out; and a peculiarity that conspicuously marked and marred them was the inveterate and intolerable sermon that wagged its crippled tail at the end of each and every one of them. no matter what the subject might be, a brain-racking effort was made to squirm it into some aspect or other that the moral and religious mind could contemplate with edification. the glaring insincerity of these sermons was not sufficient to compass the banishment of the fashion from the schools, and it is not sufficient to-day; it never will be sufficient while the world stands, perhaps. there is no school in all our land where the young ladies do not feel obliged to close their compositions with a sermon; and you will find that the sermon of the most frivolous and the least religious girl in the school is always the longest and the most relentlessly pious. but enough of this. homely truth is unpalatable. let us return to the "examination." the first composition that was read was one entitled "is this, then, life?" perhaps the reader can endure an extract from it: "in the common walks of life, with what delightful emotions does the youthful mind look forward to some anticipated scene of festivity! imagination is busy sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy. in fancy, the voluptuous votary of fashion sees herself amid the festive throng, 'the observed of all observers.' her graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes, is whirling through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is brightest, her step is lightest in the gay assembly. "in such delicious fancies time quickly glides by, and the welcome hour arrives for her entrance into the elysian world, of which she has had such bright dreams. how fairy-like does everything appear to her enchanted vision! each new scene is more charming than the last. but after a while she finds that beneath this goodly exterior, all is vanity, the flattery which once charmed her soul, now grates harshly upon her ear; the ball-room has lost its charms; and with wasted health and imbittered heart, she turns away with the conviction that earthly pleasures cannot satisfy the longings of the soul!" and so forth and so on. there was a buzz of gratification from time to time during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations of "how sweet!" "how eloquent!" "so true!" etc., and after the thing had closed with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was enthusiastic. then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the "interesting" paleness that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a "poem." two stanzas of it will do: "a missouri maiden's farewell to alabama "alabama, good-bye! i love thee well! but yet for a while do i leave thee now! sad, yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell, and burning recollections throng my brow! for i have wandered through thy flowery woods; have roamed and read near tallapoosa's stream; have listened to tallassee's warring floods, and wooed on coosa's side aurora's beam. "yet shame i not to bear an o'er-full heart, nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes; 'tis from no stranger land i now must part, 'tis to no strangers left i yield these sighs. welcome and home were mine within this state, whose vales i leave--whose spires fade fast from me and cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and tete, when, dear alabama! they turn cold on thee!" there were very few there who knew what "tete" meant, but the poem was very satisfactory, nevertheless. next appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young lady, who paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression, and began to read in a measured, solemn tone: "a vision "dark and tempestuous was night. around the throne on high not a single star quivered; but the deep intonations of the heavy thunder constantly vibrated upon the ear; whilst the terrific lightning revelled in angry mood through the cloudy chambers of heaven, seeming to scorn the power exerted over its terror by the illustrious franklin! even the boisterous winds unanimously came forth from their mystic homes, and blustered about as if to enhance by their aid the wildness of the scene. "at such a time, so dark, so dreary, for human sympathy my very spirit sighed; but instead thereof, "'my dearest friend, my counsellor, my comforter and guide--my joy in grief, my second bliss in joy,' came to my side. she moved like one of those bright beings pictured in the sunny walks of fancy's eden by the romantic and young, a queen of beauty unadorned save by her own transcendent loveliness. so soft was her step, it failed to make even a sound, and but for the magical thrill imparted by her genial touch, as other unobtrusive beauties, she would have glided away un-perceived--unsought. a strange sadness rested upon her features, like icy tears upon the robe of december, as she pointed to the contending elements without, and bade me contemplate the two beings presented." this nightmare occupied some ten pages of manuscript and wound up with a sermon so destructive of all hope to non-presbyterians that it took the first prize. this composition was considered to be the very finest effort of the evening. the mayor of the village, in delivering the prize to the author of it, made a warm speech in which he said that it was by far the most "eloquent" thing he had ever listened to, and that daniel webster himself might well be proud of it. it may be remarked, in passing, that the number of compositions in which the word "beauteous" was over-fondled, and human experience referred to as "life's page," was up to the usual average. now the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his chair aside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of america on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon. but he made a sad business of it with his unsteady hand, and a smothered titter rippled over the house. he knew what the matter was, and set himself to right it. he sponged out lines and remade them; but he only distorted them more than ever, and the tittering was more pronounced. he threw his entire attention upon his work, now, as if determined not to be put down by the mirth. he felt that all eyes were fastened upon him; he imagined he was succeeding, and yet the tittering continued; it even manifestly increased. and well it might. there was a garret above, pierced with a scuttle over his head; and down through this scuttle came a cat, suspended around the haunches by a string; she had a rag tied about her head and jaws to keep her from mewing; as she slowly descended she curved upward and clawed at the string, she swung downward and clawed at the intangible air. the tittering rose higher and higher--the cat was within six inches of the absorbed teacher's head--down, down, a little lower, and she grabbed his wig with her desperate claws, clung to it, and was snatched up into the garret in an instant with her trophy still in her possession! and how the light did blaze abroad from the master's bald pate--for the sign-painter's boy had gilded it! that broke up the meeting. the boys were avenged. vacation had come. note:--the pretended "compositions" quoted in this chapter are taken without alteration from a volume entitled "prose and poetry, by a western lady"--but they are exactly and precisely after the schoolgirl pattern, and hence are much happier than any mere imitations could be. chapter xxii tom joined the new order of cadets of temperance, being attracted by the showy character of their "regalia." he promised to abstain from smoking, chewing, and profanity as long as he remained a member. now he found out a new thing--namely, that to promise not to do a thing is the surest way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very thing. tom soon found himself tormented with a desire to drink and swear; the desire grew to be so intense that nothing but the hope of a chance to display himself in his red sash kept him from withdrawing from the order. fourth of july was coming; but he soon gave that up --gave it up before he had worn his shackles over forty-eight hours--and fixed his hopes upon old judge frazer, justice of the peace, who was apparently on his deathbed and would have a big public funeral, since he was so high an official. during three days tom was deeply concerned about the judge's condition and hungry for news of it. sometimes his hopes ran high--so high that he would venture to get out his regalia and practise before the looking-glass. but the judge had a most discouraging way of fluctuating. at last he was pronounced upon the mend--and then convalescent. tom was disgusted; and felt a sense of injury, too. he handed in his resignation at once--and that night the judge suffered a relapse and died. tom resolved that he would never trust a man like that again. the funeral was a fine thing. the cadets paraded in a style calculated to kill the late member with envy. tom was a free boy again, however --there was something in that. he could drink and swear, now--but found to his surprise that he did not want to. the simple fact that he could, took the desire away, and the charm of it. tom presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was beginning to hang a little heavily on his hands. he attempted a diary--but nothing happened during three days, and so he abandoned it. the first of all the negro minstrel shows came to town, and made a sensation. tom and joe harper got up a band of performers and were happy for two days. even the glorious fourth was in some sense a failure, for it rained hard, there was no procession in consequence, and the greatest man in the world (as tom supposed), mr. benton, an actual united states senator, proved an overwhelming disappointment--for he was not twenty-five feet high, nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it. a circus came. the boys played circus for three days afterward in tents made of rag carpeting--admission, three pins for boys, two for girls--and then circusing was abandoned. a phrenologist and a mesmerizer came--and went again and left the village duller and drearier than ever. there were some boys-and-girls' parties, but they were so few and so delightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder. becky thatcher was gone to her constantinople home to stay with her parents during vacation--so there was no bright side to life anywhere. the dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery. it was a very cancer for permanency and pain. then came the measles. during two long weeks tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and its happenings. he was very ill, he was interested in nothing. when he got upon his feet at last and moved feebly down-town, a melancholy change had come over everything and every creature. there had been a "revival," and everybody had "got religion," not only the adults, but even the boys and girls. tom went about, hoping against hope for the sight of one blessed sinful face, but disappointment crossed him everywhere. he found joe harper studying a testament, and turned sadly away from the depressing spectacle. he sought ben rogers, and found him visiting the poor with a basket of tracts. he hunted up jim hollis, who called his attention to the precious blessing of his late measles as a warning. every boy he encountered added another ton to his depression; and when, in desperation, he flew for refuge at last to the bosom of huckleberry finn and was received with a scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he crept home and to bed realizing that he alone of all the town was lost, forever and forever. and that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain, awful claps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning. he covered his head with the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his doom; for he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was about him. he believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above to the extremity of endurance and that this was the result. it might have seemed to him a waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a battery of artillery, but there seemed nothing incongruous about the getting up such an expensive thunderstorm as this to knock the turf from under an insect like himself. by and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its object. the boy's first impulse was to be grateful, and reform. his second was to wait--for there might not be any more storms. the next day the doctors were back; tom had relapsed. the three weeks he spent on his back this time seemed an entire age. when he got abroad at last he was hardly grateful that he had been spared, remembering how lonely was his estate, how companionless and forlorn he was. he drifted listlessly down the street and found jim hollis acting as judge in a juvenile court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence of her victim, a bird. he found joe harper and huck finn up an alley eating a stolen melon. poor lads! they--like tom--had suffered a relapse. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) great-uncle hoot-toot. by mrs. molesworth, author of "the palace in the garden," "'carrots': just a little boy," "the cuckoo clock," etc. illustrated by gordon browne, e. j. walker, lizzie lawson, j. bligh, and maynard brown. published under the direction of the committee of general literature and education appointed by the society for promoting christian knowledge. london: society for promoting christian knowledge, northumberland avenue, charing cross, w.c.; , queen victoria street, e.c. brighton: , north street. new york: e. & j. b. young and co. [illustration: frances and elsa.] great-uncle hoot-toot. "... what we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost, why then we rack the value."--_much ado about nothing._ chapter i. the master of the house. "that's geoff, i'm sure," said elsa; "i always know his ring. i do hope----" and she stopped and sighed a little. "what?" said frances, looking up quickly. "oh, nothing particular. run down, vic, dear, and get geoff to go straight into the school-room. order his tea at once. i _don't_ want him to come upstairs just now. mamma is so busy and worried with those letters." [illustration: vicky.] vic, a little girl of nine, with long fair hair and long black legs, and a pretty face with a bright, eager expression, needed no second bidding. she was off almost before elsa had finished speaking. "what a good child she is!" said frances. "what a clever, nice boy she would have made! and if geoff had been a girl, perhaps he would have been more easily managed." "i don't know," said elsa. "perhaps if vicky had been a boy she would have been spoilt and selfish too." "elsa," said frances, "i think you are rather hard upon geoff. he is like all boys. everybody says they are more selfish than girls, and then they grow out of it." "they grow out of showing it so plainly, perhaps," replied elsa, rather bitterly. "but you contradict yourself, frances. just a moment ago you said what a much nicer boy vic would have made. all boys aren't like geoff. of course, i don't mean that he is really a bad boy; but it just comes over me now and then that it is a _shame_ he should be such a tease and worry, boy or not. when mamma is anxious, and with good reason, and we girls are doing all we can, why should geoff be the one we have to keep away from her, and to smooth down, as it were? it's all for her sake, of course; but it makes me ashamed, all the same, to feel that we are really almost afraid of him. there now----" and she started up as the sound of a door, slammed violently in the lower regions, reached her ears. but before she had time to cross the room, vicky reappeared. "it's nothing, elsa," the child began eagerly. "geoff's all right; he's not cross. he only slammed the door at the top of the kitchen stair because i reminded him not to leave it open." "you might have shut it yourself, rather than risk a noise to-night," said elsa. "what was he doing at the top of the kitchen stair?" vicky looked rather guilty. "he was calling to phoebe to boil two eggs for his tea. he says he is so hungry. i would have run up to tell you; but i thought it was better than his teasing mamma about letting him come in to dinner." elsa glanced at frances. "you see," her glance seemed to say. "yes, dear," she said aloud to the little sister, "anything is better than that. run down again, vicky, and keep him as quiet as you can." "would it not be better, perhaps," asked frances, rather timidly, "for one of us to go and speak to him, and tell him quietly about mamma having had bad news?" "he wouldn't rest then till he had heard all about it from herself," said elsa. "of course he'd be sorry for her, and all that, but he would only show it by teasing." it was frances's turn to sigh, for in spite of her determination to see everything and everybody in the best possible light, she knew that elsa was only speaking the truth about geoffrey. half an hour later the two sisters were sitting at dinner with their mother. she was anxious and tired, as they knew, but she did her utmost to seem cheerful. "i have seen and heard nothing of geoff," she said suddenly. "has he many lessons to do to-night? he's all right, i suppose?" "oh yes," said frances. "vic's with him, looking out his words. he seems in very good spirits. i told him you were busy writing for the mail, and persuaded him to finish his lessons first. he'll be coming up to the drawing-room later." "i think mamma had better go to bed almost at once," said elsa, abruptly. "you've finished those letters, dear, haven't you?" "yes--all that i can write as yet. but i must go to see mr. norris first thing to-morrow morning. i have said to your uncle that i cannot send him particulars till next mail." "mamma, darling," said frances, "do you really think it's going to be very bad?" mrs. tudor smiled rather sadly. "i'm afraid so," she said; "but the suspense is the worst. once we really _know_, we can meet it. you three girls are all so good, and geoff, poor fellow--he _means_ to be good too." "yes," said frances, eagerly, "i'm sure he does." "but 'meaning' alone isn't much use," said elsa. "mamma," she went on with sudden energy, "if this does come--if we really do lose all our money, perhaps it will be the best thing for geoff in the end." mrs. tudor seemed to wince a little. "you needn't make the very worst of it just yet, any way," said frances, reproachfully. "and it would in one sense be the hardest on geoff," said the mother, "for his education would have to be stopped, just when he's getting on so well, too." "but----" began elsa, but she said no more. it was no use just then expressing what was in her mind--that getting on well at school, winning the good opinion of his masters, the good fellowship of his companions, did not comprise the whole nor even the most important part of the duty of a boy who was also a son and a brother--a son, too, of a widowed mother, and a brother of fatherless sisters. "i would almost rather," she said to herself, "that he got on less well at school if he were more of a comfort at home. it would be more manly, somehow." her mother did not notice her hesitation. "let us go upstairs, dears," she said. "i _am_ tired, but i am not going to let myself be over-anxious. i shall try to put things aside, as it were, till i hear from great-uncle hoot-toot. i have the fullest confidence in his advice." "i wish he would take it into his head to come home," said frances. "so do i," agreed her mother. they were hardly settled in the drawing-room before vic appeared. "elsa," she whispered, "geoff sent me to ask if he may have something to eat." "something to eat," repeated elsa. "he had two eggs with his tea. he can't be hungry." "no--o-- but there were anchovy toasts at dinner--harvey told him. and he's so fond of anchovy toasts. i think you'd better say he may, elsa, because of mamma." "very well," the elder sister replied. "it's not right--it's always the way. but what are we to do?" vicky waited not to hear her misgivings, but flew off. she was well-drilled, poor little soul. her brother was waiting for her, midway between the school-room and dining-room doors. "well?" he said, moving towards the latter. "yes. elsa says you may," replied the breathless little envoy. "elsa! what has she to do with it? i told you to ask mamma, not elsa," he said roughly. he stood leaning against the jamb of the door, his hands in his pockets, with a very cross look on his handsome face. but victoria, devoted little sister though she was, was not to be put down by any cross looks when she knew she was in the right. "geoff," she said sturdily, "i'll just leave off doing messages or anything for you if you are _so_ selfish. how could i go teasing mamma about anchovy toasts for you when she is so worried?" "how should i know she is busy and worried?" said geoff. "what do you mean? what is it about?" "i don't know. at least i only know that elsa and francie told me that she _was_ worried, and that she had letters to write for the ship that goes to india to-morrow." "for the indian mail you mean, i suppose," said geoff. "what a donkey you are for your age, vic! oh, if it's only that, she's writing to that old curmudgeon; _that's_ nothing new. come along, vicky, and i'll give you a bit of my toasts." [illustration: her brother was waiting for her.] he went into the dining-room as he spoke, and rang the bell. "harvey'll bring them up. i said i'd ring if i was to have them. upon my word, vic, it isn't every fellow of my age that would take things so quietly. never touching a scrap without leave, when lots like me come home to late dinner every night." "elsa says it's only middle-class people who let children dine late," said vic, primly, "_i_ shan't come down to dinner till i'm _out_." geoffrey burst out laughing. "rubbish!" he said. "elsa finds reasons for everything that suits her. here, vicky, take your piece." vicky was not partial to anchovy toasts, but to-night she was so anxious to keep geoff in a good humour, that she would have eaten anything he chose to give her, and pretended to like it. so she accepted her share, and geoff munched his in silence. he was a well-made, manly looking boy, not tall for his years, which were fourteen, but in such good proportion as to give promise of growing into a strong and vigorous man. his face was intended by nature to be a very pleasing one. the features were all good; there was nobility in the broad forehead, and candour in the bright dark eyes, and--sometimes--sweetness in the mouth. but this "sometimes" had for long been becoming of less and less frequent occurrence. a querulous, half-sulky expression had invaded the whole face: its curves and lines were hardening as those of no young face should harden; the very carriage of the boy was losing its bright upright fearlessness--his shoulders were learning to bend, his head to slouch forward. one needed but to glance at him to see that geoffrey tudor was fast becoming that most disagreeable of social characters, a grumbler! and with grumbling unrepressed, and indulged in, come worse things, for it has its root in that true "root of all evil," selfishness. as the last crumbs of the anchovy toasts disappeared, geoff glanced round him. "i say, vic," he began, "is there any water on the sideboard? those things are awfully salt. but i don't know that i'm exactly thirsty, either. i know what i'd like--a glass of claret, and i don't see why i shouldn't have it, either. at my age it's really too absurd that----" "what are you talking about, geoff?" said elsa's voice in the doorway. "mamma wants you to come up to the drawing-room for a little. what is it that is too absurd at your age?" "nothing in particular--or rather everything," said geoff, with a slight tone of defiance. there was something in elsa's rather too superior, too elder-sisterly way of speaking that, as he would have expressed it, "set him up." "i was saying to vic that i'd like a glass of claret, and that i don't see why i shouldn't have it, either. other fellows would help themselves to it. i often think i'm a great donkey for my pains." elsa looked at him with a strange mixture of sadness and contempt. "what will he be saying next, i wonder?" her glance seemed to say. but the words were not expressed. "come upstairs," she said. "vicky has told you, i know, that you must be _particularly_ careful not to tease mamma to-night." geoff returned her look with an almost fierce expression in the eyes that could be so soft and gentle. "i wish you'd mind your own business, and leave mother and me to ourselves. it's your meddling puts everything wrong," he muttered. but he followed his elder sister upstairs quietly enough. down in the bottom of his heart was hidden great faith in elsa. he would, had occasion demanded it, have given his life, fearlessly, cheerfully, for her or his mother, or the others. but the smaller sacrifices, of his likes and dislikes, of his silly boyish temper and humours--of "self," in short, he could not or would not make. still, something in elsa's words and manner this evening impressed him in spite of himself. he followed her into the drawing-room, fully _meaning_ to be good and considerate. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ii. "mayn't i speak to you, mamma?" that was the worst of it--the most puzzling part of it, rather, perhaps we should say--with geoffrey. he _meant_ to be good. he would not for worlds have done anything that he distinctly saw to be wrong. he worked well at his lessons, though to an accompaniment of constant grumbling--at home, that is to say; grumbling at school is not encouraged. he was rather a favourite with his companions, for he was a manly and "plucky" boy, entering heartily into the spirit of all their games and amusements, and he was thought well of by the masters for his steadiness and perseverance, though not by any means of naturally studious tastes. the wrong side of him was all reserved for home, and for his own family. yet, only son and fatherless though he was, he had not been "spoilt" in the ordinary sense of the word. mrs. tudor, though gentle, and in some ways timid, was not a weak or silly woman. she had brought up her children on certain broad rules of "must," as to which she was as firm as a rock, and these had succeeded so well with the girls that it was a complete surprise as well as the greatest of sorrows to her when she first began to see signs of trouble with her boy. and gradually her anxiety led her into the fatal mistake of spoiling geoffrey by making him of too much consequence. it came to be recognized in the household that his moods and humours were to be a sort of family barometer, and that all efforts were to be directed towards the avoidance of storms. not that geoff was passionate or violent. had he been so, things would have sooner come to a crisis. he was simply _tiresome_--tiresome to a degree that can scarcely be understood by those who have not experienced such tiresomeness for themselves. and as there is no doubt a grain of the bully somewhere in the nature of every boy--if not of every human being--what this tiresomeness might have grown into had the fates, or something higher than the fates, not interposed, it would be difficult to exaggerate. the cloudy look had not left geoff's face when he came into the drawing-room. but, alas! it was nothing new to see him "looking like that." his mother took no notice of it. "well, geoff?" she said pleasantly. "how have you got on to-day, my boy?" he muttered something indistinctly, which sounded like, "oh, all right;" then catching sight of elsa's reproachful face, he seemed to put some constraint on himself, and, coming forward to his mother, kissed her affectionately. "are you very tired to-night, mamma?" he said. "must i not speak to you?" mrs. tudor _was_ very tired, and she knew by old experience what geoff's "speaking" meant--an hour or more's unmitigated grumbling, and dragging forward of every possible grievance, to have each in turn talked over, and sympathized about, and smoothed down by her patient hand. such talks were not without their effect on the boy; much that his mother said appealed to his good sense and good feeling, though he but seldom gave her the satisfaction of seeing this directly. but they were very wearing to _her_, and it was carrying motherly unselfishness too far to undertake such discussion with geoff, when she was already worn out with unusual anxiety. she smiled, however, brightly enough, in reply to his questions. it cheered her to see that he could consider her even thus much. "of course i can speak to you, geoff. have you anything particular to tell me?" "lots of things," said the boy. he drew forward a chair in which to settle himself comfortably beside his mother, darting an indignant glance at his sisters as he did so. "humbugging me as usual about mamma--anything to keep me away from her," he muttered. but elsa and frances only glanced at each other in despair. "well," said mrs. tudor, resignedly, leaning back in her chair. "mamma," began geoffrey, "there must be something done about my pocket-money. i just can't do with what i've got. i've waited to speak about it till i had talked it over with some of the other fellows. they nearly all have more than i." "boys of your age--surely not?" interposed mrs. tudor. [illustration: "there must be something done about my pocket-money."] "well, _some_ of them are not older than i," allowed geoff. "if you'd give me more, and let me manage things for myself--football boots, and cricket-shoes, and that sort of thing. the girls"--with cutting emphasis--"are always hinting that i ask you for too many things, and _i_ hate to be seeming to be always at you for something. if you'd give me a regular allowance, now, and let me manage for myself." "at your age," repeated his mother, "that surely is very unusual." "i don't see that it matters exactly about age," said geoff, "if one's got sense." "but have you got sense enough, geoff?" said frances, gently. "i'm three years older than you, and i've only just begun to have an allowance for my clothes, and i should have got into a dreadful mess if it hadn't been for elsa helping me." "girls are quite different," said geoff. "they want all sorts of rubbishing ribbons and crinolines and flounces. boys only need regular necessary things." "then you haven't any wants at present, i should think, geoff," said elsa, in her peculiarly clear, rather aggravating tones. "you were completely rigged out when you came back from the country, three weeks ago." geoff glowered at her. "mamma," he said, "will you once for all make elsa and frances understand that when i'm speaking to you they needn't interfere?" mrs. tudor did not directly respond to this request. "will you tell me, geoff," she said, "what has put all this into your head? what things are you in want of?" geoff hesitated. fancied wants, like fancied grievances, have an annoying trick of refusing to answer to the roll-call when distinctly summoned to do so. "there's lots of things," he began. "i _should_ have a pair of proper football boots, instead of just an old common pair with ribs stuck on, you know, like i have. all the fellows have proper ones when they're fifteen or so." "but you are not fifteen." "well, i might wait about the _boots_ till next term. but i do really want a pair of boxing-gloves dreadfully," he went on energetically, as the idea occurred to him; "you know i began boxing this term." "and don't they provide boxing-gloves? how have you managed hitherto?" asked his mother, in surprise. "oh, well, yes--there _are_ gloves; but of course it's much nicer to have them of one's own. it's horrid always to seem just one of the lot that can't afford things of their own." "and if you are _not_ rich--and i dare say nearly all your schoolfellows are richer than you"--said elsa, "is it not much better not to sham that you are?" "sham," repeated geoff, roughly. "mamma, i do think you should speak to elsa.--if you were a boy----" he added, turning to his sister threateningly. "i don't want to sham about anything; but it's very hard to be sent to a school when you can't have everything the same as the others." a look of pain crept over mrs. tudor's tired face. had she done wrong? was it another of her "mistakes"--of which, like all candid people, she felt she had made many in her life--to have sent geoff to a first-class school? "geoff," she said weariedly, "you surely do not realize what you cause me when you speak so. it was almost my principal reason for settling in london seven years ago, that i might be able to send you to one of the best schools. we could have lived more cheaply, and more comfortably, in the country; but you would have had to go to a different class of school." "well, i wish i had, then," said geoff, querulously. "i perfectly hate london; i have always told you so. i shouldn't mind what i did if it was in the country. it isn't that i want to spend money, or that i've extravagant ideas; but it's too hard to be in a false position, as i am at school--not able to have things like the other fellows. you would have made _me_ far happier if you had gone to live in the country and let me go to a country school. i _hate_ london; and just because i want things like other fellows, i'm scolded." mrs. tudor did not speak. she looked sad and terribly tired. "geoff," said elsa, putting great control on herself so as to speak very gently, for she felt as if she could gladly shake him, "you must see that mamma is very tired. do wait to talk to her till she is better able for it. and it is getting late." "do go, geoff," said his mother. "i have listened to what you have said; it is not likely i shall forget it. i will talk to you afterwards." the boy looked rather ashamed. "i haven't meant to vex you," he said, as he stooped to kiss his mother. "i'm sorry you're so tired." there was silence for a moment after he had left the room. "i am afraid there is a mixture of truth in what he says," said mrs. tudor, at last. "it has been one of the many mistakes i have made, and now i suppose i am to be punished for it." elsa made a movement of impatience. "mamma dear!" she exclaimed, "i don't think you would speak that way if you weren't tired. there isn't any truth in what geoff says. i don't mean that he tells stories; but it's just his incessant grumbling. he makes himself believe all sorts of nonsense. he has everything right for a boy of his age to have. i know there are boys whose parents are really rich who have less than he has." "yes, indeed, mamma; elsa is right," said frances. "geoff is insatiable. he picks out the things boys here and there may have as an exception, and wants to have them all. he has a perfect genius for grumbling." "because he is always thinking of himself," said elsa. "mamma, don't think me disrespectful, but would it not be better to avoid saying things which make him think himself of such consequence--like telling him that we came to live in town principally for _his_ sake?" "perhaps so," said her mother. "i am always in hopes of making him ashamed, by showing how much _has_ been done for him." "and he does feel ashamed," said frances, eagerly. "i saw it to-night; he'd have liked to say something more if he hadn't been too proud to own that he had been inventing grievances." "things have been too smooth for him," said elsa; "that's the truth of it. he needs some hardships." "and as things are turning out he's very likely to get them," said mrs. tudor, with a rather wintry smile. "oh, mamma, forgive me! do you know, i had forgotten all about our money troubles," elsa exclaimed. "why don't you tell geoff about them, mamma? it's in a way hardly fair on him; for if he knew, it _might_ make him understand how wrong and selfish he is." "i will tell him soon, but not just yet. i do not want to distract his mind from his lessons, and i wish to be quite sure first. i think i should wait till i hear from your great-uncle." "and that will be--how long? it is how many weeks since mr. norris first wrote that he was uneasy? about seven, i should say," said elsa. "quite that," said her mother. "it is the waiting that is so trying. i can do nothing without great-uncle hoot-toot's advice." that last sentence had been a familiar one to mrs. tudor's children almost ever since they could remember. "great-uncle hoot-toot" had been a sort of autocrat and benefactor in one, to the family. his opinions, his advice had been asked on all matters of importance; his approval had been held out to them as the highest reward, his displeasure as the punishment most to be dreaded. and yet they had never seen him! "i wish he would come home himself," said elsa. "i think geoff would be much the better for a visit from him," she added, with a slight touch of sharpness in her tone. "poor geoff!" said her mother. "i suppose the truth is that very few women know how to manage boys." "i don't see that," said elsie. "on the contrary, a generous-natured boy is often more influenced by a woman's gentleness than by a man's severity. it is just that, that i don't like about geoff. there is a want of generous, chivalrous feeling about him." "no," said frances. "i don't quite agree with you. i think it is there, but somehow not awakened. mamma," she went on, "supposing our great-uncle did come home, would he be dreadfully angry if he found out that we all called him 'hoot-toot'?" "oh no," said her mother, smiling; "he's quite used to it. your father told me he had had the trick nearly all his life of saying 'hoot-toot, hoot-toot!' if ever he was perplexed or disapproving." "what a _very_ funny little boy he must have been!" exclaimed both the girls together. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iii. an unlooked-for arrival. the next few days were trying ones for all the tudor family. the mother was waiting anxiously for further news of the money losses, with which, as her lawyers told her, she was threatened; the sisters were anxious too, though, with the bright hopefulness of their age, the troubles which distressed their mother fell much more lightly on them: _they_ were anxious because they saw _her_ suffering. vicky had some misty idea that something was wrong, but she knew very little, and had been forbidden to say anything to geoff about the little she did know. so that of the whole household geoff was the only one who knew nothing, and went on living in his fool's paradise of having all his wants supplied, yet grumbling that he had nothing! he was in a particularly tiresome mood--perhaps, in spite of themselves, it was impossible for his sisters to bear with him as patiently as usual; perhaps the sight of his mother's pale face made him dissatisfied with himself and cross because he would not honestly own that he was doing nothing to help and please her. and the weather was very disagreeable, and among geoff's many "hates" was a very exaggerated dislike to bad weather. about this sort of thing he had grumbled much more since his return from a long visit to some friends in the country the summer before, when the weather had been splendid, and everything done to make him enjoy himself, in consequence of which he had come home with a fixed idea that the country was always bright and charming; that it was only in town that one had to face rain and cold and mud. as to fog, he had perhaps more ground for his belief. "did you ever see such beastly weather?" were his first words to vicky one evening when the good little sister had rushed to the door on hearing geoff's ring, so that his majesty should not be kept waiting an unnecessary moment. "i am perfectly drenched, and as cold as ice. is tea ready, vic?" "quite ready--at least it will be by the time you've changed your things. do run up quick, geoff. it's a bad thing to keep on wet clothes." "mamma should have thought of that before she sent me to a day-school," said geoff. "i've a good mind just _not_ to change my clothes, and take my chance of getting cold. it's perfect slavery--up in the morning before it's light, and not home till pitch dark, and soaked into the bargain." "hadn't you your mackintosh on?" asked vicky. "my mackintosh! it's in rags. i should have had a new one ages ago." "geoff! i'm sure it can't be so bad. you've not had it a year." "a year. no one wears a mackintosh for a year. the buttons are all off, and the button-holes are burst." "i'm sure they can be mended. martha would have done it if you'd asked her," said vic, resolving to see to the unhappy mackintosh herself. "i know poor mamma doesn't want to spend any extra money just now." "there's a great deal too much spent on elsa and frances, and all their furbelows," said geoff, in what he thought a very manly tone. "here, vicky, help me to pull off my boots, and then i must climb up to the top of the house to change my things." vicky knelt down obediently and tugged at the muddy boots, though it was a task she disliked as much as she could dislike anything. she was rewarded by a gruff "thank you," and when geoff came down again in dry clothes, to find the table neatly prepared, and his little sister ready to pour out his tea, he did condescend to say that she was a good child! but even though his toast was hot and crisp, and his egg boiled to perfection, geoff's pleasanter mood did not last long. he had a good many lessons to do that evening, and they were lessons he disliked. vicky sat patiently, doing her best to help him till her bedtime came, and he had barely finished when frances brought a message that he was to come upstairs--mamma said he was not to work any longer. "you have finished, surely, geoff?" she said, when he entered the drawing-room. "if i had finished, i would have come up sooner. you don't suppose i stay down there grinding away to please myself, do you?" replied the boy, rudely. "geoff!" exclaimed his sisters, unwisely, perhaps. he turned upon them. "i've not come to have you preaching at me. mamma, will you speak to them?" he burst out. "i hate this life--nothing but fault-finding as soon as i show my face. i wish i were out of it, i do! i'd rather be the poorest ploughboy in the country than lead this miserable life in this hateful london." [illustration: vicky ... tugged at the muddy boots.] he said the last words loudly, almost shouting them, indeed. to do him justice, it was not often his temper got so completely the better of him. the noise he was making had prevented him and the others from hearing the bell ring--prevented them, too, from hearing, a moment or two later, a short colloquy on the stairs between harvey and a new-comer. "thank you," said the latter; "i don't want you to announce me. i'll do it myself." geoff had left the door open. "yes," he was just repeating, even more loudly than before, "i hate this life, i do. i am grinding at lessons from morning to night, and when i come home this is the way you treat me. i----" but a voice behind him made him start. "hoot-toot, young man," it said. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot! come, i say, this sort of thing will never do. and ladies present! hoot----" but the "toot" was drowned in a scream from mrs. tudor. "uncle, dear uncle, is it you? can it be you yourself? oh, geoff, geoff! he is not often such a foolish boy, uncle, believe me. oh, how--how thankful i am you have come!" she had risen from her seat and rushed forward to greet the stranger, but suddenly she grew strangely pale, and seemed on the point of falling. elsa flew towards her on the one side, and the old gentleman on the other. "poor dear!" he exclaimed. "i have startled her, i'm afraid. hoot-toot, hoot-toot, silly old man that i am. where's that ill-tempered fellow off to?" he went on, glancing round. "can't he fetch a glass of water, or make himself useful in some way?" "i will," said frances, darting forward. geoffrey had disappeared, and small wonder. "i am quite right now, thank you," said mrs. tudor, trying to smile, when elsa had got her on to the sofa. "don't be frightened, elsa dear. nor you, uncle; it was just the--the start. i've had a good deal to make me anxious lately, you know." "i should think i did--those idiots of lawyers!" muttered the old man. "and poor geoff," she went on; "i am afraid i have not paid much attention to him lately, and he's felt it--foolishly, perhaps." "rubbish!" said uncle hoot-toot under his breath. "strikes me he's used to a good deal too much attention," he added as an aside to elsa, with a quick look of inquiry in his bright keen eyes. elsa could hardly help smiling, but for her mother's sake she restrained herself. "it will be all right now you have come home, dear uncle," mrs. tudor went on gently. "how was it? had you started before you got my letters? why did you not let us know?" "i was on the point of writing to announce my departure," said the old gentleman, "when your letter came. it struck me then that i could get home nearly as quickly as a letter, and so i thought it was no use writing." "then you know--you know all about this bad news?" said mrs. tudor falteringly. [illustration: the arrival of great-uncle hoot-toot.] "yes; those fellows wrote to me. _that_ was right enough; but what they meant by worrying you about it, my dear, i can't conceive. it was quite against all my orders. what did poor frank make me your trustee for, if it wasn't to manage these things for you?" "then you think, you hope, there may be something left to manage, do you?" asked mrs. tudor, eagerly. "i have been anticipating the very worst. i did not quite like to put it in words to these poor children"--and she looked up affectionately at the two girls; "but i have really been trying to make up my mind to our being quite ruined." "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said her uncle. "no such nonsense, my dear. i shall go to norris's to-morrow morning and have it out with him. ruined! no, no. it'll be all right, you'll see. we'll go into it all, and you have nothing to do but leave things to me. now let us talk of pleasanter matters. what a nice, pretty little house you've got! and what nice, pretty little daughters! good girls, too, or i'm uncommonly mistaken. they're comforts to you, alice, my dear, eh?" "the greatest possible comforts," answered the mother, warmly. "and so is little vic. you haven't seen her yet." "little vic? oh, to be sure--my namesake." for great-uncle hoot-toot's real name, you must know, was mr. victor byrne. "to be sure; must see her to-morrow; vic, to be sure." "and geoffrey," mrs. tudor went on less assuredly. "geoff is doing very well at school. you will have a good report of him from his masters. he is a steady worker, and----" "but how about the _home_ report of him, eh?" said mr. byrne, drily. "there's two sides to most things, and i've rather a weakness for seeing both. never mind about that just now. i never take up impressions hastily. don't be afraid. i'll see master geoff for myself. let's talk of other things. what do these young ladies busy themselves about? are they good housekeepers, eh?" mrs. tudor smiled. "can you make a pudding and a shirt, elsa and frances?" she asked. "tell your uncle your capabilities." "i could manage the pudding," said elsa. "i think the days for home-made shirts are over." "hoot-toot, toot-toot!" said mr. byrne; "new-fangled notions, eh?" "no, indeed, great-uncle hoot----" began frances, eagerly. then blushing furiously, she stopped short. the old gentleman burst out laughing. "never mind, my dear; i'm used to it. it's what they always called me--all my nephews and nieces." "have you a great many nephews and nieces besides us?" asked elsa. mr. byrne laughed again. "that depends upon myself," he said. "i make them, you see. i have had any quantity in my day, but they're scattered far and wide. and--there are a great many blanks, alice, my dear, since i was last at home," he added, turning to mrs. tudor. "i don't know that any of them was ever quite such a pet of mine as this little mother of yours, my dears." "oh!" said elsa, looking rather disappointed; "you are not our real uncle, then? i always thought you were." [illustration: my blackamoor.] "well, think so still," said mr. byrne. "at any rate, you must treat me so, and then i shall be quite content. but i must be going. i shall see you to-morrow after i've had it out with that donkey norris. what a stupid idiot he is, to be sure!" and for a moment great-uncle hoot-toot looked quite fierce. "and then i must see little vic. what time shall i come to-morrow, alice?" "whenever you like, uncle," she said. "will you not come and stay here altogether?" "no, thank you, my dear. i've got my own ways, you see. i'm a fussy old fellow. and i've got my servant--my blackamoor. he'd frighten all the neighbours. and you'd fuss yourself, thinking i wasn't comfortable. i'll come up to-morrow afternoon and stay on to dinner, if you like. and just leave the boy to me a bit. good night, all of you; good night." and in another moment the little old gentleman was gone. the two girls and their mother sat staring at each other when he had disappeared. "isn't it like a dream? can you believe he has really come, mamma?" said elsa. "hardly," replied her mother. "but i am very thankful. if only geoff will not vex him." elsa and frances said nothing. they had their own thoughts about their brother, but they felt it best not to express them. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iv. foolish geoff. "is he like what you expected, elsa?" asked frances, when they were in their own room. "who? great-uncle hoot-toot? i'm sure i don't know. i don't think i ever thought about what he'd be like." "oh, i _had_ an idea," said frances. "quite different, of course, from what he really is. i had fancied he'd be tall and stooping, and with a big nose and very queer eyes. i think i must have mixed him up with the old godfather in the 'nutcracker of nuremberg,' without knowing it." "well, he's not so bad as that, anyway," said elsa. "he looks rather shrivelled and dried up; but he's so very neat and refined-looking. did you notice what small brown hands he has, and such _very_ bright eyes? isn't it funny that he's only an adopted uncle, after all?" "i think mamma had really forgotten he wasn't our real uncle," said frances. "elsa, i am very glad he has come. i think poor mamma has been far more unhappy than she let us know. she does look so ill." "it's half of it geoff," said elsa, indignantly. "and now he must needs spoil great-uncle hoot-toot's arrival by his tempers. perhaps it's just as well, however. 'by the pricking of my thumbs,' i fancy geoff has met his master." "elsa, you frighten me a little," said frances. "you don't think he'll be very severe with poor geoff?" "i don't think he'll be more severe than is for geoff's good," replied elsa. "i must confess, though, i shouldn't like to face great-uncle hoot-toot if i felt i had been behaving badly. how his eyes can gleam!" "and how he seemed to flash in upon us all of a sudden, and to disappear almost as quickly! i'm afraid there's something a little bit uncanny about him," said frances, who was very imaginative. "but if he helps to put all the money troubles right, he will certainly be like a good fairy to us." "yes; and if he takes geoff in hand," added elsa. "but, frances, we must go to bed. i want to make everything very nice to-morrow; i'm going to think about what to have for dinner while i go to sleep." for elsa was housekeeper--a very zealous and rather anxious-minded young housekeeper. her dreams were often haunted by visions of bakers' books and fishmongers' bills; to-night curry and pilau chased each other through her brain, and frances was aroused from her first sweet slumbers to be asked if she would remember to look first thing to-morrow morning if there was a bottle of chutney in the store-closet. [illustration: elsa was housekeeper.] at breakfast geoff came in, looking glum and slightly defiant. but he said nothing except "good morning." he started, however, a little, when he saw his mother. "mamma," he said, "are you not well? you look so very pale." the girls glanced up at this. it was true. they had not observed it in the excitement of discussing the new arrival, and the satisfaction of knowing it had brought relief to mrs. tudor's most pressing anxieties. "yes, mamma dear. it is true. you do look very pale. now, you must not do anything to tire yourself all day. we will manage everything, so that great-uncle hoot-toot shall see we are not silly useless girls," said elsa. geoffrey's lips opened as if he were about to speak, but he closed them again. he was still on his high horse. "geoff," said his mother, as he was leaving, "you will dine with us this evening. try to get your lessons done quickly. uncle will wish to see something of you." he muttered an indistinct "very well, mamma," as he shut the door. "humph!" he said to himself, "i suppose elsa will want to make him think i'm properly treated. but _i_ shall tell him the truth--any _man_ will understand how impossible it is for me to stand it any longer. i don't mind if he did hear me shouting last night. there's a limit to endurance. but i wish mamma didn't look so pale. of course they'll make out it's all _my_ fault." and feeling himself and his grievances of even more consequence than usual, master geoff stalked off. great-uncle hoot-toot made his appearance in the afternoon rather earlier than he was expected. he found mrs. tudor alone in the drawing-room, and had a talk with her by themselves, and then vicky was sent for, to make his acquaintance. the little girl came into the drawing-room looking very much on her good behaviour indeed--so much so that elsa and frances, who were with her, could scarcely help laughing. "how do you do, my dear?" said her great-uncle, looking at her with his bright eyes. "quite well, thank you," replied the little girl. "hoot-toot!" said the old gentleman; "and is that all you've got to say to me?--a poor old fellow like me, who have come all the way from india to see you." vicky looked up doubtfully, her blue eyes wandered all over great-uncle hoot-toot's queer brown face and trim little figure. a red flush spread slowly upwards from her cheeks to the roots of her fair hair, and by the peculiar droop in the corners of her mouth, elsa, who was nearest her, saw that tears were not far off. "what is it, vicky dear?" she whispered. "what _will_ he think of the children? geoff in a temper, and vicky crying for nothing!" she said to herself. "you are not frightened?" she added aloud. "no," said vicky, trying to recover herself. "it's only about geoff. i want to ask--_him_--not to be angry with geoff." "and why should i be angry with geoff?" said the old gentleman, his eyes twinkling. "has he been saying so to you?" "oh no!" the little girl eagerly replied. "geoff didn't say anything. it was harvey and martha. they said they hoped he'd find his master now _you'd_ come, and that it was time he had some of his nonsense whipped out of him. you won't whip him, will you? oh, please, please say you won't!" and she clasped her hands beseechingly. "geoff isn't naughty _really_. he doesn't mean to be naughty." the tears were very near now. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said mr. byrne. "come, come, my little vic; i don't like this at all. so they've been making me out an ogre. that's too bad. me whip geoff! why, i think he could better whip me--a strong, sturdy fellow like that. no, no, i don't want to whip him, i assure you. but i'm glad to see geoff's got such a good little sister, and that she's so fond of him. he's not a bad brother to you, i hope? you couldn't be so fond of him if he were." "oh no; geoff's not naughty to me, scarcely _never_," said vicky, eagerly. "i'm sure he never wants to be naughty. it's just that he's got some bad habits, of teasing and grumbling, and he can't get out of them," she went on, with a little air of wisdom that was very funny. "exactly," said uncle hoot-toot, nodding his head. "well, don't you think it would be a very good thing if we could help him to get out of them?" vicky looked up doubtfully again. "if i think of some plan--something that may really do him good, you'll trust your poor old uncle, won't you, my little vic?" she gave him a long steady stare. "yes," she said at last. then with a sigh, "i would like geoff to get out of his tiresome ways." and from this time great-uncle hoot-toot and vicky were fast friends. then he asked elsa and frances to go out a little walk with him. "is your mother always as pale as i have seen her?" he said abruptly, almost as soon as they were alone. elsa hesitated. "no," she said at last. "i'm afraid she is not at all well. geoff noticed it this morning." "oh, indeed! then he does notice things sometimes?" said mr. byrne, drily. "he's very fond of mamma," put in frances. "he takes a queer way to show it, it strikes me," remarked her uncle. "it's--it's all his temper, i'm afraid," frances allowed reluctantly. "it is that he's spoilt," said elsa. "he's perhaps not spoilt in one way, but in another he is. he has never known any hardships or been forced into any self-denial. great-uncle," she went on earnestly, "if it's true that we have lost or are going to lose nearly all our money, won't it perhaps be a good thing for geoff?" "who says you're going to lose your money?" "i don't know exactly why i feel sure it's not coming right. i know you said so to mamma--at least you tried to make her happier; but i can't understand it. if that mr. norris wrote so strongly, there must be something wrong." mr. byrne moved and looked at her sharply. "you don't speak that way to your mother, i hope?" "of course not," said elsa; "i'm only too glad for her to feel happier about it. i was only speaking of what i thought myself." "well--well--as long as your mother's mind is easier it doesn't matter. i cannot explain things fully to you at present, but you seem to be sensible girls, and girls to be trusted. i may just tell you this much--all this trouble is nothing new; i had seen it coming for years. the only thing i had not anticipated was that those fools of lawyers should have told your mother about the crash when it did come. there was no need for her to know anything about it. i'm her trustee----" "but not legally," interrupted elsa. "mamma explained to us that you couldn't be held responsible, as it was only like a friend that you had helped her all these years." "hoot-toot, toot-toot!" he replied testily; "what difference does that make? but never mind. i will explain all about it to you both--before long. just now the question is your mother. i think you will agree with me when i say that it is plain to me that master geoff should leave home?" "i'm afraid mamma will be very much against it," said elsa. "you see, geoff is a good boy in big things, and mamma thinks it is owing to her having kept home influence over him. he's truthful and conscientious--he is, indeed, and you must see i'm not inclined to take his part." "but he's selfish, and bullying, and ungrateful. not pretty qualities, my dear, or likely to make a good foundation for a man's after-life. i'm not going to send him to a grand boarding-school, however--that i promise you, for i think it would be the ruin of him. whatever i may do to save your mother, i don't see but that master geoff should face his true position." "and we too, great-uncle," said frances, eagerly. "elsa and i are quite ready to work; we've thought of several plans already." "i quite believe you, my dear," said mr. byrne, approvingly. "you shall tell me your plans some time soon, and i will tell you mine. no fear but that you shall have work to do." "and----" began elsa, but then she hesitated. "i was going to ask you not to decide anything about geoff till you have seen more of him. if frances and i could earn enough to keep him at school as he is, so that mamma could have the comf---- no, i'm afraid i can't honestly say that having geoff at home would be any comfort to her--less than ever if frances and i were away. great-uncle, don't you think geoff should have some idea of all this?" "certainly. but i cannot risk his teasing your mother. we will wait a few days. i should like to see poor alice looking better; and i shall judge of geoff for myself, my dears." they were just at home again by this time. vicky met them at the door. she was in great excitement about mr. byrne's indian servant, who had come with his master's evening clothes. "i was watching for geoff, to tell him!" she exclaimed. "but my tea's ready; i must go." and off she ran. "good little girl," said great-uncle hoot-toot, nodding his head approvingly. "no grumbling from _her_, eh?" "no, never," said elsa, warmly. "she's having her tea alone to-day. geoff's coming in to dinner in your honour." "humph!" said the old gentleman. [illustration] [illustration: geoff's interview with great-uncle hoot-toot.] [illustration] chapter v. a crisis. mrs. tudor and the two girls had gone upstairs to the drawing-room. geoff glanced dubiously at great-uncle hoot-toot. "shall i--shall i stay with you, sir?" he asked. geoff was on his good behaviour. the old gentleman glanced at him. "certainly, my boy, if you've nothing better to do," he said. "no lessons--eh?" "no, sir," geoff replied. "i've got all done, except a little i can do in the morning." "they work you pretty hard, eh?" "yes, they do. there's not much fun for a fellow who's at school in london. it's pretty much the same story--grind, grind, from one week's end to another." "hoot-toot! that sounds melancholy," said mr. byrne. "no holidays, eh?" "oh, of course, i've some holidays," said geoff. "but, you see, when a fellow has only got a mother and sisters----" "_only_," repeated the old gentleman; but geoff detected no sarcasm in his tone. "and mother's afraid of my skating, or boating on the river, or----" "doesn't she let you go in for the school games?" interrupted mr. byrne again. "oh yes; it would be too silly not to do _that_. i told her at the beginning--i mean, she understood--it wouldn't do. but there's lots of things i'd like to do, if mother wasn't afraid. i should like to ride, or at least to have a tricycle. it's about the only thing to make life bearable in this horrible place. such weather! i do hate london!" "indeed!" said mr. byrne. "it's a pity your mother didn't consult you before settling here." "she did it for the best, i suppose," said geoff. "she didn't want to part with me, you see. but i'd rather have been at a boarding-school in the country; i do so detest london. and then it's not pleasant to be too poor to have things one should have at a public school." "what may those be?" inquired the old gentleman. "oh, heaps of things. pocket-money, for one thing. i was telling mother about it. i really should have more, if i'm to stay properly at school. there's dick colethorne, where i was staying last holidays--cousins of ours; he has six times what i have, and he's only two years older." "and--is his mother a widow, and in somewhat restricted circumstances?" asked mr. byrne. "oh no," replied geoff, unwarily. "his father's a very rich man; and dick is the only child." "all the same, begging mr. colethorne's pardon, if he were twenty times as rich as croesus, i think he's making a tremendous mistake in giving his boy a great deal of pocket-money," said mr. byrne. "well, of course, i shouldn't want as much as he has," said geoff; "but still----" "geoffrey, my boy," said the old gentleman, rising as he spoke, "it strikes me you're getting on a wrong tack. but we'll have some more talk about all this. i don't want to keep your mother waiting, as i promised to talk some more to _her_ this evening. so we'll go upstairs. some day, perhaps, i'll tell you some of the experiences of _my_ boyhood. i'm glad, by-the-by, to see that you don't take wine." "no-o," said geoff. "that's one of the things mother is rather fussy about. i'd like to talk about it with you, sir; i don't see but that at my age i might now and then take a glass of sherry--or of claret, even. it looks so foolish never to touch any. it's not that i _care_ about it, you know." "at your age?" repeated mr. byrne, slowly. "well, geoff--do you know, i don't quite agree with you. nor do i see the fun of taking a thing you 'don't care about,' just for the sake of looking as if those who had the care of you didn't know what they were about." they were half-way upstairs by this time. geoff's face did not wear its pleasantest expression as they entered the drawing-room. "he's a horrid old curmudgeon," he whispered to vicky; "i believe elsa's been setting him against me." vicky looked at him with reproachful eyes. "oh, geoff," she said, "i do think he's so nice." "you do, do you?" said he. "well, i don't. i'll tell you what, vicky; i've a great mind to run away. i do so hate this life. i work ever so much harder than most of the fellows, and i never get any thanks for it; and everything i want is grudged me. my umbrella's all in rags, and i'm ashamed to take it out; and if i was to ask mamma for a new one, they'd all be down on me again, you'd see." "but you haven't had it long, geoff," said vic. "i've had it nearly a year. you're getting as bad as the rest, vicky," he said querulously. he had forgotten that he was not alone in the room with his little sister, and had raised his tone, as he was too much in the habit of doing. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said a now well-known voice from the other side of the room; "what's all that about over there? you and victoria can't be quarrelling, surely?" mrs. tudor looked up anxiously. "oh no," said vicky, eagerly; "we were only talking." "and about what, pray?" persisted mr. byrne. vicky hesitated. she did not want to vex geoff, but she was unused to any but straightforward replies. "about geoff's umbrella," she said, growing very red. "about geoff's umbrella?" repeated the old gentleman. "what could there be so interesting and exciting to say about geoff's umbrella?" "only that i haven't got one--at least, mine's in rags; and if i say i need a new one, they'll all be down upon me for extravagance," said geoff, as sulkily as he dared. "my dear boy, don't talk in that dreadfully aggrieved tone," said his mother, trying to speak lightly. "you know i have never refused you anything you really require." geoffrey did not reply, at least not audibly. but elsa's quick ears and some other ears besides hers--for it is a curious fact that old people, when they are not deaf, are often peculiarly the reverse--caught his muttered whisper. "of course. always the way if _i_ want anything." mr. byrne did not stay late. he saw that mrs. tudor looked tired and depressed, and he did not wish to be alone with her to talk about geoff, as she probably would have done, for he could not have spoken of the boy as she would have wished to hear. a few days passed. great-uncle hoot-toot spent a part of each with the tudor family, quietly making his observations. geoff certainly did not show to advantage; and though his mother wore herself out with talking to him and trying to bring him to a more reasonable frame of mind, it was of no use. so at last she took elsa's advice and left the discontented, tiresome boy to himself, for perhaps the first time in his life. and every evening, when alone with victoria, the selfish boy entertained his poor little sister with his projects of running away from a home where he was so little appreciated. but a change came, and that in a way which geoffrey little expected. one evening when mr. byrne said "good night," it struck him that his niece looked particularly tired. "make your mother go to bed at once, elsa," he said, "i don't like her looks. if she's not better to-morrow, i must have a doctor to see her. and," he added in a lower tone still, "don't let geoffrey go near her to-morrow morning. has he bothered her much lately?" "mamma has left him alone. it was much the best thing to do," elsa replied. "but all the same, i can see that it is making her very unhappy." "time something should be done; that's growing very plain," said mr. byrne. "try and keep her quiet in the mean time, my dear. i have nearly made up my mind, and i'll tell you all about it to-morrow." elsa felt rather frightened. "great-uncle," she said, "i don't want to make silly excuses for geoff, but it is true that he has never been quite so ill-natured and worrying as lately." "or perhaps you have never seen it so plainly," said the old gentleman. "but you needn't think i require to be softened to him, my dear; i am only thinking of his good. he's not a bad lad at bottom; there's good stuff in him. but he's ruining himself, and half killing your mother. life's been too easy to him, as you've said yourself. he needs bringing to his senses." geoff slept soundly; moreover, his room was at the top of the house. he did not hear any disturbance that night--the opening and shutting of doors, the anxious whispering voices, the sound of wheels driving rapidly up to the door. he knew nothing of it all. for, alas! his tiresome, fidgety temper had caused him to be looked upon as no better than a sort of naughty child in the house--of no use or assistance, concerning whom every one's first thought in any trouble was, "we must manage to get geoff out of the way, or to keep him quiet." when he awoke it was still dark. but there was a light in his room--some one had come in with a candle. it was elsa. he rubbed his eyes and looked at her with a strange unreal feeling, as if he were still dreaming. and when he saw her face, the unreal feeling did not go away. she seemed so unlike herself, in her long white dressing-gown, the light of the candle she was holding making her look so pale, and her eyes so strained and anxious--_was_ it the candle, or was she really so very pale? "elsa," he said sleepily, "what are you doing? what is the matter? isn't it dreadfully late--or--or early for you to be up?" he went on confusedly. "it's the morning," said elsa, "but we haven't been in bed all night--frances and i. at least, we had only been in bed half an hour or so, when we were called up." "what was it?" asked geoff, sleepily still. "was the house on fire?" "oh, geoff, don't be silly!" said elsa; "it's--it's much worse. mamma has been so ill--she is still." geoff started up now. "do you want me to go for the doctor?" he said. "the doctor has been twice already, and he's coming back at nine o'clock," she answered sadly. "he thought her a tiny bit better when he came the last time. but she's very ill--she must be kept most _exceedingly_ quiet, and----" "i'll get up now at once," said geoff; "i won't be five minutes, elsa. tell mamma i'd have got up before if i'd known." "but, geoff," said elsa, firmly, though reluctantly, "it's no use your hurrying up for that. you can't see her--you can't possibly see her before you go to school, anyway. the doctor says she is to be kept _perfectly_ quiet, and not worried in any way." "i wouldn't worry her, not when she's ill," said geoff, hastily. [illustration: it was elsa.] "you couldn't help it," said elsa. "she--she was very worried about you last night, and she kept talking about your umbrella in a confused sort of way now and then all night. we quieted her at last by telling her we had given you one to go to school with. but if she saw you, even for an instant, she would begin again. the doctor said you were not to go into her room." a choking feeling had come into geoff's throat when elsa spoke about the umbrella; a very little more and he would have burst into tears of remorse. but as she went on, pride and irritation got the better of him. he was too completely unused to think of or for any one before himself, to be able to do so all of a sudden, and it was a sort of relief to burst out at his sister in the old way. "i think you're forgetting yourself, elsa. is mamma not as much to _me_ as to you girls? do you think i haven't the sense to know how to behave when any one's ill? i tell you i just will and shall go to see her, whatever you say;" and he began dragging on his socks as if he were going to rush down to his mother's room that very moment. elsa grew still paler than she had been before. "geoff," she said, "you must listen to me. it was for that i came up to tell you. you must _not_ come into mother's room. i'd do anything to prevent it, but i can't believe that you'll force me to quarrel with you this morning when--when we are all so unhappy. i don't want to make you more unhappy, but i can't help speaking plainly to you. you _have_ worried mamma terribly lately, geoff, and now you must bear the punishment. it's--it's as much as her life is worth for you to go into her room and speak to her this morning. i cannot allow it." "_you_ allow it!" burst out geoff. "are you the head of the house?" "yes," said elsa, "when mamma is ill, i consider that i am. and what's more, geoff, i have telegraphed to great-uncle hoot-toot. he made me promise to do so if mamma were ill. i expect him directly. it is past seven. geoff, you had better dress and take your breakfast as usual. i will come down and tell you how mamma is the last thing before you go." "i _will_ see mamma before i go to school," he replied sharply. "i give you fair warning." "geoff," said elsa, "you shall not." and with these words she left the room. [illustration] [illustration] chapter vi. geoff "won't stand it." geoff hurried on with his dressing. he was wretchedly unhappy--all the more so because he was furiously angry with elsa, and perhaps, at the bottom of his heart, with himself. his room was, as i have said, at the top of the house. he did not hear the front-door bell ring while he was splashing in his bath; and as he rushed downstairs a quarter of an hour or so after elsa had left him, he was considerably taken aback to be met at the foot of the first flight by the now familiar figure of mr. byrne. "geoffrey," he said quietly, "your sisters have gone to lie down and try to sleep for a little. they have been up all night, and they are likely to want all their strength. go down to the school-room and get your breakfast. when you have finished, i will come to talk to you a little before you go to school." geoff glanced up. there was something in great-uncle hoot-toot's face which made him feel there was no use in blustering or resisting. "very well," he said, putting as little expression in his voice as he could; and as mr. byrne turned away, the boy made his way down to the school-room. it looked dreary and strange this morning. it was earlier than usual, and perhaps the room had been less carefully done, for mrs. tudor's illness had upset the whole household. the fire was only just lighted; the preparations for geoff's breakfast were only half ready. it was a very chilly day; and as the boy sat down by the table, leaning his head on his hands, he shivered both with cold and unhappiness. "they all hate me," he said to himself. "i've known it for a long time, but i've never been so sure of it before. it is much the best for me to go away. mamma _has_ cared for me; but they're making her leave off, and they'll set her entirely against me. she'll be far better and happier without me; and when she gets well--i dare say they have exaggerated her illness--they will have the pleasure of saying it's because i'm gone. there's only vic who'll really care. but she won't mind so very much, either. i'll write to her now and then. i must think how best to do about going away. i hate the sea; there's no use thinking of that. i don't mind what i do, if it's in the country. i might go down to some farmhouse--one of those jolly farms where dick and i used to get a glass of milk last summer. i wouldn't mind a bit, working on one of those farms. it would be much jollier than grinding away at school. and i am sure dick and i did as much work as any haymakers last summer." he had worked himself up into positively looking forward to the idea of leaving home. vague ideas of how his mother and sisters would learn too late how little they had appreciated him; visions of magnanimously forgiving them all some day when he should have, in some mysterious way, become a landed proprietor, riding about his fields, and of inviting them all down into the country to visit him, floated before his brain. he ate his breakfast with a very good appetite; and when mr. byrne entered the room, he was surprised to see no look of sulkiness on the boy's face; though, on the other hand, there were no signs of concern or distress. "is he really _heartless_?" thought the old man, with a pang of disappointment. "am i mistaken in thinking the good material is there?" "i want to talk to you, geoff," he said. "you are early this morning. you need not start for twenty minutes or more." "am i to understand you intend to prevent me seeing my mother, sir?" said geoff, in a peculiar tone. mr. byrne looked at him rather sadly. "it is not _i_ preventing it," he said. "the doctor has left his orders." "i understand," said geoff, bitterly. "well, it does not much matter. mother and the others are not likely to see much more of me." the old gentleman looked at him sharply. "are you thinking of running away?" he said. "not running away," said geoffrey. "i'm not going to do it in any secret sort of way; but i've made up my mind to go. and now that mother has thrown me over too, i don't suppose any one will care." "you've not been going the way to make any one care, it strikes me," said mr. byrne. "but i have something to say to you, geoff. one thing which has helped to make your poor mother ill has been anxiety about money matters. i had not wished her to know of it; but it was told her by mistake. i myself have known for some time that things were going wrong. but now the worst has come----" "what is the worst?" asked geoffrey. "have we lost everything?" "yes," said mr. byrne, "i think that's about it." "i think i should have been told this before," said geoff. "well," said his uncle, "i'm not sure but that i agree with you. but your mother wished to save you as long as she could. and you have not borne small annoyances so well that she could hope for much comfort from you in a great trouble." [illustration: "i have something to say to you, geoff."] geoff said nothing. "i shall take care of your mother and sisters," mr. byrne went on. "i am not even to be allowed to work for my mother, then?" said geoffrey. "at your age it will be as much as you can do to work for yourself," said the old man. "and as yet, you cannot even do that directly. you must go on with your education. i have found a school in the country where you will be well taught, and where you will not be annoyed by not being able to have all that your companions have, as you have so complained about." "and who is to pay for my schooling?" asked the boy. "i," replied mr. byrne. "thank you," said geoffrey. his tone was not exactly disrespectful, but it was certainly not grateful. "i know i should thank you, but i don't want you to pay schooling or anything else for me. i shall manage for myself. it is much best for me to go away altogether. even--even if this about our money hadn't happened, i was already making up my mind to it." mr. byrne looked at him. "legally speaking, your mother could stop your leaving her," he said. "she is not likely to do so," replied the boy, "if she is so ill that she cannot even see me." "perhaps not," said the old gentleman. "i will send my servant to you at mid-day, to say how your mother is." "thank you," said geoffrey again. then mr. byrne left the room, and geoff went off to school. he was in a strange state of mind. he hardly took in what he had been told of the state of his mother's money matters. he hardly indeed believed it, so possessed was he by the idea that there was a sort of plot to get rid of him. "it isn't mother herself," he reflected. "it's all elsa and frances, and that horrid old hoot-toot. but as for going to any school _he'd_ send me to--no, thank you." he was standing about at noon with some of his companions, when the coloured servant appeared. "please, sir," he said, "i was to tell you that the lady is better--doctor say so;" and with a kind of salaam he waited to see what the young gentleman would reply. "all right," said geoff, curtly; and the man turned to go. geoff did not see that at the gates he stood still a moment speaking to another man, who appeared to have been waiting for him. "that young gentleman with the dark hair. you see plain when i speak to him," he said in his rather broken english. the other man nodded his head. "i shall know him again, no fear. tell your master it's all right," he said. geoff had to stand some chaff from his friends on the subject of the "darkey," of course. at another time he would rather have enjoyed it than otherwise; but to-day he was unable to take part in any fun. "what a surly humour tudor's in!" said one of the boys to another. geoff overheard it, and glared at him. "i shan't be missed here either, it seems," he said to himself. he did not notice that evening, when he went home, that a respectable unobtrusive-looking man, with the air of a servant out of livery, or something of that kind, followed him all the way, only turning back when he had seen the boy safe within his own door. and there, just within, faithful vicky was awaiting him. "i've been watching for you such a time, geoff dear," she said. "mamma's better. _aren't_ you glad? the doctor's been again, just about an hour ago, and he told me so as he went out." "have you seen her?" said geoff, abruptly. vicky hesitated. she knew her answer would vex geoff, and yet she could not say what was not true. [illustration: he stood still a moment speaking to another man.] "i've only _just_ seen her," she said. "elsa just took me in for a moment. she has to be kept very, very quiet, geoff. she'll have to be very quiet for a long time." "you may as well speak plainly," said her brother. "i know what that means--i'm not to be allowed to see her for 'a very, very long time.' oh yes, i quite understand." he was in his heart thankful to know that his mother was better, but the relief only showed itself in additional ill-temper and indignation. "geoffrey dear, don't speak like that," said vicky. "i wish i hadn't gone in to see mamma if you couldn't, but i didn't like to say so to elsa. i know you didn't _mean_ ever to vex mamma, and i'm sure you'll never do it again, when she gets better, will you? would you like me just to run and tell elsa and great-uncle hoot-toot how _dreadfully_ you'd like to see her just for a minute? if you just peeped in, you know, and said 'good night, mamma; i am so awfully glad you're better!' that would be better than nothing. shall i, geoff?" "no," he replied gruffly. "i want to ask nothing. and i'm not sure that i _do_ want dreadfully to see her. caring can't be all on one side." vicky's eyes were full of tears by this time. "oh, geoff!" was all she could say. "mamma not care for you!" her distress softened him a little. "don't _you_ cry about it, vic," he said. "i do believe _you_ care for me, anyway. you always will, won't you, vicky?" "of course i shall," she sobbed, while some tears dropped into geoff's teacup. they were in the school-room by this time, and vicky was at her usual post. "and some day," pursued geoff, condescendingly, "perhaps we'll have a little house of our own, vicky, in the country, you know; we'll have cocks and hens of our own, and always fresh eggs, of course, and strawberries, and----" "cream," suggested vicky, her eyes gleaming with delight at the tempting prospect; "strawberries are nothing without cream." "of course," geoff went on. "i was going to say cream, when you interrupted me. we'd have a cream-cow, vicky." "a cream-cow," vicky repeated. "what's that?" "oh, i don't know exactly. but one often reads of a milk-cow, so i supposed there must be some cows that are all for cream, if some are for milk. i'll find out all about it when----" but he stopped short. "never mind, vicky. when i have a little farm of my own, in the country, i promise you i'll send for you to come and live with me." "but you'll invite mamma and elsa, and francie too, geoff; i wouldn't care to come without them," objected vicky. "mamma; oh yes, if she likes to come. perhaps elsa and frances will be married, and have houses of their own by then. i'm sure i hope so." he had talked himself and vicky into quite good spirits by this time. he was almost forgetting about his plan of running away. but it was soon recalled to him. elsa put her head in at the door. "vicky," she said, "you may come up to see mamma for a few minutes. come now, quick, before geoff comes home, or else he will begin about it again, and he just _must_ not see her for some days. mamma sees that he must not." geoff's face grew dark. "elsa," vicky called out appealingly. but elsa had already disappeared. and then geoffrey _quite_ made up his mind. [illustration] [illustration] chapter vii. a fortunate chance. he was a sensible, practical enough boy in some ways. he thought it all well over that night, and made what preparations he could. he packed up the clothes he thought the most necessary and useful in an old carpet-bag he found in the box-room, and then he looked over his drawers and cupboards to see that all was left in order, and he put together some things to be sent to him in case he found it well to write for them. then he looked at his purse. he had, carefully stowed away, thirty shillings in gold, and of his regular pocket-money a two-shilling piece, a shilling, a threepenny bit, and some coppers. it was enough to take him some hours' distance out of london, where he would be quite as likely to find what he wanted, employment at some farmhouse, as farther away. he did not sleep much that night. he was so anxious to be off early that he kept waking up every hour or two. at last, after striking a match to see what o'clock it was for perhaps the twentieth time, his watch told him it was past six. he got up and dressed, then he shouldered his bag, and made his way as quickly as he could downstairs. he could not resist lingering a moment outside his mother's door; it was slightly ajar, and there was a faint light within. elsa's voice came to him as he stood there. "i am _so_ glad you are better this morning, dear mamma," she was saying. "i hoped you would be when i went to bed, at three o'clock. you were sleeping so peacefully. i am sure you will be quite well again soon, if we can manage to keep you quiet, and if you won't worry yourself. everything is quite right." geoff's face hardened again. "i know what all that means," he thought. "yes, indeed, everything is so right that i, _i_, have to run away like a thief, because i am too miserable to bear it any more." and he lingered no longer. he made his way out of the house without difficulty. it was getting light after a fashion by this time, though it was quite half an hour earlier than he usually started for school. he felt chilly--chillier than he had ever felt before, though it was not a very cold morning. but going out breakfastless does not tend to make one feel warm, and of this sort of thing geoff had but scant experience. his bag, too, felt very heavy; he glanced up and down the street with a vague idea that perhaps he would catch sight of some boy who, for a penny or two, would carry it for him to the omnibus; but there was no boy in sight. no one at all, indeed, except a young man, who crossed the street from the opposite side while geoff was looking about him, and walked on slowly a little in front. he was a very respectable-looking young man, far too much so to ask him to carry the bag, yet as geoff overtook him--for, heavy though it was, the boy felt he must walk quickly to get off as fast as possible--the young man glanced up with a good-natured smile. "excuse me, sir," he said civilly, "your bag's a bit heavy for you. let me take hold of it with you, if we're going the same way." geoffrey looked at him doubtfully. he was too much of a londoner to make friends hastily. "thank you," he said. "i can manage it. i'm only going to the corner to wait for the omnibus." "just precisely what i'm going to do myself," said the other. "i'm quite a stranger hereabouts. i've been staying a day or two with a friend of mine who keeps a livery stable, and i'm off for the day to shalecray, to see another friend. can you tell me, sir, maybe, if the omnibus that passes near here takes one to the railway station?" "which railway station?" said geoff, more than half inclined to laugh at the stranger's evident countrifiedness. "victoria station, to be sure. it's the one i come by. isn't it the big station for all parts?" "bless you! no," said geoff. "there are six or seven as big as it in london. what line is this place on?" "that's more nor i can say," said the stranger, looking as if he would have scratched his head to help him out of his perplexity if he had had a hand free. but he had not, for he had caught up the bag, and was walking along beside geoff, and under his arm he carried a very substantial alpaca umbrella. and in the interest of the conversation geoff had scarcely noticed the way in which the stranger had, as it were, attached himself to him. "ah, well! never mind. i'm going to victoria myself, and when we get there i'll look up your place and find you your train," said geoff, patronizingly. he had kept looking at the stranger, and as he did so, his misgivings disappeared. "he is just a simple country lad," he said to himself. and, indeed, the young man's blue eyes, fresh complexion, and open expression would have reassured any but a _most_ suspicious person. [illustration: walking along beside geoff.] "you're very kind, sir," he replied. "you see, london's a big place, and country folk feels half stupid-like in it." "yes, of course," said geoff. "for my part, i often wonder any one that's free to do as they like cares to live in london. you're a great deal better off in the country." "there's bads and goods everywhere, i take it, sir," said the young man, philosophically. but by this time they had reached the corner where the omnibus started, and geoff's attention was directed to hailing the right one. and an omnibus rattling over london stones is not exactly the place for conversation, so no more passed between them till they were dropped within a stone's throw of victoria station. geoff was beginning to feel very hungry, and almost faint as well as chilly. "i say," he said to his companion, "you're not in any very desperate hurry to get off, are you? for i'm frightfully hungry. you don't mind waiting while i have some breakfast, do you? i'll look you out your train for that place as soon as i've had some." "all right, sir," said the stranger. "if it wouldn't be making too free, i'd be pleased to join you. but i suppose you'll be going into the first-class?" "oh no," said geoff. "i don't mind the second-class." and into the second-class refreshment-room they went. they grew very friendly over hot coffee and a rasher of bacon, and then geoff laid out threepence on a railway guide, and proceeded to hunt up shalecray. "here you are!" he exclaimed. "and upon my word, that's a good joke. this place--shalecray--is on the very line i'm going by. i wonder i never noticed it. i came up that way not long ago, from entlefield." "indeed, sir; that's really curious," said the countryman. "and are you going to entlefield to-day?" "well," said geoff, "i fancy so. i've not quite made up my mind, to tell the truth. i know the country about there. i want to find some--some farmhouse." "oh, exactly--i understand," interrupted the young man. "you want somewhere where they'll put you up tidily for a few days--just for a breath of country air." "well, no; not exactly," said geoffrey. "the fact is, i'm looking out for--for some sort of situation about a farm. i'm very fond of country life. i don't care what i do. i'm not a fine gentleman!" the countryman looked at him with interest. "i see," he said. "you're tired of town, i take it, sir. but what do your friends say to it, sir? at sixteen, or even seventeen, you have still to ask leave, i suppose?" "not always," said geoff. "i've made no secret of it. i've no father, and--i'm pretty much my own master." "'i care for nobody, and nobody cares for me,' eh?" quoted the young man, laughing. "something like it, i suppose," said geoff, laughing too, though rather forcedly. for a vision of vicky, sobbing, perhaps, over her lonely breakfast, would come before him--of elsa and frances trying how to break to their mother the news that geoff had really run away. "they'll soon get over it," he said to himself. "they've got that old curmudgeon to console them, and i don't want to live on _his_ money." "do you think i can easily find a place of some kind?" he went on, after a pause. the countryman this time did scratch his head, while he considered. "how old may you be, sir? sixteen or seventeen, maybe?" he inquired. "i'm not so much; i'm only fourteen," said geoff, rather reluctantly. "really! now, who'd 'a' thought it?" said his new friend, admiringly. "you'll be just the man for a country life when you're full-grown. not afraid of roughing it? fond of riding, i dare say?" "oh yes," said geoff. "at least, in town of course i haven't had as much of it as i'd like." he had never ridden in his life, except the previous summer, on a peculiarly gentle old pony of mrs. colethorne's. "no, in course not. well now, sir, if you'd no objection to stopping at shalecray with me, it strikes me my friend there, farmer eames, might likely enough know of something to suit you. he's a very decent fellow--a bit rough-spoken, maybe. but you're used to country ways--you'd not mind that." "oh, not a bit!" said geoff. "i'm much obliged to you for thinking of it. and you say it's possible--that this farmer eames may perhaps have a place that i should do for?" "nay, sir, i can't say that. it's just a chance. i only said he'd maybe know of something." "well, i don't see that it will do any harm to ask him. i'll only take a ticket to shalecray, then. i can go on farther later in the day if i don't find anything to suit me there. we'd better take the first train--a quarter to nine. we've still twenty minutes or so to wait." "yes, there's plenty of time--time for a pipe. you don't object, sir? but, bless me"--and he felt in his pockets one after the other--"if i haven't forgotten my 'bacca! with your leave, sir, i'll run across the street to fetch some. i saw a shop as we came in." "very well," said geoff; "i'll wait here. don't be too late." he had no particular fancy for going to buy cheap tobacco in the company of the very rustic-looking stranger. besides, he thought it safer to remain quiet in a dark corner of the waiting-room. it was curious that, though the countryman came back with a well-filled tobacco-pouch, he had not left the station! he only disappeared for a minute or two into the telegraph office, and the message he there indited was as follows:-- "got him all safe. will report further this evening." and ten minutes later the two were ensconced in a third-class carriage, with tickets for shalecray. geoff had often travelled second, but rarely third. he did not, truth to tell, particularly like it. yet he could not have proposed anything else to his companion, unless he had undertaken to pay the difference. and as it was, the breakfast and his own third-class ticket had made a considerable hole in his thirty shillings. he must be careful, for even with all his inexperience he knew it was _possible_ he might have to pay his own way for some little time to come. "still, the chances are i shall find what i want very easily," he reflected. "it is evidently not difficult, by what this fellow tells me." it did not even strike him as in any way a very remarkable coincidence that almost on the doorstep of his own home he should have lighted upon the very person he needed to give him the particular information he was in want of. for in many ways, in spite of his boasted independence, poor geoff was as innocent and unsuspicious as a baby. [illustration] chapter viii. "half-a-crown a week and his victuals." shalecray was a small station, where no very considerable number of trains stopped in the twenty-four hours. it was therefore a slow train by which geoffrey tudor and his new friend travelled; so, though the distance from london was really short, it took them fully two hours to reach their destination. and two hours on a raw drizzly november morning is quite a long enough time to spend in a third-class carriage, shivering if the windows are down, and suffering on the other hand from the odours of damp fustian and bad tobacco if they are up. cold as it was, it seemed pleasant in comparison when they got out at last, and were making their way down a very muddy, but really country lane. geoff gave a sort of snort of satisfaction. "i do love the country," he said. his companion looked at him curiously. "i believe you, sir," he replied. "you must like it, to find it pleasant in november," he went on, with a tone which made geoff glance at him in surprise. somehow in the last few words the countryman's accent seemed to have changed a little. geoff could almost have fancied there was a cockney twang about it. "why, don't _you_ like it?" said geoff. "you said you were lost and miserable in town." "of course, sir. what else could i be? i'm country born and bred. but it's not often as a londoner takes to it as you do, and it's not to say lively at this time, and"--he looked down with a grimace--"the lanes is uncommon muddy." "how far is it to your friend's place?" geoff inquired, thinking to himself that if _he_ were to remark on the mud it would not be surprising, but that it was rather curious for his companion to do so. "a matter of two mile or so," jowett--for ned jowett, he had told geoff, was his name--replied; "and now i come to think of it, perhaps it'd be as well for you to leave your bag at the station. i'll see that it's all right; and as you're not sure of stopping at crickwood, there's no sense in carrying it there and maybe back again for nothing. i'll give it in charge to the station-master, and be back in a moment." he had shouldered it and was hastening back to the station almost before geoff had time to take in what he said. the boy stood looking after him vaguely. he was beginning to feel tired and a little dispirited. he did not feel as if he could oppose anything just then. "if he's a cheat and he's gone off with my bag, i just can't help it," he thought. "he won't gain much. still, he looks honest." and five minutes later the sight of the young man's cheery face as he hastened back removed all his misgivings. "all right, sir," he called out. "it'll be quite safe; and if by chance you hit it off with mr. eames, the milk-cart that comes to fetch the empty cans in the afternoon can bring the bag too." they stepped out more briskly after that. it was not such a very long walk to the farm, though certainly more than the two miles jowett had spoken of. as they went on, the country grew decidedly pretty, or perhaps it would be more correct to say one saw that in summer and pleasant weather it must be very pretty. geoff, however, was hardly at the age for admiring scenery much. he looked about him with interest, but little more than interest. "are there woods about here?" he asked suddenly. "i do like woods." jowett hesitated. "i don't know this part of the country not to say so very well," he replied. "there's some fine gentlemen's seats round about, i believe. crickwood bolders, now, is a fine place--we'll pass by the park wall in a minute; it's the place that eames's should by rights be the home farm to, so to say. but it's been empty for a many years. the family died down till it come to a distant cousin who was in foreign parts, and he let the farm to eames, and the house has been shut up. they do speak of his coming back afore long." geoff looked out for the park of which jowett spoke; they could not see much of it, certainly, without climbing the wall, for which he felt no energy. but a little farther on they came to gates, evidently a back entrance, and they stood still for a moment or two and looked in. "yes," said geoff, gazing over the wide expanse of softly undulating ground, broken by clumps of magnificent old trees, which at one side extended into a fringe skirting the park for miles apparently, till it melted in the distance into a range of blue-topped hills--"yes, it must be a fine place indeed. that's the sort of place, now, i'd like to own, jowett." he spoke more cordially again, for jowett's acquaintance with the neighbourhood had destroyed a sort of misgiving that had somehow come over him as to whether his new friend were perhaps "taking him in altogether." [illustration: they stood still for a moment or two.] "i believe you," said the countryman, laughing loudly, as if geoff's remark had been a very good joke indeed. geoff felt rather nettled. "and why shouldn't i own such a place, pray?" he said haughtily. "such things, when one is a _gentleman_, are all a matter of chance, as you know. if my father, or my grandfather, rather, had not been a younger son, i should have been----" ned jowett turned to him rather gravely. "i didn't mean to offend you, sir," he said. "but you must remember you're taking up a different line from that. farmer eames, or farmer nobody, wouldn't engage a farm hand that expected to be treated as a gentleman. it's not my fault, sir. 'twas yourself told me what you wished." geoff was silent for a moment or two. it was not easy all at once to make up his mind to _not_ being a gentleman any more, and yet his common sense told him that jowett was right; it must be so. unless, indeed, he gave it all up and went back home again to eat humble pie, and live on great-uncle hoot-toot's bounty, and go to some horrid school of his choosing, and be more "bullied" (so he expressed it to himself) than ever by his sisters, and scarcely allowed to see his mother at all. the silent enumeration of these grievances decided him. he turned round to jowett with a smile. "yes," he said; "i was forgetting. you must tell farmer eames he'll not find any nonsense about me." "all right, sir. but, if you'll excuse me, i'd best perhaps drop the 'sir'?" geoff nodded. "and that reminds me," jowett went on, "you've not told me your name--leastways, what name you wish me to give eames. we're close to his place now;" and as he spoke he looked about him scrutinizingly. "ten minutes past the back way through the park you'll come to a lane on the left. eames's farm is the first house you come to on the right," he repeated to himself, too low for geoff to hear. "yes, i can't be wrong." "you can call me jim--jim jeffreys," said the boy. "he needn't be afraid of getting into any trouble if he takes me on. i've no father, and my mother won't worry about me," he added bitterly. the entrance to the lane just then came in sight. "this here's our way," said jowett. "supposing i go on a bit in front. i think it would be just as well to explain to eames about my bringing you." "all right," said geoff. "i'll come on slowly. where is the farm?" "first house to the right; you can't miss it. but i'll come back to meet you again." he hurried on, and geoff followed slowly. he was hungry now as well as cold and tired--at least, he supposed he must be hungry, he felt so dull and stupid. what should he do if farmer eames could not take him on? he began to ask himself; he really felt as if it would be impossible for him to set off on his travels again like a tramp, begging for work all over the country. and for the first time it began faintly to dawn upon him that he had acted very foolishly. "but it's too late now," he said to himself; "i'd die rather than go home and ask to be forgiven, and be treated by them all as if i deserved to be sent to prison. i've got enough money to keep me going for a day or two, anyway. if it was summer--haymaking-time, for instance, i suppose it would be easy enough to get work. but now----" and he shivered as he gazed over the bare, dreary, lifeless-looking fields on all sides, where it was difficult to believe that the green grass could ever spring again, or the golden grain wave in the sunshine--"i really wonder what work there can be to do in the winter. the ground's as hard as iron; and oh, my goodness, isn't it cold?" suddenly some little way in front he descried two figures coming towards him. the one was jowett; the other, an older, stouter man, must be farmer eames. geoff's heart began to beat faster. would he be met by a refusal, and told to make his way back to the station? and if so, where would he go, what should he do? it had all seemed so easy when he planned it at home--he had felt so sure he would find what he wanted at once; he had somehow forgotten it would no longer be summer when he got out into the country again! for the first time in his life he realized what hundreds, nay, thousands of boys, no older than he, must go through every day--poor homeless fellows, poor and homeless through no fault of their own in many cases. "if ever i'm a rich man," thought geoff, "i'll think of to-day." and his anxiety grew so great that by the time the two men had come up to him his usually ruddy face had become almost white. jowett looked at him curiously. "you look uncommon cold, jim," he said. "this 'ere's jim jeffreys as i've been a-talking to you of, mr. eames," he said, by way of introduction to the farmer. "ah, indeed!" farmer eames replied; "seems a well-grown lad, but looks delicate. is he always so white-like?" "bless you! no," said jowett; "he's only a bit done up with--with one thing and another. we made a hearly start of it, and it's chilly this morning." the farmer grunted a little. "he'd need to get used to starting early of a morning if he was to be any use to me," he said half-grudgingly. but even this sounded hopeful to geoff. "oh, i don't mind getting up early," he said quickly. "i'm not used to lying in bed late." "there's early _and_ early," said the farmer. "what i might take you on trial for would be to drive the milk-cart to and fro the station. there's four sendings in all--full and empty together. and the first time is for the up-train that passes shalecray at half-past five." geoff shivered a little. but it would not do to seem daunted. "i'll be punctual," he said. "and of course, between times you'd have to make yourself useful about the dairy, and the pigs--you'd have to see to the pigs, and to make yourself useful," repeated the farmer, whose power of expressing himself was limited. "of course," agreed geoff as heartily as he could, though, truth to tell, the idea of pigs had not hitherto presented itself to him. "well," farmer eames went on, turning towards jowett, "i dunno as i mind giving him a trial, seeing as i'm just short of a boy as it happens. and for the station work, it's well to have a sharpish lad, and a civil-spoken one. you'll have to keep a civil tongue in your head, my boy--eh?" "certainly," said geoff, but not without a slight touch of haughtiness. "of course i'll be civil to every one who's civil to me." "and who isn't civil to thee, maybe, now and then," said the farmer, with a rather curious smile. "'twon't be all walking on roses--nay, 'twon't be all walking on roses to be odd boy in a farm. but there's many a one as'd think himself uncommon lucky to get the chance, i can tell you." "oh, and so i do," said geoff, eagerly. "i do indeed. i think it's awfully good of you to try me; and you'll see i'm not afraid of work." "and what about his character?" said the farmer, speaking again to jowett. "can you answer for his honesty?--that's the principal thing." geoff's cheeks flamed, and he was starting forward indignantly, when a word or two whispered, sternly almost, in his ear by jowett, forced him to be quiet. "don't be an idiot! do you want to spoil all your chances?" he said. and something in the tone again struck geoff with surprise. he could scarcely believe it was the simple young countryman who was speaking. "i don't think you need be uneasy on that score," he said. "you see it's all come about in a rather--uncommon sort of way." "i should rather think so," said the farmer, shrugging his shoulders, but smiling too. "and," pursued jowett, "you'll have to stretch a point or two. of course he'll want very little in the way of wages to begin." "half-a-crown a week and his victuals," replied the farmer, promptly. "and he must bind himself for three months certain--i'm not going to be thrown out of a boy at the orkardest time of the year for getting 'em into sharp ways. and i can't have no asking for holidays for three months, either." jowett looked at geoff. "very well," said geoff. "and you must go to church reg'lar," added the farmer. "you can manage it well enough, and sunday school, too, if you're sharp--there's only twice to the station on sundays." "on sundays, too?" repeated geoff. sundays at worst had been a day of no work at home. "to be sure," said eames, sharply. "beasts can't do for themselves on sundays no more than any other day. and londoners can't drink sour milk on sundays neither." "no," said geoff, meekly enough. "of course i'm used to church," he added, "but i think i'm rather too old for the sunday school." "i'll leave that to the parson," said the farmer. "well, now then, we may as well see if dinner's not ready. it's quite time, and you'll be getting hungry, mr. jowett," he added, with a slight hesitation. "why not call me ned? you're very high in your manners to-day, eames," said the other, with a sort of wink. then they both laughed and walked on, leaving geoff to follow. nothing was said about _his_ being hungry. "perhaps _i_ shall be expected to dine with the pigs," he thought. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ix. pigs, etc. it was not quite so bad as that, however. farmer eames turned in at the farmyard gate and led the two strangers into a good-sized kitchen, where the table was already set, in a homely fashion, for dinner. a stout, middle-aged woman, with a rather sharp face, turned from the fire, where she was superintending some cooking. "here we are again, wife," said eames. "glad to see dinner's ready. take a chair, mr. ned. you'll have a glass of beer to begin with?" and as he poured it out, "this here's the new boy, missis--i've settled to give him a trial." mrs. eames murmured something, which geoff supposed must have been intended as a kind of welcome. she was just then lifting a large pan of potatoes off the fire, and as she turned her face to the light, geoff noticed that it was very red--redder than a moment before. he could almost have fancied the farmer's wife was shy. "shall i help you?" he exclaimed, darting forward to take hold of the pan. eames burst out laughing. "that's a good joke," he said. "he knows which side his bread's buttered on, does this 'ere young fellow." geoff grew scarlet, and some angry rejoinder was on his lips, when jowett, who to his great indignation was laughing too, clapped him on the shoulder. "come, my boy, there's naught to fly up about. eames must have his joke." "i see naught to laugh at," said mrs. eames, who had by this time shaken the potatoes into a large dish that stood ready to receive them; "the lad meant it civil enough." "you're not to spoil him now, wife," said her husband. "it's no counter-jumpers' ways we want hereabouts. sit thee down, ned; and jim, there, you can draw the bench by the door a bit nearer the dresser, and i'll give you some dinner by-and-by." geoff, his heart swelling, did as he was bid. he sat quietly enough, glad of the rest and the warmth, till mr. and mrs. eames and their guest were all helped, and had allayed the first sharp edge of their appetites. but from time to time the farmer's wife glanced at geoff uneasily, and once, he felt sure, he saw her nudge her husband. "she means to be kind," thought the boy. and her kindness apparently had some effect. the farmer looked round, after a deep draught of beer, and pushed his tankard aside. "will you have a sup, jim?" he said good-naturedly. "i can't promise it you every day; but for once in a way." [illustration: he sat quietly enough.] "no, thank you," geoff replied. "i never take beer; moth----" but he stopped suddenly. "as you like," said the farmer; "but though you're not thirsty, i dare say you're hungry." he cut off a slice of the cold meat before him, and put it on a plate with some potatoes, and a bit of dripping from a dish on the table. the slice of meat was small in proportion to the helping of potatoes; but geoff was faint with hunger. he took the plate, with the steel-pronged fork and coarse black-handled knife, and sat down again by the dresser to eat. but, hungry though he was, he could not manage it all. half-way through, a sort of miserable choky feeling came over him: he thought of his meals at home--the nice white tablecloth, the sparkling glass and silver, the fine china--and all seemed to grow misty before his eyes for a minute or two; he almost felt as if he were going to faint, and the voices at the table sounded as if they came from the other side of the atlantic. he drank some water--for on his refusing beer, mrs. eames had handed him a little horn mug filled with water; _it_ was as fresh and sweet as any he had ever tasted, and he tried at the same time to swallow down his feelings. and by the time that the farmer stood up to say grace, he felt pretty right again. "and what are you going to be about, eames?" said jowett. "i'll walk round the place with you, if you like. i must take the four train up again." "all right," the farmer replied; "jim can take you to the station when he goes to fetch the cans. you'll see that he doesn't come to grief on the way. do 'ee know how to drive a bit?" "oh yes," replied geoff, eagerly. "i drove a good deal last summer at--in the country. and i know i was very fond of it." "well," said the farmer, drily, "you'll have enough of it here. but the pony's old; you mustn't drive him too fast. now, i'll tell one of the men to show you the yard, and the pig-sties, and the missis'll show you where she keeps the swill-tub. it'll want emptying--eh, wife?" "it do that," she replied. "but he must change his clothes afore he gets to that dirty work. those are your best ones, ain't they?" geoff looked down at his suit. it was not his best, for he had left his eton jackets and trousers behind him. the clothes he had on were a rough tweed suit he had had for the country; he had thought them very far from best. but now it struck him that they did look a great deal too good for feeding the pigs in. "i've got an older pair of trousers in my bag," he said; "but this is my oldest jacket." "he should have a rougher one," said mrs. eames. "i'll look out; maybe there's an old coat of george's as'd make down." "all right," said eames. "but you've no need of a coat at all to feed the pigs in. whoever heard o' such a thing?" just then a voice was heard at the door. "i'm here, master," it said, "fur the new boy." "all right," said eames; and, followed by geoff, in his shirt-sleeves by this time, he led the way to the farmyard. it was interesting, if only it had not been so cold. matthew, the man, was not very communicative certainly, and it seemed to the new boy that he eyed him with some disfavour. eames himself just gave a few short directions, and then went off with jowett. "them's the stables," said matthew, jerking his thumb towards a row of old buildings, "and them's the cow-houses," with a jerk the other way. "old pony's with master's mare, as he drives hisself. i've nought to say to pony; it's your business. and i'll want a hand with cart-horses and plough-horses. young folks has no call to be idle." "i don't mean to be idle," said geoff; "but if mr. eames doesn't find fault with me, _you_'ve no call to do so either." he spoke more valiantly than he felt, perhaps, for matthew's stolid face and small, twinkling eyes were not pleasant. he muttered something, and then went grumbling across the yard towards a wall, from behind which emanated an odour which required no explanation. "them's pigs," said he. matthew had a curious trick of curtailing his phrases as his temper waxed sourer. articles, prepositions, and auxiliary verbs disappeared, till at last his language became a sort of spoken hieroglyphics. geoff looked over the pig-sty wall. grunt, grumph, snort--out they all tumbled, one on the top of the other, making for the trough. poor things! it was still empty. geoff could hardly help laughing, and yet he felt rather sorry for them. "i'll go and fetch their dinner," he said. "i don't mind pigs; but they are awfully dirty." "ax the missus for soap to wash 'em," said matthew, with a grin. he hadn't yet made up his mind if the new boy was sharp or not. "no," said geoff, "i'll not do that till the first of april; but i'll tell you what, matthew, i'll not keep them as dirty as they are. and _i_ should say that the chap that's been looking after them is a very idle fellow." matthew scowled. "pigs don't _need_ to be so dirty," geoff went on. "i know at cole----" but he stopped abruptly. he was certainly not going to take matthew into his confidence. he asked to be shown the pony--poor old pony! it didn't look as if it would be over "sperrity"--and then he went back to the house to fetch the pigs' dinner. very hot, instead of cold, he was by the time he had carried across pail after pail of mrs. eames's "swill," and emptied it into the barrel which stood by the sty. it wasn't savoury work, either, and the farmer's wife made a kind of excuse for there being so much of it. "matthew were that idle," and they'd been a hand short the last week or two. but geoff wasn't going to give in; there was a sort of enjoyment in it when it came to the actual feeding of the pigs, and for their digestion's sake, it was well that the farmer's wife warned him that there _might_ be such a thing as over-feeding, even of pigs. he would have spent the best part of the afternoon in filling the trough and watching them squabble over it. he was tired and hot, and decidedly dirtier-looking than could have been expected, when eames and jowett came back from the fields. "time to get the pony to!" shouted the farmer. geoff turned off to the stable. he wanted to manage the harnessing alone; but, simple as it was, he found it harder than it looked, and he would have been forced to apply to matthew, had not jowett strolled into the stable. he felt sorry for the boy, sorrier than he thought it well to show, when he saw his flushed face and trembling hands, and in a trice he had disentangled the mysteries of buckles and straps, and got all ready. "been working hard?" he said good-naturedly. "seems a bit strange at first." "i don't mind the work; but--it does all seem very rough," said geoff. there was a slight quiver in his voice, but jowett said no more till they were jogging along on their way to the station. geoff's spirits had got up a little again by this time. he liked to feel the reins between his fingers, even though the vehicle was only a milk-cart, and the steed a sadly broken-winded old gray pony; and he was rather proud at having managed to steer safely through the yard gate, as to which, to tell the truth, he had felt a little nervous. "is there anything i can do for you on my way through town?" asked jowett. "i'll be in your part of the world to-night." "are you going to sleep at the livery stables?" asked geoff. jowett nodded. "i wish----" began the boy. "if i'd thought of it, i'd have written a letter for you to post in london. but there's no time now." jowett looked at his watch--a very good silver watch it was--"i don't know that," he said. "i can get you a piece of paper and an envelope at the station, and i'll see that your letter gets to--wherever it is, at once." "thank you," said geoff. "and jowett"--he hesitated. "you've been very good to me--would you mind one thing more? there's some one i would like to hear from sometimes, but i don't want to give my address. could i tell them--her--it's my sister--to write to your place, and you to send it to me?" "to be sure," said jowett. "but i won't give my address in the country. you just say to send on the letter to the care of 'mr. abel smith, livery stables, mowbray place mews,' and i'll see it comes straight to you. you won't want to give your name maybe? just put 'mr. james, care of abel smith.'" "thank you," said geoff, with a sigh of relief. "you see," he went on, half apologetically, "there's some one ill at home, and i'd like to know how--how they are." "to be sure," said jowett again; "it's only natural. and however bad one's been treated by one's people--and it's easy to see they must have treated you _on_common badly to make a young gent like you have to leave his home and come down to work for his living like a poor boy, though i respects you for it all the more--still own folks is own folks." he cast a shrewd glance at geoff, as he spoke. the boy could not help colouring. had he been treated so "oncommon badly"? was his determination to run away and be independent of great-uncle hoot-toot's assistance a real manly resolution, or not rather a fit of ill-tempered boyish spite? would he not have been acting with far more true independence by accepting gratefully the education which would have fitted him for an honourable career in his own rank? for mr. byrne, as he knew well by his mother's trust in the old gentleman, was not one to have thrown him aside had he been worthy of assistance. "but anyway, it's done now," thought the boy, choking down the feelings which began to assert themselves. at the station, jowett was as good as his word. he got the paper and a pencil, and geoff wrote a short note to vicky, just to tell her he was "all right," and enclosing the address to which she was to write. and jowett undertook that she should have it that same evening. had the boy been less preoccupied he could not but have been struck by the curious inconsistencies in the young countryman, who, when he had first met him that morning, had seemed scarcely able to find his way to the station, and yet, when occasion arose, had shown himself as sharp and capable as any londoner. but as it was, when the train had whizzed off again, he only felt as if his last friend had deserted him. and it was a very subdued and home-sick geoffrey who, in the chilly, misty autumn evening, drove the old pony through the muddy lanes to the farm, the empty milk-cans rattling in the cart behind him, and the tears slowly coursing down his cheeks now there was no one to see them. [illustration] [illustration] chapter x. poor geoff! he drove into the yard, where matthew's disagreeable face and voice soon greeted him. half forgetting himself, geoff threw the reins on to the pony's neck and jumped out of the cart, with his carpet-bag. he was making his way into the house, feeling as if even the old bag was a kind of comfort in its way, when the farm-man called him back. "dost think i's to groom pony?" he said ill-naturedly. "may stand till doomsday afore i'll touch him." [illustration: matthew, the man.] geoff turned back. of course, he ought to have remembered it was his work, and if matthew had spoken civilly he would even have thanked him for the reminder--more gratefully, i dare say, than he had often thanked elsa or frances for a hint of some forgotten duty. but, as it was, it took some self-control not to "fly out," and to set to work, tired as he was, to groom the pony and put him up for the night. it was all so strange and new too; at colethorne's he had watched the stablemen at their work, and thought it looked easy and amusing, but when it came to doing it, it seemed a very different thing, especially in the dusk, chilly evening, and feeling as he did both tired and hungry. he did his best, however, and the old pony was very patient, poor beast, and geoff's natural love of animals stood him in good stead; he could never have relieved his own depression by ill temper to any dumb creature. and at last old dapple was made as comfortable as geoff knew how, for matthew took care to keep out of the way, and to offer no help or advice, and the boy turned towards the house, carpet-bag in hand. the fire was blazing brightly in the kitchen, and in front of it sat the farmer, smoking a long clay pipe, which to geoff smelt very nasty. he coughed, to attract mr. eames's attention. "i've brought my bag from the station," he said. "will you tell me where i'm to sleep?" the farmer looked up sharply. "you've brought the milk-cans back, too, i suppose? your bag's not the principal thing. have you seen to dapple?" "yes," said geoff, and his tone was somewhat sulky. eames looked at him again, and still more sharply. "i told you at the first you were to keep a civil tongue in your head," he said. "you'll say 'sir' when you speak to me." but just then mrs. eames fortunately made her appearance. "don't scold him--he's only a bit strange," she said. "come with me, jim, and i'll show you your room." "thank you," said the boy, gratefully. mrs. eames glanced at her husband, as much as to say she was wiser than he, and then led the way out of the kitchen down a short, flagged passage, and up a short stair. then she opened a door, and, by the candle she held, geoff saw a very small, very bare room. there was a narrow bed in one corner, a chair, a window-shelf, on which stood a basin, and a cupboard in the wall. mrs. eames looked round. "it's been well cleaned out since last boy went," she said. "master and me'll look in now and then to see that you keep it clean. cupboard's handy, and there's a good flock mattress." then she gave him the light, and turned to go. "please," said geoff, meekly, "might i have a piece of bread? i'm rather hungry." it was long past his usual tea-time. "to be sure!" she replied. "you've not had your tea? i put it on the hob for you." and the good woman bustled off again. geoff followed her, after depositing his bag in the cupboard. she poured out the tea into a bowl, and ladled in a good spoonful of brown sugar. then she cut a hunch off a great loaf, and put it beside the bowl on the dresser. geoff was so hungry and thirsty, that he attacked both tea and bread, though the former was coarse in flavour, and the latter butterless. but it was not the quality of the food that brought back again that dreadful choking in his throat, and made the salt tears drop into the bowl of tea. it was the thought of tea-time at home--the neat table, and vicky's dear, important-looking little face, as she filled his cup, and put in the exact amount of sugar he liked--that came over him suddenly with a sort of rush. he felt as if he could not bear it. he swallowed down the tea with a gulp, and rammed the bread into his pocket. then, doing his utmost to look unconcerned, he went up to the farmer. "shall i go to bed now, please, sir?" he said, with a little hesitation at the last word. "i'm--i'm rather tired." "go to bed?" repeated eames. "yes, i suppose so. you must turn out early--the milk must be at the station by half-past five." "how shall i wake?" asked geoff, timidly. "wake? you'll have to learn to wake like others do. however, for the first, i'll tell matthew to knock you up." "thank you. good-night, sir." "good-night." and the farmer turned again to the newspaper he was reading. "you'll find your bed well aired. i made betsy see to that," called out mrs. eames. "thank you," said geoff again, more heartily this time. but he overheard eames grumbling at his wife as he left the room, telling her "he'd have none of that there coddling of the lad." "and you'd have him laid up with rheumatics--dying of a chill? that'd be a nice finish up to it all. you know quite well----" but geoff heard no more. and he was too worn-out and sleepy to think much of what he had heard. he got out what he required for the night. he wondered shiveringly how it would be possible to wash with only a basin. water he was evidently expected to fetch for himself. he tried to say his prayers, but fell asleep, the tears running down his face, in the middle, and woke up with a sob, and at last managed somehow to tumble into bed. it was very cold, but, as mrs. eames had said, quite dry. the chilly feeling woke him again, and he tried once more to say his prayers, and this time with better success. he was able to add a special petition that "mother" might soon be well again, and that dear vicky might be happy. and then he fell asleep--so soundly, so heavily, that when a drumming at the door made itself heard, he fancied he had only just begun the night. he sat up. where was he? at first, in the darkness, he thought he was in his own bed at home, and he wondered who was knocking so roughly--wondered still more at the rude voice which was shouting out-- "up with you there, jim, d'ye hear? i'm not a-going to stand here all day. it's past half-past four. jim--you lazy lout. i'll call master if you don't speak--a-locking of his door like a fine gentleman!" gradually geoff remembered all--the feeling of the things about him--the coarse bed-clothes, the slightly mildewy smell of the pillow, helped to recall him to the present, even before he could see. [illustration: knocking so roughly.] "i'm coming, matthew!" he shouted back. "i'll be ready in five minutes;" and out of bed he crept, sleepy and confused, into the chilly air of the little room. he had no matches, but there was a short curtain before the window, and when he pulled it back the moonlight came faintly in--enough for him to distinguish the few objects in the room. he dared not attempt to wash, he was so afraid of being late. he managed to get out his oldest pair of trousers, and hurried on his clothes as fast as he could, feeling miserably dirty and slovenly, and thinking to himself he would never again be hard on poor people for not being clean! "i must try to wash when i come back," he said to himself. then he hurried out, and none too soon. [illustration: geoff at the station.] matthew was in the yard, delighted to frighten him. "you'll have to look sharp," he said, as geoff hurried to the stable. "betsy's filling the cans, and rare and cross she is at having to do it. you should have been there to help her, and the missis'll be out in a minute." the harnessing of dapple was not easy in the faint light, and he could not find the stable lantern. but it got done at last, and geoff led the cart round to the dairy door, where betsy was filling the last of the cans. she was not so cross as she might have been, and mrs. eames had not yet appeared. they got the cans into the cart, and in a minute or two geoff found himself jogging along the road, already becoming familiar, to the station. it seemed to grow darker instead of lighter, for the moon had gone behind a cloud, and sunrise was still a good time off. geoff wondered dreamily to himself why people need get up so early in the country, and then remembered that it would take two or three hours for the cans to get to london. how little he or vicky had thought, when they drank at breakfast the nice milk which mrs. tudor had always taken care to have of the best, of the labour and trouble involved in getting it there in time! and though he had hurried so, he was only just at the station when the train whizzed in, and the one sleepy porter growled at him for not having "looked sharper," and banged the milk-cans about unnecessarily in his temper, so that geoff was really afraid they would break or burst open, and all the milk come pouring out. "you'll have to be here in better time for the twelve train," he said crossly. "i'm not a-going to do this sort o' work for you nor no chap, if you can't be here in time." geoff did not answer--he was getting used to sharp words and tones. he nearly fell asleep in the cart as he jogged home again, and to add to his discomfort a fine, small, chill, november rain began to fall. he buttoned up his jacket, and wished he had put on his overcoat; and then he laughed rather bitterly to think how absurd he would look with this same overcoat, which had been new only a month before, driving old dapple in the milk-cart. he was wet and chilled to the bone when he reached the farm, and even if he had energy to drive a little faster he would not have dared to do so, after the farmer's warning. mrs. eames was in the kitchen when, after putting up the cart and pony, geoff came in. there was a delicious fragrance of coffee about which made his mouth water, but he did not even venture to go near the fire. mrs. eames heard him, however, and looked up. she started a little at the sight of his pale, wan face. "bless me, boy!" she exclaimed, "but you do look bad. whatever's the matter?" geoff smiled a little--he looked very nice when he smiled; it was only when he was in one of his ill-tempered moods that there was anything unlovable in his face--and his smile made mrs. eames still more sorry for him. "there's nothing the matter, thank you," he said; "i'm only rather cold--and wet. i'm strange to it all, i suppose. i wanted to know what i should do next. should i feed the pigs?" "have you met the master?" said the farmer's wife. "he's gone down the fields with matthew and the others. didn't you meet 'em?" geoff shook his head. "no; i went straight to the stable when i came back from the station." "you'd better take off your wet jacket," she said. "there--hang it before the fire. and," she went on, "there's a cup of coffee still hot, you can have for your breakfast this morning as you're so cold--it'll warm you better nor stir-about; and there's a scrap o' master's bacon you can eat with your bread." she poured out the coffee, steaming hot, and forked out the bacon from the frying-pan as she spoke, and set all on the corner of the dresser nearest to the fire. "thank you, thank you awfully," said geoff. oh, how good the coffee smelt! he had never enjoyed a meal so much, and yet, had it been at home, _how_ he would have grumbled! coffee in a bowl, with brown sugar--bread cut as thick as your fist, and no butter! truly geoff was already beginning to taste some of the sweet uses of adversity. breakfast over, came the pigs. the farmer had left word that the sty was to be cleaned out, and fresh straw fetched for the pigs' beds; and as betsy was much more good-natured than matthew in showing the new boy what was expected of him, he got on pretty well, even feeling a certain pride in the improved aspect of the pig-sty when he had finished. he would have dearly liked to try a scrubbing of the piggies themselves, if he had not been afraid of matthew's mocking him. but besides this there was not time. at eleven the second lot of milk had to be carted to the station, and with the remembrance of the cross porter geoff dared not be late. and in the still falling rain he set off again, though, thanks to mrs. eames, with a dry jacket, and, thanks to her too, with a horse-rug buckled round him, in which guise surely no one would have recognized master geoffrey tudor. after dinner the farmer set him to cleaning out the stables, which it appeared was to be a part of his regular work; then there were the pigs to feed again, and at four o'clock the milk-cans to fetch. oh, how tired geoff was getting of the lane to the station! and the day did not come to an end without his getting into terrible disgrace for not having rinsed out the cans with boiling water the night before, though nobody had told him to do it. for a message had come from london that the cans were dirty and the milk in danger of turning sour, and that if it happened again farmer eames would have to send his milk elsewhere. it was natural perhaps that he should be angry, and yet, as no one had explained about it to geoff, it seemed rather hard for him to have to take the scolding. _very_ hard indeed it seemed to him--to proud geoff, who had never yet taken in good part his mother's mildest reprimands. and big boy though he was, he sobbed himself to sleep this second night of his new life, for it did seem too much, that when he had been trying his very best to please, and was aching in every limb from his unwonted hard work, he should get nothing but scolding. and yet he knew that he was lucky to have fallen into such hands as farmer eames's, for, strict as he was, he was a fair and reasonable master. "i suppose," thought geoff, "i have never really known what hardships were, though i did think i had plenty to bear at home." what would elsa have said had she heard him? [illustration] chapter xi. "hoot-toot" behind the hedge. that first day at the farm was a pretty fair specimen of those that followed. the days grew into weeks and the weeks into one month, and then into two, and geoff went on with his self-chosen hard and lonely life. the loneliness soon came to be the worst of it. he got used to the hardships so far, and after all they were not very terrible ones. he was better taken care of than he knew, and he was a strong and healthy lad. had he felt that he was working for others, had he been cheered by loving and encouraging letters, he could have borne it all contentedly. but no letters came, no answer to his note to vicky begging her to write; and geoff's proud heart grew prouder and, he tried to think, harder. "they would let me know, somehow, i suppose, if there was anything much the matter--if--mamma had not got much better yet." for even to himself he would not allow the possibility of anything worse than her not being "much better." and yet she had looked very ill that last evening. he thought of it sometimes in the middle of the night, and started up in a sort of agony of fright, feeling as if at all costs he must set off there and then to see her--to know how she was. often he did not fall asleep again for hours, and then he would keep sobbing and crying out from time to time, "oh, mamma, mamma!" but there was no one to hear. and with the morning all the proud, bitter feelings would come back again. "they don't care for me. they are thankful to be rid of me;" and he would picture his future life to himself, friendless and homeless, as if he never had had either friends or home. sometimes he planned that when he grew older he would emigrate, and in a few years, after having made a great fortune, he would come home again, a millionaire, and shower down coals of fire in the shape of every sort of luxury upon the heads of his unnatural family. but these plans did not cheer him as they would have done some months ago. his experiences had already made him more practical--he knew that fortunes were not made nowadays in the dick whittington way--he was learning to understand that not only are there but twenty shillings in a pound, but, which concerned him more closely, that there are but twelve pence in a shilling, and only thirty in half-a-crown! he saw with dismay the increasing holes in his boots, and bargained hard with the village cobbler to make him cheap a rough, strong pair, which he would never have dreamt of looking at in the old days; he thanked mrs. eames more humbly for the well-worn corduroy jacket she made down for him than he had ever thanked his mother for the nice clothes which it had _not_ always been easy for her to procure for him. yes, geoff was certainly learning some lessons. [illustration: sobbing and crying.] sundays were in one way the worst, for though he had less to do, he had more time for thinking. he went twice to church, where he managed to sit in a corner out of sight, so that if the tears did sometimes come into his eyes at some familiar hymn or verse, no one could see. and no more was said about the sunday school, greatly to his relief, for he knew the clergyman would have cross-questioned him. on sunday afternoons he used to saunter about the park and grounds of crickwood bolders. he liked it, and yet it made him melancholy. the house was shut up, but it was easy to see it was a dear old place--just the sort of "home" of geoff's wildest dreams. "if we were all living there together, now," he used to say to himself--"mamma quite well and not worried about money--elsa and frances would be so happy, we'd never squabble, and vicky----" but at the idea of _vicky's_ happiness, words failed him. it was, it must be allowed, a come-down from such beautiful fancies, to have to hurry back to the farm to harness old dapple and jog off to the station with the milk. for even on sundays people can't do without eating and drinking. [illustration: geoff stood still in amazement.] one sunday a queer thing happened. he was just turning home, and passing the lodge at the principal entrance to the hall, as it was called, when behind the thick evergreen hedge at one side of the little garden he heard voices. they were speaking too low for him to distinguish the words; but one voice sounded to him very like eames's. it might be so, for the farmer and the lodge-keeper were friends. and geoff would have walked on without thinking anything of it, had not a sudden exclamation caught his ear--"hoot-toot, hoot-toot! i tell you----" but instantly the voice dropped. it sounded as if some one had held up a warning finger. geoff stood still in amazement. _could_ great-uncle hoot-toot be there? it seemed too impossible. but the boy's heart beat fast with a vague feeling of expectation and apprehension mixed together. "if he has come here accidentally, he must not see me," he said to himself; and he hurried down the road as fast as he could, determined to hasten to the station and back before the old gentleman, if it were he, could get there. but to his surprise, on entering the farm-yard, the first person to meet him was mr. eames himself. "what's the matter, my lad?" he said good humouredly. "thou'st staring as if i were a ghost." "i thought--i thought," stammered geoff, "that i saw--no, heard your voice just now at the lodge." eames laughed. "but i couldn't be in two places at once, could i? well, get off with you to the station." all was as usual of a sunday there. no one about, no passengers by the up-train--only the milk-cans; and geoff, as he drove slowly home again, almost persuaded himself that the familiar "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" must have been altogether his own fancy. but had he been at the little railway-station again an hour or two later, he would have had reason to change his opinion. a passenger did start from shalecray by the last train for town; and when this same passenger got out at victoria, he hailed a hansom, and was driven quickly westward. and when he arrived at his destination, and rang the bell, almost before the servant had had time to open the door, a little figure pressed eagerly forward, and a soft, clear voice exclaimed-- "oh, dear uncle, is that you at last? i've been watching for you such a long time. oh, do--do tell me about geoff! did you see him? and oh, dear uncle, is he very unhappy?" "come upstairs, my pet," said the old man, "and you shall hear all i can tell." the three awaiting him in the drawing-room were nearly as eager as the child. the mother's face grew pale with anxiety, the sisters' eyes sparkled with eagerness. "did you find him easily, uncle? was it where you thought?" asked vicky. "yes, yes; i had no difficulty. i saw him, vicky, but without his seeing me. he has grown, and perhaps he is a little thinner, but he is quite well. and i had an excellent account of him from the farmer. he is working steadily, and bearing manfully what, to a boy like him, cannot but be privations and hardships. but i am afraid he is very unhappy--his face had a set sad look in it that i do not like to see on one so young. i fear he never got your letters, vicky. there must have been some mistake about the address. i didn't want to push the thing too far. you must write again, my little girl--say all you can to soften him. what i want is that it should come from _his_ side. he will respect himself all his life for overcoming his pride, and asking to be forgiven, only we must try to make it easy for him, poor fellow! now go to bed, vicky, child, and think over what you will write to him to-morrow. i want to talk it all over with your mother. don't be unhappy about poor old geoff, my dear." obedient vicky jumped up at once to go to bed. she tried to whisper "good night" as she went the round of the others to kiss them, but the words would not come, and her pretty blue eyes were full of tears. still, vicky's thoughts and dreams were far happier that night than for a long time past. as soon as she had closed the door after her, the old gentleman turned to the others. "she doesn't know any more than we agreed upon?" he asked. "no," said elsa; "she only knows that you got his exact address from the same person who has told you about him from time to time. she has no idea that the whole thing was planned and arranged by you from the first, when you found he was set upon leaving home." great-uncle hoot-toot nodded his head. "that is all right. years hence, when he has grown up into a good and sensible man, we may, or if i am no longer here, _you_ may tell him all about it, my dears. but just now it would mortify him, and prevent the lesson from doing him the good we hope for. i should not at all like him to know i had employed detectives. he would be angry at having been taken in. that jowett is a very decent fellow, and did his part well; but he has mismanaged the letters somehow. i must see him about that. what was the address geoff gave in his note to vicky? are you sure she put it right?" "oh yes," said frances; "i saw it both times. it was-- 'to mr. james, care of mr. adam smith, murray place mews.'" "hoot-toot!" said mr. byrne. he could not make it out. but we, who know in what a hurry geoff wrote his note at the railway-station while jowett was waiting to take it, can quite well understand why vicky's letters had never reached him. for the address he _should_ have given was-- "abel smith, _mowbray_ place mews." "this time," mr. byrne went on, "i'll see that the letter is sent to him direct. jowett must manage it. let vicky address as before, and i'll see that it reaches him." "what do you think she should write?" said mrs. tudor, anxiously. "what she feels. it does not much matter. but let her make him understand that his home is open to him as ever--that he is neither forgotten nor thought of harshly. if i mistake not, from what i saw and what eames told me, he will be so happy to find it is so, that all the better side of his character will come out. and he will say more to himself than any of us would ever wish to say to him." "but, uncle dear," said elsa, "if it turns out as you hope, and poor geoff comes home again and is all you and mamma wish--and--if _all_ your delightful plans are realized, won't geoff find out everything you don't want him to know at present? indeed, aren't you afraid he may have heard already that you are the new squire there?" "no," said mr. byrne. "eames is a very cautious fellow; and from having known me long ago, or rather from his father having known me (it was i that got my cousin to give him the farm some years ago, as i told you), i found it easy to make him understand all i wished. crickwood bolders has stood empty so long, that the people about don't take much interest in it. they only know vaguely that it has changed hands lately, and eames says i am spoken of as the new mr. bolders, and not by my own name." "i see," said elsa. "and," continued mr. byrne, "of course geoff will take it for granted that it was by the coincidence of his getting taken on at my place that we found him out. it _was_ a coincidence that he should have taken it into his head to go down to that part of the country, through its being on the way to colethorne's." "and you say that he is really working hard, and--and making the best of things?" asked mrs. tudor. she smiled a little as she said it. geoff's "making the best of things" was such a _very_ new idea. "yes," replied great-uncle hoot-toot. "eames gives him the best of characters. he says the boy is thoroughly to be depended upon, and that his work is well done, even to cleaning the pigs; and, best of all, he is never heard to grumble." "fancy geoff cleaning the pigs!" exclaimed elsa. "i don't know that i find _that_ so difficult to fancy," said frances. "i think geoff has a real love for animals of all kinds, and for all country things. we would have sympathized with him about it if it hadn't been for his grumbling, which made all his likes and dislikes seem unreal. i think what i pity him the most for is the having to get up so dreadfully early these cold winter mornings. what time did you say he had to get up, uncle?" [illustration: vicky writing the letter.] "he has to be at the station with the milk before five every morning," said the old gentleman, grimly. "eames says his good woman is inclined to 'coddle him a bit'--she can't forget who he really is, it appears. i was glad to hear it; i don't want the poor boy actually to suffer--and i don't want it to go on much longer. i confess i don't see that there can be much 'coddling' if he has to be up and out before five o'clock in the morning at this time of the year." "no, indeed," said the girls. "and he must be _so_ lonely." "yes, poor fellow!" said the old gentleman, with a sigh, "i saw that in his face. and i was _glad_ to see it. it shows the lesson is not a merely surface one. you've had your wish for him to some extent, elsa, my dear. he has at last known some hardships." elsa's eyes filled with tears, though great-uncle hoot-toot had had no thought of hurting her. "don't say that, please," she entreated. "i think--i am sure--i only wanted him to learn how foolish he was, for his own sake more than for any one's else even." "i know, i know," the old gentleman agreed. "but i think he has had about enough of it. see that vicky writes that letter first thing to-morrow." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xii. a letter at last. christmas had come and gone. it brought geoff's home-sick loneliness to a point that was almost unbearable. he had looked forward vaguely to the twenty-fifth of december with the sort of hope that it would bring him some message, some remembrance, if it were but a christmas card. and for two or three days he managed to waylay the postman every morning as he passed the farm, and to inquire timidly if there were no letter--was he _sure_ there was no letter for james jeffreys? but the postman only shook his head. he had "never had no letter for that name, neither with nor without 'care of mr. eames,'" as geoff went on to suggest that if the farmer's name had been omitted the letter might have been overlooked. and when not only christmas, but new year's day too was past and gone, the boy lost hope. "it is too bad," he sobbed to himself, late at night, alone in his bare little room. "i think they might think a _little_ of me. they might be sorry for me, even--even if i did worry them all when i was at home. they might guess how lonely i am. it isn't the hard work. if it was for mother i was working, and if i knew they were all pleased with me, i wouldn't mind it. but i can't bear to go on like this." yet he could not make up his mind to write home again, for as things were it would be like begging for mr. byrne's charity. and every feeling of independence and manliness in geoff rose against accepting benefits from one whose advice he had scouted and set at defiance. still, he was sensible enough to see that he could not go on with his present life for long. "work on a farm" had turned out very different from his vague ideas of it. he could not, for years to come, hope to earn more than the barest pittance, and he felt that if he were always to remain the companion of the sort of people he was now among, he would not care to live. and gradually another idea took shape in his mind--he would emigrate! he saw some printed papers in the village post-office, telling of government grants of land to able-bodied young men, and giving the cost of the passage out, and various details, and he calculated that in a year, by scrupulous economy, he might earn about half the sum required, for the farmer had told him that if he continued to do well he would raise his wages at the end of the first six months. "and then," thought geoff, "i might write home and tell them it was all settled, and by selling all the things i have at home i might get the rest of the money. or--i would not even mind taking it as a _loan_ from great-uncle hoot-toot. that would seem different; and of course i do owe him a great deal now, in a way, for he must be doing everything for mother and the girls, and if only i were a man that would be my business." and for a while, after coming to this resolution, he felt happier. his old dreams of making a great fortune and being the good genius of his family returned, and he felt more interest in learning all he could of farm-work, that might be useful to him in his new life. but these more hopeful feelings did not last long or steadily; the pain of the home-sickness and loneliness increased so terribly, that at times he felt as if he _could_ not bear it any longer. and he would probably, strong as he was, have fallen ill, had not something happened. it was about six weeks after the sunday on which he had thought he had overheard great-uncle hoot-toot's voice through the hedge. it was a sunday again. geoff had been at church in the morning, and after dinner he was sitting in a corner of the kitchen, feeling as if he had no energy even to go for his favourite stroll in the grounds of the hall, when a sudden exclamation from mrs. eames made him look up. the farmer's wife had been putting away some of the plates and dishes that had been used at dinner, and in so doing happened to pull aside a large dish leaning on one of the shelves of the high-backed dresser. [illustration: geoff reading vicky's letter.] as she did so, a letter fell forward. it was addressed in a clear, good hand to "james jeffreys, at mr. eames's, crickwood farm, shalecray." "bless me!" cried the good woman. "what's this a-doing here? jem, boy, 'tis thine. when can it have come? it may have been up there a good bit." geoff started up and dashed forward with outstretched hand. "give it me! oh, give it me, please!" he said, in an eager, trembling voice. a look of disappointment crossed his face for a moment when he saw the writing; but he tore the envelope open, and then his eyes brightened up again. for it contained another letter, round which a slip was folded with the words, "i forward enclosed, as agreed.--ned jowett." and the second envelope was addressed to "mr. james" in a round, childish hand, that geoff knew well. it was vicky's. he darted out of the kitchen, and into his own little room. he could not have read the letter before any one. already the tears were welling up into his eyes. and long before he had finished reading they were running down his face and dropping on to the paper. this was what vicky said, and the date was nearly six weeks old! "my darling geoff, "why haven't you written to us? i wrote you a letter the minute i got your little note with the address, and i have written to you again since then. great-uncle hoot-toot says you are sure to get this letter. i think you can't have got the others. but still you might have written. i have been so _very_ unhappy about you. of course i was glad to hear you were getting on well, but still i have been very unhappy. mamma got better very slowly. i don't think she would have got better if she hadn't heard that you were getting on well, though. she has been very unhappy, too, and so have elsa and frances, but poor vicky most of all. we do so want you at home again. geoff, i can't tell you how good old uncle hoot-toot is. there is something about money i can't explain, but if you understood it all, you would see we should not be proud about his helping us, for he has done more for us always than we knew; even mamma didn't. oh, geoff, darling, do come home. we do all love you so, and mamma and elsa were only troubled because you didn't seem happy, and you didn't believe that they loved you. i think it would be all different now if you came home again, and we do so want you. i keep your room so nice. i dust it myself every day. mamma makes me have tea in the drawing-room now, and then i have a little pudding from their dinner, because, you see, one can't eat so much at ladies' afternoon tea. but i was too miserable at tea alone in the school-room. i have wrapped up our teapot, after harvey had made it very bright, and i won't ever make tea out of it till you come home. oh, geoffy, darling, do come home! "your loving, unhappy little "vicky." the tears came faster and faster--so fast that it was with difficulty geoff could see to read the last few lines. he hid his face in his hands and sobbed. he was only fourteen, remember, and there was no one to see. and with these sobs and tears--good honest tears that he need not have been ashamed of--there melted away all the unkind, ungrateful feelings out of his poor sore heart. he saw himself as he had really been--selfish, unreasonable, and spoilt. "yes," he said to himself, "that was all i _really_ had to complain of. they considered me too much--they spoilt me. but, oh, i would be so different now! only--i can't go home and say to great-uncle hoot-toot, 'i've had enough of working for myself; you may pay for me now.' it would seem _too_ mean. no, i must keep to my plan--it's too late to change. but i think i might go home to see them all, and ask them to forgive me. in three weeks i shall have been here three months, and then i may ask for a holiday. i'll write to vicky now at once, and tell her so--i can post the letter when i go to the station. they must have thought me _so_ horrid for not having written before. i wonder how it was i never got the other letters? but it doesn't matter now i've got this one. oh, dear vicky, i think i shall nearly go out of my mind with joy to see your little face again!" he had provided himself, luckily, with some letter-paper and envelopes, so there was no delay on that score. and once he had begun, he found no difficulty in writing--indeed, he could have covered pages, for he seemed to have so much to say. this was his letter:-- "crickwood farm, february . "my dearest vicky, "i have only just got your letter, though you wrote it on the th of january. mrs. eames--that's the farmer's wife--found it behind a dish on the dresser, where it has been all the time. i never got your other letters; i can't think what became of them. i've asked the postman nearly every day if there was no letter for me. vicky, i can't tell you all i'd like to say. i thought i'd write to mamma, but i feel as if i couldn't. will you tell her that i just _beg_ her to forgive me? not only for leaving home without leave, like i did, but for all the way i went on and all the worry i gave her. i see it all quite plain. i've been getting to see it for a good while, and when i read your dear letter it all came out quite plain like a flash. i don't mind the hard work here, or even the messy sort of ways compared to home--i wouldn't mind anything if i thought i was doing right. but it's the loneliness. vicky, i have thought sometimes i'd go out of my mind. will you ask great-uncle hoot-toot to forgive me, too? i'd like to understand about all he has done for us, and i think i am much sensibler about money than i was, so perhaps he'll tell me. i can ask for a holiday in three weeks, and then i'll come home for one day. i shall have to tell you my plans, and i think mamma will think i'm right. i must work hard, and perhaps in a few years i shall earn enough to come home and have a cottage like we planned. for i've made up my mind to emigrate. i don't think i'd ever get on so well in anything as in a country life; for, though it's very hard work here, i don't mind it, and i love animals, and in the summer it won't be so bad. please, vicky, make everybody understand that i hope never to be a trouble and worry any more.--your very loving "geoff. "p.s.--you may write here now. i don't mind you all knowing where i am." by the time geoff had finished this, for him, long epistle, it was nearly dark. he had to hurry off to the station to be in time with the milk. he was well known now by the men about the railway, and by one or two of the guards, and he was glad to see one he knew this evening, as he begged him to post his letter in town, for it was too late for the shalecray mail. the man was very good-natured, and promised to do as he asked. "by tuesday," thought geoff, "i may have a letter if vicky writes at once. and i might write again next sunday. so that we'd hear of each other every week." and this thought made his face look very bright and cheery as he went whistling into the kitchen, where, as usual of a sunday evening, eames was sitting smoking beside the fire. "the missis has told me about your letter, jim," said the farmer. "i'm right-down sorry about it, but i don't rightly know who to blame. it's just got slipped out o' sight." "thank you," geoff replied. "i'm awfully glad to have it now." "he's never looked so bright since he came," said mr. eames to his wife when geoff had left the room. "he's about getting tired of it, i fancy; and the squire's only too ready to forgive and forget, i take it. but he's a deal o' good stuff in him, has the boy, and so i told the squire. he's a fine spirit of his own, too." "and as civil a lad as ever i seed," added mrs. eames. "no nonsense and no airs. one can tell as he's a real gentleman. all the same, i'll be uncommon glad when he's with his own folk again; no one'd believe the weight it's been on my mind to see as he didn't fall ill with us. and you always a-telling me as squire said he wasn't to be coddled and cosseted. yet you'd have been none so pleased if he'd got a chill and the rheumatics or worse, as might have been if i hadn't myself seen to his bed and his sheets and his blankets, till the weight of them on my mind's been almost more nor i could bear." "well, well," said the farmer, soothingly, "all's well as ends well. and you said yourself it'd never 'a' done for us to refuse the squire any mortal service he could have asked of us." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xiii. the new squire and his family. tuesday brought no letter for geoff--nor wednesday, nor even thursday. his spirits went down again, and he felt bitterly disappointed. could his friend, the guard, have forgotten to post the letter, after all? he asked himself. this thought kept him up till thursday evening, when, happening to see the same man at the station, the guard's first words were, "got any answer to your love-letter yet, eh, jim? i posted it straight away," and then geoff did not know what to think. he did not like to write again. he began to fear that vicky had been mistaken in feeling so sure that his mother and great-uncle hoot-toot and elsa and frances were all ready to forgive him, and longing for his return. perhaps they were all still too indignant with him to allow vicky to write, and he sighed deeply at the thought. "i will wait till i can ask for a holiday," he said to himself, "and then i will write and say i am coming, and if they won't see me i must just bear it. at least, i am sure mother will see me when the time comes for me to go to america, though it will be dreadful to have to wait till then." when he got back to the house that evening, the farmer called to him. _he_ had had a letter that morning, though geoff had not; and had it not been getting dusk, the boy would have seen a slight twinkle in the good man's eyes as he spoke to him. "jim, my boy," he said, "i shall want you to do an odd job or so of work the next day or two. the new squire's coming down on monday to look round a bit. they've been tidying up at the house; did you know?" geoff shook his head; he had no time for strolling about the hall grounds except on sundays, and on the last sunday he had been too heavy-hearted to notice any change. "do you know anything of gardening?" the farmer went on. "they're very short of hands, and i've promised to help what i could. the rooms on the south side of the house are being got ready, and there's the terrace-walk round that way wants doing up sadly. with this mild weather the snowdrops and crocuses and all them spring flowers is springing up finely; there's lots of them round that south side, and branch can't spare a man to sort them out and rake over the beds." "i could do that," said geoff, his eyes sparkling. "i don't know much about gardening, but i know enough for that." it was a pleasant prospect for him; a day or two's quiet work in the beautiful old garden; he would feel almost like a gentleman again, he thought to himself. "when shall i go, sir?" he went on eagerly. "why, the sooner the better," said mr. eames. "to-morrow morning. that'll give you two good days. branch wants it to look nice, for the squire's ladies is coming with him. the south parlour is all ready. there'll be a deal to do to the house--new furniture and all the rest of it. he--the new squire's an old friend of mine and of my father's--and a good friend he's been to me," he added in a lower voice. "are they going to live here?" asked geoff. he liked the idea of working there, but he rather shrank from being seen as a gardener's boy by the new squire and "the ladies." "though it is very silly of me," he reflected; "they wouldn't look at me; it would never strike them that i was different from any other." "going to live here," repeated the farmer; "yes, of course. the new squire would be off his head not to live at crickwood bolders, when it belongs to him. a beautiful place as it is too." "yes," agreed geoff, heartily, "it would be hard to imagine a more beautiful place. the squire should be a happy man." he thought so more and more during the next two days. there was a great charm about the old house and the quaintly laid out grounds in which it stood--especially on the south side, where geoff's work lay. the weather, too, was delightfully mild just then; it seemed a sort of foretaste of summer, and the boy felt all his old love for the country revive and grow stronger than ever as he raked and weeded and did his best along the terrace walk. "i wish the squire would make me his gardener," he said to himself once. "but even to be a good gardener i suppose one should learn a lot of things i know nothing about." good-will goes a long way, however. geoff felt really proud of his work by saturday evening, and on sunday the farmer took a look at the flower-beds himself, and said he had done well. "those beds over yonder look rough still," he went on, pointing to some little distance. "they don't show from the house," said geoff, "and branch says it's too early to do much. there will be frosts again." "no matter," said mr. eames; "i'd like it all to look as tidy as can be for monday, seeing as i'd promised to help. i'll give you another day off the home-work, jim. robins's boy's very pleased to do the station work." [illustration: the farmer took a look at the flowerbeds himself.] geoff looked up uneasily. it would be very awkward for him, very awkward indeed, if "robins's boy" were to do so well as to replace him altogether. but there was a pleasant smile on the farmer's face, which reassured him. "very well, sir," he said. "i'll do as you like, of course; but i don't want any one else to do my own work for long." "all right," said eames. for a moment geoff thought he was going to say something more, but if so he changed his mind, and walked quietly away. monday saw geoff again at his post. it was a real early spring day, and he could not help feeling the exhilarating influence of the fresh, sweet air, though his heart was sad and heavy, for his hopes of a reply from vicky were every day growing fainter and fainter. there was nothing to do but to wait till the time came for a holiday, and then to go up to london and try to see them. "and if they won't see me or forgive me," thought the boy with a sigh, "i must just work on till i can emigrate." he glanced up at the terrace as he thought this. he was working this morning at some little distance from the house, but he liked to throw a look every now and then to the beds which he had raked and tidied already; they seemed so neat, and the crocuses were coming out so nicely. the morning was getting on; geoff looked at his watch--he had kept it carefully, but he never looked at it now without a feeling that before very long he might have to sell it--it was nearly twelve. "i must go home to dinner, i suppose," he thought; and he began gathering his tools together. as he did so, some slight sounds reached him from the terrace, and, glancing in that direction, he saw that one of the long windows opening on to it was ajar, and in another moment the figures of two ladies could be seen standing just in the aperture, and seemingly looking out as if uncertain what they were going to do. "they have come," thought geoff. "they'll be out here in another instant. i can't help it if it _is_ silly; i should _hate_ ladies and gentlemen to see me working here like a common boy;" and his face grew crimson with the thought. he hurried his things together, and was looking round to see if he could not make his way out of the grounds without passing near the house, when a quick pattering sound along the gravel startled him. a little girl was running towards him, flying down the sloping path that led from the terrace she came, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground, her fair hair streaming behind. "oh!" was geoff's first thought, "how like vicky!" but it was his first thought only, for almost before he had time to complete it the little girl was beside him--_upon_ him, one might almost say, for her arms were round him, her sweet face, wet with tears of joy, was pressed against his, her dear voice was speaking to him, "oh, geoffey, geoffey! my own geoffey! it's i--it's your vicky." geoff staggered, and almost fell. for a moment or two he felt so giddy and confused he could not speak. but the feeling soon went away, and the words came only too eagerly. "how is it? where have you come from? do you know the new squire? where is mamma? why didn't you write?" and, laughing and crying, vicky tried to explain. did she know the new squire? could geoff not guess? where were they all? mamma, elsa, frances, great-uncle hoot-toot--where should they be, but in the new squire's own house? up there on the terrace--yes, they were all up there; they had sent her to fetch him. and she dragged geoff up with her, geoff feeling as if he were in a dream, till he felt his mother's and sisters' kisses, and heard "the new squire's" voice sounding rather choky, as he said, "hoot-toot, hoot-toot! this will never do--never do, geoff, my boy." they let vicky explain it all in her own way. how great-uncle hoot-toot had come home from india, meaning to take them all to live with him in the old house which had come to be his. how disappointed he had been by geoff's selfish, discontented temper, and grumbling, worrying ways, and had been casting about how best to give him a lesson which should last, when geoff solved the puzzle for him by going off of his own accord. "and," vicky went on innocently, "was it not _wonderful_ that you should have come to uncle's own place, and got work with mr. eames, whom he has known so long?" in which geoff fully agreed; and it was not till many years later that he knew how it had really been--how mr. byrne had planned all for his safety and good, with the help of one of the cleverest young detectives in the london police, "ned jowett," the innocent countryman whom geoff had patronized! the boy told all he had been thinking of doing, his idea of emigrating, his wish to be "independent," and gain his own livelihood. and his mother explained to him what she herself had not thoroughly known till lately--that for many years, ever since her husband's death, they had owed far more to great-uncle hoot-toot than they had had any idea of. "your father was the son of his dearest friend," she said. "mr. byrne has no relations of his own. we were left very poor, but he never let me know it. the lawyers by mistake wrote to _me_ about the loss of money, which uncle had for long known was as good as lost, so that in reality it made little difference. so you see, geoff, what we owe him--_everything_--and you must be guided by his wishes entirely." they were kind and good wishes. he did not want geoff to emigrate, but he sympathized in his love for the country. for two or three years geoff was sent to a first-rate school, where he got on well, and then to an agricultural college, where he also did so well that before he was twenty he was able to be the squire's right hand in the management of his large property, and in this way was able to feel that, without sacrificing his independence, he could practically show his gratitude. they say that some part of the estate will certainly be left to geoff at mr. byrne's death; but that, it is to be hoped, will not come to pass for many years yet, for the old gentleman is still very vigorous, and the hall would certainly not seem itself at all if one did not hear his "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" sounding here, there, and everywhere, as he trots busily about. [illustration] printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. file was produced from scans of public domain material produced by microsoft for their live search books site.) [illustration: see p. "all the fellows came round and asked him what he was going to do now"] the flight of pony baker a boy's town story by w.d. howells author of "a boy's town" "christmas every day" etc. illustrated new york and london harper & brothers books by w.d. howells annie kilburn. mo. april hopes. mo. between the dark and daylight. new edition. mo. boy life. illustrated. mo. boy's town. illustrated. post vo. certain delightful english towns. illustrated. vo. traveller's edition, leather. christmas every day, and other stories. illustrated. mo. holiday edition. illustrated. to. coast of bohemia. illustrated. mo. criticism and fiction. portrait. mo. day of their wedding. illustrated. mo. familiar spanish travels. illustrated. vo. fennel and rue. illustrated. new edition. mo. flight of pony baker. post vo. hazard of new fortunes. new edition. mo. heroines of fiction. illustrated. vols. vo. imaginary interviews. vo. imperative duty. mo. paper. impressions and experiences. new edition. mo. kentons. mo. landlord at lion's head. illustrated. new edition. mo. letters home. mo. library of universal adventure. illustrated. vo, cloth. three-quarter calf. literary friends and acquaintance. illustrated. vo. literature and life. vo. little swiss sojourn. illustrated. mo. london films. illustrated. vo. traveller's edition, leather. miss bellard's inspiration. mo. modern italian poets. illustrated. mo. mother and the father. illustrated. new edition. mo. mouse-trap, a likely story, the garroters, five-o'clock tea. illustrated. new edition. mo. my literary passions. new edition. mo. my mark twain. illustrated. vo. my year in a log cabin. illustrated. mo. open-eyed conspiracy. mo. pair of patient lovers. mo. parting and a meeting. illustrated. square mo. quality of mercy. new edition. mo. questionable shapes. ill'd. mo. ragged lady. illustrated. new edition. mo. roman holidays. illustrated. vo. traveller's edition, leather. seven english cities. illustrated. vo. traveller's edition, leather. shadow of a dream. mo. son of royal langbrith. vo. stops of various quills. illustrated. to. limited edition. story of a play. mo. the seen and unseen at stratford-on-avon. crown vo. their silver wedding journey. illustrated. vols. crown vo. in vol. new edition. mo. through the eye of a needle. new edition. mo. traveller from altruria. new edition. mo. world of chance. mo. farces: a letter of introduction. illustrated. mo. a likely story. illustrated. mo. a previous engagement. mo. paper. evening dress. illustrated. mo. five-o'clock tea. illustrated. mo. parting friends. illustrated. mo. the albany depot. illustrated. mo. the garroters. illustrated. mo. the mouse-trap. illustrated. mo. the unexpected guests. illustrated. mo. harper & brothers, publishers, new york copyright, , by harper & brothers. published september, . _contents_ chap. page i. pony's mother, and why he had a right to run off ii. the right that pony had to run off, from the way his father acted iii. jim leonard's hair-breadth escape iv. the scrape that jim leonard got the boys into v. about running away to the indian reservation on a canal-boat, and how the plan failed vi. how the indians came to the boy's town and jim leonard acted the coward vii. how frank baker spent the fourth at pawpaw bottom, and saw the fourth of july boy viii. how pony baker came pretty near running off with a circus ix. how pony did not quite get off with the circus x. the adventures that pony's cousin, frank baker, had with a pocketful of money xi. how jim leonard planned for pony baker to run off on a raft xii. how jim leonard backed out, and pony had to give it up _illustrations_ "all the fellows came round and asked him what he was going to do now" _frontispiece_ "being dressed so well was one of the worst things that was done to him by his mother" "'i'll learn that limb to sleep in a cow-barn!' "real indians, in blankets, with bows and arrows" "very smiling-looking" "he began being cold and stiff with her the very next morning" "frank baker was one of those fellows that every mother would feel her boy was safe with" "'why, you ain't afraid, are you, pony?'" _the flight of pony baker_ _the flight of pony baker_ i pony's mother, and why he had a right to run off if there was any fellow in the boy's town fifty years ago who had a good reason to run off it was pony baker. pony was not his real name; it was what the boys called him, because there were so many fellows who had to be told apart, as big joe and little joe, and big john and little john, and big bill and little bill, that they got tired of telling boys apart that way; and after one of the boys called him pony baker, so that you could know him from his cousin frank baker, nobody ever called him anything else. you would have known pony from the other frank baker, anyway, if you had seen them together, for the other frank baker was a tall, lank, tow-headed boy, with a face so full of freckles that you could not have put a pin-point between them, and large, bony hands that came a long way out of his coat-sleeves; and the frank baker that i mean here was little and dark and round, with a thick crop of black hair on his nice head; and he had black eyes, and a smooth, swarthy face, without a freckle on it. he was pretty well dressed in clothes that fitted him, and his hands were small and plump. his legs were rather short, and he walked and ran with quick, nipping steps, just like a pony; and you would have thought of a pony when you looked at him, even if that had not been his nickname. [illustration: "being dressed so well was one of the worst things that was done to him by his mother"] that very thing of his being dressed so well was one of the worst things that was done to him by his mother, who was always disgracing him before the other boys, though she may not have known it. she never was willing to have him go barefoot, and if she could she would have kept his shoes on him the whole summer; as it was, she did keep them on till all the other boys had been barefoot so long that their soles were as hard as horn; and they could walk on broken glass, or anything, and had stumped the nails off their big toes, and had grass cuts under their little ones, and yarn tied into them, before pony baker was allowed to take his shoes off in the spring. he would have taken them off and gone barefoot without his mother's knowing it, and many of the boys said that he ought to do it; but then she would have found it out by the look of his feet when he went to bed, and maybe told his father about it. very likely his father would not have cared so much; sometimes he would ask pony's mother why she did not turn the boy barefoot with the other boys, and then she would ask pony's father if he wanted the child to take his death of cold; and that would hush him up, for pony once had a little brother that died. pony had nothing but sisters, after that, and this was another thing that kept him from having a fair chance with the other fellows. his mother wanted him to play with his sisters, and she did not care, or else she did not know, that a girl-boy was about the meanest thing there was, and that if you played with girls you could not help being a girl-boy. pony liked to play with his sisters well enough when there were no boys around, but when there were his mother did not act as if she could not see any difference. the girls themselves were not so bad, and they often coaxed their mother to let him go off with the other boys, when she would not have let him without. but even then, if it was going in swimming, or fishing, or skating before the ice was very thick, she would show that she thought he was too little to take care of himself, and would make some big boy promise that he would look after pony; and all the time pony would be gritting his teeth, he was so mad. once, when pony stayed in swimming all day with a crowd of fellows, she did about the worst thing she ever did; she came down to the river-bank and stood there, and called to the boys, to find out if pony was with them; and they all had to get into the water up to their necks before they could bear to answer her, they were so ashamed; and pony had to put on his clothes and go home with her. he could see that she had been crying, and that made him a little sorry, but not so very; and the most that he was afraid of was that she would tell his father. but if she did he never knew it, and that night she came to him after he went to bed, and begged him so not to stay in swimming the whole day any more, and told him how frightened she had been, that he had to promise; and then that made him feel worse than ever, for he did not see how he could break his promise. she was not exactly a bad mother, and she was not exactly a good mother. if she had been really a good mother she would have let him do whatever he wanted, and never made any trouble, and if she had been a bad mother she would not have let him do anything; and then he could have done it without her letting him. in some ways she was good enough; she would let him take out things to the boys in the back yard from the table, and she put apple-butter or molasses on when it was hot biscuit that he took out. once she let him have a birthday party, and had cake and candy-pulling and lemonade, and nobody but boys, because he said that boys hated girls; even his own sisters did not come. sometimes she would give him money for ice-cream, and if she could have got over being particular about his going in swimming before he could swim, and pistols and powder and such things, she would have done very well. she was first-rate when he was sick, and nobody could take care of him like her, cooling his pillow and making the bed easy, and keeping everybody quiet; and when he began to get well she would cook things that tasted better than anything you ever knew: stewed chicken, and toast with gravy on, and things like that. even when he was well, and just lonesome, she would sit by his bed if he asked her, till he went to sleep, or got quieted down; and if he was trying to make anything she would help him all she could, but if it was something that you had to use a knife with she was not much help. it always seemed to pony that she begrudged his going with the boys, and she said how nice he used to keep his clothes before, and had such pretty manners, and now he was such a sloven, and was so rude and fierce that she was almost afraid of him. he knew that she was making fun about being afraid of him; and if she did hate to have him go with some of the worst boys, still she was willing to help in lots of ways. she gave him yarn to make a ball with, and she covered it for him with leather. sometimes she seemed to do things for him that she would not do for his sisters, and she often made them give up to him when they had a dispute. she made a distinction between boys and girls, and did not make him help with the housework. of course he had to bring in wood, but all the fellows had to do that, and they did not count it; what they hated was having to churn, or wipe dishes after company. pony's mother never made him do anything like that; she said it was girls' work; and she would not let him learn to milk, either, for she said that milking was women's work, and all that pony had to do with the cow was to bring her home from the pasture in the evening. sometimes when there was company she would let him bring in a boy to the second table, and she gave them all the preserves and cake that they could eat. the kind of company she had was what nearly all the mothers had in the boy's town; they asked a whole lot of other mothers to supper, and had stewed chicken and hot biscuit, and tea and coffee, and quince and peach preserves, and sweet tomato pickles, and cake with jelly in between, and pound-cake with frosting on, and buttered toast, and maybe fried eggs and ham. the fathers never seemed to come; or, if the father that belonged in the house came, he did not go and sit in the parlor with the mothers after supper, but went up-town, to the post-office, or to some of the lawyers' offices, or else a store, and talked politics. pony never thought his mother was good looking, or, rather, he did not think anything about that, and it always seemed to him that she must be a pretty old woman; but once when she had company, and she came in from the kitchen with the last dish, and put it on the table, one of the nicest of the other mothers came up, and put her arm around pony's mother, and said: "how pretty you do look, mrs. baker! i just want to kiss you on those red cheeks. i should say you were a girl, instead of having all those children." pony was standing out on the porch with his five sisters, and when he looked in through the door, and saw his mother with her head thrown back laughing, and her face flushed from standing over the stove to cook the supper, and her brown hair tossed a little, he did think that she was very nice looking, and like the girls at school that were in the fourth reader; and she was very nicely dressed, too, in a white muslin dress, with the blue check apron she had been working in flung behind the kitchen door, as she came into the sitting-room carrying the dish in one hand. he did not know what the other mother meant by saying "all those children"; for it was a small family for the boy's town, and he thought she must just be fooling. sometimes his mother would romp with the children, or sing them funny, old-fashioned songs, such as people used to sing when the country was first settled and everybody lived in log cabins. when she got into one of her joking times she would call pony "honey! honey!" like the old colored aunty that had the persimmon-tree in her yard; and if she had to go past him she would wind her arm around his head and mumble the top of it with her lips; and if there were any of the fellows there, and pony would fling her arm away because he hated to have her do it before them, she would just laugh. of course, if she had been a good mother about everything else pony would not have minded that, but she was such a very bad mother about letting him have fun, sometimes, that pony could not overlook it, as he might have done. he did not think that she ought to call him pony before the boys, for, though he did not mind the boys' calling him pony, it was not the thing for a fellow's mother, and it was sure to give them the notion she babied him at home. once, after she called him "pony, dear!" the fellows mocked her when they got away, and all of them called him "pony, dear!" till he began to cry and to stone them. but the worst of her ways was about powder, and her not wanting him to have it, or not wanting him to have it where there was fire. she would never let him come near the stove with it, after one of the fellows had tried to dry his powder on the stove when it had got wet from being pumped on in his jacket-pocket while he was drinking at the pump, and the fellow forgot to take it off the stove quick enough, and it almost blew his mother up, and did pretty nearly scare her to death; and she would not let him keep it in a bottle, or anything, but just loose in a paper, because another of the fellows had begun to pour powder once from a bottle onto a coal of fire, and the fire ran up the powder, and blew the bottle to pieces, and filled the fellow's face so full of broken glass that the doctor was nearly the whole of that fourth of july night getting it out. so, although she was a good mother in some things, she was a bad mother in others, and these were the great things; and they were what gave him the right to run off. ii the right that pony had to run off, from the way his father acted pony had a right to run off from some of the things that his father had done, but it seemed to him that they were mostly things that his mother had put his father up to, and that his father would not have been half as bad if he had been let alone. in the boy's town the fellows celebrated christmas just as they did fourth of july, by firing off pistols and shooting crackers, and one christmas one of the fellows' pistols burst and blew the ball of his thumb open, and when a crowd of the fellows helped him past pony's house, crying and limping (the pain seemed to go down his leg, and lame him), pony's mother made his father take pony's pistol right away from him, and not let him have it till after new year's; and what made it worse was that pony had faithfully kept his promise to her that he would not fire anything out of his pistol but paper wads, while all the other fellows were firing shot, and tacks, and little marbles, out of theirs; and some of them tried to shame him into breaking his word, and he had to stand their calling him cry-baby, and everything. then, she would not let his father get him a gun to go hunting with, because he would have to fire something besides wads out of that, and would be sure to kill himself. pony told her that he would not kill himself, and tried to laugh her out of the notion, but it was no use, and he never had a gun till he was twelve years old; he was nine at the time i mean. one of the fellows who was only eight was going to have a gun as soon as his brother got done with his. she would hardly let his father get him a dog, and i suppose it was something but pony's disappointment about the gun that made her agree to the dog at last; even then she would not agree to his having it before it had its eyes open, when the great thing about a puppy was its not having its eyes open, and it was fully two weeks old before he was allowed to bring it home, though he was taken to choose it before it could walk very well, and he went every day afterwards to see how it was getting along, and to watch out that it did not get changed with the other little dogs. the first night after he got it to his own house, the dog whined so with homesickness that it kept everybody awake till pony went to the woodshed, where it was in the clothes-basket, and took it into his own bed; then it went to sleep, and did not whine a bit. his father let him keep it there that one night, but the next he made him put it out again, because he said it would get the house full of fleas; and he said if it made much more trouble he would make pony take it back. he was not a very good father about money, because when pony went to ask him for a five-cent piece he always wanted to know what it was for, and even when it was for a good thing a fellow did not always like to tell. if his father did not think it was a good thing he would not let pony have it, and then pony would be ashamed to go back to the boys, for they would say his father was stingy, though perhaps none of them had tried to get money from their own fathers. every now and then the fellows tried to learn to smoke, and that was a thing that pony's father would not let him do. he would let him smoke the drift-wood twigs, which the boys picked up along the river shore and called smoke-wood, or he would let him smoke grapevine or the pods of the catalpa, which were just like cigars, but he was mean about real tobacco. once, when he found a cigar in pony's pocket, he threw it into the fire, and said that if he ever knew him to have another he would have a talk with him. he was pretty bad about wanting pony to weed his mother's flower-beds and about going regularly to school, and always getting up in time for school. to be sure, if a show or a circus came along, he nearly always took pony in, but then he was apt to take the girls, too, and he did not like to have pony go off with a crowd of boys, which was the only way to go into a show; for if the fellows saw you with your family, all dressed up, and maybe with your shoes on, they would make fun of you the next time they caught you out. he made pony come in every night before nine o'clock, and even christmas eve, or the night before fourth of july, he would not let him stay up the whole night. when he went to the city, as the boys called the large town twenty miles away from the boy's town, he might get pony a present or he might not, but he would not promise, because once when he promised, he forgot it, and then pony's mother scolded him. there were some boys' fathers in the boy's town who were good fathers, and let their children do whatever they pleased, and pony could not help feeling rather ashamed before these boys. if one of that sort of fellows' fathers passed a crowd of boys, they would not take any notice of their boys; but if pony's father came along, he would very likely say, "well, pony!" or something like that, and then all the fellows would hollo, "well, pony! well, pony!" and make fun of his father, when he got past, and walk like him, or something, so that pony would be so mad he would hardly know what to do. he hated to ask his father not to speak to him, or look at him, when he was with the fellows, but it seemed to him as if his father ought to know better without asking. there were a great many things like that which no good father would have done, but the thing that made pony lose all patience, and begin getting ready to run off right away, was the way his father behaved when pony got mad at the teacher one day, and brought his books home, and said he was not going back to that school any more. the reason was because the teacher had put pony back from third reader to the second and made him go into a class of little fellows not more than seven years old. it happened one morning, after a day when pony had read very badly in the afternoon, and though he had explained that he had read badly because the weather was so hot, the teacher said he might try it in the second reader till the weather changed, at any rate; and the whole school laughed. the worst of it was that pony was really a very good reader, and could speak almost the best of any of the boys; but that afternoon he was lazy, and would not pay attention. at recess, after the teacher had put him back, all the fellows came round and asked him what he was going to do now; and he just shut his teeth and told them they would see; and at noon they did see. as soon as school was dismissed, or even before, pony put all his books together, and his slate, and tied them with his slate-pencil string, and twitched his hat down off the peg, and strutted proudly out of the room, so that not only the boys but the teacher, too, could see that he was leaving school. the teacher looked on and pretended to smile, but pony did not smile; he kept his teeth shut, and walked stiffly through the door, and straight home, without speaking to any one. that was the way to do when you left school in the boy's town, for then the boys would know you were in earnest; and none of them would try to speak to you, either; they would respect you too much. pony's mother knew that he had left school as soon as she saw him bringing home his books, but she only looked sorry and did not say anything. she must have told his father about it when he came to dinner, though, for as soon as they sat down at the table his father began to ask what the trouble was. pony answered very haughtily, and said that old archer had put him back into the second reader, and he was not going to stand it, and he had left school. "then," said his father, "you expect to stay in the second reader the rest of your life?" this was something that pony had never thought of before; but he said he did not care, and he was not going to have old archer put him back, anyway, and he began to cry. it was then that his mother showed herself a good mother, if ever she was one, and said she thought it was a shame to put pony back and mortify him before the other boys, and she knew that it must just have happened that he did not read very well that afternoon because he was sick, or something, for usually he read perfectly. his father said, "my dear girl, my dear girl!" and his mother hushed up and did not say anything more; but pony could see what she thought, and he accused old archer of always putting on him and always trying to mortify him. "that's all very well," said his father, "but i think we ought to give him one more trial; and i advise you to take your books back again this afternoon, and read so well that he will put you into the fourth reader to-morrow morning." pony understood that his father was just making fun about the fourth reader, but was in earnest about his going back to school; and he left the table and threw himself on the lounge, with his face down, and cried. he said he was sick, and his head ached, and he could not go to school; his father said that he hoped his headache would wear off in the course of the afternoon, but if he was worse they would have the doctor when he came home from school. then he took his hat and went out of the front door to go up town, and pony screamed out, "well, i'll run off; that's what i'll do!" his father did not take any notice of him, and his mother only said, "pony, pony!" while his sisters all stood round frightened at the way pony howled and thrashed the lounge with his legs. but before one o'clock pony washed his face and brushed his hair, and took his books and started for school. his mother tried to kiss him, but he pushed her off, for it seemed to him that she might have made his father let him stay out of school, if she had tried, and he was not going to have any of her pretending. he made his face very cold and hard as he marched out of the house, for he never meant to come back to that house any more. he meant to go to school that afternoon, but as soon as school was out he was going to run off. when the fellows saw him coming back with his books they knew how it was, but they did not mock him, for he had done everything that he could, and all that was expected of anybody in such a case. a boy always came back when he had left school in that way, and nobody supposed but what he would; the thing was to leave school; after that you were not to blame, whatever happened. before recess it began to be known among them that pony was going to run off, because his father had made him come back, and then they did think he was somebody; and as soon as they got out at recess they all crowded round him and began to praise him up, and everything, and to tell him that they would run off, too, if their fathers sent them back; and so he began to be glad that he was going to do it. they asked him when he was going to run off, and he told them they would see; and pretty soon it was understood that he was going to run off the same night. when school was out a whole crowd of them started with him, and some of the biggest fellows walked alongside of him, and talked down over their shoulders to him, and told him what he must do. they said he must not start till after dark, and he must watch out for the constable till he got over the corporation line and then nobody could touch him. they said that they would be waiting round the corner for him as soon as they had their suppers, and one of them would walk along with him to the end of the first street and then another would be waiting there to go with him to the end of the next, and so on till they reached the corporation line. very likely his father would have the constable waiting there to stop him, but pony ought to start to run across the line and then the fellows would rush out and trip up the constable and hold him down till pony got safe across. he ought to hollo, when he was across, and that would let them know that he was safe and they would be ready to let the constable up, and begin to run before he could grab them. everybody thought that was a splendid plan except archy hawkins, that all the fellows called old hawkins; his father kept one of the hotels, and old hawkins used to catch frogs for the table; he was the one that the frogs used to know by sight, and when they saw him they would croak out: "here comes hawkins! here comes hawkins! look out!" and jump off the bank into the water and then come up among the green slime, where nobody but old hawkins could see them. he was always joking and getting into scrapes, but still the boys liked him and thought he was pretty smart, and now they did not mind it when he elbowed the big boys away that were talking to pony and told them to shut up. "you just listen to your uncle, pony!" he said. "these fellows don't know anything about running off. i'll tell you how to do it; you mind your uncle! it's no use trying to get away from the constable, if he's there, for he'll catch you as quick as lightning, and he won't mind these fellows any more than fleas. you oughtn't try to start till along about midnight, for the constable will be in bed by that time, and you won't have any trouble. you must have somebody to wake you up, and some of the fellows ought to be outside, to do it. you listen to your grandfather! you ought to tie a string around your big toe, and let the string hang out of the window, the way you do fourth of july eve; and then just as soon as it strikes twelve, the fellows ought to tug away at the string till you come hopping to the window, and tell 'em to stop. but you got to whisper, and the fellows mustn't make any noise, either, or your father will be out on them in a minute. he'll be watching out, to-night, anyway, i reckon, because--" old hawkins was walking backward in front of pony, talking to him, and showing him how he must hop to the window, and all at once he struck his heel against a root in the sidewalk, and the first thing he knew he sat down so hard that it about knocked the breath out of him. all the fellows laughed, and anybody else would have been mad, but old hawkins was too good-natured; and he got up and brushed himself, and said: "say! let's go down to the river and go in, before supper, anyway." nearly all the fellows agreed, and old hawkins said: "come along, pony! you got to come, too!" but pony stiffly refused, partly because it seemed to him pretty mean to forget all about his running away, like that, and partly because he had to ask his mother before he went in swimming. a few of the little fellows kept with him all the way home, but most of the big boys went along with old hawkins. one of them stayed with pony and the little boys, and comforted him for the way the rest had left him. he was a fellow who was always telling about indians, and he said that if pony could get to the indians, anywhere, and they took a fancy to him, they would adopt him into their tribe, if it was just after some old chief had lost a son in battle. maybe they would offer to kill him first, and they would have to hold a council, but if they did adopt him, it would be the best thing, because then he would soon turn into an indian himself, and forget how to speak english; and if ever the indians had to give up their prisoners, and he was brought back, and his father and mother came to pick him out, they might know him by some mark or other, but he would not know them, and they would have to let him go back to the indians again. he said that was the very best way, and the only way, but the trouble would be to get to the indians in the first place. he said he knew of one reservation in the north part of the state, and he promised to find out if there were any other indians living nearer; the reservation was about a hundred miles off, and it would take pony a good while to go to them. the name of this boy was jim leonard. but now, before i go the least bit further with the story of pony baker's running away, i have got to tell about jim leonard, and what kind of boy he was, and the scrape that he once got pony and the other boys into, and a hair-breadth escape he had himself, when he came pretty near being drowned in a freshet; and i will begin with the hair-breadth escape, because it happened before the scrape. iii jim leonard's hair-breadth escape jim leonard's stable used to stand on the flat near the river, and on a rise of ground above it stood jim leonard's log-cabin. the boys called it jim leonard's log-cabin, but it was really his mother's, and the stable was hers, too. it was a log stable, but up where the gable began the logs stopped, and it was weather-boarded the rest of the way, and the roof was shingled. jim leonard said it was all logs once, and that the roof was loose clap-boards, held down by logs that ran across them, like the roofs in the early times, before there were shingles or nails, or anything, in the country. but none of the oldest boys had ever seen it like that, and you had to take jim leonard's word for it if you wanted to believe it. the little fellows nearly all did; but everybody said afterwards it was a good thing for jim leonard that it was not that kind of roof when he had his hair-breadth escape on it. he said himself that he would not have cared if it had been; but that was when it was all over, and his mother had whipped him, and everything, and he was telling the boys about it. he said that in his pirate book lots of fellows on rafts got to land when they were shipwrecked, and that the old-fashioned roof would have been just like a raft, anyway, and he could have steered it right across the river to delorac's island as easy! pony baker thought very likely he could, but hen billard said: "well, why didn't you do it, with the kind of a roof you had?" some of the boys mocked jim leonard; but a good many of them thought he could have done it if he could have got into the eddy that there was over by the island. if he could have landed there, once, he could have camped out and lived on fish till the river fell. it was that spring, about fifty-four years ago, when the freshet, which always came in the spring, was the worst that anybody could remember. the country above the boy's town was under water, for miles and miles. the river bottoms were flooded so that the corn had to be all planted over again when the water went down. the freshet tore away pieces of orchard, and apple-trees in bloom came sailing along with logs and fence rails and chicken-coops, and pretty soon dead cows and horses. there was a dog chained to a dog-kennel that went by, howling awfully; the boys would have given anything if they could have saved him, but the yellow river whirled him out of sight behind the middle pier of the bridge, which everybody was watching from the bank, expecting it to go any minute. the water was up within four or five feet of the bridge, and the boys believed that if a good big log had come along and hit it, the bridge would have been knocked loose from its piers and carried down the river. perhaps it would, and perhaps it would not. the boys all ran to watch it as soon as school was out, and stayed till they had to go to supper. after supper some of their mothers let them come back and stay till bedtime, if they would promise to keep a full yard back from the edge of the bank. they could not be sure just how much a yard was, and they nearly all sat down on the edge and let their legs hang over. jim leonard was there, holloing and running up and down the bank, and showing the other boys things away out in the river that nobody else could see; he said he saw a man out there. he had not been to supper, and he had not been to school all day, which might have been the reason why he would rather stay with the men and watch the bridge than go home to supper; his mother would have been waiting for him with a sucker from the pear-tree. he told the boys that while they were gone he went out with one of the men on the bridge as far as the middle pier, and it shook like a leaf; he showed with his hand how it shook. jim leonard was a fellow who believed he did all kinds of things that he would like to have done; and the big boys just laughed. that made jim leonard mad, and he said that as soon as the bridge began to go, he was going to run out on it and go with it; and then they would see whether he was a liar or not! they mocked him and danced round him till he cried. but pony baker, who had come with his father, believed that jim leonard would really have done it; and at any rate, he felt sorry for him when jim cried. he stayed later than any of the little fellows, because his father was with him, and even all the big boys had gone home except hen billard, when pony left jim leonard on the bank and stumbled sleepily away, with his hand in his father's. when pony was gone, hen billard said: "well, going to stay all night, jim?" and jim leonard answered back, as cross as could be, "yes, i am!" and he said the men who were sitting up to watch the bridge were going to give him some of their coffee, and that would keep him awake. but perhaps he thought this because he wanted some coffee so badly. he was awfully hungry, for he had not had anything since breakfast, except a piece of bread-and-butter that he got pony baker to bring him in his pocket when he came down from school at noontime. hen billard said, "well, i suppose i won't see you any more, jim; good-bye," and went away laughing; and after a while one of the men saw jim leonard hanging about, and asked him what he wanted there, at that time of night; and jim could not say he wanted coffee, and so there was nothing for him to do but go. there was nowhere for him to go but home, and he sneaked off in the dark. when he came in sight of the cabin he could not tell whether he would rather have his mother waiting for him with a whipping and some supper, or get to bed somehow with neither. he climbed softly over the back fence and crept up to the back door, but it was fast; then he crept round to the front door, and that was fast, too. there was no light in the house, and it was perfectly still. all of a sudden it struck him that he could sleep in the stable-loft, and he thought what a fool he was not to have thought of it before. the notion brightened him up so that he got the gourd that hung beside the well-curb and took it out to the stable with him; for now he remembered that the cow would be there, unless she was in somebody's garden-patch or corn-field. he noticed as he walked down towards the stable that the freshet had come up over the flat, and just before the door he had to wade. but he was in his bare feet and he did not care; if he thought anything, he thought that his mother would not come out to milk till the water went down, and he would be safe till then from the whipping he must take, sooner or later, for playing hooky. sure enough, the old cow was in the stable, and she gave jim leonard a snort of welcome and then lowed anxiously. he fumbled through the dark to her side, and began to milk her. she had been milked only a few hours before, and so he got only a gourdful from her. but it was all strippings, and rich as cream, and it was smoking warm. it seemed to jim leonard that it went down to his very toes when he poured it into his throat, and it made him feel so good that he did not know what to do. there really was not anything for him to do but to climb up into the loft by the ladder in the corner of the stable, and lie down on the old last year's fodder. the rich, warm milk made jim leonard awfully sleepy, and he dropped off almost as soon as his head touched the corn-stalks. the last thing he remembered was the hoarse roar of the freshet outside, and that was a lulling music in his ears. the next thing he knew, and he hardly knew that, was a soft, jolting, sinking motion, first to one side and then to another; then he seemed to be going down, down, straight down, and then to be drifting off into space. he rubbed his eyes, and found it was full daylight, although it was the daylight of early morning; and while he lay looking out of the stable-loft window and trying to make out what it all meant, he felt a wash of cold water along his back, and his bed of fodder melted away under him and around him, and some loose planks of the loft floor swam weltering out of the window. then he knew what had happened. the flood had stolen up while he slept, and sapped the walls of the stable; the logs had given way, one after another, and had let him down, with the roof, into the water. he got to his feet as well as he could, and floundered over the rising and falling boards to the window in the floating gable. one look outside showed him his mother's log-cabin safe on its rise of ground, and at the corner the old cow, that must have escaped through the stable door he had left open, and passed the night among the cabbages. she seemed to catch sight of jim leonard when he put his head out, and she lowed to him. jim leonard did not stop to make any answer. he clambered out of the window and up onto the ridge of the roof, and there, in the company of a large gray rat, he set out on the strangest voyage a boy ever made. in a few moments the current swept him out into the middle of the river, and he was sailing down between his native shore on one side and delorac's island on the other. all round him seethed and swirled the yellow flood in eddies and ripples, where drift of all sorts danced and raced. his vessel, such as it was, seemed seaworthy enough. it held securely together, fitting like a low, wide cup over the water, and perhaps finding some buoyancy from the air imprisoned in it above the window. but jim leonard was not satisfied, and so far from being proud of his adventure, he was frightened worse even than the rat which shared it. as soon as he could get his voice, he began to shout for help to the houses on the empty shores, which seemed to fly backward on both sides while he lay still on the gulf that swashed around him, and tried to drown his voice before it swallowed him up. at the same time the bridge, which had looked so far off when he first saw it, was rushing swiftly towards him, and getting nearer and nearer. he wondered what had become of all the people and all the boys. he thought that if he were safe there on shore he should not be sleeping in bed while somebody was out in the river on a roof, with nothing but a rat to care whether he got drowned or not. where was hen billard, that always made fun so; or archy hawkins, that pretended to be so good-natured; or pony baker, that seemed to like a fellow so much? he began to call for them by name: "hen billard--_o_ hen! help, help! archy hawkins, _o_ archy! i'm drowning! pony, pony, _o_ pony! don't you see me, pony?" he could see the top of pony baker's house, and he thought what a good, kind man pony's father was. surely _he_ would try to save him; and jim leonard began to yell: "o mr. baker! look here, mr. baker! it's jim leonard, and i'm floating down the river on a roof! save me, mr. baker, save me! help, help, somebody! fire! fire! fire! murder! fire!" by this time he was about crazy, and did not half know what he was saying. just in front of where hen billard's grandmother lived, on the street that ran along the top of the bank, the roof got caught in the branches of a tree which had drifted down and stuck in the bottom of the river so that the branches waved up and down as the current swashed through them. jim leonard was glad of anything that would stop the roof, and at first he thought he would get off on the tree. that was what the rat did. perhaps the rat thought jim leonard really was crazy and he had better let him have the roof to himself; but the rat saw that he had made a mistake, and he jumped back again after he had swung up and down on a limb two or three times. jim leonard felt awfully when the rat first got into the tree, for he remembered how it said in the pirate book that rats always leave a sinking ship, and now he believed that he certainly was gone. but that only made him hollo the louder, and he holloed so loud that at last he made somebody hear. it was hen billard's grandmother, and she put her head out of the window with her night-cap on, to see what the matter was. jim leonard caught sight of her and he screamed, "fire, fire, fire! i'm drownding, mrs. billard! oh, do somebody come!" hen billard's grandmother just gave one yell of "fire! the world's a-burnin' up, hen billard, and you layin' there sleepin' and not helpin' a bit! somebody's out there in the river!" and she rushed into the room where hen was, and shook him. he bounced out of bed and pulled on his pantaloons, and was down-stairs in a minute. he ran bareheaded over to the bank, and when jim leonard saw him coming he holloed ten times as loud: "it's me, hen! it's jim leonard! oh, do get somebody to come out and save me! fire!" as soon as hen heard that, and felt sure it was not a dream, which he did in about half a second, he began to yell, too, and to say: "how did you get there? fire, fire, fire! what are you on? fire! are you in a tree, or what? fire, fire! are you in a flat-boat? fire, fire, fire! if i had a skiff--fire!" he kept racing up and down the bank, and back and forth between the bank and the houses. the river was almost up to the top of the bank, and it looked a mile wide. down at the bridge you could hardly see any light between the water and the bridge. pretty soon people began to look out of their doors and windows, and hen billard's grandmother kept screaming, "the world's a-burnin' up! the river's on fire!" then boys came out of their houses; and then men with no hats on; and then women and girls, with their hair half down. the fire-bells began to ring, and in less than five minutes both the fire companies were on the shore, with the men at the brakes and the foremen of the companies holloing through their trumpets. then jim leonard saw what a good thing it was that he had thought of holloing fire. he felt sure now that they would save him somehow, and he made up his mind to save the rat, too, and pet it, and maybe go around and exhibit it. he would name it bolivar; it was just the color of the elephant bolivar that came to the boy's town every year. these things whirled through his brain while he watched two men setting out in a skiff towards him. they started from the shore a little above him, and they meant to row slanting across to his tree, but the current, when they got fairly into it, swept them far below, and they were glad to row back to land again without ever getting anywhere near him. at the same time, the tree-top where his roof was caught was pulled southward by a sudden rush of the torrent; it opened, and the roof slipped out, with jim leonard and the rat on it. they both joined in one squeal of despair as the river leaped forward with them, and a dreadful "oh!" went up from the people on the bank. some of the firemen had run down to the bridge when they saw that the skiff was not going to be of any use, and one of them had got out of the window of the bridge onto the middle pier, with a long pole in his hand. it had an iron hook at the end, and it was the kind of pole that the men used to catch drift-wood with and drag it ashore. when the people saw blue bob with that pole in his hand, they understood what he was up to. he was going to wait till the water brought the roof with jim leonard on it down to the bridge, and then catch the hook into the shingles and pull it up to the pier. the strongest current set close in around the middle pier, and the roof would have to pass on one side or the other. that was what blue bob argued out in his mind when he decided that the skiff would never reach jim leonard, and he knew that if he could not save him that way, nothing could save him. blue bob must have had a last name, but none of the little fellows knew what it was. everybody called him blue bob because he had such a thick, black beard that when he was just shaved his face looked perfectly blue. he knew all about the river and its ways, and if it had been of any use to go out with a boat, he would have gone. that was what all the boys said, when they followed blue bob to the bridge and saw him getting out on the pier. he was the only person that the watchman had let go on the bridge for two days. the water was up within three feet of the floor, and if jim leonard's roof slipped by blue bob's guard and passed under the bridge, it would scrape jim leonard off, and that would be the last of him. all the time the roof was coming nearer the bridge, sometimes slower, sometimes faster, just as it got into an eddy or into the current; once it seemed almost to stop, and swayed completely round; then it just darted forward. blue bob stood on the very point of the pier, where the strong stone-work divided the current, and held his hooked pole ready to make a clutch at the roof, whichever side it took. jim leonard saw him there, but although he had been holloing and yelling and crying all the time, now he was still. he wanted to say, "o bob, save me!" but he could not make a sound. it seemed to him that bob was going to miss him when he made a lunge at the roof on the right side of the pier; it seemed to him that the roof was going down the left side; but he felt it quiver and stop, and then it gave a loud crack and went to pieces, and flung itself away upon the whirling and dancing flood. at first jim leonard thought he had gone with it; but it was only the rat that tried to run up blue bob's pole, and slipped off into the water; and then somehow jim was hanging onto blue bob's hands and scrambling onto the bridge. blue bob always said he never saw any rat, and a good many people said there never was any rat on the roof with jim leonard; they said that he just made the rat up. he did not mention the rat himself for several days; he told pony baker that he did not think of it at first, he was so excited. pony asked his father what he thought, and pony's father said that it might have been the kind of rat that people see when they have been drinking too much, and that blue bob had not seen it because he had signed the temperance pledge. but this was a good while after. at the time the people saw jim leonard standing safe with blue bob on the pier, they set up a regular election cheer, and they would have believed anything jim leonard said. they all agreed that blue bob had a right to go home with jim and take him to his mother, for he had saved jim's life, and he ought to have the credit of it. before this, and while everybody supposed that jim leonard would surely be drowned, some of the people had gone up to his mother's cabin to prepare her for the worst. she did not seem to understand exactly, and she kept round getting breakfast, with her old clay pipe in her mouth; but when she got it through her head, she made an awful face, and dropped her pipe on the door-stone and broke it; and then she threw her check apron over her head and sat down and cried. [illustration: "'i'll learn that limb to sleep in a cow-barn!'"] but it took so long for her to come to this that the people had not got over comforting her and trying to make her believe that it was all for the best, when blue bob came up through the bars with his hand on jim's shoulder, and about all the boys in town tagging after them. jim's mother heard the hurrahing and pulled off her apron, and saw that jim was safe and sound there before her. she gave him a look that made him slip round behind blue bob, and she went in and got a table-knife, and she came out and went to the pear-tree and cut a sucker. she said, "i'll learn that limb to sleep in a cow-barn when he's got a decent bed in the house!" and then she started to come towards jim leonard. iv the scrape that jim leonard got the boys into as i said, it was in the spring that jim leonard's hair-breadth escape happened. but it was late in the summer of that very same year that he got pony baker and all the rest of the boys into about one of the worst scrapes that the boy's town boys were ever in. at first, it was more like a dare than anything else, for when jim leonard said he knew a watermelon patch that the owner had no use for, the other boys dared him to tell where it was. he wagged his head, and said that he knew, and then they dared him to tell whose patch it was; and all at once he said it was bunty williams's, and dared them to come and get the melons with him. none of the boys in the boy's town would take a dare, and so they set off with jim leonard, one sunny saturday morning in september. some of the boys had their arms round one another's necks, talking as loud as they could into one another's faces, and some whooping and holloing, and playing indian, and some throwing stones and scaring cats. they had nearly as many dogs as there were boys, and there were pretty nearly all the boys in the neighborhood. there seemed to be thirty or forty of them, they talked so loud and ran round so, but perhaps there were only ten or eleven. hen billard was along, and so were piccolo wright and archie hawkins, and then a great lot of little fellows. pony baker was not quite a little fellow in age; and there was something about him that always made the big boys let him go with their crowd. but now, when they passed pony's gate and his mother saw them, and because it was such a warm morning and she thought they might be going down to the river and called out to him, "you mustn't go in swimming, pony, dear; you'll get the ague," they began to mock pony as soon as they got by, and to hollo, "no, pony, dear! you mustn't get the ague. keep out of the water if you don't want your teeth to rattle, pony, dear!" this made pony so mad that he began to cry and try to fight them, and they all formed in a ring round him and danced and whooped till he broke through and started home. then they ran after him and coaxed him not to do it, and said that they were just in fun. after that they used pony first-rate, and he kept on with them. jim leonard was at the head, walking along and holloing to the fellows to hurry up. they had to wade the river, and he was showing off how he could hop, skip, and jump through, when he stepped on a slippery stone and sat down in the water and made the fellows laugh. but they acted first-rate with him when they got across; they helped him to take off his trousers and wring them out, and they wrung them so hard that they tore them a little, but they were a little torn already; and they wrung them so dry that he said they felt splendid when he got them on again. one of his feet went through the side of the trouser leg that was torn before it got to the end, and made the fellows laugh. when the boys first started jim said he had got to go ahead so as to be sure that they found the right patch. he now said that bunty williams had two patches, one that he was going to sell the melons out of, and the other that he was going to let them go to seed in; and it was the second melon patch that he had deserted. but pretty soon after they got over the river he came back and walked with the rest of the boys, and when they came to a piece of woods which they had to go through, he dropped behind. he said it was just the place for indian, and he wanted to be where he could get at them if they started up when the boys got by, as they would very likely do. some of the big fellows called him a cowardy-calf; but he said he would show them when the time came, and most of the little boys believed him and tried to get in front. it was not long before he stopped and asked, what if he could not find the right patch? but the big boys said that they reckoned he could if he looked hard enough, and they made him keep on. one of the dogs treed a squirrel, and jim offered to climb the tree and shake the squirrel off; but hen billard said his watermelon tooth was beginning to trouble him, and he had no time for squirrels. that made all the big boys laugh, and they pulled jim leonard along, although he held back with all his might and told them to quit it. he began to cry. pony baker did not know what to make of him. he felt sorry for him, but it seemed to him that jim was acting as if he wanted to get out of showing the fellows where the patch was. pony lent him his handkerchief, and jim said that he had the toothache, anyway. he showed pony the tooth, and the fellows saw him and made fun, and they offered to carry him, if his tooth ached so that he could not walk, and then suddenly jim rushed ahead of the whole crowd. they thought he was trying to run away from them, and two or three of the big fellows took after him, and when they caught up with him, the rest of the boys could see him pointing, and then the big boys that were with him gave a whoop and waved their hats, and all the rest of the boys tore along and tried which could run the fastest and get to the place the soonest. they knew it must be something great; and sure enough it was a watermelon patch of pretty near an acre, sloping to the south from the edge of the woods, and all overrun with vines and just bulging all over with watermelons and muskmelons. the watermelons were some of the big mottled kind, with lightish blotches among their darker green, like georgia melons nowadays, and some almost striped in gray and green, and some were those big, round sugar melons, nearly black. they were all sizes, but most of them were large, and you need not "punk" them to see if they were ripe. anybody could tell that they were ripe from looking at them, and the muskmelons, which were the old-fashioned long kind, were yellow as gold. now, the big fellows said, you could see why bunty williams had let this patch go to seed. it was because they were such bully melons and would have the best seeds; and the fellows all agreed to save the seeds for bunty, and put them where he could find them. they began to praise jim leonard up, but he did not say anything, and only looked on with his queer, sleepy eyes, and said his tooth ached, when the fellows plunged down among the melons and began to burst them open. they had lots of fun. at first they cut a few melons open with their knives, but that was too slow, and pretty soon they began to jump on them and split them with sharp-edged rocks, or anything, to get them open quick. they did not eat close to the rind, as you do when you have a melon on the table, but they tore out the core and just ate that; and in about a minute they forgot all about saving the seeds for bunty williams and putting them in one place where he could get them. some of the fellows went into the edge of the woods to eat their melons, and then came back for more; some took them and cracked them open on the top rail of the fence, and then sat down in the fence corner and plunged their fists in and tore the cores out. some of them squeezed the juice out of the cores into the shells of the melons and then drank it out of them. piccolo wright was stooping over to pull a melon and archie hawkins came up behind him with a big melon that had a seam across it, it was so ripe; and he brought it down on piccolo's head, and it smashed open and went all over piccolo. he was pretty mad at first, but then he saw the fun of it, and he took one end of the melon and scooped it all out, and put it on in place of his hat and wore it like a helmet. archie did the same thing with the other end, and then all the big boys scooped out melons and wore them for helmets. they were all drabbled with seeds and pulp, and some of the little fellows were perfectly soaked. none of them cared very much for the muskmelons. somehow pony would not take any of the melons, although there was nothing that he liked so much. the fellows seemed to be having an awfully good time, and yet somehow it looked wrong to pony. he knew that bunty williams had given up the patch, because jim leonard said so, and he knew that the boys had a right to the melons if bunty had got done with them; but still the sight of them there, smashing and gorging, made pony feel anxious. it almost made him think that jim leonard was better than the rest because he would not take any of the melons, but stayed off at one side of the patch near the woods, where pony stood with him. he did not say much, and pony noticed that he kept watching the log cabin where bunty williams lived on the slope of the hill about half a mile off, and once he heard jim saying, as if to himself: "no, there isn't any smoke coming out of the chimbly, and that's a sign there ain't anybody there. they've all gone to market, i reckon." it went through pony that it was strange jim should care whether bunty was at home or not, if bunty had given up the patch, but he did not say anything; it often happened so with him about the things he thought strange. the fellows did not seem to notice where he was or what he was doing; they were all whooping and holloing, and now they began to play war with the watermelon rinds. one of the dogs thought he smelled a ground-squirrel and began to dig for it, and in about half a minute all the dogs seemed to be fighting, and the fellows were yelling round them and sicking them on; and they were all making such a din that pony could hardly hear himself think, as his father used to say. but he thought he saw some one come out of bunty's cabin, and take down the hill with a dog after him and a hoe in his hand. he made jim leonard look, and jim just gave a screech that rose above the din of the dogs and the other boys, "bunty's coming, and he's got his bulldog and his shotgun!" and then he turned and broke through the woods. all the boys stood still and stared at the hill-side, while the dogs fought on. the next thing they knew they were floundering among the vines and over the watermelon cores and shells and breaking for the woods; and as soon as the dogs found the boys were gone, they seemed to think it was no use to keep on fighting with nobody to look on, and they took after the fellows. the big fellows holloed to the little fellows to come on, and the little fellows began crying. they caught their feet in the roots and dead branches and kept falling down, and some of the big fellows that were clever, like hen billard and archie hawkins, came back and picked them up and started them on again. nobody stopped to ask himself or any one else why they should be afraid of bunty if he had done with his melon patch, but they all ran as if he had caught them stealing his melons, and had a right to shoot them, or set his dog on them. they got through the woods to the shore of the river, and all the time they could hear bunty williams roaring and shouting, and bunty williams's bulldog barking, and it seemed as if he were right behind them. after they reached the river they had to run a long way up the shore before they got to the ripple where they could wade it, and by that time they were in such a hurry that they did not stop to turn up their trousers' legs; they just splashed right in and splashed across the best way they could. some of them fell down, but everybody had to look out for himself, and they did not know that they were all safe over till they counted up on the other side. everybody was there but jim leonard, and they did not know what had become of him, but they were not very anxious. in fact they were all talking at the tops of their voices, and bragging what they would have done if bunty had caught them. piccolo wright showed how he could have tripped him up, and archie hawkins said that snuff would make a bulldog loosen his grip, because he would have to keep sneezing. none of them seemed to have seen either bunty's shotgun or his bulldog, but they all believed that he had them because jim leonard said so, just as they had believed that bunty had got done with his melon patch, until all at once one of them said, "where is jim leonard, anyway?" then they found out that nobody knew, and the little fellows began to think that maybe bunty williams had caught him, but hen billard said: "oh, he's safe enough, somewheres. i wish i had him here!" archie hawkins asked, "what would you do to him?" and hen said: "i'd show you! i'd make him go back and find out whether bunty really had a bulldog with him. i don't believe he had." then all the big boys said that none of them believed so, either, and that they would bet that any of their dogs could whip bunty's dog. their dogs did not look much like fighting. they were wet with running through the river, and they were lying round with their tongues hanging out, panting. but it made the boys think that something ought to be done to jim leonard, if they could ever find him, and some one said that they ought to look for him right away, but the rest said they ought to stop and dry their pantaloons first. pony began to be afraid they were going to hurt jim leonard if they got hold of him, and he said he was going home; and the boys tried to keep him from doing it. they said they were just going to build a drift-wood fire and dry their clothes at it, and they told him that if he went off in his wet trousers he would be sure to get the ague. but nothing that the boys could do would keep him, and so the big fellows said to let him go if he wanted to so much; and he climbed the river bank and left them kindling a fire. when he got away and looked back, all the boys had their clothes off and were dancing round the fire like indians, and he would have liked to turn back after he got to the top, and maybe he might have done so if he had not found jim leonard hiding in a hole up there and peeping over at the boys. jim was crying, and said his tooth ached awfully, and he was afraid to go home and get something to put in it, because his mother would whale him as soon as she caught him. he said he was hungry, too, and he wanted pony to go over into a field with him and get a turnip, but pony would not do it. he had three cents in his pocket--the big old kind that were as large as half-dollars and seemed to buy as much in that day--and he offered to let jim take them and go and get something to eat at the grocery. they decided he should buy two smoked red herrings and a cent's worth of crackers, and these were what jim brought back after he had been gone so long that pony thought he would never come. he had stopped to get some apples off one of the trees at his mother's house, and he had to watch his chance so that she should not see him, and then he had stopped and taken some potatoes out of a hill that would be first-rate if they could get some salt to eat them with, after they had built a fire somewhere and baked them. they thought it would be a good plan to dig one of these little caves just under the edge of the bank, and make a hole in the top to let the smoke out; but they would have to go a good way off so that the other fellows could not see them, and they could not wait for that. they divided the herrings between them, and they each had two crackers and three apples, and they made a good meal. then they went to a pump at the nearest house, where the woman said they might have a drink, and drank themselves full. they wanted awfully to ask her for some salt, but they did not dare to do it for fear she would make them tell what they wanted it for. so they came away without, and jim said they could put ashes on their potatoes the way the indians did, and it would be just as good as salt. they ran back to the river bank, and ran along up it till they were out of sight of the boys on the shore below, and then they made their oven in it, and started their fire with some matches that jim leonard had in his pocket, so that if he ever got lost in the woods at night he could make a fire and keep from freezing. his tooth had stopped aching now, and he kept telling such exciting stories about indians that pony could not seem to get the chance to ask why bunty williams should take after the boys with his shotgun and bulldog if he had given up the watermelon patch and only wanted it for seed. the question lurked in pony's mind all the time that they were waiting for the potatoes to bake, but somehow he could not get it out. he did not feel very well, and he tried to forget his bad feelings by listening as hard as he could to jim leonard's stories. jim kept taking the potatoes out to see if they were done enough, and he began to eat them while they were still very hard and greenish under the skin. pony ate them, too, although he was not hungry now, and he did not think the ashes were as good as salt on them, as jim pretended. the potato he ate seemed to make him feel no better, and at last he had to tell jim that he was afraid he was going to be sick. jim said that if they could heat some stones, and get a blanket anywhere, and put it over pony and the stones, and then pour water on the hot stones, they could give him a steam bath the way the indians did, and it would cure him in a minute; they could get the stones easy enough, and he could bring water from the river in his straw hat, but the thing of it was to get the blanket. he stood looking thoughtfully down at pony, who was crying now, and begging jim leonard to go home with him, for he did not believe he could walk on account of the pain that seemed to curl him right up. he asked jim if he believed he was beginning to have the ague, but jim said it was more like the yellow janders, although he agreed that pony had better go home, for it was pretty late, anyway. he made pony promise that if he would take him home he would let him get a good way off before he went into the house, so that pony's father and mother should not see who had brought him. he said that when he had got off far enough he would hollo, and then pony could go in. he was first-rate to pony on the way home, and helped him to walk, and when the pain curled him up so tight that he could not touch his foot to the ground, jim carried him. pony could never know just what to make of jim leonard. sometimes he was so good to you that you could not help thinking he was one of the cleverest fellows in town, and then all of a sudden he would do something mean. he acted the perfect coward at times, and at other times he was not afraid of anything. almost any of the fellows could whip him, but once he went into an empty house that was haunted, and came and looked out of the garret windows, and dared any of them to come up. he offered now, if pony did not want to go home and let his folks find out about the melon patch, to take him to his mother's log-barn, and get a witch-doctor to come and tend him; but pony said that he thought they had better keep on, and then jim trotted and asked him if the jolting did not do him some good. he said he just wished there was an indian medicine-man around somewhere. they were so long getting to pony's house that it was almost dusk when they reached the back of the barn, and jim put him over the fence. jim started to run, and pony waited till he got out of sight and holloed; then he began to shout, "father! mother! _o_ mother! come out here! i'm sick!" it did not seem hardly a second till he heard his mother calling back: "pony! pony! where are you, child? where are you?" "here, behind the barn!" he answered. pony's mother came running out, and then his father, and when they had put him into his own bed up-stairs, his mother made his father go for the doctor. while his father was gone, his mother got the whole story out of pony--what he had been doing all day, and what he had been eating--but as to who had got him into the trouble, she said she knew from the start it must be jim leonard. after the doctor came and she told him what pony had been eating, without telling all that he had been doing, the doctor gave him something to make him feel better. as soon as he said he felt better she began to talk very seriously to him, and to tell him how anxious she had been ever since she had seen him going off in the morning with jim leonard at the head of that crowd of boys. "didn't you know he couldn't be telling the truth when he said the man had left his watermelon patch? didn't any of the boys?" "no," said pony, thoughtfully. "but when he pretended that he shouldn't know the right patch, and wanted to turn back?" "we didn't think anything. we thought he just wanted to get out of going. ought they let him turn back? maybe he meant to keep the patch all to himself." his mother was silent, and pony asked, "do you believe that a boy has a right to take anything off a tree or a vine?" "no; certainly not." "well, that's what i think, too." "why, pony," said his mother, "is there anybody who thinks such a thing can be right?" "well, the boys say it's not stealing. stealing is hooking a thing out of a wagon or a store; but if you can knock a thing off a tree, or get it through a fence, when it's on the ground already, then it's just like gathering nuts in the woods. that's what the boys say. do you think it is?" "i think it's the worst kind of stealing. i hope my boy doesn't do such things." "not very often," answered pony, thoughtfully. "when there's a lot of fellows together, you don't want them to laugh at you." "o pony, dear!" said his mother, almost crying. "well, anyway, mother," pony said, to cheer her up, "i didn't take any of the watermelons to-day, for all jim said bunty had got done with them." "i'm so glad to think you didn't! and you must promise, won't you, never to touch any fruit that doesn't belong to you?" "but supposing an apple was to drop over the fence onto the sidewalk, what would you do then?" "i should throw it right back over the fence again," said pony's mother. pony promised his mother never to touch other people's fruit, but he was glad she did not ask him to throw it back over the fence if it fell outside, for he knew the fellows would laugh. his father came back from going down-stairs with the doctor, and she told him all that pony had told her, and it seemed to pony that his father could hardly keep from laughing. but his mother did not even smile. "how could jim leonard tell them that a man would give up his watermelon patch, and how could they believe such a lie, poor, foolish boys?" "they wished to believe it," said pony's father, "and so did jim, i dare say." "he might have got some of them killed, if bunty williams had fired his gun at them," said pony's mother; and he could see that she was not half-satisfied with what his father said. "perhaps it was a hoe, after all. you can't shoot anybody with a hoe-handle, and there is nothing to prove that it was a gun but jim's word." "yes, and here poor pony has been so sick from it all, and jim leonard gets off without anything." "you are always wanting the tower to fall on the wicked," said pony's father, laughing. "when it came to the worst, jim didn't take the melons any more than pony did. and he seems to have wanted to back out of the whole affair at one time." "oh! and do you think that excuses him?" "no, i don't. but i think he's had a worse time, if that's any comfort, than pony has. he has suffered the fate of all liars. sooner or later their lies outwit them and overmaster them, for whenever people believe a liar he is forced to act as if he had spoken the truth. that's worse than having a tower fall on you, or pains in the stomach." pony's mother was silent for a moment as if she could not answer, and then she said, "well, all i know is, i wish there was no such boy in this town as jim leonard." v about running away to the indian reservation on a canal-boat, and how the plan failed now, anybody can see the kind of a boy that jim leonard was, pretty well; and the strange thing of it was that he could have such a boy as pony baker under him so. but, anyway, pony liked jim, as much as his mother hated him, and he believed everything jim said in spite of all that had happened. after jim promised to find out whether there was any indian reservation that you could walk to, he pretended to study out in the geography that the only reservation there was in the state was away up close to lake erie, but it was not far from the same canal that ran through the boy's town to the lake, and jim said, "i'll tell you what, pony! the way to do will be to get into a canal-boat, somehow, and that will take you to the reservation without your hardly having to walk a step; and you can have fun on the boat, too." pony agreed that this would be the best way, but he did not really like the notion of living so long among the indians that he would not remember his father and mother when he saw them; he would like to stay till he was pretty nearly grown up, and then come back in a chief's dress, with eagle plumes all down his back and a bow in his hand, and scare them a little when he first came in the house and then protect them from the tribe and tell them who he was, and enjoy their surprise. but he hated to say this to jim leonard, because he would think he was afraid to live with the indians always. he hardly dared to ask him what the indians would do to him if they did not adopt him, but he thought he had better, and jim said: "oh, burn you, maybe. but it ain't likely but what they'll adopt you; and if they do they'll take you down to the river, and wash you and scrub you, so's to get all the white man off, and then pull out your hair, a hair at a time, till there's nothing but the scalp-lock left, so that your enemies can scalp you handy; and then you're just as good an indian as anybody, and nobody can pick on you, or anything. the thing is how to find the canal-boat." the next morning at school it began to be known that pony baker was going to run off on a canal-boat to see the indians, and all the fellows said how he ought to do it. one of the fellows said that he ought to get to drive the boat horses, and another that he ought to hide on board in the cargo, and come out when the boat was passing the reservation; and another that he ought to go for a cabin-boy on one of the passenger-packets, and then he could get to the indians twice as soon as he could on a freight-boat. but the trouble was that pony was so little that they did not believe they would take him either for a driver or a cabin-boy; and he said he was not going to hide in the cargo, because the boats were full of rats, and he was not going to have rats running over him all the time. some of the fellows thought this showed a poor spirit in pony, and wanted him to take his dog along and hunt the rats; they said he could have lots of fun; but others said that the dog would bark as soon as he began to hunt the rats, and then pony would be found out and put ashore in a minute. the fellows could not think what to do till at last one of them said: "you know piccolo wright?" "yes." "well, you know his father has got a boat?" "yes. well?" "well, and he's got a horse, too; and everything." "well, what of it?" "get piccolo to hook the boat and take pony to the reservation." the fellows liked this notion so much that they almost hurrahed, and they could hardly wait till school was out and they could go and find piccolo and ask him whether he would do it. they found him up at the canal basin, where he was fishing off the stern of his father's boat. he was a pretty big boy, though he was not so very old, and he had a lazy, funny face and white hair; and the fellows called him piccolo because he was learning to play the piccolo flute, and talked about it when he talked at all, but that was not often. he was one of those boys who do not tan or freckle in the sun, but peel, and he always had some loose pieces of fine skin hanging to his nose. all the fellows came up and began holloing at once, and telling him what they wanted him to do, and he thought it was a first-rate notion, but he kept on fishing, without getting the least bit excited; and he did not say whether he would do it or not, and when the fellows got tired of talking they left him and began to look round the boat. there was a little cabin at one end, and all the rest of the boat was open, and it had been raining, or else the boat had leaked, and it was pretty full of water; and the fellows got down on some loose planks that were floating there, and had fun pushing them up and down, and almost forgot what they had come for. they found a long pump leaning against the side of the boat, with its spout out over the gunwale, and they asked piccolo if they might pump, and he said they might, and they pumped nearly all the water out after they had got done having fun on the planks. some of them went into the cabin and found a little stove there, where pony could cook his meals, and a bunk where he could sleep, or keep in out of the rain, and they said they wished they were going to run off, too. they took more interest than he did, but they paid him a good deal of attention, and he felt that it was great to be going to run off, and he tried not to be homesick, when he thought of being down there alone at night, and nobody near but piccolo out on the towpath driving the horse. the fellows talked it all over, and how they would do. they said that piccolo ought to hook the boat some friday night, and the sooner the better, and get a good start before saturday morning. they were going to start with pony, and perhaps travel all night with him, and then get off and sleep in the woods, to rest themselves, and then walk home; and the reason that piccolo ought to hook the boat friday night was that they could have all saturday to get back, when there was no school. if the boat went two miles an hour, which she always did, even if she was loaded with stone from piccolo's father's quarry, she would be fifteen miles from the boy's town by daybreak; and if they kept on travelling night and day, and pony drove the horse part of the time, they could reach the indian reservation monday evening, for they would not want to travel sunday, because it was against the law, and it was wicked, anyway. if they travelled on sunday, and a storm came up, just as likely as not the boat would get struck by lightning, and if it did, the lightning would run out along the rope and kill the horse and piccolo, too, if he was riding. but the way for piccolo to do was always to come aboard when it began to rain, and that would keep pony company a little, and they could make the horse go by throwing stones at him. pony and piccolo ought to keep together as much as they could, especially at night, so that if there were robbers, they could defend the boat better. of course, they could not make the horse go by throwing stones at him in the dark, and the way for them to do was for pony to get out and ride behind piccolo. besides making it safer against robbers, they could keep each other from going to sleep by talking, or else telling stories; or if one of them did doze off, the other could hold him on; and they must take turn about sleeping in the daytime. but the best way of all to scare the robbers was to have a pistol, and fire it off every little once in a while, so as to let them know that the boat was armed. one of the fellows that had a pistol said he would lend it to pony if pony would be sure to send it back from the reservation by piccolo, for he should want it himself on the fourth, which was coming in about three weeks. another fellow that had five cents, which he was saving up till he could get ten, to buy a pack of shooting-crackers, said he would lend it to pony to buy powder, if he only felt sure that he could get it back to him in time. all the other fellows said he could do it easily, but they did not say how; one of them offered to go and get the powder at once, so as to have it ready. but pony told him it would not be of any use, for he had promised his mother that he would not touch a pistol or powder before the fourth. none of the fellows seemed to think it was strange that he should be willing to run away from home, and yet be so anxious to keep his promise to his mother that he would not use a pistol to defend himself from robbers; and none of them seemed to think it was strange that they should not want piccolo, if he hooked his father's boat, to travel on sunday with it. after a while piccolo came to the little hatch-door, and looked down into the cabin where the boys were sitting and talking at the tops of their voices; but in about a minute he vanished, very suddenly for him, and they heard him pumping, and then before they knew it, they heard a loud, harsh voice shouting, "heigh, there!" they looked round, and at the open window of the cabin on the land-side they saw a man's face, and it seemed to fill the whole window. they knew it must be piccolo's father, and they just swarmed up the gangway all in a bunch. some of them fell, but these hung on to the rest, somehow, and they all got to the deck of the cabin together, and began jumping ashore, so that piccolo's father could not catch them. he was standing on the basin bank, saying something, but they did not know what, and they did not stop to ask, and they began to run every which way. they all got safely ashore, except jim leonard; he fell over the side of the boat between it and the bank, but he scrambled up out of the water like lightning, and ran after the rest. he was pretty long-legged, and he soon caught up, but he was just raining water from his clothes, and it made the fellows laugh so that they could hardly run, to hear him swish when he jolted along. they did not know what to do exactly, till one of them said they ought to go down to the river and go in swimming, and they could wring jim leonard's clothes out, and lay them on the shore to dry, and stay in long enough to let them dry. that was what they did, and they ran round through the backs of the gardens and the orchards, and through the alleys, and climbed fences, so that nobody could see them. the day was pretty hot, and by the time they got to the river they were all sweating, so that jim's clothes were not much damper than the others. he had nothing but a shirt and trousers on, anyway. after that they did not try to get piccolo to hook his father's boat, for they said that his father might get after them any time, and he would have a right to do anything he pleased to them, if he caught them. they could not think of any other boat that they could get, and they did not know how pony could reach the reservation without a canal-boat. that was the reason why they had to give up the notion of his going to the indians; and if anybody had told them that the indians were going to come to pony they would have said he was joking, or else crazy; but this was really what happened. it happened a good while afterwards; so long afterwards that they had about forgotten he ever meant to run off, and they had got done talking about it. vi how the indians came to the boy's town and jim leonard acted the coward jim leonard was so mad because he lost his chip-hat in the canal basin, when he fell off the boat (and had to go home bareheaded and tell his mother all about what happened, though his clothes were dry enough, and he might have got off without her noticing anything, if it had not been for his hat) that he would not take any interest in pony. but he kept on taking an interest in indians, and he was the most excited fellow in the whole boy's town when the indians came. the way they came to town was this: the white people around the reservation got tired of having them there, or else they wanted their land, and the government thought it might as well move them out west, where there were more indians, there were such a very few of them on the reservation; and so it loaded them on three canal-boats and brought them down through the boy's town to the ohio river, and put them on a steamboat, and then took them down to the mississippi, and put them on a reservation beyond that river. the boys did not know anything about this, and they would not have cared much if they had. all they knew was that one morning (and it happened to be saturday) three canal-boats, full of indians, came into the basin. nobody ever knew which boy saw them first. it seemed as if all the fellows in the boy's town happened to be up at the basin at once, and were standing there when the boats came in. when they saw that they were real indians, in blankets, with bows and arrows, warriors, squaws, papooses, and everything, they almost went crazy, and when a good many of the indians came ashore and went over to the court-house yard and began to shoot at quarters and half-dollars that the people stuck into the ground for them to shoot at, the fellows could hardly believe their eyes. they yelled and cheered and tried to get acquainted with the indian boys, and ran and got their arrows for them, and everything; and if the indians could only have stayed until the fourth, which was pretty near now, they would have thought it was the greatest thing that ever happened. jim leonard said they belonged to a tribe that had been against the british in the last war, and were the friends of the long knives, as they called the americans. he said that he read it in a book; and he hunted round for pony baker, and when he found him he said: "come here, pony; i want to tell you something." [illustration: "real indians, in blankets, with bows and arrows"] any other time all the other fellows would have crowded around and wanted to know what it was, but now they were so much taken up with the indians that none of them minded him, and so he got a good chance at pony alone. pony was afraid that jim leonard wanted him to run off with the indians, and this was just what he did want. he said: "you ought to get a blanket and stain your face and hands with walnut juice, and then no one could tell you from the rest of the tribe, and you could go out with them where they're going and hunt buffaloes. it's the greatest chance there ever was. they'll adopt you into the tribe, maybe, as soon as the canal-boats leave, or as quick as they can get to a place where they can pull your hair out and wash you in the canal. i tell you, if i was in your place, i'd do it, pony." pony did not know what to say. he hated to tell jim leonard that he had pretty nearly given up the notion of running off for the present, or until his father and mother did something more to make him do it. ever since the boys failed so in trying to get piccolo to hook his father's boat for pony to run off in, things had been going better with pony at home. his mother did not stop him from half so many things as she used to do, and lately his father had got to being very good to him: let him lie in bed in the morning, and did not seem to notice when he stayed out with the boys at night, telling stories on the front steps, or playing hide-and-go-whoop, or anything. they seemed to be a great deal taken up with each other and not to mind so much what pony was doing. his mother let him go in swimming whenever he asked her, and did not make him promise to keep out of the deep water. she said she would see, when he coaxed her for five cents to get powder for the fourth, and she let him have one of the boys to spend the night with him once, and she gave them waffles for breakfast. she showed herself something like a mother, and she had told him that if he would be very, very good she would get his father to give him a quarter, so that he could buy two packs of shooting-crackers, as well as five cents' worth of powder for the fourth. but she put her arms around him and hugged him up to her and kissed his head and said: "you'll be very careful, pony, won't you? you're all the little boy we've got, and if anything should happen to you--" she seemed to be almost crying, and pony laughed and said: "why, nothing could happen to you with shooting-crackers"; and she could have the powder to keep for him; and he would just make a snake with it fourth of july night; put it around through the grass, loose, and then light one end of it, and she would see how it would go off and not make the least noise. but she said she did not want to see it; only he must be careful; and she kissed him again and let him go, and when he got away he could see her wiping her eyes. it seemed to him that she was crying a good deal in those days, and he could not understand what it was about. she was scared at any little thing, and would whoop at the least noise, and when his father would say: "lucy, my dear girl!" she would burst out crying and say that she could not help it. but she got better and better to pony all the time, and it was this that now made him ashamed with jim leonard, because it made him not want to run off so much. he dug his toe into the turf in the court-house yard under the locust-tree, and did not say anything till jim leonard asked him if he was afraid to go off and live with the indians, because if he was going to be a cowardy-calf like that, it was all that jim leonard wanted to do with him. pony denied that he was afraid, but he said that he did not know how to talk indian, and he did not see how he was going to get along without. jim leonard laughed and said if that was all, he need not be anxious. "the indians don't talk at all, hardly, even among each other. they just make signs; didn't you know that? if you want something to eat you point to your mouth and chew; and if you want a drink, you open your mouth and keep swallowing. when you want to go to sleep you shut your eyes and lean your cheek over on your hand, this way. that's all the signs you need to begin with, and you'll soon learn the rest. now, say, are you going with the indians, or ain't you going? it's your only chance. why, pony, what are you afraid of? hain't you always wanted to sleep out-doors and not do anything but hunt?" pony had to confess that he had, and then jim leonard said: "well, then, that's what you'll do if you go with the indians. i suppose you'll have to go on the warpath with them when you get out there; and if it's against the whites you won't like it at first; but you've got to remember what the whites have done to the indians ever since they discovered america, and you'll soon get to feeling like an indian anyway. one thing is, you've got to get over being afraid." that made pony mad, and he said: "i ain't afraid now." "i know that," said jim leonard. "but what i mean is, that if you get hurt you mustn't hollo, or cry, or anything; and even when they're scalping you, you mustn't even make a face, so as to let them know that you feel it." by this time some of the other fellows began to come around to hear what jim leonard was saying to pony. a good many of the indians had gone off anyway, for the people had stopped sticking quarters into the ground for them to shoot at, and they could not shoot at nothing. jim leonard saw the fellows crowding around, but he went on as if he did not notice them. "you've got to go without eating anything for weeks when the medicine-man tells you to; and when you come back from the warpath, and they have a scalp-dance, you've got to keep dancing till you drop in a fit. when they give a dog feast you must eat dog stew until you can't swallow another mouthful, and you'll be so full that you'll just have to lay around for days without moving. but the great thing is to bear any kind of pain without budging or saying a single word. maybe you're used to holloing now when you get hurt?" pony confessed that he holloed a little; the others tried to look as if they never holloed at all, and jim leonard went on: "well, you've got to stop that. if an arrow was to go through you and stick out at your back, or anywhere, you must just reach around and pull it out and not speak. when you're having the sun-dance--i think it's the sun-dance, but i ain't really certain--you have to stick a hook through you, right here"--he grabbed pony by the muscles on his shoulders--"and let them pull you up on a pole and hang there as long as they please. they'll let you practise gradually so that you won't mind hardly anything. why, i've practised a good deal by myself, and now i've got so that i believe if you was to stick me with--" all of a sudden something whizzed along the ground and jim leonard stooped over and caught one of his feet up in his hand, and began to cry and to hollo: "oh, oh, oh! ow, ow, ow! oh, my foot! oh, it's broken; i know it is! oh, run for the doctor, do, pony baker! i know i'm going to die! oh, dear, oh dear, oh dear!" all the boys came crowding around to see what the matter was, and the men came, too, and pretty soon some one found an arrow in the grass, and then they knew that it was a stray arrow that had hit jim leonard on the side of the foot, after missing one of the dimes that was stuck in the ground. it was blunt, and it had not hurt him that anybody could see, except rubbed the skin off a little on the ankle-bone. but jim leonard began to limp away towards home, and now, as the indians had all gone back to their boats, and the fellows had nothing else to do, they went along with him. archy hawkins held him up on one side, and hen billard on the other, and archy said, "i tell you, when i heard jim yell, i thought it was a real indian," and hen said: "i thought it was the scalp-halloo." archy said, "the way i came to think it was a real indian was that a real indian never makes any noise when he's hurt," and hen said: "i thought it was the scalp-halloo, because jim was stooping over as if he was tearing the scalp off of a white man. he's been practising, you know." "well, practice makes perfect. i reckon if jim hasn't got so far that he would smile when you scalped him, or just laugh if you shot an arrow through him, or would let you stick a hook into him, and pull him up to the top of a pole, it's because he's begun at the other end. i'll bet he could eat himself full of dog stew, and lay around three days without stirring." jim leonard thought the fellows had come along to pity him and help him; but when he heard archy hawkins say that, and hen billard began to splutter and choke with the laugh he was holding in, he flung them off and began to fight at them with his fists, and strike right and left blindly. he broke out crying, and then the fellows made a ring around him and danced and mocked him. "hey, jim, what'd you do if they pulled your hair out?" "jimmy, oh, jim! would you hollo much louder if they tomahawked you?" "show your uncle how to dance till you drop, jim." they kept on till jim leonard picked up stones to stone them, and then they all ran away, jumping and jeering till they got out of sight. it was about dinner-time, anyway. no one was left but pony baker. he stooped down over jim when he sat crying over his foot. "does it hurt you much, jimmy?" he asked. "yes, it hurts dreadfully, pony. the skin's all rubbed off. i'm afraid it's broken my leg." "well, let me help you home," said pony. "your mother can tie it up, then." he made jim lean on him, and keep trying his foot, and pretty soon they found he could walk with it nearly the same as the other foot, and before they got to jim's house they were talking and laughing together. after that, pony baker gave up running off to the indians. he about gave up running off altogether. he had a splendid fourth of july. his mother would not let him stay up the whole of the night before, but she let him get up at four o'clock, and fire off both his packs of shooting-crackers; and though she had forbidden him to go down to the river-bank where the men were firing off the cannon, he hardly missed it. he felt sleepy as soon as his crackers were done, and another fellow who was with him came into the parlor, and they both lay down on the carpet and went to sleep there, and slept till breakfast-time. after breakfast he went up to the court-house yard, with some other fellows, and then, after dinner, when they all came round and begged, and the big fellows promised to watch out for pony, his mother let him go out to the second lock with them, and go in swimming in the canal. he did not know why this should be such a great privilege, but it was. he had never been out to the second lock before. it was outside of the corporation line, and that was a great thing in itself. after supper, pony's mother let him fire off his powder-snake, and she even came out and looked at it, with her fingers in her ears. he promised her that it wouldn't make any noise, but she could not believe him; and when the flash came, she gave a little whoop, and ran in-doors. it shamed him before the boys, for fear they would laugh; and she acted even worse when his father wished to let him go up to the court-house yard to see the fireworks. a lot of the fellows were going, and he was to go with the crowd, but his father was to come a little behind, so as to see that nothing happened to him; and when they were just starting off what should she do but hollo to his father from the door where she was standing, "do be careful of the child, henry!" it did not seem as if she could be a good mother when she tried, and she was about the afraidest mother in the boy's town. all the way up to the court-house the boys kept snickering and whispering, "don't stump your toe, child," and "be careful of the child, boys," and things like that till pony had to fight some of them. then they stopped. they were afraid his father would hear, anyway. but the fireworks were splendid, and the fellows were very good to pony, because his father stood in the middle of the crowd and treated them to lemonade, and they did not plague, any more, going home. it was ten o'clock when pony got home; it was the latest he had ever been up. the very fourth of july before that one he had been up pretty nearly as late listening to his cousin, frank baker, telling about the fun he had been having at a place called pawpaw bottom; and the strange thing that happened there, if it did happen, for nobody could exactly find out. so i think i had better break off again from pony, and say what it was that frank told; and after that i can go on with pony's running off. vii how frank baker spent the fourth at pawpaw bottom, and saw the fourth of july boy it was the morning of the fourth, and frank was so anxious to get through with his wood-sawing, and begin celebrating with the rest of the boys, that he hardly knew what to do. he had a levvy (as the old spanish _real_ used to be called in southern ohio) in his pocket, and he was going to buy a pack of shooting-crackers for ten cents, and spend the other two cents for powder. he had no pistol, but he knew a fellow that would lend him his pistol part of the time, and he expected to have about the best fourth he ever had. he had been up since three o'clock watching the men fire the old six-pounder on the river-bank; and he was going to get his mother to let him go up to the fireworks in the court-house yard after dark. but now it did not seem as if he could get wood enough sawed. twice he asked his mother if she thought he had enough, but she said "not near," and just as jake milrace rode up the saw caught in a splinter of the tough oak log frank was sawing and bumped back against frank's nose; and he would have cried if it had not been for what jake began to say. he said he was going to pawpaw bottom to spend the fourth at a fellow's named dave black, and he told frank he ought to go too; for there were plenty of mulberries on dave's father's farm, and the early apples were getting ripe enough to eat, if you pounded them on a rock; and you could go in swimming, and everything. jake said there was the greatest swimming-hole at pawpaw bottom you ever saw, and they had a log in the water there that you could have lots of fun with. frank ran into the house to ask his mother if he might go, and he hardly knew what to do when she asked him if there was wood enough yet to get dinner and supper. but his aunt manda was spending the summer with his mother, and she said she reckoned she could pick up chips to do all the cooking they needed, such a hot day; and frank ran out to the cow-house, where they kept the pony, because the bakers had no stable, and saddled him, and was off with jake milrace in about a minute. the pony was short and fat and lazy, and he had to be whipped to make him keep up with jake's horse. it was not exactly jake's horse; it was his sister's husband's horse, and he had let jake have it because he would not be using it himself on the fourth of july. it was tall and lean, and it held its head so high up that it was no use to pull on the bridle when it began to jump and turn round and round, which it did every time frank whipped his pony to keep even with jake. it would shy and sidle, and dart so far ahead that the pony would get discouraged and would lag back, and have to be whipped up again; and then the whole thing would have to be gone through with the same as at first. the boys did not have much chance to talk, but they had a splendid time riding along, and when they came to a cool, dark place in the woods they pretended there were indians; and at the same time they kept a sharp eye out for squirrels. if they had seen any, and had a gun with them, they could have shot one easily, for squirrels are not afraid of you when you are on horseback; and, as it was, jake milrace came pretty near killing a quail that they saw in the road by a wheat-field. he dropped his bridle and took aim with his forefinger, and pulled back his thumb like a trigger; and if his horse had not jumped, and his finger had been loaded, he would surely have killed the quail, it was so close to him. they could hear the bob-whites whistling all through the stubble and among the shocks of wheat. jake did not know just where dave black's farm was, but after a while they came to a blacksmith's shop, and the blacksmith told them to take a lane that they would come to on the left, and then go through a piece of woods and across a field till they came to a creek; then ford the creek and keep straight on, and they would be in sight of the house. it did not seem strange to frank that they should be going to visit a boy without knowing where he lived, but afterwards he was not surprised when dave black's folks did not appear to expect them. they kept on, and did as the blacksmith told them, and soon enough they got to a two-story log-cabin, with a man in front of it working at a wheat-fan, for it was nearly time to thresh the wheat. the man said he was dave black's father; he did not act as if he was very glad to see them, but he told them to put their horses in the barn, and he said that dave was out in the pasture hauling rails. frank thought that was a queer way of spending the fourth of july, but he did not say anything, and on their way out to the pasture jake explained that dave's father was british, and did not believe much in the fourth of july, anyway. they found dave easily enough, and he answered jake's "hello!" with another when the boys came up. he had a two-horse wagon, and he was loading it with rails from a big pile; there were two dogs with him, and when they saw the boys they came towards them snarling and ruffling the hair on their backs. jake said not to mind them--they would not bite; but they snuffed so close to frank's bare legs that he wished dave would call them off. they slunk away, though, when they heard him speak to the boys; and then jake milrace told dave black who frank was, and they began to feel acquainted, especially when jake said they had come to spend the fourth of july with dave. he said, "first rate," and he explained that he had his foot tied up the way they saw because he had a stone-bruise which he had got the first day he began to go barefoot in the spring; but now it was better. he said there was a bully swimming-hole in the creek, and he would show them where it was as soon as he had got done hauling his rails. the boys took that for a kind of hint, and they pulled off their roundabouts and set to work with him. frank thought it was not exactly like the fourth, but he did not say anything, and they kept loading up the rails and hauling them to the edge of the field where dave's father was going to build the fence, and then unloading them, and going back to the pile for more. it seemed to frank that there were about a thousand rails in that pile, and they were pretty heavy ones--oak and hickory and walnut--and you had to be careful how you handled them, or you would get your hands stuck full of splinters. he wondered what jake milrace was thinking, and whether it was the kind of fourth he had expected to have; but jake did not say anything, and he hated to ask him. sometimes it appeared to frank that sawing wood was nothing to it; but they kept on loading rails, and unloading them in piles about ten feet apart, where they were wanted; and then going back to the big pile for more. they worked away in the blazing sun till the sweat poured off their faces, and frank kept thinking what a splendid time the fellows were having with pistols and shooting-crackers up in the boy's town; but still he did not say anything, and pretty soon he had his reward. when they got half down through the rail-pile they came to a bumblebees' nest, which the dogs thought was a rat-hole at first. one of them poked his nose into it, but he pulled it out quicker than wink and ran off howling and pawing his face and rubbing his head in the ground or against the boys' legs. even when the dogs found out that it was not rats they did not show any sense. as soon as they rubbed a bee off they would come yelping and howling back for more; and hopping round and barking; and then when they got another bee, or maybe a half-dozen (for the bees did not always fight fair), they would streak off again and jump into the air, and roll on the ground till the boys almost killed themselves laughing. the boys went into the woods, and got pawpaw branches, and came back and fought the bumblebees till they drove them off. it was just like the battle of bunker hill; but frank did not say so, because dave's father was british, till dave said it himself, and then they all pretended the bees were mexicans; it was just a little while after the mexican war. when they drove the bees off, they dug their nest out; it was beautifully built in regular cells of gray paper, and there was a little honey in it; about a spoonful for each boy. frank was glad that he had not let out his disappointment with the kind of fourth they were having; and just then the horn sounded from the house for dinner, and the boys all got into the wagon, and rattled off to the barn. they put out the horses and fed them, and as soon as they could wash themselves at the rain-barrel behind the house, they went in and sat down with the family at dinner. it was a farmer's dinner, as it used to be in southern ohio fifty years ago: a deep dish of fried salt pork swimming in its own fat, plenty of shortened biscuit and warm green-apple sauce, with good butter. the boy's town boys did not like the looks of the fat pork, but they were wolf-hungry, and the biscuit were splendid. in the middle of the table there was a big crock of buttermilk, all cold and dripping from the spring-house where it had been standing in the running water; then there was a hot apple-pie right out of the oven; and they made a pretty fair meal, after all. after dinner they hauled more rails, and when they had hauled all the rails there were, they started for the swimming-hole in the creek. on the way they came to a mulberry-tree in the edge of the woods-pasture, and it was so full of berries and they were so ripe that the grass which the cattle had cropped short was fairly red under the tree. the boys got up into the tree and gorged themselves among the yellow-hammers and woodpeckers; and frank and jake kept holloing out to each other how glad they were they had come; but dave kept quiet, and told them to wait till they came to the swimming-hole. it was while they were in the tree that something happened which happened four times in all that day, if it really happened: nobody could say afterwards whether it had or not. frank was reaching out for a place in the tree where the berries seemed thicker than anywhere else, when a strong blaze of light flashed into his eyes, and blinded him. "oh, hello, dave black!" he holloed. "that's mean! what are you throwin' that light in my face for?" but he laughed at the joke, and he laughed more when dave shouted back, "i ain't throwin' no light in your face." "yes, you are; you've got a piece of look-in'-glass, and you're flashin' it in my face." "wish i may die, if i have," said dave, so seriously that frank had to believe him. "well, then, jake milrace has." "i hain't, any such thing," said jake, and then dave black roared back, laughing: "oh, i'll tell you! it's one of the pieces of tin we strung along that line in the corn-field to keep the crows off, corn-plantin' time." the boys shouted together at the joke on frank, and dave parted the branches for a better look at the corn-field. "well, well! heigh there!" he called towards the field. "oh, he's gone now!" he said to the other boys, craning their necks out to see, too. "but he _was_ doing it, frank. if i could ketch that feller!" "somebody you know? let's get him to come along," said jake and frank, one after the other. "i couldn't tell," said dave. "he slipped into the woods when he heard me holler. if it's anybody i know, he'll come out again. don't seem to notice him; that's the best way." for a while, though, they stopped to look, now and then; but no more flashes came from the corn-field, and the boys went on cramming themselves with berries; they all said they had got to stop, but they went on till dave said: "i don't believe it's going to do us any good to go in swimming if we eat too many of these mulberries. i reckon we better quit, now." the others said they reckoned so, too, and they all got down from the tree, and started for the swimming-hole. they had to go through a piece of woods to get to it, and in the shadow of the trees they did not notice that a storm was coming up till they heard it thunder. by that time they were on the edge of the woods, and there came a flash of lightning and a loud thunder-clap, and the rain began to fall in big drops. the boys saw a barn in the field they had reached, and they ran for it; and they had just got into it when the rain came down with all its might. suddenly jake said: "i'll tell you what! let's take off our clothes and have a shower-bath!" and in less than a minute they had their clothes off, and were out in the full pour, dancing up and down, and yelling like indians. that made them think of playing indians, and they pretended the barn was a settler's cabin, and they were stealing up on it through the tall shocks of wheat. they captured it easily, and they said if the lightning would only strike it and set it on fire so it would seem as if the indians had done it, it would be great; but the storm was going round, and they had to be satisfied with being settlers, turn about, and getting scalped. it was easy to scalp frank, because he wore his hair long, as the town boys liked to do in those days, but jake lived with his sister, and he had to do as she said. she said a boy had no business with long hair; and she had lately cropped his close to his skull. dave's father cut his hair round the edges of a bowl, which he had put on dave's head for a pattern; the other boys could get a pretty good grip of it, if they caught it on top, where the scalp-lock belongs; but dave would duck and dodge so that they could hardly get their hands on it. all at once they heard him call out from around the corner of the barn, where he had gone to steal up on them, when it was their turn to be settlers: "aw, now, jake milrace, that ain't fair! i'm an indian, now. you let go my hair." "who's touchin' your old hair?" jake shouted back, from the inside of the barn. "you must be crazy. hurry up, if you're ever goin' to attack us. i want to get out in the rain, myself, awhile." frank was outside, pretending to be at work in the field, and waiting for the indians to creep on him, and when jake shouted for dave to hurry, he looked over his shoulder and saw a white figure, naked like his own, flit round the left-hand corner of the barn. then he had to stoop over, so that dave could tomahawk him easily, and he did not see anything more, but jake yelled from the barn: "oh, you got that fellow with you, have you? then he's got to be settler next time. come on, now. oh, do hurry up!" frank raised his head to see the other boy, but there was only dave black, coming round the right-hand corner of the barn. "you're crazy yourself, jake. there ain't nobody here but me and frank." "there is, too!" jake retorted. "or there was, half a second ago." but dave was busy stealing on frank, who was bending over, pretending to hoe, and after he had tomahawked frank, he gave the scalp-halloo, and jake came running out of the barn, and had to be chased round it twice, so that he could fall breathless on his own threshold, and be scalped in full sight of his family. then dave pretended to be a war-party of wyandots, and he gathered up sticks, and pretended to set the barn on fire. by this time frank and jake had come to life, and were wyandots, too, and they all joined hands and danced in front of the barn. "there! there he is again!" shouted jake. "who's crazy _now_, i should like to know?" "where? where?" yelled both the other boys. "there! right in the barn door. or he _was_, quarter of a second ago," said jake, and they all dropped one another's hands, and rushed into the barn and began to search it. they could not find anybody, and dave black said: "well, he's the quickest feller! must 'a' got up into the mow, and jumped out of the window, and broke for the woods while we was lookin' down here. but if i get my hands onto him, oncet!" they all talked and shouted and quarrelled and laughed at once; but they had to give the other fellow up; he had got away for that time, and they ran out into the rain again to let it wash off the dust and chaff, which they had got all over them in their search. the rain felt so good and cool that they stood still and took it without playing any more, and talked quietly. dave decided that the fellow who had given them the slip was a new boy whose folks had come into the neighborhood since school had let out in the spring, so that he had not got acquainted yet; but dave allowed that he would teach him a few tricks as good as his own when he got at him. the storm left a solid bank of clouds in the east for a while after it was all blue in the western half of the sky, and a rainbow came out against the clouds. it looked so firm and thick that dave said you could cut it with a scythe. it seemed to come solidly down to the ground in the woods in front of the hay-mow window, and the boys said it would be easy to get the crock of gold at the end of it if they were only in the woods. "i'll bet that feller's helpin' himself," said dave, and they began to wonder how many dollars a crock of gold was worth, anyhow; they decided about a million. then they wondered how much of a crock full of gold a boy could get into his pockets; and they all laughed when jake said he reckoned it would depend upon the size of the crock. "i don't believe that fellow could carry much of it away if he hain't got more on than he had in front of the barn." that put frank in mind of the puzzle about the three men that found a treasure in the road when they were travelling together: the blind man saw it, and the man without arms picked it up, and the naked man put it in his pocket. it was the first time dave had heard the puzzle, and he asked, "well, what's the answer?" but before frank could tell him, jake started up and pointed to the end of the rainbow, where it seemed to go into the ground against the woods. "oh! look! look!" he panted out, and they all looked, but no one could see anything except jake. it made him mad. "why, you must be blind!" he shouted, and he kept pointing. "don't you see him? there, there! oh, now, the rainbow's going out, and you can't see him any more. he's gone into the woods again. well, i don't know what your eyes are good for, anyway." he tried to tell them what he had seen; he could only make out that it must be the same boy, but now he had his clothes on: white linen pantaloons and roundabout, like what you had on may day, or the fourth if you were going to the sunday-school picnic. dave wanted him to tell what he looked like, but jake could not say anything except that he was very smiling-looking, and seemed as if he would like to be with him; jake said he was just going to hollo for him to come over when the rainbow began to go out; and then the fellow slipped back into the woods; it was more like melting into the woods. "and how far off do you think you could see a boy smile?" dave asked, scornfully. "how far off can you say a rainbow is?" jake retorted. "i can say how far off that piece of woods is," said dave, with a laugh. he got to his feet, and began to pull at the other boys, to make them get up. "come along, if you're ever goin' to the swimmin'-hole." [illustration: "very smiling-looking"] the sun was bright and hot, and the boys left the barn, and took across the field to the creek. the storm must have been very heavy, for the creek was rushing along bank-full, and there was no sign left of dave's swimming-hole. but they had had such a glorious shower-bath that they did not want to go in swimming, anyway, and they stood and watched the yellow water pouring over the edge of a mill-dam that was there, till dave happened to think of building a raft and going out on the dam. jake said, "first rate!" and they all rushed up to a place where there were some boards on the bank; and they got pieces of old rope at the mill, and tied the boards together, till they had a good raft, big enough to hold them, and then they pushed it into the water and got on it. they said they were on the ohio river, and going from cincinnati to louisville. dave had a long pole to push with, like the boatmen on the keel-boats in the early times, and jake had a board to steer with; frank had another board to paddle with, on the other side of the raft from dave; and so they set on their journey. the dam was a wide, smooth sheet of water, with trees growing round the edge, and some of them hanging so low over it that they almost touched it. the boys made trips back and forth across the dam, and to and from the edge of the fall, till they got tired of it, and they were wanting something to happen, when dave stuck his pole deep into the muddy bottom, and set his shoulder hard against the top of the pole, with a "here she goes, boys, over the falls of the ohio!" and he ran along the edge of the raft from one end to the other. frank and dave had both straightened up to watch him. at the stern of the raft dave tried to pull up his pole for another good push, but it stuck fast in the mud at the bottom of the dam, and before dave knew what he was about, the raft shot from under his feet, and he went overboard with his pole in his hand, as if he were taking a flying leap with it. the next minute he dropped into the water heels first, and went down out of sight. he came up blowing water from his mouth, and holloing and laughing, and took after the raft, where the other fellows were jumping up and down, and bending back and forth, and screaming and yelling at the way he looked hurrying after his pole, and then dangling in the air, and now showing his black head in the water like a musk-rat swimming for its hole. they were having such a good time mocking him that they did not notice how his push had sent the raft swiftly in under the trees by the shore, and the first thing they knew, one of the low branches caught them, and scraped them both off the raft into the water, almost on top of dave. then it was dave's turn to laugh, and he began: "what's the matter, boys? want to help find the other end of that pole?" jake was not under the water any longer than dave had been, but frank did not come up so soon. they looked among the brush by the shore, to see if he was hiding there and fooling them, but they could not find him. "he's stuck in some snag at the bottom," said dave; "we got to dive for him"; but just then frank came up, and swam feebly for the shore. he crawled out of the water, and after he got his breath, he said, "i got caught, down there, in the top of an old tree." "didn't i tell you so?" dave shouted into jake's ear. "why, jake was there till i got loose," said frank, looking stupidly at him. "no, i wasn't," said jake. "i was up long ago, and i was just goin' to dive for you; so was dave." "then it was that other fellow," said frank. "i thought it didn't look overmuch like jake, anyway." "oh, pshaw!" dave jeered. "how could you tell, in that muddy water?" "i don't know," frank answered. "it was all light round him. looked like he had a piece of the rainbow on him, or foxfire." "i reckon if i find him," said dave, "i'll take his piece of rainbow off'n him pretty quick. that's the fourth time that feller's fooled us to-day. where d'you s'pose he came up? oh, _i_ know! he got out on the other side under them trees, while we was huntin' for frank, and not noticin'. how'd he look, anyway?" "i don't know; i just saw him half a second. kind of smiling, and like he wanted to play." "well, i know him," said dave. "it's the new boy, and the next time i see him--oh, hello! there goes our raft!" it was drifting slowly down towards the edge of the dam, and the boys all three plunged into the water again, and swam out to it, and climbed up on it. they had the greatest kind of a time, and when they had played castaway sailors, frank and jake wanted to send the raft over the edge of the dam; but dave said it might get into the head-race of the mill and tangle itself up in the wheel, and spoil the wheel. so they took the raft apart and carried the boards on shore, and then tried to think what they would do next. the first thing was to take off their clothes and see about drying them. but they had no patience for that; and so they wrung them out as dry as they could and put them on again; they had left their roundabouts at dave's house, anyway, and so had nothing on but a shirt and trousers apiece. the sun was out hot after the rain, and their clothes were almost dry by the time they got to dave's house. they went with him to the woods-pasture on the way, and helped him drive home the cows, and they wanted him to get his mother to make his father let him go up to the boy's town with them and see the fireworks; but he said it would be no use; and then they understood that if a man was british, of course he would not want his boy to celebrate the fourth of july by going to the fireworks. they felt sorry for dave, but they both told him that they had had more fun than they ever had in their lives before, and they were coming the next fourth and going to bring their guns with them. then they could shoot quails or squirrels, if they saw any, and the firing would celebrate the fourth at the same time, and his father could not find any fault. it seemed to frank that it was awful to have a father that was british; but when they got to dave's house, and his father asked them how they had spent the afternoon, he did not seem to be so very bad. he asked them whether they had got caught in the storm, and if that was what made their clothes wet, and when they told him what had happened, he sat down on the wood-pile and laughed till he shook all over. then frank and jake thought they had better be going home, but dave's mother would not let them start without something to eat; and she cut them each a slice of bread the whole width and length of the loaf, and spread the slices with butter, and then apple-butter, and then brown sugar. the boys thought they were not hungry, but when they began to eat they found out that they were, and before they knew it they had eaten the slices all up. dave's mother said they must come and see dave again some time, and she acted real clever; she was an american, anyway. they got their horses and started home. it was almost sundown now, and they heard the turtle-doves cooing in the woods, and the bob-whites whistling from the stubble, and there were so many squirrels among the trees in the woods-pastures, and on the fences, that frank could hardly get jake along; and if it had not been for jake's horse, that ran whenever frank whipped up his pony, they would not have got home till dark. they smelt ham frying in some of the houses they passed, and that made them awfully hungry; one place there was coffee, too. when they reached frank's house he found that his mother had kept supper hot for him, and she came out and said jake must come in with him, if his family would not be uneasy about him; and jake said he did not believe they would. he tied his horse to the outside of the cow-house, and he came in, and frank's mother gave them as much baked chicken as they could hold, with hot bread to sop in the gravy; and she had kept some coffee hot for frank, so that they made another good meal. they told her what a bully time they had had, and how they had fallen into the dam; but she did not seem to think it was funny; she said it was a good thing they were not all drowned, and she believed they had taken their deaths of cold, anyway. frank was afraid she was going to make him go up stairs and change his clothes, when he heard the boys begin to sound their call of "ee-o-wee" at the front door, and he and jake snatched their hats and ran out. there was a lot of boys at the gate; hen billard was there, and archy hawkins and jim leonard; there were some little fellows, and frank's cousin pony was there; he said his mother had said he might stay till his father came for him. hen billard had his thumb tied up from firing too big a load out of his brass pistol. the pistol burst, and the barrel was all curled back like a dandelion stem in water; he had it in his pocket to show. archy hawkins's face was full of little blue specks from pouring powder on a coal and getting it flashed up into his face when he was blowing the coal; some of his eye-winkers were singed off. jim leonard had a rag round his hand, and he said a whole pack of shooting-crackers had gone off in it before he could throw them away, and burned the skin off; the fellows dared him to let them see it, but he would not; and then they mocked him. they all said there had never been such a fourth of july in the boy's town before; and frank and jake let them brag as much as they wanted to, and when the fellows got tired, and asked them what they had done at pawpaw bottom, and they said, "oh, nothing much; just helped dave black haul rails," they set up a jeer that you could hear a mile. then jake said, as if he just happened to think of it, "and fought bumblebees." and frank put in, "and took a shower-bath in the thunder-storm." and jake said, "and eat mulberries." and frank put in again, "and built a raft." and jake said, "and dave got pulled into the mill-dam." and frank wound up, "and jake and i got swept overboard." by that time the fellows began to feel pretty small, and they crowded round and wanted to hear every word about it. then jake and frank tantalized them, and said of course it was no fourth at all, it was only just fun, till the fellows could not stand it any longer, and then frank jumped up from where he was sitting on his front steps, and holloed out, "i'll show you how dave looked when his pole pulled him in," and he acted it all out about dave's pole pulling him into the water. jake waited till he was done, and then he jumped up and said, "i'll show you how frank and me looked when we got swept overboard," and he acted it out about the limb of the tree scraping them off the raft while they were laughing at dave and not noticing. as soon as they got the boys to yelling, jake and frank both showed how they fought the bumblebees, and how the dogs got stung, and ran round trying to rub the bees off against the ground, and your legs, and everything, till the boys fell down and rolled over, it made them laugh so. jake and frank showed how they ran out into the rain from the barn, and stood in it, and told how good and cool it felt; and they told about sitting up in the mulberry-tree, and how twenty boys could not have made the least hole in the berries. they told about the quails and the squirrels; and they showed how frank had to keep whipping up his pony, and how jake's horse kept wheeling and running away; and some of the fellows said they were going with them the next fourth. hen billard tried to turn it off, and said: "pshaw! you can have that kind of a fourth any day in the country. who's going up to the court-house yard to see the fireworks?" he and archy hawkins and the big boys ran off, whooping, and the little fellows felt awfully, because their mothers had said they must not go. just then, pony baker's father came for him, and he said he guessed they could see the fireworks from frank's front steps; and jake stayed with frank, and frank's father came out, and his aunt and mother leaned out of the window, and watched, while the roman candles shot up, and the rockets climbed among the stars. they were all so much taken up in watching that they did not notice one of the neighbor women who had come over from her house and joined them, till mrs. baker happened to see her, and called out: "why, mrs. fogle, where did you spring from? do come in here with manda and me. i didn't see you, in your black dress." "no, i'm going right back," said mrs. fogle. "i just come over a minute to see the fireworks--for wilford; you can't see them from my side." "oh," said mrs. baker, softly. "well, i'm real glad you came. you ought to have heard the boys, here, telling about the kind of fourth they had at pawpaw bottom. i don't know when i've laughed so much." "well, i reckon it's just as well i wasn't here. i couldn't have helped in the laughing much. it seems pretty hard my wilford couldn't been having a good time with the rest to-day. he was always such a fourth-of-july boy." "but he's happy where he is, mrs. fogle," said mrs. baker, gently. "well, i know he'd give anything to been here with the boys to-day--i don't care where he is. and he's been here, _too_; i just know he has; i've felt him, all day long, teasing at me to let him go off with your frank and jake, here; he just fairly loved to be with them, and he never done any harm. oh, my, my! i don't see how i used to deny him." she put up her apron to her face, and ran sobbing across the street again to her own house; they heard the door close after her in the dark. "i declare," said mrs. baker, "i've got half a mind to go over to her." "better not," said pony baker's father. "well, i reckon you're right, henry," mrs. baker assented. they did not talk gayly any more; when the last rocket had climbed the sky, jake milrace rose and said in a whisper he must be going. after he was gone, frank told, as if he had just thought of it, about the boy that had fooled them so, at pawpaw bottom; and he was surprised at the way his mother and his uncle henry questioned him up about it. "well, now," she said, "i'm glad poor mrs. fogle wasn't here, or--" she stopped, and her brother-in-law rose, with the hand of his sleepy little son in his own. "i think pony had better say good-night now, while he can. frank, you've had a remarkable fourth. good-night, all. i wish i had spent the day at pawpaw bottom myself." before they slept that night, pony's mother said: "well, i'd just as soon you'd kept that story to yourself till morning, henry. i shall keep thinking about it, and not sleep a wink. how in the world do you account for it?" "i don't account for it," said pony's father. "now, that won't do! what do you think?" "well, if it was _one_ boy that saw the fourth boy it might be a simple case of lying." "frank baker never told a lie in his life. he couldn't." "perhaps jake could, or dave. but as they all three saw the boy at different times, why, it's--" "what?" "it's another thing." "now, you can't get out of it that way, henry. do you believe that the child longed so to be back here that--" "ah, who knows? there's something very strange about all that. but we can't find our way out, except by the short-cut of supposing that nothing of the kind happened." "you can't suppose that, though, if all three of the boys say it did." "i can suppose that they think it happened, or made each other think so." pony's mother drew a long sigh. "well, i know what _i_ shall always think," she said. viii how pony baker came pretty near running off with a circus just before the circus came, about the end of july, something happened that made pony mean to run off more than anything that ever was. his father and mother were coming home from a walk, in the evening; it was so hot nobody could stay in the house, and just as they were coming to the front steps pony stole up behind them and tossed a snowball which he had got out of the garden at his mother, just for fun. the flower struck her very softly on her hair, for she had no bonnet on, and she gave a jump and a hollo that made pony laugh; and then she caught him by the arm and boxed his ears. "oh, my goodness! it was you, was it, you good-for-nothing boy? i thought it was a bat!" she said, and she broke out crying and ran into the house, and would not mind his father, who was calling after her, "lucy, lucy, my dear child!" pony was crying, too, for he did not intend to frighten his mother, and when she took his fun as if he had done something wicked he did not know what to think. he stole off to bed and he lay there crying in the dark and expecting that she would come to him, as she always did, to have him say that he was sorry when he had been wicked, or to tell him that she was sorry, when she thought she had not been quite fair with him. but she did not come, and after a good while his father came and said: "are you awake, pony? i am sorry your mother misunderstood your fun. but you mustn't mind it, dear boy. she's not well, and she's very nervous." "i don't care!" pony sobbed out. "she won't have a chance to touch me again!" for he had made up his mind to run off with the circus which was coming the next tuesday. he turned his face away, sobbing, and his father, after standing by his bed a moment, went away without saying anything but, "don't forget your prayers, pony. you'll feel differently in the morning, i hope." pony fell asleep thinking how he would come back to the boy's town with the circus when he was grown up, and when he came out in the ring riding three horses bareback he would see his father and mother and sisters in one of the lower seats. they would not know him, but he would know them, and he would send for them to come to the dressing-room, and would be very good to them, all but his mother; he would be very cold and stiff with her, though he would know that she was prouder of him than all the rest put together, and she would go away almost crying. he began being cold and stiff with her the very next morning, although she was better than ever to him, and gave him waffles for breakfast with unsalted butter, and tried to pet him up. that whole day she kept trying to do things for him, but he would scarcely speak to her; and at night she came to him and said, "what makes you act so strangely, pony? are you offended with your mother?" "yes, i am!" said pony, haughtily, and he twitched away from where she was sitting on the side of his bed, leaning over him. "on account of last night, pony?" she asked, softly. "i reckon you know well enough," said pony, and he tried to be disgusted with her for her being such a hypocrite, but he had to set his teeth hard, hard, or he would have broken down crying. "if it's for that, you mustn't, pony, dear. you don't know how you frightened me. when your snowball hit me, i felt sure it was a bat, and i'm so afraid of bats, you know. i didn't mean to hurt my poor boy's feelings so, and you mustn't mind it any more, pony." [illustration: "he began being cold and stiff with her the very next morning"] she stooped down and kissed him on the forehead, but he did not move or say anything; only, after that he felt more forgiving towards his mother. he made up his mind to be good to her along with the rest when he came back with the circus. but still he meant to run off with the circus. he did not see how he could do anything else, for he had told all the boys that day that he was going to do it; and when they just laughed, and said: "oh yes. think you can fool your grandmother! it'll be like running off with the indians," pony wagged his head, and said they would see whether it would or not, and offered to bet them what they dared. the morning of the circus day all the fellows went out to the corporation line to meet the circus procession. there were ladies and knights, the first thing, riding on spotted horses; and then a band chariot, all made up of swans and dragons. there were about twenty baggage wagons; but before you got to them there was the greatest thing of all. it was a chariot drawn by twelve shetland ponies, and it was shaped like a big shell, and around in the bottom of the shell there were little circus actors, boys and girls, dressed in their circus clothes, and they all looked exactly like fairies. they scarce seemed to see the fellows, as they ran alongside of their chariot, but hen billard and archy hawkins, who were always cutting up, got close enough to throw some peanuts to the circus boys, and some of the little circus girls laughed, and the driver looked around and cracked his whip at the fellows, and they all had to get out of the way then. jim leonard said that the circus boys and girls were all stolen, and nobody was allowed to come close to them for fear they would try to send word to their friends. some of the fellows did not believe it, and wanted to know how he knew it; and he said he read it in a paper; after that nobody could deny it. but he said that if you went with the circus men of your own free will they would treat you first-rate; only they would give you burnt brandy to keep you little; nothing else but burnt brandy would do it, but that would do it, sure. pony was scared at first when he heard that most of the circus fellows were stolen, but he thought if he went of his own accord he would be all right. still, he did not feel so much like running off with the circus as he did before the circus came. he asked jim leonard whether the circus men made all the children drink burnt brandy; and archy hawkins and hen billard heard him ask, and began to mock him. they took him up between them, one by his arms and the other by the legs, and ran along with him, and kept saying, "does it want to be a great big circus actor? then it shall, so it shall," and, "we'll tell the circus men to be very careful of you, pony dear!" till pony wriggled himself loose and began to stone them. after that they had to let him alone, for when a fellow began to stone you in the boy's town you had to let him alone, unless you were going to whip him, and the fellows only wanted to have a little fun with pony. but what they did made him all the more resolved to run away with the circus, just to show them. he helped to carry water for the circus men's horses, along with the boys who earned their admission that way. he had no need to do it, because his father was going to take him in, anyway; but jim leonard said it was the only way to get acquainted with the circus men. still pony was afraid to speak to them, and he would not have said a word to any of them if it had not been for one of them speaking to him first, when he saw him come lugging a great pail of water, and bending far over on the right to balance it. "that's right," the circus man said to pony. "if you ever fell into that bucket you'd drown, sure." he was a big fellow, with funny eyes, and he had a white bulldog at his heels; and all the fellows said he was the one who guarded the outside of the tent when the circus began, and kept the boys from hooking in under the curtain. even then pony would not have had the courage to say anything, but jim leonard was just behind him with another bucket of water, and he spoke up for him. "he wants to go with the circus." they both set down their buckets, and pony felt himself turning pale when the circus man came towards them. "wants to go with the circus, heigh? let's have a look at you." he took pony by the shoulders and turned him slowly round, and looked at his nice clothes, and took him by the chin. "orphan?" he asked. pony did not know what to say, but jim leonard nodded; perhaps he did not know what to say, either; but pony felt as if they had both told a lie. "parents living?" the circus man looked at pony, and pony had to say that they were. he gasped out, "yes," so that you could scarcely hear him, and the circus man said: "well, that's right. when we take an orphan, we want to have his parents living, so that we can go and ask them what sort of a boy he is." he looked at pony in such a friendly, smiling way that pony took courage to ask him whether they would want him to drink burnt brandy. "what for?" "to keep me little." "oh, i see." the circus man took off his hat and rubbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief, which he threw into the top of his hat before he put it on again. "no, i don't know as we will. we're rather short of giants just now. how would you like to drink a glass of elephant milk every morning and grow into an eight-footer?" pony said he didn't know whether he would like to be quite so big; and then the circus man said perhaps he would rather go for an india-rubber man; that was what they called the contortionists in those days. "let's feel of you again." the circus man took hold of pony and felt his joints. "you're put together pretty tight; but i reckon we could make you do if you'd let us take you apart with a screw-driver and limber up the pieces with rattlesnake oil. wouldn't like it, heigh? well, let me see!" the circus man thought a moment, and then he said: "how would double-somersaults on four horses bareback do?" pony said that would do, and then the circus man said: "well, then, we've just hit it, because our double-somersault, four-horse bareback is just going to leave us, and we want a new one right away. now, there's more than one way of joining a circus, but the best way is to wait on your front steps with your things all packed up, and the procession comes along at about one o'clock in the morning and picks you up. which'd you rather do?" pony pushed his toe into the turf, as he always did when he was ashamed, but he made out to say he would rather wait out on the front steps. "well, then, that's all settled," said the circus man. "we'll be along," and he was going away with his dog, but jim leonard called after him: "you hain't asked him whereabouts he lives." the circus man kept on, and he said, without looking around, "oh, that's all right. we've got somebody that looks after that." "it's the magician," jim leonard whispered to pony, and they walked away. ix how pony did not quite get off with the circus a crowd of the fellows had been waiting to know what the boys had been talking about to the circus man; but jim leonard said: "don't you tell, pony baker!" and he started to run, and that made pony run, too, and they both ran till they got away from the fellows. "you have got to keep it a secret; for if a lot of fellows find it out the constable'll get to know it, and he'll be watching out around the corner of your house, and when the procession comes along and he sees you're really going he'll take you up, and keep you in jail till your father comes and bails you out. now, you mind!" pony said, "oh, i won't tell anybody," and when jim leonard said that if a circus man was to feel _him_ over, that way, and act so kind of pleasant and friendly, he would be too proud to speak to anybody, pony confessed that he knew it was a great thing all the time. "the way'll be," said jim leonard, "to keep in with him, and he'll keep the others from picking on you; they'll be afraid to, on account of his dog. you'll see, he'll be the one to come for you to-night; and if the constable is there the dog won't let him touch you. i never thought of that." perhaps on account of thinking of it now jim leonard felt free to tell the other fellows how pony was going to run off, for when a crowd of them came along he told them. they said it was splendid, and they said that if they could make their mothers let them, or if they could get out of the house without their mothers knowing it, they were going to sit up with pony and watch out for the procession, and bid him good-bye. at dinner-time he found out that his father was going to take him and all his sisters to the circus, and his father and mother were so nice to him, asking him about the procession and everything, that his heart ached at the thought of running away from home and leaving them. but now he had to do it; the circus man was coming for him, and he could not back out; he did not know what would happen if he did. it seemed to him as if his mother had done everything she could to make it harder for him. she had stewed chicken for dinner, with plenty of gravy, and hot biscuits to sop in, and peach preserves afterwards; and she kept helping him to more, because she said boys that followed the circus around got dreadfully hungry. the eating seemed to keep his heart down; it was trying to get into his throat all the time; and he knew that she was being good to him, but if he had not known it he would have believed his mother was just doing it to mock him. pony had to go to the circus with his father and sisters, and to get on his shoes and a clean collar. but a crowd of the fellows were there at the tent door to watch out whether the circus man would say anything to him when he went in; and jim leonard rubbed up against him, when the man passed with his dog and did not even look at pony, and said: "he's just pretending. he don't want your father to know. he'll be round for you, sure. i saw him kind of smile to one of the other circus men." it was a splendid circus, and there were more things than pony ever saw in a circus before. but instead of hating to have it over, it seemed to him that it would never come to an end. he kept thinking and thinking, and wondering whether he would like to be a circus actor; and when the one came out who rode four horses bareback and stood on his head on the last horse, and drove with the reins in his teeth, pony thought that he never could learn to do it; and if he could not learn he did not know what the circus men would say to him. it seemed to him that it was very strange he had not told that circus man that he didn't know whether he could do it or not; but he had not, and now it was too late. a boy came around calling lemonade, and pony's father bought some for each of the children, but pony could hardly taste his. "what is the matter with you, pony? are you sick?" his father asked. "no. i don't care for any; that's all. i'm well," said pony; but he felt very miserable. after supper jim leonard came round and went up to pony's room with him to help him pack, and he was so gay about it and said he only wished _he_ was going, that pony cheered up a little. jim had brought a large square of checked gingham that he said he did not believe his mother would ever want, and that he would tell her he had taken if she asked for it. he said it would be the very thing for pony to carry his clothes in, for it was light and strong and would hold a lot. he helped pony to choose his things out of his bureau drawers: a pair of stockings and a pair of white pantaloons and a blue roundabout, and a collar, and two handkerchiefs. that was all he said pony would need, because he would have his circus clothes right away, and there was no use taking things that he would never wear. jim did these up in the square of gingham, and he tied it across cater-cornered twice, in double knots, and showed pony how he could put his hand through and carry it just as easy. he hid it under the bed for him, and he told pony that if he was in pony's place he should go to bed right away or pretty soon, so that nobody would think anything, and maybe he could get some sleep before he got up and went down to wait on the front steps for the circus to come along. he promised to be there with the other boys and keep them from fooling or making a noise, or doing anything to wake his father up, or make the constable come. "you see, pony," he said, "if you can run off this year, and come back with the circus next year, then a whole lot of fellows can run off. don't you see that?" pony said he saw that, but he said he wished some of the other fellows were going now, because he did not know any of the circus boys and he was afraid he might feel kind of lonesome. but jim leonard said he would soon get acquainted, and, anyway, a year would go before he knew it, and then if the other fellows could get off he would have plenty of company. as soon as jim leonard was gone pony undressed and got into bed. he was not sleepy, but he thought maybe it would be just as well to rest a little while before the circus procession came along for him; and, anyway, he could not bear to go down-stairs and be with the family when he was going to leave them so soon, and not come back for a whole year. after a good while, or about the time he usually came in from playing, he heard his mother saying: "where in the world is pony? has he come in yet? have you seen him, girls? pony! pony!" she called. but somehow pony could not get his voice up out of his throat; he wanted to answer her, but he could not speak. he heard her say, "go out to the front steps, girls, and see if you can see him," and then he heard her coming up the stairs; and she came into his room, and when she saw him lying there in bed she said: "why, i believe in my heart the child's asleep! pony! are you awake?" pony made out to say no, and his mother said: "my! what a fright you gave me! why didn't you answer me? are you sick, pony? your father said you didn't seem well at the circus; and you didn't eat any supper, hardly." pony said he was first-rate, but he spoke very low, and his mother came up and sat down on the side of his bed. "what is the matter, child?" she bent over and felt his forehead. "no, you haven't got a bit of fever," she said, and she kissed him, and began to tumble his short black hair in the way she had, and she got one of his hands between her two, and kept rubbing it. "but you've had a long, tiresome day, and that's why you've gone to bed, i suppose. but if you feel the least sick, pony, i'll send for the doctor." pony said he was not sick at all; just tired; and that was true; he felt as if he never wanted to get up again. his mother put her arm under his neck, and pressed her face close down to his, and said very low: "pony, dear, you don't feel hard towards your mother for what she did the other night?" he knew she meant boxing his ears, when he was not to blame, and he said: "oh no," and then he threw his arms round her neck and cried; and she told him not to cry, and that she would never do such a thing again; but she was really so frightened she did not know what she was doing. when he quieted down she said: "now say your prayers, pony, 'our father,'" and she said "our father" all through with him, and after that, "now i lay me," just as when he was a very little fellow. after they had finished she stooped over and kissed him again, and when he turned his face into his pillow she kept smoothing his hair with her hand for about a minute. then she went away. pony could hear them stirring about for a good while down-stairs. his father came in from up-town at last and asked: "has pony come in?" and his mother said: "yes, he's up in bed. i wouldn't disturb him, henry. he's asleep by this time." his father said: "i don't know what to make of the boy. if he keeps on acting so strangely i shall have the doctor see him in the morning." pony felt dreadfully to think how far away from them he should be in the morning, and he would have given anything if he could have gone down to his father and mother and told them what he was going to do. but it did not seem as if he could. by-and-by he began to be sleepy, and then he dozed off, but he thought it was hardly a minute before he heard the circus band, and knew that the procession was coming for him. he jumped out of bed and put on his things as fast as he could; but his roundabout had only one sleeve to it, somehow, and he had to button the lower buttons of his trousers to keep it on. he got his bundle and stole down to the front door without seeming to touch his feet to anything, and when he got out on the front steps he saw the circus magician coming along. by that time the music had stopped and pony could not see any procession. the magician had on a tall, peaked hat, like a witch. he took up the whole street, he was so wide in the black glazed gown that hung from his arms when he stretched them out, for he seemed to be groping along that way, with his wand in one hand, like a blind man. he kept saying in a kind of deep, shaking voice: "it's all glory; it's all glory," and the sound of those words froze pony's blood. he tried to get back into the house again, so that the magician should not find him, but when he felt for the door-knob there was no door there anywhere; nothing but a smooth wall. then he sat down on the steps and tried to shrink up so little that the magician would miss him; but he saw his wide goggles getting nearer and nearer; and then his father and the doctor were standing by him looking down at him, and the doctor said: "he has been walking in his sleep; he must be bled," and he got out his lancet, when pony heard his mother calling: "pony, pony! what's the matter? have you got the nightmare?" and he woke up, and found it was just morning. the sun was shining in at his window, and it made him so glad to think that by this time the circus was far away and he was not with it, that he hardly knew what to do. he was not very well for two or three days afterwards, and his mother let him stay out of school to see whether he was really going to be sick or not. when he went back most of the fellows had forgotten that he had been going to run off with the circus. some of them that happened to think of it plagued him a little and asked how he liked being a circus actor. hen billard was the worst; he said he reckoned the circus magician got scared when he saw what a whaler pony was, and told the circus men that they would have to get a new tent to hold him; and that was the reason why they didn't take him. archy hawkins said: "how long did you have to wait on the front steps, pony, dear?" but after that he was pretty good to him, and said he reckoned they had better not any of them pretend that pony had not tried to run off if they had not been up to see. pony himself could never be exactly sure whether he had waited on the front steps and seen the circus magician or not. sometimes it seemed all of it like a dream, and sometimes only part of it. jim leonard tried to help him make it out, but they could not. he said it was a pity he had overslept himself, for if he had come to bid pony good-bye, the way he said, then he could have told just how much of it was a dream and how much was not. x the adventures that pony's cousin, frank baker, had with a pocketful of money very likely pony baker would not have tried to run off any more if it had not been for jim leonard. he was so glad he had not got off with the circus that he did not mind any of the things at home that used to vex him; and it really seemed as if his father and mother were trying to act better. they were a good deal taken up with each other, and sometimes he thought they let him do things they would not have let him do if they had noticed what he asked. his mother was fonder of him than ever, and if she had not kissed him so much before the fellows he would not have cared, for when they were alone he liked to have her pet him. but one thing was, he could never get her to like jim leonard, or to believe that jim was not leading him into mischief whenever they were off together. she was always wanting him to go with his cousin frank, and he would have liked to ask frank about running off, and whether a fellow had better do it; but he was ashamed, and especially after he heard his father tell how splendidly frank had behaved with two thousand dollars he was bringing from the city to the boy's town; pony was afraid that frank would despise him, and he did not hardly feel fit to go with frank, anyway. frank baker was one of those fellows that every mother would feel her boy was safe with. she would be sure that no crowd he was in was going to do any harm or come to any, for he would have an anxious eye out for everybody, and he would stand between the crowd and the mischief that a crowd of boys nearly always wants to do. his own mother felt easy about the younger children when they were with frank; and in a place where there were more chances for a boy to get sucked under mill-wheels, and break through ice, and fall from bridges, or have his fingers taken off by machinery than any other place i ever heard of, she no more expected anything to happen to them, if he had them in charge, than if she had them in charge herself. [illustration: "frank baker was one of those fellows that every mother would feel her boy was safe with"] as there were a good many other children in the family, and mrs. baker did her own work, like nearly every mother in the boy's town, frank almost always had some of them in charge. when he went hunting, or fishing, or walnutting, or berrying, or in swimming, he usually had one or two younger brothers with him; if he had only one, he thought he was having the greatest kind of a time. he did not mind carrying his brother on his back when he got tired, although it was not exactly the way to steal on game, and the gun was a heavy enough load, anyway; but if he had not got many walnuts, or any at all--as sometimes happened--it was not a great hardship to haul his brother home in the wagon. to be sure, when he wanted to swim out with the other big boys it was pretty trying to have to keep an eye on his brother, and see that he did not fall into the water from the bank where he left him. he was a good deal more anxious about other boys than he was about himself, and once he came near getting drowned through his carelessness. it was in winter, and the canal basin had been frozen over; then most of the water was let out from under the ice, and afterwards partly let in again. this lifted the ice-sheet, but not back to its old level, and the ice that clung to the shores shelved steeply down to the new level. frank stepped on this shore ice to get a shinny-ball, and slipped down to the edge of the ice-sheet, which he would be sure to go under into the water. he holloed with all his might, and by good luck some people came and reached him a stick, by which he pulled himself out. the scare of it haunted him for long after, but not so much for himself. whenever he was away from home in the winter he would see one of his younger brothers slipping down the shore ice and going under the ice-sheet, and he would break into a cold sweat at the idea. this shows just the worrying kind of boy frank was; and it shows how used he was to having care put upon him, and how he would even borrow trouble when he had none. it generally happens with any one who makes himself useful that other people make him useful, too, and all the neighbors put as much trust in frank as his mother, and got him to do a good many things that they would not have got other boys to do. they could not look into his face, a little more careworn than it ought to be at his age, without putting perfect faith in him, and trying to get something out of him. that was how he came to do so many errands for mothers who had plenty of boys of their own; and he seemed to be called on in any sort of trouble or danger, when the fathers were up-town, and was always chasing pigs or cows out of other people's gardens, and breaking up their hens from setting, or going up trees with hives to catch their bees when they swarmed. i suppose this was how he came to be trusted with that pocketful of money, and why he had a young brother along to double his care at the time. the money was given him in the city, as the boy's town boys always called the large place about twenty miles away, where frank went once with his mother when he was eleven years old. she was going to take passage there on a steamboat and go up the ohio river to visit his grandmother with his sisters, while frank was to go back the same day to the boy's town with one of his young brothers. they all drove down to the city together in the carriage which one of his uncles had got from the livery stable, with a driver who was to take frank and his brother home. this uncle had been visiting frank's father and mother, and it was his boat that she was going on. it lay among a hundred other boats, which had their prows tight together along the landing for half a mile up and down the sloping shore. it was one of the largest boats of all, and it ran every week from cincinnati to pittsburgh, and did not take any longer for the round trip than an ocean steamer takes now for the voyage from new york to liverpool. the children all had dinner on board, such a dinner as there never was in any house: roast beef and roast chicken; beefsteak and ham in chafing-dishes with lamps burning under them to keep them hot; pound-cake with frosting on, and pies and pickles, corn-bread and hot biscuit; jelly that kept shaking in moulds; ice-cream and spanish pudding; coffee and tea, and i do not know what all. when the children had eaten all they could hold, and made their uncle laugh till he almost cried, to see them trying to eat everything, their mother went ashore with them, and walked up the landing towards the hotel where the carriage was left, so as to be with frank and his little brother as long as she could before they started home. she was about one of the best mothers in the boy's town, and frank hated to have her go away even on a visit. she kept giving him charges about all the things at home, and how he must take good care of his little brothers, and see that the garden gate was fastened so that the cows could not get in, and feed the chickens regularly, and put the cat out every night, and not let the dog sleep under his bed; and they were so busy talking and feeling sorry that they got to the hotel before they knew it. there, whom should they see but one of the boy's town merchants, who was in the city on business, and who seemed as glad to meet them as if they were his own relations. they were glad, too, for it made them feel as if they had got back to the boy's town when he came up and spoke to mrs. baker. they had started from home after a very early breakfast, and she said it seemed as if they had been gone a year already. the merchant told her that he had been looking everywhere for somebody he knew who was going to the boy's town; and then he told mrs. baker that he had two thousand dollars which he wanted to send home to his partner, and he asked her if she could take it for him when she went back. "well, indeed, indeed, i'm thankful i'm not going, mr. bushell!" mrs. baker said. "and i wouldn't have supposed i could be, i'm so homesick. i'm going up the river on a visit to mother; but if i was going straight back, i wouldn't take your two thousand dollars for the half of it. i would be afraid of losing it, or getting robbed and murdered. i don't know what wouldn't happen. i would be happy to oblige you, but indeed, indeed i couldn't!" the merchant said he was sorry, but if she was not going home he supposed he would have to find some one who was. it was before the days of sending money by express, or telegraphing it, and the merchant told her he was afraid to trust the money in the mail. he asked her who was going to take her carriage home, and she told him the name of the driver from the livery stable in the boy's town, who had come to the city with them. mr. bushell seemed dreadfully disappointed, but when she went on to say how anxious she was that the driver should get frank and his brother home before dark, he brightened up all of a sudden, and he asked, "is frank going back?" and he looked down into frank's face and smiled, as most people did when they looked into frank's face, and he asked, "what's the reason frank couldn't take it?" mrs. baker put her arm across frank's breast and pulled him away, and said, "indeed, indeed, the child just sha'n't, and that's all about it!" but mr. bushell took the boy by the arm and laughed. "let's feel how deep your pants' pocket is," he said; and he put his hand into the pocket of frank's nankeen trousers and felt; and then, before mrs. baker could stop him, he drew a roll of bank-notes out of his own pocket and pushed it into frank's. "there, it's just a fit! do you think you'd lose it?" "no, he wouldn't lose it," said his mother, "and that's just it! he'd worry about it every minute, and i would worry about him!" she tried to make the merchant take the money back, but he kept joking; and then he turned serious, and told her that the money had to be put in the bank to pay a note, and he did not know any way to get it to his partner if she would not let frank take it; that he was at his wits' end. he said he would as lief trust it with frank as with any man he knew; that nobody would think the boy had any money with him; and he fairly begged her to let frank take it for him. he talked to her so much that she began to give way a little. she felt proud of his being willing to trust frank, and at last she consented. mr. bushell explained that he wished his partner to have the money that evening, and she had to agree to let frank carry it to him as soon as he got home. the boy's town was built on two sides of a river. mr. bushell's store was across the river from where the bakers lived, and she said she did not want the child to have to go through the bridge after dark. perhaps it was her anxiety about this that began the whole trouble; for when the driver came with the carriage, she could not help asking him if he was sure to get home before sundown. that made him drive faster than he might have done, perhaps; at any rate, he set off at a quick trot after mr. bushell had helped put the two boys in. mrs. baker gathered her little girls together and went back to the boat with her heart in her mouth, as she afterwards said. the driver got out of the city without trouble, but when he came to the smooth turnpike road, it seemed to frank that the horses kept going faster and faster, till they were fairly flying over the ground. the driver pulled and pulled at the reins, and people began to hollo, "look out where you're going!" when they met them or passed them, and all at once frank began to think the horses were running away. he had not much chance to think about it, though, he was so busy keeping his little brother from bouncing off the seat and out of the carriage, and in feeling if mr. bushell's money was safe; and he was not certain that they were running away till he saw people stopping and staring, and then starting after the carriage. the horses tore along for two or three miles; they thundered through the covered bridge on mill's creek, and passed the four-mile house. by the time they reached the little village beyond it they had the turnpike to themselves; every team coming and going drove into the gutter. at the village a large, fat butcher, who was sitting tilted back in a chair at the door of his shop, saw the carriage coming in a whirlwind of dust, and he knew what the matter was. there was a horse standing at the hitching rail, and the butcher just had time to untie him and jump into the saddle when the runaways flew by. he took after them as fast as his horse could go, and overhauled them at the end of the next bridge and brought them to a stand. it had really been nothing but a race against time. no one was hurt; the horses were pretty badly blown, that was all; but the carriage was so much shaken up that it had to be left at a wagon-shop, where it could not be mended till morning. the two boys were taken back to four-mile house, where they would have to pass the night. frank worried about his father, who would be expecting them home that evening; but he was glad his mother did not know what had happened. he was thankful enough when he felt his brother all over and found him safe and sound, and then put his hand on his pocket and found that mr. bushell's money was still there. he did not eat very much supper, and he went to bed early, after he had put his brother in bed and seen him fall asleep almost before he got through his prayers. frank was very tired, and pretty sore from the jouncing in the carriage; but he was too worried to be sleepy. he began to think, what if some one should get mr. bushell's money away from him in the night, while he was asleep? and then he was glad that he did not feel like sleeping. he got up and put on his clothes and sat down by the window, listening to his brother's breathing and looking out into the dark at the heat-lightning in the west. the day had been very hot and the night was close, without a breath of wind. by-and-by all the noises about the house died away, and he knew everybody had gone to bed. the lantern under the tavern porch threw a dim light out into the road; some dogs barked away off. there was no other sound, and the stillness was awful. he kept his hand on the pocket that had the money in it. after a while frank began to feel very drowsy, and he thought he would lie down again, but he promised himself he would not sleep, and he did not undress; for if he took his pantaloons off, he did not know how he could make sure every minute that the money was safe, unless he put it under his pillow. he was afraid if he did that he might forget it in the morning, and leave it when he got up. he stretched himself on the bed beside his brother, and it seemed to him that it was hardly a second before he heard a loud crash that shook the whole house; and the room looked full of fire. another crash came, and then another, with a loud, stony kind of rolling noise that seemed to go round the world. then he knew that he had been asleep, and that this dreadful noise was the swift coming of a thunder-storm. it was the worst storm that was ever known in mill creek valley, so the people said afterwards, but as yet it was only beginning. the thunder was deafening, and it never stopped a moment. the lightning hardly stopped, either; it filled the room with a quivering blaze; at times, when it died down, the night turned black as ink, and then a flash came that lit up the fields outside, and showed every stick and stone as bright as the brightest day. frank was dazed at first by the glare and the noise; then he jumped out of bed, and tried for two things: whether the money was still safe in his pocket, and whether his brother was alive. he never could tell which he found out first; as soon as he knew, he felt a little bit better, but still his cheerfulness was not anything to brag of. if his brother was alive, it seemed to be more than any one else in the house was besides himself. he could not hear a soul stirring, although in that uproar there might have been a full-dress parade of the butler guards in the tavern, firing off their guns, and he could not have heard them. he looked out in the entry, but it was all dark there except when he let the flashes of his room into it. he thought he would light his candle, for company, and so that the lightning would not be so awfully bright. he found his candlestick easily enough--he could have found a pin in that glare--but there were no matches. so he decided to get along without the candle. every now and then he put his hand in his pocket, or on the bulge outside, to make sure of the money; and whenever a very bright flash came, he would listen for his brother's breathing, to tell whether he had been struck by lightning or not. but it kept thundering so that sometimes he could not hear. then frank would shake him till the boy gave a sort of snort, and that proved that he was still alive; or he would put his ear to his brother's breast, and listen whether his heart was beating. it always was, and by-and-by the rain began to fall. it fell in perfect sheets, and the noise it made could be heard through the thunder. but frank had always heard that after it began to rain, a thunder-storm was not so dangerous, and the air got fresher. still, it blazed and bellowed away, he could never tell how long, and it seemed to him that he must have felt a thousand times for mr. bushell's money, and tried a thousand times to find whether his brother had been struck by lightning or not. once or twice he thought he would call for help; but he did not think he could make anybody hear, and he was too much ashamed to do it, anyway. between the times of feeling for the money and seeing whether his brother was alive, he thought about his mother: how frightened she would be if she knew what had happened to him and his brother, after they left her. and he thought of his father: how troubled he must be at their not getting home. it seemed to him that he must be to blame, somehow, but he could not understand how, exactly; and he could not think of any way to help it. he wondered if the storm was as bad on the river and in the boy's town, and whether the lightning would strike the boat or the house; the house had a lightning-rod, but the boat could not have one, of course. he felt pretty safe about his father and the older-younger brother who had been left at home with him; but he was not sure about his mother and sisters, and he tried to imagine what people did on a steamboat in a thunder-storm. after a long time had passed, and he thought it must be getting near morning, he lay down again beside his brother, and fell into such a heavy sleep that he did not wake till it was broad day, and the sun was making as much blaze in the curtainless tavern-room as the lightning had made. the storm was over, and everything was as peaceful as if there had never been any such thing as a storm in the world. the first thing he did was to make a grab for his pocket. the money was still there, and his brother sleeping as soundly as ever. after breakfast, the livery-stable man came with the carriage, which he had got mended, and frank started home with his brother once more. but they had sixteen miles to go before they would reach the boy's town, and the carriage had been so badly shattered, or else the driver was so much afraid of the horses, that he would not let them go at more than a walk. frank was anxious to get home on his father's account; still he would rather get home safe, and he did not try to hurry the driver, for fear they might not get home at all. it was four o'clock in the afternoon when they stopped at his father's house. his older-younger brother, and the hired girl, whom his mother had got to keep house while she was gone on her visit, came out and took his little brother in; and the girl told frank his father had just been there to see whether he had got back. then he knew that his father must have been as anxious as he had been afraid he was. he did not wait to go inside; he only kicked off the shoes he wore to the city and started off for his father's office as fast as his bare feet could carry him. he found his father at the door. he did not say very much, but frank could see by his face that he had been worrying; and afterwards he said that he was just going round to the livery stable the next minute to get another team, and go down towards the city to see what had become of them all. frank told him what had happened, and his father put his arms round him, but still did not say much. he did not say anything at all about mr. bushell's money or seem to think about it till frank asked: "i'd better take it right straight over to his store, hadn't i, father?" his father said he reckoned he had, and frank started away on the run again. he wanted to get rid of that money so badly, for it was all he had to worry about, after he had got rid of his brother, that he was out of breath, almost, by the time he reached mr. bushell's store. but even then he could not get rid of the money. mr. bushell had told him to give it to his partner, but his partner had gone out into the country, and was not to be back till after supper. frank did not know what to do. he did not dare to give it to any one else in the store, and it seemed to him that the danger of having it got worse every minute. he hung about a good while, and kept going in and out of the store, but at last he thought the best thing would be to go home and ask his father; and that was what he did. by this time his father had gone home to supper, and he found him there with his two younger brothers, feeling rather lonesome, with frank's mother and his sisters all away. but they cheered up together, and his father said he had done right not to leave the money, and he would just step over, after supper, and give it himself to mr. bushell's partner. he took the roll of bills from frank and put it into his own pocket, and went on eating his supper, but when they were done he gave the bills back to the boy. "after all, frank, i believe i'll let you take that money to mr. bushell's partner. he trusted it to you, and you ought to have the glory; you've had the care. do you think you'll be afraid to come home through the bridge after sunset?" the bridge was one of those old-fashioned, wooden ones, roofed in and sided up, and it stretched from shore to shore, like a tunnel, on its piers. it was rather dim, even in the middle of the brightest day, and none of the boys liked to be caught in it after sunset. frank said he did not believe he should be afraid, for it seemed to him that if he had got through a runaway, and such a thunder-storm as that was the night before, without harm, he could surely get through the bridge safely. there was not likely to be anybody in it, at the worst, but indian jim, or solomon whistler, the crazy man, and he believed he could run by them if they offered to do anything to him. he meant to walk as slowly as he could, until he reached the bridge, and then just streak through it. that was what he did, and it was still quite light when he reached mr. bushell's store. his partner was there, sure enough, this time, and frank gave him the money, and told him how he had been so long bringing it. the merchant thanked him, and said he was rather young to be trusted with so much money, but he reckoned mr. bushell knew what he was about. "did he count it when he gave it to you?" he asked. "no, he didn't," said frank. "did you?" "i didn't have a chance. he put it right into my pocket, and i was afraid to take it out." mr. bushell's partner laughed, and frank was going away, so as to get through the bridge before it was any darker, but mr. bushell's partner said, "just hold on a minute, won't you, frank, till i count this," and he felt as if his heart had jumped into his throat. what if he had lost some of the money? what if somebody had got it out of his pocket, while he was so dead asleep, and taken part of it? what if mr. bushell had made a mistake, and not given him as much as he thought he had? he hardly breathed while mr. bushell's partner slowly counted the bank-notes. it took him a long time, and he had to wet his finger a good many times, and push the notes to keep them from sticking together. at last he finished, and he looked at frank over the top of his spectacles. "two thousand?" he asked. "that's what mr. bushell said," answered the boy, and he could hardly get the words out. "well, it's all here," said mr. bushell's partner, and he put the money in his pocket, and frank turned and went out of the store. he felt light, light as cotton, and gladder than he almost ever was in his life before. he was so glad that he forgot to be afraid in the bridge. the fellows who were the most afraid always ran through the bridge, and those who tried not to be afraid walked fast and whistled. frank did not even think to whistle. his father was sitting out on the front porch when he reached home, and he asked frank if he had got rid of his money, and what mr. bushell's partner had said. frank told him all about it, and after a while his father asked, "well, frank, do you like to have the care of money?" "i don't believe i do, father." "which was the greater anxiety to you last night, mr. bushell's money, or your brother?" frank had to think awhile. "well, i suppose it was the money, father. you see, it wasn't my own money." "and if it had been your own money, you wouldn't have been anxious about it? you wouldn't have cared if you had lost it, or somebody had stolen it from you?" frank thought again, and then he said he did not believe he had thought about that. "well, think about it now." frank tried to think, and at last he said. "i reckon i should have cared." "and if it had been your own money, would you have been more anxious about it than about your brother?" this time frank was more puzzled than ever; he really did not know what to say. his father said: "the trouble with money is, that people who have a great deal of it seem to be more anxious about it than they are about their brothers, and they think that the things it can buy are more precious than the things which all the money in the world cannot buy." his father stood up. "better go to bed, frank. you must be tired. there won't be any thunder-storm to-night, and you haven't got a pocketful of money to keep you awake." xi how jim leonard planned for pony baker to run off on a raft now we have got to go back to pony baker again. the summer went along till it got to be september, and the fellows were beginning to talk about when school would take up. it was almost too cold to go in swimming; that is, the air made you shiver when you came out, and before you got your clothes on; but if you stood in the water up to your chin, it seemed warmer than it did on the hottest days of summer. only now you did not want to go in more than once a day, instead of four or five times. the fellows were gathering chinquapin acorns most of the time, and some of them were getting ready to make wagons to gather walnuts in. once they went out to the woods for pawpaws, and found about a bushel; they put them in cornmeal to grow, but they were so green that they only got rotten. the boys found an old shanty in the woods where the farmer made sugar in the spring, and some of the big fellows said they were coming out to sleep in it, the first night they got. it was this that put jim leonard in mind of pony's running off again. all the way home he kept talking to pony about it, and pony said he was going to do it yet, some time, but when jim leonard wanted him to tell the time, he would only say, "you'll see," and wag his head. then jim leonard mocked him and dared him to tell, and asked him if he would take a dare. after that he made up with him, and said if pony would run off he would run off, too; and that the way for them to do would be to take the boards of that shanty in the woods and build a raft. they could do it easily, because the boards were just leaned up against the ridge-pole, and they could tie them together with pawpaw switches, they were so tough, and then some night carry the raft to the river, after the water got high in the fall, and float down on it to the city. "why, does the river go past the city?" pony asked. "of course it does," said jim leonard, and he laughed at pony. "it runs into the ohio there. where's your geography?" pony was ashamed to say that he did not suppose that geography had anything to do with the river at the boy's town, for it was not down on the map, like behring straits and the isthmus of suez. but he saw that jim leonard really knew something. he did not see the sense of carrying the raft two miles through the woods when you could get plenty of drift-wood on the river shore to make a raft of. but he did not like to say it for fear jim leonard would think he was afraid to be in the woods after dark, and after that he came under him more than ever. most of the fellows just made fun of jim leonard, because they said he was a brag, but pony began to believe everything he said when he found out that he knew where the river went to; pony had never even thought. jim was always talking about their plan of running off together, now; and he said they must fix everything so that it would not fail this time. if they could only get to the city once, they could go for cabin-boys on a steamboat that was bound for new orleans; and down the mississippi they could easily hide on some ship that was starting for the spanish main, and then they would be all right. jim knew about the spanish main from a book of pirate stories that he had. he had a great many books and he was always reading them. one was about indians, and one was about pirates, and one was about dreams and signs, and one was full of curious stories, and one told about magic and how to do jugglers' tricks; the other was a fortune-telling book. jim leonard had a paper from the city, with long stories in, and he had read a novel once; he could not tell the boys exactly what a novel was, but that was what it said on the back. after pony and he became such friends he told him everything that was in his books, and once, when pony went to his house, he showed him the books. pony was a little afraid of jim leonard's mother; she was a widow woman, and took in washing; she lived in a little wood-colored house down by the river-bank, and she smoked a pipe. she was a very good mother to jim, and let him do whatever he pleased--go in swimming as much as he wanted to, stay out of school, or anything. he had to catch drift-wood for her to burn when the river was high; once she came down to the river herself and caught drift-wood with a long pole that had a nail in the end of it to catch on with. by the time school took up pony and jim leonard were such great friends that they asked the teacher if they might sit together, and they both had the same desk. when pony's mother heard that, it seemed as if she were going to do something about it. she said to his father: "i don't like pony's going with jim leonard so much. he's had nobody else with him for two weeks, and now he's sitting with him in school." pony's father said, "i don't believe jim leonard will hurt pony. what makes you like him, pony?" pony said, "oh, nothing," and his father laughed. "it seems to be a case of pure affection. what do you talk about together?" "oh, dreams, and magic, and pirates," said pony. his father laughed, but his mother said, "i know hell put mischief in the child's head," and then pony thought how jim leonard always wanted him to run off, and he felt ashamed; but he did not think that running off was mischief, or else all the boys would not be wanting to do it, and so he did not say anything. his father said, "i don't believe there's any harm in the fellow. he's a queer chap." "he's so low down," said pony's mother. "well, he has a chance to rise, then," said pony's father. "we may all be hurrahing for him for president some day." pony could not always tell when his father was joking, but it seemed to him he must be joking now. "i don't believe pony will get any harm from sitting with him in school, at any rate." after that pony's mother did not say anything, but he knew that she had taken a spite to jim leonard, and when he brought him home with him after school he did not bring him into the woodshed as he did with the other boys, but took him out to the barn. that got them to playing in the barn most of the time, and they used to stay in the hay-loft, where jim leonard told pony the stories out of his books. it was good and warm there, and now the days were getting chilly towards evenings. once, when they were lying in the hay together, jim leonard said, all of a sudden, "i've thought of the very thing, pony baker." pony asked, "what thing?" "how to get ready for running off," said jim leonard, and at that pony's heart went down, but he did not like to show it, and jim leonard went on: "we've got to provision the raft, you know, for maybe we'll catch on an island and be a week getting to the city. we've got to float with the current, anyway. well, now, we can make a hole in the hay here and hide the provisions till we're ready to go. i say we'd better begin hiding them right away. let's see if we can make a place. get away, trip." he was speaking to pony's dog, that always came out into the barn with him and stayed below in the carriage-room, whining and yelping till they helped him up the ladder into the loft. then he always lay in one corner, with his tongue out, and looking at them as if he knew what they were saying. he got up when jim leonard bade him, and jim pulled away the hay until he got down to the loft floor. "yes, it's the very place. it's all solid, and we can put the things down here and cover them up with hay and nobody will notice. now, to-morrow you bring out a piece of bread-and-butter with meat between, and i will, too, and then we will see how it will do." pony brought his bread-and-butter the next day. jim said he intended to bring some hard-boiled eggs, but his mother kept looking, and he had no chance. "let's see whether the butter's sweet, because if it ain't the provisions will spoil before we can get off." he took a bite, and he said, "my, that's nice!" and the first thing he knew he ate the whole piece up. "well, never mind," he said, "we can begin to-morrow just as well." the next day jim leonard brought a ham-bone, to cook greens with on the raft. he said it would be first-rate; and pony brought bread-and-butter, with meat between. then they hid them in the hay, and drove trip away from the place. the day after that, when they were busy talking, trip dug the provisions up, and, before they noticed, he ate up pony's bread-and-butter and was gnawing jim leonard's ham-bone. they cuffed his ears, but they could not make him give it up, and jim leonard said: "well, let him have it. it's all spoilt now, anyway. but i'll tell you what, pony--we've got to do something with that dog. he's found out where we keep our provisions, and now he'll always eat them. i don't know but what we'll have to kill him." "oh no!" said pony. "i couldn't kill trip!" "well, i didn't mean kill him, exactly; but do something. i'll tell you what--train him not to follow you to the barn when he sees you going." pony thought that would be a good plan, and he began the next day at noon. trip tried to follow him to the barn, and pony kicked at him, and motioned to stone him, and said: "go home, sir! home with you! home, i say!" till his mother came to the back door. "why, what in the world makes you so cross with poor trip, pony?" she asked. "i'll teach him not to tag me round everywhere," said pony. his mother said: "why, i thought you liked to have him with you?" "i'm tired of it," said pony; but when he put his mother off that way he felt badly, as if he had told her a lie, and he let trip come with him and began to train him again the next day. it was pretty hard work, and trip looked at him so mournfully when he drove him back that he could hardly bear to do it; but jim leonard said it was the only way, and he must keep it up. at last trip got so that he would not follow pony to the barn. he would look at him when pony started and wag his tail wistfully, and half jump a little, and then when he saw pony frown he would let his tail drop and stay still, or walk off to the woodshed and keep looking around at pony to see if he were in earnest. it made pony's heart ache, for he was truly fond of trip; but jim leonard said it was the only way, and so pony had to do it. they provisioned themselves a good many times, but after they talked a while they always got hungry, or jim leonard did, and then they dug up their provisions and ate them. once when he came to spend saturday afternoon with pony he had great news to tell him. one of the boys had really run off. he was a boy that pony had never seen, though he had heard of him. he lived at the other end of the town, below the bridge, and almost at the sycamore grove. he had the name of being a wild fellow; his father was a preacher, but he could not do anything with him. now, jim leonard said, pony must run off right away, and not wait for the river to rise, or anything. as soon as the river rose, jim would follow him on the raft; but pony must start first, and he must take the pike for the city, and sleep in fence corners. they must provision him, and not eat any of the things before he started. he must not take a bundle or anything, because if he did people would know he was running off, or maybe they would think he was a runaway slave from kentucky, he was so dark-complexioned. at first pony did not like it, because it seemed to him that jim leonard was backing out; but jim leonard said that if two of them started off at the same time, people would just know they were running off, and the constable would take them up before they could get across the corporation line. he said that very likely it would rain in less than a week, and then he could start after pony on the raft, and be at the ohio river almost as soon as pony was. he said, "why, you ain't afraid, are you, pony?" and pony said he was not afraid; for if there was anything that a boy's town boy hated, it was to be afraid, and pony hated it the worst of any, because he was sometimes afraid that he was afraid. they fixed it that pony was to sleep the next friday night in the barn, and the next morning, before it was light, he was to fill his pockets with the provisions and run off. every afternoon he took out a piece of bread-and-butter with meat between and hid it in the hay, and jim leonard brought some eggs. he said he had no chance to boil them without his mother seeing, but he asked pony if he did not know that raw eggs were first-rate, and when pony said no, he said, "well, they are." they broke one of the eggs when they were hiding them, and it ran over the bread-and-butter, but they wiped it off with hay as well as they could, and jim leonard said maybe it would help to keep it, anyway. [illustration: "'why, you ain't afraid, are you, pony?'"] when he came round to pony's house the next friday afternoon from school he asked him if he had heard the news, and when pony said no, he said that the fellow that ran off had been taken up in the city by the watchman. he was crying on the street, and he said he had nowhere to sleep, and had not had anything to eat since the night before. pony's heart seemed to be standing still. he had always supposed that as soon as he ran off he should be free from all the things that hindered and vexed him; and, although he expected to be sorry for his father and mother, he expected to get along perfectly well without them. he had never thought about where he should sleep at night after he got to the city, or how he should get something to eat. "now, you see, pony," said jim leonard, "what a good thing it was that i thought about provisioning you before you started. what makes you look so?" pony said, "i'm not looking!" jim leonard said, "you're not afraid, are you, just because that fellow got took up? you're not such a cowardy-calf as to want to back out now?" the tears came into pony's eyes. "cowardy-calf yourself, jim leonard! you've backed out long ago!" "you'll see whether i've backed out," said jim leonard. "i'm coming round to sleep in the barn with you to-night, and help you to get a good start in the morning. and maybe i'll start myself to-morrow. i will if i can get anybody to help me make the raft and bring it through the woods. now let's go up into the loft and see if the provisions are all safe." they dug the provisions up out of the hay and jim leonard broke one of the eggs against the wall. it had a small chicken in it, and he threw it away. another egg smelt so that they could hardly stand it. "i don't believe these eggs are very good," said jim leonard. "i got them out of a nest that the hen had left; mother said i might have them all." he broke them one after another, and every one had a chicken in it, or else it was bad. "well, never mind," he said. "let's see what the bread-and-butter's like." he bit into a piece, but he did not swallow any. "tastes kind of musty; from the hay, i reckon; and the meat seems kind of old. but they always give the sailors spoilt provisions, and this bread-and-butter will do you first-rate, pony. you'll be so hungry you can eat anything. say, you ain't afraid now, are you, pony?" "no, not now," said pony, but he did not fire up this time as he did before at the notion of his being afraid. jim leonard said, "because, maybe i can't get mother to let me come here again. if she takes a notion, she won't. but i'm going to watch out, and as soon as supper's over, and i've got the cow into the lot, and the morning's wood in, i'm going to try to hook off. if i don't get here to stay all night with you i'll be around bright and early in the morning, to wake you and start you. it won't be light now much before six, anyway." xii how jim leonard backed out, and pony had to give it up it all seemed very strange to pony. first, jim leonard was going to run off with him on a raft, and then he was going to have pony go by land and follow him on the raft; then suddenly he fixed it so that pony was going alone, and he was going to pass the last night with him in the barn; and here, all at once, he was only coming, maybe, to see him off in the morning. it made pony feel very forlorn, but he did not like to say anything for fear jim leonard would call him cowardy-calf. it was near sunset, on a cool day in the beginning of october, and the wind was stirring the dry blades in the corn-patch at the side of the barn. they made a shivering sound, and it made pony lonesomer and lonesomer. he did not want to run off, but he did not see how he could help it. trip stood at the wood-house door, looking at him, but he did not dare to come to pony as long as he was near the barn. but when pony started towards the house trip came running and jumping to him, and pony patted him and said, "poor trip, poor old trip!" he did not know when he should see such another dog as that. the kitchen door was open, and a beautiful smell of frying supper was coming out. pretty soon his mother came to the open door, and stood watching him patting trip. "well, have you made up with poor old trip, pony? why don't you come in, child? you look so cold, out there." pony did not say anything, but he came into the kitchen and sat in a corner beyond the stove and watched his mother getting the supper. in the dining-room his sisters were setting the table and his father was reading by the lamp there. pony would have given almost anything if something had happened just to make him tell what he was going to do, so that he could have been kept from doing it. he saw that his mother was watching him all the time, and she said: "what makes you so quiet, child?" pony said, "oh, nothing," and his mother asked, "have you been falling out with jim leonard?" pony said no, and then she said, "i almost wish you had, then. i don't think he's a bad boy, but he's a crazy fool, and i wish you wouldn't go with him so much. i don't like him." all of a sudden pony felt that he did not like jim leonard very much himself. it seemed to him that jim leonard had not used him very well, but he could not have told how. after supper the great thing was how to get out to the barn without any one's noticing. pony went to the woodshed door two or three times to look out. there were plenty of stars in the sky, but it seemed very dark, and he knew that it would be as black as pitch in the barn, and he did not see how he could ever dare to go out to it, much less into it. every time he came back from looking he brought an armload of wood into the kitchen so that his mother would not notice. the last time she said, "why, you dear, good boy, what a lot of wood you're bringing for your mother," for usually pony had to be told two or three times before he would get a single armload of wood. when his mother praised him he was ashamed to look at her, and so he looked round, and he saw the lantern hanging by the mantel-piece. when he saw that lantern he almost wished that he had not seen it, for now he knew that his last excuse was gone, and he would really have to run off. if it had not been for the lantern he could have told jim leonard that he was afraid to go out to the barn on account of ghosts, for anybody would be afraid of ghosts; jim leonard said he was afraid of them himself. but now pony could easily get the lantern and take it out to the barn with him, and if it was not dark the ghosts would not dare to touch you. he tried to think back to the beginning of the time when he first intended to run off, and find out if there was not some way of not doing it; but he could not, and if jim leonard was to come to the barn the next morning to help him start, and should not find him there, pony did not know what he would do. jim leonard would tell all the fellows, and pony would never hear the last of it. that was the way it seemed to him, but his mind felt all fuzzy, and he could not think very clearly about it. when his mother finished up her work in the kitchen he took the lantern from the nail and slipped up the back stairs to his little room, and then, after he heard his sisters going to bed and his father and mother talking together quietly, he lit the lantern and stole out to the barn with it. nobody noticed him, and he got safely inside the barn. he used to like to carry the lantern very much, because it made the shadows of his legs, when he walked, go like scissors-blades, and that was fun; but that night it did not cheer him up, and it seemed as if nothing could cheer him up again. when trip first saw him come out into the woodshed with the lantern he jumped up and pawed pony and licked the lantern, he was so glad, but when pony went towards the barn trip stopped following him and went back into the wood-house very sadly. pony would have given almost anything to have trip come with him, only, as jim leonard said, trip would whine or bark, or something, and then pony would be found out and kept from running off. the more he wanted to be kept from running off the more he knew he must not try to be, and he let trip go back when he would have so gladly helped him up into the hay-loft and slept with him there. he would not have been afraid with trip, and now he found that he was dreadfully afraid. the lantern-light was a charm against ghosts, but not against rats, and the first thing pony knew when he got into the barn a rat ran across his foot. trip would have kept the rats off. they seemed to just swarm in the loft when pony got up there, and after he hung the lantern on a nail and lay down in the hay they did not mind him at all. they played all around, and two of them got up on their hind legs once and fought, or else danced, pony could not tell which. he could not sleep, and after a while he felt the tears coming and he began to cry, and he kept sobbing, and could not stop himself. when pony's mother was ready to go to bed she said to pony's father: "did pony say good-night to you?" and when he said no, she said, "but he must have gone to bed," and she ran up the stairs to see. she came down again in about half a second and she said, "he doesn't seem to be there," and she raced all through the house hunting for him. in the kitchen she saw that the lantern was gone and then she said: "i might have known he was up to some mischief, he was so quiet. this is some more of jim leonard's work. henry, i want you to go right out and look for pony. it's half-past nine." then pony's father knew that it would be no use to talk and he started out. but the whole street was quiet, and all the houses were dark as if the people had gone to bed. he went up town and to all the places where the big boys were apt to play at night, and he found hen billard and archy hawkins, but neither of them had seen pony since school. they were both sitting on hen billard's front steps, because archy hawkins was going to stay all night with him, and they were telling stories. when pony's father asked about pony and seemed anxious they tried to comfort him, but they could not think where pony could be. they said perhaps jim leonard would know. then pony's father went home, and the minute he opened the front door pony's mother called out: "have you found him?" his father said: "no. hasn't he come in yet?" and he told her how he had been looking everywhere, and she burst out crying. "i know he's fallen into the canal and got drowned, or something," and she wrung her hands together; and then he said that hen billard and archy hawkins thought jim leonard would know, and he had only stopped to see whether pony had happened to come in, and he was going straight to jim leonard's mother's house; and pony's mother said: "oh, go, go, go!" and fairly pushed him out of the house. by this time it was ten o'clock and going on eleven, and all the town was as still as death, except the dogs. pony's father kept on until he got down to the river-bank, where jim leonard's mother lived, and he had to knock and knock before he could make anybody hear. at last jim leonard's mother poked her head out of the window and asked who was there, and pony's father told her. he said: "is jim at home, mrs. leonard?" and she said: "yes, and fast asleep three hours ago. what makes you ask?" then he had to tell her. "we can't find pony, and some of the boys thought jim might know where he is. i'm sorry to disturb you, mrs. leonard. good-night," and he went back home. when he got there he found pony's mother about crazy. he said now they must search the house thoroughly; and they went down into the cellar first, because she said she knew pony had fallen down the stairs and killed himself. but he was not there, and then they hunted through all the rooms and looked under the tables and beds and into the cupboards and closets, and he was not there. then they went into the wood-house and looked there, and up into the wood-house loft among the old stoves and broken furniture, and he was not there. trip was there, and he made them think so of pony that pony's mother took on worse than she had yet. "now i'm going out to look in the barn," said pony's father. "you stay quietly in the house, lucy." trip started to go with pony's father, but when he saw that he was going to the barn he was afraid to follow him, pony had trained him so; and pony's father went alone. he shaded the candle that he was carrying with his hand, and when he got into the barn he put it down and stood and looked and tried to think how he should do. it was dangerous to go around among the hay with the candle, and the lantern was gone. almost from the first pony's father thought that he heard a strange noise like some one sobbing, and then it seemed to him that there was a light up in the loft. he holloed out: "who's there?" and then the noise stopped, but the light kept on. pony's father holloed out again: "pony! is that you, pony?" and then pony answered, "yes," and he began sobbing again. in less than half a second pony's father was up in the loft, and then down again and out of the barn and into the yard with pony. his mother was standing at the back door, for she could not bear to stay in the house, and pony's father holloed to her: "here he is, lucy, safe and sound!" and pony's mother holloed back: "well, don't touch him, henry! don't scold the child! don't say a word to him! oh, i could just fall on my knees!" pony's father came along, bringing pony and the lantern. pony's hair and clothes were all stuck full of pieces of hay, and his face was smeared with hay-dust which he had rubbed into it when he was crying. he had got some of jim leonard's mother's hen's eggs on him, and he did not smell very well. but his mother did not care how he looked or how he smelled. she caught him up into her arms and just fairly hugged him into the house, and there she sat down with him in her arms, and kissed his dirty face, and his hair all full of hay-sticks and spider-webs, and cried till it seemed as if she was never going to stop. she would not let his father say anything to him, but after a while she washed him, and when she got him clean she made him up a bed on the lounge and put him to sleep there where she could see him. she said she was not going to sleep herself that night, but just stay up and realize that they had got pony safe again. one thing she did ask him, and that was: "what in the world made you want to sleep in the barn, pony?" and pony was ashamed to say he was getting ready to run off. he began: "jim leonard--" and his mother broke out: "i knew it was some of jim leonard's work!" and she talked against jim leonard until pony fell asleep, and said pony should never speak to him again. she and pony's father sat up all night talking, and about daybreak he recollected that he had left the candle burning in the barn, and he ran out with all his might to get it before it set the barn on fire. but it had burned out without catching anything, and he was coming back to the house when he met jim leonard sneaking towards the barn door. he pounced on him, and caught him by the collar, and he said as savagely as he could: "what are you doing here, jim?" jim leonard was too scared to speak, and pony's father hauled him to the house door, and holloed in to pony's mother: "i've got jim leonard here, lucy"; and she holloed back: "oh, well, take him away, and don't let me see the dreadful boy!" and pony's father said: "i'll take him home to his mother, and see what she has to say to him." all the way down to the river-bank he did not say a word to jim leonard, but when they got to jim leonard's mother's house, there she was with her pipe in her mouth coming out to get chips to kindle the fire with, and she said: "i'd like to know what you've got my boy by the collar for, mr. baker?" pony's father said: "i don't know myself; i'll let him tell you. pony was hid in the barn last night, and i just now caught jim prowling around on the outside. i should like to hear what he wanted." jim leonard did not say anything. his mother gave him one look, and then she went into the house and came out with a table-knife in her hand. she said, "i reckon i can get him to tell you," and she went to a pear-tree that there was before her house and cut a long sucker from the foot of it. she came up to jim and then she said: "tell!" she did not have to say it twice, and in about half a second he told how pony had intended to run off and how he put him up to it, and everything. pony's father did not wait to see what jim leonard's mother did to jim. when pony woke in the morning he heard his mother saying: "i could almost think he had bewitched the child." his father said: "it really seems like a case of mesmeric influence." pony was sick for about a week after that. when he got better his father had a very solemn talk with him, and asked why he ever dreamed of running away from his home, where they all loved him so. pony could not tell. all the things that he used to be so mad about were like nothing to him now, and he was ashamed of them. his father did not try hard to make him tell. he explained to him what a miserable boy he would have been if he had really got away, and said he hoped his night's experience in the barn would be a lesson to him. that was what it turned out to be. but it seemed to be a lesson to his father and mother, too. they let him do more things, and his mother did not baby him so much before the boys. he thought she was trying to be a better mother to him, and, perhaps, she did not baby him so much because now he had a little brother for her to baby instead, that was born about a week after pony tried to run off. the end produced from images generously made available by the kentuckiana digital library) [illustration: work and win oliver optic] [illustration] [illustration] [illustration: signature: william t. adams] work and win or noddy newman on a cruise a story for young people by oliver optic author of "boat club," "all aboard," "now or never," etc., etc. new york hurst & company publishers to my young friend, edward c. bellows, this book is affectionately dedicated. preface. in the preparation of this volume, the author has had in his mind the intention to delineate the progress of a boy whose education had been neglected, and whose moral attributes were of the lowest order, from vice and indifference to the development of a high moral and religious principle in the heart, which is the rule and guide of a pure and true life. the incidents which make up the story are introduced to illustrate the moral status of the youth, at the beginning, and to develop the influences from which proceeded a gentle and christian character. mollie, the captain's daughter, whose simple purity of life, whose filial devotion to an erring parent, and whose trusting faith in the hour of adversity, won the love and respect of noddy, was not the least of these influences. if the writer has not "moralized," it was because the true life, seen with the living eye, is better than any precept, however skilfully it may be dressed by the rhetorical genius of the moralist. once more the author takes pleasure in acknowledging the kindness of his young friends, who have so favorably received his former works; and he hopes that "work and win," the fourth of the woodville stories, will have as pleasant a welcome as its predecessors. william t. adams. harrison square. mass., november , . contents. chapter page i. the mischief-makers ii. the circus at whitestone iii. a moral question iv. noddy's confession v. squire wriggs at woodville vi. noddy's engagement vii. the ring-master viii. good-by to woodville ix. an attempt to work and win x. poor mollie xi. the schooner roebuck xii. the drunken captain xiii. the shark xiv. the yellow fever xv. the demon of the cup xvi. night and storm xvii. after the storm xviii. the beautiful island xix. the visitors xx. homeward bound xxi. the clergyman and his wife work and win; or, noddy newman on a cruise. chapter i. the mischief-makers. "here, noddy newman! you haven't washed out the boat-house yet," said ben, the boatman, as the young gentleman thus addressed was ambling down towards the river. "hang the boat-house!" exclaimed noddy, impatiently, as he stopped short in his walk, and seemed to be in doubt whether he should return or continue on his way. "you know what miss bertha says--don't you?" "yes, i know what she says," added noddy, rubbing his head, as though he were trying to reconcile his present purpose, whatever it was, with the loyalty he owed to bertha. "i suppose it don't make much difference to her whether i wash out the boat-house now or by and by." "i don't know anything about that, my boy," said the old man. "miss bertha told me to find some regular work for you to do every day. i found it, and she say you must wash out the boat-house every morning before nine o'clock. if you don't do it, i shall report you to her. that's all i've got to say about it." "i calculate to wash out the boat-house." "you've only half an hour to do it in, then. you've not only got to wash it out every morning, but you have got to do it before nine o'clock. them's the orders. i always obey orders. if miss bertha should tell me to tie you up, and give you as big a licking as you deserve, i should do it." "no, you wouldn't." "i haven't got any such orders, mind ye, noddy; so we won't dispute about that. now, go and wash out the boat-house like a good boy, and don't make any fuss about it." noddy deliberated a few moments more. he evidently disliked the job, or did not wish to do it at that particular time; but miss bertha's influence was all-powerful; and though he would have fought, tooth and nail, against anything like compulsion on the part of ben, he could not resist the potent spell which the name of his young mistress cast upon him. "hang the old boat-house!" exclaimed he, as he stamped his foot upon the ground, and then slowly retraced his steps towards the boatman. "hang it, if you like, noddy, but wash it out first," said ben, with a smile, as he observed the effect of the charm he had used to induce the wayward youth to do his duty. "i wish the boat-house was burned up!" added noddy, petulantly. "no, you don't." "yes, i do. i wish it was a pile of ashes at this moment." "don't say so, noddy. what would miss bertha think to hear you talk like that?" "you can tell her, if you like," replied noddy, as he rushed desperately into the boat-house to do the disagreeable job. noddy newman was an orphan; and no one in the vicinity of woodville even knew what his real name was. two years before, bertha grant had taken the most tender care of him, after an accident by which he had been severely injured. previous to that time he had been a vagabond, roaming about the woods and the villages, sleeping in barns and out-buildings, and stealing his food when he could obtain it by no other means. efforts had been made to commit him to the poorhouse; but he had cunningly avoided being captured, and retained his freedom until the accident placed him under the influence of bertha grant, who had before vainly attempted to induce him to join her mission-school in the glen. noddy had been two years at woodville. he was neither a servant nor a member of the family, but occupied a half-way position, eating and sleeping with the men employed on the estate, but being the constant companion of bertha, who was laboring to civilize and educate him. she had been partially successful in her philanthropic labors; for noddy knew how to behave himself with propriety, and could read and write with tolerable facility. but books and literature were not noddy's _forte_, and he still retained an unhealthy relish for his early vagabond habits. like a great many other boys,--even like some of those who have been brought up judiciously and carefully,--noddy was not very fond of work. he was bold and impulsive, and had not yet acquired any fixed ideas in regard to the objects of life. bertha grant had obtained a powerful influence over him, to which he was solely indebted for all the progress he had made in learning and the arts of civilized life. wayward as he always had been, and as he still was, there was a spirit in him upon which to build a hope that something might yet be made of him, though this faith was in a great measure confined to bertha and the old boatman. he had a great many good qualities--enough, in the opinion of his gentle instructress, to redeem him from his besetting sins, which were neither few nor small. he was generous, which made him popular among those who were under no moral responsibility for his future welfare. he was bold and daring, and never hesitated to do anything which the nerve or muscle of a boy of fourteen could achieve. his feats of strength and daring, often performed from mere bravado, won the admiration of the thoughtless, and noddy was regarded as a "character" by people who only wanted to be amused. noddy had reached an age when the future became an interesting problem to those who had labored to improve his manners and his morals. mr. grant had suggested to bertha the propriety of having him bound as an apprentice to some steady mechanic; and, at the time of our story, she and her father were in search of such a person. the subject of this kind solicitude did not relish the idea of learning a trade, though he had not positively rebelled at the disposition which it was proposed to make of him. he had always lived near the river; and during his residence at woodville he had been employed, so far as he could be employed at all, about the boats. he was a kind of assistant to the boatman, though there was no need of such an official on the premises. for his own good, rather than for the labor he performed, he was required to do certain work about the boat-house, and in the boats when they were in use. we could recite a great many scrapes, of which noddy had been the hero, during the two years of his stay at woodville; but such a recital would hardly be profitable to our readers, especially as the young man's subsequent career was not devoid of stirring incidents. noddy drew a bucket of water at the pier, and carried it into the boat-house. ben, satisfied now that the work was actually in progress, left the pier, and walked up to the house to receive his morning instructions. he was hardly out of sight before miss fanny grant presented herself at the door. miss fanny was now a nice young lady of twelve. she was as different from her sister bertha as she could be. she was proud, and rather wayward. like some other young ladies we have somewhere read about, she was very fond of having her own way, even when her own way had been proved to be uncomfortable and dangerous. but when we mention miss fanny's faults, we do not wish to be understood that she had no virtues. if she did wrong very often, she did right in the main, and had made a great deal of progress in learning to do wisely and well, and, what was just as good, in doing it after she had learned it. fanny grant walked up to the boat-house with a very decided step, and it soon appeared that she was not there by chance or accident; which leads us sorrowfully to remark, that in her wrongdoing she often found a ready companion and supporter in noddy newman. she was rather inclined to be a romp; and though she was not given to "playing with the boys," the absence of any suitable playmate sometimes led her to invite the half-reformed vagabond of woodville to assist in her sport. "you are a pretty fellow, noddy newman!" said she, her pouting lips giving an added emphasis to her reproachful remark. "why didn't you come down to the point, as you said you would?" "because i couldn't, miss fanny," growled noddy. "i had to wash out this confounded boat-house, or be reported to miss bertha." "couldn't you do that after you got back?" "ben said i must do it before nine o'clock. i wanted to go down to the point, as i agreed, but you see i couldn't." "i waited for you till i got tired out," pouted fanny; but she neglected to add that five minutes on ordinary occasions were the full limit of her patience. "hang the old boat-house! i told ben i wished it was burned up." "so do i; but come along, noddy. we will go now." "i can't go till i've washed out the boat-house." "yes, you can." "but if ben comes down and finds the place hasn't been washed out, he will tell miss bertha." "let him tell her--who cares?" "she will talk to me for an hour." "let her talk--talking won't kill you." "i don't like to be talked to in that way by miss bertha." "fiddle-de-dee! you can tell her i wanted you," said fanny, her eyes snapping with earnestness. "shall i tell her what you wanted me for?" asked noddy, with a cunning look. "of course you needn't tell her that. but come along, or i shall go without you." "no--you wouldn't do that, miss fanny. you couldn't." "well, won't you come?" "not now." "i can't wait." "i will go just as soon as i have done washing the boat-house." "plague on the boat-house!" snapped fanny. "i wish it was burned up. what a nice fire it would make!--wouldn't it, noddy?" the bright eyes of the wayward miss sparkled with delight as she thought of the blazing building; and while her more wayward companion described the miseries which he daily endured in his regular work, she hardly listened to him. she seemed to be plotting mischief; but if she was, she did not make noddy her confidant this time. "come, noddy," said she, after a few moments' reflection, "i will promise to make it all right with bertha." noddy dropped the broom with which he had begun to sweep up some chips and shavings ben had made in repairing a boat-hook. "if you will get me out of the scrape, i will go now," said he. "i will; you may depend upon me." "then i will go." "where is ben, now?" "he has gone up to the house." "then you run down to the point, and bring the boat up to the pier. i am tired, and don't want to walk down there again." noddy was entirely willing, and bounded off like a deer, for he had fully made up his mind to disobey orders, and his impulsive nature did not permit him to consider the consequences. he was absent but a few moments, and presently appeared rowing a small boat up the river. at the pier he turned the boat, and backed her up to the landing steps. "all ready, miss fanny!" shouted the young boatman, for his companion in mischief was not in sight. still she did not appear; and noddy was about to go in search of her, when she came out of the boat-house, and ran down to the steps. her face was flushed, and she seemed to be very much agitated. noddy was afraid, from her looks, that something had happened to spoil the anticipated sport of the morning; but she stepped into the boat, and told him, in hurried tones, to push off. "what's the matter, miss fanny?" he asked, not a little startled by her appearance. "nothing, noddy; pull away just as fast as ever you can." "are we caught?" said he, as he followed fanny's direction. "no; caught! no. why don't you row faster, noddy? you don't pull worth a cent." "i am pulling as hard as i can," replied he, unable to keep pace with her impatience. "i wouldn't be seen here now for anything!" exclaimed fanny, earnestly, as she glanced back at the boat-house, with a look so uneasy that it almost unmanned her resolute companion. noddy pulled with all his might, and the light boat darted over the waves with a speed which ought to have satisfied his nervous passenger. as they reached the point of van alstine's island, a dense smoke was seen to rise from the boat-house on the pier; and a few moments later, the whole building was wrapped in flames. chapter ii. the circus at whitestone. "do you see that?" exclaimed noddy, as he stopped rowing, and gazed at the flames which leaped madly up from the devoted building. "i see it," replied fanny, with even more agitation than was manifested by her companion. "i don't understand it," added noddy. "the boat-house is on fire, and will burn up in a few minutes more. i think it is plain enough;" and fanny struggled to be calm and indifferent. "we must go back and see to it." "we shall do nothing of the kind. pull away as hard as ever you can, or we shall not get to whitestone in season." "i don't care about going to whitestone now; i want to know what all that means." "can't you see what it means? the boat-house is on fire." "well, how did it catch afire? that's what bothers me." "you needn't bother yourself about it. my father owns the boat-house, and it isn't worth much." "all that may be; but i want to know how it got afire." "we shall find out soon enough when we return." "but i want to know now." "you can't know now; so pull away." "i shall have the credit of setting that fire," added noddy, not a little disturbed by the anticipation. "no, you won't." "yes, i shall. i told ben i wished the boat-house would catch afire and burn up. of course he will lay it to me." "no matter if he does; ben isn't everybody." "well, he is 'most everybody, so far as miss bertha is concerned; and i'd rather tumbled overboard in december than have that fire happen just now." "you were not there when the fire broke out," said fanny, with a strong effort to satisfy her boatman. "that's the very reason why they will lay it to me. they will say i set the boat-house afire, and then ran away on purpose." "i can say you were with me when the fire broke out, and that i know you didn't do it," replied fanny. "that will do; but i would give all my old shoes to know how the fire took, myself." "no matter how it took." "yes, it is matter, miss fanny. i want to know. there wasn't any fire in the building when i left it." "perhaps somebody stopped there in a boat, and set it on fire." "perhaps they did; but i know very well they didn't," answered noddy, positively. "there hasn't been any boat near the pier since we left it." "perhaps ben left his pipe among those shavings." "ben never did that. he would cut his head off sooner than do such a thing. he is as scared of fire as he is of the flying dutchman." "don't say anything more about it. now row over to whitestone as quick as you can," added fanny, petulantly. "i'm not going over to whitestone, after what has happened. i shouldn't have a bit of fun if i went." "very well, noddy; then you may get out of the scrape as you can," said the young lady, angrily. "what scrape?" "why, they will accuse you of setting the boat-house afire; and you told ben you wished it was burned down." "but i didn't set it afire." "who did, then?" "that's just what i want to find out. that's what worries me; for i can't see how it happened, unless it took fire from that bucket of water i left on the floor." fanny was too much disturbed by the conduct of her boatman, or by some other circumstance, to laugh at noddy's joke; and the brilliant sally was permitted to waste itself without an appreciative smile. she sat looking at the angry flames as they devoured the building, while her companion vainly attempted to hit upon a satisfactory explanation of the cause of the fire. noddy was perplexed; he was absolutely worried, not so much by the probable consequences to himself of the unfortunate event, as by the cravings of his own curiosity. he did not see how it happened; and if a potent juggler had performed a wonderful feat in his presence, he could not have been more exercised in mind to know how it was done. noddy was neither a logician nor a philosopher; and therefore he was utterly unable to account for the origin of the fire. in vain he wasted his intellectual powers in speculations; in vain he tried to remember some exciting cause to which the calamity could be traced. meanwhile, miss fanny was deliberating quite as diligently over another question; for she apparently regarded the destruction of the boat-house as a small affair, and did not concern herself to know how it had been caused. but she was very anxious to reach whitestone before ten o'clock, and her rebellious boatman had intimated his intention not to carry out his part of the agreement. "what are you thinking about, noddy?" asked she, when both had maintained silence for the full space of three minutes, which was a longer period than either of them had ever before kept still while awake. "i was thinking of that fire," replied noddy, removing his gaze from the burning building, and fixing it upon her. "are you going to whitestone, or not?" continued she, impatiently. "no; i don't want to go to whitestone, while all of them down there are talking about me, and saying i set the boat-house afire." "they will believe you did it, too." "but i didn't, miss fanny. you know i didn't." "how should i know it?" "because i was with you; besides, you came out of the boat-house after i did." "if you will row me over to whitestone, i will say so; and i will tell them i know you didn't do it." noddy considered the matter for a moment, and, perhaps concluding that it was safer for him to keep on the right side of miss fanny, he signified his acceptance of the terms by taking up his oars, and pulling towards whitestone. but he was not satisfied; he was as uneasy as a fish out of water; and nothing but the tyranny of the wayward young lady in the boat would have induced him to flee from the trouble which was brewing at woodville. he had quite lost sight of the purpose which had induced him to disobey bertha's orders. our young adventurers had not left woodville without an object. there was a circus at whitestone--a travelling company which had advertised to give three grand performances on that day. miss fanny wanted to go; but, either because her father was otherwise occupied, or because he did not approve of circuses, he had declined to go with her. bertha did not want to go, and also had an engagement. fanny had set her heart upon going; and she happened to be too wilful, just at that period, to submit to the disappointment to which her father's convenience or his principles doomed her. bertha had gone to the city at an early hour in the morning to spend the day with a friend, and fanny decided that she would go to the circus, in spite of all obstacles, and in the face of her father's implied prohibition. when she had proceeded far enough to rebel, in her own heart, against the will of her father, the rest of the deed was easily accomplished. noddy had never been to a circus; and when fanny told him what it was,--how men rode standing up on their horses; how they turned somersets, and played all sorts of antics on the tight rope and the slack rope; and, above all, what funny things the clowns said and did,--he was quite ready to do almost anything to procure so rare a pleasure as witnessing such a performance must afford him. it did not require any persuasion to induce him to assist fanny in her disobedience. the only obstacle which had presented itself was his morning work in the boat-house, which bertha's departure for the city had prevented him from doing at an earlier hour. to prevent ben from suspecting that they were on the water, in case they should happen to be missed, he had borrowed a boat and placed it at the point, where they could embark without being seen, if ben or any of the servants happened to be near the pier. the boatman, who made it his business to see that noddy did his work on time in the morning, did not neglect his duty on this occasion; and when noddy started to meet fanny at the appointed place, he had been called back, as described in the first chapter. as he pulled towards whitestone, he watched the flames that rose from the boat-house; and he had, for the time, lost all his enthusiasm about the circus. he could think only of the doubtful position in which his impulsive words to the boatman placed him. above all things,--and all his doubts and fears culminated in this point,--what would miss bertha say? he did not care what others said, except so far as their words went to convince his mistress of his guilt. what would she do to him? but, after all had been said and done, he was not guilty. he had not set the boat-house on fire, and he did not even know who had done the malicious act. noddy regarded this as a very happy thought; and while the reflection had a place in his mind, he pulled the oars with redoubled vigor. yet it was in vain for him to rely upon the voice of an approving conscience for peace in that hour of trouble. if he had not, at that moment, been engaged in an act of disobedience, he might have been easy. he had been strictly forbidden by mr. grant, and by bertha, ever to take fanny out in a boat without permission; and miss fanny had been as strictly forbidden to go with him, or with any of the servants, without the express consent, each time, of her father or of bertha. it is very hard, while doing wrong in one thing, to enjoy an approving conscience in another thing; and noddy found it so in the present instance. we do not mean to say that noddy's conscience was of any great account to him, or that the inward monitor caused his present uneasiness. he had a conscience, but his vagabond life had demoralized it in the first place, and it had not been sufficiently developed, during his stay at woodville, to abate very sensibly his anticipated pleasure at the circus. his uneasiness was entirely selfish. he had got into a scrape, whose probable consequences worried him more than his conscience. by the time the runaways reached whitestone, the boat-house was all burned up, and nothing but the curling smoke from the ruins visibly reminded the transgressors of the event which had disturbed them. securing the boat in a proper place, noddy conducted the young lady to the large tent in which the circus company performed, and which was more than a mile from the river. fanny gave him the money, and noddy purchased two tickets, which admitted them to the interior of the tent. if noddy had been entirely at ease about the affair on the other side of the river, no doubt he would have enjoyed the performance very much; but in the midst of the "grand entree of all the horses and riders of the troupe," the sorrowing face of bertha grant thrust itself between him and the horsemen, to obscure his vision and diminish the cheap glories of the gorgeous scene. when "the most daring rider in the world" danced about, like a top, on the bare back of his "fiery, untamed steed," noddy was enthusiastic, and would have given a york shilling for the privilege of trying to do it himself. the "ground and lofty tumbling," with the exception of the spangled tunics of the performers, hardly came up to his expectations; and he was entirely satisfied that he could beat the best man among them at such games. as the performance proceeded, he warmed up enough to forget the fire, and ceased to dread the rebuke of bertha; but when all was over,--when the clown had made his last wry face, and the great american acrobat had achieved his last gyration, bertha and the fire came back to him with increased power. moody and sullen, he walked down to the river with fanny, who, under ordinary circumstances, would have been too proud to walk through the streets of whitestone with him. if he had been alone, it is quite probable that he would have taken to the woods, so much did he dread to return to woodville. he pushed off the boat, and for some time he pulled in silence, for miss fanny now appeared to have her own peculiar trials. her conscience seemed to have found a voice, and she did not speak till the boat had reached the lower end of van alstine's island. "the fire is all out now," said she. "yes; but i would give a thousand dollars to know how it caught," added noddy. "i know," continued fanny, looking down into the bottom of the boat. "who did it?" demanded noddy, eagerly. "i did it myself," answered fanny, looking up into his face to note the effect of the astonishing confession. chapter iii. a moral question. noddy dropped his oars, and, with open mouth and staring eyes, gazed fixedly in silence at his gentle companion, who had so far outstripped him in making mischief as to set fire to a building. it was too much for him, and he found it impossible to comprehend the depravity of miss fanny. he would not have dared to do such a thing himself, and it was impossible to believe that she had done so tremendous a deed. "i don't believe it," said he; and the words burst from him with explosive force, as soon as he could find a tongue to express himself. "i did," replied fanny, gazing at him with a kind of blank look, which would have assured a more expert reader of the human face than noddy newman that she had come to a realizing sense of the magnitude of the mischief she had done. "no, you didn't, miss fanny!" exclaimed her incredulous friend. "i know you didn't do that; you couldn't do it." "but i did; i wouldn't say i did if i didn't." "well, that beats me all to pieces!" added noddy, bending forward in his seat, and looking sharply into her face, in search of any indications that she was making fun of him, or was engaged in perpetrating a joke. certainly there was no indication of a want of seriousness on the part of the wayward young lady; on the contrary, she looked exceedingly troubled. noddy could not say a word, and he was busily occupied in trying to get through his head the stupendous fact that miss fanny had become an incendiary; that she was wicked enough to set fire to her father's building. it required a good deal of labor and study on the part of so poor a scholar as noddy to comprehend the idea. he had always looked upon fanny as bertha's sister. his devoted benefactress was an angel in his estimation, and it was as impossible for her to do anything wrong as it was for water to run up hill. if bertha was absolutely perfect,--as he measured human virtue,--it was impossible that her sister should be very far below her standard. he knew that she was a little wild and wayward, but it was beyond his comprehension that she should do anything that was really "naughty." fanny's confession, when he realized that it was true, gave him a shock from which he did not soon recover. one of his oars had slipped overboard without his notice, and the other might have gone after it, if his companion had not reminded him where he was, and what he ought to do. paddling the boat around with one oar, he recovered the other; but he had no clear idea of the purpose for which such implements were intended, and he permitted the boat to drift with the tide, while he gave himself up to the consideration of the difficult and trying question which the conduct of fanny imposed upon him. noddy was not selfish; and if the generous vein of his nature had been well balanced and fortified by the corresponding virtues, his character would have soared to the region of the noble and grand in human nature. but the generous in character is hardly worthy of respect, though it may challenge the admiration of the thoughtless, unless it rests upon the sure foundation of moral principle. noddy forgot his own trials in sympathizing with the unpleasant situation of his associate in wrongdoing, and his present thought was how he should get her out of the scrape. he was honestly willing to sacrifice himself for her sake. while he was faithfully considering the question, in the dim light of his own moral sense, miss fanny suddenly burst into tears, and cried with a violence and an unction which were a severe trial to his nerves. "don't cry, fanny," said he; "i'll get you out of the scrape." "i don't want to get out of it," sobbed she. now, this was the most paradoxical reply which the little maiden could possibly have made, and noddy was perplexed almost beyond the hope of redemption. what in the world was she crying about, if she did not wish to get out of the scrape? what could make her cry if it was not the fear of consequences--of punishment, and of the mean opinion which her friends would have of her, when they found out that she was wicked enough to set a building on fire? noddy asked no questions, for he could not frame one which would cover so intricate a matter. "i am perfectly willing to be punished for what i have done," added fanny, to whose troubled heart speech was the only vent. "what are you crying for?" asked the bewildered noddy. "because--because i did it," replied she; and her choked utterance hardly permitted her to speak the words. "well, miss fanny, you are altogether ahead of my time; and i don't know what you mean. if you cry about it now, what did you do it for?" "because i was wicked and naughty. if i had thought only a moment, i shouldn't have done it. i am so sorry i did it! i would give the world if i hadn't." "what will they do to you?" asked noddy, whose fear of consequences had not yet given place to a higher view of the matter. "i don't care what they do; i deserve the worst they can do. how shall i look bertha and my father in the face when i see them?" "o, hold your head right up, and look as bold as a lion--as bold as two lions, if the worst comes." "don't talk so, noddy. you make me feel worse than i did." "what in the world ails you, miss fanny?" demanded noddy, grown desperate by the perplexities of the situation. "i am so sorry i did such a wicked thing! i shall go to bertha and my father, and tell them all about it, as soon as they come home," added fanny, as she wiped away her tears, and appeared to be much comforted by the good resolution which was certainly the best one the circumstances admitted. "are you going to do that?" exclaimed noddy, astonished at the declaration. "i am." "and get me into a scrape too! they won't let me off as easy as they do you. i shall be sent off to learn to be a tinker, or a blacksmith." "you didn't set the boat-house on fire, noddy. it wasn't any of your doings," said fanny, somewhat disturbed by this new complication. "you wouldn't have done it, if it hadn't been for me. i told you what i said to ben--that i wished the boat-house was burned up; and that's what put it into your head." "well, you didn't do it." "i know that; but i shall have to bear all the blame of it." noddy's moral perceptions were strong enough to enable him to see that he was not without fault in the matter; and he was opposed to fanny's making the intended confession of her guilt. "i will keep you out of trouble, noddy," said she, kindly. "you can't do it; when you own up, you will sink me to the bottom of the river. besides, you are a fool to do any such thing, miss fanny. what do you want to say a word about it for? ben will think some fellow landed from the river, and set the boat-house on fire." "i must do it, noddy," protested she. "i shall not have a moment's peace till i confess. i shall not dare to look father and bertha in the face if i don't." "you won't if you do. how are they going to know anything about it, if you don't tell them?" "well, they will lay it to you if i don't." "no matter if they do; i didn't do it, and i can say so truly, and they will believe me." "but how shall i feel all the time? i shall know who did it, if nobody else does. i shall feel mean and guilty." "you won't feel half so bad as you will when they look at you, and know all the time that you are guilty. if you are going to own up, i shall keep out of the way. you won't see me at woodville again in a hurry." "what do you mean, noddy?" asked fanny, startled by the strong words of her companion. "that's just what i mean. if you own up, they will say that i made you do it; and i had enough sight rather bear the blame of setting the boat-house afire, than be told that i made you do it. i can dirty my own hands, but i don't like the idea of dirtying yours." "you don't mean to leave woodville, noddy?" asked fanny, in a reproachful tone. "if you own up, i shall not go back. i've been thinking of going ever since they talked of making a tinker of me; so it will only be going a few days sooner. i want to go to sea, and i don't want to be a tinker." fanny gazed into the water by the side of the boat, thinking of what her companion had said. she really did not think she ought to "own up," on the terms which noddy mentioned. "if you are sorry, and want to repent, you can do all that; and i will give you my solemn promise to be as good as you are, miss fanny," said noddy, satisfied that he had made an impression upon the mind of his wavering companion. his advice seemed to be sensible. she was sorry she had done wrong; she could repent in sorrow and silence, and never do wrong again. her father and her sister would despise her if they knew she had done such a wicked and unladylike thing as to set the boat-house on fire. she could save all this pain and mortification, and repent just the same. besides, she could not take upon herself the responsibility of driving noddy away from woodville, for that would cause bertha a great deal of pain and uneasiness. fanny had not yet learned to do right though the heavens fall. "well, i won't say anything about it, noddy," said she, yielding to what seemed to her the force of circumstances. "that's right, fanny. now, you leave the whole thing to me, and i will manage it so as to keep you out of trouble; and you can repent and be sorry just as much as you please," replied noddy, as he began to row again. "there is nothing to be afraid of. ben will never know that we have been on the river." "but i know it myself," said the conscience-stricken maiden. "of course you do; what of that?" "if i didn't know it myself, i should feel well enough." "you are a funny girl." "don't you ever feel that you have done wrong, noddy?" "i suppose i do; but i don't make any such fuss about it as you do." "you were not brought up by a kind father and a loving sister, who would give anything rather than have you do wrong," said fanny, beginning to cry again. "there! don't cry any more; if you do, you will 'let the cat out of the bag.' i am going to land you here at the glen. you can take a walk there, and go home about one o'clock. then you can tell the folks you have been walking in the glen; and it will be the truth." "it will be just as much a lie as though i hadn't been there. it will be one half the truth told to hide the other half." this was rather beyond noddy's moral philosophy, and he did not worry himself to argue the point. he pulled up to the landing place at the glen, where he had so often conveyed bertha, and near the spot where he had met with the accident which had placed him under her kindly care. fanny, with a heavy heart and a doubting mind, stepped on shore, and walked up into the grove. she was burdened with grief for the wrong she had done, and for half an hour she wandered about the beautiful spot, trying to compose herself enough to appear before the people at the house. when it was too late, she wished she had not consented to noddy's plan; but the fear of working a great wrong in driving him from the good influences to which he was subjected at woodville, by doing right, and confessing her error, was rather comforting, though it did not meet the wants of her case. in season for dinner, she entered the house with her hand full of wild flowers, which grew only in the glen. in the hall she met mrs. green, the housekeeper, who looked at her flushed face, and then at the flowers in her hand. "we have been wondering where you were, all the forenoon," said mrs. green. "i see you have been to the glen by the flowers you have in your hand. did you know the boat-house was burned up?" "i saw the smoke of it," replied fanny. "it is the strangest thing that ever happened. no one can tell how it took fire." fanny made no reply, and the housekeeper hastened away to attend to her duties. the poor girl was suffering all the tortures of remorse which a wrong act can awaken, and she went up to her room with the feeling that she did not wish to see another soul for a month. half an hour later, noddy newman presented himself at the great house, laden with swamp pinks, whose fragrance filled the air, and seemed to explain where he had been all the forenoon. with no little flourish, he requested mrs. green to put them in the vases for bertha's room; for his young mistress was very fond of the sweet blossoms. he appeared to be entirely satisfied with himself; and, with a branch of the pink in his hand, he left the house, and walked towards the servants' quarters, where, at his dinner, he met ben, the boatman. chapter iv. noddy's confession. the old boatman never did any thing as other people did it; and though noddy had put on the best face he could assume to meet the shock of the accusation which he was confident would be brought against him, ben said not a word about the boat-house. he did not seem to be aware that it had been burned. he ate his dinner in his usual cheerful frame of mind, and talked of swamp pinks, suggested by the branch which the young reprobate had brought into the servants' hall. noddy was more perplexed than he had been before that day. why didn't the old man "pitch into him," and accuse him of kindling the fire? why didn't he get angry, as he did sometimes, and call him a young vagabond, and threaten to horsewhip him? ben talked of the pinks, of the weather, the crops, and the latest news; but he did not say a word about the destruction of the boat-house, or noddy's absence during the forenoon. after dinner, noddy followed the old man down to the pier by the river in a state of anxiety which hardly permitted him to keep up the cheerful expression he had assumed, and which he usually wore. they reached the smouldering ruins of the building, but ben took no notice of it, and did not allude to the great event which had occurred. noddy was inclined to doubt whether the boat-house had been burned at all; and he would have rejected the fact, if the charred remains of the house had not been there to attest it. ben hobbled down to the pier, and stepped on board the greyhound, which he had hauled up to the shore to enable him to make some repairs on the mainsail. noddy followed him; but he grew more desperate at every step he advanced, for the old man still most provokingly refused to say a single word about the fire. "gracious!" exclaimed noddy, suddenly starting back in the utmost astonishment; for he had come to the conclusion, that if ben would not speak about the fire, he must. the old boatman was still vicious, and refused even to notice his well-managed exclamation. noddy thought it was very obstinate of ben not to say something, and offer him a chance, in the natural way, to prove his innocence. "why, ben, the boat-house is burned up!" shouted noddy, determined that the old man should have no excuse for not speaking about the fire. ben did not even raise his eyes from the work on which he was engaged. he was adjusting the palm on his hand, and in a moment began to sew as though nothing had happened, and no one was present but himself. noddy was fully satisfied now that the boatman was carrying out the details of some plot of his own. "ben!" roared noddy, at the top of his lungs, and still standing near the ruins. "what do you want, noddy?" demanded ben, as good-naturedly as though everything had worked well during the day. "the boat-house is burned up!" screamed noddy, apparently as much excited as though he had just discovered the fact. ben made no reply, which was another evidence that he was engaged in working out some deep-laid plot, perhaps to convict him of the crime, by some trick. noddy was determined not to be convicted if he could possibly help it. "ben!" shouted he again. "well, noddy, what is it?" "did you _know_ the boat-house was burned up?" there was no answer; and noddy ran down to the place where the sail-boat was hauled up. he tried to look excited and indignant, and perhaps he succeeded; though, as the old man preserved his equanimity, he had no means of knowing what impression he had produced. "did you know the boat-house was burned up?" repeated noddy, opening his eyes as though he had made a discovery of the utmost importance. "i did," replied ben, as indifferently as though it had been a matter of no consequence whatever. "why didn't you tell me about it?" demanded noddy, with becoming indignation. "because i decided that i wouldn't say a word about it to any person," answered ben. "how did it happen?" "i haven't anything to say about it; so you mustn't ask me any questions." "don't you know how it caught afire?" persisted noddy. "i've nothing to say on that subject." noddy was vexed and disheartened; but he felt that it would not be prudent to deny the charge of setting it on fire before he was accused, for that would certainly convict him. the old man was playing a deep game, and that annoyed him still more. "so you won't say anything about it, ben?" added he, seating himself on the pier. "not a word, noddy." "well, i wouldn't if i were you," continued noddy, lightly. ben took no notice of this sinister remark, thus exhibiting a presence of mind which completely balked his assailant. "i understand it all, ben; and i don't blame you for not wanting to say anything about it. i suppose you will own up when mr. grant comes home to-night." "don't be saucy, noddy," said the old man, mildly. "so you smoked your pipe among the shavings, and set the boat-house afire--did you, ben? well, i am sorry for you, you are generally so careful; but i don't believe they will discharge you for it." ben was as calm and unruffled as a summer sea. noddy knew that, under ordinary circumstances, the boatman would have come down upon him like a northeast gale, if he had dared to use such insulting language to him. he tried him on every tack, but not a word could he obtain which betrayed the opinion of the veteran, in regard to the origin of the fire. it was useless to resort to any more arts, and he gave up the point in despair. all the afternoon he wandered about the estate, and could think of nothing but the unhappy event of the morning. fanny did not show herself, and he had no opportunity for further consultation. about six o'clock bertha returned with her father; and after tea they walked down to the river. fanny complained of a headache, and did not go with them. it is more than probable that she was really afflicted, as she said; for she had certainly suffered enough to make her head ache. of course the first thing that attracted the attention of mr. grant and his daughter was the pile of charred timbers that indicated the place where the boat-house had once stood. "how did that happen?" asked mr. grant of ben, who was on the pier. "i don't know how it happened," replied the boatman, who had found his tongue now, and proceeded to give his employer all the particulars of the destruction of the building, concluding with noddy's energetic exclamation that he wished the boat-house was burned up. "but did noddy set the building on fire?" asked bertha, greatly pained to hear this charge against her pupil. "i don't know, miss bertha. i went up to the house to get my morning instructions, as i always do, and left noddy at work washing up the boat-house. i found you had gone to the city, and i went right out of the house, and was coming down here. i got in sight of the pier, and saw miss fanny come out of the boat-house." "fanny?" "yes; i am sure it was her. i didn't mind where she went, for i happened to think the mainsail of the greyhound wanted a little mending, and i went over to my room after some needles. while i was in my chamber, one of the gardeners rushed up to tell me the boat-house was afire. i came down, but 'twasn't no use; the building was most gone when i got here." "did you leave anything in the building in the shape of matches, or anything else?" asked mr. grant. "no, sir; i never do that," replied the old man, with a blush. "i know you are very careful, ben. then i suppose it was set on fire." "i suppose it was, sir." "who do you suppose set it afire, ben?" said bertha, anxiously. "bless you, miss, i don't know." "do you think it was noddy?" "no, miss bertha, i don't think it was." "who could it have been?" "that's more than i know. here comes noddy, and he can speak for himself." noddy had come forward for this purpose when he saw mr. grant and bertha on the pier, and he had heard the last part of the conversation. he was not a little astonished to hear ben declare his belief that he was not guilty, for he had been fully satisfied that he should have all the credit of the naughty transaction. "do you know how the fire caught, noddy?" said mr. grant. "i reckon it caught from a bucket of water i left there," replied noddy, who did not know what to say till he had felt his way a little. "no trifling, noddy!" added mr. grant, though he could hardly keep from laughing at the ridiculous answer. "how should i know, sir, when ben don't know? i tried to make him tell me how it caught, and he wouldn't say a word about it." "i thought it was best for me to keep still," said ben. "this is very strange," continued mr. grant. "who was the last person you saw in the boat-house, ben?" "miss fanny, sir. i saw her come out of it only a few moments before the fire broke out." noddy was appalled at this answer, for it indicated that fanny was already suspected of the deed. "of course fanny would not do such a thing as set the boat-house on fire," said bertha. "of course she wouldn't," added noddy. "what made you say you did not think noddy set the fire, ben?" asked mr. grant. "because i think he had gone off somewhere before the fire, and that miss fanny was in the building after he was. noddy was sculling off before he had done his work, and i called him back. that's when he wished the boat-house was burned down." "it is pretty evident that the fire was set by noddy or fanny," said mr. grant; and he appeared to have no doubt as to which was the guilty one, for he looked very sternly at the wayward boy before him. "i think so, sir," added ben. "and you say that it was not noddy?" continued mr. grant, looking exceedingly troubled as he considered the alternative. the boatman bowed his head in reply, as though his conclusion was so serious and solemn that he could not express it in words. noddy looked from ben to mr. grant, and from mr. grant to ben again. it was plain enough what they meant, and he had not even been suspected of the crime. the boatman had seen fanny come out of the building just before the flames appeared, and all hope of charging the deed upon some vagabond from the river was gone. "do you mean to say, ben, that you think fanny set the boat-house on fire?" demanded mr. grant, sternly. "i don't see who else could have set it," added ben, stoutly. "i do," interposed noddy. "i say she didn't do it." "why do you say so?" "because i did it myself." "i thought so!" exclaimed mr. grant, greatly relieved by the confession. ben was confused and annoyed, and noddy was rather pleased at the position in which he had placed the old man, who, in his opinion, had not treated him as well as usual. "why didn't you own it before?" said mr. grant, "and not allow an innocent person to be suspected." "i didn't like to," answered the culprit, with a smile, as though he was entirely satisfied with his own position. "you must be taken care of." "i am going to take care of myself, sir," said noddy, with easy indifference. this remark was capable of so many interpretations that no one knew what it meant--whether noddy intended to run away, or reform his vicious habits. bertha had never seen him look so self-possessed and impudent when he had done wrong, and she feared that all her labors for his moral improvement had been wasted. some further explanations followed, and noddy was questioned till a satisfactory theory in regard to the fire was agreed upon. the boy declared that he had visited the boat-house after fanny left it, and that she was walking towards the glen when he kindled the fire. he made out a consistent story, and completely upset ben's conclusions, and left the veteran in a very confused and uncomfortable state of mind. mr. grant declared that something must be done with the boy at once; that if he was permitted to continue on the place, he might take a notion to burn the house down. poor bertha could not gainsay her father's conclusion, and, sad as it was, she was compelled to leave the culprit to whatever decision mr. grant might reach. for the present he was ordered to his room, to which he submissively went, attended by bertha, though he was fully resolved not to be "taken care of;" for he understood this to mean a place in the workhouse or the penitentiary. chapter v. squire wriggs at woodville. bertha was deeply pained at the reckless wrong which her _protégé_ had done, and more deeply by the cool indifference with which he carried himself after his voluntary confession. there was little to hope for while he manifested not a single sign of contrition for the crime committed. he was truly sorry for the grief he had caused her; but for his own sin he did not speak a word of regret. "i suppose i am to be a tinker now," said noddy to her, with a smile, which looked absolutely awful to bertha, for it was a token of depravity she could not bear to look upon. "i must leave you now, noddy, for you are not good," replied bertha, sadly. "i am sorry you feel so bad about me, miss bertha," added noddy. "i wish you would be sorry for yourself, instead of me." "i am--sorry that you want to make a tinker of me;" and noddy used this word to express his contempt of any mechanical occupation. he did not like to work. patient, plodding labor, devoid of excitement, was his aversion; though handling a boat, cleaning out a gutter on some dizzy height of the mansion, or cutting off a limb at the highest point of the tallest shade tree on the estate, was entirely to his taste, and he did not regard anything as work which had a spice of danger or a thrill of excitement about it. he was not lazy, in the broad sense of the word; there was not a more active and restless person on the estate than himself. a shop, therefore, was a horror which he had no words to describe, and which he could never endure. "i want to see you in some useful occupation, where you can earn your living, and become a respectable man," said bertha. "don't you want to be a respectable man, noddy?" "well, i suppose i do; but i had rather be a vagabond than a respectable tinker." "you must work, noddy, if you would win a good name, and enough of this world's goods to make you comfortable. work and win; i give you this motto for your guidance. my father told me to lock you up in your room." "you may do that, miss bertha," laughed noddy. "i don't care how much you lock me in. when i want to go out, i shall go. i shall work, and win my freedom." noddy thought this application of bertha's motto was funny, and he had the hardihood to laugh at it, till bertha, hopeless of making any impression on him at the present time, left the room, and locked the door behind her. "work and win!" said noddy. "that's very pretty, and for miss bertha's sake i shall remember it; but i shan't work in any tinker's shop. i may as well take myself off, and go to work in my own way." noddy was tired, after the exertions of the day; and so deeply and truly repentant was he for the wrong he had done, that he immediately went to sleep, though it was not yet dark. neither the present nor the future seemed to give him any trouble; and if he could avoid the miseries of the tinker's shop, as he was perfectly confident he could, he did not concern himself about any of the prizes of life which are gained by honest industry or patient well doing. when it was quite dark, and noddy had slept about two hours, the springing of the bolt in the lock of his door awoke him. he leaped to his feet, and his first thought was, that something was to be done with him for burning the boat-house. but the door opened, and, by the dim light which came through the window, he recognized the slight form of fanny grant. "noddy," said she, timidly. "well, miss fanny, have you come to let me out of jail?" "no; i came to see you, and nobody knows i am here. you won't expose me--will you?" "of course i won't; that isn't much like me." "i know it isn't, noddy. what did you say that you set the fire for?" "because i thought that was the best way to settle the whole thing. ben saw you come out of the boat-house, and told your father he believed you set the building on fire. that was the meanest thing the old man ever did. why didn't he lay it to me, as he ought to have done?" "i suppose he knew you didn't do it." "that don't make any difference. he ought to have known better than tell your father it was you." "i am so sorry for what you have done!" "what are you sorry for? it won't hurt me, any how; and it would be an awful thing for you. they were going to make a tinker of me before, and i suppose they will do it now--if they can. i wouldn't care a fig for it if miss bertha didn't feel so bad about it." "i will tell her the truth." "don't you do it, miss fanny. that wouldn't help me a bit, and will spoil you." "but i must tell the truth. they don't suspect me even of going on the water." "so much the better. they won't ask you any hard questions. now, miss fanny, don't you say a word; for if you do, it will make it all the worse for me." "why so, noddy?" "because, according to my notion, i did set the building afire. if i hadn't said what i did, you never would have thought of doing it. so i was the fellow that did it, after all. that's the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." "but you didn't set it afire, and you didn't mean to do any such thing." "that may be; but you wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been for me. it was more my fault than it was yours; and i want you to leave the thing just where it is now." "but it would be mean for me to stand still, and see you bear all the blame." "it would be enough sight meaner for you to say anything about it." "i don't think so." "i do; for don't you see it is a good deal worse for me to put you up to such a thing than it was for me to do it myself? your father would forgive me for setting the fire sooner than they would for making you do it. i'm bad enough already, and they know it; but if they think i make you as bad as i am myself, they would put me in a worse place than a tinker's shop." noddy's argument was too much for the feminine mind of miss fanny, and again she abandoned the purpose she had fully resolved upon, and decided not to confess her guilt. we must do her the justice to say, that she came to this conclusion, not from any fear of personal consequences, but in order to save noddy from the terrible reproach which would be cast upon him if she did confess. already, in her heart and before god, she had acknowledged her error, and was sorrowfully repenting her misconduct. but she could not expose noddy to any penalty which he did not deserve. she knew that he did not mean to set the fire; that his words were idle, petulant ones, which had no real meaning; and it would be wrong to let her father and bertha suppose that noddy had instigated her to the criminal act. fanny had not yet learned that it is best to cleave unto the truth, and let the consequences take care of themselves. she yielded her own convictions to those of another, which no person should ever do in questions of right and wrong. she sacrificed her own faith in the simple truth, to another's faith in policy, expediency. the question was settled for the present, and fanny crept back to her chamber, no easier in mind, no better satisfied with herself, than before. noddy went to sleep again; but the only cloud he saw was the displeasure of bertha. he was simply conscious that he had got into a scrape. he had not burned the boat-house, and he did not feel guilty. he had not intended to induce fanny to do the deed, and he did not feel guilty of that. he was so generous that he wished to save her from the consequences of her error, and the deception he used did not weigh very heavily on his conscience. he regarded his situation as merely a "scrape" into which he had accidentally fallen, and his only business was to get out of it. these thoughts filled his mind when he awoke in the morning. he was too restless to remain a quiet prisoner for any great length of time; and when he had dressed himself, he began to look about him for the means of mitigating his imprisonment, or bringing it to a conclusion, as the case might require. the window would be available at night, but it was in full view of the gardeners in the daytime, who would be likely to report any movement on his part. the door looked more hopeful. one of the men brought his breakfast, and retired, locking the door behind him. while he was eating it,--and his appetite did not seem to be at all impaired by the situation to which he had been reduced,--he saw mr. grant on the lawn, talking with a stranger. his interest was at once excited, and a closer examination assured him that the visitor was squire wriggs, of whitestone. the discovery almost spoiled noddy's appetite, for he knew that the squire was a lawyer, and had often been mixed up with cases of house-breaking, horse-stealing, robbery, and murder; and he at once concluded that the legal gentleman's business related to him. his ideas of lawyers were rather confused and indistinct. he knew they had a great deal to do in the court-house, when men were sent to the penitentiary and the house of correction for various crimes. he watched the squire and mr. grant, and he was fully satisfied in his own mind what they were talking about when the latter pointed to the window of his chamber. he had eaten only half his breakfast, but he found it impossible to take another mouthful, after he realized that he was the subject of the conversation between mr. grant and the lawyer. it seemed just as though all his friends, even miss bertha, had suddenly deserted him. that conference on the lawn was simply a plot to take him to the court-house, and then send him to the penitentiary, the house of correction, or some other abominable place, even if it were no worse than a tinker's shop. he was absolutely terrified at the prospect. after all his high hopes, and all his confidence in his supple limbs, the judges, the lawyers, and the constables might fetter his muscles so that he could not get away--so that he could not even run away to sea, which was his ultimate intention, whenever he could make up his mind to leave miss bertha. noddy watched the two gentlemen on the lawn, and his breast was filled with a storm of emotions. he pictured the horrors of the prison to which they were about to send him, and his fancy made the prospect far worse than the reality could possibly have been. mr. grant led the way towards the building occupied by the servants. noddy was desperate. squire wriggs was the visible manifestation of jails, courts, constables, and other abominations, which were the sum of all that was terrible. he decided at once not to wait for a visit from the awful personage, who was evidently coming into the house to see him. he raised the window a little, intending to throw it wide open, and leap down upon the lawn, when his persecutor entered the door. there was not a man or boy at woodville who could catch him when he had the use of his legs, and the world would then be open to him. but the gentlemen paused at the door, and noddy listened as a criminal would wait to hear his sentence from the stern judge. "thirty thousand dollars is a great deal of money for a boy like him," said mr. grant. "of course he must have a guardian." "and you are the best person in the world for that position," added squire wriggs. "but he is a young reprobate, and something must be done with him." "certainly; he must be taken care of at once." "i'm afraid he will burn my house down, as he did the boat-house. my daughter is interested in him; if it wasn't for her, i would send him to the house of correction before i slept again." "when you are his guardian, you can do what you think best for him." "that will be no easy matter." "we will take the boy over to the court now, and then--" noddy did not hear any more, for the two gentlemen entered the house, and he heard their step on the stairs. but he did not want to know anything more. squire wriggs had distinctly said they would take him over to the court, and that was enough to satisfy him that his worst fears were to be realized. the talk about thirty thousand dollars, and the guardian, was as unintelligible to him as though it had been in ancient greek, and he did not bestow a second thought upon it. the "boy like him," to whom thirty thousand dollars would be a great deal of money, meant some other person than himself. the court was noddy's peculiar abomination; and when he heard the words, he clutched the sash of the window with convulsive energy. mr. grant and squire wriggs passed into the house, and noddy newman passed out. to a gymnast of his wiry experience, the feat was not impossible, or even very difficult. swinging out of the window, he placed his feet on the window-cap below, and then, stooping down, he got hold with his hands, and slipped down from his perch with about the same ease with which a well-trained monkey would have accomplished the descent. he was on the solid earth now, and with the feeling that the court-house and a whole regiment of constables were behind him, he took to his heels. a stiff-kneed gardener, who had observed his exit from the house, attempted to follow him; but he might as well have chased a northwest gale. noddy reached the glen, and no sound of pursuers could be heard. the phantom court-house had been beaten in the race. chapter vi. noddy's engagement. when noddy reached the glen, he had time to stop and think; and the consequences of the sudden step he had taken came to his mind with tremendous force. he had fled from miss bertha, and all the comforts and luxuries which had surrounded him at woodville. he was a vagabond again. it was a great deal better to be a vagabond than it was to be an inmate of a prison, or even of a tinker's shop. he had committed no crime; the worst that could be said of him was, that he was a victim of circumstances. it was unfortunate for him that he had used those petulant words, that he wished the boat-house was burned down, for they had put the idea into fanny's head. he did not mean to kindle the fire, but he believed that he had been the cause of it, and that it was hardly fair to let the young lady suffer for what he had virtually done. he was sorry to leave woodville, and above all, sorry to be banished from the presence of miss bertha. but that had already been agreed upon, and he was only anticipating the event by taking himself off as he did. he would rather have gone in a more honorable manner than running away like a hunted dog; but he could not help that, and the very thought of the horrible court-house was enough to drive him from the best home in the world. he walked up to a retired part of the glen, where he could continue his retreat without being intercepted, if it became necessary, and sat down on a rock to think of the future. he had no more idea what he should do with himself, than he had when he was a wanderer before in these regions. undoubtedly his ultimate purpose was to go to sea; but he was not quite ready to depart. he cherished a hope that he might contrive to meet bertha in some of her walks, and say good-bye to her before he committed himself to his fortunes on the stormy ocean. while he was deliberating upon his prospects, a happy thought, as he regarded it, came to his mind. he could turn somersets, and cut more capers than any man in the circus company which he had seen on the preceding day. with a little practice, he was satisfied that he could learn to stand up on the back of a horse. a field of glory suddenly opened to his vision, and he could win the applause of admiring thousands by his daring feats. he had performed all sorts of gyrations for the amusement of the idlers about woodville, and he might now turn his accomplishments to a useful purpose--indeed, make them pay for his food and clothing. noddy had no idea that circus performances were not entirely respectable; and it seemed to him that his early training had exactly fitted him to shine in this peculiar sphere. it might not be decent business for mr. grant and bertha, but it was just the thing for him. whitestone was a very large town, and the circus was still there. he had not a moment to lose; and, under the impulse of his new resolution, he left the glen, intending to walk up the river to the ferry, a couple of miles distant. noddy went over the river, and reached the great tent of the circus company about one o'clock. he was rather disturbed by the fear that he might meet squire wriggs, or some of the constables; but all his hopes were now centred on the circus, and he could not avoid the risk of exposing himself. he boldly inquired for the "head man" of the establishment; but this distinguished functionary was not on the premises at that time; he would be there in the course of half an hour. he walked down to a shop, and having a small sum of money in his pocket, he obtained something to eat. on his return to the tent, the head man was pointed out to him. noddy, as a general rule, was not troubled with bashfulness; and he walked resolutely up to the manager, and intimated to him that he should like to be engaged as a performer. "what do you want, my boy?" demanded the head man, who was quite confident that he had mistaken the applicant's meaning, for it was hardly possible that a youth like him could be a circus performer. "i want a place to perform, sir," repeated noddy, who was entirely ignorant of the technical terms belonging to the profession. "to perform!" laughed the manager, measuring him from head to foot with his eye. "yes, sir." "what kind of business can you do, my boy?" "almost anything, sir." "do you ride?" "no, sir; i'm not much used to standing up on a horse, but i think i could go it, after doing it a little while." "do you, indeed!" sneered the man. "well, we don't want anybody that can do almost any kind of business." "i'm used to this thing, sir," pleaded noddy. "used to it! i suppose you want a place as a bill-sticker, or to take care of the horses." "no, sir; i want to perform. if you will give me a chance to show what i can do, i think you'll have me," persisted noddy, not at all pleased with the decided refusal he had received. "well, come in here," laughed the head man, who had no doubt that the applicant would soon be brought to grief. it was almost time for the doors to be opened for the afternoon performance, and the man conducted noddy to the ring, where he saw a number of the riders and gymnasts, all dressed in their silks and spangles to appear before the public. "here, whippleby, is a young man that wants an engagement," said the manager to the man who had acted as ring-master when noddy was present. "what can he do?" "almost everything; but he isn't much used to riding." whippleby laughed, and the manager laughed; and it was quite evident, even to the aspirant for circus honors, that all present intended to amuse themselves at his expense. but noddy felt able to outdo most of the circus people at their own profession, and he confidently expected to turn the laugh upon them before the game was ended. "a versatile genius," said whippleby. "just try him, and see what he can do," added the manager, significantly. "well, my little man, what do you say to a little ground and lofty tumbling," said whippleby, winking at the performers, who stood in a circle around them. "i'm at home in that," replied noddy, throwing off his jacket. "good! you have got pluck enough, at any rate. here, nesmond, do something," said the ring-master to a wiry young man of the group. nesmond did what noddy had seen him do the day before; he whirled over and over across the ring, like a hoop, striking his hands and feet alternately on the ground. "there, youngster, do you see that?" said whippleby. "yes, sir, i see it," replied noddy, unabashed by the work which was expected of him. "now, let us see you do it." noddy did it, and if anything, more rapidly and gracefully than the professional man. the men applauded, and nesmond--"the great american vaulter and tumbler"--looked exceedingly disconcerted when he saw his wonderful act so easily imitated. "try it again, nesmond," said whippleby. the distinguished athlete went on for half an hour, performing his antics; and noddy repeated them, though he had never before attempted some of them. nesmond gave it up. "well, young man, you can do almost everything, but you are as clumsy and ungraceful as a bear about it. you need a little training on your positions, and you will make a first-class tumbler," said the manager. the men had ceased to laugh, and even looked admiringly on the prodigy who had so suddenly developed himself. noddy felt that his fortune was already made, and he was almost ready to snap his fingers at the court-house. here was a chance for him to "work and win," and it was entirely to his taste. the manager then questioned him in regard to his family connections; but as noddy had none, his answers were very brief. he had no father nor mother, and he had no home; he was no runaway, for there was no one living who had any claim upon him. these answers were entirely satisfactory to the head man. "what salary do you expect?" asked the manager, when he had assured himself there was no one to interfere with any arrangement he might make. "what do you give?" asked noddy. "well, we give different salaries, depending on the men." "you have seen what i can do--what will you give me? talk right up, or i shall have nothing to do with it," added noddy, borrowing an expression from a highly respectable horse jockey, who had a language of his own. "i'll give you your board and clothes, and your dresses for the first season." "nothing of that sort for me," replied noddy, promptly. "i want to know how much i am to have in hard cash." "very well; i'll give you five dollars a week, and you find yourself." five dollars a week looked like a large salary to noddy, though it was not one-fourth of what the distinguished mr. nesmond received, and he immediately closed the bargain. "i'll put you on the bills for the next town we visit. what's your name?" "noddy newman." "what?" the embryo performer repeated his name. "that won't do; you must have a better name than that. arthur de forrest--how will that suit you?" "first rate," replied noddy, who was very accommodating in minor matters. "we show in disbury to-morrow night, and you must be ready to do your business then, mr. de forrest," added the manager. "after the performance this afternoon mr. whippleby will give you a few lessons." "but where shall i get a dress?" "i will furnish you one, and take it out of your salary. you had better put it on when you practice, so as to get used to it." noddy was highly pleased with all these arrangements, and could not help congratulating himself on the happy thought which had induced him to join the circus. it was true, and he could not help noticing it, that the men around him were not such people as mr. grant, and others whom he had been in the habit of seeing at woodville. all of them swore terribly; their breath smelt of liquor, and they talked the language of a depravity to which noddy, with all his waywardness, was a stranger. there were boys no older than himself in the company, but they did not seem a whit less depraved than the older ones. though the novice was not a young man of high aims and purposes, he was not much pleased with his companions. he was what they termed "green," and it was quite plain to him that there would be a fight before many days had passed by, for he was too high-spirited to submit tamely to the insults which were heaped upon him. during the afternoon performance, he stood at the gates of the ring, where the horses enter; and mr. whippleby sent him before the public for the first time, to bring out a whip which had been left there. "noddy newman!" shouted a boy among the spectators. the young athlete heard his name, and too late he remembered that he had exposed himself to the gaze of the constables, who might by this time be in search of him. during the rest of the afternoon he kept himself out of sight; but the mischief had already been done. chapter vii. the ring-master. when the performance was over, noddy, with the assistance of one of his companions, dressed himself in "trunk and tights," and appeared in the ring to take his first lesson in graceful movements. he could turn the somersets, and go through with the other evolutions; but there was a certain polish needed--so the ring-master said--to make them pass off well. he was to assume a graceful position at the beginning and end of each act; he must recover himself without clumsiness; he must bow, and make a flourish with his hands, when he had done a brilliant thing. noddy had not much taste for this branch of the profession. he did not like the bowing and the flourishing. if the feat itself did not please the people, he could not win them by smirking. he was much pleased with his costume, and this kept him good-natured, under the severe training of the ring-master, for a time. mr. whippleby was coarse and rough in his manners. during the show he had been all grace and elegance, and did not use any big words, but now he was as rough as a bear, and swore like a pirate. he was just like a cat's paw,--he kept the sharp claws down while the dear people were present; but now he thrust them out. noddy found the "business" was no joke. mr. whippleby did not so regard it, now that the training had commenced; and the novice found that he had placed himself under a very tyrannical master. he made his bows and flourished his arms, with all the grace he could command for a time; but he did not come up to his severe teacher's standard. "do that again," said mr. whippleby, with savage emphasis. "don't hurry it." noddy did it again, as slowly as he could; but he was apparently just as far from perfection as before. "if you don't do better than that, i'll put the whip around your legs!" shouted the impatient ring-master. "one of the mules could do it better." "i did it as well as i could," replied noddy, rather tartly. "you will do it better than that, or your legs will smart. now do it again." noddy obeyed. he did not think the ring-master really intended to strike him with the long whip he held in his hand, but supposed he was so much in the habit of threatening the clown with the lash, that he did it now from the force of habit. his last attempt did not satisfy mr. whippleby, who stormed at him more furiously than before. "do you think i have nothing better to do than waste my time over a blockhead like you? i haven't had my bitters yet. now do it again; and if you fail this time you will catch it." noddy turned his somerset; but he had hardly recovered himself before he received a smart cut from the whip in the tenderest part of his leg. there was a young lion in the novice, and a blow from any man was more than he could endure. he expressed his mind in regard to the outrage with such freedom, that mr. whippleby lost his temper, if he ever had any to lose, and he began to lash the unfortunate youth in the most brutal manner. noddy, finding there was no satisfaction to be obtained by facing the ring-master, fled from the spot, leaping up on the seats where the spectators sat. he was maddened to fury by the harsh treatment he had received; and thirsting for vengeance, he seized whatever missiles he could find, and hurled them at his persecutor. his legs seemed to be on fire from the effects of the blows he had received. he rubbed them for a moment, while he hurled the most bitter denunciations at the ring-master. "now, come down, and try again," called mr. whippleby, who did not seem to be much disconcerted by what had taken place, when he had in some measure recovered his equanimity. "no, i won't!" replied noddy. "have you got enough, mr. arthur de forrest?" "i will give _you_ enough before you get through." while this colloquy was going on, the manager appeared in the ring. whippleby laughingly told him what had happened, and he seemed to be much amused by it; but the ring-master had certainly changed his tone at the appearance of the "head man." "come, my boy, come down, and let me see how well you do your business," said the manager. "i've had enough of it," replied noddy, as he returned to the ring. "i'm not a horse, and i'm not going to be treated like one." "that's your initiation, my boy," said whippleby. "we always try new beginners in that way, to find out what they are made of." "you will find out what i'm made of, if you hit me again with that whip." "i know now. you won't need any more, if you try to do what you are told." "i'm not going to be whipped, whether i try or not," added noddy, doggedly. "you shall not be whipped, my boy," said the manager. "now show me your ground act." the novice was about to comply,--for he had already come to the conclusion that the "head man" would protect him,--when he saw two men enter the tent. they did not belong to the company, and noddy was quite sure he had often seen them in whitestone. "we don't allow visitors in here now," said the manager. "we come on business. there is a boy here that we want to find," replied one of the men. "you must leave the tent," said the manager, rather sharply. "i am a constable, and there is a boy about here that i want." "what's his name?" "they call him noddy newman." "what do you want of him?" "that's my business," answered the constable, rudely. "the boy came into the ring this afternoon during the show, and i suppose he belongs to the company." "that's the fellow!" exclaimed the other constable, pointing to noddy, who was trying to take himself off without being noticed. "that's arthur de forrest," interposed the manager. "no, it isn't; i've known him this five years," said the man who had recognized the culprit. both of them walked towards noddy, with the intention, apparently, of laying violent hands on him; but the young gentleman in "trunk and tights" was not prepared to yield up his personal liberty, and he retreated. the officers were in a position where they could stop him from leaving the tent by either of the two entrances; and noddy, finding his exit prevented, seized a rope which was hanging down by the centre-pole, and climbed up out of the reach of his pursuers. "what do you want of me?" demanded the young athlete, as he perched himself in a comfortable position on the "slack-rope," which was suspended to the pole. "we shall not do you any harm, my boy," said one of the officers. "what do you want of me?" "there is good news for you; and you are wanted over at squire wriggs's office." "i know ye! you want to take me to the court-house. you can't humbug me," said noddy, fully confirmed in his suspicions by the conduct of the men. "we won't hurt you." "you want to take me up." "no, we don't; we only want to take you up to squire wriggs's office. it's all for your good." "no, you don't," replied noddy. "you can't cheat me." "we don't want to cheat you. we are only sent to find you. we will not arrest you." "i know better. you can't fool me. i heard squire wriggs say he wanted to take me up to the court-house; and you don't catch me near no court-house. i know what you mean." "you are mistaken, my boy. come down, and i will tell you all about it." "when i do, you let me know," replied noddy, who felt so secure from arrest in his present quarters that he expressed his mind with perfect freedom. "we promise not to arrest you," persisted the constable who did the talking. "we have been looking for you all day." "you may look another day, if you like," added the defiant refugee. "you want me for setting fire to the boat-house; but i am not to blame, if i did do it." "we don't know anything about the boat-house; squire wriggs has a lot of money for you." "you can't catch an old bird in any such trap as that," answered noddy, shaking his head significantly. the officers used all their powers of persuasion to induce him to come down; but noddy, satisfied that they had been sent by squire wriggs, was fully persuaded that they were trying to deceive him. the story about a "lot of money" for a poor boy like him, who had not a friend in the world, was too absurd, in his estimation, to be entertained for a moment. he had heard the squire speak to mr. grant about thirty thousand dollars; but such a sum was beyond his comprehension. he did not believe any man, not even the owner of woodville, had so much money; and of course it was nothing to him. the constables got out of patience at last; and though they showed no signs of anger or malice, they exhibited an intention to catch him, which was much worse. one of them commenced the ascent of the pole in the centre of the tent. the circus people, who seemed to be in full sympathy with noddy, remained neutral, for the intruders were officers of the law, and it was not prudent to oppose them. noddy perceived the object of his pursuers, and grasping one of the tent-ropes, he scrambled up to the very apex of the canvas structure, and crawled through the aperture around the pole. from this point he slid down to the short poles, and then dropped upon the ground, before the man in the ring could pass round to the outside of the tent. dodging under the curtains, he reached the place which served as a dressing-room. removing his "trunks," he hurried on his clothes, and rushed out into the open air again. his persecutors were not in sight, and he did not lose a moment in putting a safe distance between himself and them. precisely as a well-educated duck or other water-fowl would have done, he hastened to the river, as his most natural element. he had made a complete circuit of the town in his flight. he did not dare to show himself to a living being; for it seemed to him just as though the whole country was after him. when he reached the river, he sat down on the bank, exhausted by his efforts and by the excitement of the afternoon. "i reckon i've got about circus enough," said he to himself,--for there was no one else to whom he could say it. "that whippleby is worse than a heathen. i don't like any of them." he rubbed his legs, which were not yet done smarting; and the pain seemed to be an emphatic protest against circuses in general, and the "great olympian circus" in particular. but whether he liked the circus or not, it was no longer safe for him to remain with the company. he had taken "french leave" of the manager, and had cheated him out of the tights which enveloped his body from neck to heels. this thought reminded him that they did not feel at all comfortable, and he wished the manager had his own again. having abandoned the circus profession in disgust, he wondered what he should do next. it was useless for him to stay in the vicinity of woodville; and the only safe plan for him to adopt was, to go away to some other part of the country, or go to sea at once. he could not tolerate the idea of leaving without letting bertha know where he was. the officers were on his track, and he could not hope always to escape them. the court-house was terrible, and prompt action was necessary. he must have a sight of bertha, even if he did not speak to her; and at the risk of being captured, he determined to stay in the neighborhood of woodville till the next morning. near the place where he sat there was a skiff moored to the bank. he hauled it in, and took up the oars. he did not mean to steal it, only to borrow it till the next morning. with this comfortable reflection he cast off the painter, and pulled over to the other side of the river. it was now quite late in the evening. he had not eaten any supper, and, like other boys, he was always hungry at meal times. he wanted something to eat; and it occurred to him that there were generally some crackers and cheese in the locker of the greyhound, and he rowed down to her moorings. he found what he wanted there, and made a hearty supper. he was satisfied then, and soon went to sleep in the stern-sheets of the sail-boat. fortunately for him he waked up about daylight, and was not seen by any of the early risers at woodville. appropriating the rest of the crackers and cheese for his breakfast, he got into the skiff and rowed up to the glen, where he hoped, in the course of the forenoon, to see bertha. chapter viii. good-bye to woodville. bertha often walked to the glen before breakfast, and noddy expected to find her there on the present occasion. as she did not appear, he followed the path toward woodville, and actually reached the lawn which surrounded the mansion before he thought of the danger he incurred. but it was breakfast time in the servants' quarters, and he was not seen. keeping on the outskirts of the lawn, where he could make good his retreat in case of necessity, he walked nearly around to the pier, and was so fortunate as to discover bertha at the turn of a winding path, near his route. the sight of her filled him with emotion, and brought to his mind the remembrance of the many happy days he had spent in her presence. he could hardly restrain the tears which the thought of leaving the place brought to his eyes, though noddy was not given to the feminine custom of weeping. "miss bertha," said he, as she approached the spot where he stood. she started back with alarm; but he stepped forward from the concealment of the bushes, and with a smile of pleasure she recognized him. "why, noddy, is that you?" said she, walking towards the spot where he stood. "it's me, miss bertha; but i suppose you don't want to see me now." "i am very glad to see you. what did you go away for?" "because they were going to put me in the court-house." "in the court-house!" exclaimed bertha, who was better acquainted with legal affairs than her pupil. "yes, for setting the boat-house afire." "i don't think they intended to take you to the court-house." "o, i know they did. i have had two constables after me; but i got away from them. besides, i heard squire wriggs say they were going to take me to the court-house. i heard him say so myself." "perhaps it is so," said bertha, musing. "squire wriggs came to see father yesterday morning. they went out together, and were speaking of you as they left the house." "i'm glad you didn't have anything to do with it," said noddy, delighted to find that bertha was not one of his persecutors. then, with the utmost simplicity, and apparently with the feeling that he was a persecuted youth, he told her everything that had occurred from the time he first saw mr. grant and squire wriggs on the lawn. "i don't know what my father's plans are," said bertha, sadly; "but he thinks it is no longer safe to permit you to roam about the place. he is afraid you will set the house on fire, or do some other terrible thing." "but i wouldn't, miss bertha," protested noddy. "why did you do such a wicked thing?" "i couldn't help it." "yes, you could, noddy. that's only making a bad matter worse. of course you could help setting a building on fire." "it wasn't my fault, miss bertha," stammered he; "i can't explain it now--perhaps some time i may; and when you understand it, you won't think so bad of me." "if there is anything about it i don't know, why don't you tell me?" added bertha, mystified by his strange remark. "i can't say anything now. please don't ask me anything about it, miss bertha. i'm not half so much to blame as you think i am; but i set the fire, and they are after me for it. they have used all sorts of tricks to catch me; but i'm not going into any court-house, or any tinker's shop." "what tricks do you mean?" "they said they had a lot of money for me, and that squire wriggs wouldn't do me any harm." "well, i don't know anything about that. father went over to whitestone with squire wriggs, after you ran away. he went over again last night, after he came from the city, and i haven't seen him for more than a moment since." "he is going to send me to the court-house," said noddy, fully satisfied that bertha knew nothing about the proceedings of her father. "i am going to sea, now." "to sea, noddy?" "yes, i'm going to work and win, as you told me, and when i come back i shall be respectable." bertha had her doubts on this point. she had almost lost all hope of her _protégé_, and she did not think that a voyage in the forecastle of a ship would be likely to improve his manners or his morals. "i can't let you go, noddy," said she. "i must go; if i stay here they will put me in prison. you don't want to see me put in prison, bertha." "i don't." "then what can i do? the officers are after me this moment." "but i shall have to tell my father that i have seen you." "you may do that; and you may tell him, too, that it won't be any use for him to try to find me, for i shall keep out of the way. if they catch me they will be smarter than i am," added noddy, confidently. "i want to see you again, noddy, after i have talked with father about you. i don't believe he intends to send you to prison." "i know he does. i come over here to see you before i went away. i couldn't go without seeing you, or i shouldn't have come. i may never see you again, for i shan't run any more risks after this." bertha said all she could to induce him to meet her again; but the cunning youth was afraid that some trap might be set to catch him, and he assured her that this was positively his last appearance at woodville for the present. he was satisfied that mr. grant had taken the case into his own hands, and that she could not save him if she would. "now, good-bye, miss bertha," said he, wiping a tear from his face. "don't go, noddy," pleaded she. "i must." "you haven't any clothes but those you have on, and you have no money." "i don't want any. i can get along very well. won't you shake hands with me before i go?" "certainly, i will," replied she, giving him her hand. "you will not let me do anything for you now?" "you have done more than i deserve. good-bye, miss bertha," said he, pressing the hand he held. "good-bye, noddy," replied she. "good-bye, if you must go." "there comes your father," exclaimed he, as he bounded off into the grove with the speed of an antelope. "was that noddy?" asked mr. grant, as he joined bertha a few minutes later. "yes, father." "why didn't you tell me he was here, bertha?" "he came but a few moments ago. he came to bid me good-bye." "where is he going?" "he is going to sea. he says you intend to take him to the court-house." "this is very unfortunate. a most remarkable event in regard to the boy has occurred, which i haven't time to tell you about now. it is very important that i should find him at once." "i don't think you can catch him. he is very much afraid of being sent to prison." "i had no intention of sending him to prison," laughed mr. grant. "but he heard squire wriggs say he must take him over to the court." "that was for another matter--in a word, to have a guardian appointed, for noddy will be a rich man when he is of age." "noddy?" exclaimed bertha. "yes; but i haven't a moment to spare. i have been at work on his affairs since yesterday morning. they are all right now; and all we want to enable us to complete the business is the presence of the boy." "poor fellow! he is terribly worked up at the idea of going to the court-house, or even to a tinker's shop, as he calls it." "well, he is running away from his own fortune and happiness; and i must find him." "i hope you will, father," said bertha, earnestly, as mr. grant hastened away to organize a pursuit of the refugee. all the male servants on the place were summoned, and several started off in the direction in which noddy had retreated. the boatman and others were sent off in the boats; and the prospect was, that the fugitive would be captured within a few hours. as our story relates more especially to the runaway himself, we shall follow him, and leave the well-meaning people of woodville to pursue their investigations alone. when noddy discovered mr. grant, he was satisfied that the gentleman saw him, for he quickened his pace, and walked towards the place where he stood holding bertha's hand. he ran with all his might by the familiar paths till he reached the glen. there were, at present, no signs of a pursuit; but he was confident that it would not be delayed, and he did not even stop to take breath. rushing down to the water, he embarked in the skiff, and rowed up the river, taking care to keep in shore, where he could not be seen from below. above van alstine's island, he crossed the river, and began to work his way down; but the white sails of the greyhound were seen, with all the boats belonging to the estate, headed up stream. they were chasing him in earnest, and he saw that it was not safe to remain on the river. "do you know where mr. grover lives?" he asked of a ragged boy who was fishing on the bank of the river. "below whitestone?" "yes." "will you take this boat down there?" "i will," replied the boy, glad of the job, and willing to do it without any compensation. noddy had taken off the tights belonging to the circus company, and rolled them up in a bundle. in order to be as honest as bertha had taught him to be,--though he was not always so particular,--he engaged the boy to leave them at the circus tent. the boy got into the boat, and began his trip down the river. noddy felt that he had been honest, and he was rather proud of the record he was to leave behind him; for it did not once occur to him that borrowing the boat without leave was only a little better than stealing it, even if he did return it. the servants at woodville and the constables at whitestone were on his track, and he had no time to spare. taking a road leading from the river, he walked away from it as fast as he could. about three miles distant, he found a road leading to the northward; and thinking it better to suffer by excess of prudence than by the want of it, he took this direction, and pursued his journey till he was so tired he could go no farther. a farmer on the road gave him some dinner; and when he had rested himself, he resumed his walk. at sunset he reached a large town on the river, where he felt safe from pursuit until he saw the flaming hand-bills of the great olympian circus, which was almost as bad as meeting one of the constables, for these worthies would expect to find him at the tent, and probably were on the watch for him. noddy was too tired to walk any farther that day. he wanted to reach some large seaport, like new york or boston, where he could find a vessel bound on a foreign voyage. he was almost afraid to go to the former city, for he had heard about the smart detectives they have there, who catch any person guilty of crime, though they never saw him before. he had told bertha that he intended to go to sea; and he was afraid that mr. grant would be on the watch for him, or set some of these detectives to catch him, if he went there. it was almost time for the steamers for albany, which went up in the night, to reach the town, and he determined to go on board of one, and proceed as far up the river as he could with the small sum of money in his possession. he soon found the landing-place, and presently a steamer came along. "where do you want to go, boy?" asked one of the officers of the boat. "i want to go to albany; but i haven't money enough to pay my fare." "how much money have you got?" "thirty-five cents. i will go as far as that will pay my fare." "that will only be to the next landing-place." "couldn't you give me some work to do, to pay my fare up to albany?" the officer happened to be rather pleased with noddy, and told him he might stand by and help land the baggage at the stopping-places. he gave the little wanderer some supper in the mess-room, after the boat got off, and noddy was as grateful as though the man had given him a gold mine. when the steamer made another landing, he worked with all his might, and was highly commended for his skill and activity. and so he passed the night, sleeping between the stoppages, and working like a mule at every landing. in the morning the boat reached albany, and the officer gave him his breakfast with the engineers. noddy felt safe from pursuit now; he went on shore, and walked about the city, thinking what he should do next. chapter ix. an attempt to work and win. boston was two hundred miles distant, and noddy was principally excited to know how he should get there, for he had decided to ship in that city. it would take him a week to go on foot, and his funds were now completely exhausted, so that he could not pay his fare by railroad. if he could neither ride nor walk, the question was narrowed down to a point where it needed no further consideration. "here, boy, do you want a job?" said a gentleman, coming out of a dwelling with a valise and a large bundle in his hands. "yes, sir; thank you, sir," replied noddy, springing forward, and taking the heavier articles, without giving the gentleman the trouble to state what he wanted of him. this incident seemed to solve the problem for him. he could remain in albany long enough to earn a sufficient sum of money to pay his fare to boston. he followed the gentleman to the railroad station, and handed the valise to the baggage-master. the gentleman gave him a quarter of a dollar for his services. it was a liberal return for the short time he had been employed, and a few more such jobs as that would soon put him in funds. noddy was sanguine now that he could earn money with entire ease, and all the difficulties which had beset him began to disappear. there was something exceedingly pleasant in the idea of being independent; of putting his hand into his pocket and always finding some money there which had been earned by his own labor. it was a novel sensation to him. "work and win!" exclaimed he, as he walked out of the railroad station. "i understand it all now, and i may thank miss bertha for the idea." in the enthusiasm of the moment, he began to consider whether it would not be better to remain on shore and amass a fortune, which he believed could be done in a short time. he could carry bundles and valises till he got money enough to buy a horse and wagon, when he could go into the business on a more extensive scale. the road to fortune was open to him; all his trials and difficulties had suddenly vanished, and he had only to reach out his hand to pluck the golden harvest. the rattling of a train which had just arrived disturbed this pleasant dream, and noddy hastened back to secure the fruit of his brilliant resolution. there were plenty of gentlemen with bags and valises in their hands, but not a single one of them wanted any assistance; and some of them answered his civil salutation with insult and harshness. the experiment did not work so well as he had anticipated, for noddy's great expectations led him to believe that he should make about half a dollar out of the arrival of this train, instead of which he did not make a single cent. "work and win; but where are you going to get your work?" said noddy to himself. no more trains were to arrive for some hours, and he posted himself in the street, asking for a job whenever there was the least prospect of obtaining one. at noon, noddy was hungry, and was obliged to spend half his morning's earnings for a coarse dinner, for his circumstances did not permit him to indulge in the luxury of roast beef and plum pudding. during the afternoon he lay in wait for a job at the railroad stations, and in the most public places of the city. but the sum of his earnings was only five cents. "work and win!" said he. "sum total of day's work, thirty cents; not enough to buy what i want to eat. it don't pay." if work did not pay, stealing certainly would not; and we are happy to say, bertha grant had done her duty by him so faithfully, that he did not feel tempted to resort to any irregular means of obtaining a subsistence. if work did not pay, it was only because he could not obtain it. he had not yet struck a productive vein. he had been a fishing a great many times; but when he had no success, he neither concluded that fish were not good, nor that there were no fish in the river. there was a train to arrive, after dark, from new york city, and he determined to make one more effort to improve his fortunes. as the passengers came out of the station with small parcels of baggage in their hands, he offered his services to them. his heart almost leaped with rapture when a gentleman handed him a small carpet-bag, and told him to follow to the delavan house. he took the bag, and then, to his horror, he discovered that the gentleman was mr. grant! what had brought him to albany? as noddy's sphere of observation was confined to the little world of his own affairs, he concluded that the owner of woodville must be there for the purpose of arresting him. probably some of those smart constables had traced him to the town where he had embarked for albany. again the horrors of the court-house, the jail, and the tinker's shop were present to his mind. he had taken the valise, and was now following mr. grant to the hotel. it was dark at the place where he had received the carpet-bag, otherwise he would have been recognized. noddy had no doubt in regard to the correctness of his conclusions; and he could not help thinking that a great man, like mr. grant, was taking a good deal of pains to capture a poor boy, like him. his arrest was a matter of a great deal more consequence than he had supposed, which made it all the more necessary to his future peace and happiness that he should escape. the bag tied him to his persecutor, or he would have run away as fast as he could. he could not carry off the baggage, for that would subject him to another penalty, even if he had been dishonest enough to do such a thing. he decided to follow mr. grant to the hotel, drop the bag, and run. "boy, do you know where the police office is?" said mr. grant, suddenly turning round upon him. "no, sir," replied noddy, whose natural boldness prompted him, when fairly cornered, to face the danger. "what! noddy?" exclaimed mr. grant. "i came to look for you." "thank you, sir," replied noddy. "you were a foolish fellow to run away. i'm not going to hurt you; neither is anybody else." noddy was not a little astonished to find mr. grant, in his own homely terms, "trying it on" in this manner. it was not strange that the constable, or even squire wriggs, should resort to deception to entrap him; but he was not quite prepared for it from the upright proprietor of woodville. if he was wanted "bad enough" to induce a gentleman of wealth and position to make a journey to albany after him, it was the very best reason in the world why he should get out of the way as soon as possible. "how is miss bertha, sir?" asked noddy, who did not know what else to say. "she is quite well, and feels very badly now at your absence. you have made a great mistake, noddy," replied mr. grant. "is miss fanny pretty well, sir?" "very well. we don't wish to injure you, or even to punish you, for setting the boat-house on fire. the worst that i shall do will be to send you----" "is ben any better than he was?" continued noddy, fully satisfied in his own mind in regard to the last remark. "ben is very well," said mr. grant, impatiently. "now, you will come with me, noddy, and not try to run away again." "how is mrs. green and the rest of the folks?" asked noddy, fully resolved that even mr. grant should not "pull wool over his eyes," as he quaintly expressed his view of this attempt to deceive him. "she is well. now come with me, noddy. i will give you a good supper, and you shall have everything you need. your circumstances have changed now, and you will be a rich man when you are of age." "have you heard from mr. richard lately, sir?" "never mind richard, now. come with me, noddy. if you attempt to run away again, i shall be obliged to hand you over to a policeman." that looked much more like it, in noddy's opinion, and he had no doubt of mr. grant's entire sincerity in the last remark. "i will follow you, sir," replied noddy, though he did not intend to continue on this route much farther. "you understand that i am your friend, noddy, and that no harm shall come to you." "yes, sir; i understand that." "come here now, and walk by my side. i don't want to call a policeman to take charge of you." noddy did not want him to do so either, and did not intend that he should. he placed himself by the side of his powerful persecutor, as he still regarded him, and they walked together towards the hotel. the young refugee was nervous and uneasy, and watched with the utmost diligence for an opportunity to slip away. as they were crossing a street, a hack, approaching rapidly, caused mr. grant to quicken his pace in order to avoid being run over. noddy, burdened with the weight of the carpet-bag, did not keep up with him, and he was obliged to fall back to escape the carriage. "here, boy, you take this bag, and follow the owner to the hotel, and he will give you something," said noddy to a ragged boy at the corner of the street. without waiting for an answer, he darted down the cross street, and made his best time in the rush for liberty. the boy, to whom noddy had given the bag, ran over the street, and placed himself behind mr. grant, whom he judged to be the owner of the baggage. "where is the other boy?" demanded mr. grant. "gone down state street to find ten cents he lost there," replied the wicked boy. "i'll carry your bag, sir." "but i want the boy! which way did he go?" said mr. grant, in hurried tones. "down there, sir. his mother'll lick him if he don't find the ten cents he lost. i'll carry the bag." but mr. grant was unwilling to trust his property to the hands of such a boy, and he immediately reclaimed it. "i want that boy!" exclaimed mr. grant, in great agitation. "which way did he go?" "down there," replied the ragged boy, pointing down a street in exactly the opposite direction from that taken by the fugitive. but mr. grant was too wise a man to follow. he was in search of a policeman just then. as these worthy functionaries are never at hand when they are wanted, of course he did not find one. he called a carriage, and ordered the driver to convey him with all speed, and at double fare, to the police office. on his arrival, he immediately stated his business, and in a few hours the whole police force of the city were on the lookout for poor noddy newman. the object of all this friendly solicitude was unconscious of the decided steps taken by mr. grant; but he ran till he had placed a safe distance between himself and his potent oppressor. he saw plenty of policemen in his flight, but he paid no attention to them, nor even thought what a powerful combination they formed against a weak boy like himself. he was satisfied, however, that he must leave the city; and when he was out of breath with running, he walked as nearly on a straight course as the streets would permit, till he reached the outskirts of the city. "stop that heifer!" shouted a man, who was chasing the animal. noddy headed her off, and she darted away in another direction. our refugee was interested in the case at once; for he could not permit any horned beast to circumvent him. he ran as though he had not run before that evening, and brought the wayward animal up in a corner when the man came to his assistance. "you are a smart boy," said the drover. "that's so," puffed noddy, modestly. "if you haven't got nothin' better to do, i'll make it wuth your while to help drive these cattle down to the keers," added the man. as noddy had nothing better to do, he at once accepted the offer, without even stipulating the price. they started the heifer again, and she concluded to join the drove which was in the adjoining street. it was no easy matter to drive the animals, which were not accustomed to the ways of the city, through the streets, and noddy won a great deal of credit for the vigor and agility with which he discharged his duty. they reached the ferry boat, and crossing, came to the "keers," into which the young drover assisted in loading the cattle. his employer gave him a quarter of a dollar, which hardly came up to noddy's expectations; for it seemed to him like working very hard, and winning very little for it. the man asked him some questions about his home. noddy told as much of the truth as suited his purpose, and concluded by saying he wanted to get to boston, where he could find something to do. "o, you want sunthin to do--do ye?" replied the drover. "well, i'll give you your victuals, and what clothes you want, to help me drive." this was not exactly noddy's idea of "work and win," and he told the drover he wanted to go to sea. "i'll tell you what i'll do. you may go down to brighton, and help take keer of the cattle in the keers, and i'll take keer of you on the way." noddy was more than satisfied with all these "keers," and he promptly accepted the offer. in half an hour the train started, and he was on the way to brighton, which is only a few miles from boston. chapter x. poor mollie. noddy's duty on the journey to brighton was to assist in keeping the cattle on their feet. when the poor animals become weary, they are disposed to lie down; but they are so closely packed that this is not possible for more than one or two in a car; and if one lies down he is liable to be trampled to death by the others. the persons in charge of the cattle, therefore, are obliged to watch them, and keep them on their feet. the train occasionally stopped during the night, and was several times delayed, so that it did not reach its destination till the middle of the following forenoon. the drover provided him a hearty breakfast in the morning, and noddy was in no haste. the future was still nothing but a blank to him, and he was in no hurry to commence the battle of life. when he arrived at brighton he assisted in driving the cattle to the pens; and then, with half a dollar, which the drover gave him for his extra services, he started for boston, whose spires he could even then see in the distance. he reached the city, and from the mill dam--the long bridge he had just crossed--he walked to the common. being quite worn out by two nights of hard work, and the long walk he had just taken, he seated himself on one of the stone benches near the frog pond. it was a warm and pleasant day, and he watched the sports of the happy children who were at play, until his eyelids grew heavy, and he hardly knew the state house from the big tree. for a boy of his age he had undergone a severe experience. the exciting circumstances which surrounded him had kept him wide awake until his physical nature could endure no more. leaving the seat he had occupied, he sought out the quietest place he could find, and stretching himself on the grass, went to sleep. it was nearly sunset when he awoke; but he felt like a new being, ready now to work and win at any business which might offer. he wandered about the streets of the city for two hours, and then ate a hearty supper at a restaurant. it was too late to do anything that night, and he asked a policeman to tell him where he could sleep. the officer, finding he was a friendless stranger, gave him a bed at the station-house. in the morning he made his way to the wharves, and during the long day he went from vessel to vessel in search of a berth as cabin-boy. he asked for this situation, because he had frequently heard the term; but he was willing to accept any position he could obtain. no one wanted a cabin-boy, or so small a sailor as he was. night came on again, with a hopeless prospect for the future; and poor noddy began to question the wisdom of the course he had taken. a tinker's shop, with plenty to eat, and a place to sleep, was certainly much better than wandering about the streets. he could not help thinking of woodville, and the pleasant room he had occupied in the servants' quarters; of the bountiful table at which he had sat; and, above all, of the kindness and care which miss bertha had always bestowed upon him. with all his heart he wished he was there; but when he thought of the court-house and the prison, he was more reconciled to his fate, and was determined to persevere in his efforts to obtain work. it was the close of a long summer day. he had been wandering about the wharves at the north part of the city; and as the darkness came on, he walked up hanover street in search of a policeman, who would give him permission to sleep another night in the station-house. as he did not readily find one, he turned into another street. it made but little difference to him where he went, for he had no destination, and he was as likely to find a policeman in one place as another. he had gone but a short distance before he saw a crowd of ragged boys pursuing and hooting at a drunken man who was leading a little girl ten or eleven years of age,--or rather, she was trying to lead him. under ordinary circumstances, we are afraid that noddy would have joined the ragamuffins and enjoyed the senseless sport as well as any of them; but his own sorrows raised him above this meanness in the present instance, and he passed the boys without a particle of interest in the fun. he was going by the drunken man and the little girl, when one of the boldest of the pursuers rushed up and gave the man a push, which caused him to fall on the pavement. the young vagabonds raised a chorus of laughter, and shouted with all their might. the little girl, who was evidently the drunkard's daughter, did not desert him. she bent over him, and used all her feeble powers to assist him to his feet again. "my poor father!" sobbed she; and her heart seemed to be broken by the grief and peril which surrounded her. the tones with which these words were spoken touched the heart of noddy; and without stopping to consider any troublesome questions, he sprang to the assistance of the girl. the man was not utterly helpless; and with the aid of noddy and his daughter he got upon his feet again. at that moment another of the unruly boys, emboldened by the feat of the first, rushed up and grasped the arm of the little girl, as if to pull her away from her father's support. "don't touch me! don't touch me!" pleaded the grief-stricken girl, in tones so full of sorrow that our wanderer could not resist them, if her vagabond persecutor could. he sprang to her assistance, and with one vigorous and well-directed blow, he knocked the rude assailant halfway across the street, and left him sprawling on the pavement. noddy did not wait to see what the boy would do next, but turned his attention to the poor girl, whose situation, rather than that of her father, had awakened his sympathy. "what is your father's name?" asked noddy, who proceeded as though he had a sovereign remedy for the miseries of the situation. "captain mcclintock," sobbed the little girl, still clinging to her father, with no sting of reproach in her words or her manner. "don't cry, little girl; i will do what i can for you," said noddy, warmly. "i can lick those boys, if i can't do anything more." "thank you!" replied the afflicted daughter. "if i can only get him down to the vessel, i shall be so glad!" "want to fight?" shouted the young ruffian, whom noddy had upset, coming as near the party as he dared. "i'll give you fight, if you come near me again," replied the champion of the poor girl. "come on, if you want to fight," cried the little bully, who had not the pluck to approach within twenty feet of his late assailant. the crowd of boys still shouted, and some of them carried their hostility so far as to throw sticks and stones at the little party; but as long as they kept at a respectful distance, noddy did not deem it wise to meddle with them, though he kept one eye on them, and stood ready to punish those who ventured too near. "come, captain mcclintock," said he, as he attempted to lead the drunken father, "let's go on board." "heave ahead, my hearty!" replied the captain, as he pressed forward, though his steps were so uncertain that his two feeble supporters could hardly keep him on his feet. the remarkable trio passed down fleet street, and, after many difficulties and much "rough weather," reached the head of the wharf, where the little girl said her father's vessel lay. they were still closely followed by the merciless ragamuffins, who had pelted them with stones and sticks, until the patience of noddy was severely tried. "come, my boy, now we'll--hic--now we'll go and--hic--go and take something 'fore we go on board," said the drunken captain, suddenly coming to a dead halt in the middle of the street. "o, no, father!" cried the daughter; "let us go on board." "something to take, mollie, and you shall--hic--you shall have some--hic--some soda water." "i don't want any, father. do come on board." "you are a good girl, mollie, and you shall--hic--you shall have some cake." "not to-night, father. we will get it in the morning," pleaded poor mollie, trembling with apprehension for the consequences which must follow another glass of liquor. "come, captain mcclintock, let's go on board," said noddy. "who are you?" demanded the inebriated man. "i'm the best fellow out; and i want to see your vessel." "you shall see her, my boy. if you are--hic--the best fellow out, come and take something with me," stammered the captain. "let's see the vessel first," replied noddy, tugging away at the arm of the drunken man. "she's a very fine--hic--fine vessel." "let me see her, then." "heave ahead, my jolly roebuck. i've got some of the best--hic--on board zever you tasted. come along." noddy and mollie kept him going till they reached the part of the wharf where the captain's vessel was moored; and the end of their troubles seemed to be at hand, when the boys, aware that their sport was nearly over, became very bold and daring. they pressed forward, and began to push the drunken man, until they roused his anger to such a degree that he positively refused to go on board till he chastised them as they deserved. he had broken away from his feeble protectors, and in attempting to pursue them, had fallen flat upon the planks which covered the wharf. mollie ran to his assistance; and as she did so, one of the boys pushed her over upon him. noddy's blood was up in earnest, for the little girl's suffering made her sacred in his eyes. he leaped upon the rude boy, bore him down, and pounded him till he yelled in mortal terror. some of the boldest of the ragamuffins came to his relief when they realized how hard it was going with him, and that he was in the hands of only one small boy. noddy was as quick as a flash in his movements, and he turned upon the crowd, reckless of consequences. one or two of the boys showed fight; but the young lion tipped them over before they could make up their minds how to attack him. the rest ran away. noddy gave chase, and in his furious wrath felt able to whip the whole of them. he pursued them only a short distance; his sympathy for poor mollie got the better even of his anger, and he hastened back to her side. as he turned, the cowardly boys turned also, and a storm of such missiles as the wharf afforded was hurled after him. by this time two men from the vessel had come to the assistance of the captain, and raised him to his feet. he was still full of vengeance, and wanted to chastise the boys. the young ruffians followed noddy down the wharf, and he was compelled, in self-defence, to turn upon them again, and in presence of the drunken man he punished a couple of them pretty severely. one of the sailors came to his aid, and the foe was again vanquished. the appearance of a policeman at the head of the wharf now paralyzed their efforts, and they disbanded and scattered. "you are a good fellow!" exclaimed captain mcclintock, extending his hand to noddy as he returned to the spot. "the best fellow out," replied the little hero, facetiously, as he took the offered hand. "so you be! now come on board, and--hic--and take something." "thank you, captain. i should like to go on board of your vessel." "come along, then, my jolly fellow," added the captain, as he reeled towards the vessel. "you are a smart little--hic--you are a smart little fellow. if you hadn't--hic--licked them boys, i should--hic." noddy thought he did "hic;" but with the assistance of the sailors, the captain got on board, and went down into his cabin. his first movement was to bring out a bottle of gin and a couple of glasses, into which he poured a quantity of the fiery liquor. he insisted that noddy should drink; but the boy had never tasted anything of the kind in his life; and from the lessons of bertha and ben he had acquired a certain horror of the cup, which had not been diminished by the incidents of the evening. he could not drink, and he could not refuse without making trouble with his intoxicated host. but mollie saw his difficulty, and slyly substituted a glass of water for the gin, which he drank. captain mcclintock was satisfied, and overcome by his last potion, he soon sank back on the locker, and dropped asleep. with the assistance of the mate he was put into the berth in his state-room, to sleep off the effects of his debauch. "i'm so grateful to you!" exclaimed mollie, when all her trials seemed to have ended. "o, never mind me." "where do you live?" "nowhere." "have you no home?" "no." "where do you stay?" "anywhere." "where were you going to sleep to-night?" "anywhere i could." "then you can sleep here." noddy was entirely willing, and one of the eight berths in the cabin was appropriated by the mate to his use. chapter xi. the schooner roebuck. "what is your name?" asked mollie, when the arrangements for the night were completed. "noddy newman." "noddy? what a queer name! that isn't your real name--is it?" "yes, i never knew any other." mollie was certainly a very pleasing young lady, and noddy had become quite interested in her, as we always are in those to whom we are so fortunate as to render needed assistance. she had a pretty face, and her curly hair might have challenged the envy of many a fair damsel who was wicked enough to cherish such a feeling. there was nothing rough or coarse about her, and one would hardly have expected to find so lady-like a person in such a situation in life. we make this statement in apology for the interest which noddy took in the little maiden. the service he had rendered her was quite sufficient to create a kindly feeling towards her; and then she was so pretty, so modest, and so gentle, that his sympathy grew into admiration before she went to her little state-room. mollie asked him a great many questions about his past life, and noddy told her all he knew about himself--about bertha, fanny, and others at woodville. he did not tell her about the affair of the boat-house, though he determined to do so at some future time, if he had the opportunity. in return for all this information, mollie told him that the schooner in which they then were was called the roebuck; that she belonged to her father, and that they were bound to the sandwich islands, where the vessel was to run as a packet between certain islands, whose names she had forgotten. captain mcclintock belonged in the state of maine, where mollie's mother had died two years before. her father had some property, and learning that there was a good chance to improve his fortunes at the sandwich islands, he had built the roebuck for this purpose. as these distant islands were to be his future home, he was to take his only child with him, and he had fitted up a state-room in the cabin, next to his own for her special use. mollie told noddy how much pleased she was with all the arrangements, and how happy she had been on the passage to boston, where the roebuck was to pick up an assorted cargo for the port of her destination. then she wept when she thought of the terrible scenes through which she had just passed in the streets. she said her father did not often drink too much; that he was the very best father in the whole world; and she hoped he never would get intoxicated again as long as he lived. noddy hoped so too; and when the little maiden had finished her story, he thought she was almost equal to miss bertha; and he could not think of such a thing as parting with her in the morning, again to buffet the waves of disappointment on shore. "does your father want a boy on board of the vessel?" asked he. "i don't know. do you want to go with us?" said mollie, with a smile which spoke the pleasure the thought afforded her. "i should like to go with you first-rate," replied noddy. "i want to do something, and earn some money for myself. i want to work." "then you shall go with us!" exclaimed mollie. "out where we are going is a nice place to get rich. my father is going to get rich out there, and then we are coming home again." poor child! she knew not what the future had in store for them. the bells of the city rang for nine o'clock, and mollie said she went to bed at this time. "can you read, noddy?" asked she. "yes, some." "i always read my testament before i go to bed; i promised my mother, years ago, that i would; and i like to do it, too. i suppose you read your testament every night--don't you?" "sometimes; that is, i did once," replied noddy, in some confusion, for he could not help recalling the teachings of bertha on this subject. "well, we will read it together. you would like to--wouldn't you?" "yes; i don't care if i do." there was a want of enthusiasm on his part which was rather painful to the little maiden; but she got the testament, and when she had read a few verses aloud, she passed the book to noddy, who stumbled through his portion, and she then finished the chapter. she bade him good night, and retired to her state-room, leaving her new-made friend to meditate upon the singular events of the evening. he did not meditate a great while--he never did. his thoughts were disposed to stray from one subject to another; and from the little maiden, he found himself wondering whether mr. grant had finished searching for him in albany, and whether miss fanny had "let the cat out of the bag" yet. noddy was too tired and sleepy to think a great while about anything; and he turned into his berth, and went to sleep. early in the morning noddy was on his feet. he went on deck, and found that the roebuck was a beautiful vessel, almost handsome enough to be a gentleman's yacht. he went upon the wharf, where he could obtain a fair view of her bow, and he was sure she would make good time with a fair breeze. when he had satisfied himself with the examination, he was more than ever inclined to go out in her. when he went down into the cabin again, mollie was there, setting the table for breakfast. she looked as fair and as fresh as a country maiden. she gave him a very friendly greeting. "do you do these things, mollie?" asked he. "o, yes; i always work, and do what i can. i like to do something." "how old are you, mollie?" "eleven last may." "but you can't do this work when you are out at sea." "o, yes, i can." "you will be seasick." "i never was sick, and i have been to sea a great deal with my father." "how is the captain this morning?" "i don't know; i haven't seen him yet," replied she, looking very sad, as she thought of her kind father's infirmity. captain mcclintock soon came out of his state-room. he looked pale and haggard, and seemed to be thoroughly ashamed of himself for what he had done the evening before, as he ought to have been. mollie sprang to him, as he stepped out of his room, and kissed him as lovingly as though he had never done a wrong thing in his life. he glanced at noddy, as he entered the main cabin, and with a look of astonishment, as though his connection with the events of the previous evening were a blank to him. the captain did not say a word to noddy, which made the boy feel as though he was an intruder in the cabin; and when he had the opportunity, he went on deck, leaving mollie to say whatever the circumstances required in explanation of his presence. "i will never do it again, mollie," said the fond father, as he kissed his daughter. "i am very sorry, and you must forgive me, my child." he was a penitent man, and felt how great was the wrong he had done the poor child. he had taken her out to walk, and to see the sights of the city, and had become intoxicated. he remembered the whole scene, when the boys had chased him; and to mollie, whom he loved with all his heart, he was willing to own his fault, and to make her happy by promising never to do the wrong again. mollie then told him about her conversation with noddy, and of the boy's desire to go to sea with them. captain mcclintock remembered in part what the boy had done for them; and mollie supplied what he had not seen, or had forgotten. "why, yes; we want a cabin-boy. i should have shipped one at home, if i could have found the right one," replied the captain. "you say he is a good boy?" "i know he is. he wants to work." "does he know anything about a vessel? i want one who can go aloft, and shake out the top-gallant sail." "he is used to boats and the water." "well, we will see what he is good for, after breakfast." "i hope you will take him, for we have become fast friends." "if he is good for anything, i will, mollie. call him down. here comes the doctor with the grub." the "doctor" was the black cook of the roebuck, who was now descending the companion-way with the morning meal. noddy was called, and captain mcclintock spoke very kindly to him. he inquired particularly into his knowledge of vessels, and wanted to know whether he would be afraid to go aloft. noddy smiled, and thought he should not be afraid. he ate his breakfast with a boy's appetite, and then the captain took him on deck. "do you see that fore-top-gallant yard?" asked the captain. "yes, sir, i see it," replied noddy, who had been thoroughly instructed in these matters by the old man-of-war's-man of woodville, though he had no practical experience in seamanship, even on as large a scale as a topsail schooner, which was the rig of the roebuck. "well, my boy, that's a pretty high place. should you dare to go up there?" "i think i should," answered noddy. "let me see you do it." "now?" "yes. i want to see what you are good for. if we can't make a sailor of you, it won't be worth while to take you out to the pacific. let me see how long it will take you to run up to that fore-top-gallant yard." noddy started. captain mcclintock was evidently satisfied that it would make the boy dizzy; and that, perhaps, if he had to do this kind of work, he would not care to make a voyage. mollie stood by her father's side, deeply interested in the experiment, and fearful that her heroic friend would fail to meet her father's expectations, thus depriving her of a pleasant companion on her long voyage. the candidate for a position on the roebuck skipped lightly forward to the fore-shrouds of the vessel, ran up, as chipper as a monkey, to the mast head, then up the fore-topmast rigging to the yard. planting his feet in the foot-ropes, he danced out to the port yard-arm. at this point he astonished the spectators below by performing certain feats which he had seen at the great olympian circus. descending from the yard, he grasped the main-topmast stay, and ran over upon it to the main-topmast, and then made his way to the deck by the main-topmast back-stay. "you'll do, my boy!" said the captain, emphatically. "you will make a smart sailor." "am i to go with you, sir?" asked noddy. "yes, if you like." "what will you give me?" this was a more difficult question; but the captain finally agreed to give him eight dollars a month, and to advance money enough to buy him an outfit. mollie actually danced about the deck with joy when the terms were arranged, and it was certain that noddy was to go on the voyage. the boy's work had been carefully stated by the captain. he was to take care of the cabin, wait upon the captain and his daughter at table, and do duty forward when required. he was to have a berth in the cabin, and was not to be in either watch, unless the vessel became short-handed. "now we shall be happy!" exclaimed mollie, who had already formed many plans for the long and lonely cruise. "i think we shall. do you know when we sail, mollie?" "perhaps to-day; perhaps not till to-morrow." "i want to write a letter to miss bertha before we go." "that's right, noddy; never forget your friends. i will give you pen, ink, and paper, by and by." in the forenoon captain mcclintock took the young sailor ashore, and purchased for him a supply of clothing. noddy always dressed like a sailor at woodville. this was ben's idea, and it was quite proper, as his work was in the boats. his new garments were not strange to him, therefore, though they were much coarser than those he wore. after dinner the captain went on shore alone to do his business, and noddy wrote his letter. about five o'clock he returned, and poor mollie was dreadfully grieved to find that he was partially intoxicated. he immediately gave the order to get under way, and went down into the cabin, leaving the mate to haul the vessel out of the dock. noddy made himself as useful as possible, and in a short time the roebuck was clear of the wharf. the captain came on deck again, when the jib was hoisted, and the sails began to draw. the voyage had actually commenced, and noddy did not believe that mr. grant and the constables would be able to catch him. chapter xii. the drunken captain. "lay aloft, and help shake out the fore-topsail," said the captain to noddy, who was standing by the wheel-man, watching the movements of the vessel. "be lively! what are you staring at?" the captain's tones were stern and ugly. he had evidently taken another glass of gin since he came on board. he was sufficiently intoxicated to be unreasonable, though he could walk straight, and understood perfectly what he was about. noddy did not like the harsh tones in which the order was given, and he did not move as lively as he would have done if the words had been spoken pleasantly. he had not yet learned the duty of prompt obedience, be the tones what they may. he went aloft, and helped the men who were at work on the topsail. as soon as the sheets were hauled home, the captain hailed him from the deck, and ordered him to shake out the fore-top-gallant sail. noddy had moved so leisurely before, that the command came spiced with a volley of oaths; and the cabin-boy began to feel that he was getting something more than he had bargained for. he shook out the sail, and when the yard had been raised to its proper position, he went on deck again. the roebuck was dashing briskly along with a fresh southerly breeze; and if noddy had not been troubled with a suspicion that something was wrong, he would have enjoyed the scene exceedingly. he had begun to fear that captain mcclintock was a tyrant, and that he was doomed to undergo many hardships before he saw his native land again. "don't be troubled, noddy," said mollie, in a low tone, as she placed herself by his side at the lee rail. "my father isn't cross very often." "i don't like to be spoken to in that way," replied he, trying to banish a certain ill feeling which was struggling for expression in his words and manner. "you mustn't mind that, noddy. that's the way all sea captains speak." "is it?" "it is indeed, noddy. you must get used to it as quick as you can." "i'll try," answered the cabin-boy; but he did not feel much like trying; on the contrary, he was more disposed to manifest his opposition, even at the risk of a "row," or even with the certain prospect of being worsted in the end. mollie, hoping that he would try, went aft again. she knew what her father was when partially intoxicated, and she feared that one who was high-spirited enough to face a dozen boys of his own size and weight, as noddy had done in the street, would not endure the harsh usage of one made unreasonable by drinking. some men are very cross and ugly when they are partially intoxicated, and very silly and good-natured when they are entirely steeped in the drunkard's cup. such was captain mcclintock. if he continued his potations up to a certain point, he would pass from the crooked, cross-grained phase to that of the jolly, stupid, noisy debauchee. entirely sober, he was entirely reasonable. "here, youngster!" called the captain, as he stepped forward to the waist, where noddy was looking over the rail. "sir," replied noddy rather stiffly, and without turning his head. "do you hear?" yelled the captain, filled with passion at the contempt with which he was treated by the boy. "i hear," said noddy, turning round as slowly as though he had a year in which to complete his revolution. "swab up that deck there; and if you don't move a little livelier than you have yet, i'll try a rope's end to your legs." "no, you won't!" retorted noddy, sharply, for he could endure a whipping as easily as he could a threat. "won't i?" cried the captain, as he seized a piece of rope from one of the belaying pins. "we'll see." he sprang upon the high-spirited boy, and began to beat him in the most unmerciful manner. noddy attempted to get away from him, but the captain had grasped him by the collar, and held on with an iron grip. "let me alone!" roared noddy. "i'll knock your brains out if you don't let me alone!" "we'll see!" gasped captain mcclintock, furious with passion and with gin. unfortunately for him, he did see when it was too late; for noddy had laid hold of a wooden belaying pin, and aimed a blow with it at the head of his merciless persecutor. he did not hit him on the head, but the blow fell heavily on his shoulder, causing him to release his hold of the boy. noddy, puffing like a grampus from the violence of the struggle, rushed forward to the forecastle. the captain ordered the sailors to stop him; but either because they were not smart enough, or because they had no relish for the business, they failed to catch him, and the culprit ran out on the bowsprit. the angry man followed him as far as the bowsprit bitts, but prudence forbade his going any farther. "come here, you young rascal!" shouted the captain. "i won't," replied noddy, as he perched himself on the bight of the jib-stay. "come here, i say!" "i'll go overboard before i go any nearer to you. i'm not going to be pounded for nothing." "you'll obey orders aboard this vessel," replied the captain, whose passion was somewhat moderated by the delay which kept him from his victim. "i'm ready to obey orders, and always have been," answered noddy, who had by this time begun to think of the consequences of his resistance. "will you swab up the deck, as i told you?" "i will, sir; but i won't be whipped by no drunken man. "drunken man!" repeated the captain. "you shall be whipped for that, you impudent young villain!" the captain mounted the heel of the bowsprit, and was making his way up to the point occupied by the refractory cabin-boy, when mollie reached the forecastle, and grasped her father in her little arms. "don't, father, don't!" pleaded she. "go away, mollie," said he, sternly. "he is impudent and mutinous, and shall be brought to his senses." "stop, father, do stop!" cried mollie, piteously. he might as well stop, for by this time noddy had mounted the jib-stay, and was halfway up to the mast head. "he called me a drunken man, mollie, and he shall suffer for it!" replied captain mcclintock, in tones so savage that the poor girl's blood was almost frozen by them. "stop, father!" said she, earnestly, as he turned to move aft again. "go away, child." "he spoke the truth," replied she, in a low tone, as her eyes filled with tears, and she sobbed bitterly. "the truth, mollie!" exclaimed her father, as though the words from that beloved child had paralyzed him. "yes, father, you have been drinking again. you promised me last night--you know what you promised me," said she, her utterance broken by the violence of her emotions. he looked at her in silence for an instant; but his breast heaved under the strong feelings which agitated him. that glance seemed to overcome him; he dropped the rope's end, and, rushing aft, disappeared down the companion-way. mollie followed him into the cabin, where she found him with his head bent down upon the table, weeping like an infant. noddy leisurely descended from his perch at the mast head, from which he had witnessed this scene without hearing what was said; indeed, none of the crew had heard mollie's bitter words, for she had spoken them in an impressive whisper. "well, youngster, you have got yourself into hot water," said the mate, when the boy reached the deck. "i couldn't help it," replied noddy, who had begun to look doubtfully at the future. "couldn't help it, you young monkey!" noddy was disposed at first to resent this highly improper language; but one scrap at a time was quite enough, and he wisely concluded not to notice the offensive remark. "i'm not used to having any man speak to me in that kind of a way," added noddy, rather tamely. "you are not in a drawing-room! do you think the cap'n is going to take his hat off to the cabin-boy?" replied the mate, indignantly. "i don't ask him to take his hat off to me. he spoke to me as if i was a dog." "that's the way officers do speak to men, whether it is the right way or not; and if you can't stand it, you've no business here." "i didn't know they spoke in that way." "it's the fashion; and when man or boy insults an officer as you did the captain, he always knocks him down; and serves him right too." noddy regarded the mate as a very reasonable man, though he swore abominably, and did not speak in the gentlest tones to the men. he concluded, therefore, that he had made a blunder, and he desired to get out of the scrape as fast as he could. the mate explained to him sundry things, in the discipline of a ship, which he had not before understood. he said that when sailors came on board of a vessel they expected more or less harsh words, and that it was highly impudent, to say the least, for a man to retort, or even to be sulky. "captain mcclintock is better than half of them," he added; "and if the men do their duty, they can get along very well with him." "but he was drunk," said noddy. "that's none of your business. if he was, it was so much the more stupid in you to attempt to kick up a row with him." noddy began to be of the same opinion himself; and an incipient resolution to be more careful in future was flitting through his mind, when he was summoned to the cabin by mollie. he went below; the captain was not there--he had retired to his state-room; and his daughter sat upon the locker, weeping bitterly. "how happy i expected to be! how unhappy i am!" sobbed she. "noddy you have made me feel very bad." "i couldn't help it; i didn't mean to make you feel bad," protested noddy. "my poor father!" she exclaimed, as she thought again that the blame was not the boy's alone. "i am very sorry for what i did. i never went to sea before, and i didn't know the fashions. where is your father? could i see him?" "not now; he has gone to his state-room. he will be better by and by." "i want to see him when he comes out. i will try and make it right with him, for i know i was to blame," said noddy, whose ideas were rapidly enlarging. "i am glad to hear you say so, noddy," added mollie, looking up into his face with such a sad expression that he would have done anything to comfort her. "now go on deck; but promise me that you will not be impudent to my father, whatever happens." "i will not, mollie." noddy went on deck. the roebuck had passed out of the harbor. she was close-hauled, and headed to the southeast. she was pitching considerably, which was a strange motion to the cabin-boy, whose nautical experience had been confined to the hudson river. but there was something exhilarating in the scene, and if noddy's mind had been easy, he would have been delighted with the situation. the mate asked him some questions about the captain, which led to a further discussion of the matter of discipline on board a vessel. "i want to do well, mr. watts," said noddy. "my best friend gave me the motto, 'work and win;' and i want to do the very best i know how." "i don't think you have begun very well. if you are impudent to your officers, i can assure you that you will work a great deal and win very little. neither boy nor man can have all his own way in the world; and on board ship you will have to submit to a great many little things that don't suit you. the sooner you learn to do so with a good grace, the sooner you will be comfortable and contented." "thank you, mr. watts, for your good advice, and i will try to follow it." "that's right," replied the mate, satisfied that noddy was not a very bad boy, after all. noddy was fully determined to be a good boy, to obey the officers promptly, and not to be impudent, even if they abused him. captain mcclintock did not come on deck, or into the cabin, again that night. he had probably drank until he was completely overcome, and the vessel was left to the care of mr. watts, who was fortunately a good seaman and a skilful navigator. noddy performed his duties, both on deck and in the cabin, with a zeal and fidelity which won the praise of the mate. "captain mcclintock," said noddy, when the master of the vessel came on deck in the morning. "well, what do you want, youngster?" replied the captain, in gruff and forbidding tones. "i was wrong yesterday; i am very sorry for it, and i hope you will forgive me this time." "it is no light thing to be saucy to the captain." "i will never do so again," added noddy. "we'll see; if you behave well, i'll pass it by, and say nothing more about it." "thank you, sir." the captain did not speak as though he meant what he said. it was evident from his conduct during the forenoon, that he had not forgotten, if he had forgiven, noddy's impudent speech. he addressed him rather harshly, and appeared not to like his presence. in the forenoon the vessel passed highland light, and before night noddy saw the last of the land. there was a heavy blow in the afternoon, and the roebuck pitched terribly in the great seas. the cabin-boy began to experience some new and singular sensations, and at eight bells in the evening he was so seasick that he could not hold up his head. chapter xiii. the shark. for two days noddy suffered severely from seasickness, and mollie was full of tenderness and sympathy. captain mcclintock still mocked the poor child's hopes, and still broke the promises which should have been sacred, for he was intoxicated each day. on the second, while noddy was lying in his berth, the captain, rendered brutal by the last dram he had taken, came out of his state-room, and halted near the sick boy. "what are you in there for, you young sculpin?" said he. "why are you not on deck, attending to your duty?" "i am sick, sir," replied noddy, faintly. "sick! we don't want any skulking of that sort on board this vessel. you want to shirk your duty. turn out lively, and go on deck." "but he is sick, father," said mollie. "go away, mollie. you will spoil the boy. come, tumble out, youngster, or i shall bring down the rope's end," replied the captain. the daughter pleaded for her patient; but the father was ugly and unreasonable, and persisted in his purpose. noddy did not feel able to move. he was completely prostrated by the violence of his disagreeable malady; and five minutes before, he would not have considered it possible for him to get out of his berth. he must do so now or be whipped; for there was no more reason in the captain than there was in the main-mast of the schooner. he was not able to make any resistance, if he had been so disposed. it was very hard to be obliged to go on deck when he was sick, especially as there was no need of his services there. he raised his head, and sat upright in the berth. the movement seemed completely to overturn his stomach again. but what a chance this was, thought he, to show poor mollie that he was in earnest, and to convince her that he had really reformed his manners. with a desperate struggle he leaped out of his berth, and put on his jacket. the roebuck was still pitching heavily, and it was almost impossible for him to keep on his feet. he had hardly tasted food for two days, and was very weak from the effects of his sickness. he crawled on deck as well as he was able, followed by captain mcclintock, who regarded him with a look of malignant triumph. poor noddy felt like a martyr; but for mollie's sake, he was determined to bear his sufferings with patience and resignation, and to obey the captain, even if he told him to jump overboard. he did what was almost as bad as this, for he ordered the sick boy to swab up the deck--an entirely useless operation, for the spray was breaking over the bow of the roebuck, and the water was rushing in torrents out of the lee scuppers. but noddy, true to his resolution, obeyed the order, and dragged his weary body forward to perform his useless task. for half an hour he labored against nature and the elements, and of course accomplished nothing. it was all "work" and no "win." a boy who had the resolution and courage to face a dozen angry fellows as large as himself, certainly ought not to lack the power to overcome the single foe that beset him from within. noddy was strong enough for the occasion, even in his present weakly condition. it was hard work, but the victory he won was a satisfactory reward. the captain's vision was rather imperfect in his present state, and he took it into his head that the foretop-gallant sail was straining the topmast. mr. watts respectfully assured him the topmast was strong enough to stand the strain; but the master was set in his own opinion. apparently his view was adopted for the occasion, for he ordered noddy to go aloft and furl the sail. mollie protested when she heard this order, for she was afraid noddy was so weak that he would fall from the yard. the cabin-boy, strong in the victory he had just won, did not even remonstrate against the order; but, with all the vigor he could command, he went up the fore-rigging. he was surprised to find how much strength an earnest spirit lent to his weak body. the pitching of the roebuck rendered the execution of the order very difficult to one unaccustomed to the violent motion of a vessel in a heavy sea; but in spite of all the trials which lay in his path, he furled the sail. when he came down to the deck, the captain had gone below again, and the weary boy was permitted to rest from his severe labors. instead of being overcome by them, he actually felt better than when he had left his berth. the fresh air, and the conquest of the will over the feeble body, had almost wrought a miracle in his physical frame. the mate told him that what he had done was the best thing in the world for seasickness; in fact, earnest exertion was the only remedy for the troublesome complaint. at supper-time noddy took some tea and ate a couple of ship biscuits with a good relish. he began to feel like a new person, and even to be much obliged to the captain for subjecting him to the tribulations which had wrought his cure. the next morning he ate a hearty breakfast, and went to his work with the feeling that "oft from apparent ills our blessings rise." the captain kept sober during the next five days, owing, it was believed by noddy, to the influence of his daughter, who had the courage to speak the truth to him. shortly after the departure of the roebuck, it had been ascertained that, from some impurity in the casks, the water on board was not fit for use; and the captain decided to put into barbadoes and procure a fresh supply. when the schooner took a pilot, on the twelfth day out, it was found that the yellow fever was making terrible ravages in the island; but the water was so bad on board that the captain decided to go into port and remain long enough to procure new casks and a supply of water. if he had been entirely sober, he would undoubtedly have turned his bow at once from the infected island. the roebuck came to anchor, and the captain, regardless of his own safety, went on shore to transact the business. the casks were purchased, but it was impossible to get them on board before the next morning, and the vessel was compelled to remain at anchor over night. the weather was excessively hot in the afternoon, but towards night a cool breeze came in from the sea, which was very refreshing; and noddy and mollie were on deck, enjoying its invigorating breath. the boat in which the captain had just returned lay at the accommodation ladder. the confinement of twelve days on board the vessel had been rather irksome, and both of the young people would have been delighted to take a run on shore; but the terrible sickness there rendered such a luxury impossible. they observed with interest everything that could be seen from the deck, especially the verdure-crowned hills, and the valleys green with the rich vegetation of the country. if they could not go on shore, they could at least move about a little in the boat, which would be some relief from the monotony of their confined home. they got into the boat with a warning from mr. watts not to go far from the schooner, and not to approach any other vessel, which might have the yellow fever on board. noddy sculled about on the smooth water for a time, till it was nearly dark, and mollie thought it was time to return on board. as she spoke, she went forward and stood up in the bow of the boat, ready to step upon the accommodation ladder. "noddy, do you see these great fishes in the water?" asked she. "yes, i see them." "do you know what they are?" continued she, as she turned to receive the answer. she was accustomed to boats, and her familiarity with them made her as fearless as her companion. "i never saw any like them before," replied noddy, still sculling the boat towards the roebuck. "what do you think they are?" added she, with one of those smiles which children wear when they are conscious of being wiser than their companions. "i haven't any idea what they are; but they look ugly enough to be snakes." "i've seen lots of them before, and i know what they are. i like you very well, noddy; and i ask you, as a particular favor, not to fall overboard," said she, with a smile, at what she regarded as a very pretty joke. "what are they, mollie?" "they are sharks, noddy." "sharks!" exclaimed the boy, who had heard ben tell awful stories about the voracity of these terrible creatures. "yes, they are sharks, and big ones, too." "sit down, mollie. i don't like to see you stand up there. you might fall overboard," said noddy, who actually shuddered as he recalled the fearful stories he had heard about these savage fish. "i'm not afraid. i'm just as safe here as i should be on board the roebuck. i've seen sharks before, and got used to them. i like to watch them." at that moment the boat struck upon something in the water, which might have been a log, or one of the ravenous monsters, whose back fins could be seen above the water, as they lay in wait for their prey. it was some heavy body, and it instantly checked the progress of the boat, and the sudden stoppage precipitated the poor girl over the bow into the sea. noddy's blood seemed to freeze in his veins as he realized the horrible situation of mollie in the water, surrounded by sharks. he expected to see her fair form severed in twain by the fierce creatures. he could swim like a duck, and his first impulse was to leap overboard, and save the poor girl or perish with her in the attempt. a shout from the schooner laden with the agony of mortal anguish saluted his ears as mollie struck the water. it was the voice of captain mcclintock, who had come on deck, and had witnessed the fearful catastrophe. the voice went to noddy's soul. he saw the slight form of mollie as she rose to the surface, and began to struggle towards the boat. the cabin-boy sculled with all his might for an instant, which brought the boat up to the spot; but he was horrified to see that she was followed by a monstrous shark. noddy seized the boat-hook, and sprang forward just as the greedy fish was turning over upon his side, with open mouth, to snap up his prey. noddy, aware that the decisive moment for action had come, and feeling, as by instinct, that a miscalculation on his part would be fatal to poor mollie, poised his weapon, and made a vigorous lunge at the savage fish. by accident, rather than by design, the boat-hook struck the shark in the eye; and with a fearful struggle he disappeared beneath the surface. grasping the extended arm of mollie, he dragged her into the boat before another of the monsters could attack her. "o, noddy!" gasped she, as she sank down upon the bottom of the boat, overcome by terror, rather than by her exertions,--for she had been scarcely a moment in the water. "you are safe now, mollie. don't be afraid," said noddy, in soothing tones, though his own utterance was choked by the fearful emotions he had endured. "our father, who art in heaven, i thank thee that thou hast preserved my life, and saved me from the terrible shark," said mollie, as she clasped her hands and looked up to the sky. it was a prayer from the heart, and the good father seemed to be nearer to noddy than ever before. he felt that some other hand than his own had directed the weapon which had vanquished the shark. "o, noddy, you have saved me," cried mollie, as she rose from her knees, upon which she had thrown herself before she uttered her simple but devout prayer. "i am so glad you are safe, mollie! but was it me that saved you?" asked noddy, as he pointed up to the sky, with a sincere feeling that he had had very little to do with her preservation, though he was so deeply impressed by the event that he could not utter the sacred name of the power which in that awful moment seemed to surround him, and to be in his very heart. "it was god who preserved me," said she, looking reverently upward again; "but he did it through you; and i may thank you, too, for what you have done. o, noddy, you have been my best earthly friend; for what would my poor father have done if the shark had killed me?" noddy sculled towards the roebuck, for he knew that captain mcclintock was anxiously awaiting their return. when the boat touched the accommodation ladder, the anxious father sprang on board, not knowing even then that his daughter was entirely safe. he had seen noddy draw her into the boat, but he feared she had lost a leg or an arm, for he was aware that the harbor swarmed with the largest and fiercest of the merciless "sea-pirates." "my poor child!" exclaimed he, as he clasped her in his arms, dreading even then to know the worst. "dear father!" replied she. "are you hurt?" "not at all." "were there any sharks out there?" "i guess there were!" replied she, significantly. "one of them had just heeled over to snap at her," added noddy. "i never was so frightened in my life." "good heaven!" gasped the captain. "i gave myself up for lost," said mollie, shuddering, as she recalled that fearful moment. "well, what prevented him from taking hold of you?" asked captain mcclintock, who had not been near enough to discern precisely what had taken place in the boat. "noddy saved me, father. he jammed the boat-hook right into the shark's head. in another instant the creature would have had me in his mouth. o, father, it was such an awful death to think of--to be bitten by a shark!" "horrible!" groaned the father. "noddy, your hand! you and i shall be friends to the last day of my life." "thank you, sir," replied the heroic boy, as he took the proffered hand. "i did the best i could; but i was so scared! i was afraid the shark would catch her in spite of me." "god bless you, noddy! but come on board, and we will talk it over." captain mcclintock handed mollie, still dripping with water, to mr. watts, who had been an interested spectator of the touching scene in the boat; and she was borne to the cabin amid the congratulations of the crew, with whom she was a great favorite. chapter xiv. the yellow fever. mollie went to her state-room, and changed her clothes; and she did not come out till she had kneeled down and poured forth another prayer of thanksgiving for her safety from the horrible monster that would have devoured her. her father kissed her again, as she returned to the cabin. he was as grateful as she was, and he took no pains to conceal the emotions which agitated him. "now tell me all about it, mollie," said he. "how happened you to fall overboard?" "i was careless, father. noddy was persuading me to sit down at the moment when i went overboard," replied she. "i was afraid of the sharks as soon as i knew what they were; and i was thinking what an awful thing it would be if she should fall overboard," added noddy. "if i had minded you, noddy, i shouldn't have been in danger." the story was told by the two little adventurers, each correcting or helping out the other, till the whole truth was obtained. it was evident to the captain and the mate, that noddy had behaved with vigor and decision, and that, if he had been less prompt and energetic, poor mollie must have become the victim of the ravenous shark. "you have saved her life, noddy; that's plain enough," said captain mcclintock, as he rose and went to his state-room. "you were smart, my boy, and you deserve a great deal of credit," added mr. watts. "i don't mind that; i was too glad to get her out of the water to think of anything else." "well, noddy, you did good work that time, and you have won a great deal of honor by it." "you shall win something better than that, noddy," said the captain, as he returned to the cabin with a little bag in his hand. "here are ten gold pieces, my boy--one hundred dollars." he handed noddy the bright coins; but the little hero's face flushed, and he looked as discontented as though he had been robbed of the honor of his exploit. "you shall win a hundred dollars by the operation," continued the captain. "thank you, sir, but i don't want any money for that," replied noddy, whose pride revolted at the idea, however tempting the money looked to him. "take it, noddy. you have done a good piece of work, and you ought to win something for it," added the captain. "i don't want to win any money for a job like that, captain mcclintock. i am already well paid for what i have done. i can't take any money for it. i feel too good already; and i am afraid if i take your gold i should spoil it all." "you are as proud as a lord, noddy." "i'm sure, if we had lost miss mollie, i should have missed her as much as anybody, except her father. i shouldn't feel right to be paid for doing such a thing as knocking a shark in the head. i hated the monster bad enough to kill him, if he hadn't been going to do any mischief." "then you won't take this money, noddy?" continued the captain. "i'd rather not, sir. i shouldn't feel right if i did." "and i shouldn't feel right if you didn't. you don't quite understand the case, noddy." "i think i do, sir." "no, you don't. let me tell you about it. you have done something which fills me with gratitude to you. i want to do something to express that gratitude. i don't know that i can do it in any other way just now than by making you a little present. i don't mean to pay you." "it looks like that." "no it don't look a bit like it. do you think i value my daughter's life at no more than a hundred dollars?" "i know you do, captain." "if i expected to pay you for what you have done, i should give you every dollar i have in the world, and every dollar which my property would bring if it were sold; and then i should feel that you had not half got your due." "i don't care about any money, sir," persisted noddy. "let me make you a present, then. it would make me feel better to do something for you." "i'm sure i would do anything to accommodate you." "then take the money." noddy took it very reluctantly, and felt just as though he was stealing it. mr. watts joined with the captain in arguing the matter, and he finally felt a little better satisfied about it. when he realized that he was the honest possessor of so large a sum, he felt like a rich man, and could not help thinking of the pleasure it would afford him to pour all these gold coins into bertha's lap, and tell how he had won them. mollie had something to say about the matter, and of course she took her father's side of the question; and the captain concluded the debate by assuring noddy, if his daughter had to die, he would give more than a hundred dollars to save her from the maw of a shark, that she might die less horribly by drowning. on the whole, the cabin-boy was pretty well satisfied that he had won the money honestly, and he carefully bestowed it with his clothing in his berth. early in the morning mr. watts went on shore with a boat's crew, to commence bringing off the water casks. it required the whole forenoon to remove the old casks, and stow the new ones in the hold. about eleven o'clock the mate complained of a chilly sensation, and a pain in his back, which was followed up by a severe headache. he was soon compelled to leave his work, and take to his berth in the cabin. the next boat from the shore brought off a surgeon, who promptly pronounced the disease the yellow fever. before the roebuck could get off, two of the sailors were attacked by the terrible malady. the only safety for the rest was in immediate flight; and the schooner got under way, and stood out to sea. the doctor had left ample directions for the treatment of the disease, but the medicines appeared to do no good. mr. watts was delirious before night. the two men in the forecastle were no better, and the prospect on board the vessel was as gloomy as it could be. mollie stood by the sufferer in the cabin, in spite of the protest of her father. she knew what the fever was; but she seemed to be endued with a courage which was more than human. she nursed the sick man tenderly, and her simple prayer for his recovery ascended every hour during the long night. one of the men forward died before morning, and was committed to the deep by his terrified messmates, without even a form of prayer over his plague-stricken remains. towards night, on the second day out of barbadoes, mr. watts breathed his last. by the light of the lanterns, his cold form was placed on a plank extended over the rail. mollie would not permit him to be buried in his watery grave without a prayer, and captain mcclintock read one. many tears were shed over him, as his body slid off into the sea. noddy and mollie wept bitterly, for they felt that they had lost a good friend. there was only one more patient on board, and he seemed to be improving; but before the morning sun rose, red and glaring on the silent ocean, there were three more. captain mcclintock was one of them. there was none to take care of him but mollie and noddy; and both of them, regardless of the demands of their own bodies, kept vigil by his couch. more faithful nurses a sick man never had. they applied the remedies which had been used before. on the following day two more of the crew were committed to their ocean graves, and despair reigned throughout the vessel. the captain grew worse every hour, and poor mollie was often compelled to leave the bedside that he might not see her weeping over him. he soon became delirious, and did not even know her. "o, noddy," exclaimed she, when she fully realized the situation of her father, "i shall soon be alone." "don't give up, mollie," replied the cabin-boy sadly. "i have prayed till i fear my prayers are no longer heard," sobbed she. "yes, they are, mollie. don't stop praying," said noddy, who knew that the poor girl had derived a great deal of hope and comfort from her prayers. he had seen her kneel down when she was almost overcome by the horrors which surrounded them, and rise as calm and hopeful as though she had received a message direct from on high. perhaps he had no real faith in her prayers, but he saw what strength she derived from them. certainly they had not warded off the pestilence, which was still seeking new victims on board. but they were the life of mollie's struggling existence; and it was with the utmost sincerity that he had counselled her to continue them. "my father will die!" groaned the poor girl. "nothing can save him now." "no, he won't die. he isn't very bad yet, mollie." "o, yes, he is. he does not speak to me; he does not know me." "he is doing very well, mollie. don't give it up yet." "i feel that he will soon leave me." "no, he won't, mollie. i _know_ he will get well," said noddy, with the most determined emphasis. "how do you know?" "i feel that he will. he isn't half so bad as mr. watts was. cheer up, and he will be all right in a few days." "but think how terrible it would be for my poor father to die, away here in the middle of the ocean," continued mollie, weeping most bitterly, as she thought of the future. "but he will not die; i am just as sure that he will get well, as i am that i am alive now." noddy had no reason whatever for this strong assertion, and he made it only to comfort his friend. it was not made in vain, for the afflicted daughter was willing to cling to any hope, however slight, and the confident words of the boy made an impression upon her. the morrow came, and the captain was decidedly better; but from the forecastle came the gloomy report that two more of the men had been struck down by the disease. there were but three seamen left who were able to do duty, and mr. lincoln, the second mate, was nearly exhausted by watching and anxiety. fortunately, the weather had been fine, and the roebuck had been under all sail, with a fair wind. noddy had obtained a little sleep during the second night of the captain's illness, and he went on deck to report to the mate for duty. he was competent to steer the vessel in a light breeze, and he was permitted to relieve the man at the wheel. he stood his trick of two hours, and then went below, to ascertain the condition of the captain. as he descended the ladder, he discovered the form of mollie extended on one of the lockers. her face was flushed, and she was breathing heavily. noddy was appalled at this sight, for he knew too well what these indications meant. "what is the matter, mollie?" asked he, hardly able to speak the words from the violence of his emotion. "it is my turn now, noddy," replied she, in faint tones. "who will pray for me?" "i will, mollie; but what ails you?" "i am burning up with heat, and perishing with cold. my back feels as if it was broken, and the pain darts up through my neck into my head. i know very well what it means. you will take care of my poor father--won't you, noddy?" "to be sure i will. you must turn in, mollie, and let me take care of you, too," said he, trying to be as calm as the terrible situation required of him. he assisted the stricken maiden to her state-room, and placed her in her berth. taking from the medicine chest the now familiar remedy, he gave her the potion, and tenderly ministered to all her wants. she was very sick, for she had struggled with the destroying malady for hours before she yielded to its insidious advances. "thank you, noddy. i feel better now, and i shall soon be happy. go now and see to my father; don't let him want for anything." "i will not, mollie; i will take first-rate care of him," answered noddy, as he smoothed down the clothing around her neck. "my father is the captain of the ship, you know," added she, with a smile. "he is a great man; bigger than any shark you ever saw." her mind had begun to wander already; and her patient nurse could hardly keep down his tears, as he gazed at her flushed cheeks, and smoothed down the curls upon her neck. she was beautiful to him--too beautiful to die there in mid ocean, with none but rude men to shed great tears over her silent form. how he wished that bertha was there, to watch over that frail little form, and ward off the grim tyrant that was struggling to possess it! she would not fear the pangs of the pestilence; she would be an angel in the little state-room, and bring down peace and hope, if not life, to the lovely sufferer. noddy felt as he had never felt before, not even when the dread monster of the deep had almost snapped up the slight form before him. all the good lessons he had ever learned in his life came to him with a force they had never possessed in the sunny hour of prosperity. he wanted to pray. he felt the need of a strength not his own. mollie could not pray now. her mind was darkened by the shadows of disease. he went out into the cabin. it looked as cheerless, and cold, and gloomy, as the inside of a tomb. but god was there; and though noddy could not speak the words of his prayer, his heart breathed a spirit which the infinite father could understand. he prayed, as he had promised the sick girl he would, and the strength which prayer had given to her was given to him. "here is work for me," said he, as he approached the door of the captain's state-room. "but i am able to do it. i will never give up this work." he did not know what he was to win by this work of love, amid trials and tribulation. he had struggled with the disposition to despond; he had worked like a hero to keep his spirits up; and that which he was called upon to do with his hands was small and trivial compared with that which was done by his mind and heart. he had conquered fear and despair. thus prepared to battle with the giant ills which surrounded him, he entered captain mcclintock's room. chapter xv. the demon of the cup. "is that you, noddy?" asked the captain, faintly. "yes, sir. how do you feel, captain?" "i think i'm a little better. i wish you would ask mollie to come in; i want to see her." "does your head ache now, sir?" asked noddy, who did not like to tell him that his daughter had just been taken with the fever. "not so bad as it did. just speak to mollie." "i think you are ever so much better, sir. you will be out in a day or two." "do you think so, noddy?" "yes, sir; i'm certain you will," answered the boy, who knew that faith was life in the present instance. "i'm glad you think so. i certainly feel a great deal better," replied the captain, as though he was already cheered by the inspiration of hope. "you must be careful, and keep still; and you will be all right in a week, at the most." "i hope so; for i couldn't help thinking, when i was taken down, what a bitter thing it would be to poor mollie if i should die so far from home and friends." "you have got over the worst of it now, captain." "is mollie out in the cabin?" asked the sufferer, persistently returning to the subject near his heart. "no, sir; she is not, just now." "has she gone on deck?" "no, sir." "where is she, noddy?" demanded he, earnestly, as he attempted to raise himself up in his cot. "don't stir, captain; it will make you worse, if you do." "tell me where mollie is at once, or i shall jump out of my berth. is she--is she--" "she is in her room, captain. don't be worried about her," replied noddy, who was afraid that the truth would have a bad effect upon the devoted father. "she laid down a little while ago." "is she dead?" gasped the captain, with a mighty effort to utter the appalling word. "o, no, sir! she was taken sick a little while ago." "o, mercy!" groaned the sick man. "i know it all now." "it's no use to deny it, sir. she has got the fever." "and i lay here helpless!" "she said she felt a little better when i came out. i gave her the medicine, and did everything for her." "i must go to her." "you will worry her to death, if you do, captain. she is more troubled about you than she is about herself. if you lay still, so i can report that you are doing well, it will be the best thing in the world for her. it will do her more good than the medicine." "tell her i am well, noddy!" "it won't do to tell her too much; she won't believe anything, if i do," said noddy, sorely troubled about the moral management of the cases. "tell her i am well, noddy; and i will go and sit by her," replied the sufferer, who was no more able to get out of his bed than he was to cure the fearful disease. "i can't do anything, captain, if you don't keep still in your bed. she is a little out just now; but i think she will do very well, if you only let her alone." captain mcclintock was in an agony of suspense; but noddy succeeded in consoling him so that he promised to remain quietly in his bed. as physician and nurse, as well as friend and comforter, the cabin-boy found his hands full; but he had a heart big enough for the occasion; and all day and all night he went from one patient to another, ministering to their wants with as much skill and judgment as though he had been trained in a sick room. mollie grow worse as the hours wore heavily away; but this was to be expected, and the patient nurse was not discouraged by the progressive indications of the disease. towards morning the captain went to sleep; but it required all the faithful boy's energies to keep mollie in her bed, as she raved with the heated brain of the malady. in the morning one of the seamen was reported out of danger, and the others in a hopeful condition. noddy was completely exhausted by his labors and his solicitude. mr. lincoln saw that he could endure no more; and as he had obtained a few hours' sleep on deck during the night, he insisted that the weary boy should have some rest, while he took care of the sick. noddy crawled into his berth, and not even his anxiety for poor mollie could keep him awake any longer. he slept heavily, and the considerate mate did not wake him till dinner-time, when he sprang from his berth and hastened to the couch of the sick girl. another day passed, and mollie began to exhibit some hopeful symptoms. her father was still improving. the patients in the forecastle were also getting better. noddy felt that no more of the roebuck's people were to be cast into the sea. hope gave him new life. he was rested and refreshed by the bright prospect quite as much as by the sleep which the kindness of mr. lincoln enabled him to obtain. the schooner still sped on her course with favoring breezes; while noddy, patient and hopeful, performed the various duties which the fell disease imposed upon him. he had not regarded the danger of taking the fever himself. he had no thought now for any one but poor mollie, who was daily improving. one by one the crew, who had been stricken down with the malady, returned to the deck; but it was a long time before they were able to do their full measure of duty. in a week after mollie was taken sick, her father was able to sit a portion of the day by her side; and a few days later, she was able to sit up for a few moments. the terrible scourge had wasted itself; but the chief mate and three of the crew had fallen victims to the sad visitation. yellow fever patients convalesce very slowly; and it was a fortnight before captain mcclintock was able to go on deck; but at the same time, mollie, weak and attenuated by her sufferings, was helped up the ladder by her devoted friend and nurse. the cloud had passed away from the vessel, and everybody on board was as happy as though disease and death had never invaded those wooden walls. but the happiness was toned to the circumstances. hearts had been purified by suffering. neither the officers nor the men swore; they spoke to each other in gentle tones, as though the tribulations through which they had passed had softened their hearts, and bound them together in a holier than earthly affection. as mr. watts and three sailors had died, the vessel was short-handed, but not crippled; and the captain decided to prosecute his voyage without putting into any port for assistance. mr. lincoln was appointed chief mate, and a second mate was selected from the forecastle. everything went along as before the storm burst upon the devoted vessel. "how happy i am, noddy!" exclaimed mollie, as they sat on deck one afternoon, when she had nearly recovered her strength. "my father was saved, and i am saved. how grateful i am!" "so am i, mollie," replied noddy. "and how much we both owe to you! wasn't it strange you didn't take the fever?" "i think it was." "were you not afraid of it?" "i didn't think anything about it, any way; but i feel just as though i had gone through with the fever, or something else." "why?" "i don't know; everything looks odd and strange to me. i don't feel like the same fellow." mollie persisted in her desire to know how the cabin-boy felt, and noddy found it exceedingly difficult to describe his feelings. much of the religious impressions which he had derived from the days of tribulation still clung to him. his views of life and death had changed. many of bertha's teachings, which he could not understand before, were very plain to him now. he did not believe it would be possible for him to do anything wrong again. hopes and fears had been his incentives to duty before; principle had grown up in his soul now. the experience of years seemed to be crowded into the few short days when gloom and death reigned in the vessel. the roebuck sped on her way, generally favored with good weather and fair winds. she was a stanch vessel, and behaved well in the few storms she encountered. she doubled cape horn without subjecting her crew to any severe hardships, and sped on her way to more genial climes. for several weeks after his recovery, captain mcclintock kept very steady, and mollie hoped that the "evil days" had passed by. it was a vain hope; for when the schooner entered the pacific, his excesses were again apparent. he went on from bad to worse, till he was sober hardly a single hour of the day. in vain did mollie plead with him; in vain she reminded him of the time when they had both lain at death's door; in vain she assured him that she feared the bottle more than the fever. he was infatuated by the demon of the cup, and seemed to have no moral power left. the roebuck was approaching the thick clusters of islands that stud the pacific; and it was important that the vessel should be skilfully navigated. mr. lincoln was a good seaman, but he was not a navigator; that is, he was not competent to find the latitude and longitude, and lay down the ship's position on the chart. the captain was seldom in condition to make an observation, and the schooner was in peril of being dashed to pieces on the rocks. the mate was fully alive to the difficulties of his position; and he told mollie what must be the consequences of her father's continued neglect. the sea in which they were then sailing was full of islands and coral reefs. there were indications of a storm, and he could not save the vessel without knowing where she was. "noddy," said the troubled maiden, after mr. lincoln had explained the situation to her, "i want you to help me." "i'm ready," replied he, with his usual promptness. "we are going to ruin. my poor father is in a terrible state, and i am going to do something." "what can you do?" "you shall help me, but i will bear all the blame." "you would not do anything wrong, and i am willing to bear the blame with you." "never mind that; we are going to do what's right, and we will not say a word about the blame. now come with me," she continued, leading the way to the cabin. "i am willing to do anything that is right, wherever the blame falls." "we must save the vessel, for the mate says she is in great danger. there is a storm coming, and mr. lincoln don't know where we are. father hasn't taken an observation for four days." "well, are you going to take one?" asked noddy, who was rather bewildered by mollie's statement of the perils of the vessel. "no; but i intend that father shall to-morrow." "what are you going to do?" she opened the pantry door, and took from the shelf a bottle of gin. "take this, noddy, and throw it overboard," said she, handing him the bottle. "i'll do that;" and he went to the bull's eye, in molli's state-room, and dropped it into the sea. "that's only a part of the work," said she, as she opened one of the lockers in the cabin, which was stowed full of liquors. she passed them out, two at a time, and noddy dropped them all into the ocean. captain mcclintock was lying in his state-room, in a helpless state of intoxication, so that there was no fear of interruption from him. every bottle of wine, ale, and liquor which the cabin contained was thrown overboard. noddy thought that the sharks, which swallow everything that falls overboard, would all get "tight;" but he hoped they would break the bottles before they swallowed them. the work was done, and everything which could intoxicate was gone; at least everything which mollie and the cabin-boy could find. they did not tell mr. lincoln what they had done, for they did not wish to make him a party to the transaction. they were satisfied with their work. the vessel would be saved if the storm held off twelve hours longer. the captain rose early the next morning, and noddy, from his berth, saw him go to the pantry for his morning dram. there was no bottle there. he went to the locker; there was none there. he searched, without success, in all the lockers and berths of the cabin. while he was engaged in the search, mollie, who had heard him, came out of her room. the captain's hand shook, and his whole frame trembled from the effects of his long-inebriation. his nerves were shattered, and nothing but liquor could quiet them. mollie could not help crying when she saw to what a state her father had been reduced. he was pale and haggard; and when he tried to raise a glass of water to his lips his trembling hand refused its office, and he spilled it on the floor. "where is all the liquor, mollie?" he asked, in shaken, hollow tones. "i have thrown it all overboard," she replied, firmly. he was too weak to be angry with her; and she proceeded to tell him what must be the fate of the vessel, and of all on board, if he did not attend to his duty. he listened, and promised not to drink another drop; for he knew then, even when his shattered reason held but partial sway, that he would be the murderer of his daughter and of his crew, if the vessel was wrecked by his neglect. he meant to keep his promise; but the gnawing appetite, which he had fostered and cherished until it became a demon, would not let him do so. in the forenoon, goaded by the insatiate thirst that beset him, he went into the hold, which could be entered from the cabin, and opened a case of liquors, forming part of the cargo. he drank long and deep, and lay down upon the merchandise, that he might be near this demon. twelve o'clock came, and no observation could be taken. mollie looked for her father, and with noddy's help she found him in the hold, senseless in his inebriation. mr. lincoln was called down, and he was conveyed to his berth. the liquor was thrown overboard, but it was too late; before dark the gale broke upon the roebuck, and fear and trembling were again in the vessel. chapter xvi. night and storm. sudden and severe was the gale which came down upon the roebuck, while her captain was besotted and helpless in his berth. mr. lincoln did all that a skilful seaman could do, and while the wind and the waves were the only perils against which the schooner had to contend, there was no serious alarm for her safety. the night had come, and the time had passed by when even captain mcclintock could do anything more than the mate. mr. lincoln had kept the "dead reckoning" as well as he could without any knowledge of the currents; and it was evident that the vessel was in a perilous situation, and not far distant from the region of islands and coral reefs. the first hours of the stormy night wore gloomily away, for none knew at what moment the schooner might be dashed to pieces upon some hidden rock. when the captain revived a little from the stupor of intoxication, he seemed not to heed the situation of the vessel. taking the cabin lantern, he went into the hold again. his only thought seemed to be of the liquor on which he lived. all the cases that mollie and noddy could find had been thrown overboard; but the drunkard overhauled the cargo till he found what he wanted, and taking a bottle of gin to his state-room, he was soon as senseless as the fiery fluid could make him. mollie did all that she could do under these trying circumstances; she prayed that the good father who had saved them before, would be with them now; and she knew that the strong arm of omnipotence could move far from them the perils with which they were surrounded. she felt better every time she prayed. but the storm increased in fury, and she knew not the purposes of the infinite in regard to them. "i am afraid we shall never see the light of another day, noddy," said she, as the great seas struck with stunning force against the side of the vessel. "why not? we have been out in a worse gale than this," replied noddy, who felt that it was his peculiar office to keep hope alive in the heart of his gentle companion. "but we may be in the midst of the rocks and shoals." "we shall do very well, mollie. don't give it up." "i don't give it up; but i am ready for anything. i want to be resigned to my fate whenever it comes." "don't be so blue about it, mollie. it will be all right with us in the morning." "you heard what mr. lincoln said, and you know we are in great danger." "perhaps we are." "you know we are, noddy." "well, we are; but for all that, the vessel will ride out the gale, and to-morrow you will laugh to think how scared you were." "i am not scared; i am ready to die. promise me one thing, noddy." "anything," answered he, promptly. "you will not blame my father if the vessel is lost. he is insane; he can't help what he does. he never did so before, and i know he don't mean to do wrong." "i suppose he don't, and i won't blame him, whatever happens," replied he, willing to comfort the poor girl in any way he could. "i should not care so much if it didn't look as though it was all father's fault." "it will be all right to-morrow. we will throw the rest of the liquor overboard. we will search through the hold, and not leave a single bottle of anything there. then we shall be safe." "it will be too late then," sighed mollie. "no, it won't; the vessel will be saved. i _know_ it will," added noddy, resolutely. "you don't know." "yes, i do; i am just as certain of it as i am of my own existence." noddy had hardly uttered these confident words, before a tremendous shock threw them upon the cabin floor. it was followed by a terrible crashing sound, as though every timber in the vessel had been rent and broken; and they could hear the rush of waters, as the torrents poured in through the broken sides. noddy, without stopping to think of the vain prophecy he had made, seized the light form of mollie, and bore her to the deck. the sea was running riot there; the great waves swept over the deck with a force which no human strength could resist, and noddy was compelled to retreat to the cabin again. the lantern still swung from a deck beam, but the water had risen in the cabin so that his descent was prevented. the roebuck had run upon a reef or shoal in such a manner that her bow was projected far out of the water, while her stern was almost submerged in the waves. noddy's quick perception enabled him to comprehend the position of the vessel, and he placed his charge on the companion ladder, which was protected in a measure from the force of the sea by the hatch, closed on the top, and open only on the front. "my father!" gasped mollie. "save him, noddy!" "i will try," replied noddy. "hold on tight," added he, as a heavy volume of water rolled down the companion-way. "save him, and don't mind me," groaned the poor girl, unselfish to the last. the brave boy stepped down to the cabin floor, where the water was up to his hips. creeping on the top of the lockers, and holding on to the front of the berths, he reached the door of the captain's state-room. in this part of the vessel the water had risen nearly to the top of the door, and the berth in which the unfortunate inebriate lay was entirely beneath its surface. he crawled into the room, and put his hand into the berth. the captain was not there. the water was still rising, and noddy had no doubt that the poor man had already perished. the shock of the collision when the schooner struck, or the rising waters, had forced him from his position on the bed. the water was over noddy's head in the state-room; but the agony of mollie induced him to make a desperate effort to save her father. he dropped down on the floor, and felt about with his feet, till he found the body. the question was settled. captain mcclintock was dead. he was one of the first victims of his criminal neglect. it was not safe to remain longer in the state-room, even if there had been any motive for doing so, and noddy worked his way forward again as he had come. he found mollie still clinging to the ladder, suffering everything on account of her father, and nothing for herself. "my poor father!" said she, when she discovered her friend coming back without him. "where is he, noddy?" "i couldn't do anything for him, mollie," replied he. "is he lost?" "he is gone, mollie; and it was all over with him before i got there. don't cry. he is out of trouble now." "poor father," sobbed she. "couldn't you save him? let me go and help you." "no use, mollie," added noddy, as he climbed up the ladder, and looked out through the aperture at the hatch. "are you sure we can't do anything for him?" she asked, in trembling tones. "nothing, mollie. he was dead when i opened the door of his room. i found him on the floor, and had to go down over my head to find him. he did not move or struggle, and i'm sure he is dead. i am sorry, but i can't help it." "o, dear, dear!" groaned she, in her anguish. she heeded not the cracking timbers and the roaring sea. her heart was with the unfortunate man who lay cold and still beneath the invading waters. she was ready to go with him to the home in the silent land. "you hold on tight a little while, and i will go on deck, and see if i can make out where we are," said noddy. "it matters little to me where we are. i shall soon be with my father," replied mollie. "don't say that. your father is at rest now." "and i shall soon be at rest with him. do you hear those terrible waves beat against the vessel? they will break her in pieces in a few moments more." "perhaps they will, and perhaps they won't. you mustn't give up, mollie. if i should lose you now, i shouldn't care what became of me." "you have been very good to me, noddy; and i hope god will bless you." "i want to save you if i can." "you cannot, noddy, in this terrible storm. we are poor weak children, and we can do nothing." "but i am bound to work and win. i shall not give it up yet, mollie. we have struck upon a rock or a shoal, and the land can't be a great ways off." "such an awful sea! we could never reach the land." "we can try--can't we?" "where is mr. lincoln?" "i don't know. i have not heard a sound but the noise of the sea since the vessel struck. i suppose he and the rest of the men were washed overboard." "how horrible!" "i don't know. they may have left in one of the boats." "i haven't any courage, noddy. my poor father is gone, and i don't feel as though it made any difference what became of me." "don't talk so, mollie. save yourself for my sake, if you don't for your own." "what can we do?" asked she, blankly, for the situation seemed utterly hopeless. "i don't know; i will see," replied noddy, as he crawled through the aperture, and reached the deck. a huge wave struck him as he rose upon his feet, and bore him down to the lee side of the vessel; but he grasped the shrouds, and saved himself from being hurled into the abyss of waters that boiled in the fury of the storm on both sides of the stranded schooner. he ran up the shrouds a short distance, and tried to penetrate the gloom of the night. he could see nothing but the white froth on the waves, which beat on all sides. there was no land to be seen ahead, as he had expected, and it was evident that the roebuck had struck on a shoal, at some distance from any shore. it was impossible to walk forward on the deck, for the savage waves that broke over the vessel would have carried him overboard. the sight suggested the manner in which the men had so suddenly disappeared. they had probably been swept away the moment the vessel struck. the rigging of the schooner was all standing, and noddy decided to go forward to ascertain if there was any comfortable position there for mollie. he went to the main-mast head, and, by the spring-stay, reached the fore-mast. descending by the fore-shrouds, he reached the forecastle of the schooner. the bow had been thrown up so high on the shoal that the sea did not break over this part of the vessel with anything like the force it did farther aft. the hatch was on the fore-scuttle, and it was possible that the men had taken refuge in the forecastle. removing the hatch, he called the names of mr. lincoln and others; but there was no response. he then went down, and attempted to make his way aft through the hold. this was impossible, and he was obliged to return by the way he had come. "my poor father!" sighed mollie, as noddy reached the ladder to which she was clinging; "i shall never see you again." "come, mollie. i want you to go with me now," said he, taking her by the arm. "did you find any of the crew?" she asked. "not a single one." "poor men!" "i am afraid they are all drowned; but we may be saved if we only work. if we stay here we shall certainly be lost. if the sea should carry off the companion-hatch, we should be drowned out in spite of all we could do." "what can we do?" "we must go forward." "that is impossible for me, noddy." "no, it isn't." "save yourself, noddy, if you can. i do not feel like doing anything." "i shall stay by you, and if you are lost i shall be lost with you." "then i will go with you, and do anything you say," said she, earnestly; for when the life of another was at stake, she was willing to put forth any exertion. "the vessel holds together first-rate, and if we stick by her till morning, we may find some way to save ourselves. don't give it up, mollie. work and win; that's my motto, you know." "i am ready to work with you, noddy, whether you win or not." the persevering boy got a rope, which he made fast around the little girl's body, and watching his time, at the intervals of the breaking waves, he bore her to the main shrouds. she went up to the mast head without much difficulty, though the force of the wind was so great that noddy had to hold on to her, to keep her from being blown from the ropes. at this point he made a sling for her on the spring-stay, in which she sat as a child does in a swing. it was adjusted to the big rope so that it would slip along, and permit her to hold on to the stay with her hands. the vessel seemed to be so wedged in the rocks or sand, on which she had struck, that she did not roll, and the only obstacle to a safe passage from one mast to the other, was the violence of the gale. by noddy's careful and skilful management, the transit was made in safety through the most imminent peril. the descent to the deck, forward, was more easily accomplished, and the heroic youth soon had the pleasure of seeing his gentle charge safe, for the present, in the forecastle. he had worked and won, so far. he was satisfied with the past, and hopeful of the future. having conducted mollie to a safe place, he turned his attention once more to the situation of the vessel. looking over the bow, he discovered the dark, ragged rocks, rising a few feet above the water, on which she had struck, but he could not see any land. chapter xvii. after the storm. the roebuck had been built, under the direction of captain mcclintock, for the voyage around cape horn. she was a new vessel, and of extra strength, and she held together in spite of the hard thumping she received on the rocks. as she struck, a hole was knocked in her bottom; but her bow had been forced so far up on the rocks that the water which she made all settled aft. with tender care noddy had wrapped up his frail companion in a pea jacket he found in the forecastle, and together they waited anxiously for the morning light. the waves beat fiercely against the side of the vessel, pounded on the decks as they rolled over the bulwarks; and the survivors were in continual fear that each moment would witness the destruction of their ark of safety. noddy had made the best arrangements he could for a speedy exit, in case the worst should be realized. with the first signs of daylight noddy was on deck endeavoring to obtain a better knowledge of the location of the wreck. it seemed to him then that the force of the gale had abated, though the sea was hardly less savage than it had been during the night. as the day dawned, he discovered the outline of some dark object, apparently half a mile distant. he watched this sombre pile till there was light enough to satisfy him that it was an island. "hurrah!" shouted noddy,--forgetting, in the joy of this discovery, that death and destruction had reigned on board the roebuck. "what is it?" asked mollie, hardly moved by the gladness of her companion. "land ho!" replied he, as he descended the ladder to the forecastle. "where is it?" said she, languidly, as though she did not feel much interested in the announcement. "right over here, about half a mile off." "it might as well be a thousand miles off; for we can never get there." "o, yes, we can. we have the boat on deck. i'm afraid you are discouraged, mollie." "i can't help thinking of poor father," said she, bursting into tears again. noddy comforted her as well as he could. he told her she ought not to repine at the will of god, who had saved her, though he had permitted her father to be lost; that she ought to be grateful for her own preservation; and, what seemed to be the strongest argument to him, that weeping and "taking on" would do no good. he was but a poor comforter, and only repeated what he had often heard her say in the dark hours of their former tribulation. her father was dead, and she could not help weeping. whatever were his faults, and however great had been the error which had brought her to the present extremity, he was her father. in his sober days he had loved her tenderly and devotedly; and it seemed like sacrilege to her to dry the tears which so readily and so freely flowed. they were the natural tribute of affection from a child to a lost parent. noddy did not dare to say all he believed, for he was convinced that the death of the captain was a blessing to himself and to his daughter. he was so besotted by the demon that life could henceforth be only a misery to him, and a stumbling-block to her. it required no great faith for him to believe, in the present instance, that the good father doeth all things well. the daylight came, and with it the hope of brighter hours. the clouds were breaking away, and the winds subsided almost as suddenly as they had risen. still the waves broke fiercely over the wreck, and it was impossible to take any steps towards reaching the land, whose green hills and bright valleys gladdened the heart of the storm-tossed sailor-boy. with an axe which he found in the forecastle, he knocked away a couple of the planks of the bulkhead which divided the seamen's quarters from the hold. he passed through, by moving a portion of the miscellaneous cargo, to the cabin, where he obtained some water, some ship bread, and boiled beef. poor mollie had no appetite; but to please her anxious friend, she ate half a biscuit. they passed the forenoon in the forecastle, talking of the past and the future; but the thoughts of the bereaved daughter continually reverted to her father. she talked of him; of what he had been to her, and of the bright hopes which she had cherished of the future. she was positive she should never be happy again. after much persuasion, noddy induced her to lie down in one of the bunks, and being thoroughly exhausted by anxiety and the loss of rest, she went to sleep, which gave her patient friend a great deal of satisfaction. she slept, and noddy went on deck again. the waves had now subsided, so that he could go aft. he found that the jolly-boat was gone from the stern davits. at first he supposed it had been washed away by the heavy sea; but a further examination convinced him that it had been lowered by the men. it was possible, if not probable, the crew had taken to the boat, and he might find them on the island, or a portion of them, for it was hardly to be expected that the whole crew had escaped. from the deck he went below. he had anticipated that the fall of the tide would enable him to enter the state-room of the captain; but there was no perceptible change in the height of the water. in this locality the whole range of the tide was not more than a foot. there were many things which might be of great value to mollie, if they ever escaped from this region, and he was anxious to save them for her use. the captain had a considerable sum of money in gold and silver. the cabin-boy, knowing where it was, set himself at work to obtain it. he was obliged to dive several times before he succeeded; but at last he brought it up, and deposited it in the safest place he could find. other articles of value were saved in the same manner, including the captain's chronometer and sextant, the sad neglect of which had caused the terrible disaster. towards night a change in the wind "knocked down" the sea, and the waves no longer dashed against the shattered vessel. the galley had been washed away; but the boat on deck, though thrown from the blocks, was still uninjured; and noddy was sorely perplexed to find a means of getting it overboard. it was too late, and he was too tired to accomplish anything that night. mollie was awake when he went to the forecastle again; and rest and refreshment had made her more cheerful and more hopeful. she spoke with greater interest of the future, and dwelt less mournfully on the sad event which had made her an orphan. noddy told her his plans for the morrow; that he intended to launch the long-boat, and visit the island the next day; that he would build a house for her; and that they would be happy there till some passing whaler picked them up. the tired boy, now secure of life, went to sleep. his fair companion wept again, as she thought of the pleasant days when her father had been a joy to every hour of her existence; but she, too, went to sleep, with none to watch over her but the good father who had saved her in all the perils through which she had passed. the sun rose clear and bright the next morning, and noddy went on deck to prepare their simple breakfast. he had constructed a fireplace of iron plates, and he boiled some water to make tea. mollie soon joined him; and sad as she still was, she insisted that the cooking was her duty. she performed it, while noddy employed himself in devising some plan by which, with his feeble powers, he could hoist the heavy boat into the water. the bulwarks had been partially stove on one side, and he cleared away the wreck till there was nothing to obstruct the passage of the boat over the side. they sat down on the deck to eat their breakfast; and during the meal noddy was very quiet and thoughtful. occasionally he cast his eyes up at the rigging over their heads. mollie could not help looking at him. she had a great admiration for him; he had been so kind to her, and so brave and cheerful in the discharge of the duties which the awful catastrophe imposed upon him. besides, he was her only friend--her only hope now. "what are you thinking about, noddy?" asked she, perplexed by his unusually meditative mood. "i was thinking how i should get the boat into the water." "you can't get it into the water. what can a small boy like you do with a great boat like that?" "i think i can manage it somehow." "i am afraid not." "don't give it up, mollie; our salvation depends on that boat. i found out something more, when i went aloft this morning." "what?" "there is another island off here to the northward, just as far as you can see. we may wish to go there, and the boat would be wanted then." "noddy, perhaps there are savages on those islands, who will kill us if we go on shore." "two can play at that game," replied noddy, in his confident tone. "what could a boy like you do against a mob of indians?" "there are two or three pistols in the cabin, and i think i know how to use them; at any rate i shall not be butchered, nor let you be, without showing them what i am made of," answered noddy, as he rose from the planks, and turned his attention once more to the moving of the boat. "you wouldn't shoot them--would you?" "not if i could help it. i shouldn't want to shoot them; and i won't do it, if they behave themselves. but i must go to work on the boat now." "let me help you, noddy, i am real strong, and i can do a great deal." "i will tell you when you can help me, mollie, for i may need a little assistance." "i don't see how you are going to do this job." "i will show you in a moment," replied noddy, as he ran up the main shrouds. he carried a small hatchet in his belt, with which he detached the starboard fore-brace from the mast. this was a rope, the end of which was tied to the main-mast, and extended through a single sheaf-block at the starboard fore-yard-arm. after passing through this block, the brace returned to the main-mast, passed through another block, and led down upon the deck. there was another rope of the same kind on the port side of the vessel. they were used to swing round the yard, in order to place the sail so that it would draw in the wind. when noddy cut it loose, the brace dropped to the deck. it was now simply a rope passing through a single block at the end of the yard. the little engineer made fast one end of the brace to the ring in the bow of the boat. he then unhooked the peak halliards of the fore-sail, and attached them to the ring in the stern of the boat. now, if he had had the strength, he would have pulled on the yard-arm rope till he dragged the bow out over the water; the stern line being intended merely to steady the boat, if necessary, and keep it from jamming against the mast. when he had drawn the bow out as far as he could with the brace, he meant to attach the same rope to the stern, and complete the job. "that's all very pretty," said mollie, who had carefully noticed all her companion's proceedings; "but you and i can't hoist the boat up with that rigging." "i know that, mollie," replied noddy, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "i haven't done yet." "i am afraid you won't make out, noddy." "yes, i shall. work and win; that's the idea." "you are working very hard, and i hope you will win." "did you know i made an improvement on miss bertha's maxim?" "indeed! what?" "he that works shall win." "that's very encouraging; but it isn't always true." "it is when you work in the right way," answered noddy, as he took the end of the yard-arm rope, and, after passing it through a snatch-block, began to wind it around the barrel of the small capstan on the forecastle. "perhaps you haven't got the right way." "if i haven't i shall try again, and keep trying till i do get it," replied noddy, as he handed mollie the end of the rope which he had wound four times round the capstan. "do you think you can hold this rope and take in the slack?" "i am afraid there will not be any to take in; but i can hold it, if there is," said she, satirically, but without even a smile. noddy inserted one of the capstan bars, and attempted to "walk round;" but his feeble powers were not sufficient to move the boat a single inch. he tightened up the rope, and that was all he could accomplish. "i was afraid you could not stir it," said mollie; but her tones were full of sympathy for her companion in his disappointment. he struggled in vain for a time; but it required a little more engineering to make the machinery move. taking a "gun-tackle purchase," or "tackle and fall," as it is called on shore, he attached one hook to the extreme end of the capstan bar, and the other to the rail. this added power accomplished the work; and he made the capstan revolve with ease, though the business went on very slowly. he was obliged to shift back the bar four times for every revolution of the barrel. but the boat moved forward, and that was success. he persevered, and skill and labor finally accomplished the difficult task. the boat floated in the water alongside the wreck. he had worked; he had won. chapter xviii. the beautiful island. "there, mollie, what do you think now!" exclaimed the youthful engineer, as he made fast the painter of the boat to a ring in the deck of the schooner. "you have worked very hard, noddy, but you have succeeded. you must be very tired." "i am tired, for i have done a hard day's work." "you ought to rest now." "i think i will. we are in no hurry, for we are very comfortable here, and storms don't come very often." it was late in the afternoon when the work of getting out the boat was finished. noddy had labored very hard, and he was perfectly willing to rest during the remainder of the day. mollie made some tea, and they had supper at an early hour. it was a remarkably pleasant day, and the air was as soft and balmy as a poet's dream. both the young workers were very much fatigued, and they sat upon the deck till dark. "where is my father now?" asked mollie, as she cast a nervous glance towards the beautiful island which they hoped to reach on the following day. "where is he?" repeated noddy, surprised at the question, and not knowing what she meant. "i mean his remains." "in his state-room," answered noddy, very reluctant to have the subject considered. "will you do one thing more for me, noddy?" demanded she, earnestly and impressively. "certainly, i will, mollie." "it shall be the last thing i shall ask you to do for me." "don't say that, for i've always been ready to do everything you wished me to do." "i know you have, noddy; and you work so hard that i don't feel like asking you to do any extra labor." "i will do anything you wish, mollie. you needn't be afraid to ask me, either. if you knew how much pleasure it gives me to work for you, i'm sure you would keep me busy all the time." "i don't wish to wear you out, and you may think this is useless work." "i'm sure i shall not, if you want it done." "if you knew how sad it makes me feel to think of my poor father lying in the water there, you would understand me," added she, bursting into tears. "i know what you mean, mollie, and it shall be done the first thing to-morrow." "thank you, noddy. you are so good and so kind! i hope i shall see miss bertha, some time, and tell her what you have done for me," continued she, wiping away her tears. they retired to the forecastle soon after dark; and when mollie had said her simple prayer for both of them, they lay down in the bunks, and were soon asleep. noddy's first work the next morning was to rig a mast and sail for the long-boat. in this labor he was assisted by mollie, who sewed diligently on the sail all the forenoon. while she was thus engaged, noddy, without telling her what he was going to do, went into the cabin, carrying a boat-hook, and, with a feeling of awe amounting almost to superstitious terror, proceeded to fish up the body of captain mcclintock. he knew just where it lay, and had no difficulty in accomplishing the task. he dragged the remains out into the cabin, and floated the corpse in the water to the foot of the ladder. it was an awful duty for him to perform; and when he saw the ghastly, bloated face, he was disposed to flee in terror from the spot. noddy was strong for his years, or he could not have placed the body on the locker, out of the reach of the water. he prepared the remains for burial precisely as those of mr. watts had been. the most difficult part of the task was yet to be performed--to get the corpse on deck, and lower it into the boat. he procured a long box in the hold, from which he removed the merchandise, and found that it would answer the purpose of a coffin. by much hard lifting, and by resorting to various expedients, he placed the remains in the box and nailed down the lid. he felt easier now, for the face of the corpse no longer glared at him. when he had bent on the sail, and shipped the rudder, he contrived to set mollie at work in the forecastle, where she could not see what he was doing; for he thought his work must be revolting to her feelings, especially as it would be very clumsily performed. having put a sling on the box, he rigged a purchase, and hoisted it out of the cabin. then, with suitable rigging, he lowered it into the boat, placing it across the thwarts, amidships. "come, mollie," said he, in a gentle, subdued tone, at the fore-scuttle. "what, noddy?" asked she, impressed by his voice, and by his manner, as she came up from below. "we will go on shore now." "to-day?" "yes; but we will return. the boat is ready, and i have done what you asked me to do." "what?" "your father." she was awed by his manner, and did not readily understand what he meant. he pointed to the long box in the boat, and she comprehended the loving labor he had performed. she did not inquire how he had accomplished the task, and did not think of the difficulties which attended it. noddy did not allude to them. "i am ready, noddy; but can you get me the prayer-book?" said she, her eyes filling with tears, as she prepared to perform the pious duty which the exigencies of the occasion required of her. the book was fortunately on a shelf to which the water had not risen, and he brought it up and gave it to her. he had before placed a pick and shovel, an axe, a couple of boards and some cords in the boat. he helped her to a seat in the stern-sheets, and shoved off. there was hardly a breath of wind, and noddy sculled the boat towards an opening in the reef, which was of coral, and surrounded the island. the afflicted daughter gazed in silent grief at the box, and did not speak a word till the boat entered a little inlet, which noddy had chosen as a landing-place. he stepped on shore, and secured the boat to a bush which grew on the bank. mollie followed him in silence, and selected a place for the grave. it was at the foot of a cocoa palm. the spot was as beautiful as the heart could desire for such a holy purpose; and noddy commenced his work. the soil was light and loose, and after much severe labor, he made a grave about three feet deep. it would be impossible for him to lower the box into the grave; and, from one end, he dug out an inclined plane, down which he could roll the corpse to its final resting-place. it required all his skill, strength, and ingenuity to disembark the box; but this was finally accomplished, with such assistance as the weeping daughter could render. the rude coffin was then moved on rollers to the foot of the tree, and deposited in the grave. mollie opened the book to the funeral prayer, and handed it to her companion. severe as the labor he had performed had been, he regarded this as far more trying. he could not refuse, when he saw the poor girl, weeping as though her heart would break, kneel down at the head of the grave. fortunately he had read this prayer many times since it had been used at the obsequies of mr. watts, and it was familiar to him. awed and impressed by the solemn task imposed upon him, he read the prayer in trembling, husky tones. but he was more earnest and sincere than many who read the same service in christian lands. it touched his own heart, and again the good father seemed to be very near to him. the reading was finished, and the loving girl, not content with what had been done, gathered wild flowers, rich and luxuriant in that sunny clime, and showered them, as a tribute of affection, on the rough coffin. noddy filled up the trench first, and then, amid the sobs of the poor child, covered all that remained of her father. with what art he possessed he arranged the green sods, as he had seen them in the graveyard at whitestone. mollie covered the spot with flowers, and then seemed loath to leave the grave. from the beginning, noddy had trembled lest she should ask to look once more on the face of the departed. he had been horrified at the sight himself, and he knew that the distorted visage would haunt her dreams if she was permitted to gaze upon it; but she did not ask to take that last look. though she said nothing about it, she seemed to feel, instinctively, that the face was not that she had loved, which had smiled upon her, and which was still present in her remembrance. "come, mollie, it is almost dark, and we must go now," said he, tenderly, when he had waited some time for her. "i am ready, noddy; and you cannot tell how much better i feel now that my poor father sleeps in a grave on the land--on the beautiful island!" replied she, as she followed him to the boat. "you have been very kind to do what you have. it has cost you a whole day's labor." "it is the best day's work i have done, mollie, if it makes you feel better," replied noddy, as he hoisted the sail. they did not reach the wreck till it was quite dark, for the wind was light. mollie was more cheerful than she had been since the vessel struck. she had performed a religious duty, which was very consoling to her feelings in her affliction; and noddy hoped that even her sadness would wear away amid the active employments which would be required of her. in the morning, noddy loaded the boat with provisions, and such useful articles as they would need most on the island, and in the middle of the forenoon they again sailed for the land. they entered the little inlet, and moored the boat in a convenient place, for it was decided that they should explore the island before the goods were landed. "we are real robinson crusoes now, noddy," said mollie, as they stepped on shore. "who's he?" she told him who crusoe was, and some of the main features of his residence on the lonely island. she was surprised to learn that he had never read the story. "but we have everything we can possibly need, while crusoe had scarcely anything. we have provisions enough in the vessel to last us a year," added she. "we shall do very well. i don't think we shall have to stay here long. there are whale ships in all parts of the south seas, and if they don't come to us, we can go to them, for we have a first-rate boat." they walked up the hill which rose from the little plain by the sea-side, where they found a small table-land. but it did not take them long to explore the island, for it was hardly a mile in diameter. portions of it were covered with trees, whose shape and foliage were new and strange to the visitors. no inhabitants dwelt in this little paradise; but the reason was soon apparent to noddy; for, when mollie was thirsty, their search for water was unavailing. there was none on the island. this was an appalling discovery, and noddy began to consider the situation of the water casks on board the wreck. they returned to the boat, and having selected a suitable spot, the goods were landed, and carefully secured under a sail-cloth brought off for the purpose. for two weeks noddy labored diligently in bringing off the most serviceable goods from the wreck. he had constructed a tent on shore, and they made their home on the island. for the present there was nothing but hard work, for a storm might come and break up the schooner. noddy rigged a series of pulleys, which enabled him to handle the water casks with ease. other heavy articles were managed in the same way. farther up the inlet than his first landing-place he found a tree near the shore, to which he attached his ropes and blocks, to hoist the barrels out of the boat. we are sorry that our space does not permit a minute description of these contrivances, for many of them were very ingenious. the labor was hard, and the progress often very slow; but noddy enjoyed the fruit of his expedients, and was happy in each new triumph he achieved. he had found a joy in work which did not exist in play. "now, mollie, we must build a house," said he, when he had brought off sufficient supplies from the wreck. "do you think you can make a house, noddy?" "i know i can." "well, i suppose you can. i think you can do anything you try to do." "i have brought off all the boards i could get out of the wreck, and i am sure i can build a very nice house." the work was immediately commenced. near the spot selected for the mansion of the exiles there was a grove of small trees. the wood was light and soft, and noddy found that he could fell the trees with his sharp hatchet quickly and easily. four posts, with a crotch in the top of each, were set in the ground, forming the corners of the house. the frame was secured with nails and with ropes. the sides and the roof were then covered with the hibiscus from the grove. noddy worked like a hero at his task, and mollie watched him with the most intense interest; for he would not permit her to perform any of the hard labor. the frame was up, and covered, but the house was like a sieve. it was the intention of the master builder to cover the roof with tough sods, and plaster up the crevices in the sides with mud. but mollie thought the fore-topsail of the schooner would be better than sods and mud, though it was not half so romantic. they had whole casks of nails, small and large, and the sail was finally chosen, and securely nailed upon the roof and sides. a floor was made of the boards, and the house banked up so as to turn the water away from it when it rained. two rooms, one for each of the exiles, were partitioned off with sail-cloth. a bunk was made in each, which was supplied with a berth-sack and bed-clothes from the schooner. besides these two rooms, there was one apartment for general purposes. this important work occupied three weeks; but it was perfectly luxurious when completed. chapter xix. the visitors. the house was finished, and the satisfaction which it afforded to the young exiles cannot be expressed in words. noddy had exercised his ingenuity in the construction of a fireplace, a chimney, and a table. the stern-lights of the roebuck furnished the windows of the principal apartment; while single panes of glass, obtained from the assorted cargo of the vessel, admitted the light to the sleeping-rooms. they had knives, forks, spoons, dishes, and cooking utensils in abundance. everything they wanted was at hand; and in this respect they differed from all the crusoes of ancient and modern times. the miscellaneous cargo of the schooner supplied the house with all the comforts and many of the luxuries of civilization; and if noddy had been familiar with the refinements of social life, he would probably have added the "modern improvements" to the mansion. if the house had been an elegant residence on fifth avenue or blackstone square, the occupants could not have enjoyed it more. day after day noddy added some new feature of comfort, until he was as proud of the dwelling as though he had been the architect of st. peter's. the work was done, and they had nothing to do but sit down under their "own vine and fig-tree," and enjoy themselves. they had provisions and water enough to last them six months. but noddy had discovered that idleness was the sum of all miseries; and after he had thoroughly explored the island, and amused himself for a few days among the novelties of the place, he realized that work was a positive luxury. even patient, plodding labor, without any excitement, was better than doing nothing. though there had been a storm, the roebuck still held together; and the most profitable employment that presented itself was bringing off the rest of the cargo from the wreck; and everything which it was possible for him to move was transferred to the shore. he built a storehouse of sail-cloth, in which all the merchandise and provisions were carefully secured, though it was not probable that any considerable portion of it would ever be of any value to the islanders. noddy had built a fence around the grave of captain mcclintock, and on a smooth board had cut the name and age of the deceased. every day mollie visited the spot, and placed fresh flowers on the green sod. the sharp pangs of her great affliction had passed away, and she was cheerful, and even hopeful of the future, while she fondly cherished the memory of her father. the islands which were just visible in the distance were a source of interest and anxiety to the sailor-boy and his gentle companion. noddy had carefully examined them through the spy-glass a great many times; and once he had seen a large canoe, under sail, with a ponderous "out-rigger" to keep it from upsetting; but it did not come near the home of the exiles. this proved that the other islands were inhabited, and he was in constant dread of a visit from the savages. he put all the pistols he had found in the cabin in readiness for use, and practised firing at a mark, that he might be able to defend himself and his fair charge if occasion required. they did not come, and there were no signs on the island that they ever visited it, and he hoped to avoid the necessity of fighting them. there were plenty of fish in the waters which surrounded the island, and noddy had no difficulty in catching as many of them as he wanted. there were no animals to be seen, except a few sea-fowl. he killed one of these, and roasted him for dinner one day; but the flesh was so strong and so fishy that salt pork and corned beef were considered better. a two months' residence on the island had accustomed both the boy and the girl to the novelties of the situation; and though, as might be reasonably expected, they were anxious to return to the great world from which they had been banished, they were tolerably contented with the life they led. noddy was continually planning some new thing to add to the comfort of their daily life, and to provide supplies for the future. as in many large cities, a supply of pure water was a question, of momentous importance to him, and he early turned his attention to the subject. he made spouts of canvas for the "mansion" and the storehouse, by which the water, when it rained, was conducted to barrels set in the ground, so as to keep it cool. this expedient promised a plentiful supply, for the rains were heavy and frequent, and the quality was much better than that of the water casks. when all the necessary work had been accomplished, and when the time at last hung heavily on his hands, noddy began to consider the practicability of a garden, to keep up the supply of peas, beans, and potatoes, of which a considerable quantity had been obtained from the wreck. mollie was delighted with the idea of a "farm," as she called it, and the ground was at once marked off. noddy went to work; but the labor of digging up the soil, and preparing it for the seed, was very hard. there was no excitement about this occupation, and the laborer "punished" himself very severely in performing it; but work had become a principle with him, and he persevered until an incident occurred which suspended further operations on the garden, and gave him all the excitement his nature craved. "what's that, noddy?" said mollie, one day, when he was industriously striving to overcome his dislike to plodding labor. "where?" asked he, dropping his shovel, for the manner of his companion betrayed no little alarm. "on the water," replied she, pointing in the direction of the islands which had given them so much anxiety. "it is a native canoe loaded with savages," said noddy, hastening to the house for his spy-glass and pistols. he examined the canoe long and attentively. it was only four or five miles distant, and looked like quite a large boat. "they are coming here," said noddy. "o, what shall we do?" exclaimed the timid maiden, recalling all she knew about cannibals and fierce savages found on the south sea islands. "perhaps they will not come here," added noddy; but it was more to cheer up his friend, than from any hope he cherished of avoiding the issue. "i hope they will not. what do you think they will do to us, if they do?" "i think i can manage them, mollie. don't be alarmed." "how many are there in the canoe?" "a dozen or fifteen, i should think," replied he, after he had again examined the object with the glass. "what can you do with so many as that?" asked she, in despair. "they are savages, you know; and they are afraid of powder. if i should shoot one of them, the rest would run away." "can't we hide?" "that will do no good. they would certainly find us. the best way is to face the music." "and they will steal all our things, noddy." "i won't let them steal anything," said he, examining his pistol. "i hope you won't have to shoot any of them. it would be awful to kill the poor creatures." "i won't fire if i can help it. they are all looking this way, and i'm sure they can see the house and the tent." "what shall we do?" cried mollie, who certainly felt that the end of all things had come. "we can do nothing; and we may as well take it easy. i can't tell what to do now; but i think i will go down and hide the boat, for they may carry that off." mollie went with him to the inlet, and the boat was moved up among the bushes where the savages would not be likely to find it. the wind was light, and the great canoe advanced but slowly. the men on board of her appeared to be watching the island with as much interest as its occupants regarded the approach of the intruders. off the reef the big canoe came up into the wind, and the savages appeared to be debating what they should do next. they could see the remains of the wrecked schooner now; and the question appeared to be, whether they should visit that or the shore. but she soon filled away again, and passed through the opening in the reef. noddy had three pistols, all of which he put in his belt, and finished this hostile array by adding a huge butcher-knife to the collection. he looked formidable enough to fight a whole army; but he intended only to make a prudent display of force. mollie thought it was rather ridiculous for a small boy like him to load himself down with so many weapons, which could not avail him, if a conflict became necessary, against sixteen savages, full grown, and accustomed to fighting. but noddy was general-in-chief of the forces, and she did not remonstrate any further than to beg him to be prudent. the canoe slowly approached the shore. those in her seemed to be familiar with the land, for they steered directly up the little inlet which noddy had chosen as his landing-place. the "lord of the isle," as our sailor-boy felt himself to be, moved down to the shore, followed by mollie. the savages could now be distinctly seen. they were horribly tattooed, and they did not look very friendly. as the canoe touched the shore, they sprang to their feet, and noddy's calculations were set at nought by the discovery that several were armed with guns. one of them stepped on shore. there was a broad grin on his ugly face, which was intended for a conciliatory smile. the savage walked towards noddy with his hand extended, and with his mouth stretched open from ear to ear, to denote the friendly nature of his mission. the boy took the hand, and tried to look as amiable as the visitor; but as his mouth was not half so large, he probably met with only a partial success. "americals?" said the savage, in tones so loud that poor mollie was actually frightened by the sound. he spoke in a nasal voice, as a man does who has a cold in the head; but the lord of the isle was surprised and pleased to hear even a single word of his mother tongue. he pointed impressively to the american flag, which had been hoisted on a pole, as he had seen captain mcclintock do when he had a slight difficulty with a custom-house officer at barbadoes, and politely replied that he and mollie were americans. "big heap thigs," added the savage, pointing to the tent filled with stores and merchandise. "they are mine," said noddy. "americals--yes." "what do you want?" "big wreck," said the visitor, pointing over to the schooner. "big lot mel ol the other islal." "americans?" asked noddy, clearly understanding the speaker, whose enunciation was principally defective in the substitution of l's for n's. "four americals; big storm; come in boat." "do you hear that, mollie?" exclaimed noddy. "he says that four americans came to the other island in a boat." "they must be some of the crew of the roebuck." "big wreck; log time; fild it low," said the savage, pointing to the schooner again. they had been looking for the wreck from which the four men had been saved, but had not been able to find it before. "whale ship over there," added he. "take four mel off." "is she there now?" asked noddy, breathless with interest. "go sool--to-morrow--lext week." this was not very definite; but the way to his native land seemed to be open to him, and he listened with deep emotion to the welcome intelligence. "can we go over there?" asked noddy, pointing to his companion. "go with we." "we will." "big heap thigs," added the savage, pointing to the storehouse again. "walt to trade?" "yes; what will you give for the lot?" asked noddy, facetiously. "big heap thigs," replied the man, not comprehending the wholesale trade. it was of no use to attempt to bargain with these people; they had no money, and they could help themselves to what they pleased. noddy gave them heavy articles enough to load their boat, for he felt that he had no further use for them, if there was a whale ship at the other island. he questioned the savage very closely in regard to the vessel, and was satisfied that he spoke the truth. the welcome intelligence that a portion of the roebuck's crew had been saved, rendered the exiles the more anxious to visit the island. the savages all landed and gazed at mollie with the utmost interest and curiosity. probably they had never before seen an american girl. but they were respectful to her, and she soon ceased to be afraid of them. she laughed with them, and soon became quite intimate with the whole party. they treated her like a superior being; and certainly her pretty face and her gentle manners were quite enough to inspire them with such an idea. the savages had loaded their goods into the canoe, and were ready to return. the man who spoke english offered them a passage in his craft; but noddy decided that it would be better and safer for them to go over in their own boat. he proceeded to secure all his valuables, including all his own money and that he had saved from the state-room of the captain, which he concealed about his clothes. the boat was well loaded with such articles as he thought would be useful to mollie, or would sell best when a chance offered. he had quite a cargo, and the savages began to be impatient before his preparations were completed. while he was thus employed, mollie gathered fresh flowers, and paid her last visit, as she supposed, to the grave of her father. she wept there, as she thought of leaving him in that far-off, lonely island; but she was consoled by the belief that her father's spirit dwelt in the happy land, where spring eternal ever reigns. the boat was ready; she wiped away her tears, and stepped on board. both of them felt sad at the thought of leaving the island; but home had hopes which reconciled them to the change. chapter xx. homeward bound. noddy shook out the sail of the boat, and pushing her off, followed the canoe. though the exiles had been on the island but little over two months, they had become much attached to their new home, and it was with a feeling of sadness that they bade adieu to it. the house and other improvements had cost noddy so much hard labor that he was sorry to leave them before he had received the full benefit of all the comfort and luxury which they were capable of affording. "don't you think we ought to live on the island for a year or so, after all the work we have done there?" said noddy, as the boat gathered headway, and moved away from the shore. "i'm sure i should be very happy there, if we had to stay," replied mollie, "but i don't think i should care to remain just for the sake of living in the house you built." "nor i; but it seems to me just as though i had done all the work for nothing." "you worked very hard." "but i enjoyed my work, for all that." "and you think you did not win anything by it," added she, with a smile. "i don't think that. i used to hate to work when i was at woodville. i don't think i do hate it now." "then you have won something." "i think i have won a great deal, when i look the matter over. i have learned a great many things." noddy had only a partial appreciation of what he had "won," though he was satisfied that his labor had not been wasted. he had been happy in the occupation which the necessities of his situation demanded of him. many a boy, wrecked as he had been, with no one but a weak and timid girl to support him, would have done nothing but repine at his hard lot; would have lived "from hand to mouth" during those two months, and made every day a day of misery. noddy had worked hard; but what had he won? was his labor, now that he was to abandon the house, the cisterns, the stores, and the garden,--was it wasted? noddy had won two months of happiness. he had won a knowledge of his own powers, mental and physical. he had won a valuable experience in adapting means to ends, which others might be years in obtaining. he had won a vast amount of useful information from the stubborn toil he had performed. he had won the victory over idleness and indifference, which had beset him for years. he had won a cheerful spirit, from the trials and difficulties he had encountered. he had won a lively faith in things higher than earth, from the gentle and loving heart that shared his exile, for whom, rather than for himself, he had worked. his labor was not lost. he had won more than could be computed. he had won faith and hope, confidence in himself, an earnest purpose, which were to go through life with him, and bless him to the end of his days, and through the endless ages of eternity. he had worked earnestly; he had won untold riches. the wind was tolerably fresh after the boats passed the reef, and in two hours they were near enough to a large island to enable the young voyagers to see the objects on the shore. but they followed the canoe beyond a point of the land; and, after a run of several miles more, they rounded another point, and discovered the tall masts of a ship, at anchor in a small bay. "it may be many months before we can get home. this ship may have to cruise a year or two before she obtains her full cargo of oil." "i hope not." "but we may find some way to get home. i have all the money i saved from the vessel, and we can pay our passage home." the money reminded the orphan girl of her father, and she mused upon the past. the boat sped on its way, and in a short time reached the ship. "hallo, noddy!" shouted mr. lincoln, as the boat approached. "and mollie too!" the mate was overjoyed to see them, and to find that they had been saved from the wreck. he leaped into the boat, took mollie in his arms, and kissed her as though she had been his own child. he grasped the hand of noddy, and wrung it till the owner thought it would be crushed in his grip. "i was sure you were lost," said mr. lincoln. "and we were sure you were lost," replied noddy. "how did it happen? the cabin was full of water when we left the schooner." "you didn't wait long, mr. lincoln." "we couldn't wait long. the sea made a clean breach over the wreck. only four of us were saved; the rest were washed away, and we never saw anything more of them!" noddy and mollie were conducted to the deck of the whale ship, where they were warmly welcomed by the captain and his officers. the three sailors who had been saved from the wreck of the roebuck were rejoiced to see them alive and well. in the presence of the large group gathered around himself and mollie, noddy told his story. "captain mcclintock was lost, then?" "yes," replied noddy, breaking through the crowd, for he did not like to tell the particulars of his death in poor mollie's presence. at a later hour he found an opportunity to inform his late shipmates of the manner in which the corpse of the captain had been found, and of its burial on the island. in return, mr. lincoln told him that he had cast off the boat a moment after the schooner struck the reef. the men who happened to be on the quarter-deck with him had been saved; the others were not seen after the shock. with the greatest difficulty they had kept the boat right side up, for she was often full of water. for hours they had drifted in the gale, and in the morning, when the storm subsided, they had reached the island. they had been kindly treated by natives, who were partially civilized by their intercourse with vessels visiting the island, and with which they carried on commerce, exchanging the products of the island for guns, ammunition, and other useful and ornamental articles. the savages knew that, if they killed or injured any white men, the terrible ships of war would visit them with the severest punishment. "what ship is this?" asked noddy, when the past had been satisfactorily explained by both parties. "the atlantic, of new bedford," replied the mate. "she is full of oil, and is homeward bound." "good!" exclaimed noddy. "i suppose i have nothing further to do in this part of the world, and i may as well go in her." "this hasn't been a very profitable cruise to me," added mr. lincoln. "well, i suppose there is no help for it; and i hope you will have better luck next time." "i don't grumble; these things can't always be helped. we were lucky to escape with our lives, and we won't say a word about the wages we have lost." "perhaps you won't lose them," added mollie; and there was a slight flush on her fair cheeks, for her pride and her filial affection were touched by the reflection that these men had suffered from her father's infirmity. the captain of the whale ship was entirely willing to take the exiles as passengers; and noddy told him he had saved a great many articles, which might be of service to him. the next day, when the vessel had taken in her water, she sailed for the beautiful island. outside the reef she lay to, and the boats were sent on shore to bring off such of the goods as would be useful on the voyage. noddy and mollie had an opportunity to visit their island home once more; and, while the former assisted the men in selecting and loading the goods, the latter gathered fresh flowers, and for the last time strewed them on the grave of her father. the "big heap thigs" was very much reduced by the visit of the boats; but there was still enough left to reward the natives who had befriended the young islanders for the service they had rendered. according to the captain's estimate,--which was rather low,--he took about four hundred dollars' worth of goods from the island. mollie, as her father's heir, was the owner of the property, subject to noddy's claim for salvage. with mr. lincoln's aid the accounts were settled. mollie insisted upon paying the mate and the three seamen their wages up to the time they would reach their native land. this, with their own passage, consumed nearly the whole sum. besides the property saved from the island, there were about sixteen hundred dollars in gold and silver, and the valuable nautical instruments of captain mcclintock, making a total of over two thousand dollars. though the disposition of this property was properly a subject for the maritime courts to settle, mr. lincoln and the officers of the ship talked it over, and decided that one half belonged to mollie, in right of her father, and the other half to noddy, as salvage,--which is the part of property saved from a wrecked imperilled ship, awarded to those who save it. noddy at first positively objected to this decree, and refused to take a dollar from the poor orphan girl; but when the captain told him that a court would probably award him a larger share, and when mollie almost cried because he refused, he consented to take it; but it was with a determination to have it applied to her use when he got home. the whale ship filled away when the goods had been taken on board, and weeks and months she stood on her course, till the welcome shores of their native land gladdened the sight of the exiled children. mollie had been a great favorite with the officers and crew during the voyage, and many of them were the wiser and the better for the gentle words she spoke to them. the captain sold the nautical instruments, and the money was divided according to the decision of the council and officers. noddy was now the possessor of about twelve hundred dollars, which was almost a fortune to a boy of twelve. it had been "work and win" to some purpose, in spite of the disastrous conclusion of the voyage. chapter xxi. the clergyman and his wife. the captain of the whale ship very kindly took the young voyagers to his own house until their affairs were settled up. he had dealt fairly and justly by them in all things, and both were grateful to him for the interest he had manifested in their welfare. "what are you going to do now, noddy?" asked mollie, after the instruments had been sold and the proceeds paid over to them. "i'm going to woodville, now, to face the music," replied noddy. "i suppose they will take me to the court-house; but i have made up my mind to submit to the penalty, whatever it may be, for setting the boat-house afire." "fanny has told all about it before this time, you may be certain," added mollie, to whom he had related the story of the fire. "i hope she has not; for i think i am the guilty one. she wouldn't have set the fire if it hadn't been for me. i am going to stand right up to it, and take the consequences, even if they send me to prison; but i hope they won't do that." "i'm sure they won't. but, noddy, suppose miss fanny has not told the truth yet. will you still deceive your kind friends? you told me you had been made over new since you left woodville, and i know you have. you said you meant to live a good life, and not lie, or steal, or get angry, or do anything that is bad." "well, i mean so, mollie. i intend to stick to it. they won't know anything about that. they won't believe anything i say." "they must believe you. i'll go with you, noddy!" exclaimed she, smiling at the happy thought. "i will tell them all about you." "that will be jolly; and the sooner we go the better." their good friend the captain found a gentleman who was going to new york, and they accompanied him, though noddy felt abundantly able to take care of himself and his fair charge. they arrived the next morning, and took an early train for woodville. noddy conducted mollie down the road to the lawn in front of the house. his heart bounded with emotion as he once more beheld the familiar scenes of the past. as he walked along he pointed out to his interested companion the various objects which were endeared to him by former associations. he talked because he could not help it; for he was so agitated he did not know whether he was on his head or his heels. he heard a step on one of the side paths. he turned to see who it was, and bertha grant rushed towards him. "why, noddy! it that you?" cried she, grasping him with both hands. "i am so glad to see you!" "you'd better believe i'm glad to see you again," said he, trying to keep from crying. the poor fellow actually broke down, he was so much affected by the meeting. "i didn't expect to see you again for years, after the letter you wrote me." "been cast away, miss bertha, and lived two months on an island where nobody lived," blubbered noddy. "who is this little girl with you? is this mollie, of whom you spoke in your letter?" "yes, miss bertha, that's mollie; and she is the best girl in the world, except yourself." "i'm very glad to see you, mollie," said bertha, taking her hand, and giving her a kind reception. "now, come into the house." bertha, finding noddy so completely overcome by his emotions, refrained from asking him any more questions, though she was anxious to hear the sad story of the shipwreck. mr. grant had not yet gone to the city, and he received the returned exiles as though they had been his own children. "i've come back, mr. grant, to settle up old affairs, and you can send me to the court-house or the prison now. i did wrong, and i am willing to suffer for it." "i have told them all about it, noddy," interrupted miss fanny, blushing. "i couldn't stand it after you went away." "it was my fault," said noddy. "i said so then, and i say so now." "we won't say anything about that until after breakfast. we are very glad you have come back; and we don't care about thinking of anything else, at present," said mr. grant. breakfast was provided for the wanderer and his friend, and mollie was soon made quite at home by the kind attentions of bertha and fanny. when the meal was ended, noddy insisted upon "settling up old affairs," as he called it. he declared that the blame ought to rest on him, and he was willing to suffer. mr. grant said that he was satisfied. fanny was to blame, and she had already been severely punished for her fault. "you will not send poor noddy to prison--will you?" interposed mollie. "he is a good boy now. he saved my life, and took care of me for months. you will find that he is not the same noddy, he used to be. he is made over new." "i'm glad to hear that," replied mr. grant. "but noddy, did you really think i intended to send you to jail?" "yes, sir; what was the constable after me for, if not for that?" "it's a mistake, and i told you so in albany. didn't i say you would be a rich man?" "you did, sir; but i thought that was only to catch me. all of them said something of that sort. i knew i couldn't be a rich man, because my father never had a cent to leave me. that's what they told me." "but you had an uncle." "never heard of him," replied noddy, bewildered at the prospect before him. "your father's only brother died in california more than a year ago. he had no family; but an honest man who went with him knew where he came from; and squire wriggs has hunted up all the evidence, which fully proves that all your uncle's property, in the absence of other heirs, belongs to you. he left over thirty thousand dollars, and it is all yours." "dear me!" exclaimed noddy, utterly confounded by this intelligence. "this sum, judiciously invested, will produce at least fifty thousand when you are of age. i have been appointed your guardian." "i don't think i'm noddy newman after this," added the heir, in breathless excitement. "i know you are not," added bertha, laughing. "your real name is ogden newman." "how are you, ogden?" said noddy, amused at his new name. "i suppose noddy came from ogden," said mr. grant. "if that's what's the matter, i don't see what you wanted to take me to court for." "as you have come to years of discretion, you might have had the privilege of naming your own guardian; and we were going to take you to the court for that purpose. as you were not here to speak for yourself, i was appointed. if you are not satisfied, the proceedings can be reviewed." "i'm satisfied first rate," laughed noddy. "but you said something about sending me off." "my plan was to send you to the tunbrook military institute, where richard is, and make a man of you." "i should like that--perhaps." "you gave me a great deal of trouble to find you; and i did not succeed, after all," added mr. grant. "i didn't know what you was after. if i had, i shouldn't have been in such a hurry. but i guess it was all for the best. i've been at work, miss bertha, since i went away," said noddy, turning to his teacher and friend. "did you win?" "i rather think i did," replied he, depositing his twelve hundred dollars on the table. "that's rather better than being a tinker, i reckon, miss bertha." "o, if you had seen him work. he did things which a great man could not have done," said mollie, with enthusiasm. "and he's real good, too. he'll never do anything wrong again." "we must hear all about it now, ogden," continued mr. grant. "who?" "ogden; that's your name now." between noddy and mollie the story was told; and there was hardly a dry eye in the room when the parts relating to the yellow fever and the funeral of captain mcclintock were narrated. noddy told the burden of the story; but he was occasionally interrupted by mollie, who wanted to tell how her friend watched over her and her father when they were sick with the fever, and what kindness and consideration he had used in procuring and burying the remains of her father. noddy only told facts; she supplied what she regarded as very important omissions. when the narrative was finished, mr. grant, and bertha were willing to believe that noddy had been made over new; that he had worked, morally as well as physically, and won, besides the treasure on the table, good principles enough to save him from the errors which formerly beset him; had won a child's faith in god, and a man's confidence in himself. the whole family were deeply interested in mollie; they pitied and loved her; and as she had no near relatives, they insisted upon her remaining at woodville. "this is your money, ogden, and i suppose i am to invest it with the rest of your property," said mr. grant. "no, sir;" replied noddy, promptly. "you know how i got that money, and i don't think it belongs to me. besides, i'm rich, and don't want it. mollie must have every dollar of it." "bravo, noddy," exclaimed mr. grant. "i approve of that with all my heart." "why, no, noddy. you earned it all," said mollie. "one hundred dollars of it was yours before the wreck." "i don't care for that. mr. grant shall take care of the whole of it for you, or you may take it, as you please." mollie was in the minority, and she had to yield the point; and mr. grant was instructed to invest all she had, being the entire net proceeds of what was saved from the wreck. after the story had been told, all the young people took a walk on the estate, during which noddy saw ben and the rest of the servants. the old man was delighted to meet him again, and the others were hardly less rejoiced. the boat-house had been rebuilt. it was winter, and every craft belonging to the establishment was housed. in the spring, noddy, or ogden, as he was now called, was sent to the tunbrook institute; while bertha found a faithful pupil, and fanny a devoted friend, in mollie. three months at woodville convinced mr. grant and bertha that the change in noddy was radical and permanent. though not now required to work, he was constantly employed in some useful occupation. he was no longer an idler and a vagabond, but one of the most industrious, useful, and reliable persons on the estate. he did not work with his hands only. there was a work for the mind and the heart to do, and he labored as perseveringly and as successfully in this field as in the other. at tunbrook he was a hard student, and graduated with the highest intellectual honors. from there he went to college. the influence of those scenes when the yellow fever was raging around him, when the stormy ocean threatened to devour him, and perhaps more than all others, when he stood at the open, grave of captain mcclintock, was never obliterated from his mind. they colored his subsequent existence; and when he came to choose a profession, he selected that of a minister of the gospel. the rev. ogden newman is not, and never will be, a brilliant preacher; but he is a faithful and devoted "shepherd of the sheep." the humble parish over whose moral and spiritual welfare he presides is not more rejoiced and comforted by his own ministrations than by the loving words and the pure example of the gentle being who now walks hand in hand with him in the journey of life, cheered by his presence and upheld by his strong arm, as she was in the days of the storm and the pestilence. mollie mcclintock is mrs. ogden newman; and as together they work, together they shall win. [illustration] [illustration] * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , "fond" changed to "found" (found a ready) page , line of repeated text was deleted. the original text read: except so far as their words went to convince his mistress of his guilt. what would she do to him? mistress of his guilt. what would she do to him? page , "rooom" changed to "room" (pleasant room he) page , "vanguished" changed to "vanquished" (was again vanquished) page , line of repeated text was deleted. the original text read: "come, mollie," said he, in a gentle, subdued tone, at the fore-scuttle. tone; at the fore-scuttle. page , "tremling" changed to "trembling" (prayer in trembling) the adventures of tom sawyer by mark twain (samuel langhorne clemens) part chapter xxviii that night tom and huck were ready for their adventure. they hung about the neighborhood of the tavern until after nine, one watching the alley at a distance and the other the tavern door. nobody entered the alley or left it; nobody resembling the spaniard entered or left the tavern door. the night promised to be a fair one; so tom went home with the understanding that if a considerable degree of darkness came on, huck was to come and "maow," whereupon he would slip out and try the keys. but the night remained clear, and huck closed his watch and retired to bed in an empty sugar hogshead about twelve. tuesday the boys had the same ill luck. also wednesday. but thursday night promised better. tom slipped out in good season with his aunt's old tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with. he hid the lantern in huck's sugar hogshead and the watch began. an hour before midnight the tavern closed up and its lights (the only ones thereabouts) were put out. no spaniard had been seen. nobody had entered or left the alley. everything was auspicious. the blackness of darkness reigned, the perfect stillness was interrupted only by occasional mutterings of distant thunder. tom got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead, wrapped it closely in the towel, and the two adventurers crept in the gloom toward the tavern. huck stood sentry and tom felt his way into the alley. then there was a season of waiting anxiety that weighed upon huck's spirits like a mountain. he began to wish he could see a flash from the lantern--it would frighten him, but it would at least tell him that tom was alive yet. it seemed hours since tom had disappeared. surely he must have fainted; maybe he was dead; maybe his heart had burst under terror and excitement. in his uneasiness huck found himself drawing closer and closer to the alley; fearing all sorts of dreadful things, and momentarily expecting some catastrophe to happen that would take away his breath. there was not much to take away, for he seemed only able to inhale it by thimblefuls, and his heart would soon wear itself out, the way it was beating. suddenly there was a flash of light and tom came tearing by him: "run!" said he; "run, for your life!" he needn't have repeated it; once was enough; huck was making thirty or forty miles an hour before the repetition was uttered. the boys never stopped till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughter-house at the lower end of the village. just as they got within its shelter the storm burst and the rain poured down. as soon as tom got his breath he said: "huck, it was awful! i tried two of the keys, just as soft as i could; but they seemed to make such a power of racket that i couldn't hardly get my breath i was so scared. they wouldn't turn in the lock, either. well, without noticing what i was doing, i took hold of the knob, and open comes the door! it warn't locked! i hopped in, and shook off the towel, and, great caesar's ghost!" "what!--what'd you see, tom?" "huck, i most stepped onto injun joe's hand!" "no!" "yes! he was lying there, sound asleep on the floor, with his old patch on his eye and his arms spread out." "lordy, what did you do? did he wake up?" "no, never budged. drunk, i reckon. i just grabbed that towel and started!" "i'd never 'a' thought of the towel, i bet!" "well, i would. my aunt would make me mighty sick if i lost it." "say, tom, did you see that box?" "huck, i didn't wait to look around. i didn't see the box, i didn't see the cross. i didn't see anything but a bottle and a tin cup on the floor by injun joe; yes, i saw two barrels and lots more bottles in the room. don't you see, now, what's the matter with that ha'nted room?" "how?" "why, it's ha'nted with whiskey! maybe all the temperance taverns have got a ha'nted room, hey, huck?" "well, i reckon maybe that's so. who'd 'a' thought such a thing? but say, tom, now's a mighty good time to get that box, if injun joe's drunk." "it is, that! you try it!" huck shuddered. "well, no--i reckon not." "and i reckon not, huck. only one bottle alongside of injun joe ain't enough. if there'd been three, he'd be drunk enough and i'd do it." there was a long pause for reflection, and then tom said: "lookyhere, huck, less not try that thing any more till we know injun joe's not in there. it's too scary. now, if we watch every night, we'll be dead sure to see him go out, some time or other, and then we'll snatch that box quicker'n lightning." "well, i'm agreed. i'll watch the whole night long, and i'll do it every night, too, if you'll do the other part of the job." "all right, i will. all you got to do is to trot up hooper street a block and maow--and if i'm asleep, you throw some gravel at the window and that'll fetch me." "agreed, and good as wheat!" "now, huck, the storm's over, and i'll go home. it'll begin to be daylight in a couple of hours. you go back and watch that long, will you?" "i said i would, tom, and i will. i'll ha'nt that tavern every night for a year! i'll sleep all day and i'll stand watch all night." "that's all right. now, where you going to sleep?" "in ben rogers' hayloft. he lets me, and so does his pap's nigger man, uncle jake. i tote water for uncle jake whenever he wants me to, and any time i ask him he gives me a little something to eat if he can spare it. that's a mighty good nigger, tom. he likes me, becuz i don't ever act as if i was above him. sometime i've set right down and eat with him. but you needn't tell that. a body's got to do things when he's awful hungry he wouldn't want to do as a steady thing." "well, if i don't want you in the daytime, i'll let you sleep. i won't come bothering around. any time you see something's up, in the night, just skip right around and maow." chapter xxix the first thing tom heard on friday morning was a glad piece of news --judge thatcher's family had come back to town the night before. both injun joe and the treasure sunk into secondary importance for a moment, and becky took the chief place in the boy's interest. he saw her and they had an exhausting good time playing "hi-spy" and "gully-keeper" with a crowd of their school-mates. the day was completed and crowned in a peculiarly satisfactory way: becky teased her mother to appoint the next day for the long-promised and long-delayed picnic, and she consented. the child's delight was boundless; and tom's not more moderate. the invitations were sent out before sunset, and straightway the young folks of the village were thrown into a fever of preparation and pleasurable anticipation. tom's excitement enabled him to keep awake until a pretty late hour, and he had good hopes of hearing huck's "maow," and of having his treasure to astonish becky and the picnickers with, next day; but he was disappointed. no signal came that night. morning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven o'clock a giddy and rollicking company were gathered at judge thatcher's, and everything was ready for a start. it was not the custom for elderly people to mar the picnics with their presence. the children were considered safe enough under the wings of a few young ladies of eighteen and a few young gentlemen of twenty-three or thereabouts. the old steam ferryboat was chartered for the occasion; presently the gay throng filed up the main street laden with provision-baskets. sid was sick and had to miss the fun; mary remained at home to entertain him. the last thing mrs. thatcher said to becky, was: "you'll not get back till late. perhaps you'd better stay all night with some of the girls that live near the ferry-landing, child." "then i'll stay with susy harper, mamma." "very well. and mind and behave yourself and don't be any trouble." presently, as they tripped along, tom said to becky: "say--i'll tell you what we'll do. 'stead of going to joe harper's we'll climb right up the hill and stop at the widow douglas'. she'll have ice-cream! she has it most every day--dead loads of it. and she'll be awful glad to have us." "oh, that will be fun!" then becky reflected a moment and said: "but what will mamma say?" "how'll she ever know?" the girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly: "i reckon it's wrong--but--" "but shucks! your mother won't know, and so what's the harm? all she wants is that you'll be safe; and i bet you she'd 'a' said go there if she'd 'a' thought of it. i know she would!" the widow douglas' splendid hospitality was a tempting bait. it and tom's persuasions presently carried the day. so it was decided to say nothing anybody about the night's programme. presently it occurred to tom that maybe huck might come this very night and give the signal. the thought took a deal of the spirit out of his anticipations. still he could not bear to give up the fun at widow douglas'. and why should he give it up, he reasoned--the signal did not come the night before, so why should it be any more likely to come to-night? the sure fun of the evening outweighed the uncertain treasure; and, boy-like, he determined to yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself to think of the box of money another time that day. three miles below town the ferryboat stopped at the mouth of a woody hollow and tied up. the crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest distances and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings and laughter. all the different ways of getting hot and tired were gone through with, and by-and-by the rovers straggled back to camp fortified with responsible appetites, and then the destruction of the good things began. after the feast there was a refreshing season of rest and chat in the shade of spreading oaks. by-and-by somebody shouted: "who's ready for the cave?" everybody was. bundles of candles were procured, and straightway there was a general scamper up the hill. the mouth of the cave was up the hillside--an opening shaped like a letter a. its massive oaken door stood unbarred. within was a small chamber, chilly as an ice-house, and walled by nature with solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat. it was romantic and mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom and look out upon the green valley shining in the sun. but the impressiveness of the situation quickly wore off, and the romping began again. the moment a candle was lighted there was a general rush upon the owner of it; a struggle and a gallant defence followed, but the candle was soon knocked down or blown out, and then there was a glad clamor of laughter and a new chase. but all things have an end. by-and-by the procession went filing down the steep descent of the main avenue, the flickering rank of lights dimly revealing the lofty walls of rock almost to their point of junction sixty feet overhead. this main avenue was not more than eight or ten feet wide. every few steps other lofty and still narrower crevices branched from it on either hand--for mcdougal's cave was but a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each other and out again and led nowhere. it was said that one might wander days and nights together through its intricate tangle of rifts and chasms, and never find the end of the cave; and that he might go down, and down, and still down, into the earth, and it was just the same--labyrinth under labyrinth, and no end to any of them. no man "knew" the cave. that was an impossible thing. most of the young men knew a portion of it, and it was not customary to venture much beyond this known portion. tom sawyer knew as much of the cave as any one. the procession moved along the main avenue some three-quarters of a mile, and then groups and couples began to slip aside into branch avenues, fly along the dismal corridors, and take each other by surprise at points where the corridors joined again. parties were able to elude each other for the space of half an hour without going beyond the "known" ground. by-and-by, one group after another came straggling back to the mouth of the cave, panting, hilarious, smeared from head to foot with tallow drippings, daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the success of the day. then they were astonished to find that they had been taking no note of time and that night was about at hand. the clanging bell had been calling for half an hour. however, this sort of close to the day's adventures was romantic and therefore satisfactory. when the ferryboat with her wild freight pushed into the stream, nobody cared sixpence for the wasted time but the captain of the craft. huck was already upon his watch when the ferryboat's lights went glinting past the wharf. he heard no noise on board, for the young people were as subdued and still as people usually are who are nearly tired to death. he wondered what boat it was, and why she did not stop at the wharf--and then he dropped her out of his mind and put his attention upon his business. the night was growing cloudy and dark. ten o'clock came, and the noise of vehicles ceased, scattered lights began to wink out, all straggling foot-passengers disappeared, the village betook itself to its slumbers and left the small watcher alone with the silence and the ghosts. eleven o'clock came, and the tavern lights were put out; darkness everywhere, now. huck waited what seemed a weary long time, but nothing happened. his faith was weakening. was there any use? was there really any use? why not give it up and turn in? a noise fell upon his ear. he was all attention in an instant. the alley door closed softly. he sprang to the corner of the brick store. the next moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have something under his arm. it must be that box! so they were going to remove the treasure. why call tom now? it would be absurd--the men would get away with the box and never be found again. no, he would stick to their wake and follow them; he would trust to the darkness for security from discovery. so communing with himself, huck stepped out and glided along behind the men, cat-like, with bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough ahead not to be invisible. they moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left up a cross-street. they went straight ahead, then, until they came to the path that led up cardiff hill; this they took. they passed by the old welshman's house, half-way up the hill, without hesitating, and still climbed upward. good, thought huck, they will bury it in the old quarry. but they never stopped at the quarry. they passed on, up the summit. they plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach bushes, and were at once hidden in the gloom. huck closed up and shortened his distance, now, for they would never be able to see him. he trotted along awhile; then slackened his pace, fearing he was gaining too fast; moved on a piece, then stopped altogether; listened; no sound; none, save that he seemed to hear the beating of his own heart. the hooting of an owl came over the hill--ominous sound! but no footsteps. heavens, was everything lost! he was about to spring with winged feet, when a man cleared his throat not four feet from him! huck's heart shot into his throat, but he swallowed it again; and then he stood there shaking as if a dozen agues had taken charge of him at once, and so weak that he thought he must surely fall to the ground. he knew where he was. he knew he was within five steps of the stile leading into widow douglas' grounds. very well, he thought, let them bury it there; it won't be hard to find. now there was a voice--a very low voice--injun joe's: "damn her, maybe she's got company--there's lights, late as it is." "i can't see any." this was that stranger's voice--the stranger of the haunted house. a deadly chill went to huck's heart--this, then, was the "revenge" job! his thought was, to fly. then he remembered that the widow douglas had been kind to him more than once, and maybe these men were going to murder her. he wished he dared venture to warn her; but he knew he didn't dare--they might come and catch him. he thought all this and more in the moment that elapsed between the stranger's remark and injun joe's next--which was-- "because the bush is in your way. now--this way--now you see, don't you?" "yes. well, there is company there, i reckon. better give it up." "give it up, and i just leaving this country forever! give it up and maybe never have another chance. i tell you again, as i've told you before, i don't care for her swag--you may have it. but her husband was rough on me--many times he was rough on me--and mainly he was the justice of the peace that jugged me for a vagrant. and that ain't all. it ain't a millionth part of it! he had me horsewhipped!--horsewhipped in front of the jail, like a nigger!--with all the town looking on! horsewhipped!--do you understand? he took advantage of me and died. but i'll take it out of her." "oh, don't kill her! don't do that!" "kill? who said anything about killing? i would kill him if he was here; but not her. when you want to get revenge on a woman you don't kill her--bosh! you go for her looks. you slit her nostrils--you notch her ears like a sow!" "by god, that's--" "keep your opinion to yourself! it will be safest for you. i'll tie her to the bed. if she bleeds to death, is that my fault? i'll not cry, if she does. my friend, you'll help me in this thing--for my sake --that's why you're here--i mightn't be able alone. if you flinch, i'll kill you. do you understand that? and if i have to kill you, i'll kill her--and then i reckon nobody'll ever know much about who done this business." "well, if it's got to be done, let's get at it. the quicker the better--i'm all in a shiver." "do it now? and company there? look here--i'll get suspicious of you, first thing you know. no--we'll wait till the lights are out--there's no hurry." huck felt that a silence was going to ensue--a thing still more awful than any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and stepped gingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing, one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one side and then on the other. he took another step back, with the same elaboration and the same risks; then another and another, and--a twig snapped under his foot! his breath stopped and he listened. there was no sound--the stillness was perfect. his gratitude was measureless. now he turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes--turned himself as carefully as if he were a ship--and then stepped quickly but cautiously along. when he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so he picked up his nimble heels and flew. down, down he sped, till he reached the welshman's. he banged at the door, and presently the heads of the old man and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows. "what's the row there? who's banging? what do you want?" "let me in--quick! i'll tell everything." "why, who are you?" "huckleberry finn--quick, let me in!" "huckleberry finn, indeed! it ain't a name to open many doors, i judge! but let him in, lads, and let's see what's the trouble." "please don't ever tell i told you," were huck's first words when he got in. "please don't--i'd be killed, sure--but the widow's been good friends to me sometimes, and i want to tell--i will tell if you'll promise you won't ever say it was me." "by george, he has got something to tell, or he wouldn't act so!" exclaimed the old man; "out with it and nobody here'll ever tell, lad." three minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up the hill, and just entering the sumach path on tiptoe, their weapons in their hands. huck accompanied them no further. he hid behind a great bowlder and fell to listening. there was a lagging, anxious silence, and then all of a sudden there was an explosion of firearms and a cry. huck waited for no particulars. he sprang away and sped down the hill as fast as his legs could carry him. chapter xxx as the earliest suspicion of dawn appeared on sunday morning, huck came groping up the hill and rapped gently at the old welshman's door. the inmates were asleep, but it was a sleep that was set on a hair-trigger, on account of the exciting episode of the night. a call came from a window: "who's there!" huck's scared voice answered in a low tone: "please let me in! it's only huck finn!" "it's a name that can open this door night or day, lad!--and welcome!" these were strange words to the vagabond boy's ears, and the pleasantest he had ever heard. he could not recollect that the closing word had ever been applied in his case before. the door was quickly unlocked, and he entered. huck was given a seat and the old man and his brace of tall sons speedily dressed themselves. "now, my boy, i hope you're good and hungry, because breakfast will be ready as soon as the sun's up, and we'll have a piping hot one, too --make yourself easy about that! i and the boys hoped you'd turn up and stop here last night." "i was awful scared," said huck, "and i run. i took out when the pistols went off, and i didn't stop for three mile. i've come now becuz i wanted to know about it, you know; and i come before daylight becuz i didn't want to run across them devils, even if they was dead." "well, poor chap, you do look as if you'd had a hard night of it--but there's a bed here for you when you've had your breakfast. no, they ain't dead, lad--we are sorry enough for that. you see we knew right where to put our hands on them, by your description; so we crept along on tiptoe till we got within fifteen feet of them--dark as a cellar that sumach path was--and just then i found i was going to sneeze. it was the meanest kind of luck! i tried to keep it back, but no use --'twas bound to come, and it did come! i was in the lead with my pistol raised, and when the sneeze started those scoundrels a-rustling to get out of the path, i sung out, 'fire boys!' and blazed away at the place where the rustling was. so did the boys. but they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and we after them, down through the woods. i judge we never touched them. they fired a shot apiece as they started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn't do us any harm. as soon as we lost the sound of their feet we quit chasing, and went down and stirred up the constables. they got a posse together, and went off to guard the river bank, and as soon as it is light the sheriff and a gang are going to beat up the woods. my boys will be with them presently. i wish we had some sort of description of those rascals--'twould help a good deal. but you couldn't see what they were like, in the dark, lad, i suppose?" "oh yes; i saw them down-town and follered them." "splendid! describe them--describe them, my boy!" "one's the old deaf and dumb spaniard that's ben around here once or twice, and t'other's a mean-looking, ragged--" "that's enough, lad, we know the men! happened on them in the woods back of the widow's one day, and they slunk away. off with you, boys, and tell the sheriff--get your breakfast to-morrow morning!" the welshman's sons departed at once. as they were leaving the room huck sprang up and exclaimed: "oh, please don't tell anybody it was me that blowed on them! oh, please!" "all right if you say it, huck, but you ought to have the credit of what you did." "oh no, no! please don't tell!" when the young men were gone, the old welshman said: "they won't tell--and i won't. but why don't you want it known?" huck would not explain, further than to say that he already knew too much about one of those men and would not have the man know that he knew anything against him for the whole world--he would be killed for knowing it, sure. the old man promised secrecy once more, and said: "how did you come to follow these fellows, lad? were they looking suspicious?" huck was silent while he framed a duly cautious reply. then he said: "well, you see, i'm a kind of a hard lot,--least everybody says so, and i don't see nothing agin it--and sometimes i can't sleep much, on account of thinking about it and sort of trying to strike out a new way of doing. that was the way of it last night. i couldn't sleep, and so i come along up-street 'bout midnight, a-turning it all over, and when i got to that old shackly brick store by the temperance tavern, i backed up agin the wall to have another think. well, just then along comes these two chaps slipping along close by me, with something under their arm, and i reckoned they'd stole it. one was a-smoking, and t'other one wanted a light; so they stopped right before me and the cigars lit up their faces and i see that the big one was the deaf and dumb spaniard, by his white whiskers and the patch on his eye, and t'other one was a rusty, ragged-looking devil." "could you see the rags by the light of the cigars?" this staggered huck for a moment. then he said: "well, i don't know--but somehow it seems as if i did." "then they went on, and you--" "follered 'em--yes. that was it. i wanted to see what was up--they sneaked along so. i dogged 'em to the widder's stile, and stood in the dark and heard the ragged one beg for the widder, and the spaniard swear he'd spile her looks just as i told you and your two--" "what! the deaf and dumb man said all that!" huck had made another terrible mistake! he was trying his best to keep the old man from getting the faintest hint of who the spaniard might be, and yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in spite of all he could do. he made several efforts to creep out of his scrape, but the old man's eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder. presently the welshman said: "my boy, don't be afraid of me. i wouldn't hurt a hair of your head for all the world. no--i'd protect you--i'd protect you. this spaniard is not deaf and dumb; you've let that slip without intending it; you can't cover that up now. you know something about that spaniard that you want to keep dark. now trust me--tell me what it is, and trust me --i won't betray you." huck looked into the old man's honest eyes a moment, then bent over and whispered in his ear: "'tain't a spaniard--it's injun joe!" the welshman almost jumped out of his chair. in a moment he said: "it's all plain enough, now. when you talked about notching ears and slitting noses i judged that that was your own embellishment, because white men don't take that sort of revenge. but an injun! that's a different matter altogether." during breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man said that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going to bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for marks of blood. they found none, but captured a bulky bundle of-- "of what?" if the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more stunning suddenness from huck's blanched lips. his eyes were staring wide, now, and his breath suspended--waiting for the answer. the welshman started--stared in return--three seconds--five seconds--ten --then replied: "of burglar's tools. why, what's the matter with you?" huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful. the welshman eyed him gravely, curiously--and presently said: "yes, burglar's tools. that appears to relieve you a good deal. but what did give you that turn? what were you expecting we'd found?" huck was in a close place--the inquiring eye was upon him--he would have given anything for material for a plausible answer--nothing suggested itself--the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper--a senseless reply offered--there was no time to weigh it, so at a venture he uttered it--feebly: "sunday-school books, maybe." poor huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud and joyously, shook up the details of his anatomy from head to foot, and ended by saying that such a laugh was money in a-man's pocket, because it cut down the doctor's bill like everything. then he added: "poor old chap, you're white and jaded--you ain't well a bit--no wonder you're a little flighty and off your balance. but you'll come out of it. rest and sleep will fetch you out all right, i hope." huck was irritated to think he had been such a goose and betrayed such a suspicious excitement, for he had dropped the idea that the parcel brought from the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had heard the talk at the widow's stile. he had only thought it was not the treasure, however--he had not known that it wasn't--and so the suggestion of a captured bundle was too much for his self-possession. but on the whole he felt glad the little episode had happened, for now he knew beyond all question that that bundle was not the bundle, and so his mind was at rest and exceedingly comfortable. in fact, everything seemed to be drifting just in the right direction, now; the treasure must be still in no. , the men would be captured and jailed that day, and he and tom could seize the gold that night without any trouble or any fear of interruption. just as breakfast was completed there was a knock at the door. huck jumped for a hiding-place, for he had no mind to be connected even remotely with the late event. the welshman admitted several ladies and gentlemen, among them the widow douglas, and noticed that groups of citizens were climbing up the hill--to stare at the stile. so the news had spread. the welshman had to tell the story of the night to the visitors. the widow's gratitude for her preservation was outspoken. "don't say a word about it, madam. there's another that you're more beholden to than you are to me and my boys, maybe, but he don't allow me to tell his name. we wouldn't have been there but for him." of course this excited a curiosity so vast that it almost belittled the main matter--but the welshman allowed it to eat into the vitals of his visitors, and through them be transmitted to the whole town, for he refused to part with his secret. when all else had been learned, the widow said: "i went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight through all that noise. why didn't you come and wake me?" "we judged it warn't worth while. those fellows warn't likely to come again--they hadn't any tools left to work with, and what was the use of waking you up and scaring you to death? my three negro men stood guard at your house all the rest of the night. they've just come back." more visitors came, and the story had to be told and retold for a couple of hours more. there was no sabbath-school during day-school vacation, but everybody was early at church. the stirring event was well canvassed. news came that not a sign of the two villains had been yet discovered. when the sermon was finished, judge thatcher's wife dropped alongside of mrs. harper as she moved down the aisle with the crowd and said: "is my becky going to sleep all day? i just expected she would be tired to death." "your becky?" "yes," with a startled look--"didn't she stay with you last night?" "why, no." mrs. thatcher turned pale, and sank into a pew, just as aunt polly, talking briskly with a friend, passed by. aunt polly said: "good-morning, mrs. thatcher. good-morning, mrs. harper. i've got a boy that's turned up missing. i reckon my tom stayed at your house last night--one of you. and now he's afraid to come to church. i've got to settle with him." mrs. thatcher shook her head feebly and turned paler than ever. "he didn't stay with us," said mrs. harper, beginning to look uneasy. a marked anxiety came into aunt polly's face. "joe harper, have you seen my tom this morning?" "no'm." "when did you see him last?" joe tried to remember, but was not sure he could say. the people had stopped moving out of church. whispers passed along, and a boding uneasiness took possession of every countenance. children were anxiously questioned, and young teachers. they all said they had not noticed whether tom and becky were on board the ferryboat on the homeward trip; it was dark; no one thought of inquiring if any one was missing. one young man finally blurted out his fear that they were still in the cave! mrs. thatcher swooned away. aunt polly fell to crying and wringing her hands. the alarm swept from lip to lip, from group to group, from street to street, and within five minutes the bells were wildly clanging and the whole town was up! the cardiff hill episode sank into instant insignificance, the burglars were forgotten, horses were saddled, skiffs were manned, the ferryboat ordered out, and before the horror was half an hour old, two hundred men were pouring down highroad and river toward the cave. all the long afternoon the village seemed empty and dead. many women visited aunt polly and mrs. thatcher and tried to comfort them. they cried with them, too, and that was still better than words. all the tedious night the town waited for news; but when the morning dawned at last, all the word that came was, "send more candles--and send food." mrs. thatcher was almost crazed; and aunt polly, also. judge thatcher sent messages of hope and encouragement from the cave, but they conveyed no real cheer. the old welshman came home toward daylight, spattered with candle-grease, smeared with clay, and almost worn out. he found huck still in the bed that had been provided for him, and delirious with fever. the physicians were all at the cave, so the widow douglas came and took charge of the patient. she said she would do her best by him, because, whether he was good, bad, or indifferent, he was the lord's, and nothing that was the lord's was a thing to be neglected. the welshman said huck had good spots in him, and the widow said: "you can depend on it. that's the lord's mark. he don't leave it off. he never does. puts it somewhere on every creature that comes from his hands." early in the forenoon parties of jaded men began to straggle into the village, but the strongest of the citizens continued searching. all the news that could be gained was that remotenesses of the cavern were being ransacked that had never been visited before; that every corner and crevice was going to be thoroughly searched; that wherever one wandered through the maze of passages, lights were to be seen flitting hither and thither in the distance, and shoutings and pistol-shots sent their hollow reverberations to the ear down the sombre aisles. in one place, far from the section usually traversed by tourists, the names "becky & tom" had been found traced upon the rocky wall with candle-smoke, and near at hand a grease-soiled bit of ribbon. mrs. thatcher recognized the ribbon and cried over it. she said it was the last relic she should ever have of her child; and that no other memorial of her could ever be so precious, because this one parted latest from the living body before the awful death came. some said that now and then, in the cave, a far-away speck of light would glimmer, and then a glorious shout would burst forth and a score of men go trooping down the echoing aisle--and then a sickening disappointment always followed; the children were not there; it was only a searcher's light. three dreadful days and nights dragged their tedious hours along, and the village sank into a hopeless stupor. no one had heart for anything. the accidental discovery, just made, that the proprietor of the temperance tavern kept liquor on his premises, scarcely fluttered the public pulse, tremendous as the fact was. in a lucid interval, huck feebly led up to the subject of taverns, and finally asked--dimly dreading the worst--if anything had been discovered at the temperance tavern since he had been ill. "yes," said the widow. huck started up in bed, wild-eyed: "what? what was it?" "liquor!--and the place has been shut up. lie down, child--what a turn you did give me!" "only tell me just one thing--only just one--please! was it tom sawyer that found it?" the widow burst into tears. "hush, hush, child, hush! i've told you before, you must not talk. you are very, very sick!" then nothing but liquor had been found; there would have been a great powwow if it had been the gold. so the treasure was gone forever--gone forever! but what could she be crying about? curious that she should cry. these thoughts worked their dim way through huck's mind, and under the weariness they gave him he fell asleep. the widow said to herself: "there--he's asleep, poor wreck. tom sawyer find it! pity but somebody could find tom sawyer! ah, there ain't many left, now, that's got hope enough, or strength enough, either, to go on searching." chapter xxxi now to return to tom and becky's share in the picnic. they tripped along the murky aisles with the rest of the company, visiting the familiar wonders of the cave--wonders dubbed with rather over-descriptive names, such as "the drawing-room," "the cathedral," "aladdin's palace," and so on. presently the hide-and-seek frolicking began, and tom and becky engaged in it with zeal until the exertion began to grow a trifle wearisome; then they wandered down a sinuous avenue holding their candles aloft and reading the tangled web-work of names, dates, post-office addresses, and mottoes with which the rocky walls had been frescoed (in candle-smoke). still drifting along and talking, they scarcely noticed that they were now in a part of the cave whose walls were not frescoed. they smoked their own names under an overhanging shelf and moved on. presently they came to a place where a little stream of water, trickling over a ledge and carrying a limestone sediment with it, had, in the slow-dragging ages, formed a laced and ruffled niagara in gleaming and imperishable stone. tom squeezed his small body behind it in order to illuminate it for becky's gratification. he found that it curtained a sort of steep natural stairway which was enclosed between narrow walls, and at once the ambition to be a discoverer seized him. becky responded to his call, and they made a smoke-mark for future guidance, and started upon their quest. they wound this way and that, far down into the secret depths of the cave, made another mark, and branched off in search of novelties to tell the upper world about. in one place they found a spacious cavern, from whose ceiling depended a multitude of shining stalactites of the length and circumference of a man's leg; they walked all about it, wondering and admiring, and presently left it by one of the numerous passages that opened into it. this shortly brought them to a bewitching spring, whose basin was incrusted with a frostwork of glittering crystals; it was in the midst of a cavern whose walls were supported by many fantastic pillars which had been formed by the joining of great stalactites and stalagmites together, the result of the ceaseless water-drip of centuries. under the roof vast knots of bats had packed themselves together, thousands in a bunch; the lights disturbed the creatures and they came flocking down by hundreds, squeaking and darting furiously at the candles. tom knew their ways and the danger of this sort of conduct. he seized becky's hand and hurried her into the first corridor that offered; and none too soon, for a bat struck becky's light out with its wing while she was passing out of the cavern. the bats chased the children a good distance; but the fugitives plunged into every new passage that offered, and at last got rid of the perilous things. tom found a subterranean lake, shortly, which stretched its dim length away until its shape was lost in the shadows. he wanted to explore its borders, but concluded that it would be best to sit down and rest awhile, first. now, for the first time, the deep stillness of the place laid a clammy hand upon the spirits of the children. becky said: "why, i didn't notice, but it seems ever so long since i heard any of the others." "come to think, becky, we are away down below them--and i don't know how far away north, or south, or east, or whichever it is. we couldn't hear them here." becky grew apprehensive. "i wonder how long we've been down here, tom? we better start back." "yes, i reckon we better. p'raps we better." "can you find the way, tom? it's all a mixed-up crookedness to me." "i reckon i could find it--but then the bats. if they put our candles out it will be an awful fix. let's try some other way, so as not to go through there." "well. but i hope we won't get lost. it would be so awful!" and the girl shuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities. they started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a long way, glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything familiar about the look of it; but they were all strange. every time tom made an examination, becky would watch his face for an encouraging sign, and he would say cheerily: "oh, it's all right. this ain't the one, but we'll come to it right away!" but he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently began to turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in desperate hope of finding the one that was wanted. he still said it was "all right," but there was such a leaden dread at his heart that the words had lost their ring and sounded just as if he had said, "all is lost!" becky clung to his side in an anguish of fear, and tried hard to keep back the tears, but they would come. at last she said: "oh, tom, never mind the bats, let's go back that way! we seem to get worse and worse off all the time." "listen!" said he. profound silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were conspicuous in the hush. tom shouted. the call went echoing down the empty aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that resembled a ripple of mocking laughter. "oh, don't do it again, tom, it is too horrid," said becky. "it is horrid, but i better, becky; they might hear us, you know," and he shouted again. the "might" was even a chillier horror than the ghostly laughter, it so confessed a perishing hope. the children stood still and listened; but there was no result. tom turned upon the back track at once, and hurried his steps. it was but a little while before a certain indecision in his manner revealed another fearful fact to becky--he could not find his way back! "oh, tom, you didn't make any marks!" "becky, i was such a fool! such a fool! i never thought we might want to come back! no--i can't find the way. it's all mixed up." "tom, tom, we're lost! we're lost! we never can get out of this awful place! oh, why did we ever leave the others!" she sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that tom was appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason. he sat down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in his bosom, she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing regrets, and the far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter. tom begged her to pluck up hope again, and she said she could not. he fell to blaming and abusing himself for getting her into this miserable situation; this had a better effect. she said she would try to hope again, she would get up and follow wherever he might lead if only he would not talk like that any more. for he was no more to blame than she, she said. so they moved on again--aimlessly--simply at random--all they could do was to move, keep moving. for a little while, hope made a show of reviving--not with any reason to back it, but only because it is its nature to revive when the spring has not been taken out of it by age and familiarity with failure. by-and-by tom took becky's candle and blew it out. this economy meant so much! words were not needed. becky understood, and her hope died again. she knew that tom had a whole candle and three or four pieces in his pockets--yet he must economize. by-and-by, fatigue began to assert its claims; the children tried to pay attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time was grown to be so precious, moving, in some direction, in any direction, was at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down was to invite death and shorten its pursuit. at last becky's frail limbs refused to carry her farther. she sat down. tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends there, and the comfortable beds and, above all, the light! becky cried, and tom tried to think of some way of comforting her, but all his encouragements were grown threadbare with use, and sounded like sarcasms. fatigue bore so heavily upon becky that she drowsed off to sleep. tom was grateful. he sat looking into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural under the influence of pleasant dreams; and by-and-by a smile dawned and rested there. the peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing into his own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone times and dreamy memories. while he was deep in his musings, becky woke up with a breezy little laugh--but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan followed it. "oh, how could i sleep! i wish i never, never had waked! no! no, i don't, tom! don't look so! i won't say it again." "i'm glad you've slept, becky; you'll feel rested, now, and we'll find the way out." "we can try, tom; but i've seen such a beautiful country in my dream. i reckon we are going there." "maybe not, maybe not. cheer up, becky, and let's go on trying." they rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless. they tried to estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was that it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not be, for their candles were not gone yet. a long time after this--they could not tell how long--tom said they must go softly and listen for dripping water--they must find a spring. they found one presently, and tom said it was time to rest again. both were cruelly tired, yet becky said she thought she could go a little farther. she was surprised to hear tom dissent. she could not understand it. they sat down, and tom fastened his candle to the wall in front of them with some clay. thought was soon busy; nothing was said for some time. then becky broke the silence: "tom, i am so hungry!" tom took something out of his pocket. "do you remember this?" said he. becky almost smiled. "it's our wedding-cake, tom." "yes--i wish it was as big as a barrel, for it's all we've got." "i saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, tom, the way grown-up people do with wedding-cake--but it'll be our--" she dropped the sentence where it was. tom divided the cake and becky ate with good appetite, while tom nibbled at his moiety. there was abundance of cold water to finish the feast with. by-and-by becky suggested that they move on again. tom was silent a moment. then he said: "becky, can you bear it if i tell you something?" becky's face paled, but she thought she could. "well, then, becky, we must stay here, where there's water to drink. that little piece is our last candle!" becky gave loose to tears and wailings. tom did what he could to comfort her, but with little effect. at length becky said: "tom!" "well, becky?" "they'll miss us and hunt for us!" "yes, they will! certainly they will!" "maybe they're hunting for us now, tom." "why, i reckon maybe they are. i hope they are." "when would they miss us, tom?" "when they get back to the boat, i reckon." "tom, it might be dark then--would they notice we hadn't come?" "i don't know. but anyway, your mother would miss you as soon as they got home." a frightened look in becky's face brought tom to his senses and he saw that he had made a blunder. becky was not to have gone home that night! the children became silent and thoughtful. in a moment a new burst of grief from becky showed tom that the thing in his mind had struck hers also--that the sabbath morning might be half spent before mrs. thatcher discovered that becky was not at mrs. harper's. the children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched it melt slowly and pitilessly away; saw the half inch of wick stand alone at last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin column of smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then--the horror of utter darkness reigned! how long afterward it was that becky came to a slow consciousness that she was crying in tom's arms, neither could tell. all that they knew was, that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of a dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more. tom said it might be sunday, now--maybe monday. he tried to get becky to talk, but her sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone. tom said that they must have been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going on. he would shout and maybe some one would come. he tried it; but in the darkness the distant echoes sounded so hideously that he tried it no more. the hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again. a portion of tom's half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it. but they seemed hungrier than before. the poor morsel of food only whetted desire. by-and-by tom said: "sh! did you hear that?" both held their breath and listened. there was a sound like the faintest, far-off shout. instantly tom answered it, and leading becky by the hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction. presently he listened again; again the sound was heard, and apparently a little nearer. "it's them!" said tom; "they're coming! come along, becky--we're all right now!" the joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming. their speed was slow, however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be guarded against. they shortly came to one and had to stop. it might be three feet deep, it might be a hundred--there was no passing it at any rate. tom got down on his breast and reached as far down as he could. no bottom. they must stay there and wait until the searchers came. they listened; evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant! a moment or two more and they had gone altogether. the heart-sinking misery of it! tom whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use. he talked hopefully to becky; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again. the children groped their way back to the spring. the weary time dragged on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken. tom believed it must be tuesday by this time. now an idea struck him. there were some side passages near at hand. it would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the heavy time in idleness. he took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to a projection, and he and becky started, tom in the lead, unwinding the line as he groped along. at the end of twenty steps the corridor ended in a "jumping-off place." tom got down on his knees and felt below, and then as far around the corner as he could reach with his hands conveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a little farther to the right, and at that moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand, holding a candle, appeared from behind a rock! tom lifted up a glorious shout, and instantly that hand was followed by the body it belonged to--injun joe's! tom was paralyzed; he could not move. he was vastly gratified the next moment, to see the "spaniard" take to his heels and get himself out of sight. tom wondered that joe had not recognized his voice and come over and killed him for testifying in court. but the echoes must have disguised the voice. without doubt, that was it, he reasoned. tom's fright weakened every muscle in his body. he said to himself that if he had strength enough to get back to the spring he would stay there, and nothing should tempt him to run the risk of meeting injun joe again. he was careful to keep from becky what it was he had seen. he told her he had only shouted "for luck." but hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long run. another tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought changes. the children awoke tortured with a raging hunger. tom believed that it must be wednesday or thursday or even friday or saturday, now, and that the search had been given over. he proposed to explore another passage. he felt willing to risk injun joe and all other terrors. but becky was very weak. she had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be roused. she said she would wait, now, where she was, and die--it would not be long. she told tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he chose; but she implored him to come back every little while and speak to her; and she made him promise that when the awful time came, he would stay by her and hold her hand until all was over. tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a show of being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the cave; then he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one of the passages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and sick with bodings of coming doom. lovey mary by alice hegan rice author of "mrs. wiggs of the cabbage patch" to cale young rice who taught me the secret of plucking roses from a cabbage patch contents chapter i a cactus-plant ii a runaway couple iii the hazy household iv an accident and an incident v the dawn of a romance vi the losing of mr. stubbins vii neighborly advice viii a denominational garden ix labor day x a timely visit xi the christmas play xii reaction xiii an honorable retreat xiv the cactus blooms list of illustrations "they met at the pump." ..... frontispiece "'now the lord meant you to be plain.'" "'come here, tom, and kiss your mother.'" "''t ain't no street...; this here is the cabbage patch.'" "she puffed her hair at the top and sides." "'she took on mighty few airs fer a person in mournin'.'" "she sat on the door-step, white and miserable." "mrs. wiggs took pictures from her walls and chairs from her parlor to beautify the house of hazy." "mr. stubbins, sitting in mrs. wiggs's most comfortable chair, with a large slice of pumpkin-pie in his hand." "'stick out yer tongue.'" "asia held out her hands, which were covered with warm red mitts." "master robert redding was right side up again, sobbing himself quiet in lovey mary's arms." "'have you ever acted any?' he asked." "europena stepped forward." "sang in a high, sweet voice, 'i need thee every hour.'" "'haven't you got any place you could go to?'" susie smithers at the keyhole "lovey mary waved until she rounded a curve." lovey mary chapter i a cactus-plant for life, with all it yields of joy and woe, and hope and fear,... is just our chance o' the prize of learning love,-- how love might be, hath been indeed, and is. browning's "a death in the desert." everything about lovey mary was a contradiction, from her hands and feet, which seemed to have been meant for a big girl, to her high ideals and aspirations, that ought to have belonged to an amiable one. the only ingredient which might have reconciled all the conflicting elements in her chaotic little bosom was one which no one had ever taken the trouble to supply. when miss bell, the matron of the home, came to receive lovey mary's confession of repentance, she found her at an up-stairs window making hideous faces and kicking the furniture. the depth of her repentance could always be gaged by the violence of her conduct. miss bell looked at her as she would have looked at one of the hieroglyphs on the obelisk. she had been trying to decipher her for thirteen years. miss bell was stout and prim, a combination which was surely never intended by nature. her gray dress and tight linen collar and cuffs gave the uncomfortable impression of being sewed on, while her rigid black water-waves seemed irrevocably painted upon her high forehead. she was a routinist; she believed in system, she believed in order, and she believed that godliness was akin to cleanliness. when she found an exception to a rule she regarded the exception in the light of an error. as she stood, brush in hand, before lovey mary, she thought for the hundredth time that the child was an exception. "stand up," she said firmly but not unkindly. "i thought you had too much sense to do your hair that way. come back to the bath-room, and i will arrange it properly." lovey mary gave a farewell kick at the wall before she followed miss bell. one side of her head was covered with tight black ringlets, and the other bristled with curl-papers. "when i was a little girl," said miss bell, running the wet comb ruthlessly through the treasured curls, "the smoother my hair was the better i liked it. i used to brush it down with soap and water to make it stay." lovey mary looked at the water-waves and sighed. "if you're ugly you never can get married with anybody, can you, miss bell?" she asked in a spirit of earnest inquiry. miss bell's back became stiffer, if possible, than before. "marriage isn't the only thing in the world. the homelier you are the better chance you have of being good. now the lord meant you to be plain"--assisting providence by drawing the braids so tight that the girl's eyebrows were elevated with the strain. "if he had meant you to have curls he would have given them to you." [illustration: "'now the lord meant you to be plain'"] "well, didn't he want me to have a mother and father?" burst forth lovey mary, indignantly, "or clothes, or money, or nothing? can't i ever get nothing at all 'cause i wasn't started out with nothing?" miss bell was too shocked to reply. she gave a final brush to the sleek, wet head and turned sorrowfully away. lovey mary ran after her and caught her hand. "i'm sorry," she cried impulsively. "i want to be good. please-- please--" miss bell drew her hand away coldly. "you needn't go to sabbath-school this morning," she said in an injured tone; "you can stay here and think over what you have said. i am not angry with you. i never allow myself to get angry. i don't understand, that's all. you are such a good girl about some things and so unreasonable about others. with a good home, good clothes, and kind treatment, what else could a girl want?" receiving no answer to this inquiry, miss bell adjusted her cuffs and departed with the conviction that she had done all that was possible to throw light upon a dark subject. lovey mary, left alone, shed bitter tears on her clean gingham dress. thirteen years ought to reconcile a person even to gingham dresses with white china buttons down the back, and round straw hats bought at wholesale. but lovey mary's rebellion of spirit was something that time only served to increase. it had started with kate rider, who used to pinch her, and laugh at her, and tell the other girls to "get on to her curves." curves had signified something dreadful to lovey mary; she would have experienced real relief could she have known that she did not possess any. it was not kate rider, however, who was causing the present tears; she had left the home two years before, and her name was not allowed to be mentioned even in whispers. neither was it rebellion against the work that had cast lovey mary into such depths of gloom; fourteen beds had been made, fourteen heads had been combed, and fourteen wriggling little bodies had been cheerfully buttoned into starchy blue ginghams exactly like her own. something deeper and more mysterious was fermenting in her soul-- something that made her long passionately for the beautiful things of life, for love and sympathy and happiness; something that made her want to be good, yet tempted her constantly to rebel against her environs. it was just the world-old spirit that makes the veriest little weed struggle through a chink in the rock and reach upward toward the sun. "what's the matter with your hair, lovey mary? it looks so funny," asked a small girl, coming up the steps. "if anybody asts you, tell 'em you don't know," snapped lovey mary. "well, miss bell says for you to come down to the office," said the other, unabashed. "there's a lady down there--a lady and a baby. me and susie peeked in. miss bell made the lady cry; she made her wipe the powders off her compleshun." "and she sent for me?" asked lovey mary, incredulously. such a ripple in the still waters of the home was sufficient to interest the most disconsolate. "yes; and me and susie's going to peek some more." lovey mary dried her tears and hurried down to the office. as she stood at the door she heard a girl's excited voice protesting and begging, and miss bell's placid tones attempting to calm her. they paused as she entered. "mary," said miss bell, "you remember kate rider. she has brought her child for us to take care of for a while. have you room for him in your division?" as lovey mary looked at the gaily dressed girl on the sofa, her animosity rekindled. it was not kate's bold black eyes that stirred her wrath, nor the hard red lips that recalled the taunts of other days: it was the sight of the auburn curls gathered in tantalizing profusion under the brim of the showy hat. "mary, answer my question!" said miss bell, sharply. with an involuntary shudder of repugnance lovey mary drew her gaze from kate and murmured, "yes, 'm." "then you can take the baby with you," continued miss bell, motioning to the sleeping child. "but wait a moment. i think i will put jennie at the head of your division and let you have entire charge of this little boy. he is only a year old, kate tells me, so will need constant attention." lovey mary was about to protest, when kate broke in: "oh, say, miss bell, please get some other girl! tommy never would like lovey. he's just like me: if people ain't pretty, he don't have no use for 'em." "that will do, kate," said miss bell, coldly. "it is only pity for the child that makes me take him at all. you have forfeited all claim upon our sympathy or patience. mary, take the baby up-stairs and care for him until i come." lovey mary, hot with rebellion, picked him up and went out of the room. at the door she stumbled against two little girls who were listening at the keyhole. up-stairs in the long dormitory it was very quiet. the children had been marched away to sunday-school, and only lovey mary and the sleeping baby were on the second floor. the girl sat beside the little white bed and hated the world as far as she knew it: she hated kate for adding this last insult to the old score; she hated miss bell for putting this new burden on her unwilling shoulders; she hated the burden itself, lying there before her so serene and unconcerned; and most of all she hated herself. "i wisht i was dead!" she cried passionately. "the harder i try to be good the meaner i get. ever'body blames me, and ever'body makes fun of me. ugly old face, and ugly old hands, and straight old rat-tail hair! it ain't no wonder that nobody loves me. i just wisht i was dead!" the sunshine came through the window and made a big white patch on the bare floor, but lovey mary sat in the shadow and disturbed the sunday quiet by her heavy sobbing. at noon, when the children returned, the noise of their arrival woke tommy. he opened his round eyes on a strange world, and began to cry lustily. one child after another tried to pacify him, but each friendly advance increased his terror. "leave him be!" cried lovey mary. "them hats is enough to skeer him into fits." she picked him up, and with the knack born of experience soothed and comforted him. the baby hid his face on her shoulder and held her tight. she could feel the sobs that still shook the small body, and his tears were on her cheek. "never mind," she said. "i ain't a-going to let 'em hurt you. i'm going to take care of you. don't cry any more. look!" she stretched forth her long, unshapely hand and made grotesque snatches at the sunshine that poured in through the window. tommy hesitated and was lost; a smile struggled to the surface, then broke through the tears. "look! he's laughing!" cried lovey mary, gleefully. "he's laughing 'cause i ketched a sunbeam for him!" then she bent impulsively and kissed the little red lips so close to her own. chapter ii a runaway couple "courage mounteth with occasion." for two years lovey mary cared for tommy: she bathed him and dressed him, taught him to walk, and kissed his bumps to make them well; she sewed for him and nursed him by day, and slept with him in her tired arms at night. and tommy, with the inscrutable philosophy of childhood, accepted his little foster-mother and gave her his all. one bright june afternoon the two were romping in the home yard under the beech-trees. lovey mary lay in the grass, while tommy threw handfuls of leaves in her face, laughing with delight at her grimaces. presently the gate clicked, and some one came toward them. "good land! is that my kid?" said a woman's voice. "come here, tom, and kiss your mother." lovey mary, sitting up, found kate rider, in frills and ribbons, looking with surprise at the sturdy child before her. tommy objected violently to this sudden overture and declined positively to acknowledge the relationship. in fact, when kate attempted to pull him to her, he fled for protection to lovey mary and cast belligerent glances at the intruder. kate laughed. "oh, you needn't be so scary; you might as well get used to me, for i am going to take you home with me. i bet he's a corker, ain't he, lovey? he used to bawl all night. sometimes i'd have to spank him two or three times." lovey mary clasped the child closer and looked up in dumb terror. was tommy to be taken from her? tommy to go away with kate? "great scott!" exclaimed kate, exasperated at the girl's manner. "you are just as ugly and foolish as you used to be. i'm going in to see miss bell." lovey mary waited until she was in the house, then she stole noiselessly around to the office window. the curtain blew out across her cheek, and the swaying lilacs seemed to be trying to count the china buttons on her back; but she stood there with staring eyes and parted lips, and held her breath to listen. [illustration with caption: "'come here, tom, and kiss your mother.'"] "of course," miss bell was saying, measuring her words with due precision, "if you feel that you can now support your child and that it is your duty to take him, we cannot object. there are many other children waiting to come into the home. and yet--" miss bell's voice sounded human and unnatural--"yet i wish he could stay. have you thought, kate, of your responsibility toward him, of--" "oh! ough!" shrieked tommy from the playground, in tones of distress. lovey mary left her point of vantage and rushed to the rescue. she found him emitting frenzied yells, while a tiny stream of blood trickled down his chin. "it was my little duck," he gasped as soon as he was able to speak. "i was tissin' him, an' he bited me." at thought of the base ingratitude on the part of the duck, tommy wailed anew. lovey mary led him to the hydrant and bathed the injured lip, while she soothed his feelings. suddenly a wave of tenderness swept over her. she held his chubby face up to hers and said fervently: "tommy, do you love me?" "yes," said tommy, with a reproachful eye on the duck. "yes; i yuv to yuv. i don't yuv to tiss, though!" "but me, tommy, me. do you love me?" "yes," he answered gravely, "dollar an' a half." "whose little boy are you?" "yuvey's 'e boy." satisfied with this catechism, she put tommy in care of another girl and went back to her post at the window. miss bell was talking again. "i will have him ready to-morrow afternoon when you come. his clothes are all in good condition. i only hope, kate, that you will care for him as tenderly as mary has. i am afraid he will miss her sadly." "if he's like me, he'll forget about her in two or three days," answered the other voice. "it always was 'out of sight, out of mind' with me." miss bell's answer was indistinct, and in a few minutes lovey mary heard the hall door close behind them. she shook her fists until the lilacs trembled. "she sha'n't have him!" she whispered fiercely. "she sha'n't let him grow up wicked like she is. i won't let him go. i'll hide him, i'll--" suddenly she grew very still, and for a long time crouched motionless behind the bushes. the problem that faced her had but one solution, and lovey mary had found it. the next morning when the sun climbed over the tree-tops and peered into the dormitory windows he found that somebody else had made an early rise. lovey mary was sitting by a wardrobe making her last will and testament. from the neatly folded pile of linen she selected a few garments and tied them into a bundle. then she took out a cigar-box and gravely contemplated the contents. there were two narrow hair- ribbons which had evidently been one wide ribbon, a bit of rock crystal, four paper dolls, a soiled picture-book with some other little girl's name scratched out on the cover, and two shining silver dollars. these composed lovey mary's worldly possessions. she tied the money in her handkerchief and put it in her pocket, then got up softly and slipped about among the little white beds, distributing her treasures. "i'm mad at susie," she whispered, pausing before a tousled head; "i hate to give her the nicest thing i've got. but she's just crazy 'bout picture-books." the curious sun climbed yet a little higher and saw lovey mary go back to her own bed, and, rolling tommy's clothes around her own bundle, gather the sleeping child in her arms and steal quietly out of the room. then the sun got too high up in the heavens to watch little runaway orphan girls. nobody saw her steal through the deserted playroom, down the clean bare steps, which she had helped to wear away, and out through the yard to the coal-shed. here she got the reluctant tommy into his clothes, and tied on his little round straw hat, so absurdly like her own. "is we playin' hie-spy, yuvey?" asked the mystified youngster. "yes, tommy," she whispered, "and we are going a long way to hide. you are my little boy now, and you must love me better than anything in the world. say it, tommy; say, 'i love you better 'n anybody in the whole world.'" "will i det on de rollin' honor?" asked tommy, thinking he was learning his golden text. but lovey mary had forgotten her question. she was taking a farewell look at the home, every nook and corner of which had suddenly grown dear. already she seemed a thing apart, one having no right to its shelter and protection. she turned to where tommy was playing with some sticks in the corner, and bidding him not to stir or speak until her return, she slipped back up the walk and into the kitchen. swiftly and quietly she made a fire in the stove and filled the kettle with water. then she looked about for something more she might do. on the table lay the grocery book with a pencil attached. she thought a moment, then wrote laboriously under the last order: "miss bell i will take kere tommy pleas don't be mad." then she softly closed the door behind her. a few minutes later she lifted tommy out of the low shed window, and hurried him down the alley and out into the early morning streets. at the corner they took a car, and tommy knelt by the window and absorbed the sights with rapt attention; to him the adventure was beginning brilliantly. even lovey mary experienced a sense of exhilaration when she paid their fare out of one of the silver dollars. she knew the conductor was impressed, because he said, "you better watch buddy's hat, ma'am." that "ma'am" pleased her profoundly; it caused her unconsciously to assume miss bell's tone and manner as she conversed with the back of tommy's head. "we'll go out on the avenue," she said. "we'll go from house to house till i get work. 'most anybody would be glad to get a handy girl that can cook and wash and sew, only--i ain't very big, and then there's you." "ain't that a big house?" shouted tommy, half way out of the window. "yes; don't talk so loud. that's the court-house." "where they make court-plaster at?" inquired tommy shrilly. lovey mary glanced around uneasily. she hoped the old man in the corner had not heard this benighted remark. all went well until the car reached the terminal station. here tommy refused to get off. in vain lovey mary coaxed and threatened. "it'll take us right back to the home," she pleaded. "be a good boy and come with lovey. i'll buy you something nice." tommy remained obdurate. he believed in letting well enough alone. the joys of a street-car ride were present and tangible; "something nice" was vague, unsatisfying. "don't yer little brother want to git off?" asked the conductor, sympathetically. "no, sir," said lovey mary, trying to maintain her dignity while she struggled with her charge. "if you please, sir, would you mind holding his feet while i loosen his hands?" tommy, shrieking indignant protests, was borne from the car and deposited on the sidewalk. "don't you dare get limber!" threatened lovey mary. "if you do i'll spank you right here on the street. stand up! straighten out your legs! tommy! do you hear me?" tommy might have remained limp indefinitely had not a hurdy-gurdy opportunely arrived on the scene. it is true that he would go only in the direction of the music, but lovey mary was delighted to have him go at all. when at last they were headed for the avenue, tommy caused another delay. "i want my ducky," he announced. the words brought consternation to lovey mary. she had fearfully anticipated them from the moment of leaving the home. "i'll buy you a 'tend-like duck," she said. "no; i want a sure-'nough ducky; i want mine." lovey mary was exasperated. "well, you can't have yours. i can't get it for you, and you might as well hush." his lips trembled, and two large tears rolled down his round cheeks. when he was injured he was irresistible. lovey mary promptly surrendered. "don't cry, baby boy! lovey'll get you one someway." for some time the quest of the duck was fruitless. the stores they entered were wholesale houses for the most part, where men were rolling barrels about or stacking skins and hides on the sidewalk. "do you know what sort of a store they sell ducks at?" asked lovey mary of a colored man who was sweeping out an office. "ducks!" repeated the negro, grinning at the queerly dressed children in their round straw hats. "name o' de lawd! what do you all want wif ducks?" lovey mary explained. "wouldn't a kitten do jes as well?" he asked kindly. "i want my ducky," whined tommy, showing signs of returning storm. "i don' see no way 'cept'n' gwine to de mahket. efen you tek de cah you kin ride plumb down dere." recent experience had taught lovey mary to be wary of street-cars, so they walked. at the market they found some ducks. the desired objects were hanging in a bunch with their limp heads tied together. further inquiry, however, discovered some live ones in a coop. "they're all mama ducks," objected tommy. "i want a baby ducky. i want my little ducky!" when he found he could do no better, he decided to take one of the large ones. then he said he was hungry, so he and mary took turn about holding it while the other ate "po' man's pickle" and wienerwurst. it was two o'clock by the time they reached the avenue, and by four they were foot-sore and weary, but they trudged bravely along from house to house asking for work. as dusk came on, the houses, which a few squares back had been tall and imposing, seemed to be getting smaller and more insignificant. lovey mary felt secure as long as she was on the avenue. she did not know that the avenue extended for many miles and that she had reached the frayed and ragged end of it. she and tommy passed under a bridge, and after that the houses all seemed to behave queerly. some faced one way, some another, and crisscross between them, in front of them, and behind them ran a network of railroad tracks. "what's the name of this street?" asked lovey mary of a small, bare- footed girl. "'t ain't no street," answered the little girl, gazing with undisguised amazement at the strange-looking couple; "this here is the cabbage patch." [illustration: "'t ain't no street...; this here is the cabbage patch.'"] chapter iii the hazy household "here sovereign dirt erects her sable throne, the house, the host, the hostess all her own." miss hazy was the submerged tenth of the cabbage patch. the submersion was mainly one of dirt and disorder, but miss hazy was such a meek, inefficient little body that the cabbage patch withheld its blame and patiently tried to furnish a prop for the clinging vine. miss hazy, it is true, had chris; but chris was unstable, not only because he had lost one leg, but also because he was the wildest, noisiest, most thoughtless youngster that ever shied a rock at a lamp-post. miss hazy had "raised" chris, and the neighbors had raised miss hazy. when lovey mary stumbled over the hazy threshold with the sleeping tommy and the duck in her arms, miss hazy fluttered about in dismay. she pushed the flour-sifter farther over on the bed and made a place for tommy, then she got a chair for the exhausted girl and hovered about her with little chirps of consternation. "dear sakes! you're done tuckered out, ain't you? you an' the baby got losted? ain't that too bad! must i make you some tea? only there ain't no fire in the stove. dear me! what ever will i do? jes wait a minute; i'll have to go ast mis' wiggs." in a few minutes miss hazy returned. with her was a bright-faced little woman whose smile seemed to thaw out the frozen places in lovey mary's heart and make her burst into tears on the motherly bosom. "there now, there," said mrs. wiggs, hugging the girl up close and patting her on the back; "there ain't no hole so deep can't somebody pull you out. an' here's me an' miss hazy jes waitin' to give you a h'ist." there was something so heartsome in her manner that lovey mary dried her eyes and attempted to explain. "i'm tryin' to get a place," she began, "but nobody wants to take tommy too. i can't carry him any further, and i don't know where to go, and it's 'most night--" again the sobs choked her. "lawsee!" said mrs. wiggs, "don't you let that worry you! i can't take you home, 'cause asia an' australia an' europeny are sleepin' in one bed as it is; but you kin git right in here with miss hazy, can't she, miss hazy?" the hostess, to whom mrs. wiggs was an oracle, acquiesced heartily. "all right: that's fixed. now i'll go home an' send you all over some nice, hot supper by billy, an' to-morrow mornin' will be time enough to think things out." lovey mary, too exhausted to mind the dirt, ate her supper off a broken plate, then climbed over behind tommy and the flour-sifter, and was soon fast asleep. the business meeting next morning "to think things out" resulted satisfactorily. at first mrs. wiggs was inclined to ask questions and find out where the children came from, but when she saw lovey mary's evident distress and embarrassment, she accepted the statement that they were orphans and that the girl was seeking work in order to take care of herself and the boy. it had come to be an unwritten law in the cabbage patch that as few questions as possible should be asked of strangers. people had come there before who could not give clear accounts of themselves. "now i'll tell you what i think'll be best," said mrs. wiggs, who enjoyed untangling snarls. "asia kin take mary up to the fact'ry with her to-morrow, an' see if she kin git her a job. i 'spect she kin, 'cause she stands right in with the lady boss. miss hazy, me an' you kin keep a' eye on the baby between us. if mary gits a place she kin pay you so much a week, an' that'll help us all out, 'cause then we won't have to send in so many outside victuals. if she could make three dollars an' chris three, you all could git along right peart." lovey mary stayed in the house most of the day. she was almost afraid to look out of the little window, for fear she should see miss bell or kate rider coming. she sat in the only chair that had a bottom and diligently worked buttonholes for miss hazy. "looks like there ain't never no time to clean up," said miss hazy, apologetically, as she shoved chris's sunday clothes and a can of coal-oil behind the door. lovey mary looked about her and sighed deeply. the room was brimful and spilling over: trash, tin cans, and bottles overflowed the window- sills; a crippled rocking-chair, with a faded quilt over it, stood before the stove, in the open oven of which chris's shoe was drying; an old sewing-machine stood in the middle of the floor, with miss hazy's sewing on one end of it and the uncleared dinner-dishes on the other. mary could not see under the bed, but she knew from the day's experience that it was used as a combination store-room and wardrobe. she thought of the home with its bare, clean rooms and its spotless floors. she rose abruptly and went out to the rear of the house, where tommy was playing with europena wiggs. they were absorbed in trying to hitch the duck to a spool-box, and paid little attention to her. "tommy," she said, clutching his arm, "don't you want to go back?" but tommy had tasted freedom; he had had one blissful day unwashed, uncombed, and uncorrected. "no," he declared stoutly; "i'm doin' to stay to this house and play wiv you're-a-peanut." "then," said mary, with deep resignation, "the only thing for me to do is to try to clean things up." when she went back into the house she untied her bundle and took out the remaining dollar. "i'll be back soon," she said to miss hazy as she stepped over a basket of potatoes. "i'm just going over to mrs. wiggs's a minute." she found her neighbor alone, getting supper. "please, ma'am,"--she plunged into her subject at once,--"have any of your girls a dress for sale? i've got a dollar to buy it." mrs. wiggs turned the girl around and surveyed her critically. "well, i don't know as i blame you fer wantin' to git shut of that one. there ain't more 'n room enough fer one leg in that skirt, let alone two. an' what was the sense in them big shiny buttons?" "i don't know as it makes much difference," said lovey mary, disconsolately; "i'm so ugly, nothing could make me look nice." mrs. wiggs shook her by the shoulders good-naturedly. "now, here," she said, "don't you go an' git sorry fer yerself! that's one thing i can't stand in nobody. there's always lots of other folks you kin be sorry fer 'stid of yerself. ain't you proud you ain't got a harelip? why, that one thought is enough to keep me from ever gittin' sorry fer myself." mary laughed, and mrs. wiggs clapped her hands. "that's what yer face needs--smiles! i never see anything make such a difference. but now about the dress. yes, indeed, asia has got dresses to give 'way. she gits 'em from mrs. reddin'; her husband is mr. bob, billy's boss. he's a newspaper editress an' rich as cream. mrs. reddin' is a fallen angel, if there ever was one on this earth. she sends all sorts of clothes to asia, an' i warm 'em over an' boil 'em down till they're her size. "asia minor!" she called to a girl who was coming in the door, "this here is mary--lovey mary she calls herself, miss hazy's boarder. have you got a dress you could give her?" "i'm going to buy it," said mary, immediately on the defensive. she did not want them to think for a moment that she was begging. she would show them that she had money, that she was just as good as they were. "well, maw," the other girl was saying in a drawling voice as she looked earnestly at lovey mary, "seems to me she'd look purtiest in my red dress. her hair's so nice an' black an' her teeth so white, i 'low the red would look best." mrs. wiggs gazed at her daughter with adoring eyes. "ain't that the artis' stickin' out through her? couldn't you tell she handles paints? up at the fact'ry she's got a fine job, paints flowers an' wreaths on to bath-tubs. yes, indeed, this here red one is what you must have. keep your dollar, child; the dress never cost us a cent. here's a nubia, too, you kin have; it'll look better than that little hat you had on last night. that little hat worried me; it looked like the stopper was too little fer the bottle. there now, take the things right home with you, an' tomorrow you an' asia kin start off in style." lovey mary, flushed with the intoxication of her first compliment, went back and tried on the dress. miss hazy got so interested that she forgot to get supper. "you look so nice i never would 'a' knowed you in the world!" she declared. "you don't look picked, like you did in that other dress." "that wiggs girl said i looked nice in red," said lovey mary tentatively. "you do, too," said miss hazy; "it keeps you from lookin' so corpsey. i wisht you'd do somethin' with yer hair, though; it puts me in mind of snakes in them long black plaits." all lovey mary needed was encouragement. she puffed her hair at the top and sides and tucked it up in the latest fashion. tommy, coming in at the door, did not recognize her. she laughed delightedly. "do i look so different?" "i should say you do," said miss hazy, admiringly, as she spread a newspaper for a table-cloth. "i never seen no one answer to primpin' like you do." [illustration: "she puffed her hair at the top and sides."] when it was quite dark lovey mary rolled something in a bundle and crept out of the house. after glancing cautiously up and down the tracks she made her way to the pond on the commons and dropped her bundle into the shallow water. next day, when mrs. schultz's goat died of convulsions, nobody knew it was due to the china buttons on lovey mary's gingham dress. chapter iv an accident and an incident "our deeds still travel with us from afar, and what we have been makes us what we are." through the assistance of asia wiggs, lovey mary secured pleasant and profitable work at the factory; but her mind was not at peace. of course it was a joy to wear the red dress and arrange her hair a different way each morning, but there was a queer, restless little feeling in her heart that spoiled even the satisfaction of looking like other girls and earning three dollars a week. the very fact that nobody took her to task, that nobody scolded or blamed her, caused her to ask herself disturbing questions. secret perplexity had the same effect upon her that it has upon many who are older and wiser: it made her cross. two days after she started to work, asia, coming down from the decorating-room for lunch, found her in fiery dispute with a red- haired girl. there had been an accident in front of the factory, and the details were under discussion. "well, i know all about it," declared the red-haired girl, excitedly, "'cause my sister was the first one that got to her." "is your sister a nigger named jim brown?" asked lovey mary, derisively. "ever'body says he was the first one got there." "was there blood on her head?" asked asia, trying to stem the tide of argument. "yes, indeed," said the first speaker; "on her head an' on her hands, too. i hanged on the steps when they was puttin' her in the ambalance- wagon, an' she never knowed a bloomin' thing!" "why didn't you go on with them to the hospital!" asked lovey mary. "i don't see how the doctors could get along without you." "oh, you're just mad 'cause you didn't see her. she was awful pretty! had on a black hat with a white feather in it, but it got in the mud. they say she had a letter in her pocket with her name on it." "i thought maybe she come to long enough to tell you her name," teased her tormentor. "well, i do know it, smarty," retorted the other, sharply: "it's miss kate rider." meanwhile in the cabbage patch miss hazy and mrs. wiggs were holding a consultation over the fence. "she come over to my house first," mrs. wiggs was saying, dramatically illustrating her remarks with two tin cans. "this is me here, an' i looks up an' seen the old lady standin' over there. she put me in mind of a graven image. she had on a sorter gray mournin', didn't she, miss hazy?" "yes, 'm; that was the way it struck me. bein' gray, i 'lowed it was fer some one she didn't keer fer pertickler." "an' gent's cuffs," continued mrs. wiggs; "i noticed them right off. ''scuse me,' says she, snappin' her mouth open an' shut like a trap-- ''scuse me, but have you seen anything of two strange children in this neighborhood?' i th'owed my apron over lovey mary's hat, that i was trimmin'. i wasn't goin' to tell till i found out what that widder woman was after. but before i was called upon to answer, tommy come tearin' round the house chasin' cusmoodle." "who?" "cusmoodle, the duck. i named it this mornin'. well, when the lady seen tommy she started up, then she set down ag'in, holdin' her skirts up all the time to keep 'em from techin' the floor. 'how'd they git here?' she ast, so relieved-like that i thought she must be kin to 'em. so i up an' told her all i knew. i told her if she wanted to find out anything about us she could ast mrs. reddin' over at terrace park. 'mrs. robert reddin'?' says she, lookin' dumfounded. 'yes,' says i, 'the finest lady, rich or poor, in kentucky, unless it's her husband.' then she went on an' ast me goin' on a hunderd questions 'bout all of us an' all of you all, an' 'bout the factory. she even ast me where we got our water at, an' if you kept yer house healthy. i told her lovey mary had made chris carry out more 'n a wheelbarrow full of dirt ever' night since she had been here, an' i guess it would be healthy by the time she got through." [illustration: "'she took on mighty few airs fer a person in mournin'.'"] miss hazy moved uneasily. "i told her i couldn't clean up much 'count of the rheumatism, an' phthisic, an' these here dizzy spells--" "i bet she didn't git a chance to talk much if you got started on your symptims," interrupted mrs. wiggs. "didn't you think she was a' awful haughty talker?" 'no, indeed. she took on mighty few airs fer a person in mournin'. when she riz to go, she says, real kind fer such a stern-faced woman, 'do the childern seem well an' happy?' 'yes, 'm; they're well, all right,' says i. 'tommy he's like a colt what's been stabled up all winter an' is let out fer the first time. as fer mary,' i says, 'she seems kinder low in her mind, looks awful pestered most of the time.' 'it won't hurt her,' says the lady. 'keep a' eye on 'em,' says she, puttin' some money in my hand,' an' if you need any more, i'll leave it with mrs. reddin'.' then she cautioned me pertickler not to say nothin' 'bout her havin' been here." "she told me not to tell, too," said miss hazy; "but i don't know what we're goin' to say to mrs. schultz. she 'most sprained her back tryin' to see who it was, an' mrs. eichorn come over twicet pertendin'-like she wanted to borrow a corkscrew driver." "tell 'em she was a newfangled agent," said mrs. wiggs, with unblushing mendacity--"a' agent fer shoestrings." chapter v the dawn of a romance "there is in the worst of fortunes the best of chances for a happy change." "good land! you all're so clean in here i'm feared of ketchin' the pneumony." mrs. wiggs stood in miss hazy's kitchen and smiled approval at the marvelous transformation. "well, now, i don't think it's right healthy," complained miss hazy, who was sitting at the machine, with her feet on a soap-box; "so much water sloppin' round is mighty apt to give a person a cold. but lovey mary says she can't stand it no other way. she's mighty set, mis' wiggs." "yes, an' that's jes what you need, miss hazy. you never was set 'bout nothin' in yer life. lovey mary's jes took you an' the house an' ever'thing in hand, an' in four weeks got you all to livin' like white folks. i ain't claimin' she ain't sharp-tongued; i 'low she's sassed 'bout ever'body in the patch but me by now. but she's good, an' she's smart, an' some of her sharp corners'll git pecked off afore her hair grows much longer." "oh, mercy me! here she comes now to git her lunch," said miss hazy, with chagrin. "i ain't got a thing fixed." "you go on an' sew; i'll mess up a little somethin' fer her. she'll stop, anyway, to talk to tommy. did you ever see anything to equal the way she takes on 'bout that child? she jes natchally analyzes him." lovey mary, however, did not stop as usual to play with tommy. she came straight to the kitchen and sat down on the door-step, looking worried and preoccupied. "how comes it you ain't singin'?" asked mrs. wiggs. "if i had a voice like yourn, folks would have to stop up their years with cotton. i jes find myself watchin' fer you to come home, so's i can hear you singin' them pretty duets round the house." lovey mary smiled faintly; for a month past she had been unconsciously striving to live up to mrs. wiggs's opinion of her, and the constant praise and commendation of that "courageous captain of compliment" had moved her to herculean effort. but a sudden catastrophe threatened her. she sat on the door-step, white and miserable. held tight in the hand that was thrust in her pocket was a letter; it was a blue letter addressed to miss hazy in large, dashing characters. lovey mary had got it from the postman as she went out in the morning; for five hours she had been racked with doubt concerning it. she felt that it could refer but to one subject, and that was herself. perhaps miss bell had discovered her hiding- place, or, worse still, perhaps kate rider had seen her at the factory and was writing for tommy. lovey mary crushed the letter in her hand; she would not give it to miss hazy. she would outwit kate again. "all right, honey," called mrs. wiggs; "here you are. 't ain't much of a lunch, but it'll fill up the gaps. me an' miss hazy jes been talkin' 'bout you." lovey mary glanced up furtively. could they have suspected anything? [illustration: "she sat on the door-step, white and miserable."] "didn't yer years sorter burn! we was speakin' of the way you'd slicked things up round here. i was a-sayin' even if you was a sorter repeatin'-rifle when it come to answerin' back, you was a good, nice girl." lovey mary smoothed out the crumpled letter in her pocket. "i'm 'fraid i ain't as good as you make me out," she said despondently. "oh, yes, she is," said miss hazy, with unusual animation; "she's a rale good girl, when she ain't sassy." this unexpected praise was too much for lovey mary. she snatched the letter from her pocket and threw it on the table, not daring to trust her good impulse to last beyond the minute. "'miss marietta hazy, south avenue and railroad crossing,'" read mrs. wiggs, in amazement. "oh, surely it ain't got me on the back of it!" cried miss hazy, rising hurriedly from the machine and peering over her glasses. "you open it, mis' wiggs; i ain't got the nerve to." with chattering teeth and trembling hands lovey mary sat before her untasted food. she could hear tommy's laughter through the open window, and the sound brought tears to her eyes. but mrs. wiggs's voice recalled her, and she nerved herself for the worst. _"miss hazy._ "dear miss [mrs. wiggs read from the large type-written sheet before her]: why not study the planets and the heavens therein? in casting your future, i find that thou wilt have an active and succesful year for business, but beware of the law. you are prudent and amiable and have a lively emagination. you will have many ennemies; but fear not, for in love you will be faitful and sincer, and are fitted well fer married life." "they surely ain't meanin' me?" asked miss hazy, in great perturbation. "_yes, ma'am_," said mrs. wiggs, emphatically; "it's you, plain as day. let's go on: "your star fortells you a great many lucky events. you are destined to a brilliant success, but you will have to earn it by good conduct. let wise men lead you. your mildness against the wretched will bring you the friendship of everbody. enclosed you will find a spirit picture of your future pardner. if you will send twenty-five cents with the enclosed card, which you will fill out, we will put you in direct correspondance with the gentleman, and the degree ordained by the planets will thus be fulfilled. please show this circuler to your friends, and oblige _"astrologer."_ as the reading proceeded, lovey mary's fears gradually diminished, and with a sigh of relief she applied herself to her lunch. but if the letter had proved of no consequence to her, such was not the case with the two women standing at the window. miss hazy was re-reading the letter, vainly trying to master the contents. "mary," she said, "git up an' see if you can find my other pair of lookin'-glasses. seems like i can't git the sense of it." mrs. wiggs meanwhile was excitedly commenting on the charms of the "spirit picture": "my, but he's siylish! looks fer all the world like a' insurance agent. looks like he might be a little tall to his size, but i like statute men better 'n dumpy ones. i bet he's got a lot of nice manners. ain't his smile pleasant!" miss hazy seized the small picture with trembling fingers. "i don't seem to git on to what it's all about, mis' wiggs. ain't they made a mistake or somethin'?" "no, indeed; there's no mistake at all," declared mrs. wiggs. "yer name's on the back, an' it's meant fer you. someway yer name's got out as bein' single an' needin' takin' keer of, an' i reckon this here 'strologer, or conjurer, or whatever he is, seen yer good fortune in the stars an' jes wanted to let you know 'bout it." "does he want to get married with her?" asked lovey mary, beginning to realize the grave importance of the subject under discussion. "well, it may lead to that," answered mrs. wiggs, hopefully. surely only a beneficent providence could have offered such an unexpected solution to the problem of miss hazy's future. miss hazy herself uttered faint protests and expostulations, but in spite of herself she was becoming influenced by mrs. wiggs's enthusiasm. "oh, shoo!" she repeated again and again. "i ain't never had no thought of marryin'." "course you ain't," said mrs. wiggs. "good enough reason: you ain't had a show before. seems to me you'd be flyin' straight in the face of providence to refuse a stylish, sweet-smilin' man like that." "he is fine-lookin'," acknowledged miss hazy, trying not to appear too pleased; "only i wisht his years didn't stick out so much." mrs. wiggs was exasperated. "lawsee! miss hazy, what do you think he'll think of yer figger? have you got so much to brag on, that you kin go to pickin' him to pieces? do you suppose i'd 'a' dared to judge mr. wiggs that away? why, mr. wiggs's nose was as long as a clothespin; but i would no more 'a' thought of his nose without him than i would 'a' thought of him without the nose." "well, what do you think i'd orter do 'bout it?" asked miss hazy. "i ain't quite made up my mind," said her mentor. "i'll talk it over with the neighbors. but i 'spect, if we kin skeer up a quarter, that you'll answer by the mornin's mail." that night lovey mary sat in her little attic room and held tommy close to her hungry heart. all day she worked with the thought of coming back to him at night; but with night came the dustman, and in spite of her games and stories tommy's blue eyes would get full of the sleep-dust. tonight, however, he was awake and talkative. "ain't i dot no muvver?" he asked. "no," said lovey mary, after a pause. "didn't i never had no muvver?" lovey mary sat him up in her lap and looked into his round, inquiring eyes. her very love for him hardened her heart against the one who had wronged him. "yes, darling, you had a mother once, but she was a bad mother, a mean, bad, wicked mother. i hate her--hate her!" lovey mary's voice broke in a sob. "ma--ry; aw, ma--ry!" called miss hazy up the stairs. "you'll have to come down here to chris. he's went to sleep with all his clothes on 'crost my bed, an' i can't git him up." lovey mary tucked tommy under the cover and went to miss hazy's assistance. "one night i had to set up all night 'cause he wouldn't git up," complained miss hazy, in hopelessly injured tones. lovey mary wasted no time in idle coaxing. she seized a broom and rapped the sleeper sharply on the legs. his peg-stick was insensible to this insult, but one leg kicked a feeble protest. in vain lovey mary tried violent measures; chris simply shifted his position and slumbered on. finally she resorted to strategy: "listen, miss hazy! ain't that the fire-engine?" in a moment chris was hanging half out of the window, demanding, "where at?" "you great big lazy boy!" scolded lovey mary, as she put miss hazy's bed in order. "i'll get you to behaving mighty different if i stay here long enough. what's this?" she added, pulling something from under miss hazy's pillow. "oh, it ain't nothin'," cried miss hazy, reaching for it eagerly. but lovey mary had recognized the "spirit picture." chapter vi the losing of mr. stubbins "love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove." if the cabbage patch had pinned its faith upon the efficiency of the matrimonial agency in regard to the disposal of miss hazy, it was doomed to disappointment. the events that led up to the final catastrophe were unique in that they cast no shadows before. [illustration: "mrs. wiggs took pictures from her walls and chairs from her parlor to beautify the house of hazy."] miss hazy's letters, dictated by mrs. wiggs and penned by lovey mary, were promptly and satisfactorily answered. the original of the spirit picture proved to be one mr. stubbins, "a prominent citizen of bagdad junction who desired to marry some one in the city. the lady must be of good character and without incumbrances." "that's all right," mrs. wiggs had declared; "you needn't have no incumbrances. if he'll take keer of you, we'll all look after chris." the wooing had been ideally simple. mr. stubbins, with the impetuosity of a new lover, demanded an early meeting. it was a critical time, and the cabbage patch realized the necessity of making the first impression a favorable one. mrs. wiggs took pictures from her walls and chairs from her parlor to beautify the house of hazy. old mrs. schultz, who was confined to her bed, sent over her black silk dress for miss hazy to wear. mrs. eichorn, with deep insight into the nature of man, gave a pound-cake and a pumpkin-pie. lovey mary scrubbed, and dusted, and cleaned, and superintended the toilet of the bride elect. the important day had arrived, and with it mr. stubbins. to the many eyes that surveyed him from behind shutters and half-open doors he was something of a disappointment. mrs. wiggs's rosy anticipations had invested him with the charms of an apollo, while mr. stubbins, in reality, was far from godlike. "my land! he's lanker 'n a bean-pole," exclaimed mrs. eichorn, in disgust. but then mrs. eichorn weighed two hundred, and her judgment was warped. taking everything into consideration, the prospects had been most flattering. mr. stubbins, sitting in mrs. wiggs's most comfortable chair, with a large slice of pumpkin-pie in his hand, and with miss hazy opposite arrayed in mrs. schultz's black silk, had declared himself ready to marry at once. and mrs. wiggs, believing that a groom in the hand is worth two in the bush, promptly precipitated the courtship into a wedding. [illustration: "mr. stubbins, sitting in mrs. wiggs's most comfortable chair, with a large slice of pumpkin-pie in his hand"] the affair proved the sensation of the hour, and "miss hazy's husband" was the cynosure of all eyes. for one brief week the honeymoon shed its beguiling light on the neighborhood, then it suffered a sudden and ignominious eclipse. the groom got drunk. mary was clearing away the supper-dishes when she was startled by a cry from miss hazy: "my sakes! lovey mary! look at mr. stubbins a-comin' up the street! do you s'pose he's had a stroke?" lovey mary ran to the window and beheld the "prominent citizen of bagdad junction" in a state of unmistakable intoxication. he was bareheaded and hilarious, and used the fence as a life-preserver. miss hazy wrung her hands and wept. "oh, what'll i do?" she wailed. "i do b'lieve he's had somethin' to drink. i ain't goin' to stay an' meet him, mary; i'm goin' to hide. i always was skeered of drunken men." "i'm not," said mary, stoutly. "you go on up in my room and lock the door; i'm going to stay here and keep him from messing up this kitchen. i want to tell him what i think of him, anyhow. i just hate that man! i believe you do, too, miss hazy." miss hazy wept afresh. "well, he ain't my kind, mary. i know i'd hadn't orter marry him, but it 'pears like ever' woman sorter wants to try gittin' married oncet anyways. i never would 'a' done it, though, if mrs. wiggs hadn't 'a' sicked me on." by this time mr. stubbins had reached the yard, and miss hazy fled. lovey mary barricaded tommy in a corner with his playthings and met the delinquent at the door. her eyes blazed and her cheeks were aflame. this modern david had no stones and sling to slay her goliath; she had only a vocabulary full of stinging words which she hurled forth with indignation and scorn. mr. stubbins had evidently been abused before, for he paid no attention to the girl's wrath. he passed jauntily to the stove and tried to pour a cup of coffee; the hot liquid missed the cup and streamed over his wrist and hand. howling with pain and swearing vociferously, he flung the coffee-pot out of the window, kicked a chair across the room, then turned upon tommy, who was adding shrieks of terror to the general uproar. "stop that infernal yelling!" he cried savagely, as he struck the child full in the face with his heavy hand. lovey mary sprang forward and seized the poker. all the passion of her wild little nature was roused. she stole up behind him as he knelt before tommy, and lifted the poker to strike. a pair of terrified blue eyes arrested her. tommy forgot to cry, in sheer amazement at what she was about to do. ashamed of herself, she threw the poker aside, and taking advantage of mr. stubbins's crouching position, she thrust him suddenly backward into the closet. the manoeuver was a brilliant one, for while mr. stubbins was unsteadily separating himself from the debris into which he had been cast, lovey mary slammed the door and locked it. then she picked up tommy and fled out of the house and across the yard. mrs. wiggs was sitting on her back porch pretending to knit, but in truth absorbed in a wild game of tag which the children were having on the commons. "that's right," she was calling excitedly--"that's right, chris hazy! you kin ketch as good as any of 'em, even if you have got a peg-stick." but when she caught sight of mary's white, distressed face and tommy's streaming eyes, she dropped her work and held out her arms. when mary had finished her story mrs. wiggs burst forth: "an' to think i run her up ag'in' this! ain't men deceivin'? now i'd 'a' risked mr. stubbins myself fer the askin'. it's true he was a widower, an' ma uster allays say, 'don't fool with widowers, grass nor sod.' but mr. stubbins was so slick-tongued! he told me yesterday he had to take liquor sometime fer his war enjury." "but, mrs. wiggs, what must we do?" asked lovey mary, too absorbed in the present to be interested in the past. "do? why, we got to git miss hazy out of this here hole. it ain't no use consultin' her; i allays have said talkin' to miss hazy was like pullin' out bastin'-threads: you jes take out what you put in. me an' you has got to think out a plan right here an' now, then go to work an' carry it out." "couldn't we get the agency to take him back?" suggested mary. "no, indeed; they couldn't afford to do that. lemme see, lemme see--" for five minutes mrs. wiggs rocked meditatively, soothing tommy to sleep as she rocked. when she again spoke it was with inspiration: "i've got it! it looks sometime, lovey mary, 's if i'd sorter caught some of mr. wiggs's brains in thinkin' things out. they ain't but one thing to do with miss hazy's husband, an' we'll do it this very night." "what, mrs. wiggs? what is it?" asked lovey mary, eagerly. "why, to lose him, of course! we'll wait till mr. stubbins is dead asleep; you know men allays have to sleep off a jag like this. i've seen mr. wiggs--i mean i've heared 'em say so many a time. well, when mr. stubbins is sound asleep, you an' me an' billy will drag him out to the railroad." mrs. wiggs's voice had sunk to a hoarse whisper, and her eyes looked fierce in the twilight. lovey mary shuddered. "you ain't going to let the train run over him, are you?" she asked. "lor', child, i ain't a 'sassinator! no; we'll wait till the midnight freight comes along, an' when it stops fer water, we'll h'ist mr. stubbins into one of them empty cars. the train goes 'way out west somewheres, an' by the time mr. stubbins wakes up, he'll be so far away from home he won't have no money to git back." "what'll miss hazy say?" asked mary, giggling in nervous excitement. "miss hazy ain't got a thing to do with it," replied mrs. wiggs conclusively. at midnight, by the dark of the moon, the unconscious groom was borne out of the hazy cottage. mrs. wiggs carried his head, while billy wiggs and mary and asia and chris officiated at his arms and legs. the bride surveyed the scene from the chinks of the upstairs shutters. silently the little group waited until the lumbering freight train slowed up to take water, then with a concerted effort they lifted the heavy burden into an empty car. as they shrank back into the shadow, billy whispered to lovey mary: "say, what was that you put 'longside of him?" mary looked shamefaced. "it was just a little lunch-dinner," she said apologetically; "it seemed sorter mean to send him off without anything to eat." "gee!" said billy. "you're a cur'us girl!" the engine whistled, and the train moved thunderously away, bearing an unconscious passenger, who, as far as the cabbage patch was concerned, was henceforth submerged in the darkness of oblivion. chapter vii neighborly advice "it's a poor business looking at the sun with a cloudy face." the long, hot summer days that followed were full of trials for lovey mary. day after day the great unwinking sun glared savagely down upon the cabbage patch, upon the stagnant pond, upon the gleaming rails, upon the puffing trains that pounded by hour after hour. each morning found lovey mary trudging away to the factory, where she stood all day counting and sorting and packing tiles. at night she climbed wearily to her little room under the roof, and tried to sleep with a wet cloth over her face to keep her from smelling the stifling car smoke. but it was not the heat and discomfort alone that made her cheeks thin and her eyes sad and listless: it was the burden on her conscience, which seemed to be growing heavier all the time. one morning mrs. wiggs took her to task for her gloomy countenance. they met at the pump, and, while the former's bucket was being filled, lovey mary leaned against a lamp-post and waited in a dejected attitude. "what's the matter with you?" asked mrs. wiggs. "what you lookin' so wilted about?" lovey mary dug her shoe into the ground and said nothing. many a time had she been tempted to pour forth her story to this friendly mentor, but the fear of discovery and her hatred of kate deterred her. mrs. wiggs eyed her keenly. "pesterin' about somethin'?" she asked. "yes, 'm," said lovey mary, in a low tone. "somethin' that's already did?" "yes, 'm"--still lower. "did you think you was actin' fer the best?" the girl lifted a pair of honest gray eyes. "yes, ma'am, i did." "i bet you did!" said mrs. wiggs, heartily. "you ain't got a deceivin' bone in yer body. now what you want to do is to brace up yer sperrits. the decidin'-time was the time fer worryin'. you've did what you thought was best; now you want to stop thinkin' 'bout it. you don't want to go round turnin' folks' thoughts sour jes to look at you. most girls that had white teeth like you would be smilin' to show 'em, if fer nothin' else." "i wisht i was like you," said lovey mary. "don't take it out in wishin'. if you want to be cheerful, jes set yer mind on it an' do it. can't none of us help what traits we start out in life with, but we kin help what we end up with. when things first got to goin' wrong with me, i says: 'o lord, whatever comes, keep me from gittin' sour!' it wasn't fer my own sake i ast it,--some people 'pears to enjoy bein' low-sperrited,--it was fer the childern an' mr. wiggs. since then i've made it a practice to put all my worries down in the bottom of my heart, then set on the lid an' smile." "but you think ever'body's nice and good," complained lovey mary. "you never see all the meanness i do." "don't i? i been watchin' old man rothchild fer goin' on eleven year', tryin' to see some good in him, an' i never found it till the other day when i seen him puttin' a splint on cusmoodle's broken leg. he's the savagest man i know, yit he keered fer that duck as tender as a woman. but it ain't jes seein' the good in folks an' sayin' nice things when you're feelin' good. the way to git cheerful is to smile when you feel bad, to think about somebody else's headache when yer own is 'most bustin', to keep on believin' the sun is a-shinin' when the clouds is thick enough to cut. nothin' helps you to it like thinkin' more 'bout other folks than about yerself." "i think 'bout tommy first," said lovey mary. "yes, you certainly do yer part by him. if my childern wore stockin's an' got as many holes in 'em as he does, i'd work buttonholes in 'em at the start fer the toes to come through. but even tommy wants somethin' besides darns. why don't you let him go barefoot on sundays, too, an' take the time you been mendin' fer him to play with him? i want to see them pretty smiles come back in yer face ag'in." in a subsequent conversation with miss hazy, mrs. wiggs took a more serious view of lovey mary's depression. "she jes makes me wanter cry, she's so subdued-like. i never see anybody change so in my life. it 'u'd jes be a relief to hear her sass some of us like she uster. she told me she never had nobody make over her like we all did, an' it sorter made her 'shamed. lawsee! if kindness is goin' to kill her, i think we'd better fuss at her some." "'pears to me like she's got nervous sensations," said miss hazy; "she jumps up in her sleep, an' talks 'bout folks an' things i never heared tell of." "that's exactly what ails her," agreed mrs. wiggs: "it's nerves, miss hazy. to my way of thinkin', nerves is worser than tumors an' cancers. look at old mrs. schultz. she's got the dropsy so bad you can't tell whether she's settin' down or standin' up, yet she ain't got a nerve in her body, an' has 'most as good a time as other folks. we can't let lovey mary go on with these here nerves; no tellin' where they'll land her at. if it was jes springtime, i'd give her sulphur an' molasses an' jes a leetle cream of tartar; that, used along with egg-shell tea, is the outbeatenest tonic i ever seen. but i never would run ag'in' the seasons. seems to me i've heared yallerroot spoke of fer killin' nerves." "i don't 'spect we could git no yallerroot round here." "what's the matter with miss viny? i bet it grows in her garden thick as hairs on a dog's back. let's send lovey mary out there to git some, an' we'll jes repeat the dose on her till it takes some hold." "i ain't puttin' much stock in miss viny," demurred miss hazy. "i've heared she was a novelist reader, an' she ain't even a church-member." "an' do you set up to jedge her?" asked mrs. wiggs, in fine scorn. "miss viny's got more sense in her little finger than me an' you has got in our whole heads. she can doctor better with them yarbs of hers than any physicianner i know. as to her not bein' a member, she lives right an' helps other folks, an' that's more than lots of members does. besides," she added conclusively, "mr. wiggs himself wasn't no church-member." chapter viii a denominational gardbn "oh, mickle is the powerful grace that lies in herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities; for naught so vile that on the earth doth live but to the earth some special good doth give." the following sunday being decidedly cooler, lovey mary was started off to miss viny's in quest of yellowroot. she had protested that she was not sick, but miss hazy, backed by mrs. wiggs, had insisted. "if you git down sick, it would be a' orful drain on me," was miss hazy's final argument, and the point was effective. as lovey mary trudged along the railroad-tracks, she was unconscious of the pleasant changes of scenery. the cottages became less frequent, and the bare, dusty commons gave place to green fields. here and there a tree spread its branches to the breezes, and now and then a snatch of bird song broke the stillness. but lovey mary kept gloomily on her way, her eyes fixed on the cross-ties. the thoughts surging through her brain were dark enough to obscure even the sunshine. for three nights she had cried herself to sleep, and the "nervous sensations" were getting worse instead of better. "just two months since kate was hurt," she said to herself. "soon as she gets out the hospital she'll be trying to find us again. i believe she was coming to the factory looking for me when she got run over. she'd just like to take tommy away and send me to jail. oh, i hate her worse all the time! i wish she was--" the wish died on her lips, for she suddenly realized that it might already have been fulfilled. some one coughed near by, and she started guiltily. "you seem to be in a right deep steddy," said a voice on the other side of the fence. lovey mary glanced up and saw a queer-looking old woman smiling at her quizzically. a pair of keen eyes twinkled under bushy brows, and a fierce little beard bristled from her chin. when she smiled it made lovey mary think of a pebble dropped in a pool, for the wrinkles went rippling off from her mouth in ever-widening circles until they were lost in the gray hair under her broad-brimmed hat. "are you miss viny?" asked lovey mary, glancing at the old-fashioned flower-garden beyond. "well, i been that fer sixty year'; i ain't heared of no change," answered the old lady. "miss hazy sent me after some yellowroot," said lovey mary, listlessly. "who fer?" "me." miss viny took a pair of large spectacles from her pocket, put them on the tip of her nose, and looked over them critically at lovey mary. "stick out yer tongue." lovey mary obeyed. "uh-huh. it's a good thing i looked. you don't no more need yallerroot than a bumblebee. you come in here on the porch an' tell me what's ailin' you, an' i'll do my own prescriptin'." lovey mary followed her up the narrow path, that ran between a mass of flowers. snowy oleanders, yellow asters, and purple phlox crowded together in a space no larger than miss hazy's front yard. lovey mary forgot her troubles in sheer delight in seeing so many flowers together. "do you love 'em, too?" asked miss viny, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. "i guess i would if i had a chance. i never saw them growing out of doors like this. i always had to look at them through the store windows." "oh, law, don't talk to me 'bout caged-up flowers! i don't b'lieve in shuttin' a flower up in a greenhouse any more 'n i b'lieve in shuttin' myself up in one church." lovey mary remembered what miss hazy had told her of miss viny's pernicious religious views, and she tried to change the subject. but miss viny was started upon a favorite theme and was not to be diverted. "this here is a denominational garden, an' i got every congregation i ever heared of planted in it. i ain't got no faverite bed. i keer fer 'em all jes alike. when you come to think of it, the same rule holds good in startin' a garden as does in startin' a church. you first got to steddy what sort of soil you goin' to work with, then you have to sum up all the things you have to fight ag'inst. next you choose what flowers are goin' to hold the best places. that's a mighty important question in churches, too, ain't it? then you go to plantin', the thicker the better, fer in both you got to allow fer a mighty fallin' off. after that you must take good keer of what you got, an' be sure to plant something new each year. once in a while some of the old growths has to be thinned out, and the new upstarts an' suckers has to be pulled up. now, if you'll come out here i'll show you round." she started down the path, and lovey mary, somewhat overwhelmed by this oration, followed obediently. "these here are the baptists," said miss viny, waving her hand toward a bed of heliotrope and flags. "they want lots of water; like to be wet clean through. they sorter set off to theyselves an' tend to their own business; don't keer much 'bout minglin' with the other flowers." lovey mary did not understand very clearly what miss viny was talking about, but she was glad to follow her in the winding paths, where new beauties were waiting at every turn. "these is geraniums, ain't they? one of the girls had one, once, in a flower-pot when she was sick." "yes," said miss viny; "they're methodist. they fall from grace an' has to be revived; they like lots of encouragement in the way of sun an' water. these phlox are methodist, too; no set color, easy to grow, hardy an' vigorous. pinchin' an' cuttin' back the shoots makes it flower all the better; needs new soil every few years; now ain't that methodist down to the ground?" "are there any presbyterians?" asked lovey mary, beginning to grasp miss viny's meaning. "yes, indeed; they are a good, old, reliable bed. look at all these roses an' tiger-lilies an' dahlias; they all knew what they was goin' to be afore they started to grow. they was elected to it, an' they'll keep on bein' what they started out to be clean to the very end." "i know about predestination," cried lovey mary, eagerly. "miss bell used to tell us all those things." "who did?" lovey mary flushed crimson. "a lady i used to know," she said evasively. miss viny crossed the garden, and stopped before a bed of stately lilies and azaleas. "these are 'piscopals," she explained. "ain't they tony? jes look like they thought their bed was the only one in the garden. somebody said that a lily didn't have no pore kin among the flowers. it ain't no wonder they 'most die of dignity. they're like the 'piscopals in more ways 'n one; both hates to be disturbed, both likes some shade, an'"--confidentially--"both air pretty pernickity. but to tell you the truth, ain't nothin' kin touch 'em when it comes to beauty! i think all the other beds is proud of 'em, if you'd come to look into it. why, look at weddin's an' funerals! don't all the churches call in the 'piscopals an' the lilies on both them occasions?" lovey mary nodded vaguely. "an' here," continued miss viny, "are the unitarians. you may be s'prised at me fer havin' 'em in here, 'long with the orthodox churches; but if the sun an' the rain don't make no distinction, i don't see what right i got to put 'em on the other side of the fence. these first is sweet-william, as rich in bloom as the unitarian is in good works, a-sowin' theyselves constant, an' every little plant a- puttin' out a flower." "ain't there any catholics?" asked lovey mary. "don't you see them hollyhawks an' snowballs an' laylacs? all of them are catholics, takin' up lots of room an' needin' the prunin'-knife pretty often, but bringin' cheer and brightness to the whole garden when it needs it most. yes, i guess you'd have trouble thinkin' of any sect i ain't got planted. them ferns over in the corner is quakers. i ain't never seen no quakers, but they tell me that they don't b'lieve in flowerin' out; that they like coolness an' shade an' quiet, an' are jes the same the year round. these colea plants are the apes; they are all things to all men, take on any color that's round 'em, kin be the worst kind of baptists or presbyterians, but if left to theyselves they run back to good-fer-nothin's. this here everlastin' is one of these here christians that's so busy thinkin' 'bout dyin' that he fergits to live." miss viny chuckled as she crumbled the dry flower in her fingers. "see how different this is," she said, plucking a sprig of lemon- verbena. "this an' the mint an' the sage an' the lavender is all true christians; jes by bein' touched they give out a' influence that makes the whole world a sweeter place to live in. but, after all, they can't all be alike! there's all sorts of christians: some stands fer sunshine, some fer shade; some fer beauty, some fer use; some up high, some down low. there's jes one thing all the flowers has to unite in fightin' ag'inst--that's the canker-worm, hate. if it once gits in a plant, no matter how good an' strong that plant may be, it eats right down to its heart." "how do you get it out, miss viny?" asked lovey mary, earnestly. "prayer an' perseverance. if the christian'll do his part, god'll do his'n. you see, i'm tryin' to be to these flowers what god is to his churches. the sun, which answers to the sperrit, has to shine on 'em all, an' the rain, which answers to god's mercy, has to fall on 'em all. i jes watch 'em, an' plan fer 'em, an' shelter 'em, an' love 'em, an' if they do their part they're bound to grow. now i'm goin' to cut you a nice bo'quet to carry back to the cabbage patch." so engrossed were the two in selecting and arranging the flowers that neither thought of the yellowroot or its substitute. nevertheless, as lovey mary tramped briskly back over the railroad-ties with her burden of blossoms, she bore a new thought in her heart which was destined to bring about a surer cure than any of miss viny's most efficient herbs. chapter ix labor day "and cloudy the day, or stormy the night, the sky of her heart was always bright." "it wouldn't s'prise me none if we had cyclones an' tornadoes by evenin', it looks so thundery outdoors." it was inconsiderate of miss hazy to make the above observation in the very face of the most elaborate preparations for a picnic, but miss hazy's evil predictions were too frequent to be effective. "i'll scurry round an' git another loaf of bread," said mrs. wiggs, briskly, as she put a tin pail into the corner of the basket. "lovey mary, you put in the eggs an' git them cookies outen the stove. i promised them boys a picnic on labor day, an' we are goin' if it snows." "awful dangerous in the woods when it storms," continued miss hazy. "i heared of a man oncet that would go to a picnic in the rain, and he got struck so bad it burned his shoes plump off." "must have been the same man that got drownded, when he was little, fer goin' in swimmin' on sunday," answered mrs. wiggs, wiping her hands on her apron. "mebbe 't was," said miss hazy. lovey mary vibrated between the door and the window, alternating between hope and despair. she had set her heart on the picnic with the same intensity of desire that had characterized her yearning for goodness and affection and curly hair. "i believe there is a tiny speck more blue," she said, scanning the heavens for the hundredth time. "course there is!" cried mrs. wiggs, "an' even if there ain't, we'll have the picnic anyway. i b'lieve in havin' a good time when you start out to have it. if you git knocked out of one plan, you want to git yerself another right quick, before yer sperrits has a chance to fall. here comes jake an' chris with their baskets. suppose you rench off yer hands an' go gether up the rest of the childern. i 'spect billy's done hitched up by this time." at the last moment miss hazy was still trying to make up her mind whether or not she would go. "them wheels don't look none too stiddy fer sich a big load," she said cautiously. "them wheels is a heap sight stiddier than your legs," declared mrs. wiggs. "an' there ain't a meeker hoss in kentucky than cuby. he looks like he might 'a' belonged to a preacher 'stid of bein' a broken-down engine- hoss." an unforeseen delay was occasioned by a heated controversy between lovey mary and tommy concerning the advisability of taking cusmoodle. "there ain't more than room enough to squeeze you in, tommy," she said, "let alone that fat old duck." "'t ain't a fat old duck." "'t is, too! he sha'n't go. you'll have to stay at home yourself if you can't be good." "i feel like i was doin' to det limber," threatened tommy. mrs. wiggs recognized a real danger. she also knew that discretion was the better part of valor. "here's a nice little place up here by me, jes big enough fer you an' cusmoodle. you kin set on the basket; it won't mash nothin'. if we're packed in good an' tight, can't none of us fall out." when the last basket was stored away, the party started off in glee, leaving miss hazy still irresolute in the doorway, declaring that "she almost wisht she had 'a' went." the destination had not been decided upon, so it was discussed as the wagon jolted along over the cobblestones. "let's go out past miss viny's," suggested jake; "there's a bully woods out there." "aw, no! let's go to tick creek an' go in wadin'." mrs. wiggs, seated high above the party and slapping the reins on cuba's back, allowed the lively debate to continue until trouble threatened, then she interfered: "i think it would be nice to go over to the cemetery. we'd have to cross the city, but when you git out there there's plenty of grass an' trees, an' it runs right 'longside the river." the proximity of the river decided the matter. "i won't hardly take a swim!" said jake, going through the motions, to the discomfort of the two little girls who were hanging their feet from the back of the wagon. "i'm afraid it's going to rain so hard that you can take your swim before you get there," said lovey mary, as the big drops began to fall. the picnic party huddled on the floor of the wagon in a state of great merriment, while mrs. wiggs spread an old quilt over as many of them as it would cover. "'t ain't nothin' but a summer shower," she said, holding her head on one side to keep the rain from driving in her face. "i 'spect the sun is shinin' at the cemetery right now." as the rickety wagon, with its drenched and shivering load, rattled across main street, an ominous sound fell upon the air: _one--two--three! one--two!_ mrs. wiggs wrapped the lines about her wrists and braced herself for the struggle. but cuba had heard the summons, his heart had responded to the old call, and with one joyous bound he started for the fire. "hold on tight!" yelled mrs. wiggs. "don't none of you fall out. whoa, cuby! whoa! i'll stop him in a minute. hold tight!" cuba kicked the stiffness out of his legs, and laying his ears back, raced valiantly for five squares neck and neck with the engine-horses. but the odds were against him; mrs. wiggs and chris sawing on one line, and billy and jake pulling on the other, proved too heavy a handicap. within sight of the fire he came to a sudden halt. "it's the lumber-yards!" called chris, climbing over the wheels. "looks like the whole town's on fire." "let's unhitch cuby an' tie him, an' stand in the wagon an' watch it," cried mrs. wiggs, in great excitement. the boys were not content to be stationary, so they rushed away, leaving mrs. wiggs and the girls, with tommy and the duck, to view the conflagration at a safe distance. for two hours the fire raged, leaping from one stack of lumber to another, and threatening the adjacent buildings. every fire-engine in the department was called out, the commons were black with people, and the excitement was intense. "ain't you glad we come!" cried lovey mary, dancing up and down in the wagon. "we never come. we was brought," said asia. long before the fire was under control the sun had come through the clouds and was shining brightly. picnics, however, were not to be considered when an attraction like this was to be had. when the boys finally came straggling back the fire was nearly out, the crowd had dispersed, and only the picnic party was left on the commons. "it's too late to start to the cemetery," said mrs. wiggs, thoughtfully. "what do you all think of havin' the picnic right here an' now?" the suggestion was regarded as nothing short of an inspiration. "the only trouble," continued mrs. wiggs, "is 'bout the water. where we goin' to git any to drink? i know one of the firemen, pete jenkins; if i could see him i'd ast him to pour us some outen the hose." "gimme the pail; i'll go after him," cried jake. "naw, you don't; i'm a-goin'. it's my maw that knows him," said billy. "that ain't nothin'. my uncle knows the chief of police! can't i go, mrs. wiggs?" meanwhile chris had seized the hint and the bucket, and was off in search of mr. peter jenkins, whose name would prove an open sesame to that small boy's paradise--the engine side of the rope. the old quilt, still damp, was spread on the ground, and around it sat the picnic party, partaking ravenously of dry sandwiches and cheese and cheer. such laughing and crowding and romping as there was! jake gave correct imitations of everybody in the cabbage patch, chris did some marvelous stunts with his wooden leg, and lovey mary sang every funny song that she knew. mrs. wiggs stood in the wagon above them, and dispensed hospitality as long as it lasted. cuba, hitched to a fence near by, needed no material nourishment. he was contentedly sniffing the smoke-filled air, and living over again the days of his youth. when the party reached home, tired and grimy, they were still enthusiastic over the fine time they had had. "it's jes the way i said," proclaimed mrs. wiggs, as she drove up with a flourish; "you never kin tell which way pleasure is a-comin'. who ever would 'a' thought, when we aimed at the cemetery, that we'd land up at a first-class fire?" chapter x a timely visit "the love of praise, howe'er concealed by art, reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart." weeks and months slipped by, and the cabbage patch ate breakfast and supper by lamplight. those who could afford it were laying in their winter coal, and those who could not were providently pasting brown paper over broken window-panes, and preparing to keep jack frost at bay as long as possible. one saturday, as lovey mary came home from the factory, she saw a well-dressed figure disappearing in the distance. "who is that lady?" she demanded suspiciously of europena wiggs, who was swinging violently on the gate. "'t ain't no lady," said europena. "it's my sunday-school teacher." "mrs. redding?" "uh-huh. she wants asia to come over to her house this evenin'." "wisht i could go," said lovey mary. "why can't you?" asked mrs. wiggs, coming to the open door. "asia would jes love to show mrs. reddin' how stylish you look in that red dress. i'll curl yer hair on the poker if you want me to." any diversion from the routine of work was acceptable, so late that afternoon the two girls, arrayed in their best garments, started forth to call on the reddings. "i wisht i had some gloves," said lovey mary, rubbing her blue fingers. "if i'd 'a' thought about it i'd 'a' made you some before we started. it don't take no time." asia held out her hands, which were covered with warm red mitts. "i make 'em outen billy's old socks after the feet's wore off." "i don't see how you know how to do so many things!" said lovey mary, admiringly. [illustration: "asia held out her hands, which were covered with warm red mitts."] "'t ain't nothin'," disclaimed asia, modestly. "it's jes the way maw brought us up. whenever we started out to do a thing she made us finish it someway or 'nother. oncet when we was all little we lived in the country. she sent billy out on the hoss to git two watermelon, an' told him fer him not to come home without 'em. when billy got out to the field he found all the watermelon so big he couldn't carry one, let alone two. what do you think he done?" "come home without 'em?" "no, sir, he never! he jes set on the fence an' thought awhile, then he took off en his jeans pants an' put a watermelon in each leg an' hanged 'em 'crost old rollie's back an' come ridin' home barelegged." "i think he's the nicest boy in the cabbage patch," said lovey mary, laughing over the incident. "he never does tease tommy." "that's 'cause he likes you. he says you've got grit. he likes the way you cleaned up miss hazy an' stood up to mr. stubbins." a deeper color than even the fresh air warranted came into lovey mary's cheeks, and she walked on for a few minutes in pleased silence. "don't you want to wear my gloves awhile?" asked asia. "no; my hands ain't cold any more," said lovey mary. as they turned into terrace park, with its beautiful grounds, its fountains and statuary, asia stopped to explain. "jes rich folks live over here. that there is the reddin's' house, the big white one where them curbstone ladies are in the yard. i wisht you could git a peek in the parlor; they've got chairs made outer real gold, an' strandaliers that look like icicles all hitched together." "do they set on the gold chairs?" "no, indeed; the legs is too wabbly fer that. i reckon they're jes to show how rich they are. this here is where the carriage drives in. their hired man wears a high-style hat, an' a fur cape jes like mrs. reddin's." "i 'spect they have turkey every day, don't they, asia?" before asia's veracity was tested to the limit, the girls were startled by the sudden appearance of an excited housemaid at the side door. "simmons! simmons!" she screamed. "oh, where is that man? i'll have to go for somebody myself." and without noticing the girls, she ran hastily down the driveway. asia, whose calmness was seldom ruffled, led the way into the entry. "that's the butter's pantry," she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. "don't they keep nothing in it but butter?" gasped lovey mary. "reckon not. they've got a great big box jes fer ice; not another thing goes in it." another maid ran down the steps, calling simmons. asia, a frequent visitor at the house, made her way unconcernedly up to the nursery. on the second floor there was great confusion; the telephone was ringing, servants were hurrying to and fro. "he'll choke to death before the doctor gets here!" they heard the nurse say as she ran through the hall. from the open nursery door they could hear the painful gasps and coughs of a child in great distress. asia paused on the landing, but lovey mary darted forward. the mother instinct, ever strong within her, had responded instantly to the need of the child. in the long, dainty room full of beautiful things, she only saw the terrified baby on his mother's lap, his face purple, his eyes distended, as he fought for his breath. [illustration: "master robert redding was right side up again, sobbing himself quiet in lovey mary's arms."] without a word she sprang forward, and grasping the child by his feet, held him at arm's-length and shook him violently. mrs. redding screamed, and the nurse, who was rushing in with hot milk, dropped the cup in horror. but a tiny piece of hard candy lay on the floor, and master robert redding was right side up again, sobbing himself quiet in lovey mary's arms. after the excitement had subsided, and two doctors and mr. redding had arrived breathless upon the scene, mrs. redding, for the dozenth time, lavished her gratitude upon lovey mary: "and to think you saved my precious baby! the doctor said it was the only thing that could have saved him, yet we four helpless women had no idea what to do. how did you know, dear? where did you ever see it done!" lovey mary, greatly abashed, faced the radiant parents, the two portly doctors, and the servants in the background. "i learned on tommy," she said in a low voice. "he swallered a penny once that we was going to buy candy with. i didn't have another, so i had to shake it out." during the laugh that followed, she and asia escaped, but not before mr. redding had slipped a bill into her hand, and the beautiful mrs. redding had actually given her a kiss! chapter xi the christmas play "not failure, but low aim, is crime." as the holiday season approached, a rumor began to be circulated that the cabbage patch sunday-school would have an entertainment as well as a christmas tree. the instigator of this new movement was jake schultz, whose histrionic ambition had been fired during his apprenticeship as "super" at the opera-house. "i know a man what rents costumes, an' the promp'-books to go with 'em," he said to several of the boys one sunday afternoon. "if we all chip in we kin raise the price, an' git it back easy by chargin' admittance." "aw, shucks!" said chris. "we don't know nothin' 'bout play-actin'." "we kin learn all right," said billy wiggs. "i bid to be the feller that acts on the trapeze." the other boys approving of the plan, it was agreed that jake should call on the costumer at his earliest convenience. one night a week later lovey mary was getting supper when she heard an imperative rap on the door. it was jake schultz. he mysteriously beckoned her out on the steps, and closed the door behind them. "have you ever acted any?" he asked. "i used to say pieces at the home," said lovey mary, forgetting herself. "well, do you think you could take leadin' lady in the entertainment?" [illustration: "'have you ever acted any?' he asked."] lovey mary had no idea what the lady was expected to lead, but she knew that she was being honored, and she was thrilled at the prospect. "i know some arm-exercises, and i could sing for them," she offered. "oh, no," explained jake; "it's a play, a reg'lar theayter play. i got the book and the costumes down on market street. the man didn't have but this one set of costumes on hand, so i didn't have no choice. it's a bully play, all right, though! i seen it oncet, an' i know how it all ought to go. it's named 'forst,' er somethin' like that. i'm goin' to be the devil, an' wear a red suit, an' have my face all streaked up. billy he's goin' to be the other feller what's stuck on the girl. he tole me to ast you to be her. your dress is white with cords an' tassels on it, an' the sleeves ain't sewed up. reckon you could learn the part? we ain't goin' to give it all." "i can learn anything!" cried lovey mary, recklessly. "already know the alphabet and the lord's prayer backward. is the dress short- sleeve? and does it drag in the back when you walk?" "yep," said jake, "an' the man said you was to plait your hair in two parts an' let 'em hang over your shoulders. i don't see why it wouldn't be pretty for you to sing somethin', too. ever'body is so stuck on yer singin'." "all right," said lovey mary, enthusiastically; "you bring the book over and show me where my part's at. and, jake," she called as he started off, "you tell billy i'll be glad to." for the next ten days lovey mary dwelt in elysium. the prompt-book, the rehearsals, the consultations, filled the spare moments and threw a glamour over the busy ones. jake, with his vast experience and unlimited knowledge of stage-craft, appealed to her in everything. he sat on a barrel and told how they did things "up to the opery-house," and lovey mary, seizing his suggestions with burning zeal, refitted the costumes, constructed scenery, hammered her own nails as well as the iron ones, and finally succeeded in putting into practice his rather vague theories. for the first time in her life she was a person of importance. besides her numerous other duties she prepared an elaborate costume for tommy. this had caused her some trouble, for miss hazy, who was sent to buy the goods for the trousers, exercised unwise economy in buying two remnants which did not match in color or pattern. "why didn't you put your mind on it, miss hazy?" asked lovey mary, making a heroic effort to keep her temper. "you might have known i couldn't take tommy to the show with one blue leg and one brown one. what must i do?" miss hazy sat dejectedly in the corner, wiping her eyes on her apron. "you might go ast mis' wiggs," she suggested as a forlorn hope. when mrs. wiggs was told the trouble she smiled reassuringly. emergencies were to her the spice of life; they furnished opportunities for the expression of her genius. "hush cryin', miss hazy; there ain't a speck of harm did. mary kin make the front outen one piece an' the back outen the other. nobody won't never know the difference, 'cause tommy can't be goin' an' comin' at the same time." the result was highly satisfactory, that is, to everybody but tommy. he complained that there "wasn't no room to set down." on christmas night the aristocracy of the cabbage patch assembled in the school-house to enjoy the double attraction of a christmas tree and an entertainment. mr. rothchild, who had arranged the tree for the last ten years, refused to have it moved from its accustomed place, which was almost in the center of the platform. he had been earnestly remonstrated with, but he and the tree remained firm. mrs. rothchild and all the little rothchildren had climbed in by the window before the doors were open in order to secure the front seats. immediately behind them sat the hazys and the wiggses. "that there is the seminary student gittin' up now," whispered mrs. wiggs. "he's goin' to call out the pieces. my land! ain't he washed out? looks like he'd go into a trance fer fifty cents. hush, australia! don't you see he is goin' to pray?" after the opening prayer, the young preacher suggested that, as long as the speakers were not quite ready, the audience should "raise a hymn." "he's got a fine voice," whispered miss hazy; "i heared 'em say he was the gentleman soprano at a down-town church." when the religious exercises were completed, the audience settled into a state of pleasurable anticipation. "the first feature of the entertainment," announced the preacher, "will be a song by miss europena wiggs." [illustration: "europena stepped forward."] europena stepped forward and, with hands close to her sides and anguished eyes on the ceiling, gasped forth the agonized query: "can she make a cheery-pie, billy boy, billy boy? can she make a cheery-pie, charming billy?" notwithstanding the fact that there were eight verses, an encore was demanded. mrs. wiggs rose in her seat and beckoned vehemently to europena. "come on back!" she motioned violently with her lips. "they want you to come back." europena, in a state of utter bewilderment, returned to the stage. "say another speech!" whispered mrs. wiggs, leaning over so far that she knocked mrs. rothchild's bonnet awry. still europena stood there, an evident victim of lockjaw. "'i have a little finger,'" prompted her mother frantically from the second row front. a single ray of intelligence flickered for a moment over the child's face, and with a supreme effort she said: "i have a little finger, an' i have a little beau; when i get a little bigger i'll have a little toe." "well, she got it all in," said mrs. wiggs, in a relieved tone, as europena was lifted down. after this, other little girls came forward and made some unintelligible remarks concerning santa claus. it was with some difficulty that they went through their parts, for mr. rothchild kept getting in the way as he calmly and uncompromisingly continued to hang cornucopias on the tree. songs and recitations followed, but even the youngest spectator realized that these were only preliminary skirmishes. at last a bell rang. two bedspreads. which served as curtains were majestically withdrawn. a sigh of admiration swept the room. "ain't he cute!" whispered a girl in the rear, as billy rose resplendent in pink tights and crimson doublet, and folding his arms high on his breast, recited in a deep voice: "i have, alas! philosophy, medicine, jurisprudence too, and, to my cost, theology with ardent labor studied through." "i don't see no sense in what he's sayin' at all," whispered miss hazy. "it's jes what was in the book," answered mrs. wiggs, "'cause i heared him repeat it off before supper." the entrance of jake awakened the flagging interest. nobody understood what he said either, but he made horrible faces, and waved his red arms, and caused a pleasant diversion. "maw, what's john bagby a-handin' round in that little saucer?" asked australia. "fer the mercy sake! i don't know," answered her mother, craning her neck to see. john, with creaking footsteps, tiptoed to the front of the stage, and stooping down, began to mix a concoction in a plate. many stood up to see what he was doing, and conjecture was rife. _mephisto_ and _faust_ were forgotten until jake struck a heroic pose, and grasping billy's arm, said hoarsely: "gaze, faustis, gaze into pairdition!" john put a match to the powder, a bright red light filled the room, and the audience, following the index-finger of the impassioned _mephisto_, gazed into the placid, stupid faces of four meek little boys on the mourners' bench. [illustration: "sang in a high, sweet voice, 'i need thee every hour'"] before the violent coughing caused by the calcium fumes had ceased, a vision in white squeezed past mr. rothchild and came slowly down to the edge of the platform. it was lovey mary as _marguerite_. her long dress swept about her feet, her heavy hair hung in thick braids over both shoulders, and a burning red spot glowed on each cheek. for a moment she stood as jake had directed, with head thrown back and eyes cast heavenward, then she began to recite. the words poured from her lips with a volubility that would have shamed an auctioneer. it was a long part, full of hard words, but she knew it perfectly and was determined to show how fast she could say it without making a mistake. it was only when she finished that she paused for breath. then she turned slowly, and stretching forth appealing arms to _faust_, sang in a high, sweet voice, "i need thee every hour." the effect was electrical. at last the cabbage patch understood what was going on. the roof rang with applause. even mr. rothchild held aside his strings of pop-corn to let _marguerite_ pass out. "s' more! s' more!" was the cry. "sing it ag'in!" jake stepped before the curtain. "if our friends is willin'," he said, "we'll repeat over the last ak." again lovey mary scored a triumph. john bagby burned the rest of the calcium powder during the last verse, and the entertainment concluded in a prolonged cheer. chapter xii reaction "our remedies oft in ourselves do lie." when the paint and powder had been washed off, and tommy had with difficulty been extracted from his new trousers and put to bed, lovey mary sat before the little stove and thought it all over. it had been the very happiest time of her whole life. how nice it was to be praised and made much of! mrs. wiggs had started it by calling everybody's attention to her good points; then mrs. redding had sought her out and shown her continued attention; to-night was the great climax. her name had been on every tongue, her praises sung on every side, and billy wiggs had given her everything he got off the christmas tree. "i wisht i deserved it all," she said, as she got up to pull the blanket closer about tommy. "i've tried to be good. i guess i am better in some ways, but not in all--not in all." she knelt by the bed and held tommy's hand to her cheek. "sometimes he looks like kate when he's asleep like this. i wonder if she's got well? i wonder if she ever misses him?" for a long time she knelt there, holding the warm little hand in hers. the play, the success, the applause, were all forgotten, and in their place was a shame, a humiliation, that brought the hot tears to her eyes. "i ain't what they think i am," she whispered brokenly. "i'm a mean, bad girl after all. the canker-worm's there. miss viny said there never would be a sure-'nough beautiful flower till the canker-worm was killed. but i want to be good; i want to be what they think i am!" again and again the old thoughts of kate rose to taunt and madden her. but a new power was at work; it brought new thoughts of kate, of kate sick and helpless, of kate without friends and lonely, calling for her baby. through the night the battle raged within her. when the first gray streaks showed through the shutters, lovey mary cleaned her room and put on her sunday dress. "i'll be a little late to the factory," she explained to miss hazy at breakfast, "for i've got to go on a' errand." it was an early hour for visitors at the city hospital, but when lovey mary stated her business she was shown to kate's ward. at the far end of the long room, with her bandaged head turned to the wall, lay kate. when the nurse spoke to her she turned her head painfully, and looked at them listlessly with great black eyes that stared forth from a face wasted and wan from suffering. "kate!" said lovey mary, leaning across the bed and touching her hand. "kate, don't you know me?" the pale lips tightened over the prominent white teeth. "well, i swan, lovey mary, where'd you come from?" not waiting for an answer, she continued querulously: "say, can't you get me out of this hole someway? but even if i had the strength to crawl, i wouldn't have no place to go. can't you take me away? anywhere would do." lovey mary's spirits fell; she had nerved herself for a great sacrifice, had decided to do her duty at any cost; but thinking of it beforehand in her little garret room, with tommy's hand in hers, and kate rider a mere abstraction, was very different from facing the real issue, with the old, selfish, heartless kate in flesh and blood before her. she let go of kate's hand. "don't you want to know about tommy?" she asked. "i've come to say i was sorry i run off with him." "it was mighty nervy in you. i knew you'd take good care of him, though. but say! you can get me away from this, can't you? i ain't got a friend in the world nor a cent of money. but i ain't going to stay here, where there ain't nothing to do, and i get so lonesome i 'most die. i'd rather set on a street corner and run a hand-organ. where are you and tommy at?" "we are in the cabbage patch," said lovey mary, with the old repulsion strong upon her. "where?" "the cabbage patch. it ain't your sort of a place, kate. the folks are good and honest, but they are poor and plain. you'd laugh at 'em." kate turned her eyes to the window and was silent a moment before she said slowly: "i ain't got much right to laugh at nobody. i'd be sorter glad to get with good people again. the other sort's all right when you're out for fun, but when you're down on your luck they ain't there." lovey mary, perplexed and troubled, looked at her gravely. "haven't you got any place you could go to?" [illustration: "'haven't you got any place you could go to?'"] kate shook her head. "nobody would be willing to look after me and nurse me. lovey,"--she stretched her thin hand across to her entreatingly,--"take me home with you! i heard the doctor tell the nurse he couldn't do nothing more for me. i can't die here shut up with all these sick people. take me wherever you are at. i'll try not to be no trouble, and--i want to keep straight." tears were in her eyes, and her lips trembled. there was a queer little spasm at lovey mary's heart. the canker-worm was dead. when a carriage drove up to miss hazy's door and the driver carried in a pale girl with a bandaged head, it caused untold commotion. "do you s'pose mary's a-bringin' home a smallpox patient?" asked miss hazy, who was ever prone to look upon the tragic side. "naw!" said chris, who was peeping under the window-curtain; "it looks more like she's busted her crust." in less than an hour every neighbor had been in to find out what was going on. mrs. wiggs constituted herself mistress of ceremonies. she had heard the whole story from the overburdened mary, and was now prepared to direct public opinion in the way it should go. "jes another boarder for miss hazy," she explained airily to mrs. eichorn. "lovey mary was so well pleased with her boardin'-house, she drummed it up among her friends. this here lady has been at the hospittal. she got knocked over by a wagon out there near the factory, an' it run into celebrated concussion. the nurse told lovey mary this mornin' it was somethin' like information of the brain. what we're all goin' to do is to try to get her well. i'm a-goin' home now to git her a nice dinner, an' i jes bet some of you'll see to it that she gits a good supper. you kin jes bank on us knowin' how to give a stranger a welcome!" it was easy to establish a precedent in the cabbage patch. when a certain course of action was once understood to be the proper thing, every resident promptly fell in line. the victim of "celebrated concussion" was overwhelmed with attention. she lay in a pink wrapper in miss hazy's kitchen, and received the homage of the neighborhood. meanwhile lovey mary worked extra hours at the factory and did sewing at night to pay for kate's board. in spite, however, of the kind treatment and the regular administration of miss viny's herbs and mrs. wiggs's yellowroot, kate grew weaker day by day. one stormy night when lovey mary came home from the factory she found her burning with fever and talking excitedly. miss hazy had gotten her up-stairs, and now stood helplessly wringing her hands in the doorway. "lor', lovey mary! she's cuttin' up scandalous," complained the old lady. "i done ever'thing i knowed how; i ironed the sheets to make 'em warm, an' i tried my best to git her to swallow a mustard cocktail. i wanted her to lemme put a fly-blister on to her head, too, but she won't do nothin'." "all right, miss hazy," said lovey mary, hanging her dripping coat on a nail. "i'll stay with her now. don't talk, kate! try to be still." "but i can't, lovey. i'm going to die, and i ain't fit to die. i've been so bad and wicked, i'm 'fraid to go, lovey. what'll i do? what'll i do?" in vain the girl tried to soothe her. her hysteria increased; she cried and raved and threw herself from side to side. "kate! kate!" pleaded lovey mary, trying to hold her arms, "don't cry so. god'll forgive you. he will, if you are sorry." "but i'm afraid," shuddered kate. "i've been so bad. heaven knows i'm sorry, but it's too late! too late!" another paroxysm seized her, and her cries burst forth afresh. mary, in desperation, rushed from the room. "tommy!" she called softly down the steps. the small boy was sitting on the stairs, in round-eyed wonder at what was going on. "tommy," said lovey mary, picking him up, "the sick lady feels so bad! go in and give her a love, darling. pet her cheeks and hug her like you do me. tell her she's a pretty mama. tell her you love her." tommy trotted obediently into the low room and climbed on the bed. he put his plump cheek against the thin one, and whispered words of baby- love. kate's muscles relaxed as her arms folded about him. gradually her sobs ceased and her pulse grew faint and fainter. outside, the rain and sleet beat on the cracked window-pane, but a peace had entered the dingy little room. kate received the great summons with a smile, for in one fleeting moment she had felt for the first and last time the blessed sanctity of motherhood. chapter xiii an honorable retreat "for i will ease my heart although, it be with hazard of my head." miss bell sat in her neat little office, with the evening paper in her hand. the hour before tea was the one time of the day she reserved for herself. susie smithers declared that she sat before the fire at such times and took naps, but susie's knowledge was not always trustworthy --it depended entirely on the position of the keyhole. at any rate, miss bell was not sleeping to-night; she moved about restlessly, brushing imaginary ashes from the spotless hearth, staring absently into the fire, then recurring again and again to an item in the paper which she held: died. kate rider, in her twenty-fourth year, from injuries received in an accident. miss bell seemed to cringe before the words. her face looked old and drawn. "and to think i kept her from having her child!" she said to herself as she paced up and down the narrow room. "no matter what else kate was, she was his mother and had the first right to him. but i acted for the best; i could see no other way. if i had only known!" [illustration: "susie smithers at the keyhole."] there were steps on the pavement without; she went to the window, and shading her eyes with her hands, gazed into the gathering dusk. some one was coming up the walk, some one very short and fat. no; it was a girl carrying a child. miss bell reached the door just in time to catch tommy in her arms as lovey mary staggered into the hall. they were covered with sleet and almost numb from the cold. "kate's dead!" cried lovey mary, as miss bell hurried them into the office. "i didn't know she was going to die. oh, i've been so wicked to you and to kate and to god! i want to be arrested! i don't care what they do to me." she threw herself on the floor, and beat her fists on the carpet. tommy stood near and wept in sympathy; he wore his remnant trousers, and his little straw hat, round which mrs. wiggs had sewn a broad band of black. miss bell hovered over lovey mary and patted her nervously on the back. "don't, my dear, don't cry so. it's very sad--dear me, yes, very sad. you aren't alone to blame, though; i have been at fault, too. i-- i--feel dreadfully about it." miss bell's face was undergoing such painful contortions that lovey mary stopped crying in alarm, and tommy got behind a chair. "of course," continued miss bell, gaining control of herself, "it was very wrong of you to run away, mary. when i discovered that you had gone i never stopped until i found you." "till you found me?" gasped lovey mary. "yes, child; i knew where you were all the time." again miss bell's features were convulsed, and mary and tommy looked on in awed silence. "you see," she went on presently, "i am just as much at fault as you. i was worried and distressed over having to let tommy go with kate, yet there seemed no way out of it. when i found you had hidden him away in a safe place, that you were both well and happy, i determined to keep your secret. but oh, mary, we hadn't the right to keep him from her! perhaps the child would have been her salvation; perhaps she would have died a good girl." "but she did, miss bell," said lovey mary, earnestly. "she said she was sorry again and again, and when she went to sleep tommy's arms was round her neck." "mary!" cried miss bell, seizing the girl's hand eagerly, "did you find her and take him to her?" "no, ma'am. i brought her to him. she didn't have no place to go, and i wanted to make up to her for hating her so. i did ever'thing i could to make her well. we all did. i never thought she was going to die." then, at miss bell's request, lovey mary told her story, with many sobs and tears, but some smiles in between, over the good times in the cabbage patch; and when she had finished, miss bell led her over to the sofa and put her arms about her. they had lived under the same roof for fifteen years, and she had never before given her a caress. "mary," she said, "you did for kate what nobody else could have done. i thank god that it all happened as it did." "but you'd orter scold me and punish me," said lovey mary. "i'd feel better if you did." tommy, realizing in some vague way that a love-feast was in progress, and always ready to echo lovey mary's sentiments, laid his chubby hand on miss bell's knee. "when my little sled drows up i'm doin' to take you ridin'," he said confidingly. miss bell laughed a hearty laugh, for the first time in many months. the knotty problem which had caused her many sleepless nights had at last found its own solution. chapter xiv the cactus blooms "i tell thee love is nature's second sun, causing a spring of virtues where he shines." it was june again, and once more lovey mary stood at an up-stairs window at the home. on the ledge grew a row of bright flowers, brought from miss viny's garden, but they were no brighter than the face that smiled across them at the small boy in the playground below. lovey mary's sleeves were rolled above her elbows, and a dust-cloth was tied about her head. as she returned to her sweeping she sang joyfully, contentedly: "can she sweep a kitchen floor, billy boy, billy boy? can she sweep a kitchen floor, charming billy?" "miss bell says for you to come down to the office," announced a little girl, coming up the steps. "there's a lady there and a baby." lovey mary paused in her work, and a shadow passed over her face. just three years ago the same summons had come, and with it such heartaches and anxiety. she pulled down her sleeves and went thoughtfully down the steps. at the office door she found mrs. redding talking to miss bell. "we leave saturday afternoon," she was saying. "it's rather sooner than we expected, but we want to get the baby to canada before the hot weather overtakes us. last summer i asked two children from the toronto home to spend two weeks with me at our summer place, but this year i have set my heart on taking lovey mary and tommy. they will see niagara falls and buffalo, where we stop over a day, besides the little outing at the lake. will you come, mary? you know robert might get choked again!" lovey mary leaned against the door for support. a half-hour visit to mrs. redding was excitement for a week, and only to think of going away with her, and riding on a steam-car, and seeing a lake, and taking tommy, and being ever so small a part of that gorgeous redding household! she could not speak; she just looked up and smiled, but the smile seemed to mean more than words, for it brought the sudden tears to mrs. redding's eyes. she gave mary's hand a quick, understanding little squeeze, then hurried out to her carriage. that very afternoon lovey mary went to the cabbage patch. as she hurried along over the familiar ground, she felt as if she must sing aloud the happy song that was humming in her heart. she wanted to stop at each cottage and tell the good news; but her time was limited, so she kept on her way to miss hazy's, merely calling out a greeting as she passed. when she reached the door she heard mrs. wiggs's voice in animated conversation. "well, i wish you'd look! there she is, this very minute! i never was so glad to see anybody in my life! my goodness, child, you don't know how we miss you down here! we talk 'bout you all the time, jes like a person puts their tongue in the empty place after a tooth's done pulled out." "i'm awful glad to be back," said lovey mary, too happy to be cast down by the reversion to the original state of the hazy household. "me an' chris ain't had a comfortable day sence you left," complained miss hazy. "i'd 'a' almost rather you wouldn't 'a' came than to have went away ag'in." "but listen!" cried lovey mary, unable to keep her news another minute. "i'm a-going on a railroad trip with mrs. redding, and she's going to take tommy, too, and we are going to see niag'ra and a lake and a buffalo!" "ain't that the grandest thing fer her to go and do!" exclaimed mrs. wiggs. "i told you she was a' angel!" "i'm right skeered of these here long trips," said miss hazy, "so many accidents these days." "my sakes!" answered mrs. wiggs, "i'd think you'd be 'fraid to step over a crack in the floor fer fear you'd fall through. why, lovey mary, it's the nicest thing i ever heared tell of! an' niag'ry fall, too. i went on a trip once when i was little. maw took me through the mountains. i never had seen mountains before, an' i cried at first an' begged her to make 'em sit down. a trip is something you never will fergit in all yer life. it was jes like mrs. reddin' to think about it; but i don't wonder she feels good to you. asia says she never expects to see anything like the way you shook that candy outen little robert. but see here, if you go 'way off there you mustn't fergit us." "i never could forget you all, wherever i went," said lovey mary. "i was awful mean when i come to the cabbage patch; somehow you all just bluffed me into being better. i wasn't used to being bragged on, and it made me want to be good more than anything in the world." "that's so," said mrs. wiggs. "you can coax a' elephant with a little sugar. the worser mr. wiggs used to act, the harder i'd pat him on the back. when he'd git bilin' mad, i'd say: 'now, mr. wiggs, why don't you go right out in the woodshed an' swear off that cuss? i hate to think of it rampantin' round inside of a good-lookin' man like you.' he'd often take my advice, an' it always done him good an' never hurt the woodshed. as fer the childern, i always did use compelments on them 'stid of switches." lovey mary untied the bundle which she carried, and spread the contents on the kitchen table. "i've been saving up to get you all some presents," she said. "i wanted to get something for every one that had been good to me, but that took in the whole patch! these are some new kind of seed for miss viny; she learned me a lot out of her garden. this is goods for a waist for you, miss hazy." "it's rale pretty," said miss hazy, measuring its length. "if you'd 'a' brought me enough fer a skirt, too, i'd never 'a' got through prayin' fer you." mrs. wiggs was indignant. "i declare, miss hazy! you ain't got a manner in the world, sometimes. it's beautiful goods, lovey mary. i'm goin' to make it up fer her by a fancy new pattern asia bought; it's got a sailor collar." "this here is for chris," continued lovey mary, slightly depressed by miss hazy's lack of appreciation, "and this is for mrs. schultz. i bought you a book, mrs. wiggs. i don't know what it's about, but it's an awful pretty cover. i knew you'd like to have it on the parlor table." it was the "iliad"! mrs. wiggs held it at arm's-length and, squinting her eyes, read: "home of an island." "that ain't what the man called it," said lovey mary. "oh, it don't matter 'bout the name. it's a beautiful book, jes matches my new tidy. you couldn't 'a' pleased me better." "i didn't have money enough to go round," explained lovey mary, apologetically, "but i bought a dozen lead-pencils and thought i'd give them round among the children." "ever'thing'll be terrible wrote over," said miss hazy. the last bundle was done up in tissue-paper and tied with a silver string. lovey mary gave it to mrs. wiggs when miss hazy was not looking. "it's a red necktie," she whispered, "for billy." when the train for the north pulled out of the station one saturday afternoon it bore an excited passenger. lovey mary, in a new dress and hat, sat on the edge of a seat, with little robert on one side and tommy on the other. when her nervousness grew unbearable she leaned forward and touched mrs. redding on the shoulder: "will you please, ma'am, tell me when we get there?" mrs. redding laughed. "get there, dear? why, we have just started!" "i mean to the cabbage patch. they're all going to be watching for me as we go through." "is that it?" said mr. redding. "well, i will take the boys, and you can go out and stand on the platform and watch for your friends." lovey mary hesitated. "please, sir, can't i take tommy, too? if it hadn't 'a' been for him i never would have been here." so mr. redding took them to the rear car, and attaching lovey mary firmly to the railing, and tommy firmly to mary, returned to his family. "there's miss viny's!" cried lovey mary, excitedly, as the train whizzed past. "we're getting there. hold on to your hat, tommy, and get your pocket-handkerchief ready to wave." the bell began to ring, and the train slowed up at the great water- tank. "there they are! all of 'em. hello, miss hazy! and there's asia and chris and ever'body!" mrs. wiggs pushed through the little group and held an empty bottle toward lovey mary. "i want you to fill it fer me," she cried breathlessly. "fill it full of niag'ry water. i want to see how them falls look." [illustration: "lovey mary waved until she rounded a curve."] the train began to move. miss hazy threw her apron over her head and wept. mrs. wiggs and mrs. eichorn waved their arms and smiled. the cabbage patch, with its crowd of friendly faces, became a blur to the girl on the platform. suddenly a figure on a telegraph pole attracted her attention; it wore a red necktie and it was throwing kisses. lovey mary waved until the train rounded a curve, then she gave tommy an impulsive hug. "it ain't hard to be good when folks love you," she said, with a little catch in her voice. "i'll make 'em all proud of me yet!" the adventures of tom sawyer by mark twain (samuel langhorne clemens) part chapter xxxii tuesday afternoon came, and waned to the twilight. the village of st. petersburg still mourned. the lost children had not been found. public prayers had been offered up for them, and many and many a private prayer that had the petitioner's whole heart in it; but still no good news came from the cave. the majority of the searchers had given up the quest and gone back to their daily avocations, saying that it was plain the children could never be found. mrs. thatcher was very ill, and a great part of the time delirious. people said it was heartbreaking to hear her call her child, and raise her head and listen a whole minute at a time, then lay it wearily down again with a moan. aunt polly had drooped into a settled melancholy, and her gray hair had grown almost white. the village went to its rest on tuesday night, sad and forlorn. away in the middle of the night a wild peal burst from the village bells, and in a moment the streets were swarming with frantic half-clad people, who shouted, "turn out! turn out! they're found! they're found!" tin pans and horns were added to the din, the population massed itself and moved toward the river, met the children coming in an open carriage drawn by shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its homeward march, and swept magnificently up the main street roaring huzzah after huzzah! the village was illuminated; nobody went to bed again; it was the greatest night the little town had ever seen. during the first half-hour a procession of villagers filed through judge thatcher's house, seized the saved ones and kissed them, squeezed mrs. thatcher's hand, tried to speak but couldn't--and drifted out raining tears all over the place. aunt polly's happiness was complete, and mrs. thatcher's nearly so. it would be complete, however, as soon as the messenger dispatched with the great news to the cave should get the word to her husband. tom lay upon a sofa with an eager auditory about him and told the history of the wonderful adventure, putting in many striking additions to adorn it withal; and closed with a description of how he left becky and went on an exploring expedition; how he followed two avenues as far as his kite-line would reach; how he followed a third to the fullest stretch of the kite-line, and was about to turn back when he glimpsed a far-off speck that looked like daylight; dropped the line and groped toward it, pushed his head and shoulders through a small hole, and saw the broad mississippi rolling by! and if it had only happened to be night he would not have seen that speck of daylight and would not have explored that passage any more! he told how he went back for becky and broke the good news and she told him not to fret her with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew she was going to die, and wanted to. he described how he labored with her and convinced her; and how she almost died for joy when she had groped to where she actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he pushed his way out at the hole and then helped her out; how they sat there and cried for gladness; how some men came along in a skiff and tom hailed them and told them their situation and their famished condition; how the men didn't believe the wild tale at first, "because," said they, "you are five miles down the river below the valley the cave is in" --then took them aboard, rowed to a house, gave them supper, made them rest till two or three hours after dark and then brought them home. before day-dawn, judge thatcher and the handful of searchers with him were tracked out, in the cave, by the twine clews they had strung behind them, and informed of the great news. three days and nights of toil and hunger in the cave were not to be shaken off at once, as tom and becky soon discovered. they were bedridden all of wednesday and thursday, and seemed to grow more and more tired and worn, all the time. tom got about, a little, on thursday, was down-town friday, and nearly as whole as ever saturday; but becky did not leave her room until sunday, and then she looked as if she had passed through a wasting illness. tom learned of huck's sickness and went to see him on friday, but could not be admitted to the bedroom; neither could he on saturday or sunday. he was admitted daily after that, but was warned to keep still about his adventure and introduce no exciting topic. the widow douglas stayed by to see that he obeyed. at home tom learned of the cardiff hill event; also that the "ragged man's" body had eventually been found in the river near the ferry-landing; he had been drowned while trying to escape, perhaps. about a fortnight after tom's rescue from the cave, he started off to visit huck, who had grown plenty strong enough, now, to hear exciting talk, and tom had some that would interest him, he thought. judge thatcher's house was on tom's way, and he stopped to see becky. the judge and some friends set tom to talking, and some one asked him ironically if he wouldn't like to go to the cave again. tom said he thought he wouldn't mind it. the judge said: "well, there are others just like you, tom, i've not the least doubt. but we have taken care of that. nobody will get lost in that cave any more." "why?" "because i had its big door sheathed with boiler iron two weeks ago, and triple-locked--and i've got the keys." tom turned as white as a sheet. "what's the matter, boy! here, run, somebody! fetch a glass of water!" the water was brought and thrown into tom's face. "ah, now you're all right. what was the matter with you, tom?" "oh, judge, injun joe's in the cave!" chapter xxxiii within a few minutes the news had spread, and a dozen skiff-loads of men were on their way to mcdougal's cave, and the ferryboat, well filled with passengers, soon followed. tom sawyer was in the skiff that bore judge thatcher. when the cave door was unlocked, a sorrowful sight presented itself in the dim twilight of the place. injun joe lay stretched upon the ground, dead, with his face close to the crack of the door, as if his longing eyes had been fixed, to the latest moment, upon the light and the cheer of the free world outside. tom was touched, for he knew by his own experience how this wretch had suffered. his pity was moved, but nevertheless he felt an abounding sense of relief and security, now, which revealed to him in a degree which he had not fully appreciated before how vast a weight of dread had been lying upon him since the day he lifted his voice against this bloody-minded outcast. injun joe's bowie-knife lay close by, its blade broken in two. the great foundation-beam of the door had been chipped and hacked through, with tedious labor; useless labor, too, it was, for the native rock formed a sill outside it, and upon that stubborn material the knife had wrought no effect; the only damage done was to the knife itself. but if there had been no stony obstruction there the labor would have been useless still, for if the beam had been wholly cut away injun joe could not have squeezed his body under the door, and he knew it. so he had only hacked that place in order to be doing something--in order to pass the weary time--in order to employ his tortured faculties. ordinarily one could find half a dozen bits of candle stuck around in the crevices of this vestibule, left there by tourists; but there were none now. the prisoner had searched them out and eaten them. he had also contrived to catch a few bats, and these, also, he had eaten, leaving only their claws. the poor unfortunate had starved to death. in one place, near at hand, a stalagmite had been slowly growing up from the ground for ages, builded by the water-drip from a stalactite overhead. the captive had broken off the stalagmite, and upon the stump had placed a stone, wherein he had scooped a shallow hollow to catch the precious drop that fell once in every three minutes with the dreary regularity of a clock-tick--a dessertspoonful once in four and twenty hours. that drop was falling when the pyramids were new; when troy fell; when the foundations of rome were laid when christ was crucified; when the conqueror created the british empire; when columbus sailed; when the massacre at lexington was "news." it is falling now; it will still be falling when all these things shall have sunk down the afternoon of history, and the twilight of tradition, and been swallowed up in the thick night of oblivion. has everything a purpose and a mission? did this drop fall patiently during five thousand years to be ready for this flitting human insect's need? and has it another important object to accomplish ten thousand years to come? no matter. it is many and many a year since the hapless half-breed scooped out the stone to catch the priceless drops, but to this day the tourist stares longest at that pathetic stone and that slow-dropping water when he comes to see the wonders of mcdougal's cave. injun joe's cup stands first in the list of the cavern's marvels; even "aladdin's palace" cannot rival it. injun joe was buried near the mouth of the cave; and people flocked there in boats and wagons from the towns and from all the farms and hamlets for seven miles around; they brought their children, and all sorts of provisions, and confessed that they had had almost as satisfactory a time at the funeral as they could have had at the hanging. this funeral stopped the further growth of one thing--the petition to the governor for injun joe's pardon. the petition had been largely signed; many tearful and eloquent meetings had been held, and a committee of sappy women been appointed to go in deep mourning and wail around the governor, and implore him to be a merciful ass and trample his duty under foot. injun joe was believed to have killed five citizens of the village, but what of that? if he had been satan himself there would have been plenty of weaklings ready to scribble their names to a pardon-petition, and drip a tear on it from their permanently impaired and leaky water-works. the morning after the funeral tom took huck to a private place to have an important talk. huck had learned all about tom's adventure from the welshman and the widow douglas, by this time, but tom said he reckoned there was one thing they had not told him; that thing was what he wanted to talk about now. huck's face saddened. he said: "i know what it is. you got into no. and never found anything but whiskey. nobody told me it was you; but i just knowed it must 'a' ben you, soon as i heard 'bout that whiskey business; and i knowed you hadn't got the money becuz you'd 'a' got at me some way or other and told me even if you was mum to everybody else. tom, something's always told me we'd never get holt of that swag." "why, huck, i never told on that tavern-keeper. you know his tavern was all right the saturday i went to the picnic. don't you remember you was to watch there that night?" "oh yes! why, it seems 'bout a year ago. it was that very night that i follered injun joe to the widder's." "you followed him?" "yes--but you keep mum. i reckon injun joe's left friends behind him, and i don't want 'em souring on me and doing me mean tricks. if it hadn't ben for me he'd be down in texas now, all right." then huck told his entire adventure in confidence to tom, who had only heard of the welshman's part of it before. "well," said huck, presently, coming back to the main question, "whoever nipped the whiskey in no. , nipped the money, too, i reckon --anyways it's a goner for us, tom." "huck, that money wasn't ever in no. !" "what!" huck searched his comrade's face keenly. "tom, have you got on the track of that money again?" "huck, it's in the cave!" huck's eyes blazed. "say it again, tom." "the money's in the cave!" "tom--honest injun, now--is it fun, or earnest?" "earnest, huck--just as earnest as ever i was in my life. will you go in there with me and help get it out?" "i bet i will! i will if it's where we can blaze our way to it and not get lost." "huck, we can do that without the least little bit of trouble in the world." "good as wheat! what makes you think the money's--" "huck, you just wait till we get in there. if we don't find it i'll agree to give you my drum and every thing i've got in the world. i will, by jings." "all right--it's a whiz. when do you say?" "right now, if you say it. are you strong enough?" "is it far in the cave? i ben on my pins a little, three or four days, now, but i can't walk more'n a mile, tom--least i don't think i could." "it's about five mile into there the way anybody but me would go, huck, but there's a mighty short cut that they don't anybody but me know about. huck, i'll take you right to it in a skiff. i'll float the skiff down there, and i'll pull it back again all by myself. you needn't ever turn your hand over." "less start right off, tom." "all right. we want some bread and meat, and our pipes, and a little bag or two, and two or three kite-strings, and some of these new-fangled things they call lucifer matches. i tell you, many's the time i wished i had some when i was in there before." a trifle after noon the boys borrowed a small skiff from a citizen who was absent, and got under way at once. when they were several miles below "cave hollow," tom said: "now you see this bluff here looks all alike all the way down from the cave hollow--no houses, no wood-yards, bushes all alike. but do you see that white place up yonder where there's been a landslide? well, that's one of my marks. we'll get ashore, now." they landed. "now, huck, where we're a-standing you could touch that hole i got out of with a fishing-pole. see if you can find it." huck searched all the place about, and found nothing. tom proudly marched into a thick clump of sumach bushes and said: "here you are! look at it, huck; it's the snuggest hole in this country. you just keep mum about it. all along i've been wanting to be a robber, but i knew i'd got to have a thing like this, and where to run across it was the bother. we've got it now, and we'll keep it quiet, only we'll let joe harper and ben rogers in--because of course there's got to be a gang, or else there wouldn't be any style about it. tom sawyer's gang--it sounds splendid, don't it, huck?" "well, it just does, tom. and who'll we rob?" "oh, most anybody. waylay people--that's mostly the way." "and kill them?" "no, not always. hive them in the cave till they raise a ransom." "what's a ransom?" "money. you make them raise all they can, off'n their friends; and after you've kept them a year, if it ain't raised then you kill them. that's the general way. only you don't kill the women. you shut up the women, but you don't kill them. they're always beautiful and rich, and awfully scared. you take their watches and things, but you always take your hat off and talk polite. they ain't anybody as polite as robbers --you'll see that in any book. well, the women get to loving you, and after they've been in the cave a week or two weeks they stop crying and after that you couldn't get them to leave. if you drove them out they'd turn right around and come back. it's so in all the books." "why, it's real bully, tom. i believe it's better'n to be a pirate." "yes, it's better in some ways, because it's close to home and circuses and all that." by this time everything was ready and the boys entered the hole, tom in the lead. they toiled their way to the farther end of the tunnel, then made their spliced kite-strings fast and moved on. a few steps brought them to the spring, and tom felt a shudder quiver all through him. he showed huck the fragment of candle-wick perched on a lump of clay against the wall, and described how he and becky had watched the flame struggle and expire. the boys began to quiet down to whispers, now, for the stillness and gloom of the place oppressed their spirits. they went on, and presently entered and followed tom's other corridor until they reached the "jumping-off place." the candles revealed the fact that it was not really a precipice, but only a steep clay hill twenty or thirty feet high. tom whispered: "now i'll show you something, huck." he held his candle aloft and said: "look as far around the corner as you can. do you see that? there--on the big rock over yonder--done with candle-smoke." "tom, it's a cross!" "now where's your number two? 'under the cross,' hey? right yonder's where i saw injun joe poke up his candle, huck!" huck stared at the mystic sign awhile, and then said with a shaky voice: "tom, less git out of here!" "what! and leave the treasure?" "yes--leave it. injun joe's ghost is round about there, certain." "no it ain't, huck, no it ain't. it would ha'nt the place where he died--away out at the mouth of the cave--five mile from here." "no, tom, it wouldn't. it would hang round the money. i know the ways of ghosts, and so do you." tom began to fear that huck was right. misgivings gathered in his mind. but presently an idea occurred to him-- "lookyhere, huck, what fools we're making of ourselves! injun joe's ghost ain't a going to come around where there's a cross!" the point was well taken. it had its effect. "tom, i didn't think of that. but that's so. it's luck for us, that cross is. i reckon we'll climb down there and have a hunt for that box." tom went first, cutting rude steps in the clay hill as he descended. huck followed. four avenues opened out of the small cavern which the great rock stood in. the boys examined three of them with no result. they found a small recess in the one nearest the base of the rock, with a pallet of blankets spread down in it; also an old suspender, some bacon rind, and the well-gnawed bones of two or three fowls. but there was no money-box. the lads searched and researched this place, but in vain. tom said: "he said under the cross. well, this comes nearest to being under the cross. it can't be under the rock itself, because that sets solid on the ground." they searched everywhere once more, and then sat down discouraged. huck could suggest nothing. by-and-by tom said: "lookyhere, huck, there's footprints and some candle-grease on the clay about one side of this rock, but not on the other sides. now, what's that for? i bet you the money is under the rock. i'm going to dig in the clay." "that ain't no bad notion, tom!" said huck with animation. tom's "real barlow" was out at once, and he had not dug four inches before he struck wood. "hey, huck!--you hear that?" huck began to dig and scratch now. some boards were soon uncovered and removed. they had concealed a natural chasm which led under the rock. tom got into this and held his candle as far under the rock as he could, but said he could not see to the end of the rift. he proposed to explore. he stooped and passed under; the narrow way descended gradually. he followed its winding course, first to the right, then to the left, huck at his heels. tom turned a short curve, by-and-by, and exclaimed: "my goodness, huck, lookyhere!" it was the treasure-box, sure enough, occupying a snug little cavern, along with an empty powder-keg, a couple of guns in leather cases, two or three pairs of old moccasins, a leather belt, and some other rubbish well soaked with the water-drip. "got it at last!" said huck, ploughing among the tarnished coins with his hand. "my, but we're rich, tom!" "huck, i always reckoned we'd get it. it's just too good to believe, but we have got it, sure! say--let's not fool around here. let's snake it out. lemme see if i can lift the box." it weighed about fifty pounds. tom could lift it, after an awkward fashion, but could not carry it conveniently. "i thought so," he said; "they carried it like it was heavy, that day at the ha'nted house. i noticed that. i reckon i was right to think of fetching the little bags along." the money was soon in the bags and the boys took it up to the cross rock. "now less fetch the guns and things," said huck. "no, huck--leave them there. they're just the tricks to have when we go to robbing. we'll keep them there all the time, and we'll hold our orgies there, too. it's an awful snug place for orgies." "what orgies?" "i dono. but robbers always have orgies, and of course we've got to have them, too. come along, huck, we've been in here a long time. it's getting late, i reckon. i'm hungry, too. we'll eat and smoke when we get to the skiff." they presently emerged into the clump of sumach bushes, looked warily out, found the coast clear, and were soon lunching and smoking in the skiff. as the sun dipped toward the horizon they pushed out and got under way. tom skimmed up the shore through the long twilight, chatting cheerily with huck, and landed shortly after dark. "now, huck," said tom, "we'll hide the money in the loft of the widow's woodshed, and i'll come up in the morning and we'll count it and divide, and then we'll hunt up a place out in the woods for it where it will be safe. just you lay quiet here and watch the stuff till i run and hook benny taylor's little wagon; i won't be gone a minute." he disappeared, and presently returned with the wagon, put the two small sacks into it, threw some old rags on top of them, and started off, dragging his cargo behind him. when the boys reached the welshman's house, they stopped to rest. just as they were about to move on, the welshman stepped out and said: "hallo, who's that?" "huck and tom sawyer." "good! come along with me, boys, you are keeping everybody waiting. here--hurry up, trot ahead--i'll haul the wagon for you. why, it's not as light as it might be. got bricks in it?--or old metal?" "old metal," said tom. "i judged so; the boys in this town will take more trouble and fool away more time hunting up six bits' worth of old iron to sell to the foundry than they would to make twice the money at regular work. but that's human nature--hurry along, hurry along!" the boys wanted to know what the hurry was about. "never mind; you'll see, when we get to the widow douglas'." huck said with some apprehension--for he was long used to being falsely accused: "mr. jones, we haven't been doing nothing." the welshman laughed. "well, i don't know, huck, my boy. i don't know about that. ain't you and the widow good friends?" "yes. well, she's ben good friends to me, anyway." "all right, then. what do you want to be afraid for?" this question was not entirely answered in huck's slow mind before he found himself pushed, along with tom, into mrs. douglas' drawing-room. mr. jones left the wagon near the door and followed. the place was grandly lighted, and everybody that was of any consequence in the village was there. the thatchers were there, the harpers, the rogerses, aunt polly, sid, mary, the minister, the editor, and a great many more, and all dressed in their best. the widow received the boys as heartily as any one could well receive two such looking beings. they were covered with clay and candle-grease. aunt polly blushed crimson with humiliation, and frowned and shook her head at tom. nobody suffered half as much as the two boys did, however. mr. jones said: "tom wasn't at home, yet, so i gave him up; but i stumbled on him and huck right at my door, and so i just brought them along in a hurry." "and you did just right," said the widow. "come with me, boys." she took them to a bedchamber and said: "now wash and dress yourselves. here are two new suits of clothes --shirts, socks, everything complete. they're huck's--no, no thanks, huck--mr. jones bought one and i the other. but they'll fit both of you. get into them. we'll wait--come down when you are slicked up enough." then she left. chapter xxxiv huck said: "tom, we can slope, if we can find a rope. the window ain't high from the ground." "shucks! what do you want to slope for?" "well, i ain't used to that kind of a crowd. i can't stand it. i ain't going down there, tom." "oh, bother! it ain't anything. i don't mind it a bit. i'll take care of you." sid appeared. "tom," said he, "auntie has been waiting for you all the afternoon. mary got your sunday clothes ready, and everybody's been fretting about you. say--ain't this grease and clay, on your clothes?" "now, mr. siddy, you jist 'tend to your own business. what's all this blow-out about, anyway?" "it's one of the widow's parties that she's always having. this time it's for the welshman and his sons, on account of that scrape they helped her out of the other night. and say--i can tell you something, if you want to know." "well, what?" "why, old mr. jones is going to try to spring something on the people here to-night, but i overheard him tell auntie to-day about it, as a secret, but i reckon it's not much of a secret now. everybody knows --the widow, too, for all she tries to let on she don't. mr. jones was bound huck should be here--couldn't get along with his grand secret without huck, you know!" "secret about what, sid?" "about huck tracking the robbers to the widow's. i reckon mr. jones was going to make a grand time over his surprise, but i bet you it will drop pretty flat." sid chuckled in a very contented and satisfied way. "sid, was it you that told?" "oh, never mind who it was. somebody told--that's enough." "sid, there's only one person in this town mean enough to do that, and that's you. if you had been in huck's place you'd 'a' sneaked down the hill and never told anybody on the robbers. you can't do any but mean things, and you can't bear to see anybody praised for doing good ones. there--no thanks, as the widow says"--and tom cuffed sid's ears and helped him to the door with several kicks. "now go and tell auntie if you dare--and to-morrow you'll catch it!" some minutes later the widow's guests were at the supper-table, and a dozen children were propped up at little side-tables in the same room, after the fashion of that country and that day. at the proper time mr. jones made his little speech, in which he thanked the widow for the honor she was doing himself and his sons, but said that there was another person whose modesty-- and so forth and so on. he sprung his secret about huck's share in the adventure in the finest dramatic manner he was master of, but the surprise it occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as clamorous and effusive as it might have been under happier circumstances. however, the widow made a pretty fair show of astonishment, and heaped so many compliments and so much gratitude upon huck that he almost forgot the nearly intolerable discomfort of his new clothes in the entirely intolerable discomfort of being set up as a target for everybody's gaze and everybody's laudations. the widow said she meant to give huck a home under her roof and have him educated; and that when she could spare the money she would start him in business in a modest way. tom's chance was come. he said: "huck don't need it. huck's rich." nothing but a heavy strain upon the good manners of the company kept back the due and proper complimentary laugh at this pleasant joke. but the silence was a little awkward. tom broke it: "huck's got money. maybe you don't believe it, but he's got lots of it. oh, you needn't smile--i reckon i can show you. you just wait a minute." tom ran out of doors. the company looked at each other with a perplexed interest--and inquiringly at huck, who was tongue-tied. "sid, what ails tom?" said aunt polly. "he--well, there ain't ever any making of that boy out. i never--" tom entered, struggling with the weight of his sacks, and aunt polly did not finish her sentence. tom poured the mass of yellow coin upon the table and said: "there--what did i tell you? half of it's huck's and half of it's mine!" the spectacle took the general breath away. all gazed, nobody spoke for a moment. then there was a unanimous call for an explanation. tom said he could furnish it, and he did. the tale was long, but brimful of interest. there was scarcely an interruption from any one to break the charm of its flow. when he had finished, mr. jones said: "i thought i had fixed up a little surprise for this occasion, but it don't amount to anything now. this one makes it sing mighty small, i'm willing to allow." the money was counted. the sum amounted to a little over twelve thousand dollars. it was more than any one present had ever seen at one time before, though several persons were there who were worth considerably more than that in property. chapter xxxv the reader may rest satisfied that tom's and huck's windfall made a mighty stir in the poor little village of st. petersburg. so vast a sum, all in actual cash, seemed next to incredible. it was talked about, gloated over, glorified, until the reason of many of the citizens tottered under the strain of the unhealthy excitement. every "haunted" house in st. petersburg and the neighboring villages was dissected, plank by plank, and its foundations dug up and ransacked for hidden treasure--and not by boys, but men--pretty grave, unromantic men, too, some of them. wherever tom and huck appeared they were courted, admired, stared at. the boys were not able to remember that their remarks had possessed weight before; but now their sayings were treasured and repeated; everything they did seemed somehow to be regarded as remarkable; they had evidently lost the power of doing and saying commonplace things; moreover, their past history was raked up and discovered to bear marks of conspicuous originality. the village paper published biographical sketches of the boys. the widow douglas put huck's money out at six per cent., and judge thatcher did the same with tom's at aunt polly's request. each lad had an income, now, that was simply prodigious--a dollar for every week-day in the year and half of the sundays. it was just what the minister got --no, it was what he was promised--he generally couldn't collect it. a dollar and a quarter a week would board, lodge, and school a boy in those old simple days--and clothe him and wash him, too, for that matter. judge thatcher had conceived a great opinion of tom. he said that no commonplace boy would ever have got his daughter out of the cave. when becky told her father, in strict confidence, how tom had taken her whipping at school, the judge was visibly moved; and when she pleaded grace for the mighty lie which tom had told in order to shift that whipping from her shoulders to his own, the judge said with a fine outburst that it was a noble, a generous, a magnanimous lie--a lie that was worthy to hold up its head and march down through history breast to breast with george washington's lauded truth about the hatchet! becky thought her father had never looked so tall and so superb as when he walked the floor and stamped his foot and said that. she went straight off and told tom about it. judge thatcher hoped to see tom a great lawyer or a great soldier some day. he said he meant to look to it that tom should be admitted to the national military academy and afterward trained in the best law school in the country, in order that he might be ready for either career or both. huck finn's wealth and the fact that he was now under the widow douglas' protection introduced him into society--no, dragged him into it, hurled him into it--and his sufferings were almost more than he could bear. the widow's servants kept him clean and neat, combed and brushed, and they bedded him nightly in unsympathetic sheets that had not one little spot or stain which he could press to his heart and know for a friend. he had to eat with a knife and fork; he had to use napkin, cup, and plate; he had to learn his book, he had to go to church; he had to talk so properly that speech was become insipid in his mouth; whithersoever he turned, the bars and shackles of civilization shut him in and bound him hand and foot. he bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then one day turned up missing. for forty-eight hours the widow hunted for him everywhere in great distress. the public were profoundly concerned; they searched high and low, they dragged the river for his body. early the third morning tom sawyer wisely went poking among some old empty hogsheads down behind the abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them he found the refugee. huck had slept there; he had just breakfasted upon some stolen odds and ends of food, and was lying off, now, in comfort, with his pipe. he was unkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old ruin of rags that had made him picturesque in the days when he was free and happy. tom routed him out, told him the trouble he had been causing, and urged him to go home. huck's face lost its tranquil content, and took a melancholy cast. he said: "don't talk about it, tom. i've tried it, and it don't work; it don't work, tom. it ain't for me; i ain't used to it. the widder's good to me, and friendly; but i can't stand them ways. she makes me get up just at the same time every morning; she makes me wash, they comb me all to thunder; she won't let me sleep in the woodshed; i got to wear them blamed clothes that just smothers me, tom; they don't seem to any air git through 'em, somehow; and they're so rotten nice that i can't set down, nor lay down, nor roll around anywher's; i hain't slid on a cellar-door for--well, it 'pears to be years; i got to go to church and sweat and sweat--i hate them ornery sermons! i can't ketch a fly in there, i can't chaw. i got to wear shoes all sunday. the widder eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she gits up by a bell--everything's so awful reg'lar a body can't stand it." "well, everybody does that way, huck." "tom, it don't make no difference. i ain't everybody, and i can't stand it. it's awful to be tied up so. and grub comes too easy--i don't take no interest in vittles, that way. i got to ask to go a-fishing; i got to ask to go in a-swimming--dern'd if i hain't got to ask to do everything. well, i'd got to talk so nice it wasn't no comfort--i'd got to go up in the attic and rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste in my mouth, or i'd a died, tom. the widder wouldn't let me smoke; she wouldn't let me yell, she wouldn't let me gape, nor stretch, nor scratch, before folks--" [then with a spasm of special irritation and injury]--"and dad fetch it, she prayed all the time! i never see such a woman! i had to shove, tom--i just had to. and besides, that school's going to open, and i'd a had to go to it--well, i wouldn't stand that, tom. looky here, tom, being rich ain't what it's cracked up to be. it's just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead all the time. now these clothes suits me, and this bar'l suits me, and i ain't ever going to shake 'em any more. tom, i wouldn't ever got into all this trouble if it hadn't 'a' ben for that money; now you just take my sheer of it along with your'n, and gimme a ten-center sometimes--not many times, becuz i don't give a dern for a thing 'thout it's tollable hard to git--and you go and beg off for me with the widder." "oh, huck, you know i can't do that. 'tain't fair; and besides if you'll try this thing just a while longer you'll come to like it." "like it! yes--the way i'd like a hot stove if i was to set on it long enough. no, tom, i won't be rich, and i won't live in them cussed smothery houses. i like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and i'll stick to 'em, too. blame it all! just as we'd got guns, and a cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this dern foolishness has got to come up and spile it all!" tom saw his opportunity-- "lookyhere, huck, being rich ain't going to keep me back from turning robber." "no! oh, good-licks; are you in real dead-wood earnest, tom?" "just as dead earnest as i'm sitting here. but huck, we can't let you into the gang if you ain't respectable, you know." huck's joy was quenched. "can't let me in, tom? didn't you let me go for a pirate?" "yes, but that's different. a robber is more high-toned than what a pirate is--as a general thing. in most countries they're awful high up in the nobility--dukes and such." "now, tom, hain't you always ben friendly to me? you wouldn't shet me out, would you, tom? you wouldn't do that, now, would you, tom?" "huck, i wouldn't want to, and i don't want to--but what would people say? why, they'd say, 'mph! tom sawyer's gang! pretty low characters in it!' they'd mean you, huck. you wouldn't like that, and i wouldn't." huck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental struggle. finally he said: "well, i'll go back to the widder for a month and tackle it and see if i can come to stand it, if you'll let me b'long to the gang, tom." "all right, huck, it's a whiz! come along, old chap, and i'll ask the widow to let up on you a little, huck." "will you, tom--now will you? that's good. if she'll let up on some of the roughest things, i'll smoke private and cuss private, and crowd through or bust. when you going to start the gang and turn robbers?" "oh, right off. we'll get the boys together and have the initiation to-night, maybe." "have the which?" "have the initiation." "what's that?" "it's to swear to stand by one another, and never tell the gang's secrets, even if you're chopped all to flinders, and kill anybody and all his family that hurts one of the gang." "that's gay--that's mighty gay, tom, i tell you." "well, i bet it is. and all that swearing's got to be done at midnight, in the lonesomest, awfulest place you can find--a ha'nted house is the best, but they're all ripped up now." "well, midnight's good, anyway, tom." "yes, so it is. and you've got to swear on a coffin, and sign it with blood." "now, that's something like! why, it's a million times bullier than pirating. i'll stick to the widder till i rot, tom; and if i git to be a reg'lar ripper of a robber, and everybody talking 'bout it, i reckon she'll be proud she snaked me in out of the wet." conclusion so endeth this chronicle. it being strictly a history of a boy, it must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the history of a man. when one writes a novel about grown people, he knows exactly where to stop--that is, with a marriage; but when he writes of juveniles, he must stop where he best can. most of the characters that perform in this book still live, and are prosperous and happy. some day it may seem worth while to take up the story of the younger ones again and see what sort of men and women they turned out to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any of that part of their lives at present. the adventures of tom sawyer by mark twain (samuel langhorne clemens) part chapter xxiii at last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred--and vigorously: the murder trial came on in the court. it became the absorbing topic of village talk immediately. tom could not get away from it. every reference to the murder sent a shudder to his heart, for his troubled conscience and fears almost persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in his hearing as "feelers"; he did not see how he could be suspected of knowing anything about the murder, but still he could not be comfortable in the midst of this gossip. it kept him in a cold shiver all the time. he took huck to a lonely place to have a talk with him. it would be some relief to unseal his tongue for a little while; to divide his burden of distress with another sufferer. moreover, he wanted to assure himself that huck had remained discreet. "huck, have you ever told anybody about--that?" "'bout what?" "you know what." "oh--'course i haven't." "never a word?" "never a solitary word, so help me. what makes you ask?" "well, i was afeard." "why, tom sawyer, we wouldn't be alive two days if that got found out. you know that." tom felt more comfortable. after a pause: "huck, they couldn't anybody get you to tell, could they?" "get me to tell? why, if i wanted that half-breed devil to drownd me they could get me to tell. they ain't no different way." "well, that's all right, then. i reckon we're safe as long as we keep mum. but let's swear again, anyway. it's more surer." "i'm agreed." so they swore again with dread solemnities. "what is the talk around, huck? i've heard a power of it." "talk? well, it's just muff potter, muff potter, muff potter all the time. it keeps me in a sweat, constant, so's i want to hide som'ers." "that's just the same way they go on round me. i reckon he's a goner. don't you feel sorry for him, sometimes?" "most always--most always. he ain't no account; but then he hain't ever done anything to hurt anybody. just fishes a little, to get money to get drunk on--and loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do that--leastways most of us--preachers and such like. but he's kind of good--he give me half a fish, once, when there warn't enough for two; and lots of times he's kind of stood by me when i was out of luck." "well, he's mended kites for me, huck, and knitted hooks on to my line. i wish we could get him out of there." "my! we couldn't get him out, tom. and besides, 'twouldn't do any good; they'd ketch him again." "yes--so they would. but i hate to hear 'em abuse him so like the dickens when he never done--that." "i do too, tom. lord, i hear 'em say he's the bloodiest looking villain in this country, and they wonder he wasn't ever hung before." "yes, they talk like that, all the time. i've heard 'em say that if he was to get free they'd lynch him." "and they'd do it, too." the boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort. as the twilight drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood of the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that something would happen that might clear away their difficulties. but nothing happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in this luckless captive. the boys did as they had often done before--went to the cell grating and gave potter some tobacco and matches. he was on the ground floor and there were no guards. his gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences before--it cut deeper than ever, this time. they felt cowardly and treacherous to the last degree when potter said: "you've been mighty good to me, boys--better'n anybody else in this town. and i don't forget it, i don't. often i says to myself, says i, 'i used to mend all the boys' kites and things, and show 'em where the good fishin' places was, and befriend 'em what i could, and now they've all forgot old muff when he's in trouble; but tom don't, and huck don't--they don't forget him, says i, 'and i don't forget them.' well, boys, i done an awful thing--drunk and crazy at the time--that's the only way i account for it--and now i got to swing for it, and it's right. right, and best, too, i reckon--hope so, anyway. well, we won't talk about that. i don't want to make you feel bad; you've befriended me. but what i want to say, is, don't you ever get drunk--then you won't ever get here. stand a litter furder west--so--that's it; it's a prime comfort to see faces that's friendly when a body's in such a muck of trouble, and there don't none come here but yourn. good friendly faces--good friendly faces. git up on one another's backs and let me touch 'em. that's it. shake hands--yourn'll come through the bars, but mine's too big. little hands, and weak--but they've helped muff potter a power, and they'd help him more if they could." tom went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of horrors. the next day and the day after, he hung about the court-room, drawn by an almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself to stay out. huck was having the same experience. they studiously avoided each other. each wandered away, from time to time, but the same dismal fascination always brought them back presently. tom kept his ears open when idlers sauntered out of the court-room, but invariably heard distressing news--the toils were closing more and more relentlessly around poor potter. at the end of the second day the village talk was to the effect that injun joe's evidence stood firm and unshaken, and that there was not the slightest question as to what the jury's verdict would be. tom was out late, that night, and came to bed through the window. he was in a tremendous state of excitement. it was hours before he got to sleep. all the village flocked to the court-house the next morning, for this was to be the great day. both sexes were about equally represented in the packed audience. after a long wait the jury filed in and took their places; shortly afterward, potter, pale and haggard, timid and hopeless, was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated where all the curious eyes could stare at him; no less conspicuous was injun joe, stolid as ever. there was another pause, and then the judge arrived and the sheriff proclaimed the opening of the court. the usual whisperings among the lawyers and gathering together of papers followed. these details and accompanying delays worked up an atmosphere of preparation that was as impressive as it was fascinating. now a witness was called who testified that he found muff potter washing in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder was discovered, and that he immediately sneaked away. after some further questioning, counsel for the prosecution said: "take the witness." the prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when his own counsel said: "i have no questions to ask him." the next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse. counsel for the prosecution said: "take the witness." "i have no questions to ask him," potter's lawyer replied. a third witness swore he had often seen the knife in potter's possession. "take the witness." counsel for potter declined to question him. the faces of the audience began to betray annoyance. did this attorney mean to throw away his client's life without an effort? several witnesses deposed concerning potter's guilty behavior when brought to the scene of the murder. they were allowed to leave the stand without being cross-questioned. every detail of the damaging circumstances that occurred in the graveyard upon that morning which all present remembered so well was brought out by credible witnesses, but none of them were cross-examined by potter's lawyer. the perplexity and dissatisfaction of the house expressed itself in murmurs and provoked a reproof from the bench. counsel for the prosecution now said: "by the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we have fastened this awful crime, beyond all possibility of question, upon the unhappy prisoner at the bar. we rest our case here." a groan escaped from poor potter, and he put his face in his hands and rocked his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned in the court-room. many men were moved, and many women's compassion testified itself in tears. counsel for the defence rose and said: "your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this trial, we foreshadowed our purpose to prove that our client did this fearful deed while under the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium produced by drink. we have changed our mind. we shall not offer that plea." [then to the clerk:] "call thomas sawyer!" a puzzled amazement awoke in every face in the house, not even excepting potter's. every eye fastened itself with wondering interest upon tom as he rose and took his place upon the stand. the boy looked wild enough, for he was badly scared. the oath was administered. "thomas sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth of june, about the hour of midnight?" tom glanced at injun joe's iron face and his tongue failed him. the audience listened breathless, but the words refused to come. after a few moments, however, the boy got a little of his strength back, and managed to put enough of it into his voice to make part of the house hear: "in the graveyard!" "a little bit louder, please. don't be afraid. you were--" "in the graveyard." a contemptuous smile flitted across injun joe's face. "were you anywhere near horse williams' grave?" "yes, sir." "speak up--just a trifle louder. how near were you?" "near as i am to you." "were you hidden, or not?" "i was hid." "where?" "behind the elms that's on the edge of the grave." injun joe gave a barely perceptible start. "any one with you?" "yes, sir. i went there with--" "wait--wait a moment. never mind mentioning your companion's name. we will produce him at the proper time. did you carry anything there with you." tom hesitated and looked confused. "speak out, my boy--don't be diffident. the truth is always respectable. what did you take there?" "only a--a--dead cat." there was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked. "we will produce the skeleton of that cat. now, my boy, tell us everything that occurred--tell it in your own way--don't skip anything, and don't be afraid." tom began--hesitatingly at first, but as he warmed to his subject his words flowed more and more easily; in a little while every sound ceased but his own voice; every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips and bated breath the audience hung upon his words, taking no note of time, rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the tale. the strain upon pent emotion reached its climax when the boy said: "--and as the doctor fetched the board around and muff potter fell, injun joe jumped with the knife and--" crash! quick as lightning the half-breed sprang for a window, tore his way through all opposers, and was gone! chapter xxiv tom was a glittering hero once more--the pet of the old, the envy of the young. his name even went into immortal print, for the village paper magnified him. there were some that believed he would be president, yet, if he escaped hanging. as usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took muff potter to its bosom and fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before. but that sort of conduct is to the world's credit; therefore it is not well to find fault with it. tom's days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his nights were seasons of horror. injun joe infested all his dreams, and always with doom in his eye. hardly any temptation could persuade the boy to stir abroad after nightfall. poor huck was in the same state of wretchedness and terror, for tom had told the whole story to the lawyer the night before the great day of the trial, and huck was sore afraid that his share in the business might leak out, yet, notwithstanding injun joe's flight had saved him the suffering of testifying in court. the poor fellow had got the attorney to promise secrecy, but what of that? since tom's harassed conscience had managed to drive him to the lawyer's house by night and wring a dread tale from lips that had been sealed with the dismalest and most formidable of oaths, huck's confidence in the human race was well-nigh obliterated. daily muff potter's gratitude made tom glad he had spoken; but nightly he wished he had sealed up his tongue. half the time tom was afraid injun joe would never be captured; the other half he was afraid he would be. he felt sure he never could draw a safe breath again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse. rewards had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no injun joe was found. one of those omniscient and awe-inspiring marvels, a detective, came up from st. louis, moused around, shook his head, looked wise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of that craft usually achieve. that is to say, he "found a clew." but you can't hang a "clew" for murder, and so after that detective had got through and gone home, tom felt just as insecure as he was before. the slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly lightened weight of apprehension. chapter xxv there comes a time in every rightly-constructed boy's life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure. this desire suddenly came upon tom one day. he sallied out to find joe harper, but failed of success. next he sought ben rogers; he had gone fishing. presently he stumbled upon huck finn the red-handed. huck would answer. tom took him to a private place and opened the matter to him confidentially. huck was willing. huck was always willing to take a hand in any enterprise that offered entertainment and required no capital, for he had a troublesome superabundance of that sort of time which is not money. "where'll we dig?" said huck. "oh, most anywhere." "why, is it hid all around?" "no, indeed it ain't. it's hid in mighty particular places, huck --sometimes on islands, sometimes in rotten chests under the end of a limb of an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at midnight; but mostly under the floor in ha'nted houses." "who hides it?" "why, robbers, of course--who'd you reckon? sunday-school sup'rintendents?" "i don't know. if 'twas mine i wouldn't hide it; i'd spend it and have a good time." "so would i. but robbers don't do that way. they always hide it and leave it there." "don't they come after it any more?" "no, they think they will, but they generally forget the marks, or else they die. anyway, it lays there a long time and gets rusty; and by and by somebody finds an old yellow paper that tells how to find the marks--a paper that's got to be ciphered over about a week because it's mostly signs and hy'roglyphics." "hyroqwhich?" "hy'roglyphics--pictures and things, you know, that don't seem to mean anything." "have you got one of them papers, tom?" "no." "well then, how you going to find the marks?" "i don't want any marks. they always bury it under a ha'nted house or on an island, or under a dead tree that's got one limb sticking out. well, we've tried jackson's island a little, and we can try it again some time; and there's the old ha'nted house up the still-house branch, and there's lots of dead-limb trees--dead loads of 'em." "is it under all of them?" "how you talk! no!" "then how you going to know which one to go for?" "go for all of 'em!" "why, tom, it'll take all summer." "well, what of that? suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred dollars in it, all rusty and gray, or rotten chest full of di'monds. how's that?" huck's eyes glowed. "that's bully. plenty bully enough for me. just you gimme the hundred dollars and i don't want no di'monds." "all right. but i bet you i ain't going to throw off on di'monds. some of 'em's worth twenty dollars apiece--there ain't any, hardly, but's worth six bits or a dollar." "no! is that so?" "cert'nly--anybody'll tell you so. hain't you ever seen one, huck?" "not as i remember." "oh, kings have slathers of them." "well, i don' know no kings, tom." "i reckon you don't. but if you was to go to europe you'd see a raft of 'em hopping around." "do they hop?" "hop?--your granny! no!" "well, what did you say they did, for?" "shucks, i only meant you'd see 'em--not hopping, of course--what do they want to hop for?--but i mean you'd just see 'em--scattered around, you know, in a kind of a general way. like that old humpbacked richard." "richard? what's his other name?" "he didn't have any other name. kings don't have any but a given name." "no?" "but they don't." "well, if they like it, tom, all right; but i don't want to be a king and have only just a given name, like a nigger. but say--where you going to dig first?" "well, i don't know. s'pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the hill t'other side of still-house branch?" "i'm agreed." so they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their three-mile tramp. they arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves down in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke. "i like this," said tom. "so do i." "say, huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with your share?" "well, i'll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and i'll go to every circus that comes along. i bet i'll have a gay time." "well, ain't you going to save any of it?" "save it? what for?" "why, so as to have something to live on, by and by." "oh, that ain't any use. pap would come back to thish-yer town some day and get his claws on it if i didn't hurry up, and i tell you he'd clean it out pretty quick. what you going to do with yourn, tom?" "i'm going to buy a new drum, and a sure-'nough sword, and a red necktie and a bull pup, and get married." "married!" "that's it." "tom, you--why, you ain't in your right mind." "wait--you'll see." "well, that's the foolishest thing you could do. look at pap and my mother. fight! why, they used to fight all the time. i remember, mighty well." "that ain't anything. the girl i'm going to marry won't fight." "tom, i reckon they're all alike. they'll all comb a body. now you better think 'bout this awhile. i tell you you better. what's the name of the gal?" "it ain't a gal at all--it's a girl." "it's all the same, i reckon; some says gal, some says girl--both's right, like enough. anyway, what's her name, tom?" "i'll tell you some time--not now." "all right--that'll do. only if you get married i'll be more lonesomer than ever." "no you won't. you'll come and live with me. now stir out of this and we'll go to digging." they worked and sweated for half an hour. no result. they toiled another half-hour. still no result. huck said: "do they always bury it as deep as this?" "sometimes--not always. not generally. i reckon we haven't got the right place." so they chose a new spot and began again. the labor dragged a little, but still they made progress. they pegged away in silence for some time. finally huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded drops from his brow with his sleeve, and said: "where you going to dig next, after we get this one?" "i reckon maybe we'll tackle the old tree that's over yonder on cardiff hill back of the widow's." "i reckon that'll be a good one. but won't the widow take it away from us, tom? it's on her land." "she take it away! maybe she'd like to try it once. whoever finds one of these hid treasures, it belongs to him. it don't make any difference whose land it's on." that was satisfactory. the work went on. by and by huck said: "blame it, we must be in the wrong place again. what do you think?" "it is mighty curious, huck. i don't understand it. sometimes witches interfere. i reckon maybe that's what's the trouble now." "shucks! witches ain't got no power in the daytime." "well, that's so. i didn't think of that. oh, i know what the matter is! what a blamed lot of fools we are! you got to find out where the shadow of the limb falls at midnight, and that's where you dig!" "then consound it, we've fooled away all this work for nothing. now hang it all, we got to come back in the night. it's an awful long way. can you get out?" "i bet i will. we've got to do it to-night, too, because if somebody sees these holes they'll know in a minute what's here and they'll go for it." "well, i'll come around and maow to-night." "all right. let's hide the tools in the bushes." the boys were there that night, about the appointed time. they sat in the shadow waiting. it was a lonely place, and an hour made solemn by old traditions. spirits whispered in the rustling leaves, ghosts lurked in the murky nooks, the deep baying of a hound floated up out of the distance, an owl answered with his sepulchral note. the boys were subdued by these solemnities, and talked little. by and by they judged that twelve had come; they marked where the shadow fell, and began to dig. their hopes commenced to rise. their interest grew stronger, and their industry kept pace with it. the hole deepened and still deepened, but every time their hearts jumped to hear the pick strike upon something, they only suffered a new disappointment. it was only a stone or a chunk. at last tom said: "it ain't any use, huck, we're wrong again." "well, but we can't be wrong. we spotted the shadder to a dot." "i know it, but then there's another thing." "what's that?". "why, we only guessed at the time. like enough it was too late or too early." huck dropped his shovel. "that's it," said he. "that's the very trouble. we got to give this one up. we can't ever tell the right time, and besides this kind of thing's too awful, here this time of night with witches and ghosts a-fluttering around so. i feel as if something's behind me all the time; and i'm afeard to turn around, becuz maybe there's others in front a-waiting for a chance. i been creeping all over, ever since i got here." "well, i've been pretty much so, too, huck. they most always put in a dead man when they bury a treasure under a tree, to look out for it." "lordy!" "yes, they do. i've always heard that." "tom, i don't like to fool around much where there's dead people. a body's bound to get into trouble with 'em, sure." "i don't like to stir 'em up, either. s'pose this one here was to stick his skull out and say something!" "don't tom! it's awful." "well, it just is. huck, i don't feel comfortable a bit." "say, tom, let's give this place up, and try somewheres else." "all right, i reckon we better." "what'll it be?" tom considered awhile; and then said: "the ha'nted house. that's it!" "blame it, i don't like ha'nted houses, tom. why, they're a dern sight worse'n dead people. dead people might talk, maybe, but they don't come sliding around in a shroud, when you ain't noticing, and peep over your shoulder all of a sudden and grit their teeth, the way a ghost does. i couldn't stand such a thing as that, tom--nobody could." "yes, but, huck, ghosts don't travel around only at night. they won't hender us from digging there in the daytime." "well, that's so. but you know mighty well people don't go about that ha'nted house in the day nor the night." "well, that's mostly because they don't like to go where a man's been murdered, anyway--but nothing's ever been seen around that house except in the night--just some blue lights slipping by the windows--no regular ghosts." "well, where you see one of them blue lights flickering around, tom, you can bet there's a ghost mighty close behind it. it stands to reason. becuz you know that they don't anybody but ghosts use 'em." "yes, that's so. but anyway they don't come around in the daytime, so what's the use of our being afeard?" "well, all right. we'll tackle the ha'nted house if you say so--but i reckon it's taking chances." they had started down the hill by this time. there in the middle of the moonlit valley below them stood the "ha'nted" house, utterly isolated, its fences gone long ago, rank weeds smothering the very doorsteps, the chimney crumbled to ruin, the window-sashes vacant, a corner of the roof caved in. the boys gazed awhile, half expecting to see a blue light flit past a window; then talking in a low tone, as befitted the time and the circumstances, they struck far off to the right, to give the haunted house a wide berth, and took their way homeward through the woods that adorned the rearward side of cardiff hill. chapter xxvi about noon the next day the boys arrived at the dead tree; they had come for their tools. tom was impatient to go to the haunted house; huck was measurably so, also--but suddenly said: "lookyhere, tom, do you know what day it is?" tom mentally ran over the days of the week, and then quickly lifted his eyes with a startled look in them-- "my! i never once thought of it, huck!" "well, i didn't neither, but all at once it popped onto me that it was friday." "blame it, a body can't be too careful, huck. we might 'a' got into an awful scrape, tackling such a thing on a friday." "might! better say we would! there's some lucky days, maybe, but friday ain't." "any fool knows that. i don't reckon you was the first that found it out, huck." "well, i never said i was, did i? and friday ain't all, neither. i had a rotten bad dream last night--dreampt about rats." "no! sure sign of trouble. did they fight?" "no." "well, that's good, huck. when they don't fight it's only a sign that there's trouble around, you know. all we got to do is to look mighty sharp and keep out of it. we'll drop this thing for to-day, and play. do you know robin hood, huck?" "no. who's robin hood?" "why, he was one of the greatest men that was ever in england--and the best. he was a robber." "cracky, i wisht i was. who did he rob?" "only sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings, and such like. but he never bothered the poor. he loved 'em. he always divided up with 'em perfectly square." "well, he must 'a' been a brick." "i bet you he was, huck. oh, he was the noblest man that ever was. they ain't any such men now, i can tell you. he could lick any man in england, with one hand tied behind him; and he could take his yew bow and plug a ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a half." "what's a yew bow?" "i don't know. it's some kind of a bow, of course. and if he hit that dime only on the edge he would set down and cry--and curse. but we'll play robin hood--it's nobby fun. i'll learn you." "i'm agreed." so they played robin hood all the afternoon, now and then casting a yearning eye down upon the haunted house and passing a remark about the morrow's prospects and possibilities there. as the sun began to sink into the west they took their way homeward athwart the long shadows of the trees and soon were buried from sight in the forests of cardiff hill. on saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were at the dead tree again. they had a smoke and a chat in the shade, and then dug a little in their last hole, not with great hope, but merely because tom said there were so many cases where people had given up a treasure after getting down within six inches of it, and then somebody else had come along and turned it up with a single thrust of a shovel. the thing failed this time, however, so the boys shouldered their tools and went away feeling that they had not trifled with fortune, but had fulfilled all the requirements that belong to the business of treasure-hunting. when they reached the haunted house there was something so weird and grisly about the dead silence that reigned there under the baking sun, and something so depressing about the loneliness and desolation of the place, that they were afraid, for a moment, to venture in. then they crept to the door and took a trembling peep. they saw a weed-grown, floorless room, unplastered, an ancient fireplace, vacant windows, a ruinous staircase; and here, there, and everywhere hung ragged and abandoned cobwebs. they presently entered, softly, with quickened pulses, talking in whispers, ears alert to catch the slightest sound, and muscles tense and ready for instant retreat. in a little while familiarity modified their fears and they gave the place a critical and interested examination, rather admiring their own boldness, and wondering at it, too. next they wanted to look up-stairs. this was something like cutting off retreat, but they got to daring each other, and of course there could be but one result--they threw their tools into a corner and made the ascent. up there were the same signs of decay. in one corner they found a closet that promised mystery, but the promise was a fraud--there was nothing in it. their courage was up now and well in hand. they were about to go down and begin work when-- "sh!" said tom. "what is it?" whispered huck, blanching with fright. "sh! ... there! ... hear it?" "yes! ... oh, my! let's run!" "keep still! don't you budge! they're coming right toward the door." the boys stretched themselves upon the floor with their eyes to knot-holes in the planking, and lay waiting, in a misery of fear. "they've stopped.... no--coming.... here they are. don't whisper another word, huck. my goodness, i wish i was out of this!" two men entered. each boy said to himself: "there's the old deaf and dumb spaniard that's been about town once or twice lately--never saw t'other man before." "t'other" was a ragged, unkempt creature, with nothing very pleasant in his face. the spaniard was wrapped in a serape; he had bushy white whiskers; long white hair flowed from under his sombrero, and he wore green goggles. when they came in, "t'other" was talking in a low voice; they sat down on the ground, facing the door, with their backs to the wall, and the speaker continued his remarks. his manner became less guarded and his words more distinct as he proceeded: "no," said he, "i've thought it all over, and i don't like it. it's dangerous." "dangerous!" grunted the "deaf and dumb" spaniard--to the vast surprise of the boys. "milksop!" this voice made the boys gasp and quake. it was injun joe's! there was silence for some time. then joe said: "what's any more dangerous than that job up yonder--but nothing's come of it." "that's different. away up the river so, and not another house about. 'twon't ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we didn't succeed." "well, what's more dangerous than coming here in the daytime!--anybody would suspicion us that saw us." "i know that. but there warn't any other place as handy after that fool of a job. i want to quit this shanty. i wanted to yesterday, only it warn't any use trying to stir out of here, with those infernal boys playing over there on the hill right in full view." "those infernal boys" quaked again under the inspiration of this remark, and thought how lucky it was that they had remembered it was friday and concluded to wait a day. they wished in their hearts they had waited a year. the two men got out some food and made a luncheon. after a long and thoughtful silence, injun joe said: "look here, lad--you go back up the river where you belong. wait there till you hear from me. i'll take the chances on dropping into this town just once more, for a look. we'll do that 'dangerous' job after i've spied around a little and think things look well for it. then for texas! we'll leg it together!" this was satisfactory. both men presently fell to yawning, and injun joe said: "i'm dead for sleep! it's your turn to watch." he curled down in the weeds and soon began to snore. his comrade stirred him once or twice and he became quiet. presently the watcher began to nod; his head drooped lower and lower, both men began to snore now. the boys drew a long, grateful breath. tom whispered: "now's our chance--come!" huck said: "i can't--i'd die if they was to wake." tom urged--huck held back. at last tom rose slowly and softly, and started alone. but the first step he made wrung such a hideous creak from the crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with fright. he never made a second attempt. the boys lay there counting the dragging moments till it seemed to them that time must be done and eternity growing gray; and then they were grateful to note that at last the sun was setting. now one snore ceased. injun joe sat up, stared around--smiled grimly upon his comrade, whose head was drooping upon his knees--stirred him up with his foot and said: "here! you're a watchman, ain't you! all right, though--nothing's happened." "my! have i been asleep?" "oh, partly, partly. nearly time for us to be moving, pard. what'll we do with what little swag we've got left?" "i don't know--leave it here as we've always done, i reckon. no use to take it away till we start south. six hundred and fifty in silver's something to carry." "well--all right--it won't matter to come here once more." "no--but i'd say come in the night as we used to do--it's better." "yes: but look here; it may be a good while before i get the right chance at that job; accidents might happen; 'tain't in such a very good place; we'll just regularly bury it--and bury it deep." "good idea," said the comrade, who walked across the room, knelt down, raised one of the rearward hearth-stones and took out a bag that jingled pleasantly. he subtracted from it twenty or thirty dollars for himself and as much for injun joe, and passed the bag to the latter, who was on his knees in the corner, now, digging with his bowie-knife. the boys forgot all their fears, all their miseries in an instant. with gloating eyes they watched every movement. luck!--the splendor of it was beyond all imagination! six hundred dollars was money enough to make half a dozen boys rich! here was treasure-hunting under the happiest auspices--there would not be any bothersome uncertainty as to where to dig. they nudged each other every moment--eloquent nudges and easily understood, for they simply meant--"oh, but ain't you glad now we're here!" joe's knife struck upon something. "hello!" said he. "what is it?" said his comrade. "half-rotten plank--no, it's a box, i believe. here--bear a hand and we'll see what it's here for. never mind, i've broke a hole." he reached his hand in and drew it out-- "man, it's money!" the two men examined the handful of coins. they were gold. the boys above were as excited as themselves, and as delighted. joe's comrade said: "we'll make quick work of this. there's an old rusty pick over amongst the weeds in the corner the other side of the fireplace--i saw it a minute ago." he ran and brought the boys' pick and shovel. injun joe took the pick, looked it over critically, shook his head, muttered something to himself, and then began to use it. the box was soon unearthed. it was not very large; it was iron bound and had been very strong before the slow years had injured it. the men contemplated the treasure awhile in blissful silence. "pard, there's thousands of dollars here," said injun joe. "'twas always said that murrel's gang used to be around here one summer," the stranger observed. "i know it," said injun joe; "and this looks like it, i should say." "now you won't need to do that job." the half-breed frowned. said he: "you don't know me. least you don't know all about that thing. 'tain't robbery altogether--it's revenge!" and a wicked light flamed in his eyes. "i'll need your help in it. when it's finished--then texas. go home to your nance and your kids, and stand by till you hear from me." "well--if you say so; what'll we do with this--bury it again?" "yes. [ravishing delight overhead.] no! by the great sachem, no! [profound distress overhead.] i'd nearly forgot. that pick had fresh earth on it! [the boys were sick with terror in a moment.] what business has a pick and a shovel here? what business with fresh earth on them? who brought them here--and where are they gone? have you heard anybody?--seen anybody? what! bury it again and leave them to come and see the ground disturbed? not exactly--not exactly. we'll take it to my den." "why, of course! might have thought of that before. you mean number one?" "no--number two--under the cross. the other place is bad--too common." "all right. it's nearly dark enough to start." injun joe got up and went about from window to window cautiously peeping out. presently he said: "who could have brought those tools here? do you reckon they can be up-stairs?" the boys' breath forsook them. injun joe put his hand on his knife, halted a moment, undecided, and then turned toward the stairway. the boys thought of the closet, but their strength was gone. the steps came creaking up the stairs--the intolerable distress of the situation woke the stricken resolution of the lads--they were about to spring for the closet, when there was a crash of rotten timbers and injun joe landed on the ground amid the debris of the ruined stairway. he gathered himself up cursing, and his comrade said: "now what's the use of all that? if it's anybody, and they're up there, let them stay there--who cares? if they want to jump down, now, and get into trouble, who objects? it will be dark in fifteen minutes --and then let them follow us if they want to. i'm willing. in my opinion, whoever hove those things in here caught a sight of us and took us for ghosts or devils or something. i'll bet they're running yet." joe grumbled awhile; then he agreed with his friend that what daylight was left ought to be economized in getting things ready for leaving. shortly afterward they slipped out of the house in the deepening twilight, and moved toward the river with their precious box. tom and huck rose up, weak but vastly relieved, and stared after them through the chinks between the logs of the house. follow? not they. they were content to reach ground again without broken necks, and take the townward track over the hill. they did not talk much. they were too much absorbed in hating themselves--hating the ill luck that made them take the spade and the pick there. but for that, injun joe never would have suspected. he would have hidden the silver with the gold to wait there till his "revenge" was satisfied, and then he would have had the misfortune to find that money turn up missing. bitter, bitter luck that the tools were ever brought there! they resolved to keep a lookout for that spaniard when he should come to town spying out for chances to do his revengeful job, and follow him to "number two," wherever that might be. then a ghastly thought occurred to tom. "revenge? what if he means us, huck!" "oh, don't!" said huck, nearly fainting. they talked it all over, and as they entered town they agreed to believe that he might possibly mean somebody else--at least that he might at least mean nobody but tom, since only tom had testified. very, very small comfort it was to tom to be alone in danger! company would be a palpable improvement, he thought. chapter xxvii the adventure of the day mightily tormented tom's dreams that night. four times he had his hands on that rich treasure and four times it wasted to nothingness in his fingers as sleep forsook him and wakefulness brought back the hard reality of his misfortune. as he lay in the early morning recalling the incidents of his great adventure, he noticed that they seemed curiously subdued and far away--somewhat as if they had happened in another world, or in a time long gone by. then it occurred to him that the great adventure itself must be a dream! there was one very strong argument in favor of this idea--namely, that the quantity of coin he had seen was too vast to be real. he had never seen as much as fifty dollars in one mass before, and he was like all boys of his age and station in life, in that he imagined that all references to "hundreds" and "thousands" were mere fanciful forms of speech, and that no such sums really existed in the world. he never had supposed for a moment that so large a sum as a hundred dollars was to be found in actual money in any one's possession. if his notions of hidden treasure had been analyzed, they would have been found to consist of a handful of real dimes and a bushel of vague, splendid, ungraspable dollars. but the incidents of his adventure grew sensibly sharper and clearer under the attrition of thinking them over, and so he presently found himself leaning to the impression that the thing might not have been a dream, after all. this uncertainty must be swept away. he would snatch a hurried breakfast and go and find huck. huck was sitting on the gunwale of a flatboat, listlessly dangling his feet in the water and looking very melancholy. tom concluded to let huck lead up to the subject. if he did not do it, then the adventure would be proved to have been only a dream. "hello, huck!" "hello, yourself." silence, for a minute. "tom, if we'd 'a' left the blame tools at the dead tree, we'd 'a' got the money. oh, ain't it awful!" "'tain't a dream, then, 'tain't a dream! somehow i most wish it was. dog'd if i don't, huck." "what ain't a dream?" "oh, that thing yesterday. i been half thinking it was." "dream! if them stairs hadn't broke down you'd 'a' seen how much dream it was! i've had dreams enough all night--with that patch-eyed spanish devil going for me all through 'em--rot him!" "no, not rot him. find him! track the money!" "tom, we'll never find him. a feller don't have only one chance for such a pile--and that one's lost. i'd feel mighty shaky if i was to see him, anyway." "well, so'd i; but i'd like to see him, anyway--and track him out--to his number two." "number two--yes, that's it. i been thinking 'bout that. but i can't make nothing out of it. what do you reckon it is?" "i dono. it's too deep. say, huck--maybe it's the number of a house!" "goody! ... no, tom, that ain't it. if it is, it ain't in this one-horse town. they ain't no numbers here." "well, that's so. lemme think a minute. here--it's the number of a room--in a tavern, you know!" "oh, that's the trick! they ain't only two taverns. we can find out quick." "you stay here, huck, till i come." tom was off at once. he did not care to have huck's company in public places. he was gone half an hour. he found that in the best tavern, no. had long been occupied by a young lawyer, and was still so occupied. in the less ostentatious house, no. was a mystery. the tavern-keeper's young son said it was kept locked all the time, and he never saw anybody go into it or come out of it except at night; he did not know any particular reason for this state of things; had had some little curiosity, but it was rather feeble; had made the most of the mystery by entertaining himself with the idea that that room was "ha'nted"; had noticed that there was a light in there the night before. "that's what i've found out, huck. i reckon that's the very no. we're after." "i reckon it is, tom. now what you going to do?" "lemme think." tom thought a long time. then he said: "i'll tell you. the back door of that no. is the door that comes out into that little close alley between the tavern and the old rattle trap of a brick store. now you get hold of all the door-keys you can find, and i'll nip all of auntie's, and the first dark night we'll go there and try 'em. and mind you, keep a lookout for injun joe, because he said he was going to drop into town and spy around once more for a chance to get his revenge. if you see him, you just follow him; and if he don't go to that no. , that ain't the place." "lordy, i don't want to foller him by myself!" "why, it'll be night, sure. he mightn't ever see you--and if he did, maybe he'd never think anything." "well, if it's pretty dark i reckon i'll track him. i dono--i dono. i'll try." "you bet i'll follow him, if it's dark, huck. why, he might 'a' found out he couldn't get his revenge, and be going right after that money." "it's so, tom, it's so. i'll foller him; i will, by jingoes!" "now you're talking! don't you ever weaken, huck, and i won't." the adventures of tom sawyer by mark twain (samuel langhorne clemens) part p r e f a c e most of the adventures recorded in this book really occurred; one or two were experiences of my own, the rest those of boys who were schoolmates of mine. huck finn is drawn from life; tom sawyer also, but not from an individual--he is a combination of the characteristics of three boys whom i knew, and therefore belongs to the composite order of architecture. the odd superstitions touched upon were all prevalent among children and slaves in the west at the period of this story--that is to say, thirty or forty years ago. although my book is intended mainly for the entertainment of boys and girls, i hope it will not be shunned by men and women on that account, for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in. the author. hartford, . t o m s a w y e r chapter i "tom!" no answer. "tom!" no answer. "what's gone with that boy, i wonder? you tom!" no answer. the old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them. she seldom or never looked through them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for "style," not service--she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well. she looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but still loud enough for the furniture to hear: "well, i lay if i get hold of you i'll--" she did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching under the bed with the broom, and so she needed breath to punctuate the punches with. she resurrected nothing but the cat. "i never did see the beat of that boy!" she went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the tomato vines and "jimpson" weeds that constituted the garden. no tom. so she lifted up her voice at an angle calculated for distance and shouted: "y-o-u-u tom!" there was a slight noise behind her and she turned just in time to seize a small boy by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his flight. "there! i might 'a' thought of that closet. what you been doing in there?" "nothing." "nothing! look at your hands. and look at your mouth. what is that truck?" "i don't know, aunt." "well, i know. it's jam--that's what it is. forty times i've said if you didn't let that jam alone i'd skin you. hand me that switch." the switch hovered in the air--the peril was desperate-- "my! look behind you, aunt!" the old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger. the lad fled on the instant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and disappeared over it. his aunt polly stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a gentle laugh. "hang the boy, can't i never learn anything? ain't he played me tricks enough like that for me to be looking out for him by this time? but old fools is the biggest fools there is. can't learn an old dog new tricks, as the saying is. but my goodness, he never plays them alike, two days, and how is a body to know what's coming? he 'pears to know just how long he can torment me before i get my dander up, and he knows if he can make out to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it's all down again and i can't hit him a lick. i ain't doing my duty by that boy, and that's the lord's truth, goodness knows. spare the rod and spile the child, as the good book says. i'm a laying up sin and suffering for us both, i know. he's full of the old scratch, but laws-a-me! he's my own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and i ain't got the heart to lash him, somehow. every time i let him off, my conscience does hurt me so, and every time i hit him my old heart most breaks. well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the scripture says, and i reckon it's so. he'll play hookey this evening, * and [* southwestern for "afternoon"] i'll just be obleeged to make him work, to-morrow, to punish him. it's mighty hard to make him work saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more than he hates anything else, and i've got to do some of my duty by him, or i'll be the ruination of the child." tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time. he got back home barely in season to help jim, the small colored boy, saw next-day's wood and split the kindlings before supper--at least he was there in time to tell his adventures to jim while jim did three-fourths of the work. tom's younger brother (or rather half-brother) sid was already through with his part of the work (picking up chips), for he was a quiet boy, and had no adventurous, troublesome ways. while tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity offered, aunt polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and very deep--for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. like many other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she was endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she loved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low cunning. said she: "tom, it was middling warm in school, warn't it?" "yes'm." "powerful warm, warn't it?" "yes'm." "didn't you want to go in a-swimming, tom?" a bit of a scare shot through tom--a touch of uncomfortable suspicion. he searched aunt polly's face, but it told him nothing. so he said: "no'm--well, not very much." the old lady reached out her hand and felt tom's shirt, and said: "but you ain't too warm now, though." and it flattered her to reflect that she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing that that was what she had in her mind. but in spite of her, tom knew where the wind lay, now. so he forestalled what might be the next move: "some of us pumped on our heads--mine's damp yet. see?" aunt polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick. then she had a new inspiration: "tom, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar where i sewed it, to pump on your head, did you? unbutton your jacket!" the trouble vanished out of tom's face. he opened his jacket. his shirt collar was securely sewed. "bother! well, go 'long with you. i'd made sure you'd played hookey and been a-swimming. but i forgive ye, tom. i reckon you're a kind of a singed cat, as the saying is--better'n you look. this time." she was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that tom had stumbled into obedient conduct for once. but sidney said: "well, now, if i didn't think you sewed his collar with white thread, but it's black." "why, i did sew it with white! tom!" but tom did not wait for the rest. as he went out at the door he said: "siddy, i'll lick you for that." in a safe place tom examined two large needles which were thrust into the lapels of his jacket, and had thread bound about them--one needle carried white thread and the other black. he said: "she'd never noticed if it hadn't been for sid. confound it! sometimes she sews it with white, and sometimes she sews it with black. i wish to geeminy she'd stick to one or t'other--i can't keep the run of 'em. but i bet you i'll lam sid for that. i'll learn him!" he was not the model boy of the village. he knew the model boy very well though--and loathed him. within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. not because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and drove them out of his mind for the time--just as men's misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises. this new interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired from a negro, and he was suffering to practise it undisturbed. it consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble, produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in the midst of the music--the reader probably remembers how to do it, if he has ever been a boy. diligence and attention soon gave him the knack of it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full of harmony and his soul full of gratitude. he felt much as an astronomer feels who has discovered a new planet--no doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the astronomer. the summer evenings were long. it was not dark, yet. presently tom checked his whistle. a stranger was before him--a boy a shade larger than himself. a new-comer of any age or either sex was an impressive curiosity in the poor little shabby village of st. petersburg. this boy was well dressed, too--well dressed on a week-day. this was simply astounding. his cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons. he had shoes on--and it was only friday. he even wore a necktie, a bright bit of ribbon. he had a citified air about him that ate into tom's vitals. the more tom stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his nose at his finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed to him to grow. neither boy spoke. if one moved, the other moved--but only sidewise, in a circle; they kept face to face and eye to eye all the time. finally tom said: "i can lick you!" "i'd like to see you try it." "well, i can do it." "no you can't, either." "yes i can." "no you can't." "i can." "you can't." "can!" "can't!" an uncomfortable pause. then tom said: "what's your name?" "'tisn't any of your business, maybe." "well i 'low i'll make it my business." "well why don't you?" "if you say much, i will." "much--much--much. there now." "oh, you think you're mighty smart, don't you? i could lick you with one hand tied behind me, if i wanted to." "well why don't you do it? you say you can do it." "well i will, if you fool with me." "oh yes--i've seen whole families in the same fix." "smarty! you think you're some, now, don't you? oh, what a hat!" "you can lump that hat if you don't like it. i dare you to knock it off--and anybody that'll take a dare will suck eggs." "you're a liar!" "you're another." "you're a fighting liar and dasn't take it up." "aw--take a walk!" "say--if you give me much more of your sass i'll take and bounce a rock off'n your head." "oh, of course you will." "well i will." "well why don't you do it then? what do you keep saying you will for? why don't you do it? it's because you're afraid." "i ain't afraid." "you are." "i ain't." "you are." another pause, and more eying and sidling around each other. presently they were shoulder to shoulder. tom said: "get away from here!" "go away yourself!" "i won't." "i won't either." so they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and both shoving with might and main, and glowering at each other with hate. but neither could get an advantage. after struggling till both were hot and flushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution, and tom said: "you're a coward and a pup. i'll tell my big brother on you, and he can thrash you with his little finger, and i'll make him do it, too." "what do i care for your big brother? i've got a brother that's bigger than he is--and what's more, he can throw him over that fence, too." [both brothers were imaginary.] "that's a lie." "your saying so don't make it so." tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said: "i dare you to step over that, and i'll lick you till you can't stand up. anybody that'll take a dare will steal sheep." the new boy stepped over promptly, and said: "now you said you'd do it, now let's see you do it." "don't you crowd me now; you better look out." "well, you said you'd do it--why don't you do it?" "by jingo! for two cents i will do it." the new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket and held them out with derision. tom struck them to the ground. in an instant both boys were rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats; and for the space of a minute they tugged and tore at each other's hair and clothes, punched and scratched each other's nose, and covered themselves with dust and glory. presently the confusion took form, and through the fog of battle tom appeared, seated astride the new boy, and pounding him with his fists. "holler 'nuff!" said he. the boy only struggled to free himself. he was crying--mainly from rage. "holler 'nuff!"--and the pounding went on. at last the stranger got out a smothered "'nuff!" and tom let him up and said: "now that'll learn you. better look out who you're fooling with next time." the new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing, snuffling, and occasionally looking back and shaking his head and threatening what he would do to tom the "next time he caught him out." to which tom responded with jeers, and started off in high feather, and as soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a stone, threw it and hit him between the shoulders and then turned tail and ran like an antelope. tom chased the traitor home, and thus found out where he lived. he then held a position at the gate for some time, daring the enemy to come outside, but the enemy only made faces at him through the window and declined. at last the enemy's mother appeared, and called tom a bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him away. so he went away; but he said he "'lowed" to "lay" for that boy. he got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in at the window, he uncovered an ambuscade, in the person of his aunt; and when she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution to turn his saturday holiday into captivity at hard labor became adamantine in its firmness. chapter ii saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life. there was a song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips. there was cheer in every face and a spring in every step. the locust-trees were in bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. cardiff hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far enough away to seem a delectable land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting. tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. he surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged. jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pail, and singing buffalo gals. bringing water from the town pump had always been hateful work in tom's eyes, before, but now it did not strike him so. he remembered that there was company at the pump. white, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, skylarking. and he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards off, jim never got back with a bucket of water under an hour--and even then somebody generally had to go after him. tom said: "say, jim, i'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some." jim shook his head and said: "can't, mars tom. ole missis, she tole me i got to go an' git dis water an' not stop foolin' roun' wid anybody. she say she spec' mars tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole me go 'long an' 'tend to my own business--she 'lowed she'd 'tend to de whitewashin'." "oh, never you mind what she said, jim. that's the way she always talks. gimme the bucket--i won't be gone only a a minute. she won't ever know." "oh, i dasn't, mars tom. ole missis she'd take an' tar de head off'n me. 'deed she would." "she! she never licks anybody--whacks 'em over the head with her thimble--and who cares for that, i'd like to know. she talks awful, but talk don't hurt--anyways it don't if she don't cry. jim, i'll give you a marvel. i'll give you a white alley!" jim began to waver. "white alley, jim! and it's a bully taw." "my! dat's a mighty gay marvel, i tell you! but mars tom i's powerful 'fraid ole missis--" "and besides, if you will i'll show you my sore toe." jim was only human--this attraction was too much for him. he put down his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing interest while the bandage was being unwound. in another moment he was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, tom was whitewashing with vigor, and aunt polly was retiring from the field with a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye. but tom's energy did not last. he began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for having to work--the very thought of it burnt him like fire. he got out his worldly wealth and examined it--bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange of work, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom. so he returned his straitened means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys. at this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him! nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration. he took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. ben rogers hove in sight presently--the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been dreading. ben's gait was the hop-skip-and-jump--proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. he was eating an apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat. as he drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomp and circumstance--for he was personating the big missouri, and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water. he was boat and captain and engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on his own hurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them: "stop her, sir! ting-a-ling-ling!" the headway ran almost out, and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk. "ship up to back! ting-a-ling-ling!" his arms straightened and stiffened down his sides. "set her back on the stabboard! ting-a-ling-ling! chow! ch-chow-wow! chow!" his right hand, meantime, describing stately circles--for it was representing a forty-foot wheel. "let her go back on the labboard! ting-a-lingling! chow-ch-chow-chow!" the left hand began to describe circles. "stop the stabboard! ting-a-ling-ling! stop the labboard! come ahead on the stabboard! stop her! let your outside turn over slow! ting-a-ling-ling! chow-ow-ow! get out that head-line! lively now! come--out with your spring-line--what're you about there! take a turn round that stump with the bight of it! stand by that stage, now--let her go! done with the engines, sir! ting-a-ling-ling! sh't! s'h't! sh't!" (trying the gauge-cocks). tom went on whitewashing--paid no attention to the steamboat. ben stared a moment and then said: "hi-yi! you're up a stump, ain't you!" no answer. tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as before. ben ranged up alongside of him. tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. ben said: "hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?" tom wheeled suddenly and said: "why, it's you, ben! i warn't noticing." "say--i'm going in a-swimming, i am. don't you wish you could? but of course you'd druther work--wouldn't you? course you would!" tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said: "what do you call work?" "why, ain't that work?" tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly: "well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. all i know, is, it suits tom sawyer." "oh come, now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?" the brush continued to move. "like it? well, i don't see why i oughtn't to like it. does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?" that put the thing in a new light. ben stopped nibbling his apple. tom swept his brush daintily back and forth--stepped back to note the effect--added a touch here and there--criticised the effect again--ben watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed. presently he said: "say, tom, let me whitewash a little." tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind: "no--no--i reckon it wouldn't hardly do, ben. you see, aunt polly's awful particular about this fence--right here on the street, you know --but if it was the back fence i wouldn't mind and she wouldn't. yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; i reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done." "no--is that so? oh come, now--lemme just try. only just a little--i'd let you, if you was me, tom." "ben, i'd like to, honest injun; but aunt polly--well, jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him; sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn't let sid. now don't you see how i'm fixed? if you was to tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it--" "oh, shucks, i'll be just as careful. now lemme try. say--i'll give you the core of my apple." "well, here--no, ben, now don't. i'm afeard--" "i'll give you all of it!" tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart. and while the late steamer big missouri worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents. there was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. by the time ben was fagged out, tom had traded the next chance to billy fisher for a kite, in good repair; and when he played out, johnny miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with--and so on, and so on, hour after hour. and when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, tom was literally rolling in wealth. he had besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass doorknob, a dog-collar--but no dog--the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window sash. he had had a nice, good, idle time all the while--plenty of company --and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! if he hadn't run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village. tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. he had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it--namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. if he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. and this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing mont blanc is only amusement. there are wealthy gentlemen in england who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work and then they would resign. the boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken place in his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward headquarters to report. chapter iii tom presented himself before aunt polly, who was sitting by an open window in a pleasant rearward apartment, which was bedroom, breakfast-room, dining-room, and library, combined. the balmy summer air, the restful quiet, the odor of the flowers, and the drowsing murmur of the bees had had their effect, and she was nodding over her knitting --for she had no company but the cat, and it was asleep in her lap. her spectacles were propped up on her gray head for safety. she had thought that of course tom had deserted long ago, and she wondered at seeing him place himself in her power again in this intrepid way. he said: "mayn't i go and play now, aunt?" "what, a'ready? how much have you done?" "it's all done, aunt." "tom, don't lie to me--i can't bear it." "i ain't, aunt; it is all done." aunt polly placed small trust in such evidence. she went out to see for herself; and she would have been content to find twenty per cent. of tom's statement true. when she found the entire fence whitewashed, and not only whitewashed but elaborately coated and recoated, and even a streak added to the ground, her astonishment was almost unspeakable. she said: "well, i never! there's no getting round it, you can work when you're a mind to, tom." and then she diluted the compliment by adding, "but it's powerful seldom you're a mind to, i'm bound to say. well, go 'long and play; but mind you get back some time in a week, or i'll tan you." she was so overcome by the splendor of his achievement that she took him into the closet and selected a choice apple and delivered it to him, along with an improving lecture upon the added value and flavor a treat took to itself when it came without sin through virtuous effort. and while she closed with a happy scriptural flourish, he "hooked" a doughnut. then he skipped out, and saw sid just starting up the outside stairway that led to the back rooms on the second floor. clods were handy and the air was full of them in a twinkling. they raged around sid like a hail-storm; and before aunt polly could collect her surprised faculties and sally to the rescue, six or seven clods had taken personal effect, and tom was over the fence and gone. there was a gate, but as a general thing he was too crowded for time to make use of it. his soul was at peace, now that he had settled with sid for calling attention to his black thread and getting him into trouble. tom skirted the block, and came round into a muddy alley that led by the back of his aunt's cow-stable. he presently got safely beyond the reach of capture and punishment, and hastened toward the public square of the village, where two "military" companies of boys had met for conflict, according to previous appointment. tom was general of one of these armies, joe harper (a bosom friend) general of the other. these two great commanders did not condescend to fight in person--that being better suited to the still smaller fry--but sat together on an eminence and conducted the field operations by orders delivered through aides-de-camp. tom's army won a great victory, after a long and hard-fought battle. then the dead were counted, prisoners exchanged, the terms of the next disagreement agreed upon, and the day for the necessary battle appointed; after which the armies fell into line and marched away, and tom turned homeward alone. as he was passing by the house where jeff thatcher lived, he saw a new girl in the garden--a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow hair plaited into two long-tails, white summer frock and embroidered pantalettes. the fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot. a certain amy lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not even a memory of herself behind. he had thought he loved her to distraction; he had regarded his passion as adoration; and behold it was only a poor little evanescent partiality. he had been months winning her; she had confessed hardly a week ago; he had been the happiest and the proudest boy in the world only seven short days, and here in one instant of time she had gone out of his heart like a casual stranger whose visit is done. he worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that she had discovered him; then he pretended he did not know she was present, and began to "show off" in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in order to win her admiration. he kept up this grotesque foolishness for some time; but by-and-by, while he was in the midst of some dangerous gymnastic performances, he glanced aside and saw that the little girl was wending her way toward the house. tom came up to the fence and leaned on it, grieving, and hoping she would tarry yet awhile longer. she halted a moment on the steps and then moved toward the door. tom heaved a great sigh as she put her foot on the threshold. but his face lit up, right away, for she tossed a pansy over the fence a moment before she disappeared. the boy ran around and stopped within a foot or two of the flower, and then shaded his eyes with his hand and began to look down street as if he had discovered something of interest going on in that direction. presently he picked up a straw and began trying to balance it on his nose, with his head tilted far back; and as he moved from side to side, in his efforts, he edged nearer and nearer toward the pansy; finally his bare foot rested upon it, his pliant toes closed upon it, and he hopped away with the treasure and disappeared round the corner. but only for a minute--only while he could button the flower inside his jacket, next his heart--or next his stomach, possibly, for he was not much posted in anatomy, and not hypercritical, anyway. he returned, now, and hung about the fence till nightfall, "showing off," as before; but the girl never exhibited herself again, though tom comforted himself a little with the hope that she had been near some window, meantime, and been aware of his attentions. finally he strode home reluctantly, with his poor head full of visions. all through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt wondered "what had got into the child." he took a good scolding about clodding sid, and did not seem to mind it in the least. he tried to steal sugar under his aunt's very nose, and got his knuckles rapped for it. he said: "aunt, you don't whack sid when he takes it." "well, sid don't torment a body the way you do. you'd be always into that sugar if i warn't watching you." presently she stepped into the kitchen, and sid, happy in his immunity, reached for the sugar-bowl--a sort of glorying over tom which was wellnigh unbearable. but sid's fingers slipped and the bowl dropped and broke. tom was in ecstasies. in such ecstasies that he even controlled his tongue and was silent. he said to himself that he would not speak a word, even when his aunt came in, but would sit perfectly still till she asked who did the mischief; and then he would tell, and there would be nothing so good in the world as to see that pet model "catch it." he was so brimful of exultation that he could hardly hold himself when the old lady came back and stood above the wreck discharging lightnings of wrath from over her spectacles. he said to himself, "now it's coming!" and the next instant he was sprawling on the floor! the potent palm was uplifted to strike again when tom cried out: "hold on, now, what 'er you belting me for?--sid broke it!" aunt polly paused, perplexed, and tom looked for healing pity. but when she got her tongue again, she only said: "umf! well, you didn't get a lick amiss, i reckon. you been into some other audacious mischief when i wasn't around, like enough." then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something kind and loving; but she judged that this would be construed into a confession that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that. so she kept silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart. tom sulked in a corner and exalted his woes. he knew that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it. he would hang out no signals, he would take notice of none. he knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it. he pictured himself lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him beseeching one little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid. ah, how would she feel then? and he pictured himself brought home from the river, dead, with his curls all wet, and his sore heart at rest. how she would throw herself upon him, and how her tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray god to give her back her boy and she would never, never abuse him any more! but he would lie there cold and white and make no sign--a poor little sufferer, whose griefs were at an end. he so worked upon his feelings with the pathos of these dreams, that he had to keep swallowing, he was so like to choke; and his eyes swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he winked, and ran down and trickled from the end of his nose. and such a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too sacred for such contact; and so, presently, when his cousin mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an age-long visit of one week to the country, he got up and moved in clouds and darkness out at one door as she brought song and sunshine in at the other. he wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys, and sought desolate places that were in harmony with his spirit. a log raft in the river invited him, and he seated himself on its outer edge and contemplated the dreary vastness of the stream, wishing, the while, that he could only be drowned, all at once and unconsciously, without undergoing the uncomfortable routine devised by nature. then he thought of his flower. he got it out, rumpled and wilted, and it mightily increased his dismal felicity. he wondered if she would pity him if she knew? would she cry, and wish that she had a right to put her arms around his neck and comfort him? or would she turn coldly away like all the hollow world? this picture brought such an agony of pleasurable suffering that he worked it over and over again in his mind and set it up in new and varied lights, till he wore it threadbare. at last he rose up sighing and departed in the darkness. about half-past nine or ten o'clock he came along the deserted street to where the adored unknown lived; he paused a moment; no sound fell upon his listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon the curtain of a second-story window. was the sacred presence there? he climbed the fence, threaded his stealthy way through the plants, till he stood under that window; he looked up at it long, and with emotion; then he laid him down on the ground under it, disposing himself upon his back, with his hands clasped upon his breast and holding his poor wilted flower. and thus he would die--out in the cold world, with no shelter over his homeless head, no friendly hand to wipe the death-damps from his brow, no loving face to bend pityingly over him when the great agony came. and thus she would see him when she looked out upon the glad morning, and oh! would she drop one little tear upon his poor, lifeless form, would she heave one little sigh to see a bright young life so rudely blighted, so untimely cut down? the window went up, a maid-servant's discordant voice profaned the holy calm, and a deluge of water drenched the prone martyr's remains! the strangling hero sprang up with a relieving snort. there was a whiz as of a missile in the air, mingled with the murmur of a curse, a sound as of shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went over the fence and shot away in the gloom. not long after, as tom, all undressed for bed, was surveying his drenched garments by the light of a tallow dip, sid woke up; but if he had any dim idea of making any "references to allusions," he thought better of it and held his peace, for there was danger in tom's eye. tom turned in without the added vexation of prayers, and sid made mental note of the omission. huckleberry finn by mark twain part . chapter xxxvi. as soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that night we went down the lightning-rod, and shut ourselves up in the lean-to, and got out our pile of fox-fire, and went to work. we cleared everything out of the way, about four or five foot along the middle of the bottom log. tom said we was right behind jim's bed now, and we'd dig in under it, and when we got through there couldn't nobody in the cabin ever know there was any hole there, because jim's counter-pin hung down most to the ground, and you'd have to raise it up and look under to see the hole. so we dug and dug with the case-knives till most midnight; and then we was dog-tired, and our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn't see we'd done anything hardly. at last i says: "this ain't no thirty-seven year job; this is a thirty-eight year job, tom sawyer." he never said nothing. but he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped digging, and then for a good little while i knowed that he was thinking. then he says: "it ain't no use, huck, it ain't a-going to work. if we was prisoners it would, because then we'd have as many years as we wanted, and no hurry; and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while they was changing watches, and so our hands wouldn't get blistered, and we could keep it up right along, year in and year out, and do it right, and the way it ought to be done. but we can't fool along; we got to rush; we ain't got no time to spare. if we was to put in another night this way we'd have to knock off for a week to let our hands get well--couldn't touch a case-knife with them sooner." "well, then, what we going to do, tom?" "i'll tell you. it ain't right, and it ain't moral, and i wouldn't like it to get out; but there ain't only just the one way: we got to dig him out with the picks, and let on it's case-knives." "now you're talking!" i says; "your head gets leveler and leveler all the time, tom sawyer," i says. "picks is the thing, moral or no moral; and as for me, i don't care shucks for the morality of it, nohow. when i start in to steal a nigger, or a watermelon, or a sunday-school book, i ain't no ways particular how it's done so it's done. what i want is my nigger; or what i want is my watermelon; or what i want is my sunday-school book; and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing i'm a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or that sunday-school book out with; and i don't give a dead rat what the authorities thinks about it nuther." "well," he says, "there's excuse for picks and letting-on in a case like this; if it warn't so, i wouldn't approve of it, nor i wouldn't stand by and see the rules broke--because right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain't got no business doing wrong when he ain't ignorant and knows better. it might answer for you to dig jim out with a pick, without any letting on, because you don't know no better; but it wouldn't for me, because i do know better. gimme a case-knife." he had his own by him, but i handed him mine. he flung it down, and says: "gimme a case-knife." i didn't know just what to do--but then i thought. i scratched around amongst the old tools, and got a pickaxe and give it to him, and he took it and went to work, and never said a word. he was always just that particular. full of principle. so then i got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn about, and made the fur fly. we stuck to it about a half an hour, which was as long as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to show for it. when i got up stairs i looked out at the window and see tom doing his level best with the lightning-rod, but he couldn't come it, his hands was so sore. at last he says: "it ain't no use, it can't be done. what you reckon i better do? can't you think of no way?" "yes," i says, "but i reckon it ain't regular. come up the stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod." so he done it. next day tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house, for to make some pens for jim out of, and six tallow candles; and i hung around the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three tin plates. tom says it wasn't enough; but i said nobody wouldn't ever see the plates that jim throwed out, because they'd fall in the dog-fennel and jimpson weeds under the window-hole--then we could tote them back and he could use them over again. so tom was satisfied. then he says: "now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to jim." "take them in through the hole," i says, "when we get it done." he only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody ever heard of such an idiotic idea, and then he went to studying. by and by he said he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't no need to decide on any of them yet. said we'd got to post jim first. that night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, and took one of the candles along, and listened under the window-hole, and heard jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him. then we whirled in with the pick and shovel, and in about two hours and a half the job was done. we crept in under jim's bed and into the cabin, and pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and stood over jim awhile, and found him looking hearty and healthy, and then we woke him up gentle and gradual. he was so glad to see us he most cried; and called us honey, and all the pet names he could think of; and was for having us hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his leg with right away, and clearing out without losing any time. but tom he showed him how unregular it would be, and set down and told him all about our plans, and how we could alter them in a minute any time there was an alarm; and not to be the least afraid, because we would see he got away, sure. so jim he said it was all right, and we set there and talked over old times awhile, and then tom asked a lot of questions, and when jim told him uncle silas come in every day or two to pray with him, and aunt sally come in to see if he was comfortable and had plenty to eat, and both of them was kind as they could be, tom says: "now i know how to fix it. we'll send you some things by them." i said, "don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of the most jackass ideas i ever struck;" but he never paid no attention to me; went right on. it was his way when he'd got his plans set. so he told jim how we'd have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie and other large things by nat, the nigger that fed him, and he must be on the lookout, and not be surprised, and not let nat see him open them; and we would put small things in uncle's coat-pockets and he must steal them out; and we would tie things to aunt's apron-strings or put them in her apron-pocket, if we got a chance; and told him what they would be and what they was for. and told him how to keep a journal on the shirt with his blood, and all that. he told him everything. jim he couldn't see no sense in the most of it, but he allowed we was white folks and knowed better than him; so he was satisfied, and said he would do it all just as tom said. jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a right down good sociable time; then we crawled out through the hole, and so home to bed, with hands that looked like they'd been chawed. tom was in high spirits. he said it was the best fun he ever had in his life, and the most intellectural; and said if he only could see his way to it we would keep it up all the rest of our lives and leave jim to our children to get out; for he believed jim would come to like it better and better the more he got used to it. he said that in that way it could be strung out to as much as eighty year, and would be the best time on record. and he said it would make us all celebrated that had a hand in it. in the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up the brass candlestick into handy sizes, and tom put them and the pewter spoon in his pocket. then we went to the nigger cabins, and while i got nat's notice off, tom shoved a piece of candlestick into the middle of a corn-pone that was in jim's pan, and we went along with nat to see how it would work, and it just worked noble; when jim bit into it it most mashed all his teeth out; and there warn't ever anything could a worked better. tom said so himself. jim he never let on but what it was only just a piece of rock or something like that that's always getting into bread, you know; but after that he never bit into nothing but what he jabbed his fork into it in three or four places first. and whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish light, here comes a couple of the hounds bulging in from under jim's bed; and they kept on piling in till there was eleven of them, and there warn't hardly room in there to get your breath. by jings, we forgot to fasten that lean-to door! the nigger nat he only just hollered "witches" once, and keeled over on to the floor amongst the dogs, and begun to groan like he was dying. tom jerked the door open and flung out a slab of jim's meat, and the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he was out himself and back again and shut the door, and i knowed he'd fixed the other door too. then he went to work on the nigger, coaxing him and petting him, and asking him if he'd been imagining he saw something again. he raised up, and blinked his eyes around, and says: "mars sid, you'll say i's a fool, but if i didn't b'lieve i see most a million dogs, er devils, er some'n, i wisht i may die right heah in dese tracks. i did, mos' sholy. mars sid, i felt um--i felt um, sah; dey was all over me. dad fetch it, i jis' wisht i could git my han's on one er dem witches jis' wunst--on'y jis' wunst--it's all i'd ast. but mos'ly i wisht dey'd lemme 'lone, i does." tom says: "well, i tell you what i think. what makes them come here just at this runaway nigger's breakfast-time? it's because they're hungry; that's the reason. you make them a witch pie; that's the thing for you to do." "but my lan', mars sid, how's i gwyne to make 'm a witch pie? i doan' know how to make it. i hain't ever hearn er sich a thing b'fo'." "well, then, i'll have to make it myself." "will you do it, honey?--will you? i'll wusshup de groun' und' yo' foot, i will!" "all right, i'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've been good to us and showed us the runaway nigger. but you got to be mighty careful. when we come around, you turn your back; and then whatever we've put in the pan, don't you let on you see it at all. and don't you look when jim unloads the pan--something might happen, i don't know what. and above all, don't you handle the witch-things." "hannel 'm, mars sid? what is you a-talkin' 'bout? i wouldn' lay de weight er my finger on um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n billion dollars, i wouldn't." chapter xxxvii. that was all fixed. so then we went away and went to the rubbage-pile in the back yard, where they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces of bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and scratched around and found an old tin washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as we could, to bake the pie in, and took it down cellar and stole it full of flour and started for breakfast, and found a couple of shingle-nails that tom said would be handy for a prisoner to scrabble his name and sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one of them in aunt sally's apron-pocket which was hanging on a chair, and t'other we stuck in the band of uncle silas's hat, which was on the bureau, because we heard the children say their pa and ma was going to the runaway nigger's house this morning, and then went to breakfast, and tom dropped the pewter spoon in uncle silas's coat-pocket, and aunt sally wasn't come yet, so we had to wait a little while. and when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn't hardly wait for the blessing; and then she went to sluicing out coffee with one hand and cracking the handiest child's head with her thimble with the other, and says: "i've hunted high and i've hunted low, and it does beat all what has become of your other shirt." my heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, and a hard piece of corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met on the road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took one of the children in the eye and curled him up like a fishing-worm, and let a cry out of him the size of a warwhoop, and tom he turned kinder blue around the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable state of things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as that, and i would a sold out for half price if there was a bidder. but after that we was all right again--it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind of cold. uncle silas he says: "it's most uncommon curious, i can't understand it. i know perfectly well i took it off, because--" "because you hain't got but one on. just listen at the man! i know you took it off, and know it by a better way than your wool-gethering memory, too, because it was on the clo's-line yesterday--i see it there myself. but it's gone, that's the long and the short of it, and you'll just have to change to a red flann'l one till i can get time to make a new one. and it 'll be the third i've made in two years. it just keeps a body on the jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to do with 'm all is more'n i can make out. a body 'd think you would learn to take some sort of care of 'em at your time of life." "i know it, sally, and i do try all i can. but it oughtn't to be altogether my fault, because, you know, i don't see them nor have nothing to do with them except when they're on me; and i don't believe i've ever lost one of them off of me." "well, it ain't your fault if you haven't, silas; you'd a done it if you could, i reckon. and the shirt ain't all that's gone, nuther. ther's a spoon gone; and that ain't all. there was ten, and now ther's only nine. the calf got the shirt, i reckon, but the calf never took the spoon, that's certain." "why, what else is gone, sally?" "ther's six candles gone--that's what. the rats could a got the candles, and i reckon they did; i wonder they don't walk off with the whole place, the way you're always going to stop their holes and don't do it; and if they warn't fools they'd sleep in your hair, silas--you'd never find it out; but you can't lay the spoon on the rats, and that i know." "well, sally, i'm in fault, and i acknowledge it; i've been remiss; but i won't let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes." "oh, i wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. matilda angelina araminta phelps!" whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of the sugar-bowl without fooling around any. just then the nigger woman steps on to the passage, and says: "missus, dey's a sheet gone." "a sheet gone! well, for the land's sake!" "i'll stop up them holes to-day," says uncle silas, looking sorrowful. "oh, do shet up!--s'pose the rats took the sheet? where's it gone, lize?" "clah to goodness i hain't no notion, miss' sally. she wuz on de clo'sline yistiddy, but she done gone: she ain' dah no mo' now." "i reckon the world is coming to an end. i never see the beat of it in all my born days. a shirt, and a sheet, and a spoon, and six can--" "missus," comes a young yaller wench, "dey's a brass cannelstick miss'n." "cler out from here, you hussy, er i'll take a skillet to ye!" well, she was just a-biling. i begun to lay for a chance; i reckoned i would sneak out and go for the woods till the weather moderated. she kept a-raging right along, running her insurrection all by herself, and everybody else mighty meek and quiet; and at last uncle silas, looking kind of foolish, fishes up that spoon out of his pocket. she stopped, with her mouth open and her hands up; and as for me, i wished i was in jeruslem or somewheres. but not long, because she says: "it's just as i expected. so you had it in your pocket all the time; and like as not you've got the other things there, too. how'd it get there?" "i reely don't know, sally," he says, kind of apologizing, "or you know i would tell. i was a-studying over my text in acts seventeen before breakfast, and i reckon i put it in there, not noticing, meaning to put my testament in, and it must be so, because my testament ain't in; but i'll go and see; and if the testament is where i had it, i'll know i didn't put it in, and that will show that i laid the testament down and took up the spoon, and--" "oh, for the land's sake! give a body a rest! go 'long now, the whole kit and biling of ye; and don't come nigh me again till i've got back my peace of mind." i'd a heard her if she'd a said it to herself, let alone speaking it out; and i'd a got up and obeyed her if i'd a been dead. as we was passing through the setting-room the old man he took up his hat, and the shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just merely picked it up and laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never said nothing, and went out. tom see him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and says: "well, it ain't no use to send things by him no more, he ain't reliable." then he says: "but he done us a good turn with the spoon, anyway, without knowing it, and so we'll go and do him one without him knowing it--stop up his rat-holes." there was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us a whole hour, but we done the job tight and good and shipshape. then we heard steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and here comes the old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of stuff in t'other, looking as absent-minded as year before last. he went a mooning around, first to one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been to them all. then he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle and thinking. then he turns off slow and dreamy towards the stairs, saying: "well, for the life of me i can't remember when i done it. i could show her now that i warn't to blame on account of the rats. but never mind --let it go. i reckon it wouldn't do no good." and so he went on a-mumbling up stairs, and then we left. he was a mighty nice old man. and always is. tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he said we'd got to have it; so he took a think. when he had ciphered it out he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around the spoon-basket till we see aunt sally coming, and then tom went to counting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and i slid one of them up my sleeve, and tom says: "why, aunt sally, there ain't but nine spoons yet." she says: "go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. i know better, i counted 'm myself." "well, i've counted them twice, aunty, and i can't make but nine." she looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count--anybody would. "i declare to gracious ther' ain't but nine!" she says. "why, what in the world--plague take the things, i'll count 'm again." so i slipped back the one i had, and when she got done counting, she says: "hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's ten now!" and she looked huffy and bothered both. but tom says: "why, aunty, i don't think there's ten." "you numskull, didn't you see me count 'm?" "i know, but--" "well, i'll count 'm again." so i smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time. well, she was in a tearing way--just a-trembling all over, she was so mad. but she counted and counted till she got that addled she'd start to count in the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so, three times they come out right, and three times they come out wrong. then she grabbed up the basket and slammed it across the house and knocked the cat galley-west; and she said cle'r out and let her have some peace, and if we come bothering around her again betwixt that and dinner she'd skin us. so we had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her apron-pocket whilst she was a-giving us our sailing orders, and jim got it all right, along with her shingle nail, before noon. we was very well satisfied with this business, and tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it took, because he said now she couldn't ever count them spoons twice alike again to save her life; and wouldn't believe she'd counted them right if she did; and said that after she'd about counted her head off for the next three days he judged she'd give it up and offer to kill anybody that wanted her to ever count them any more. so we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out of her closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for a couple of days till she didn't know how many sheets she had any more, and she didn't care, and warn't a-going to bullyrag the rest of her soul out about it, and wouldn't count them again not to save her life; she druther die first. so we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon and the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the mixed-up counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn't no consequence, it would blow over by and by. but that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. we fixed it up away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we got it done at last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day; and we had to use up three wash-pans full of flour before we got through, and we got burnt pretty much all over, in places, and eyes put out with the smoke; because, you see, we didn't want nothing but a crust, and we couldn't prop it up right, and she would always cave in. but of course we thought of the right way at last--which was to cook the ladder, too, in the pie. so then we laid in with jim the second night, and tore up the sheet all in little strings and twisted them together, and long before daylight we had a lovely rope that you could a hung a person with. we let on it took nine months to make it. and in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it wouldn't go into the pie. being made of a whole sheet, that way, there was rope enough for forty pies if we'd a wanted them, and plenty left over for soup, or sausage, or anything you choose. we could a had a whole dinner. but we didn't need it. all we needed was just enough for the pie, and so we throwed the rest away. we didn't cook none of the pies in the wash-pan--afraid the solder would melt; but uncle silas he had a noble brass warming-pan which he thought considerable of, because it belonged to one of his ancesters with a long wooden handle that come over from england with william the conqueror in the mayflower or one of them early ships and was hid away up garret with a lot of other old pots and things that was valuable, not on account of being any account, because they warn't, but on account of them being relicts, you know, and we snaked her out, private, and took her down there, but she failed on the first pies, because we didn't know how, but she come up smiling on the last one. we took and lined her with dough, and set her in the coals, and loaded her up with rag rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and put hot embers on top, and stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool and comfortable, and in fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a satisfaction to look at. but the person that et it would want to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks along, for if that rope ladder wouldn't cramp him down to business i don't know nothing what i'm talking about, and lay him in enough stomach-ache to last him till next time, too. nat didn't look when we put the witch pie in jim's pan; and we put the three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; and so jim got everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw tick, and scratched some marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of the window-hole. chapter xxxviii. making them pens was a distressid tough job, and so was the saw; and jim allowed the inscription was going to be the toughest of all. that's the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall. but he had to have it; tom said he'd got to; there warn't no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms. "look at lady jane grey," he says; "look at gilford dudley; look at old northumberland! why, huck, s'pose it is considerble trouble?--what you going to do?--how you going to get around it? jim's got to do his inscription and coat of arms. they all do." jim says: "why, mars tom, i hain't got no coat o' arm; i hain't got nuffn but dish yer ole shirt, en you knows i got to keep de journal on dat." "oh, you don't understand, jim; a coat of arms is very different." "well," i says, "jim's right, anyway, when he says he ain't got no coat of arms, because he hain't." "i reckon i knowed that," tom says, "but you bet he'll have one before he goes out of this--because he's going out right, and there ain't going to be no flaws in his record." so whilst me and jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece, jim a-making his'n out of the brass and i making mine out of the spoon, tom set to work to think out the coat of arms. by and by he said he'd struck so many good ones he didn't hardly know which to take, but there was one which he reckoned he'd decide on. he says: "on the scutcheon we'll have a bend or in the dexter base, a saltire murrey in the fess, with a dog, couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron vert in a chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field azure, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette indented; crest, a runaway nigger, sable, with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple of gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, maggiore fretta, minore otto. got it out of a book--means the more haste the less speed." "geewhillikins," i says, "but what does the rest of it mean?" "we ain't got no time to bother over that," he says; "we got to dig in like all git-out." "well, anyway," i says, "what's some of it? what's a fess?" "a fess--a fess is--you don't need to know what a fess is. i'll show him how to make it when he gets to it." "shucks, tom," i says, "i think you might tell a person. what's a bar sinister?" "oh, i don't know. but he's got to have it. all the nobility does." that was just his way. if it didn't suit him to explain a thing to you, he wouldn't do it. you might pump at him a week, it wouldn't make no difference. he'd got all that coat of arms business fixed, so now he started in to finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out a mournful inscription--said jim got to have one, like they all done. he made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off, so: . here a captive heart busted. . here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life. . here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity. . here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of louis xiv. tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke down. when he got done he couldn't no way make up his mind which one for jim to scrabble on to the wall, they was all so good; but at last he allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. jim said it would take him a year to scrabble such a lot of truck on to the logs with a nail, and he didn't know how to make letters, besides; but tom said he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn't have nothing to do but just follow the lines. then pretty soon he says: "come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they don't have log walls in a dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock. we'll fetch a rock." jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take him such a pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn't ever get out. but tom said he would let me help him do it. then he took a look to see how me and jim was getting along with the pens. it was most pesky tedious hard work and slow, and didn't give my hands no show to get well of the sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway, hardly; so tom says: "i know how to fix it. we got to have a rock for the coat of arms and mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that same rock. there's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll smouch it, and carve the things on it, and file out the pens and the saw on it, too." it warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no slouch of a grindstone nuther; but we allowed we'd tackle it. it warn't quite midnight yet, so we cleared out for the mill, leaving jim at work. we smouched the grindstone, and set out to roll her home, but it was a most nation tough job. sometimes, do what we could, we couldn't keep her from falling over, and she come mighty near mashing us every time. tom said she was going to get one of us, sure, before we got through. we got her half way; and then we was plumb played out, and most drownded with sweat. we see it warn't no use; we got to go and fetch jim so he raised up his bed and slid the chain off of the bed-leg, and wrapt it round and round his neck, and we crawled out through our hole and down there, and jim and me laid into that grindstone and walked her along like nothing; and tom superintended. he could out-superintend any boy i ever see. he knowed how to do everything. our hole was pretty big, but it warn't big enough to get the grindstone through; but jim he took the pick and soon made it big enough. then tom marked out them things on it with the nail, and set jim to work on them, with the nail for a chisel and an iron bolt from the rubbage in the lean-to for a hammer, and told him to work till the rest of his candle quit on him, and then he could go to bed, and hide the grindstone under his straw tick and sleep on it. then we helped him fix his chain back on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed ourselves. but tom thought of something, and says: "you got any spiders in here, jim?" "no, sah, thanks to goodness i hain't, mars tom." "all right, we'll get you some." "but bless you, honey, i doan' want none. i's afeard un um. i jis' 's soon have rattlesnakes aroun'." tom thought a minute or two, and says: "it's a good idea. and i reckon it's been done. it must a been done; it stands to reason. yes, it's a prime good idea. where could you keep it?" "keep what, mars tom?" "why, a rattlesnake." "de goodness gracious alive, mars tom! why, if dey was a rattlesnake to come in heah i'd take en bust right out thoo dat log wall, i would, wid my head." why, jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a little. you could tame it." "tame it!" "yes--easy enough. every animal is grateful for kindness and petting, and they wouldn't think of hurting a person that pets them. any book will tell you that. you try--that's all i ask; just try for two or three days. why, you can get him so in a little while that he'll love you; and sleep with you; and won't stay away from you a minute; and will let you wrap him round your neck and put his head in your mouth." "please, mars tom--doan' talk so! i can't stan' it! he'd let me shove his head in my mouf--fer a favor, hain't it? i lay he'd wait a pow'ful long time 'fo' i ast him. en mo' en dat, i doan' want him to sleep wid me." "jim, don't act so foolish. a prisoner's got to have some kind of a dumb pet, and if a rattlesnake hain't ever been tried, why, there's more glory to be gained in your being the first to ever try it than any other way you could ever think of to save your life." "why, mars tom, i doan' want no sich glory. snake take 'n bite jim's chin off, den whah is de glory? no, sah, i doan' want no sich doin's." "blame it, can't you try? i only want you to try--you needn't keep it up if it don't work." "but de trouble all done ef de snake bite me while i's a tryin' him. mars tom, i's willin' to tackle mos' anything 'at ain't onreasonable, but ef you en huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame, i's gwyne to leave, dat's shore." "well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bull-headed about it. we can get you some garter-snakes, and you can tie some buttons on their tails, and let on they're rattlesnakes, and i reckon that 'll have to do." "i k'n stan' dem, mars tom, but blame' 'f i couldn' get along widout um, i tell you dat. i never knowed b'fo' 't was so much bother and trouble to be a prisoner." "well, it always is when it's done right. you got any rats around here?" "no, sah, i hain't seed none." "well, we'll get you some rats." "why, mars tom, i doan' want no rats. dey's de dadblamedest creturs to 'sturb a body, en rustle roun' over 'im, en bite his feet, when he's tryin' to sleep, i ever see. no, sah, gimme g'yarter-snakes, 'f i's got to have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats; i hain' got no use f'r um, skasely." "but, jim, you got to have 'em--they all do. so don't make no more fuss about it. prisoners ain't ever without rats. there ain't no instance of it. and they train them, and pet them, and learn them tricks, and they get to be as sociable as flies. but you got to play music to them. you got anything to play music on?" "i ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o' paper, en a juice-harp; but i reck'n dey wouldn' take no stock in a juice-harp." "yes they would. they don't care what kind of music 'tis. a jews-harp's plenty good enough for a rat. all animals like music--in a prison they dote on it. specially, painful music; and you can't get no other kind out of a jews-harp. it always interests them; they come out to see what's the matter with you. yes, you're all right; you're fixed very well. you want to set on your bed nights before you go to sleep, and early in the mornings, and play your jews-harp; play 'the last link is broken'--that's the thing that 'll scoop a rat quicker 'n anything else; and when you've played about two minutes you'll see all the rats, and the snakes, and spiders, and things begin to feel worried about you, and come. and they'll just fairly swarm over you, and have a noble good time." "yes, dey will, i reck'n, mars tom, but what kine er time is jim havin'? blest if i kin see de pint. but i'll do it ef i got to. i reck'n i better keep de animals satisfied, en not have no trouble in de house." tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn't nothing else; and pretty soon he says: "oh, there's one thing i forgot. could you raise a flower here, do you reckon?" "i doan know but maybe i could, mars tom; but it's tolable dark in heah, en i ain' got no use f'r no flower, nohow, en she'd be a pow'ful sight o' trouble." "well, you try it, anyway. some other prisoners has done it." "one er dem big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks would grow in heah, mars tom, i reck'n, but she wouldn't be wuth half de trouble she'd coss." "don't you believe it. we'll fetch you a little one and you plant it in the corner over there, and raise it. and don't call it mullen, call it pitchiola--that's its right name when it's in a prison. and you want to water it with your tears." "why, i got plenty spring water, mars tom." "you don't want spring water; you want to water it with your tears. it's the way they always do." "why, mars tom, i lay i kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks twyste wid spring water whiles another man's a start'n one wid tears." "that ain't the idea. you got to do it with tears." "she'll die on my han's, mars tom, she sholy will; kase i doan' skasely ever cry." so tom was stumped. but he studied it over, and then said jim would have to worry along the best he could with an onion. he promised he would go to the nigger cabins and drop one, private, in jim's coffee-pot, in the morning. jim said he would "jis' 's soon have tobacker in his coffee;" and found so much fault with it, and with the work and bother of raising the mullen, and jews-harping the rats, and petting and flattering up the snakes and spiders and things, on top of all the other work he had to do on pens, and inscriptions, and journals, and things, which made it more trouble and worry and responsibility to be a prisoner than anything he ever undertook, that tom most lost all patience with him; and said he was just loadened down with more gaudier chances than a prisoner ever had in the world to make a name for himself, and yet he didn't know enough to appreciate them, and they was just about wasted on him. so jim he was sorry, and said he wouldn't behave so no more, and then me and tom shoved for bed. chapter xxxix. in the morning we went up to the village and bought a wire rat-trap and fetched it down, and unstopped the best rat-hole, and in about an hour we had fifteen of the bulliest kind of ones; and then we took it and put it in a safe place under aunt sally's bed. but while we was gone for spiders little thomas franklin benjamin jefferson elexander phelps found it there, and opened the door of it to see if the rats would come out, and they did; and aunt sally she come in, and when we got back she was a-standing on top of the bed raising cain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull times for her. so she took and dusted us both with the hickry, and we was as much as two hours catching another fifteen or sixteen, drat that meddlesome cub, and they warn't the likeliest, nuther, because the first haul was the pick of the flock. i never see a likelier lot of rats than what that first haul was. we got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and bugs, and frogs, and caterpillars, and one thing or another; and we like to got a hornet's nest, but we didn't. the family was at home. we didn't give it right up, but stayed with them as long as we could; because we allowed we'd tire them out or they'd got to tire us out, and they done it. then we got allycumpain and rubbed on the places, and was pretty near all right again, but couldn't set down convenient. and so we went for the snakes, and grabbed a couple of dozen garters and house-snakes, and put them in a bag, and put it in our room, and by that time it was supper-time, and a rattling good honest day's work: and hungry?--oh, no, i reckon not! and there warn't a blessed snake up there when we went back--we didn't half tie the sack, and they worked out somehow, and left. but it didn't matter much, because they was still on the premises somewheres. so we judged we could get some of them again. no, there warn't no real scarcity of snakes about the house for a considerable spell. you'd see them dripping from the rafters and places every now and then; and they generly landed in your plate, or down the back of your neck, and most of the time where you didn't want them. well, they was handsome and striped, and there warn't no harm in a million of them; but that never made no difference to aunt sally; she despised snakes, be the breed what they might, and she couldn't stand them no way you could fix it; and every time one of them flopped down on her, it didn't make no difference what she was doing, she would just lay that work down and light out. i never see such a woman. and you could hear her whoop to jericho. you couldn't get her to take a-holt of one of them with the tongs. and if she turned over and found one in bed she would scramble out and lift a howl that you would think the house was afire. she disturbed the old man so that he said he could most wish there hadn't ever been no snakes created. why, after every last snake had been gone clear out of the house for as much as a week aunt sally warn't over it yet; she warn't near over it; when she was setting thinking about something you could touch her on the back of her neck with a feather and she would jump right out of her stockings. it was very curious. but tom said all women was just so. he said they was made that way for some reason or other. we got a licking every time one of our snakes come in her way, and she allowed these lickings warn't nothing to what she would do if we ever loaded up the place again with them. i didn't mind the lickings, because they didn't amount to nothing; but i minded the trouble we had to lay in another lot. but we got them laid in, and all the other things; and you never see a cabin as blithesome as jim's was when they'd all swarm out for music and go for him. jim didn't like the spiders, and the spiders didn't like jim; and so they'd lay for him, and make it mighty warm for him. and he said that between the rats and the snakes and the grindstone there warn't no room in bed for him, skasely; and when there was, a body couldn't sleep, it was so lively, and it was always lively, he said, because they never all slept at one time, but took turn about, so when the snakes was asleep the rats was on deck, and when the rats turned in the snakes come on watch, so he always had one gang under him, in his way, and t'other gang having a circus over him, and if he got up to hunt a new place the spiders would take a chance at him as he crossed over. he said if he ever got out this time he wouldn't ever be a prisoner again, not for a salary. well, by the end of three weeks everything was in pretty good shape. the shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and every time a rat bit jim he would get up and write a little in his journal whilst the ink was fresh; the pens was made, the inscriptions and so on was all carved on the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two, and we had et up the sawdust, and it give us a most amazing stomach-ache. we reckoned we was all going to die, but didn't. it was the most undigestible sawdust i ever see; and tom said the same. but as i was saying, we'd got all the work done now, at last; and we was all pretty much fagged out, too, but mainly jim. the old man had wrote a couple of times to the plantation below orleans to come and get their runaway nigger, but hadn't got no answer, because there warn't no such plantation; so he allowed he would advertise jim in the st. louis and new orleans papers; and when he mentioned the st. louis ones it give me the cold shivers, and i see we hadn't no time to lose. so tom said, now for the nonnamous letters. "what's them?" i says. "warnings to the people that something is up. sometimes it's done one way, sometimes another. but there's always somebody spying around that gives notice to the governor of the castle. when louis xvi. was going to light out of the tooleries a servant-girl done it. it's a very good way, and so is the nonnamous letters. we'll use them both. and it's usual for the prisoner's mother to change clothes with him, and she stays in, and he slides out in her clothes. we'll do that, too." "but looky here, tom, what do we want to warn anybody for that something's up? let them find it out for themselves--it's their lookout." "yes, i know; but you can't depend on them. it's the way they've acted from the very start--left us to do everything. they're so confiding and mullet-headed they don't take notice of nothing at all. so if we don't give them notice there won't be nobody nor nothing to interfere with us, and so after all our hard work and trouble this escape 'll go off perfectly flat; won't amount to nothing--won't be nothing to it." "well, as for me, tom, that's the way i'd like." "shucks!" he says, and looked disgusted. so i says: "but i ain't going to make no complaint. any way that suits you suits me. what you going to do about the servant-girl?" "you'll be her. you slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook that yaller girl's frock." "why, tom, that 'll make trouble next morning; because, of course, she prob'bly hain't got any but that one." "i know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it under the front door." "all right, then, i'll do it; but i could carry it just as handy in my own togs." "you wouldn't look like a servant-girl then, would you?" "no, but there won't be nobody to see what i look like, anyway." "that ain't got nothing to do with it. the thing for us to do is just to do our duty, and not worry about whether anybody sees us do it or not. hain't you got no principle at all?" "all right, i ain't saying nothing; i'm the servant-girl. who's jim's mother?" "i'm his mother. i'll hook a gown from aunt sally." "well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when me and jim leaves." "not much. i'll stuff jim's clothes full of straw and lay it on his bed to represent his mother in disguise, and jim 'll take the nigger woman's gown off of me and wear it, and we'll all evade together. when a prisoner of style escapes it's called an evasion. it's always called so when a king escapes, f'rinstance. and the same with a king's son; it don't make no difference whether he's a natural one or an unnatural one." so tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and i smouched the yaller wench's frock that night, and put it on, and shoved it under the front door, the way tom told me to. it said: beware. trouble is brewing. keep a sharp lookout. unknown friend. next night we stuck a picture, which tom drawed in blood, of a skull and crossbones on the front door; and next night another one of a coffin on the back door. i never see a family in such a sweat. they couldn't a been worse scared if the place had a been full of ghosts laying for them behind everything and under the beds and shivering through the air. if a door banged, aunt sally she jumped and said "ouch!" if anything fell, she jumped and said "ouch!" if you happened to touch her, when she warn't noticing, she done the same; she couldn't face noway and be satisfied, because she allowed there was something behind her every time--so she was always a-whirling around sudden, and saying "ouch," and before she'd got two-thirds around she'd whirl back again, and say it again; and she was afraid to go to bed, but she dasn't set up. so the thing was working very well, tom said; he said he never see a thing work more satisfactory. he said it showed it was done right. so he said, now for the grand bulge! so the very next morning at the streak of dawn we got another letter ready, and was wondering what we better do with it, because we heard them say at supper they was going to have a nigger on watch at both doors all night. tom he went down the lightning-rod to spy around; and the nigger at the back door was asleep, and he stuck it in the back of his neck and come back. this letter said: don't betray me, i wish to be your friend. there is a desprate gang of cut-throats from over in the indian territory going to steal your runaway nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare you so as you will stay in the house and not bother them. i am one of the gang, but have got religgion and wish to quit it and lead an honest life again, and will betray the helish design. they will sneak down from northards, along the fence, at midnight exact, with a false key, and go in the nigger's cabin to get him. i am to be off a piece and blow a tin horn if i see any danger; but stead of that i will ba like a sheep soon as they get in and not blow at all; then whilst they are getting his chains loose, you slip there and lock them in, and can kill them at your leasure. don't do anything but just the way i am telling you; if you do they will suspicion something and raise whoop-jamboreehoo. i do not wish any reward but to know i have done the right thing. unknown friend. chapter xl. we was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and took my canoe and went over the river a-fishing, with a lunch, and had a good time, and took a look at the raft and found her all right, and got home late to supper, and found them in such a sweat and worry they didn't know which end they was standing on, and made us go right off to bed the minute we was done supper, and wouldn't tell us what the trouble was, and never let on a word about the new letter, but didn't need to, because we knowed as much about it as anybody did, and as soon as we was half up stairs and her back was turned we slid for the cellar cupboard and loaded up a good lunch and took it up to our room and went to bed, and got up about half-past eleven, and tom put on aunt sally's dress that he stole and was going to start with the lunch, but says: "where's the butter?" "i laid out a hunk of it," i says, "on a piece of a corn-pone." "well, you left it laid out, then--it ain't here." "we can get along without it," i says. "we can get along with it, too," he says; "just you slide down cellar and fetch it. and then mosey right down the lightning-rod and come along. i'll go and stuff the straw into jim's clothes to represent his mother in disguise, and be ready to ba like a sheep and shove soon as you get there." so out he went, and down cellar went i. the hunk of butter, big as a person's fist, was where i had left it, so i took up the slab of corn-pone with it on, and blowed out my light, and started up stairs very stealthy, and got up to the main floor all right, but here comes aunt sally with a candle, and i clapped the truck in my hat, and clapped my hat on my head, and the next second she see me; and she says: "you been down cellar?" "yes'm." "what you been doing down there?" "noth'n." "noth'n!" "no'm." "well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time of night?" "i don't know 'm." "you don't know? don't answer me that way. tom, i want to know what you been doing down there." "i hain't been doing a single thing, aunt sally, i hope to gracious if i have." i reckoned she'd let me go now, and as a generl thing she would; but i s'pose there was so many strange things going on she was just in a sweat about every little thing that warn't yard-stick straight; so she says, very decided: "you just march into that setting-room and stay there till i come. you been up to something you no business to, and i lay i'll find out what it is before i'm done with you." so she went away as i opened the door and walked into the setting-room. my, but there was a crowd there! fifteen farmers, and every one of them had a gun. i was most powerful sick, and slunk to a chair and set down. they was setting around, some of them talking a little, in a low voice, and all of them fidgety and uneasy, but trying to look like they warn't; but i knowed they was, because they was always taking off their hats, and putting them on, and scratching their heads, and changing their seats, and fumbling with their buttons. i warn't easy myself, but i didn't take my hat off, all the same. i did wish aunt sally would come, and get done with me, and lick me, if she wanted to, and let me get away and tell tom how we'd overdone this thing, and what a thundering hornet's-nest we'd got ourselves into, so we could stop fooling around straight off, and clear out with jim before these rips got out of patience and come for us. at last she come and begun to ask me questions, but i couldn't answer them straight, i didn't know which end of me was up; because these men was in such a fidget now that some was wanting to start right now and lay for them desperadoes, and saying it warn't but a few minutes to midnight; and others was trying to get them to hold on and wait for the sheep-signal; and here was aunty pegging away at the questions, and me a-shaking all over and ready to sink down in my tracks i was that scared; and the place getting hotter and hotter, and the butter beginning to melt and run down my neck and behind my ears; and pretty soon, when one of them says, "i'm for going and getting in the cabin first and right now, and catching them when they come," i most dropped; and a streak of butter come a-trickling down my forehead, and aunt sally she see it, and turns white as a sheet, and says: "for the land's sake, what is the matter with the child? he's got the brain-fever as shore as you're born, and they're oozing out!" and everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out comes the bread and what was left of the butter, and she grabbed me, and hugged me, and says: "oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad and grateful i am it ain't no worse; for luck's against us, and it never rains but it pours, and when i see that truck i thought we'd lost you, for i knowed by the color and all it was just like your brains would be if--dear, dear, whyd'nt you tell me that was what you'd been down there for, i wouldn't a cared. now cler out to bed, and don't lemme see no more of you till morning!" i was up stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in another one, and shinning through the dark for the lean-to. i couldn't hardly get my words out, i was so anxious; but i told tom as quick as i could we must jump for it now, and not a minute to lose--the house full of men, yonder, with guns! his eyes just blazed; and he says: "no!--is that so? ain't it bully! why, huck, if it was to do over again, i bet i could fetch two hundred! if we could put it off till--" "hurry! hurry!" i says. "where's jim?" "right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm you can touch him. he's dressed, and everything's ready. now we'll slide out and give the sheep-signal." but then we heard the tramp of men coming to the door, and heard them begin to fumble with the pad-lock, and heard a man say: "i told you we'd be too soon; they haven't come--the door is locked. here, i'll lock some of you into the cabin, and you lay for 'em in the dark and kill 'em when they come; and the rest scatter around a piece, and listen if you can hear 'em coming." so in they come, but couldn't see us in the dark, and most trod on us whilst we was hustling to get under the bed. but we got under all right, and out through the hole, swift but soft--jim first, me next, and tom last, which was according to tom's orders. now we was in the lean-to, and heard trampings close by outside. so we crept to the door, and tom stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but couldn't make out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said he would listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us jim must glide out first, and him last. so he set his ear to the crack and listened, and listened, and listened, and the steps a-scraping around out there all the time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped down, not breathing, and not making the least noise, and slipped stealthy towards the fence in injun file, and got to it all right, and me and jim over it; but tom's britches catched fast on a splinter on the top rail, and then he hear the steps coming, so he had to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and made a noise; and as he dropped in our tracks and started somebody sings out: "who's that? answer, or i'll shoot!" but we didn't answer; we just unfurled our heels and shoved. then there was a rush, and a bang, bang, bang! and the bullets fairly whizzed around us! we heard them sing out: "here they are! they've broke for the river! after 'em, boys, and turn loose the dogs!" so here they come, full tilt. we could hear them because they wore boots and yelled, but we didn't wear no boots and didn't yell. we was in the path to the mill; and when they got pretty close on to us we dodged into the bush and let them go by, and then dropped in behind them. they'd had all the dogs shut up, so they wouldn't scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let them loose, and here they come, making powwow enough for a million; but they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they catched up; and when they see it warn't nobody but us, and no excitement to offer them, they only just said howdy, and tore right ahead towards the shouting and clattering; and then we up-steam again, and whizzed along after them till we was nearly to the mill, and then struck up through the bush to where my canoe was tied, and hopped in and pulled for dear life towards the middle of the river, but didn't make no more noise than we was obleeged to. then we struck out, easy and comfortable, for the island where my raft was; and we could hear them yelling and barking at each other all up and down the bank, till we was so far away the sounds got dim and died out. and when we stepped on to the raft i says: "now, old jim, you're a free man again, and i bet you won't ever be a slave no more." "en a mighty good job it wuz, too, huck. it 'uz planned beautiful, en it 'uz done beautiful; en dey ain't nobody kin git up a plan dat's mo' mixed-up en splendid den what dat one wuz." we was all glad as we could be, but tom was the gladdest of all because he had a bullet in the calf of his leg. when me and jim heard that we didn't feel so brash as what we did before. it was hurting him considerable, and bleeding; so we laid him in the wigwam and tore up one of the duke's shirts for to bandage him, but he says: "gimme the rags; i can do it myself. don't stop now; don't fool around here, and the evasion booming along so handsome; man the sweeps, and set her loose! boys, we done it elegant!--'deed we did. i wish we'd a had the handling of louis xvi., there wouldn't a been no 'son of saint louis, ascend to heaven!' wrote down in his biography; no, sir, we'd a whooped him over the border--that's what we'd a done with him--and done it just as slick as nothing at all, too. man the sweeps--man the sweeps!" but me and jim was consulting--and thinking. and after we'd thought a minute, i says: "say it, jim." so he says: "well, den, dis is de way it look to me, huck. ef it wuz him dat 'uz bein' sot free, en one er de boys wuz to git shot, would he say, 'go on en save me, nemmine 'bout a doctor f'r to save dis one?' is dat like mars tom sawyer? would he say dat? you bet he wouldn't! well, den, is jim gywne to say it? no, sah--i doan' budge a step out'n dis place 'dout a doctor, not if it's forty year!" i knowed he was white inside, and i reckoned he'd say what he did say--so it was all right now, and i told tom i was a-going for a doctor. he raised considerable row about it, but me and jim stuck to it and wouldn't budge; so he was for crawling out and setting the raft loose himself; but we wouldn't let him. then he give us a piece of his mind, but it didn't do no good. so when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he says: "well, then, if you re bound to go, i'll tell you the way to do when you get to the village. shut the door and blindfold the doctor tight and fast, and make him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a purse full of gold in his hand, and then take and lead him all around the back alleys and everywheres in the dark, and then fetch him here in the canoe, in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and search him and take his chalk away from him, and don't give it back to him till you get him back to the village, or else he will chalk this raft so he can find it again. it's the way they all do." so i said i would, and left, and jim was to hide in the woods when he see the doctor coming till he was gone again. chapter xli. the doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking old man when i got him up. i told him me and my brother was over on spanish island hunting yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of a raft we found, and about midnight he must a kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off and shot him in the leg, and we wanted him to go over there and fix it and not say nothing about it, nor let anybody know, because we wanted to come home this evening and surprise the folks. "who is your folks?" he says. "the phelpses, down yonder." "oh," he says. and after a minute, he says: "how'd you say he got shot?" "he had a dream," i says, "and it shot him." "singular dream," he says. so he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started. but when he sees the canoe he didn't like the look of her--said she was big enough for one, but didn't look pretty safe for two. i says: "oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy enough." "what three?" "why, me and sid, and--and--and the guns; that's what i mean." "oh," he says. but he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his head, and said he reckoned he'd look around for a bigger one. but they was all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait till he come back, or i could hunt around further, or maybe i better go down home and get them ready for the surprise if i wanted to. but i said i didn't; so i told him just how to find the raft, and then he started. i struck an idea pretty soon. i says to myself, spos'n he can't fix that leg just in three shakes of a sheep's tail, as the saying is? spos'n it takes him three or four days? what are we going to do?--lay around there till he lets the cat out of the bag? no, sir; i know what i'll do. i'll wait, and when he comes back if he says he's got to go any more i'll get down there, too, if i swim; and we'll take and tie him, and keep him, and shove out down the river; and when tom's done with him we'll give him what it's worth, or all we got, and then let him get ashore. so then i crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time i waked up the sun was away up over my head! i shot out and went for the doctor's house, but they told me he'd gone away in the night some time or other, and warn't back yet. well, thinks i, that looks powerful bad for tom, and i'll dig out for the island right off. so away i shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head into uncle silas's stomach! he says: "why, tom! where you been all this time, you rascal?" "i hain't been nowheres," i says, "only just hunting for the runaway nigger--me and sid." "why, where ever did you go?" he says. "your aunt's been mighty uneasy." "she needn't," i says, "because we was all right. we followed the men and the dogs, but they outrun us, and we lost them; but we thought we heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took out after them and crossed over, but couldn't find nothing of them; so we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat out; and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an hour ago; then we paddled over here to hear the news, and sid's at the post-office to see what he can hear, and i'm a-branching out to get something to eat for us, and then we're going home." so then we went to the post-office to get "sid"; but just as i suspicioned, he warn't there; so the old man he got a letter out of the office, and we waited awhile longer, but sid didn't come; so the old man said, come along, let sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he got done fooling around--but we would ride. i couldn't get him to let me stay and wait for sid; and he said there warn't no use in it, and i must come along, and let aunt sally see we was all right. when we got home aunt sally was that glad to see me she laughed and cried both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickings of hern that don't amount to shucks, and said she'd serve sid the same when he come. and the place was plum full of farmers and farmers' wives, to dinner; and such another clack a body never heard. old mrs. hotchkiss was the worst; her tongue was a-going all the time. she says: "well, sister phelps, i've ransacked that-air cabin over, an' i b'lieve the nigger was crazy. i says to sister damrell--didn't i, sister damrell?--s'i, he's crazy, s'i--them's the very words i said. you all hearn me: he's crazy, s'i; everything shows it, s'i. look at that-air grindstone, s'i; want to tell me't any cretur 't's in his right mind 's a goin' to scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone, s'i? here sich 'n' sich a person busted his heart; 'n' here so 'n' so pegged along for thirty-seven year, 'n' all that--natcherl son o' louis somebody, 'n' sich everlast'n rubbage. he's plumb crazy, s'i; it's what i says in the fust place, it's what i says in the middle, 'n' it's what i says last 'n' all the time--the nigger's crazy--crazy 's nebokoodneezer, s'i." "an' look at that-air ladder made out'n rags, sister hotchkiss," says old mrs. damrell; "what in the name o' goodness could he ever want of--" "the very words i was a-sayin' no longer ago th'n this minute to sister utterback, 'n' she'll tell you so herself. sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder, sh-she; 'n' s'i, yes, look at it, s'i--what could he a-wanted of it, s'i. sh-she, sister hotchkiss, sh-she--" "but how in the nation'd they ever git that grindstone in there, anyway? 'n' who dug that-air hole? 'n' who--" "my very words, brer penrod! i was a-sayin'--pass that-air sasser o' m'lasses, won't ye?--i was a-sayin' to sister dunlap, jist this minute, how did they git that grindstone in there, s'i. without help, mind you --'thout help! that's wher 'tis. don't tell me, s'i; there wuz help, s'i; 'n' ther' wuz a plenty help, too, s'i; ther's ben a dozen a-helpin' that nigger, 'n' i lay i'd skin every last nigger on this place but i'd find out who done it, s'i; 'n' moreover, s'i--" "a dozen says you!--forty couldn't a done every thing that's been done. look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they've been made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a week's work for six men; look at that nigger made out'n straw on the bed; and look at--" "you may well say it, brer hightower! it's jist as i was a-sayin' to brer phelps, his own self. s'e, what do you think of it, sister hotchkiss, s'e? think o' what, brer phelps, s'i? think o' that bed-leg sawed off that a way, s'e? think of it, s'i? i lay it never sawed itself off, s'i--somebody sawed it, s'i; that's my opinion, take it or leave it, it mayn't be no 'count, s'i, but sich as 't is, it's my opinion, s'i, 'n' if any body k'n start a better one, s'i, let him do it, s'i, that's all. i says to sister dunlap, s'i--" "why, dog my cats, they must a ben a house-full o' niggers in there every night for four weeks to a done all that work, sister phelps. look at that shirt--every last inch of it kivered over with secret african writ'n done with blood! must a ben a raft uv 'm at it right along, all the time, amost. why, i'd give two dollars to have it read to me; 'n' as for the niggers that wrote it, i 'low i'd take 'n' lash 'm t'll--" "people to help him, brother marples! well, i reckon you'd think so if you'd a been in this house for a while back. why, they've stole everything they could lay their hands on--and we a-watching all the time, mind you. they stole that shirt right off o' the line! and as for that sheet they made the rag ladder out of, ther' ain't no telling how many times they didn't steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks, and spoons, and the old warming-pan, and most a thousand things that i disremember now, and my new calico dress; and me and silas and my sid and tom on the constant watch day and night, as i was a-telling you, and not a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor sight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute, lo and behold you, they slides right in under our noses and fools us, and not only fools us but the injun territory robbers too, and actuly gets away with that nigger safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and twenty-two dogs right on their very heels at that very time! i tell you, it just bangs anything i ever heard of. why, sperits couldn't a done better and been no smarter. and i reckon they must a been sperits--because, you know our dogs, and ther' ain't no better; well, them dogs never even got on the track of 'm once! you explain that to me if you can!--any of you!" "well, it does beat--" "laws alive, i never--" "so help me, i wouldn't a be--" "house-thieves as well as--" "goodnessgracioussakes, i'd a ben afeard to live in sich a--" "'fraid to live!--why, i was that scared i dasn't hardly go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or set down, sister ridgeway. why, they'd steal the very--why, goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of a fluster i was in by the time midnight come last night. i hope to gracious if i warn't afraid they'd steal some o' the family! i was just to that pass i didn't have no reasoning faculties no more. it looks foolish enough now, in the daytime; but i says to myself, there's my two poor boys asleep, 'way up stairs in that lonesome room, and i declare to goodness i was that uneasy 't i crep' up there and locked 'em in! i did. and anybody would. because, you know, when you get scared that way, and it keeps running on, and getting worse and worse all the time, and your wits gets to addling, and you get to doing all sorts o' wild things, and by and by you think to yourself, spos'n i was a boy, and was away up there, and the door ain't locked, and you--" she stopped, looking kind of wondering, and then she turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit on me--i got up and took a walk. says i to myself, i can explain better how we come to not be in that room this morning if i go out to one side and study over it a little. so i done it. but i dasn't go fur, or she'd a sent for me. and when it was late in the day the people all went, and then i come in and told her the noise and shooting waked up me and "sid," and the door was locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn't never want to try that no more. and then i went on and told her all what i told uncle silas before; and then she said she'd forgive us, and maybe it was all right enough anyway, and about what a body might expect of boys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she could see; and so, as long as no harm hadn't come of it, she judged she better put in her time being grateful we was alive and well and she had us still, stead of fretting over what was past and done. so then she kissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped into a kind of a brown study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says: "why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and sid not come yet! what has become of that boy?" i see my chance; so i skips up and says: "i'll run right up to town and get him," i says. "no you won't," she says. "you'll stay right wher' you are; one's enough to be lost at a time. if he ain't here to supper, your uncle 'll go." well, he warn't there to supper; so right after supper uncle went. he come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't run across tom's track. aunt sally was a good deal uneasy; but uncle silas he said there warn't no occasion to be--boys will be boys, he said, and you'll see this one turn up in the morning all sound and right. so she had to be satisfied. but she said she'd set up for him a while anyway, and keep a light burning so he could see it. and then when i went up to bed she come up with me and fetched her candle, and tucked me in, and mothered me so good i felt mean, and like i couldn't look her in the face; and she set down on the bed and talked with me a long time, and said what a splendid boy sid was, and didn't seem to want to ever stop talking about him; and kept asking me every now and then if i reckoned he could a got lost, or hurt, or maybe drownded, and might be laying at this minute somewheres suffering or dead, and she not by him to help him, and so the tears would drip down silent, and i would tell her that sid was all right, and would be home in the morning, sure; and she would squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me to say it again, and keep on saying it, because it done her good, and she was in so much trouble. and when she was going away she looked down in my eyes so steady and gentle, and says: "the door ain't going to be locked, tom, and there's the window and the rod; but you'll be good, won't you? and you won't go? for my sake." laws knows i wanted to go bad enough to see about tom, and was all intending to go; but after that i wouldn't a went, not for kingdoms. but she was on my mind and tom was on my mind, so i slept very restless. and twice i went down the rod away in the night, and slipped around front, and see her setting there by her candle in the window with her eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and i wished i could do something for her, but i couldn't, only to swear that i wouldn't never do nothing to grieve her any more. and the third time i waked up at dawn, and slid down, and she was there yet, and her candle was most out, and her old gray head was resting on her hand, and she was asleep. chapter xlii. the old man was uptown again before breakfast, but couldn't get no track of tom; and both of them set at the table thinking, and not saying nothing, and looking mournful, and their coffee getting cold, and not eating anything. and by and by the old man says: "did i give you the letter?" "what letter?" "the one i got yesterday out of the post-office." "no, you didn't give me no letter." "well, i must a forgot it." so he rummaged his pockets, and then went off somewheres where he had laid it down, and fetched it, and give it to her. she says: "why, it's from st. petersburg--it's from sis." i allowed another walk would do me good; but i couldn't stir. but before she could break it open she dropped it and run--for she see something. and so did i. it was tom sawyer on a mattress; and that old doctor; and jim, in her calico dress, with his hands tied behind him; and a lot of people. i hid the letter behind the first thing that come handy, and rushed. she flung herself at tom, crying, and says: "oh, he's dead, he's dead, i know he's dead!" and tom he turned his head a little, and muttered something or other, which showed he warn't in his right mind; then she flung up her hands, and says: "he's alive, thank god! and that's enough!" and she snatched a kiss of him, and flew for the house to get the bed ready, and scattering orders right and left at the niggers and everybody else, as fast as her tongue could go, every jump of the way. i followed the men to see what they was going to do with jim; and the old doctor and uncle silas followed after tom into the house. the men was very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang jim for an example to all the other niggers around there, so they wouldn't be trying to run away like jim done, and making such a raft of trouble, and keeping a whole family scared most to death for days and nights. but the others said, don't do it, it wouldn't answer at all; he ain't our nigger, and his owner would turn up and make us pay for him, sure. so that cooled them down a little, because the people that's always the most anxious for to hang a nigger that hain't done just right is always the very ones that ain't the most anxious to pay for him when they've got their satisfaction out of him. they cussed jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or two side the head once in a while, but jim never said nothing, and he never let on to know me, and they took him to the same cabin, and put his own clothes on him, and chained him again, and not to no bed-leg this time, but to a big staple drove into the bottom log, and chained his hands, too, and both legs, and said he warn't to have nothing but bread and water to eat after this till his owner come, or he was sold at auction because he didn't come in a certain length of time, and filled up our hole, and said a couple of farmers with guns must stand watch around about the cabin every night, and a bulldog tied to the door in the daytime; and about this time they was through with the job and was tapering off with a kind of generl good-bye cussing, and then the old doctor comes and takes a look, and says: "don't be no rougher on him than you're obleeged to, because he ain't a bad nigger. when i got to where i found the boy i see i couldn't cut the bullet out without some help, and he warn't in no condition for me to leave to go and get help; and he got a little worse and a little worse, and after a long time he went out of his head, and wouldn't let me come a-nigh him any more, and said if i chalked his raft he'd kill me, and no end of wild foolishness like that, and i see i couldn't do anything at all with him; so i says, i got to have help somehow; and the minute i says it out crawls this nigger from somewheres and says he'll help, and he done it, too, and done it very well. of course i judged he must be a runaway nigger, and there i was! and there i had to stick right straight along all the rest of the day and all night. it was a fix, i tell you! i had a couple of patients with the chills, and of course i'd of liked to run up to town and see them, but i dasn't, because the nigger might get away, and then i'd be to blame; and yet never a skiff come close enough for me to hail. so there i had to stick plumb until daylight this morning; and i never see a nigger that was a better nuss or faithfuller, and yet he was risking his freedom to do it, and was all tired out, too, and i see plain enough he'd been worked main hard lately. i liked the nigger for that; i tell you, gentlemen, a nigger like that is worth a thousand dollars--and kind treatment, too. i had everything i needed, and the boy was doing as well there as he would a done at home--better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but there i was, with both of 'm on my hands, and there i had to stick till about dawn this morning; then some men in a skiff come by, and as good luck would have it the nigger was setting by the pallet with his head propped on his knees sound asleep; so i motioned them in quiet, and they slipped up on him and grabbed him and tied him before he knowed what he was about, and we never had no trouble. and the boy being in a kind of a flighty sleep, too, we muffled the oars and hitched the raft on, and towed her over very nice and quiet, and the nigger never made the least row nor said a word from the start. he ain't no bad nigger, gentlemen; that's what i think about him." somebody says: "well, it sounds very good, doctor, i'm obleeged to say." then the others softened up a little, too, and i was mighty thankful to that old doctor for doing jim that good turn; and i was glad it was according to my judgment of him, too; because i thought he had a good heart in him and was a good man the first time i see him. then they all agreed that jim had acted very well, and was deserving to have some notice took of it, and reward. so every one of them promised, right out and hearty, that they wouldn't cuss him no more. then they come out and locked him up. i hoped they was going to say he could have one or two of the chains took off, because they was rotten heavy, or could have meat and greens with his bread and water; but they didn't think of it, and i reckoned it warn't best for me to mix in, but i judged i'd get the doctor's yarn to aunt sally somehow or other as soon as i'd got through the breakers that was laying just ahead of me --explanations, i mean, of how i forgot to mention about sid being shot when i was telling how him and me put in that dratted night paddling around hunting the runaway nigger. but i had plenty time. aunt sally she stuck to the sick-room all day and all night, and every time i see uncle silas mooning around i dodged him. next morning i heard tom was a good deal better, and they said aunt sally was gone to get a nap. so i slips to the sick-room, and if i found him awake i reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family that would wash. but he was sleeping, and sleeping very peaceful, too; and pale, not fire-faced the way he was when he come. so i set down and laid for him to wake. in about half an hour aunt sally comes gliding in, and there i was, up a stump again! she motioned me to be still, and set down by me, and begun to whisper, and said we could all be joyful now, because all the symptoms was first-rate, and he'd been sleeping like that for ever so long, and looking better and peacefuller all the time, and ten to one he'd wake up in his right mind. so we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a bit, and opened his eyes very natural, and takes a look, and says: "hello!--why, i'm at home! how's that? where's the raft?" "it's all right," i says. "and jim?" "the same," i says, but couldn't say it pretty brash. but he never noticed, but says: "good! splendid! now we're all right and safe! did you tell aunty?" i was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says: "about what, sid?" "why, about the way the whole thing was done." "what whole thing?" "why, the whole thing. there ain't but one; how we set the runaway nigger free--me and tom." "good land! set the run--what is the child talking about! dear, dear, out of his head again!" "no, i ain't out of my head; i know all what i'm talking about. we did set him free--me and tom. we laid out to do it, and we done it. and we done it elegant, too." he'd got a start, and she never checked him up, just set and stared and stared, and let him clip along, and i see it warn't no use for me to put in. "why, aunty, it cost us a power of work --weeks of it--hours and hours, every night, whilst you was all asleep. and we had to steal candles, and the sheet, and the shirt, and your dress, and spoons, and tin plates, and case-knives, and the warming-pan, and the grindstone, and flour, and just no end of things, and you can't think what work it was to make the saws, and pens, and inscriptions, and one thing or another, and you can't think half the fun it was. and we had to make up the pictures of coffins and things, and nonnamous letters from the robbers, and get up and down the lightning-rod, and dig the hole into the cabin, and made the rope ladder and send it in cooked up in a pie, and send in spoons and things to work with in your apron pocket--" "mercy sakes!" "--and load up the cabin with rats and snakes and so on, for company for jim; and then you kept tom here so long with the butter in his hat that you come near spiling the whole business, because the men come before we was out of the cabin, and we had to rush, and they heard us and let drive at us, and i got my share, and we dodged out of the path and let them go by, and when the dogs come they warn't interested in us, but went for the most noise, and we got our canoe, and made for the raft, and was all safe, and jim was a free man, and we done it all by ourselves, and wasn't it bully, aunty!" "well, i never heard the likes of it in all my born days! so it was you, you little rapscallions, that's been making all this trouble, and turned everybody's wits clean inside out and scared us all most to death. i've as good a notion as ever i had in my life to take it out o' you this very minute. to think, here i've been, night after night, a--you just get well once, you young scamp, and i lay i'll tan the old harry out o' both o' ye!" but tom, he was so proud and joyful, he just couldn't hold in, and his tongue just went it--she a-chipping in, and spitting fire all along, and both of them going it at once, like a cat convention; and she says: "well, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it now, for mind i tell you if i catch you meddling with him again--" "meddling with who?" tom says, dropping his smile and looking surprised. "with who? why, the runaway nigger, of course. who'd you reckon?" tom looks at me very grave, and says: "tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right? hasn't he got away?" "him?" says aunt sally; "the runaway nigger? 'deed he hasn't. they've got him back, safe and sound, and he's in that cabin again, on bread and water, and loaded down with chains, till he's claimed or sold!" tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and his nostrils opening and shutting like gills, and sings out to me: "they hain't no right to shut him up! shove!--and don't you lose a minute. turn him loose! he ain't no slave; he's as free as any cretur that walks this earth!" "what does the child mean?" "i mean every word i say, aunt sally, and if somebody don't go, i'll go. i've knowed him all his life, and so has tom, there. old miss watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him down the river, and said so; and she set him free in her will." "then what on earth did you want to set him free for, seeing he was already free?" "well, that is a question, i must say; and just like women! why, i wanted the adventure of it; and i'd a waded neck-deep in blood to --goodness alive, aunt polly!" if she warn't standing right there, just inside the door, looking as sweet and contented as an angel half full of pie, i wish i may never! aunt sally jumped for her, and most hugged the head off of her, and cried over her, and i found a good enough place for me under the bed, for it was getting pretty sultry for us, seemed to me. and i peeped out, and in a little while tom's aunt polly shook herself loose and stood there looking across at tom over her spectacles--kind of grinding him into the earth, you know. and then she says: "yes, you better turn y'r head away--i would if i was you, tom." "oh, deary me!" says aunt sally; "is he changed so? why, that ain't tom, it's sid; tom's--tom's--why, where is tom? he was here a minute ago." "you mean where's huck finn--that's what you mean! i reckon i hain't raised such a scamp as my tom all these years not to know him when i see him. that would be a pretty howdy-do. come out from under that bed, huck finn." so i done it. but not feeling brash. aunt sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking persons i ever see --except one, and that was uncle silas, when he come in and they told it all to him. it kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he didn't know nothing at all the rest of the day, and preached a prayer-meeting sermon that night that gave him a rattling ruputation, because the oldest man in the world couldn't a understood it. so tom's aunt polly, she told all about who i was, and what; and i had to up and tell how i was in such a tight place that when mrs. phelps took me for tom sawyer--she chipped in and says, "oh, go on and call me aunt sally, i'm used to it now, and 'tain't no need to change"--that when aunt sally took me for tom sawyer i had to stand it--there warn't no other way, and i knowed he wouldn't mind, because it would be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he'd make an adventure out of it, and be perfectly satisfied. and so it turned out, and he let on to be sid, and made things as soft as he could for me. and his aunt polly she said tom was right about old miss watson setting jim free in her will; and so, sure enough, tom sawyer had gone and took all that trouble and bother to set a free nigger free! and i couldn't ever understand before, until that minute and that talk, how he could help a body set a nigger free with his bringing-up. well, aunt polly she said that when aunt sally wrote to her that tom and sid had come all right and safe, she says to herself: "look at that, now! i might have expected it, letting him go off that way without anybody to watch him. so now i got to go and trapse all the way down the river, eleven hundred mile, and find out what that creetur's up to this time, as long as i couldn't seem to get any answer out of you about it." "why, i never heard nothing from you," says aunt sally. "well, i wonder! why, i wrote you twice to ask you what you could mean by sid being here." "well, i never got 'em, sis." aunt polly she turns around slow and severe, and says: "you, tom!" "well--what?" he says, kind of pettish. "don t you what me, you impudent thing--hand out them letters." "what letters?" "them letters. i be bound, if i have to take a-holt of you i'll--" "they're in the trunk. there, now. and they're just the same as they was when i got them out of the office. i hain't looked into them, i hain't touched them. but i knowed they'd make trouble, and i thought if you warn't in no hurry, i'd--" "well, you do need skinning, there ain't no mistake about it. and i wrote another one to tell you i was coming; and i s'pose he--" "no, it come yesterday; i hain't read it yet, but it's all right, i've got that one." i wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't, but i reckoned maybe it was just as safe to not to. so i never said nothing. chapter the last the first time i catched tom private i asked him what was his idea, time of the evasion?--what it was he'd planned to do if the evasion worked all right and he managed to set a nigger free that was already free before? and he said, what he had planned in his head from the start, if we got jim out all safe, was for us to run him down the river on the raft, and have adventures plumb to the mouth of the river, and then tell him about his being free, and take him back up home on a steamboat, in style, and pay him for his lost time, and write word ahead and get out all the niggers around, and have them waltz him into town with a torchlight procession and a brass-band, and then he would be a hero, and so would we. but i reckoned it was about as well the way it was. we had jim out of the chains in no time, and when aunt polly and uncle silas and aunt sally found out how good he helped the doctor nurse tom, they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up prime, and give him all he wanted to eat, and a good time, and nothing to do. and we had him up to the sick-room, and had a high talk; and tom give jim forty dollars for being prisoner for us so patient, and doing it up so good, and jim was pleased most to death, and busted out, and says: "dah, now, huck, what i tell you?--what i tell you up dah on jackson islan'? i tole you i got a hairy breas', en what's de sign un it; en i tole you i ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich agin; en it's come true; en heah she is! dah, now! doan' talk to me--signs is signs, mine i tell you; en i knowed jis' 's well 'at i 'uz gwineter be rich agin as i's a-stannin' heah dis minute!" and then tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le's all three slide out of here one of these nights and get an outfit, and go for howling adventures amongst the injuns, over in the territory, for a couple of weeks or two; and i says, all right, that suits me, but i ain't got no money for to buy the outfit, and i reckon i couldn't get none from home, because it's likely pap's been back before now, and got it all away from judge thatcher and drunk it up. "no, he hain't," tom says; "it's all there yet--six thousand dollars and more; and your pap hain't ever been back since. hadn't when i come away, anyhow." jim says, kind of solemn: "he ain't a-comin' back no mo', huck." i says: "why, jim?" "nemmine why, huck--but he ain't comin' back no mo." but i kept at him; so at last he says: "doan' you 'member de house dat was float'n down de river, en dey wuz a man in dah, kivered up, en i went in en unkivered him and didn' let you come in? well, den, you kin git yo' money when you wants it, kase dat wuz him." tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a watch-guard for a watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so there ain't nothing more to write about, and i am rotten glad of it, because if i'd a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book i wouldn't a tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more. but i reckon i got to light out for the territory ahead of the rest, because aunt sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and i can't stand it. i been there before. file was produced from images generously made available by the university of florida, the internet archive/children's library) -------------------------------------------------- [illustration: pp. ] -------------------------------------------------- the runaway; or, the adventures of rodney roverton. "he cast his bundle on his back, and went, he knew not whither, nor for what intent; so stole our vagrant from his warm retreat, to rove a prowler, and be deemed a cheat." crabbe. approved by the committee of publication. boston: new england sabbath school union. w. heath, cornhill. -------------------------------------------------- entered according to act of congress, in the year , by william heath, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. stereotyped by hobart & robbins, boston. -------------------------------------------------- introduction. a truthful narrative, not a tale of fiction, is presented in the following chapters to our readers. all that the imagination has contributed to it has been the names of the actors,--true names having been withheld, lest, perhaps, friends might be grieved,--the filling up of the dialogues, in which, while thoughts and sentiments have been remembered, the verbiage that clothed them has been forgotten, and, in a few instances, the grouping together of incidents that actually occurred at wider intervals than here represented, for the sake of the unity of the story. contents. page chapter i. rodney unhappy in a good home chapter ii. revolving and resolving chapter iii. rodney in new york chapter iv. rodney finds a patron chapter v. rodney in philadelphia chapter vi. the punishment begins chapter vii. the watch-house chapter viii. rodney in jail chapter ix. the dungeon chapter x. the hospital chapter xi. the trial chapter xii. conclusion the runaway. chapter i. rodney unhappy in a good home. it was a lovely sabbath morning in may, , when two lads, the elder of whom was about sixteen years old, and the younger about fourteen, were wandering along the banks of a beautiful brook, called the buttermilk creek, in the immediate vicinity of the city of albany, n. y. though there is no poetry in the name of this little stream, there is sweet music made by its rippling waters, as they rush rapidly along the shallow channel, fretting at the rocks that obstruct its course, and racing toward a precipice, down which it plunges, some thirty or forty feet, forming a light, feathery cascade; and then, as if exhausted by the leap, creeping sluggishly its little distance toward the broad hudson. the white spray, churned out by the friction against the air, and flung perpetually upwards, suggested to our sires a name for this miniature niagara; and, without any regard for romance or euphony, they called it buttermilk falls. it was a charming spot, notwithstanding its homely name, before the speculative spirit of progress--stern foe of nature's beauties--had pushed the borders of the city close upon the tiny cataract, hewed down the pines upon its banks, and opened quarries among its rocks. it was before this change had passed over the original wilderness, that the lads whom we have mentioned were strolling, in holy time, upon the banks of the little stream, above the falls. "rodney," said the elder of the boys, "suppose your mother finds out that you have run away from sunday-school, this morning; what will she say to you?" "why, she will be very likely to punish me," said rodney; "but you know i am used to it; and, though decidedly unpleasant, it does not grate on my nerves as it did a year or two ago. van dyke, my teacher, says i am hardened. but i would rather have a stroll here, and a flogging after it, than be shut up in school and church all day to escape it. i wish, will, that mother was like your grandfather, and would let me do as i please on sunday." "now that i am an apprentice," replied will manton, "and shut up in the shop all the week, it would be rather hard to prevent my having a little sport on sunday. i think it is necessary to swallow a little fresh air on sunday, to blow the sawdust out of my throat; and to have a game of ball occasionally, to keep my joints limber, for they get stiff leaning over the work-bench, shoving the jack-plane, and chiseling out mortices all the week." "well, will, i, too, get very sick of work," replied the younger boy. "i do not think i ever shall like it. when i am roused up early in the morning, and go into the shop, and look at the tools, and think that, all day long, i must stand and pull leather strands, while other boys can go free, and take their sport, and swim, or fish, or hunt, or play, just as they please, it makes me feel like running away. now, here am i, a little more than fourteen years old; and must i spend seven years in a dirty shop, with the prospect of hard work all my life? it makes my heart sick to think of it." the boys threw themselves upon the ground, under the shade of a large pine, and, reclining against its trunk, remained some minutes without uttering a word. at length, william manton, whose thoughts had evidently been running in the channel opened by the last remarks of rodney, said, "i have often thought of it." "thought of what, will?" "of running away." "where could you go? what could you do? how could you live?" were the quick, eager inquiries of rodney. "three questions at once is worse than the catechism," was the laughing response; "but, though i never learned the answers out of a book, yet i have them by heart. i will tell you what i have thought about the matter. you know captain ryan?--he was in our shop last week, and was telling how he came to be a sailor. he said that his uncle, with whom he lived when he was a boy, promised him a beating, one day, for some mischief he had done; and, as he had often felt before that his lashes were not light, he ran off, went on board a ship as a cabin-boy, learned to handle sails and ropes, and, after five or six voyages, was made mate of a ship; and now he is a captain. i have been thinking about it ever since. now, if i could get a place in a ship, i would go in a minute. i am sure travelling over the world must be pleasanter than spending a life in one place; and pulling a rope is easier work than pushing a plane." rodney sprang up from his reclining posture, looked straight in his companion's face for a moment, and exclaimed, "that would be glorious! how i should like to go to london, to canton, to holland, where the old folks came from,--to travel all over the world! but,"--and he leaned back against the tree again as he spoke,--"but it is of no use to think about it; mother would not consent, and nobody would help me; no ship would take me. i suppose i must pull away at the leather all my life." he spoke bitterly, and leaned his face upon his hands; and, between his fingers, the tears were seen slowly trickling. in truth, he had no taste or inclination for the trade to which he was forced. if the bias of his own mind had been consulted, he might have been contented in some employment adapted to his nature. "bah, rodney, don't be a baby!" was the jeering expostulation of will manton, when he saw the tears; "crying never got a fellow out of a scrape. i believe it is easy enough done. if we could only get off to new york, they say that boys are so much wanted on ships, that the captains take them without asking many questions." "do you think so?" "don't you think it is worth a trial?" "but i should have to leave my mother, and grandmother, and sister, and all." "of course; you would not want to take them with you, would you?" "but i could not tell them i was going. i should have to steal away without their knowledge." "you could write to them when you started." "i might never see them again." "you are as likely to live and come back as captain ryan was." "but they would feel so much hurt, if i should run away." will manton curled his lip into a sneer, and said, scornfully, "why, rodney, i didn't think you was so much of a baby. you are a more faint-hearted chicken than i thought you." "well, will, the thought of it frightens me. i have a good mother and a good grandmother; and, though they make me learn a trade i hate, yet i do not think i should dare to run away." "well, you poor mouse-heart, stay at home, then, and tie yourself to your mamma's apron-strings!" was the reply. "do as you please; but, i tell you,--and i trust the secret to you, and hope you won't _blow_ it,--i have made up my mind to go to sea." "will you run away?" "indeed i will." "when?" "why should i tell you, if you will not go with me?" "well, i want to be off with you, but how can i?" "easy enough. but i will see you to-morrow night, and we will talk it over. it is time to go home." "i must see dick vanderpool, and find out where the text was, so that i can tell the old folks." chapter ii. revolving and resolving. conversations similar to those recorded in the last chapter, were frequently held between the two lads, during the next month. will manton's determination was fixed, and he was making secret preparations to start upon his wild journey. rodney, though equally desirous to escape the restraints of home, could not yet make up his mind to risk the adventure. he regarded his comrade as a sort of young hero; and he wished he had the courage to be like him. one monday morning, in june, as he was returning from his work, he saw will manton's old grandfather standing before the door, looking up and down the street; and he noticed that he seemed very uneasy, and much distressed. when he came opposite the house, on the other side of the street, the old gentleman called him over, and asked him, "rodney, do you know where will is?" the boy's heart beat wildly, and his cheek turned pale; for he at once surmised that his comrade had carried out his purpose. he stammered out, in reply, "i have not seen him since last friday night." "it is very strange," said the old man. "he has not been at home since last sunday, at dinner-time. what has become of him?" will manton was gone! to the anxious inquiries that were made, his friends discovered that he had left albany in the evening boat, on tuesday, for new york. though a messenger was immediately sent after him, no trace of him could be discovered. a few months after, they received a letter from him, written from liverpool, where he had gone in a merchant-ship, as a cabin-boy. his friends were very much grieved and distressed, but hoped that he would soon grow weary of a hard and roving life, and return to his home. there was a romantic interest in all this for young rodney. in his imagination, will manton was a hero. he was scarcely ever out of his thoughts. he would follow him in fancy, bounding over the broad sea, with all the sails of the majestic ship swelling in the favoring breeze, now touching at some island, and looking at the strange dresses and customs of a barbarous people; now meeting a homeward-bound vessel, and exchanging joyful greetings; and now lying to in a calm, and spearing dolphins and harpooning whales. when the storm raged, he almost trembled lest he might be wrecked; but, when it was over, he fancied the noble ship, having weathered the storm, stemming safely the high waves, and careering gracefully on her course. or, if he was wrecked, he imagined that he must be cast upon some shore where the hospitable inhabitants hurried down to the beach to the relief of the crew, bore them safely through the breakers, and pressed upon them the comforts of their homes. his wild imagination followed him to other lands, and roved with him along the streets of european cities, among the ruins of grecian temples, over the gardens of spain and the vineyards of italy, through the pagodas of india, and the narrow streets of calcutta and canton. "o," thought he, "how delightful must be such a life! how pleasant to be roaming amid scenes that are always new! and how wretched to be tied to such a life as i lead, following the same weary round of miserable drudgery every day!" but it was rodney's own fancy that painted this enjoyment of a sailor-boy's life. will manton did not find it so pleasant in reality. there was more menial drudgery to the poor cabin-boy on ship-board, than he had ever known in the carpenter's shop. he was sworn at, and thumped, and kicked, and driven from one thing to another, by the captain, and mates, and steward, and crew, all day long. and many a night, when, weary and sore, he crept to his hard, narrow bunk, he lay and cried himself to sleep, thinking of his kind and pleasant home. when fancy pictures before the restless mind distant and unknown scenes, she divests them of all the rough realities which a nearer view and a tried experience find in them. the mountain-side looks smooth and pleasant from a distance, but we find it rugged and wearisome when we attempt to climb it. one idea had now gained almost sole possession of poor rodney's mind. he must go to sea! he thought of it all day, and dreamed of it at night. he did not dare to speak about it to his mother, for he knew that she would refuse her consent. he must _run away_! he formed a hundred different plans, and was forced to abandon them. now will manton was gone, there was no one with whom he could consult. he was afraid to speak of it, lest it should reach the ears of his mother. alone he nursed his resolution, and formed his plans. he was very unhappy, because he knew that he was purposing wrong. he could not be contented with his employment, and he knew how it would grieve the hearts of those who loved him, if he should persist in his design. yet, when he pictured to himself the freedom from restraint, the pleasure of roaming from place to place over the world, and the thousand exciting scenes and adventures which he should meet by becoming a sailor, he determined, at all hazards, to make the attempt. unhappy boy! he was sowing, for his own reaping, the seeds of a bitter harvest of wretchedness and remorse. chapter iii. rodney in new york. on a beautiful sabbath morning in july, rodney stood in the hall of the old dutch house in which successive generations of the family had been born, and paused to look the last farewell, he dare not speak, upon those who loved him, and whom, notwithstanding his waywardness, he also loved. there sat his pious and venerable grandmother, with the little round stand before her, upon which lay the old family bible, over which she was intently bending, reading and commenting to herself, as was her custom, in half-audible tones. he had often stood behind her, and listened, unobserved, as she read verse after verse, and paused after each, to testify of its truth, or piously apply it to herself and others. and now he thought that, in all probability, he would never see her again, and he half repented his determination. but his preparations were all made, and he could not now hesitate, lest his purpose should be discovered. he looked at his mother, as she was arranging the dress of a younger and only brother, for the sabbath-school. as she leaned over him, and smoothed down the collar she had just fastened round his neck, rodney, with heart and eye, bade farewell to both. he stood and gazed for a moment upon his only sister, who sat with her baby in her arms, answering the little laughing prattler in a language that sounded like its own, and which certainly none but the two could understand. some might doubt whether they understood it themselves; but they both seemed highly interested and delighted by the conversation. that dear sister, amiable and loving, is long since dead. she greeted death with a cheerful welcome, for the messenger released her from a life of domestic unhappiness, and introduced her into that blessed heaven "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." and that prattling infant has become, in his turn, a runaway sailor-boy, flying from an unhappy home to a more wretched destiny, of whose wanderings or existence nothing has been heard for many years. it was one hasty, intense glance which rodney cast over these groups, and each beloved figure, as it then appeared, was fixed in his memory forever. he has never forgotten--_he never can forget_--that moment, or the emotions that thrilled his heart as he turned away from them. he had hidden a little trunk, containing his clothing, in the stable, and thither he hastened; and, throwing his trunk upon his shoulder, he stole out of the back gate, and took his course through bye streets to the dock, where he went on board a steamboat, and in half an hour was sailing down the hudson towards new york. he had no money with which to pay his passage. he had left home without a single sixpence. when the captain came to collect the passengers' fare, he told him a wicked, premeditated lie. he said that, in taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he had accidentally drawn out his pocket-book with it, and that it had fallen overboard. thus one sin prepares the way to the commission of another. he offered to leave his trunk in pledge for the payment of the passage; and the captain, after finding it full of clothing, ordered it to be locked up until the money was paid. rodney expected to be able to get a situation in some ship immediately, and to receive a part of his wages in advance, with which he could redeem his clothing. he slept on board the steamboat, and on monday morning started in search of a ship that would take him. he wandered along the wharves, and at first was afraid to speak to any one, lest he should be questioned and sent home. at last he made up his mind to ask a sailor, whom he saw sauntering on the dock, if he knew where he could get a place on board a ship. the sailor looked at him a moment, turned his huge tobacco quid over in his mouth, hitched up his trowsers, and said: "why, you young runaway, do you want to go to sea? what can such a chap as you do on a ship? go home, and stick by your mammy for five years more, and then you'll have no trouble in shipping." rodney was a good deal frightened at such a reply, and walked on for some time, not venturing to ask again. toward noon he went on board a large vessel, and seeing a man, whom he took for the captain of the ship, asked him if he could give him a place. "no, my boy," he replied; "we don't sail for three weeks, and we never ship a crew before the time." all day he wandered about the wharves, and to all his questions received repelling replies, mingled oftentimes with oaths, jeers, and insults. no one seemed to feel the least interest for him. chapter iv. rodney finds a patron. late in the afternoon rodney strolled up the east river wharves. he was hungry, for he had eaten nothing all day. he was very sad, and sat down on a cotton bale, and cried. in what a position had a single day placed him! he had no place where he could lay his head for the night, no bread to eat, and he knew nobody whom he dared to ask for a meal; and so, with a sorrowful heart, he sat down and wept. he buried his face in his hands, and for a long time sat there motionless. he did not know that a man was standing before him, watching him, until he was startled by a voice: "why, my boy, what is the matter with you?" he looked up, and saw a tall man in a sailor's dress standing near him. "i want to get a place on a ship, sir, to go to sea," replied rodney; "i can't find any place, and i have no money and no friends here." the man sat down beside him, and asked him, "where are your friends?" "in albany, sir." "what did you leave them for?" "because i wanted to go to sea." they talked some time together, and rodney told him truly all about himself and his friends. the man seemed to pity him, and told him that he was a sailor, and had lately been discharged from a united states vessel, where he had served as a marine,--that he had spent almost all his money, and was looking for another ship. he told rodney to go with him, and he would try what could be done for him. they went into a sailors' boarding-house, and got something to eat. then the man,--who said his name was bill seegor, and that he must call him bill, and not mister, nor sir,--took him with himself into a ball-room. here he saw a great many sailors and bad women, who danced together, and laughed, and shouted, and cursed, and drank, until long past midnight. rodney had never witnessed _such_ a scene. he had never heard such filthy and blasphemous language, nor seen such indecent behavior. "come, my lad," said a bluff sailor to him; "if you mean to be a man, you must learn to toss off your glass. your white face don't look as if you ever tasted anything stronger than tea. here is a glass of grog,--down with it!" and rodney, who wanted to be a man, drank it with a swaggering air, though it scorched his throat; and then another, until he became very sick;--and the last he remembered was, that the sailors and the women all seemed to be swearing and fighting together. the next morning he was awaked by bill seegor, and found himself in a garret, on a miserable bed, with all his clothes on. how he had ever got there he could not tell. his head ached, and his limbs were stiff and pained him when he moved. his throat was parched and burning, and he felt so wretchedly, that, if he had dared, he would have begged permission to stay there on the bed. but bill told him that it was time to start and look up a ship, for he had only money enough to last another day. after breakfast they started, and inquired at every place which bill knew, but without success; no men or boys were wanted. in the afternoon, rodney was terribly frightened at seeing his brother-in-law walking along the wharves. he knew in a moment that he had come to new york to search for him; and he darted round a corner into an alley, and hid himself behind some barrels, till he had passed by. he afterwards learned that his brother-in-law had been looking for him all day, and that he had found and taken his trunk, and had been several times at places which he had just left. o! if he had then abandoned his foolish and wicked course, and gone home with his brother, how much misery he would have escaped! but he contrived to keep out of his way. that evening bill said to him, as they were eating their supper in a cellar-- "rodney, to-morrow morning we must start for philadelphia." "but how shall we get there?" "we shall have to tramp it." "how far is it?" "about a hundred miles." "how long will it take?" "four or five days." "but how shall we get anything to eat, or any place to sleep on the road?" "tell a good story to the farmers, and sleep on the hay-mows." rodney began to find out that "_the way of the transgressor is hard_." that night they went to the theatre. bill had given rodney a dirk, which he carried in his bosom. they went up into the third tier of boxes, which was filled with the most wicked and debased men and women. while the rest were laughing, and talking, and cursing, rodney sat down on the front seat to see the play; but they made so much confusion behind him that he could not hear, so he turned round, and said, rather angrily: "i wish you wouldn't make so much noise." "who are you talking to?" shouted a rough, bully-looking man behind him, with a terrible oath; "i'll pitch you into the pit, if you open your head again." he rushed towards him, but, quick as thought, rodney snatched the dirk from his breast, drew his arm back over his head, and told the bully to keep off. the man stopped, and in an instant the whole theatre was in confusion. the play on the stage ceased; and there, in full view, leaning over the front of the box, stood the boy, with the weapon in his hand, gleaming in the eyes of the whole audience. bill seegor rushed to him, pulled him back toward the lobby, and took the dagger from his hand. the bully then aimed a tremendous blow at the boy's face, which fortunately was warded off by one of the women. just then a police-officer came up, and, taking rodney by the collar, led him down stairs. half a dozen men, who were bill's friends, followed; and when they got into the street, they dashed against the officer, and broke his hold, when bill caught rodney by the arm and told him to run. they turned quickly through several streets, and escaped pursuit. do you think that rodney was happy amid such scenes? ah! no; he was alarmed at himself. he felt degraded and guilty; he felt that he was taking sudden and rapid strides in the path of debasement and vice. he thought of his home and its sweet influences. he knew how deep would be the grief of those who loved him, should they hear of his course. his conscience condemned him, and he thought of what he was becoming with horror. but he seemed to be drawn on by his wild desires, and felt scarcely a disposition to escape the meshes of the net that was winding around him. the sailors praised him, and patted him on the back; told him that he was a brave fellow,--that he was beginning right, and that there was good stuff in him. and rodney laughed, tickled by such praises, and drank what they offered, and tried to stifle his conscience and harden himself in sin. yet often, when he was alone, did he shrink from himself, and writhe under the lashings of conscience; and the remembrance of home, and thoughts of his conduct, rendered him very wretched. chapter v. rodney in philadelphia. young rodney was prepared for an early start on the following morning; and, in company with bill seegor, he crossed the ferry to jersey city just as the sun rose, and together they commenced their journey to philadelphia. they were soon beyond the pavements of the town, and in the open country. it was a lovely morning, and the bright summer developed its beauties, and dispensed its fragrance along their path. the birds sang sweetly, and darted on swift wing around them. the cattle roamed lazily over the fields, and the busy farmers were everywhere industriously toiling. all nature seemed joyously reflecting the serene smile of a benevolent god. even the wicked hearts of the wanderers seemed lightened by the influence of the glorious morning, and cheerily, with many a jocund song and homely jest, they pressed on their way. even guilt can sometimes forget its baseness, and enjoy the bounties of the kind creator, for which it expresses no thankfulness and feels no gratitude. at noon they stopped at a farmer's house, and bill told the honest old man that they belonged to a ship which had sailed round to philadelphia; that it had left new york unexpectedly, without their knowledge, and taken their chests and clothes which had been placed on board; and that, being without money, they were compelled to walk across to philadelphia to meet it. the farmer believed the falsehood, and charitably gave them a good dinner. they walked on till after sunset, and then crossed over a field, and climbed up into a rack filled with hay, where they slept all night. in the morning they started forward very hungry, for they had eaten nothing, since the noon before, except a few green apples. they stopped at the first farm-house on the road, and, by telling the same falsehood that had procured them a meal the day before, excited the pity of the farmer and obtained a good breakfast. thus did they go on, lying and begging their way along. on the third day there were heavy showers, accompanied by fierce lightnings and crashing thunders. they were as thoroughly soaked as if they had been thrown into the river, and at night had to sleep on a haystack, in the open field, in their wet clothes. rodney's feet, too, had become very sore, and he walked in great and constant pain. in the afternoon of the fourth day they stopped on the banks of the delaware, five or six miles from philadelphia, to wash their clothes, which had become filthy in travelling through the dust and mud. as they had no clothing but what they wore, there was nothing else to be done but to strip, wash out their soiled garments, and lay them out on the bank to dry, while they swam about the river, or waited on the shore, with what patience they could summon. a little after sunset they reached the suburbs of the great city; and now the sore feet and wearied limbs of the boy could scarcely sustain him over the hard pavements. yet bill urged him onward with many an impatient oath, on past the ship-yards of kensington,--on, past the factories, and markets, and farmers' taverns, and shops of the northern liberties,--on, through the crowded thoroughfares, and by the brilliant stores of the city,--on, into the most degraded section of southwark, in plumb-street, where bill said a friend of his lived. this friend was an abandoned woman, who lived in a miserable frame cabin, crowded with wicked and degraded wretches, who seemed the well-known and fitting companions of rodney's patron. the woman for whom he inquired was at a dance in the neighborhood, and there bill took the boy in search of her. they went up a dark alley, and were admitted into a large room filled with men and women, black and white, the dregs and outcasts of society. a few dripping candles, placed in tin sconces along the bare walls, threw a dim and sickly glare over the motley throng. a couple of negro men, sitting on barrels at the head of the room, were drawing discordant notes from a pair of cracked, patched, and greasy fiddles. and there were men, whose red and bloated faces gave faithful witness of their habitual intemperance; and men, whose threadbare and ragged garments betokened sloth and poverty; and men, whose vulgar and ostentatious display of showy clothing, and gaudy chains, and rings and breast-pins, which they did not know how to wear, indicated dishonest pursuits; and men, whose blue jackets and bluff, brown faces showed them to be sailors; and men, whose scowling brows and fiendlike countenances marked them as villains of the blackest and lowest type. and there were women, too, some old--at least, they looked so--and haggard; some young, but with wretched-looking faces, and dressed in tawdry garments, yet generally faded, some torn and some patched, and all seeming to be brought from the pawnbroker's dusty shop for the occasion. in a little filthy side-room was a bar covered with bottles and glasses, behind which stood a large, red-faced man, with a big nose, and little ferret, fiery eyes, now grinning like a satyr, now scowling like a demon, dealing out burning liquors to his miserable customers. a man fell beastly drunk from a bench upon the floor. "take him up stairs," said the man at the bar. rodney followed the two men who carried him up, and looked into the sleeping apartment. the floor was covered with dirty straw, where lodgers were accommodated for three cents a night. here the poor wretches were huddled together every night, to get what sleep they could in the only home they had on earth. thus does vice humble, and degrade, and scourge those who are taken in its toils. from the threshold of the house of guilty pleasure there may issue the song and laugh of boisterous mirth; but those who enter within shall find disgrace and infamy, woe and death. chapter vi. the punishment begins. bill seegor found the woman he sought, and soon they returned to her house. here the bottle was brought out and passed round; and, after much blasphemous and ribaldrous conversation, a straw bed was made up on the floor, and rodney laid down. before he went to sleep, he heard bill tell the woman that he was entirely out of money, and beg her to lend him five dollars for a few days. after some hesitation she consented, and drew out from under the bed an old trunk, which she unlocked, and from which she took five dollars in silver and gave it to him. bill, looking over her shoulder, saw that she took it from a little pile of silver that lay in the corner of the trunk. for a long time rodney could not sleep. the scenes of the last eventful week were vividly recalled to his mind, and, in spite of his fatigue, kept him awake. he tried to make himself believe that it was a glorious life he had begun to lead,--that now he was free from restraint, and entering upon the flowery paths of independence and enjoyment. though he had met with some difficulties at the start, he thought that they were now nearly passed, and that soon he should be upon the blue water, and in foreign countries, a happy sailor boy. but conscience would interpose its reproaches and warnings, and remind him of the horrible company into which he had been cast,--of the scenes of sin which he had witnessed, and in which he had participated; and he could not but shudder when he thought of the probable termination of such a life. but he felt that, having forsaken his home,--and he was not even yet sorry that he had done so,--he was now in the current, and that there was no way of reaching the shore, even had he been disposed to try; and that he must continue to float along the stream, leaving his destination to be determined by circumstances. it is very easy to find the paths of sin. it is easy, and, for a season, may seem pleasant, to travel in them. the entrance is inviting, the way is broad, companions are numerous and gay. but when the disappointed and alarmed traveller, terrified at the thought of its termination, seeks to escape, and hunts for the narrow path of virtue, he finds obstacles and entanglements which he cannot climb over nor break. it requires an omnipotent arm to help him then. rodney fell asleep. how long he had slept he knew not; but he was awakened by a violent shaking and by terrible oaths. the side-door leading into the yard was open, and three or four wretched-looking women were scolding and swearing angrily about him. he was confused, bewildered, but soon perceived that something unusual had happened; and he became very much frightened as he at last learned the truth from the excited women. bill seegor was gone. he had got up quietly when all were asleep, and, drawing the woman's trunk from under her bed, had carried it out into the yard, pried open the lock, stolen the money, and escaped. the woman was in a terrible passion, and her raving curses were fearful to hear. rodney pitied her, though she cursed him. he was indignant at his companion's rascality, and offered to go with her and try to find him. it was two o'clock in the morning. he looked round for his hat, collar, and handkerchief; but they were gone. the thief had taken them with him. taking bill's old hat, he went out with the woman, and looked into the oyster-cellars and grog-shops, some of which they found still open; but they could find no trace of bill seegor. the woman met a watchman, and made inquiries, and told him of the robbery. "and this boy came with the man last night, did he?" inquired the watchman. "he did," said the woman. "do you know the boy?" "i never saw him before." "well, i guess he knows where he is, or where he can be found to-morrow." rodney protested that he knew nothing about him, that his own hat, collar, and handkerchief had been stolen, and that he had had nothing to do with the robbery. he even told him where he had met with bill, and how he came to be in his company. "all very fine, my lad," said the watchman; "but you must go with me. this must be examined into to-morrow." and he took rodney by the arm, and led him to the watch-house. chapter vii. the watch-house. for poor rodney there was no more sleep that night, even had they placed him on a bed of roses. but they locked him up in a little square room, with an iron-barred window, into which a dim light struggled from a lamp hung outside in the entry, showing a wooden bench, fastened against the wall. there were four men in the room. one, whose clothes looked fine and fashionable, but all covered with dirt, lay on the floor. a hat, that seemed new, but crushed out of all shape, was under his head for a pillow. his face was bruised and bloody. he was entirely stupefied, and rodney saw at a glance that he was intoxicated. on the bench, stretched out at full length, was a short, stout negro, fast asleep. on another part of the bench lay a white man, who seemed about fifty years old, with a sneering, malicious face, and wrapped up in a shaggy black coat. the remaining occupant of the cell sat in one corner, with his head down on his knees, and his hat slouched over his face. rodney stood for a few moments in the middle of the cell, and, in sickening dismay, looked round him. here he was with felons and rioters, locked up in a dungeon! true, he had committed no crime against the law; but yet he felt that he deserved it all; and the hot tears rolled from his eyes as he thought of his mother and his home. hearing his sobs, the man in the corner raised his head, looked at him for a moment, and said: "why, you blubbering boy, what have you been about? are you the pal of these cracksmen, or have you been on a lay on your own hook?" rodney did not know what he meant, and he said so. "i mean," said the man, in the same low, thieves' jargon, "have you been helping these fellows crack a crib?" "doing what?" said rodney. "breaking into a house, you dumb-head." [illustration] the boy shuddered at the thought of being taken for an accomplice of house-breakers; and told him he knew nothing about them. he had read that boys are sometimes employed by house-breakers to climb in through windows or broken pannels, to open the door on the inside; and now he was thought to be such a one himself. it was a dismal night for him. early in the morning the prisoners were all taken before a magistrate. the drunkard, who claimed to be a gentleman, and who had been taken to the watch-house for assaulting the barkeeper of a tavern, was fined five dollars, and dismissed. the negro and the old white man had been caught in the attempt to break into a house, and were sent to prison, to await their trial for burglary; and the other white man was also sent to prison, until he could be tried, for stealing a pocket-book in an auction store. rodney was then called forward. the watchman told how and why he had taken him; and the boy was asked to give an account of himself. he told his story truthfully and tearfully, while the magistrate looked coldly at him. "a very good story," said the magistrate; "it seems to be well studied. i suspect you are an artful fellow, notwithstanding your innocent face. i shall bind you over for trial, my lad. i think such boys as you should be stopped in time; and a few years in some penitentiary would do you good." what could rodney say? what could he do? he was among strangers. he could send for no one to testify of his good character, or to become bail for him. and, if his friends had been near, he felt that he had rather die than that they should know of his disgrace. the magistrate gave an officer a paper--a commitment--and told him to take the boy to the arch-street jail. the constable took him by the arm, and led him out. as they walked along the street, rodney looked around him to see if there was no way of escape. if he could only get a chance to run! as they came to the corner of a little alley, he asked the constable to let him tie his shoe, the string of which was loose. the man nodded, and rodney placed his foot upon a door-step, sheering round beyond the reach of the officer's hand, and towards the alley. rodney, as he rose, made one spring, and in a moment was gone down the alley. the officer rushed after him, and shouted, "stop thief! stop thief!" "o, that i should ever be chased for a thief!" groaned rodney, clenching his teeth together, and running at his best speed. that terrible cry, "_stop thief!_" rung after him, and soon seemed to be echoed by a hundred voices, as the boy dashed along ninth street and down market street; and, from behind him, and from doors and windows, and from the opposite side of the street, and at length from before him, the very welkin rung with the cries of "stop thief! stop thief!" a hundred eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of the culprit; but rodney dashed on, the crowd never thinking that _he_ was the hunted fox, but only one of the hounds in pursuit, eager to be "in at the death." at the corner of fifth and market-streets, a porter was standing by his wheelbarrow. he saw the chase coming down, and truly scented the victim; and, as rodney neared the corner, he suddenly pushed out his barrow across the pavement. rodney could not avoid it; he stumbled, fell across it, and was captured. "you young scoundrel! is this one of your tricks?" said the constable, as he came up; "i'll teach you one of mine;" and he struck him a blow on the side of the head, that knocked the poor boy senseless on the pavement. those who stood by cried, "shame! shame!" and the officer glared furiously around him; but, seeing that the numbers were against him, he raised the boy from the ground. rodney soon recovered; and the constable, grasping him firmly by the wrist of his coat, and, drawing his arm tightly under his own, led him, followed by a crowd of hooting boys, up fifth, and through arch-street, toward the old jail. what a walk was that to poor rodney! the officer, stern and angry, held him with so firm a grip as to convince him of the uselessness of a second attempt. fatigued, and nearly fainting as he was from the race and the blow, he was compelled almost to run, to keep up with the long strides of the constable. a crowd of boys pressed around, to get a glimpse of his face. "what has he done?" one would ask of another. "broke open a trunk, and stole money," would be the reply. rodney pulled bill seegor's old hat over his face, and hung his head, in bitter anguish of soul, as he heard himself denounced as a thief at every step; and as he heard doors dashed open, and windows thrown up, similar questions and replies smote his heart. he knew that he was innocent of such a crime; his soul scorned it; he felt that he was incapable of theft; but he felt that he had been too guilty, too disobedient and too ungrateful, to dare to hold up his head, or utter a word in his own defence. it seemed as though that long and terrible walk with the constable would never end, and he felt relieved when he reached the heavy door of the jail, amid two files of staring boys, who had ran before him, and arranged themselves by the gate, to watch him as he entered. he was rudely thrust in, the bolt shot back upon the closed door, and he was delivered over to the keeping of the jailer, with the assurance of the policeman, that "he was a sharp miscreant, and needed to be watched." chapter viii. rodney in jail. such are the rewards which sin gives to its votaries; full of soft words and tempting promises in the beginning, they find, in the end, that "it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder." thoughts like these passed through rodney's mind, as the jailer led him to a room in which were confined three other lads, all older than himself. at that time, the system of solitary confinement had not been adopted in pennsylvania, and prisoners were allowed to associate together; but it was deemed best to keep the boys from associating with older and more hardened culprits, whose conversation might still more corrupt them, and they were therefore confined together, apart from the mass of the criminals. at first rodney suffered the most intense anguish. a sense of shame and degradation overwhelmed him. he staggered to a corner of the room, threw himself on the floor, and, for a long time, sobbed and wept as though his very heart would break. for a while the boys seemed to respect his grief, and left him in silence. at last one of them went to him, and said, "come, there's no use in this; we are all here together, and we may as well make the best of it!" rodney sat up, and looked at them, as they gathered around him. they were ragged in dress, and pale from their confinement, and rodney involuntarily shrank from the idea of associating with them, regarding them as criminals in jail. but he soon remembered his own position,--that he was now one of them,--and he thought he would take their advice, and "make the best of it." "well, what did they squeeze you into this jug for, my covey?" asked the eldest boy. rodney told them his story, and protested that he was innocent of any crime. the boy put his thumb to the end of his nose, and twirled his fingers, saying, "you can't gammon us, my buck; come, out with it, for we never _peach_ on one another." rodney was very angry at this mode of treating his story. but, in spite of himself, he gradually became familiar with the companions thus forced upon him, and, in a day or two, began to engage with them in their various sports, to while away the weary hours. sometimes they sat and told stories, to amuse one another; and thus rodney heard tales of wickedness and depredation and cunning, that almost led him to doubt whether there was any honesty among men. they talked of celebrated thieves and robbers, burglars and pirates, as if they were the models by which they meant to mould their own lives; and, instead of detesting their crimes, rodney began to admire the skill and success with which they were perpetrated. the excitement and freedom, and wild, frenzied enjoyment of such a life, as depicted by the young knaves, began to fascinate and charm his mind. something seemed to whisper in his ear, "as you are now disgraced, without any fault of your own, why not carry it out, and make the most of it? they have put you into jail, this time, for nothing; if they ever do it again, let them have some reason for it." who knows what might have been the result of such temptations and influences, had these associations been long continued, and not counteracted by the interposition of god? but then the instructions of childhood, the lessons of home and of the sabbath-school, were brought back to his memory, and he said to himself, "what, be a thief! make myself despised and hated by all good people! live a life of wickedness and dread,--perhaps die in the penitentiary, and then, in all probability, lose my soul, and be cast into hell! no, never! i shall never dare to steal, or to break into houses; and as for killing anybody for money, i shudder even at the thought!" so did the bad and the good struggle together in the heart of the poor boy. how many there are who, at the first, feel and think about crime as he did, but who, in the end, become familiar with vice, lose their sense of fear and shame and guilt, become bold and reckless in sin, having their consciences seared as with a hot iron, and violating all laws, human and divine, without compunction, and without a thought save that of impunity and success! all the elements of a life of crime were in the heart of this wayward boy; and had it not been for the instructions of his childhood, which counteracted these evil influences, and the providence and grace of god, which restrained him, he would have become a miserable outcast from society, leading a wretched life of shame and guilt. "i wish we had a pack of cards here," said one of the boys, one weary afternoon. "can't we make a pack?" inquired another. and then the lads set their wits to work, and soon manufactured a substitute for a pack of cards. they had a couple of old newspapers, which they folded and cut into small, regular pieces, and marked each piece with the spots that are found on playing cards, making rude shapes of faces, and writing "_jack_," "_king_," "_knave_," &c., under them. with these, they used to spend hours shuffling and dealing and playing, until rodney understood the pernicious game as well as the rest. "joe," said rodney, one day, to the oldest boy, "what did they put you in here for?" "well," said he, "i'll tell you. sam and i run with the moyamensing hose company. many a jolly time we have had of it, running to fires, and many a good drink of liquor we have had, too; for when the people about the fires treated the firemen, we boys used to come in for our share of the treat. there was a standing quarrel between us and the 'franklin' boys, and we used to have a fight whenever we could get at them. i heard one of the men say, one day, that if there was only a fire down twelfth or thirteenth-street, and the 'franklin' should come up in that direction, we could get them foul, and give them a good drubbing. well, there _was_ a fire down twelfth-street the next night! i don't mean to say who kindled it; but a watchman saw sam and me about the stable, and then running away from it as fast as we could. the fellow marked us, and as we were going back to the fire with the machine, he nabbed us, and walked us off to the watch-house, and the next day we were stuck into this hole." "but _did_ you set fire to the stable?" "what would you give to know? i make no confessions; and if you ever tell out of doors what i have said here, i'll knock your teeth down your throat, if i ever catch you." these two boys had actually been guilty of the dreadful crime of setting fire to a stable. it was used by two or three poor men for their horses and carts, which was the only means they had of making an honest living; and yet these wicked boys had tried to burn it down, just for the fun of going to a fire, and getting up a fight! there are other boys, in large cities, who will commit similar acts; but such young villains are ripe for almost any crime, and must, in all human probability, come to some dreadful end. "hank," said rodney to another boy,--his real name was henry, but hank was his prison name,--"tell us now what you have done." "i'll tell you nothing about it." "what is your last name, hank?" inquired sam, after a few moments' pause. "johnson," said hank. "ah! i know now what you did. i read it in the paper, just before i came in, and, somehow, i thought you was one of the larks as soon as i clapped eyes on you. "you see, hank and some of his gang, watching about, saw a house in arch-street, and noticed that it was empty. the family, i suppose, had all gone to the country, and it was shut up. so, one sunday afternoon, four of them climbed over the back gate into the yard, pried open a window-shutter, got in, and helped themselves to whatever they could lay their hands on. after dark they sneaked out at the back gate with their plunder. one of them was caught, trying to sell some of the things, and he peached, and they jugged them all. isn't that the fact, hank?" "well, it's no use lying; it was pretty much so." "what became of the other fellows, hank?" "why, their fathers or friends bailed them out, and i have no father, or anybody who cares for me. but"--and he swore a fearful oath--"if ever i catch that white-livered jim hulsey, who was the ringleader in the whole scheme, and got me into the scrape, and then blowed me, to save himself, i'll beat him to a mummy, i will." and _these_ were the companions with whom rodney was compelled to associate! sometimes he shrank from them with loathing; and sometimes he almost envied the hardihood with which they boasted of their crimes. had he remained in their company much longer, who can tell to what an extent he would have been contaminated, and how rapidly prepared for utter moral degradation and eternal ruin? what afterwards became of them, rodney never knew; but they are probably either dead,--god having said, "the wicked shall not live out half their days,"--or else preying upon society by the commission of more dreadful crimes, or perhaps spending long years of life in the penitentiary, confined to hard labor and prison fare. one day, after he had been about two weeks in jail, rodney took the basin in which they had washed, and threw the water out of the window. the grated bars prevented his seeing whether there was any one below. he had often done so before. it had not been forbidden. he did not intend to do any wrong. but it happened that one of the keepers was walking under the window, and the water fell upon his head. he came to the door, in a great rage, and asked who had thrown that water out. rodney at once said that he had done it, but that he did not know that he had done any harm. the man took him roughly by the arm, and, telling him he must come with him, led him through a long corridor to another part of the prison, and thrust him into a small, dark dungeon. chapter ix. the dungeon. the room was very small,--a mere closet,--lighted only by a narrow window over the door, which admitted just light enough from the corridor to enable rodney to see the walls. there was some scribbling on the walls, but there was not light enough, even after his eyes became accustomed to the place, to distinguish a letter. there was neither chair nor bench, not even a blanket, on which to lie. the bare walls and floor were unrelieved by a single article of comfort. here, for four long days and nights, rodney was confined. there was nothing by which he could relieve the dreadful wearisome time. he heard no voice save that of the surly jailer, once a day, bringing him a rough jug of water and half a loaf of black bread. he had no books with which to while away the long, tedious hours, nor was there light enough to read, had there been a whole library in the cell. the first emotions of the boy, when the door was locked upon him, were those of indignation and anger. "why," said he to himself, "am i treated in this way? they are brutes! i have done nothing to deserve this barbarity. i am no felon or thief, that i should be used in this way. i have broken no rule that was made known to me, since i have been in this place. the heartless wretch of a jailer thrust me into this hole, to gratify his own spite. he knows that i couldn't have thrown water on him purposely, for i couldn't see down into the yard. he never told me what i was to do with the dirty water, and there was no other place to throw it. he deserves being shut up in this den himself! o, i wish i had him in my power for a week! i would give him a lesson that he would remember as long as he lived. "was there ever such an unlucky boy as i am? everything goes against me. there is no chance for me to do anything, or to enjoy anything, in this world. i wish i was dead!" a bitter flood of tears burst from him, which seemed, as it were, to quench his anger, and gradually his heart became open to more salutary reflections. "do you not deserve all this?" whispered his conscience. "have you not brought it upon yourself by your own wickedness and disobedience? you had a good home and kind friends; and if you had to work every day, it was no more than all have to do in one form or another. blame yourself, then, for your own idle, reckless disposition, that would not be satisfied with your lot. you are only finding out the truth of the text you have often repeated,--'the way of the transgressor is hard.'" he thought of his home, as he lay upon that hard floor. the forms of his pious old grandmother, and of his mother and sister, all seemed to stand before him, and to look down upon him reproachfully. he remembered now their kindness and good counsel. he groaned in bitterness, "o! this _would_ break their hearts, if they knew it! i have disgraced myself, and i have disgraced them." he had leisure for reflection, and his mind recalled, most painfully, the scenes of the past. he thought of the sabbath-school, of his kind teacher, and of the instructions that had been so affectionately imparted. how much better for him would it have been, had he regarded those instructions! and then he thought of god! he remembered that his _all-seeing eye_ had followed all his wanderings, and noted all his guilt. he had sinned against god, and some of the bitterness of punishment had already overtaken him. the idea that god was angry with him, and that _he_ was visiting his sins with the rod of chastisement, took possession of his soul. now he ceased to blame others for his sufferings, and acknowledged to himself that all was deserved. again he wept, but it was in terror at the thought of god's anger, and in grief that he had sinned so ungratefully against his maker. he tried to pray; but the words of the prayers he had been taught in his childhood did not seem to be appropriate to his present condition. those prayers were associated with days and scenes of comparative innocence and happiness. he now felt guilty and wretched, and felt deeply that other forms of petition were necessary for him. but he could not frame words into a prayer that would soothe and relieve his soul. "god will not hear me," was his bitter thought. "i do not deserve to be heard. o! if god would have mercy upon me, and deliver me from this trouble, i think i would try to serve and obey him as long as i lived." he kneeled down upon the hard floor, and raised his clasped hands and streaming eyes toward heaven; but he could find no utterance for his emotions, save in sobs and tears. prayer would not come in words. again and again he tried to pray, but in vain; he felt that he could not pray; and, almost in despair, he paced the narrow cell, and was ready to believe that god's favor was forever withdrawn from his soul,--that there was no ear to listen, and no arm to save, and that nothing was left for him in the future but a life of misery, a death of shame, and an eternity of woe! on the third morning, he awoke from a troubled sleep, and, as he rose with aching bones from the bare planks, his limbs trembled and tottered beneath him. finding that he could not stand, he sat down in the corner of the dungeon, and leaned against the wall. his head was hot, and his throat parched, and the blood beat in throbs through his veins. a sort of delirious excitement began to creep over him, and his mind was filled with strange reveries. he saw, or fancied he saw, great spiders crawling over the wall, and serpents, lizards, and indescribable reptiles, creeping about on the floor; and he shouted at them, and kicked at them, as they seemed to come near him. soon they were viewed without dread or terror. he laughed at their motions, and thought he should have companions and pets in his loneliness; still he did not wish them to come too near. then there seemed to be other shapes in his cell. his old grandmother sat in one corner, reading, through her familiar spectacles, the well-worn family bible. his sister sat there, playing with her baby, and his mother was singing as she sewed. and he laughed and talked to them, but could get no answer. occasionally he felt a half-consciousness that it was all a delusion,--a mere vision of the brain; and yet their fancied presence made him happy, and he laughed and talked incessantly, as if they heard him, and were wondering at his own strange emotions. and then the gruff voice of the jailer scared away his visions, and roused him for a moment from his reveries. "you are merry, my boy, and you make too much noise," said the keeper. the interruption made his head swim, and he attempted to rise; but he was very weak and faint, and fell back again. he turned to say, "i believe i am sick;" but before the words found utterance, the man had set down his pitcher and bread, and was gone. there was an interval of dreary, blank darkness, and then there were other visions, too wild and strange to describe, and soon the darkness of annihilation settled upon his soul. how long a time elapsed while in this state of insensibility, he could not say; but he was at length half-aroused by voices near him, and he was conscious that some hand was feeling for his pulse, and that men were carrying him out of the dungeon. he afterwards learned that it was the jailer and the physician. chapter x. the hospital. upon a narrow cot, in the hospital apartment of the jail, they laid rodney, and immediately prepared the medicines suited to his case. the medicines were at length administered, and, with a pleasant consciousness of comfort and attention, he fell asleep. when he awoke, it was evening; he was perfectly conscious, and felt better; but it was a long time before he could recall his thoughts, and understand where he was, and how he had come thither. he looked around him, and saw a line of cots on each side of him. about a dozen of them were occupied by sick men. a large case of medicines, placed on a writing-desk, stood at one end of the room. two or three men, who acted as nurses, were sitting near it, talking and laughing together. in another part of the room, by a grated window, looking out upon the pleasant sunset, were two of the convalescent prisoners, pale and thin, conversing softly and sadly. there was not a face he knew,--none that seemed to feel the slightest interest for him; and the wicked scenes of the past two months, and the unhappy circumstances of the present hour, flashed through his mind, and he hid his face in his pillow and wept. he heard steps softly approach his cot, and knew that some one was standing beside him. but he could not stifle his sobs, and he did not dare to look up. "i am glad to see that you are better, though i am sorry to see you so much troubled, my poor boy," said a soft, kind voice. it was long since he had been spoken to in a kind tone, and he only wept the more bitterly, and convulsively pressed his face closer to the pillow. presently he felt an arm passed slowly under the pillow, which wound around his neck, and gently drew his head toward the stranger. "come, come," said the same soft voice, "don't give way to such grief; look up, and talk to me. let me be a friend to you." rodney yielded to the encircling arm, and turned his tearful eyes to the man who spoke to him. he was a tall, slender man, pale from sickness, decently dressed, and with an intelligent, benevolent countenance. he was one of those whom rodney had observed looking out of the window. "what is the matter?" said he; "what has brought you into this horrible place?" the confidence of the boy was easily won. he had felt an inexpressible desire to talk to some one, and now he was ready to lay open his whole heart at the first intimation of sympathy. "i ran away from home," was the frank and truthful reply. "but they do not put boys in jail for running away; you must have done something else." "i was charged with something else; but indeed, indeed, i am innocent!" "that is very possible," said he, with a sigh; "but what did they charge you with doing?" and rodney moved closer to him, and leaned his head upon his breast, and told him all. there was such an evident sincerity, such consistency, such tones of truth in the simple narrative, that he saw he was believed, and the sympathizing words and looks of the listener inspired him with trust, as though he was talking to a well-known friend. for several days, they were constantly together; the stranger waited upon rodney, and gave him his medicine, and helped him from his cot, talked with him, and manifested for him the kindness of a brother. from several conversations, rodney gleaned from him the following history. lewis warren,--so will we call him--(indeed, rodney never knew his true name),--was born and had lived most of his life in a new england village. he was the son of a farmer; a pious man, and deacon of a church, by whose help he received a liberal education. soon after he had graduated at ---- college, he came on to philadelphia, with the expectation of getting into some business. at the hotel where he stopped, he became acquainted with a man of very gentlemanly appearance and address, who said that he, too, was a stranger in the city, and proposed to accompany him to some places of amusement. warren went with him to the theatre, and, on succeeding evenings, to various places of amusement. as they were one evening strolling up chestnut-street, this friend, mr. sharpe, stopped at the well-lighted vestibule of a stately building, that had the air of a private house, although it was thrown open, and proposed that they should go in, and see what was going on there. warren consented, and, after ascending to the second floor, and passing through a hall, they entered a large, brilliantly-lighted billiard saloon. around several tables were gathered gentlemanly-looking men, knocking about little ivory balls, with long, slender wands or cues, and seeming, evidently, engrossed in their respective games. after looking around for a while, sharpe proposed going up stairs into the third story. they ascended to the upper rooms. in the upper passage stood a stout, short negro-man, who glanced at sharpe, stepped one side, and permitted them to pass unquestioned. they entered another smaller room,--for the third story was divided into several rooms,--and found other games than those exhibited below. after walking through some of the rooms, and observing the different games, most of which were new to warren, his companion said to him: "do you understand anything about cards?" "not a great deal; i have occasionally played a game of whist or sledge." "well, that is about the sum of my knowledge. suppose we while away a half-an-hour at one of these vacant tables." warren consented, and they sat down. after playing a game or two, sharpe proposed having a bottle of wine, and, said he, laughingly, "whoever loses the next game, shall pay for it." "agreed," said warren; and the wine was brought, and he won the game. "well, that is your good luck; but i'll bet you the price of another bottle you can't do it again." warren won again. they tried a third, and that sharpe won; a fourth, and warren rose the winner. the next evening found them, somehow, without much talk about it, at the same place. they played with varied success; but when they left, warren had lost ten dollars. he wanted to win it back, and himself proposed the visit for the third night. he became excited by the game, and lost seventy dollars. still his eyes were not open; he did not dream that he was in the hands of a professed gambler, and, hoping to get back what he had lost, and what he felt he really could not spare from his small amount of funds, he went again. "there!" said he, after they had been about an hour at the table, "there is my last fifty-dollar bill; change that, and i'll try once more." "well," said sharpe, "here is the change; but the luck seems against you. we had better stop for to-night." but warren insisted upon continuing, and he won thirty dollars in addition to the fifty which sharpe had changed for him. the gambler then rose, and told him that he would give him a chance to win all back another time, as fortune seemed to be again propitious to him. warren never saw him after that night. the next morning he determined to seek a more private boarding house, and economize his remaining funds, and seek more assiduously some business situation. he stepped to the bar to pay his board, handing the clerk one of the notes he had received in change for his last fifty-dollar bill. the clerk examined it a moment, and passed it back, saying, "that is a counterfeit note, sir." he took it back, amazed, and offered another. "this is worse still," said the clerk. "i think we had better take care of you, sir. you will please go with me before a magistrate." "but i did not know----!" "you can tell that to the squire." "you have no right to take me," said warren; "you have no warrant." "no; but i can keep you here till i send for one, which i shall certainly do, unless you consent to go willingly." and warren, conscious of his own innocence in this respect, and never thinking of the difficulty of proving it, went to a magistrate's office with the clerk at once. the clerk entered his complaint, and, besides swearing to the offer of the notes, swore that he had seen him, for several days past, in the company of a notorious gambler. warren was stunned, overwhelmed, by this declaration. no representation that he made was believed. his pockets were searched, and all the money he had, except some small change, was found to be counterfeit. a commitment was at once made out against him, and he was sent to jail, to await his trial on the charge of passing counterfeit money. this is one of the methods by which professional gamblers "pluck young pigeons." no young man is safe who allows himself to play with cards, or to handle dice. rodney believed that warren had told him the truth, and fellowship in misfortune drew the hearts of the duped man and the wronged boy towards each other; for though both had been very much to blame, yet duped and wronged they had been by knaves more cunning and wicked than themselves. they had many serious conversations together, for both had been piously instructed, and warren, who seemed truly penitent for his wanderings, as he sat by the bed-side of the sick boy, encouraged him in his resolutions to lead a different life,--to seek the forgiveness and grace of god through a merciful redeemer. seldom has a poor prisoner received sweeter sympathy, or more salutary counsel, than was given to rodney within the walls of that old arch-street jail, by his fellow-prisoner. [illustration] "rodney," said warren to him one day,--it was the first day that he had left his cot,--"i shall soon leave this place; i have written to my father, and he will be here at the trial with such evidences in my favor, from the whole course of my life, as cannot fail to secure me an acquittal. i feel no doubt that this stain upon my character will be wiped away. and i believe that i shall have reason to thank god, as long as i live, for having permitted this trouble. it is a very hard lesson, but i trust it will be a salutary one. since i have been here, i have prayed earnestly to god for the pardon of my sins. i have resolved, in sincerity of soul, to consecrate my affections and my life to his service. i have had a severe struggle; but i believe, i _feel_, that god has heard my prayers, forgiven my iniquities, and the last few days in this jail have been the happiest of my life. i feel that i hate the sins of which my heart has been so full, and that i love god even for the severe providences that have checked my course of impenitence. i feel like a new man; and if i am not deceiving myself,--and i pray that i may not be,--i have experienced that regeneration of heart of which i have so often heard, but which i could never before comprehend. "i hope that you, too, will try and seek the saviour, pray to him for forgiveness, and beg the guidance of his holy spirit for your future life. if we both do this sincerely, we shall have reason forever to bless god for the way in which he has led us." "pray for me," said rodney; while tears rolled down his pale cheeks. "i want to be a christian, and i hope that god will have mercy upon me, and guide me, for the future, in the right path." a few days after, warren was called into court to take his trial; and, to rodney's great delight,--for he had learned to love him like a brother,--he heard from one of the nurses that he had been honorably acquitted. during the same week, the case of rodney was called up, and he was conducted by an officer to the court-house. chapter xi. the trial. justice was now to be administered, and rodney was brought into the crowded court-room for trial. the officer led him to the prisoner's narrow dock, an enclosed bench, at each end of which sat a constable, with a long staff in his hand. there were five or six other prisoners sitting in the dock with him. next to him was a woman, her garments ragged, her hair matted, and her face red and bloated. next to her sat a squalid negro, who seemed totally indifferent to the scenes that were passing around him. on the other side of him was a young man, apparently about twenty years old, of thin, spare form, with a red flush at intervals coloring his cheek, and a hollow cough that sounded like an echo from the grave. he was evidently in a deep consumption, and had been already several months in prison. and he leaned his head upon the railing, as though he would hide himself from every eye. he had been tried a few days before, for having been associated with others in a burglary, and found guilty, and he was now present to hear his sentence. after the formal opening of the court, this young man was the first called upon, and, with trembling limbs, he rose to hear the sentence of the judge. after some remarks upon the enormity of his crime, and the clear evidence upon which he had been convicted, the judge sentenced him to five years' imprisonment in the penitentiary. when those words, _five years_, reached him, he dropped back upon the seat, as if struck with a bullet, and then raising his face to the judge, with an expression of profound anguish, said, "half the time would be more than enough, your honor; i shall be in the grave before one year is past." the case of the negro-man was immediately called up, but rodney heard nothing of it. he hid his face in his hands, and wept. a sense of his terrible position flashed upon him, and he could not keep back his tears, or stifle his sobs. he wept aloud, and _felt_, though he might not see, that all eyes were turned upon him. his whole frame shook with the anguish of his soul. presently a hand was laid upon his, and a head was bent over the bar near him, and a voice addressed him kindly: "be calm, my boy; there is no good in crying; who is your counsel?" rodney looked up, and saw a young man, well dressed, and with an affable and winning countenance, standing before him. his face looked kind and benevolent, at least in rodney's eyes, for he had spoken to him gently and encouragingly. he replied to his question, "i have no counsel, sir; i have no money." "well, i will try what i can do for you," said the young lawyer. "come out here, and sit by me, and tell me what you are here for." he led him out of the disgraceful dock, gave him a seat directly in front of the jury, sat down beside him, and asked him to tell him the truth about all the circumstances that led to his imprisonment and trial. rodney told him truly all that happened from the time of his running away to his arrest. he told him, too, who he was, and who were his relatives in the neighborhood of philadelphia. he had never spoken of these before. "well," said the lawyer, "i don't see that they can bring anything out to hurt you, if that is the true statement of the case. and now, my boy, you may cry as much as you wish." rodney looked up, surprised, wondering what on earth he wanted him to cry for. he thought afterwards that the advice was probably given that his weeping might affect the sympathies of the jury, before whose eyes he was sitting. but he could scarcely have shed a tear then if his liberty had depended upon it. he felt as though he had a friend, and his consciousness of innocence of any violation of human law, and his confidence that his new friend could show that he was guiltless, set his perturbed heart at rest, and he felt sure that he should be acquitted. when the court adjourned, the lawyer took out a card, and, giving it to rodney, said, "if your case should be called up before i get here this afternoon, just tell them that i am your counsel, and they will put it off till i come. here is my name." there was but one word on the card, and rodney kept it long as a grateful memento of the disinterested kindness that had been shown him in the hour of his bitter trial. the name on the card was +-----------------------+ | | | watmough.[a] | | | +-----------------------+ [a] this is not a fictitious but the real name of the gentleman whose kindness it commemorates. that young lawyer never knew the gratitude with which his name was remembered for long, long years, and the thrill of emotion which its utterance always excited in the heart of that befriended boy. an act of kindness is never lost, and many a one which the benefactor may have forgotten, has won for him the prayers and blessings of a grateful heart. during the recess, rodney was conducted across independence-square to the old walnut-street prison. he ate his scanty prison dinner that day with a light and hopeful heart; and though he trembled at the idea of the coming trial, yet he did not for a moment doubt that the result must be his acquittal. he believed that the law was framed to punish the guilty, and to do justice to the innocent; and he could scarcely conceive that the guiltless could be made to suffer by its administration. immediately after the opening of the court, in the afternoon, the case was called up. the woman in whose house the robbery was committed, and one other, were witnesses; but not one word was said by either, in any way implicating rodney in the robbery, beyond the fact that he had come to the house in company with the robber. his friend made a very brief speech, demanding his acquittal; the judge said a few words to the jury, who consulted together for a moment, when the foreman arose, and pronounced the happy words, "_not guilty_." and now the tears again rained down the cheeks of rodney, as he came out of the infamous dock,--but they were tears of joy. a few kind questions were asked him by the judge; and a small sum of money, contributed by him and by several of the members of the bar, furnished rodney the means of returning to his friends. chapter xii. conclusion. hastening to the end of our narrative, we pass by several intervening months, and witness again another sabbath morning in may. some twenty miles from the city of philadelphia, a sparkling little brook passes through the meadow of a beautiful farm, losing itself in a thick wood that divides the contiguous estates. on that lovely may morning,--that serene sabbath,--there might have been seen,--there was seen by the omniscient eye,--a lad, some fifteen years old, walking thoughtfully along the margin of that little stream, and penetrating into the thickest part of the wood. he carried a book in his hand, and sat down close by the stream, under the shade of an old beech tree. and as he read, the tears streamed from his eyes, and his sighs indicated a burdened spirit. indeed, his heart was very sad. he was oppressed by the consciousness of the great sinfulness of his life and heart against the holy and benevolent god. he remembered the early instructions he had received at home and in the sabbath-school. he recalled the precious privileges he had enjoyed, and he remembered, with anguish and shame, how wickedly he had disregarded all these instructions, abused all these privileges, and sinned against his own knowledge of right, against his conscience and his god. he had long been burdened with these distressing emotions; he had often prayed, but had found little relief of his anguish, even in prayer. and now, even on this calm and beautiful sabbath morning, there seemed to his heart a gloom in the landscape. there was a smile, he knew, upon the face of nature, but he felt that it beamed not for him. the carol of wild birds rung out sweetly around him; but the music saddened his heart yet more, for there was no inward response of gratitude and joy. the bright green of the spring foliage and of the waving grass seemed dark and gloomy, as he gazed upon it through tearful eyes. his mourning spirit gave its own sombre interpretation to all the lovely scenes of nature. he deeply felt that he was a wretched sinner against god, and he could not see how god could be merciful to one who had so grievously transgressed. he scarcely dared to hope for the pardon of his iniquities, and was in almost utter despair of ever obtaining mercy. the book he had taken with him in his morning walk, was "doddridge's rise and progress of religion in the soul." he read, carefully, the twelfth chapter in that excellent work, entitled, "the invitation to christ of the sinner overwhelmed with a sense of the greatness of his sins." he was convinced that jesus christ was _able_ to save even _him_; and the strong assurances of his _willingness_ to save, "even to the uttermost," furnished in the promises of the gospel, began to dawn upon his mind as he read what seemed like a new revelation to his soul. when he read these words of jesus, "come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest,"--"him that cometh unto me i will in no wise cast out,"--though he had read, or heard them read, a thousand times before, it seemed now as though they had been written expressly for him. there seemed a freshness, a force, a glorious personal adaptation in them which he had never seen before. he turned over the leaves of the book, and the chapter on "self dedication" caught his eye. he read it; and when he came to the prayer with which that chapter closes, he kneeled down, with the book open before him, and solemnly, and with his whole heart, repeated that fervent prayer. it seemed to have been written on purpose to express his emotions and desires. when he had concluded, he closed the book, and remained still upon his knees, and tried, in his own language, to repeat the sentiments of that solemn act of dedication. never was a boy more sincere and earnest than he. how long he prayed he did not know; but when he rose and looked round him, the sun had long passed its meridian, and the shadows of the trees were cast towards the east. there was a delicious, joyful calm in his soul. all doubts of god's willingness to pardon and receive him had gone. a veil seemed to have been removed from the character of god. he thought of god as he had never thought before,--not as a stern and unrelenting judge, but as a forgiving, loving father. he saw, as he had never seen before, how sinners could be adopted as children of god, for the sake of the sufferings and sacrifice of jesus. his spirit was very calm, but o, how happy! he had solemnly given himself to god, pleading the merits of jesus as the reason for his acceptance, and he believed that god had received him, pardoned his transgressions, and accepted him as one of his own children. again and again did he throw himself on the greensward, and pour out his soul in gratitude and in prayer. it was the happiest day his life had ever known. the whole aspect of nature seemed changed in his eyes. the gloomy shroud, that seemed to envelop it in the morning, had passed away. the smile of god seemed reflected from every sunbeam that played upon the green leaves and danced over the distant waving meadow. there was sweet melody now in the songs of the birds, in the rippling of the brook, in the hum of the bees, and in the sighing of the soft breeze. all seemed to sing of the goodness and grace of the adorable creator. "_old_ things had passed away, behold all things had become _new_." that lad was the rodney roverton of this little volume. that change was wrought by the regenerating grace of god. it was the "peace of god, that passeth all understanding," diffused through all his soul. where "sin had abounded, grace did much more abound." rodney roverton yet lives. he has been, for many years, a professed disciple of jesus christ, and an honored and successful minister of the gospel. huckleberry finn by mark twain part . chapter xi. "come in," says the woman, and i did. she says: "take a cheer." i done it. she looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says: "what might your name be?" "sarah williams." "where 'bouts do you live? in this neighborhood?' "no'm. in hookerville, seven mile below. i've walked all the way and i'm all tired out." "hungry, too, i reckon. i'll find you something." "no'm, i ain't hungry. i was so hungry i had to stop two miles below here at a farm; so i ain't hungry no more. it's what makes me so late. my mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and i come to tell my uncle abner moore. he lives at the upper end of the town, she says. i hain't ever been here before. do you know him?" "no; but i don't know everybody yet. i haven't lived here quite two weeks. it's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. you better stay here all night. take off your bonnet." "no," i says; "i'll rest a while, i reckon, and go on. i ain't afeared of the dark." she said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be in by and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him along with me. then she got to talking about her husband, and about her relations up the river, and her relations down the river, and about how much better off they used to was, and how they didn't know but they'd made a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well alone--and so on and so on, till i was afeard i had made a mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then i was pretty willing to let her clatter right along. she told about me and tom sawyer finding the six thousand dollars (only she got it ten) and all about pap and what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot i was, and at last she got down to where i was murdered. i says: "who done it? we've heard considerable about these goings on down in hookerville, but we don't know who 'twas that killed huck finn." "well, i reckon there's a right smart chance of people here that'd like to know who killed him. some think old finn done it himself." "no--is that so?" "most everybody thought it at first. he'll never know how nigh he come to getting lynched. but before night they changed around and judged it was done by a runaway nigger named jim." "why he--" i stopped. i reckoned i better keep still. she run on, and never noticed i had put in at all: "the nigger run off the very night huck finn was killed. so there's a reward out for him--three hundred dollars. and there's a reward out for old finn, too--two hundred dollars. you see, he come to town the morning after the murder, and told about it, and was out with 'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right away after he up and left. before night they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. well, next day they found out the nigger was gone; they found out he hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night the murder was done. so then they put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back comes old finn, and went boo-hooing to judge thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over illinois with. the judge gave him some, and that evening he got drunk, and was around till after midnight with a couple of mighty hard-looking strangers, and then went off with them. well, he hain't come back sence, and they ain't looking for him back till this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think robbers done it, and then he'd get huck's money without having to bother a long time with a lawsuit. people do say he warn't any too good to do it. oh, he's sly, i reckon. if he don't come back for a year he'll be all right. you can't prove anything on him, you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he'll walk in huck's money as easy as nothing." "yes, i reckon so, 'm. i don't see nothing in the way of it. has everybody quit thinking the nigger done it?" "oh, no, not everybody. a good many thinks he done it. but they'll get the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it out of him." "why, are they after him yet?" "well, you're innocent, ain't you! does three hundred dollars lay around every day for people to pick up? some folks think the nigger ain't far from here. i'm one of them--but i hain't talked it around. a few days ago i was talking with an old couple that lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island over yonder that they call jackson's island. don't anybody live there? says i. no, nobody, says they. i didn't say any more, but i done some thinking. i was pretty near certain i'd seen smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so i says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding over there; anyway, says i, it's worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. i hain't seen any smoke sence, so i reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but husband's going over to see --him and another man. he was gone up the river; but he got back to-day, and i told him as soon as he got here two hours ago." i had got so uneasy i couldn't set still. i had to do something with my hands; so i took up a needle off of the table and went to threading it. my hands shook, and i was making a bad job of it. when the woman stopped talking i looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious and smiling a little. i put down the needle and thread, and let on to be interested --and i was, too--and says: "three hundred dollars is a power of money. i wish my mother could get it. is your husband going over there to-night?" "oh, yes. he went up-town with the man i was telling you of, to get a boat and see if they could borrow another gun. they'll go over after midnight." "couldn't they see better if they was to wait till daytime?" "yes. and couldn't the nigger see better, too? after midnight he'll likely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and hunt up his camp fire all the better for the dark, if he's got one." "i didn't think of that." the woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and i didn't feel a bit comfortable. pretty soon she says" "what did you say your name was, honey?" "m--mary williams." somehow it didn't seem to me that i said it was mary before, so i didn't look up--seemed to me i said it was sarah; so i felt sort of cornered, and was afeared maybe i was looking it, too. i wished the woman would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasier i was. but now she says: "honey, i thought you said it was sarah when you first come in?" "oh, yes'm, i did. sarah mary williams. sarah's my first name. some calls me sarah, some calls me mary." "oh, that's the way of it?" "yes'm." i was feeling better then, but i wished i was out of there, anyway. i couldn't look up yet. well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned the place, and so forth and so on, and then i got easy again. she was right about the rats. you'd see one stick his nose out of a hole in the corner every little while. she said she had to have things handy to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her no peace. she showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and said she was a good shot with it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a day or two ago, and didn't know whether she could throw true now. but she watched for a chance, and directly banged away at a rat; but she missed him wide, and said "ouch!" it hurt her arm so. then she told me to try for the next one. i wanted to be getting away before the old man got back, but of course i didn't let on. i got the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose i let drive, and if he'd a stayed where he was he'd a been a tolerable sick rat. she said that was first-rate, and she reckoned i would hive the next one. she went and got the lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she wanted me to help her with. i held up my two hands and she put the hank over them, and went on talking about her and her husband's matters. but she broke off to say: "keep your eye on the rats. you better have the lead in your lap, handy." so she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and i clapped my legs together on it and she went on talking. but only about a minute. then she took off the hank and looked me straight in the face, and very pleasant, and says: "come, now, what's your real name?" "wh--what, mum?" "what's your real name? is it bill, or tom, or bob?--or what is it?" i reckon i shook like a leaf, and i didn't know hardly what to do. but i says: "please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. if i'm in the way here, i'll--" "no, you won't. set down and stay where you are. i ain't going to hurt you, and i ain't going to tell on you, nuther. you just tell me your secret, and trust me. i'll keep it; and, what's more, i'll help you. so'll my old man if you want him to. you see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's all. it ain't anything. there ain't no harm in it. you've been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. bless you, child, i wouldn't tell on you. tell me all about it now, that's a good boy." so i said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and i would just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she musn't go back on her promise. then i told her my father and mother was dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me so bad i couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days, and so i took my chance and stole some of his daughter's old clothes and cleared out, and i had been three nights coming the thirty miles. i traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of bread and meat i carried from home lasted me all the way, and i had a-plenty. i said i believed my uncle abner moore would take care of me, and so that was why i struck out for this town of goshen. "goshen, child? this ain't goshen. this is st. petersburg. goshen's ten mile further up the river. who told you this was goshen?" "why, a man i met at daybreak this morning, just as i was going to turn into the woods for my regular sleep. he told me when the roads forked i must take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to goshen." "he was drunk, i reckon. he told you just exactly wrong." "well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no matter now. i got to be moving along. i'll fetch goshen before daylight." "hold on a minute. i'll put you up a snack to eat. you might want it." so she put me up a snack, and says: "say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her gets up first? answer up prompt now--don't stop to study over it. which end gets up first?" "the hind end, mum." "well, then, a horse?" "the for'rard end, mum." "which side of a tree does the moss grow on?" "north side." "if fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats with their heads pointed the same direction?" "the whole fifteen, mum." "well, i reckon you have lived in the country. i thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again. what's your real name, now?" "george peters, mum." "well, try to remember it, george. don't forget and tell me it's elexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's george elexander when i catch you. and don't go about women in that old calico. you do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe. bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle don't hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it; that's the way a woman most always does, but a man always does t'other way. and when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch yourself up a tiptoe and fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. throw stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it to turn on, like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm out to one side, like a boy. and, mind you, when a girl tries to catch anything in her lap she throws her knees apart; she don't clap them together, the way you did when you catched the lump of lead. why, i spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and i contrived the other things just to make certain. now trot along to your uncle, sarah mary williams george elexander peters, and if you get into trouble you send word to mrs. judith loftus, which is me, and i'll do what i can to get you out of it. keep the river road all the way, and next time you tramp take shoes and socks with you. the river road's a rocky one, and your feet'll be in a condition when you get to goshen, i reckon." i went up the bank about fifty yards, and then i doubled on my tracks and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below the house. i jumped in, and was off in a hurry. i went up-stream far enough to make the head of the island, and then started across. i took off the sun-bonnet, for i didn't want no blinders on then. when i was about the middle i heard the clock begin to strike, so i stops and listens; the sound come faint over the water but clear--eleven. when i struck the head of the island i never waited to blow, though i was most winded, but i shoved right into the timber where my old camp used to be, and started a good fire there on a high and dry spot. then i jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place, a mile and a half below, as hard as i could go. i landed, and slopped through the timber and up the ridge and into the cavern. there jim laid, sound asleep on the ground. i roused him out and says: "git up and hump yourself, jim! there ain't a minute to lose. they're after us!" jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he worked for the next half an hour showed about how he was scared. by that time everything we had in the world was on our raft, and she was ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid. we put out the camp fire at the cavern the first thing, and didn't show a candle outside after that. i took the canoe out from the shore a little piece, and took a look; but if there was a boat around i couldn't see it, for stars and shadows ain't good to see by. then we got out the raft and slipped along down in the shade, past the foot of the island dead still--never saying a word. chapter xii. it must a been close on to one o'clock when we got below the island at last, and the raft did seem to go mighty slow. if a boat was to come along we was going to take to the canoe and break for the illinois shore; and it was well a boat didn't come, for we hadn't ever thought to put the gun in the canoe, or a fishing-line, or anything to eat. we was in ruther too much of a sweat to think of so many things. it warn't good judgment to put everything on the raft. if the men went to the island i just expect they found the camp fire i built, and watched it all night for jim to come. anyways, they stayed away from us, and if my building the fire never fooled them it warn't no fault of mine. i played it as low down on them as i could. when the first streak of day began to show we tied up to a towhead in a big bend on the illinois side, and hacked off cottonwood branches with the hatchet, and covered up the raft with them so she looked like there had been a cave-in in the bank there. a tow-head is a sandbar that has cottonwoods on it as thick as harrow-teeth. we had mountains on the missouri shore and heavy timber on the illinois side, and the channel was down the missouri shore at that place, so we warn't afraid of anybody running across us. we laid there all day, and watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the missouri shore, and up-bound steamboats fight the big river in the middle. i told jim all about the time i had jabbering with that woman; and jim said she was a smart one, and if she was to start after us herself she wouldn't set down and watch a camp fire--no, sir, she'd fetch a dog. well, then, i said, why couldn't she tell her husband to fetch a dog? jim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready to start, and he believed they must a gone up-town to get a dog and so they lost all that time, or else we wouldn't be here on a towhead sixteen or seventeen mile below the village--no, indeedy, we would be in that same old town again. so i said i didn't care what was the reason they didn't get us as long as they didn't. when it was beginning to come on dark we poked our heads out of the cottonwood thicket, and looked up and down and across; nothing in sight; so jim took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and rainy, and to keep the things dry. jim made a floor for the wigwam, and raised it a foot or more above the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the traps was out of reach of steamboat waves. right in the middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it from being seen. we made an extra steering-oar, too, because one of the others might get broke on a snag or something. we fixed up a short forked stick to hang the old lantern on, because we must always light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream, to keep from getting run over; but we wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats unless we see we was in what they call a "crossing"; for the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little under water; so up-bound boats didn't always run the channel, but hunted easy water. this second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current that was making over four mile an hour. we catched fish and talked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. it was kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel like talking loud, and it warn't often that we laughed--only a little kind of a low chuckle. we had mighty good weather as a general thing, and nothing ever happened to us at all--that night, nor the next, nor the next. every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of lights; not a house could you see. the fifth night we passed st. louis, and it was like the whole world lit up. in st. petersburg they used to say there was twenty or thirty thousand people in st. louis, but i never believed it till i see that wonderful spread of lights at two o'clock that still night. there warn't a sound there; everybody was asleep. every night now i used to slip ashore towards ten o'clock at some little village, and buy ten or fifteen cents' worth of meal or bacon or other stuff to eat; and sometimes i lifted a chicken that warn't roosting comfortable, and took him along. pap always said, take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you don't want him yourself you can easy find somebody that does, and a good deed ain't ever forgot. i never see pap when he didn't want the chicken himself, but that is what he used to say, anyway. mornings before daylight i slipped into cornfields and borrowed a watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn, or things of that kind. pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things if you was meaning to pay them back some time; but the widow said it warn't anything but a soft name for stealing, and no decent body would do it. jim said he reckoned the widow was partly right and pap was partly right; so the best way would be for us to pick out two or three things from the list and say we wouldn't borrow them any more--then he reckoned it wouldn't be no harm to borrow the others. so we talked it over all one night, drifting along down the river, trying to make up our minds whether to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or the mushmelons, or what. but towards daylight we got it all settled satisfactory, and concluded to drop crabapples and p'simmons. we warn't feeling just right before that, but it was all comfortable now. i was glad the way it come out, too, because crabapples ain't ever good, and the p'simmons wouldn't be ripe for two or three months yet. we shot a water-fowl now and then that got up too early in the morning or didn't go to bed early enough in the evening. take it all round, we lived pretty high. the fifth night below st. louis we had a big storm after midnight, with a power of thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in a solid sheet. we stayed in the wigwam and let the raft take care of itself. when the lightning glared out we could see a big straight river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. by and by says i, "hel-lo, jim, looky yonder!" it was a steamboat that had killed herself on a rock. we was drifting straight down for her. the lightning showed her very distinct. she was leaning over, with part of her upper deck above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and clear, and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat hanging on the back of it, when the flashes come. well, it being away in the night and stormy, and all so mysterious-like, i felt just the way any other boy would a felt when i see that wreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the river. i wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little, and see what there was there. so i says: "le's land on her, jim." but jim was dead against it at first. he says: "i doan' want to go fool'n 'long er no wrack. we's doin' blame' well, en we better let blame' well alone, as de good book says. like as not dey's a watchman on dat wrack." "watchman your grandmother," i says; "there ain't nothing to watch but the texas and the pilot-house; and do you reckon anybody's going to resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this, when it's likely to break up and wash off down the river any minute?" jim couldn't say nothing to that, so he didn't try. "and besides," i says, "we might borrow something worth having out of the captain's stateroom. seegars, i bet you--and cost five cents apiece, solid cash. steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty dollars a month, and they don't care a cent what a thing costs, you know, long as they want it. stick a candle in your pocket; i can't rest, jim, till we give her a rummaging. do you reckon tom sawyer would ever go by this thing? not for pie, he wouldn't. he'd call it an adventure--that's what he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it was his last act. and wouldn't he throw style into it? --wouldn't he spread himself, nor nothing? why, you'd think it was christopher c'lumbus discovering kingdom-come. i wish tom sawyer was here." jim he grumbled a little, but give in. he said we mustn't talk any more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. the lightning showed us the wreck again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard derrick, and made fast there. the deck was high out here. we went sneaking down the slope of it to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. pretty soon we struck the forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and the next step fetched us in front of the captain's door, which was open, and by jimminy, away down through the texas-hall we see a light! and all in the same second we seem to hear low voices in yonder! jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me to come along. i says, all right, and was going to start for the raft; but just then i heard a voice wail out and say: "oh, please don't, boys; i swear i won't ever tell!" another voice said, pretty loud: "it's a lie, jim turner. you've acted this way before. you always want more'n your share of the truck, and you've always got it, too, because you've swore 't if you didn't you'd tell. but this time you've said it jest one time too many. you're the meanest, treacherousest hound in this country." by this time jim was gone for the raft. i was just a-biling with curiosity; and i says to myself, tom sawyer wouldn't back out now, and so i won't either; i'm a-going to see what's going on here. so i dropped on my hands and knees in the little passage, and crept aft in the dark till there warn't but one stateroom betwixt me and the cross-hall of the texas. then in there i see a man stretched on the floor and tied hand and foot, and two men standing over him, and one of them had a dim lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol. this one kept pointing the pistol at the man's head on the floor, and saying: "i'd like to! and i orter, too--a mean skunk!" the man on the floor would shrivel up and say, "oh, please don't, bill; i hain't ever goin' to tell." and every time he said that the man with the lantern would laugh and say: "'deed you ain't! you never said no truer thing 'n that, you bet you." and once he said: "hear him beg! and yit if we hadn't got the best of him and tied him he'd a killed us both. and what for? jist for noth'n. jist because we stood on our rights--that's what for. but i lay you ain't a-goin' to threaten nobody any more, jim turner. put up that pistol, bill." bill says: "i don't want to, jake packard. i'm for killin' him--and didn't he kill old hatfield jist the same way--and don't he deserve it?" "but i don't want him killed, and i've got my reasons for it." "bless yo' heart for them words, jake packard! i'll never forgit you long's i live!" says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering. packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a nail and started towards where i was there in the dark, and motioned bill to come. i crawfished as fast as i could about two yards, but the boat slanted so that i couldn't make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched i crawled into a stateroom on the upper side. the man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when packard got to my stateroom, he says: "here--come in here." and in he come, and bill after him. but before they got in i was up in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry i come. then they stood there, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. i couldn't see them, but i could tell where they was by the whisky they'd been having. i was glad i didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't made much difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn't a treed me because i didn't breathe. i was too scared. and, besides, a body couldn't breathe and hear such talk. they talked low and earnest. bill wanted to kill turner. he says: "he's said he'll tell, and he will. if we was to give both our shares to him now it wouldn't make no difference after the row and the way we've served him. shore's you're born, he'll turn state's evidence; now you hear me. i'm for putting him out of his troubles." "so'm i," says packard, very quiet. "blame it, i'd sorter begun to think you wasn't. well, then, that's all right. le's go and do it." "hold on a minute; i hain't had my say yit. you listen to me. shooting's good, but there's quieter ways if the thing's got to be done. but what i say is this: it ain't good sense to go court'n around after a halter if you can git at what you're up to in some way that's jist as good and at the same time don't bring you into no resks. ain't that so?" "you bet it is. but how you goin' to manage it this time?" "well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gather up whatever pickins we've overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck. then we'll wait. now i say it ain't a-goin' to be more'n two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and washes off down the river. see? he'll be drownded, and won't have nobody to blame for it but his own self. i reckon that's a considerble sight better 'n killin' of him. i'm unfavorable to killin' a man as long as you can git aroun' it; it ain't good sense, it ain't good morals. ain't i right?" "yes, i reck'n you are. but s'pose she don't break up and wash off?" "well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can't we?" "all right, then; come along." so they started, and i lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled forward. it was dark as pitch there; but i said, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "jim !" and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a moan, and i says: "quick, jim, it ain't no time for fooling around and moaning; there's a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don't hunt up their boat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can't get away from the wreck there's one of 'em going to be in a bad fix. but if we find their boat we can put all of 'em in a bad fix--for the sheriff 'll get 'em. quick--hurry! i'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the stabboard. you start at the raft, and--" "oh, my lordy, lordy! raf'? dey ain' no raf' no mo'; she done broke loose en gone i--en here we is!" chapter xiii. well, i catched my breath and most fainted. shut up on a wreck with such a gang as that! but it warn't no time to be sentimentering. we'd got to find that boat now--had to have it for ourselves. so we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side, and slow work it was, too--seemed a week before we got to the stern. no sign of a boat. jim said he didn't believe he could go any further--so scared he hadn't hardly any strength left, he said. but i said, come on, if we get left on this wreck we are in a fix, sure. so on we prowled again. we struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. when we got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! i could just barely see her. i felt ever so thankful. in another second i would a been aboard of her, but just then the door opened. one of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from me, and i thought i was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says: "heave that blame lantern out o' sight, bill!" he flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself and set down. it was packard. then bill he come out and got in. packard says, in a low voice: "all ready--shove off!" i couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, i was so weak. but bill says: "hold on--'d you go through him?" "no. didn't you?" "no. so he's got his share o' the cash yet." "well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money." "say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?" "maybe he won't. but we got to have it anyway. come along." so they got out and went in. the door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a half second i was in the boat, and jim come tumbling after me. i out with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went! we didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor hardly even breathe. we went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle-box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it. when we was three or four hundred yards down-stream we see the lantern show like a little spark at the texas door for a second, and we knowed by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning to understand that they was in just as much trouble now as jim turner was. then jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. now was the first time that i begun to worry about the men--i reckon i hadn't had time to before. i begun to think how dreadful it was, even for murderers, to be in such a fix. i says to myself, there ain't no telling but i might come to be a murderer myself yet, and then how would i like it? so says i to jim: "the first light we see we'll land a hundred yards below it or above it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and the skiff, and then i'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody to go for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they can be hung when their time comes." but that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm again, and this time worse than ever. the rain poured down, and never a light showed; everybody in bed, i reckon. we boomed along down the river, watching for lights and watching for our raft. after a long time the rain let up, but the clouds stayed, and the lightning kept whimpering, and by and by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating, and we made for it. it was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again. we seen a light now away down to the right, on shore. so i said i would go for it. the skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had stole there on the wreck. we hustled it on to the raft in a pile, and i told jim to float along down, and show a light when he judged he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till i come; then i manned my oars and shoved for the light. as i got down towards it three or four more showed--up on a hillside. it was a village. i closed in above the shore light, and laid on my oars and floated. as i went by i see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a double-hull ferryboat. i skimmed around for the watchman, a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by and by i found him roosting on the bitts forward, with his head down between his knees. i gave his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to cry. he stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was only me he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says: "hello, what's up? don't cry, bub. what's the trouble?" i says: "pap, and mam, and sis, and--" then i broke down. he says: "oh, dang it now, don't take on so; we all has to have our troubles, and this 'n 'll come out all right. what's the matter with 'em?" "they're--they're--are you the watchman of the boat?" "yes," he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. "i'm the captain and the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and head deck-hand; and sometimes i'm the freight and passengers. i ain't as rich as old jim hornback, and i can't be so blame' generous and good to tom, dick, and harry as what he is, and slam around money the way he does; but i've told him a many a time 't i wouldn't trade places with him; for, says i, a sailor's life's the life for me, and i'm derned if i'd live two mile out o' town, where there ain't nothing ever goin' on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of it. says i--" i broke in and says: "they're in an awful peck of trouble, and--" "who is?" "why, pap and mam and sis and miss hooker; and if you'd take your ferryboat and go up there--" "up where? where are they?" "on the wreck." "what wreck?" "why, there ain't but one." "what, you don't mean the walter scott?" "yes." "good land! what are they doin' there, for gracious sakes?" "well, they didn't go there a-purpose." "i bet they didn't! why, great goodness, there ain't no chance for 'em if they don't git off mighty quick! why, how in the nation did they ever git into such a scrape?" "easy enough. miss hooker was a-visiting up there to the town--" "yes, booth's landing--go on." "she was a-visiting there at booth's landing, and just in the edge of the evening she started over with her nigger woman in the horse-ferry to stay all night at her friend's house, miss what-you-may-call-her i disremember her name--and they lost their steering-oar, and swung around and went a-floating down, stern first, about two mile, and saddle-baggsed on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger woman and the horses was all lost, but miss hooker she made a grab and got aboard the wreck. well, about an hour after dark we come along down in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn't notice the wreck till we was right on it; and so we saddle-baggsed; but all of us was saved but bill whipple--and oh, he was the best cretur !--i most wish 't it had been me, i do." "my george! it's the beatenest thing i ever struck. and then what did you all do?" "well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide there we couldn't make nobody hear. so pap said somebody got to get ashore and get help somehow. i was the only one that could swim, so i made a dash for it, and miss hooker she said if i didn't strike help sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle, and he'd fix the thing. i made the land about a mile below, and been fooling along ever since, trying to get people to do something, but they said, 'what, in such a night and such a current? there ain't no sense in it; go for the steam ferry.' now if you'll go and--" "by jackson, i'd like to, and, blame it, i don't know but i will; but who in the dingnation's a-going' to pay for it? do you reckon your pap--" "why that's all right. miss hooker she tole me, particular, that her uncle hornback--" "great guns! is he her uncle? looky here, you break for that light over yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there, and about a quarter of a mile out you'll come to the tavern; tell 'em to dart you out to jim hornback's, and he'll foot the bill. and don't you fool around any, because he'll want to know the news. tell him i'll have his niece all safe before he can get to town. hump yourself, now; i'm a-going up around the corner here to roust out my engineer." i struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner i went back and got into my skiff and bailed her out, and then pulled up shore in the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked myself in among some woodboats; for i couldn't rest easy till i could see the ferryboat start. but take it all around, i was feeling ruther comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble for that gang, for not many would a done it. i wished the widow knowed about it. i judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions, because rapscallions and dead beats is the kind the widow and good people takes the most interest in. well, before long here comes the wreck, dim and dusky, sliding along down! a kind of cold shiver went through me, and then i struck out for her. she was very deep, and i see in a minute there warn't much chance for anybody being alive in her. i pulled all around her and hollered a little, but there wasn't any answer; all dead still. i felt a little bit heavy-hearted about the gang, but not much, for i reckoned if they could stand it i could. then here comes the ferryboat; so i shoved for the middle of the river on a long down-stream slant; and when i judged i was out of eye-reach i laid on my oars, and looked back and see her go and smell around the wreck for miss hooker's remainders, because the captain would know her uncle hornback would want them; and then pretty soon the ferryboat give it up and went for the shore, and i laid into my work and went a-booming down the river. it did seem a powerful long time before jim's light showed up; and when it did show it looked like it was a thousand mile off. by the time i got there the sky was beginning to get a little gray in the east; so we struck for an island, and hid the raft, and sunk the skiff, and turned in and slept like dead people. chapter xiv. by and by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang had stole off of the wreck, and found boots, and blankets, and clothes, and all sorts of other things, and a lot of books, and a spyglass, and three boxes of seegars. we hadn't ever been this rich before in neither of our lives. the seegars was prime. we laid off all the afternoon in the woods talking, and me reading the books, and having a general good time. i told jim all about what happened inside the wreck and at the ferryboat, and i said these kinds of things was adventures; but he said he didn't want no more adventures. he said that when i went in the texas and he crawled back to get on the raft and found her gone he nearly died, because he judged it was all up with him anyway it could be fixed; for if he didn't get saved he would get drownded; and if he did get saved, whoever saved him would send him back home so as to get the reward, and then miss watson would sell him south, sure. well, he was right; he was most always right; he had an uncommon level head for a nigger. i read considerable to jim about kings and dukes and earls and such, and how gaudy they dressed, and how much style they put on, and called each other your majesty, and your grace, and your lordship, and so on, 'stead of mister; and jim's eyes bugged out, and he was interested. he says: "i didn' know dey was so many un um. i hain't hearn 'bout none un um, skasely, but ole king sollermun, onless you counts dem kings dat's in a pack er k'yards. how much do a king git?" "get?" i says; "why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they want it; they can have just as much as they want; everything belongs to them." "ain' dat gay? en what dey got to do, huck?" "they don't do nothing! why, how you talk! they just set around." "no; is dat so?" "of course it is. they just set around--except, maybe, when there's a war; then they go to the war. but other times they just lazy around; or go hawking--just hawking and sp--sh!--d' you hear a noise?" we skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing but the flutter of a steamboat's wheel away down, coming around the point; so we come back. "yes," says i, "and other times, when things is dull, they fuss with the parlyment; and if everybody don't go just so he whacks their heads off. but mostly they hang round the harem." "roun' de which?" "harem." "what's de harem?" "the place where he keeps his wives. don't you know about the harem? solomon had one; he had about a million wives." "why, yes, dat's so; i--i'd done forgot it. a harem's a bo'd'n-house, i reck'n. mos' likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. en i reck'n de wives quarrels considable; en dat 'crease de racket. yit dey say sollermun de wises' man dat ever live'. i doan' take no stock in dat. bekase why: would a wise man want to live in de mids' er sich a blim-blammin' all de time? no--'deed he wouldn't. a wise man 'ud take en buil' a biler-factry; en den he could shet down de biler-factry when he want to res'." "well, but he was the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she told me so, her own self." "i doan k'yer what de widder say, he warn't no wise man nuther. he had some er de dad-fetchedes' ways i ever see. does you know 'bout dat chile dat he 'uz gwyne to chop in two?" "yes, the widow told me all about it." "well, den! warn' dat de beatenes' notion in de worl'? you jes' take en look at it a minute. dah's de stump, dah--dat's one er de women; heah's you--dat's de yuther one; i's sollermun; en dish yer dollar bill's de chile. bofe un you claims it. what does i do? does i shin aroun' mongs' de neighbors en fine out which un you de bill do b'long to, en han' it over to de right one, all safe en soun', de way dat anybody dat had any gumption would? no; i take en whack de bill in two, en give half un it to you, en de yuther half to de yuther woman. dat's de way sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. now i want to ast you: what's de use er dat half a bill?--can't buy noth'n wid it. en what use is a half a chile? i wouldn' give a dern for a million un um." "but hang it, jim, you've clean missed the point--blame it, you've missed it a thousand mile." "who? me? go 'long. doan' talk to me 'bout yo' pints. i reck'n i knows sense when i sees it; en dey ain' no sense in sich doin's as dat. de 'spute warn't 'bout a half a chile, de 'spute was 'bout a whole chile; en de man dat think he kin settle a 'spute 'bout a whole chile wid a half a chile doan' know enough to come in out'n de rain. doan' talk to me 'bout sollermun, huck, i knows him by de back." "but i tell you you don't get the point." "blame de point! i reck'n i knows what i knows. en mine you, de real pint is down furder--it's down deeper. it lays in de way sollermun was raised. you take a man dat's got on'y one or two chillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o' chillen? no, he ain't; he can't 'ford it. he know how to value 'em. but you take a man dat's got 'bout five million chillen runnin' roun' de house, en it's diffunt. he as soon chop a chile in two as a cat. dey's plenty mo'. a chile er two, mo' er less, warn't no consekens to sollermun, dad fatch him!" i never see such a nigger. if he got a notion in his head once, there warn't no getting it out again. he was the most down on solomon of any nigger i ever see. so i went to talking about other kings, and let solomon slide. i told about louis sixteenth that got his head cut off in france long time ago; and about his little boy the dolphin, that would a been a king, but they took and shut him up in jail, and some say he died there. "po' little chap." "but some says he got out and got away, and come to america." "dat's good! but he'll be pooty lonesome--dey ain' no kings here, is dey, huck?" "no." "den he cain't git no situation. what he gwyne to do?" "well, i don't know. some of them gets on the police, and some of them learns people how to talk french." "why, huck, doan' de french people talk de same way we does?" "no, jim; you couldn't understand a word they said--not a single word." "well, now, i be ding-busted! how do dat come?" "i don't know; but it's so. i got some of their jabber out of a book. s'pose a man was to come to you and say polly-voo-franzy--what would you think?" "i wouldn' think nuff'n; i'd take en bust him over de head--dat is, if he warn't white. i wouldn't 'low no nigger to call me dat." "shucks, it ain't calling you anything. it's only saying, do you know how to talk french?" "well, den, why couldn't he say it?" "why, he is a-saying it. that's a frenchman's way of saying it." "well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en i doan' want to hear no mo' 'bout it. dey ain' no sense in it." "looky here, jim; does a cat talk like we do?" "no, a cat don't." "well, does a cow?" "no, a cow don't, nuther." "does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?" "no, dey don't." "it's natural and right for 'em to talk different from each other, ain't it?" "course." "and ain't it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different from us?" "why, mos' sholy it is." "well, then, why ain't it natural and right for a frenchman to talk different from us? you answer me that." "is a cat a man, huck?" "no." "well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a man. is a cow a man?--er is a cow a cat?" "no, she ain't either of them." "well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like either one er the yuther of 'em. is a frenchman a man?" "yes." "well, den! dad blame it, why doan' he talk like a man? you answer me dat!" i see it warn't no use wasting words--you can't learn a nigger to argue. so i quit. chapter xv. we judged that three nights more would fetch us to cairo, at the bottom of illinois, where the ohio river comes in, and that was what we was after. we would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and go way up the ohio amongst the free states, and then be out of trouble. well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a towhead to tie to, for it wouldn't do to try to run in a fog; but when i paddled ahead in the canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn't anything but little saplings to tie to. i passed the line around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank, but there was a stiff current, and the raft come booming down so lively she tore it out by the roots and away she went. i see the fog closing down, and it made me so sick and scared i couldn't budge for most a half a minute it seemed to me--and then there warn't no raft in sight; you couldn't see twenty yards. i jumped into the canoe and run back to the stern, and grabbed the paddle and set her back a stroke. but she didn't come. i was in such a hurry i hadn't untied her. i got up and tried to untie her, but i was so excited my hands shook so i couldn't hardly do anything with them. as soon as i got started i took out after the raft, hot and heavy, right down the towhead. that was all right as far as it went, but the towhead warn't sixty yards long, and the minute i flew by the foot of it i shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn't no more idea which way i was going than a dead man. thinks i, it won't do to paddle; first i know i'll run into the bank or a towhead or something; i got to set still and float, and yet it's mighty fidgety business to have to hold your hands still at such a time. i whooped and listened. away down there somewheres i hears a small whoop, and up comes my spirits. i went tearing after it, listening sharp to hear it again. the next time it come i see i warn't heading for it, but heading away to the right of it. and the next time i was heading away to the left of it--and not gaining on it much either, for i was flying around, this way and that and t'other, but it was going straight ahead all the time. i did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all the time, but he never did, and it was the still places between the whoops that was making the trouble for me. well, i fought along, and directly i hears the whoop behind me. i was tangled good now. that was somebody else's whoop, or else i was turned around. i throwed the paddle down. i heard the whoop again; it was behind me yet, but in a different place; it kept coming, and kept changing its place, and i kept answering, till by and by it was in front of me again, and i knowed the current had swung the canoe's head down-stream, and i was all right if that was jim and not some other raftsman hollering. i couldn't tell nothing about voices in a fog, for nothing don't look natural nor sound natural in a fog. the whooping went on, and in about a minute i come a-booming down on a cut bank with smoky ghosts of big trees on it, and the current throwed me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that fairly roared, the currrent was tearing by them so swift. in another second or two it was solid white and still again. i set perfectly still then, listening to my heart thump, and i reckon i didn't draw a breath while it thumped a hundred. i just give up then. i knowed what the matter was. that cut bank was an island, and jim had gone down t'other side of it. it warn't no towhead that you could float by in ten minutes. it had the big timber of a regular island; it might be five or six miles long and more than half a mile wide. i kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, i reckon. i was floating along, of course, four or five miles an hour; but you don't ever think of that. no, you feel like you are laying dead still on the water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips by you don't think to yourself how fast you're going, but you catch your breath and think, my! how that snag's tearing along. if you think it ain't dismal and lonesome out in a fog that way by yourself in the night, you try it once--you'll see. next, for about a half an hour, i whoops now and then; at last i hears the answer a long ways off, and tries to follow it, but i couldn't do it, and directly i judged i'd got into a nest of towheads, for i had little dim glimpses of them on both sides of me--sometimes just a narrow channel between, and some that i couldn't see i knowed was there because i'd hear the wash of the current against the old dead brush and trash that hung over the banks. well, i warn't long loosing the whoops down amongst the towheads; and i only tried to chase them a little while, anyway, because it was worse than chasing a jack-o'-lantern. you never knowed a sound dodge around so, and swap places so quick and so much. i had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four or five times, to keep from knocking the islands out of the river; and so i judged the raft must be butting into the bank every now and then, or else it would get further ahead and clear out of hearing--it was floating a little faster than what i was. well, i seemed to be in the open river again by and by, but i couldn't hear no sign of a whoop nowheres. i reckoned jim had fetched up on a snag, maybe, and it was all up with him. i was good and tired, so i laid down in the canoe and said i wouldn't bother no more. i didn't want to go to sleep, of course; but i was so sleepy i couldn't help it; so i thought i would take jest one little cat-nap. but i reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when i waked up the stars was shining bright, the fog was all gone, and i was spinning down a big bend stern first. first i didn't know where i was; i thought i was dreaming; and when things began to come back to me they seemed to come up dim out of last week. it was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the thickest kind of timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as well as i could see by the stars. i looked away down-stream, and seen a black speck on the water. i took after it; but when i got to it it warn't nothing but a couple of sawlogs made fast together. then i see another speck, and chased that; then another, and this time i was right. it was the raft. when i got to it jim was setting there with his head down between his knees, asleep, with his right arm hanging over the steering-oar. the other oar was smashed off, and the raft was littered up with leaves and branches and dirt. so she'd had a rough time. i made fast and laid down under jim's nose on the raft, and began to gap, and stretch my fists out against jim, and says: "hello, jim, have i been asleep? why didn't you stir me up?" "goodness gracious, is dat you, huck? en you ain' dead--you ain' drownded--you's back agin? it's too good for true, honey, it's too good for true. lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o' you. no, you ain' dead! you's back agin, 'live en soun', jis de same ole huck--de same ole huck, thanks to goodness!" "what's the matter with you, jim? you been a-drinking?" "drinkin'? has i ben a-drinkin'? has i had a chance to be a-drinkin'?" "well, then, what makes you talk so wild?" "how does i talk wild?" "how? why, hain't you been talking about my coming back, and all that stuff, as if i'd been gone away?" "huck--huck finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye. hain't you ben gone away?" "gone away? why, what in the nation do you mean? i hain't been gone anywheres. where would i go to?" "well, looky here, boss, dey's sumf'n wrong, dey is. is i me, or who is i? is i heah, or whah is i? now dat's what i wants to know." "well, i think you're here, plain enough, but i think you're a tangle-headed old fool, jim." "i is, is i? well, you answer me dis: didn't you tote out de line in de canoe fer to make fas' to de tow-head?" "no, i didn't. what tow-head? i hain't see no tow-head." "you hain't seen no towhead? looky here, didn't de line pull loose en de raf' go a-hummin' down de river, en leave you en de canoe behine in de fog?" "what fog?" "why, de fog!--de fog dat's been aroun' all night. en didn't you whoop, en didn't i whoop, tell we got mix' up in de islands en one un us got los' en t'other one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he didn' know whah he wuz? en didn't i bust up agin a lot er dem islands en have a turrible time en mos' git drownded? now ain' dat so, boss--ain't it so? you answer me dat." "well, this is too many for me, jim. i hain't seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing. i been setting here talking with you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and i reckon i done the same. you couldn't a got drunk in that time, so of course you've been dreaming." "dad fetch it, how is i gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?" "well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn't any of it happen." "but, huck, it's all jis' as plain to me as--" "it don't make no difference how plain it is; there ain't nothing in it. i know, because i've been here all the time." jim didn't say nothing for about five minutes, but set there studying over it. then he says: "well, den, i reck'n i did dream it, huck; but dog my cats ef it ain't de powerfullest dream i ever see. en i hain't ever had no dream b'fo' dat's tired me like dis one." "oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body like everything sometimes. but this one was a staving dream; tell me all about it, jim." so jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through, just as it happened, only he painted it up considerable. then he said he must start in and "'terpret" it, because it was sent for a warning. he said the first towhead stood for a man that would try to do us some good, but the current was another man that would get us away from him. the whoops was warnings that would come to us every now and then, and if we didn't try hard to make out to understand them they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of keeping us out of it. the lot of towheads was troubles we was going to get into with quarrelsome people and all kinds of mean folks, but if we minded our business and didn't talk back and aggravate them, we would pull through and get out of the fog and into the big clear river, which was the free states, and wouldn't have no more trouble. it had clouded up pretty dark just after i got on to the raft, but it was clearing up again now. "oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, jim," i says; "but what does these things stand for?" it was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the smashed oar. you could see them first-rate now. jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the trash again. he had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that he couldn't seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its place again right away. but when he did get the thing straightened around he looked at me steady without ever smiling, and says: "what do dey stan' for? i'se gwyne to tell you. when i got all wore out wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, my heart wuz mos' broke bekase you wuz los', en i didn' k'yer no' mo' what become er me en de raf'. en when i wake up en fine you back agin, all safe en soun', de tears come, en i could a got down on my knees en kiss yo' foot, i's so thankful. en all you wuz thinkin' 'bout wuz how you could make a fool uv ole jim wid a lie. dat truck dah is trash; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren's en makes 'em ashamed." then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam, and went in there without saying anything but that. but that was enough. it made me feel so mean i could almost kissed his foot to get him to take it back. it was fifteen minutes before i could work myself up to go and humble myself to a nigger; but i done it, and i warn't ever sorry for it afterwards, neither. i didn't do him no more mean tricks, and i wouldn't done that one if i'd a knowed it would make him feel that way. the adventures of tom sawyer by mark twain (samuel langhorne clemens) part chapter viii tom dodged hither and thither through lanes until he was well out of the track of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody jog. he crossed a small "branch" two or three times, because of a prevailing juvenile superstition that to cross water baffled pursuit. half an hour later he was disappearing behind the douglas mansion on the summit of cardiff hill, and the schoolhouse was hardly distinguishable away off in the valley behind him. he entered a dense wood, picked his pathless way to the centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading oak. there was not even a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had even stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was broken by no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a woodpecker, and this seemed to render the pervading silence and sense of loneliness the more profound. the boy's soul was steeped in melancholy; his feelings were in happy accord with his surroundings. he sat long with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, meditating. it seemed to him that life was but a trouble, at best, and he more than half envied jimmy hodges, so lately released; it must be very peaceful, he thought, to lie and slumber and dream forever and ever, with the wind whispering through the trees and caressing the grass and the flowers over the grave, and nothing to bother and grieve about, ever any more. if he only had a clean sunday-school record he could be willing to go, and be done with it all. now as to this girl. what had he done? nothing. he had meant the best in the world, and been treated like a dog--like a very dog. she would be sorry some day--maybe when it was too late. ah, if he could only die temporarily! but the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained shape long at a time. tom presently began to drift insensibly back into the concerns of this life again. what if he turned his back, now, and disappeared mysteriously? what if he went away--ever so far away, into unknown countries beyond the seas--and never came back any more! how would she feel then! the idea of being a clown recurred to him now, only to fill him with disgust. for frivolity and jokes and spotted tights were an offense, when they intruded themselves upon a spirit that was exalted into the vague august realm of the romantic. no, he would be a soldier, and return after long years, all war-worn and illustrious. no--better still, he would join the indians, and hunt buffaloes and go on the warpath in the mountain ranges and the trackless great plains of the far west, and away in the future come back a great chief, bristling with feathers, hideous with paint, and prance into sunday-school, some drowsy summer morning, with a bloodcurdling war-whoop, and sear the eyeballs of all his companions with unappeasable envy. but no, there was something gaudier even than this. he would be a pirate! that was it! now his future lay plain before him, and glowing with unimaginable splendor. how his name would fill the world, and make people shudder! how gloriously he would go plowing the dancing seas, in his long, low, black-hulled racer, the spirit of the storm, with his grisly flag flying at the fore! and at the zenith of his fame, how he would suddenly appear at the old village and stalk into church, brown and weather-beaten, in his black velvet doublet and trunks, his great jack-boots, his crimson sash, his belt bristling with horse-pistols, his crime-rusted cutlass at his side, his slouch hat with waving plumes, his black flag unfurled, with the skull and crossbones on it, and hear with swelling ecstasy the whisperings, "it's tom sawyer the pirate!--the black avenger of the spanish main!" yes, it was settled; his career was determined. he would run away from home and enter upon it. he would start the very next morning. therefore he must now begin to get ready. he would collect his resources together. he went to a rotten log near at hand and began to dig under one end of it with his barlow knife. he soon struck wood that sounded hollow. he put his hand there and uttered this incantation impressively: "what hasn't come here, come! what's here, stay here!" then he scraped away the dirt, and exposed a pine shingle. he took it up and disclosed a shapely little treasure-house whose bottom and sides were of shingles. in it lay a marble. tom's astonishment was boundless! he scratched his head with a perplexed air, and said: "well, that beats anything!" then he tossed the marble away pettishly, and stood cogitating. the truth was, that a superstition of his had failed, here, which he and all his comrades had always looked upon as infallible. if you buried a marble with certain necessary incantations, and left it alone a fortnight, and then opened the place with the incantation he had just used, you would find that all the marbles you had ever lost had gathered themselves together there, meantime, no matter how widely they had been separated. but now, this thing had actually and unquestionably failed. tom's whole structure of faith was shaken to its foundations. he had many a time heard of this thing succeeding but never of its failing before. it did not occur to him that he had tried it several times before, himself, but could never find the hiding-places afterward. he puzzled over the matter some time, and finally decided that some witch had interfered and broken the charm. he thought he would satisfy himself on that point; so he searched around till he found a small sandy spot with a little funnel-shaped depression in it. he laid himself down and put his mouth close to this depression and called-- "doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what i want to know! doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what i want to know!" the sand began to work, and presently a small black bug appeared for a second and then darted under again in a fright. "he dasn't tell! so it was a witch that done it. i just knowed it." he well knew the futility of trying to contend against witches, so he gave up discouraged. but it occurred to him that he might as well have the marble he had just thrown away, and therefore he went and made a patient search for it. but he could not find it. now he went back to his treasure-house and carefully placed himself just as he had been standing when he tossed the marble away; then he took another marble from his pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying: "brother, go find your brother!" he watched where it stopped, and went there and looked. but it must have fallen short or gone too far; so he tried twice more. the last repetition was successful. the two marbles lay within a foot of each other. just here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came faintly down the green aisles of the forest. tom flung off his jacket and trousers, turned a suspender into a belt, raked away some brush behind the rotten log, disclosing a rude bow and arrow, a lath sword and a tin trumpet, and in a moment had seized these things and bounded away, barelegged, with fluttering shirt. he presently halted under a great elm, blew an answering blast, and then began to tiptoe and look warily out, this way and that. he said cautiously--to an imaginary company: "hold, my merry men! keep hid till i blow." now appeared joe harper, as airily clad and elaborately armed as tom. tom called: "hold! who comes here into sherwood forest without my pass?" "guy of guisborne wants no man's pass. who art thou that--that--" "dares to hold such language," said tom, prompting--for they talked "by the book," from memory. "who art thou that dares to hold such language?" "i, indeed! i am robin hood, as thy caitiff carcase soon shall know." "then art thou indeed that famous outlaw? right gladly will i dispute with thee the passes of the merry wood. have at thee!" they took their lath swords, dumped their other traps on the ground, struck a fencing attitude, foot to foot, and began a grave, careful combat, "two up and two down." presently tom said: "now, if you've got the hang, go it lively!" so they "went it lively," panting and perspiring with the work. by and by tom shouted: "fall! fall! why don't you fall?" "i sha'n't! why don't you fall yourself? you're getting the worst of it." "why, that ain't anything. i can't fall; that ain't the way it is in the book. the book says, 'then with one back-handed stroke he slew poor guy of guisborne.' you're to turn around and let me hit you in the back." there was no getting around the authorities, so joe turned, received the whack and fell. "now," said joe, getting up, "you got to let me kill you. that's fair." "why, i can't do that, it ain't in the book." "well, it's blamed mean--that's all." "well, say, joe, you can be friar tuck or much the miller's son, and lam me with a quarter-staff; or i'll be the sheriff of nottingham and you be robin hood a little while and kill me." this was satisfactory, and so these adventures were carried out. then tom became robin hood again, and was allowed by the treacherous nun to bleed his strength away through his neglected wound. and at last joe, representing a whole tribe of weeping outlaws, dragged him sadly forth, gave his bow into his feeble hands, and tom said, "where this arrow falls, there bury poor robin hood under the greenwood tree." then he shot the arrow and fell back and would have died, but he lit on a nettle and sprang up too gaily for a corpse. the boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutrements, and went off grieving that there were no outlaws any more, and wondering what modern civilization could claim to have done to compensate for their loss. they said they would rather be outlaws a year in sherwood forest than president of the united states forever. chapter ix at half-past nine, that night, tom and sid were sent to bed, as usual. they said their prayers, and sid was soon asleep. tom lay awake and waited, in restless impatience. when it seemed to him that it must be nearly daylight, he heard the clock strike ten! this was despair. he would have tossed and fidgeted, as his nerves demanded, but he was afraid he might wake sid. so he lay still, and stared up into the dark. everything was dismally still. by and by, out of the stillness, little, scarcely perceptible noises began to emphasize themselves. the ticking of the clock began to bring itself into notice. old beams began to crack mysteriously. the stairs creaked faintly. evidently spirits were abroad. a measured, muffled snore issued from aunt polly's chamber. and now the tiresome chirping of a cricket that no human ingenuity could locate, began. next the ghastly ticking of a deathwatch in the wall at the bed's head made tom shudder--it meant that somebody's days were numbered. then the howl of a far-off dog rose on the night air, and was answered by a fainter howl from a remoter distance. tom was in an agony. at last he was satisfied that time had ceased and eternity begun; he began to doze, in spite of himself; the clock chimed eleven, but he did not hear it. and then there came, mingling with his half-formed dreams, a most melancholy caterwauling. the raising of a neighboring window disturbed him. a cry of "scat! you devil!" and the crash of an empty bottle against the back of his aunt's woodshed brought him wide awake, and a single minute later he was dressed and out of the window and creeping along the roof of the "ell" on all fours. he "meow'd" with caution once or twice, as he went; then jumped to the roof of the woodshed and thence to the ground. huckleberry finn was there, with his dead cat. the boys moved off and disappeared in the gloom. at the end of half an hour they were wading through the tall grass of the graveyard. it was a graveyard of the old-fashioned western kind. it was on a hill, about a mile and a half from the village. it had a crazy board fence around it, which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest of the time, but stood upright nowhere. grass and weeds grew rank over the whole cemetery. all the old graves were sunken in, there was not a tombstone on the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards staggered over the graves, leaning for support and finding none. "sacred to the memory of" so-and-so had been painted on them once, but it could no longer have been read, on the most of them, now, even if there had been light. a faint wind moaned through the trees, and tom feared it might be the spirits of the dead, complaining at being disturbed. the boys talked little, and only under their breath, for the time and the place and the pervading solemnity and silence oppressed their spirits. they found the sharp new heap they were seeking, and ensconced themselves within the protection of three great elms that grew in a bunch within a few feet of the grave. then they waited in silence for what seemed a long time. the hooting of a distant owl was all the sound that troubled the dead stillness. tom's reflections grew oppressive. he must force some talk. so he said in a whisper: "hucky, do you believe the dead people like it for us to be here?" huckleberry whispered: "i wisht i knowed. it's awful solemn like, ain't it?" "i bet it is." there was a considerable pause, while the boys canvassed this matter inwardly. then tom whispered: "say, hucky--do you reckon hoss williams hears us talking?" "o' course he does. least his sperrit does." tom, after a pause: "i wish i'd said mister williams. but i never meant any harm. everybody calls him hoss." "a body can't be too partic'lar how they talk 'bout these-yer dead people, tom." this was a damper, and conversation died again. presently tom seized his comrade's arm and said: "sh!" "what is it, tom?" and the two clung together with beating hearts. "sh! there 'tis again! didn't you hear it?" "i--" "there! now you hear it." "lord, tom, they're coming! they're coming, sure. what'll we do?" "i dono. think they'll see us?" "oh, tom, they can see in the dark, same as cats. i wisht i hadn't come." "oh, don't be afeard. i don't believe they'll bother us. we ain't doing any harm. if we keep perfectly still, maybe they won't notice us at all." "i'll try to, tom, but, lord, i'm all of a shiver." "listen!" the boys bent their heads together and scarcely breathed. a muffled sound of voices floated up from the far end of the graveyard. "look! see there!" whispered tom. "what is it?" "it's devil-fire. oh, tom, this is awful." some vague figures approached through the gloom, swinging an old-fashioned tin lantern that freckled the ground with innumerable little spangles of light. presently huckleberry whispered with a shudder: "it's the devils sure enough. three of 'em! lordy, tom, we're goners! can you pray?" "i'll try, but don't you be afeard. they ain't going to hurt us. 'now i lay me down to sleep, i--'" "sh!" "what is it, huck?" "they're humans! one of 'em is, anyway. one of 'em's old muff potter's voice." "no--'tain't so, is it?" "i bet i know it. don't you stir nor budge. he ain't sharp enough to notice us. drunk, the same as usual, likely--blamed old rip!" "all right, i'll keep still. now they're stuck. can't find it. here they come again. now they're hot. cold again. hot again. red hot! they're p'inted right, this time. say, huck, i know another o' them voices; it's injun joe." "that's so--that murderin' half-breed! i'd druther they was devils a dern sight. what kin they be up to?" the whisper died wholly out, now, for the three men had reached the grave and stood within a few feet of the boys' hiding-place. "here it is," said the third voice; and the owner of it held the lantern up and revealed the face of young doctor robinson. potter and injun joe were carrying a handbarrow with a rope and a couple of shovels on it. they cast down their load and began to open the grave. the doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave and came and sat down with his back against one of the elm trees. he was so close the boys could have touched him. "hurry, men!" he said, in a low voice; "the moon might come out at any moment." they growled a response and went on digging. for some time there was no noise but the grating sound of the spades discharging their freight of mould and gravel. it was very monotonous. finally a spade struck upon the coffin with a dull woody accent, and within another minute or two the men had hoisted it out on the ground. they pried off the lid with their shovels, got out the body and dumped it rudely on the ground. the moon drifted from behind the clouds and exposed the pallid face. the barrow was got ready and the corpse placed on it, covered with a blanket, and bound to its place with the rope. potter took out a large spring-knife and cut off the dangling end of the rope and then said: "now the cussed thing's ready, sawbones, and you'll just out with another five, or here she stays." "that's the talk!" said injun joe. "look here, what does this mean?" said the doctor. "you required your pay in advance, and i've paid you." "yes, and you done more than that," said injun joe, approaching the doctor, who was now standing. "five years ago you drove me away from your father's kitchen one night, when i come to ask for something to eat, and you said i warn't there for any good; and when i swore i'd get even with you if it took a hundred years, your father had me jailed for a vagrant. did you think i'd forget? the injun blood ain't in me for nothing. and now i've got you, and you got to settle, you know!" he was threatening the doctor, with his fist in his face, by this time. the doctor struck out suddenly and stretched the ruffian on the ground. potter dropped his knife, and exclaimed: "here, now, don't you hit my pard!" and the next moment he had grappled with the doctor and the two were struggling with might and main, trampling the grass and tearing the ground with their heels. injun joe sprang to his feet, his eyes flaming with passion, snatched up potter's knife, and went creeping, catlike and stooping, round and round about the combatants, seeking an opportunity. all at once the doctor flung himself free, seized the heavy headboard of williams' grave and felled potter to the earth with it--and in the same instant the half-breed saw his chance and drove the knife to the hilt in the young man's breast. he reeled and fell partly upon potter, flooding him with his blood, and in the same moment the clouds blotted out the dreadful spectacle and the two frightened boys went speeding away in the dark. presently, when the moon emerged again, injun joe was standing over the two forms, contemplating them. the doctor murmured inarticulately, gave a long gasp or two and was still. the half-breed muttered: "that score is settled--damn you." then he robbed the body. after which he put the fatal knife in potter's open right hand, and sat down on the dismantled coffin. three --four--five minutes passed, and then potter began to stir and moan. his hand closed upon the knife; he raised it, glanced at it, and let it fall, with a shudder. then he sat up, pushing the body from him, and gazed at it, and then around him, confusedly. his eyes met joe's. "lord, how is this, joe?" he said. "it's a dirty business," said joe, without moving. "what did you do it for?" "i! i never done it!" "look here! that kind of talk won't wash." potter trembled and grew white. "i thought i'd got sober. i'd no business to drink to-night. but it's in my head yet--worse'n when we started here. i'm all in a muddle; can't recollect anything of it, hardly. tell me, joe--honest, now, old feller--did i do it? joe, i never meant to--'pon my soul and honor, i never meant to, joe. tell me how it was, joe. oh, it's awful--and him so young and promising." "why, you two was scuffling, and he fetched you one with the headboard and you fell flat; and then up you come, all reeling and staggering like, and snatched the knife and jammed it into him, just as he fetched you another awful clip--and here you've laid, as dead as a wedge til now." "oh, i didn't know what i was a-doing. i wish i may die this minute if i did. it was all on account of the whiskey and the excitement, i reckon. i never used a weepon in my life before, joe. i've fought, but never with weepons. they'll all say that. joe, don't tell! say you won't tell, joe--that's a good feller. i always liked you, joe, and stood up for you, too. don't you remember? you won't tell, will you, joe?" and the poor creature dropped on his knees before the stolid murderer, and clasped his appealing hands. "no, you've always been fair and square with me, muff potter, and i won't go back on you. there, now, that's as fair as a man can say." "oh, joe, you're an angel. i'll bless you for this the longest day i live." and potter began to cry. "come, now, that's enough of that. this ain't any time for blubbering. you be off yonder way and i'll go this. move, now, and don't leave any tracks behind you." potter started on a trot that quickly increased to a run. the half-breed stood looking after him. he muttered: "if he's as much stunned with the lick and fuddled with the rum as he had the look of being, he won't think of the knife till he's gone so far he'll be afraid to come back after it to such a place by himself --chicken-heart!" two or three minutes later the murdered man, the blanketed corpse, the lidless coffin, and the open grave were under no inspection but the moon's. the stillness was complete again, too. chapter x the two boys flew on and on, toward the village, speechless with horror. they glanced backward over their shoulders from time to time, apprehensively, as if they feared they might be followed. every stump that started up in their path seemed a man and an enemy, and made them catch their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cottages that lay near the village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give wings to their feet. "if we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!" whispered tom, in short catches between breaths. "i can't stand it much longer." huckleberry's hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it. they gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond. by and by their pulses slowed down, and tom whispered: "huckleberry, what do you reckon'll come of this?" "if doctor robinson dies, i reckon hanging'll come of it." "do you though?" "why, i know it, tom." tom thought a while, then he said: "who'll tell? we?" "what are you talking about? s'pose something happened and injun joe didn't hang? why, he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we're a laying here." "that's just what i was thinking to myself, huck." "if anybody tells, let muff potter do it, if he's fool enough. he's generally drunk enough." tom said nothing--went on thinking. presently he whispered: "huck, muff potter don't know it. how can he tell?" "what's the reason he don't know it?" "because he'd just got that whack when injun joe done it. d'you reckon he could see anything? d'you reckon he knowed anything?" "by hokey, that's so, tom!" "and besides, look-a-here--maybe that whack done for him!" "no, 'taint likely, tom. he had liquor in him; i could see that; and besides, he always has. well, when pap's full, you might take and belt him over the head with a church and you couldn't phase him. he says so, his own self. so it's the same with muff potter, of course. but if a man was dead sober, i reckon maybe that whack might fetch him; i dono." after another reflective silence, tom said: "hucky, you sure you can keep mum?" "tom, we got to keep mum. you know that. that injun devil wouldn't make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him. now, look-a-here, tom, less take and swear to one another--that's what we got to do--swear to keep mum." "i'm agreed. it's the best thing. would you just hold hands and swear that we--" "oh no, that wouldn't do for this. that's good enough for little rubbishy common things--specially with gals, cuz they go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff--but there orter be writing 'bout a big thing like this. and blood." tom's whole being applauded this idea. it was deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it. he picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moonlight, took a little fragment of "red keel" out of his pocket, got the moon on his work, and painfully scrawled these lines, emphasizing each slow down-stroke by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up the pressure on the up-strokes. [see next page.] "huck finn and tom sawyer swears they will keep mum about this and they wish they may drop down dead in their tracks if they ever tell and rot." huckleberry was filled with admiration of tom's facility in writing, and the sublimity of his language. he at once took a pin from his lapel and was going to prick his flesh, but tom said: "hold on! don't do that. a pin's brass. it might have verdigrease on it." "what's verdigrease?" "it's p'ison. that's what it is. you just swaller some of it once --you'll see." so tom unwound the thread from one of his needles, and each boy pricked the ball of his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood. in time, after many squeezes, tom managed to sign his initials, using the ball of his little finger for a pen. then he showed huckleberry how to make an h and an f, and the oath was complete. they buried the shingle close to the wall, with some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and the fetters that bound their tongues were considered to be locked and the key thrown away. a figure crept stealthily through a break in the other end of the ruined building, now, but they did not notice it. "tom," whispered huckleberry, "does this keep us from ever telling --always?" "of course it does. it don't make any difference what happens, we got to keep mum. we'd drop down dead--don't you know that?" "yes, i reckon that's so." they continued to whisper for some little time. presently a dog set up a long, lugubrious howl just outside--within ten feet of them. the boys clasped each other suddenly, in an agony of fright. "which of us does he mean?" gasped huckleberry. "i dono--peep through the crack. quick!" "no, you, tom!" "i can't--i can't do it, huck!" "please, tom. there 'tis again!" "oh, lordy, i'm thankful!" whispered tom. "i know his voice. it's bull harbison." * [* if mr. harbison owned a slave named bull, tom would have spoken of him as "harbison's bull," but a son or a dog of that name was "bull harbison."] "oh, that's good--i tell you, tom, i was most scared to death; i'd a bet anything it was a stray dog." the dog howled again. the boys' hearts sank once more. "oh, my! that ain't no bull harbison!" whispered huckleberry. "do, tom!" tom, quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye to the crack. his whisper was hardly audible when he said: "oh, huck, it s a stray dog!" "quick, tom, quick! who does he mean?" "huck, he must mean us both--we're right together." "oh, tom, i reckon we're goners. i reckon there ain't no mistake 'bout where i'll go to. i been so wicked." "dad fetch it! this comes of playing hookey and doing everything a feller's told not to do. i might a been good, like sid, if i'd a tried --but no, i wouldn't, of course. but if ever i get off this time, i lay i'll just waller in sunday-schools!" and tom began to snuffle a little. "you bad!" and huckleberry began to snuffle too. "consound it, tom sawyer, you're just old pie, 'longside o' what i am. oh, lordy, lordy, lordy, i wisht i only had half your chance." tom choked off and whispered: "look, hucky, look! he's got his back to us!" hucky looked, with joy in his heart. "well, he has, by jingoes! did he before?" "yes, he did. but i, like a fool, never thought. oh, this is bully, you know. now who can he mean?" the howling stopped. tom pricked up his ears. "sh! what's that?" he whispered. "sounds like--like hogs grunting. no--it's somebody snoring, tom." "that is it! where 'bouts is it, huck?" "i bleeve it's down at 'tother end. sounds so, anyway. pap used to sleep there, sometimes, 'long with the hogs, but laws bless you, he just lifts things when he snores. besides, i reckon he ain't ever coming back to this town any more." the spirit of adventure rose in the boys' souls once more. "hucky, do you das't to go if i lead?" "i don't like to, much. tom, s'pose it's injun joe!" tom quailed. but presently the temptation rose up strong again and the boys agreed to try, with the understanding that they would take to their heels if the snoring stopped. so they went tiptoeing stealthily down, the one behind the other. when they had got to within five steps of the snorer, tom stepped on a stick, and it broke with a sharp snap. the man moaned, writhed a little, and his face came into the moonlight. it was muff potter. the boys' hearts had stood still, and their hopes too, when the man moved, but their fears passed away now. they tiptoed out, through the broken weather-boarding, and stopped at a little distance to exchange a parting word. that long, lugubrious howl rose on the night air again! they turned and saw the strange dog standing within a few feet of where potter was lying, and facing potter, with his nose pointing heavenward. "oh, geeminy, it's him!" exclaimed both boys, in a breath. "say, tom--they say a stray dog come howling around johnny miller's house, 'bout midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and a whippoorwill come in and lit on the banisters and sung, the very same evening; and there ain't anybody dead there yet." "well, i know that. and suppose there ain't. didn't gracie miller fall in the kitchen fire and burn herself terrible the very next saturday?" "yes, but she ain't dead. and what's more, she's getting better, too." "all right, you wait and see. she's a goner, just as dead sure as muff potter's a goner. that's what the niggers say, and they know all about these kind of things, huck." then they separated, cogitating. when tom crept in at his bedroom window the night was almost spent. he undressed with excessive caution, and fell asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew of his escapade. he was not aware that the gently-snoring sid was awake, and had been so for an hour. when tom awoke, sid was dressed and gone. there was a late look in the light, a late sense in the atmosphere. he was startled. why had he not been called--persecuted till he was up, as usual? the thought filled him with bodings. within five minutes he was dressed and down-stairs, feeling sore and drowsy. the family were still at table, but they had finished breakfast. there was no voice of rebuke; but there were averted eyes; there was a silence and an air of solemnity that struck a chill to the culprit's heart. he sat down and tried to seem gay, but it was up-hill work; it roused no smile, no response, and he lapsed into silence and let his heart sink down to the depths. after breakfast his aunt took him aside, and tom almost brightened in the hope that he was going to be flogged; but it was not so. his aunt wept over him and asked him how he could go and break her old heart so; and finally told him to go on, and ruin himself and bring her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave, for it was no use for her to try any more. this was worse than a thousand whippings, and tom's heart was sorer now than his body. he cried, he pleaded for forgiveness, promised to reform over and over again, and then received his dismissal, feeling that he had won but an imperfect forgiveness and established but a feeble confidence. he left the presence too miserable to even feel revengeful toward sid; and so the latter's prompt retreat through the back gate was unnecessary. he moped to school gloomy and sad, and took his flogging, along with joe harper, for playing hookey the day before, with the air of one whose heart was busy with heavier woes and wholly dead to trifles. then he betook himself to his seat, rested his elbows on his desk and his jaws in his hands, and stared at the wall with the stony stare of suffering that has reached the limit and can no further go. his elbow was pressing against some hard substance. after a long time he slowly and sadly changed his position, and took up this object with a sigh. it was in a paper. he unrolled it. a long, lingering, colossal sigh followed, and his heart broke. it was his brass andiron knob! this final feather broke the camel's back. chapter xi close upon the hour of noon the whole village was suddenly electrified with the ghastly news. no need of the as yet undreamed-of telegraph; the tale flew from man to man, from group to group, from house to house, with little less than telegraphic speed. of course the schoolmaster gave holiday for that afternoon; the town would have thought strangely of him if he had not. a gory knife had been found close to the murdered man, and it had been recognized by somebody as belonging to muff potter--so the story ran. and it was said that a belated citizen had come upon potter washing himself in the "branch" about one or two o'clock in the morning, and that potter had at once sneaked off--suspicious circumstances, especially the washing which was not a habit with potter. it was also said that the town had been ransacked for this "murderer" (the public are not slow in the matter of sifting evidence and arriving at a verdict), but that he could not be found. horsemen had departed down all the roads in every direction, and the sheriff "was confident" that he would be captured before night. all the town was drifting toward the graveyard. tom's heartbreak vanished and he joined the procession, not because he would not a thousand times rather go anywhere else, but because an awful, unaccountable fascination drew him on. arrived at the dreadful place, he wormed his small body through the crowd and saw the dismal spectacle. it seemed to him an age since he was there before. somebody pinched his arm. he turned, and his eyes met huckleberry's. then both looked elsewhere at once, and wondered if anybody had noticed anything in their mutual glance. but everybody was talking, and intent upon the grisly spectacle before them. "poor fellow!" "poor young fellow!" "this ought to be a lesson to grave robbers!" "muff potter'll hang for this if they catch him!" this was the drift of remark; and the minister said, "it was a judgment; his hand is here." now tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye fell upon the stolid face of injun joe. at this moment the crowd began to sway and struggle, and voices shouted, "it's him! it's him! he's coming himself!" "who? who?" from twenty voices. "muff potter!" "hallo, he's stopped!--look out, he's turning! don't let him get away!" people in the branches of the trees over tom's head said he wasn't trying to get away--he only looked doubtful and perplexed. "infernal impudence!" said a bystander; "wanted to come and take a quiet look at his work, i reckon--didn't expect any company." the crowd fell apart, now, and the sheriff came through, ostentatiously leading potter by the arm. the poor fellow's face was haggard, and his eyes showed the fear that was upon him. when he stood before the murdered man, he shook as with a palsy, and he put his face in his hands and burst into tears. "i didn't do it, friends," he sobbed; "'pon my word and honor i never done it." "who's accused you?" shouted a voice. this shot seemed to carry home. potter lifted his face and looked around him with a pathetic hopelessness in his eyes. he saw injun joe, and exclaimed: "oh, injun joe, you promised me you'd never--" "is that your knife?" and it was thrust before him by the sheriff. potter would have fallen if they had not caught him and eased him to the ground. then he said: "something told me 't if i didn't come back and get--" he shuddered; then waved his nerveless hand with a vanquished gesture and said, "tell 'em, joe, tell 'em--it ain't any use any more." then huckleberry and tom stood dumb and staring, and heard the stony-hearted liar reel off his serene statement, they expecting every moment that the clear sky would deliver god's lightnings upon his head, and wondering to see how long the stroke was delayed. and when he had finished and still stood alive and whole, their wavering impulse to break their oath and save the poor betrayed prisoner's life faded and vanished away, for plainly this miscreant had sold himself to satan and it would be fatal to meddle with the property of such a power as that. "why didn't you leave? what did you want to come here for?" somebody said. "i couldn't help it--i couldn't help it," potter moaned. "i wanted to run away, but i couldn't seem to come anywhere but here." and he fell to sobbing again. injun joe repeated his statement, just as calmly, a few minutes afterward on the inquest, under oath; and the boys, seeing that the lightnings were still withheld, were confirmed in their belief that joe had sold himself to the devil. he was now become, to them, the most balefully interesting object they had ever looked upon, and they could not take their fascinated eyes from his face. they inwardly resolved to watch him nights, when opportunity should offer, in the hope of getting a glimpse of his dread master. injun joe helped to raise the body of the murdered man and put it in a wagon for removal; and it was whispered through the shuddering crowd that the wound bled a little! the boys thought that this happy circumstance would turn suspicion in the right direction; but they were disappointed, for more than one villager remarked: "it was within three feet of muff potter when it done it." tom's fearful secret and gnawing conscience disturbed his sleep for as much as a week after this; and at breakfast one morning sid said: "tom, you pitch around and talk in your sleep so much that you keep me awake half the time." tom blanched and dropped his eyes. "it's a bad sign," said aunt polly, gravely. "what you got on your mind, tom?" "nothing. nothing 't i know of." but the boy's hand shook so that he spilled his coffee. "and you do talk such stuff," sid said. "last night you said, 'it's blood, it's blood, that's what it is!' you said that over and over. and you said, 'don't torment me so--i'll tell!' tell what? what is it you'll tell?" everything was swimming before tom. there is no telling what might have happened, now, but luckily the concern passed out of aunt polly's face and she came to tom's relief without knowing it. she said: "sho! it's that dreadful murder. i dream about it most every night myself. sometimes i dream it's me that done it." mary said she had been affected much the same way. sid seemed satisfied. tom got out of the presence as quick as he plausibly could, and after that he complained of toothache for a week, and tied up his jaws every night. he never knew that sid lay nightly watching, and frequently slipped the bandage free and then leaned on his elbow listening a good while at a time, and afterward slipped the bandage back to its place again. tom's distress of mind wore off gradually and the toothache grew irksome and was discarded. if sid really managed to make anything out of tom's disjointed mutterings, he kept it to himself. it seemed to tom that his schoolmates never would get done holding inquests on dead cats, and thus keeping his trouble present to his mind. sid noticed that tom never was coroner at one of these inquiries, though it had been his habit to take the lead in all new enterprises; he noticed, too, that tom never acted as a witness--and that was strange; and sid did not overlook the fact that tom even showed a marked aversion to these inquests, and always avoided them when he could. sid marvelled, but said nothing. however, even inquests went out of vogue at last, and ceased to torture tom's conscience. every day or two, during this time of sorrow, tom watched his opportunity and went to the little grated jail-window and smuggled such small comforts through to the "murderer" as he could get hold of. the jail was a trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at the edge of the village, and no guards were afforded for it; indeed, it was seldom occupied. these offerings greatly helped to ease tom's conscience. the villagers had a strong desire to tar-and-feather injun joe and ride him on a rail, for body-snatching, but so formidable was his character that nobody could be found who was willing to take the lead in the matter, so it was dropped. he had been careful to begin both of his inquest-statements with the fight, without confessing the grave-robbery that preceded it; therefore it was deemed wisest not to try the case in the courts at present. chapter xii one of the reasons why tom's mind had drifted away from its secret troubles was, that it had found a new and weighty matter to interest itself about. becky thatcher had stopped coming to school. tom had struggled with his pride a few days, and tried to "whistle her down the wind," but failed. he began to find himself hanging around her father's house, nights, and feeling very miserable. she was ill. what if she should die! there was distraction in the thought. he no longer took an interest in war, nor even in piracy. the charm of life was gone; there was nothing but dreariness left. he put his hoop away, and his bat; there was no joy in them any more. his aunt was concerned. she began to try all manner of remedies on him. she was one of those people who are infatuated with patent medicines and all new-fangled methods of producing health or mending it. she was an inveterate experimenter in these things. when something fresh in this line came out she was in a fever, right away, to try it; not on herself, for she was never ailing, but on anybody else that came handy. she was a subscriber for all the "health" periodicals and phrenological frauds; and the solemn ignorance they were inflated with was breath to her nostrils. all the "rot" they contained about ventilation, and how to go to bed, and how to get up, and what to eat, and what to drink, and how much exercise to take, and what frame of mind to keep one's self in, and what sort of clothing to wear, was all gospel to her, and she never observed that her health-journals of the current month customarily upset everything they had recommended the month before. she was as simple-hearted and honest as the day was long, and so she was an easy victim. she gathered together her quack periodicals and her quack medicines, and thus armed with death, went about on her pale horse, metaphorically speaking, with "hell following after." but she never suspected that she was not an angel of healing and the balm of gilead in disguise, to the suffering neighbors. the water treatment was new, now, and tom's low condition was a windfall to her. she had him out at daylight every morning, stood him up in the woodshed and drowned him with a deluge of cold water; then she scrubbed him down with a towel like a file, and so brought him to; then she rolled him up in a wet sheet and put him away under blankets till she sweated his soul clean and "the yellow stains of it came through his pores"--as tom said. yet notwithstanding all this, the boy grew more and more melancholy and pale and dejected. she added hot baths, sitz baths, shower baths, and plunges. the boy remained as dismal as a hearse. she began to assist the water with a slim oatmeal diet and blister-plasters. she calculated his capacity as she would a jug's, and filled him up every day with quack cure-alls. tom had become indifferent to persecution by this time. this phase filled the old lady's heart with consternation. this indifference must be broken up at any cost. now she heard of pain-killer for the first time. she ordered a lot at once. she tasted it and was filled with gratitude. it was simply fire in a liquid form. she dropped the water treatment and everything else, and pinned her faith to pain-killer. she gave tom a teaspoonful and watched with the deepest anxiety for the result. her troubles were instantly at rest, her soul at peace again; for the "indifference" was broken up. the boy could not have shown a wilder, heartier interest, if she had built a fire under him. tom felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of life might be romantic enough, in his blighted condition, but it was getting to have too little sentiment and too much distracting variety about it. so he thought over various plans for relief, and finally hit pon that of professing to be fond of pain-killer. he asked for it so often that he became a nuisance, and his aunt ended by telling him to help himself and quit bothering her. if it had been sid, she would have had no misgivings to alloy her delight; but since it was tom, she watched the bottle clandestinely. she found that the medicine did really diminish, but it did not occur to her that the boy was mending the health of a crack in the sitting-room floor with it. one day tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt's yellow cat came along, purring, eying the teaspoon avariciously, and begging for a taste. tom said: "don't ask for it unless you want it, peter." but peter signified that he did want it. "you better make sure." peter was sure. "now you've asked for it, and i'll give it to you, because there ain't anything mean about me; but if you find you don't like it, you mustn't blame anybody but your own self." peter was agreeable. so tom pried his mouth open and poured down the pain-killer. peter sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then delivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging against furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and making general havoc. next he rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment, with his head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming his unappeasable happiness. then he went tearing around the house again spreading chaos and destruction in his path. aunt polly entered in time to see him throw a few double summersets, deliver a final mighty hurrah, and sail through the open window, carrying the rest of the flower-pots with him. the old lady stood petrified with astonishment, peering over her glasses; tom lay on the floor expiring with laughter. "tom, what on earth ails that cat?" "i don't know, aunt," gasped the boy. "why, i never see anything like it. what did make him act so?" "deed i don't know, aunt polly; cats always act so when they're having a good time." "they do, do they?" there was something in the tone that made tom apprehensive. "yes'm. that is, i believe they do." "you do?" "yes'm." the old lady was bending down, tom watching, with interest emphasized by anxiety. too late he divined her "drift." the handle of the telltale teaspoon was visible under the bed-valance. aunt polly took it, held it up. tom winced, and dropped his eyes. aunt polly raised him by the usual handle--his ear--and cracked his head soundly with her thimble. "now, sir, what did you want to treat that poor dumb beast so, for?" "i done it out of pity for him--because he hadn't any aunt." "hadn't any aunt!--you numskull. what has that got to do with it?" "heaps. because if he'd had one she'd a burnt him out herself! she'd a roasted his bowels out of him 'thout any more feeling than if he was a human!" aunt polly felt a sudden pang of remorse. this was putting the thing in a new light; what was cruelty to a cat might be cruelty to a boy, too. she began to soften; she felt sorry. her eyes watered a little, and she put her hand on tom's head and said gently: "i was meaning for the best, tom. and, tom, it did do you good." tom looked up in her face with just a perceptible twinkle peeping through his gravity. "i know you was meaning for the best, aunty, and so was i with peter. it done him good, too. i never see him get around so since--" "oh, go 'long with you, tom, before you aggravate me again. and you try and see if you can't be a good boy, for once, and you needn't take any more medicine." tom reached school ahead of time. it was noticed that this strange thing had been occurring every day latterly. and now, as usual of late, he hung about the gate of the schoolyard instead of playing with his comrades. he was sick, he said, and he looked it. he tried to seem to be looking everywhere but whither he really was looking--down the road. presently jeff thatcher hove in sight, and tom's face lighted; he gazed a moment, and then turned sorrowfully away. when jeff arrived, tom accosted him; and "led up" warily to opportunities for remark about becky, but the giddy lad never could see the bait. tom watched and watched, hoping whenever a frisking frock came in sight, and hating the owner of it as soon as he saw she was not the right one. at last frocks ceased to appear, and he dropped hopelessly into the dumps; he entered the empty schoolhouse and sat down to suffer. then one more frock passed in at the gate, and tom's heart gave a great bound. the next instant he was out, and "going on" like an indian; yelling, laughing, chasing boys, jumping over the fence at risk of life and limb, throwing handsprings, standing on his head--doing all the heroic things he could conceive of, and keeping a furtive eye out, all the while, to see if becky thatcher was noticing. but she seemed to be unconscious of it all; she never looked. could it be possible that she was not aware that he was there? he carried his exploits to her immediate vicinity; came war-whooping around, snatched a boy's cap, hurled it to the roof of the schoolhouse, broke through a group of boys, tumbling them in every direction, and fell sprawling, himself, under becky's nose, almost upsetting her--and she turned, with her nose in the air, and he heard her say: "mf! some people think they're mighty smart--always showing off!" tom's cheeks burned. he gathered himself up and sneaked off, crushed and crestfallen. the adventures of tom sawyer by mark twain (samuel langhorne clemens) part chapter xiii tom's mind was made up now. he was gloomy and desperate. he was a forsaken, friendless boy, he said; nobody loved him; when they found out what they had driven him to, perhaps they would be sorry; he had tried to do right and get along, but they would not let him; since nothing would do them but to be rid of him, let it be so; and let them blame him for the consequences--why shouldn't they? what right had the friendless to complain? yes, they had forced him to it at last: he would lead a life of crime. there was no choice. by this time he was far down meadow lane, and the bell for school to "take up" tinkled faintly upon his ear. he sobbed, now, to think he should never, never hear that old familiar sound any more--it was very hard, but it was forced on him; since he was driven out into the cold world, he must submit--but he forgave them. then the sobs came thick and fast. just at this point he met his soul's sworn comrade, joe harper --hard-eyed, and with evidently a great and dismal purpose in his heart. plainly here were "two souls with but a single thought." tom, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, began to blubber out something about a resolution to escape from hard usage and lack of sympathy at home by roaming abroad into the great world never to return; and ended by hoping that joe would not forget him. but it transpired that this was a request which joe had just been going to make of tom, and had come to hunt him up for that purpose. his mother had whipped him for drinking some cream which he had never tasted and knew nothing about; it was plain that she was tired of him and wished him to go; if she felt that way, there was nothing for him to do but succumb; he hoped she would be happy, and never regret having driven her poor boy out into the unfeeling world to suffer and die. as the two boys walked sorrowing along, they made a new compact to stand by each other and be brothers and never separate till death relieved them of their troubles. then they began to lay their plans. joe was for being a hermit, and living on crusts in a remote cave, and dying, some time, of cold and want and grief; but after listening to tom, he conceded that there were some conspicuous advantages about a life of crime, and so he consented to be a pirate. three miles below st. petersburg, at a point where the mississippi river was a trifle over a mile wide, there was a long, narrow, wooded island, with a shallow bar at the head of it, and this offered well as a rendezvous. it was not inhabited; it lay far over toward the further shore, abreast a dense and almost wholly unpeopled forest. so jackson's island was chosen. who were to be the subjects of their piracies was a matter that did not occur to them. then they hunted up huckleberry finn, and he joined them promptly, for all careers were one to him; he was indifferent. they presently separated to meet at a lonely spot on the river-bank two miles above the village at the favorite hour--which was midnight. there was a small log raft there which they meant to capture. each would bring hooks and lines, and such provision as he could steal in the most dark and mysterious way--as became outlaws. and before the afternoon was done, they had all managed to enjoy the sweet glory of spreading the fact that pretty soon the town would "hear something." all who got this vague hint were cautioned to "be mum and wait." about midnight tom arrived with a boiled ham and a few trifles, and stopped in a dense undergrowth on a small bluff overlooking the meeting-place. it was starlight, and very still. the mighty river lay like an ocean at rest. tom listened a moment, but no sound disturbed the quiet. then he gave a low, distinct whistle. it was answered from under the bluff. tom whistled twice more; these signals were answered in the same way. then a guarded voice said: "who goes there?" "tom sawyer, the black avenger of the spanish main. name your names." "huck finn the red-handed, and joe harper the terror of the seas." tom had furnished these titles, from his favorite literature. "'tis well. give the countersign." two hoarse whispers delivered the same awful word simultaneously to the brooding night: "blood!" then tom tumbled his ham over the bluff and let himself down after it, tearing both skin and clothes to some extent in the effort. there was an easy, comfortable path along the shore under the bluff, but it lacked the advantages of difficulty and danger so valued by a pirate. the terror of the seas had brought a side of bacon, and had about worn himself out with getting it there. finn the red-handed had stolen a skillet and a quantity of half-cured leaf tobacco, and had also brought a few corn-cobs to make pipes with. but none of the pirates smoked or "chewed" but himself. the black avenger of the spanish main said it would never do to start without some fire. that was a wise thought; matches were hardly known there in that day. they saw a fire smouldering upon a great raft a hundred yards above, and they went stealthily thither and helped themselves to a chunk. they made an imposing adventure of it, saying, "hist!" every now and then, and suddenly halting with finger on lip; moving with hands on imaginary dagger-hilts; and giving orders in dismal whispers that if "the foe" stirred, to "let him have it to the hilt," because "dead men tell no tales." they knew well enough that the raftsmen were all down at the village laying in stores or having a spree, but still that was no excuse for their conducting this thing in an unpiratical way. they shoved off, presently, tom in command, huck at the after oar and joe at the forward. tom stood amidships, gloomy-browed, and with folded arms, and gave his orders in a low, stern whisper: "luff, and bring her to the wind!" "aye-aye, sir!" "steady, steady-y-y-y!" "steady it is, sir!" "let her go off a point!" "point it is, sir!" as the boys steadily and monotonously drove the raft toward mid-stream it was no doubt understood that these orders were given only for "style," and were not intended to mean anything in particular. "what sail's she carrying?" "courses, tops'ls, and flying-jib, sir." "send the r'yals up! lay out aloft, there, half a dozen of ye --foretopmaststuns'l! lively, now!" "aye-aye, sir!" "shake out that maintogalans'l! sheets and braces! now my hearties!" "aye-aye, sir!" "hellum-a-lee--hard a port! stand by to meet her when she comes! port, port! now, men! with a will! stead-y-y-y!" "steady it is, sir!" the raft drew beyond the middle of the river; the boys pointed her head right, and then lay on their oars. the river was not high, so there was not more than a two or three mile current. hardly a word was said during the next three-quarters of an hour. now the raft was passing before the distant town. two or three glimmering lights showed where it lay, peacefully sleeping, beyond the vague vast sweep of star-gemmed water, unconscious of the tremendous event that was happening. the black avenger stood still with folded arms, "looking his last" upon the scene of his former joys and his later sufferings, and wishing "she" could see him now, abroad on the wild sea, facing peril and death with dauntless heart, going to his doom with a grim smile on his lips. it was but a small strain on his imagination to remove jackson's island beyond eyeshot of the village, and so he "looked his last" with a broken and satisfied heart. the other pirates were looking their last, too; and they all looked so long that they came near letting the current drift them out of the range of the island. but they discovered the danger in time, and made shift to avert it. about two o'clock in the morning the raft grounded on the bar two hundred yards above the head of the island, and they waded back and forth until they had landed their freight. part of the little raft's belongings consisted of an old sail, and this they spread over a nook in the bushes for a tent to shelter their provisions; but they themselves would sleep in the open air in good weather, as became outlaws. they built a fire against the side of a great log twenty or thirty steps within the sombre depths of the forest, and then cooked some bacon in the frying-pan for supper, and used up half of the corn "pone" stock they had brought. it seemed glorious sport to be feasting in that wild, free way in the virgin forest of an unexplored and uninhabited island, far from the haunts of men, and they said they never would return to civilization. the climbing fire lit up their faces and threw its ruddy glare upon the pillared tree-trunks of their forest temple, and upon the varnished foliage and festooning vines. when the last crisp slice of bacon was gone, and the last allowance of corn pone devoured, the boys stretched themselves out on the grass, filled with contentment. they could have found a cooler place, but they would not deny themselves such a romantic feature as the roasting camp-fire. "ain't it gay?" said joe. "it's nuts!" said tom. "what would the boys say if they could see us?" "say? well, they'd just die to be here--hey, hucky!" "i reckon so," said huckleberry; "anyways, i'm suited. i don't want nothing better'n this. i don't ever get enough to eat, gen'ally--and here they can't come and pick at a feller and bullyrag him so." "it's just the life for me," said tom. "you don't have to get up, mornings, and you don't have to go to school, and wash, and all that blame foolishness. you see a pirate don't have to do anything, joe, when he's ashore, but a hermit he has to be praying considerable, and then he don't have any fun, anyway, all by himself that way." "oh yes, that's so," said joe, "but i hadn't thought much about it, you know. i'd a good deal rather be a pirate, now that i've tried it." "you see," said tom, "people don't go much on hermits, nowadays, like they used to in old times, but a pirate's always respected. and a hermit's got to sleep on the hardest place he can find, and put sackcloth and ashes on his head, and stand out in the rain, and--" "what does he put sackcloth and ashes on his head for?" inquired huck. "i dono. but they've got to do it. hermits always do. you'd have to do that if you was a hermit." "dern'd if i would," said huck. "well, what would you do?" "i dono. but i wouldn't do that." "why, huck, you'd have to. how'd you get around it?" "why, i just wouldn't stand it. i'd run away." "run away! well, you would be a nice old slouch of a hermit. you'd be a disgrace." the red-handed made no response, being better employed. he had finished gouging out a cob, and now he fitted a weed stem to it, loaded it with tobacco, and was pressing a coal to the charge and blowing a cloud of fragrant smoke--he was in the full bloom of luxurious contentment. the other pirates envied him this majestic vice, and secretly resolved to acquire it shortly. presently huck said: "what does pirates have to do?" tom said: "oh, they have just a bully time--take ships and burn them, and get the money and bury it in awful places in their island where there's ghosts and things to watch it, and kill everybody in the ships--make 'em walk a plank." "and they carry the women to the island," said joe; "they don't kill the women." "no," assented tom, "they don't kill the women--they're too noble. and the women's always beautiful, too. "and don't they wear the bulliest clothes! oh no! all gold and silver and di'monds," said joe, with enthusiasm. "who?" said huck. "why, the pirates." huck scanned his own clothing forlornly. "i reckon i ain't dressed fitten for a pirate," said he, with a regretful pathos in his voice; "but i ain't got none but these." but the other boys told him the fine clothes would come fast enough, after they should have begun their adventures. they made him understand that his poor rags would do to begin with, though it was customary for wealthy pirates to start with a proper wardrobe. gradually their talk died out and drowsiness began to steal upon the eyelids of the little waifs. the pipe dropped from the fingers of the red-handed, and he slept the sleep of the conscience-free and the weary. the terror of the seas and the black avenger of the spanish main had more difficulty in getting to sleep. they said their prayers inwardly, and lying down, since there was nobody there with authority to make them kneel and recite aloud; in truth, they had a mind not to say them at all, but they were afraid to proceed to such lengths as that, lest they might call down a sudden and special thunderbolt from heaven. then at once they reached and hovered upon the imminent verge of sleep--but an intruder came, now, that would not "down." it was conscience. they began to feel a vague fear that they had been doing wrong to run away; and next they thought of the stolen meat, and then the real torture came. they tried to argue it away by reminding conscience that they had purloined sweetmeats and apples scores of times; but conscience was not to be appeased by such thin plausibilities; it seemed to them, in the end, that there was no getting around the stubborn fact that taking sweetmeats was only "hooking," while taking bacon and hams and such valuables was plain simple stealing--and there was a command against that in the bible. so they inwardly resolved that so long as they remained in the business, their piracies should not again be sullied with the crime of stealing. then conscience granted a truce, and these curiously inconsistent pirates fell peacefully to sleep. chapter xiv when tom awoke in the morning, he wondered where he was. he sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around. then he comprehended. it was the cool gray dawn, and there was a delicious sense of repose and peace in the deep pervading calm and silence of the woods. not a leaf stirred; not a sound obtruded upon great nature's meditation. beaded dewdrops stood upon the leaves and grasses. a white layer of ashes covered the fire, and a thin blue breath of smoke rose straight into the air. joe and huck still slept. now, far away in the woods a bird called; another answered; presently the hammering of a woodpecker was heard. gradually the cool dim gray of the morning whitened, and as gradually sounds multiplied and life manifested itself. the marvel of nature shaking off sleep and going to work unfolded itself to the musing boy. a little green worm came crawling over a dewy leaf, lifting two-thirds of his body into the air from time to time and "sniffing around," then proceeding again--for he was measuring, tom said; and when the worm approached him, of its own accord, he sat as still as a stone, with his hopes rising and falling, by turns, as the creature still came toward him or seemed inclined to go elsewhere; and when at last it considered a painful moment with its curved body in the air and then came decisively down upon tom's leg and began a journey over him, his whole heart was glad--for that meant that he was going to have a new suit of clothes--without the shadow of a doubt a gaudy piratical uniform. now a procession of ants appeared, from nowhere in particular, and went about their labors; one struggled manfully by with a dead spider five times as big as itself in its arms, and lugged it straight up a tree-trunk. a brown spotted lady-bug climbed the dizzy height of a grass blade, and tom bent down close to it and said, "lady-bug, lady-bug, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children's alone," and she took wing and went off to see about it --which did not surprise the boy, for he knew of old that this insect was credulous about conflagrations, and he had practised upon its simplicity more than once. a tumblebug came next, heaving sturdily at its ball, and tom touched the creature, to see it shut its legs against its body and pretend to be dead. the birds were fairly rioting by this time. a catbird, the northern mocker, lit in a tree over tom's head, and trilled out her imitations of her neighbors in a rapture of enjoyment; then a shrill jay swept down, a flash of blue flame, and stopped on a twig almost within the boy's reach, cocked his head to one side and eyed the strangers with a consuming curiosity; a gray squirrel and a big fellow of the "fox" kind came skurrying along, sitting up at intervals to inspect and chatter at the boys, for the wild things had probably never seen a human being before and scarcely knew whether to be afraid or not. all nature was wide awake and stirring, now; long lances of sunlight pierced down through the dense foliage far and near, and a few butterflies came fluttering upon the scene. tom stirred up the other pirates and they all clattered away with a shout, and in a minute or two were stripped and chasing after and tumbling over each other in the shallow limpid water of the white sandbar. they felt no longing for the little village sleeping in the distance beyond the majestic waste of water. a vagrant current or a slight rise in the river had carried off their raft, but this only gratified them, since its going was something like burning the bridge between them and civilization. they came back to camp wonderfully refreshed, glad-hearted, and ravenous; and they soon had the camp-fire blazing up again. huck found a spring of clear cold water close by, and the boys made cups of broad oak or hickory leaves, and felt that water, sweetened with such a wildwood charm as that, would be a good enough substitute for coffee. while joe was slicing bacon for breakfast, tom and huck asked him to hold on a minute; they stepped to a promising nook in the river-bank and threw in their lines; almost immediately they had reward. joe had not had time to get impatient before they were back again with some handsome bass, a couple of sun-perch and a small catfish--provisions enough for quite a family. they fried the fish with the bacon, and were astonished; for no fish had ever seemed so delicious before. they did not know that the quicker a fresh-water fish is on the fire after he is caught the better he is; and they reflected little upon what a sauce open-air sleeping, open-air exercise, bathing, and a large ingredient of hunger make, too. they lay around in the shade, after breakfast, while huck had a smoke, and then went off through the woods on an exploring expedition. they tramped gayly along, over decaying logs, through tangled underbrush, among solemn monarchs of the forest, hung from their crowns to the ground with a drooping regalia of grape-vines. now and then they came upon snug nooks carpeted with grass and jeweled with flowers. they found plenty of things to be delighted with, but nothing to be astonished at. they discovered that the island was about three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide, and that the shore it lay closest to was only separated from it by a narrow channel hardly two hundred yards wide. they took a swim about every hour, so it was close upon the middle of the afternoon when they got back to camp. they were too hungry to stop to fish, but they fared sumptuously upon cold ham, and then threw themselves down in the shade to talk. but the talk soon began to drag, and then died. the stillness, the solemnity that brooded in the woods, and the sense of loneliness, began to tell upon the spirits of the boys. they fell to thinking. a sort of undefined longing crept upon them. this took dim shape, presently--it was budding homesickness. even finn the red-handed was dreaming of his doorsteps and empty hogsheads. but they were all ashamed of their weakness, and none was brave enough to speak his thought. for some time, now, the boys had been dully conscious of a peculiar sound in the distance, just as one sometimes is of the ticking of a clock which he takes no distinct note of. but now this mysterious sound became more pronounced, and forced a recognition. the boys started, glanced at each other, and then each assumed a listening attitude. there was a long silence, profound and unbroken; then a deep, sullen boom came floating down out of the distance. "what is it!" exclaimed joe, under his breath. "i wonder," said tom in a whisper. "'tain't thunder," said huckleberry, in an awed tone, "becuz thunder--" "hark!" said tom. "listen--don't talk." they waited a time that seemed an age, and then the same muffled boom troubled the solemn hush. "let's go and see." they sprang to their feet and hurried to the shore toward the town. they parted the bushes on the bank and peered out over the water. the little steam ferryboat was about a mile below the village, drifting with the current. her broad deck seemed crowded with people. there were a great many skiffs rowing about or floating with the stream in the neighborhood of the ferryboat, but the boys could not determine what the men in them were doing. presently a great jet of white smoke burst from the ferryboat's side, and as it expanded and rose in a lazy cloud, that same dull throb of sound was borne to the listeners again. "i know now!" exclaimed tom; "somebody's drownded!" "that's it!" said huck; "they done that last summer, when bill turner got drownded; they shoot a cannon over the water, and that makes him come up to the top. yes, and they take loaves of bread and put quicksilver in 'em and set 'em afloat, and wherever there's anybody that's drownded, they'll float right there and stop." "yes, i've heard about that," said joe. "i wonder what makes the bread do that." "oh, it ain't the bread, so much," said tom; "i reckon it's mostly what they say over it before they start it out." "but they don't say anything over it," said huck. "i've seen 'em and they don't." "well, that's funny," said tom. "but maybe they say it to themselves. of course they do. anybody might know that." the other boys agreed that there was reason in what tom said, because an ignorant lump of bread, uninstructed by an incantation, could not be expected to act very intelligently when set upon an errand of such gravity. "by jings, i wish i was over there, now," said joe. "i do too" said huck "i'd give heaps to know who it is." the boys still listened and watched. presently a revealing thought flashed through tom's mind, and he exclaimed: "boys, i know who's drownded--it's us!" they felt like heroes in an instant. here was a gorgeous triumph; they were missed; they were mourned; hearts were breaking on their account; tears were being shed; accusing memories of unkindness to these poor lost lads were rising up, and unavailing regrets and remorse were being indulged; and best of all, the departed were the talk of the whole town, and the envy of all the boys, as far as this dazzling notoriety was concerned. this was fine. it was worth while to be a pirate, after all. as twilight drew on, the ferryboat went back to her accustomed business and the skiffs disappeared. the pirates returned to camp. they were jubilant with vanity over their new grandeur and the illustrious trouble they were making. they caught fish, cooked supper and ate it, and then fell to guessing at what the village was thinking and saying about them; and the pictures they drew of the public distress on their account were gratifying to look upon--from their point of view. but when the shadows of night closed them in, they gradually ceased to talk, and sat gazing into the fire, with their minds evidently wandering elsewhere. the excitement was gone, now, and tom and joe could not keep back thoughts of certain persons at home who were not enjoying this fine frolic as much as they were. misgivings came; they grew troubled and unhappy; a sigh or two escaped, unawares. by and by joe timidly ventured upon a roundabout "feeler" as to how the others might look upon a return to civilization--not right now, but-- tom withered him with derision! huck, being uncommitted as yet, joined in with tom, and the waverer quickly "explained," and was glad to get out of the scrape with as little taint of chicken-hearted homesickness clinging to his garments as he could. mutiny was effectually laid to rest for the moment. as the night deepened, huck began to nod, and presently to snore. joe followed next. tom lay upon his elbow motionless, for some time, watching the two intently. at last he got up cautiously, on his knees, and went searching among the grass and the flickering reflections flung by the camp-fire. he picked up and inspected several large semi-cylinders of the thin white bark of a sycamore, and finally chose two which seemed to suit him. then he knelt by the fire and painfully wrote something upon each of these with his "red keel"; one he rolled up and put in his jacket pocket, and the other he put in joe's hat and removed it to a little distance from the owner. and he also put into the hat certain schoolboy treasures of almost inestimable value--among them a lump of chalk, an india-rubber ball, three fishhooks, and one of that kind of marbles known as a "sure 'nough crystal." then he tiptoed his way cautiously among the trees till he felt that he was out of hearing, and straightway broke into a keen run in the direction of the sandbar. chapter xv a few minutes later tom was in the shoal water of the bar, wading toward the illinois shore. before the depth reached his middle he was half-way over; the current would permit no more wading, now, so he struck out confidently to swim the remaining hundred yards. he swam quartering upstream, but still was swept downward rather faster than he had expected. however, he reached the shore finally, and drifted along till he found a low place and drew himself out. he put his hand on his jacket pocket, found his piece of bark safe, and then struck through the woods, following the shore, with streaming garments. shortly before ten o'clock he came out into an open place opposite the village, and saw the ferryboat lying in the shadow of the trees and the high bank. everything was quiet under the blinking stars. he crept down the bank, watching with all his eyes, slipped into the water, swam three or four strokes and climbed into the skiff that did "yawl" duty at the boat's stern. he laid himself down under the thwarts and waited, panting. presently the cracked bell tapped and a voice gave the order to "cast off." a minute or two later the skiff's head was standing high up, against the boat's swell, and the voyage was begun. tom felt happy in his success, for he knew it was the boat's last trip for the night. at the end of a long twelve or fifteen minutes the wheels stopped, and tom slipped overboard and swam ashore in the dusk, landing fifty yards downstream, out of danger of possible stragglers. he flew along unfrequented alleys, and shortly found himself at his aunt's back fence. he climbed over, approached the "ell," and looked in at the sitting-room window, for a light was burning there. there sat aunt polly, sid, mary, and joe harper's mother, grouped together, talking. they were by the bed, and the bed was between them and the door. tom went to the door and began to softly lift the latch; then he pressed gently and the door yielded a crack; he continued pushing cautiously, and quaking every time it creaked, till he judged he might squeeze through on his knees; so he put his head through and began, warily. "what makes the candle blow so?" said aunt polly. tom hurried up. "why, that door's open, i believe. why, of course it is. no end of strange things now. go 'long and shut it, sid." tom disappeared under the bed just in time. he lay and "breathed" himself for a time, and then crept to where he could almost touch his aunt's foot. "but as i was saying," said aunt polly, "he warn't bad, so to say --only mischeevous. only just giddy, and harum-scarum, you know. he warn't any more responsible than a colt. he never meant any harm, and he was the best-hearted boy that ever was"--and she began to cry. "it was just so with my joe--always full of his devilment, and up to every kind of mischief, but he was just as unselfish and kind as he could be--and laws bless me, to think i went and whipped him for taking that cream, never once recollecting that i throwed it out myself because it was sour, and i never to see him again in this world, never, never, never, poor abused boy!" and mrs. harper sobbed as if her heart would break. "i hope tom's better off where he is," said sid, "but if he'd been better in some ways--" "sid!" tom felt the glare of the old lady's eye, though he could not see it. "not a word against my tom, now that he's gone! god'll take care of him--never you trouble yourself, sir! oh, mrs. harper, i don't know how to give him up! i don't know how to give him up! he was such a comfort to me, although he tormented my old heart out of me, 'most." "the lord giveth and the lord hath taken away--blessed be the name of the lord! but it's so hard--oh, it's so hard! only last saturday my joe busted a firecracker right under my nose and i knocked him sprawling. little did i know then, how soon--oh, if it was to do over again i'd hug him and bless him for it." "yes, yes, yes, i know just how you feel, mrs. harper, i know just exactly how you feel. no longer ago than yesterday noon, my tom took and filled the cat full of pain-killer, and i did think the cretur would tear the house down. and god forgive me, i cracked tom's head with my thimble, poor boy, poor dead boy. but he's out of all his troubles now. and the last words i ever heard him say was to reproach--" but this memory was too much for the old lady, and she broke entirely down. tom was snuffling, now, himself--and more in pity of himself than anybody else. he could hear mary crying, and putting in a kindly word for him from time to time. he began to have a nobler opinion of himself than ever before. still, he was sufficiently touched by his aunt's grief to long to rush out from under the bed and overwhelm her with joy--and the theatrical gorgeousness of the thing appealed strongly to his nature, too, but he resisted and lay still. he went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends that it was conjectured at first that the boys had got drowned while taking a swim; then the small raft had been missed; next, certain boys said the missing lads had promised that the village should "hear something" soon; the wise-heads had "put this and that together" and decided that the lads had gone off on that raft and would turn up at the next town below, presently; but toward noon the raft had been found, lodged against the missouri shore some five or six miles below the village --and then hope perished; they must be drowned, else hunger would have driven them home by nightfall if not sooner. it was believed that the search for the bodies had been a fruitless effort merely because the drowning must have occurred in mid-channel, since the boys, being good swimmers, would otherwise have escaped to shore. this was wednesday night. if the bodies continued missing until sunday, all hope would be given over, and the funerals would be preached on that morning. tom shuddered. mrs. harper gave a sobbing good-night and turned to go. then with a mutual impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each other's arms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted. aunt polly was tender far beyond her wont, in her good-night to sid and mary. sid snuffled a bit and mary went off crying with all her heart. aunt polly knelt down and prayed for tom so touchingly, so appealingly, and with such measureless love in her words and her old trembling voice, that he was weltering in tears again, long before she was through. he had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making broken-hearted ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully, and turning over. but at last she was still, only moaning a little in her sleep. now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside, shaded the candle-light with his hand, and stood regarding her. his heart was full of pity for her. he took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the candle. but something occurred to him, and he lingered considering. his face lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the bark hastily in his pocket. then he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and straightway made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him. he threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large there, and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was tenantless except that there was a watchman, who always turned in and slept like a graven image. he untied the skiff at the stern, slipped into it, and was soon rowing cautiously upstream. when he had pulled a mile above the village, he started quartering across and bent himself stoutly to his work. he hit the landing on the other side neatly, for this was a familiar bit of work to him. he was moved to capture the skiff, arguing that it might be considered a ship and therefore legitimate prey for a pirate, but he knew a thorough search would be made for it and that might end in revelations. so he stepped ashore and entered the woods. he sat down and took a long rest, torturing himself meanwhile to keep awake, and then started warily down the home-stretch. the night was far spent. it was broad daylight before he found himself fairly abreast the island bar. he rested again until the sun was well up and gilding the great river with its splendor, and then he plunged into the stream. a little later he paused, dripping, upon the threshold of the camp, and heard joe say: "no, tom's true-blue, huck, and he'll come back. he won't desert. he knows that would be a disgrace to a pirate, and tom's too proud for that sort of thing. he's up to something or other. now i wonder what?" "well, the things is ours, anyway, ain't they?" pretty near, but not yet, huck. the writing says they are if he ain't back here to breakfast." "which he is!" exclaimed tom, with fine dramatic effect, stepping grandly into camp. a sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was shortly provided, and as the boys set to work upon it, tom recounted (and adorned) his adventures. they were a vain and boastful company of heroes when the tale was done. then tom hid himself away in a shady nook to sleep till noon, and the other pirates got ready to fish and explore. chapter xvi after dinner all the gang turned out to hunt for turtle eggs on the bar. they went about poking sticks into the sand, and when they found a soft place they went down on their knees and dug with their hands. sometimes they would take fifty or sixty eggs out of one hole. they were perfectly round white things a trifle smaller than an english walnut. they had a famous fried-egg feast that night, and another on friday morning. after breakfast they went whooping and prancing out on the bar, and chased each other round and round, shedding clothes as they went, until they were naked, and then continued the frolic far away up the shoal water of the bar, against the stiff current, which latter tripped their legs from under them from time to time and greatly increased the fun. and now and then they stooped in a group and splashed water in each other's faces with their palms, gradually approaching each other, with averted faces to avoid the strangling sprays, and finally gripping and struggling till the best man ducked his neighbor, and then they all went under in a tangle of white legs and arms and came up blowing, sputtering, laughing, and gasping for breath at one and the same time. when they were well exhausted, they would run out and sprawl on the dry, hot sand, and lie there and cover themselves up with it, and by and by break for the water again and go through the original performance once more. finally it occurred to them that their naked skin represented flesh-colored "tights" very fairly; so they drew a ring in the sand and had a circus--with three clowns in it, for none would yield this proudest post to his neighbor. next they got their marbles and played "knucks" and "ring-taw" and "keeps" till that amusement grew stale. then joe and huck had another swim, but tom would not venture, because he found that in kicking off his trousers he had kicked his string of rattlesnake rattles off his ankle, and he wondered how he had escaped cramp so long without the protection of this mysterious charm. he did not venture again until he had found it, and by that time the other boys were tired and ready to rest. they gradually wandered apart, dropped into the "dumps," and fell to gazing longingly across the wide river to where the village lay drowsing in the sun. tom found himself writing "becky" in the sand with his big toe; he scratched it out, and was angry with himself for his weakness. but he wrote it again, nevertheless; he could not help it. he erased it once more and then took himself out of temptation by driving the other boys together and joining them. but joe's spirits had gone down almost beyond resurrection. he was so homesick that he could hardly endure the misery of it. the tears lay very near the surface. huck was melancholy, too. tom was downhearted, but tried hard not to show it. he had a secret which he was not ready to tell, yet, but if this mutinous depression was not broken up soon, he would have to bring it out. he said, with a great show of cheerfulness: "i bet there's been pirates on this island before, boys. we'll explore it again. they've hid treasures here somewhere. how'd you feel to light on a rotten chest full of gold and silver--hey?" but it roused only faint enthusiasm, which faded out, with no reply. tom tried one or two other seductions; but they failed, too. it was discouraging work. joe sat poking up the sand with a stick and looking very gloomy. finally he said: "oh, boys, let's give it up. i want to go home. it's so lonesome." "oh no, joe, you'll feel better by and by," said tom. "just think of the fishing that's here." "i don't care for fishing. i want to go home." "but, joe, there ain't such another swimming-place anywhere." "swimming's no good. i don't seem to care for it, somehow, when there ain't anybody to say i sha'n't go in. i mean to go home." "oh, shucks! baby! you want to see your mother, i reckon." "yes, i do want to see my mother--and you would, too, if you had one. i ain't any more baby than you are." and joe snuffled a little. "well, we'll let the cry-baby go home to his mother, won't we, huck? poor thing--does it want to see its mother? and so it shall. you like it here, don't you, huck? we'll stay, won't we?" huck said, "y-e-s"--without any heart in it. "i'll never speak to you again as long as i live," said joe, rising. "there now!" and he moved moodily away and began to dress himself. "who cares!" said tom. "nobody wants you to. go 'long home and get laughed at. oh, you're a nice pirate. huck and me ain't cry-babies. we'll stay, won't we, huck? let him go if he wants to. i reckon we can get along without him, per'aps." but tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed to see joe go sullenly on with his dressing. and then it was discomforting to see huck eying joe's preparations so wistfully, and keeping up such an ominous silence. presently, without a parting word, joe began to wade off toward the illinois shore. tom's heart began to sink. he glanced at huck. huck could not bear the look, and dropped his eyes. then he said: "i want to go, too, tom. it was getting so lonesome anyway, and now it'll be worse. let's us go, too, tom." "i won't! you can all go, if you want to. i mean to stay." "tom, i better go." "well, go 'long--who's hendering you." huck began to pick up his scattered clothes. he said: "tom, i wisht you'd come, too. now you think it over. we'll wait for you when we get to shore." "well, you'll wait a blame long time, that's all." huck started sorrowfully away, and tom stood looking after him, with a strong desire tugging at his heart to yield his pride and go along too. he hoped the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly on. it suddenly dawned on tom that it was become very lonely and still. he made one final struggle with his pride, and then darted after his comrades, yelling: "wait! wait! i want to tell you something!" they presently stopped and turned around. when he got to where they were, he began unfolding his secret, and they listened moodily till at last they saw the "point" he was driving at, and then they set up a war-whoop of applause and said it was "splendid!" and said if he had told them at first, they wouldn't have started away. he made a plausible excuse; but his real reason had been the fear that not even the secret would keep them with him any very great length of time, and so he had meant to hold it in reserve as a last seduction. the lads came gayly back and went at their sports again with a will, chattering all the time about tom's stupendous plan and admiring the genius of it. after a dainty egg and fish dinner, tom said he wanted to learn to smoke, now. joe caught at the idea and said he would like to try, too. so huck made pipes and filled them. these novices had never smoked anything before but cigars made of grape-vine, and they "bit" the tongue, and were not considered manly anyway. now they stretched themselves out on their elbows and began to puff, charily, and with slender confidence. the smoke had an unpleasant taste, and they gagged a little, but tom said: "why, it's just as easy! if i'd a knowed this was all, i'd a learnt long ago." "so would i," said joe. "it's just nothing." "why, many a time i've looked at people smoking, and thought well i wish i could do that; but i never thought i could," said tom. "that's just the way with me, hain't it, huck? you've heard me talk just that way--haven't you, huck? i'll leave it to huck if i haven't." "yes--heaps of times," said huck. "well, i have too," said tom; "oh, hundreds of times. once down by the slaughter-house. don't you remember, huck? bob tanner was there, and johnny miller, and jeff thatcher, when i said it. don't you remember, huck, 'bout me saying that?" "yes, that's so," said huck. "that was the day after i lost a white alley. no, 'twas the day before." "there--i told you so," said tom. "huck recollects it." "i bleeve i could smoke this pipe all day," said joe. "i don't feel sick." "neither do i," said tom. "i could smoke it all day. but i bet you jeff thatcher couldn't." "jeff thatcher! why, he'd keel over just with two draws. just let him try it once. he'd see!" "i bet he would. and johnny miller--i wish could see johnny miller tackle it once." "oh, don't i!" said joe. "why, i bet you johnny miller couldn't any more do this than nothing. just one little snifter would fetch him." "'deed it would, joe. say--i wish the boys could see us now." "so do i." "say--boys, don't say anything about it, and some time when they're around, i'll come up to you and say, 'joe, got a pipe? i want a smoke.' and you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll say, 'yes, i got my old pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain't very good.' and i'll say, 'oh, that's all right, if it's strong enough.' and then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just as ca'm, and then just see 'em look!" "by jings, that'll be gay, tom! i wish it was now!" "so do i! and when we tell 'em we learned when we was off pirating, won't they wish they'd been along?" "oh, i reckon not! i'll just bet they will!" so the talk ran on. but presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow disjointed. the silences widened; the expectoration marvellously increased. every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting fountain; they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues fast enough to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their throats occurred in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings followed every time. both boys were looking very pale and miserable, now. joe's pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers. tom's followed. both fountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing with might and main. joe said feebly: "i've lost my knife. i reckon i better go and find it." tom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance: "i'll help you. you go over that way and i'll hunt around by the spring. no, you needn't come, huck--we can find it." so huck sat down again, and waited an hour. then he found it lonesome, and went to find his comrades. they were wide apart in the woods, both very pale, both fast asleep. but something informed him that if they had had any trouble they had got rid of it. they were not talkative at supper that night. they had a humble look, and when huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going to prepare theirs, they said no, they were not feeling very well--something they ate at dinner had disagreed with them. about midnight joe awoke, and called the boys. there was a brooding oppressiveness in the air that seemed to bode something. the boys huddled themselves together and sought the friendly companionship of the fire, though the dull dead heat of the breathless atmosphere was stifling. they sat still, intent and waiting. the solemn hush continued. beyond the light of the fire everything was swallowed up in the blackness of darkness. presently there came a quivering glow that vaguely revealed the foliage for a moment and then vanished. by and by another came, a little stronger. then another. then a faint moan came sighing through the branches of the forest and the boys felt a fleeting breath upon their cheeks, and shuddered with the fancy that the spirit of the night had gone by. there was a pause. now a weird flash turned night into day and showed every little grass-blade, separate and distinct, that grew about their feet. and it showed three white, startled faces, too. a deep peal of thunder went rolling and tumbling down the heavens and lost itself in sullen rumblings in the distance. a sweep of chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves and snowing the flaky ashes broadcast about the fire. another fierce glare lit up the forest and an instant crash followed that seemed to rend the tree-tops right over the boys' heads. they clung together in terror, in the thick gloom that followed. a few big rain-drops fell pattering upon the leaves. "quick! boys, go for the tent!" exclaimed tom. they sprang away, stumbling over roots and among vines in the dark, no two plunging in the same direction. a furious blast roared through the trees, making everything sing as it went. one blinding flash after another came, and peal on peal of deafening thunder. and now a drenching rain poured down and the rising hurricane drove it in sheets along the ground. the boys cried out to each other, but the roaring wind and the booming thunder-blasts drowned their voices utterly. however, one by one they straggled in at last and took shelter under the tent, cold, scared, and streaming with water; but to have company in misery seemed something to be grateful for. they could not talk, the old sail flapped so furiously, even if the other noises would have allowed them. the tempest rose higher and higher, and presently the sail tore loose from its fastenings and went winging away on the blast. the boys seized each others' hands and fled, with many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter of a great oak that stood upon the river-bank. now the battle was at its highest. under the ceaseless conflagration of lightning that flamed in the skies, everything below stood out in clean-cut and shadowless distinctness: the bending trees, the billowy river, white with foam, the driving spray of spume-flakes, the dim outlines of the high bluffs on the other side, glimpsed through the drifting cloud-rack and the slanting veil of rain. every little while some giant tree yielded the fight and fell crashing through the younger growth; and the unflagging thunder-peals came now in ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen and sharp, and unspeakably appalling. the storm culminated in one matchless effort that seemed likely to tear the island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to the tree-tops, blow it away, and deafen every creature in it, all at one and the same moment. it was a wild night for homeless young heads to be out in. but at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with weaker and weaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her sway. the boys went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was still something to be thankful for, because the great sycamore, the shelter of their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the lightnings, and they were not under it when the catastrophe happened. everything in camp was drenched, the camp-fire as well; for they were but heedless lads, like their generation, and had made no provision against rain. here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked through and chilled. they were eloquent in their distress; but they presently discovered that the fire had eaten so far up under the great log it had been built against (where it curved upward and separated itself from the ground), that a handbreadth or so of it had escaped wetting; so they patiently wrought until, with shreds and bark gathered from the under sides of sheltered logs, they coaxed the fire to burn again. then they piled on great dead boughs till they had a roaring furnace, and were glad-hearted once more. they dried their boiled ham and had a feast, and after that they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified their midnight adventure until morning, for there was not a dry spot to sleep on, anywhere around. as the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over them, and they went out on the sandbar and lay down to sleep. they got scorched out by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast. after the meal they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little homesick once more. tom saw the signs, and fell to cheering up the pirates as well as he could. but they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or swimming, or anything. he reminded them of the imposing secret, and raised a ray of cheer. while it lasted, he got them interested in a new device. this was to knock off being pirates, for a while, and be indians for a change. they were attracted by this idea; so it was not long before they were stripped, and striped from head to heel with black mud, like so many zebras--all of them chiefs, of course--and then they went tearing through the woods to attack an english settlement. by and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon each other from ambush with dreadful war-whoops, and killed and scalped each other by thousands. it was a gory day. consequently it was an extremely satisfactory one. they assembled in camp toward supper-time, hungry and happy; but now a difficulty arose--hostile indians could not break the bread of hospitality together without first making peace, and this was a simple impossibility without smoking a pipe of peace. there was no other process that ever they had heard of. two of the savages almost wished they had remained pirates. however, there was no other way; so with such show of cheerfulness as they could muster they called for the pipe and took their whiff as it passed, in due form. and behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had gained something; they found that they could now smoke a little without having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to be seriously uncomfortable. they were not likely to fool away this high promise for lack of effort. no, they practised cautiously, after supper, with right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening. they were prouder and happier in their new acquirement than they would have been in the scalping and skinning of the six nations. we will leave them to smoke and chatter and brag, since we have no further use for them at present. chapter xvii but there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil saturday afternoon. the harpers, and aunt polly's family, were being put into mourning, with great grief and many tears. an unusual quiet possessed the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience. the villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked little; but they sighed often. the saturday holiday seemed a burden to the children. they had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them up. in the afternoon becky thatcher found herself moping about the deserted schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy. but she found nothing there to comfort her. she soliloquized: "oh, if i only had a brass andiron-knob again! but i haven't got anything now to remember him by." and she choked back a little sob. presently she stopped, and said to herself: "it was right here. oh, if it was to do over again, i wouldn't say that--i wouldn't say it for the whole world. but he's gone now; i'll never, never, never see him any more." this thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling down her cheeks. then quite a group of boys and girls--playmates of tom's and joe's--came by, and stood looking over the paling fence and talking in reverent tones of how tom did so-and-so the last time they saw him, and how joe said this and that small trifle (pregnant with awful prophecy, as they could easily see now!)--and each speaker pointed out the exact spot where the lost lads stood at the time, and then added something like "and i was a-standing just so--just as i am now, and as if you was him--i was as close as that--and he smiled, just this way--and then something seemed to go all over me, like--awful, you know--and i never thought what it meant, of course, but i can see now!" then there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and many claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or less tampered with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided who did see the departed last, and exchanged the last words with them, the lucky parties took upon themselves a sort of sacred importance, and were gaped at and envied by all the rest. one poor chap, who had no other grandeur to offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the remembrance: "well, tom sawyer he licked me once." but that bid for glory was a failure. most of the boys could say that, and so that cheapened the distinction too much. the group loitered away, still recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices. when the sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell began to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way. it was a very still sabbath, and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush that lay upon nature. the villagers began to gather, loitering a moment in the vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event. but there was no whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses as the women gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there. none could remember when the little church had been so full before. there was finally a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then aunt polly entered, followed by sid and mary, and they by the harper family, all in deep black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well, rose reverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the front pew. there was another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled sobs, and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed. a moving hymn was sung, and the text followed: "i am the resurrection and the life." as the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the graces, the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that every soul there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang in remembering that he had persistently blinded himself to them always before, and had as persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor boys. the minister related many a touching incident in the lives of the departed, too, which illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the people could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes were, and remembered with grief that at the time they occurred they had seemed rank rascalities, well deserving of the cowhide. the congregation became more and more moved, as the pathetic tale went on, till at last the whole company broke down and joined the weeping mourners in a chorus of anguished sobs, the preacher himself giving way to his feelings, and crying in the pulpit. there was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment later the church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming eyes above his handkerchief, and stood transfixed! first one and then another pair of eyes followed the minister's, and then almost with one impulse the congregation rose and stared while the three dead boys came marching up the aisle, tom in the lead, joe next, and huck, a ruin of drooping rags, sneaking sheepishly in the rear! they had been hid in the unused gallery listening to their own funeral sermon! aunt polly, mary, and the harpers threw themselves upon their restored ones, smothered them with kisses and poured out thanksgivings, while poor huck stood abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what to do or where to hide from so many unwelcoming eyes. he wavered, and started to slink away, but tom seized him and said: "aunt polly, it ain't fair. somebody's got to be glad to see huck." "and so they shall. i'm glad to see him, poor motherless thing!" and the loving attentions aunt polly lavished upon him were the one thing capable of making him more uncomfortable than he was before. suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice: "praise god from whom all blessings flow--sing!--and put your hearts in it!" and they did. old hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and while it shook the rafters tom sawyer the pirate looked around upon the envying juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this was the proudest moment of his life. as the "sold" congregation trooped out they said they would almost be willing to be made ridiculous again to hear old hundred sung like that once more. tom got more cuffs and kisses that day--according to aunt polly's varying moods--than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly knew which expressed the most gratefulness to god and affection for himself. huckleberry finn by mark twain part . chapter xxvi. well, when they was all gone the king he asks mary jane how they was off for spare rooms, and she said she had one spare room, which would do for uncle william, and she'd give her own room to uncle harvey, which was a little bigger, and she would turn into the room with her sisters and sleep on a cot; and up garret was a little cubby, with a pallet in it. the king said the cubby would do for his valley--meaning me. so mary jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which was plain but nice. she said she'd have her frocks and a lot of other traps took out of her room if they was in uncle harvey's way, but he said they warn't. the frocks was hung along the wall, and before them was a curtain made out of calico that hung down to the floor. there was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in another, and all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like girls brisken up a room with. the king said it was all the more homely and more pleasanter for these fixings, and so don't disturb them. the duke's room was pretty small, but plenty good enough, and so was my cubby. that night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was there, and i stood behind the king and the duke's chairs and waited on them, and the niggers waited on the rest. mary jane she set at the head of the table, with susan alongside of her, and said how bad the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was, and how ornery and tough the fried chickens was--and all that kind of rot, the way women always do for to force out compliments; and the people all knowed everything was tiptop, and said so--said "how do you get biscuits to brown so nice?" and "where, for the land's sake, did you get these amaz'n pickles?" and all that kind of humbug talky-talk, just the way people always does at a supper, you know. and when it was all done me and the hare-lip had supper in the kitchen off of the leavings, whilst the others was helping the niggers clean up the things. the hare-lip she got to pumping me about england, and blest if i didn't think the ice was getting mighty thin sometimes. she says: "did you ever see the king?" "who? william fourth? well, i bet i have--he goes to our church." i knowed he was dead years ago, but i never let on. so when i says he goes to our church, she says: "what--regular?" "yes--regular. his pew's right over opposite ourn--on t'other side the pulpit." "i thought he lived in london?" "well, he does. where would he live?" "but i thought you lived in sheffield?" i see i was up a stump. i had to let on to get choked with a chicken bone, so as to get time to think how to get down again. then i says: "i mean he goes to our church regular when he's in sheffield. that's only in the summer time, when he comes there to take the sea baths." "why, how you talk--sheffield ain't on the sea." "well, who said it was?" "why, you did." "i didn't nuther." "you did!" "i didn't." "you did." "i never said nothing of the kind." "well, what did you say, then?" "said he come to take the sea baths--that's what i said." "well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths if it ain't on the sea?" "looky here," i says; "did you ever see any congress-water?" "yes." "well, did you have to go to congress to get it?" "why, no." "well, neither does william fourth have to go to the sea to get a sea bath." "how does he get it, then?" "gets it the way people down here gets congress-water--in barrels. there in the palace at sheffield they've got furnaces, and he wants his water hot. they can't bile that amount of water away off there at the sea. they haven't got no conveniences for it." "oh, i see, now. you might a said that in the first place and saved time." when she said that i see i was out of the woods again, and so i was comfortable and glad. next, she says: "do you go to church, too?" "yes--regular." "where do you set?" "why, in our pew." "whose pew?" "why, ourn--your uncle harvey's." "his'n? what does he want with a pew?" "wants it to set in. what did you reckon he wanted with it?" "why, i thought he'd be in the pulpit." rot him, i forgot he was a preacher. i see i was up a stump again, so i played another chicken bone and got another think. then i says: "blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one preacher to a church?" "why, what do they want with more?" "what!--to preach before a king? i never did see such a girl as you. they don't have no less than seventeen." "seventeen! my land! why, i wouldn't set out such a string as that, not if i never got to glory. it must take 'em a week." "shucks, they don't all of 'em preach the same day--only one of 'em." "well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?" "oh, nothing much. loll around, pass the plate--and one thing or another. but mainly they don't do nothing." "well, then, what are they for?" "why, they're for style. don't you know nothing?" "well, i don't want to know no such foolishness as that. how is servants treated in england? do they treat 'em better 'n we treat our niggers?" "no! a servant ain't nobody there. they treat them worse than dogs." "don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do, christmas and new year's week, and fourth of july?" "oh, just listen! a body could tell you hain't ever been to england by that. why, hare-l--why, joanna, they never see a holiday from year's end to year's end; never go to the circus, nor theater, nor nigger shows, nor nowheres." "nor church?" "nor church." "but you always went to church." well, i was gone up again. i forgot i was the old man's servant. but next minute i whirled in on a kind of an explanation how a valley was different from a common servant and had to go to church whether he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on account of its being the law. but i didn't do it pretty good, and when i got done i see she warn't satisfied. she says: "honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a lot of lies?" "honest injun," says i. "none of it at all?" "none of it at all. not a lie in it," says i. "lay your hand on this book and say it." i see it warn't nothing but a dictionary, so i laid my hand on it and said it. so then she looked a little better satisfied, and says: "well, then, i'll believe some of it; but i hope to gracious if i'll believe the rest." "what is it you won't believe, joe?" says mary jane, stepping in with susan behind her. "it ain't right nor kind for you to talk so to him, and him a stranger and so far from his people. how would you like to be treated so?" "that's always your way, maim--always sailing in to help somebody before they're hurt. i hain't done nothing to him. he's told some stretchers, i reckon, and i said i wouldn't swallow it all; and that's every bit and grain i did say. i reckon he can stand a little thing like that, can't he?" "i don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas big; he's here in our house and a stranger, and it wasn't good of you to say it. if you was in his place it would make you feel ashamed; and so you oughtn't to say a thing to another person that will make them feel ashamed." "why, maim, he said--" "it don't make no difference what he said--that ain't the thing. the thing is for you to treat him kind, and not be saying things to make him remember he ain't in his own country and amongst his own folks." i says to myself, this is a girl that i'm letting that old reptle rob her of her money! then susan she waltzed in; and if you'll believe me, she did give hare-lip hark from the tomb! says i to myself, and this is another one that i'm letting him rob her of her money! then mary jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and lovely again--which was her way; but when she got done there warn't hardly anything left o' poor hare-lip. so she hollered. "all right, then," says the other girls; "you just ask his pardon." she done it, too; and she done it beautiful. she done it so beautiful it was good to hear; and i wished i could tell her a thousand lies, so she could do it again. i says to myself, this is another one that i'm letting him rob her of her money. and when she got through they all jest laid theirselves out to make me feel at home and know i was amongst friends. i felt so ornery and low down and mean that i says to myself, my mind's made up; i'll hive that money for them or bust. so then i lit out--for bed, i said, meaning some time or another. when i got by myself i went to thinking the thing over. i says to myself, shall i go to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds? no--that won't do. he might tell who told him; then the king and the duke would make it warm for me. shall i go, private, and tell mary jane? no--i dasn't do it. her face would give them a hint, sure; they've got the money, and they'd slide right out and get away with it. if she was to fetch in help i'd get mixed up in the business before it was done with, i judge. no; there ain't no good way but one. i got to steal that money, somehow; and i got to steal it some way that they won't suspicion that i done it. they've got a good thing here, and they ain't a-going to leave till they've played this family and this town for all they're worth, so i'll find a chance time enough. i'll steal it and hide it; and by and by, when i'm away down the river, i'll write a letter and tell mary jane where it's hid. but i better hive it tonight if i can, because the doctor maybe hasn't let up as much as he lets on he has; he might scare them out of here yet. so, thinks i, i'll go and search them rooms. upstairs the hall was dark, but i found the duke's room, and started to paw around it with my hands; but i recollected it wouldn't be much like the king to let anybody else take care of that money but his own self; so then i went to his room and begun to paw around there. but i see i couldn't do nothing without a candle, and i dasn't light one, of course. so i judged i'd got to do the other thing--lay for them and eavesdrop. about that time i hears their footsteps coming, and was going to skip under the bed; i reached for it, but it wasn't where i thought it would be; but i touched the curtain that hid mary jane's frocks, so i jumped in behind that and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood there perfectly still. they come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke done was to get down and look under the bed. then i was glad i hadn't found the bed when i wanted it. and yet, you know, it's kind of natural to hide under the bed when you are up to anything private. they sets down then, and the king says: "well, what is it? and cut it middlin' short, because it's better for us to be down there a-whoopin' up the mournin' than up here givin' 'em a chance to talk us over." "well, this is it, capet. i ain't easy; i ain't comfortable. that doctor lays on my mind. i wanted to know your plans. i've got a notion, and i think it's a sound one." "what is it, duke?" "that we better glide out of this before three in the morning, and clip it down the river with what we've got. specially, seeing we got it so easy--given back to us, flung at our heads, as you may say, when of course we allowed to have to steal it back. i'm for knocking off and lighting out." that made me feel pretty bad. about an hour or two ago it would a been a little different, but now it made me feel bad and disappointed, the king rips out and says: "what! and not sell out the rest o' the property? march off like a passel of fools and leave eight or nine thous'n' dollars' worth o' property layin' around jest sufferin' to be scooped in?--and all good, salable stuff, too." the duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he didn't want to go no deeper--didn't want to rob a lot of orphans of everything they had. "why, how you talk!" says the king. "we sha'n't rob 'em of nothing at all but jest this money. the people that buys the property is the suff'rers; because as soon 's it's found out 'at we didn't own it--which won't be long after we've slid--the sale won't be valid, and it 'll all go back to the estate. these yer orphans 'll git their house back agin, and that's enough for them; they're young and spry, and k'n easy earn a livin'. they ain't a-goin to suffer. why, jest think--there's thous'n's and thous'n's that ain't nigh so well off. bless you, they ain't got noth'n' to complain of." well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said all right, but said he believed it was blamed foolishness to stay, and that doctor hanging over them. but the king says: "cuss the doctor! what do we k'yer for him? hain't we got all the fools in town on our side? and ain't that a big enough majority in any town?" so they got ready to go down stairs again. the duke says: "i don't think we put that money in a good place." that cheered me up. i'd begun to think i warn't going to get a hint of no kind to help me. the king says: "why?" "because mary jane 'll be in mourning from this out; and first you know the nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box these duds up and put 'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run across money and not borrow some of it?" "your head's level agin, duke," says the king; and he comes a-fumbling under the curtain two or three foot from where i was. i stuck tight to the wall and kept mighty still, though quivery; and i wondered what them fellows would say to me if they catched me; and i tried to think what i'd better do if they did catch me. but the king he got the bag before i could think more than about a half a thought, and he never suspicioned i was around. they took and shoved the bag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed, and crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was all right now, because a nigger only makes up the feather-bed, and don't turn over the straw tick only about twice a year, and so it warn't in no danger of getting stole now. but i knowed better. i had it out of there before they was half-way down stairs. i groped along up to my cubby, and hid it there till i could get a chance to do better. i judged i better hide it outside of the house somewheres, because if they missed it they would give the house a good ransacking: i knowed that very well. then i turned in, with my clothes all on; but i couldn't a gone to sleep if i'd a wanted to, i was in such a sweat to get through with the business. by and by i heard the king and the duke come up; so i rolled off my pallet and laid with my chin at the top of my ladder, and waited to see if anything was going to happen. but nothing did. so i held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones hadn't begun yet; and then i slipped down the ladder. chapter xxvii. i crept to their doors and listened; they was snoring. so i tiptoed along, and got down stairs all right. there warn't a sound anywheres. i peeped through a crack of the dining-room door, and see the men that was watching the corpse all sound asleep on their chairs. the door was open into the parlor, where the corpse was laying, and there was a candle in both rooms. i passed along, and the parlor door was open; but i see there warn't nobody in there but the remainders of peter; so i shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and the key wasn't there. just then i heard somebody coming down the stairs, back behind me. i run in the parlor and took a swift look around, and the only place i see to hide the bag was in the coffin. the lid was shoved along about a foot, showing the dead man's face down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. i tucked the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was crossed, which made me creep, they was so cold, and then i run back across the room and in behind the door. the person coming was mary jane. she went to the coffin, very soft, and kneeled down and looked in; then she put up her handkerchief, and i see she begun to cry, though i couldn't hear her, and her back was to me. i slid out, and as i passed the dining-room i thought i'd make sure them watchers hadn't seen me; so i looked through the crack, and everything was all right. they hadn't stirred. i slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thing playing out that way after i had took so much trouble and run so much resk about it. says i, if it could stay where it is, all right; because when we get down the river a hundred mile or two i could write back to mary jane, and she could dig him up again and get it; but that ain't the thing that's going to happen; the thing that's going to happen is, the money 'll be found when they come to screw on the lid. then the king 'll get it again, and it 'll be a long day before he gives anybody another chance to smouch it from him. of course i wanted to slide down and get it out of there, but i dasn't try it. every minute it was getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of them watchers would begin to stir, and i might get catched--catched with six thousand dollars in my hands that nobody hadn't hired me to take care of. i don't wish to be mixed up in no such business as that, i says to myself. when i got down stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up, and the watchers was gone. there warn't nobody around but the family and the widow bartley and our tribe. i watched their faces to see if anything had been happening, but i couldn't tell. towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man, and they set the coffin in the middle of the room on a couple of chairs, and then set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from the neighbors till the hall and the parlor and the dining-room was full. i see the coffin lid was the way it was before, but i dasn't go to look in under it, with folks around. then the people begun to flock in, and the beats and the girls took seats in the front row at the head of the coffin, and for a half an hour the people filed around slow, in single rank, and looked down at the dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it was all very still and solemn, only the girls and the beats holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing a little. there warn't no other sound but the scraping of the feet on the floor and blowing noses--because people always blows them more at a funeral than they do at other places except church. when the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in his black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last touches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable, and making no more sound than a cat. he never spoke; he moved people around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up passageways, and done it with nods, and signs with his hands. then he took his place over against the wall. he was the softest, glidingest, stealthiest man i ever see; and there warn't no more smile to him than there is to a ham. they had borrowed a melodeum--a sick one; and when everything was ready a young woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and peter was the only one that had a good thing, according to my notion. then the reverend hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun to talk; and straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a body ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most powerful racket, and he kept it up right along; the parson he had to stand there, over the coffin, and wait--you couldn't hear yourself think. it was right down awkward, and nobody didn't seem to know what to do. but pretty soon they see that long-legged undertaker make a sign to the preacher as much as to say, "don't you worry--just depend on me." then he stooped down and begun to glide along the wall, just his shoulders showing over the people's heads. so he glided along, and the powwow and racket getting more and more outrageous all the time; and at last, when he had gone around two sides of the room, he disappears down cellar. then in about two seconds we heard a whack, and the dog he finished up with a most amazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still, and the parson begun his solemn talk where he left off. in a minute or two here comes this undertaker's back and shoulders gliding along the wall again; and so he glided and glided around three sides of the room, and then rose up, and shaded his mouth with his hands, and stretched his neck out towards the preacher, over the people's heads, and says, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "he had a rat!" then he drooped down and glided along the wall again to his place. you could see it was a great satisfaction to the people, because naturally they wanted to know. a little thing like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little things that makes a man to be looked up to and liked. there warn't no more popular man in town than what that undertaker was. well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tiresome; and then the king he shoved in and got off some of his usual rubbage, and at last the job was through, and the undertaker begun to sneak up on the coffin with his screw-driver. i was in a sweat then, and watched him pretty keen. but he never meddled at all; just slid the lid along as soft as mush, and screwed it down tight and fast. so there i was! i didn't know whether the money was in there or not. so, says i, s'pose somebody has hogged that bag on the sly?--now how do i know whether to write to mary jane or not? s'pose she dug him up and didn't find nothing, what would she think of me? blame it, i says, i might get hunted up and jailed; i'd better lay low and keep dark, and not write at all; the thing's awful mixed now; trying to better it, i've worsened it a hundred times, and i wish to goodness i'd just let it alone, dad fetch the whole business! they buried him, and we come back home, and i went to watching faces again--i couldn't help it, and i couldn't rest easy. but nothing come of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing. the king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened everybody up, and made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the idea that his congregation over in england would be in a sweat about him, so he must hurry and settle up the estate right away and leave for home. he was very sorry he was so pushed, and so was everybody; they wished he could stay longer, but they said they could see it couldn't be done. and he said of course him and william would take the girls home with them; and that pleased everybody too, because then the girls would be well fixed and amongst their own relations; and it pleased the girls, too--tickled them so they clean forgot they ever had a trouble in the world; and told him to sell out as quick as he wanted to, they would be ready. them poor things was that glad and happy it made my heart ache to see them getting fooled and lied to so, but i didn't see no safe way for me to chip in and change the general tune. well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and the niggers and all the property for auction straight off--sale two days after the funeral; but anybody could buy private beforehand if they wanted to. so the next day after the funeral, along about noon-time, the girls' joy got the first jolt. a couple of nigger traders come along, and the king sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as they called it, and away they went, the two sons up the river to memphis, and their mother down the river to orleans. i thought them poor girls and them niggers would break their hearts for grief; they cried around each other, and took on so it most made me down sick to see it. the girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of seeing the family separated or sold away from the town. i can't ever get it out of my memory, the sight of them poor miserable girls and niggers hanging around each other's necks and crying; and i reckon i couldn't a stood it all, but would a had to bust out and tell on our gang if i hadn't knowed the sale warn't no account and the niggers would be back home in a week or two. the thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many come out flatfooted and said it was scandalous to separate the mother and the children that way. it injured the frauds some; but the old fool he bulled right along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and i tell you the duke was powerful uneasy. next day was auction day. about broad day in the morning the king and the duke come up in the garret and woke me up, and i see by their look that there was trouble. the king says: "was you in my room night before last?" "no, your majesty"--which was the way i always called him when nobody but our gang warn't around. "was you in there yisterday er last night?" "no, your majesty." "honor bright, now--no lies." "honor bright, your majesty, i'm telling you the truth. i hain't been a-near your room since miss mary jane took you and the duke and showed it to you." the duke says: "have you seen anybody else go in there?" "no, your grace, not as i remember, i believe." "stop and think." i studied awhile and see my chance; then i says: "well, i see the niggers go in there several times." both of them gave a little jump, and looked like they hadn't ever expected it, and then like they had. then the duke says: "what, all of them?" "no--leastways, not all at once--that is, i don't think i ever see them all come out at once but just one time." "hello! when was that?" "it was the day we had the funeral. in the morning. it warn't early, because i overslept. i was just starting down the ladder, and i see them." "well, go on, go on! what did they do? how'd they act?" "they didn't do nothing. and they didn't act anyway much, as fur as i see. they tiptoed away; so i seen, easy enough, that they'd shoved in there to do up your majesty's room, or something, s'posing you was up; and found you warn't up, and so they was hoping to slide out of the way of trouble without waking you up, if they hadn't already waked you up." "great guns, this is a go!" says the king; and both of them looked pretty sick and tolerable silly. they stood there a-thinking and scratching their heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of a little raspy chuckle, and says: "it does beat all how neat the niggers played their hand. they let on to be sorry they was going out of this region! and i believed they was sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody. don't ever tell me any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent. why, the way they played that thing it would fool anybody. in my opinion, there's a fortune in 'em. if i had capital and a theater, i wouldn't want a better lay-out than that--and here we've gone and sold 'em for a song. yes, and ain't privileged to sing the song yet. say, where is that song--that draft?" "in the bank for to be collected. where would it be?" "well, that's all right then, thank goodness." says i, kind of timid-like: "is something gone wrong?" the king whirls on me and rips out: "none o' your business! you keep your head shet, and mind y'r own affairs--if you got any. long as you're in this town don't you forgit that--you hear?" then he says to the duke, "we got to jest swaller it and say noth'n': mum's the word for us." as they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again, and says: "quick sales and small profits! it's a good business--yes." the king snarls around on him and says: "i was trying to do for the best in sellin' 'em out so quick. if the profits has turned out to be none, lackin' considable, and none to carry, is it my fault any more'n it's yourn?" "well, they'd be in this house yet and we wouldn't if i could a got my advice listened to." the king sassed back as much as was safe for him, and then swapped around and lit into me again. he give me down the banks for not coming and telling him i see the niggers come out of his room acting that way--said any fool would a knowed something was up. and then waltzed in and cussed himself awhile, and said it all come of him not laying late and taking his natural rest that morning, and he'd be blamed if he'd ever do it again. so they went off a-jawing; and i felt dreadful glad i'd worked it all off on to the niggers, and yet hadn't done the niggers no harm by it. chapter xxviii. by and by it was getting-up time. so i come down the ladder and started for down-stairs; but as i come to the girls' room the door was open, and i see mary jane setting by her old hair trunk, which was open and she'd been packing things in it--getting ready to go to england. but she had stopped now with a folded gown in her lap, and had her face in her hands, crying. i felt awful bad to see it; of course anybody would. i went in there and says: "miss mary jane, you can't a-bear to see people in trouble, and i can't --most always. tell me about it." so she done it. and it was the niggers--i just expected it. she said the beautiful trip to england was most about spoiled for her; she didn't know how she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the mother and the children warn't ever going to see each other no more--and then busted out bitterer than ever, and flung up her hands, and says: "oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't ever going to see each other any more!" "but they will--and inside of two weeks--and i know it!" says i. laws, it was out before i could think! and before i could budge she throws her arms around my neck and told me to say it again, say it again, say it again! i see i had spoke too sudden and said too much, and was in a close place. i asked her to let me think a minute; and she set there, very impatient and excited and handsome, but looking kind of happy and eased-up, like a person that's had a tooth pulled out. so i went to studying it out. i says to myself, i reckon a body that ups and tells the truth when he is in a tight place is taking considerable many resks, though i ain't had no experience, and can't say for certain; but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's a case where i'm blest if it don't look to me like the truth is better and actuly safer than a lie. i must lay it by in my mind, and think it over some time or other, it's so kind of strange and unregular. i never see nothing like it. well, i says to myself at last, i'm a-going to chance it; i'll up and tell the truth this time, though it does seem most like setting down on a kag of powder and touching it off just to see where you'll go to. then i says: "miss mary jane, is there any place out of town a little ways where you could go and stay three or four days?" "yes; mr. lothrop's. why?" "never mind why yet. if i'll tell you how i know the niggers will see each other again inside of two weeks--here in this house--and prove how i know it--will you go to mr. lothrop's and stay four days?" "four days!" she says; "i'll stay a year!" "all right," i says, "i don't want nothing more out of you than just your word--i druther have it than another man's kiss-the-bible." she smiled and reddened up very sweet, and i says, "if you don't mind it, i'll shut the door--and bolt it." then i come back and set down again, and says: "don't you holler. just set still and take it like a man. i got to tell the truth, and you want to brace up, miss mary, because it's a bad kind, and going to be hard to take, but there ain't no help for it. these uncles of yourn ain't no uncles at all; they're a couple of frauds --regular dead-beats. there, now we're over the worst of it, you can stand the rest middling easy." it jolted her up like everything, of course; but i was over the shoal water now, so i went right along, her eyes a-blazing higher and higher all the time, and told her every blame thing, from where we first struck that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear through to where she flung herself on to the king's breast at the front door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times--and then up she jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and says: "the brute! come, don't waste a minute--not a second--we'll have them tarred and feathered, and flung in the river!" says i: "cert'nly. but do you mean before you go to mr. lothrop's, or--" "oh," she says, "what am i thinking about!" she says, and set right down again. "don't mind what i said--please don't--you won't, now, will you?" laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that i said i would die first. "i never thought, i was so stirred up," she says; "now go on, and i won't do so any more. you tell me what to do, and whatever you say i'll do it." "well," i says, "it's a rough gang, them two frauds, and i'm fixed so i got to travel with them a while longer, whether i want to or not--i druther not tell you why; and if you was to blow on them this town would get me out of their claws, and i'd be all right; but there'd be another person that you don't know about who'd be in big trouble. well, we got to save him, hain't we? of course. well, then, we won't blow on them." saying them words put a good idea in my head. i see how maybe i could get me and jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here, and then leave. but i didn't want to run the raft in the daytime without anybody aboard to answer questions but me; so i didn't want the plan to begin working till pretty late to-night. i says: "miss mary jane, i'll tell you what we'll do, and you won't have to stay at mr. lothrop's so long, nuther. how fur is it?" "a little short of four miles--right out in the country, back here." "well, that 'll answer. now you go along out there, and lay low till nine or half-past to-night, and then get them to fetch you home again --tell them you've thought of something. if you get here before eleven put a candle in this window, and if i don't turn up wait till eleven, and then if i don't turn up it means i'm gone, and out of the way, and safe. then you come out and spread the news around, and get these beats jailed." "good," she says, "i'll do it." "and if it just happens so that i don't get away, but get took up along with them, you must up and say i told you the whole thing beforehand, and you must stand by me all you can." "stand by you! indeed i will. they sha'n't touch a hair of your head!" she says, and i see her nostrils spread and her eyes snap when she said it, too. "if i get away i sha'n't be here," i says, "to prove these rapscallions ain't your uncles, and i couldn't do it if i was here. i could swear they was beats and bummers, that's all, though that's worth something. well, there's others can do that better than what i can, and they're people that ain't going to be doubted as quick as i'd be. i'll tell you how to find them. gimme a pencil and a piece of paper. there--'royal nonesuch, bricksville.' put it away, and don't lose it. when the court wants to find out something about these two, let them send up to bricksville and say they've got the men that played the royal nonesuch, and ask for some witnesses--why, you'll have that entire town down here before you can hardly wink, miss mary. and they'll come a-biling, too." i judged we had got everything fixed about right now. so i says: "just let the auction go right along, and don't worry. nobody don't have to pay for the things they buy till a whole day after the auction on accounts of the short notice, and they ain't going out of this till they get that money; and the way we've fixed it the sale ain't going to count, and they ain't going to get no money. it's just like the way it was with the niggers--it warn't no sale, and the niggers will be back before long. why, they can't collect the money for the niggers yet--they're in the worst kind of a fix, miss mary." "well," she says, "i'll run down to breakfast now, and then i'll start straight for mr. lothrop's." "'deed, that ain't the ticket, miss mary jane," i says, "by no manner of means; go before breakfast." "why?" "what did you reckon i wanted you to go at all for, miss mary?" "well, i never thought--and come to think, i don't know. what was it?" "why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-face people. i don't want no better book than what your face is. a body can set down and read it off like coarse print. do you reckon you can go and face your uncles when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never--" "there, there, don't! yes, i'll go before breakfast--i'll be glad to. and leave my sisters with them?" "yes; never mind about them. they've got to stand it yet a while. they might suspicion something if all of you was to go. i don't want you to see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town; if a neighbor was to ask how is your uncles this morning your face would tell something. no, you go right along, miss mary jane, and i'll fix it with all of them. i'll tell miss susan to give your love to your uncles and say you've went away for a few hours for to get a little rest and change, or to see a friend, and you'll be back to-night or early in the morning." "gone to see a friend is all right, but i won't have my love given to them." "well, then, it sha'n't be." it was well enough to tell her so--no harm in it. it was only a little thing to do, and no trouble; and it's the little things that smooths people's roads the most, down here below; it would make mary jane comfortable, and it wouldn't cost nothing. then i says: "there's one more thing--that bag of money." "well, they've got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to think how they got it." "no, you're out, there. they hain't got it." "why, who's got it?" "i wish i knowed, but i don't. i had it, because i stole it from them; and i stole it to give to you; and i know where i hid it, but i'm afraid it ain't there no more. i'm awful sorry, miss mary jane, i'm just as sorry as i can be; but i done the best i could; i did honest. i come nigh getting caught, and i had to shove it into the first place i come to, and run--and it warn't a good place." "oh, stop blaming yourself--it's too bad to do it, and i won't allow it --you couldn't help it; it wasn't your fault. where did you hide it?" i didn't want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and i couldn't seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her see that corpse laying in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach. so for a minute i didn't say nothing; then i says: "i'd ruther not tell you where i put it, miss mary jane, if you don't mind letting me off; but i'll write it for you on a piece of paper, and you can read it along the road to mr. lothrop's, if you want to. do you reckon that 'll do?" "oh, yes." so i wrote: "i put it in the coffin. it was in there when you was crying there, away in the night. i was behind the door, and i was mighty sorry for you, miss mary jane." it made my eyes water a little to remember her crying there all by herself in the night, and them devils laying there right under her own roof, shaming her and robbing her; and when i folded it up and give it to her i see the water come into her eyes, too; and she shook me by the hand, hard, and says: "good-bye. i'm going to do everything just as you've told me; and if i don't ever see you again, i sha'n't ever forget you and i'll think of you a many and a many a time, and i'll pray for you, too!"--and she was gone. pray for me! i reckoned if she knowed me she'd take a job that was more nearer her size. but i bet she done it, just the same--she was just that kind. she had the grit to pray for judus if she took the notion--there warn't no back-down to her, i judge. you may say what you want to, but in my opinion she had more sand in her than any girl i ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. it sounds like flattery, but it ain't no flattery. and when it comes to beauty--and goodness, too--she lays over them all. i hain't ever seen her since that time that i see her go out of that door; no, i hain't ever seen her since, but i reckon i've thought of her a many and a many a million times, and of her saying she would pray for me; and if ever i'd a thought it would do any good for me to pray for her, blamed if i wouldn't a done it or bust. well, mary jane she lit out the back way, i reckon; because nobody see her go. when i struck susan and the hare-lip, i says: "what's the name of them people over on t'other side of the river that you all goes to see sometimes?" they says: "there's several; but it's the proctors, mainly." "that's the name," i says; "i most forgot it. well, miss mary jane she told me to tell you she's gone over there in a dreadful hurry--one of them's sick." "which one?" "i don't know; leastways, i kinder forget; but i thinks it's--" "sakes alive, i hope it ain't hanner?" "i'm sorry to say it," i says, "but hanner's the very one." "my goodness, and she so well only last week! is she took bad?" "it ain't no name for it. they set up with her all night, miss mary jane said, and they don't think she'll last many hours." "only think of that, now! what's the matter with her?" i couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so i says: "mumps." "mumps your granny! they don't set up with people that's got the mumps." "they don't, don't they? you better bet they do with these mumps. these mumps is different. it's a new kind, miss mary jane said." "how's it a new kind?" "because it's mixed up with other things." "what other things?" "well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consumption, and yaller janders, and brain-fever, and i don't know what all." "my land! and they call it the mumps?" "that's what miss mary jane said." "well, what in the nation do they call it the mumps for?" "why, because it is the mumps. that's what it starts with." "well, ther' ain't no sense in it. a body might stump his toe, and take pison, and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust his brains out, and somebody come along and ask what killed him, and some numskull up and say, 'why, he stumped his toe.' would ther' be any sense in that? no. and ther' ain't no sense in this, nuther. is it ketching?" "is it ketching? why, how you talk. is a harrow catching--in the dark? if you don't hitch on to one tooth, you're bound to on another, ain't you? and you can't get away with that tooth without fetching the whole harrow along, can you? well, these kind of mumps is a kind of a harrow, as you may say--and it ain't no slouch of a harrow, nuther, you come to get it hitched on good." "well, it's awful, i think," says the hare-lip. "i'll go to uncle harvey and--" "oh, yes," i says, "i would. of course i would. i wouldn't lose no time." "well, why wouldn't you?" "just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. hain't your uncles obleegd to get along home to england as fast as they can? and do you reckon they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to go all that journey by yourselves? you know they'll wait for you. so fur, so good. your uncle harvey's a preacher, ain't he? very well, then; is a preacher going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to deceive a ship clerk? --so as to get them to let miss mary jane go aboard? now you know he ain't. what will he do, then? why, he'll say, 'it's a great pity, but my church matters has got to get along the best way they can; for my niece has been exposed to the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps, and so it's my bounden duty to set down here and wait the three months it takes to show on her if she's got it.' but never mind, if you think it's best to tell your uncle harvey--" "shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be having good times in england whilst we was waiting to find out whether mary jane's got it or not? why, you talk like a muggins." "well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of the neighbors." "listen at that, now. you do beat all for natural stupidness. can't you see that they'd go and tell? ther' ain't no way but just to not tell anybody at all." "well, maybe you're right--yes, i judge you are right." "but i reckon we ought to tell uncle harvey she's gone out a while, anyway, so he won't be uneasy about her?" "yes, miss mary jane she wanted you to do that. she says, 'tell them to give uncle harvey and william my love and a kiss, and say i've run over the river to see mr.'--mr.--what is the name of that rich family your uncle peter used to think so much of?--i mean the one that--" "why, you must mean the apthorps, ain't it?" "of course; bother them kind of names, a body can't ever seem to remember them, half the time, somehow. yes, she said, say she has run over for to ask the apthorps to be sure and come to the auction and buy this house, because she allowed her uncle peter would ruther they had it than anybody else; and she's going to stick to them till they say they'll come, and then, if she ain't too tired, she's coming home; and if she is, she'll be home in the morning anyway. she said, don't say nothing about the proctors, but only about the apthorps--which 'll be perfectly true, because she is going there to speak about their buying the house; i know it, because she told me so herself." "all right," they said, and cleared out to lay for their uncles, and give them the love and the kisses, and tell them the message. everything was all right now. the girls wouldn't say nothing because they wanted to go to england; and the king and the duke would ruther mary jane was off working for the auction than around in reach of doctor robinson. i felt very good; i judged i had done it pretty neat--i reckoned tom sawyer couldn't a done it no neater himself. of course he would a throwed more style into it, but i can't do that very handy, not being brung up to it. well, they held the auction in the public square, along towards the end of the afternoon, and it strung along, and strung along, and the old man he was on hand and looking his level pisonest, up there longside of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little scripture now and then, or a little goody-goody saying of some kind, and the duke he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed how, and just spreading himself generly. but by and by the thing dragged through, and everything was sold --everything but a little old trifling lot in the graveyard. so they'd got to work that off--i never see such a girafft as the king was for wanting to swallow everything. well, whilst they was at it a steamboat landed, and in about two minutes up comes a crowd a-whooping and yelling and laughing and carrying on, and singing out: "here's your opposition line! here's your two sets o' heirs to old peter wilks--and you pays your money and you takes your choice!" chapter xxix. they was fetching a very nice-looking old gentleman along, and a nice-looking younger one, with his right arm in a sling. and, my souls, how the people yelled and laughed, and kept it up. but i didn't see no joke about it, and i judged it would strain the duke and the king some to see any. i reckoned they'd turn pale. but no, nary a pale did they turn. the duke he never let on he suspicioned what was up, but just went a goo-gooing around, happy and satisfied, like a jug that's googling out buttermilk; and as for the king, he just gazed and gazed down sorrowful on them new-comers like it give him the stomach-ache in his very heart to think there could be such frauds and rascals in the world. oh, he done it admirable. lots of the principal people gethered around the king, to let him see they was on his side. that old gentleman that had just come looked all puzzled to death. pretty soon he begun to speak, and i see straight off he pronounced like an englishman--not the king's way, though the king's was pretty good for an imitation. i can't give the old gent's words, nor i can't imitate him; but he turned around to the crowd, and says, about like this: "this is a surprise to me which i wasn't looking for; and i'll acknowledge, candid and frank, i ain't very well fixed to meet it and answer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes; he's broke his arm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here last night in the night by a mistake. i am peter wilks' brother harvey, and this is his brother william, which can't hear nor speak--and can't even make signs to amount to much, now't he's only got one hand to work them with. we are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when i get the baggage, i can prove it. but up till then i won't say nothing more, but go to the hotel and wait." so him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs, and blethers out: "broke his arm--very likely, ain't it?--and very convenient, too, for a fraud that's got to make signs, and ain't learnt how. lost their baggage! that's mighty good!--and mighty ingenious--under the circumstances!" so he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or four, or maybe half a dozen. one of these was that doctor; another one was a sharp-looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just come off of the steamboat and was talking to him in a low voice, and glancing towards the king now and then and nodding their heads--it was levi bell, the lawyer that was gone up to louisville; and another one was a big rough husky that come along and listened to all the old gentleman said, and was listening to the king now. and when the king got done this husky up and says: "say, looky here; if you are harvey wilks, when'd you come to this town?" "the day before the funeral, friend," says the king. "but what time o' day?" "in the evenin'--'bout an hour er two before sundown." "how'd you come?" "i come down on the susan powell from cincinnati." "well, then, how'd you come to be up at the pint in the mornin'--in a canoe?" "i warn't up at the pint in the mornin'." "it's a lie." several of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk that way to an old man and a preacher. "preacher be hanged, he's a fraud and a liar. he was up at the pint that mornin'. i live up there, don't i? well, i was up there, and he was up there. i see him there. he come in a canoe, along with tim collins and a boy." the doctor he up and says: "would you know the boy again if you was to see him, hines?" "i reckon i would, but i don't know. why, yonder he is, now. i know him perfectly easy." it was me he pointed at. the doctor says: "neighbors, i don't know whether the new couple is frauds or not; but if these two ain't frauds, i am an idiot, that's all. i think it's our duty to see that they don't get away from here till we've looked into this thing. come along, hines; come along, the rest of you. we'll take these fellows to the tavern and affront them with t'other couple, and i reckon we'll find out something before we get through." it was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for the king's friends; so we all started. it was about sundown. the doctor he led me along by the hand, and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go my hand. we all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up some candles, and fetched in the new couple. first, the doctor says: "i don't wish to be too hard on these two men, but i think they're frauds, and they may have complices that we don't know nothing about. if they have, won't the complices get away with that bag of gold peter wilks left? it ain't unlikely. if these men ain't frauds, they won't object to sending for that money and letting us keep it till they prove they're all right--ain't that so?" everybody agreed to that. so i judged they had our gang in a pretty tight place right at the outstart. but the king he only looked sorrowful, and says: "gentlemen, i wish the money was there, for i ain't got no disposition to throw anything in the way of a fair, open, out-and-out investigation o' this misable business; but, alas, the money ain't there; you k'n send and see, if you want to." "where is it, then?" "well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her i took and hid it inside o' the straw tick o' my bed, not wishin' to bank it for the few days we'd be here, and considerin' the bed a safe place, we not bein' used to niggers, and suppos'n' 'em honest, like servants in england. the niggers stole it the very next mornin' after i had went down stairs; and when i sold 'em i hadn't missed the money yit, so they got clean away with it. my servant here k'n tell you 'bout it, gentlemen." the doctor and several said "shucks!" and i see nobody didn't altogether believe him. one man asked me if i see the niggers steal it. i said no, but i see them sneaking out of the room and hustling away, and i never thought nothing, only i reckoned they was afraid they had waked up my master and was trying to get away before he made trouble with them. that was all they asked me. then the doctor whirls on me and says: "are you english, too?" i says yes; and him and some others laughed, and said, "stuff!" well, then they sailed in on the general investigation, and there we had it, up and down, hour in, hour out, and nobody never said a word about supper, nor ever seemed to think about it--and so they kept it up, and kept it up; and it was the worst mixed-up thing you ever see. they made the king tell his yarn, and they made the old gentleman tell his'n; and anybody but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads would a seen that the old gentleman was spinning truth and t'other one lies. and by and by they had me up to tell what i knowed. the king he give me a left-handed look out of the corner of his eye, and so i knowed enough to talk on the right side. i begun to tell about sheffield, and how we lived there, and all about the english wilkses, and so on; but i didn't get pretty fur till the doctor begun to laugh; and levi bell, the lawyer, says: "set down, my boy; i wouldn't strain myself if i was you. i reckon you ain't used to lying, it don't seem to come handy; what you want is practice. you do it pretty awkward." i didn't care nothing for the compliment, but i was glad to be let off, anyway. the doctor he started to say something, and turns and says: "if you'd been in town at first, levi bell--" the king broke in and reached out his hand, and says: "why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend that he's wrote so often about?" the lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked pleased, and they talked right along awhile, and then got to one side and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says: "that 'll fix it. i'll take the order and send it, along with your brother's, and then they'll know it's all right." so they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and twisted his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off something; and then they give the pen to the duke--and then for the first time the duke looked sick. but he took the pen and wrote. so then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says: "you and your brother please write a line or two and sign your names." the old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read it. the lawyer looked powerful astonished, and says: "well, it beats me"--and snaked a lot of old letters out of his pocket, and examined them, and then examined the old man's writing, and then them again; and then says: "these old letters is from harvey wilks; and here's these two handwritings, and anybody can see they didn't write them" (the king and the duke looked sold and foolish, i tell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), "and here's this old gentleman's hand writing, and anybody can tell, easy enough, he didn't write them--fact is, the scratches he makes ain't properly writing at all. now, here's some letters from--" the new old gentleman says: "if you please, let me explain. nobody can read my hand but my brother there--so he copies for me. it's his hand you've got there, not mine." "well!" says the lawyer, "this is a state of things. i've got some of william's letters, too; so if you'll get him to write a line or so we can com--" "he can't write with his left hand," says the old gentleman. "if he could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own letters and mine too. look at both, please--they're by the same hand." the lawyer done it, and says: "i believe it's so--and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger resemblance than i'd noticed before, anyway. well, well, well! i thought we was right on the track of a solution, but it's gone to grass, partly. but anyway, one thing is proved--these two ain't either of 'em wilkses"--and he wagged his head towards the king and the duke. well, what do you think? that muleheaded old fool wouldn't give in then! indeed he wouldn't. said it warn't no fair test. said his brother william was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't tried to write --he see william was going to play one of his jokes the minute he put the pen to paper. and so he warmed up and went warbling right along till he was actuly beginning to believe what he was saying himself; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and says: "i've thought of something. is there anybody here that helped to lay out my br--helped to lay out the late peter wilks for burying?" "yes," says somebody, "me and ab turner done it. we're both here." then the old man turns towards the king, and says: "perhaps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?" blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd a squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took him so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make most anybody sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that without any notice, because how was he going to know what was tattooed on the man? he whitened a little; he couldn't help it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a little forwards and gazing at him. says i to myself, now he'll throw up the sponge--there ain't no more use. well, did he? a body can't hardly believe it, but he didn't. i reckon he thought he'd keep the thing up till he tired them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and the duke could break loose and get away. anyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says: "mf! it's a very tough question, ain't it! yes, sir, i k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast. it's jest a small, thin, blue arrow --that's what it is; and if you don't look clost, you can't see it. now what do you say--hey?" well, i never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out cheek. the new old gentleman turns brisk towards ab turner and his pard, and his eye lights up like he judged he'd got the king this time, and says: "there--you've heard what he said! was there any such mark on peter wilks' breast?" both of them spoke up and says: "we didn't see no such mark." "good!" says the old gentleman. "now, what you did see on his breast was a small dim p, and a b (which is an initial he dropped when he was young), and a w, with dashes between them, so: p--b--w"--and he marked them that way on a piece of paper. "come, ain't that what you saw?" both of them spoke up again, and says: "no, we didn't. we never seen any marks at all." well, everybody was in a state of mind now, and they sings out: "the whole bilin' of 'm 's frauds! le's duck 'em! le's drown 'em! le's ride 'em on a rail!" and everybody was whooping at once, and there was a rattling powwow. but the lawyer he jumps on the table and yells, and says: "gentlemen--gentlemen! hear me just a word--just a single word--if you please! there's one way yet--let's go and dig up the corpse and look." that took them. "hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the lawyer and the doctor sung out: "hold on, hold on! collar all these four men and the boy, and fetch them along, too!" "we'll do it!" they all shouted; "and if we don't find them marks we'll lynch the whole gang!" i was scared, now, i tell you. but there warn't no getting away, you know. they gripped us all, and marched us right along, straight for the graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and the whole town at our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only nine in the evening. as we went by our house i wished i hadn't sent mary jane out of town; because now if i could tip her the wink she'd light out and save me, and blow on our dead-beats. well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like wildcats; and to make it more scary the sky was darking up, and the lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver amongst the leaves. this was the most awful trouble and most dangersome i ever was in; and i was kinder stunned; everything was going so different from what i had allowed for; stead of being fixed so i could take my own time if i wanted to, and see all the fun, and have mary jane at my back to save me and set me free when the close-fit come, here was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden death but just them tattoo-marks. if they didn't find them-- i couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, i couldn't think about nothing else. it got darker and darker, and it was a beautiful time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the wrist --hines--and a body might as well try to give goliar the slip. he dragged me right along, he was so excited, and i had to run to keep up. when they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and washed over it like an overflow. and when they got to the grave they found they had about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but nobody hadn't thought to fetch a lantern. but they sailed into digging anyway by the flicker of the lightning, and sent a man to the nearest house, a half a mile off, to borrow one. so they dug and dug like everything; and it got awful dark, and the rain started, and the wind swished and swushed along, and the lightning come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them people never took no notice of it, they was so full of this business; and one minute you could see everything and every face in that big crowd, and the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the next second the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn't see nothing at all. at last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew the lid, and then such another crowding and shouldering and shoving as there was, to scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that way, it was awful. hines he hurt my wrist dreadful pulling and tugging so, and i reckon he clean forgot i was in the world, he was so excited and panting. all of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice of white glare, and somebody sings out: "by the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his breast!" hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist and give a big surge to bust his way in and get a look, and the way i lit out and shinned for the road in the dark there ain't nobody can tell. i had the road all to myself, and i fairly flew--leastways, i had it all to myself except the solid dark, and the now-and-then glares, and the buzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the splitting of the thunder; and sure as you are born i did clip it along! when i struck the town i see there warn't nobody out in the storm, so i never hunted for no back streets, but humped it straight through the main one; and when i begun to get towards our house i aimed my eye and set it. no light there; the house all dark--which made me feel sorry and disappointed, i didn't know why. but at last, just as i was sailing by, flash comes the light in mary jane's window! and my heart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same second the house and all was behind me in the dark, and wasn't ever going to be before me no more in this world. she was the best girl i ever see, and had the most sand. the minute i was far enough above the town to see i could make the towhead, i begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow, and the first time the lightning showed me one that wasn't chained i snatched it and shoved. it was a canoe, and warn't fastened with nothing but a rope. the towhead was a rattling big distance off, away out there in the middle of the river, but i didn't lose no time; and when i struck the raft at last i was so fagged i would a just laid down to blow and gasp if i could afforded it. but i didn't. as i sprung aboard i sung out: "out with you, jim, and set her loose! glory be to goodness, we're shut of them!" jim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms spread, he was so full of joy; but when i glimpsed him in the lightning my heart shot up in my mouth and i went overboard backwards; for i forgot he was old king lear and a drownded a-rab all in one, and it most scared the livers and lights out of me. but jim fished me out, and was going to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so glad i was back and we was shut of the king and the duke, but i says: "not now; have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! cut loose and let her slide!" so in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the river, and it did seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big river, and nobody to bother us. i had to skip around a bit, and jump up and crack my heels a few times--i couldn't help it; but about the third crack i noticed a sound that i knowed mighty well, and held my breath and listened and waited; and sure enough, when the next flash busted out over the water, here they come!--and just a-laying to their oars and making their skiff hum! it was the king and the duke. so i wilted right down on to the planks then, and give up; and it was all i could do to keep from crying. chapter xxx. when they got aboard the king went for me, and shook me by the collar, and says: "tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup! tired of our company, hey?" i says: "no, your majesty, we warn't--please don't, your majesty!" "quick, then, and tell us what was your idea, or i'll shake the insides out o' you!" "honest, i'll tell you everything just as it happened, your majesty. the man that had a-holt of me was very good to me, and kept saying he had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he was sorry to see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and made a rush for the coffin, he lets go of me and whispers, 'heel it now, or they'll hang ye, sure!' and i lit out. it didn't seem no good for me to stay--i couldn't do nothing, and i didn't want to be hung if i could get away. so i never stopped running till i found the canoe; and when i got here i told jim to hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me yet, and said i was afeard you and the duke wasn't alive now, and i was awful sorry, and so was jim, and was awful glad when we see you coming; you may ask jim if i didn't." jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said, "oh, yes, it's mighty likely!" and shook me up again, and said he reckoned he'd drownd me. but the duke says: "leggo the boy, you old idiot! would you a done any different? did you inquire around for him when you got loose? i don't remember it." so the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and everybody in it. but the duke says: "you better a blame' sight give yourself a good cussing, for you're the one that's entitled to it most. you hain't done a thing from the start that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky with that imaginary blue-arrow mark. that was bright--it was right down bully; and it was the thing that saved us. for if it hadn't been for that they'd a jailed us till them englishmen's baggage come--and then--the penitentiary, you bet! but that trick took 'em to the graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness; for if the excited fools hadn't let go all holts and made that rush to get a look we'd a slept in our cravats to-night--cravats warranted to wear, too--longer than we'd need 'em." they was still a minute--thinking; then the king says, kind of absent-minded like: "mf! and we reckoned the niggers stole it!" that made me squirm! "yes," says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic, "we did." after about a half a minute the king drawls out: "leastways, i did." the duke says, the same way: "on the contrary, i did." the king kind of ruffles up, and says: "looky here, bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?" the duke says, pretty brisk: "when it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask, what was you referring to?" "shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but i don't know--maybe you was asleep, and didn't know what you was about." the duke bristles up now, and says: "oh, let up on this cussed nonsense; do you take me for a blame' fool? don't you reckon i know who hid that money in that coffin?" "yes, sir! i know you do know, because you done it yourself!" "it's a lie!"--and the duke went for him. the king sings out: "take y'r hands off!--leggo my throat!--i take it all back!" the duke says: "well, you just own up, first, that you did hide that money there, intending to give me the slip one of these days, and come back and dig it up, and have it all to yourself." "wait jest a minute, duke--answer me this one question, honest and fair; if you didn't put the money there, say it, and i'll b'lieve you, and take back everything i said." "you old scoundrel, i didn't, and you know i didn't. there, now!" "well, then, i b'lieve you. but answer me only jest this one more--now don't git mad; didn't you have it in your mind to hook the money and hide it?" the duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says: "well, i don't care if i did, i didn't do it, anyway. but you not only had it in mind to do it, but you done it." "i wisht i never die if i done it, duke, and that's honest. i won't say i warn't goin' to do it, because i was; but you--i mean somebody--got in ahead o' me." "it's a lie! you done it, and you got to say you done it, or--" the king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out: "'nough!--i own up!" i was very glad to hear him say that; it made me feel much more easier than what i was feeling before. so the duke took his hands off and says: "if you ever deny it again i'll drown you. it's well for you to set there and blubber like a baby--it's fitten for you, after the way you've acted. i never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble everything --and i a-trusting you all the time, like you was my own father. you ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand by and hear it saddled on to a lot of poor niggers, and you never say a word for 'em. it makes me feel ridiculous to think i was soft enough to believe that rubbage. cuss you, i can see now why you was so anxious to make up the deffisit--you wanted to get what money i'd got out of the nonesuch and one thing or another, and scoop it all!" the king says, timid, and still a-snuffling: "why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffisit; it warn't me." "dry up! i don't want to hear no more out of you!" says the duke. "and now you see what you got by it. they've got all their own money back, and all of ourn but a shekel or two besides. g'long to bed, and don't you deffersit me no more deffersits, long 's you live!" so the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for comfort, and before long the duke tackled his bottle; and so in about a half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the tighter they got the lovinger they got, and went off a-snoring in each other's arms. they both got powerful mellow, but i noticed the king didn't get mellow enough to forget to remember to not deny about hiding the money-bag again. that made me feel easy and satisfied. of course when they got to snoring we had a long gabble, and i told jim everything. proofreading team at http://www.fadedpage.net [illustration: she was unconscious when they lifted her out. ruth fielding at lighthouse point. page ] ruth fielding at lighthouse point or nita, the girl castaway by alice b. emerson author of ruth fielding of the red mill, ruth fielding at briarwood hall etc. illustrated new york cupples & leon company publishers books for girls by alice b. emerson ruth fielding series mo. cloth. illustrated. ruth fielding of the red mill or, jasper parloe's secret. ruth fielding at briarwood hall or, solving the campus mystery. ruth fielding at snow camp or, lost in the backwoods. ruth fielding at lighthouse point or, nita, the girl castaway. ruth fielding at silver ranch or, schoolgirls among the cowboys. cupples & leon co., publishers, new york. copyright, , by cupples & leon company ruth fielding at lighthouse point printed in u.s.a. contents chapter page i an initiation ii the fox at work iii on lake osago iv trouble at the red mill v the tintacker mine vi uncle jabez at his worst vii the signal gun viii the lifeboat is launched ix the girl in the rigging x the double charge xi the story of the castaway xii busy izzy in a new aspect xiii crab proves to be of the hardshell variety xiv the tragic incident in a fishing excursion xv tom cameron to the rescue xvi ruth's secret xvii what was in the newspaper xviii another night adventure xix the goblins' gambol xx "whar's my jane ann?" xxi crab makes his demand xxii thimble island xxiii marooned xxiv plucky mother purling xxv what jane ann wanted ruth fielding at lighthouse point chapter i an initiation a brown dusk filled the long room, for although the windows were shrouded thickly and no lamp burned, some small ray of light percolated from without and made dimly visible the outlines of the company there gathered. the low, quavering notes of an organ sighed through the place. there was the rustle and movement of a crowd. to the neophyte, who had been brought into the hall with eyes bandaged, it all seemed very mysterious and awe-inspiring. now she was set in a raised place and felt that before her was the company of masked and shrouded figures, in scarlet dominoes like those worn by the two guards who had brought her from the anteroom. the bandage was whisked from her eyes; but she could see nothing of her surroundings, nor of the company before which she stood. "candidate!" spoke a hollow, mysterious voice somewhere in the gloom, yet sounding so close to her ear that she started. "candidate! you stand before the membership body of the s. b.'s. you are as yet unknown to them and they unknown to you. if you enter the secret association of the s. b.'s you must throw off and despise forever all ties of a like character. do you agree?" the candidate obeyed, in so far as she prodded her sharply in the ribs and a shrill voice whispered: "say you do--gump!" the candidate obeyed, in so far as she proclaimed that she did, at least. "it is an oath," went on the sepulchral voice. "remember!" in chorus the assembly immediately repeated, "remember!" in solemn tones. "candidate!" repeated the leading voice, "you have been taught the leading object of our existence as a society. what is it?" without hesitation now, the candidate replied: "helpfulness." "it is right. and now, what do our initials stand for?" "sweetbriar," replied the shaking voice of the candidate. "true. that is what our initials stand for to the world at large--to those who are not initiated into the mysteries of the s. b.'s. but those letters may stand for many things and it is my privilege to explain to you now that they likewise are to remind us all of two virtues that each sweetbriar is expected to practice--to be sincere and to befriend. remember! sincerity--befriend. remember!" again the chorus of mysterious voices chanted: "remember!" "and now let the light shine upon the face of the candidate, that the shrouded sisterhood may know her where'er they meet her. once! twice! thrice! light!" at the cry the ray of a spot-light flashed out of the gloom at the far end of the long room and played glaringly upon the face and figure of the candidate. she herself was more blinded by the glare than she had been by the bandage. there was a rustle and movement in the room, and the leading voice went on: "sisters! the novice is now revealed to us all. she has now entered into the outer circle of the sweetbriars. let her know us, where'er she meets us, by our rallying cry. once! twice! thrice! _now!_" instantly, and in unison, the members chanted the following "yell": "s. b.--ah-h-h! s. b.--ah-h-h! sound our battle-cry near and far! s. b.--all! briarwood hall! sweetbriars, do or die-- this be our battle-cry-- briarwood hall! _that's all!_" with the final word the spot-light winked out and the other lights of the hall flashed on. the assembly of hooded and shrouded figures were revealed. and helen cameron, half smiling and half crying, found herself standing upon the platform before her schoolmates who had already joined the secret fraternity known as "the sweetbriars." beside her, and presiding over the meeting, she found her oldest and dearest friend at briarwood hall--ruth fielding. a small megaphone stood upon the table at ruth's hand, and its use had precluded helen's recognition of her chum's voice as the latter led in the ritual of the fraternity. like their leader, the other sweetbriars had thrown back their scarlet hoods, and helen recognized almost all of the particular friends with whom she had become associated since she had come--with ruth fielding--the autumn before to briarwood hall. the turning on of the lights was the signal for general conversation and great merriment. it was the evening of the last day but one of the school year, and discipline at briarwood hall was relaxed to a degree. however, the fraternity of the sweetbriars had grown in favor with mrs. grace tellingham, the preceptress of the school, and with the teachers, since its inception. now the fifty or more girls belonging to the society (fully a quarter of the school membership) paired off to march down to the dining hall, where a special collation was spread. helen cameron went down arm-in-arm with the president of the s. b.'s. "oh, ruthie!" the new member exclaimed, "i think it's ever so nice--much better than the initiation of the old upedes. i can talk about them now," and she laughed, "because they are--as tommy says--'busted all to flinders.' haven't held a meeting for more than a month, and the last time--whisper! this is a secret, and i guess the last remaining secret of the upedes--there were only the fox and i there!" "i'm glad you're one of us at last, helen," said ruth fielding, squeezing her chum as they went down the stairs. "and i ought to have been an original member along with you, ruth," said helen, thoughtfully. "the up and doing club hadn't half the attractiveness that your society has----" "don't call it _my_ society. we don't want any one-girl club. that was the trouble with the up and doings--just as 'too much faculty' is the objection to the forward club." "oh, i detest the fussy curls just as much as ever," declared helen, quickly, "although madge steele _is_ president." "well, we 'infants,' as they called us last fall when we entered briarwood, are in control of the s. b.'s, and we can help each other," said ruth, with satisfaction. "but you talk about the upedes being a one-girl club. i know the fox was all-in-all in that. but you're pretty near the whole thing in the s. b.'s, ruthie," and helen laughed, slily. "why, they say you wrote all the ritual and planned everything." "never mind," said ruth, calmly; "we can't have a dictator in the s. b.'s without changing the constitution. the same girl can't be president for more than one year." "but you deserve to boss it all," said her chum, warmly. "and i for one wouldn't mind if you did." helen was a very impulsive, enthusiastic girl. when she and ruth fielding had come to briarwood hall she had immediately taken up with a lively and thoughtless set of girls who had banded themselves into the up and doing club, and whose leader was mary cox, called "the fox," because of her shrewdness. ruth had not cared for this particular society and, in time, she and most of the other new pupils formed the sweetbriar club. helen cameron, loyal to her first friends at the school, had not fallen away from mary cox and joined the sweetbriars until this very evening, which was, as we have seen, the evening before the final day of the school year. ruth fielding took the head of the table when the girls sat down to supper and the other officers of the club sat beside her. helen was therefore separated from her, and when the party broke up late in the evening (the curfew bell at nine o'clock was abolished for this one night) the chums started for their room in the west dormitory at different times. ruth went with mercy curtis, who was lame; outside the dining hall helen chanced to meet mary cox, who had been calling on some party in the east dormitory building. "hello, cameron!" exclaimed the fox. "so you've finally been roped in by the 'soft babies' have you? i thought that chum of yours--fielding--would manage to get you hobbled and tied before vacation." "you can't say i wasn't loyal to the upedes as long as there was any society to be loyal to," said helen, quickly, and with a flush. "oh, well; you'll be going down to heavy's seashore cottage with them now, i suppose?" said the fox, still watching helen curiously. "why, of course! i intended to before," returned the younger girl. "we all agreed about that last winter when we were at snow camp." "oh, you did, eh?" laughed the other. "well, if you hadn't joined the soft babies you wouldn't have been 'axed,' when it came time to go. this is going to be an s. b. frolic. your nice little ruth fielding says she won't go if heavy invites any but her precious sweetbriars to be of the party." "i don't believe it, mary cox!" cried helen. "i mean, that _you_ must be misinformed. somebody has maligned ruth." "humph! maybe, but it doesn't look like it. who is going to lighthouse point?" demanded the fox, carelessly. "madge steele, for although she is president of the fussy curls, she is likewise honorary member of the s. b.'s." "that is so," admitted helen. "heavy, herself," pursued mary cox, "belle and lluella, who have all backslid from the upedes, and yourself." "but you've been invited," said helen, quickly. "not much. i tell you, if you and belle and lluella had not joined her s. b.'s you wouldn't have been numbered among heavy's house party. don't fool yourself on that score," and with another unpleasant laugh, the older girl walked on and left helen in a much perturbed state of mind. chapter ii the fox at work ruth fielding, after the death of her parents, when she was quite a young girl, had come from darrowtown to live with her mother's uncle at the red mill, on the lumano river near cheslow, as was related in the first volume of this series, entitled, "ruth fielding of the red mill; or, jasper parloe's secret." ruth had found uncle jabez very hard to get along with at first, for he was a miser, and his kinder nature seemed to have been crusted over by years of hoarding and selfishness. but through a happy turn of circumstances ruth was enabled to get at the heart of her crotchety uncle, and when ruth's very dear friend, helen cameron, planned to go to boarding school, uncle jabez was won over to sending ruth with her. the fun and work of that first half at school are related in the second volume of the series, entitled "ruth fielding at briarwood hall; or, solving the campus mystery." in the third volume of the series, "ruth fielding at snow camp; or, lost in the backwoods," ruth and some of her school friends spend a part of the mid-winter vacation at mr. cameron's hunting lodge in the big woods, where they enjoy many winter sports and have adventures galore. ruth and helen occupied a "duo" room on the second floor of the west dormitory; but when mercy curtis, the lame girl, had come to briarwood in the middle of the first term, the chums had taken her in with them, the occupants of that particular study being known thereafter among the girls of briarwood as the triumvirate. helen, when deserted by the fox, who, from that first day at briarwood hall, had shown herself to be jealous of ruth fielding, for some reason, went slowly up to her room and found ruth and mercy there before her. there was likewise a stout, doll-faced, jolly girl with them, known to the other girls as "heavy," but rightly owning the name of jennie stone. "here she is now!" cried this latter, on helen's appearance. "'the candidate will now advance and say her a-b-abs!' you looked scared to death when they shot you with the lime-light. i was chewing a caramel when they initiated me, and i swallowed it whole, and pretty near choked, when the spot-light was turned on." mercy, who was a very sharp girl indeed, was looking at helen slily. she saw that something had occasioned their friend annoyance. "what's happened to you since we came from the supper, helen?" she asked. "indigestion!" gasped heavy. "i've some pepsin tablets in my room. want one, nell?" "no. i am all right," declared helen. "well, we were just waiting for you to come in," the stout girl said. "maybe we'll all be so busy to-morrow that we won't have time to talk about it. so we must plan for the lighthouse point campaign now." "oh!" said helen, slowly. "so you can make up your party now?" "of course! why, we really made it up last winter; didn't we?" laughed heavy. "but we didn't know whether we could go or not then," ruth fielding said. "you didn't know whether _i_ could go, i suppose you mean?" suggested helen. "why--not particularly," responded ruth, in some wonder at her chum's tone. "i supposed you and tom would go. your father so seldom refuses you anything." "oh!" "i didn't know how uncle jabez would look at it," pursued ruth. "but i wrote him a while ago and told him you and mercy were going to accept jennie's invite, and he said i could go to lighthouse point, too." "oh!" said helen again. "you didn't wait until i joined the s. b.'s, then, to decide whether you would accept heavy's invitation, or not?" "of course not!" "how ridiculous!" cried heavy. "well, it's to be a sweetbriar frolic; isn't it, heavy?" asked helen, calmly. "no. madge and bob steele are going. and your brother tom," chuckled the stout girl. "and perhaps that isadore phelps. you wouldn't call busy izzy a sweetbriar; would you?" "i don't mean the boys," returned helen, with some coolness. suddenly mercy curtis, her head on one side and her thin little face twisted into a most knowing grimace, interrupted. "i know what this means!" she exclaimed. "what do _you_ mean, goody two-sticks?" demanded ruth, kindly. "our helen has a grouch." "nonsense!" muttered helen, flushing again. "i thought something didn't fit her when she came in," said heavy, calmly. "but i thought it was indigestion." "what _is_ the matter, helen?" asked ruth fielding in wonder. "'fee, fi, fo fum! i see the negro run!'--into the woodpile!" ejaculated the lame girl, in her biting way. "i know what is the matter with queen helen of troy. she's been with the fox." ruth and heavy stared at mercy in surprise; but helen turned her head aside. "that's the answer!" chuckled the shrewd little creature. "i saw them walk off together after supper. and the fox has been trying to make trouble--same as usual." "mary cox! why, that's impossible," said heavy, good-naturedly. "she wouldn't say anything to make helen feel bad." mercy darted an accusing fore-finger at helen, and still kept her eyes screwed up. "i dare you to tell! i dare you to tell!" she cried in a singsong voice. helen had to laugh at last. "well, mary cox said you had decided to have none but sweetbriars at the cottage on the beach, heavy." "lot she knows about it," grunted the stout girl. "why, heavy asked her to go; didn't she?" cried ruth. "well, that was last winter. i didn't press her," admitted the stout girl. "but she's your roommate, like belle and lluella," said ruth, in some heat. "of course you've got to ask her." "don't you do it. she's a spoil-sport," declared mercy curtis, in her sharp way. "the fox will keep us all in hot water." "do be still, mercy!" cried ruth. "this is heavy's own affair. and mary cox has been her roommate ever since she's been at briarwood." "i don't know that belle and lluella can go with us," said the stout girl, slowly. "the fright they got up in the woods last winter scared their mothers. i guess they think i'm too reckless. sort of wild, you know," and the stout girl's smile broadened. "but you intended inviting mary cox?" demanded ruth, steadily. "yes. i said something about it to her. but she wouldn't give me a decided answer then." "ask her again." "don't you do it!" exclaimed mercy, sharply. "i mean it, jennie," ruth said. "i can't please both of you," said the good-natured stout girl. "please me. mercy doesn't mean what she says. if mary cox thinks that i am opposed to your having her at lighthouse point, i shall be offended if you do not immediately insist upon her being one of the party." "and that'll suit the fox right down to the ground," exclaimed mercy. "that is what she was fishing for when she got at helen to-night." "did _i_ say she said anything about lighthouse point?" quickly responded helen. "you didn't have to," rejoined mercy, sharply. "we knew." "at least," ruth said to heavy, quietly, yet with decision, "you will ask your old friend to go?" "why--if you don't mind." "there seems to have been some truth in mary's supposition, then," ruth said, sadly. "she thinks i intended to keep her out of a good time. i never thought of such a thing. if mary cox does not accept your invitation, heavy, i shall be greatly disappointed. indeed, i shall be tempted to decline to go to the shore with you. now, remember that, jennie stone." "oh, shucks! you're making too much fuss about it," said the stout girl, rising lazily, and speaking in her usual drawling manner. "of course i'll have her--if she'll go. father's bungalow is big enough, goodness knows. and we'll have lots of fun there." she went her leisurely way to the door. had she been brisker of movement, when she turned the knob she would have found mary cox with her ear at the keyhole, drinking in all that had been said in the room of the triumvirate. but the fox was as swift of foot as she was shrewd and sly of mind. she was out of sight and hearing when jennie stone came out into the corridor. chapter iii on lake osago the final day of the school year was always a gala occasion at briarwood hall. although ruth fielding and her chum, helen cameron, had finished only their first year, they both had important places in the exercises of graduation. ruth sang in the special chorus, while helen played the violin in the school orchestra. twenty-four girls were in the graduating class. briarwood hall prepared for wellesley, or any of the other female colleges, and when mrs. grace tellingham, the preceptress, graduated a girl with a certificate it meant that the young lady was well grounded in all the branches that briarwood taught. the campus was crowded with friends of the graduating class, and of the seniors in particular. it was a very gay scene, for the june day was perfect and the company were brightly dressed. the girls, however, including the graduating class, were dressed in white only. mrs. tellingham had established that custom some years before, and the different classes were distinguished only by the color of their ribbons. helen cameron's twin brother, tom, and madge steele's brother, bob, attended the seven oaks military academy, not many miles from briarwood. their graduation exercises and "breaking up," as the boys called it, were one day later than the same exercises at briarwood. so the girls did not start for home until the morning of the latter day. old dolliver, the stage driver, brought his lumbering stage to the end of the cedar walk at nine o'clock, to which point tony foyle, the man-of-all-work, had wheeled the girls' baggage. ruth, and helen, and mercy curtis had bidden their room good-bye and then made the round of the teachers before this hour. they gathered here to await the stage with jennie stone, madge and mary cox. the latter had agreed to be one of the party at lighthouse point and was going home with heavy to remain during the ensuing week, before the seashore party should be made up. the seven girls comfortably filled the stage, with their hand luggage, while the trunks and suitcases in the boot and roped upon the roof made the ark seem top-heavy. there was a crowd of belated pupils, and those who lived in the neighborhood, to see them off, and the coach finally rolled away to the famous tune of "uncle noah, he built an ark," wherein madge steele put her head out of the window and "lined out" a new verse to the assembled "well-wishers": "and they didn't know where they were at, one wide river to cross! till the sweetbriars showed 'em that! one wide river to cross! one wide river! one wide river of jordan-- one wide river! one wide river to cross!" for although madge steele was now president of the forward club, a much older school fraternity than the sweetbriars, she was, like mrs. tellingham, and miss picolet, the french teacher, and others of the faculty, an honorary member of the society started by ruth fielding. the sweetbriars, less than one school year old, was fast becoming the most popular organization at briarwood hall. mary cox did not join in the singing, nor did she have a word to say to ruth during the ride to the seven oaks station. tom and bob, with lively, inquisitive, harum-scarum isadore phelps--"busy izzy," as his mates called him--were at the station to meet the party from briarwood hall. tom was a dark-skinned, handsome lad, while bob was big, and flaxen-haired, and bashful. madge, his sister, called him "sonny" and made believe he was at the pinafore stage of growth instead of being almost six feet tall and big in proportion. "here's the dear little fellow!" she cried, jumping lightly out to be hugged by the big fellow. "let sister see how he's grown since new year's. why, we'd hardly have known our bobbins; would we, ruthie? let me fix your tie--it's under your ear, of course. now, that's a neat little boy. you can shake hands with ruthie, and helen, and mary, and jennie, and mercy curtis--and help uncle noah get off the trunks." the three boys, being all of the freshman class at seven oaks, had less interest in the final exercises of the term at the academy than the girls had had at briarwood; therefore the whole party took a train that brought them to the landing at portageton, on osago lake, before noon. from that point the steamer _lanawaxa_ would transport them the length of the lake to another railroad over which the young folks must travel to reach cheslow. at this time of year the great lake was a beautiful sight. several lines of steamers plied upon it; the summer resorts on the many islands which dotted it, and upon the shores of the mainland, were gay with flags and banners; the sail up the lake promised to be a most delightful one. and it would have been so--delightful for the whole party--had it not been for a single member. the fox could not get over her unfriendly feeling, although ruth fielding gave her no cause at all. ruth tried to talk to mary, at first; but finding the older girl determined to be unpleasant, she let her alone. on the boat the three boys gathered camp-chairs for the party up forward, and their pocket money went for candy and other goodies with which to treat their sisters and the latter's friends. there were not many people aboard the _lanawaxa_ on this trip and the young folks going home from school had the forward upper deck to themselves. there was a stiff breeze blowing that drove the other passengers into the inclosed cabins. but the girls and their escorts were in high spirits. as madge steele declared, "they had slipped the scholastic collar for ten long weeks." "and if we can't find a plenty of fun in that time it's our own fault," observed heavy--having some trouble with her articulation because of the candy in her mouth. "thanks be to goodness! no rising bell--no curfew--no getting anywhere at any particular time. oh, i'm just going to lie in the sand all day, when we get to the point----" "and have your meals brought to you, heavy?" queried ruth, slily. "never you mind about the meals, miss. mammy laura's going down with us to cook, and if there's one thing mammy laura loves to do, it's to cook messes for me--and bring them to me. she's always been afraid that my health was delicate and that i needed more nourishing food than the rest of the family. such custards! um! um!" "do go down and see if there is anything left on the lunch counter, boys," begged helen, anxiously. "otherwise we won't get heavy home alive." "i _am_ a little bit hungry, having had no dinner," admitted the stout girl, reflectively. the boys went off, laughing. "she's so feeble!" cried mary cox, pinching the stout girl. "we never should travel with her alone. there ought to be a trained nurse and a physician along. i'm worried to death about her----" "ouch! stop your pinching!" commanded jennie, and rose up rather suddenly, for her, to give chase to her tormentor. the fox was as quick as a cat, and heavy was lubberly in her movements. the lighter girl, laughing shrilly, ran forward and vaulted over the low rail that separated the awning-covered upper deck from the unrailed roof of the lower deck forward. "you'd better come back from there!" ruth cried, instantly. "it's wet and slippery." the fox turned on her instantly, her face flushed and her eyes snapping. "mind your business, miss!" she cried, stamping her foot. "i can look out----" her foot slipped. heavy thoughtlessly laughed. none of them really thought of danger save ruth. but mary cox lost her foothold, slid toward the edge of the sloping deck, and the next instant, as the _lanawaxa_ plunged a little sideways (for the sharp breeze had raised quite a little sea) the fox shot over the brink of the deck and, with a scream, disappeared feet-first into the lake. it all happened so quickly that nobody but the group of girls on the forward deck had seen the accident. and madge, heavy and helen were all helpless--so frightened that they could only cry out. "she can't swim!" gasped helen. "she'll be drowned." "the paddle-wheel will hit her!" added madge. "oh! where are those useless boys?" demanded the stout girl. "they're never around when they could be of use." but ruth said never a word. the emergency appealed to her quite as seriously as it did to her friends. but she knew that if mary cox was to be saved they must act at once. she flung off her cap and light outside coat. she wore only canvas shoes, and easily kicked them off and ran, in her stocking-feet, toward the paddle-box. onto this she climbed by the short ladder and sprang out upon its top just as the fox came up after her plunge. by great good fortune the imperiled girl had been carried beyond the paddles. but the _lanawaxa_ was steaming swiftly past the girl in the water. ruth knew very well that mary cox could not swim. she was one of the few girls at briarwood who had been unable to learn that accomplishment, under the school instructor, in the gymnasium pool. whereas ruth herself had taken to the art "like a duck to water." mary's face appeared but for a moment above the surface. ruth saw it, pale and despairing; then a wave washed over it and the girl disappeared for a second time. chapter iv trouble at the red mill the screams of the other girls had brought several of the male passengers as well as some of the boat's crew to the forward deck. mercy curtis, who had lain down in a stateroom to rest, drew back the blind and saw ruth poised on the wheel-box. "don't you do that, ruth fielding!" cried the lame girl, who knew instinctively what her friend's intention was. but ruth paid no more attention to her than she had to the other girls. she was wearing a heavy serge skirt, and she knew it would hamper her in the water. with nimble fingers she unfastened this and dropped it upon the deck. then, without an instant's hesitation, she sprang far out from the steamer, her body shooting straight down, feet-first, to the water. ruth was aware as she shot downward that tom cameron was at the rail over her head. the _lanawaxa_ swept by and he, having run astern, leaned over and shouted to her. she had a glimpse of something swinging out from the rail, too, and dropping after her into the lake, and as the water closed over her head she realized that he had thrown one of the lifebuoys. but deep as the water was, ruth had no fear for herself. she loved to swim and the instructor at briarwood had praised her skill. the only anxiety she had as she sank beneath the surface was for mary cox, who had already gone down twice. she had leaped into the lake near where the fox had disappeared. once beneath the surface, ruth opened her eyes and saw the shadow of somebody in the water ahead. three strokes brought her within reach of it. she seized mary cox by the hair, and although her school fellow was still sinking, ruth, with sturdy strokes, drew her up to the surface. what a blessing it was to obtain a draught of pure air! but the fox was unconscious, and ruth had to bear her weight up, while treading water, until she could dash the drops from her eyes. there was the lifebuoy not ten yards away. she struck out for it with one hand, while towing mary with the other. long before the steamer had been stopped and a boat lowered and manned, ruth and her burden reached the great ring, and the girls were comparatively safe. tom cameron came in the boat, having forced himself in with the crew, and it was he who hauled mary cox over the gunwale, and then aided ruth into the boat. "that's the second time you've saved that girl from drowning, ruth," he gasped. "the first time was last fall when you and i hauled her out of the hole in the ice on triton lake. and now she would have gone down and stayed down if you hadn't dived for her. now! don't you ever do it again!" concluded the excited lad. had ruth not been so breathless she must have laughed at him; but there really was a serious side to the adventure. mary cox did not recover her senses until after they were aboard the steamer. ruth was taken in hand by a stewardess, undressed and put between blankets, and her clothing dried and made presentable before the steamer docked at the head of the lake. as tom cameron had said, mary cox had fallen through the ice early in the previous winter, and ruth had aided in rescuing her; the fox had never even thanked the girl from the red mill for such aid. and now ruth shrank from meeting her and being thanked on this occasion. ruth had to admit to herself that she looked forward with less pleasure to the visit to the seashore with heavy because mary cox was to be of the party. she could not like the fox, and she really had ample reason. the other girls ran into the room where ruth was and reported when mary became conscious, and how the doctor said that she would never have come up to the surface again, she had taken so much water into her lungs, had not ruth grasped her. they had some difficulty in bringing the fox to her senses. "and aren't you the brave one, ruthie fielding!" cried heavy. "why, mary cox owes her life to you--she actually does _this_ time. before, when you and tom cameron helped her out of the water, she acted nasty about it----" "hush, jennie!" commanded ruth. "don't say another word about it. if i had not jumped into the lake after mary, somebody else would." "pshaw!" cried heavy, "you can't get out of it that way. and i'm glad it happened. now we _shall_ have a nice time at lighthouse point, for mary can't be anything but fond of you, child!" ruth, however, had her doubts. she remained in the stateroom as long as she could after the _lanawaxa_ docked. when she was dressed and came out on the deck the train that took heavy and the fox and the steeles and busy izzy home, had gone. the train to cheslow started a few minutes later. "come on, miss heroine!" said tom, grinning at her as she came out on the deck. "you needn't be afraid now. nobody will thank you. i didn't hear her say a grateful word myself--and i bet _you_ won't, either!" helen said nothing at all about the fox; but she looked grave. the former president of the upedes had influenced helen a great deal during this first year at boarding school. had ruth fielding been a less patient and less faithful chum, helen and she would have drifted apart. and perhaps an occasional sharp speech from mercy was what had served more particularly to show helen how she was drifting. now the lame girl observed: "the next time you see mary cox fall overboard, ruth, i hope you'll let her swallow the whole pond, and walk ashore without your help." "if your name _is_ 'mercy' you show none to either your friends or enemies; do you?" returned ruth, smiling. the girl from the red mill refused to discuss the matter further, and soon had them all talking upon a pleasanter theme. it was evening when they reached cheslow and mercy's father, of course, who was the station agent, and mr. cameron, were waiting for them. the big touring car belonging to the dry-goods merchant was waiting for the young folk, and after they had dropped mercy curtis at the little cottage on the by-street, the machine traveled swiftly across the railroad and out into the suburbs of the town. the red mill was five miles from the railroad station, while the camerons' fine home, "outlook," stood some distance beyond. before they had gotten out of town, however, the car was held up in front of a big house set some distance back from the road, and before which, on either side of the arched gateway, was a green lamp. the lamps were already lighted and as the cameron car came purring along the street, with helen herself under the steering wheel (for she had begged the privilege of running it home) a tall figure came hurrying out of the gateway, signaling them to stop. "it's doctor davison himself!" cried ruth, in some excitement. "and how are all the sweetbriars?" demanded the good old physician, their staunch friend and confidant. "ah, tom, my fine fellow! have they drilled that stoop out of your shoulders?" "we're all right, dr. davison--and awfully glad to see you," cried ruth, leaning out of the tonneau to shake hands with him. "ah! here's the sunshine of the red mill--and they're needing sunshine there, just now, i believe," said the doctor. "did you bring my goody two-sticks home all right?" "she's all right, doctor," helen assured him. "and so are we--only ruth's been in the lake." "in lake osago?" "yes, sir--and it was wet," tom told him, grinning. "i suppose she was trying to find that out," returned dr. davison. "did you get anything else out of it, ruthie fielding?" "a girl," replied ruth, rather tartly. "oh-ho! well, _that_ was something," began the doctor, when ruth stopped him with an abrupt question: "why do you say that they need me at home, sir?" "why--honey--they're always glad to have you there, i reckon," said the doctor, slowly. "uncle jabez and aunt alviry will both be glad to see you----" "there's trouble, sir; what is it?" asked ruth, gravely, leaning out of the car so as to speak into his ear. "there _is_ trouble; isn't there? what is it?" "i don't know that i can exactly tell you, ruthie," he replied, with gravity. "but it's there. you'll see it." "aunt alviry----" "is all right." "then it's uncle jabez?" "yes, my child. it is uncle jabez. what it is you will have to find out, i am afraid, for _i_ have not been able to," said the doctor, in a whisper. "maybe it is given to you, my dear, to straighten out the tangles at the red mill." he invited them all down to sample old mammy's cakes and lemonade the first pleasant afternoon, and then the car sped on. but ruth was silent. what she might find at the red mill troubled her. chapter v the tintacker mine it was too late to more than see the outlines of the mill and connecting buildings as the car rushed down the hill toward the river road, between which and the river itself, and standing on a knoll, the red mill was. ruth could imagine just how it looked--all in dull red paint and clean white trimmings. miserly as jabez potter was about many things, he always kept his property in excellent shape, and the mill and farmhouse, with the adjoining outbuildings, were painted every spring. a lamp burned in the kitchen; but all else was dark about the place. "don't look very lively, ruth," said tom. "i don't believe they expect you." but even as he spoke the door opened, and a broad beam of yellow lamplight shot out across the porch and down the path. a little, bent figure was silhouetted in the glow. "there's aunt alviry!" cried ruth, in delight. "i know _she's_ all right." "all excepting her back and her bones," whispered helen. "now, ruthie! don't you let anything happen to veto our trip to heavy's seaside cottage." "oh! don't suggest such a thing!" cried her brother. but ruth ran up the path after bidding them good-night, with her heart fast beating. dr. davison's warning had prepared her for almost any untoward happening. but aunt alvirah only looked delighted to see the girl as ruth ran into her arms. aunt alvirah was a friendless old woman whose latter years would have been spent at the cheslow almshouse had not jabez potter taken her to keep house for him more than ten years before. ill-natured people said that the miller had done this to save paying a housekeeper; but in aunt alvirah's opinion it was an instance of mr. potter's kindness of heart. "you pretty creetur!" cried aunt alvirah, hugging ruth close to her. "and how you've growed! what a smart girl you are getting to be! deary, deary me! how i have longed for you to git back, ruthie. come in! come in! oh, my back and oh, my bones!" she complained, under her breath, as she hobbled into the house. "how's the rheumatics, aunty?" asked ruth. "just the same, deary. up one day, and down the next. allus will be so, i reckon. i'd be too proud to live if i didn't have my aches and pains--oh, my back and oh, my bones!" as she lowered herself into her rocker. "where's uncle jabez?" cried ruth. "sh!" admonished aunt alvirah. "don't holler, child. you'll disturb him." "not _sick?_" whispered ruth, in amazement. "no--o. not sick o' body, i reckon, child," returned aunt alvirah. "what _is_ it, aunt alviry? what's the matter with him?" pursued the girl, anxiously. "he's sick o' soul, i reckon," whispered the old woman. "sumpin's gone wrong with him. you know how jabez is. it's money matters." "oh, has he been robbed again?" cried ruth. "sh! not jest like that. not like what jasper parloe did to him. but it's jest as bad for jabez, i reckon. anyway, he takes it jest as hard as he did when his cash-box was lost that time. but you know how close-mouthed he is, ruthie. he won't talk about it." "about _what?_" demanded ruth, earnestly. aunt alvirah rose with difficulty from her chair and, with her usual murmured complaint of "oh, my back and oh, my bones!" went to the door which led to the passage. off this passage uncle jabez's room opened. she closed the door and hobbled back to her chair, but halted before sitting down. "i never thought to ask ye, deary," she said. "ye must be very hungry. ye ain't had no supper." "you sit right down there and keep still," said ruth, smiling as she removed her coat. "i guess i can find something to eat." "well, there's cocoa. you make you a warm drink. there's plenty of pie and cake--and there's eggs and ham if you want them." "don't you fret about me," repeated ruth. "what makes you so mussed up?" demanded aunt alvirah, the next moment. "why, ruth fielding! have you been in the water?" "yes, ma'am. but you know water doesn't hurt me." "dear child! how reckless you are! did you fall in the lake?" "no, aunty. i jumped in," returned the girl, and then told her briefly about her adventure on the _lanawaxa_. "goodness me! goodness me!" exclaimed aunt alvirah. "whatever would your uncle say if he knew about it?" "and what is the matter with uncle jabez?" demanded ruth, sitting down at the end of the table to eat her "bite." "you haven't told me that." "i 'lowed to do so," sighed the old woman. "but i don't want him to hear us a-gossipin' about it. you know how jabez is. i dunno as he knows _i_ know what i know----" "that sounds just like a riddle, aunt alvirah!" laughed ruth. "and i reckon it _is_ a riddle," she said. "i only know from piecin' this, that, and t'other together; but i reckon i fin'ly got it pretty straight about the tintacker mine--and your uncle's lost a power o' money by it, ruthie." "what's the tintacker mine?" demanded ruth, in wonder. "it's a silver mine. i dunno where it is, 'ceptin' it's fur out west and that your uncle put a lot of money into it and he can't git it out." "why not?" "'cause it's busted, i reckon." "the mine's 'busted'" repeated the puzzled ruth. "yes. or so i s'pect. i'll tell ye how it come about. the feller come along here not long after you went to school last fall, ruthie." "what fellow?" asked ruth, trying to get at the meat in the nut, for aunt alvirah was very discursive. "now, you lemme tell it my own way, ruthie," admonished the old woman. "you would better," and the girl laughed, and nodded. "it was one day when i was sweepin' the sittin' room--ye know, what mercy curtis had for her bedroom while she was out here last summer." ruth nodded again encouragingly, and the little old woman went on in her usual rambling way: "i was a-sweepin', as i say, and jabez come by and put his head in at the winder. 'that's too hard for ye, alviry,' says he. 'let the dust be--it ain't eatin' nothin'.' jest like a man, ye know! "'well,' says i, 'if i didn't sweep onc't in a while, jabez, we'd be wadin' to our boot-tops in dirt.' like that, ye know, ruthie. and he says, 'they hev things nowadays for suckin' up the dirt, instead of kickin' it up that-a-way,' and with that a voice says right in the yard, 'you're right there, mister. an' i got one of 'em here to sell ye.' "there was a young feller in the yard with a funny lookin' rig-a-ma-jig in his hand, and his hat on the back of his head, and lookin' jest as busy as a toad that's swallered a hornet. my! you wouldn't think that feller had a minnit ter stay, the way he acted. scurcely had time to sell jabez one of them 'vac-o-jacs,' as he called 'em." "a vacuum cleaner!" exclaimed ruth. "that's something like it. only it was like a carpet-sweeper, too. i seen pitchers of 'em in the back of a magazine onc't. i never b'lieved they was for more'n ornament; but that spry young feller come in and worked it for me, and he sucked up the dust out o' that ingrain carpet till ye couldn't beat a particle out o' it with an ox-goad! "but i didn't seem ter favor that vac-o-jac none," continued aunt alvirah. "ye know how close-grained yer uncle is. i don't expect him ter buy no fancy fixin's for an ol' creetur like me. but at noon time he come in and set one o' the machines in the corner." "he bought it!" cried ruth. "that's what he done. he says, 'alviry, ef it's any good to ye, there it is! i calkerlate that's a smart young man. he got five dollars out o' me easier than _i_ ever got five dollars out of a man in all my days.' "i tell ye truthful, ruthie! i can't use it by myself. it works too hard for anybody that's got my back and bones. but ben, he comes in once in a while and works it for me. i reckon your uncle sends him." "but, aunt alviry!" cried ruth. "what about the tintacker mine? you haven't told me a thing about _that_." "but i'm a-comin' to it," declared the old woman. "it's all of a piece--that and the vac-o-jac. i seen the same young feller that sold jabez the sweeper hangin' about the mill a good bit. and nights jabez figgered up his accounts and counted his money till 'way long past midnight sometimes. bimeby he says to me, one day: "'alviry, that vac-o-jac works all right; don't it?' "i didn't want to tell him it was hard to work, and it does take up the dirt, so i says 'yes.' "'then i reckon i'll give the boy the benefit of the doubt, and say he's honest,' says jabez. "i didn't know what he meant, and i didn't ask. 'twouldn't be _my_ place ter ask jabez potter his business--you know that, ruthie. so i jest watched and in a day or two back come the young sweeper feller again, and we had him to dinner. this was long before thanksgivin'. they sat at the table after dinner and i heard 'em talking about the mine." "ah-ha!" exclaimed ruth, with a smile. "now we come to the mine, do we?" "i told you it was all of a piece," said aunt alvirah, complacently. "well, it seemed that the boy's father--this agent warn't more than a boy, but maybe he was a sharper, jest the same--the boy's father and another man found the mine. prospected for it, did they say?" "that is probably the word," agreed ruth, much interested. "well, anyhow, they found it and got out some silver. then the boy's father bought out the other man. then he stopped finding silver in it. and then he died, and left the mine to his folks. but the boy went out there and rummaged around the mine and found that there was still plenty of silver, only it had to be treated--or put through something--a pro--a prospect----" "process?" suggested ruth. "that's it, deary. some process to refine the silver, or git it out of the ore, or something. it was all about chemicals and machinery, and all that. your uncle jabez seemed to understand it, but it was all dutch to me," declared aunt alvirah. "well, what happened?" "why," continued the old woman, "the tintacker mine, as the feller called it, couldn't be made to pay without machinery being bought, and all that. he had to take in a partner, he said. and i jedge your uncle jabez bought into the mine. now, for all i kin hear, there ain't no mine, or no silver, or no nothin'. leastwise, the young feller can't be heard from, and jabez has lost his money--and a big sum it is, ruthie. it's hurt him so that he's got smaller and smaller than ever. begrudges the very vittles we have on the table, i believe. i'm afraid, deary, that unless there's a change he won't want you to keep on at that school you're going to, it's so expensive," and aunt alvirah gathered the startled girl into her arms and rocked her to and fro on her bosom. "that's what i was comin' to, deary," she sobbed. "i had ter tell ye; he told me i must. ye can't go back to briarwood, ruthie, when it comes fall." chapter vi uncle jabez at his worst it was true that mr. potter had promised ruth only one year at school. the miller considered he owed his grand-niece something for finding and restoring to him his cash-box which he had lost, and which contained considerable money and the stocks and bonds in which he had invested. jabez potter prided himself on being strictly honest. he was just according to his own notion. he owed ruth something for what she had done--something more than her "board and keep"--and he had paid the debt. or, so he considered. there had been a time when uncle jabez seemed to be less miserly. his hard old heart had warmed toward his niece--or, so ruth believed. and he had taken a deep interest--for him--in mercy curtis, the lame girl. ruth knew that uncle jabez and dr. davison together had made it possible for mercy to attend briarwood hall. of course, uncle jabez would cut off that charity as well, and the few tears ruth cried that night after she went to bed were as much for mercy's disappointment as for her own. "but maybe dr. davison will assume the entire cost of keeping mercy at school," thought the girl of the red mill. "or, perhaps, mr. curtis may have paid the debts he contracted while mercy was so ill, and will be able to help pay her expenses at briarwood." but about herself she could have no such hope. she knew that the cost of her schooling had been considerable. nor had uncle jabez, been niggardly with her about expenditures. he had given her a ten-dollar bill for spending money at the beginning of each half; and twice during the school year had sent her an extra five-dollar bill. her board and tuition for the year had cost over three hundred dollars; it would cost more the coming year. if uncle jabez had actually lost money in this tintacker mine ruth could be sure that he meant what he had left to aunt alvirah to tell her. he would not pay for another school year. but ruth was a persevering little body and she came of determined folk. she had continued at the district school when the circumstances were much against her. now, having had a taste of briarwood for one year, she was the more anxious to keep on for three years more. besides, there was the vision of college beyond! she knew that if she remained at home, all she could look forward to was to take aunt alvirah's place as her uncle's housekeeper. she would have no chance to get ahead in life. life at the red mill seemed a very narrow outlook indeed. ruth meant to get an education. somehow (there were ten long weeks of summer vacation before her) she must think up a scheme for earning the money necessary to pay for her second year's tuition. three hundred and fifty dollars! that was a great, great sum for a girl of ruth fielding's years to attempt to earn. how should she "begin to go about it"? it looked an impossible task. but ruth possessed a fund of good sense. she was practical, if imaginative, and she was just sanguine enough to keep her temper sweet. lying awake and worrying over it wasn't going to do her a bit of good; she knew that. therefore she did not indulge herself long, but wiped away her tears, snuggled down into the pillow, and dropped asleep. in the morning she saw uncle jabez when she came down stairs. the stove smoked and he was growling about it. "good morning, uncle!" she cried and ran to him and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him--whether he would be kissed, or not! "there! there! so you're home; are you?" he growled. ruth was glad to notice that he called it her _home_. she knew that he did not want a word to be said about what aunt alvirah had told her over night, and she set about smoothing matters over in her usual way. "you go on and 'tend to your outside chores, uncle," she commanded. "i'll build this fire in a jiffy." "huh! i reckon you've forgotten how to build a kitchen fire--livin' so long in a steam-heated room," he grunted. "now, don't you believe that!" she assured him, and running out to the shed for a handful of fat-pine, or "lightwood," soon had the stove roaring comfortably. "what a comfort you be, my pretty creetur," sighed aunt alvirah, as she hobbled down stairs. "oh, my back and oh, my bones! this is going to be a _creaky day_. i feel the dampness." "don't you believe it, aunty!" cried the girl. "the sun's going to come out and drive away every atom of this mist. cheer up!" and she was that way all day; but deep down in her heart there was a very tender spot indeed, and in her mind the thought of giving up briarwood rankled like a barbed arrow. she would _not_ give it up if she could help. but how ever could she earn three hundred and fifty dollars? the idea seemed preposterous. aside from being with aunt alvirah, and helping her, ruth's homecoming was not at all as she had hoped it would be. uncle jabez was more taciturn than ever, it seemed to the girl. she could not break through the crust of his manner. if she followed him to the mill, he was too busy to talk, or the grinding-stones made so much noise that talking was impossible. at night he did not even remain in the kitchen to count up the day's gains and to study his accounts. instead, he retired with the cash-box and ledger to his own room. she found no opportunity of opening any discussion about briarwood, or about the mysterious tintacker mine, upon which subject aunt alvirah had been so voluble. if the old man had lost money in the scheme, he was determined to give her no information at first hand about it. at first she was doubtful whether she should go to lighthouse point. indeed, she was not sure that she _could_ go. she had no money. but before the week was out at dinner one day uncle jabez pushed a twenty-dollar bill across the table to her, and said: "i said ye should go down there to the seaside for a spell, ruth. make that money do ye," and before she could either thank him or refuse the money, uncle jabez stumped out of the house. in the afternoon helen drove over in the pony carriage to take ruth to town, so the latter could assure her chum that she would go to lighthouse point and be one of jennie stone's bungalow party. they called on dr. davison and the girl from the red mill managed to get a word in private with the first friend she had made on her arrival at cheslow (barring tom cameron's mastiff, reno) and told him of conditions as she had found them at home. "so, it looks as though i had got to make my own way through school, doctor, and it troubles me a whole lot," ruth said to the grave physician. "but what bothers me, too, is mercy----" "don't worry about goody two-sticks," returned the doctor, quickly. "your uncle served notice on me a week before you came home that he could not help to put her through briarwood beyond this term that is closed. i told him he needn't bother. sam curtis is in better shape than he was, and we'll manage to find the money to put that sharp little girl of his where she can get all the education she can possibly soak in. but you, ruth----" "i'm going to find a way, too," declared ruth, independently, yet secretly feeling much less confidence than she appeared to have. mercy was all ready for the seaside party when the girls called at the curtis cottage. the lame girl was in her summer house, sewing and singing softly to herself. she no longer glared at the children as they ran by, or shook her fist at them as she used to, because they could dance and she could not. on monday they would start for the shore, meeting heavy and the others on the train, and spending a good part of the day riding to lighthouse point. mr. cameron had exercised his influence with certain railroad officials and obtained a private car for the young folk. the cameron twins and ruth and mercy would get aboard the car at cheslow, and jennie stone and her other guests would join them at jennie's home town. between that day and the time of her departure ruth tried to get closer to uncle jabez; but the miller went about with lowering brow and scarcely spoke to either ruth or aunt alvirah. "it's jest as well ye air goin' away again so quick, my pretty," said the old woman, sadly. "when jabez gits one o' these moods on him there ain't nobody understands him so well as me. i don't mind if he don't speak. i talk right out loud what i have to say an' he can hear an' reply, or hear an' keep dumb, jest whichever he likes. they say 'hard words don't break no bones' an' sure enough bein' as dumb as an oyster ain't hurtin' none, either. you go 'long an' have your fun with your mates, ruthie. mebbe jabez will be over his grouch when you come back." but ruth was afraid that the miller would change but little unless there was first an emphatic betterment in the affairs of the tintacker mine. chapter vii the signal gun the train did not slow down for sandtown until after mid-afternoon, and when the party of young folk alighted from the private car there were still five miles of heavy roads between them and lighthouse point. it had been pleasant enough when ruth fielding and her companions left cheslow, far up in new york state; but now to the south and east the heavens were masked by heavy, lead-colored clouds, and the wind came from the sea in wild, rain-burdened gusts. "my! how sharp it is!" cried ruth. "and it's salt!" "the salt's in the air--especially when there is a storm at sea," explained heavy. "and i guess we've landed just in time to see a gale. i hope it won't last long and spoil our good time." "oh, but to see the ocean in a storm--that will be great!" cried madge steele. the stones' house had been open for some days and there were two wagons in readiness for the party. the three boys and the baggage went in one, while the five girls crowded into the other and both wagons were driven promptly toward the shore. the girls were just as eager as they could be, and chattered like magpies. all but mary cox. she had been much unlike her usual self all day. when she had joined the party in the private car that morning, ruth noticed that the fox looked unhappy. her eyes were swollen as though she had been weeping and she had very little to say. for one thing ruth was really thankful. the fox said nothing to her about the accident on the _lanawaxa_. she may have been grateful for ruth's timely assistance when she fell into lake osago; but she succeeded in effectually hiding her gratitude. heavy, however, confided to ruth that mary had found sore trouble at home when she returned from briarwood. her father had died the year before and left his business affairs in a tangle. mary's older brother, john, had left college and set about straightening out matters. and now something serious had happened to john. he had gone away on business and for weeks his mother had heard nothing from him. "i didn't know but mary would give up coming with us--just as lluella and belle did," said the stout girl. "but there is nothing she can do at home, and i urged her to come. we must all try to make it particularly pleasant for her." ruth was perfectly willing to do her share; but one can scarcely make it pleasant for a person who refuses to speak to one. and the girl from the red mill could not help feeling that the fox had done her best to make _her_ withdraw from jennie stone's party. the sea was not in sight until the wagons had been driven more than half the distance to the stone bungalow. then, suddenly rounding a sandy hill, they saw the wide sweep of the ocean in the distance, and the small and quieter harbor on the inviting shore of which the bungalow was built. out upon the far point of this nearer sandy ridge was built the white shaft of the sokennet light. sokennet village lay upon the other side of the harbor. on this side a few summer homes had been erected, and beyond the lighthouse was a low, wind-swept building which heavy told the girls was the life saving station. "we'll have lots of fun down there. cap'n abinadab cope is just the nicest old man you ever saw!" declared heavy. "and he can tell the most thrilling stories of wrecks along the coast. and there's the station 'day book' that records everything they do, from the number of pounds of coal and gallons of kerosene used each day, to how they save whole shiploads of people----" "let's ask him to save a shipload for our especial benefit," laughed madge. "i suppose there's only one wreck in fifteen or twenty years, hereabout." "nothing of the kind! sometimes there are a dozen in one winter. and lots of times the surfmen go off in a boat and save ships from being wrecked. in a fog, you know. ships get lost in a fog sometimes, just as folks get lost in a forest----" "or in a blizzard," cried helen, with a lively remembrance of their last winter's experience at snow camp. "nothing like that will happen here, you know," said ruth, laughing. "heavy promised that we shouldn't be lost in a snowstorm at lighthouse point." "but hear the sea roar!" murmured mary cox. "oh! look at the waves!" they had now come to where they could see the surf breaking over a ledge, or reef, off the shore some half-mile. the breakers piled up as high--seemingly--as a tall house; and when they burst upon the rock they completely hid it for the time. "did you ever see such a sight!" cried madge. "'the sea in its might'!" the gusts of rain came more plentifully as they rode on, and so rough did the wind become, the girls were rather glad when the wagons drove in at the gateway of the stone place. immediately around the house the owner had coaxed some grass to grow--at an expense, so jennie said, of about "a dollar a blade." but everywhere else was the sand--cream-colored, yellow, gray and drab, or slate where the water washed over it and left it glistening. the entrance was at the rear; the bungalow faced the cove, standing on a ridge which--as has been before said--continued far out to the lighthouse. "and a woman keeps the light. her husband kept it for many, many years; but he died a year ago and the government has continued her as keeper. she's a nice old lady, is mother purling, and she can tell stories, too, that will make your hair curl!" "i'm going over there right away," declared mary, who had begun to be her old self again. "mine is as straight as an indian's." "a woman alone in a lighthouse! isn't that great?" cried helen. "she is alone sometimes; but there is an assistant keeper. his name is crab--and that's what he is!" declared heavy. "oh, i can see right now that we're going to have great fun here," observed madge. this final conversation was carried on after the girls had run into the house for shelter from a sharp gust of rain, and had been taken upstairs by their hostess to the two big rooms in the front of the bungalow which they were to sleep in. from the windows they could see across the cove to the village and note all the fishing and pleasure boats bobbing at their moorings. right below them was a long dock built out from mr. stone's property, and behind it was moored a motor-launch, a catboat, and two rowboats--quite a little fleet. "you see, there isn't a sail in the harbor--nor outside. that shows that the storm now blowing up is bound to be a stiff one," explained heavy. "for the fishermen of sokennet are as daring as any on the coast, and i have often seen them run out to the banks into what looked to be the very teeth of a gale!" meanwhile, the boys had been shown to a good-sized room at the back of the house, and they were already down again and outside, breasting the intermittent squalls from the sea. they had no curls and furbelows to arrange, and ran all about the place before dinner time. but ere that time arrived the night had shut down. the storm clouds hung low and threatened a heavy rainfall at any moment. off on the horizon was a livid streak which seemed to divide the heavy ocean from the wind-thrashed clouds. the company that gathered about the dinner table was a lively one, even if the wind did shriek outside and the thunder of the surf kept up a continual accompaniment to their conversation--like the deeper notes of a mighty organ. mr. stone, himself, was not present; but one of heavy's young aunts had come down to oversee the party, and she was no wet blanket upon the fun. of course, the "goodies" on the table were many. trust heavy for that. the old black cook, who had been in the stone family for a generation, doted on the stout girl and would cook all day to please her young mistress. they had come to the dessert course when suddenly tom cameron half started from his chair and held up a hand for silence. "what's the matter, tommy?" demanded busy izzy, inquisitively. "what do you hear?" "listen!" commanded tom. the hilarity ceased suddenly, and all those at the table listened intently. the sudden hush made the noise of the elements seem greater. "what did you hear?" finally asked his sister. "a gun--there!" a distant, reverberating sound was repeated. they all heard it. heavy and her aunt, miss kate, glanced at each other with sudden comprehension. "what is it?" ruth cried. "it's a signal gun," heavy said, rather weakly. "a ship in distress," explained miss kate, and her tone hushed their clamor. a third time the report sounded. the dining room door opened and the butler entered. "what is it, maxwell?" asked miss kate. "a ship on the second reef, miss," he said hurriedly. "she was sighted just before dark, driving in. but it was plain that she was helpless, and had gone broadside on to the rock. she'll break up before morning, the fishermen say. it will be an awful wreck, ma'am, for there is no chance of the sea going down." chapter viii the lifeboat is launched the announcement quelled all the jollity of the party on the instant. heavy even lost interest in the sweetmeats before her. "goodness me! what a terrible thing," cried helen cameron. "a ship on the rocks!" "let's go see it!" busy izzy cried. "if we can," said tom. "is it possible, miss kate?" heavy's aunt looked at the butler for information. he was one of those well-trained servants who make it their business to know everything. "i can have the ponies put into the long buckboard. the young ladies can drive to the station; the young gentlemen can walk. it is not raining very hard at present." mercy elected to remain in the house with miss kate. the other girls were just as anxious to go to the beach as the boys. there were no timid ones in the party. but when they came down, dressed in rainy-weather garments, and saw the man standing at the ponies' heads, glistening in wet rubber, if one had withdrawn probably all would have given up the venture. the boys had already gone on ahead, and the ship's gun sounded mournfully through the wild night, at short intervals. they piled into the three seats of the buckboard, ruth sitting beside the driver. the ponies dashed away along the sandy road. it was two miles to the life saving station. they passed the three boys when they were only half way to their destination. "tell 'em not to save all the people from the wreck till we get there!" shouted tom cameron. none of the visitors to lighthouse point realized the seriousness of the happening as yet. they were yet to see for the first time a good ship battering her life out against the cruel rocks. nor did the girls see the wreck at first, for a pall of darkness lay upon the sea. there were lights in the station and a huge fire of driftwood burned on the beach. around this they saw figures moving, and heavy said, as she alighted: "we'll go right down there. there are some women and children already--see? sam will put the horses under the shed here." the five girls locked arms and ran around the station. when they came to the front of the building, a great door was wheeled back at one side and men in oilskins were seen moving about a boat in the shed. the lifeboat was on a truck and they were just getting ready to haul her down to the beach. "and the wreck must have struck nearly an hour ago!" cried madge. "how slow they are." "no," said heavy thoughtfully. "it is july now, and uncle sam doesn't believe there will be any wrecks along this coast until september. in the summer cap'n abinadab keeps the station alone. it took some time to-night to find a crew--and possibly some of these men are volunteers." but now that the life-savers had got on the ground, they went to work with a briskness and skill that impressed the onlookers. they tailed onto the drag rope and hauled the long, glistening white boat down to the very edge of the sea. the wind was directly onshore, and it was a fight to stand against it, let alone to haul such a heavy truck through the wet sand. suddenly there was a glow at sea and the gun boomed out again. then a pale signal light burned on the deck of the foundered vessel. as the light grew those ashore could see her lower rigging and the broken masts and spars. she lay over toward the shore and her deck seemed a snarl of lumber. between the reef and the beach, too, the water was a-foul with wreckage and planks of all sizes. "lumber-laden, boys--and her deck load's broke loose!" shouted one man. the surf roared in upon the sands, and then sucked out again with a whine which made ruth shudder. the sea seemed like some huge, ravening beast eager for its prey. "how can they ever launch the boat into those waves?" ruth asked of heavy. "oh, they know how," returned the stout girl. but the life-savers were in conference about their captain. he was a short, sturdy old man with a squarely trimmed "paint-brush" beard. the girls drew nearer to the group and heard one of the surfmen say: "we'll smash her, cap, sure as you're born! those planks are charging in like battering-rams." "we'll try it, mason," returned cap'n abinadab. "i don't believe we can shoot a line to her against this gale. ready!" the captain got in at the stern and the others took their places in the boat. each man had a cork belt strapped around his body under his arms. there were a dozen other men to launch the lifeboat into the surf when the captain gave the word. he stood up and watched the breakers rolling in. as a huge one curved over and broke in a smother of foam and spray he shouted some command which the helpers understood. the boat started, truck and all, and immediately the men launching her were waist deep in the surging, hissing sea. the returning billow carried the boat off the truck, and the lifeboatmen plunged in their oars and pulled. their short sharp strokes were in such unison that the men seemed moved by the same mind. the long boat shot away from the beach and mounted the incoming wave like a cork. the men ashore drew back the boat-truck out of the way. the lifeboat seemed to hang on that wave as though hesitating to take the plunge. ruth thought that it would be cast back--a wreck itself--upon the beach. but suddenly it again sprang forward, and the curling surf hid boat and men for a full minute from the gaze of those on shore. the girls clung together and gazed eagerly out into the shifting shadows that overspread the riotous sea. "they've sunk!" gasped helen. "no, no!" cried heavy. "there! see them?" the boat's bow rose to meet the next wave. they saw the men pulling as steadily as though the sea were smooth. old cap'n abinadab still stood upright in the stern, grasping the heavy steering oar. "i've read," said ruth, more quietly, "that these lifeboats are unsinkable--unless they are completely wrecked. water-tight compartments, you know." "that's right, miss," said one of the men nearby. "she can't sink. but she can be smashed--ah!" a shout came back to them from the sea. the wind whipped the cry past them in a most eerie fashion. "cap'n abinadab shouting to the men," explained heavy, breathlessly. suddenly another signal light was touched off upon the wreck. the growing light flickered over the entire expanse of lumber-littered sea between the reef and the beach. they could see the lifeboat more clearly. she rose and sank, rose and sank, upon wave after wave, all the time fighting her way out from the shore. again and again they heard the awesome cry. the captain was warning his men how to pull to escape the charging timbers. the next breaker that rolled in brought with it several great planks that were dashed upon the beach with fearful force. the splinters flew into the air, the wind whipping them across the sands. the anxious spectators had to dodge. the timbers ground together as the sea sucked them back. again and again they were rolled in the surf, splintering against each other savagely. "one of those would go through that boat like she was made of paper!" bawled one of the fishermen. at that moment they saw the lifeboat lifted upon another huge wave. she was a full cable's length from the shore, advancing very slowly. in the glare of the coston light the anxious spectators saw her swerve to port to escape a huge timber which charged upon her. the girls screamed. the great stick struck the lifeboat a glancing blow. in an instant she swung broadside to the waves, and then rolled over and over in the trough of the sea. a chorus of shouts and groans went up from the crowd on shore. the lifeboat and her courageous crew had disappeared. chapter ix the girl in the rigging "oh! isn't it awful!" cried helen, clinging to ruth fielding. "i wish i hadn't come." "they're lost!" quavered mary cox. "they're drowned!" but heavy was more practical. "they can't drown so easily--with those cork-vests on 'em. there! the boat's righted." it was a fact. much nearer the shore, it was true, but the lifeboat was again right side up. they saw the men creep in over her sides and seize the oars which had been made fast to her so that they could not be lost. but the lifeboat was not so buoyant, and it was plain that she had been seriously injured. cap'n abinadab dared not go on to the wreck. "that timber mashed her in for'ard," declared a fisherman standing near the girls. "they've got to give it up this time." "can't steer in such a clutter of wreckage," declared another. "not with an oared boat. she ought to be a motor. every other station on this coast, from macklin to cape brender, has a lifeboat driven by a motor. sokennet allus has to take other folks' leavin's." helplessly the lifeboat drifted shoreward. the girls watched her, almost holding their breath with excitement. the three boys raced down to the beach now and joined them. "crickey!" yelped little isadore phelps. "we're almost too late to see the fun!" "hush!" commanded ruth, sharply. "your idea of fun, young man, is very much warped," madge steele added. "haven't they got the wrecked people off?" demanded tom, in wonder. at the moment an added coston burned up on the wreck. its uncertain glare revealed the shrouds and torn lower rigging. they saw several figures--outlined in the glaring light--lashed to the stays and broken spars. the craft was a schooner, lumber-laden, and the sea had now cast her so far over on her beam-ends that her deck was like a wall confronting the shore. against this background the crew were visible, clinging desperately to hand-holds, or lashed to the rigging. and a great cry went suddenly up from the crowd ashore. "there's women aboard her--poor lost souls!" quavered one old dame who had seen many a terrifying wreck along the coast. ruth fielding's sharper eyes had discovered that one of the figures clinging to the wreck was too small for a grown person. "it's a child!" she murmured. "it's a girl. oh, helen! there's a girl--no older than we--on that wreck!" the words of the men standing about them proved ruth's statement to be true. others had descried the girl's figure in that perilous situation. there was a woman, too, and seven men. seven men were ample to man a schooner of her size, and probably the other two were the captain's wife and daughter. but if escape to the shore depended upon the work of the lifeboat and her crew, the castaways were in peril indeed, for the boat was coming shoreward now with a rush. with her came the tossing, charging timbers washed from the deck load. the sea between the reef and the beach was now a seething mass of broken and splintering planks and beams. no craft could live in such a seaway. but ruth and her friends were suddenly conscious of a peril nearer at hand. the broken lifeboat with its crew was being swept shoreward upon a great wave, and with the speed of an express train. the great, curling, foam-streaked breaker seemed to hurl the heavy boat through the air. "they'll be killed! oh, they will!" shrieked mary cox. the long craft, half-smothered in foam, and accompanied by the plunging timbers from the wreck, darted shoreward with increasing velocity. one moment it was high above their heads, with the curling wave ready to break, and the sea sucking away beneath its keel--bared for half its length. crash! down the boat was dashed, with a blow that (so it seemed to the unaccustomed spectators) must tear it asunder. the crew were dashed from their places by the shock. the waiting longshoremen ran to seize the broken boat and drag it above high-water mark. one of the crew was sucked back with the undertow and disappeared for a full minute. but he came in, high on the next wave, and they caught and saved him. to the amazement of ruth fielding and her young companions, none of the seven men who had manned the boat seemed much the worse for their experience. they breathed heavily and their faces were grim. she could almost have sworn that the youngest of the crew--he had the figure " " worked on the sleeve of his coat--had tears of disappointment in his eyes. "it's a desperate shame, lads!" croaked old cap'n abinadab. "we're bested. and the old boat's badly smashed. but there's one thing sure--no other boat, nor no other crew, couldn't do what we started to do. ain't no kick comin' on that score." "and can't the poor creatures out there be helped? must they drown?" whispered helen in ruth's ear. ruth did not believe that these men would give up so easily. they were rough seamen; but the helplessness of the castaways appealed to them. "come on, boys!" commanded the captain of the life saving crew. "let's git out the wagon. i don't suppose there's any use, unless there comes a lull in this etarnal gale. but we'll try what gunpowder will do." "what are they going to attempt now?" madge steele asked. "the beach wagon," said somebody. "they've gone for the gear." this was no explanation to the girls until tom cameron came running back from the house and announced that the crew were going to try to reach the schooner with a line. "they'll try to save them with the breeches buoy," he said. "they've got a life-car here; but they never use that thing nowadays if they can help. too many castaways have been near smothered in it, they say. if they can get a line over the wreck they'll haul the crew in, one at a time." "and that girl!" cried ruth. "i hope they will send her ashore first. how frightened she must be." there was no more rain falling now, although the spray whipped from the crests of the waves was flung across the beach and wet the sightseers. but with the lightening of the clouds a pale glow seemed to spread itself upon the tumultuous sea. the wreck could be seen almost as vividly as when the signal lights were burned. the torn clouds were driven across the heavens as rapidly as the huge waves raced shoreward. and behind both cloud and wave was the seething gale. there seemed no prospect of the wind's falling. ruth turned to see the crew which had failed to get the lifeboat to the wreck, trundling a heavy, odd-looking, two-wheeled wagon down upon the beach. they worked as though their fight with the sea had been but the first round of the battle. their calmness and skillful handling of the breeches buoy gear inspired the onlookers with renewed hope. "oh, cap'n abinadab and the boys will get 'em this time," declared heavy. "you just watch." and ruth fielding and the others were not likely to miss any motion of the crew of the life saving station. the latter laid out the gear with quick, sure action. the cannon was placed in position and loaded. the iron bar to which the line was attached was slipped into the muzzle of the gun. the men stood back and the captain pulled the lanyard. bang! the sharp bark of the line-gun echoed distressingly in their ears. it jumped back a pace, for the captain had charged it to the full limit allowed by the regulations. a heavier charge might burst the gun. the line-iron hurtled out over the sea in a long, graceful curve, the line whizzing after it. the line unwound so rapidly from the frame on which it was coiled that ruth's gaze could not follow it. the sea was light enough for them to follow the course of the iron, however, and a groan broke from the lips of the onlookers when they saw that the missile fell far short of the wreck. to shoot the line into the very teeth of this gale, as cap'n abinadab had said, was futile. yet he would not give up the attempt. this was the only way that was now left for them to aid the unfortunate crew of the lumber schooner. if they could not get the breeches buoy to her the sea would be the grave of the castaways. for already the waves, smashing down upon the grounded wreck, were tearing it apart. she would soon break in two, and then the remaining rigging and spars would go by the board and with them the crew and passengers. yet captain abinadab cope refused to give over his attempts to reach the wreck. "haul in!" he commanded gruffly, when the line fell short. ruth marveled at the skill of the man who rewound the wet line on the pegs of the frame that held it. in less than five minutes the life-savers were ready for another shot. "you take it when the regular crew are at practice, sometimes," whispered heavy, to ruth, "and they work like lightning. they'll shoot the line and get a man ashore in the breeches buoy in less than two minutes. but this is hard work for these volunteers--and it means so much!" ruth felt as though a hand clutched at her heart. the unshed tears stung her eyes. if they should fail--if all this effort should go for naught! suppose that unknown girl out there on the wreck should be washed ashore in the morning, pallid and dead. the thought almost overwhelmed the girl from the red mill. as the gun barked a second time and the shot and line hurtled seaward, ruth fielding's pale lips uttered a whispered prayer. chapter x the double charge but again the line fell short. "they'll never be able to make it," tom cameron said to the shivering girls. "oh, i really wish we hadn't come down here," murmured his sister. "oh, pshaw, nell! don't be a baby," he growled. but he was either winking back the tears himself, or the salt spray had gotten into his eyes. how could anybody stand there on the beach and feel unmoved when nine human beings, in view now and then when the billows fell, were within an ace of awful death? again and again the gun was shotted and the captain pulled the lanyard. he tried to catch the moment when there was a lull in the gale; but each time the shot fell short. it seemed to be merely a waste of human effort and gunpowder. "i've 'phoned to the minot cove station," the captain said, during one of the intervals while they were hauling in the line. "they've got a power boat there, and if they can put to sea with her they might get around to the other side of the reef and take 'em off." "she'll go to pieces before a boat can come from minot cove," declared one grizzled fisherman. "i fear so, henry," replied the captain. "but we got to do what we can. they ain't give me no leeway with this gun. orders is never to give her a bigger charge than what she's gettin' now. but, i swan----" he did not finish his sentence, but gravely measured out the next charge of powder. when he had loaded the gun he waved everybody back. "git clean away, you lads. all of ye, now! she'll probably blow up, but there ain't no use in more'n one of us blowin' up with her." "what you done, cap'n?" demanded one of his crew. "never you mind, lad. step back, i tell ye. she's slewed right now, i reckon." "what have you got in her?" demanded the man again. "i'm goin' to reach them folk if i can," returned cap'n abinadab. "i've double charged her. if she don't carry the line this time, she never will. and she may carry it over the wreck, even if she blows up. look out!" "don't ye do it!" cried the man, mason, starting forward. "if you pull that lanyard ye'll be blowed sky-high." "well, who should pull it if i don't?" demanded the old captain of the station, grimly. "guess old 'binadab cope ain't goin' to step back for you young fellers yet a while. come! git, i tell ye! far back--afar back." "oh! he'll be killed!" murmured ruth. "you come back here, ruth fielding!" commanded tom, clutching her arm. "if that gun blows up we want to be a good bit away." the whole party ran back. they saw the last of the crew leave the old captain. he stood firmly, at one side of the gun, his legs placed wide apart; they saw him pull the lanyard. fire spat from the muzzle of the gun and with a shriek the shot-line was carried seaward, toward the wreck. the old gun, double charged, turned a somersault and buried its muzzle in the sand. the captain dodged, and went down--perhaps thrown by the force of the explosion. but the gun did not burst. however, he was upon his feet again in a moment, and all the crowd were shouting their congratulations. the flying line had carried squarely over the middle of the wreck. "now, will they know what to do with it?" gasped ruth. "wait! see that man--that man in the middle? the line passed over his shoulder!" cried heavy. "see! he's got it." "and he's hauling on it," cried tom. "there goes the line with the board attached," said madge steele, exultantly. the girls had already examined this painted board. on it were plain, though brief, instructions in english, french, and italian, to the wrecked crew as to what they should do to aid in their own rescue. but this schooner was probably from up maine way, or the "blue-nose country" of nova scotia, and her crew would be familiar with the rigging of the breeches buoy. they saw, as another light was burned on the wreck, the man who had seized the line creep along to the single mast then standing. it was broken short off fifteen feet above the deck. he hauled out the shot-line, and then a mate came to his assistance and they rigged the larger line that followed and attached the block to the stump of the mast. then on shore the crew of the life saving station and the fishermen--even the boys from the bungalow--hauled on the cable, and soon sent the gear across the tossing waves. they had erected a stout pair of wooden "shears" in the sand and over this the breeches buoy gear ran. it went out empty, but the moment it reached the staggering wreck the men there popped the woman into the sack and those ashore hauled in. over and through the waves she came, and when they caught her at the edge of the surf and dragged the heavy buoy on to the dry land, she was all but breathless, and was crying. "don't ye fear, missus," said one rough but kindly boatman. "we'll have yer little gal ashore in a jiffy." "she--she isn't my child, poor thing," panted the woman. "i'm captain kirby's wife. poor jim! he won't leave till the last one----" "of course he won't, ma'am--and you wouldn't want him to," broke in cap'n cope. "a skipper's got to stand by his ship till his crew an' passengers are safe. now, you go right up to the station----" "oh, no, no!" she cried. "i must see them all safe ashore." the huge buoy was already being hauled back to the wreck. there was no time to be lost, for the waves had torn away the after-deck and it was feared the forward deck and the mast would soon go. ruth went to the woman and spoke to her softly. "who is the little girl, please?" she asked. "she ain't little, miss--no littler than you," returned mrs. kirby. "her name is nita." "nita?" "that's what she calls herself." "nita what?" asked ruth. "i don't know, i'm sure. i believe she's run away from her folks. she won't tell much about herself. she only came aboard at portland. in fact, i found her there on the dock, and she seemed hungry and neglected, and she told us first that she wanted to go to her folks in new york--and that's where the _whipstitch_ was bound." "the _whipstitch_ is the name of the schooner?" "yes, miss. and now jim's lost her. but--thanks be!--she was insured," said the captain's wife. at that moment another hearty shout went up from the crowd on shore. the breeches buoy was at the wreck again. they saw the men there lift the girl into the buoy, which was rigged like a great pair of overalls. the passenger sat in this sack, with her legs thrust through the apertures below, and clung to the ring of the buoy, which was level with her shoulders. she started from the ship in this rude conveyance, and the girls gathered eagerly to greet her when she landed. but several waves washed completely over the breeches buoy and the girl was each time buried from sight. she was unconscious when they lifted her out. she was a black-haired girl of fourteen or thereabout, well built and strong. the captain's wife was too anxious about the crew to pay much attention to the waif, and ruth and her friends bore nita, the castaway, off to the station, where it was warm. the boys remained to see the last of the crew--captain kirby himself--brought ashore. and none too soon was this accomplished, for within the half hour the schooner had broken in two. its wreckage and the lumber with which it had been loaded so covered the sea between the reef and the shore that the waves were beaten down, and had it been completely calm an active man could have traveled dry-shod over the flotsam to the reef. meanwhile nita had been brought to her senses. but there was nothing at the station for the girl from the wreck to put on while her own clothing was dried, and it was heavy who came forward with a very sensible suggestion. "let's take her home with us. plenty of things there. wrap her up good and warm and we'll take her on the buckboard. we can all crowd on--all but the boys." the boys had not seen enough yet, anyway, and were not ready to go; but the girls were eager to return to the bungalow--especially when they could take the castaway with them. "and there we'll get her to tell us all about it," whispered helen to ruth. "my! she must have an interesting story to tell." chapter xi the story of the castaway there was only the cook in the station and nobody to stop the girls from taking nita away. she had recovered her senses, but scarcely appreciated as yet where she was; nor did she seem to care what became of her. heavy called the man who had driven them over, and in ten minutes after she was ashore the castaway was on the buckboard with her new friends and the ponies were bearing them all at a spanking pace toward the stone bungalow on lighthouse point. the fact that this strange girl had been no relation of the wife of the schooner's captain, and that mrs. kirby seemed, indeed, to know very little about her, mystified the stout girl and her friends exceedingly. they whispered a good deal among themselves about the castaway; but she sat between ruth and helen and they said little to her during the ride. she had been wrapped in a thick blanket at the station and was not likely to take cold; but miss kate and old mammy laura bustled about a good deal when nita was brought into the bungalow; and very shortly she was tucked into one of the beds on the second floor--in the very room in which ruth and helen and mercy were to sleep--and miss kate had insisted upon her swallowing a bowl of hot tea. nita seemed to be a very self-controlled girl. she didn't weep, now that the excitement was past, as most girls would have done. but at first she was very silent, and watched her entertainers with snapping black eyes and--ruth thought--in rather a sly, sharp way. she seemed to be studying each and every one of the girls--and miss kate and mammy laura as well. the boys came home after a time and announced that every soul aboard the _whipstitch_ was safe and sound in the life saving station. and the captain's wife had sent over word that she and her husband would go back to portland the next afternoon. if the girl they had picked up there on the dock wished to return, she must be ready to go with them. "what, go back to that town?" cried the castaway when ruth told her this, sitting right up in bed. "why, that's the _last_ place!" "then you don't belong in portland?" asked ruth. "i should hope not!" "nor in maine?" asked madge, for the other girls were grouped about the room. they were all anxious to hear the castaway's story. the girl was silent for a moment, her lips very tightly pressed together. finally she said, with her sly look: "i guess i ain't obliged to tell you that; am i?" "witness does not wish to incriminate herself," snapped mercy, her eyes dancing. "well, i don't know that i'm bound to tell you girls everything i know," said the strange girl, coolly. "right-oh!" cried heavy, cordially. "you're visiting me. i don't know as it is anybody's business how you came to go aboard the _whipstitch_----" "oh, i don't mind telling you that," said the girl, eagerly. "i was hungry." "hungry!" chorused her listeners, and heavy said: "fancy being hungry, and having to go aboard a ship to get a meal!" "that was it exactly," said nita, bluntly. "but mrs. kirby was real good to me. and the schooner was going to new york and that's where i wanted to go." "because your folks live there?" shot in the fox. "no, they don't, miss smartie!" snapped back the castaway. "you don't catch me so easy. i wasn't born yesterday, miss! my folks don't live in new york. maybe i haven't any folks. i came from clear way out west, anyway--so now! i thought 'way down east must be the finest place in the world. but it isn't." "did you run away to come east?" asked ruth, quietly. "well--i came here, anyway. and i don't much like it, i can tell you." "ah-ha!" cried mercy curtis, chuckling to herself. "i know. she thought yankee land was just flowing in milk and honey. listen! here's what she said to herself before she ran away from home: "i wish i'd lived away down east, where codfish salt the sea, and where the folks have apple sass and punkin pie fer tea!" "that's the 'western girl's lament,'" pursued mercy. "so you found 'way down east nothing like what you thought it was?" the castaway scowled at the sharp-tongued lame girl for a moment. then she nodded. "it's the folks," she said. "you're all so afraid of a stranger. do i look like i'd _bite_?" "maybe not ordinarily," said helen, laughing softly. "but you do not look very pleasant just now." "well, people haven't been nice to me," grumbled the western girl. "i thought there were lots of rich men in the east, and that a girl could make friends 'most anywhere, and get into nice families----" "to _work?_" asked ruth, curiously. "no, no! you know, you read a lot about rich folks taking up girls and doing everything for them--dressing them fine, and sending them to fancy schools, and all that." "i never read of any such thing in my life!" declared mary cox. "i guess you've been reading funny books." "huh!" sniffed the castaway, who was evidently a runaway and was not made sorry for her escapade even by being wrecked at sea. "huh! i like a story with some life in it, i do! jib pottoway had some dandy paper-covered novels in his locker and he let me read 'em----" "who under the sun is jib pottoway?" gasped helen. "that isn't a real name; is it?" "it's ugly enough to be real; isn't it?" retorted the strange girl, chuckling. "yep. that's jib's real name. 'jibbeway pottoway'--that's the whole of it." "oh, oh!" cried heavy, with her hand to her face. "it makes my jaw ache to even try to say it." "what is he?" asked madge, curiously. "injun," returned the western girl, laconically. "or, part injun. he comes from 'way up canada way. his folks had jibbeway blood." "but _who_ is he?" queried ruth, curiously. "why, he's a puncher that works for----well, he's a cow puncher. that's 'nuff. it don't matter where he works," added the girl, gruffly. "that might give away where you come from, eh?" put in mercy. "it might," and nita laughed. "but what is your name?" asked ruth. "nita, i tell you." "nita what?" "never mind. just nita. mebbe i never had another name. isn't one name at a time sufficient, miss?" "i don't believe that is your really-truly name," said ruth, gravely. "i bet you're right, ruth fielding!" cried heavy, chuckling. "'nita' and 'jib pottoway' don't seem to go together. 'nita' is altogether too fancy." "it's a nice name!" exclaimed the strange girl, in some anger. "it was the name of the girl in the paper-covered novel--and it's good enough for me." "but what's your real name?" urged ruth. "i'm not telling you that," replied the runaway, shortly. "then you prefer to go under a false name--even among your friends?" asked the girl from the red mill. "how do i know you're my friends?" demanded nita, promptly. "we can't very well be your enemies," said helen, in some disgust. "i don't know. anybody's my enemy who wants to send me back--well, anyone who wants to return me to the place i came from." "was it an institution?" asked mary cox quickly. "what's that?" demanded nita, puzzled. "what do you mean by an 'institution'?" "she means a sort of school," explained ruth. "yes!" exclaimed the fox, sharply. "a reform school, or something of the kind. maybe an almshouse." "never heard of 'em," returned nita, unruffled by the insinuation. "guess they don't have 'em where i come from. did _you_ go to one, miss?" heavy giggled, and madge steele rapped the fox smartly on the shoulder. "there!" said the senior. "it serves you right, mary cox. you're answered." "now, i tell you what it is!" cried the strange girl, sitting up in bed again and looking rather flushed, "if you girls are going to nag me, and bother me about who i am, and where i come from, and what my name is--though nita's a good enough name for anybody----" "anybody but jib pottoway," chuckled heavy. "well! and _he_ warn't so bad, if he _was_ half injun," snapped the runaway. "well, anyway, if you don't leave me alone i'll get out of bed right now and walk out of here. i guess you haven't any hold on me." "better wait till your clothes are dry," suggested madge. "aunt kate would never let you go," said heavy. "i'll go to-morrow morning, then!" cried the runaway. "why, we don't mean to nag you," interposed ruth, soothingly. "but of course we're curious--and interested." "you're like all the other eastern folk i've met," declared nita. "and i don't like you much. i thought _you_ were different." "you've been expecting some rich man to adopt you, and dress you in lovely clothes, and all that, eh?" said mercy curtis. "well! i guess there are not so many millionaires in the east as they said there was," grumbled nita. "or else they've already got girls of their own to look after," laughed ruth. "why, helen here, has a father who is very rich. but you couldn't expect him to give up helen and tom and take you into his home instead, could you?" nita glanced at the dry-goods merchant's daughter with more interest for a moment. "and heavy's father is awfully rich, too," said ruth. "but he's got heavy to support----" "and that's some job," broke in madge, laughing. "two such daughters as heavy would make poor dear papa stone a pauper!" "well," said nita, again, "i've talked enough. i won't tell you where i come from. and nita _is_ my name--now!" "it is getting late," said ruth, mildly. "don't you all think it would be a good plan to go to bed? the wind's gone down some. i guess we can sleep." "good advice," agreed madge steele. "the boys have been abed some time. to-morrow is another day." heavy and she and mary went off to their room. the others made ready for bed, and the runaway did not say another word to them, but turned her face to the wall and appeared, at least, to be soon asleep. ruth crept in beside her so as not to disturb their strange guest. she was a new type of girl to ruth--and to the others. her independence of speech, her rough and ready ways, and her evident lack of the influence of companionship with refined girls were marked in this nita's character. ruth wondered much what manner of home she could have come from, why she had run away from it, and what nita really proposed doing so far from home and friends. these queries kept the girl from the red mill awake for a long time--added to which was the excitement of the evening, which was not calculated to induce sleep. she would have dropped off some time after the other girls, however, had she not suddenly heard a door latch somewhere on this upper floor, and then the creep, creep, creeping of a rustling step in the hall. it continued so long that ruth wondered if one of the girls in the other room was ill, and she softly arose and went to the door, which was ajar. and what she saw there in the hall startled her. chapter xii busy izzy in a new aspect the stair-well was a wide and long opening and around it ran a broad balustrade. there was no stairway to the third floor of this big bungalow, only the servants' staircase in the rear reaching those rooms directly under the roof. so the hall on this second floor, out of which the family bedrooms opened, was an l-shaped room, with the balustrade on one hand. and upon that balustrade ruth fielding beheld a tottering figure in white, plainly visible in the soft glow of the single light burning below, yet rather ghostly after all. she might have been startled in good earnest had she not first of all recognized isadore phelps' face. he was balancing himself upon the balustrade and, as she came to the door, he walked gingerly along the narrow strip of moulding toward ruth. "izzy! whatever are you doing?" she hissed. the boy never said a word to her, but kept right on, balancing himself with difficulty. he was in his pajamas, his feet bare, and--she saw it at last--his eyes tight shut. "oh! he's asleep," murmured ruth. and that surely was busy izzy's state at that moment. sound asleep and "tight-rope walking" on the balustrade. ruth knew that it would be dangerous to awaken him suddenly--especially as it might cause him to fall down the stair-well. she crept back into her room and called helen. the two girls in their wrappers and slippers went into the hall again. there was busy izzy tottering along in the other direction, having turned at the wall. once they thought he would plunge down the stairway, and helen grabbed at ruth with a squeal of terror. "sh!" whispered her chum. "go tell tom. wake him up. the boys ought to tie izzy in bed if he is in the habit of doing this." "my! isn't he a sight!" giggled helen, as she ran past the gyrating youngster, who had again turned for a third perambulation of the railing. she whispered tom's name at his open door and in a minute the girls heard him bound out of bed. he was with them--sleepy-eyed and hastily wrapping his robe about him--in a moment. "for the land's sake!" he gasped, when he saw his friend on the balustrade. "what are you----" "sh!" commanded ruth. "he's asleep." tom took in the situation at a glance. madge steele peered out of her door at that moment. "who is it--bobbins?" she asked. "no. it's izzy. he's walking in his sleep," said ruth. "he's a regular somnambulist," exclaimed helen. "never mind. don't call him names. he can't help it," said madge. helen giggled again. tom had darted back to rouse his chum. bob steele appeared, more tousled and more sleepy-looking than tom. "what's the matter with that fellow now?" he grumbled. "he's like a flea--you never know where he's going to be next! ha! he'll fall off that and break his silly neck." and as busy izzy was just then nearest his end of the hall in his strange gyrations, bob steele stepped forward and grabbed him, lifting him bodily off the balustrade. busy izzy screeched, but tom clapped a hand over his mouth. "shut up! want to raise the whole neighborhood?" grunted bobbins, dragging the lightly attired, struggling boy back into their room. "ha! i'll fix you after this. i'll lash you to the bedpost every night we're here--now mark that, young man!" it seemed that the youngster often walked in his sleep, but the girls had not known it. usually, at school, his roommates kept the dormitory door locked and the key hidden, so that he couldn't get out to do himself any damage running around with his eyes shut. the party all got to sleep again after that and there was no further disturbance before morning. they made a good deal of fun of isadore at the breakfast table, but he took the joking philosophically. he was always playing pranks himself; but he had learned to take a joke, too. he declared that all he dreamed during the night was that he was wrecked in an iceboat on second reef and that the only way for him to get ashore was to walk on a cable stretched from the wreck to the beach. he had probably been walking that cable--in his mind--when ruth had caught him balancing on the balustrade. the strange girl who persisted in calling herself "nita" came down to the table in some of heavy's garments, which were a world too large for her. her own had been so shrunk and stained by the sea-water that they would never be fit to put on again. aunt kate was very kind to her, but she looked at the runaway oddly, too. nita had been just as uncommunicative to her as she had been to the girls in the bedroom the night before. "if you don't like me, or don't like my name, i can go away," she declared to miss kate, coolly. "i haven't got to stay here, you know." "but where will you go? what will you do?" demanded that young lady, severely. "you say the captain of the schooner and his wife are nothing to you?" "i should say not!" exclaimed nita. "they were nice and kind to me, though." "and you can't go away until you have something decent to wear," added heavy's aunt. "that's the first thing to 'tend to." and although it was a bright and beautiful morning after the gale, and there were a dozen things the girls were all eager to see, they spent the forenoon in trying to make up an outfit for nita so that she would be presentable. the boys went off with mr. stone's boatkeeper in the motor launch and mary cox was quite cross because the other girls would not leave miss kate to fix up nita the best she could, so that they could all accompany the boys. but in the afternoon the buckboard was brought around and they drove to the lighthouse. nita, even in her nondescript garments, was really a pretty girl. no awkwardness of apparel could hide the fact that she had nice features and that her body was strong and lithe. she moved about with a freedom that the other girls did not possess. even ruth was not so athletic as the strange girl. and yet she seemed to know nothing at all about the games and the exercises which were commonplace to the girls from briarwood hall. there was a patch of wind-blown, stunted trees and bushes covering several acres of the narrowing point, before the driving road along the ridge brought the visitors to sokennet light. while they were driving through this a man suddenly bobbed up beside the way and the driver hailed him. "hullo, you crab!" he said. "found anything 'long shore from that wreck?" the man stood up straight and the girls thought him a very horrid-looking object. he had a great beard and his hair was dark and long. "he's a bad one for looks; ain't he, miss?" asked the driver of ruth, who sat beside him. "he isn't very attractive," she returned. "ha! i guess not. and crab's as bad as he looks, which is saying a good deal. he comes of the 'wreckers.' before there was a light here, or life saving stations along this coast, there was folks lived along here that made their livin' out of poor sailors wrecked out there on the reefs. some said they used to toll vessels onto the rocks with false lights. anyhow, crab's father, and his gran'ther, was wreckers. he's assistant lightkeeper; but he oughtn't to be. i don't see how mother purling can get along with him." "she isn't afraid of him; is she?" queried ruth. "she isn't afraid of anything," said heavy, quickly, from the rear seat. "you wait till you see her." the buckboard went heavily on toward the lighthouse; but the girls saw that the man stood for a long time--as long as they were in sight, at least--staring after them. "what do you suppose he looked at nita so hard for?" whispered helen in ruth's ear. "i thought he was going to speak to her." but ruth had not noticed this, nor did the runaway girl seem to have given the man any particular attention. chapter xiii crab proves to be of the hardshell variety they came to the lighthouse. there was only a tiny, whitewashed cottage at the foot of the tall shaft. it seemed a long way to the brass-trimmed and glistening lantern at the top. ruth wondered how the gaunt old woman who came to the door to welcome them could ever climb those many, many stairs to the narrow gallery at the top of the shaft. she certainly could not suffer as aunt alvirah did with _her_ back and bones. sokennet light was just a steady, bright light, sending its gleam far seaward. there was no mechanism for turning, such as marks the revolving lights in so many lighthouses. the simplicity of everything about sokennet light was what probably led the department officials to allow mother purling to remain after her husband died in harness. "jack crab has done his cleaning and gone about his business," said mother purling, to the girls. "ye may all climb up to the lantern if ye wish; but touch nothing." beside the shaft of the light was a huge fog bell. that was rung by clockwork. mother purling showed ruth and her companions how it worked before the girls started up the stairs. mercy remained in the little house with the good old woman, for she never could have hobbled up those spiral stairs. "it's too bad about that girl," said nita, brusquely, to ruth. "has she always been lame?" ruth warmed toward the runaway immediately when she found that nita was touched by mercy curtis' affliction. she told nita how the lame girl had once been much worse off than she was now, and all about her being operated on by the great physician. "she's so much better off now than she was!" cried ruth. "and so much happier!" "but she's a great nuisance to have along," snapped mary cox, immediately behind them. "she had better stayed at home, i should think." ruth flushed angrily, but before she could speak, nita said, looking coolly at the fox: "you're a might snappy, snarly sort of a girl; ain't you? and you think you are dreadfully smart. but somebody told you that. it ain't so. i've seen a whole lot smarter than you. you wouldn't last long among the boys where _i_ come from." "thank you!" replied mary, her head in the air. "i wouldn't care to be liked by the boys. it isn't ladylike to think of the boys all the time----" "these are grown men, i mean," said nita, coolly. "the punchers that work for--well, just cow punchers. you call them cowboys. they know what's good and fine, jest as well as eastern folks. and a girl that talks like you do about a cripple wouldn't go far with them." "i suppose your friend, the half-indian, is a critic of deportment," said the fox, with a laugh. "well, jib wouldn't say anything mean about a cripple," said nita, in her slow way, and the fox seemed to have no reply. but this little by-play drew ruth fielding closer to the queer girl who had selected her "hifaluting" name because it was the name of a girl in a paper-covered novel. nita had lived out of doors, that was plain. ruth believed, from what the runaway had said, that she came from the plains of the great west. she had lived on a ranch. perhaps her folks owned a ranch, and they might even now be searching the land over for their daughter. the thought made the girl from the red mill very serious, and she determined to try and gain nita's confidence and influence her, if she could, to tell the truth about herself and to go back to her home. she knew that she could get mr. cameron to advance nita's fare to the west, if the girl would return. but up on the gallery in front of the shining lantern of the lighthouse there was no chance to talk seriously to the runaway. heavy had to sit down when she reached this place, and she declared that she puffed like a steam engine. then, when she had recovered her breath, she pointed out the places of interest to be seen from the tower--the smoke of westhampton to the north; fuller's island, with its white sands and gleaming green lawns and clumps of wind-blown trees; the long strip of winding coast southward, like a ribbon laid down for the sea to wash, and far, far to the east, over the tumbling waves, still boisterous with the swell of last night's storm, the white riding sail of the lightship on no man's shoal. they came down after an hour, wind-blown, the taste of salt on their lips, and delighted with the view. they found the ugly, hairy man sitting on the doorstep, listening with a scowl and a grin to mercy's sharp speeches. "i don't know what brought you back here to the light, jack crab, at this time of day," said mother purling. "you ain't wanted." "i likes to see comp'ny, too, _i_ do," growled the man. "well, these girls ain't your company," returned the old woman. "now! get up and be off. get out of the way." crab rose, surlily enough, but his sharp eyes sought nita. he looked her all over, as though she were some strange object that he had never seen before. "so you air the gal they brought ashore off the lumber schooner last night?" he asked her. "yes, i am," she returned, flatly. "you ain't got no folks around here; hev ye?" he continued. "no, i haven't." "what's your name?" "puddin' tame!" retorted mercy, breaking in, in her shrill way. "and she lives in the lane, and her number's cucumber! there now! do you know all you want to know, hardshell?" crab growled something under his breath and went off in a hangdog way. "that's a bad man," said mercy, with confidence. "and he's much interested in you, miss nita anonymous. do you know why?" "i'm sure i don't," replied nita, laughing quite as sharply as before, but helping the lame girl to the buckboard with kindliness. "you look out for him, then," said mercy, warningly. "he's a hardshell crab, all right. and either he thinks he knows you, or he's got something in his mind that don't mean good to you." but only ruth heard this. the others were bidding mother purling good-bye. chapter xiv the tragic incident in a fishing excursion the boys had returned when the party drove back to the bungalow from the lighthouse. a lighthouse might be interesting, and it was fine to see twenty-odd miles to the no man's shoal, and mother purling might be a _dear_--but the girls hadn't done anything, and the boys had. they had fished for halibut and had caught a sixty-five-pound one. bobbins had got it on his hook; but it took all three of them, with the boatkeeper's advice, to get the big, flapping fish over the side. they had part of that fish for supper. heavy was enraptured, and the other girls had a saltwater appetite that made them enjoy the fish, too. it was decided to try for blackfish off the rocks beyond sokennet the next morning. "we'll go over in the _miraflame_"--(that was the name of the motor boat)--"and we'll take somebody with us to help phineas," heavy declared. phineas was the boatman who had charge of mr. stone's little fleet. "phin is a great cook and he'll get us up a regular fish dinner----" "oh, dear, jennie stone! how _can_ you?" broke in helen, with her hands clasped. "how can i _what_, miss?" demanded the stout girl, scenting trouble. "how can you, when we are eating such a perfect dinner as this, be contemplating any other future occasion when we possibly shall be hungry?" the others laughed, but heavy looked at her school friends with growing contempt. "you talk--you talk," she stammered, "well! you don't talk english--that i'm sure of! and you needn't put it all on me. you all eat with good appetites. and you'd better thank me, not quarrel with me. if i didn't think of getting nice things to eat, you'd miss a lot, now i tell you. you don't know how i went out in mammy laura's kitchen this very morning, before most of you had your hair out of curl-papers, and just _slaved_ to plan the meals for to-day." "hear! hear!" chorused the boys, drumming with their knife handles on the table. "we're for jennie! she's all right." "see!" flashed in mercy, with a gesture. "miss stone has won the masculine portion of the community by the only unerring way--the only straight path to the heart of a boy is through his stomach." "i guess we can all thank jennie," said ruth, laughing quietly, "for her attention to our appetites. but i fear if she had expected to fast herself to-day she'd still be abed!" they were all lively at dinner, and they spent a lively evening, towards the end of which bob steele gravely went out of doors and brought in an old boat anchor, or kedge, weighing so many pounds that even he could scarcely carry it upstairs to the bed chamber which he shared with tom and isadore. "what are you going to do with that thing, bobby steele?" demanded his sister. "going to anchor busy izzy to it with a rope. i bet he won't walk far in his sleep to-night," declared bobbins. with the fishing trip in their minds, all were astir early the next morning. miss kate had agreed to go with them, for mercy believed that she could stand the trip, as the sea was again calm. she could remain in the cabin of the motor boat while the others were fishing off the rocks for tautog and rock-bass. the boys all had poles; but the girls said they would be content to cast their lines from the rock and hope for nibbles from the elusive blackfish. the _miraflame_ was a roomy craft and well furnished. when they started at nine o'clock the party numbered eleven, besides the boatman and his assistant. to the surprise of ruth--and it was remarked in whispers by the other girls, too--phineas, the boatkeeper, had chosen jack crab to assist him in the management of the motor boat. "jack doesn't have to be at the light till dark. the old lady gets along all right alone," explained phineas. "and it ain't many of these longshoremen who know how to handle a motor. jack's used to machinery." he seemed to feel that it was necessary to excuse himself for hiring the hairy man. but heavy only said: "well, as long as he behaves himself i don't care. but i didn't suppose you liked the fellow, phin." "i don't. it was hobson's choice, miss," returned the sailor. phineas, the girls found, was a very pleasant and entertaining man. and he knew all about fishing. he had supplied the bait for tautog, and the girls and boys of the party, all having lived inland, learned many things that they hadn't known before. "look at this!" cried madge steele, the first to discover a miracle. "he says this bait for tautog is scallops! now, that quivering, jelly-like body is never a scallop. why, a scallop is a firm, white lump----" "it's a mussel," said heavy, laughing. "it's only the 'eye' of the scallop you eat, miss," explained phineas. "now i know just as much as i did before," declared madge. "so i eat a scallop's _eye_, do i? we had them for breakfast this very morning--with bacon." "so you did, miss. i raked 'em up myself yesterday afternoon," explained phineas. "you eat the 'eye,' but these are the bodies, and they are the reg'lar natural food of the tautog, or blackfish." "the edible part of the scallop is that muscle which adheres to the shell--just like the muscle that holds the clam to its shell," said heavy, who, having spent several summers at the shore, was better informed than her friends. phineas showed the girls how to bait their hooks with the soft bodies of the scallop, warning them to cover the point of the hooks well, and to pull quickly if they felt the least nibble. "the tautog is a small-mouthed fish--smaller, even, than the bass the boys are going to cast for. so, when he touches the hook at all, you want to grab him." "does it _hurt_ the fish to be caught?" asked helen, curiously. phineas grinned. "i never axed 'em, ma'am," he said. the _miraflame_ carried them swiftly down the cove, or harbor, of sokennet and out past the light. the sea was comparatively calm, but the surf roared against the rocks which hedged in the sand dunes north of the harbor's mouth. it was in this direction that phineas steered the launch, and for ten miles the craft spun along at a pace that delighted the whole party. "we're just skimming the water!" cried tom cameron. "oh, nell! i'm going to coax father till he buys one for us to use on the lumano." "i'll help tease," agreed his twin, her eyes sparkling. nita, the runaway, looked from brother to sister with sudden interest. "does your father give you everything you ask him for?" she demanded. "not much!" cried tom. "but dear old dad is pretty easy with us and--mrs. murchiston says--gives in to us too much." "but, does he buy you such things as boats--right out--for you just to play with?" "why, of course!" cried tom. "and i couldn't even have a piano," muttered nita, turning away with a shrug. "i told him he was a mean old hunks!" "whom did you say that to?" asked ruth, quietly. "never you mind!" returned nita, angrily. "but that's what he is." ruth treasured these observations of the runaway. she was piecing them together, and although as yet it was a very patched bit of work, she was slowly getting a better idea of who nita was and her home surroundings. finally the _miraflame_ ran in between a sheltering arm of rock and the mainland. the sea was very still in here, the heave and surge of the water only murmuring among the rocks. there was an old fishing dock at which the motor boat was moored. then everybody went ashore and phineas and jack crab pointed out the best fishing places along the rocks. these were very rugged ledges, and the water sucked in among them, and hissed, and chuckled, and made all sorts of gurgling sounds while the tide rose. there were small caves and little coves and all manner of odd hiding places in the rocks. but the girls and boys were too much interested in the proposed fishing to bother about anything else just then. phineas placed ruth on the side of a round-topped boulder, where she stood on a very narrow ledge, with a deep green pool at her feet. she was hidden from the other fishers--even from the boys, who clambered around to the tiny cape that sheltered the basin into which the motor boat had been run, and from the point of which they expected to cast for bass. "now, miss," said the boatkeeper, "down at the bottom of this still pool mr. tautog is feeding on the rocks. drop your baited hook down gently to him. and if he nibbles, pull sharply at first, and then, with a stead, hand-over-hand motion, draw him in." ruth was quite excited; but once she saw nita and the man, crab, walking farther along the rocks, and ruth wondered that the fellow was so attentive to the runaway. but this was merely a passing thought. her mind returned to the line she watched. she pulled it up after a long while; the hook was bare. either mr. tautog had been very, very careful when he nibbled the bait, or the said bait had slipped off. it was not easy to make the jelly-like body of the scallop remain on the hook. but ruth was as anxious to catch a fish as the other girls, and she had watched phineas with sharp and eager eyes when he baited the hook. ruth dropped it over the edge of the rock again after a minute. it sank down, down, down----was that a nibble? she felt the faintest sort of a jerk on the line. surely something was at the bait! again the jerk. ruth returned the compliment by giving the line a prompt tug. instantly she knew that she had hooked him! "oh! _oh!_ oh!" she gasped, in a rising scale of delight and excitement. she pulled in on the line. the fish was heavy, and he tried to pull his way, too. the blackfish is not much of a fighter, but he can sag back and do his obstinate best to remain in the water when the fisher is determined to get him out. this fellow weighed two pounds and a half and was well hooked. ruth, her cheeks glowing, her eyes dancing, hauled in, and in, and in----there he came out of the water, a plump, glistening body, that flapped and floundered in the air, and on the ledge at her feet. she desired mightily to cry out; but phineas had warned them all to be still while they fished. their voices might scare all the fish away. she unhooked it beautifully, seizing it firmly in the gills. phineas had shown her where to lay any she might catch in a little cradle in the rock behind her. it was a damp little hollow, and mr. tautog could not flop out into the sea again. oh! it was fun to bait the hook once more with trembling fingers, and heave the weighted line over the edge of the narrow ledge on which she stood. there might be another--perhaps even a bigger one--waiting down there to seize upon the bait. and just then mary cox, her hair tousled and a distressfully discontented expression on her face, came around the corner of the big boulder. "oh! hullo!" she said, discourteously. "you here?" "sh!" whispered ruth, intent on the line and the pool of green water. "what's the matter with you?" snapped the fox. "don't say you've got a bite! i'm sick of hearing them say it over there----" "i've caught one," said ruth, with pride, pointing to the glistening tautog lying on the rock. "oh! of course, 'twould be you who got it," snarled mary. "i bet he gave you the best place." "_please_ keep still!" begged ruth. "i believe i've got another bite." "have a dozen for all i care," returned mary. "i want to get past you." "wait! i feel a nibble----" but mary pushed rudely by. she took the inside of the path, of course. the ledge was very narrow, and ruth was stooping over the deep pool, breathlessly watching the line. with a half-stifled scream ruth fell forward, flinging out both hands. mary clutched at her--she _did_ try to save her. but she was not quick enough. ruth dropped like a plummet and the green water closed over her with scarcely a splash. mary did not cry out. she was speechless with fear, and stood with clasped hands, motionless, upon the path. "she can swim! she can swim!" was the thought that shuttled back and forth in the fox's brain. but moment after moment passed and ruth did not come to the surface. the pool was as calm as before, save for the vanishing rings that broke against the surrounding rocks. mary held her breath. she began to feel as though it were a dream, and that her school companion had not really fallen into the pool. it must be an hallucination, for ruth did not come to the surface again! chapter xv tom cameron to the rescue the three boys were on the other side of the narrow inlet where the _miraflame_ lay. phineas had told them that bass were more likely to be found upon the ocean side; therefore they were completely out of sight. the last tom, bob and isadora saw of the girls, the fishermen were placing them along the rocky path, and mercy was lying in a deck chair on the deck of the launch, fluttering a handkerchief at them as they went around the end of the reef. "i bet they don't get a fish," giggled isadore. "and even miss kate's got a line! what do girls know about fishing?" "if there's any tautog over there, i bet helen and ruth get 'em. they're all right in any game," declared the loyal tom. "madge will squeal and want somebody to take the fish off her hook, if she does catch one," grinned bob. "she puts on lots of airs because she's the oldest; but she's a regular 'scare-cat,' after all." "helen and ruth are good fellows," returned tom, with emphasis. "they're quite as good fun as the ordinary boy--of course, not you, bobbins, or busy izzy here; but they are all right." "what do you think of that nita girl?" asked busy izzy, suddenly. "i believe there's something to her," declared bob, with conviction. "she ain't afraid of a living thing, i bet!" "there is something queer about her," tom added, thoughtfully. "have you noticed how that crab fellow looks at her?" "i see he hangs about her a good bit," said isadore, quickly. "why, do you suppose?" "that's what i'd like to know," returned tom cameron. they were now where phineas had told them bass might be caught, and gave their attention to their tackle. all three boys had fished for perch, pike, and other gamey fresh-water fish; but this was their first casting with a rod into salt water. "a true disciple of izaak walton should be dumb," declared tom, warningly eyeing isadore. "isn't he allowed any leeway at all--not even when he lands a fish?" demanded the irrepressible. "not above a whisper," grunted bob steele, trying to bait his hook with his thumb instead of the bait provided by phineas. "jingo!" "old bobbins has got the first bite," chuckled tom, under his breath, as he made his cast. the reel whirred and the hook fell with a light splash into a little eddy where the water seemed to swirl about a sunken rock. "you won't catch anything there," said isadore. "i'll gag you if you don't shut up," promised tom. suddenly his line straightened out. the hook seemed to be sucked right down into a hole between the rocks, and the reel began to whir. it stopped and tom tried it. "pshaw! that ain't a bite," whispered isadore. at tom's first attempt to reel in, the fish that had seized his hook started--for spain! at least, it shot seaward, and the boy knew that spain was about the nearest dry land if the fish kept on in that direction. "a strike!" tom gasped and let his reel sing for a moment or two. then, when the drag of the line began to tell on the bass, he carefully wound in some of it. the fish turned and finally ran toward the rocks once more. then tom wound up as fast as he could, trying to keep the line taut. "he'll tangle you all up, tommy," declared bob, unable, like isadore, to keep entirely still. tom was flushed and excited, but said never a word. he played the big bass with coolness after all, and finally tired it out, keeping it clear of the tangles of weed down under the rock, and drew it forth--a plump, flopping, gasping victim. bob and isadore were then eager to do as well and began whipping the water about the rocks with more energy than skill. tom, delighted with his first kill, ran over the rocks with the fish to show it to the girls. as he surmounted the ridge of the rocky cape he suddenly saw nita, the runaway, and jack crab, in a little cove right below him. the girl and the fisherman had come around to this side of the inlet, away from phineas and the other girls. they did not see tom behind and above them. nita was not fishing, and crab had unfolded a paper and was showing it to her. at this distance the paper seemed like a page torn from some newspaper, and there were illustrations as well as reading text upon the sheet which crab held before the strange girl's eyes. "there it is!" tom heard the lighthouse keeper's assistant say, in an exultant tone. "you know what i could get if i wanted to show this to the right parties. _now_, what d'ye think of it, sissy?" what nita thought, or what she said, tom did not hear. indeed, scarcely had the two come into his line of vision, and he heard these words, when something much farther away--across the inlet, in fact--caught the boy's attention. he could see his sister and some of the other girls fishing from the rocky path; but directly opposite where he stood was ruth. he saw mary cox meet and speak with her, the slight struggle of the two girls for position on the narrow ledge, and ruth's plunge into the water. "oh, by george!" shouted tom, as ruth went under, and he dropped the flopping bass and went down the rocks at a pace which endangered both life and limb. his shout startled nita and jack crab. but they had not seen ruth fall, nor did they understand tom's great excitement. the inlet was scarcely more than a hundred yards across; but it was a long way around to the spot where ruth had fallen, or been pushed, from the rock. tom never thought of going the long way to the place. he tore off his coat, kicked off his canvas shoes, and, reaching the edge of the water, dived in head first without a word of explanation to the man and girl beside him. he dived slantingly, and swam under water for a long way. when he came up he was a quarter of the distance across the inlet. he shook the water from his eyes, threw himself breast high out of the sea, and shouted: "has she come up? i don't see her!" nobody but mary cox knew what he meant. helen and the other girls were screaming because they had seen tom fling himself into the sea but they had not seen ruth fall in. nor did mary cox find voice enough to tell them when they ran along the ledge to try and see what tom was swimming for. the fox stood with glaring eyes, trying to see into the deep pool. but the pool remain unruffled and ruth did not rise to the surface. "has she come up?" again shouted tom, rising as high as he could in the water, and swimming with an overhand stroke. there seemed nobody to answer him; they did not know what he meant. the boy shot through the water like a fish. coming near the rock, he rose up with a sudden muscular effort, then dived deep. the green water closed over him and, when helen and the others reached the spot where mary cox stood, wringing her hands and moaning, tom had disappeared as utterly as ruth herself. chapter xvi ruth's secret "what has happened?" "where's ruth?" "mary cox! why don't you answer?" the fox for once in her career was stunned. she could only shake her head and wring her hands. helen was the first of the other girls to suspect the trouble, and she cried: "ruth's overboard! that's the reason tom has gone in. oh, oh! why don't they come up again?" and almost immediately all the others saw the importance of that question. ruth fielding had been down fully a minute and a half now, and tom had not come up once for air. nita had set off running around the head of the inlet, and crab shuffled along in her wake. the strange girl ran like a goat over the rocks. phineas, who had been aboard the motor boat and busy with his famous culinary operations, now came lumbering up to the spot. he listened to a chorused explanation of the situation--tragic indeed in its appearance. phineas looked up and down the rocky path, and across the inlet, and seemed to swiftly take a marine "observation." then he snorted. "they're all right!" he exclaimed. "_what?_" shrieked helen. "all right?" repeated heavy. "why, phineas----" she broke off with a startled gurgle. phineas turned quickly, too, and looked over the high boulder. there appeared the head of ruth fielding and, in a moment, the head of tom cameron beside it. "you both was swept through the tunnel into the pool behind, sir," said phineas, wagging his head. "oh, i was never so scared in my life," murmured ruth, clambering down to the path, the water running from her clothing in little streams. "me, too!" grunted tom, panting. "the tide sets in through that hole awfully strong." "i might have told you about it," grunted phineas; "but i didn't suppose airy one of ye was going for to jump into the sea right here." "we didn't--intentionally," declared ruth. "how ever did it happen, ruthie?" demanded heavy. there was a moment's silence. tom grew red in the face, but he kept his gaze turned from mary cox. ruth answered calmly enough: "it was my own fault. mary was just coming along to pass me. i had a bite. between trying to let her by and 'tending my fish,' i fell in--and now i have lost fish, line, and all." "be thankful you did not lose your life, miss fielding," said aunt kate. "come right down to the boat and get those wet things off. you, too, tom." at that moment nita came to the spot. "is she safe? is she safe?" she cried. "don't i look so?" returned ruth, laughing gaily. "and here's the fish i _did_ catch. i mustn't lose him." nita stepped close to the girl from the red mill and tugged at her wet sleeve. "what are you going to do to her?" she whispered. "do to who?" "that girl." "what are you talking about?" demanded ruth. "i saw her," said nita. "i saw her push you. she ought to be thrown into the water herself." "hush!" commanded ruth. "you're mistaken. you didn't see straight, my dear." "yes, i did," declared the western girl, firmly. "she's been mean to you, right along. i've noticed it. she threw you in." "don't say such a thing again!" commanded ruth, warmly. "you have no right." "huh!" said nita, eyeing her strangely. "it's your own business, i suppose. but i am not blind." "i hope not," sad ruth, calmly. "but i hope, too, you will not repeat what you just said--to anyone." "why--if you really don't want me to," said nita, slowly. "truly, i don't wish you to," said ruth, earnestly. "i don't even admit that you are right, mind----" "oh, it's your secret," said nita, shortly, and turned away. and ruth had a word to say to tom, too, as they hurried side by side to the boat, he carrying the fish. "now, tommy--remember!" she said. "i won't be easy in my mind, just the same, while that girl is here," growled master tom. "that's foolish. she never meant to do it." "huh! she was scared, of course. but she's mean enough----" "stop! somebody will hear you. and, anyway," ruth added, remembering what nita had said, "it's _my_ secret." "true enough; it is." "then don't tell it, tommy," she added, with a laugh. but it was hard to meet the sharp eye of mercy curtis and keep the secret. "and pray, miss, why did you have to go into the water after the fish?" mercy demanded. "i was afraid he would get away," laughed ruth. "and who helped you do it?" snapped the lame girl. "helped me do what?" "helped you tumble in." "now, do you suppose i needed help to do so silly a thing as that?" cried ruth. "you needed help to do it the other day on the steamboat," returned mercy, slily. "and i saw the fox following you around that way." "why, what nonsense you talk, mercy curtis!" but ruth wondered if mercy was to be so easily put off. the lame girl was so very sharp. however, ruth was determined to keep her secret. not a word had she said to mary cox. indeed, she had not looked at her since she climbed out of the open pool behind the boulder and, well-nigh breathless, reached the rock after that perilous plunge. tom she had sworn to silence, nita she had warned to be still, and now mercy's suspicions were to be routed. "poor, poor girl!" muttered ruth, with more sorrow than anger. "if she is not sorry and afraid yet, how will she feel when she awakes in the night and remembers what might have been?" nevertheless, the girl from the red mill did not allow her secret to disturb her cheerfulness. she hid any feeling she might have had against the fox. when they all met at dinner on the _miraflame_, she merely laughed and joked about her accident, and passed around dainty bits of the baked tautog that phineas had prepared especially for her. that fisherman's chowder was a marvel, and altogether he proved to be as good a cook as heavy had declared. the boys had caught several bass, and they caught more after dinner. but those were saved to take home. the girls, however, had had enough fishing. ruth's experience frightened them away from the slippery rocks. mary cox was certainly a very strange sort of a girl; but her present attitude did not surprise ruth. mary had, soon after ruth entered briarwood hall, taken a dislike to the younger girl. ruth's new club--the sweetbriars--had drawn almost all the new girls in the school, as well as many of mary's particular friends; while the up and doing club, of which mary was the leading spirit, was not alone frowned upon by mrs. tellingham and her assistants, but lost members until--as helen cameron had said--the last meeting of the upedes consisted of the fox and helen herself. the former laid all this at ruth fielding's door. she saw ruth's influence and her club increase, while her own friends fell away from her. twice ruth had helped to save mary from drowning, and on neither occasion did the older girl seem in the least grateful. now ruth was saving her from the scorn of the other girls and--perhaps--a request from heavy's aunt kate that mary pack her bag and return home. ruth hoped that mary would find some opportunity of speaking to her alone before the day was over. but, even when the boys returned from the outer rocks with a splendid string of bass, and the bow of the _miraflame_ was turned homeward, the fox said never a word to her. ruth crept away into the bows by herself, her mind much troubled. she feared that the fortnight at lighthouse point might become very unpleasant, if mary continued to be so very disagreeable. suddenly somebody tapped her on the arm. the motor boat was pushing toward the mouth of sokennet harbor and the sun was well down toward the horizon. the girls were in the cabin, singing, and madge was trying to make her brother sing, too; but bob's voice was changing and what he did to the notes of the familiar tunes was a caution. but it was tom cameron who had come to ruth. "see here," said the boy, eagerly. "see what i picked up on the rocks over there." "over where?" asked ruth, looking curiously at the folded paper in tom's hand. "across from where you fell in, ruth. nita and that crab fellow were standing there when i went down the rocks and dived in for you. and i saw them looking at this sheet of newspaper," and tom began to slowly unfold it as he spoke. chapter xvii what was in the newspaper "whatever have you got there, tom?" asked ruth, curiously. "hush! i reckon crab lost it when you fell in the water and stirred us all up so," returned the boy, with a grin. "lost that paper?" "yes. you see, it's a page torn from the sunday edition of a new york daily. on this side is a story of some professor's discoveries in ancient babylon." "couldn't have interested jack crab much," remarked ruth, smiling. "that's what i said myself," declared tom, hastily. "therefore, i turned it over. and _this_ is what crab was showing that nita girl, i am sure." ruth looked at the illustrated sheet that tom spread before her. there was a girl on a very spirited cow pony, swinging a lariat, the loop of which was about to settle over the broadly spreading horns of a texas steer. the girl was dressed in a very fancy "cow-girl" costume, and the picture was most spirited indeed. in one corner, too, was a reproduction of a photograph of the girl described in the newspaper article. "why! it doesn't look anything like nita," gasped ruth, understanding immediately why tom had brought the paper to her. "nope. you needn't expect it to. those papers use any old photograph to make illustrations from. but read the story." it was all about the niece of a very rich cattle man in montana who had run away from the ranch on which she had lived all her life. it was called silver ranch, and was a very noted cattle range in that part of the west. the girl's uncle raised both horses and cattle, was very wealthy, had given her what attention a single man could in such a situation, and was now having a countrywide search made for the runaway. "jane ann hicks has run away from a fortune" was the way the paper put it in a big "scare head" across the top of the page; and the text went on to tell of rough bill hicks, of bullhide, and how he had begun in the early cattle days as a puncher himself and had now risen to the sole proprietorship of silver ranch. "bill's one possession besides his cattle and horses that he took any joy in was his younger brother's daughter, jane ann. she is an orphan and came to bill and he has taken sole care of her (for a woman has never been at silver ranch, save indian squaws and a mexican cook woman) since she could creep. jane ann is certainly the apple of old bill's eye. "but, as old bill has told the bullhide chief of police, who is sending the pictures and description of the lost girl all over the country, 'jane ann got some powerful hifalutin' notions.' she is now a well-grown girl, smart as a whip, pretty, afraid of nothing on four legs, and just as ignorant as a girl brought up in such an environment would be. jane ann has been reading novels, perhaps. as the eastern youth used to fill up on cheap stories of the far west, and start for that wild and woolly section with the intention of wiping from the face of nature the last remnant of the red tribes, so it may be that jane ann hicks has read of the eastern millionaire and has started for the atlantic seaboard for the purpose of lassoing one--or more--of those elusive creatures. "however, old bill wants jane ann to come home. silver ranch will be hers some day, when old bill passes over the great divide, and he believes that if she is to be montana's coming cattle queen his niece would better not know too much about the effete east." and in this style the newspaper writer had spread before his readers a semi-humorous account (perhaps fictitious) of the daily life of the missing heiress of silver ranch, her rides over the prairies and hills on half-wild ponies, the round-ups, calf-brandings, horse-breakings, and all other activities supposed to be part and parcel of ranch life. "my goodness me!" gasped ruth, when she had hastily scanned all this, "do you suppose that any sane girl would have run away from all that for just a foolish whim?" "just what i say," returned tom. "cracky! wouldn't it be great to ride over that range, and help herd the cattle, and trail wild horses, and--and----" "well, that's just what one girl got sick of, it seems," finished ruth, her eyes dancing. "now! whether this same girl is the one we know----" "i bet she is," declared tom. "betting isn't proof, you know," returned ruth, demurely. "no. but jane ann hicks is this young lady who wants to be called 'nita'--oh, glory! what a name!" "if it is so," ruth rejoined, slowly, "i don't so much wonder that she wanted a fancy name. 'jane ann hicks'! it sounds ugly; but an ugly name can stand for a truly beautiful character." "that fact doesn't appeal to this runaway girl, i guess," said tom. "but the question is: what shall we do about it?" "i don't know as we can do anything about it," ruth said, slowly. "of course we don't know that this hicks girl and nita are the same." "what was crab showing her the paper for?" "what can crab have to do with it, anyway?" returned ruth, although she had not forgotten the interest the assistant lighthouse keeper had shown in nita from the first. "don't know. but if he recognized her----" "from the picture?" asked ruth. "well! you look at it. that drawing of the girl on horseback looks more like her than the photographic half-tone," said tom. "she looks just that wild and harum-scarum!" ruth laughed. "there _is_ a resemblance," she admitted. "but i don't understand why crab should have any interest in the girl, anyway." "neither do i. let's keep still about it. of course, we'll tell nell," said tom. "but nobody else. if that old ranchman is her uncle he ought to be told where she is." "maybe she was not happy with him, after all," said ruth, thoughtfully. "my goodness!" tom cried, preparing to go back to the other boys who were calling him. "i don't see how anybody could be unhappy under such conditions." "that's all very well for a boy," returned the girl, with a superior air. "but think! she had no girls to associate with, and the only women were squaws and a mexican cook!" ruth watched nita, but did not see the assistant lighthouse keeper speak to the runaway during the passage home, and from the dock to the bungalow ruth walked by nita's side. she was tempted to show the page of the newspaper to the other girl, but hesitated. what if nita really _was_ jane hicks? ruth asked herself how _she_ would feel if she were burdened with that practical but unromantic name, and had to live on a lonely cattle ranch without a girl to speak to. "maybe i'd run away myself," thought ruth. "i was almost tempted to run away from uncle jabez when i first went to live at the red mill." she had come to pity the strange girl since reading about the one who had run away from silver ranch. whether nita had any connection with the newspaper article or not, ruth had begun to see that there might be situations which a girl couldn't stand another hour, and from which she was fairly forced to flee. the fishing party arrived home in a very gay mood, despite the incident of ruth's involuntary bath. mary cox kept away from the victim of the accident and when the others chaffed ruth, and asked her how she came to topple over the rock, the fox did not even change color. tom scolded in secret to ruth about mary. "she ought to be sent home. i'll not feel that you're safe any time she is in your company. i've a mind to tell miss kate stone," he said. "i'll be dreadfully angry if you do such a thing, tom," ruth assured him, and that promise was sufficient to keep the boy quiet. they were all tired and not even helen objected when bed was proposed that night. in fact, heavy went to sleep in her chair, and they had a dreadful time waking her up and keeping her awake long enough for her to undress, say her prayers, and get into bed. in the other girls' room ruth and her companions spent little time in talking or frolicking. nita had begged to sleep with mercy, with whom she had spent considerable time that day and evening; and the lame girl and the runaway were apparently both asleep before ruth and helen got settled for the night. then helen dropped asleep between yawns and ruth found herself lying wide-awake, staring at the faintly illuminated ceiling. of a sudden, sleep had fled from her eyelids. the happenings of the day, the mystery of nita, the meanness of mary cox, her own trouble at the mill, the impossibility of her going to briarwood next term unless she found some way of raising money for her tuition and board, and many, many other thoughts, trooped through ruth fielding's mind for more than an hour. mostly the troublesome thoughts were of her poverty and the seeming impossibility of her ever discovering any way to earn such a quantity of money as three hundred and fifty dollars. her chum, lying asleep beside her, did not dream of this problem that continually troubled ruth's mind. the clock down stairs tolled eleven solemn strokes. ruth did not move. she might have been sound asleep, save for her open eyes, their gaze fixed upon the ceiling. suddenly a beam of light flashed in at one window, swinging from right to left, like the blade of a phantom scythe, and back again. ruth did not move, but the beam of light took her attention immediately from her former thoughts. again and once again the flash of light was repeated. then she suddenly realized what it was. somebody was walking down the path toward the private dock, swinging a lantern. she would have given it no further thought had not a door latch clicked. whether it was the latch of her room, or another of the bedrooms on this floor of the bungalow, ruth could not tell. but in a moment she heard the balustrade of the stair creak. "it's izzy again!" thought ruth, sitting up in bed. "he's walking in his sleep. the boys did not tie him." she crept out of bed softly so as not to awaken helen or the other girls and went to the door. when she opened it and peered out, there was no ghostly figure "tight-roping it" on the balustrade. but she heard a sound below--in the lower hall. somebody was fumbling with the chain of the front door. "he's going out! i declare, he's going out!" thought ruth and sped to the window. she heard the jar of the big front door as it was opened, and then pulled shut again. she heard no step on the porch, but a figure soon fluttered down the steps. it was not isadore phelps, however. ruth knew that at first glance. indeed, it was not a boy who started away from the house, running on the grass beside the graveled walk. ruth turned back hastily and looked at the other bed--at mercy's bed. the place beside the lame girl was empty. nita had disappeared! chapter xviii another night adventure ruth was startled, to say the least, by the discovery that nita was absent. and how softly the runaway girl must have crept out of bed and out of the room for ruth--who had been awake--not to hear her! "she certainly is a sly little thing!" gasped ruth. but as she turned back to see what had become of the figure running beside the path, the lantern light was flashed into her eyes. again the beam was shot through the window and danced for a moment on the wall and ceiling. "it is a signal!" thought ruth. "there's somebody outside besides nita--somebody who wishes to communicate with her." even as she realized this she saw the lantern flash from the dock. that was where it had been all the time. it was a dark-lantern, and its ray had been intentionally shot into the window of their room. the figure she had seen steal away from the bungalow had now disappeared. if it was nita--as ruth believed--the strange girl might be hiding in the shadow of the boathouse. however, the girl from the red mill did not stand idly at the window for long. it came to her that somebody ought to know what was going on. her first thought was that nita was bent on running away from her new friends--although, as as far as any restraint was put upon her, she might have walked away at any time. "but she ought not to go off like this," thought ruth, hurrying into her own garments. by the faint light that came from outside she could see to dress; and she saw, too, that nita's clothing had disappeared. "why, the girl must have dressed," thought ruth, in wonder. "how could she have done it with me lying here awake?" meanwhile, her own fingers were busy and in two minutes from the time she had turned from the window, she opened the hall door again and tiptoed out. the house was perfectly still, save for the ticking of the big clock. she sped down the stairway, and as she passed the glimmering face of the time-keeper she glanced at it and saw that the minute hand was just eight minutes past the hour. in a closet under the stairs were the girls' outside garments, and hats. she found somebody's tam-o'-shanter and her own sweater-coat, and slipped both on in a hurry. when she opened the door the chill, salt air, with not a little fog in it, breathed into the close hall. she stepped out, pulled the door to and latched it, and crossed the porch. the harbor seemed deserted. two or three night lights sparkled over on the village side. what vessels rode at anchor showed no lights at their moorings. but the great, steady, yellow light of the beacon on the point shone steadily--a wonderfully comforting sight, ruth thought, at this hour of the night. there were no more flashes of lantern light from the dock. nor did she hear a sound from that direction as she passed out through the trimly cut privet hedge and took the shell walk to the boathouse. she was in canvas shoes and her step made no sound. in a moment or two she was in the shadow again. then she heard voices--soft, but earnest tones--and knew that two people were talking out there toward the end of the dock. one was a deep voice; the other might be nita's--at least, it was a feminine voice. "who under the sun can she have come here to meet?" wondered ruth, anxiously. "not one of the boys. this can't be merely a lark of some kind----" something scraped and squeaked--a sound that shattered the silence of the late evening completely. a dog instantly barked back of the the bungalow, in the kennels. other dogs on the far shore of the cove replied. a sleep-walking rooster began to crow clamorously, believing that it was already growing day. the creaking stopped in a minute, and ruth heard a faint splash. the voices had ceased. "what can it mean?" thought the anxious girl. she could remain idle there behind the boathouse no longer. she crept forth upon the dock to reconnoiter. there seemed to be nobody there. and then, suddenly, she saw that the catboat belonging to mr. stone's little fleet--the "_jennie s._" it was called, named for heavy herself--was some distance from her moorings. the breeze was very light; but the sail was raised and had filled, and the catboat was drifting quite rapidly out beyond the end of the dock. it was so dark in the cockpit that ruth could not distinguish whether there were one or two figures aboard, or who they were; but she realized that somebody was off on a midnight cruise. "and without saying a word about it!" gasped ruth. "could it be, after all, one of the boys and nita? are they doing this just for the fun of it?" yet the heavy voice she had heard did not sound like that of either of the three boys at the bungalow. not even bob steele, when his unfortunate voice was pitched in its very lowest key, could rumble like this voice. the girl of the red mill was both troubled and frightened. suppose nita and her companion should be wrecked in the catboat? she did not believe that the runaway girl knew anything about working a sailboat. and who was her companion on this midnight escapade? was he one of the longshoremen? suddenly she thought of jack crab. but crab was supposed to be at the lighthouse at this hour; wasn't he? she could not remember what she had heard about the lighthouse keeper's assistant. nor could ruth decide at once whether to go back to the house and give the alarm, or not. had she known where phineas, the boatkeeper, lodged, she would certainly have tried to awaken him. he ought to be told that one of the boats was being used--and, of course, without permission. the sail of the catboat drifted out of sight while she stood there undecided. she could not pursue the _jennie s._ had she known where phineas was, they might have gone after the catboat in the _miraflame;_ but otherwise ruth saw no possibility of tracking the two people who had borrowed the _jennie s._ nor was she sure that it was desirable to go in, awaken the household, and report the disappearance of nita. the cruise by night might be a very innocent affair. "and then again," murmured ruth, "there may be something in it deeper than i can see. we do not really know who this nita is. that piece in the paper may not refer to her at all. suppose, instead of having run away from a rich uncle and a big cattle ranch, nita comes from bad people? mrs. kirby and the captain knew nothing about her. it may be that some of nita's bad friends have followed her here, and they may mean to rob the stones! "goodness! that's a very bad thought," muttered ruth, shaking her head. "i ought not to suspect the girl of anything like that. although she is so secret, and so rough of speech, she doesn't seem to be a girl who has lived with really bad people." ruth could not satisfy herself that it would be either right or wise to go in and awaken miss kate, or even the butler. but she could not bring herself to the point of going to bed, either, while nita was out on the water. she couldn't think of sleep, anyway. not until the catboat came back to the dock did she move out of the shadow of the boathouse. and it was long past one o'clock when this occurred. the breeze had freshened, and the _jennie s._ had to tack several times before the boatman made the moorings. the starlight gave such slight illumination that ruth could not see who was in the boat. the sail was dropped, the boat moored, and then, after a bit, she heard a heavy step upon the dock. only one person came toward her. ruth peered anxiously out of the shadow. a man slouched along the dock and reached the shell road. he turned east, moving away toward the lighthouse. it was jack crab. "and nita is not with him!" gasped ruth. "what has he done with her? where has he taken her in the boat? what does it mean?" she dared not run after crab and ask him. she was really afraid of the man. his secret communication with nita was no matter to be blurted out to everybody, she was sure. nita had gone to meet him of her own free will. she was not obliged to sail away with crab in the catboat. naturally, the supposition was that she had decided to remain away from the bungalow of her own intention, too. "it is not my secret," thought ruth. "she was merely a visitor here. miss kate, even, had no command over her actions. she is not responsible for nita--none of us is responsible. "i only hope she won't get into any trouble through that horrid jack crab. and it seems so ungrateful for nita to walk out of the house without saying a word to heavy and miss kate. "i'd best keep my own mouth shut, however, and let things take their course. nita wanted to go away, or she would not have done so. she seemed to have no fear of jack crab; otherwise she would not have met him at night and gone away with him. "ruth fielding! you mind your own business," argued the girl of the red mill, finally going back toward the silent house. "at least, wait until we see what comes of this before you tell everything you know." and so deciding, she crept into the house, locked the door again, got into her room without disturbing any of the other girls, and so to bed and finally to sleep, being little the wiser for her midnight escapade. chapter xix the goblins' gambol helen awoke ruth in the morning with the question that was bound to echo and re-echo through the bungalow for that, and subsequent days: "where is nita?" ruth could truthfully answer: "i do not know." nor did anybody else know, or suspect, or imagine. what had happened in the night was known only to ruth and she had determined not to say a word concerning it unless she should be pointedly examined by miss kate, or somebody else in authority. nobody else had heard or seen nita leave the bungalow. indeed, nobody had heard ruth get up and go out, either. the catboat rocked at its moorings, and there was no trace of how nita had departed. as to _why_ she had gone so secretly--well, that was another matter. they were all of the opinion that the runaway was a very strange girl. she had gone without thanking miss kate or heavy for their entertainment. she was evidently an ungrateful girl. these opinions were expressed by the bulk of the party at the bungalow. but ruth and helen and the latter's brother had their own secret about the runaway. helen had been shown the paper tom had found. she and tom were convinced that nita was really jane ann hicks and that she had been frightened away by jack crab. crab maybe had threatened her. on this point ruth could not agree. but she could not explain her reason for doubting it without telling more than she wished to tell; therefore she did not insist upon her own opinion. in secret she read over again the article in the newspaper about the lost jane ann hicks. something she had not noticed before now came under her eye. it was at the end of the article--at the bottom of the last column on the page: "old bill certainly means to find jane ann if he can. he has told chief penhampton, of bullhide, to spare no expense. the old man says he'll give ten good steers--or five hundred dollars in hard money--for information leading to the apprehension and return of jane ann. and he thinks some of starting for the east himself to hunt her up if he doesn't hear soon." "that poor old man," thought ruth, "really loves his niece. if i was sure nita was the girl told of here, i'd be tempted to write to mr. hicks myself." but there was altogether too much to do at lighthouse point for the young folks to spend much time worrying about nita. phineas said that soft-shell crabs were to be found in abundance at the mouth of the creek at the head of the cove, and that morning the boys made nets for all hands--at least, they found the poles and fastened the hoops to them, while the girls made the bags of strong netting--and after dinner the whole party trooped away (mercy excepted) to heckle the crabs under the stones and snags where phineas declared they would be plentiful. the girls were a bit afraid of the creatures at first, when they were shaken out of the scoops; but they soon found that the poor things couldn't bite until the new shells hardened. the boys took off their shoes and stockings and waded in, whereupon bob suddenly began to dance and bawl and splash the water all over himself and his companions. "what under the sun's the matter with you, bobbins?" roared tom, backing away from his friend to escape a shower-bath. "oh! he's got a fit!" squealed isadore. "it's cramps!" declared heavy, from the shore, and in great commiseration. "for pity's sake, little boy!" cried bob's sister, "what is the matter with you now? he's the greatest child! always getting into some mess." bob continued to dance; but he got into shoal water after a bit and there it was seen that he was doing a sort of highland fling on one foot. the other had attached to it a big hardshell crab; and no mortgage was ever clamped upon a poor man's farm any tighter than mr. crab was fastened upon bob's great toe. "ooh! ooh! ooh!" repeated the big fellow, whacking away at the crab with the handle of his net. isadore tried to aid him, and instead of hitting the crab with _his_ stick, barked bob's ankle bone nicely. "ow! ow! ow!" yelled the youth in an entirely different key. the girls were convulsed with laughter; but tom got the big crab and the big boy apart. bob wasn't satisfied until he had placed the hardshell between two stones and wrecked it--smashed it flat as a pancake. "there! i know that fellow will never nip another inoffensive citizen," groaned bob, and he sat on a stone and nursed his big toe and his bruised ankle until the others were ready to go home. they got a nice mess of crabs; but bob refused to eat any. "never want to see even crabs _a la_ newburgh again," he grunted. "and i don't believe that even a fried soft-shell crab is dead enough so that it can't bite a fellow!" there was a splendid smooth bit of beach beyond the dock where they bathed, and even mercy had taken a dip that morning; but when the girls went to their bedrooms at night each girl found pinned to her nightdress a slip of paper--evidently a carbon copy of a typewritten message. it read: "the goblins' gambol--you are instructed to put on your bathing suit, take a wrap, and meet for a goblins' gambol on the beach at ten sharp. the tide will be just right, and there is a small moon. do not fail." the girls giggled a good deal over this. they all declared they had not written the message, or caused it to be written. there was a typewriter downstairs, heavy admitted; but she had never used it. anyhow, the suggestion was too tempting to refuse. at ten the girls, shrouded in their cloaks and water proofs, crept down stairs and out of the house. the door was locked, and they could not imagine who had originated this lark. the boys did not seem to be astir at all. "if aunt kate hears of this i expect she'll say something," chuckled heavy. "but we've been pretty good so far. oh, it is just warm and nice. i bet the water will be fine." they trooped down to the beach, mercy limping along with the rest. ruth and helen gave her aid when she reached the sand, for her crutches hampered her there. "come on! the water's fine!" cried madge, running straight into the smooth sea. they were soon sporting in it, and having a great time, but keeping near the shore because the boys were not there, when suddenly helen began to squeal--and then madge. those two likewise instantly disappeared beneath the water, their cries ending in articulate gurgles. "oh! oh!" cried heavy. "there's somebody here! something's got me!" she was in shallow water, and she promptly sat down. whatever had grabbed her vented a mighty grunt, for she pinioned it for half a minute under her weight. when she could scramble up she had to rescue what she had fallen on, and it proved to be isadore--very limp and "done up." "it's the boys," squealed helen, coming to the surface. "tom swam under water and caught me." "and this is that horrid bob!" cried madge. "what have you got there, heavy?" "i really don't know," giggled the stout girl. "what do you think it looks like?" "my--goodness--me!" panted busy izzy. "i thought--it--it was ruth! why--why don't you look where you're sitting, jennie stone?" but the laugh was on isadore and he could not turn the tables. the boys had been out to the diving float watching the girls come in. and in a minute or two miss kate joined them, too. it was she who had planned the moonlight dip and for half an hour they ran races on the sand, and swam, and danced, and had all sorts of queer larks. miss kate was about to call them out and "shoo" the whole brood into the house again when they heard a horse, driven at high speed, coming over the creek bridge. "hullo! here comes somebody in a hurry," said tom. "that's right. he's driving this way, not toward the railroad station," rejoined heavy. "it's somebody from sokennet." "who can it be this time of night?" was her aunt's question as they waited before the gateway as the carriage wheeled closer. "there's a telegraph office, you know, at sokennet," said heavy, thoughtfully. "and--yes!--that's brickman's old horse. hullo!" "whoa! hullo, miss!" exclaimed a hoarse voice. "glad i found you up. here's a message for you." "for me?" cried heavy, and dripping as she was, ran out to the carriage. "sign on this place, miss. here's a pencil. thank you, miss; it's paid for. that's the message," and he put a telegraph envelope into her hand. on the outside of the envelope was written, "stone, lighthouse point." under the lamp on the porch heavy broke the seal and drew out the message, while the whole party stood waiting. she read it once to herself, and was evidently immensely surprised. then she read it out loud, and her friends were just as surprised as she was: "stone, lighthouse point, sokennet.--hold onto her. i am coming right down. "w. hicks." chapter xx "whar's my jane ann?" three of heavy's listeners knew in an instant what the telegram meant--who it was from, and who was mentioned in it--ruth, helen and tom. but how, or why the telegram had been sent was as great a mystery to them as to the others; therefore their surprise was quite as unfeigned as that of the remaining girls and boys. "why, somebody's made a mistake," said heavy. "such a telegram couldn't be meant for me." "and addressed only to 'stone,'" said her aunt. "it is, of course, a mistake." "and who are we to hold on to?" laughed mary cox, prepared to run into the house again. "wait!" cried mercy, who had come leaning upon madge's arm from the shore. "don't you see who that message refers to?" "no!" they chorused. "to that runaway girl, of course," said the cripple. "that's plain enough, i hope." "to nita!" gasped heavy. "but who is it that's coming here for her? and how did 'w. hicks' know she was here?" demanded ruth. "maybe captain and mrs. kirby told all about her when they got to boston. news of her, and where she was staying, got to her friends," said mercy curtis. "that's the 'why and wherefore' of it--believe me!" "that sounds very reasonable," admitted aunt kate. "the kirbys would only know our last name and would not know how to properly address either jennie or me. come, now! get in on the rubber mats in your rooms and rub down well. the suits will be collected and rinsed out and hung to dry before mammy laura goes to bed. if any of you feel the least chill, let me know." but it was so warm and delightful a night that there was no danger of colds. the girls were so excited by the telegram and had so much to say about the mystery of nita, the castaway, that it was midnight before any of them were asleep. however, they had figured out that the writer of the telegram, leaving new york, from which it was sent at half after eight, would be able to take a train that would bring him to sandtown very early in the morning; and so the excited young folks were all awake by five o'clock. it was a hazy morning, but there was a good breeze from the land. tom declared he heard the train whistle for the sandtown station, and everybody dressed in a hurry, believing that "w. hicks" would soon be at the bungalow. there were no public carriages at the station to meet that early train, and miss kate had doubted about sending anybody to meet the person who had telegraphed. in something like an hour, however, they saw a tall man, all in black, striding along the sandy road toward the house. as he came nearer he was seen to be a big-boned man, with broad shoulders, long arms, and a huge reddish mustache, the ends of which drooped almost to his collar. such a mustache none of them had ever seen before. his black clothes would have fitted a man who weighed a good fifty pounds more than he did, and so the garments hung baggily upon him. he wore a huge, black slouched hat, with immensely broad brim. he strode immediately to the back door--that being the nearest to the road by which he came--and the boys and girls in the breakfast room crowded to the windows to see him. he looked neither to right nor left, however, but walked right into the kitchen, where they at once heard a thunderous voice demand: "whar's my jane ann? whar's my jane ann, i say?" mammy laura evidently took his appearance and demand in no good part. she began to sputter, but his heavy voice rode over hers and quenched it: "keep still, ol' woman! i want to see your betters. whar's my jane ann?" "lawsy massy! what kine ob a man is yo'?" squealed the fat old colored woman. "t' come combustucatin' inter a pusson's kitchen in disher way----" "be still, ol' woman!" roared the visitor again. "whar's my jane ann?" the butler appeared then and took the strange visitor in hand. "come this way, sir. miss kate will see you," he said, and led the big man into the front of the house. "i don't want none o' your 'miss kates,'" growled the stranger. "i want my jane ann." heavy's little aunt looked very dainty indeed when she appeared before this gigantic westerner. the moment he saw her, off came his big hat, displaying a red, freckled face, and a head as bald as an egg. he was a very ugly man, saving when he smiled; then innumerable humorous wrinkles appeared about his eyes and the pale blue eyes themselves twinkled confidingly. "your sarvent, ma'am," he said. "your name stone?" "it is, sir. i presume you are 'w. hicks'?" she said. "that's me--bill hicks. bill hicks, of bullhide, montanny." "i hope you have not come here, mr. hicks, to be disappointed. but i must tell you at the start," said miss kate, "that i never heard of you before _i_ received your very remarkable telegram." "huh! that can well be, ma'am--that can well be. but they got your letter at the ranch, and jib, he took it into colonel penhampton, and the colonel telegraphed me to new york, where i'd come a-hunting her----" "wait, wait, wait!" cried miss kate, eagerly. "i don't understand at all what you are talking about." "why--why, i'm aimin' to talk about my jane ann," exclaimed the cattle man. "jane ann who?" she gasped. "jane ann hicks. my little gal what you've got her and what you wrote about----" "you are misinformed, sir," declared miss kate. "i have never written to you--or to anybody else--about any person named jane ann hicks." "oh, mebbe you don't know her by that name. she had some hifalutin' idee before she vamoosed about not likin' her name--an' i give her that thar name myself!" added bill hicks, in an aggrieved tone. "nor have i written about any other little girl, or by any other name," rejoined miss kate. "i have written no letter at all." "you didn't write to silver ranch to tell us that my little jane ann was found?" gasped the man. "no, sir." "somebody else wrote, then?" "i do not know it, if they did," miss kate declared. "then somebody's been a-stringin' of me?" he roared, punching his big hat with a clenched, freckled fist in a way that made miss kate jump. "oh!" she cried. "don't you be afeared, ma'am," said the big man, more gently. "but i'm mighty cast down--i sure am! some miser'ble coyote has fooled me. that letter said as how my little niece was wrecked on a boat here and that a party named stone had taken her into their house at lighthouse point----" "it's nita!" cried miss kate. "what's that?" he demanded. "you're speaking of nita, the castaway!" "i'm talkin' of my niece, jane ann hicks," declared the rancher. "that's who i'm talking of." "but she called herself nita, and would not tell us anything about herself." "it might be, ma'am. the little skeezicks!" chuckled the westerner, his eyes twinkling suddenly. "that's a mighty fancy name--'nita.' and so she _is_ here with you, after all?" "no." "not here?" he exclaimed, his big, bony face reddening again. "no, sir. i believe she has been here--your niece." "and where'd she go? what you done with her?" he demanded, his overhanging reddish eyebrows coming together in a threatening scowl. "hadn't you better sit down, mr. hicks, and let me tell you all about it?" suggested miss kate. "say, miss!" he ejaculated. "i'm anxious, i be. when jane ann first run away from silver ranch, i thought she was just a-playin' off some of her tricks on me. i never supposed she was in earnest 'bout it--no, ma'am! "i rid into bullhide arter two days. and instead of findin' her knockin' around there, i finds her pony at the greaser's corral, and learns that she's took the train east. that did beat me. i didn't know she had any money, but she'd bought a ticket to denver, and it took a right smart of money to do it. "i went to colonel penhampton, i did," went on hicks, "and told him about it. he heated up the wires some 'twixt bullhide and denver; but she'd fell out o' sight there the minute she'd landed. denver's some city, ma'am. i finds that out when i lit out arter jane ann and struck that place myself. "wal! 'twould be teejious to you, ma'am, if i told whar i have chased arter that gal these endurin' two months. had to let the ranch an' ev'rythin' else go to loose ends while i follered news of her all over. my gosh, ma'am! how many gals there is runs away from their homes! ye wouldn't believe the number 'nless ye was huntin' for a pertic'lar one an' got yer rope on so many that warn't her!" "you have had many disappointments, sir?" said miss kate, beginning to feel a great sympathy for this uncouth man. he nodded his great, bald, shining head. "i hope you ain't going to tell me thar's another in store for me right yere," he said, in a much milder voice. "i cannot tell you where nita--if she is your niece--is now," said miss kate, firmly. "she's left you?" "she went away some time during the night--night before last." "what for?" he asked, suspiciously. "i don't know. we none of us knew. we made her welcome and said nothing about sending her away, or looking for her friends. i did not wish to frighten her away, for she is a strangely independent girl----" "you bet she is!" declared mr. hicks, emphatically. "i hoped she would gradually become confiding, and then we could really do something for her. but when we got up yesterday morning she had stolen out of the house in the night and was gone." "and ye don't know whar jane ann went?" he said, with a sort of groan. miss kate shook her head; but suddenly a voice interrupted them. ruth fielding parted the curtains and came into the room. "i hope you will pardon me, miss kate," she said softly. "and this gentleman, too. i believe i can tell him how nita went away--and perhaps through what i know he may be able to find her again." chapter xxi crab makes his demand bill hicks beckoned the girl from the red mill forward. "you come right here, miss," he said, "and let's hear all about it. i'm a-honin' for my jane ann somethin' awful--ye don't know what a loss she is to me. and silver ranch don't seem the same no more since she went away." "tell me," said ruth, curiously, as she came forward, "was what the paper said about it all true?" "why, ruth, what paper is this? what do you know about this matter that i don't know?" cried miss kate. "i'm sorry, miss kate," said the girl; "but it wasn't my secret and i didn't feel i could tell you----" "i know what you mean, little miss," hicks interrupted. "that new york newspaper--with the picter of jane ann on a pony what looked like one o' these horsecar horses? most ev'rythin' they said in that paper was true about her--and the ranch." "and she has had to live out there without any decent woman, and no girls to play with, and all that?" "wal!" exclaimed mr. hicks. "that ain't sech a great crime; is it?" "i don't wonder so much she ran away," ruth said, softly. "but i am sorry she did not stay here until you came, sir." "but where is she?" chorused both the ranchman and miss kate, and the latter added: "tell what you know about her departure, ruth." so ruth repeated all that she had heard and seen on the night nita disappeared from the stone bungalow. "and this man, crab, can be found down yonder at the lighthouse?" demanded the ranchman, rising at the end of ruth's story. "he is there part of the time, sir," miss kate said. "he is a rather notorious character around here--a man of bad temper, i believe. perhaps you had better go to the authorities first----" "what authorities?" demanded the westerner in surprise. "the sokennet police." bill hicks snorted. "i don't need police in this case, ma'am," he said. "i know what to do with this here crab when i find him. and if harm's come to my jane ann, so much the worse for him." "oh, i hope you will be patient, sir," said miss kate. "nita was not a bit afraid of him, i am sure," ruth hastened to add. "he would not hurt her." "no. i reckon he wants to make money out of me," grunted bill hicks, who did not lack shrewdness. "he sent the letter that told me she was here, and then he decoyed her away somewhere so's to hold her till i came and paid him the reward. wal! let me git my jane ann back, safe and sound, and he's welcome to the five hundred dollars i offered for news of her." "but first, mr. hicks," said miss kate, rising briskly, "you'll come to breakfast. you have been traveling all night----" "that's right, ma'am. no chance for more than a peck at a railroad sandwich--tough critters, them!" "ah! here is tom cameron," she said, having parted the portières and found tom just passing through the hall. "mr. hicks, tom. nita's uncle." "er--mr. bill hicks, of the silver ranch!" ejaculated tom. "so you've hearn tell of me, too, have you, younker?" quoth the ranchman, good-naturedly. "well, my fame's spreadin'." "and it seems that _i_ am the only person here who did not know all about your niece," said miss kate stone, drily. "oh, no, ma'am!" cried tom. "it was only ruth and helen and i who knew anything about it. and we only suspected. you see, we found the newspaper article which told about that bully ranch, and the fun that girl had----" "jane ann didn't think 'twas nice enough for her," grunted the ranchman. "she wanted high-heeled slippers--and shift--shift-on hats--and a pianner! common things warn't good enough for jane ann." ruth laughed, for she wasn't at all afraid of the big westerner. "if chiffon hats and french heeled slippers would have kept nita--i mean, jane ann--at home, wouldn't it have been cheaper for you to have bought 'em?" she asked. "it shore would!" declared the cattleman, emphatically. "but when the little girl threatened to run away i didn't think she meant it." meanwhile miss kate had asked tom to take the big man up stairs where he could remove the marks of travel. in half an hour he was at the table putting away a breakfast that made even mammy laura open her eyes in wonder. "i'm a heavy feeder, miss," he said apologetically, to ruth. "since i been east i often have taken my breakfast in two restaurants, them air waiters stare so. i git it in relays, as ye might say. them restaurant people ain't used to seeing a _man_ eat. and great cats! how they do charge for vittles!" but ugly as he was, and big and rude as he was, there was a simplicity and open-heartedness about mr. hicks that attracted more than ruth fielding. the boys, because tom was enthusiastic about the old fellow, came in first. but the girls were not far behind, and by the time mr. hicks had finished breakfast the whole party was in the room, listening to his talk of his lost niece, and stories of silver ranch and the growing and wonderful west. mercy curtis, who had a sharp tongue and a sharper insight into character, knew just how to draw bill hicks out. and the ranchman, as soon as he understood that mercy was a cripple, paid her the most gallant attentions. and he took the lame girl's sharp criticisms in good part, too. "so you thought you could bring up a girl baby from the time she could crawl till she was old enough to get married--eh?" demanded mercy, in her whimsical way. "what a smart man you are, mr. bill hicks!" "ya-as--ain't i?" he groaned. "i see now i didn't know nothin'." "not a living thing!" agreed mercy. "bringing up a girl among a lot of cow--cow--what do you call 'em?" "punchers," he finished, wagging his head. "that's it. nice society for a girl. likely to make her ladylike and real happy, too." "great cats!" ejaculated the ranchman, "i thought i was doin' the square thing by jane ann----" "and giving her a name like that, too!" broke in mercy. "how dared you?" "why--why----" stammered mr. hicks. "it was my grandmother's name--and she was as spry a woman as ever i see." "your grandmother's name!" gasped mercy. "then, what right had you to give it to your niece? and when she way a helpless baby, too! wasn't she good enough to have a name of her own--and one a little more modern?" "miss, you stump me--you sure do!" declared mr. hicks, with a sigh. "i never thought a gal cared so much for them sort o' things. they're surprisin' different from boys; ain't they?" "hope you haven't found it out too late, mister wild and woolly," said mercy, biting her speech off in her sharp way. "you had better take a fashion magazine and buy nita--or whatever she wants to call herself--clothes and hats like other girls wear. maybe you'll be able to keep her on a ranch, then." "wal, miss! i'm bound to believe you've got the rights of it. i ain't never had much knowledge of women-folks, and that's a fact----" he was interrupted by the maid coming to the door. "there's a boy here, miss kate," she said, "who is asking for the gentleman." "asking for the gentleman?" repeated miss kate. "yes, ma'am. the gentleman who has just came. the gentleman from the west." "axing for _me?_" cried the ranchman, getting up quickly. "it must be for you, sir," said aunt kate. "let the boy come in, sally." in a minute a shuffling, tow-headed, bare-footed lad of ten years or so entered bashfully. he was a son of one of the fishermen living along the sokennet shore. "you wanter see me, son?" demanded the westerner. "bill hicks, of bullhide?" "dunno wot yer name is, mister," said the boy. "but air you lookin' for a gal that was brought ashore from the wreck of that lumber schooner?" "that's me!" cried mr. hicks. "then i got suthin' for ye," said the boy, and thrust a soiled envelope toward him. "jack crab give it to me last night. he said i was to come over this morning an' wait for you to come. phin says you had come, w'en i got here. that's all." "hold on!" cried tom cameron, as the boy started to go out, and mr. hicks ripped open the envelope. "say, where is this crab man?" "dunno." "where did he go after giving you the note?" "dunno." just then mr. hicks uttered an exclamation that drew all attention to him and the fisherman's boy slipped out. "great cats!" roared bill hicks. "listen to this, folks! what d'ye make of it? "'now i got you right. whoever you be, you are wanting to get hold of the girl. i know where she is. you won't never know unless i get that five hundred dols. the paper talked about. you leave it at the lighthouse. mis purling will take care of it and i reckon on getting it from her when i want it. when she has got the five hundred dols. i will let you know how to find the girl. so, no more at present, from "'j. crab.' "listen here to it, will ye? why, if once i get my paws on this here crab----" "you want to get the girl most; don't you?" interrupted mercy, sharply. "of course!" "then you'd better see if paying the money to him--just as he says--won't bring her to you. you offered the reward, you know." "but maybe he doesn't really know anything about nita!" cried heavy. "and maybe he knows just where she is," said ruth. "wal! he seems like a mighty sharp feller," admitted the cattleman, seriously. "i want my jane ann back. i don't begredge no five hundred dollars. i'm a-goin' over to that lighthouse and see what this missus purling--you say she's the keeper?--knows about it. that's what i'm going to do!" finished hicks with emphasis. chapter xxii thimble island miss kate said of course he could use the buckboard and ponies, and it was the ranchman's own choice that the young folks went, too. there was another wagon, and they could all crowd aboard one or the other vehicle--even mercy curtis went. "i don't believe that crab man will show up at the light," ruth said to tom and helen. "he's plainly made up his mind that he won't meet nita's friends personally. and to think of his getting five hundred dollars so easy!" and she sighed. for the reward mr. hicks had offered for news of his niece, which would lead to her apprehension and return to his guardianship, would have entirely removed from ruth fielding's mind her anxiety about briarwood. let the tintacker mine, in which uncle jabez had invested, remain a deep and abiding mystery, if ruth could earn that five hundred dollars. but if jack crab had placed nita in good hands and was merely awaiting an opportunity to exchange her for the reward which the runaway's uncle had offered, then ruth need not hope for any portion of the money. and certainly, crab would make nothing by hiding the girl away and refusing to give her up to mr. hicks. "and if i took money for telling mr. hicks where nita was, why--why it would be almost like taking blood money! nita liked me, i believe; i think she ought to be with her uncle, and i am sure he is a nice man. but it would be playing the traitor to report her to mr. hicks--and that's a fact!" concluded ruth, taking herself to task. "i could not think of earning money in such a contemptible way." whether her conclusion was right, or not, it seemed right to ruth, and she put the thought of the reward out of her mind from that instant. the ranchman had taken a liking to ruth and when he climbed into the buckboard he beckoned the girl from the red mill to a seat beside him. he drove the ponies, but seemed to give those spirited little animals very little attention. ruth knew that he must be used to handling horses beside which the ponies seemed like tame rabbits. "now what do you think of my jane ann?" was the cattleman's question. "ain't she pretty cute?" "i am not quite sure that i know what you mean by that, mr. hicks," ruth answered, demurely. "but she isn't as smart as she ought to be, or she wouldn't have gone off with jack crab." "huh!" grunted the other. "mebbe you're right on that p'int. he didn't have no drop on her--that's so! but ye can't tell what sort of a yarn he give her." "she would better have had nothing to say to him," said ruth, emphatically. "she should have confided in miss kate. miss kate and jennie were treating her just as nicely as though she were an invited guest. nita--or jane, as you call her--may be smart, but she isn't grateful in the least." "oh, come now, miss----" "no. she isn't grateful," repeated ruth. "she never even suggested going over to the life saving station and thanking cap'n abinadab and his men for bringing her ashore from the wreck of the _whipstitch._" "great cats! i been thinkin' of that," sighed the westerner. "i want to see them and tell 'em what i think of 'em. i 'spect jane ann never thought of such a thing." "but i liked her, just the same," ruth went on, slowly. "she was bold, and brave, and i guess she wouldn't ever do a really mean thing." "i reckon not, miss!" agreed mr. hicks. "my jane ann is plumb square, she is. i can forgive her for running away from us. mebbe thar was reason for her gittin' sick of silver ranch. i--i stand ready to give her 'bout ev'rything she wants--in reason--when i git her back thar." "including a piano?" asked ruth, curiously. "great cats! that's what we had our last spat about," groaned bill hicks. "jib, he's had advantages, he has. went to this here carlisle injun school ye hear so much talk about. it purty nigh ruined him, but he _can_ break hosses. and thar he l'arned to play one o' them pianners. we was all in to bullhide one time--we'd been shipping steers--and we piled into the songbird dancehall--had the place all to ourselves, for it was daytime--and jib sot down and fingered them keys somethin' scand'lous. bashful ike--he's my foreman--says he never believed before that a sure 'nough man like jibbeway pottoway could ever be so ladylike! "wal! my jane ann was jest enchanted by that thar pianner--yes, miss! she was jest enchanted. and she didn't give me no peace from then on. said she wanted one o' the critters at the ranch so jib could give her lessons. and i jest thought it was foolishness--and it cost money--oh, well! i see now i was a pretty mean old hunks----" "that's what i heard her call you once," chuckled ruth. "at least, i know now that she was speaking of you, sir." "she hit me off right," sighed mr. hicks. "i hadn't never been used to spending money. but, laws, child! i got enough. i been some waked up since i come east. folks spend money here, that's a fact." they found mother purling's door opened at the foot of the lighthouse shaft, and the flutter of an apron on the balcony told them that the old lady had climbed to the lantern. "she doesn't often do that," said heavy. "crab does all the cleaning and polishing up there." "he's left her without any help, then," ruth suggested. "that's what it means." and truly, that is what it did mean, as they found out when ruth, the cameron twins, and the westerner climbed the spiral staircase to the gallery outside the lantern. "yes; that crab ain't been here this morning," mother purling admitted when ruth explained that there was reason for mr. hicks wishing to see him. "he told me he was mebbe going off for a few days. 'then you send me a substitute, jack crab,' i told him; but he only laughed and said he wasn't going to send a feller here to work into his job. he _is_ handy, i allow. but i'm too old to be left all stark alone at this light. i'm going to have another man when jack's month is out, just as sure as eggs is eggs!" mr. hicks was just as polite to the old lady as he had been to miss kate; and he quickly explained his visit to the lighthouse, and showed her the two letters that crab had written. "well, ain't that the beatenest?" she cried. "jack crab is just as mean as they make 'em, i always did allow. but this is the capsheaf of all his didoes. and you say he run off with the little girl the other night in mr. stone's catboat? i dunno where he could have taken her. and that day he'd been traipsing off fishing with you folks on the motor launch; hadn't he? he's been leavin' me to do his work too much. this settles it. me and jack crab parts company at the end of this month!" "but what is mr. hicks to do about his niece, mother purling?" cried ruth. "will he pay the five hundred dollars to you----?" "i just guess he won't!" cried the old lady, vigorously. "i ain't goin' to be collector for crab in none of his risky dealin's--no, ma'am!" "then he says he won't give nita up," exclaimed tom. "can't help it. i'm a government employe. i can't afford to be mixed up in no such didoes." "now, i say, missus!" exclaimed the cattleman, "this is shore too bad! ye might know somethin' about whar i kin find this yere reptile by the name of crab--though i reckon a crab is a inseck, not a reptile," and the ranchman grinned ruefully. the young folks could scarcely control their laughter at this, and the idea that a crustacean might be an insect was never forgotten by the cameron twins and ruth fielding. "i dunno where he is," said mother purling, shortly. "i can't keep track of the shiftless critter. ha'f the time when he oughter be here he's out fishing in the dory, yonder--or over to thimble island." "which is thimble island?" asked tom, quickly. "just yon," said the lighthouse keeper, pointing to a cone-shaped rock--perhaps an imaginative person would call it thimble-shaped--lying not far off shore. the lumber schooner had gone on the reef not far from it. "ain't no likelihood of his being over thar now, missus?" asked mr. hicks, quickly. "an' ye could purty nigh throw a stone to it!" scoffed the old woman. "not likely. b'sides, i dunno as there's a landin' on the island 'ceptin' at low tide. i reckon if he's hidin', jack crab is farther away than the thimble. but i don't know nothin' about him. and i can't accept no money for him--that's all there is to that." and really, that did seem to be all there was to it. even such a go-ahead sort of a person as mr. hicks seemed balked by the lighthouse keeper's attitude. there seemed nothing further to do here. ruth was rather interested in what mother purling had said about thimble island, and she lingered to look at the conical rock, with the sea foaming about it, when the others started down the stairway. tom came back for her. "what are you dreaming about, ruthie?" he demanded, nudging her. "i was wondering, tommy," she said, "just why jack crab went so often to the thimble, as she says he does. i'd like to see that island nearer to; wouldn't you?" "we'll borrow the catboat and sail out to it. i can handle the _jennie s._ i bet helen would like to go," said tom, at once. "oh, i don't suppose that crab man is there. it's just a barren rock," said ruth. "but i _would_ like to see the thimble." "and you shall," promised tom. but neither of them suspected to what strange result that promise tended. chapter xxiii marooned it was after luncheon before the three friends got away from the stone bungalow in the catboat. tom owned a catrigged boat himself on the lumano river, and helen and ruth, of course, were not afraid to trust themselves to his management of the _jennie s._ the party was pretty well broken up that day, anyway. mercy and miss kate remained at home and the others found amusement in different directions. nobody asked to go in the _jennie s._, for which ruth was rather glad. mr. hicks had gone over to sokennet with the avowed intention of interviewing every soul in the town for news of jack crab. somebody, surely, must know where the assistant lighthouse keeper was, and the westerner was not a man to be put off by any ordinary evasion. "my jane ann may be hiding over thar amongst them fishermen," he declared to ruth before he went away. "he couldn't have sailed far with her that night, if he was back in 'twixt two and three hours. no, sir-ree!" and that was the thought in ruth's mind. unless crab had sailed out and put nita aboard a new york, or boston, bound steamer, it seemed impossible that the girl could have gotten very far from lighthouse point. "shall we take one of the rowboats in tow, ruth?" queried tom, before they left the stone dock. "no, no!" returned the girl of the red mill, hastily. "we couldn't land on that island, anyway." "only at low tide," rejoined tom. "but it will be about low when we get outside the point." "you don't really suspect that crab and nita are out there, ruth?" whispered helen, in her chum's ear. "it's a crazy idea; isn't it?" laughed ruth. yet she was serious again in a moment. "i thought, when mother purling spoke of his going there so much, that maybe he had a reason--a particular reason." "phineas told me that jack crab was the best pilot on this coast," remarked tom. "he knows every channel, and shoal, and reef from westhampton to cape o' winds. if there was a landing at thimble island, and any secret place upon it, jack crab would be likely to know of it." "can you sail us around the thimble?" asked ruth. "that's all we want." "i asked phin before we started. the sea is clear for half a mile and more all around the thimble. we can circle it, all right, if the wind holds this way." "that's all i expect you to do, tommy," responded ruth, quickly. but they all three eyed the conical-shaped rock very sharply as the _jennie s._ drew nearer. they ran between the lighthouse and the thimble. the tide, in falling, left the green and slime-covered ledges bare. "a boat could get into bad quarters there, and easily enough," said tom, as they ran past. but when he tacked and the catboat swung her head seaward, they began to observe the far side of the thimble. it was almost circular, and probably all of a thousand yards in circumference. the waves now ran up the exposed ledges, hissing and gurgling among the cavities, and sometimes throwing up spume-like geysers between the boulders. "a bad rock for any vessel to stub her toe against trying to make sokennet harbor," quoth tom cameron. "they say that the wreckers used to have a false beacon here in the old times. they used to bring a sheep out here and tie a lantern to its neck. then, at low tide, they'd drive the poor sheep over the rocks and the bobbing up and down of the lantern would look like a riding light on some boat at anchor. then the lost vessel would dare run in for an anchorage, too, and she'd be wrecked. jack crab's grandfather was hanged for it. so phineas told me." "how awful!" gasped helen. but ruth suddenly seized her hand, exclaiming: "see there! what is it fluttering on the rock? look, tom!" at the moment the boy could not do so, as he had his hands full with the tiller and sheet, and his eyes were engaged as well. when he turned to look again at the thimble, what had startled ruth had disappeared. "there was something white fluttering against the rock. it was down there, either below high-water mark, or just above. i can't imagine what it was." "a seabird, perhaps," suggested helen. "then where did it go to so suddenly? i did not see it fly away," ruth returned. the catboat sailed slowly past the seaward side of the thimble. there were fifty places in which a person might hide upon the rock--plenty of broken boulders and cracks in the base of the conical eminence that formed the peculiarly shaped island. the three watched the rugged shore very sharply as the catboat beat up the wind--the girls especially giving the thimble their attention. a hundred pair of eyes might have watched them from the island, as far as they knew. but certainly neither ruth nor helen saw anything to feed their suspicion. "what shall we do now?" demanded tom. "where do you girls want to go?" "i don't care," helen said. "seen all you want to of that deserted island, ruthie?" "do you mind running back again, tom?" ruth asked. "i haven't any reason for asking it--no good reason, i mean." "pshaw! if we waited for a reason for everything we did, some things would never be done," returned tom, philosophically. "there isn't a thing there," declared helen. "but i don't care in the least where you sail us, tom." "only not to davy jones' locker, tommy," laughed ruth. "i'll run out a way, and then come back with the wind and cross in front of the island again," said tom, and he performed this feat in a very seamanlike manner. "i declare! there's a landing we didn't see sailing from the other direction," cried helen. "see it--between those two ledges?" "a regular dock; but you couldn't land there at high tide, or when there was any sea on," returned her brother. "that's the place!" exclaimed ruth. "see that white thing fluttering again? that's no seagull." "ruth is right," gasped helen. "oh, tom! there's something fluttering there--a handkerchief, is it?" "sing out! as loud as ever you can!" commanded the boy, eagerly. "hail the rock." they all three raised their voices. there was no answer. but tom was pointing the boat's nose directly for the opening between the sharp ledges. "if there is nobody on the thimble now, there _has_ been somebody there recently," he declared. "i'm going to drop the sail and run in there. stand by with the oars to fend off, girls. we don't want to scratch the catboat more than we can help." his sister and ruth sprang to obey him. each with an oar stood at either rail and the big sail came down on the run. but the _jennie s._ had headway sufficient to bring her straight into the opening between the ledges. tom ran forward, seized the rope in the bow, and leaped ashore, carrying the coil of the painter with him. helen and ruth succeeded in stopping the boat's headway with the oars, and the craft lay gently rocking in the natural dock, without having scraped her paint an atom. "a fine landing!" exclaimed tom, taking a turn or two with the rope about a knob of rock. "yes, indeed," returned ruth. she gave a look around. "my, what a lonely spot!" "it is lonely," the youth answered. "kind of a robinson crusoe place," and he gave a short laugh. "listen!" cried ruth, and held up her hand as a warning. "what did you hear, ruth?" "i thought i heard somebody talking, or calling." "you did?" tom listened intently. "i don't hear anything." he listened again. "yes, i do! where did it come from?" "i think it came from yonder," and the girl from the red mill pointed to a big, round rock ahead of them. "maybe it did, ruth. we'll--yes, you are right!" exclaimed the boy. as he spoke there was a scraping sound ahead of them and suddenly a tousled black head popped, up over the top of the boulder from which fluttered the bit of white linen that had first attracted ruth's attention. "gracious goodness!" gasped helen. "it's nita!" cried ruth. "oh, oh!" shrilled the lost girl, flying out of concealment and meeting ruth as she leaped ashore. "is it really you? have you come for me? i--i thought i'd have to stay here alone forever. i'd given up all hope of any boat seeing me, or my signal. i--i'm 'most dead of fear, ruth fielding! do, do take me back to land with you." the western girl was clearly panic-stricken. the boldness and independence she had formerly exhibited were entirely gone. being marooned on this barren islet had pretty well sapped the courage of miss jane ann hicks. chapter xxiv plucky mother purling tom cameron audibly chuckled; but he made believe to be busy with the painter of the catboat and so did not look at the western girl. the harum-scarum, independent, "rough and ready" runaway was actually on the verge of tears. but--really--it was not surprising. "how long have you been out here on this rock?" demanded helen, in horror. "ever since i left the bungalow." "why didn't you wave your signal from the top of the rock, so that it could be seen on the point?" asked ruth, wonderingly. "there's no way to get to the top of the rock--or around to the other side of it, either," declared the runaway. "look at these clothes! they are nearly torn off. and see my hands!" "oh, you poor, poor thing!" exclaimed helen, seeing how the castaway's hands were torn. "i tried it. i've shouted myself hoarse. no boat paid any attention to me. they were all too far away, i suppose." "and did that awful man, crab, bring you here?" cried ruth. "yes. it was dark when he landed and showed me this cave in the rock. there was food and water. why, i've got plenty to eat and drink even now. but nobody has been here----" "didn't he come back?" queried tom, at last taking part in the conversation. "he rowed out here once. i told him i'd sink his boat with a rock if he tried to land. i was afraid of him," declared the girl. "but why did you come here with him that night?" demanded ruth. "'cause i was foolish. i didn't know he was so bad then. i thought he'd really help me. he told me jennie's aunt had written to my uncle----" "old bill hicks," remarked tom, chuckling. "yes. i'm jane hicks. i'm not nita," said the girl, gulping down something like a sob. "we read all about you in the paper," said helen, soothingly. "don't you mind." "and your uncle's come, and he's just as anxious to see you as he can be," declared ruth. "so they _did_ send for him?" cried jane ann. "no. crab wrote a letter to silver ranch himself. he got you out here so as to be sure to collect five hundred dollars from your uncle before he gave you up," grunted tom. "nice mess of things you made by running off from us." "oh, i'll go back with uncle bill--i will, indeed," said the girl. "i've been so lonely and scared out here. seems to me every time the tide rose, i'd be drowned in that cave. the sea's horrid, i think! i never want to see it again." "well," tom observed, "i guess you won't have to worry about crab any more. get aboard the catboat. we'll slip ashore mighty easy now, and let him whistle for you--or the money. mr. hicks won't have to pay for getting you back." "i expect he's awful mad at me," sighed jane ann, _alias_ nita. "i know that he is awfully anxious to get you back again, my dear," said ruth. "he is altogether too good a man for you to run away from." "don't you suppose i know that, miss?" snapped the girl from the ranch. they embarked in the catboat and tom showed his seamanship to good advantage when he got the _jennie s._ out of that dock without rubbing her paint. but the wind was very light and they had to run down with it past the island and then beat up between the thimble and the lighthouse, toward the entrance to sokennet harbor. indeed, the breeze fell so at times that the catboat made no headway. in one of these calms helen sighted a rowboat some distance away, but pulling toward them from among the little chain of islands beyond the reef on which the lumber schooner had been wrecked. "here's a fisherman coming," she said. "do you suppose he'd take us ashore in his boat, tom? we could walk home from the light. it's growing late and miss kate will be worried." "why, sis, i can scull this old tub to the landing below the lighthouse yonder. we don't need to borrow a boat. then phineas can come around in the _miraflame_ to-morrow morning and tow the catboat home." but jane ann had leaped up at once to eye the coming rowboat--and not with favor. "that looks like the boat that crab came out to the thimble in," she exclaimed. "why! it _is_ him." "jack crab!" exclaimed helen, in terror. "he's after you, then." "well he won't get her," declared tom, boldly. "what can we do against that man?" demanded ruth, anxiously. "i'm afraid of him myself. let's try to get ashore." "yes, before he catches us," begged helen. "do, tom!" there was no hope of the wind helping them, and the man in the rowboat was pulling strongly for the becalmed _jennie s._ tom instantly dropped her sail and seized one of the oars. he could scull pretty well, and he forced the heavy boat through the quiet sea directly for the lighthouse landing. the three girls were really much disturbed; crab pulled his lighter boat much faster than tom could drive the _jennie s._ and it was a question if he would not overtake her before she reached the landing. "he sees me," said jane hicks, excitedly. "he'll get hold of me if he can. and maybe he'll hurt you folks." "he's got to catch us first," grunted tom, straining at the oar. "we're going to beat him, tommy!" cried helen, encouragingly. "don't give up!" once crab looked around and bawled some threat to them over his shoulder. but they did not reply. his voice inspired tom with renewed strength--or seemed to. the boy strained at his single oar, and the _jennie s._ moved landward at a good, stiff pace. "stand ready with the painter, ruth!" called tom, at last. "we must fasten the boat before we run." "and where will we run to?" demanded helen. "to the light, of course," returned her chum. "give _me_ the hitch-rein!" cried jane ann hicks, snatching the coil of line from ruth's hand, and the next moment she leaped from the deck of the catboat to the wharf. the distance was seven or eight feet, but she cleared it and landed on the stringpiece. she threw the line around one of the piles and made a knot with a dexterity that would have surprised her companions at another time. but there was no opportunity then for tom, helen and ruth to stop to notice it. all three got ashore the moment the catboat bumped, and they left her where she was and followed the flying western girl up the wharf and over the stretches of sand towards the lightkeeper's cottage. before their feet were off the planks of the wharf jack crab's boat collided with the _jennie s._ and the man scrambled upon her deck, and across it to the wharf. he left his own dory to go ashore if it would, and set out to catch the girl who--he considered--was worth five hundred dollars to him. but jane ann and her friends whisked into the little white house at the foot of the light shaft, and slammed the door before crab reached it. "for the land of goshen!" cried the old lady, who was sitting knitting in her tiny sitting-room. "what's the meaning of this?" "it's crab! it's jack crab!" cried helen, almost in hysterics. "he's after us!" tom had bolted the door. now crab thundered upon it, with both feet and fists. "let me in!" he roared from outside. "mother purling! you let me git that gal!" "what does this mean?" repeated the lighthouse keeper, sternly. "ain't this the gal that big man was after this morning?" she demanded, pointing at jane ann. "yes, mrs. purling--it is jane hicks. and this dreadful crab man has kept her out on the thimble all this time--alone!" cried ruth. "think of it! now he has chased us in here----" "i'll fix that jack crab," declared the plucky old woman, advancing toward the door. "hi, you, jack! go away from there." "you open this door, mother purling, if you knows what's best for you," commanded the sailor. "you better git away from that door, if you knows what's best for _you_, jack crab!" retorted the old woman. "i don't fear ye." "i see that man here this morning. did he leave aught for me?" cried crab, after a moment. "if he left the five hundred dollars he promised to give for the gal, he can have her. give me the money, and i'll go my ways." "i ain't no go-between for a scoundrel such as you, jack crab," declared the lighthouse keeper. "there's no money here for ye." "then i'll have the gal if i tear the lighthouse down for it--stone by stone!" roared the fellow. "and it's your kind that always blows before they breeches," declared mother purling, referring to the habit of the whale, which spouts before it upends and dives out of sight. "go away!" "i won't go away!" "yes, ye will, an' quick, too!" "old woman, ye don't know me!" stormed the unreasonable man. "i want that money, an' i'm bound to have it--one way or th' other!" "you'll get nuthin', jack crab, but a broken head if ye keep on in this fashion," returned the woman of the lighthouse, her honest wrath growing greater every moment. "we'll see about that!" howled the man. "are ye goin' to let me in or not?" "no, i tell ye! go away!" "then i'll bust my way in, see ef i don't!" at that the fellow threw himself against the door, and the screws of one hinge began to tear out of the woodwork. mother purling saw it, and motioned the frightened girls and tom toward the stairway which led to the gallery around the lantern. "go up yon!" she commanded. "shut and lock that door on ye. he'll not durst set foot on government property, and that's what the light is. go up." she shooed them all into the stairway and slammed the door. there she stood with her back against it, while, at the next blow, jack crab forced the outer door of her cottage inward and fell sprawling across its wreck into the room. chapter xxv what jane ann wanted ruth and her companions could not see what went on in the cottage; but they did not mount the stairs. they could not leave the old woman--plucky as she was--to fight jack crab alone. but they need not have been so fearful for mother purling's safety. the instant the man fell into the main room of the cottage, mother purling darted to the stove, seized the heavy poker which lay upon the hearth, and sprang for the rascal. jack crab had got upon his knees, threatening her with dire vengeance. the old lighthouse keeper never said a word in reply, but brought the heavy poker down upon his head and shoulders with right good will, and jack crab's tune changed on the instant. again and again mother purling struck him. he rolled upon the floor, trying to extricate himself from the wreck of her door, and so escape. but before he could do this, and before the old woman had ceased her attack, there was a shout outside, a horse was brought to an abrupt halt at the gate, and a huge figure in black flung itself from the saddle, and came running through the gate and up to the cottage. "what you got there, missus?" roared the deep voice of bill hicks, of bullhide, and at the sound of his voice jane ann burst open the door at the foot of the stairs and ran out to meet him. "this here's the man you want to meet, i guess," panted the old woman, desisting at length in her use of the poker. "do ye want him now, mister?" "uncle bill!" shrieked jane ann. "great cats!" cried the cattleman. "is it jane ann herself? is she alive?" the girl flung herself into the big man's arms. "i'm all right, uncle!" she cried, laughing and crying together. "and that man yonder didn't hurt me--only kep' me on a desert island till ruth and tom and helen found me." "then he kin go!" declared bill hicks, turning suddenly as crab started through the door. "and here's what will help him!" the westerner swung his heavy boot with the best intention in the world and caught jack crab just as he was going down the step. with a yell of pain the fellow sailed through the air, landing at least ten feet from the doorway. but he was up from his hands and knees and running hard in an instant, and he ran so hard, and to such good purpose, that he ran right out of this story then and there. ruth fielding and her friends never saw the treacherous fellow again. "but if he'd acted like he oughter," said mr. hicks, "and hadn't put my jane ann out on that thar lonesome rock, and treated her the way he done, i should have considered myself in his debt. i'd have paid him the five hundred dollars, sure enough. i'd have paid it over willingly if he'd left my gal with these nice people and only told me whar she was. but i wouldn't give him a cent now--not even if he was starvin'. for if i found him in that condition i'd see he got food and not money," and the big man chuckled. "so you haven't got to pay five hundred dollars for me, then, uncle bill?" said his niece, as they sat on the porch of the stones' bungalow, talking things over. "no, i haven't. no fault of yours, though, you little rascal. i dunno but i ought to divide it 'twixt them three friends of yourn that found ye." "not for us!" cried tom and helen. "nor for me," said ruth, earnestly. "it would not be right. i never should respect myself again if i thought i had tried to find nita for money." "but if it hadn't been for ruth we'd never have sailed over there to the thimble," declared tom. the western girl had been thinking seriously; now she seized her uncle by the arm. "i tell you what i want, uncle bill!" she cried. "something beside the pianner and the shift-on hat?" he grumbled, but his blue eyes twinkled. "those things don't count," she declared earnestly. "but this five hundred dollars, uncle bill, you haven't got to pay that crab man. so you just spend it by taking all these girls and boys that have been so nice to me out to silver ranch. they think it must be the finest place that ever happened--and i don't know but 'tis, uncle, if you don't have too much of it," she added. "great cats! that would shore be some doin's; wouldn't it?" exclaimed the cattleman, grinning broadly. "you bet it would! we'll take ruth and helen and tom and heavy an--why, every last one of 'em that'll go. we'll show 'em a right good time; is it a go, uncle bill?" and it certainly was "a go," for we shall meet ruth and her friends next in a volume entitled, "ruth fielding at silver ranch; or, schoolgirls among the cowboys." old bill hicks' hearty invitation could not be accepted, however, until the various young folks had written home to their parents and guardians about it. and the expectation of what fun they could have on silver ranch did not spoil the fun to be found closer at hand, at lighthouse point. the remainder of that fortnight at the bungalow would long be remembered by ruth and her girl friends, especially. mr. hicks got board at sokennet; but jane ann (although they all called her "nita" save the fox, who took some delight in teasing her about her ugly name) remained at the bungalow. the cattleman could not do too much for anybody who had been kind to his niece, and had the life saving men not refused absolutely to accept anything from him, he would have made them all a present because they had rescued jane ann from the wreck of the _whipstitch_. nevertheless, mr. hicks found out something that he _could_ do for the life-savers, and he presented the station with a fine library--something which all the surfmen, and cap'n abinadab as well, could enjoy during the long winter days and evenings. nor did the ranchman forget mother purling at the lighthouse. up from new york came the finest black silk dress and bonnet that the big man could buy for money in any shop, and no present could have so delighted the plucky old lighthouse keeper. she had longed, she said, for a black silk dress all her life. before the young folks departed from lighthouse point, too, miss kate invited the life-savers, and mother purling, and phineas and some of the other longshoremen and their wives to a "party" at the bungalow. and there were good things to eat (heavy saw to _that_, of course) and a moving-picture entertainment brought down from the city for that evening, and a big display of fireworks afterward on the shore. this wound up ruth fielding's visit to lighthouse point. the fortnight of fun was ended all too soon. she and helen and tom, and the rest of the visitors, started for home, all promising, if their parents and guardians agreed, to meet jane ann hicks and her uncle a week later, in syracuse, ready for the long and delightful journey across the continent to bullhide, montana. "well, we certainly did have some great times," was tom's comment, after the last goodbyes had been spoken and the young folks were homeward bound. "oh, it was lovely," answered his twin sister. "and think of how we helped nita--i mean jane ann." "most of the credit for that goes to ruth," said tom. "oh, no!" cried the girl from the red mill. "yes, we certainly had a grand time," she added. "i love the bounding sea, and the shifting sands, and the lighthouse, and all!" "oh, i do hope we can go out to that ranch!" sighed helen. "i have always wanted to visit such a place, to see the cattle and the cowboys, and the boundless prairies." "and i want to ride a broncho," put in her brother. "they say some of 'em can go like the wind. ruth, you'll have to ride, too." "take your last look at the sea!" came from heavy. "maybe we won't get another look at it for a long time." all turned to look at the rolling waves, glistening brightly in the summer sun. "isn't it lovely!" "good-bye, old ocean, good-bye!" sang out helen. ruth threw a kiss to the waves. then the ocean faded from their sight. and here we will leave ruth fielding and say good-bye. the end the ruth fielding series by alice b. emerson mo. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid ruth fielding was an orphan and came to live with her miserly uncle. her adventures and travels make stories that will hold the interest of every reader. ruth fielding is a character that will live in juvenile fiction. . ruth fielding of the red mill . ruth fielding at briarwood hall . ruth fielding at snow camp . ruth fielding at lighthouse point . ruth fielding at silver ranch . ruth fielding on cliff island . ruth fielding at sunrise farm . ruth fielding and the gypsies . ruth fielding in moving pictures . ruth fielding down in dixie . ruth fielding at college . ruth fielding in the saddle . ruth fielding in the red cross . ruth fielding at the war front . ruth fielding homeward bound . ruth fielding down east . ruth fielding in the great northwest . ruth fielding on the st. lawrence . ruth fielding treasure hunting . ruth fielding in the far north . ruth fielding at golden pass . ruth fielding in alaska . ruth fielding and her great scenario cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the betty gordon series by alice b. emerson mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid . betty gordon at bramble farm or the mystery of a nobody at twelve betty is left an orphan. . betty gordon in washington or strange adventures in a great city betty goes to the national capitol to find her uncle and has several unusual adventures. . betty gordon in the land of oil or the farm that was worth a fortune from washington the scene is shifted to the great oil fields of our country. a splendid picture of the oil field operations of to-day. . betty gordon at boarding school or the treasure of indian chasm seeking treasures of indian chasm makes interesting reading. . betty gordon at mountain camp or the mystery of ida bellethorne at mountain camp betty found herself in the midst of a mystery involving a girl whom she had previously met in washington. . betty gordon at ocean park or school chums on the boardwalk a glorious outing that betty and her chums never forgot. . betty gordon and her school chums or bringing the rebels to terms rebellious students, disliked teachers and mysterious robberies make a fascinating story. . betty gordon at rainbow ranch or cowboy joe's secret betty and her chums have a grand time in the saddle. . betty gordon in mexican wilds or the secret of the mountains betty receives a fake telegram and finds both bob and herself held for ransom in a mountain cave. . betty gordon and the lost pearl or a mystery of the seaside betty and her chums go to the ocean shore for a vacation and there betty becomes involved in the disappearance of a string of pearls worth a fortune. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the barton books for girls by may hollis barton mo. cloth. illustrated. with colored jacket price per volume, cents, postpaid may hollis barton is a new writer for girls who is bound to win instant popularity. her style is somewhat of a mixture of that of louisa m. alcott and mrs. l. t. meade, but thoroughly up-to-date in plot and action. clean tales that all girls will enjoy reading. . the girl from the country or laura mayford's city experiences laura was the oldest of five children and when daddy got sick she felt she must do something. she had a chance to try her luck in new york, and there the country girl fell in with many unusual experiences. . three girl chums at laurel hall or the mystery of the school by the lake when the three chums arrived at the boarding school they found the other students in the grip of a most perplexing mystery. how this mystery was solved, and what good times the girls had, both in school and on the lake, go to make a story no girl would care to miss. . nell grayson's ranching days or a city girl in the great west showing how nell, when she had a ranch girl visit her in boston, thought her chum very green, but when nell visited the ranch in the great west she found herself confronting many conditions of which she was totally ignorant. a stirring outdoor story. . four little women of roxby or the queer old lady who lost her way four sisters are keeping house and having trouble to make both ends meet. one day there wanders in from a stalled express train an old lady who cannot remember her identity. the girls take the old lady in, and, later, are much astonished to learn who she really is. . plain jane and pretty betty or the girl who won out the tale of two girls, one plain but sensible, the other pretty but vain. unexpectedly both find they have to make their way in the world. both have many trials and tribulations. a story of a country town and then a city. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the linger-not series by agnes miller mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid this new series of girls' books is in a new style of story writing. the interest is in knowing the girls and seeing them solve the problems that develop their character. incidentally, a great deal of historical information is imparted. . the linger-nots and the mystery house or the story of nine adventurous girls how the linger-not girls met and formed their club seems commonplace, but this writer makes it fascinating, and how they made their club serve a great purpose continues the interest to the end, and introduces a new type of girlhood. . the linger-nots and the valley feud or the great west point chain the linger-not girls had no thought of becoming mixed up with feuds or mysteries, but their habit of being useful soon entangled them in some surprising adventures that turned out happily for all, and made the valley better because of their visit. . the linger-nots and their golden quest or the log of the ocean monarch for a club of girls to become involved in a mystery leading back into the times of the california gold-rush, seems unnatural until the reader sees how it happened, and how the girls helped one of their friends to come into her rightful name and inheritance, forms a fine story. . the linger-nots and the whispering charms or the secret from old alaska whether engrossed in thrilling adventures in the far north or occupied with quiet home duties, the linger-not girls could work unitedly to solve a colorful mystery in a way that interpreted american freedom to a sad young stranger, and brought happiness to her and to themselves. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the girl scout series by lilian garis mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid the highest ideals of girlhood as advocated by the foremost organizations of america form the background for these stories and while unobtrusive there is a message in every volume. . the girl scout pioneers or winning the first b. c. a story of the true tred troop in a pennsylvania town. two runaway girls, who want to see the city, are reclaimed through troop influence. the story is correct in scout detail. . the girl scouts at bellaire or maid mary's awakening the story of a timid little maid who is afraid to take part in other girls' activities, while working nobly alone for high ideals. how she was discovered by the bellaire troop and came into her own as "maid mary" makes a fascinating story. . the girl scouts at sea crest or the wig wag rescue luna land, a little island by the sea, is wrapt in a mysterious seclusion, and kitty scuttle, a grotesque figure, succeeds in keeping all others at bay until the girl scouts come. . the girl scouts at camp comalong or peg of tamarack hills the girls of bobolink troop spend their summer on the shores of lake hocomo. their discovery of peg, the mysterious rider, and the clearing up of her remarkable adventures afford a vigorous plot. . the girl scouts at rocky ledge or nora's real vacation nora blair is the pampered daughter of a frivolous mother. her dislike for the rugged life of girl scouts is eventually changed to appreciation, when the rescue of little lucia, a woodland waif, becomes a problem for the girls to solve. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york billie bradley series by janet d. wheeler mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid . billie bradley and her inheritance or the queer homestead at cherry corners billie bradley fell heir to an old homestead that was unoccupied and located far away in a lonely section of the country. how billie went there, accompanied by some of her chums, and what queer things happened, go to make up a story no girl will want to miss. . billie bradley at three-towers hall or leading a needed rebellion three-towers hall was a boarding school for girls. for a short time after billie arrived there all went well. but then the head of the school had to go on a long journey and she left the girls in charge of two teachers, sisters, who believed in severe discipline and in very, very plain food and little of it--and then there was a row! the girls wired for the head to come back--and all ended happily. . billie bradley on lighthouse island or the mystery of the wreck one of billie's friends owned a summer bungalow on lighthouse island, near the coast. the school girls made up a party and visited the island. there was a storm and a wreck, and three little children were washed ashore. they could tell nothing of themselves, and billie and her chums set to work to solve the mystery of their identity. . billie bradley and her classmates or the secret of the locked tower billie and her chums come to the rescue of several little children who have broken through the ice. there is the mystery of a lost invention, and also the dreaded mystery of the locked school tower. . billie bradley at twin lakes or jolly schoolgirls afloat and ashore a tale of outdoor adventure in which billie and her chums have a great variety of adventures. they visit an artists' colony and there fall in with a strange girl living with an old boatman who abuses her constantly. billie befriended hulda and the mystery surrounding the girl was finally cleared up. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the curlytops series by howard r. garis author of the famous bedtime animal stories mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid . the curlytops at cherry farm or vacation days in the country a tale of happy vacation days on a farm. . the curlytops on star island or camping out with grandpa the curlytops camp on star island. . the curlytops snowed in or grand fun with skates and sleds the curlytops on lakes and hills. . the curlytops at uncle frank's ranch or little folks on ponyback out west on their uncle's ranch they have a wonderful time. . the curlytops at silver lake or on the water with uncle ben the curlytops camp out on the shores of a beautiful lake. . the curlytops and their pets or uncle toby's strange collection an old uncle leaves them to care for his collection of pets. . the curlytops and their playmates or jolly times through the holidays they have great times with their uncle's collection of animals. . the curlytops in the woods or fun at the lumber camp exciting times in the forest for curlytops. . the curlytops at sunset beach or what was found in the sand the curlytops have a fine time at the seashore. . the curlytops touring around or the missing photograph albums the curlytops get in some moving pictures. . the curlytops in a summer camp or animal joe's menagerie there is great excitement as some mischievous monkeys break out of animal joe's menagerie. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york four little blossom series by mabel c. hawley mo. cloth. illustrated. jacket in full colors price per volume, cents, postpaid . four little blossoms at brookside farm mother called them her four little blossoms, but daddy blossom called them bobby, meg, and the twins. the twins, twaddles and dot, were a comical pair and always getting into mischief. the children had heaps of fun around the big farm. . four little blossoms at oak hill school in the fall, bobby and meg had to go to school. it was good fun, for miss mason was a kind teacher. then the twins insisted on going to school, too, and their appearance quite upset the class. in school something very odd happened. . four little blossoms and their winter fun winter came and with it lots of ice and snow, and oh! what fun the blossoms had skating and sledding. and once bobby and meg went on an errand and got lost in a sudden snowstorm. . four little blossoms on apple tree island the four little blossoms went to a beautiful island in the middle of a big lake and there had a grand time on the water and in the woods. and in a deserted cabin they found some letters which helped an old man to find his missing wife. . four little blossoms through the holidays the story starts at thanksgiving. they went skating and coasting, and they built a wonderful snowman, and one day bobby and his chums visited a carpenter shop on the sly, and that night the shop burnt down, and there was trouble for the boys. send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york the dorothy dale series by margaret penrose author of the motor girls series, radio girls series, & c. mo. illustrated price per volume, $ . , postpaid dorothy dale is the daughter of an old civil war veteran who is running a weekly newspaper in a small eastern town. her sunny disposition, her fun-loving ways and her trials and triumphs make clean, interesting and fascinating reading. the dorothy dale series is one of the most popular series of books for girls ever published. dorothy dale: a girl of to-day dorothy dale at glen wood school dorothy dale's great secret dorothy dale and her chums dorothy dale's queer holidays dorothy dale's camping days dorothy dale's school rivals dorothy dale in the city dorothy dale's promise dorothy dale in the west dorothy dale's strange discovery dorothy dale's engagement dorothy dale to the rescue send for our free illustrated catalogue cupples & leon company, publishers--new york huckleberry finn by mark twain part . chapter xxxi. we dasn't stop again at any town for days and days; kept right along down the river. we was down south in the warm weather now, and a mighty long ways from home. we begun to come to trees with spanish moss on them, hanging down from the limbs like long, gray beards. it was the first i ever see it growing, and it made the woods look solemn and dismal. so now the frauds reckoned they was out of danger, and they begun to work the villages again. first they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn't make enough for them both to get drunk on. then in another village they started a dancing-school; but they didn't know no more how to dance than a kangaroo does; so the first prance they made the general public jumped in and pranced them out of town. another time they tried to go at yellocution; but they didn't yellocute long till the audience got up and give them a solid good cussing, and made them skip out. they tackled missionarying, and mesmerizing, and doctoring, and telling fortunes, and a little of everything; but they couldn't seem to have no luck. so at last they got just about dead broke, and laid around the raft as she floated along, thinking and thinking, and never saying nothing, by the half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and desperate. and at last they took a change and begun to lay their heads together in the wigwam and talk low and confidential two or three hours at a time. jim and me got uneasy. we didn't like the look of it. we judged they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than ever. we turned it over and over, and at last we made up our minds they was going to break into somebody's house or store, or was going into the counterfeit-money business, or something. so then we was pretty scared, and made up an agreement that we wouldn't have nothing in the world to do with such actions, and if we ever got the least show we would give them the cold shake and clear out and leave them behind. well, early one morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place about two mile below a little bit of a shabby village named pikesville, and the king he went ashore and told us all to stay hid whilst he went up to town and smelt around to see if anybody had got any wind of the royal nonesuch there yet. ("house to rob, you mean," says i to myself; "and when you get through robbing it you'll come back here and wonder what has become of me and jim and the raft--and you'll have to take it out in wondering.") and he said if he warn't back by midday the duke and me would know it was all right, and we was to come along. so we stayed where we was. the duke he fretted and sweated around, and was in a mighty sour way. he scolded us for everything, and we couldn't seem to do nothing right; he found fault with every little thing. something was a-brewing, sure. i was good and glad when midday come and no king; we could have a change, anyway--and maybe a chance for the chance on top of it. so me and the duke went up to the village, and hunted around there for the king, and by and by we found him in the back room of a little low doggery, very tight, and a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a-cussing and a-threatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn't walk, and couldn't do nothing to them. the duke he begun to abuse him for an old fool, and the king begun to sass back, and the minute they was fairly at it i lit out and shook the reefs out of my hind legs, and spun down the river road like a deer, for i see our chance; and i made up my mind that it would be a long day before they ever see me and jim again. i got down there all out of breath but loaded up with joy, and sung out: "set her loose, jim! we're all right now!" but there warn't no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. jim was gone! i set up a shout--and then another--and then another one; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but it warn't no use--old jim was gone. then i set down and cried; i couldn't help it. but i couldn't set still long. pretty soon i went out on the road, trying to think what i better do, and i run across a boy walking, and asked him if he'd seen a strange nigger dressed so and so, and he says: "yes." "whereabouts?" says i. "down to silas phelps' place, two mile below here. he's a runaway nigger, and they've got him. was you looking for him?" "you bet i ain't! i run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago, and he said if i hollered he'd cut my livers out--and told me to lay down and stay where i was; and i done it. been there ever since; afeard to come out." "well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more, becuz they've got him. he run off f'm down south, som'ers." "it's a good job they got him." "well, i reckon! there's two hunderd dollars reward on him. it's like picking up money out'n the road." "yes, it is--and i could a had it if i'd been big enough; i see him first. who nailed him?" "it was an old fellow--a stranger--and he sold out his chance in him for forty dollars, becuz he's got to go up the river and can't wait. think o' that, now! you bet i'd wait, if it was seven year." "that's me, every time," says i. "but maybe his chance ain't worth no more than that, if he'll sell it so cheap. maybe there's something ain't straight about it." "but it is, though--straight as a string. i see the handbill myself. it tells all about him, to a dot--paints him like a picture, and tells the plantation he's frum, below newrleans. no-sirree-bob, they ain't no trouble 'bout that speculation, you bet you. say, gimme a chaw tobacker, won't ye?" i didn't have none, so he left. i went to the raft, and set down in the wigwam to think. but i couldn't come to nothing. i thought till i wore my head sore, but i couldn't see no way out of the trouble. after all this long journey, and after all we'd done for them scoundrels, here it was all come to nothing, everything all busted up and ruined, because they could have the heart to serve jim such a trick as that, and make him a slave again all his life, and amongst strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars. once i said to myself it would be a thousand times better for jim to be a slave at home where his family was, as long as he'd got to be a slave, and so i'd better write a letter to tom sawyer and tell him to tell miss watson where he was. but i soon give up that notion for two things: she'd be mad and disgusted at his rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she'd sell him straight down the river again; and if she didn't, everybody naturally despises an ungrateful nigger, and they'd make jim feel it all the time, and so he'd feel ornery and disgraced. and then think of me! it would get all around that huck finn helped a nigger to get his freedom; and if i was ever to see anybody from that town again i'd be ready to get down and lick his boots for shame. that's just the way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he don't want to take no consequences of it. thinks as long as he can hide, it ain't no disgrace. that was my fix exactly. the more i studied about this the more my conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and ornery i got to feeling. and at last, when it hit me all of a sudden that here was the plain hand of providence slapping me in the face and letting me know my wickedness was being watched all the time from up there in heaven, whilst i was stealing a poor old woman's nigger that hadn't ever done me no harm, and now was showing me there's one that's always on the lookout, and ain't a-going to allow no such miserable doings to go only just so fur and no further, i most dropped in my tracks i was so scared. well, i tried the best i could to kinder soften it up somehow for myself by saying i was brung up wicked, and so i warn't so much to blame; but something inside of me kept saying, "there was the sunday-school, you could a gone to it; and if you'd a done it they'd a learnt you there that people that acts as i'd been acting about that nigger goes to everlasting fire." it made me shiver. and i about made up my mind to pray, and see if i couldn't try to quit being the kind of a boy i was and be better. so i kneeled down. but the words wouldn't come. why wouldn't they? it warn't no use to try and hide it from him. nor from me, neither. i knowed very well why they wouldn't come. it was because my heart warn't right; it was because i warn't square; it was because i was playing double. i was letting on to give up sin, but away inside of me i was holding on to the biggest one of all. i was trying to make my mouth say i would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go and write to that nigger's owner and tell where he was; but deep down in me i knowed it was a lie, and he knowed it. you can't pray a lie--i found that out. so i was full of trouble, full as i could be; and didn't know what to do. at last i had an idea; and i says, i'll go and write the letter--and then see if i can pray. why, it was astonishing, the way i felt as light as a feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone. so i got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote: miss watson, your runaway nigger jim is down here two mile below pikesville, and mr. phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send. huck finn. i felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time i had ever felt so in my life, and i knowed i could pray now. but i didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking--thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near i come to being lost and going to hell. and went on thinking. and got to thinking over our trip down the river; and i see jim before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing. but somehow i couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. i'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so i could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when i come back out of the fog; and when i come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last i struck the time i saved him by telling the men we had small-pox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said i was the best friend old jim ever had in the world, and the only one he's got now; and then i happened to look around and see that paper. it was a close place. i took it up, and held it in my hand. i was a-trembling, because i'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and i knowed it. i studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: "all right, then, i'll go to hell"--and tore it up. it was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. and i let them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. i shoved the whole thing out of my head, and said i would take up wickedness again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other warn't. and for a starter i would go to work and steal jim out of slavery again; and if i could think up anything worse, i would do that, too; because as long as i was in, and in for good, i might as well go the whole hog. then i set to thinking over how to get at it, and turned over some considerable many ways in my mind; and at last fixed up a plan that suited me. so then i took the bearings of a woody island that was down the river a piece, and as soon as it was fairly dark i crept out with my raft and went for it, and hid it there, and then turned in. i slept the night through, and got up before it was light, and had my breakfast, and put on my store clothes, and tied up some others and one thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for shore. i landed below where i judged was phelps's place, and hid my bundle in the woods, and then filled up the canoe with water, and loaded rocks into her and sunk her where i could find her again when i wanted her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam sawmill that was on the bank. then i struck up the road, and when i passed the mill i see a sign on it, "phelps's sawmill," and when i come to the farm-houses, two or three hundred yards further along, i kept my eyes peeled, but didn't see nobody around, though it was good daylight now. but i didn't mind, because i didn't want to see nobody just yet--i only wanted to get the lay of the land. according to my plan, i was going to turn up there from the village, not from below. so i just took a look, and shoved along, straight for town. well, the very first man i see when i got there was the duke. he was sticking up a bill for the royal nonesuch--three-night performance--like that other time. they had the cheek, them frauds! i was right on him before i could shirk. he looked astonished, and says: "hel-lo! where'd you come from?" then he says, kind of glad and eager, "where's the raft?--got her in a good place?" i says: "why, that's just what i was going to ask your grace." then he didn't look so joyful, and says: "what was your idea for asking me?" he says. "well," i says, "when i see the king in that doggery yesterday i says to myself, we can't get him home for hours, till he's soberer; so i went a-loafing around town to put in the time and wait. a man up and offered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river and back to fetch a sheep, and so i went along; but when we was dragging him to the boat, and the man left me a-holt of the rope and went behind him to shove him along, he was too strong for me and jerked loose and run, and we after him. we didn't have no dog, and so we had to chase him all over the country till we tired him out. we never got him till dark; then we fetched him over, and i started down for the raft. when i got there and see it was gone, i says to myself, 'they've got into trouble and had to leave; and they've took my nigger, which is the only nigger i've got in the world, and now i'm in a strange country, and ain't got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way to make my living;' so i set down and cried. i slept in the woods all night. but what did become of the raft, then?--and jim--poor jim!" "blamed if i know--that is, what's become of the raft. that old fool had made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him in the doggery the loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got every cent but what he'd spent for whisky; and when i got him home late last night and found the raft gone, we said, 'that little rascal has stole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.'" "i wouldn't shake my nigger, would i?--the only nigger i had in the world, and the only property." "we never thought of that. fact is, i reckon we'd come to consider him our nigger; yes, we did consider him so--goodness knows we had trouble enough for him. so when we see the raft was gone and we flat broke, there warn't anything for it but to try the royal nonesuch another shake. and i've pegged along ever since, dry as a powder-horn. where's that ten cents? give it here." i had considerable money, so i give him ten cents, but begged him to spend it for something to eat, and give me some, because it was all the money i had, and i hadn't had nothing to eat since yesterday. he never said nothing. the next minute he whirls on me and says: "do you reckon that nigger would blow on us? we'd skin him if he done that!" "how can he blow? hain't he run off?" "no! that old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the money's gone." "sold him?" i says, and begun to cry; "why, he was my nigger, and that was my money. where is he?--i want my nigger." "well, you can't get your nigger, that's all--so dry up your blubbering. looky here--do you think you'd venture to blow on us? blamed if i think i'd trust you. why, if you was to blow on us--" he stopped, but i never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes before. i went on a-whimpering, and says: "i don't want to blow on nobody; and i ain't got no time to blow, nohow. i got to turn out and find my nigger." he looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead. at last he says: "i'll tell you something. we got to be here three days. if you'll promise you won't blow, and won't let the nigger blow, i'll tell you where to find him." so i promised, and he says: "a farmer by the name of silas ph--" and then he stopped. you see, he started to tell me the truth; but when he stopped that way, and begun to study and think again, i reckoned he was changing his mind. and so he was. he wouldn't trust me; he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way the whole three days. so pretty soon he says: "the man that bought him is named abram foster--abram g. foster--and he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to lafayette." "all right," i says, "i can walk it in three days. and i'll start this very afternoon." "no you wont, you'll start now; and don't you lose any time about it, neither, nor do any gabbling by the way. just keep a tight tongue in your head and move right along, and then you won't get into trouble with us, d'ye hear?" that was the order i wanted, and that was the one i played for. i wanted to be left free to work my plans. "so clear out," he says; "and you can tell mr. foster whatever you want to. maybe you can get him to believe that jim is your nigger--some idiots don't require documents--leastways i've heard there's such down south here. and when you tell him the handbill and the reward's bogus, maybe he'll believe you when you explain to him what the idea was for getting 'em out. go 'long now, and tell him anything you want to; but mind you don't work your jaw any between here and there." so i left, and struck for the back country. i didn't look around, but i kinder felt like he was watching me. but i knowed i could tire him out at that. i went straight out in the country as much as a mile before i stopped; then i doubled back through the woods towards phelps'. i reckoned i better start in on my plan straight off without fooling around, because i wanted to stop jim's mouth till these fellows could get away. i didn't want no trouble with their kind. i'd seen all i wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them. chapter xxxii. when i got there it was all still and sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny; the hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind of faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so lonesome and like everybody's dead and gone; and if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful, because you feel like it's spirits whispering--spirits that's been dead ever so many years--and you always think they're talking about you. as a general thing it makes a body wish he was dead, too, and done with it all. phelps' was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations, and they all look alike. a rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile made out of logs sawed off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different length, to climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand on when they are going to jump on to a horse; some sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like an old hat with the nap rubbed off; big double log-house for the white folks--hewed logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar, and these mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or another; round-log kitchen, with a big broad, open but roofed passage joining it to the house; log smoke-house back of the kitchen; three little log nigger-cabins in a row t'other side the smoke-house; one little hut all by itself away down against the back fence, and some outbuildings down a piece the other side; ash-hopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; bench by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a gourd; hound asleep there in the sun; more hounds asleep round about; about three shade trees away off in a corner; some currant bushes and gooseberry bushes in one place by the fence; outside of the fence a garden and a watermelon patch; then the cotton fields begins, and after the fields the woods. i went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper, and started for the kitchen. when i got a little ways i heard the dim hum of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down again; and then i knowed for certain i wished i was dead--for that is the lonesomest sound in the whole world. i went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but just trusting to providence to put the right words in my mouth when the time come; for i'd noticed that providence always did put the right words in my mouth if i left it alone. when i got half-way, first one hound and then another got up and went for me, and of course i stopped and faced them, and kept still. and such another powwow as they made! in a quarter of a minute i was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may say--spokes made out of dogs--circle of fifteen of them packed together around me, with their necks and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and howling; and more a-coming; you could see them sailing over fences and around corners from everywheres. a nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, "begone you tige! you spot! begone sah!" and she fetched first one and then another of them a clip and sent them howling, and then the rest followed; and the next second half of them come back, wagging their tails around me, and making friends with me. there ain't no harm in a hound, nohow. and behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little nigger boys without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they hung on to their mother's gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bashful, the way they always do. and here comes the white woman running from the house, about forty-five or fifty year old, bareheaded, and her spinning-stick in her hand; and behind her comes her little white children, acting the same way the little niggers was going. she was smiling all over so she could hardly stand--and says: "it's you, at last!--ain't it?" i out with a "yes'm" before i thought. she grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me by both hands and shook and shook; and the tears come in her eyes, and run down over; and she couldn't seem to hug and shake enough, and kept saying, "you don't look as much like your mother as i reckoned you would; but law sakes, i don't care for that, i'm so glad to see you! dear, dear, it does seem like i could eat you up! children, it's your cousin tom!--tell him howdy." but they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their mouths, and hid behind her. so she run on: "lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right away--or did you get your breakfast on the boat?" i said i had got it on the boat. so then she started for the house, leading me by the hand, and the children tagging after. when we got there she set me down in a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down on a little low stool in front of me, holding both of my hands, and says: "now i can have a good look at you; and, laws-a-me, i've been hungry for it a many and a many a time, all these long years, and it's come at last! we been expecting you a couple of days and more. what kep' you?--boat get aground?" "yes'm--she--" "don't say yes'm--say aunt sally. where'd she get aground?" i didn't rightly know what to say, because i didn't know whether the boat would be coming up the river or down. but i go a good deal on instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up--from down towards orleans. that didn't help me much, though; for i didn't know the names of bars down that way. i see i'd got to invent a bar, or forget the name of the one we got aground on--or--now i struck an idea, and fetched it out: "it warn't the grounding--that didn't keep us back but a little. we blowed out a cylinder-head." "good gracious! anybody hurt?" "no'm. killed a nigger." "well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. two years ago last christmas your uncle silas was coming up from newrleans on the old lally rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled a man. and i think he died afterwards. he was a baptist. your uncle silas knowed a family in baton rouge that knowed his people very well. yes, i remember now, he did die. mortification set in, and they had to amputate him. but it didn't save him. yes, it was mortification--that was it. he turned blue all over, and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection. they say he was a sight to look at. your uncle's been up to the town every day to fetch you. and he's gone again, not more'n an hour ago; he'll be back any minute now. you must a met him on the road, didn't you?--oldish man, with a--" "no, i didn't see nobody, aunt sally. the boat landed just at daylight, and i left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking around the town and out a piece in the country, to put in the time and not get here too soon; and so i come down the back way." "who'd you give the baggage to?" "nobody." "why, child, it 'll be stole!" "not where i hid it i reckon it won't," i says. "how'd you get your breakfast so early on the boat?" it was kinder thin ice, but i says: "the captain see me standing around, and told me i better have something to eat before i went ashore; so he took me in the texas to the officers' lunch, and give me all i wanted." i was getting so uneasy i couldn't listen good. i had my mind on the children all the time; i wanted to get them out to one side and pump them a little, and find out who i was. but i couldn't get no show, mrs. phelps kept it up and run on so. pretty soon she made the cold chills streak all down my back, because she says: "but here we're a-running on this way, and you hain't told me a word about sis, nor any of them. now i'll rest my works a little, and you start up yourn; just tell me everything--tell me all about 'm all every one of 'm; and how they are, and what they're doing, and what they told you to tell me; and every last thing you can think of." well, i see i was up a stump--and up it good. providence had stood by me this fur all right, but i was hard and tight aground now. i see it warn't a bit of use to try to go ahead--i'd got to throw up my hand. so i says to myself, here's another place where i got to resk the truth. i opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me and hustled me in behind the bed, and says: "here he comes! stick your head down lower--there, that'll do; you can't be seen now. don't you let on you're here. i'll play a joke on him. children, don't you say a word." i see i was in a fix now. but it warn't no use to worry; there warn't nothing to do but just hold still, and try and be ready to stand from under when the lightning struck. i had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come in; then the bed hid him. mrs. phelps she jumps for him, and says: "has he come?" "no," says her husband. "good-ness gracious!" she says, "what in the warld can have become of him?" "i can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and i must say it makes me dreadful uneasy." "uneasy!" she says; "i'm ready to go distracted! he must a come; and you've missed him along the road. i know it's so--something tells me so." "why, sally, i couldn't miss him along the road--you know that." "but oh, dear, dear, what will sis say! he must a come! you must a missed him. he--" "oh, don't distress me any more'n i'm already distressed. i don't know what in the world to make of it. i'm at my wit's end, and i don't mind acknowledging 't i'm right down scared. but there's no hope that he's come; for he couldn't come and me miss him. sally, it's terrible--just terrible--something's happened to the boat, sure!" "why, silas! look yonder!--up the road!--ain't that somebody coming?" he sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that give mrs. phelps the chance she wanted. she stooped down quick at the foot of the bed and give me a pull, and out i come; and when he turned back from the window there she stood, a-beaming and a-smiling like a house afire, and i standing pretty meek and sweaty alongside. the old gentleman stared, and says: "why, who's that?" "who do you reckon 't is?" "i hain't no idea. who is it?" "it's tom sawyer!" by jings, i most slumped through the floor! but there warn't no time to swap knives; the old man grabbed me by the hand and shook, and kept on shaking; and all the time how the woman did dance around and laugh and cry; and then how they both did fire off questions about sid, and mary, and the rest of the tribe. but if they was joyful, it warn't nothing to what i was; for it was like being born again, i was so glad to find out who i was. well, they froze to me for two hours; and at last, when my chin was so tired it couldn't hardly go any more, i had told them more about my family--i mean the sawyer family--than ever happened to any six sawyer families. and i explained all about how we blowed out a cylinder-head at the mouth of white river, and it took us three days to fix it. which was all right, and worked first-rate; because they didn't know but what it would take three days to fix it. if i'd a called it a bolthead it would a done just as well. now i was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty uncomfortable all up the other. being tom sawyer was easy and comfortable, and it stayed easy and comfortable till by and by i hear a steamboat coughing along down the river. then i says to myself, s'pose tom sawyer comes down on that boat? and s'pose he steps in here any minute, and sings out my name before i can throw him a wink to keep quiet? well, i couldn't have it that way; it wouldn't do at all. i must go up the road and waylay him. so i told the folks i reckoned i would go up to the town and fetch down my baggage. the old gentleman was for going along with me, but i said no, i could drive the horse myself, and i druther he wouldn't take no trouble about me. chapter xxxiii. so i started for town in the wagon, and when i was half-way i see a wagon coming, and sure enough it was tom sawyer, and i stopped and waited till he come along. i says "hold on!" and it stopped alongside, and his mouth opened up like a trunk, and stayed so; and he swallowed two or three times like a person that's got a dry throat, and then says: "i hain't ever done you no harm. you know that. so, then, what you want to come back and ha'nt me for?" i says: "i hain't come back--i hain't been gone." when he heard my voice it righted him up some, but he warn't quite satisfied yet. he says: "don't you play nothing on me, because i wouldn't on you. honest injun, you ain't a ghost?" "honest injun, i ain't," i says. "well--i--i--well, that ought to settle it, of course; but i can't somehow seem to understand it no way. looky here, warn't you ever murdered at all?" "no. i warn't ever murdered at all--i played it on them. you come in here and feel of me if you don't believe me." so he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was that glad to see me again he didn't know what to do. and he wanted to know all about it right off, because it was a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so it hit him where he lived. but i said, leave it alone till by and by; and told his driver to wait, and we drove off a little piece, and i told him the kind of a fix i was in, and what did he reckon we better do? he said, let him alone a minute, and don't disturb him. so he thought and thought, and pretty soon he says: "it's all right; i've got it. take my trunk in your wagon, and let on it's your'n; and you turn back and fool along slow, so as to get to the house about the time you ought to; and i'll go towards town a piece, and take a fresh start, and get there a quarter or a half an hour after you; and you needn't let on to know me at first." i says: "all right; but wait a minute. there's one more thing--a thing that nobody don't know but me. and that is, there's a nigger here that i'm a-trying to steal out of slavery, and his name is jim--old miss watson's jim." he says: "what! why, jim is--" he stopped and went to studying. i says: "i know what you'll say. you'll say it's dirty, low-down business; but what if it is? i'm low down; and i'm a-going to steal him, and i want you keep mum and not let on. will you?" his eye lit up, and he says: "i'll help you steal him!" well, i let go all holts then, like i was shot. it was the most astonishing speech i ever heard--and i'm bound to say tom sawyer fell considerable in my estimation. only i couldn't believe it. tom sawyer a nigger-stealer! "oh, shucks!" i says; "you're joking." "i ain't joking, either." "well, then," i says, "joking or no joking, if you hear anything said about a runaway nigger, don't forget to remember that you don't know nothing about him, and i don't know nothing about him." then we took the trunk and put it in my wagon, and he drove off his way and i drove mine. but of course i forgot all about driving slow on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so i got home a heap too quick for that length of a trip. the old gentleman was at the door, and he says: "why, this is wonderful! whoever would a thought it was in that mare to do it? i wish we'd a timed her. and she hain't sweated a hair--not a hair. it's wonderful. why, i wouldn't take a hundred dollars for that horse now--i wouldn't, honest; and yet i'd a sold her for fifteen before, and thought 'twas all she was worth." that's all he said. he was the innocentest, best old soul i ever see. but it warn't surprising; because he warn't only just a farmer, he was a preacher, too, and had a little one-horse log church down back of the plantation, which he built it himself at his own expense, for a church and schoolhouse, and never charged nothing for his preaching, and it was worth it, too. there was plenty other farmer-preachers like that, and done the same way, down south. in about half an hour tom's wagon drove up to the front stile, and aunt sally she see it through the window, because it was only about fifty yards, and says: "why, there's somebody come! i wonder who 'tis? why, i do believe it's a stranger. jimmy" (that's one of the children) "run and tell lize to put on another plate for dinner." everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, a stranger don't come every year, and so he lays over the yaller-fever, for interest, when he does come. tom was over the stile and starting for the house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the village, and we was all bunched in the front door. tom had his store clothes on, and an audience--and that was always nuts for tom sawyer. in them circumstances it warn't no trouble to him to throw in an amount of style that was suitable. he warn't a boy to meeky along up that yard like a sheep; no, he come ca'm and important, like the ram. when he got a-front of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and dainty, like it was the lid of a box that had butterflies asleep in it and he didn't want to disturb them, and says: "mr. archibald nichols, i presume?" "no, my boy," says the old gentleman, "i'm sorry to say 't your driver has deceived you; nichols's place is down a matter of three mile more. come in, come in." tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says, "too late--he's out of sight." "yes, he's gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner with us; and then we'll hitch up and take you down to nichols's." "oh, i can't make you so much trouble; i couldn't think of it. i'll walk --i don't mind the distance." "but we won't let you walk--it wouldn't be southern hospitality to do it. come right in." "oh, do," says aunt sally; "it ain't a bit of trouble to us, not a bit in the world. you must stay. it's a long, dusty three mile, and we can't let you walk. and, besides, i've already told 'em to put on another plate when i see you coming; so you mustn't disappoint us. come right in and make yourself at home." so tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let himself be persuaded, and come in; and when he was in he said he was a stranger from hicksville, ohio, and his name was william thompson--and he made another bow. well, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff about hicksville and everybody in it he could invent, and i getting a little nervious, and wondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and at last, still talking along, he reached over and kissed aunt sally right on the mouth, and then settled back again in his chair comfortable, and was going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with the back of her hand, and says: "you owdacious puppy!" he looked kind of hurt, and says: "i'm surprised at you, m'am." "you're s'rp--why, what do you reckon i am? i've a good notion to take and--say, what do you mean by kissing me?" he looked kind of humble, and says: "i didn't mean nothing, m'am. i didn't mean no harm. i--i--thought you'd like it." "why, you born fool!" she took up the spinning stick, and it looked like it was all she could do to keep from giving him a crack with it. "what made you think i'd like it?" "well, i don't know. only, they--they--told me you would." "they told you i would. whoever told you's another lunatic. i never heard the beat of it. who's they?" "why, everybody. they all said so, m'am." it was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her fingers worked like she wanted to scratch him; and she says: "who's 'everybody'? out with their names, or ther'll be an idiot short." he got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says: "i'm sorry, and i warn't expecting it. they told me to. they all told me to. they all said, kiss her; and said she'd like it. they all said it--every one of them. but i'm sorry, m'am, and i won't do it no more --i won't, honest." "you won't, won't you? well, i sh'd reckon you won't!" "no'm, i'm honest about it; i won't ever do it again--till you ask me." "till i ask you! well, i never see the beat of it in my born days! i lay you'll be the methusalem-numskull of creation before ever i ask you --or the likes of you." "well," he says, "it does surprise me so. i can't make it out, somehow. they said you would, and i thought you would. but--" he stopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across a friendly eye somewheres, and fetched up on the old gentleman's, and says, "didn't you think she'd like me to kiss her, sir?" "why, no; i--i--well, no, i b'lieve i didn't." then he looks on around the same way to me, and says: "tom, didn't you think aunt sally 'd open out her arms and say, 'sid sawyer--'" "my land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for him, "you impudent young rascal, to fool a body so--" and was going to hug him, but he fended her off, and says: "no, not till you've asked me first." so she didn't lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and kissed him over and over again, and then turned him over to the old man, and he took what was left. and after they got a little quiet again she says: "why, dear me, i never see such a surprise. we warn't looking for you at all, but only tom. sis never wrote to me about anybody coming but him." "it's because it warn't intended for any of us to come but tom," he says; "but i begged and begged, and at the last minute she let me come, too; so, coming down the river, me and tom thought it would be a first-rate surprise for him to come here to the house first, and for me to by and by tag along and drop in, and let on to be a stranger. but it was a mistake, aunt sally. this ain't no healthy place for a stranger to come." "no--not impudent whelps, sid. you ought to had your jaws boxed; i hain't been so put out since i don't know when. but i don't care, i don't mind the terms--i'd be willing to stand a thousand such jokes to have you here. well, to think of that performance! i don't deny it, i was most putrified with astonishment when you give me that smack." we had dinner out in that broad open passage betwixt the house and the kitchen; and there was things enough on that table for seven families --and all hot, too; none of your flabby, tough meat that's laid in a cupboard in a damp cellar all night and tastes like a hunk of old cold cannibal in the morning. uncle silas he asked a pretty long blessing over it, but it was worth it; and it didn't cool it a bit, neither, the way i've seen them kind of interruptions do lots of times. there was a considerable good deal of talk all the afternoon, and me and tom was on the lookout all the time; but it warn't no use, they didn't happen to say nothing about any runaway nigger, and we was afraid to try to work up to it. but at supper, at night, one of the little boys says: "pa, mayn't tom and sid and me go to the show?" "no," says the old man, "i reckon there ain't going to be any; and you couldn't go if there was; because the runaway nigger told burton and me all about that scandalous show, and burton said he would tell the people; so i reckon they've drove the owdacious loafers out of town before this time." so there it was!--but i couldn't help it. tom and me was to sleep in the same room and bed; so, being tired, we bid good-night and went up to bed right after supper, and clumb out of the window and down the lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for i didn't believe anybody was going to give the king and the duke a hint, and so if i didn't hurry up and give them one they'd get into trouble sure. on the road tom he told me all about how it was reckoned i was murdered, and how pap disappeared pretty soon, and didn't come back no more, and what a stir there was when jim run away; and i told tom all about our royal nonesuch rapscallions, and as much of the raft voyage as i had time to; and as we struck into the town and up through the--here comes a raging rush of people with torches, and an awful whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing horns; and we jumped to one side to let them go by; and as they went by i see they had the king and the duke astraddle of a rail--that is, i knowed it was the king and the duke, though they was all over tar and feathers, and didn't look like nothing in the world that was human--just looked like a couple of monstrous big soldier-plumes. well, it made me sick to see it; and i was sorry for them poor pitiful rascals, it seemed like i couldn't ever feel any hardness against them any more in the world. it was a dreadful thing to see. human beings can be awful cruel to one another. we see we was too late--couldn't do no good. we asked some stragglers about it, and they said everybody went to the show looking very innocent; and laid low and kept dark till the poor old king was in the middle of his cavortings on the stage; then somebody give a signal, and the house rose up and went for them. so we poked along back home, and i warn't feeling so brash as i was before, but kind of ornery, and humble, and to blame, somehow--though i hadn't done nothing. but that's always the way; it don't make no difference whether you do right or wrong, a person's conscience ain't got no sense, and just goes for him anyway. if i had a yaller dog that didn't know no more than a person's conscience does i would pison him. it takes up more room than all the rest of a person's insides, and yet ain't no good, nohow. tom sawyer he says the same. chapter xxxiv. we stopped talking, and got to thinking. by and by tom says: "looky here, huck, what fools we are to not think of it before! i bet i know where jim is." "no! where?" "in that hut down by the ash-hopper. why, looky here. when we was at dinner, didn't you see a nigger man go in there with some vittles?" "yes." "what did you think the vittles was for?" "for a dog." "so 'd i. well, it wasn't for a dog." "why?" "because part of it was watermelon." "so it was--i noticed it. well, it does beat all that i never thought about a dog not eating watermelon. it shows how a body can see and don't see at the same time." "well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and he locked it again when he came out. he fetched uncle a key about the time we got up from table--same key, i bet. watermelon shows man, lock shows prisoner; and it ain't likely there's two prisoners on such a little plantation, and where the people's all so kind and good. jim's the prisoner. all right--i'm glad we found it out detective fashion; i wouldn't give shucks for any other way. now you work your mind, and study out a plan to steal jim, and i will study out one, too; and we'll take the one we like the best." what a head for just a boy to have! if i had tom sawyer's head i wouldn't trade it off to be a duke, nor mate of a steamboat, nor clown in a circus, nor nothing i can think of. i went to thinking out a plan, but only just to be doing something; i knowed very well where the right plan was going to come from. pretty soon tom says: "ready?" "yes," i says. "all right--bring it out." "my plan is this," i says. "we can easy find out if it's jim in there. then get up my canoe to-morrow night, and fetch my raft over from the island. then the first dark night that comes steal the key out of the old man's britches after he goes to bed, and shove off down the river on the raft with jim, hiding daytimes and running nights, the way me and jim used to do before. wouldn't that plan work?" "work? why, cert'nly it would work, like rats a-fighting. but it's too blame' simple; there ain't nothing to it. what's the good of a plan that ain't no more trouble than that? it's as mild as goose-milk. why, huck, it wouldn't make no more talk than breaking into a soap factory." i never said nothing, because i warn't expecting nothing different; but i knowed mighty well that whenever he got his plan ready it wouldn't have none of them objections to it. and it didn't. he told me what it was, and i see in a minute it was worth fifteen of mine for style, and would make jim just as free a man as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. so i was satisfied, and said we would waltz in on it. i needn't tell what it was here, because i knowed it wouldn't stay the way, it was. i knowed he would be changing it around every which way as we went along, and heaving in new bullinesses wherever he got a chance. and that is what he done. well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that tom sawyer was in earnest, and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of slavery. that was the thing that was too many for me. here was a boy that was respectable and well brung up; and had a character to lose; and folks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not leather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but kind; and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his family a shame, before everybody. i couldn't understand it no way at all. it was outrageous, and i knowed i ought to just up and tell him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right where he was and save himself. and i did start to tell him; but he shut me up, and says: "don't you reckon i know what i'm about? don't i generly know what i'm about?" "yes." "didn't i say i was going to help steal the nigger?" "yes." "well, then." that's all he said, and that's all i said. it warn't no use to say any more; because when he said he'd do a thing, he always done it. but i couldn't make out how he was willing to go into this thing; so i just let it go, and never bothered no more about it. if he was bound to have it so, i couldn't help it. when we got home the house was all dark and still; so we went on down to the hut by the ash-hopper for to examine it. we went through the yard so as to see what the hounds would do. they knowed us, and didn't make no more noise than country dogs is always doing when anything comes by in the night. when we got to the cabin we took a look at the front and the two sides; and on the side i warn't acquainted with--which was the north side--we found a square window-hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed across it. i says: "here's the ticket. this hole's big enough for jim to get through if we wrench off the board." tom says: "it's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as playing hooky. i should hope we can find a way that's a little more complicated than that, huck finn." "well, then," i says, "how 'll it do to saw him out, the way i done before i was murdered that time?" "that's more like," he says. "it's real mysterious, and troublesome, and good," he says; "but i bet we can find a way that's twice as long. there ain't no hurry; le's keep on looking around." betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to that joined the hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank. it was as long as the hut, but narrow--only about six foot wide. the door to it was at the south end, and was padlocked. tom he went to the soap-kettle and searched around, and fetched back the iron thing they lift the lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the staples. the chain fell down, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck a match, and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn't no connection with it; and there warn't no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks and a crippled plow. the match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever. tom was joyful. he says; "now we're all right. we'll dig him out. it 'll take about a week!" then we started for the house, and i went in the back door--you only have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don't fasten the doors--but that warn't romantical enough for tom sawyer; no way would do him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. but after he got up half way about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the last time most busted his brains out, he thought he'd got to give it up; but after he was rested he allowed he would give her one more turn for luck, and this time he made the trip. in the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger cabins to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed jim--if it was jim that was being fed. the niggers was just getting through breakfast and starting for the fields; and jim's nigger was piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the others was leaving, the key come from the house. this nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool was all tied up in little bunches with thread. that was to keep witches off. he said the witches was pestering him awful these nights, and making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn't believe he was ever witched so long before in his life. he got so worked up, and got to running on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he'd been a-going to do. so tom says: "what's the vittles for? going to feed the dogs?" the nigger kind of smiled around gradually over his face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says: "yes, mars sid, a dog. cur'us dog, too. does you want to go en look at 'im?" "yes." i hunched tom, and whispers: "you going, right here in the daybreak? that warn't the plan." "no, it warn't; but it's the plan now." so, drat him, we went along, but i didn't like it much. when we got in we couldn't hardly see anything, it was so dark; but jim was there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out: "why, huck! en good lan'! ain' dat misto tom?" i just knowed how it would be; i just expected it. i didn't know nothing to do; and if i had i couldn't a done it, because that nigger busted in and says: "why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?" we could see pretty well now. tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says: "does who know us?" "why, dis-yer runaway nigger." "i don't reckon he does; but what put that into your head?" "what put it dar? didn' he jis' dis minute sing out like he knowed you?" tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way: "well, that's mighty curious. who sung out? when did he sing out? what did he sing out?" and turns to me, perfectly ca'm, and says, "did you hear anybody sing out?" of course there warn't nothing to be said but the one thing; so i says: "no; i ain't heard nobody say nothing." then he turns to jim, and looks him over like he never see him before, and says: "did you sing out?" "no, sah," says jim; "i hain't said nothing, sah." "not a word?" "no, sah, i hain't said a word." "did you ever see us before?" "no, sah; not as i knows on." so tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed, and says, kind of severe: "what do you reckon's the matter with you, anyway? what made you think somebody sung out?" "oh, it's de dad-blame' witches, sah, en i wisht i was dead, i do. dey's awluz at it, sah, en dey do mos' kill me, dey sk'yers me so. please to don't tell nobody 'bout it sah, er ole mars silas he'll scole me; 'kase he say dey ain't no witches. i jis' wish to goodness he was heah now --den what would he say! i jis' bet he couldn' fine no way to git aroun' it dis time. but it's awluz jis' so; people dat's sot, stays sot; dey won't look into noth'n'en fine it out f'r deyselves, en when you fine it out en tell um 'bout it, dey doan' b'lieve you." tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn't tell nobody; and told him to buy some more thread to tie up his wool with; and then looks at jim, and says: "i wonder if uncle silas is going to hang this nigger. if i was to catch a nigger that was ungrateful enough to run away, i wouldn't give him up, i'd hang him." and whilst the nigger stepped to the door to look at the dime and bite it to see if it was good, he whispers to jim and says: "don't ever let on to know us. and if you hear any digging going on nights, it's us; we're going to set you free." jim only had time to grab us by the hand and squeeze it; then the nigger come back, and we said we'd come again some time if the nigger wanted us to; and he said he would, more particular if it was dark, because the witches went for him mostly in the dark, and it was good to have folks around then. chapter xxxv. it would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we left and struck down into the woods; because tom said we got to have some light to see how to dig by, and a lantern makes too much, and might get us into trouble; what we must have was a lot of them rotten chunks that's called fox-fire, and just makes a soft kind of a glow when you lay them in a dark place. we fetched an armful and hid it in the weeds, and set down to rest, and tom says, kind of dissatisfied: "blame it, this whole thing is just as easy and awkward as it can be. and so it makes it so rotten difficult to get up a difficult plan. there ain't no watchman to be drugged--now there ought to be a watchman. there ain't even a dog to give a sleeping-mixture to. and there's jim chained by one leg, with a ten-foot chain, to the leg of his bed: why, all you got to do is to lift up the bedstead and slip off the chain. and uncle silas he trusts everybody; sends the key to the punkin-headed nigger, and don't send nobody to watch the nigger. jim could a got out of that window-hole before this, only there wouldn't be no use trying to travel with a ten-foot chain on his leg. why, drat it, huck, it's the stupidest arrangement i ever see. you got to invent all the difficulties. well, we can't help it; we got to do the best we can with the materials we've got. anyhow, there's one thing--there's more honor in getting him out through a lot of difficulties and dangers, where there warn't one of them furnished to you by the people who it was their duty to furnish them, and you had to contrive them all out of your own head. now look at just that one thing of the lantern. when you come down to the cold facts, we simply got to let on that a lantern's resky. why, we could work with a torchlight procession if we wanted to, i believe. now, whilst i think of it, we got to hunt up something to make a saw out of the first chance we get." "what do we want of a saw?" "what do we want of a saw? hain't we got to saw the leg of jim's bed off, so as to get the chain loose?" "why, you just said a body could lift up the bedstead and slip the chain off." "well, if that ain't just like you, huck finn. you can get up the infant-schooliest ways of going at a thing. why, hain't you ever read any books at all?--baron trenck, nor casanova, nor benvenuto chelleeny, nor henri iv., nor none of them heroes? who ever heard of getting a prisoner loose in such an old-maidy way as that? no; the way all the best authorities does is to saw the bed-leg in two, and leave it just so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can't be found, and put some dirt and grease around the sawed place so the very keenest seneskal can't see no sign of it's being sawed, and thinks the bed-leg is perfectly sound. then, the night you're ready, fetch the leg a kick, down she goes; slip off your chain, and there you are. nothing to do but hitch your rope ladder to the battlements, shin down it, break your leg in the moat --because a rope ladder is nineteen foot too short, you know--and there's your horses and your trusty vassles, and they scoop you up and fling you across a saddle, and away you go to your native langudoc, or navarre, or wherever it is. it's gaudy, huck. i wish there was a moat to this cabin. if we get time, the night of the escape, we'll dig one." i says: "what do we want of a moat when we're going to snake him out from under the cabin?" but he never heard me. he had forgot me and everything else. he had his chin in his hand, thinking. pretty soon he sighs and shakes his head; then sighs again, and says: "no, it wouldn't do--there ain't necessity enough for it." "for what?" i says. "why, to saw jim's leg off," he says. "good land!" i says; "why, there ain't no necessity for it. and what would you want to saw his leg off for, anyway?" "well, some of the best authorities has done it. they couldn't get the chain off, so they just cut their hand off and shoved. and a leg would be better still. but we got to let that go. there ain't necessity enough in this case; and, besides, jim's a nigger, and wouldn't understand the reasons for it, and how it's the custom in europe; so we'll let it go. but there's one thing--he can have a rope ladder; we can tear up our sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough. and we can send it to him in a pie; it's mostly done that way. and i've et worse pies." "why, tom sawyer, how you talk," i says; "jim ain't got no use for a rope ladder." "he has got use for it. how you talk, you better say; you don't know nothing about it. he's got to have a rope ladder; they all do." "what in the nation can he do with it?" "do with it? he can hide it in his bed, can't he?" that's what they all do; and he's got to, too. huck, you don't ever seem to want to do anything that's regular; you want to be starting something fresh all the time. s'pose he don't do nothing with it? ain't it there in his bed, for a clew, after he's gone? and don't you reckon they'll want clews? of course they will. and you wouldn't leave them any? that would be a pretty howdy-do, wouldn't it! i never heard of such a thing." "well," i says, "if it's in the regulations, and he's got to have it, all right, let him have it; because i don't wish to go back on no regulations; but there's one thing, tom sawyer--if we go to tearing up our sheets to make jim a rope ladder, we're going to get into trouble with aunt sally, just as sure as you're born. now, the way i look at it, a hickry-bark ladder don't cost nothing, and don't waste nothing, and is just as good to load up a pie with, and hide in a straw tick, as any rag ladder you can start; and as for jim, he ain't had no experience, and so he don't care what kind of a--" "oh, shucks, huck finn, if i was as ignorant as you i'd keep still --that's what i'd do. who ever heard of a state prisoner escaping by a hickry-bark ladder? why, it's perfectly ridiculous." "well, all right, tom, fix it your own way; but if you'll take my advice, you'll let me borrow a sheet off of the clothesline." he said that would do. and that gave him another idea, and he says: "borrow a shirt, too." "what do we want of a shirt, tom?" "want it for jim to keep a journal on." "journal your granny--jim can't write." "s'pose he can't write--he can make marks on the shirt, can't he, if we make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece of an old iron barrel-hoop?" "why, tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a better one; and quicker, too." "prisoners don't have geese running around the donjon-keep to pull pens out of, you muggins. they always make their pens out of the hardest, toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or something like that they can get their hands on; and it takes them weeks and weeks and months and months to file it out, too, because they've got to do it by rubbing it on the wall. they wouldn't use a goose-quill if they had it. it ain't regular." "well, then, what'll we make him the ink out of?" "many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that's the common sort and women; the best authorities uses their own blood. jim can do that; and when he wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious message to let the world know where he's captivated, he can write it on the bottom of a tin plate with a fork and throw it out of the window. the iron mask always done that, and it's a blame' good way, too." "jim ain't got no tin plates. they feed him in a pan." "that ain't nothing; we can get him some." "can't nobody read his plates." "that ain't got anything to do with it, huck finn. all he's got to do is to write on the plate and throw it out. you don't have to be able to read it. why, half the time you can't read anything a prisoner writes on a tin plate, or anywhere else." "well, then, what's the sense in wasting the plates?" "why, blame it all, it ain't the prisoner's plates." "but it's somebody's plates, ain't it?" "well, spos'n it is? what does the prisoner care whose--" he broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing. so we cleared out for the house. along during the morning i borrowed a sheet and a white shirt off of the clothes-line; and i found an old sack and put them in it, and we went down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too. i called it borrowing, because that was what pap always called it; but tom said it warn't borrowing, it was stealing. he said we was representing prisoners; and prisoners don't care how they get a thing so they get it, and nobody don't blame them for it, either. it ain't no crime in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away with, tom said; it's his right; and so, as long as we was representing a prisoner, we had a perfect right to steal anything on this place we had the least use for to get ourselves out of prison with. he said if we warn't prisoners it would be a very different thing, and nobody but a mean, ornery person would steal when he warn't a prisoner. so we allowed we would steal everything there was that come handy. and yet he made a mighty fuss, one day, after that, when i stole a watermelon out of the nigger-patch and eat it; and he made me go and give the niggers a dime without telling them what it was for. tom said that what he meant was, we could steal anything we needed. well, i says, i needed the watermelon. but he said i didn't need it to get out of prison with; there's where the difference was. he said if i'd a wanted it to hide a knife in, and smuggle it to jim to kill the seneskal with, it would a been all right. so i let it go at that, though i couldn't see no advantage in my representing a prisoner if i got to set down and chaw over a lot of gold-leaf distinctions like that every time i see a chance to hog a watermelon. well, as i was saying, we waited that morning till everybody was settled down to business, and nobody in sight around the yard; then tom he carried the sack into the lean-to whilst i stood off a piece to keep watch. by and by he come out, and we went and set down on the woodpile to talk. he says: "everything's all right now except tools; and that's easy fixed." "tools?" i says. "yes." "tools for what?" "why, to dig with. we ain't a-going to gnaw him out, are we?" "ain't them old crippled picks and things in there good enough to dig a nigger out with?" i says. he turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and says: "huck finn, did you ever hear of a prisoner having picks and shovels, and all the modern conveniences in his wardrobe to dig himself out with? now i want to ask you--if you got any reasonableness in you at all--what kind of a show would that give him to be a hero? why, they might as well lend him the key and done with it. picks and shovels--why, they wouldn't furnish 'em to a king." "well, then," i says, "if we don't want the picks and shovels, what do we want?" "a couple of case-knives." "to dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?" "yes." "confound it, it's foolish, tom." "it don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's the right way--and it's the regular way. and there ain't no other way, that ever i heard of, and i've read all the books that gives any information about these things. they always dig out with a case-knife--and not through dirt, mind you; generly it's through solid rock. and it takes them weeks and weeks and weeks, and for ever and ever. why, look at one of them prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the castle deef, in the harbor of marseilles, that dug himself out that way; how long was he at it, you reckon?" "i don't know." "well, guess." "i don't know. a month and a half." "thirty-seven year--and he come out in china. that's the kind. i wish the bottom of this fortress was solid rock." "jim don't know nobody in china." "what's that got to do with it? neither did that other fellow. but you're always a-wandering off on a side issue. why can't you stick to the main point?" "all right--i don't care where he comes out, so he comes out; and jim don't, either, i reckon. but there's one thing, anyway--jim's too old to be dug out with a case-knife. he won't last." "yes he will last, too. you don't reckon it's going to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a dirt foundation, do you?" "how long will it take, tom?" "well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to, because it mayn't take very long for uncle silas to hear from down there by new orleans. he'll hear jim ain't from there. then his next move will be to advertise jim, or something like that. so we can't resk being as long digging him out as we ought to. by rights i reckon we ought to be a couple of years; but we can't. things being so uncertain, what i recommend is this: that we really dig right in, as quick as we can; and after that, we can let on, to ourselves, that we was at it thirty-seven years. then we can snatch him out and rush him away the first time there's an alarm. yes, i reckon that 'll be the best way." "now, there's sense in that," i says. "letting on don't cost nothing; letting on ain't no trouble; and if it's any object, i don't mind letting on we was at it a hundred and fifty year. it wouldn't strain me none, after i got my hand in. so i'll mosey along now, and smouch a couple of case-knives." "smouch three," he says; "we want one to make a saw out of." "tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest it," i says, "there's an old rusty saw-blade around yonder sticking under the weather-boarding behind the smoke-house." he looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says: "it ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, huck. run along and smouch the knives--three of them." so i done it. huckleberry finn by mark twain part . notice persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. by order of the author, per g.g., chief of ordnance. explanatory in this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods southwestern dialect; the ordinary "pike county" dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. the shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech. i make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding. the author. huckleberry finn scene: the mississippi valley time: forty to fifty years ago chapter i. you don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of the adventures of tom sawyer; but that ain't no matter. that book was made by mr. mark twain, and he told the truth, mainly. there was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. that is nothing. i never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was aunt polly, or the widow, or maybe mary. aunt polly--tom's aunt polly, she is--and mary, and the widow douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as i said before. now the way that the book winds up is this: tom and me found the money that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. we got six thousand dollars apiece--all gold. it was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. well, judge thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round --more than a body could tell what to do with. the widow douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when i couldn't stand it no longer i lit out. i got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. but tom sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and i might join if i would go back to the widow and be respectable. so i went back. the widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. she put me in them new clothes again, and i couldn't do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. well, then, the old thing commenced again. the widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. when you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them,--that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. in a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better. after supper she got out her book and learned me about moses and the bulrushers, and i was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then i didn't care no more about him, because i don't take no stock in dead people. pretty soon i wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. but she wouldn't. she said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and i must try to not do it any more. that is just the way with some people. they get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. here she was a-bothering about moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. and she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself. her sister, miss watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book. she worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up. i couldn't stood it much longer. then for an hour it was deadly dull, and i was fidgety. miss watson would say, "don't put your feet up there, huckleberry;" and "don't scrunch up like that, huckleberry--set up straight;" and pretty soon she would say, "don't gap and stretch like that, huckleberry--why don't you try to behave?" then she told me all about the bad place, and i said i wished i was there. she got mad then, but i didn't mean no harm. all i wanted was to go somewheres; all i wanted was a change, i warn't particular. she said it was wicked to say what i said; said she wouldn't say it for the whole world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place. well, i couldn't see no advantage in going where she was going, so i made up my mind i wouldn't try for it. but i never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn't do no good. now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place. she said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. so i didn't think much of it. but i never said so. i asked her if she reckoned tom sawyer would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight. i was glad about that, because i wanted him and me to be together. miss watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome. by and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and then everybody was off to bed. i went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put it on the table. then i set down in a chair by the window and tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn't no use. i felt so lonesome i most wished i was dead. the stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and i heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to whisper something to me, and i couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers run over me. then away out in the woods i heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. i got so down-hearted and scared i did wish i had some company. pretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and i flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before i could budge it was all shriveled up. i didn't need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so i was scared and most shook the clothes off of me. i got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed my breast every time; and then i tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. but i hadn't no confidence. you do that when you've lost a horseshoe that you've found, instead of nailing it up over the door, but i hadn't ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you'd killed a spider. i set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn't know. well, after a long time i heard the clock away off in the town go boom--boom--boom--twelve licks; and all still again--stiller than ever. pretty soon i heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees --something was a stirring. i set still and listened. directly i could just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there. that was good! says i, "me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as i could, and then i put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. then i slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was tom sawyer waiting for me. chapter ii. we went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back towards the end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads. when we was passing by the kitchen i fell over a root and made a noise. we scrouched down and laid still. miss watson's big nigger, named jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him. he got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. then he says: "who dah?" he listened some more; then he come tiptoeing down and stood right between us; we could a touched him, nearly. well, likely it was minutes and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together. there was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but i dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my back, right between my shoulders. seemed like i'd die if i couldn't scratch. well, i've noticed that thing plenty times since. if you are with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't sleepy--if you are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upwards of a thousand places. pretty soon jim says: "say, who is you? whar is you? dog my cats ef i didn' hear sumf'n. well, i know what i's gwyne to do: i's gwyne to set down here and listen tell i hears it agin." so he set down on the ground betwixt me and tom. he leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. my nose begun to itch. it itched till the tears come into my eyes. but i dasn't scratch. then it begun to itch on the inside. next i got to itching underneath. i didn't know how i was going to set still. this miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. i was itching in eleven different places now. i reckoned i couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but i set my teeth hard and got ready to try. just then jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore--and then i was pretty soon comfortable again. tom he made a sign to me--kind of a little noise with his mouth--and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. when we was ten foot off tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie jim to the tree for fun. but i said no; he might wake and make a disturbance, and then they'd find out i warn't in. then tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. i didn't want him to try. i said jim might wake up and come. but tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and tom laid five cents on the table for pay. then we got out, and i was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do tom but he must crawl to where jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. i waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome. as soon as tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. tom said he slipped jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. afterwards jim said the witches be witched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the state, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. and next time jim told it he said they rode him down to new orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other niggers. niggers would come miles to hear jim tell about it, and he was more looked up to than any nigger in that country. strange niggers would stand with their mouths open and look him all over, same as if he was a wonder. niggers is always talking about witches in the dark by the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting on to know all about such things, jim would happen in and say, "hm! what you know 'bout witches?" and that nigger was corked up and had to take a back seat. jim always kept that five-center piece round his neck with a string, and said it was a charm the devil give to him with his own hands, and told him he could cure anybody with it and fetch witches whenever he wanted to just by saying something to it; but he never told what it was he said to it. niggers would come from all around there and give jim anything they had, just for a sight of that five-center piece; but they wouldn't touch it, because the devil had had his hands on it. jim was most ruined for a servant, because he got stuck up on account of having seen the devil and been rode by witches. well, when tom and me got to the edge of the hilltop we looked away down into the village and could see three or four lights twinkling, where there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever so fine; and down by the village was the river, a whole mile broad, and awful still and grand. we went down the hill and found jo harper and ben rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in the old tanyard. so we unhitched a skiff and pulled down the river two mile and a half, to the big scar on the hillside, and went ashore. we went to a clump of bushes, and tom made everybody swear to keep the secret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in the thickest part of the bushes. then we lit the candles, and crawled in on our hands and knees. we went about two hundred yards, and then the cave opened up. tom poked about amongst the passages, and pretty soon ducked under a wall where you wouldn't a noticed that there was a hole. we went along a narrow place and got into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. tom says: "now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it tom sawyer's gang. everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and write his name in blood." everybody was willing. so tom got out a sheet of paper that he had wrote the oath on, and read it. it swore every boy to stick to the band, and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done anything to any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill that person and his family must do it, and he mustn't eat and he mustn't sleep till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their breasts, which was the sign of the band. and nobody that didn't belong to the band could use that mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if he done it again he must be killed. and if anybody that belonged to the band told the secrets, he must have his throat cut, and then have his carcass burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and his name blotted off of the list with blood and never mentioned again by the gang, but have a curse put on it and be forgot forever. everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and asked tom if he got it out of his own head. he said, some of it, but the rest was out of pirate-books and robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned had it. some thought it would be good to kill the families of boys that told the secrets. tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil and wrote it in. then ben rogers says: "here's huck finn, he hain't got no family; what you going to do 'bout him?" "well, hain't he got a father?" says tom sawyer. "yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find him these days. he used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he hain't been seen in these parts for a year or more." they talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they said every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn't be fair and square for the others. well, nobody could think of anything to do--everybody was stumped, and set still. i was most ready to cry; but all at once i thought of a way, and so i offered them miss watson--they could kill her. everybody said: "oh, she'll do. that's all right. huck can come in." then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign with, and i made my mark on the paper. "now," says ben rogers, "what's the line of business of this gang?" "nothing only robbery and murder," tom said. "but who are we going to rob?--houses, or cattle, or--" "stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't robbery; it's burglary," says tom sawyer. "we ain't burglars. that ain't no sort of style. we are highwaymen. we stop stages and carriages on the road, with masks on, and kill the people and take their watches and money." "must we always kill the people?" "oh, certainly. it's best. some authorities think different, but mostly it's considered best to kill them--except some that you bring to the cave here, and keep them till they're ransomed." "ransomed? what's that?" "i don't know. but that's what they do. i've seen it in books; and so of course that's what we've got to do." "but how can we do it if we don't know what it is?" "why, blame it all, we've got to do it. don't i tell you it's in the books? do you want to go to doing different from what's in the books, and get things all muddled up?" "oh, that's all very fine to say, tom sawyer, but how in the nation are these fellows going to be ransomed if we don't know how to do it to them? --that's the thing i want to get at. now, what do you reckon it is?" "well, i don't know. but per'aps if we keep them till they're ransomed, it means that we keep them till they're dead." "now, that's something like. that'll answer. why couldn't you said that before? we'll keep them till they're ransomed to death; and a bothersome lot they'll be, too--eating up everything, and always trying to get loose." "how you talk, ben rogers. how can they get loose when there's a guard over them, ready to shoot them down if they move a peg?" "a guard! well, that is good. so somebody's got to set up all night and never get any sleep, just so as to watch them. i think that's foolishness. why can't a body take a club and ransom them as soon as they get here?" "because it ain't in the books so--that's why. now, ben rogers, do you want to do things regular, or don't you?--that's the idea. don't you reckon that the people that made the books knows what's the correct thing to do? do you reckon you can learn 'em anything? not by a good deal. no, sir, we'll just go on and ransom them in the regular way." "all right. i don't mind; but i say it's a fool way, anyhow. say, do we kill the women, too?" "well, ben rogers, if i was as ignorant as you i wouldn't let on. kill the women? no; nobody ever saw anything in the books like that. you fetch them to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie to them; and by and by they fall in love with you, and never want to go home any more." "well, if that's the way i'm agreed, but i don't take no stock in it. mighty soon we'll have the cave so cluttered up with women, and fellows waiting to be ransomed, that there won't be no place for the robbers. but go ahead, i ain't got nothing to say." little tommy barnes was asleep now, and when they waked him up he was scared, and cried, and said he wanted to go home to his ma, and didn't want to be a robber any more. so they all made fun of him, and called him cry-baby, and that made him mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the secrets. but tom give him five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go home and meet next week, and rob somebody and kill some people. ben rogers said he couldn't get out much, only sundays, and so he wanted to begin next sunday; but all the boys said it would be wicked to do it on sunday, and that settled the thing. they agreed to get together and fix a day as soon as they could, and then we elected tom sawyer first captain and jo harper second captain of the gang, and so started home. i clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was breaking. my new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and i was dog-tired. chapter iii. well, i got a good going-over in the morning from old miss watson on account of my clothes; but the widow she didn't scold, but only cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry that i thought i would behave awhile if i could. then miss watson she took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. she told me to pray every day, and whatever i asked for i would get it. but it warn't so. i tried it. once i got a fish-line, but no hooks. it warn't any good to me without hooks. i tried for the hooks three or four times, but somehow i couldn't make it work. by and by, one day, i asked miss watson to try for me, but she said i was a fool. she never told me why, and i couldn't make it out no way. i set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about it. i says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray for, why don't deacon winn get back the money he lost on pork? why can't the widow get back her silver snuffbox that was stole? why can't miss watson fat up? no, says i to my self, there ain't nothing in it. i went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get by praying for it was "spiritual gifts." this was too many for me, but she told me what she meant--i must help other people, and do everything i could for other people, and look out for them all the time, and never think about myself. this was including miss watson, as i took it. i went out in the woods and turned it over in my mind a long time, but i couldn't see no advantage about it--except for the other people; so at last i reckoned i wouldn't worry about it any more, but just let it go. sometimes the widow would take me one side and talk about providence in a way to make a body's mouth water; but maybe next day miss watson would take hold and knock it all down again. i judged i could see that there was two providences, and a poor chap would stand considerable show with the widow's providence, but if miss watson's got him there warn't no help for him any more. i thought it all out, and reckoned i would belong to the widow's if he wanted me, though i couldn't make out how he was a-going to be any better off then than what he was before, seeing i was so ignorant, and so kind of low-down and ornery. pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and that was comfortable for me; i didn't want to see him no more. he used to always whale me when he was sober and could get his hands on me; though i used to take to the woods most of the time when he was around. well, about this time he was found in the river drownded, about twelve mile above town, so people said. they judged it was him, anyway; said this drownded man was just his size, and was ragged, and had uncommon long hair, which was all like pap; but they couldn't make nothing out of the face, because it had been in the water so long it warn't much like a face at all. they said he was floating on his back in the water. they took him and buried him on the bank. but i warn't comfortable long, because i happened to think of something. i knowed mighty well that a drownded man don't float on his back, but on his face. so i knowed, then, that this warn't pap, but a woman dressed up in a man's clothes. so i was uncomfortable again. i judged the old man would turn up again by and by, though i wished he wouldn't. we played robber now and then about a month, and then i resigned. all the boys did. we hadn't robbed nobody, hadn't killed any people, but only just pretended. we used to hop out of the woods and go charging down on hog-drivers and women in carts taking garden stuff to market, but we never hived any of them. tom sawyer called the hogs "ingots," and he called the turnips and stuff "julery," and we would go to the cave and powwow over what we had done, and how many people we had killed and marked. but i couldn't see no profit in it. one time tom sent a boy to run about town with a blazing stick, which he called a slogan (which was the sign for the gang to get together), and then he said he had got secret news by his spies that next day a whole parcel of spanish merchants and rich a-rabs was going to camp in cave hollow with two hundred elephants, and six hundred camels, and over a thousand "sumter" mules, all loaded down with di'monds, and they didn't have only a guard of four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade, as he called it, and kill the lot and scoop the things. he said we must slick up our swords and guns, and get ready. he never could go after even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath and broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted, and then they warn't worth a mouthful of ashes more than what they was before. i didn't believe we could lick such a crowd of spaniards and a-rabs, but i wanted to see the camels and elephants, so i was on hand next day, saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the word we rushed out of the woods and down the hill. but there warn't no spaniards and a-rabs, and there warn't no camels nor no elephants. it warn't anything but a sunday-school picnic, and only a primer-class at that. we busted it up, and chased the children up the hollow; but we never got anything but some doughnuts and jam, though ben rogers got a rag doll, and jo harper got a hymn-book and a tract; and then the teacher charged in, and made us drop everything and cut. i didn't see no di'monds, and i told tom sawyer so. he said there was loads of them there, anyway; and he said there was a-rabs there, too, and elephants and things. i said, why couldn't we see them, then? he said if i warn't so ignorant, but had read a book called don quixote, i would know without asking. he said it was all done by enchantment. he said there was hundreds of soldiers there, and elephants and treasure, and so on, but we had enemies which he called magicians; and they had turned the whole thing into an infant sunday-school, just out of spite. i said, all right; then the thing for us to do was to go for the magicians. tom sawyer said i was a numskull. "why," said he, "a magician could call up a lot of genies, and they would hash you up like nothing before you could say jack robinson. they are as tall as a tree and as big around as a church." "well," i says, "s'pose we got some genies to help us--can't we lick the other crowd then?" "how you going to get them?" "i don't know. how do they get them?" "why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the genies come tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping around and the smoke a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up and do it. they don't think nothing of pulling a shot-tower up by the roots, and belting a sunday-school superintendent over the head with it--or any other man." "who makes them tear around so?" "why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. they belong to whoever rubs the lamp or the ring, and they've got to do whatever he says. if he tells them to build a palace forty miles long out of di'monds, and fill it full of chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an emperor's daughter from china for you to marry, they've got to do it--and they've got to do it before sun-up next morning, too. and more: they've got to waltz that palace around over the country wherever you want it, you understand." "well," says i, "i think they are a pack of flat-heads for not keeping the palace themselves 'stead of fooling them away like that. and what's more--if i was one of them i would see a man in jericho before i would drop my business and come to him for the rubbing of an old tin lamp." "how you talk, huck finn. why, you'd have to come when he rubbed it, whether you wanted to or not." "what! and i as high as a tree and as big as a church? all right, then; i would come; but i lay i'd make that man climb the highest tree there was in the country." "shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, huck finn. you don't seem to know anything, somehow--perfect saphead." i thought all this over for two or three days, and then i reckoned i would see if there was anything in it. i got an old tin lamp and an iron ring, and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till i sweat like an injun, calculating to build a palace and sell it; but it warn't no use, none of the genies come. so then i judged that all that stuff was only just one of tom sawyer's lies. i reckoned he believed in the a-rabs and the elephants, but as for me i think different. it had all the marks of a sunday-school. chapter iv. well, three or four months run along, and it was well into the winter now. i had been to school most all the time and could spell and read and write just a little, and could say the multiplication table up to six times seven is thirty-five, and i don't reckon i could ever get any further than that if i was to live forever. i don't take no stock in mathematics, anyway. at first i hated the school, but by and by i got so i could stand it. whenever i got uncommon tired i played hookey, and the hiding i got next day done me good and cheered me up. so the longer i went to school the easier it got to be. i was getting sort of used to the widow's ways, too, and they warn't so raspy on me. living in a house and sleeping in a bed pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but before the cold weather i used to slide out and sleep in the woods sometimes, and so that was a rest to me. i liked the old ways best, but i was getting so i liked the new ones, too, a little bit. the widow said i was coming along slow but sure, and doing very satisfactory. she said she warn't ashamed of me. one morning i happened to turn over the salt-cellar at breakfast. i reached for some of it as quick as i could to throw over my left shoulder and keep off the bad luck, but miss watson was in ahead of me, and crossed me off. she says, "take your hands away, huckleberry; what a mess you are always making!" the widow put in a good word for me, but that warn't going to keep off the bad luck, i knowed that well enough. i started out, after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky, and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it was going to be. there is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn't one of them kind; so i never tried to do anything, but just poked along low-spirited and on the watch-out. i went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where you go through the high board fence. there was an inch of new snow on the ground, and i seen somebody's tracks. they had come up from the quarry and stood around the stile a while, and then went on around the garden fence. it was funny they hadn't come in, after standing around so. i couldn't make it out. it was very curious, somehow. i was going to follow around, but i stooped down to look at the tracks first. i didn't notice anything at first, but next i did. there was a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil. i was up in a second and shinning down the hill. i looked over my shoulder every now and then, but i didn't see nobody. i was at judge thatcher's as quick as i could get there. he said: "why, my boy, you are all out of breath. did you come for your interest?" "no, sir," i says; "is there some for me?" "oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night--over a hundred and fifty dollars. quite a fortune for you. you had better let me invest it along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it." "no, sir," i says, "i don't want to spend it. i don't want it at all --nor the six thousand, nuther. i want you to take it; i want to give it to you--the six thousand and all." he looked surprised. he couldn't seem to make it out. he says: "why, what can you mean, my boy?" i says, "don't you ask me no questions about it, please. you'll take it --won't you?" he says: "well, i'm puzzled. is something the matter?" "please take it," says i, "and don't ask me nothing--then i won't have to tell no lies." he studied a while, and then he says: "oho-o! i think i see. you want to sell all your property to me--not give it. that's the correct idea." then he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says: "there; you see it says 'for a consideration.' that means i have bought it of you and paid you for it. here's a dollar for you. now you sign it." so i signed it, and left. miss watson's nigger, jim, had a hair-ball as big as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth stomach of an ox, and he used to do magic with it. he said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed everything. so i went to him that night and told him pap was here again, for i found his tracks in the snow. what i wanted to know was, what he was going to do, and was he going to stay? jim got out his hair-ball and said something over it, and then he held it up and dropped it on the floor. it fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an inch. jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the same. jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and listened. but it warn't no use; he said it wouldn't talk. he said sometimes it wouldn't talk without money. i told him i had an old slick counterfeit quarter that warn't no good because the brass showed through the silver a little, and it wouldn't pass nohow, even if the brass didn't show, because it was so slick it felt greasy, and so that would tell on it every time. (i reckoned i wouldn't say nothing about the dollar i got from the judge.) i said it was pretty bad money, but maybe the hair-ball would take it, because maybe it wouldn't know the difference. jim smelt it and bit it and rubbed it, and said he would manage so the hair-ball would think it was good. he said he would split open a raw irish potato and stick the quarter in between and keep it there all night, and next morning you couldn't see no brass, and it wouldn't feel greasy no more, and so anybody in town would take it in a minute, let alone a hair-ball. well, i knowed a potato would do that before, but i had forgot it. jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got down and listened again. this time he said the hair-ball was all right. he said it would tell my whole fortune if i wanted it to. i says, go on. so the hair-ball talked to jim, and jim told it to me. he says: "yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne to do. sometimes he spec he'll go 'way, en den agin he spec he'll stay. de bes' way is to res' easy en let de ole man take his own way. dey's two angels hoverin' roun' 'bout him. one uv 'em is white en shiny, en t'other one is black. de white one gits him to go right a little while, den de black one sail in en bust it all up. a body can't tell yit which one gwyne to fetch him at de las'. but you is all right. you gwyne to have considable trouble in yo' life, en considable joy. sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you's gwyne to git well agin. dey's two gals flyin' 'bout you in yo' life. one uv 'em's light en t'other one is dark. one is rich en t'other is po'. you's gwyne to marry de po' one fust en de rich one by en by. you wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin, en don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to git hung." when i lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap--his own self! chapter v. i had shut the door to. then i turned around and there he was. i used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. i reckoned i was scared now, too; but in a minute i see i was mistaken--that is, after the first jolt, as you may say, when my breath sort of hitched, he being so unexpected; but right away after i see i warn't scared of him worth bothring about. he was most fifty, and he looked it. his hair was long and tangled and greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes shining through like he was behind vines. it was all black, no gray; so was his long, mixed-up whiskers. there warn't no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like another man's white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl--a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. as for his clothes--just rags, that was all. he had one ankle resting on t'other knee; the boot on that foot was busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them now and then. his hat was laying on the floor--an old black slouch with the top caved in, like a lid. i stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his chair tilted back a little. i set the candle down. i noticed the window was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. he kept a-looking me all over. by and by he says: "starchy clothes--very. you think you're a good deal of a big-bug, don't you?" "maybe i am, maybe i ain't," i says. "don't you give me none o' your lip," says he. "you've put on considerable many frills since i been away. i'll take you down a peg before i get done with you. you're educated, too, they say--can read and write. you think you're better'n your father, now, don't you, because he can't? i'll take it out of you. who told you you might meddle with such hifalut'n foolishness, hey?--who told you you could?" "the widow. she told me." "the widow, hey?--and who told the widow she could put in her shovel about a thing that ain't none of her business?" "nobody never told her." "well, i'll learn her how to meddle. and looky here--you drop that school, you hear? i'll learn people to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own father and let on to be better'n what he is. you lemme catch you fooling around that school again, you hear? your mother couldn't read, and she couldn't write, nuther, before she died. none of the family couldn't before they died. i can't; and here you're a-swelling yourself up like this. i ain't the man to stand it--you hear? say, lemme hear you read." i took up a book and begun something about general washington and the wars. when i'd read about a half a minute, he fetched the book a whack with his hand and knocked it across the house. he says: "it's so. you can do it. i had my doubts when you told me. now looky here; you stop that putting on frills. i won't have it. i'll lay for you, my smarty; and if i catch you about that school i'll tan you good. first you know you'll get religion, too. i never see such a son." he took up a little blue and yaller picture of some cows and a boy, and says: "what's this?" "it's something they give me for learning my lessons good." he tore it up, and says: "i'll give you something better--i'll give you a cowhide." he set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute, and then he says: "ain't you a sweet-scented dandy, though? a bed; and bedclothes; and a look'n'-glass; and a piece of carpet on the floor--and your own father got to sleep with the hogs in the tanyard. i never see such a son. i bet i'll take some o' these frills out o' you before i'm done with you. why, there ain't no end to your airs--they say you're rich. hey?--how's that?" "they lie--that's how." "looky here--mind how you talk to me; i'm a-standing about all i can stand now--so don't gimme no sass. i've been in town two days, and i hain't heard nothing but about you bein' rich. i heard about it away down the river, too. that's why i come. you git me that money to-morrow--i want it." "i hain't got no money." "it's a lie. judge thatcher's got it. you git it. i want it." "i hain't got no money, i tell you. you ask judge thatcher; he'll tell you the same." "all right. i'll ask him; and i'll make him pungle, too, or i'll know the reason why. say, how much you got in your pocket? i want it." "i hain't got only a dollar, and i want that to--" "it don't make no difference what you want it for--you just shell it out." he took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then he said he was going down town to get some whisky; said he hadn't had a drink all day. when he had got out on the shed he put his head in again, and cussed me for putting on frills and trying to be better than him; and when i reckoned he was gone he come back and put his head in again, and told me to mind about that school, because he was going to lay for me and lick me if i didn't drop that. next day he was drunk, and he went to judge thatcher's and bullyragged him, and tried to make him give up the money; but he couldn't, and then he swore he'd make the law force him. the judge and the widow went to law to get the court to take me away from him and let one of them be my guardian; but it was a new judge that had just come, and he didn't know the old man; so he said courts mustn't interfere and separate families if they could help it; said he'd druther not take a child away from its father. so judge thatcher and the widow had to quit on the business. that pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. he said he'd cowhide me till i was black and blue if i didn't raise some money for him. i borrowed three dollars from judge thatcher, and pap took it and got drunk, and went a-blowing around and cussing and whooping and carrying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan, till most midnight; then they jailed him, and next day they had him before court, and jailed him again for a week. but he said he was satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make it warm for him. when he got out the new judge said he was a-going to make a man of him. so he took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean and nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the family, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. and after supper he talked to him about temperance and such things till the old man cried, and said he'd been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was a-going to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't be ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look down on him. the judge said he could hug him for them words; so he cried, and his wife she cried again; pap said he'd been a man that had always been misunderstood before, and the judge said he believed it. the old man said that what a man wanted that was down was sympathy, and the judge said it was so; so they cried again. and when it was bedtime the old man rose up and held out his hand, and says: "look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold of it; shake it. there's a hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain't so no more; it's the hand of a man that's started in on a new life, and'll die before he'll go back. you mark them words--don't forget i said them. it's a clean hand now; shake it--don't be afeard." so they shook it, one after the other, all around, and cried. the judge's wife she kissed it. then the old man he signed a pledge--made his mark. the judge said it was the holiest time on record, or something like that. then they tucked the old man into a beautiful room, which was the spare room, and in the night some time he got powerful thirsty and clumb out on to the porch-roof and slid down a stanchion and traded his new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb back again and had a good old time; and towards daylight he crawled out again, drunk as a fiddler, and rolled off the porch and broke his left arm in two places, and was most froze to death when somebody found him after sun-up. and when they come to look at that spare room they had to take soundings before they could navigate it. the judge he felt kind of sore. he said he reckoned a body could reform the old man with a shotgun, maybe, but he didn't know no other way. available by internet archive (https://archive.org) note: images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see https://archive.org/details/manorschool mead the manor school by mrs. l. t. meade author of "a bunch of cherries," "daddy's girl," "the time of roses," "bad little hannah," etc., etc. [illustration: decoration] the mershon company rahway, n. j. new york copyright, , by the mershon company contents chapter page i. the attic of desire, ii. the mystery, iii. a wild scheme, iv. grandmother's dinner, v. change of a sovereign, vi. six long years, vii. "the reformatory school is the punishment for me," viii. play-acting, ix. a night in the slums, x. judith ford, xi. little providences, xii. going to school, xiii. the manor school, xiv. schoolgirls, xv. the ordeal and the victim, xvi. susan marsh, xvii. the boudoirs, xviii. "i am afraid," xix. dawson's bill, xx. noblesse oblige, xxi. star's purse, xxii. the bowling-alley, xxiii. the resolve of the bodyguard, xxiv. miss peacock, xxv. the letter, xxvi. the clew to the mystery, xxvii. god's will, xxviii. good news, xxix. rose to the rescue, xxx. a prisoner in the tool-house, xxxi. midnight at the greengrocer's, xxxii. the triumph of goodness, the manor school chapter i the attic of desire christian mitford was thirteen years of age. she was a tall girl with a pale face, a little pronounced in expression, and quantities of thick, untidy, very bright fair hair, which had a habit of tumbling in a great mass over her eyes and round her shoulders. she was supposed to be much spoilt, and it was well known she had a will of her own. christian was an only child. her home was in a big house in russell square. the house was large enough to have been the abode of princes in bygone days. it had enormous, lofty rooms, wide halls, great corridors, spacious landings, and, above all things, charming attics. the attics were not only very big and very roomy, but they were also not required for the use of the family at all. in consequence christian took possession of them. she had adopted them for her own use when she was quite a little girl, not more than seven or eight years of age. it was in the attics that christian lived her real life. she made a fairy world for herself, and there she was happy. in the great front attic, which ran right across the house, she kept her dolls. christian had twelve dolls, and they all had special characteristics and specially interesting histories. the adventures those dolls went through would have delighted any other little girl; christian took these things as a matter of course. if rosabel, the doll in the blue frock, would run away at night to live with the gypsies for a long time, she deserved punishment, and would be treated accordingly. if abelard, who was dressed in the costume of an old crusader, would fight his enemies until he himself was all to pieces, and had to lie in bed without arms or legs, surely that also was his own fault, and his punishment served him right. christian's cheeks used to blaze and her eyes grow bright as these adventurous dolls went through their career of naughtiness in her presence. she was so imaginative that she got herself to believe that they really did these things without any help from her, and sometimes she would sigh and shake her head and think herself much to be pitied for having such a fearfully troublesome, not to say dangerous family to manage. but the dolls, with their dolls'-house for the respectable members of the family, and with their forests full of bandits, their crusades, their land of palestine, their troubadours for the others, had had their day. christian grew old enough to feel the glamour of the dolls depart. it was ridiculous to suppose that abelard had really got that ghastly wound in his side, or that he had really lost his legs, fighting the saracens. yes, the dolls had had their day. but the fairy tales could be read and lived through, and she herself could be the heroine of adventure; and what a time she had when she was the voiceless mermaid who loved a prince and for his sake had her tongue cut out! or how depressed she was when she acted the ugly duckling; and how she had, as the little tin soldier, adored the little paper princess! but even the fairy-tale stage came to an end, and the history books had now their turn. christian was william tell, and her hand shook as she fired at the apple. or she was joan of arc in prison, and putting on her armor when there was no one by to see. or she was charlotte corday at the moment of her great inspiration. or, again, she was on the way to the guillotine as that great hero of fiction, sidney carton. the world knew nothing about christian. they saw a dull little girl who flitted through life demurely and never expressed any strong feelings about anything. "she is a child without character," her french governess said of christian. "she is a good girl, but she will never play--at least, except in the ordinary way," her music-master said. "if she had only a little imagination she would do so much better over her poetry and history," her english mistress declared. it was only her dancing-mistress who now and then expressed approval as christian flitted about on her small feet, curvetting and curtsying, bending and bowing, and doing all these things with an inborn grace. "ah, that child!" said this discerning person; "has she not the very essence of poetry--the thing itself?" but christian did not even hear her dancing-mistress praise her. she was accustomed to being found fault with: even her mother only bestowed faint praise upon her; and as to her father, he scarcely noticed her at all. never mind, her real home was in the front attic. the grown people of the house had very little idea how much of christian's time was spent in this attic. but however cold the weather, christian never felt it up there. she would remain in the huge, desolate place hour after hour, crouching in a corner, her eyes gazing fascinated at the scene which she had conjured up. of course, she got many a cold in this way. the colds were nursed and she was well treated, and no one ever for a moment traced them to their true cause. there came an afternoon soon after christmas, cold and dreary, when icy blasts of wind banged up against the dormer-windows of christian's attic, and such piles of snow were heaped up on the roofs hard by that the young girl could only picture herself as the ice maiden. at last the cold became unbearable, and she stepped out of fairyland and ran swiftly downstairs. on the floor just below the attics were the nurseries and her schoolroom. in the front nursery sat old nurse. she was mending some of christian's stockings. she had spectacles on her nose, and was singing softly to herself. christian loved her perhaps better than anyone else in the world, but she did not wait to speak to her now. she hurried past the nurseries; their day was over. she used to sigh when she remembered how many days were over. the dolls' day, the fairy-tales day, and of course the nursery day. but, thank goodness, the hero and heroine day would never be over! "when i am grown up," thought the child, "i shall be a real one. i mean to do something very big, very great, very grand. i am preparing--i know i am preparing--all this time." christian also hurried past the schoolroom, which was quite comfortable and snugly furnished, with big fires in the grates. she passed the next floor, and presently found herself on the one where the drawing rooms were situated. here, beyond the two great drawing rooms, was a small and very comfortable boudoir. the door of the room was slightly open, and christian observed that heavy curtains were drawn across the windows. the logs on the fire blazed up merrily and a grateful breath of heat came out to the child. christian went in at once and stood by the fire. she had just begun to thaw when she heard footsteps approaching. now, if she made for the door she would certainly meet the intruder. this was not to be borne. she flew across the room, pushed aside the heavy curtains which sheltered one of the windows, and curling herself up on the window ledge, was completely lost to view. there were double windows and shutters, and the shutters were fastened. there was, therefore, not the slightest draught, and the window ledge itself was soft with cushions, and had a down pillow at one end. christian had often lain there before to sleep. the little nook was warm and, compared with the attic, most comfortable. she cuddled herself up amongst the cushions and lay quiet. of course, she would not stay long; she would just get warm, and then go upstairs to her lessons. but the footsteps she had heard did not enter the room, and presently drowsiness stole over her and she fell asleep. when she awoke it was to the sound of voices. she raised herself very carefully, taking care not to make the slightest noise, and, dividing the curtains about a quarter of an inch, peeped out. her mother, mrs. mitford, was sitting near the fire with her back to christian. she was a pretty little woman, very young-looking for her age, and dressed in the height of fashion. a tempting looking tea equipage stood on a small table near, and as christian watched, her mother raised a small silver teapot and poured out a cup of tea. she handed it across to a lady whom christian knew well and hated violently. she was a certain miss neil, who often visited her mother. christian had long ago pronounced miss neil a frumpy, tiresome, cross old woman. "i do dislike her!" she said now to herself. "i wonder my darling mumsy can stand her." as the child watched she saw miss neil help herself to a piece of buttered toast, and at the same time her mother said: "whatever happens, i shall give her a first-rate outfit; i have made up my mind to that." christian's heart made a great bound. she dropped back into the shadow, making a slight creaking noise as she did so. mrs. mitford glanced round her nervously. "don't you hear someone in the room, julia?" "no, dear; only mice in the wainscot," was miss neil's reply. "but, as you were saying, you will send christian provided with a good outfit. that is so like you; you always were such a thoughtful, excellent mother." mrs. mitford liked to be praised, and miss neil was aware of that fact. mrs. mitford's placid face shone with satisfaction. "i should be sorry," she said, "if i failed in my motherly duties. the mother of one child has a great responsibility thrust upon her." "your poor little girl won't like the change--eh?" said miss neil. "i'm afraid not," replied mrs. mitford, with a shrug of her dainty shoulders. "the school her father has selected for her is, i understand, very severe in tone. discipline is much exercised there; but my dear husband insists. he says that we are spoiling christian." christian, at the other side of the curtains, dug her nails into her flesh. it was with the utmost difficulty that she could keep from screaming aloud. "i want you to help me, julia," continued mrs. mitford. "we'll have the carriage out immediately after breakfast to-morrow and go round to the different shops. we really have no time to lose. i mean to give her two good, serviceable school frocks, two best frocks for sunday--one is all that is necessary, but i want her to look really nice--an everyday evening frock, and a full-dress party one. then she must have a tailor-made coat and skirt, and about half a dozen blouses." "an abundance," said miss neil. "too much, i should say. i never think there is any use in pampering young girls." "don't you, you old skinflint?" thought christian at the other side of the curtain. "of course, there are a thousand and one other things," continued mrs. mitford; "but everything must be got in a great hurry, for she goes next week." "next week," thought christian. "oh!" her thoughts flew to the attic. in the attic she was charlotte corday: she had arrived at paris; the greatest moment of her life was at hand. in the boudoir she was a little girl eavesdropping. yes, it was an ugly position. she wriggled, then remained quiet, for the most awful thing of all would be to be found out. "what day did you say the dear child was to go to her school?" asked miss neil. "next tuesday. this is wednesday--not a week off now." "by the way, mary," said miss neil suddenly, "have you told the child?" "i have not julia; and, what is more, i do not intend to. i shan't say anything whatever about it until the night before. what is the use in making her miserable? when she hears she will have no time to be sorry; she will be far too surprised; and when she gets to school her new and pleasant life will absorb her altogether. i want you to take her, by the way, julia, for neither her father nor i can spare the time." "when do you start yourselves?" "early on tuesday morning. it is all so sudden. of course, my dear husband is greatly pleased, for a great honor has been conferred on him. but for this we should not have sent christian from home." miss neil slowly and deliberately stirred her tea, and by-and-by she put down the empty cup and saucer. christian again raised herself and peeped through the curtain. she watched her mother's straight little profile--the pretty lips, the resolute chin, the low forehead, the pretty brown eyes. "and yet she is hard," thought the child. "she speaks as though she did not care. i always thought mumsy pretty, but somehow i don't think her pretty to-night. she is hard; yes, that's it--hard." miss neil began to draw on her gloves. "i will call at eleven o'clock to-morrow," she said. "and rest assured, mary, i shall help you by every means in my power." "thank you, dear; i am sure you will. good-by for the present. please make a list to-night of what you think will be required for a child whose parents will be in persia for four or five years. of course, she must have fresh things from time to time, but i want her to take all that is necessary for her." "i will indeed; i will with pleasure do what i can for your little christian. good-by for the present." just as miss neil was leaving the room, and before christian had fully made up her mind whether she would dart from her shelter and confront her mother with the fact that she had heard all, mrs. mitford took out her watch, uttered a shriek, and cried: "why, i ought to be at the war office now to meet henry!" and she rushed from the room. christian crouched back amongst her pillows. she stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth to prevent her sobs from being heard. what did it all mean? she could not understand. chapter ii the mystery mrs. mitford did not return, and presently christian slipped from her hiding-place and ran upstairs. never having had companions, she had not that absolute desire to confide in someone which is the primary thought of most young girls. she went into her room, washed her face, brushed out her hair, and then entered the nursery. nurse was seated by the fire, busy over her endless mending and turning. nurse, of course, knew; her eyes were red, as though she had been crying a great deal. "why, miss christie, darling," she said to the young girl, "wherever have you been? you look pinched and cold." "i haven't had my tea; i expect i look hungry," said christian, speaking slowly. "what a shame!" cried nurse. "did they forget to give it to you?" "they didn't," said christian. "i saw it in the school-room just now as i passed the open door, but it looked cold and untempting; i'd rather have none than that sort of tea." "i'll make you some in a minute," said nurse. "oh, will you, nursey?" christian felt so cheered that her great trouble of next week seemed to recede in the distance. "and may i toast the bread and put on the butter?" "to be sure, darling! i keep my own tea and bread and butter in this cupboard; and here is fresh milk. and you shall have a new-laid egg." "oh, i should love it!" said christian. "do give me a thick slice of bread at once, nursey, and let me toast it." the next few minutes passed happily, and soon christian was munching buttered toast, eating her egg, and drinking hot tea. it is wonderful what a good fire, a sympathizing old nurse who is not too curious, and sweet tea and buttered toast will accomplish. christian had been thinking herself the most miserable, cruelly used, neglected girl in the world; but now once again the sunny side of life appeared. nurse resumed her work. she was mending a little brown skirt, adding to it and putting fresh braid round the bottom. "is that my old skirt? i thought i had done with it," said christian. "it will be as good as new when i have finished my work over it," replied nurse. her tone was guarded. "she knows, of course," thought the child, "but she is not going to tell. well, neither will i tell. i will just pretend during all the horrid days that are coming that i don't know anything. i feel waking up within me my very naughtiest self. i know i shall be terribly naughty between now and that black day when spiteful old neil and i start off for that good-discipline school together. perhaps--who can tell----" christian's eyes brightened; a roguish gleam came into their dark depths. she looked full up at nurse, then lowered her eyelashes. "nursey," she said, "do put down that horrid skirt and play bezique with me." "i can't, my darling; i haven't the time." "of course you've got time. i don't want that horrid skirt; i hate it. i have plenty of skirts." "but your mother said it was to be got ready for you, miss. she and miss neil came up here to-day and overhauled some of your things, and they said this skirt would stand a lot of wear--at the seaside, for instance." "but i am not going to the sea. i couldn't wear a hot thing like that in the summer. what do you mean?" nurse looked frightened. "there!" she said, irresolution coming all over her old face; "i will please the child. get the cards, darling; we'll enjoy ourselves." christian laughed. they sat by a round table and set to work. they were in the midst of their game when miss thompson, christian's resident governess, entered. "whatever are you doing, nurse?" she said. "you know we have all to work as hard as ever we can. there won't be half enough time to make preparations." "why, what is all this mystery?" cried christian. "preparations for what?" "nothing, dear--nothing." "there's no such thing as nothing," replied christian, laughing. miss thompson got quite red. "young girls don't always know what they are talking about," she said in a severe tone. "nurse has got to work, and i have got to work, and you have got to be good. by the way, where do you keep your story-books?" "upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber," answered christian. "well, wherever you keep them, i want them collected." "what for?" "i wish to make a list of them." "i can't fly over the house for them to-night. i'll get them to-morrow morning if i must get them." "well, come into the schoolroom now. there are several things we must arrange." "i will after i have finished my game," said christian. miss thompson thought it better to retire than to make a fuss, and christian and nurse proceeded with their game. "why ever do you sigh so, nursey?" asked christian. "i didn't know i was sighing, lovey." "you didn't know that you were hiding a big mystery. you are a silly old woman. thompson lets out things, and you let out things, and if i want to poke my finger into the secret i could; but i don't care--not a bit. i'm off now to have a chat with thompson." before christian could carry these words into effect there came a knock at the door. it was burst open, and a rosy-faced, black-eyed little girl of the name of rose latimer entered. she was nurse's grand-niece, and was supposed not to be a fit companion for christian. nevertheless christian adored her. she found her far more interesting and more companionable and more get-at-able than any of the girls whom she met or who were invited to play with her. rose's bright eyes danced when she saw christian. christian ran up to her and kissed her hurriedly. "come!" said nurse; "that aint proper. rose, you mind your manners. you aint on the same standing as my young lady, and you should remember it." "but indeed she is," said christian--"that is, if being pretty and ladylike and funny and affectionate makes her on the same standing. some of the girls i know are perfect horrors; but rosy--why, she is just rosy. sit down, rosy, dear. here's a lot of toast left; and nurse shall boil you another egg. but do you know that i am charlotte corday to-day? marat is getting into his bath, and i shall go and kill him in a minute or two. isn't it thrilling?" "ah!" cried nurse, who knew nothing either about marat or charlotte corday; "what a perfectly awful thing to say, miss christian! you fair terrify me." christian made no answer. she raised her brows and looked with her intelligent, keen, overstrung little face at rose. "will you spend the night?" she said suddenly. "i want to talk to you. nurse, will you keep rosy until the morning?" "miss christian!" "you can if you like, nursey. she shall sleep with me. she shall; she must." "miss, i couldn't hear of it." "very well, never mind about that. just ask her to stay. she shall sleep in your bed, and i will have a chat with her by-and-by. you wouldn't like, nursey----" "what, miss christian?" "suppose i wasn't to be with you always--i mean you wouldn't like to feel you had refused one of my last wishes. if you come to think of it, it is almost like a a dying wish; isn't it, nursey?" "oh, dear!" cried the poor nurse, "the child does wring my heart. rose, run along, then. go and take off your hat and coat, and come and help me to put the braid on this skirt." during the rest of that evening christian enjoyed herself. it was really great fun being at the back of the secret. to have a secret going on that she was not aware of would have been irritating, almost maddening; but to know it all the time, and so lead up to it and get people who imagined that they were keeping it so safe and secure to all but betray themselves, was quite interesting. christian sat down very demurely in the schoolroom, and allowed miss thompson to reveal herself as much as she could desire. miss thompson imagined she was keeping the secret of christian's school to herself, but christian knew better. at last it was time to go to bed. she bade miss thompson good-night and peeped into the nursery. nurse had gone to her room, but rose was sitting by the fire. christian tiptoed across the room. "when are you going to bed, rosy?" "nurse said i was just to sit up to say good-night to you; then i must go, for i can't keep my eyes open." "you will have to presently. but be off now; get into bed with nurse, and after a little, when she is asleep, slip out and come into mine. you know where my bedroom is." "to be sure, miss." "you did it before, you know, rose." "yes, miss christian." rose was standing up within a foot or two of christian, and her eyes were shining brightly. "you will do it again," said christian. "nobody found out before, and nobody 'll find out now. i want you to give me just the most tremendous help, and only you can do it. i shall leave my door ajar. i'll be in bed in half an hour. you slip into bed beside nurse, and when she is sound asleep, get out again and come to me. then we'll talk; then you'll find out what i really want. oh, rose! it is greater than william tell and the apple. it is nearly, but not quite, as big as joan of arc. it is big and monstrous, and only you, rose, can help me." chapter iii a wild scheme three-quarters of an hour later rose was cuddled up in christian's bed. when the two heads were almost touching, and the brown cheek and the pale one were pressed close together, and two little hands were clasped tightly under the bedclothes, then christian began to unburden her mind. the door was shut; the house was quiet--that is, the nursery part of the house; miss thompson, the governess, had a headache, and would certainly not appear on the scene again until morning; nurse was noted for her deep and long sleep; the servants were far away. if father and mother came in long past midnight, they would not trouble christian in her distant bedroom; she was safe. she felt that she was quite safe; but the feeling that if she were discovered she would most certainly be punished added to the fascination of the moment. "rose," she said, "i must not speak loud, but i have something most important to tell you. what do you think is going to happen?" "well, miss christian," replied rose, "the whole house seems to be, so to speak, on a twitter. there's my great-aunt; she don't seem to know whether she's on her head or her heels. there's something up, but i don't know what it is." "you'll know in a minute or two; i'll tell you. now listen; only remember, first, it is a most tremendous secret between you and me." "yes, yes," said rose; "i love secrets." she pressed a little closer to christian. "you are quite my very greatest friend, you know, rosy," said christian. "there's belle webster and bertha hole; they think themselves quite chummy with me, but you are my real friend. we understand each other, we have had so many thrills together." "oh, yes," said rose, "yes! only i don't like you when you are charlotte corday. i was marat once, you know, and i didn't like that time." "well, i'm not charlotte now. perhaps i'll never be again. but listen. the secret is our secret. it is too funny, rosy. the rest of the house think that it is theirs, but it is ours all the time. now then! i was so cold up in my attic--my darling fairy attic--this afternoon that i ran down to get warm in mother's boudoir. i hid myself behind the curtains. it was so cozy that i dropped asleep. i was lying on the window ledge, and there were cushions, and a soft pillow, and everything to make it delicious. when i woke i heard mother talking to that horrid neil woman." "i know her," said rose. "she snubbed me once awfully; she said i had no call to be coming here so often." "well, she has no more right in the house than you have," replied christian. "but now you will be astonished." she proceeded to relate the entire story--all that her mother had said, and all that miss neil had said; and having given the outlines, she further impressed the fact on rose that she, christian, was to be sent to school next week. she was to be sent to school, as it were, in the dark, and she was not to be told anything about it until the night before she went. "they want to keep it dark until the very last minute," she said. "it is fun, isn't it, rose?" "fun," said rose--"fun!" her voice quivered. it quivered so much that it suddenly ended in a choking sob. "why rosy," cried christian, immensely touched, "you are not crying just because i must go?" "miss, i can't bear it," said rose. "there's no one else ever took a mite of notice of me. i can't help thinking of myself altogether, miss; i can't truly. there's mother; she makes me sit at the dressmaking till i'm fit to faint, and i have no fun--never! i'm like you, miss; i can't make friends outside. i have one friend, and she seems to fill all my heart, and you are she; and if we are to be parted, miss---- oh, miss christian! i can't--i can't bear it." christian, notwithstanding her bravery, found herself crying also. she put her arms around rose, buried her head in her neck, and sobbed. "it is awful," she said after a pause. "i did not think so much of parting from you, rosy, but it is quite terrible; for it isn't even as if i were going to an ordinary school, and coming back for the holidays; but i am going to a severe-discipline one, and i am not coming back--i am to spend the holidays and all there. i might as well be dead, mightn't i, rose?" "it's worse nor if you were dead." "oh, rose, it couldn't be worse!" "it is," said rose, "for if you were dead i could go on sundays and take flowers to your grave; i could--i could. oh, it is much worse! i would save up and buy 'em; no one should hinder me. it is much worse nor if you were dead." the pathetic picture so conjured up of rose bending over her grave and putting flowers there was so affecting that christian sobbed again. after a time, however, she ceased crying. "we must do something," she said; "we are both young, and we have both got a lot of spirit." "oh, haven't i?" said rose. "there's nothing daunts me when i'm put to it. mother says i'm the very naughtiest little girl she ever come across. she threatens perhaps i'll get ugly, just because i'm so desperate naughty. she says that sometimes when you are so mad with spirits, and so desperately fond of yourself, you fall ill with smallpox and that sort of thing. i don't believe it, of course, but she does hold it over me. she seems as sure that i'll take smallpox as that i'll have a cold. it's queer, isn't it?" "it's silly, i call it," said christian. "now then, rose, don't let's talk any more about that. if you have got spirit, so have i. suppose, now, that i don't go to that school." "how will you manage that?" said rose "did you ever hear of a girl running away?" asked christian. "that's the thought that has come to me. i thought that if you and i were together we could run away. we could support ourselves, i suppose." "not without money," said the practical rose. "it's a lovely thought--the most daring and truly delicious thought i ever heard of--but it wants money." "i've got seven pounds," said christian. "ever since i was a little, tiny girl my godmother has sent me a pound on my birthday, and i haven't spent any of the money. how far would seven pounds go?" "oh! a long way; it's a heap of money," said rose. "why, it's one hundred and forty shillings. that's an awful lot." "yes, i thought it was," said christian. "i remembered the money the very moment mother talked about not letting me know until the night before. i shall listen, of course, when she does speak, and i will pretend to be good and submit. perhaps she will be so sorry for me that she will give me some more pocket money. i hope she will. but what i really mean to do is to slip away somewhere with you, rosy--to go to some place with you where we can live together. have you got any money of your own?" "a shilling," replied rose sadly. "i took a long time to save it up. had you died, miss christian, i would have spent it on flowers for your grave; so now i will spend it in running away with you--that i will." "you can't do more, rosy," said christian. "well, we must make our plans, and we must not tell one single human being. we have got to consider how we can live in the very cheapest way, for one hundred and forty shillings will not go far. i suppose they will send the police after us. isn't it splendid, rosy? can you really believe that two young ordinary girls are going to do such a desperate thing?" "you aint an ordinary girl, miss christian." "well, perhaps i am not." "you always was cut out for the part of heroine," continued rose; "anyone could see that with half an eye. why, haven't you been william tell and joan of arc and charlotte corday for ever so long? and afore that you were fairy queens and fairy princesses, and witches, and such-like. you're cut for the part, miss, and now the time has come." "it has," said christian, whose heart was beating fast. "we must think out most of our plans before we go to sleep." the two girls did think. they were both far too excited to feel sleepy. their voices kept on murmuring in an even, monotonous sound, which could scarcely penetrate through the closed door of christian's bedroom. after a fashion they made their plans. what christian had only wildly dreamt of became definite and something that could be done. seven pounds was seven pounds, and judiciously spent--spent, too, by a girl of the rosy sort, a girl who knew poverty and how to live very small and very cheap--it would certainly go a long way. strange to say, christian's conscience did not trouble her. she had been thoroughly well brought up, but her heart was sore now. her mother had spoken almost coldly about parting with her one lonely girl. she, christian, was to be sent to an awful strict-discipline school, where she had to stay for years and years, away from all those she loved in the world. she would take her life into her own hands; she would do a desperate, wicked thing, and she would not let her conscience prick her. "we will do it," she said over and over again to rosy. "you, rosy, must find out where it is best for us to go, and then you must come and tell me everything." "i will," replied rosy. "i know a girl called judith, and i think she will help us. once she spent a whole winter in a gypsy's caravan. she did enjoy herself. she had a fine time, and she had to spend nothing at all. but they had to dye her with walnut juice; maybe you wouldn't like that, miss christian." "no, i shouldn't like that at all," said christian, who rather prided herself on her fair but somewhat pale complexion. "but that needn't happen, need it?" "oh, no; but it happened to judith. she was dyed with walnut-juice, and she wore gypsy's clothes." "i shouldn't mind that part," said christian. "she had a great taste for music," continued rosy, "and she played a tambourine and danced. they got her up as a sort of italian gypsy girl, and she danced wonderful pretty in the streets. she didn't seem ever to want for money after that; she got so many pennies. you can dance, can't you, miss christian? you've had lots of lessons." "dance!" said christian, a sort of thrill running down to her feet and making them move up and down even though she was in bed. "i should just think i can dance. there's nothing in the world i love better. oh, rosy, if we could make our living by dancing it would be too scrumptious!" "well, i'll find out everything to-morrow and let you know," said rosy. "i mustn't come here, for my great-aunt would be angry; but i'll come the day after, and i'll bring all the news with me. let's think. to-morrow will be thursday; you aint to go afore tuesday next week. there's lots of time, only the more money you can get the better it will be. i'll come here on friday night at the latest." "well, then, perhaps we had better go to sleep now," said christian, who was tired at last. the very novelty of the thing made her tired. she dropped off into a heavy slumber, dreaming all through the night of wonderful things: of gypsies and their caravans; of italian girls with tambourines, and little sequins round their heads. she fancied herself an italian girl in a red frock. she thought how pretty she would look, and how sweet it would be to dance. she would let her abundance of hair fall over her neck and shoulders. a fair italian girl would be even more captivating than a dark one; and rosy--pretty rosy--could be the dark one. oh, they would have a good time! they would enjoy themselves. and it couldn't be wrong; for if father and mother chose to go to persia and not show any grief at parting from christian, why should not christian take her life in her own hands? she awoke in the morning and found that rosy's place was vacant, that astute little girl having left the side of her dearest friend and gone back to nurse. for it would never do for nurse to guess that the young girls were, as she would express it, hatching mischief. nurse was somewhat suspicious as far as her grandniece was concerned. she knew rose's character. she had often condoled with her mother on having such a naughty child. of course, rosy was very pretty, and she was very fond of miss christian; and--worse luck--miss christian was very fond of her; and there never was a more masterful child than dear young miss christian. yes, even if rosy was nurse's own relation, she did not want christian to see too much of her. but this week of all weeks the child she loved should not be crossed; she should have every single thing she wished for--yes, every single thing; nurse herself would see to that. nurse considered that miss christian was treated shamefully: bundled off to school just as though she were a baby; parted from the nurse who loved her as if she were her own child; taken from the old home and from that strange, mysterious attic where she had spent so much of her time; torn from everyone and taken to school--to a school a long, long way off. nurse felt piteous tears very near her eyes. mr. and mrs. mitford had decided to board nurse out during their absence in persia. the other servants were to be dismissed. miss thompson, with an excellent reference and six months' salary over and above what was owing her, would seek another situation. the house would be let to strangers. christian in reality would have no home. but when she woke the next morning, and faced the fact that her home in russell square would not be hers much longer, christian did not feel low-spirited, for she and rosy would certainly carry out their plan in all its details. she was in high spirits, therefore, at breakfast, and enjoyed getting miss thompson, as she expressed it, to give herself away. miss thompson found it almost impossible to keep her secret with christian looking at her, and questioning her, and pretending to observe nothing, and yet showing in her eyes that she knew all. miss thompson went down soon after breakfast to have an interview with mrs. mitford. "somehow," she said--"although i don't like to say it--somehow i think the child has an inkling of what is going on. would it not be better to tell her? she would be more prepared, and would not feel it so much at the time." "if she has an inkling she is bearing it very well," said mrs. mitford. "my dear," she added, turning to her husband, who came into the room at that moment, "miss thompson is talking about our dear christian. she says that the child seems to guess that something is happening." "i am sure she guesses," said miss thompson, blushing and trembling a little at her own audacity. "she looks at me with such very questioning eyes, and tries to lead me on, as it were, to betray myself." mr. mitford laughed. "just like chris," he said. "she always was a bit of an oddity. but, my dear," he added, turning to his wife, "we will not tell her, all the same. i couldn't stand the thought of the child crying and moaning for the last few days. she may guess--although i don't think she can really--but she is not to be told. understand, miss thompson, the child is not on any account to be told." "now listen," said mrs. mitford as miss thompson was leaving the room; "you needn't keep her to her lessons. you may take her to the zoo or to maskelyne and cook's this morning--anywhere just to give her a bit of fun. keep her out as much as you can." "but she will be so surprised; she knows that you are so particular about her lessons." "well, tell her that i think she is looking rather pale, and that she may have a holiday. use some tact, miss thompson; you can manage it if you like." miss thompson left the room and returned to the schoolroom. christian was busily engaged pulling out her favorite books from their places in the bookcase and examining them. she knew that she and rosy could only take one or two books away with them, and she was undecided whether to select her new and beautiful edition of the arabian nights or a battered old shakespeare. she was extremely fond of shakespeare, but on the whole she felt inclined to take the arabian nights. "they will suit rosy," she said to herself. "i don't believe rosy has read any of them--or at least hardly any; and rosy is too young and too ignorant for shakespeare. yes, i think i will select----" "what in the world are you doing, christian?" said miss thompson as she entered the room. "pulling my books about." "then put them all back on the shelf at once, dear." "i was only wondering," said christian. "there's more reading in the arabian nights, i think it will do. do you mind my putting a little bit of blue ribbon in my copy of the arabian nights, miss thompson?" "but why, dear--why?" "i shall recognize it then at once. now i suppose we have got to do horrid lessons." "it's a very strange thing to me, christian, that such an intelligent girl as you should dislike lessons. i should have imagined that you would love your history and your literature." "i like spanish history best," said christian; "it is the most bloodthirsty." "my dear, that is a horrid thing to say." "well, it's true," answered christian. "it's much less dull than english history--english history, i mean, as it's written. i wish i could make stories out of it. wouldn't you all gape and scream and jump about, and feel that you must fight like anything, if you listened to my stories? think of 'john of gaunt'; and think of the 'black prince'; and oh! think of 'agincourt' and the 'field of the cloth of gold.' oh, dear! oh, dear! couldn't i make the whole thing shine? and wouldn't i just? but english history as it is written is very, very dull." "i don't agree with you. when you are older you will know that english history written by such men as macaulay and froude is most beautiful and thrilling. now i have news for you." "you do look strange!" said christian; "what can be the matter?" "i have just been down to see your mother." "oh, can i see her?" said christian, a swift change passing over her face. "can i? may i? i want so badly to ask her a question." "she is going out; she does not wish to be disturbed." "oh, i know all about that." "you know about it?" "yes; but never mind. tell me what your secret is, miss thompson; i can see it is bubbling all over your face." "your mother says that you are looking pale, and that you may have a holiday." christian smiled. her smile came gradually: at first it was just a little dimple in her left cheek; then it spread to her lips; then it filled her eyes; then a wave of color mounted to her face, and she burst into a hearty fit of laughter. but when she ceased laughing there were tears in her eyes. "my dear," said her governess, "are you well?" "yes, i am quite well. so i am to have a holiday. where shall we go?" "where would you like to go?" "may we go where i like?" "yes; but what do you think of the zoo?" "oh, i know it so well." "would you like maskelyne and cook's?" "no; i want to do something else, and it will take the whole day long. thompson--dear, darling---- you don't mind my calling you thompson, do you?" "well, chris, i am accustomed to it by now, am i not?" "of course you are; and you are a dear!" christian flung her arms round her governess's neck, and rubbed her soft cheek against miss thompson's somewhat lined one. "what i should really like, thompson dear----" "what is that, christian?" "well, to hang on your arm and walk very close to you, and chatter all the time." "you may." "and not wear my best dress." "you may wear your common dress." "then i do see that things are going to be heavenly! i want to walk slowly--very slowly--up oxford street, and then down regent street, and then down piccadilly, and then up bond street; and perhaps we might go to baker street. and while we are walking i want to watch and watch, and look and look----" "at the shops, do you mean?" "no, no; things in the streets." "what things, love?" "little italian girls and boys with monkeys and tambourines; and happy families, too. oh, i do love happy families!" "but you can see them any day in the square." "yes; but i want to look at them with fresh eyes." "fresh eyes, christian?" "yes. i dreamt about a little italian girl last night, and i felt that i loved her." "we can easily see them," said miss thompson, "wherever we are; and it needn't take the whole day." "when we are tired we can have lunch somewhere," continued christian; "and i should like to give the italians a lot of buns, and the monkeys some nuts. oh! i want to stare well at them all. i want to see for myself what the little italians look like, and how they do their dancing, and how they manage their monkeys." "you are a strange child, christian; but there is nothing wrong in your wish to see the italians. have you any other desires?" "well, i should like--only i'm afraid you won't do it--to go into an awfully slummy place, and walk upstairs and see what the bedrooms are like, and to question some of the women as to what they eat, and how much they pay for what they eat. for, you see, even if you have close on eight pounds, it can't be expected to last forever. oh, dear! what have i said? have i said anything very, very funny, miss thompson?" "yes, christian, you have; but then, you are eccentric." "so i am. will you be such a darling as to take me into a slummy place?" "certainly not. you may look at the italians from a distance, but we will keep in clean streets if you please. now go and put on your things; i will give you the best sort of day i can." chapter iv grandmother's dinner christian had, on the whole, a very interesting day. she had never been so captivated by italian children before. she watched and watched the pretty movements, the quick gestures, the gleam of the white teeth, the shining dark eyes. the little monkeys, too, were all that was pathetic. she quite made up her mind that she and rosy would earn their living in the future as italian girls--that they would have a monkey and a tambourine each, and go about and dance and beg for money, and have a happy time. "only we must not do it near home," thought christian, "for we might be discovered. it would be indeed too terrible a fate if, when father and mother are away in persia, miss neil should catch sight of us. i should be punished then; and poor, poor rosy--her mother would half kill her." christian's thoughts were so full of keen interest that morning that miss thompson began to consider her a very delightful girl. she was startled, however, in the midst of lunch, which they were both enjoying immensely, by the young girl bending forward and saying in an emphatic voice: "if it was necessary for your career, would you greatly mind being dyed with walnut-juice?" "my dear christian, what a strange remark!" "but i wish you'd answer it," said christian emphatically. "i can't understand. it could not be necessary for my career." "but if it was. if it made all the difference between success and failure, between prison and liberty, which would you choose?" "oh, the walnut-juice, of course," said miss thompson. "but, all the same, i fail to understand." "i don't want you to understand any more, dear thompson; and you know you are quite a darling. you are coming out in the very nicest character. i hope i shall have more and more holidays, for i do like going about with you." miss thompson was to remember christian's remarks later on, but certainly at the present juncture they had no meaning for her. when the young girl came back late that evening she was informed by nurse that mrs. mitford had sent her an invitation. "you are to put on your very best company frock, miss christian, and to look as nice as ever you can, for you are to go down to sit with your mamma in her boudoir this evening. mr. mitford will be out, and you are to have supper with her. she means to have supper in her boudoir, and she says that you are to keep her company." nurse expected christian to shout with delight, but she was silent and looked rather grave. "aint you glad, my darling?" said the old woman. "nursey," said christian, "did you ever have the feeling that you were too glad and yet too sorry to be able to say what you felt? on the whole, i'd rather not see too much of mumsy at present; but if i must i must, and if i go i'd like to look nice. make me very, very nice, please, nursey dear." nurse set herself willingly to accomplish this task, and christian in her white silk frock, with its many ruchings and ribbons and soft laces, and with her fair hair hanging down her back, made as interesting and pretty a picture as the heart of mother could desire. "there, darling!" said the old woman; "you are like no one else, my own miss christian. kiss me and go." christian ran up first to her attic. she had secured a broken looking-glass, rather a large one, which she had placed in such a position that she could see herself when she acted the parts of her different heroes and heroines. from time to time she had induced the housemaids to give her candle-ends, and she possessed a large box of these interesting remnants. she lit a couple of dozen now, put them in different positions, and was at last able to get a good view of her own young figure. she was a rather tall and very upright girl, and she looked her best to-night. "is it i or is it another girl?" thought christian. her quick imagination pictured the different heroines of history. which should she select as her own rôle to-night? finally, after a steadfast glance into her face, she decided to belong to the army of martyrs, and to imagine herself back in the time when people died for their faith. it seemed to her that she read resolution, determination, and unflinching self-sacrifice in her eyes. she blew out the candles, gave a little sigh of relief, and ran downstairs. her mother was waiting for her. mrs. mitford was very prettily dressed, the boudoir looked charming, the fire burned brightly, the lamps were pretty with their shaded globes, but christian could not help giving a guilty glance towards that window behind whose thick, soft curtains she had listened to the story of her proposed fate. "only it isn't my fate," thought the child, "for i am determined--quite determined--to choose the life of the free." supper was already on the table, and christian had to take her place. "i hope you will like the meal i have had prepared for you, chris," said her mother. "johnston, you need not wait," she continued, turning to the footman; "we will ring when we want anything: i have quite thought about this little meal with you, chris," continued mrs. mitford, "and i ordered soles. you love soles, don't you?" "oh, yes, mumsy; we never have anything nice and tasty of that sort in the schoolroom." "they have got so terribly expensive," said mrs. mitford in a fretful tone. "after the soles we will have pheasant; you are fond of pheasant. and you shall pour out the coffee by-and-by. as the sweets--children always adore sweets--i hate them myself, but i suppose there will be something brought up for you. i ordered a savory for myself, but left your sweets to cook." "and i'd ever so much rather eat a bit of your savory, mother; i don't so specially care for sweets," said christian. she was somewhat depressed, and yet she was happy. the delicately served meal was quite to her taste. she said to herself: "this will be something to remember by-and-by when rosy and i are eating red herrings and stale bread. i'll often talk to rosy about this meal. i feel to-night as though i wasn't christian mitford at all, but someone else; not a poor martyr, but a sort of queen. how pretty mother looks! i shall never be pretty like her. yes, she has a darling, sweet face, but----" christian did not follow up this "but," only it lay like a weight near her heart. the meal came to an end, the savory was disposed of, coffee appeared and vanished, and presently mrs. mitford and her daughter were alone. "now, mumsy," said christian, "come and sit on this deep sofa and let me cuddle up to you. let me think that i am a very little girl once more; i want you to pet me and stroke my face. i want to put my head on your shoulder. you don't mind, do you, darling?" "oh, christian!" said mrs. mitford, the tears rushing to her eyes, "i only wish you were a little, little girl. big girls don't suit me half as well. i used to pet you such a lot, and you were so pretty. don't you remember the time when i took you out driving in your dark-blue velvet pelisse and your blue hat? don't you remember how the people used to remark on my very pretty little girl?" "yes, mumsy," said christian; "but you can imagine i am your very pretty little girl again, can't you, mumsy?" mrs. mitford said she could; but she was small and christian was big, and the weight of the child's head on her shoulder tired her. presently she sat up restlessly and said: "we are wasting our time; i have a great deal to talk to you about. i don't often see you; i am so busy, you know." "yes, mother," said christian; "but it seems a pity, doesn't it?" "it can't be helped, dear. your father is a man of great importance, and i am obliged to be with him all i can. and this is the time for your education. i want you to be a very accomplished girl. i don't care a bit about learning or anything of that sort, but i do want you to play well--so well that people will talk and look at you, and remark on the brilliancy of your touch. and i want you to have a lovely voice. when you are old enough you must have the very best instruction for that. and then i want you to paint a little, and recite; recitations are very popular, only they must be well done. and i want you, of course, to be a good linguist; your french must be perfect. by-and-by you shall go to paris to get a proper accent. german is nice too, but not so important as french. italian would be useful; you are sure to spend a few years in italy. you must dance beautifully; but then there is no doubt on that point, for you dance well already." christian sat very upright; she did not speak. "well," said her mother, "does my list of accomplishments appeal to you? do you want to be all that your mother could desire?" "you leave out some things," said christian--"the story part--all about history and the lovely, lovely things that happened long ago. i don't want just to be----" "just to be what, dear?" "i can't explain myself; but when i think--oh, mumsy! i will tell you. you mustn't be angry with me, but i don't want to be a brilliant, accomplished girl; i want to be a heroine." "you silly, silly child! a heroine! what do you mean?" "i want to be the sort of girl who would do great things--who would----" but mrs. mitford interrupted her with a little scream. "you want to be an oddity," she said, "an eccentric horror. don't come to me and expect my approbation if you are anything of that sort." just at that moment the room door was opened, and who should come in but mr. mitford. his wife gave a start when she saw him. "i found i could get away earlier than i expected," was his remark. "i fancied chris would be with you, and i thought we could have a talk. you both look very charming." christian sat close to her mother. "what a contrast you both are!--you so dark and piquant, and christian so tall and fair and blonde. you are very like your grandmother, chris, and she was a very beautiful and noble woman." mrs. mitford sighed. the color deepened in her cheeks. "i believe," she said, with a laugh, "that christian will resemble her grandmother in more ways than one. you know what an eccentric woman she was." "she was a very good woman, you mean," said mr. mitford. "yes, patrick; but eccentric--very eccentric. do you remember when she insisted on giving up her own dinner to send it to the invalid who lived on the other side of the street? it was ridiculous of her." "do tell me!" said christian suddenly. "did granny give her dinner to a sick person at the opposite side of the street?" mr. mitford laughed. his dark eyes fixed themselves on christian's animated face. he stepped up to her, and putting his hand under her chin, looked down at the speaking, bright features. "you are like her," he said, with a sigh, "the same eyes, the same determined chin, the same expression. well, my child, i can wish you nothing better than to be as good as your grandmother." "but tell me about the dinner, father." mr. mitford laughed; then his face grew grave. "we kept a most perfect cook, for your grandmother was singularly particular with regard to her food. she had a very small appetite, but she always wanted the very best prepared for her, and she could not worry herself about ordering her own food; she liked it to come as a surprise. now, adams suited your grandmother's palate to perfection. day by day the most delicious little dinners were served up. well, one evening, i don't exactly know how she discovered it, but your grandmother happened to know that there was a poor lady in the opposite house who refused to eat anything. she was poor, and the house she lived in was nothing like as large and expensive as ours. your grandmother feared that mrs. stirling had not a cook to her taste, so that evening she sent her own special dinner to her. when she found she liked it she sent it again every night." "but why couldn't she have more dinner cooked for the sick woman?" interrupted christian. "ah, that was the point. adams would only prepare this very special and choice dinner for your grandmother. she could not be worried to do it for anyone else. had your grandmother told her that the special meals were to go to mrs. stirling they would not have been worth eating, so she gave her own dinner and went hungry. the thing lasted for three weeks." "and then?" asked christian. "mrs. stirling died. the people said afterwards that your grandmother's dinners kept her alive for ten days, and that she enjoyed them so much that she used to think about them all day long until they came. the thing was just like your dear old grandmother; she was an oddity, but most unselfish." "it was a splendid thing to do," said christian. "it was exactly the very thing i mean to do. i always thought granny looked nice--i mean from her picture--but now i am certain about it. she is a great heroine, and i mean to copy her." "there, patrick!" cried his wife; "what mischief you have done by telling christian that absurd story! there always was a vein of oddity in christian. i hope you will speak seriously to her, and tell her that during our abs---- i mean henceforward we wish her to attend to her accomplishments, that when she is grown up, and--we have time, we will take her out and be proud of her." mr. mitford continued to stand near christian, and once again he looked into her face; then he said, with a sigh: "a girl such as your mother has described would be quite acceptable to me. but come, chris, what have you got in your head?" "only that i want to be a heroine," she said. she stood up as she spoke. her face looked tired. "i want to do something big; i want people to remember me when i am dead. i'd like to have a great big obelisk put up over me, and words written on it. and i'd like it to be pointed to, and people to say, 'the woman in memory of whom that obelisk was erected was a benefactress.' that is what i'd like to be, but mother wants me to be----" "yes," said her father, who was frowning as well as smiling, and looking with intense earnestness at the child, "and what does mother want you to be?" "a musician, and to be able to dance; a linguist, and a fine singer. oh! she wants common, common things----" "they're admirable things," said the father sternly. "i agree with your mother. but why, my dear child, should not a benefactress be able to sing and dance, and make the world brighter all round? don't get confused in your mind, christian. you can be as accomplished as anyone in the world and yet be a noble woman." christian looked puzzled. "i didn't think of that," she said. "i do so want to do something--to be a heroine--and i care so little about being just accomplished." "you had better go to bed now, christian," said her mother, beginning to yawn. "always do your duty; that is the main thing. here is a sovereign for you, pet. you can go out to-morrow and buy something." christian looked at it. her face grew scarlet. suddenly she said: "but may i keep it? if i don't really want to spend it, may i keep it?" "of course you may, if you wish; but what a funny child!" mr. mitford kissed his daughter with much more consideration than he was wont to give to her. mrs. mitford gave her a passionate hug. "good-night, darling," she said. when she left the room christian's parents looked at each other. "upon my word," said mr. mitford, "christian astonished me to-night." "i do trust she won't grow up odd!" was mrs. mitford's answer. "my dear," said her husband, "don't you see that the child is a budding genius? i always thought so, but to-night i am sure of it. i wish i hadn't accepted that appointment, mary. it is very sad to be parted from that young creature, the only child we have, for six long years." mrs. mitford began to cry. "don't, mary," said her husband in a distressed voice. "it is worse for me to see you mope even than to see christian moping." "what i feel so awful," said mrs. mitford, "is her not knowing--her thinking that we are to go on as usual. poor christian!" "it is best," said her husband in a decided voice. "i could not stand her tears; i am afraid i am a sad coward, but it's a fact. of course, she will get over it." "get over it," said mrs. mitford, with a laugh. "of course she will. she'll just fret for a bit at first. but that is a splendid school, isn't it?" "yes; i went to see it. i liked everything about it. miss peacock is a woman in a thousand." "she will be very happy," said mrs. mitford. "she wants companions, and miss neil will be nice to her when she takes her there. she won't have time to fret. time flies when you are young. she'll be too busy to fret; don't you think so, patrick?" "i hope so," he answered; "but i don't believe she is an ordinary child. there, mary! don't let us talk about her now any more. we must settle other matters to-night." he pulled some papers out of his pocket, and soon husband and wife were absorbed in abstruse calculations. meanwhile christian put her treasured sovereign into the box which contained all her money. "certainly fortune seems to favor me," thought the child. "i shall have eight sovereigns now. won't rosy and i have a time!" she sat down near the fire and began to think. presently nurse came in. "tut, tut, miss christian!" she said; "you aint to be dreaming there any longer. you're to go to bed." "nursey, i love you," said christian suddenly. she ran to the old woman and put her arms round her neck. "nursey, did you ever hear that wonderful story about my granny?" "what story, darling?" "about her giving her nice, lovely dinner to the dying woman." "it was like her," said nurse. "did you know my granny, nurse?" "know her?" exclaimed nurse. "rather! there weren't her like anywhere to be found. she was always too good for----" nurse drew herself up abruptly. she had meant to say, "too good for the present mrs. mitford," but she restrained herself. "there wasn't her like in god's world," she continued. "dear, it were a sorrowful day when she died." "was she very old?" asked christian. "no, lovey, not specially--a little past sixty." "that sounds very old," exclaimed christian. "it aint when you come up to it," said nurse. "i'm sixty-five, and i don't count myself such an old woman. it's wonderful what a different view you take of sixty when you are, so to speak, nigh to it." christian did not find this an interesting subject. she said after a moment: "was granny like me--in appearance, i mean?" "well, now, darling, sometimes it has come over me that you have got her build; but you being young and she old, it's difficult to say. still, i own that you have got her build." "father thinks that perhaps i have got her spirit." "god be thanked if that is so, miss christian. it was her wish that you should be called christian. it was her own name; she inherited it from the quakers. her grandfather was a quaker, and a very strict one; and her mother was called christian, and then you were, darling. she thought a sight of the name. she said the one thing that fretted her in not having a daughter of her own was not being able to call her christian." "was she fond of me when i came?" asked christian. "yes; she'd often take you in her arms and kiss you, and say that she hoped the spirit of her grandfather, quaker joseph bunn, would descend upon you. but there! you aint to be stopping up any more, so up to bed you go." christian went to bed. she felt very thoughtful. her conscience did not prick her at the thought of running away. she was still firmly convinced that even her father, who had seemed much nicer than usual to-night, would not mind when once she was out of sight. "'out of sight, out of mind' with father and mother," thought the little girl. "and i could never, never live in a strict-discipline school." nevertheless christian knew as she dropped asleep that her grandmother would not have acted as she was going to do. having always held herself in strict discipline, she would not run away from it. she would obey; she would subdue herself. "then i can't be like granny," thought christian, turning restlessly from side to side on her pillow, "for i want my own way; and i won't go to school, for the school mother has described is a sort of prison." with an effort she turned her thoughts from her granny and her own secret desire to resemble her, and she thought, until sleep visited her, of rosy. for the very next day rosy was to come, and rosy was to tell her all she had discovered; and they were finally to make their plans, for the time when christian would run away from russell square was close at hand. chapter v change of a sovereign when rosy arrived on the following evening she looked very much excited; her eyes were bright, and there was a lot of color in her cheeks. beside her christian looked pale and scarcely pretty at all. the little girl sat down on a stool near the fire in the nursery and warmed her hands, chatted loud and long to nurse, and laughed continually. "one would think," said nurse after a pause, "that you did not love miss christian one little bit. i never saw anyone in such riotous spirits, and i must say it aint becoming." "oh, don't i love christian?" said rosy. "don't you go and draw wrong conclusions, great-aunt. i love her better nor anybody else--there!" "well, child, that's all right. here comes miss christian. now listen, rosy. you are not to stay long; you are to go away in about half-an-hour, for my young lady looks very peaky." christian sat by the fire. nurse gathered up her work and prepared to go into the schoolroom. she knew the children would like to be alone, and she had promised to help miss thompson in her constant search after christian's possessions. "a more untidy child i never saw," said miss thompson when the old woman entered the room. "but there! i do pity her. i think it is perfectly awful the way the poor child is kept in the dark. it is that that worries me." "well," said nurse, "there's sense in it too. she won't have time to fret; it will be one sharp blow and then the worst will be over. miss christian has got fancies and all kinds of romances about her, and she'd conjure up horrors like anything. children who conjure up ought to be kept from brooding; that's what i say." meanwhile the two girls in the cozy nursery were sitting side by side. "i have eight sovereigns," began christian. "i've got another since i saw you last. mother gave it to me." "oh, golloptious!" said rosy. "do you think eight sovereigns will go a long, long way? do you think they will be enough till we have made our fortunes by being tambourine and dancing girls?" exclaimed christian. "to be sure they will!" answered rosy. "now, christian, you listen. i have it planned splendid. you'll have to do it this way, and this alone. my friend that i told you of aint much to look at, but she's clever. my word! i never came across anyone with such brains. i spoke to her last night. she is apprenticed to a dressmaker next door to mother, and she's sick of it." "but my eight pounds won't support three people," said christian, speaking hastily, and with a strong dislike to rosy's friend rising up at once in her heart. "you needn't fear that," said rosy. "judith aint going to have anything to do with us; she couldn't if she wished, for she's apprenticed to a dressmaker, and her mother would be mad if she even thought of such a thing. but what she will do is this. she'll meet us and take us to some nice lodgings, where we can stay all by ourselves for a couple of days. if you say the word to-night, miss christian, she'll hire the little room for us. i said you wouldn't mind it being humble, and she said she knew one in a very respectable house--of course nowhere near here--a little room at the top, where there'd be a cozy bed for us. think of you and me sleeping so warm side by side. and we could have a fire if we wanted it, and we could cook red herrings and make our own tea." "it would be fun," said christian, her eyes gleaming. "children have done that before when they were poor, haven't they? it would be like the old story-books about children who lived in london and nearly starved but came out all right in the end." "yes, yes," said rosy; "but you listen. she'll take the room to-morrow if you say the word, and it will be all ready for us when we get there on tuesday." "oh," said christian--"tuesday! but oughtn't we to run away on monday?" "no; that won't do at all. i told judith, and she said you'd be found out. what you must do is this. you must get to the station. you must walk up to the book-stall. you say to that miss neil that you want a picture-book----" "which i don't," said christian. "i hate picture-books." "well, any sort; it don't matter. then you watch your chance and mix up with the crowd and come out, and stand outside and wait for me." "but how will you know what station to go to?" rosy laughed. "you'll say that i am very clever when i tell you," she answered. "do you know that i picked up a letter that your mother had dropped, and it was from that fine school of yours--oh! i wouldn't like to be imprisoned there--and all directions were given. you were to go from paddington station; so i'll be there, and so will judith, and we'll take you away before miss neil finds out anything. don't you see what a splendid plan it is? your father and mother will be off two hours before you, and they won't be fretted at all. by the time the news reaches them that you are lost, you may be able to write a letter and tell 'em that you are earning your own living in london and doing fine." christian's cheeks were now almost as red as rosy's. "it does sound too splendid," she said. "i wonder if i'll have strength to do it." "why, miss christian, what do you mean?" "well, you know, rosy, it isn't good of me; it's downright bad of me." "oh, i didn't know," said rosy, "that we was to think of the virtues. i thought you wasn't a bit that sort of goody-goody kind." "nor am i," said christian, reddening. "but since i saw you i have heard about my grandmother, and she--she was wonderfully good. and she had spirit, too, rosy--far more spirit than either you or i have. but she never thought of pleasing herself; that was the amazing thing about her." "well, no one can call you selfish, miss christian." "but when i run away from the strict-discipline school i do please myself, don't i?" answered christian. rosy had no answer for that; but presently her little face puckered up and she began to cry. "i was that troubled," she began, bringing out the words through her sobs; "and judith ford--i promised her five shillings; so i did. i knew you'd pay it for getting her to hire the room and for going to paddington with me. and i thought i wouldn't be scolded any more, nor have my finger pricked by the horrid needlework, nor anything of that sort; and now----" "well?" said christian. "you are backing out of it; i can see that. you aint half nor quarter as anxious about it as you were when last we met." "you needn't be frightened," said christian coldly. "i asked you to help me, and i mean to go through with it; but as to its not being painful--i know it will be necessary, but it is horribly painful. i can scarcely bear to look my mother and father in the face." "well!" said rosy, "i could look mother straight enough in the face. i didn't sauce her half as much to-day, for thinking that i'd be away from her and the horrid needlework in less than a week. oh, i am happy! and we'll get a little monkey and tambourines, and we'll practise like anything in our dear, snug little room; and we'll start walking along the streets and getting pence from the passers-by by the end of next week." christian's eyes once again sparkled. the scheme was fascinating. she found herself, as it were, between two positions. at one side was the school, strict--very strict--far away from london, where she would be received and, as it were, locked up in prison for years and years and years; no holidays to look forward to, for holidays were to be spent at school; no friends that she loved to greet her or speak to her. she was slow in making friends, and rosy was dearer to her than any other girl. certainly the other prospect was more alluring. it did not occur to her that the small room would be anything but spotlessly clean, with snowy sheets to the bed, and pretty, bright furniture, and a dear little fire in the grate; and she _had_ always longed to taste red herrings. she thought that the food of the poor would be nice as a change--at least for a time. then there would be the life in the open air, and the other tambourine-girls looking on and envying and wondering. and the monkey should certainly be called jacko, for there was no other name so sweet for him. and she would love him and teach him no end of tricks, and he would sleep with her at night. "yes, rosy, i will do it," she said. "i am sorry i seemed to hesitate. you can't quite understand everything about me; but i'll do it safe enough." "that's right," said rosy. "and now, do you think, miss christian, that you could let me have five shillings?" "what for?" asked christian. "well, it's for this: judith can't hire us a room unless she pays in advance. she has one now in her mind's eye--a beauty--like a bird's nest, she said--the cosiest spot on earth. she wouldn't like to lose it. she must get it to-morrow, and we'll take possession of it on tuesday, but we must pay a week in advance." "i have only got my sovereigns," said christian. "it will seem rather strange my changing one." "all right," said rosy; "only i don't suppose i dare come again. can't you get it for me anyhow? great-aunt has always a lot of change, i know." christian considered, and then she went into the schoolroom. her purse containing her treasure was in her own private desk, and that desk stood on a little round table near one of the windows. it was always kept locked, and christian kept the key fastened on to her watch-chain. she unlocked the desk now and took out the purse. the night before she had deposited the new sovereign with its seven companions. she looked sadly at her little store. it seemed a pity to break it. but, after all, rosy's request was reasonable; judith ford could not be expected to get a room for them without money. both nurse and miss thompson were in the room, and they looked attentively at christian as she entered. "well, miss christian," said nurse, "has rosy made herself scarce? quite time for her to do it, little puss!" "yes, christian, you really must go to bed now," said miss thompson. christian colored. "i want to change this," she said, and she laid the sovereign on the table. "whatever for, my pet?" said nurse. "it is for rosy; i want----" "no; nothing of the kind," said nurse--"nothing of the kind! i'm not going to have my great-niece taking presents from you, miss christian; and money, too, forsooth! just like the brass of that little thing! but i'll soon----" "nursey, nursey," cried christian, almost in tears, "you don't know; you can't understand. please--please let me have some change; i want to give rosy five shillings. it isn't as a present; it is for something she is to do for me." "of course you can have the change, christian," said miss thompson; and she went to her desk, and presently laid half a sovereign and four half-crowns on the table. she took up the sovereign, and christian ran into the nursery with the money. "here it is," she said, thrusting two half-crowns into rosy's hands; "and i had great work to get it. nursey thought i wanted to give you a present." "i'll have something to say to my great-aunt if she doesn't change her manners," was rosy's response. "thank you, miss christian; you couldn't, i suppose, let me have another half-crown as well?" "what for?" said christian, who felt that her money was already beginning to melt with wonderful rapidity. "well, you see, miss, it is to pay for judith's time, and for me and her to go to paddington in time to meet you. this sort of thing can't be done without a little outlay, miss christian. afterwards, when we are settled down, we'll be as economical as you like." "there, take it," said christian. she thrust the money into rosy's hand and dashed from the room. she did not even wait to bid her friend good-night; she felt at that moment that she almost disliked her. chapter vi six long years monday night had arrived. the long days of waiting and suspense were nearly over. christian looked paler than ever. she no longer asked questions or tried to draw people into betraying themselves. she often sat for half an hour at a time staring straight before her. nurse was frightened when she looked at her; even miss thompson did not care to meet her gaze. shortly after tea on monday evening miss thompson ran downstairs and burst suddenly into mrs. mitford's presence. mrs. mitford was engaged with her own packing, which had to be done in the most judicious way. she had given the child to understand that she and her father were going to the south of france for a time. "we _are_ going there," she said to the governess. "don't look at me so reproachfully. you know we are going to marseilles, and surely that is the south of france." "well," said miss thompson, "i must speak. i don't like it, mrs. mitford; i don't like it at all. i'm glad the time of deception is over. sometimes, do you know, i think christian guesses." "christian guesses!" cried her mother. "how could she? i hope you have been careful. i told you all her things were to be packed in the north spare-room. she is taking almost everything new with her. she needn't have known anything. you have told; you have betrayed your trust." "no, i have not," said miss thompson quietly. "i have been as careful as a woman could be. but christian is a sharp child, and she can put two and two together. i suppose, mrs. mitford, you will soon tell her now?" "she is coming down to see me after dinner this evening. her father will be present. we will tell her then," said mrs. mitford. the governess was turning to leave the room. once again she came back. "i know you won't do it," she said, "and yet i long to ask you to. i do so wish you would let me take her to school instead of----" "really!" said mrs. mitford. she was a very imperious little woman; she hated anyone even to suggest that her way was not the right way. "really!" she repeated. "i am sorry, but i cannot have my plans interfered with. my friend miss neil will take christian to the school." tears sprang to miss thompson's eyes. "it is only that she loves me, and she does not care for miss neil." "very silly of her!" said the mother. "she will have to see a good deal of miss neil while we are away. you would like me to write that recommendation for you to-night, miss thompson? well, i have nothing but good to say of you. i hope you will get a comfortable situation before long." "thank you," said miss thompson a little coldly. she left the room and returned to the schoolroom, where christian was pretending to read a new story-book her father had given her that morning. it was rather old-fashioned. she did not exactly care for it; she thought there were too many characters, and that the plot was not brisk enough. nevertheless she went on reading it. it would probably interest her later on; she knew that her mind was not with the written words that night. "do you know that you are to go down to see your father and mother after dinner?" said miss thompson. "yes, of course i do," said christian. she turned very white and dropped her book. "you are not well, dear; you don't look at all well." "i am quite well, thank you, miss thompson." "what dress will you wear, christian?" "i don't think it matters much." "they would like to see you looking nice. your pink frock is new; will you put it on?" "if you like." it was between eight and nine that evening when christian, beautifully dressed as usual, and looking tall and straight, and with a certain curious defiance about her, and yet with an inward trembling, passionate love vibrating through her frame, entered the presence of her father and mother. of course she knew what was coming. they did not guess that, but the very fact, although it reduced her to despair, kept her also calm. there was no uncertainty about the moment that lay before her. mr. mitford felt extremely nervous. he was fond of christian--fonder than he cared to own. he was a very busy man, and seldom had more than a minute or two to devote to his wife and child, but he felt that christian and he could be great friends if they had enough time to get better acquainted with each other. mrs. mitford was certain that she would burst into passionate tears, and thus disgrace herself forever in her husband's eyes. therefore, when christian entered with her bold, firm step, she could not help looking at the child with admiration. "she will be a beauty by and by," thought the mother; "she is remarkable-looking now." the father, as he glanced at her, thought, "she is my mother over again; it is a sin to leave her." filled with a sudden tenderness, he moved up an inch or two on the sofa in order to make room for christian to sit by his side. "we have sent for you, christian," said her mother; "we have---- you tell, won't you, patrick?" he was silent, looking straight across the room at his wife; his very lips were trembling. christian pitied him so much that she almost prompted him. she very nearly said, "go on about the school--the strict-discipline school, you know." mrs. mitford in the interval rushed into the breach, and continued: "you know, christian, that we are going to the south of france to-morrow." christian did not answer. she gave a brief nod; her lips were firmly pressed together; her eyes were bright. she was saying to herself, "i won't cry. i won't let tears come; i won't--i won't--i won't!" "yes," said mr. mitford, "we are going to marseilles; and on a longer journey." christian looked up at him. he took her hand. once the ice was broken he continued more fluently: "i am appointed consul-general of teheran in persia. it is a very honorable position, and----" christian stirred restlessly. mrs. mitford looked at her. "why doesn't she speak?" she thought. "i quite expected her to say, 'and you will take me with you?'--to say those words very earnestly, and be passionate and troublesome about it." but christian did not say anything. she did not even express surprise. "we go to-morrow morning," continued mr. mitford--"your mother and i. christian, child, why don't you speak?" "i am listening, father," she said gravely. "you are a good child," said her father, flinging his arm round her waist and squeezing her to him. but she detached herself suddenly. "i'd ever so much rather you didn't pet me while you are telling me." "oh, very well!" said mrs. mitford in a displeased tone. "i have always thought it, and i must say it: i don't think you have a scrap of heart, christian. you are the only girl i have ever heard of who would submit to her parents leaving her for six years without even a murmur." "you didn't say the number of years, mother," answered christian. "stop, mary," said her husband; "you must allow me to speak to the child. i am very pleased with you, christian, for having control of your feelings. i don't for a moment think that you are heartless. far from it," he added, putting his hand under her chin and looking into the deep eyes that could scarcely meet his gaze--"far from it," he continued, and he patted her on the shoulder. "you are a good girl, just like your grandmother, and you have got pluck and endurance. now, do you know what we are going to do with you? you are our little girl, and very, very dear to us." "of course, christian, you are our only child," said her mother. "we shall be very proud of you when we come back; you will be accomplished then. you will remember what i wish: you are to be a great musician and a great singer, and your french is to be----" "my dear," said her husband, "had you not better let me explain to christian what her position will be during our absence?" "all right, patrick; only i did think that the child would like her mother to talk to her." "so i do, mother," said christian. she had a sudden wild impulse to rush up to that pretty little figure and fling herself into its arms; but she knew that her mother would not understand her. she had a sort of feeling that her father would, but she was not sure of him; so she sat still and held herself up for all she was worth, and thought at intervals under her breath, "i won't let the tears come--i won't!" "we have considered this," said mr. mitford. "the thing has come suddenly, and there has been very little time. we could not take you with us, for the country is not suited for young people. no girl who is not grown up could go there. we shall be away for a long time, and during that time, christian, you must be going on with your education in the best sense of the word. threefold must that education be--don't forget that--body, soul, and spirit. when we return you will be---- how old are you now, christian?" "thirteen," said christian. "yes, dear, thirteen in august," interrupted mrs. mitford. "can you not recall that hot august morning when we first saw our little christian?" "yes, dear," replied her husband. "well, christian, you are thirteen. in six years you will be nineteen--a grown-up woman, ready to take up life seriously--a woman like your grandmother." "you may as well turn christian into a quakeress at once," said the mother. "the religious part of the question we need not discuss," said mr. mitford. "in six years' time christian will be grown up. we shall return with pride and pleasure to embrace our dear daughter. now, christian, we have found a school for you--not an ordinary school by any means. the lady who is the principal is miss peacock. she is a splendid woman; her character is superb. she is a great favorite with the girls who live under her roof. there are only forty girls, so it is a comparatively small school. the house is a beautiful old mansion, and the end of the garden is washed by the waves of the wide atlantic. the school is in cornwall, in one of the most healthy spots possible. in the summer you will have boating and yachting, in the winter riding. the climate, compared with that of london, is temperate, and you, who are fond of flowers, will have them in plenty. each holiday miss peacock has promised to take you somewhere." christian's eyes grew bright. "you will love her, for she is worthy of love. you are to be treated with singular indulgence." "what about the strict-discipline school?" said christian to herself. "you are to have your own pretty room, and you are to be allowed to write your letters without having them looked over--that is, to your parents. there are some charming girls at the school, and they are all prepared to love you and be good to you when you arrive. my own dear girl, you will be there by this time to-morrow night. you will leave here early in the morning, and---- don't cry, child; you really have been very brave." "do let me just for a minute," said christian, flinging her arms round her father's neck. her reserve was broken; she sobbed as though her heart would break. "come and kiss me too, christian," said her mother. mrs. mitford was crying also. christian sobbed more and more uncontrollably. mr. mitford got up and left the room. "i couldn't expect her to keep up all the time," he thought. "she was very brave at first, but those tears are terrible. mary at least might have controlled herself. mary is pretty, adored by society, but, compared to christian, heartless. poor girl, what a face was hers! i could have stood those tears, but that face of tragedy hurt me. poor christian! i could almost wish i had not taken that brilliant appointment. but there! it may lead to many things, and when a man has a child he ought not to be selfish. i do what i do for christian, after all. poor darling! somehow i never seemed to quite understand her or to appreciate her until to-night." chapter vii "the reformatory school is the punishment for me" rosy, who was in some ways so very much wiser than christian herself, had assured the young girl that her parents would not be at all frightened by her running away. "they won't know anything about it," argued rosy, "until they get a letter from your own self; and when you tell them, and they see it in your handwriting, that you are well and happy, they will be as pleased as punch. i know it," continued rosy, with emphasis, "for when i am real happy, even if it aint the very thing mother might have liked beforehand, she can't help getting a sort of delighted look on her face. it's the way of mothers, even if they are harsh ones; so think what it will mean to your father and mother, christian, who love you like anything." christian was so much interested, and her mind was so fully made up, that she listened to rosy's specious words, and even composed in her own mind the little letter she would presently write; a passionate letter, full of love, but at the same time with a beseeching tone running through its depths; the letter in which she would assure her father and mother that she would be the straightest, most upright, most unselfish, noble sort of tambourine-girl in the world. after her father had left the room christian lay still on the sofa, her arms around her mother's neck and her head buried against mrs. mitford's soft white neck. she had ceased to sob. she had almost ceased to feel. by and by mrs. mitford roused the child. "the years will pass quickly; your father and i will think of you, and the years will go by with lightning speed. soon we shall be together again." "oh, no, mother," answered christian; "it will be a long time--a long time!" "you think so, dearest, but you are mistaken. now, go to bed, darling; i daren't allow you to trouble yourself any longer. you must sleep, christian, for my sake, or we shall both be ill to-morrow when we most want to be fresh and bright." "suppose, mother, i were to write you; when would you get the letter?" "you had better write straight to bombay. your father and i will spend some weeks there before we proceed to persia. you can write when you are settled at school. here is the address." mrs. mitford opened her desk, took out an envelope carefully addressed and stamped, and put it into the young girl's hand. "now, good-night, dearest. you will soon sleep sound. the worst will be over before long." christian left the room without another word. she scarcely kissed her mother as she parted from her. all of a sudden her conscience began to prick her. she dared not listen to it, however; there were others involved in the mad game she was playing. whatever happened, she must go on with it. she got quickly into bed, covered her face with the clothes, and pretended to sleep. she was alone in the dark; even nurse had left her. the house quieted down. mr. and mrs. mitford were to leave at seven in the morning. christian would not leave until nine, her train not going from paddington until a few minutes to ten. just before she dropped asleep she resolved, whatever happened, to be up in time to rush down to kiss her father and mother; but, what with her distress and the fatigue which her excitement had caused her, she slept heavily until nurse called her. she started up then with a cry. all that was to take place flashed upon her. there would be no nurse to-morrow morning; only a little room in the slums, and rosy her companion. well, even that was better than a strict-discipline school. "nursey," she cried, "what is the time?" "twenty minutes to eight, deary. you will have to leave soon after nine. i didn't want to wake you a minute before the time." "but have they gone--have they gone?" "of course, darling; they left at seven. they came up, both of them, and kissed you. it went hard to see them, particularly my master. ah! he's a good man, but maybe stern and a bit absent-minded; but he is a good man when all is said and told." christian did not say a word. the knowledge that her father and mother were really gone lay on her spirits as a crushing weight. then she began quite wonderfully to cheer up. the worst was over. the pain of leaving the old house, the wonderful dream-attic where the happiest time of her childhood had been spent, nurse, the servants, miss thompson, was all as nothing. she got up and dressed. she thought with a smile, how to-morrow she would be wearing very different clothes. she was not at all nervous; she was sure that rosy's and her great plan would succeed. breakfast was over in a short space of time. christian's private money had been put into a little bag under her skirt. nurse had made the bag for her; it had a string attached to it, and nurse had shown the young girl how she ought to tie it round her waist. "you are to get more money from time to time," said nurse; "and once a year i am to come down to cornwall to see you. the place is called penwerne, and is near to the town of tregellick. they say the house is that beautiful! but there, darling, do eat something!" christian ate and drank. she then bade the servants good-by; she hugged miss thompson, but her last most fervent embrace was for nurse. nurse cried, but christian did not shed a tear. she had said good-by to her attic the night before, and had determined not to visit it again. at last she was seated in the cab. nurse and miss thompson promised to write to her, and miss neil, looking stiff and somewhat severe, desired the cabman to proceed, and they were off. the house in russell square seemed to vanish like a dream; they turned a corner and went rapidly in the direction of paddington. christian scarcely spoke. there was a cold sensation round her heart; she wondered if miss neil would give her a chance to escape. she was soon relieved on that score. "as soon as we get to the station, christian," said her companion, "i will have your luggage registered. you have still a great deal of luggage, although one large box was sent off last week. i will see it registered, and you will stand by me. but we must get our tickets first." christian longed to ask a question or two, but her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth. she was so terribly afraid of betraying herself that she was silent. they reached the great station, and miss neil, accompanied by her young charge, approached the ticket-office. a string of people were waiting their turn. miss neil bought a single first-class ticket for christian and a return for herself. a porter was standing by with christian's voluminous luggage piled up on his truck. miss neil and he entered into an animated conversation. they moved a little aside. christian watched them, standing stock-still herself as though she were turned into stone. suddenly a wild desire to be going quietly down to cornwall took possession of her. she considered for a minute how easy it would be for her to abandon her scheme, to stay by miss neil's side, to enter the carriage which she had selected, to be conscious of the fact that the luggage was in the luggage-van. there was nothing against her carrying out this sudden wish--nothing at all--except rosy's disappointment and judith ford's annoyance. christian would be going to the school selected by her father and mother, and all would be well. "i could send rosy a letter through nurse," thought the young girl, "and i would send her a whole sovereign in a postal order. she could give some of it to judith, and there would be an end of the matter. i think i will give it up," was her next thought. "now that it is so near, it seems too awful to go through." but just then miss neil turned and spoke sharply to her: "don't stay back there, christian; come to my side. and pray, don't stand on one foot in that ugly way. do hold yourself erect; i hate the manner in which girls hold themselves nowadays. thank goodness, when you are at penwerne you will be taught that and other matters! yes, it is a good thing you are going to that severe school. what did you say?" she continued, turning to the porter. "over weight? but we have first-class tickets. one pound to pay? preposterous!" "well, madam, i assure you----" began the man. he and miss neil entered into a sharp dispute, while christian glided away. she would carry out her scheme; miss neil herself had decided it. two minutes later she was in the affectionate embrace of rosy latimer, while judith ford, a rough-looking girl with a freckled face and high cheek-bones, stood near. she wore a showy hat with a lot of cheap red velvet on it. her jacket was too small for her, and her gloves had holes in them. christian scarcely glanced at judith ford. "come, quick!" said rosy. "oh, aint you a darling? aint we going to have a good time? oh, christian! you don't know what judith has done for us." "don't you tell," cried judith. "you always do let the cat out of the bag. we'll let christian see for herself." "christian," thought the young girl, "christian. have i come to be called that by a girl of the judith ford type?" the three girls ran down a side street, and a moment later judith beckoned to the driver of a decrepit-looking cab with a broken-down horse to draw up to the edge of the pavement. they jumped in, and off they went. christian tried to shut away from her imagination the sound of miss neil's excited, terrified voice when she missed her. she tried to shut away from her mental vision the thought of miss neil at all; she would forget her now. she would also forget the school at penwerne, and the cozy first-class carriage. she would even cease to remember her parents, who must now be crossing from dover to calais. she would forget everything but the great, marvelous, wonderful adventure itself. oh, how often during the last few days had she pictured it! now she was living through it in reality. it was a big, big story--a wild, thrilling thing--she was about to live through it. she had been an imaginary heroine so often; now she would be a real one. oh, yes, she was safe; miss neil could not possibly find her. she was safe, and it was--yes, delicious. but as this last thought came to her judith's very sharp voice sounded on her ears, and judith's emphatic nudge poked itself into her side. "why don't you talk?" cried judith. "be you the sulky sort, as hugs their grief to 'em and hasn't a word to say to their kind friends? oh, won't we have a time to-night! you've got the chink all right, haven't you?" "the what?" asked christian. judith burst into a loud laugh. "the chink," she cried. "why, rosy, is she such a softy as not to know what chink means? we'll teach her a few things, you and me; won't we, rosy?" "miss christian knows a lot of things," said rosy. her voice sounded quite refined in christian's ears. "she knows ever so much that we don't know. we've got to treat her with respect," continued rosy. "not a bit of it!" exclaimed judith, with another loud laugh. "we're all in the same boat now." christian looked at her with a growing terror. "and here we be," continued that young person. "now then, cabby, look spry. there aint no luggage, so you must let us off cheap. how much is the fare, cabby? don't you try to humbug me. i know a thing or two; as much as you do." judith began to haggle loudly. the cabman answered; judith overtopped his voice with her screaming one. poor christian felt that the most strict-discipline school on earth would be paradise compared to her present surroundings. but, after all, rosy had tact. she came up to her little companion and whispered in her ear: "judith aint going to stay, so don't you think it. she's just showing off, and no more. i've seen the room, and it's quite nice; and if we don't like it we can change, for we have plenty of money. don't fret, miss christian; i can't abear to see that sort of look on your face." "come along now," said judith, having settled her dispute with the cabman. "i lead; you follow. i'm leader in this game." she entered a hideous, dirty, tumble-down house. christian held her skirts tightly round her; she could not bear that they should touch the filthy walls. she scarcely liked to tread on the black and broken stairs. they went up flight after flight, and at last entered a small attic at the top of the house. compared to the stairs, it was fairly comfortable, but poor christian had never imagined that anyone could live in a room of this sort. "i was thinking," said rosy, who was watching her little companion earnestly, "that you and me, miss christian might go out presently and buy a few things. you see, judith," she added, turning to the other girl, "miss christian has been accustomed to a very different life." "it will do her a sight of good to know how the poor live," was judith's remark. "but as to buying things, you and she had better lie low for a day or two, for they're sure to make no end of a fuss, and have the police after her, and all the rest. it wouldn't do to have the police after us," continued judith, fixing her malicious eyes full on christian's white face, "for running away is a crime punished by law. you gets locked up for running away, and a pretty long sight of prison too, to say nought of the disgrace. you wouldn't like that, would you, miss?" "it isn't true," said christian. "i don't believe it." "oh, don't you, miss? well, i'm sorry for you. there's a woman in the next room--a very nice friendly woman; her name is mrs. carter; she helped me to tidy up the room this morning. we'll ask her." before christian could prevent her, judith bounded into the adjoining room, and came out accompanied by a tall woman with a head of tousled hair, curl-papers all round her forehead, a broken bodice, and a red skirt. this woman had heard from judith all about the proposed plan, and thought it a very fine joke indeed. "this young lady is miss christian mitford--the honorable miss christian mitford," said judith, laughing. "you'll have to drop your curtsy to her, mrs. carter." "i aint a-going to drop no curtsies to anybody who lives in this house," said mrs. carter. christian walked to the window and turned her back on the other inmates of the room. oh, she was punished! was it true what that awful girl said, that if she were caught now the law of the land would put her in prison? she wished the ground would open and swallow her up. oh, where was the delight and excitement of the adventure that had looked so fair before it began? "you just tell her plain out what's the truth, mrs. carter," said judith. "about what, my dear?" said mrs. carter. "aint it the case, ma'am, that if you run away from your lawful guardians, you being, so to speak, a minor--that means under age, miss," she added, nodding to christian--"aint it the case that you are locked up?" mrs. carter looked hard at judith. she then glanced at christian. christian was well dressed; beyond doubt she was rich. she must frighten her and then soothe her, for get money out of her she should, and would and could. "miss," she said, "i'm sorry for yer. my heart bleeds for yer, miss. whoever made yer get into this scrape? it's true, miss; it's true. it happened to my first cousin. she was well born, miss--not like me. her parents were most genteel. when a child she ran away from school, and for two years she was in a reformatory, miss--a prison-school. she was indeed, miss. she never come to any good; and she's in prison again now, miss, serving her time for burglarious action." christian had not the slightest idea what burglarious action was, but it had an awful sound. her heart stood still with agony. it was scarcely likely that both mrs. carter and judith were wrong. mrs. carter had her facts so glib, and she had such a wicked knowing look. "i'm sorry for yer, miss, but the only thing for yer is to keep tight in here; and if the police come you can hide under my bed, miss, and you're kindly welcome. and if there's anything i can do for you young ladies in the way of hot water for making a drop of tea, or anything of that sort, you have but to tell me; for it's neighborly we'll be, miss, and you won't regret it so much when you know, so to speak, the in and out of our lives. we may be poor, but we have our good p'ints, and our moments of 'joyment too." "you clear out now," said judith, pushing mrs. carter towards the door. she shut it, and then came up to christian. "you'd best give me a little of the chink," she said, "and i'll go out and buy food for us all. i can show my nose as much as ever i like, for i haint run away; but you and rose must keep tight, for if you show yourselves it's the reformatory school you'll get into. it's the reformatory school; that's the punishment for you." chapter viii play-acting with trembling fingers christian lifted her skirt and produced the little bag which contained her precious savings. there were still seven pounds ten shillings in the bag, for she had given away the last half-crown of her first ten shillings to judith in order to settle with the irate cabman. it was in reality only a one-and-sixpenny ride, but judith, as she pocketed the shilling, assured christian that it cost half-a-crown and was cheap at that. christian knew too little about the ways of the poor to make any remark, but she did feel certain that her money would not go far if it was required at so rapid a rate. "here," she said, opening her bag and producing half-a-sovereign; "i ought to get a lot of change out of that." "so yer will," said judith, snatching it from her; "and i'll bring in all sorts of things. what do you think we'll want, rosy? you'd best make a list." "oh! i wish i could go with you," said rose, whose eyes glistened at the sight of the gold. "but you can't," said christian, "i should die if i were left alone in this awful, awful place." "awful, is it?" said judith. "my word, you be hard to please! i 'ates the ways of your haristocrats, always with their noses in the air, sniffing at everything, pleased at nothing. the sight of trouble i had to get this sweet little room! and i'm sure it's as pretty a place as can be found. and if that aint a nice, clean bed for the two of yer to sleep in, i don't know where you'll find a better. and there's a fireplace and a table. and oh, my word! here's a cupboard in the wall. what more could the most particular desire? and here's a chest of drawers. jolly, i call it! and two chairs--one for me, and one atween the two of you. if this room aint spry and cozy, the only thing i can say is that i hope you'll never find yourself worse lodged. now then, rosy, tell us what you want." rosy began to count on her fingers. she had arranged everything beforehand in her own acute little mind. she knew exactly the food they would require, the matches and the chips of wood for lighting the fire and the coal to fill the grate. she ordered matches and wood and coal now, also red herrings, a little loaf of the best fresh bread, some butter, some tea, sugar and milk. "you must see about the coal the first thing," said rosy; "we can't do any cooking until it has come. and, judith, we must have a saucepan and a kettle and a little frying-pan, and some cups and saucers, and spoons and knives, and a pinch of salt, and wood to light the fire, and half a dozen eggs. can you remember all those things?" "that i can," said judith; "but if you think there will be much change out of ten shillings you're uncommonly mistaken." "but there ought to be," said rose, her cheeks growing crimson. "mother 'ud get all them things and have summat to spare out of five shillings. look you, judith, there aint to be any larks with miss christian's money. you're to bring back five shillings change, or i'll go out and buy the things myself, whether i'm caught or not." the smirky, impudent look left judith's face. "we needn't stay here at all," continued rosy. "miss christian might so happen to get tired of this here joke. she might so happen to want to go back to her own people, and we will go back, both of us, even if they are angry, if you play any pranks. now you understand." judith nodded. "it's a nice opinion you have of me, rose latimer," she said. "what pranks would a poor girl like me be up to? you needn't fret about me and my morals, rose latimer, for i'm as straight as a die, i can tell yer." she ran downstairs, utterly regardless of the dirty walls and the broken stairs. she flew along, leaping over obstacles, and clearing two or three stairs at a time in her headlong flight. when her steps had died away rosy looked at christian. christian's back was to her; she was standing by the window. she had not removed her hat and jacket. in her heart was a dull weight--the weight of absolute despair. even rosy, as she watched christian and seemed to guess by a sort of instinct what she was feeling, began to find the adventure less adventurous, and even began to see a certain amount of good in the dressmaker's room where she usually sat, cozy and warm, machining long seams and turning out yards and yards of flouncings. yes, even the dressmaker's room was better than this attic, with christian, as rosy expressed it, in a sulk. "miss christian," said the little girl. christian made no reply. she drew a step or two nearer the window, and stared out with the most forlorn feeling in her heart. the only view she could obtain from the very small dormer-window of the attic was of some of the neighboring roofs, black with smoke and smuts. they were hideous in the extreme. christian had never before known what real, absolute ugliness meant. she shuddered, and yet, with a certain fascination, drew nearer. a cat, meant by nature to be white, but of a dull uniform gray, stepped gingerly over the roofs towards her. he met a brother cat, and they saluted each other in the customary manner. christian turned away with a shudder. "miss christian," said rosy again. "what is it, rose?" "you are miserable," said rosy, "and you blame me." "well, i never thought it would be like this. i never imagined anything so awful. and is it true that as we ran away we--we'd----" "nonsense, miss christian! i don't believe it's true for a single minute. it's only judith's way to frighten you, miss." "but mrs. carter said the same." "yes, miss christian, i know it; but she was put up to it by judith." "i thought you said you liked judith--that you thought her a nice girl." "i never seed her afore in the light i do to-day, miss, and that's the truth." "rose, i'm frightfully miserable." "well, i aint too happy," said rose. "can't we get away from here? i'm frightened." "we might creep out of a night, for certain, but in the daytime they're a-watchin us." "who? who are watching us?" said christian. she went up to rose and clasped her hand in an access of terror. "well, that mrs. carter; and most like there are others in the house, and they all know you have money. i tell you what, miss christian, there's only one thing to do." "what is that? oh, what? oh, i am frightened! i never thought i should be so terrified." "it's a clear case when one ought to be terrified," said rose, and she sank down on one of the chairs and stared straight in front of her. "yes," she repeated, "it's clear it means terrifying; there aint a doubt of that." "what is to be done?" said christian. "oh, if mother could see me now! oh, father, father! rosy, i'd rather be in the most awful strict-discipline school in the whole world than here." "you think so because you aint at the school," was rosy's astute reply. "now, miss christian, let me think; don't speak for a minute. it were i who got you into this, so it must be me to get you out; that's but fair." "it is--it is; but can you?" "let me think, miss. judith will be back in half an hour. i'll think for a bit and then speak." to christian those few minutes seemed like eternity. at last rosy stood up. she crossed the room, went to the door and examined it. "there aint never a lock," she said. "that's bad. but we can put the chest of drawers agen' the door to-night, so that no one can come in without us hearing 'em. and if we are really frightened we can push the bed up agen' the chest, and squeeze it in between the door and the wall; then we'll be as snug and safe as any girls could be. then we must take the first chance that offers to get away; we must. judith aint what i thought her. we mustn't tell her--not on any account. we must steal away when she aint here. the folks here won't let us go if they think we want to, so we must pretend." "pretend?" said christian, in amazement. "for sure, miss; there aint no other way. we must pretend we are delighted--you to be free of the school, me to be your companion. we must have a right good time to-night and turn judith's head with our merriment. we must laugh and sing and pretend to enjoy ourselves. we must have a sort of feast, and we must talk a lot about buying the tambourines; and judith must see about hiring a proper tambourine-girl's dress for you and another for me. it will mean maybe five shillings more, but that can't be helped. we must catch 'em by guile, miss christian--mrs. carter and the rest. they must hear me talking to you about the awful prison life you has escaped, and you must say out very loud that you never did enjoy yourself so much before. we must take 'em in. you leave it to me, miss. you follow up when i speak. when i give you a look you will know what i mean. that's it, miss. then to-morrow we'll creep away. if anybody meets us we'll say we are going out to buy things. we'll leave the cups and saucers and things behind us, and we'll never come back--never. that's what we must do. it's the only way, for i don't believe that we can be locked up for running away. but i do think the folks in this house will keep us from ever getting home again; or, at any rate, from getting home until they have got all the money they can from us." rosy spoke with great confidence. christian felt cheered by her words. "it will be horribly difficult," said christian; "and i hate deceiving. i never did deceive anyone yet in my life." "it's a case of play-acting," said rose stoutly; "and if you aint been play-acting all your born days, i don't know who has. haven't you been joan of arc one day, and charlotte corday another and poor me marat in his bath, waiting for you to stab me--and william tell and the characters in the bible? there aint no fear that you can't act. you've just got to act once more." "but what?" "why, a girl who loves the slums, and dotes on her freedom, and is determined that nothing shall make her a slave. now you know what to do. oh, here comes judith! i'd know judith's step in a thousand." as rosy said the last words she began to hum in a high, excited, staccato voice: "for britons never, never, never shall be slaves." judith burst into the room. she carried a heap of parcels and a sack full of coal. "if this aint love!" she said. "if this aint, so to speak, the height of devotion! now then, look spry, both of you." "oh, yes," said rosy, bursting into a loud and apparently delighted laugh, "you are good. now we'll have fun. bustle up, miss christian; take off your hat and jacket. see, aint i thoughtful? i brought a little apron for you in my pocket. you slip it on; deary miss, and then you won't spoil your nice things." "what do it matter if she spoils her things or not?" cried judith. "she can't go on dressing in that fashion; she'd be nabbed at once. the police would bustle round her just like birds round a strange bird. she'll have to dress like the poor folks. the best thing is to pawn her dress, and get her one of them thick woolen sort like the tambourine-girls wear from the pawn-shop." "that's the right thought, miss christian, aint it?" said rosy. "and you'll be sure to get a good price for such solid clothes as you wear. i could go out now and pawn them." "no you don't!" said judith. "if there's any pawning to be done, i do it. and you needn't think for a moment that your miss christian--your fine, guarded young lady, who'd get finely punished by the law of the land were it known what she'd done--would get much for her clothes. it's very, very little she'll get; although, of course, i'll do my best for her." "oh, i am so hungry!" said christian, making a valiant effort to speak naturally. for one instant she looked towards the window. it was like looking out of prison. even the roofs, so close at hand, seemed to her at that moment the land of the free. but it was true she had often acted before, and she could and would act for dear life now. so she fell on her knees and began to build up the fire. how badly she did it! judith roared with laughter, and dropping down by her side, began to give directions. presently rosy pulled them both aside and lit the fire herself. she was quite an adept at this sort of thing. for a wonder the chimney did not smoke, and the sight of crackling wood and cheerful blaze brought the first moment of comfort to poor christian's heart. when the fire was lit the dirty table was laid with the plates and cups and saucers, and pewter spoons, and ugly black-handled knives. judith thought they were very fine, but christian, if she had not been acting a part, would have found it impossible to have eaten with them or on them. but the tea was fairly good, and it was made in the tiny little brown teapot; and the herrings were put on the pan to fry. mrs. carter, attracted by the excellent smell, popped her nose in at the door. "my word!" she said, "here's comfort; here's dainties; here's a real feast. would a poor neighbor who has scarcely tasted a morsel all day be welcome, or would she be unwelcome? you say the word, miss--welcome or unwelcome--the truth, miss, and nothing but the truth." rosy gave christian an anxious glance. christian, still forcing herself to continue her play-acting, replied in a hearty tone: "of course you are welcome." "then do, like a good creature," suddenly exclaimed judith, who by no means wished the feast to be shared by anyone else, "go and take out those curlers. oh, i know they are hinde's, but take 'em out--take 'em out--and come in looking like a decent, civilized 'uman being." mrs. carter hastened to comply, and soon the four, on two chairs, were seated round the board. rosy shared half of christian's chair, and judith and mrs. carter, pushing each other violently from time to time, subsided on the other. it cracked under their joint weight. mrs. carter said that if they were unlucky enough to break it, the landlord would charge christian the full price of a new chair. "he'd do nothing of the sort," said judith. "why should he, i should like to know? this one is as old as the hills, and didn't cost more than one and elevenpence when it was new." she had scarcely uttered the words when crash, crack went the chair, and the two were prostrated on the ground. they got up amidst peals of laughter. mrs. carter assured christian that the chair cost seven and sixpence, but that she'd make it good with the landlord for half-a-crown if christian would entrust her with that sum. "we'll see about it to-morrow," said rosy. "i think, ma'am, we have all had our meal, and there's a deal for me and this young--person," she glancing at christian as she spoke--"to see to. we has to begin our trade to-morrow morning. we are poor--very poor." "oh, my!" said mrs. carter. she glanced at judith, who winked back at her. "yes, desperate," continued rosy. "aint we, miss christian?" "certainly we're very poor," replied christian. "but, all the same," continued rosy, "we're very happy; aint we, missy?" "very," said christian again. "and we are so thankful to our kind friends who helped us to run away. we are----" "nonsense!" interrupted mrs. carter. "to think as you like this better nor the palaces you have come from." "we are very happy, and there is such a thing as drudgery even in a palace," continued rosy. "and this young--person--she don't call herself a lady any more--was going to a sort of prison school. she prefers liberty, even though liberty aint, so to speak, self-indulgence. we're both happy; aint we, miss christian?" "very happy," replied christian. "and how do you mean to live?" said mrs. carter, impressed in spite of herself. "we thought of going and dancing in the streets. this young person can dance most beautifully." "well, i never! you'll make up as italians, no doubt." "it's you that has an acute brain, ma'am," said rosy in a voice full of admiration. "that's what we mean to do--aint it, miss?" "it is," said christian. "and we mean to begin," continued rose, "to-morrow morning." "oh, no, you don't!" said mrs. carter. "that would be dangerous." "dangerous or not, we are going to risk it," said rosy. "yes, we're going to risk it," said christian in a stout voice. "and what i was thinking," continued rosy--"that is, if it is agreeable to you, christian--is that every day, while we are out earning our fortunes, we might give mrs. carter, say, fourpence a day to keep our fire in and our room tidy, and perhaps to have the kettle boiling for us when we come in at night. if you like, mrs. carter, i think christian and me would make it worth your while for fourpence a day." "i'm agreeable to that same, if you make it sixpence." "no, ma'am, we can't possibly do that. fourpence is too high. if you don't like it, ma'am, say so, and we'll get a woman downstairs to do it for threepence, or maybe twopence." "well, i'll do it for fourpence if you throw supper into the bargain." "can we throw in supper, miss christian?" asked rosy. "i think so," said christian, trying to act the part more forcibly than ever. "fourpence and supper, then," said rose. "but it can't be paid any day that you don't make yourself useful, mrs. carter." "no fear of me," said mrs. carter, with a toss of her head. "and what part shall i have?" said judith, who was absolutely taken in by rose's cheerfulness. "you can come and see us when you like, and when we have made enough money we'll now and then give you a treat; and mrs. carter shall come with us. but," added the little girl, emboldened by the effect her words were producing, "we won't have any of the other people of this house. the more you keep us to ourselves, mrs. carter, the more you will get. do you understand?" "for certain i do, honey; and i must say it's a real sensible plan." "so we will stay here quietly to-night," said rosy, "and enjoy ourselves, and to-morrow morning we will go and buy what we want. we'll start our trade about midday. we'll dress as italians, of course." "i'd like fine to see you doing it," said mrs. carter. "you mustn't follow us on any account--anyhow, not for a day or two. we'd feel more nervous, like, if we thought you was looking on at us." "you be a 'cute un," said mrs. carter. "now then, make yourself scarce, ma'am," said judith, "for we have a lot to attend to." mrs. carter retired. she was apparently in the height of good-humor. rose instructed christian how to wash up the tea-things. by and by judith also took her leave. "for if i'm not back home before four o'clock, folks may suspect and hunt me up, and maybe find you into the bargain," she said to the little girls, and so she left them to themselves. yes, at last they were alone. mrs. carter had gone out; they heard her heavy tramp as she went downstairs. she was the only other lodger on this floor, and the place was now comparatively quiet. "if only we could lock the door," said rosy. "but there, we can't." "shall you sleep at all to-night, rosy? aren't you terrified?" said christian. "it's just this," said rosy: "i mustn't let out; i must pretend i'm not the least bit frightened." "i don't suppose you are. you are wonderfully brave." "now then, let us settle down and let us plan," said rose. they sat close to each other and kept up the fire, and they had no idea of saving their small amount of coal. what did it matter when they meant to go away on the morrow? presently day faded. they had forgotten to supply themselves with candles. rose did not dare to go out. christian clung to her. "we'll keep up the fire all night," said rose. "you'd like another cup of tea, wouldn't you, darling miss christian?" "no," said christian; "i'm not hungry. rosy, if i hadn't done it i'd have been nearly at school now." "yes, darling." "and i wouldn't be feeling such an awfully wicked girl." "you can't help it," said rosy. "it's the way of life; we are punished when we do wrong." "do you think we did very wrong?" "for certain we did. i knew it all along, but i couldn't hold back from the fun." "do you think we are in danger now, rosy?" rose was silent. "rosy, do you think anything will happen to us to-night?" "miss christian, you always were brave." "yes," replied christian, "but i never did suppose that i could be in my present surroundings. i am frightened to-night, and i don't pretend i am anything else." "we will do what we said," answered rose. "we'll put the chest of drawers against the door, and move the bedstead against the chest of drawers, and that will fill up the space as far as the opposite wall. then no one can get in. isn't that a good plan?" "let's do it," said christian; "and let's do it now while mrs. carter is out, for if they heard us moving about the room they might try to get in." "come along, then, miss christian. let's be quick. we never did a bit of play-acting to equal this before." "never," replied christian; "and," she added under her breath, "i don't think i will ever, as long as i live, want to play-act again." chapter ix a night in the slums the two girls carried out their plan in all its details. they moved the chest of drawers against the door, and then they moved the bedstead. by this means they had practically locked the door. they were very thankful for this later on, for as night advanced and the people came home, and the house became full, their terrors increased. they were now so frightened that they did not dare to speak even to each other about their fears; and when, shortly after they had secured themselves against intrusion, someone first tapped at the door and then turned the handle and pushed, and then after a moment of silence steps were heard going away, they could only clasp each other's hands and sit close together, almost paralyzed with terror. "they've shut themselves in," christian heard mrs. carter say to someone on the landing. "they're the 'cutest young folks i ever see'd." then the someone who was spoken to growled, and mrs. carter and this person went into the adjoining room; and there they moved about at intervals, and at intervals remained quiet. christian felt positive that they were waiting to do something, and rose knew that they were waiting, but neither girl expressed her terror to the other. "they can only get in by breaking through the door," said christian, "and they will scarcely do that." but rose knew that such people as mrs. carter and her husband would think very little of breaking through an old door if they wished to get at their neighbors' attic. how glad the children were that they had fuel! they piled up the little grate and made the fire burn hot and strong; and by and by rosy tried to persuade christian to have another cup of tea. but christian was now so sick with terror that she could not touch the tea. "we won't lie down at all," said rosy. "we'll sit close to each other by the fire. we won't sit on the floor, for it aint too clean, but we'll sit on a chair each, and put our arms round each other. it's only for one night, my own darling miss christian--only for one night--and i think somehow god will keep us safe." "i haven't prayed to him," said christian in a broken voice, "because i have done wrong. when you do very wrong you can't pray." "maybe you could repent, and then you could pray," said rosy. "i don't know," answered christian. the night went on. there were stars in the sky. the children could see the stars from the dormer-window of their attic; and presently the moon--a full one--rose and flooded the outside world. christian, from where she sat, could see the cats stealing about, making great shadows on the neighboring roofs, and she could hear their cry as they met each other; she could also hear, far down below, the great roar of london itself. and in the house she could hear the cries of children and the angry, excited words of men and women, and she felt that in all her life she had never even imagined anything quite so awful. her one drop of comfort lay in the fact that rosy--pretty rosy--was cuddled up close to her, and that rosy certainly would not leave her. the two young girls did not attempt to undress, and christian's bag of money was still firmly secured under her skirt. by and by silence began to reign. even in a house like this people must sleep sometimes, and the drunken men and women lay down on their respective beds, the children slept heavily, and in the adjoining attic all was still. then rosy began to nod and to fall half-forward in her chair. christian had great work to keep her from sliding to the ground. perhaps it was this fact that made christian so wide awake herself; but certain it is she could not sleep. she was glad that there was a moon in the sky; she was glad that the terrible house was quiet at last. poor christian! she little knew what lay before her. the time passed on, and notwithstanding her determination not to close an eye, the silence and the soothing effect of rosy's presence began to make her drowsy. she put her arm more firmly round her little companion and let her body lean against rosy's, and was really beginning to nod her head, when suddenly there came a great shadow between her and the moonlight. she looked up, and there was mrs. carter on the roof, trying to get in at the window. how she had got out on the leads christian never knew, but she had done so, and was now feeling all along the fastening of the dormer-window and was endeavoring to open it. in one minute it seemed to the young girl that the blood of joan of arc and charlotte corday, and many more of the great heroines of the past, rushed through her veins. she gave rosy a jerk--unintentionally, for she did not mean to wake her. she did not care about rosy then, nor did she want her. she felt all-sufficient to herself. in an instant she had sprung forward, and going to the window, opened it a little way. "go back this minute," she said. "you are not on any account to come in; i will push you down if you try. i don't care whether i hurt you or not; i will push you off the roof if you try to get in. you have no right here; go back." mrs. carter was so amazed by the mere fact of christian's being up and awake, when she expected her to be in bed and sound asleep, and so startled at the girl's unlooked-for courage, that she was absolutely mute. "go away," repeated christian. "i know what you have come about: you want to steal my money. you think i have got some. well, if i have, it isn't for you. you told me lies to-day about being punished for running away, but i don't tell you any lie when i say that you can be put in prison for this--yes, you and your husband. i will push you right down off the roof--i don't care whether it hurts or not--if you try to get in." there was a very ugly look on mrs. carter's face. even in the shadow, with her back to the moonlight, christian noticed it; but not a single word escaped her lips. her footing was insecure and dangerous; one strong push from a big girl like christian standing firmly within the room would not only knock her down, but cause her to drop a matter of thirty feet on to another roof at a little distance. she therefore began cautiously and quietly, and still with that evil look on her face, to back away from christian, and in a few minutes the young girl perceived by the absence of all shadow that mrs. carter must have returned to her own attic. then christian shut the window, fastened it firmly, and stood close to it. mr. carter might come now that his wife had failed, but if he did both christian and rose would fight him. christian was certain that between them they would be a match for anyone who tried to get in at the window. "rose," said christian. rose began to mutter in her sleep. she had fallen forward now, and was half on the chair and half on the floor. "i did not mean it, great-aunt," she began. "it was just that i were tempted, and i never, never thought that miss christian----" "wake up, rose," said christian; "wake up. you have got to stay awake." then rose did open her dazed eyes. "whatever is the matter?" she cried. "build up the fire and i'll tell you," said christian. there was a new tone in christian's voice; it was firm and strong and almost triumphant. it had the conquering note in it which rosy had noticed when they played games sometimes in the attic. "oh, miss christian," she said, "what is it?" christian told her what had occurred. "i am not proud," said christian, "not a bit. it was just given to me to say the words, and i am sure god was helping me. i am sure god is sorry for us, and he is going to help us both. i don't feel a bit frightened, but we must keep them out, rosy. if two of them come together it will be hard work, but we must be strong and firm and push them over if they try to come in. we will stay by the window all night, and you shall stay near to me, and we won't leave it except to stir up the fire." the rest of the night was spent in that fashion, and as the hours went by and the moon set and darkness really came on, rosy's fears began to return to her very badly; but christian was not at all afraid. "we will keep them out," she said. "if they had been coming back they would have come by now. and even if they do come back they will find us here." perhaps mr. and mrs. carter were not quite such valiant people as mrs. carter would have given the children to understand, for certain it is that, although christian fancied she heard a step on the roof outside the window towards morning, it did not come any nearer. perhaps carter was only prowling round to see if the children were still up and awake. when the morning dawned there were two very tired little faces gazing sadly each at the other. "this is the longest night i have ever lived through," said christian, "and yesterday was the longest day. there is only one thing now to be done: i will go back to nursey and miss thompson and miss neil, and tell them everything. i will write to father and mother. i have done dreadfully wrong, and i ought to be punished, and i am quite, quite willing to go to the strict-discipline school." "that's all very well," cried rose, "but what about me?" the terrors of the night were over, and once again she began to feel a certain charm in a life of independence; the little attic, with the winter sunshine streaming in at the dormer-window, was not altogether despicable; and surely there was a great fascination in the thought of dancing and playing and taking a monkey round the london streets. "you did wrong too, rose," said christian. "of course, you wouldn't have done it but for me. i will stand up for you all i can. i will tell your mother myself. she'll be angry, of course, but she wouldn't be a true mother if she didn't forgive." "oh, miss christian! you don't know what it means. if you only would----" then she looked at christian's face and changed her mind. it was useless to talk any further; christian was resolved. she had been resolved to run away, and she had done so; she was now equally resolved to return to the straight paths. "i tell you what it is, miss christian," said rose; "if you'd only speak to great-aunt, and ask her to let me live with her until you come back again, i'd be as happy as the day is long. you'll ask her, miss, won't you?" "perhaps," said christian; "but it is time we were off, and we are not going to pretend any more." rosy had made tea, and christian drank a cup and ate a morsel of bread; and then they pulled the bedstead away from its place beside the door, pushed the chest of drawers aside, and prepared to leave the attic. but first christian took half-a-crown from her pocket. "whatever's that for?" asked rosy. "it's for the chair that judith and mrs. carter broke," said christian. she had scarcely said the words before mrs. carter, with a pretended smile on her face and her hair quite tidily arranged, opened the door of her attic and came out. "well, now, dearies," she said, "and how are you both? and how did you sleep?" christian looked at her in some wonder. mrs. carter did not even blush. "why, now," she said, "the way poor women are misunderstood! you fastened your door, timorous young things, supposing as the neighbors might be breaking into your room and getting your bits of gold. you had no cause to fear that with me a-sleeping on the same floor; you had but to shout to me and i'd have come to you, and there aint a neighbor in the house as would do anything to little gels when martha carter's blood is up. well, you shut your door, but i couldn't sleep. i said to willyum, 'willyum,' i sez, 'i can't get any rest for thinking of those two poor little haristocrats next door. they don't trust us, willyum,' sez i, 'and i'll open the winder and steal out on the leads and look in at 'em, just to see that they're cozy and fast asleep.' "'do,' sez willyum; and i gets out, and, my word! i was took back. you turned into a young savage, miss, and you threatened to murder me, and i as good-natured a woman as ever walked. "back i goes to willyum. 'they're young sparrer-haws,' sez i, 'and we'll leave 'em to 'emselves. i'll have no more dealing with 'em. i never was took up with haristocrats, and these are the worst of their species.' "willyum agrees with me, and we drop asleep. well, miss, i meant no harm; you mistook me--that was all." christian's clear eyes fixed themselves steadily on mrs. carter's bad face; then she said in a gentle tone: "we are going away. we don't like this house, and we are going. you can do what you like with the crockery and the frying-pan and the coals, and you can have that half-crown in order to get the broken chair mended. and i paid for this room for a week, and you can use it until the week is up. good-by; we are going. don't keep us. if you or your husband follow us i shall scream for the police, and i shall tell the whole truth about everything. you'd best not follow us. come, rose." she took her little companion's hand, and they ran downstairs. as they ran the neighbors on each floor peeped out to watch them, and one or two made as though to follow them; but somehow they stopped short, for there was an expression on christian's face which seemed to daunt them. she was walking very upright, and there was not a scrap of fear about her. rosy, who stepped by her side, looked altogether small and insignificant by comparison. "my word!" said mrs. carter, who came downstairs behind the children, turning as she spoke to address a slatternly woman who had come out of her room to see the sport, as she expressed it--"my word! that eldest girl, she'll do what she said. she's a character, she be. why, if you'll believe it, last night, when i stood by the winder as kind as kind can be, just to see if the pore little dears were sleeping sound, she threatened to murder me, she did--no less. they're a good riddance, they be, and i'm going to see the landlord about that bit of a room. pore man, i don't think he'll ever see his rent." "see his rent!" screamed mrs. peters, the woman who had been spoken to. "you know as well as i do that it was paid in full by that queer girl what came here yesterday. if there are any spoils in that there room, we'll share with you, mrs. carter." the excitement which this remark caused was really good for the children, for it so distracted mrs. carter's attention, and so fierce was the quarreling which ensued, that they were absolutely forgotten. they walked on silently for some little time. rosy's heart beat hard, but christian felt herself more like joan of arc than ever. "we must try and get home," she said. "we have plenty of money, and i shall ask the police the best way to russell square." rose clutched her hand. "don't, christian, don't!" she cried. "you mustn't. i don't care; i am frightened. that story may be true or it mayn't. s'pose it is true; s'pose they're angry; and--oh, dear! oh, dear! look, christian--look!" she pulled christian forward. they were just passing a police-station, and there, pasted to the walls of the front of the house in very large letters, was an exact description of themselves: "missing.--a tall girl of about thirteen, with long, fair hair; and a shorter girl with dark, curly hair." a long description followed, giving, item for item, all particulars with regard to the children. the tall girl wore a dark-blue serge dress and jacket, and the small girl was in red. a "substantial reward" was offered for the recovery of these two girls. when christian read this very startling description she felt the courage oozing out of her finger-tips. "i suppose that awful woman is right. she must be right when the police are looking for us. this notice is outside a police-station. what is to be done?" as christian spoke she held rosy's arm more firmly than ever. the two girls stood opposite the police-station, and once again christian read the words of the advertisement. as she did so a stoutly built man of the laboring type came up. he read the advertisement, and then he glanced at the two girls. once again he read, and once again he looked. christian was so absorbed in the description of herself that she did not notice the man; but rose saw him. "is there anything i can do for you, lydies? if so i'll be pleased," he remarked suddenly. christian replied eagerly, "do you know your way to russell square? it's a big square in bloomsbury. can you tell me how to get there?" "bloomsbury," said the man, scratching his forehead. "never heard tell of it. is it far from lunnon, lydy?" "no," replied christian; "it's a place in london, and we want to get there as soon as possible." "i daren't go home," whispered rosy. "you know, christian--you must know what it means." christian took her hand. "come on," she said firmly; "we're all right. if we can get home without the police finding us, do you think that my dear nursey or miss thompson will lock us up? the thing is to get back to russell square and tell everything, and then we shall be all right." "i'm willin' to go with you, lydies," said the man. "i know my way all right about this part of lunnon, which aint, so to speak, a respectable part; and when we get to the neighborhood of the houses where the gentry lives, it's but to ask my way and i'll be told. i'm willin' and anxious to oblige you two lydies. oh, i know i be a son o' toil, but i may say i'm honest. you may trust me--that you may." just then two policemen came out of the station; they stood on the steps and talked to each other. presently one of them fixed his eyes on christian. her appearance evidently interested him, and he spoke to the other in a low voice. this decided the young girl. "we'll go with you," she said to the man; "only you must be very quick. we want to get to russell square early this morning." "right you are, lydy," said the man, and he stepped on in front. the two girls followed him. they walked in this fashion for the greater part of a mile, and all the wonderful dreams that christian had ever dreamt about the happy life which she and rosy would spend together disappeared as though they had never existed. she saw herself at last as she was--a very naughty, discontented little runaway girl. she had done nothing great or noble; on the contrary, she had been fearfully disobedient, and had doubtless given intense trouble to those who loved her. she to dare to compare herself to joan of arc or charlotte corday! she writhed now as she saw herself in her true colors. there was only one thing she was thankful for, and that was for the fact that her father and mother were out of england. "they at least do not know what i have done," she thought; "and by the time they do know, they will have got my letter, and i'll have told them--oh, yes, i'll have told them--how sorry i am." suddenly the man turned and faced the children. "if you two lydies," he said, "aint hungry, i am. aint you got any money about yer?" "oh, indeed we have," said christian. "we can give you quite a nice meal if you wish for it." "but we aint got too much," said rosy. she nudged her companion and gave her a warning look. "here's a shop where they have prime vittles," said the man; and as he spoke he stopped before a common-looking eating-house and beckoned the children to follow him inside. it didn't look nice, christian thought; but then they were very hungry--in fact, they were half-starved. never before in her whole life had christian known what real, desperate hunger meant--for they had scarcely touched any food for the last twenty-four hours. within the shop was an appetizing smell of fried fish and baked potatoes, and there were long tables with marble tops, and plates and cups and saucers. coffee, too, was smoking in a great urn. a woman with two tired little children came in and ordered cocoa, and the cocoa looked good and rich and steaming hot. oh, yes, they did not mind how ugly the place was outside; within there was food, and they were so terribly hungry. chapter x judith ford now, it so happened that while christian and rose were struggling to get back to their homes, miss neil, miss thompson, and poor nurse were nearly at their wits' ends. when miss neil had missed christian on the day before, she had rushed at once to the bookstall, for she knew that the young girl adored books, and she felt certain that she would find her there. but of course no christian was to be found. the porters were asked, and even the stationmaster came out and a thorough and complete search was made; but by this time christian herself was far away; as poor miss neil said, she had vanished like smoke off the face of the earth. a truly terrible day followed. it was impossible to communicate with mr. and mrs. mitford, and yet the child must be found without delay. by twelve o'clock the whole affair was put into the hands of the police. rewards were offered, and advertisements were issued far and wide all over london. it was in consequence of this fact that poor christian was so terrified by the advertisement at the police-station. these advertisements were got ready very quickly, and it so happened that late on the evening of the very day when christian had disappeared judith ford saw one of them. judith read it with great interest, and as she did so a pleased sensation crept round her heart. she was the sort of girl to do nothing except with an eye to the main chance. it was entirely because she hoped to make money that she had helped christian and rose. now it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps, after all, it might be her best plan to try to obtain "the substantial reward" which was offered to anyone who would find the missing children. although she had fully intended to possess herself of the greater part of christian's little purse, yet this might mean a still more profitable transaction. she therefore made up her mind to go that very night to russell square and tell miss thompson and the nurse where the children were to be found. but when judith reached her mother's house she came into the midst of a family catastrophe. one of her brothers had been badly hurt in a fall from a ladder. he happened to be judith's favorite brother, and even she forgot her avarice in the agony she experienced when she saw him lying insensible and evidently in danger. but when by and by the boy was removed to the hospital, and quiet reigned once again in the family, judith remembered the advertisement and what it might mean for her. it was too late that night to go to see miss thompson, but early the next morning--soon after eight o'clock--a stoutly built girl might have been seen mounting the steps of the great house in russell square. "i am judith ford," she said to the butler, "and i want a lydy of the name of thompson. you stir yourself now and bring her down to me. you think nought of me, no doubt, but i've got that which you'd give your eyes for. hurry up and get the lydy down, for i'm the person she's a-wanting to see." the butler looked indignant, but as judith did not mind this in the least, and as her face expressed a good deal of resolution, and wore also a most knowing air, he decided to admit her. whatever he said to miss thompson brought that lady, and also nurse, down very quickly. "i know where the two children are," said judith. "i know it for the best of good reasons, because i was with 'em, poor dears! i warned 'em all i could not to do it, but they wouldn't listen to me. they're in quite a respectable place, and i meant to come straight and tell you last night, but my brother joe nearly died from a fall from a ladder. i can take you to the children, and i will. what is the money you are going to give me? i want a good lot. no one else can find them, but i can." "we'll give you five pounds," said miss thompson. "be quick; there isn't an instant to lose. judson, please call a four-wheeler." but judith planted her feet firmly on the rug. "'taint to be done," she said. "i won't go for no five pounds. i want ten--not a penny less. why, i could get more than that from miss christian; aint she got it in a little bag under her skirt?" "oh, the darling!" cried nurse, nearly bursting into tears. "and didn't i make the bag, and tell her how to wear it, and----" "most like there aint much of the money left by now," said judith. "it wasn't my fault as your miss christian ran away. i got 'em both into a respectable room, and i meant to help 'em. but you have offered a 'substantial reward,' and a substantial reward means ten pounds or it means nothing at all. is it yes or no?" "it's yes, of course," said miss thompson. "nurse, not a word; the child must be found. judson, call a cab; and you must come with us. you will sit on the box, judson." judith smiled grimly. she was having things pretty much her own way. really this adventure was turning out well. soon nurse and miss thompson were seated in a four-wheeler. judith faced them, and judson took his place on the box with all the dignity he could muster. judith now enjoyed herself vastly. "look slippy," she said to the cabby; "i'll tell yer where to go. drive first to paddington station, and then take the first turning to the left, then the second to right then first to left again. you'll find yourself in a low part, but never you mind that. when you get to the fifth turn to the left you stop, and i'll get on the box and order you where to go. oh, yes, there'll be room for me, as well as his lordship the butler. now then, hurry up." the cabman whipped up his horse, and the cab was jolted forward. miss thompson, in her agony of mind, clutched nurse's hand. by and by they reached paddington station, and the cabman took the turns that judith indicated. judith herself now sat with her head and half of her body out of the window, shouting directions. at last the cab drew up. "i can't go any farther," said the cabby, looking round at judith. "frightened, be yer?" said that young woman. "now, then, lydies, you keep quiet. we be going into rough places, but never mind; _i'll_ be on the box." she scrambled up and squeezed herself between judson and the cabby. judson had never felt so insulted in his life, but judith did not mind that. "turn to your right," she cried to the cabman. "now to the left; now down that street. a bit bobby, are yer? no call to be. you look slippy! you're a bit of a soft, aint yer, cabby?" the cabman chaffed judith, and judith chaffed him back. judson, with his arms folded, sat as though he were a statue. by and by they stopped at a street which led into a court called paradise court. it was in this awful court that the poor children had spent the night. judith now sprang from the box and opened the door. "out you get, lydies," she said. "the butler can walk behind." she swept her hand towards judson as she spoke. "you and me," she continued, turning to miss thompson, "and t'old nurse can keep together in front. we'll keep nurse atween us, being the most ancient of the party. there aint nought to fear. this night will have done 'em both a sight of good. they want to be shown how wicked they was when they left their comferable homes." by and by the little party reached the house where the children had lodged, and very slowly they went upstairs. they reached the top landing, and here judith with a vigorous kick pushed christian's room door open. the sight within was not calculated to reassure either nurse or miss thompson. for mrs. carter and mrs. peters from below-stairs had evidently come to an amicable arrangement, and were now finishing the provisions left in the attic by the two children. furthermore, the half-crown which christian had laid on the table had been expended on beer and sausages. the sausages were frying on the fire, and the kettle was boiling. nothing could exceed the horror of this scene to poor miss thompson. as to nurse, she was now so fearfully anxious about christian that she had no time to be alarmed or shocked on any other count. "where is my child--my darling?" she cried. "where have you hidden her? oh, you bad women, what have you done with my pet? tell me at once." "highty-tighty!" cried mrs. carter, jumping to her feet and putting her arms akimbo; "and who may you be?" "you know who i am, at any rate," said judith. "and, let me tell you, this is my room, for i paid for it with money of the realm. so out of it you go. where have you put those young lydies? these two lydies have come along for 'em, and they're going to pay me well--and better than well--so you must bring 'em out from where you have hidden 'em. where are they?" "sakes!" cried mrs. carter, who had not recognized judith at first, and now thought it best to humor her, "there's no need to get into a fluster. the young uns have gone. notwithstanding the rare kindness with which they was treated, they walked out nearly an hour and a half ago; and where they are now dear only knows, for i don't." judith asked a few more pertinent questions; then she turned to miss thompson. her face looked decidedly frightened. "we've got to follow 'em," she said. "of course, we'll soon overtake 'em. let's go back to the cab, and be quick." they went downstairs. miss thompson described her feelings afterwards as those of a person who was stunned. "i could not have felt worse if i had heard that christian was dead," she said; "and the awful thing was that her father and mother were away. if they had been at home i might have borne it." now, while these good people were searching high and low for the missing children, the children themselves were having a very bad time. how it happened they did not know, but when they had finished their meal--their warm and delicious meal of fried fish and fried potatoes and hot, strong, sweet cocoa--they became wonderfully sleepy--so sleepy that they could not keep their eyes open. and the man who had looked after them and ordered them food, and had really seemed quite attentive and kind, and, as rosy expressed it, most respectable, suggested that they should stay just where they were and have "their little snooze out." "you are fair done," he said. "i don't know what kind of a night you had, but hungrier children i never saw; and now, i may add, i never saw sleepier. you have your sleep out, and i'll come back in an hour or so. i'll go and have a smoke. it's early yet in the day, and we'll get to bloomsbury and that big square you spoke of in less than no time; so have your sleep out now." christian said afterwards that of course she ought not to have yielded, but she really scarcely knew what she was doing; her head would fall forward and her eyes would close. presently she found herself leaning against rosy, and rosy found herself leaning against christian, and unconsciousness stole over them. they never knew how long they slept, but when they did come to themselves, and christian, rubbing her eyes, looked around her, and rosy, sitting up, exclaimed "oh, dear!" several times, they neither of them recognized their surroundings. for they were far away from the eating-house; they were in the open air, sitting side by side, two most desolate little objects, in the midst of a great builder's yard. they were leaning up against a huge building, and there were stacks and stacks of wood close to them, and the pleasant smell of newly sawn wood not far off. and there was the whir of a saw also in their ears. but how had they got there? and where was _there_? in what part of the whole wide world were they now? "oh, rosy, what is it?" said christian. "i don't know," said rosy. "i wonder if we are dead and this is----" "oh, this aint heaven!" said rosy. "i never felt more frightened in all my life. where can we be?" "oh, dear! oh, dear! can't you remember anything at all?" said christian. "i had a dream," she continued, rubbing her eyes as she spoke. "i thought i was eating--oh, such good things!--and that, however much i ate, i was still hungry. and then i dreamt that i was sleepy, and i slept, and i wanted--oh, so badly!--to be back in my own little bed at home; but all the things i wanted i couldn't get. oh, dear!" she added, with a bitter sigh, "i do remember now. we have run away from home. we were at an eating-house. there was a man, and he seemed quite respectable, and we fell asleep when we had eaten some good things--fried fish and potatoes. but how have we got here?" rosy's dark eyes opened wide. she suddenly fell on her knees by christian's side and began to feel her. "what are you doing now?" said christian. "your pocket, christian--the little pocket under your dress with the gold." "oh, that's all right," said christian. "no one knows of that." she started up, although she felt very faint and giddy. she began to feel under her dress. the next minute she uttered a cry. "oh, rosy, it's gone! it's gone altogether. see! the string is cut," she added, lifting her skirt. "and i had two shillings in my upper pocket, and that is gone too. all our money, rosy--it's all gone." "then i understand," said rosy briskly. "it's bad, but it might be worse. we'll go straight home. we have been robbed. i don't know how they did it, but they have done it. we'll go straight home, and at once." she had scarcely uttered the words before a good-natured-looking man of the working-class, but with a very different expression from that of the so-called respectable man, came towards them. he was holding a bulldog in leash; and the bulldog, suddenly catching sight of the children, strained to get near them and began to bark loudly. "hold that noise, tiger," said the man; and then he came to the children and looked at them. notwithstanding their torn and draggled and tired appearance, neither christian nor rose looked like ordinary tramps. the man continued to gaze at them attentively. "however did you get here?" he said. "please, sir," said rose, "will you be kind to us? we are two most unhappy girls. we ran away from home yesterday, both of us--me from a very humble home, and miss christian mitford from her grand one. we don't pretend that we are not the very worst young girls in the world, but we're _that_ sorry, and we want to get back home again. we're so sorry that we can't even speak of it." "and we've been robbed," said christian. "i had over seven pounds when i left home, and it is gone. a man took it, i think, in an eating-house." "why, bless me!" said the man, "you must be the very children who are being advertised for all over london. come, i'll see about this; i'll soon put the matter straight for you." the man tried to take christian's hand, but she moved away from him. "i--i am frightened," she said. "is it true--is it--that the police can lock us up?" "dear me!" said the man, with a laugh. "whoever heard of such a thing? no; of course it isn't true. you trust me and i'll see you safe back to wherever you came from. come along into the house. there's my mother; she and i always live in the yard, for it's wonderful how folks do manage to creep into a builder's yard and steal things. come along, little ladies. she'll give you both a cup of tea. oh, dear, this is a find!" as the man spoke christian lost all fear of him, and even rose looked happy and comforted. so they followed him into a very little house, where an old woman was bustling about. "well, albert," she said, at the sight of the tall man, "and what is the news now?" "rare good news for us, mother," was his answer. "didn't i tell you that we'd just get that money in the nick of time? and here it is, mother. here are the little hostages who will get us over our difficulty." as he spoke he drew christian and rose forward. "the missing children," he said. "and when you have given them a cup of hot tea each, and a bit of your celebrated hot toast, i'll take them home. make the tea strong, mother, for it's my belief the poor creatures have been drugged." chapter xi little providences never--never to their dying day--did christian and rose enjoy anything so much as their comfortable seat by the carpenter's fire, and the hot, strong tea which the carpenter's mother gave them. she informed them that her name was morris, that her son was called john morris, and that they were both thoroughly respectable. "you have had such a queer adventure that maybe you won't know just for a bit who is respectable and who is not; but me and john is. aren't we, john?" "strikes me you are about right, mother," said john morris; and then he sat down and stared at the two children. "it is too wonderful," he kept saying; and when he said this he began to ruffle up his thick hair and to rub his forehead. "what is wonderful?" said christian at last. "do you greatly mind, mrs. morris? but if your son wouldn't stare so very hard, rosy and i would like it better." "oh, 'taint at you he's looking," said mrs. morris. "don't you fash yourself, my dear." "but he is looking first at rose and then at me," said christian. "aren't you, morris?" she added, turning to the tall young man. "well, i be and i been't," was his reply. "i'm looking through you, miss, and that's the fact." "oh, dear!" said christian; "i think that makes matters a little worse." "would you like to hear a bit of a story, my deary?" said mrs. morris, drawing her straw arm-chair close to the fire as she spoke. "you don't mind the children hearing it, do you, john, my son?" "no, mother," was his answer. "you tell 'em just as much as you think fit." "well, loveys," said mrs. morris, "it was just like this. john and me, we owed a bit of money--exactly seven pounds ten--and we didn't know how on the wide earth to get it, and the man to whom we owed it was about to sell us up. he was going to put the brokers into this little bit of a house, my darlings." "who are they?" asked christian. "men, lovey--cruel men. they come and take possession of your house, and you can't call even the bed you sleep on your own, to say nothing of your little frying-pan and china-lined saucepan. and when a day or two has gone by they sell everything and take away the money, and you are left without stick or stone belonging to you." "that must be very awful. i never heard of anything quite so awful," said christian; "and only for seven pounds ten." "i've heard of it," said rosy. "there's one thing about poor folks: they do hear of that sort of thing. it's very bad, mrs. morris," she continued. "i think it is about the most cruel thing i ever heard of," said christian. "oh! if only my seven pounds weren't stolen you should have them all." "aint they dear children, both of 'em?" said mrs. morris, looking at her son, and the tears filled her eyes. "but, my darlings, maybe you'll be the means of giving us the money after all; for a reward is offered by your friends, loves, and if anybody earns that reward now it is my son john." "if the little ladies are ready, perhaps we'd best be going," said john morris. "oh, yes, we're quite ready," said christian. "hadn't we better have a cab? i feel rather tired," she added. "we can't have it," said the man; "there aint any money to pay for it." "but it can be paid for when we get home," said christian. "we won't risk it," said the man. "they may have left the house; there's no saying what might have happened. we've got to walk, misses." "i'm so tired," said christian again; but rosy nudged her and said: "keep up your heart. you can rest as long as ever you like when you get home." so they bade good-by to mrs. morris, and thanked her for her tea; and she kissed them and called them "little providences" and "little hostages to fortune," and smiled at them as they went out of the door, and looked so happy that it almost broke christian's heart to see her. "to be happy--oh, so happy!--in such a tiny, tiny house, and then to want just seven pounds ten, and because of the lack of so little, to have the terrible fear of her furniture being sold! indeed it shall not be!" thought christian; "i'll see to that." but as she walked through the dirty, sloppy streets by john morris's side she could not help wondering if she had any right to ask anything at all. for the thought of what she had done and the misery she had caused kept cropping up ever and ever before her mind, and with each thought her sin seemed to grow blacker, and her ingratitude to her parents greater. "and they're not even at home," thought the young girl. "oh, who will give the poor carpenter seven pounds ten?" from the part of london where the children had been found to russell square was a long way, and soon christian was so weary that she could scarcely drag herself along. "there's no help for it," said the carpenter; "i'm a strong man and can carry you for a bit, missy. come," he added; "put your arms round my neck. now then." christian felt heartily ashamed of herself. a great girl to be carried through the streets of london! but oh, how weary she was! her feet felt quite blistered, and the carpenter's arms were very strong, and he had such a kind face. "are you sure--quite sure--carpenter," she said after a pause, "that you will get that money? are you certain that you will be rewarded--that the people who advertised will give you as much for finding us?" "i guess that's about the sum," said morris, and then he laughed. what with one adventure and another, it was dark--quite dark--past six o'clock--before the runaways reached the old family house in russell square. nurse and miss thompson had both returned. judith, discomfited and miserable, had gone back to her mother's house. a tall policeman was standing in the hall, and miss neil, who had also come to the fore, was talking to him very earnestly. he was suggesting this thing and another, and as he suggested, and miss thompson's pale face looked up at him, and miss neil's rather indignant one was fixed on his face, and nurse wept in the background, there came a loud pealing ring at the front-door. "to save my life i couldn't go to answer it," thought nurse to herself. "something tells me as there is news, good or bad, and for the life of me i can't stir a step to meet it." but judson, his pride a good deal ruffled, was not far away, and he stalked to the front-door and flung it open. then there was a scream--which, on the part of miss neil, almost reached a shriek--for in the arms of a tall man was a big, fair-haired girl, and by his side stood a little, dark-haired girl, and the next instant all three were in the hall. christian, when she saw the policeman, very nearly cried again; but the welcome the wanderers received must soon have reassured them. miss neil was the only one who even tried to look severe. "well, you have very nearly killed me," she said. "but there, there! thank god in heaven you are back. miss thompson, see the poor children. how frightfully tired they look! i have no doubt they have been in horrid, dirty, smelly places, and have brought back the most horrible complaints." but christian and rose hardly heard the words, for the home feeling was so comfortable, and nurse's kisses, given indiscriminately first to her nursling and then to her great-niece, were too delicious for words. it was christian who first recovered herself. she heard someone talking in the hall, and looking up, she saw morris, looking very upright and very respectable, on the mat. now, no one had noticed morris; and perhaps, being not at all an aggressive sort of man, he might have gone away from the house without any reward but for christian. the look on his face brought her quickly to herself. "miss thompson," she said, "miss neil," she stood between the two in the hall, "i don't pretend that i haven't been a very naughty girl. i am sorry, although that doesn't mend matters; but neither rosy nor i would perhaps have ever got back home at all if it had not been for this man. his name is morris--john morris--and he lives in a timber-yard, a very nice place indeed. and he and his mother have a little house there, and they're in great trouble because of seven pounds ten. please, i want him to have seven pounds ten at once for finding us." "you did mention, ma'am," said morris, touching his forehead with great punctiliousness, "or at least the parties who put up the advertisement mentioned, that the reward for them as found the little ladies would be substantial." "it was i who put those words," said miss neil. "i regretted having to do so, but there was no way out." "my mother and me, we do want money," said morris, "or i wouldn't make so bold as to ask for it, for it's real happiness to have brought the little ladies home." "very naughty children they are," said miss neil; "but of course we must keep our word. how much, miss thompson, ought we to give this man?" "seven pounds ten at the very least," cried christian. "hush, christian! you certainly have no voice in the matter." "we promised that bold girl, judith ford, ten pounds," said miss thompson. "that is quite true; and this man----" "oh, he was so kind!" said christian. "he carried me when i nearly fainted from tiredness; and he and his mother gave us such delicious tea. didn't they, rosy?" "that they did," said rosy. "i haven't never took such a fancy to anything as i did to that hot buttered toast," she added. morris smiled and his dark eyes twinkled. "you must come another day, missy, and see my mother," was his answer. "but now let us consider the reward," said miss thompson. "it certainly can't be less than ten pounds; and i should say," remarked miss neil suddenly, "that seeing everything, and also having an eye to the fact that we were about to offer a very much larger sum, we ought to give this good man fifteen pounds." "miss neil!" almost screamed christian. "oh, i'll never think you hard or old-maidish again!" she ran forward and caught miss neil by the arm. "at present, my dear," said that good lady, eyeing her with marked disapproval, "we will have done with heroics. we will attend to business. perhaps, sir, you will step into the study. judson, show this man into the study; we will go there and give him the money." so morris, hardly knowing whether he was standing on his head or his heels, went home that night with fifteen pounds in his pocket. "mother," he said as, an hour later, he entered the very humble little home, "it wasn't only that they were providences, those two dear little ladies, but they have set us up for life. i can now get that machine i have always been hankering after, and so add a lot to my weekly earnings." "and what a good thing you did find the poor little dears!" said mrs. morris. "i am just going out now to get some sausages, for you haven't had what may be called a meal for some little time, john." so john and mrs. morris were helped, and as far as they were concerned, christian's mad adventure seemed to have borne good fruit. to christian herself, after morris went, no one said a harsh word; but miss neil sat down and began to write a long letter, which was to reach the girl's parents in bombay. occasionally as she wrote she put up her handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away some fast-falling tears; for she was not all hard, as christian had supposed, and she had really suffered horribly for the last two days. rose, having been regaled with an excellent meal, was taken home by nurse herself. mrs. latimer received her little girl with scant favor. "a fine mess you have got into!" she said. "don't scold her, poor child!" said nurse. "i am going, if i possibly can, to have her to live with me in the coming winter. she did what she did because she's so took up with miss christian; and, bad as the whole affair was, it was a blessed thing for miss christian that she had rosy with her." "then if you are going to look after rose, aunt," said mrs. latimer, "she needn't go on learning the dressmaking." "no, that she needn't, for i'm going to train her to be a proper lady's-maid. miss christian will want someone whom she can really trust when she is grown up. you must remember, mary, that our miss christian is the daughter of very rich people, and very important people too, and will be quite a great lady in her own way by and by." so rose's home-coming was not nearly so bad as she had feared, for her mother was not going to be too cross with a little girl whom her aunt was, to all practical purposes, going to adopt. "sit down, child," she said; "or, if you have had enough to eat, do for goodness' sake take yourself off to bed. you look half-dazed." "that's about true, mother," said rosy. in christian's room a bright fire was blazing, and nurse herself, the moment she came back, began to attend to her nursling. "to think of where we slept last night," mused christian. but if her thoughts were back in that short and dreadful experience, she could not bring herself to speak of it for to-night at least, and nurse did not speak of it either. she went on just as though nothing had happened. but when the young girl was warm and snug in bed, and the dreadful past seemed wonderfully like a dream, nurse sank down by the bedside, stretched out her arms over the coverlet, laid her head down on them, and burst into tears. "miss christian," she whispered, "for all the rest of my life i will believe in god almighty and in the power of prayer. for i did pray so terribly hard; and now, see, god has answered me." "yes," said christian; but she did not say any more. that night she slept soundly. she did not guess that nurse had dragged a little sofa-bed into the room and was lying down near her; she was too weary to know anything. in the morning she awoke, and the dream-feeling of the past grew greater and greater. she got up slowly and went into the schoolroom. how strange the house seemed! just the old house, with all the old furniture, and the same servants, and nurse there and all; and yet her father and mother away, and she herself having no right to be there. at about eleven o'clock miss neil bustled into the room. "christian," she said, "you have been, from what i hear, in a very unhealthy and dangerous place, and you may have contracted some illness while there. that being the case, miss peacock does not wish you to go to school for at least ten days. during that time you will stay with nurse and miss thompson, and the doctor, whom i have sent for, will call to see you once or twice. when you are pronounced absolutely free of all danger of infection i will take you to penwerne. but for the next ten days you will consider yourself free. you will have holidays, and miss thompson will take you where she likes. now, my dear, i am off, and i can only say i am glad your mad escapade has not ended in anything worse." christian tried to speak, but miss neil did not give her any time; she whisked out of the room and went downstairs. "i have told her, miss thompson," she said to the governess, who was waiting for her in the hall. "i don't suppose she has caught anything, but it will serve her right if she has. anyhow, it is only fair to the school that it should not be endangered by such a naughty girl." "and we may do what we like for the next ten days?" said miss thompson. "anything; only don't bother me." "we won't indeed." "i will send in a doctor to see her. she looks perfectly well, only a little pale. yes, amuse her; do what you please. it is not my place to punish her. thank heaven she is not my child!" chapter xii going to school notwithstanding all that went before, christian enjoyed her ten days. she knew she ought not to feel happy, but nevertheless happiness would nestle up close to her. she was not troubled; she was calm. she felt that, naughty as she had been, god had forgiven her. during those ten days christian was very gentle in her manners. she had a sensation in her heart that she could never be naughty again. she was so impressed by this feeling that, the night before she left for cornwall, she said to nurse: "nursey, darling, i suppose all things are for the best. i feel that i am a much wiser girl than i should have been if i had gone to cornwall that time when father and mother left." "what do you mean, lovey?" replied the old nurse. "well, you see, i have been quite bad, and i have had great terrors, and i have lived through the sort of things that open your eyes, and i see now that i was a selfish girl, and naughty and deceitful, and not a bit of a heroine; but since i came back i have vowed that i will never be naughty again, and i don't mean to be." "to be sure, dear," said nurse gently. "it's all very fine to promise that to yourself, isn't it, but how do you think you will keep it up?" "simply by not yielding to temptation. you know i have a passionate nature, and i have lived a great deal alone, and i dare say i might have found it hard to be thrown with other girls and to give up my own ways. but i am not at all afraid now, for after what i have suffered i have vowed to be good--very good--all the rest of my life." "well then, you have just to bear this in mind," said nurse: "god almighty must help you, and desperate hard too, or you will fail. i prayed for you, my darling, when i didn't know that i'd ever see your sweet face again, and i'll go on praying for you; and i hope you will be happy at school, and that you will learn a lot, so that when your father and mother come back they will be proud of you--as i always am, my dear, sweet lamb." miss neil came early on the following morning and took christian to paddington; and this time there was no attempt at running away, and no adventure of any sort, for miss neil and christian had a first-class carriage to themselves for the greater part of the journey. they reached tregellick at six o'clock, when it was quite dark, and there a brougham was waiting for them; and after driving for about a mile they found themselves outside the town, in the heart of the country. they drove on a little farther, and christian, gazing out through the darkness, fancied she saw the gleam of white foam caused by the waves of the atlantic, and the noise of the sea came loudly, with an insistent splash, against her ears. this noise moved and delighted her. she grasped miss neil's hand. "i shall like living here," she said. miss neil replied calmly, "i hope you will, christian. you quite understand, my dear, that the school is a strict one, and the first thing you have to learn is absolute obedience. from what i hear, there is very little liberty granted to the girls of penwerne; but for those who are right-minded there is to be found in your new school a growth and strength both moral and physical." "oh, dear, i do wish she wouldn't speak in that lecturing sort of way!" thought christian to herself; but then she remembered her vow that she would never be cross, even with miss neil, again, and she shut her lips and said nothing more. by and by the carriage drew up outside some tall iron gates, which were opened by a neat-looking woman in a white cap. christian caught sight of the lodge, with a bright lamp placed in one of the windows, as they drove swiftly up the long avenue. they stopped before a very long, low house, with many lights twinkling in many windows, and a deep porch to the front door. as soon as ever the sound of wheels was heard, a neat-looking servant flung the door wide open; then she came out and helped miss neil and christian to get out of the cab. "will you have the goodness to tell miss peacock that miss neil and the little girl, christian mitford, have arrived?" said miss neil to the servant. "and see, please, that miss mitford's luggage and my handbag are brought indoors." "yes, madam," said the servant. "will you walk this way, please?" she took them into a very wide hall, brightly lighted with electric light, and with an ingle-nook at the farther end where a great fire of logs burned on the hearth. christian was cold, and a sense of depression, notwithstanding all her brave efforts, was creeping over her. she looked at miss neil, and thought she had seldom seen a more disagreeable or sterner face. "i am so thankful," thought the child, "that she is not going to teach me--that she is not going to stay here. i couldn't be good with her; that's quite certain. but, all the same, i will keep my vow." they were shown into a small, cheerful room, which also had a fire burning. the servant withdrew, saying in a respectful voice as she did so, "i will tell my mistress, and she will send someone to you." "dear me, christian!" said miss neil when the door had closed and they found themselves alone; "what a particularly pleasant, cheerful sort of place this seems to be! not at all my idea of a strict school. my dear, do hold yourself up; you don't know how that stoop ruins your appearance. your parents are very particular about you, and they expect so much of you that the very least you can do now is to make extra efforts to be good in the highest sense of the word. goodness includes deportment, christian; perhaps you don't understand that." "oh, yes, i do, miss neil," said christian, who was almost biting her lips to keep her tongue from saying something pert. "you of course also understand," continued miss neil, "that you are not now arriving at school with any _éclat_. you have been exceedingly naughty, and i rather fancy your punishment awaits you here. i am not certain, of course, but i rather fancy that such is the case." "what do you mean?" said christian, in alarm. "my dear, i say nothing further. time will prove; time will prove. but it really is most kind of miss peacock to have you at all. there were moments when i feared you would not be received at penwerne. that fact would have been a slur upon you all your life. ah! and here comes----" the door was thrown open, and a tall, very graceful woman of about forty years of age entered. her face was very sweet, but there was no lack of power in it; on the contrary, it looked strong, steadfast, self-assured. the eyes were the brightest christian had ever looked at. she felt certain, on the spur of the moment, that this woman had known sorrow--that she had conquered sorrow. her heart went out to her on the spot. miss peacock bowed to miss neil, and then, taking both christian's hands, she drew the young girl towards her and kissed her gravely on the forehead. "welcome," she said. the one word seemed full both of strength and love. the depression which had fallen upon christian vanished on the spot. "i will be good," she said, and she raised her eyes full of tears and fixed them on her mistress's face. "i hope you will. but this is not the time to talk of goodness or of naughtiness; you are so tired that what you want is rest. never mind to-night about being good or bad, clever or ignorant. you must have your supper and then go to bed. miss neil, i am glad to tell you that i am able to give christian, for a time at least, a little bedroom to herself. susan sykes as a rule shares the room, but she is ill and not able to return. until she does christian will have the room to herself." "oh, i am glad!" said christian. "and you ought to be, christian," said miss neil in her tartest voice, "for you don't deserve indulgences." "oh, come!" said miss peacock. "we never talk of faults--at least in this house--except when we are punishing them; and i think christian was punished. she begins here with a clean sheet. now, my dear, i am going to put you in the charge of jessie, who is my right-hand and looks after all the comforts the girls require." as miss peacock spoke she touched the electric bell by the side of the fireplace, and the same pleasant-looking servant-girl who had shown them into the house appeared. "ask miss jessie to step into the hall waiting room," said miss peacock. the servant withdrew, and in a very short time a girlish-looking person, who might have been one of the schoolgirls herself, entered. that was christian's first impression with regard to miss jessie jones, but when she looked again she began to perceive that miss jessie was not quite so young as she appeared. she was dressed in a peculiar and old-fashioned way. her rather skimpily cut skirt reached barely to her neat ankles, and over it she wore a muslin apron with a bib. the apron was frilled all round, and daintily finished with bows of pale-blue ribbon. miss jessie's hair was in short ringlets--it was of a soft, blonde color--her face was pink-and-white, and her eyes blue. her little figure was also exceedingly neat. she ran into the room, and said in a gay voice: "well, dear miss peacock, here i am." "i want you, jessie, to take this young girl--my new pupil, christian mitford--and look after her. you must do everything for her that she requires; and i should like her to go early to bed. did you ask robinson to light a fire in her room?" "certainly, dear miss peacock; the room is in perfect order, and there is a bright fire." "well then, good-night, christian," said miss peacock. "i leave you in safe hands. you will see your friend miss neil to-morrow." "good-night, christian," said miss neil; "and be thankful for your mercies." christian left the room, accompanied by miss jessie. "i am glad you have come at last," said the latter. "we have been all looking forward to seeing you. you can scarcely imagine how disappointed we were when you could not arrive a fortnight ago." "oh, please don't speak of it!" said christian. "but why not? we were so sorry. dear miss peacock said you were unavoidably detained. she did not tell us what had happened. she only said you could not come to school for at least ten days." "it was sweet of her," said christian. then she added impulsively, "isn't she the very nicest and best woman in the world?" "ah!" said miss jessie, with a laugh, "you have fallen in love with her, as we all do. there never was anybody quite like lavinia peacock. don't you think her name sweet? lavinia, like an old-fashioned flower; and then peacock--like that gorgeous bird. but nothing could be too good for her; she is perfect. the girls adore her--they love her almost too well. yes, she makes sunshine wherever she goes. not that it's all sunshine at penwerne by any means. but i will tell you about that presently--not to-night; you look tired. are you tired? have you quite got over whatever detained you?" "quite; and please don't speak of it." "i won't if you don't wish. the mistresses here never do anything to worry the girls; we never nag, if you understand what that means." "and are you a mistress?" a sad look came into the sweet face of little miss jessie. "no; i am not exactly one of the mistresses," she said. "i don't exactly know what i am, except that my province in the school is to spread happiness. that is what dear lavinia wishes. 'make them happy, jessie, and you'll do all that i require,' she says. i generally get a new girl for the first night--perhaps longer. she trusts me. you see, i am not at all a frightening sort of person." "i shouldn't think you were," said christian. "you look a very nice girl, dear--nice-looking, i mean--rather distinguished. lavinia wouldn't like me to say anything of that kind, so i oughtn't to; but you really do. now then, will you come in to the refectory, or will you have something brought up to your own room?" "oh, something in my room, please, if it isn't too much trouble," said christian. "trouble, dear? whenever did jessie find anything a trouble? it is her business to do this sort of thing if it adds to the happiness of anyone. we will go straight upstairs, then; you won't want to see any of your companions to-night?" "i think not." miss jessie paused. it seemed to christian as they were walking up the low, softly carpeted stairs, and down first one long corridor and then another, that there was a murmuring sound as though of bees. she could not make out if it was caused by the atlantic or by voices. "they are anxious to see you. they begged and implored of me; but you shall have your way." "i would much rather not see anybody but you until to-morrow." "you dear child, you shan't be crossed. but just one moment." miss jessie paused outside a door. the sound of bees was now unmistakably changed for the sound of voices. "no, darlings, not to-night; she is tired. don't ask it, pets. you never cross jessie, do you? that's all right, loves." the door was shut again, and she took christian's hand. "they are dear girls, although we have one or two black sheep. of course i must not name them. we are all trying--we who belong, i hope, to the white sheep--to turn them from the error of their ways. now then, here is your room." the door was opened, and christian found herself in a dainty chamber lined with white enameled wood. the wood went right up to the ceiling, and across it; and in the ceiling itself were two bright eyes, caused by electric light. miss jessie showed the young girl how she could turn it on and off. in a pretty grate lined with pink tiles a bright fire was blazing. there were two beds at the farther end, one covered with a pretty liberty coverlet and unmade, and the other with a snowy white sheet turned down. the look of the little bed was most inviting. there were white dimity curtains to the windows. the white effect of everything, with the pink tiles, the blazing fire, and the crimson felt on the floor, made christian feel that she had never been in so sweet a chamber before. "you will be happy here, i know," said miss jessie. "we are all intensely happy at penwerne. who could help it who was under the guardianship of lavinia peacock?" when miss jessie had seen that christian had all she required, even to a can of nice hot water, she kissed her and went away. christian thought that she would not see her again that night. she felt contented, soothed, and happy. how silly she had been to dread this charming school, this life so full of interest! as she thought of miss peacock, and remembered the look on her face, she felt her heart glow already with love for her new mistress. then how sweet and kind dear miss jessie was! as she ate her supper, and unlocked her trunk and took out just what was necessary for the night's requirements, she thought again of miss peacock's great kindness in not speaking to the school of what had really happened. "she said i was unavoidably detained," thought the child. "she shielded me. there are very few who would do that. i love her already. if i am not good after so much kindness, i shall be the very worst girl in the world." christian said her prayers--quite earnest ones, in which she implored of god to help her--and then she got into bed. she was just getting warm between the cozy sheets, when the door was softly opened and little miss jessie peeped in. "ah! you are in bed," she said; "that's right. i have only come to fetch the tray. your fire will burn for some hours. it is so cold just at present that we will have it lit before you get up in the morning. that is a special indulgence which will only be granted to you just for to-morrow. to-morrow will be a complete holiday for you. i thought you might like to know. you will be able to unpack and get everything into apple-pie order. then you will make the acquaintance of the girls, and get to know the ways of the school. you will probably have some lessons to prepare for the next day, but only if you are quite well enough to undertake them. miss peacock said i was to be very careful about you. i suppose that is on account of your illness that kept you from school." as miss jessie said the last words christian suddenly sat up in bed. "i wasn't kept away from school by illness," she said in a choking voice. "well, never mind, dear; it doesn't matter what it was. our dear head-mistress knows." "miss jessie," said christian, "i don't know what your other name is." "i am never called by it, dearest. my other name is jones; quite a common name, isn't it? but i am always known here as jessie, or miss jessie. lie down now and go to sleep." "i can't until i tell you something. i must tell you." "well, love, if it relieves your mind; but really and truly i would much rather----" in the firelight little miss jessie's face looked quite troubled; she took both of christian's hands. "you are excited," she said. "you have traveled far; the effects of your illness are still perceptible." "oh, i wasn't ill! it is about that i want to speak to you. you at least must know the truth." "oh, but i never know things of that sort," said miss jessie in an alarmed voice. "dear lavinia peacock would be distressed. i beg of you, my child. oh, what is it? actually the dear child is crying. well, of course, christian, if it relieves your mind, dear----" "it does--it does!" said christian. "i couldn't sleep to-night if you didn't know it. it wasn't illness." "my dear, dear child." "it was naughtiness." "children are often naughty," said miss jessie. "but not like my naughtiness. it was big--it was worse; it was wickedness. i ran away." "you did what, dear?" said miss jessie; and now she backed from christian and looked at her with her round, rosy, good-natured face paling with horror. she said afterwards to herself, "i was glad there was only firelight, and that i was standing with my back to it, for the poor child would have seen how horrified i felt." "yes," said christian, "i ran away that day a fortnight back when you were expecting me. i went to the station with miss neil. i left her and went away with another little girl. we had planned it all out together. we went to an awful place in the slums for the night. oh, it was fearful--fearful! we nearly died from fright. we were well punished. the next day we got home, but it was a terrible adventure, and it nearly killed us both. it was not illness; it was what i have said." miss jessie had now recovered her ordinary composure. "my dear," she said, "i am glad and sorry you have told me. you may be quite sure that i shall never repeat it to anyone. there is just one thing, christian: you must not on any account--on any account whatever--breathe this story in the school. it would not be understood, dear. it would make your position unfortunate. i cannot explain matters. our code of honor is very high, and we like all our girls to have a clean record--never to do what is daring and downright wicked. ah, yes, christian, we repent, but somehow the flavor of the sin remains. ah, christian, i will tell you a story of another little girl some day--not to-night. good-night, now. it was brave of you to tell, and i will speak to lavinia about it; but whatever happens, this must on no account be known in the school." miss jessie tripped softly away, and christian, soothed by the light of the fire, by the knowledge that she had unburdened herself, by the resolve that, come what would, she would do the very best that was possible for a girl to do in the future, dropped asleep. chapter xiii the manor school there were forty boarders at penwerne house. their ages varied from thirteen to eighteen. they were almost all english girls, well brought up, and of good family. the house was very old, but extremely roomy. there were corridors and long passages and endless small rooms in every imaginable direction. but although the house was really so very ancient, the appearance of the rooms themselves spoke of a far more luxurious state of living than people required at the time when penwerne manor was built; for miss peacock had taken extraordinary pains with her school, and the old rooms, wainscoted in the first instance, were now enameled many pale shades of beautiful colors--some ivory white, some the palest green, some blue, some pink. there were whole corridors with only pink rooms, and whole corridors with only blue ones; but the girls who had the choicest and largest rooms were those who slept in the white chambers, as they were called. christian's room was one of a series that went down the entire length of a corridor. each of these pretty rooms boasted of two windows, and in each two neat brass-mounted bedsteads were placed. christian thought herself in great luck to have a room to herself at first, and prepared to enjoy herself thoroughly. miss neil came up to the young girl's room to say good-by to her early on the following morning. "well, my dear," she said, "i am sure you are in luck. what a nice little room! not little, though--quite a good-sized room. and you have it to yourself. you ought to be exceedingly thankful, christian; you are a most lucky girl. i shall write to your dear father and mother without fail by the next mail. you had better do the same. they will have got over their dreadful shock about you by the time they receive that letter. and now, dear, i must say good-by. here is a little money that you may need for pocket-money; and when you want anything more you have but to write to me--elm lodge, denvers road, southsea. see, i have written the address distinctly on this paper. miss peacock knows that she is to apply to me in any difficulty. you will stay here at easter, or go away with miss peacock, just as she thinks best; but if you like to spend some of your summer holidays with me, i dare say i can arrange it, but i cannot positively promise. i will do my best. here are the two sovereigns. you must make them do until easter; as every possible want is supplied, you cannot require more money than this. i have asked miss peacock, and--somewhat reluctantly, i must say--she has complied with my wish that your letters are, for the present at least, to be overlooked; except, of course, those to your parents. it is necessary, christian, that this should be done; and there is no use in your frowning over the matter, for a girl who could behave in the disgraceful way you did cannot expect to be trusted. you are, of course, absolutely forbidden to correspond with that naughty little rose latimer; and even your nurse can only receive letters which miss peacock has read. now, i think that is all. be good. thank your lucky star that you have come to such a considerate mistress; for if she had proclaimed through the school the enormity of your act you would have had a sorry time. i certainly never asked her to conceal it. i thought she naturally would tell, and i felt that if she had done so it would be a due punishment to you for your disgraceful behavior; but she thinks otherwise, and as she has the care of your education for the present, i must of course bow to her decree. good-by, christian. i trust you will keep well, and be--as you ought to be--happy." miss neil gave christian a little peck on her forehead and then on her lips, after which she hurried from the room. according to miss jessie's promise, a fire had again been lit in the young girl's chamber, and a neat-looking servant had brought in coffee, toast, and rolls. christian ate her breakfast, and then waited somewhat shyly, wondering what would happen next. presently a great bell sounded all over the house, and a minute later miss jessie bustled in. "ah! you are dressed," she said; "that is right. and very neat you look in your pretty gray dress, with that nice frilled apron. miss peacock will quite approve of your appearance. most of our girls wear their hair plaited behind, but i see you wear yours quite loose. well, never mind; you have pretty hair, dear--very pretty. now then, come with me, for the prayer-bell has rung. you will see your companions at prayers. soon, i trust, you will be quite happy, and a busy member of a useful family." miss jessie took christian's hand and walked quickly down the corridor. doors were pushed open as she went, and more than one bright head, with curling hair and laughing eyes, looked out. christian felt a sudden and intense accession of shyness; she dared not glance at any of her schoolfellows. her heart began to beat loudly in her ears, and by the time she reached the great hall, where prayers were always read by miss peacock, she was scarlet. there was a tittering laugh from a girl as she went up to the seat appointed for her near miss jessie. another girl said "hush!" and then in the midst of the solemn stillness miss peacock read the lesson for the day. this was followed by a short prayer, and after the girls had risen from their knees and the servants had withdrawn, miss peacock mounted a little dais near her own desk and looked around her. "wait a minute, girls," she said; "i want to introduce you to your new schoolfellow. come here, christian mitford." christian advanced tremulously. "this, my dear young people, is christian mitford, your new companion; and, i trust, your new friend. she has never been in cornwall before, nor has she ever been in a boarding-school. is that correct, christian?" "yes, madam," said christian in a low voice. "our ways, therefore," continued the head-mistress, "will be strange to her, and i trust that each girl in the school will do her utmost to make her happy by kindness, by sympathy, by showing her the ropes, by letting her feel that you are glad to have her with you. i trust you all, my dear girls, and know you will do your best for this young stranger. i put her into the care of--ah! louisa twining, my dear, come here." a slender girl, with soft, neat brown hair and brown eyes to match, left her companions and walked up the room. "louisa," said miss peacock, "this is christian mitford. will you please see after her a bit, and let her stay by you in class, and take her into the playground afterwards, and tell her all about the school and the life here?" "yes, miss peacock," said louisa. she looked kindly at christian as she spoke. "christian," said miss peacock, "you are in safe hands when i give you into the charge of louisa twining. she is one of my oldest and most trusted pupils. now then, dear, it is the custom that the new pupil should not have any lessons to do on the day after her arrival. your time is therefore absolutely your own, and you can unpack your things and put them away in the neat cupboards in your room. you can arrange your schoolroom desk, and ask for what books you require from your english teacher, miss forest; and, in short, do anything you please. i should counsel you to take louisa absolutely into your confidence, for she is a very sure guide for a new-comer. to-morrow you take your place with the other pupils. i shall be glad to see you in my own private room at five o'clock to tea. and now for the present, good-by, dear." miss peacock nodded to christian, smiled at louisa, and left the room. louisa looked hard at christian. "come," she said; "we must be great chums, mustn't we?" "oh, if you would be kind to me!" said poor christian. her shyness was getting worse; the tears were very near her eyes, but she did not dare to let them appear. "i will introduce you to some of the others," said louisa. "the sooner you know us all the better. first of all, how old are you?" "i shall be fourteen in three months' time." "oh, we make a great fuss about birthdays here; but yours is some way off yet. you are only thirteen at present. do you know that i am nearly sixteen, and i am not much taller than you." "i always knew that i was very tall," said christian. "i hate it myself; i'd much rather be a little girl." "if you happened to be a little girl you would anything but wish it, i can assure you. but now here we are; here is a whole bevy of the girls, all so curious about you, and so anxious to be nice and kind." "well, twine dear," said a merry-looking girl of about fourteen years of age, bounding forward when she saw louisa issuing out of the hall accompanied by christian, "so you have got her. you are the privileged one. now, i wanted to be. it's most unfair that you should have all the plums, twiny." "don't be a goose, florry. you know that miss peacock would not give the charge of a new girl to a little mite like you." "little mite indeed!" laughed florry, tossing her head. "well, i suppose, whatever happens, i may talk to the sacred being." "don't!" said christian suddenly, and speaking with irritation. "she hates to be laughed at; can't you see that?" said louisa, speaking angrily. she had scarcely said the words before a mocking voice, which seemed to come from over their heads, cried in a high staccato: "she hates to be laughed at; can't you see that?" christian looked round. she was startled and alarmed. "that's only star; she is incorrigible," said louisa. "you will have to get accustomed to her. but come now; you would like to see the schoolroom. you will have your own desk, but its exact position i can't tell you; your teachers will first have to find out what you know." now, christian knew a great deal. from her earliest days she had been well educated, and with regard to her attainments she was decidedly above the average girl. as she remembered this fact a sense of satisfaction stole over her. nevertheless she felt exceedingly depressed and considerably alarmed. louisa and christian walked quickly to the farther end of the hall, and florence returned to her companions. louisa now spoke quickly. "you must not get frightened; or, at least, if you are frightened you must not show it. i assure you if you do your life won't be worth living here. we are all rather a nice set of girls, but there are a few of us who have an intolerable habit of teasing. if it is noticed that you are easily impressed, or thin-skinned, you will be made thoroughly unhappy. your only plan is not to care one little bit what anyone says to you, or what anyone does. don't be startled when stupid jokes are sprung on you. you did look so ridiculously alarmed when star called out that sentence just now." "of course i was. i can't think how she did it. was she hanging on to the ceiling anywhere?" "not a bit of it. star lestrange is immensely popular, because she has got the power of ventriloquism. she can throw her voice anywhere. i assure you there was a time when she terrified me. but now i am accustomed to her, and she is so funny--so audacious. on one occasion she whispered just above miss peacock's forehead, "bless you, sweet angel!" she nearly got into a scrape about that, for although we are treated in this school in the most heavenly way, miss peacock is intensely particular, and the discipline is sound--i must say it. there can be no crooked ways in this school, nor obscure corners in the life of any girl who lives here. woe betide her if she has anything in her past that she wants to hide. why, how red you are getting! aren't you strong?" "yes, thank you." "you are nervous. now, do take my advice: don't show it to the others; just uphold your own dignity. i wish you could have seen star when she first came to the school. they tried to bully her a bit, some of the most mischievous spirits, but didn't she crush them all round? she's awfully good-natured, you know, and she wouldn't hurt you really for the world; but she has such mad spirits, she has to give way now and then. now, i mustn't gossip any more. we work here from nine to eleven." "but isn't it long past nine now?" asked christian. louisa laughed. "of course not," she said. "it is five minutes to nine. you had your breakfast at seven. you will have to come down to refectory breakfast to-morrow. you are going to be awfully indulged and petted to-day. i suppose that is on account of your illness." "but i haven't been ill," said christian, and her face became crimson. "then what was the matter with you? why were you unavoidably detained?" "oh, please don't question me," said christian. "why can't you speak? the girls will expect you to do so this evening. we always get a new girl to tell us as much as ever she can of her life's story--after dark. you look as though you were a splendid story-teller. are you?" "i could tell you some stories," said christian. she thought of her darling attic and the heroines of her past life. nevertheless, her terrors were getting greater each moment. if the girls insisted on questioning her with regard to the unlooked-for circumstances which were supposed to have detained her, she would certainly betray herself; and for a girl like star lestrange to know of such an escapade would cause poor christian almost to lose her senses. "i will introduce you to the nicest girls," said louisa, who was watching her face--"the nicest and the kindest--and i will ask them to look after you when i am not with you myself." "but mayn't i stay near you all day? oh, i wish--i wish you'd let me." "you dear young thing, of course you may. but then you see to-morrow will come, and the day after, and the day after that. i am in the sixth class of the school. i am rather young to be there, but i am, all the same; and i am proud of it, i can tell you. you, of course, will be in a different class, and you must associate with the girls of your own age. you see, you can't help yourself. you will have great fun after a bit. here come the mistresses and the girls, and lessons have begun. sit down near me at this desk, and listen with all your might. miss forest and mademoiselle le brume may question you a bit about your attainments this morning. i am not quite certain, but i think they will." "i wish they would; i'd much rather," said christian. "would you really? then i'll go and speak to miss forest at once." each desk now had a bright and merry or a grave and serious girl seated before it, and forty pairs of eyes were darting from time to time in christian's direction--some quizzical, some indifferent, some alive with curiosity; some sober, earnest, kind. but whatever the feelings that dwelt in the minds of the girls who owned the eyes, they all kept gazing at christian, who felt at last as though she were under forty pairs of burning glasses, so keen became the torture. presently louisa returned. "miss forest will see you in half an hour, and mademoiselle says you must go to her in the french room when the rest of us are at play. our music-master, too, mr. frederick, is coming to-day, and you may as well let him hear what you can do. oh, you will soon be very busy and very happy. and now don't look at the girls; or if you want to look at them, stare well. that will put them in a good humor, and they will stop staring at you." chapter xiv schoolgirls christian went through the ordeal with the mistresses and the music-master with much _éclat_. miss forest was evidently surprised at her knowledge of english history and literature, at her grammatical accuracy--for she set her a short essay to write--and at her knowledge generally. mademoiselle was equally delighted with the purity of her french accent, and with the admirable way she translated a paragraph from a rather difficult french story-book. and, finally, mr. frederick said that she had real talent for music, and that he looked forward with much pleasure to conducting the studies of a pupil who would do him such credit. christian enjoyed herself during this time. she forgot her fears; she felt stimulated to do her very best. finally, she returned to the schoolroom with a sort of halo round her brow. she was certain that she had done well. soon it was whispered all over the school that christian mitford was nothing short of a genius--that she was one of the cleverest girls who had ever come to the school. these reports were of course exaggerated; but still the solid fact remained that she was put into the fourth class for all english studies, and into the lower fifth for french and music. that a girl of thirteen was in such a position spoke for itself. florry, whose other name was burton, looked at her with great black eyes of envy. star lestrange flung the words to the ceiling just above christian's head: "she's a genius, and she knows it, the darling young thing." the look on florry's face and the expression of mischief in star's bright dancing eyes brought christian back to the fact that attainments alone and a strong wish for study did not necessarily secure happiness in a school like penwerne manor. she could not get over her nervous fears. "i deserve it," she said to herself. "i should not be one scrap--no, not one scrap--afraid if i hadn't done wrong; but it is just the terror of their finding out that keeps my heart beating so hard. oh, dear! oh, dear! there's no way out, for i can't run way again, and father and mother are nearly in india now. as to miss neil, she saw no sympathy with anyone; and poor dear nurse and miss thompson can't help me even if they wish to. oh, dear! i am an unhappy girl." christian was standing by herself in one corner of the great playground as these thoughts visited her. presently a hand was laid on her shoulder, and beautiful little star stood by her side. "let's be friends, christian," she said in a hearty voice. "will you?" answered christian, her eyes brightening. "i'd like to," said star. "i took a fancy to you the moment i saw your face, even though you did look so alarmed and so startled." "you'd have been startled too," said christian stoutly, "if you had heard an awful voice on the ceiling above your head talking about you." star laughed; then she looked grave. "i can't help it," she said. "i really can't break myself of it. darling miss peacock is sometimes angry; but who could resist the fun who had the power? oh! the fright on your face a couple of hours ago was killing. you looked as though anyone could knock you down." "but you did it twice," said christian. "yes, my young genius, i did. but never mind me; when i ventriloquize, just acknowledge my talent, but at the same time consider me your friend. you and i are in the same class, and we can't help knocking up against each other. by the way, where is your bedroom? in the white corridor?" christian nodded. "i thought as much. i am in the white corridor too. we may as well be friends, for i'm sure i'd be a disagreeable enemy." "i'd love to be your friend," said christian. "do you really mean it?" "i always mean what i say. you ask lucy norris. have you met lucy--little, satin-faced lucy, with hair that shines like a looking-glass, blue eyes, rosebud lips, and cheeks the color of the peach? ah, there she is! i'll call her. lucy, beloved. lucy! i say, lucy! lucy!" the girl whom star had so cleverly described looked round her in a startled way; then her eyes met the bright ones of star lestrange, and she ran up to her. "what is it, star? what do you want?" "your satinship," replied star. "i want very specially to introduce you to my new friend, christian mitford. i want you and me and one or two others to form a sort of bodyguard round her. you see----" star's voice dropped. she bent towards lucy and whispered something in her ear. lucy colored and nodded. "you don't really think so?" she said. "i am certain of it," responded star. "that is what will happen unless we take care. oh, don't you be frightened, my love," she continued, patting christian with a sort of affectionate condescension, on the arm. "lucy and i and----" "angela goring," suddenly burst from lucy's lips. "good, lucy--capital! lucy, angel goring, and i---- we must have one more, lucy. jane price." "oh, why jane price?" said lucy. "because she's just admirable. she's so stolid, you know, and so matter-of-fact, and so intensely sensible. we don't want all the flyaway girls of the school." "i'm not flyaway, i'm sure," said lucy. "except when you follow the erratic movements of the star," replied star, her eyes twinkling. "you do lead us, and you know it, star," said lucy. "but, there! angela will do nicely." "find her, then, love," said star. lucy rushed away. "what do you mean by a bodyguard? and why should i require one?" said christian. "my dear love, it will be only for a week or a fortnight, just to get you into the ways. the fact is, this school, for all its admirable qualities, has in it one or two black sheep. now, i mustn't breathe any names; dear, sweet miss peacock never guesses at their existence, and we none of us ever mean to tell. you are the veriest of all very victims for such girls; therefore i want to guard you. ah! here comes angela. hasn't she a nice face?" a very tall, very slight girl, with coal-black hair and large, luminous dark eyes, now appeared. she was dressed in a rough gray tweed, with a leather belt round her waist. her hair hung in a thick plait far below her waist. "angela," said star, "lucy has told you what we want you for." "and i am very pleased," said angela. she spoke in a low, somewhat deep voice. her eyes were resting on christian as though she were already protecting her. "now for jane price, and our guard is complete," said star. lucy appeared, leading jane by the hand. jane was a short, dumpy, and very plain girl. she had an enormous forehead and thin hair. her hair was cut to a line level with her neck. her dress was short, sensible, ugly. her hands were big and somewhat red. she had small, honest eyes and a large mouth. "jane," said star in a sprightly tone, "you are just the very person we want. this is the victim; we will guard her, won't we?" "three cheers!" cried lucy. "of course we will." "you must come to us if you are in any difficulty, christian," said angela. "and just let me know and i'll punch 'em all round," was jane's remark. christian's face was very pale. "thank you all," she said. "no doubt you mean it in kindness, but i feel more frightened than ever." "oh, dear! the poor, sweet thing!" said star. "has anybody got a lollypop?" immediately three hands were thrust into three pockets. star's alone was unattacked. she shook her head sadly. "i haven't got any," she said. "i ate all mine up last night after i got into bed. four-and-twenty i consumed, and i was none the worse this morning." "you know that was very naughty of you, star," said angela. "my dear, i can't help my propensities; never could. oh, dear! oh, dear! sometimes i scarcely like to look into the beautiful, kind eyes of our beloved lavinia, so naughty do i feel. and yet i'm not really naughty. i'm not rabid, i mean; am i, girls?" "you are a duck and a darling," said lucy. "well, your satinship, have you got any sweeties, any fondants, any caramels?" interrupted star. a few rather sticky ones were produced. christian suddenly found her voice. "do you really care for sweets?" she asked. "do we really care for sweets?" cried star. "aren't we schoolgirls? what do you mean?" "only that i have got such a big box. miss thompson bought them for me; and another box full of little cakes." a wild cheer immediately was given. handkerchiefs were waved in the air; the girls clapped and laughed until they nearly cried. "isn't she worth guarding? won't we guard her double quick?" said star. "you angel, we will attack those dainties presently, but now let us pace up and down in this corner of the playground." "i am to see miss peacock at five o'clock," said christian. "you lucky young beggar! but, of course, i forgot; first-day girls are always fussed over. you will be all right to-day, christian; it's to-morrow that the tug-of-war will begin." christian was silent for a minute; then she said slowly: "i thank you four girls very much indeed. i suppose it is safer for me to have you as my friends." "safer!" cried angela. "having us as your friends, you will never, never know what you have escaped." "but would you mind telling me who the girls are? i mean the specially dreadful girls who are likely to be unkind. if i only knew i should not be so frightened." "and that information we will never give you, dear genius," replied star. "if you find out for yourself, alas for you! i only trust you will never find out. there's the tea-gong. come in now; and you will sit at my table, as you belong to my class." an hour later christian found herself in miss peacock's presence. miss peacock was standing under a rose-colored lamp. she was reading a letter. suddenly she raised her eyes and saw christian. christian was a striking-looking girl. she had a splendid carriage for her age; she held herself very erect, and kept her head well back on her shoulders. her golden hair shone in the lamp-light. she came slowly forward, her eyes very wide open, her face pale, a look of entreaty round her mouth. "ah, christian!" said miss peacock in a kind voice; "and how are you, dear? are you taking your place in the school?" "i don't know," replied christian. miss peacock took no notice of this vacillating remark. she motioned to christian to seat herself in a shady corner, where she knew the young girl would be more comfortable than when exposed to the full glare of the light. "i have got a very good report of you from your different mistresses and your music-master, dear," she said. "they all say you are remarkably well advanced for your age. that being the case, you will soon win a character for cleverness. a clever girl is always respected and thought a good deal of; and i trust you will be respected and looked up to, christian, and that you will help to bring a good influence into this school--a religious and moral influence, the efficacy of which can never be overrated." "oh, please," said christian, with a little gasp, "you know what i have done!" miss peacock was quite silent for a minute. "what you did," she then said very gravely, "happened before you came to me." "i know; but it was because of you--because of coming to the school--that i did it." miss peacock's eyes twinkled for a minute. "would you rather discuss the whole thing with me, christian, or, on the other hand, would you rather let it lie--forget it, cover it up, go straight forward as though it had never been?" "i think i'd rather discuss it with you. and," continued christian, "i think i'd rather"--her voice faltered; it sank almost to a whisper--"i think i'd rather the other girls knew." these words evidently startled miss peacock very much. "you would rather your schoolfellows knew? but it has nothing to do with them." "there would be nothing then to find out," continued christian. "as it is, i shall live in fear. oh! it was good of you--it was sweet of you--to keep it dark; but i think i would rather they knew." miss peacock was amazed. she sat quite still for a minute; then she rose and walked to the other end of the room. she rang a bell, and in a few moments jessie appeared. jessie wore the same peculiar expression as she had worn the night before. the look of extreme juvenility, which vanished almost as soon as she began to speak, and her girlish dress, her girlish face, and her non-girlish voice, made her at once both striking and interesting. "i understand from what jessie has told me, that you have confided this matter to her, christian," said miss peacock, turning to the young girl. "i have. i had to; she was so very good to me, i could not let her live under the impression that i had been ill." "i never gave anyone to understand that you were ill. i simply said that you were unavoidably detained. the girls are at liberty to form their own conclusions." "there is an idea in the school that i was very ill," said christian; "and," she added, "i don't like it, for you know"--she raised her clear eyes to miss peacock's face--"it is not true. you know it, don't you, miss peacock?" miss peacock looked back at her with so intent a gaze that it seemed to the young girl that she was reading her through. "come here, christian," she then said. christian rose. she now stood in the full light, and both miss peacock and jessie could see the vivid pink in her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes. there was something about her which impressed them; the wonder on both their faces grew. at last miss peacock laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. "christian," she said, "you are a remarkably brave girl. you are a great deal braver than you have any idea of yourself. it would not be right to take you at your word without explaining matters. my dear, to have this escapade of yours known in the school would mean----" "it cannot be known," interrupted miss jessie. "miss peacock, dear, it must not be known." "that certainly was my feeling, jessie; but if the child herself----" "no, no," repeated miss jessie. "even you, miss lavinia, can't guess all that goes on in a school like this." "i shut my eyes on purpose," said miss peacock. "a school is a little world. in that world there must necessarily be evil; without evil good would have nothing to overcome. the brave girls will overcome the evil and rise on the wings of good. i don't want any girl at penwerne manor to be subjected to too severe a discipline, however--a discipline which may be greater than the strength of the girl can meet. now christian, you have asked me an extraordinary thing. you wish the school to be told about your conduct before you came here. you don't know enough, my dear, to make it possible for me to grant your request--at least yet. but come to me again at the end of a month, and if you still make the same request, i shall have pleasure in giving my own version of the whole affair to the girls of penwerne manor. i think that is all, jessie; you can attend to your usual duties. christian, come and sit on this stool near me; i should like to talk to you about long ago." miss peacock drew the girl down to a seat close by her side. "after what you have said, i put you in my own mind on a different footing from the other girls," she remarked. "now, i am going to tell you something. i felt a great sense of rejoicing and a great sense of personal pleasure when i received a letter from your good father to say that he wished to place you at penwerne manor during his absence." christian made no reply. she raised her eyes and fixed them on miss peacock. miss peacock noticed the frank, earnest look in the large eyes, and she put out her soft, well-formed white hand and smoothed back the hair from christian's forehead. "my dear child," she said, "my reason for being so pleased was that i owe, i think i may say, all that is good in my own life to your grandmother." "to granny?" said christian, in astonishment. then she added, "i scarcely ever heard anything of granny until lately, but father spoke of her, and said that i--i wonder if it is true--that i resemble her." "you are decidedly like her in appearance; only, of course, when i knew her she was an elderly woman. but you are more like her in mind. that was exactly the sort of thing she would have done. she would have been intensely naughty, and then intensely repentant. but there, dear! you are looking tired and flushed. perhaps you had better go up to your own room early. be sure you come to me in any difficulty, and regard me as your special friend. good-night dear, and god bless you." chapter xv the ordeal and the victim christian's head ached; she had gone through a good deal that day. at penwerne manor, for all except the sixth form girls, supper was a very simple affair. it was held in the refectory at half-past seven, and consisted of bread and butter, stewed fruit, and milk. christian sat down to the simple meal, but she was not hungry. for the first time she was absolutely thrown on her own resources. louisa twining, being one of the sixth form girls, was not present at the other girls' supper. christian's bodyguard was also nowhere to be seen. she sat near a quiet-looking girl of the name of agnes temple, but agnes seemed as much afraid of christian as christian was of her, and did not venture to question her at all. as soon as supper was over the young girl went up to miss jessie, who was standing at the top of the room. "are you cold, christian?" said miss jessie. "come and warm yourself by the fire." "i wanted to know," said christian, "if i might go to bed; i am tired." "certainly, if you like." but as miss jessie spoke she glanced round the room. suddenly a tall, awkward-looking girl, whom christian had not noticed before, stood up. "has christian mitford asked to retire nearly an hour before the usual time?" was her query. "certainly, sukey; and seeing that she is very tired, i am about to give her leave." "but i am afraid that i, susan marsh, and maud thompson and mary hillary and janet bouverie, as well as several others in the school, cannot give christian mitford leave to go to bed without the usual ceremony being gone through." christian looked with some amazement first at the tall girl, then at miss jessie. to her surprise, she noticed that miss jessie's face got very red and then very white. the little lady went quickly down the length of the room, and laying a hand on susan marsh's shoulder, whispered something in her ear. she had to stand on tiptoe to make her remark, and susan looked down at her and shook her head gravely. miss jessie then turned to the other girls, who also shook their heads. by and by the little lady had to go back again to christian. "it can't be helped, christian, dear," she said. "every girl goes through it; it is a sort of ordeal which seems to be part and parcel of the manor. i can, if you wish it, apply to miss peacock; but i think i would rather not, and if you are wise you will not do so. it would squash the whole thing, but it would not be for your best happiness." "oh, i am not afraid--not really," said christian; "and please don't say anything to miss peacock." "you are a good girl. now, the best thing you can do is to appear quite indifferent; then they won't get much fun out of you, and you will be all right." "what is that about christian, and having much fun, and being all right?" suddenly said a gay voice; and star lestrange, in a pale-blue frock, looking as pretty as a girl could look, danced into the room. "the usual thing; you know all about it," said miss jessie. "of course i do; and so does lucy norris, and so does jane price, and so does angela goring." "so many," said miss jessie in a tone of relief. "yes, jessie, my honey, so you may go to bed with an easy mind; your new fledgling won't come to any harm. now, come along, christian. you have us four to look after you. we can't appear publicly as your bodyguard, but see if you won't feel our influence." christian, in her relief, almost squeezed star's hand. "don't," said star, who seemed to read her thought in her eyes. "it's not the fashion at penwerne manor to show much outward affection. i mean we never kiss, and we don't clasp arms much, or anything of that sort--not until we turn ourselves into what we call 'loverettes.' sometimes two girls make a great friendship and declare it publicly in the school; then they're dubbed 'loverettes' by their fellows, and are allowed to sit alone, and walk about arm in arm. but that sort of thing doesn't often happen; and, for my part," continued star, "i hate it." "and yet i should have thought you were very affectionate," said christian. "should you?" answered star, favoring her with a full glance, which caused the young girl to shrink into her shoes. in the corridor outside susan marsh was waiting. she had the most peculiar face christian had ever seen in her life. it was not only plain, it was downright ugly; there was not one feature in harmony with another. she was very tall and very awkward in her movements. her complexion was of a dull mud color; her hair was a dull, very light brown; her eyes were small, her nose broad at the nostrils and very _retroussé_, her mouth wide. she had good teeth, but otherwise scarcely a redeeming feature. the expression of her face was as little pleasing as were her features. nevertheless this girl had an extraordinary power over her fellows; she was never seen without a following, and many a little girl looked at her with a mingling of awe and terror as she waited now for christian. "so you are coming, star," she said. "well so much the better; we'll have some fun. cheer up, victim; it's your night to go through the ceremony." "but what is it?" said christian. "you will know, my pretty victim, when the time comes. we always have it in the big attic. it is great fun; it is the most delightful time in our lives. we were all very keen for your arrival, but you don't suppose it was simply for the sake of enjoying the first night of your sweet society? nothing of the kind. it was on account of the ordeal. the ordeal is such fun!" "don't mind half she is saying," said star lestrange. "but come along, christian. it is quite true; there is an ordeal, and you must go through it before you can really be what we pride ourselves on being--a penwernian." they now turned and went upstairs, past the nice rooms where the girls' bedrooms were located, and up again some narrow stairs, until, having opened an attic door, christian found herself in a huge attic which ran right across the front of the house. this room had evidently been got ready for a ceremony. candles in tin sconces were arranged along the wall; each sconce was fastened in its place by a small tack, and as the girls entered a short, very dark, stoutly built girl was going from one to the other lighting them. when the illumination was at last complete, from twenty to thirty candles were burning in the front attic. christian had a curious feeling that she was back again in the attic at home. when she got upstairs her fears suddenly left her. she was to be the heroine of probably a very disagreeable adventure, but had she not herself from her earliest days encountered adventures of all sorts in the attic at home? what thrilling moments had not her dolls lived through? what times of ecstasy had been hers when she was joan of arc! oh, that night when she had imagined herself tied to the stake! had she not really tied herself to the post of the old bedstead, and had she not crowded round her torn pieces of paper, and shut her eyes, and tried to imagine the upward ascent of the flames? had she not, finally, almost screamed in her agony, for had not real pains taken possession of her, so vivid and intense had been her imagination? "after all," she said to herself, "i have my bodyguard, and they do look faithful, and nothing can be worse than what i lived through in imagination before now." when christian's eyes grew accustomed to the gloom she perceived that every single girl in the school, except three or four of the sixth form, was present. they seemed to her to have augmented in numbers, and to be a great deal more than the forty girls she had been told lived at penwerne manor. they stood about in groups, and all looked eager and pleased. christian noticed that a large wooden bowl had been placed upon the ground almost in the center of the attic, and a little straw chair, of a twisted, crooked, rickety, and decrepit nature, stood within a few feet of the wooden bowl. she herself remained near the door, and she was surprised as she entered the room to notice that star lestrange immediately left her and walked right across the attic to the farther end, where she sat down on a turned-up box. very soon quick steps were heard running upstairs, and lucy norris, looking more smooth and sleek and satiny than ever, joined star on her box. jane price was already standing near, and angela goring was the last to arrive. none of the four glanced at christian, who remained alone, and looking thoroughly miserable, near the door. all of a sudden she felt that she had been subjected to a hoax, and that her bodyguard meant to desert her. meanwhile susan marsh took her place in the center of the room. she mounted a box, said something to maud in a low tone, and then maud took her place by her side. "all present?" she cried. "ah, yes! i see. agnes temple, stand to one side; you are disgracefully late. yes, we are all here--all except louisa twining, mary reid, and philippa dawson. well, the sixth form must have its privileges. now to begin. who is giving the address to-night? it's your turn, star, and you are always witty. we want something to stir us up; we're a bit dull, i take it. come along, now. what, you won't?" "not to-night," said star. "does that mean that the new girl, the victim, is your special friend?" star shook her head. "or your special enemy?" again the bright head was shaken. "she's neuter," said star; "although i mean to see justice done." "then it devolves upon me," said susan, "to open the function. i must explain the rules of the society to the victim. victim, kindly step forward. seat yourself in this wriggly arm-chair, fix your eyes on my face, and listen to the words of deep, solomon-like wisdom that drop from my lips." christian dropped into the chair, and the other girls looked at her with amazement and admiration. many a girl before her had wriggled in agony in that small chair, had blushed and quivered and trembled, but christian's face was quite calm. she looked full up at susan and smiled. nothing in all the world could have been more discomfiting to susan marsh than that smile. it was seen by every single girl in the room, and quite a burst of admiration came from star lestrange, lucy norris, jane price, and angela. star clapped her hands, and immediately the whole school took up the clap. this from every girl in the place showed that christian had made a favorable impression. "come, come!" said susan brusquely, and looking more disagreeable than ever; "this noise is very much against the rules. even those girls who have lived through the ordeal must not disturb the usual proceedings. now then, christian mitford, your age, please?" "thirteen," said christian. "when will you have a birthday?" "in three months' time." "mary hillary, pray note in the archives of this society that the new victim, christian mitford, is thirteen years and nine months of age." mary, who was standing by a sort of little desk, opened it, took out a paper volume of most disreputable appearance, opened it, made an entry, with a sort of giggle, and then stood silent. "it is your penalty, christian mitford, to put into the wooden bowl that lies at your feet a large caramel, fondant, or chocolate for each month of your life. who will solve the riddle of the months of christian mitford's life?" star immediately cried out: "one hundred and sixty-five months." "to that great age have you attained, christian mitford, and your penalty is that, having lived so long in the world, you must place upon the altar of our friendship a lollypop or other sweet for each of your months. you do this for the good of the community. the penalty is slight, and not at all in accordance with the offense." "but i can't imagine what the offense is," said christian suddenly. "as to having lollypops, there is a large box in my bedroom, and you are all welcome to have them if you like." at this minute star rose, and turning to lucy, jane, and angela, motioned to them to follow her. the four girls came forward in single file, and each dropped on one knee before christian and laid a box of chocolates at her feet. "we are proud to be your ministers on this occasion," said star, "and we have brought the penalty which you in your ignorance knew nothing about." "i don't call that at all fair," cried susan. "we all know that if a girl can't offer the necessary confectionery she has to give another forfeit of a different nature, and that forfeit is often of greater value to the society. but there!" she added, seeing that star frowned, "if we must submit, i suppose we must. be thankful to your ministers, therefore, christian mitford. take up the sweets and deposit them in the bowl, but be sure you have the right number. be sure you have one hundred and sixty-five sweetmeats--one for each month of your life." christian took up the boxes and unfastened them. several girls crowded round as she reckoned them out and placed them in the bowl. susan stood by counting with her lips as christian deposited the sweets in their receptacle. "so far so good," she said. "the fact of your having paid this forfeit exonerates you from other unpleasantnesses which certainly would have been your lot had those four girls, star lestrange, lucy norris, jane price, and angela goring, not come to the rescue. but now we have other matters to attend to. you know--or, if you don't know, you must be told--that any girl who comes to penwerne manor and doesn't enter into our secret society is outside in every sense of the word. she may be loved by her teachers--such a thing is quite possible--but she certainly will not be loved by the girls. she will not be allowed to share in any of the real conviviality of the school--the secret banquets, for instance. now, girls, can any of you give a description of what the secret banquets are really like?" star jumped to her feet and began to speak eagerly. "they're very naughty," she said. "they are conducted without our teachers knowing anything about them. they occur once a month--here. we generally assemble about half-past ten at night, and go back to our rooms about half-past eleven. we collect during the month for the expenses of the banquet. our food is generally brought in by means of a basket and a rope through the attic window. the fun of the thing is to do it secretly. we try not to be too naughty, but we certainly have a gay time." "it sounds interesting," said christian, who felt that she could enjoy it; "but does miss peacock know?" "does miss peacock know?" suddenly exclaimed maud thompson, raising her voice for the first time, and giving christian an angry look. "i'd like to see the girl who would tell miss peacock. jessie knows; but then nobody minds jessie. the other teachers don't know, and i trust never will. mademoiselle is an old horror. we have to keep it from mademoiselle, whatever happens." "now, you, christian mitford," continued susan, "can, if you like, remain outside the society; but of course you will not." "no, christian," said star; "you must join." "and having joined, you must adhere to the rules," said susan. "now, to make the ceremony of membership of value, we always tattoo a tiny mark on the arm of a new member. we do this with nitrate of silver, a small bottle of which is kept up here. it hardly hurts at all, and if the victim objects----" "certainly, if you object, christian, it is not to be done," said star; "but," she added, with a laugh, "you had much better submit." "i don't mind a bit," said christian. "i have gone through worse things than that," she added. susan's eyes brightened and grew suddenly big. she fastened them on the young girl's face. "i haven't the least doubt," she said, "that you will be an acquisition. you seem to have courage. some girls get in such a funk." "but i won't join," said christian firmly, "until i know what it means." "it means that we are to stick to each other through thick and thin; that you are never to tell; that when the members of the committee--i am one, star lestrange is another, angela goring is another, and janet bouverie is another--that when we decide on a certain mode of action all the members have to adhere to it. they have to follow in our lead and submit to our dictum. fresh members are elected on the committee every half-year, and on that day, the ceremony is very important indeed. the girls greatly like the present set--don't you, girls?" there was a loud cheer, particularly in the neighborhood of star lestrange. susan looked round her and slightly frowned. "each member has to subscribe something out of her own private pocket-money once a week to the funds of the society," said susan; "and if possible she ought to begin with a handsome donation. what can you afford, christian mitford? you look as though you had plenty of money. i hope you will be able to put a good sum into the funds." "a shilling is the usual thing," called out star across the room. "it would be better for you to give more," said susan, gazing at christian uneasily. "i will give five shillings." "naughty, naughty little t'ing," said star's ventriloquist voice over christian's head. "you really can't be allowed to break the rules in this fashion, even if you are a member of the committee, star lestrange," said susan. "we shall be glad of five shillings, christian. you don't seem to be such a formidable person nor so badly behaved as i expected. we will now, if you please, perform the ceremony of initiation." the girls crowded round. susan came forward. "on this occasion," she said, "you, maud thompson, will perform the ceremony on christian's arm." christian bared her arm, and maud, with a tiny caustic pencil, wrote the word "penwernian" in very small letters just above her elbow. the caustic smarted slightly, but the pain was nothing to speak of. "now," continued maud, "you belong to us, christian mitford--or at least you very nearly do. you have still to write your name in blood in this book. don't be startled; just prick your finger. here's the needle we always use for the purpose. shall i do it for you?" before christian could reply maud made a sharp prick on her first finger, and a large drop of blood appeared. the pen was then put into christian's hand, and she wrote her name in the members' book. "now you belong to our secret society," continued maud. "you know what we know; you do what we do. through thick and thin you will be faithful to us; through trouble and joy you belong to us. you would sooner have your heart cut into little bits than betray us. very well, that is all right. now begins the real pleasure of the evening. girls," continued maud, turning and facing the other girls as they crowded round her, "it is permitted, in honor of the new member, that the caramels, fondants, etc., put into that wooden bowl should now be divided. long life to the new member. christian, you as fresh member are permitted to eat one month of your life." "really," said christian, laughing, "this sounds very formidable. i don't know that i want to eat away any part of my life." she thought the ceremony had come to an end, and was rather relieved than otherwise; but her happiness was short-lived, for susan came over and said calmly: "now then, be as quick as you can and give us an account of why you were unavoidably detained. your unavoidable detention has been the talk of the school for the last fortnight. now, we want to learn all about you; for understand, it is absolutely necessary that each member of our secret society should have the full confidence of all the other members. the sooner, therefore, you begin to tell us your life's history the better." chapter xvi susan marsh susan now, with quick, deft movements, removed the candles from their places by the wall, and placed them round the wooden bowl, which no longer contained any fondants, for they had all been devoured by the greedy penwernians. the candles were arranged in a circle, and the girls were invited to seat themselves in a wider circle just beyond. christian alone was so placed that the light from the candles should fall on her face. "now begin, please," said susan; "all about your unavoidable detention first. and don't prevaricate; the soul of truth is the leading motive of our society. we scorn to conceal anything; we just speak the simple truth on all occasions." there was a pause. for a minute it seemed to christian as though she heard the beating of her own heart. she was quite still, and it was not until a small sharp voice sounded at the back of her ear: "it is the first step that costs"--that she found her voice. really star was too trying, but she had the effect of stimulating the young girl into a terrible effort to control herself. "i am very much obliged to you all for being so anxious to know about me," said christian, "and i will tell you about my past life from time to time if you really desire it; but i don't intend to mention why i was kept from school. that is my own secret, and i intend to keep it." "naughty new member; that will never do," cried several gay voices. "hush!" said susan in an imperative tone. "we all know what happens when members of this society refuse to obey the committee. but we will speak of that later on. tell us just what you wish to tell us now, christian." "i will tell you a story," said christian suddenly, "and it's all about myself." "a story--that's good!" cried agnes temple, a look of satisfaction crossing her commonplace little face. "i love stories about people." then, fixing her eyes on her companion's face, she said, "i like christian mitford--don't you?" "please don't talk any more in that whisper," suddenly exclaimed star. "now then, christian, we will not compel your confidence to-night. it might have been," she continued, glancing round at her fellows, "anything. it might mean an accident to the head or to the heart, in which case it would be extremely dangerous to press for an explanation. you shall tell us just what you like, christian," she continued, "only don't draw on your imagination if you can help it." "what i tell you will be true," answered christian, "only i don't suppose any of you will believe me. i am an only child. all my days i should have been terribly lonely but for my attic." "oh, dear!" cried maud thompson; "perhaps she has belonged to other secret societies. she would have been very lonely but for her attic. please tell us all about your attic." "i will," said christian, "if you won't interrupt." she then proceeded to give a vivid picture of her early days. she described her life so that the girls who listened no longer interrupted with silly words or sarcastic remarks; they were so interested that they forgot themselves. christian spoke of her doll days, then of her fairy-story days, and last of her heroic days. when she got to the subject of joan of arc it seemed to the girls that no history had ever been so thrilling. "it was one dreadful dark day," she continued, suddenly rising to her feet and forgetting about everything but that picture of the past which was rising up in her mind. "there was snow outside, and i thought and i thought, and it seemed to me that i was joan and in prison. i thought i would put on the armor which was to be my undoing. i saw myself in it, and i was glad and not at all afraid. and then--and then--there came the trial. oh! it lasted so long, and i seemed to live through it all. i was condemned to death. i saw myself; i was there. i was burnt, and i did go through it all." "oh, nonsense!" here cried mary hillary. "your head must be affected." "no, no; i did go through it all in imagination," said christian. "i made it, too, as realistic as possible. there was an old, old bedstead, and one of the posts was broken. i bound myself to the post--yes, with real chains, too; they belonged to a dog we used to keep in a kennel. they were rusty, but that did not matter. and i piled up papers round me, all torn up in great pieces; and i had some red paper to imitate the color of the flames. i made the paper come higher and higher, and i fancied i saw a crowd, and i was burned." "oh, dear! you are an extraordinary girl," said angela goring. "don't you think that sort of thing is very bad for you?" the others were silent. christian dropped down again on her seat. "i have no more to tell you to-night," she said. "it takes it out of me to feel like that. i wouldn't tell you, but if we are penwernians that means that we are comrades--and comrades must understand each other. if you all will be friends with me i will be your friend. oh, i hope you will; i was a little afraid of you to-day, but i don't really think i will be afraid any longer." "i, as a member of the committee, declare our meeting is now dissolved," said star lestrange suddenly. "it is time for us to go to our bedrooms. go softly, everyone. jessie wouldn't tell, but the other mistresses are no end of tell-tale-tits. good-night, christian." "christian," said janet bouverie suddenly, "i'm glad you have come to the school, and i hope you will be friends with me." a great many other girls came up and shook hands with christian. she had scored a success. one by one, like little frightened shadows, the penwernians stole to their separate rooms. fortunately for christian, hers was not far off, as the white corridor was the nearest to the celebrated front attic. she was glad to see a bright fire burning in the grate, but she started very violently when she saw standing by the fire no less a person than miss jessie herself. "come in, dear," said miss jessie. "i know all about it, of course. if i were a teacher i should be obliged to tell; but i am not a teacher, and dear lavinia gives me a good deal of liberty. i do not feel that i am obliged to make mischief. as long as you girls keep up your little mystery and don't do anything wrong, i don't feel called upon to make you unhappy. don't tell me, dear, what has happened; i'd much rather not know. but come to the fire; you look quite blue and cold." "oh, in some ways i have had a splendid time," said christian. "i am relieved to hear it, my love. to tell the truth, i have been a little anxious about you, christian." "why?" asked christian. "because your face has a strange expression--just as though you felt things too much." "i am naughtier than most girls; that is why," said christian. "my dear child, let me assure you that you are nothing of the kind. i know a lot about girls, living here as i do. even dear lavinia can't see them as i do, for they are always on their best behavior with her, and they don't mind little jessie in the very least. but now, dear, i came to your room on purpose to tell you that your real life here begins to-morrow. you will, like everyone else, have your hardships; you will also have your period of discipline, and i earnestly beg of you, christian, not for the sake of a purely quixotic motive to get yourself into hot water by telling something which never happened in the school. in regard to this remember, my dear, it is your duty to be guided by the superior judgment of dear lavinia peacock." christian made no answer. miss jessie looked into her eyes. "you are over-anxious, dear. i trust you will sleep. is your fire all right? ah! i see it is. i wish i could give you this little luxury every night, but it is against our rules. we have a fire once a week in each bedroom, just to keep it warm and aired, but that is all. now i will put on two additional lumps of coal. you will be quite happy, dear. the great gong will wake you at seven o'clock to-morrow morning; you are expected to be down at half-past seven. at eight we have breakfast, and then prayers. you will soon know all the routine. and now, love, good-night." christian stood for a few minutes by the fire. it certainly was cheerful, and the little room snug. she felt that she might soon be happy at school. as to being interested, she had never felt so intensely interested before. the girls were so naïve, so fresh. even those who terrified her aroused her interest. she did not like susan marsh, but even susan had something fascinating about her. then, as to star, was anybody ever before so gay, so bright, so willful? "and she was good to me," thought the child--"really good. she helped me when i was frightened. she showed me how i might take a proper place in the school. i love her already. i shall love her well. how strange it is that i should be supplied with a sort of bodyguard! star and lucy and jane and angela. i can't say that they did much for me while i was going through the initiation, but still they were there. i suppose they acted rightly in not making their presence too much felt. star said they were to be a sort of invisible bodyguard, ready to help me in times of real difficulty and danger, but as a rule allowing me to get out of my own scrapes, when i don't absolutely require their assistance." christian removed her dress and looked at her arm. it still smarted a little from the initial ceremony. "how ridiculous all this is!" she said to herself. "father and mother would smile over it; and yet it didn't seem ridiculous up there." she wondered what her father would say if he ever heard of that evening's event. then, having knelt for a minute or two in prayer, she got into bed. but christian's adventures for that night were by no means over; for, just as she was getting drowsy and was dropping off to sleep, the door of her room glided open noiselessly, and susan marsh stood before her. "i have come," said susan, "to say something. i shan't take up much of your time, but i think it only right that you should know. you are sleepy, but you must not go to sleep until i have had my talk out. by the way, what a snug room! and a fire, too. dear me! do you think you deserve all these luxuries?" "certainly, if my parents choose to pay for them," replied christian. she found herself speaking in a pert voice, but her heart was beating and the old terrors were returning. "how grand we are!" said susan mockingly. "i wonder if the parents know what the dear young only girl is up to. now, christian, please note that i am in the position to assure you calmly, simply, but at the same time firmly, that you are in my power." "i in your power?" said christian. "what do you mean?" "this: i happen to know all about that unavoidable detention. i know what it consisted of. i know the full particulars. i know all about that wicked, wicked running away from home, and the name of the little girl who went with you, and the slum where you went, and the room that you slept in, and the reason why you were not allowed to return to the school for ten days. i can tell that story to the whole school; and i will, too, if you don't make it worth my while to be silent." "i will never make it worth your while to be silent," said christian. "i can't imagine how you learnt it, but you have learnt it by dishonorable means. anyhow, i am not going to be afraid of you." "aren't you?" said susan. "there is plenty of firelight; that is a good thing. a fire is nice, and we are quite alone--absolutely safe and comfortable--so we will just argue this matter." "you may say anything you like," replied christian very stoutly, "but i am not going to be afraid of you." her attitude and manner, and even the look on her face, impressed susan. she was evidently astonished. "why does miss peacock say that you were unavoidably detained?" was her next remark. "you must ask miss peacock that yourself," replied christian. "very well; i must now tell you the simple truth, christian mitford. you can take whatever attitude you please on this occasion. you may pretend to be indifferent, but you don't know what it means. it lies in your power to tell the school or not." "that is what i intend to do," said christian. "is it? well, we'll see. if you do it you will imagine yourself a sort of heroine, no doubt; you will think yourself extremely brave. but wait for the result. how do you think your schoolfellows will take it? you spent the night, for instance, in the slums. we don't any of us--we lady girls who live in this school--know what the slums mean, but you do. then you were fearfully wicked and disobedient. the girls who are not wicked and who are not disobedient will be afraid of you. in short, i may as well assure you, christian, if you tell this thing, if it is known in the school, you will be sent to coventry. do you know what coventry means?" "i have heard of it, but i should like to have your version," said christian. "you are very smart and courageous in your conversation now, but you won't be when you feel the full pinch of coventry life. just picture to yourself what it will feel like never to be spoken to by your companions, to be without friends in the midst of a lot of girls, to be publicly expelled from the penwernians." "oh, i don't mind that," said christian. "you haven't the remotest idea what it means or you wouldn't say so. your mistresses may continue to like you, but there isn't a good, nice girl in the school who will dare to be seen speaking to you. you will live on here year after year, and not until all the present girls leave the school will you have any chance of becoming popular. now, naturally you would be popular; you are just the sort of girl. that power of yours of telling stories is an immense attraction. it might win the heart of nearly every girl in the place. but after your sin is known no one will listen to you. and why, do you think? because the committee of the penwernians will forbid it. now, of course, the mistresses have great power in the school; but, although they would not like to own it, their power is nothing at all compared to the power of our secret society. if you, who have just been made a member of it, were at once expelled because of conduct which makes it impossible for us to have anything to do with you, you would be in a sorry position. you can think the thing over. i don't want to press you, but my advice to you is to take advantage of miss lavinia peacock's kindness and not to tell what you have done." susan's words came out slowly. she made a pause now and then, and these pauses were very effective. her ugly face was full of deep shadows in the firelight. her eyes were scarcely visible at all. it was only her white teeth that gleamed now and then. as she stood she herself made a great shadow, and it seemed to christian that susan was a bad girl, and that she hated and, alas! feared her. "if i could only speak to star," she thought. "what am i to do?" "what i say to you is in absolute confidence," continued susan, who knew that she was at last making an impression. "for your own sake you ought really not to tell. it doesn't matter to me. if you do tell you will find it distinctly--yes, dreadfully--unpleasant. miss peacock must have known that fact when she so wisely resolved not to acquaint the girls with the truth." "but i don't care to live under a lie or to sail under false colors," said christian slowly. "you are a little goose," replied susan; and now she changed both her attitude and manner, and coming close, she laid her hand upon the bed. christian's hand was lying outside the counterpane, and susan caught it and held it firmly. "you are one of us," she said, "and of course we all want to like you. i for one feel that i could adore you. it is because i pity you that i speak." "but how did you know? it is a secret from the whole school. how did you manage to get possession of it?" said christian. "ah! that is my affair. i can only say now that i am in possession of it, and can give you full particulars of your great adventure. the name of your little runaway friend is rose latimer; and another horrid girl called judith ford was implicated in the affair. now, are you satisfied?" "i see that you know, but i can't make out how you know." "be satisfied with that knowledge, for more you will not be told. now, you have almost made up your mind, have you not, that you will not tell?" "you have frightened me very much. i will think it over." "do, and to-morrow we will meet again. i won't stay with you now, for i know you are sleepy. of course you will pay me." "for what?" "for my silence, dear--my silence. what you give me i shall spend on fondants for the next meeting of the penwernians. have you got any money handy?" poor christian! a bright new sovereign lay on the dressing-table. at that very moment susan's eyes fell upon it. "why, here's the very thing," she said. "it will keep me silent for a while. you will be happy and have a right good time, for i can see to that. thank you so much! good-night." she snatched up the money and put it into her pocket. "no, no; come back, please--come back!" called christian. but susan gave a low laugh and a gesture of warning, and disappeared from the room. it was long before christian could sleep. after the relief that the meeting had given her, to come face to face with such a terrible obstacle as susan marsh made her feel almost wild with apprehension. she had no one to turn to, for she did not dare to betray susan. what was to be done? "if i do the right thing," thought the poor girl, "susan marsh will be my enemy, and i dare not tell the mistresses. oh, i wish--i wish father and mother had never sent me to this terrible school!" chapter xvii the boudoirs two or three days after the events related in the last chapter, susan marsh might have been seen pacing up and down with her chosen friend maud thompson. maud, compared to susan, was rather a pretty girl; and under other influences she might have been a good girl. she had taken a fancy to christian, and was telling susan of this fact. "like her as much as ever you please," said susan, "but remember she is my prey." "your prey, susan! whatever do you mean? sometimes you don't talk at all nicely." "lower your voice a little, my love," said susan; "we don't want the others to hear us. we have a whole quarter of an hour, and i have a plan in my head." "you always are planning things. but i do want to talk about christian now. i can't think why you call her your prey." "of course, i have no secrets from you, maud; you are my chosen friend, and would not dare to betray me, even if you wished to do so. but the fact is, i have got hold of the poor dear's secret." "christian mitford's secret?" "yes; the true story of her unavoidable detention." "i wonder she won't tell us about that. she never will. it rather surprises me," said maud. "rest assured, dear maud, that she is never likely to tell you. she would be a mighty great fool if she did." "and you know all about it?" "i know all about it, sweet? oh, yes." "you look very queer, susan. i wish you would not have that----" "that what, maudie?" "that sort of pleasure in seeing people unhappy. it isn't nice." "oh, isn't it, maud? what about the kind friend who gets others out of their troubles. you know----" "you needn't go into that," said maud, coloring and then turning white. "ah! but i thought i'd just remind you, dear. but to return to our beloved christian. she really is a very noble specimen of her name--very conscientious and all that--but, notwithstanding, i think we shall get her to do pretty much what we like; and all and entirely by means of that little secret of hers, which she must never tell except, to your humble servant." "but why--why--why?" "oh, inquisitive one. your desires are not to be gratified. but now to turn to other matters. i propose that we shall have a very great feast in the front attic, to which all members of the penwernian society are to be invited, on the second saturday in february. that is exactly one fortnight from now. we must have a real supper, and everything in first-rate style; and florence dixie and her two friends, ethel and emma manners, are all to be invited." "what nonsense! you know quite well we can't invite strangers to the front attic. it is bad enough to have these feasts at all, as it were, in the dark, and with jessie knowing all the time." "jessie will never tell. and don't you know by this time, maud, that miss peacock--the dear, blessed, saintly lavinia--winks at our little peccadillos? she could find out if she chose to, but she is too wise, bless her, the darling! well, of course, neither jessie nor miss peacock is to know of this. i have spoken already to florence dixie and to the two manners girls, and they are wild to come. they want to join the society, but of course that can't be entertained; i do draw the line at that. we shall get them in by means of a ladder put up to the window. won't it be splendid?" "it certainly will," said maud. "how daring you are, susan! do you think star and lucy and angela will join us?" "do i think ducks will swim?" was susan's remark. "but now, my dear love, in order to have these girls we must have funds. what do you think of this?" as susan spoke she thrust her hand into her pocket and drew out a whole beautiful golden sovereign. "why, susan," said maud, in astonishment, "however did you get it?" "from the dear, the precious young christian. the price of her detention, you understand." "oh, you are not blackmailing the poor child? how wrong of you! how cruel!" "you use very ugly words, maud; you forget yourself. now, the fewer questions you ask the better. this sovereign will buy a grand supper, and we shall have a jolly time." "but if we are found out. you know how furious miss peacock would be at our introducing outsiders into the school." "we won't be found out; we shall be far too careful for that. but please understand, maud, that what i have told you is in strictest confidence; you must not breathe it to another soul. meanwhile you may be as nice as you like to christian. go and talk to her now, poor child! she is standing over there by herself, looking desolate and gazing out to sea." "i won't go to her," said maud. "some of the things you do, susan, make me wretched. i do wish you'd be straight and nice and honorable like star. i am sure she has no end of fun in her, and is most daring, but she would never stoop to your sort of things." "really, maud, i don't know what to make of you. if you go on like this i shall have to get some other girl to be my special friend; and then, dear little love, look out for squalls, for don't you remember----" susan bent and whispered into maud's tiny, shell-like ear. maud colored. "go and look up your lessons," continued susan, pushing her away with a contemptuous motion; "your french was not specially creditable to-day. i will approach christian and have a chat with her." maud ran off at once. susan looked after her. susan's overhanging brows gave a decided scowl to her face. she approached christian mitford softly, and when she came within a short distance, said in a mincing voice, and in the tone of a person drawling out a hymn: "come hither, little christian, and hearken unto me; i'll tell you what the daily life of a christian child should be." christian turned at once angrily. "i don't want to speak to you," she said. "but you must, love; you really must. we are going to have such a lovely time in the attic on saturday fortnight--the best we ever had--and you are to be present, and we are all to wear our white dresses. we will look like so many cherubs, won't we? and there's to be _such_ a supper--got out of your sovereign, darling." "susan, i can't give you any more money. i only had two sovereigns when miss neil left me; she said they were to last until----" "how long, dearest? until you ran away again?" "oh, don't!" said christian. "how cruel you are! i have almost made up my mind----" "what, christian? to what have you made up your mind?" "that i won't stand this. it would be much--much braver to me to tell. i'll consult star; she will know how to advise me." now, this was the very last thing that susan wished. although she was quite certain that she herself could so manage matters as to send christian to coventry if she did tell, she also knew that if star discovered the truth, she (susan) would be the person reduced to that uncomfortable position. "it would be madness for you to tell star," she said, changing her tone to one of great sympathy. "she's a very upright, honorable sort of girl; she would be shocked--absolutely shocked." "are you sure? she always seems so kind; although of late somehow she has not taken much notice of me." susan laughed. "take my advice," she said, "and keep your own counsel. tell no one except your own susy, who, of course, won't repeat anything. i have nearly done getting what money i want from you; and isn't it better to be a little short of funds than to be hated by everybody? come, now; let's take a walk and have a cozy-pozy time together." susan's "cozy-pozy time" was scarcely enjoyed by christian, who was learning to dislike her companion more and more day by day. the young girl often wondered at the intense feeling of hatred that was growing up in her heart for this disagreeable and wicked girl. "how little i knew when i ran away what it would all mean!" thought the poor child. "oh, dear! if only father and mother were in england i might consult them. but there is no one--no one to go to for help." susan did not find her companion very agreeable, and after informing her of this fact in no flattering terms, ran off to seek more congenial friends. the girls always had an hour to themselves in the early part of the afternoon, when they might do exactly as they liked. they need not walk, they need not study; they might wander in the grounds, or they might sit by the comfortable schoolroom fires, or they might visit the boudoirs. amongst the special attractions to be found at penwerne manor were the boudoirs. these consisted of a number of small rooms, beautifully furnished, very bright, very cheerful, and specially devoted to the girls of the school. each class had a room to itself, but a girl belonging to one class could invite a friend to have tea with her in another boudoir or classroom, provided the invitation was given for this special hour. at other times each class was expected to keep strictly to its own boudoir. christian had long rejoiced in the fact that she was in the same class as star lestrange, and equally was she delighted to know that susan, a much bigger and older girl, was two classes lower down in the school. susan would never have dreamt of bullying so clever a girl as christian but for the rare chance of having discovered her secret. feeling cold and chilly now, the young girl crossed the wide hall, went down the corridor where the boudoirs were situated, and opened the door of the fourth class boudoir and entered. this room went by the name of the hall of good nature. it was one of miss peacock's curious fancies to call the boudoirs after virtues; charity hall, hope hall, kindness hall, were to be found in the little group. the name of each room was carved in white over the lintel of the door, and now as christian entered she raised her eyes to look at the words. "the hall of good nature," she said to herself. she uttered a deep sigh. she wondered if there was any real kindness left in the world. she felt terribly lonely and depressed. but for susan, and but for her own wrong-doing, how happy she would be here! for she could not help confessing to herself that the life was beautiful; all its days were planned out with such true common-sense and such broad ideas with regard to all that was necessary for the growth of young and sensitive girls, that happiness could not but be the result. there were strong interests, too, in the school, and miss lavinia herself was so delightful that to obtain a kind word from her or a smile from her face was sufficient incentive for any amount of hard work. but christian was not happy. she was doing well; her lessons were a mere nothing to her. but for the sake of star she would have made violent efforts to get into the fifth class, but she liked star and did not wish to leave her. nevertheless, strange as it may seem, star took very little notice of her of late; she rather avoided her than otherwise, and this seemed the last drop in christian's cup of bitterness. she was thinking now of all these things, puzzling over them, and wiping away a tear which would now and then start to her eyes, when the door was opened somewhat noisily, and star lestrange, accompanied by angela goring, dashed into the room. "oh, bother!" she said aloud when she saw christian, and then she stopped short and was about to go away. but christian rose quickly. "don't go, please, star," she said. "i was resting just for a minute or two; i am all right now. i will go and have a walk round the grounds before lesson-hour." "but you mustn't; it is so cold," said angela. "why, what is the matter, christian?" for angela had caught sight of christian's face, and had noticed the large tear-drop on her cheek which rolled down and disappeared even as she spoke. "i'm all right, really. please don't go away," said christian. "why shouldn't you stay?" star suddenly changed her mind. "you belong to us, chris, don't you?" "i thought so--i hoped so," was christian's answer. there was a note of hope in her voice. "we have been rather puzzled about you, all the same," said star, sinking into a chair and spreading out her hands to the blaze. "angel, sit down by my side and warm yourself, pet. we have been rather amazed that you have taken up with susan marsh. don't you know---- oh, of course, i mustn't say a word; it wouldn't be gentlemanly; and whatever happens, i _will_ be a gentleman. i'd hate to be a lady. a gentlemanly girl is my ideal of the perfect girl, and i hope i am that, so i won't speak against a schoolfellow. but, all the same, she's not your sort--not really." "i know. do you think i like her?" "actions speak louder than words, my dear. you are with her always, sniggering in corners, and looking so mysterious; her hand in yours, and her arm round your waist. faugh! it makes me sick. doesn't it you, angel?" "perhaps christian can explain," said angela, who had a very kind face and read trouble in christian's eyes. "do explain, chris; there's a darling," said star. "we want to be nice to you, both angel and i, but we can't cotton to your friend, and that's a fact. now tell us, why do you go with her? why are you always following her about, or she following you about? you are so absolutely unlike the sort of girl who ought to be with her that it is more or less, the talk of the school. you'll tell us, won't you?" "i'm afraid, i can't. i wish i could." "oh, then," star's sweetness suddenly left her. she became her old, somewhat severe, satirical little self once more. "she won't be bold and tell us, the charming young thing!" she sang out, letting her voice drop from the ceiling almost into christian's ears. "oh, star, can't you understand? i am unhappy. oh! i daren't say another word; only the fact of your not liking me makes me miserable. i was never away from home before. do be kind to me, star." "i will if you tell me the truth; but i won't if you keep up the mystery. so now you can choose. give me your confidence and i'll get you out of your worries, whatever they are." just at that minute a head was poked round the curtain and the face of susan marsh appeared. "wherever have you hid yourself, christian? you are wanted immediately. maudie and i and mary hillary are all waiting for your royal highness." "come in, susan," said star suddenly. susan advanced into the room. notwithstanding all her would-be indifference, there was a slightly alarmed expression in her eyes. "you have done something to this poor girl," said star. "you have frightened her, and we want her to tell us. it is most unaccountable your being friends with the sort of girl christian mitford is." "what?" said susan; "is she too good for me?" "she is different from you," said star boldly. "she isn't a bit your sort, and you know it. why are you so chummy with her? will you tell us the reason?" "she had best tell you herself; i give her leave," said susan. she stood and faced christian with a daring, impish expression on her face. her eyes beneath their thick brows seemed to dart as though they would pierce through the young girl's soul; their expression was altogether too much for christian. "i can't tell," she said. "i suppose it is all right. i'll go with you, susan, if you want me." "yes, you had better," said star rudely, "for we don't care for the susan marsh sort of girls here." chapter xviii "i am afraid" "jessie," said miss lavinia peacock, turning to her little friend, "i want you to sit here, to make yourself thoroughly comfortable, and allow me to question you freely." "but, please, dear miss peacock----" "i gave you leave to call me lavinia." "please, dear lavinia----" "you would rather not be questioned?" "i would much, much rather not. you understand that in my position. oh, yes, you gave me permission, as you expressed it, to be eyes behind your back, to do what i could to make comfort and happiness in the school, and yet to allow a certain amount of liberty. you gave me to understand--you really did, lavinia--that i might shut my eyes when there was no real mischief ahead." "i certainly did do so," replied miss lavinia gravely; "and i have no intention of going back on my word. amongst so many girls one must expect differences of disposition. there will always be the girl of varieties; there will always be the thoughtless, heedless, mischievous girl. now, i have sympathy with the variety girl, and with the daring, the ambitious, the frolicsome, the mischievous girl; but i have no sympathy--none whatever--with the wicked girl. and if such a girl is in this school, and is exercising her malign influence upon my pupils, out she goes. you must clearly understand that you allow no liberty when the wicked girl appears on the scene." "but i am certain--i am quite positive--that there is no such girl in the school," said poor miss jessie, who, although she did not like susan marsh, could not be brought to think her anything but just a thoughtless, rather daring specimen of humanity; not exactly a nice girl, but as to being wicked!--oh no, poor little miss jessie could not even entertain the idea. "i promise you," she said after a pause, "that if there is anything wrong i will let you know. for the rest you must trust me." "what about the front attic?" said miss peacock suddenly. "you allowed me liberty with regard to that. nothing goes on that i don't know of. if there is anything distinctly disobedient, any act of open rebellion, i promise that you shall be told at once." "all right, jessie," said miss peacock with a sigh. she rose as she spoke, and going up to the glowing fire, put a pretty pointed foot on the brass fender and warmed it luxuriously. "i cannot exactly tell you why," she said at last slowly, "but since that young girl, christian mitford, came to the school--it is nearly a month now since she arrived--i have not felt quite at my ease. there is something about the child that haunts me quite uncomfortably. are you sure she is happy?" "i am not," said miss jessie. "but why should she be unhappy?" "i can't exactly tell you, except----" miss jessie sat very still for a minute. "i do hope one thing, and that is that you will strongly dissuade christian from telling the school at large about her adventure before she came here." miss peacock was silent. "i am absolutely sure," continued miss jessie, "that you would be doing the child irretrievable mischief and injury by allowing the story to get abroad in the school. schoolgirls are only schoolgirls; they cannot read motives, and they cannot judge of the depth of repentance. to these carefully nurtured, carefully brought-up children the story of christian's running away and of losing herself, if only for a few hours, in the slums of london would seem altogether horrible. her repentance would quite fade from their view in comparison with the enormity of her sin. the fact is this, dear miss peacock, and i know i am right"--here miss jessie's eyes filled with tears--"the good girls of the school would turn away from christian, and the naughty and troublesome ones would render her life a burden to her. she would never hear the last of her sin. you oughtn't to do it. i am sure--i am certain i am right." "you go a little too far, miss jones," said miss peacock. over her face there swept a wave of resolution, mixed with pain. jessie looked as though someone had struck her. to be called "miss jones," and by that beloved voice! "you make a mistake in counseling me. i yield to you in a great deal, but in matters of conduct i am paramount. it is my intention to counsel christian mitford to _tell_, and for that reason i am going to see her to-night." "oh, it will be cruel! i cannot help saying it," continued miss jessie, and she burst into tears. miss peacock laid her hand on the other's shoulder. "dear," she said, "i don't wish to be unkind, but is this your school or mine?" "oh, yours, of course. oh, i mustn't say a word, but i think every teacher in the place would agree with me." "have you talked this matter over with the teachers?" "no, indeed; not a soul knows at present except myself. poor christian! she often looks so pale and distressed. she is practically an orphan; her parents are so far off." "i will deal with her, jessie; but when a girl has common sense and also a brave and noble thought, i will not have it crushed because of any possible tyranny on the part of the schoolgirls. send christian to me now, and believe that i will act for the best." miss jessie went out of the room. she walked very slowly; she felt thoroughly unhappy. she certainly did not agree with miss peacock. christian's manner, the expression on her face, her want of appetite, and her lack of interest in her daily life had been remarked on with great fear and distress by miss jessie. she could not guess at the truth, however, for she little suspected that susan marsh knew poor christian's story. christian was sitting by herself in the boudoir belonging to the fourth class. she was sitting by a table, a book open before her. whether she was reading it or not miss jessie could not guess. but when she said, "christian, you are wanted," the young girl jumped up, and then miss jessie saw, with a start, that the story-book was upside down. christian must indeed be in trouble. "oh, my darling!" said miss jessie. before the girl could prevent her, she ran up to christian, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her impulsively several times. "christian, i am with you in everything. be brave, dear; keep up your courage." "what does this mean?" said christian. "has anything happened? oh, miss jessie, you are good to me." "i try to be, darling, for i love you. the fact is--don't be frightened, but miss peacock wants you. you are to go to her at once, i hope and trust this may---- i mustn't--i daren't say any more." "i am very glad that i can see miss peacock," said christian. her tone was bright. she did not wait to say another word to miss jessie, but left the room. christian's tap at miss peacock's door was answered immediately by that good lady. "come in," she said; and when she saw the young girl, and noticed her pale face, she said in a particularly kind tone: "come here, christian dear. you and i must have a cozy chat. i like to know all i possibly can of my pupils. sit in that easy-chair. is it too near the fire? well, here is a screen. now i will take this chair, and we shall enjoy ourselves." christian smiled. "your room reminds me of mother's boudoir at home." "ah! i should like to know about your mother. you love her very, very much?" "i feel being parted from her," said christian somewhat evasively. "and your father? what sort of man is he?" "i think he is very noble," answered christian; and now her eyes brightened and the color came into her cheeks. "i rather guessed he must be, christian. i felt certain that your people must be of the very best. your father ought to have the highest morals, for he has inherited them. you have a wonderful likeness to your grandmother. whenever i see you i seem to be back in the old days when i loved her so truly." christian gave a restless sigh. "i shall never be like my grandmother," she said after a pause. "but why so, dear? why shouldn't you be just as great and noble? believe me, christian," continued miss peacock, "these days are the grandest days women ever lived in. the woman of to-day can be anything; she can dare anything. she has splendid opportunities; all doors to the highest and best work are flung open to her. riches need not retard her, nor poverty. the girl of the present day ought to be educated right nobly in order to meet that grand future." "i do not care for the girls of the present day," said christian. "but do you know many of them?" "i know some of the girls here." miss peacock looked very attentively at her young pupil; then she stretched out her hand and rang the bell. a servant appeared. "bring tea, agnes--tea for two--and those special cakes that i like." the maid withdrew, and returned in a few minutes to lay on the little table a lovely silver tea-equipage and the most charming, dainty china christian had ever seen. by and by the tea itself appeared. miss peacock poured out a cup for her pupil and another for herself. christian ate the cakes and drank the hot, fragrant tea, and, it must be owned, felt comforted. "you like coming to tea with me, do you not dear?" "oh, very, very much!" "i think you and i could be good friends, christian." "if i knew i was worthy we could be good friends--at least i could love you," said christian. her eyes brightened perceptibly and the color deepened in her cheeks. "well, now, my dear," said miss peacock, "i want you and i to be friends. there are some girls here who seem to be specially in touch with me. there are others, again, most excellent girls--splendid, brave, devoted to their work and their duties--with whom i have nothing in common. that is always the way in life: certain characters appeal to us; others, again, fail to do so. you and i are beyond doubt in touch." "oh, thank you!" said christian in a fervent voice. "i take an immense interest in your career, christian. you seem to me, after a fashion, to be left to me as a sort of legacy. i should like you to confide in me; i see plainly that you are unhappy." christian bent her head. "will you tell me all about it?" the bent head was slightly shaken. "you cannot?" "i cannot." "_noblesse oblige_ forbids?" "yes, yes; perhaps so. anyhow, i cannot tell you. don't notice me, please, miss peacock. let me be happy during my short time with you." "i want you to be happy, and in the best possible way, by removing the cause of your trouble; for i can see, and so can jessie--and so, i fancy, can many of your companions--that you are not happy, christian. i am about to write to your father, and i should like to be able to tell him with truth that his dear daughter feels at home with me, and is preparing for that noble womanhood which he has set his heart on her possessing." the expression of christian's face changed; the softness went out of it. she kept staring straight before her. "we agreed, did we not, christian," said miss peacock, "not to say anything with regard to the special trouble which took place before you came to penwerne manor?" "oh, yes!" "before you came, i must own that i was as much distressed at the thought of the other girls knowing as at the grave misdemeanor itself. i resolved not to tell the girls. to my astonishment, you, christian, begged of me to allow you to tell all the school exactly what had happened. neither jessie nor i approved of the plan, knowing, as we do, what schoolgirls are--how they love to tease, to torment and worry, sometimes even to bully. i can scarcely think that any girl in my school would willfully bully another, but of course i am not sure." miss peacock looked hard at christian as she spoke; but christian's face, now absolutely pale, revealed nothing. "the final arrangement was that you were to tell, if you still wished it, at the end of a month. the month has expired; you are now at liberty to stand with me before the entire school and tell your story. and when your story is finished, i am at liberty to tell the school why i counseled you to keep it a secret, and how much i admire your bravery in revealing it. thus i stand between you and the school as a shield. i put the school on its honor not to worry you, not to reproach you, not to bring up the past. that is the present position. are you still of the same mind, christian? do you wish to take the bull by the horns--to once and for all explain to the school what you have done? would not this, after all, be the best way out of your troubles? to each noble heart in the school your conduct must appeal, and each girl worth anything must love you all the better for your courage." when miss peacock had finished speaking, christian rose and stood before her mistress, and said in a low voice: "and you now counsel me to tell?" miss peacock looked at her thoughtfully. "i do," she said. "yes, on the whole, i emphatically do." christian did not speak at all for a minute; then she said: "when do you wish me to tell?" "ah, my dear, you do not take a right tone," said her governess. "this is not a question of _when_; it is a question of _your own desire_. is it your own desire?" "i will be--guided by you." "but is it your desire?" "it is not my desire any longer." "then, christian, something has happened." christian was silent. "you would rather keep this thing to yourself?" "yes." "but why this change in your views?" "i was brave--yes, i think i was; now i am afraid." "afraid! you have not the face of a coward." "i am afraid," continued christian. "you would rather the thing was unknown, buried, forgotten?" "you told the school that i was unavoidably detained: let them continue to believe this." "but you are not happy." "cowards are never happy. may i say good-night now, miss peacock?" miss peacock drew the young girl towards her. "what am i to do with you, christian? you make me unhappy by your present attitude. is it possible that you will not confide in me? what can i do to make you give me your confidence?" "i can never give you my confidence. the only thing you can do--the only really kind thing--is to let me alone. i am not a good girl any longer, and i am a coward; and i will not tell, for it isn't in me to do anything brave or noble." "then you are very unlike your grandmother." "i am sorry for poor--father. miss peacock, i daren't stay another minute." christian struggled to get away, but miss peacock drew her still closer. "some day," she said, "you may feel like telling me. when that day comes i will give you my careful attention--my undivided attention--and my most lenient judgment. do you understand?" "yes; you are good." "if your trouble becomes unbearable you will know, therefore, whom to appeal to." "oh, you are very good!" "i see you will say no more now. well, good-night, dear; i can at least pray for you." christian left the room. chapter xix dawson's bill star was pacing up and down in one of the corridors when christian went past. star called out when she saw her: "christian, are you using your greek history to-night?" "no." "will you lend it to me? i can't find my own copy." "oh, yes, with pleasure, star. shall i fetch it for you?" "no; just tell me where it is and i'll get it." "in the bookcase in front of my desk. i put it there this afternoon. it is on the third shelf." "thanks awfully," said star. "what are you doing with yourself?" "i am going to susan; she asked me to have cocoa with her to-night." it was one of the privileges of penwerne manor that the girls who slept in the white corridor could entertain their friends now and then to cocoa. this was really anticipating their girton or newnham days; but for girls who were in their teens miss peacock was of the opinion that such privileges were good instead of harmful. christian ran on, therefore, in the direction of susan's room. star turned to angela goring, who happened to be walking with her when they met christian. "how queer she looked!" said star. "do you know," replied angela, "i am quite certain that something extraordinary is going to happen at the next meeting of the penwernians. i can't quite make out what it is. i suspected it for some time, but when i found susan slipping in at the back-door with a great brown-paper parcel in her hand i thought it was time to interfere. "'have you been shopping?' i said. 'you know we are not allowed to shop by ourselves.' "'old betty, the cake-woman, gave me this,' said susan. "i dare say she did. it was a very big parcel. of course it found its way to the front attic. i often wonder if we do ourselves any good by belonging to the penwernians." "yes, we do. don't be so goody-goody, angela," cried star. "i wouldn't do anything dishonorable, or what our darling miss peacock didn't approve of, for the whole world; but there's no harm in having a bit of a lark once a fortnight or so. of course, i wouldn't regularly break the rules; but where miss jessie doesn't interfere, i must confess i feel my own conscience quite light. now come along; i want to work up a little piece of greek history. i don't half know the particulars of that famous trial of socrates, and professor french does so pounce on you when you happen to make a mistake." the girls entered the classroom where the fourth class had their lessons. star approached christian's bookshelf, took down grote's _history of greece_, and getting into a comfortable corner, opened it lazily. angela approached her own desk, turned on the electric light and prepared to get her french exercise into as perfect order as she could. presently a cry from star smote on her ears. "why, do look!" she said. "what?" asked angela. "oh! come here, angela; this is too funny. see what i found in christian's book." as star spoke she held up a sheet of paper. on it was written a whole list of eatables, which star proceeded to read aloud: "twelve plum-tarts, twelve apricot-tarts, twelve cheese-cakes, two dozen sponge-cakes, four dozen sponge-fingers, one plum-cake, twenty-four bottles of ginger-beer, two pounds of mixed sweets." these different items, jotted down one below the other, had their prices put against them, and the grand total amounted to nine and sixpence. there was a scrawled "paid" put below the little account, and star, peering down at it with her bright eyes, saw the stamp belonging to a well-known grocer in the town. "how strange," she said. "christian buying a whole lot of things for herself at dawson's? certainly neither miss peacock nor jessie knows anything of this. what can it mean?" "oh, i know very well what it means," said angela. "you rather crushed me just now when i spoke, but i am certain there are going to be high-jinks at the next meeting of the penwernians. i am also sure there will be an open act of disobedience. this seems to confirm it." "but think of christian being mixed up with it," said star. "why, it's scandalous. christian, of all people, buying a lot of food and smuggling it in. we always have been allowed to get a few sweets or chocolates when we pleased, but it was also an understood matter that we were never to have regular feasts in the house. and one of our best-understood rules is this: we are not to buy things from the tradespeople. nine-and-sixpence worth. dear me! christian must be running through her money very fast." "she had two pounds when she first came," said angela. "i know it, for she mentioned it; but when i asked her on saturday last if she would lend me sixpence until my pocket-money was paid, she got that dreadful bright crimson all over her face, and then said, 'i am ever so sorry, but i haven't got it.'" "what nonsense!" said star. "it strikes me it is our duty is to look into this. of course, susan is at the bottom of it. but what a weak girl christian must be! i am terribly disappointed in her." "what are you going to do with that account?" asked angela. "put it into my pocket and confront her with it," said star. "she won't escape me. i shall know the truth before i am twenty-four hours older." angela said nothing further. she went back to her interrupted work; and star, folding the little account into small compass, slipped it into her purse, and then resumed her study of the trial of socrates. the girls said nothing more with regard to this discovery; but the next day, as they were busy over their customary studies, star from time to time watched christian. whatever christian's faults might be, she was certainly a splendid student. she always mastered her lessons in that intelligent way which so delights all teachers. her object was progress--progress at any cost. when such is the case a girl becomes delightful to teach, and those who have charge of her education give her every advantage. christian was already, in the opinion of some of the girls, made too much of by her teachers and by the professors. she worked hard now, and when the time came for the history and literature lessons she acquitted herself with her customary brilliance. the literature lesson that day was particularly interesting. it related to the trial of socrates. it was the custom of the professor to get one girl to give a description of the lesson. to-day it was christian's turn. wildly enthusiastic over the greatness of the theme, she acquitted herself so magnificently that she even won the unwilling praise of star herself. star could never feel enthusiastic about those who were dead and gone; but christian, as she spoke, was living back again in the ancient times. she was with the marvelous old philosopher in the market-place at athens: she was one of those athenian youths who crowded around him to listen to his teaching. it seemed to her that she saw the great socrates as she spoke. there he was, harsh, ugly, forbidding, as far as exterior went; but, oh! the magical power of his voice, the thrilling sympathy in his words, the tenderness with which he addressed those who listened to him. it seemed to christian mitford that morning that she lived in that far-gone time. her voice broke as she related the end of the famous trial--the reply of socrates when he was asked what change he would wish in the sentence of death--the scorn of his words, the indignation of his judges. finally she told of the moment when he drank the cup of hemlock and sank away into the arms of death, one of the greatest men that ever lived. "thank you," said professor french. his eyes were shining as he listened to christian's words. now she returned to her seat. her eyes shone. star, as she watched her, could not but admire; but she also pitied. christian was just about to put her greek history-book in its place on the shelf when something arrested her attention. she opened the book quickly, turned page after page, and finally shook it, as though by that means she might find what she sought. star drew close to her. "have you lost anything?" she asked. "yes, but it doesn't matter." "professor munro, young ladies," called the voice of an english teacher, and another professor entered the room. a new lesson proceeded, and again christian scored. between eleven and twelve came the welcome hour of recess, and it was then that star went up to her classmate. "aren't you very proud of yourself?" she asked. "i?" answered christian. "certainly not." "then you ought to be. i never cared for poor old socrates before. i thought it so tiresome that a man who lived so far back should still be able to worry the girls of the twentieth century. i didn't think it at all necessary to learn about him." christian made no reply. "but you have made him live. oh, how you spoke, and how your eyes shone!" "i was interested," said christian briefly. her tone annoyed star, who began to speak less kindly. "i wonder," she said, "if what you couldn't find when the greek history lesson was over has got, in some strange manner, into my possession. you looked for something?" "yes; i put a mark in the place, and the mark was gone." "a piece of paper?" "yes." "had it any writing on it?" "some items. do you think it could be found?" star took out her purse, opened it, and held up the paper a few feet from christian. "twelve plum-tarts," she began, "twelve apricot-tarts, twelve cheese-cakes----" "oh, don't go on! that paper is mine," said christian. she turned very red. "give it to me," she continued; "i want it." "of course you want it," replied star; "but if you have no objection, i think i will just keep it." "but why should you, star? it's mine; please, give it to me." christian's voice became full of distress. "i am ever so sorry, dear, but really i don't think i can, i want it. i won't show it to anyone, of course, but i want to keep it, just as a little piece of evidence. christian, do you know what you are doing?" "i know quite well." "don't you realize that you are disobeying one of the most severe rules of the school?" "yes, i know." "did you buy those things at dawson's?" "you have no right to question me." "but did you?" "yes." "out of your own money?" "certainly." "you knew you were disobeying?" "i did." "what does this mean, christian?" "i can't tell you. think of me as you please. if you show what you found when i kindly lent you my history book, you will be the meanest girl on earth." "i am certainly not that; but you had better beware, for if you suppose that susan's ways, and mary hillary's ways, and maud thompson's ways, and--oh, that i should have to say it!--your ways are going to be tolerated by the better class of girls in this school, you are mistaken. it is within your power to give a very serious warning to susan; for we girls who like our fun, and yet are not really disobeying the mistresses, are in the preponderance, whatever you may think." chapter xx noblesse oblige the elder girls of the school retired to their rooms at half-past nine. they were all expected to be in bed by ten, when jessie went round, just opening the door of each room, peeping in, saying, "good-night, dear," and shutting it again. on the night that star had shown christian dawson's bill, christian went to her room as usual. the luxuries of the first days of her residence at penwerne manor were quite at an end. the girl stood for a minute by a window that was partly open. from there she caught a glimpse of the rolling waves of the great atlantic as they burst in magnificent spray upon the shore. she saw the outlines of the great rocks, and farther out the solitary spark of the bell-light at sea attracted her attention. the moon was coming up in the heavens; the sky was cloudless. christian was very susceptible to the power of nature. nature had ever a keen and telling voice for her. now no smile passed over her face, no look of pleasure. she dropped the curtain and turned aside. "i am glad the sky is clear; it makes it a little less terrible," she said to herself; and then, without undressing, she lay down between the sheets and covered herself well up. by and by jessie's feet coming along the corridor were distinctly heard. she opened door after door, and her cheerful "good-night, dear," or "sleep well, my love," sounded like the note of a watchman. christian's door was open wide; jessie advanced a foot or two into the room. "are you in bed, christian?" "yes." "are you comfortable, darling?" "yes, thank you, jessie." "then good-night, dear; sleep well." "thank you, jessie; good-night." the door was shut, and miss jessie trotted downstairs. she called the girls of the white corridor her own special babies, and of them all she loved christian the best. she could not tell exactly why, but the young girl had found a place in her heart from the very first. christian lay quiet for the best part of half an hour; then she rose very softly, and taking up a somewhat heavy basket which she had placed under the bed, crept step by step towards the door. she had managed in the daytime to oil the lock, and it now opened without the least sound. when she got into the corridor the moonlight filled the place with a white radiance; and standing there, as though waiting for her, were susan marsh, maud thompson, and janet bouverie. susan gave her a nod of approval, and going on in front, approached the stairs which led to the front attic. they all went up in single file, sometimes, notwithstanding every effort, stepping on a creaking board. they reached the door of the attic. susan took a key out of her pocket, unlocked it, and they entered. susan then made certain preparations. she lit three or four candles, not by any means making the illumination which had taken place on the night of christian's initiation. she drew forward a chair for herself, and an old wooden box turned upside down and one or two stools for her companions. "now, christian," she said briskly, "the contents of the basket, please." christian held out the basket without a word. "oh, my dear child," said susan, "how glum you are!--not at all the cheerful sort of companion we want. you have invited us here to a feast----" "no, i haven't," said christian, finding her voice. "you haven't! what an absolutely extraordinary girl, when you bought all those nice things in the basket with your own money! here we are, prepared to be ever so sweet to you, and ever so grateful, and to demolish at least part of them. maud, what do you say to a girl who brings up a basketful of tuck and then says she _hasn't_ brought it up? it's a contradiction in terms, isn't it, maud?" "very much so; but why should we quarrel with mere words?" said maud. "the thing is that christian has arrived on the scene with a very delicious feast, and we are all dying to set our teeth in some of those cakes. oh, don't they smell good!" "you can open the basket," said christian, "and eat as many as ever you like, maud; and so can you, susan; and so can you, janet." "come," said susan, "do get out of your sulks, christian. well, if you won't, we shall enjoy our feast, however unwillingly it is given to us. now then, for goodness' sake, new penwernian, arrange the goodies on this table and let us fall to." christian immediately went on her knees and took the paper packets from the basket. opening these, she displayed some cheese-cakes, tarts, and other good things. a number of ginger-beer bottles were next brought forward, and susan, who complained of a furious thirst, suggested that they should regale themselves with one apiece. a small tin can was therefore filled, and the girls drank in turns. they declared that they were famished, and thought christian's feast nectar and ambrosia. "isn't it wonderful how nice it is to be naughty?" said susan. "don't you think so?" "scrumptious!" cried maud. "for instance," continued susan, "don't we all go nearly mad with delight over this stolen supper, and yet our bread and cheese and cocoa were scarcely touched an hour and a half ago downstairs?" "i wasn't hungry then," said christian, "and i'm not hungry now." "oh, you are a kill-joy!" exclaimed susan. "i only wish it had fallen to the lot of some other girl to be blessed with a little money, and we would have sent you to coventry long ago." "if you'd only let me alone you might have all my money," said christian suddenly. "hush, hush!" exclaimed maud. "you do talk nonsense, christian. and, susan, i must say you worry the poor child a good bit. now then, let us put away the rest of the delicious food. we shall have enough here for to-morrow night, and many nights after. that's a good thing, for we shall have to come up to the attic pretty often to arrange about our great feast." "which takes place exactly this day week," said susan. "well, christian, we are very much obliged to you, and you have a vote of thanks from the entire party. we shall expect a little further money just before the great feast, but we are collecting for it, and our funds are pretty considerable. when i think of it," continued susan, "i feel so excited that i can scarcely sit quiet." "there is something i want to say," exclaimed christian at this juncture. "you know the things you made me buy----" "made you buy!" cried susan. "that you made me buy--that you insisted on my buying," continued christian firmly. "well, i went to dawson's in the high street and got the things, and brought them home myself in a big basket. i won't say anything about what i felt when i slipped out in the dark. i paid for them, of course, and dawson gave me the bill. i didn't think very much about it, and when i was studying my greek history yesterday i slipped it into the book as a mark." "you did what?" cried susan. "i put the bill into the book without thinking. well, last night star asked for the loan of my history of greece. i told her she could take it, and she found the bill, and she showed it to me to-day. she said, too, that we had better not do what we intended to do, for if we did she would tell. she said that i had done a most dishonorable thing when i bought those things in a shop in the town. she is very angry, and she thinks that you had better know that she is angry. that is really why i am here to-night; otherwise you might have got your basket up the attic stairs without any help from me." christian dropped down on an upturned box as she uttered the last words. she folded her hands in her lap and gazed straight before her. the other three girls were silent for nearly a minute; then janet bouverie took one of christian's hands and said: "what a miserable-looking little thing you are!" "i am very unhappy," said christian. "oh, don't listen to her now," said susan. "really her folly passes belief. the idea of putting that tell-tale bill into a common school-book! i never heard of anything so idiotic in the whole course of my life. where is it now, christian? give it to me this minute." "i haven't got it," said christian. "star wouldn't give it to me." "you mean to tell me that star has it--star lestrange?" "yes, i do." "and she means to keep it, darling," suddenly cried a high, clear, voice, which as usual seemed to fall from the skies. the next instant the gay, bright face of star herself shone on the assembled and frightened girls. "i have come to stay during the remainder of this meeting," said star in a particularly bright and confident voice. "i am on the committee; you remember that fact, don't you, susan? will no one offer me a chair?" christian sprang forward and brought another box forward. "how convenient!" said star. she dropped on it, crossed her pretty feet, folded her arms, and looked around her. "would you like a cheese-cake, dear?" said susan, speaking in her usually insolent and bold voice. she had got over her momentary terror at the sight of star, and was now rather glad than otherwise at her appearing on the scene. now, star was hungry, and she had naturally a passion for such things as cheese-cakes, queen-cakes, and sweetmeats generally, but she replied in a cold and yet apparently amiable voice: "not at present, thank you, susan, dear. we had better finish our business, had we not? it must be a somewhat important affair to cause you all to meet here between ten and eleven o'clock on a night which is not a general meeting night of the penwernians." "we had a good deal to decide," said susan. "we have to prepare for our next big party; it takes place next week. have you forgotten, star?" "oh, no," replied star; "on the contrary, i remember very accurately. when one can only indulge in a good feed of the most unwholesome things in christendom once a month, is one likely to forget? nevertheless, susan, it is strange of you not to have told me; i am a member of the committee." "i am very sorry," replied susan. "but really, star, you are so changeable: at one time the most delightful, pleasant, satisfactory creature on earth, and at other times quite the reverse. we only too eagerly wanted you, dear; of course we did." susan held out a fat ungainly hand and tried to take the soft little white palm of star between her own; but star resolutely put her hands behind her back. "i am only here on sufferance," she said; "therefore, i presume i can approve or disapprove. continue your meeting, ladies; don't, pray, think anything about me. i have forced myself on your society." "and we are very glad to have you," said maud. "aren't we, christian?" but christian said nothing. star looked at her, and her very bright eyes suddenly softened. "come here, christian," she said, "and stand next to me. perhaps, after all, though i scarcely thought so this afternoon, you and i are nearer akin than i had any idea of." "by the way," said susan, "i don't quite understand you, star. you are on the committee; you are a penwernian, and you must clearly understand that if three of the committee assemble at any time, it is what is called a quorum, and we are permitted to act for the good of the rest. we are here now arranging for our next delightful reunion in this attic. we propose that there should be an extra scene of magnificence on that occasion. for instance, we shall wear our fancy dresses." star's eyes now became brighter than ever, and her little feet ceased to cross themselves, but were put down firmly on the old deal floor of the attic. "we shall wear our fancy dresses and disport ourselves in the most delightful fashion in the world," said susan. "christian's dress is not yet made, but that can be arranged. now, however, to the case in point. you know that although our kind teacher, miss peacock, does not say she _approves_ of our meetings, yet she practically gives her consent to our having them; otherwise she surely would not allow jessie to blink at the fact and let us all assemble here without taking any notice. but there is always the danger of being too confident, and it certainly was a very mad thing of christian mitford to do to leave a bill from a shop in town in her history-book. we should get into terrible trouble if that were discovered. i hear, star, that you possess the bill. perhaps you have it now on your person. if so, will you kindly tear it up in our presence?" "yes, i have it on my person," said star. she sprang to her feet as she spoke. "and, girls," she continued, "i do not mean to tear it up; i mean to keep it. what i shall do with it eventually i am not prepared to disclose to-night; but i shall keep it, susan and maud and janet, as a reminder to you that i have you in my power, and that if you do anything again really to break the acknowledged rules of the school, i shall disclose the story of this bill to miss peacock. i don't want to make serious mischief, but _noblesse oblige_ does form part of my internal arrangements. i may do a wild thing and a silly thing, but i will not do a mean thing. you know the fixed rules of the school with regard to buying things in the shops. why did you send christian to dawson's? why did you force her to spend her money? you did it, susan; i want to know the reason." "and i," said susan, "will not tell you." "all right. i give you twenty-four hours from now. if you do not tell me all about the hold you have on christian mitford within twenty-four hours, i shall go to miss peacock and show her this bill." "and get christian and the rest of us into the most dreadful trouble," said maud. "you can't possibly mean it, star." "yes, but i do mean it; and i think you all know me. when i have made up my mind, it is made up." "you will be a tell-tale and a turn-coat. you will be hated in the school," said susan. "perhaps so," replied star; "but i shall do it all the same. christian, come downstairs and go to bed this minute. oh! i am tired of underhand ways. i believe i shall cease to be a penwernian. as to the rest of you, you can please yourselves, but christian comes down with me. and, susan, remember--i mean everything that i say. at seven o'clock to-morrow evening i shall be in the bowling-alley. you can come and walk with me there or not, just as you please. if you come, well and good. you can tell your story, and i will decide after hearing it how to act. if you don't come i shall show the bill to miss peacock. _au revoir_, ladies. come, christian." chapter xxi star's purse when star ceased speaking she took out her purse, opened it, and produced the bill. it was folded into very minute compass, but it was there, thin and aggravating, with its items quite perceptible even in the somewhat dim light of the attic. as she turned to go she put the bill back into her purse, and slipped the purse into her pocket; then she left the room. christian followed her, feeling very much as though she were beaten all over. when they arrived in the corridor which led to the white rooms, star turned and spoke. "i believe," she said--and there was a kind tone in her voice--"that i have misunderstood you. i shall know better to-morrow night. you made a vast mistake in confiding your secret, whatever it may happen to be, to those girls. you should have told me. i am not immaculate, and i can understand even if a girl has got into a little scrape. don't cry, christian; i won't be hard on you--i promise that--only don't take up with that lot; they are, i assure you, beneath you. if i were a girl like you, and had a father such as i hear yours is, to say nothing of your pretty mother--for i have heard of her too--i wouldn't touch that sort of girl; i'd let her go by; i'd say to myself, 'she's not for me; she's not the sort i want to know.' now go to bed and to sleep. good-night." christian said nothing; she felt absolutely tongue-tied. she entered her little room. it was late--very late; the whole school was supposed to be sunk in slumber. she did not even dare to light her candle. she slipped off her clothes and got into bed. a chink of light from the moon came through the curtain of the window. the light lay in two very bright bars on the bed, and as the solitary moon went on her majestic way the bars of light moved, until presently they reached the young girl's shoulder, and then her ear, and then fell across her face. she gave a smothered cry, for once in her home she had read about a woman who was supposed to go mad when the moonlight covered her. christian felt almost mad that night. she could not sleep; she lay and tossed from side to side until the morning. the next day happened to be very wet; the sky was covered with a heavy curtain of cloud. there was a sea-fog, too, so that even the beautiful, fresh, sparkling atlantic could not be seen. but the muffled roar of the waves broke on the stillness; otherwise there was no sound. as christian dressed she noticed people, looking large and indistinct in the fog, coming to the house and leaving it. life at penwerne manor would go on just the same whether the outside world was foggy or full of sunshine, and whether young girls were happy or miserable. the school was a strict one, and the hours were rigorously employed; the rules were insisted on no matter whether christian had a headache or not. nothing short of absolute illness could excuse lessons not being performed. she rose and went downstairs, feeling as though the weight of centuries were resting on her shoulders. she entered the long preparation-hall where the girls usually assembled when they first went downstairs. there she stood disconsolately near the door. presently star, looking bright and breezy and independent, passed her. she went up to angela goring, and standing near her, took her hand with an affectionate squeeze. susan marsh had not put in appearance. presently a teacher entered, looking sleepy and somewhat depressed. she went through the roll-call. susan marsh came in at the last moment, just in time to save herself from a bad mark. the girls then went into the wide, pleasant-looking refectory, where a wholesome breakfast was provided for them. after breakfast came prayers, and then the usual lessons of the day. christian felt all the time as though she were living in a dream. so occupied was her mind, and so absolutely miserable and bewildered did she feel, that for the first time since her appearance in the school she disappointed her teachers. there was a special professor who always came on wednesdays to give the girls recitation and reading lessons. he was a very irascible person, and could not stand any inattention on the part of his pupils. to find a girl like christian, so intelligent, so full of soul and true appreciation, was like honey and ambrosia to the poor professor. to hear her read, with her pure saxon accent and her perfect pronunciation, soothed him, he was fond of saying, as though it were the sweetest music. he desired her to stand up now and read one of the most celebrated and magnificent passages from milton's paradise lost. she had left off at a certain stanza at the previous lesson, and he desired her to proceed from the line she had last read. christian took her accustomed place. now, it so happened that miss peacock herself came into the classroom on this occasion. mr. penrose had described to miss peacock how splendidly christian mitford read, how in all respects she was unlike the ordinary schoolgirl of her age. he was so enthusiastic about her that miss peacock decided to hear the young girl herself. "you must not spoil her by too much praise," she had said to the professor. "i am much interested in christian mitford, and will do all in my power for her, but i have to think of more than just the making of a brilliant elocutionist." "but she will be far better than that," said the professor. "i am convinced she has a beautiful soul. the girl is a sort of genius, although all is more or less in embryo at present." now, just as christian stood up with the open book in her hand and most eyes were fixed on her, the door opened at the farther end of the room and miss peacock came slowly forward. star, who was in the same class, raised her bright eyes and fixed them first on miss peacock and then on christian. christian had been looking pale--pale as death--but now a warm wave of color passed over her young cheeks and mounted to her smooth brow. she looked up at miss peacock, and even that lady, accustomed as she was to all phases of girl character, was startled at the anguish in christian's gaze. "begin, miss mitford," said the professor--"begin." he stamped his foot with some impatience. he murmured a word or two of the opening lines, and christian read. but where was the enthusiasm, where the go, the fire, the pathos, of her delivery a week ago? her voice shook with emotion then; she forgot herself in the grandeur of the scene. now she thought only of herself--or rather she thought only of that awful hour to-night when all would be known, and she would be disgraced and made miserable forever. the book suddenly dropped from her hand; she burst into tears. "i'm not well; i can't do it," she said. by this frank admission she saved herself from censure. the professor muttered an apology, looked at miss peacock as much as to say, "don't judge her by this ignominious failure," and went on with the lesson. star lestrange was then asked to read the page aloud, and she did so with as much fire and interest as she was capable of. christian resumed her seat in the class, and buried her head in her hands. when the professor's hour was over miss peacock went up to her and asked if she would like to rest in the library. "you are not fit for lessons," she said; "you have a bad headache. what can be the matter?" "my head does ache, but i am quite well. i did not sleep last night; that is the reason. there is really nothing the matter. i would rather go on with my lessons please." "you are not fit for them, dear. obey me. there is perfect quiet in the library at present; go there and sleep. if you go, i promise that you shall not be disturbed until dinner-time." christian went away at once. the library was a very pleasant apartment, given over partly to the use of the elder girls and partly to the teachers. christian entered it, sought a chair by the fire, and lay back in it, soothed for the time being by the stillness and the sleepy crackle of the flames. she was just dozing off into real sleep when a girl entered and said: "do you know where star lestrange is?" "no," said christian, "i don't. what is it, alice?" "how bad you look, christian! what is the matter?" "what do you want star for?" repeated christian. "i wanted to give her her purse. she sent me upstairs to fetch it. she wanted it in a great hurry for some reason or other. oh, dear! i have to go into tregellick at once with my music-mistress. what is to be done?" "give it to me," said christian; "i'll see that she gets it." "thank you so much!" said alice. "give it to her as soon as you see her, please; she wanted it at once." "yes," replied christian. alice dropped the purse into christian's lap and ran out of the library. she was a merry, lively girl, and did not give another thought to the purse. christian let it lie in her lap and also forgot it; all her thoughts were centered round the evening, and round what would happen then. what was to be done? how could she live through her life in the school when all was known? "i could run away again," she thought. "oh, what a mistake i made to run away the last time! what an awful, awful thing it is for any girl to do the sort of wrong i did then! i should be so happy but for that. i should never take the slightest notice of a girl like susan marsh; and i should be very fond of star, and angela, and lucy, and louisa, and even of jane. jane is quite a good sort of girl. they are all of them nice--all except susan, and perhaps maud thompson. oh, what is to be done?" she writhed in her misery, but once again the absolute stillness soothed her, and she was dozing off to sleep when she heard a door open at the far end of the room. a girl's voice said "hush!" and then there was silence. christian turned her head. "is there anybody there?" she called out; but there was no answer, only she fancied that she heard a rustle. she was half-disposed to rise and go down the long room to find out who was hiding; but after all, she thought, it did not matter. she was yielding more and more each moment to the influence of her comfortable seat, the pleasant fire, and the feeling of warmth and rest. her troubles did not press her so close; they seemed to go away from her, to recede in the distance. it seemed to her that she did not greatly care what happened. she could not help herself. how sleepy she was! how pleasant the flames looked! when she shut her eyes she saw pictures. they were pictures of her old life--her mother's boudoir, and the nest of all nests behind the curtains--the softness of those pillows on which her head had once rested. then she was in the attic with her dreams of past and future glory, her romances, her spells of idealism. or she was with her father, and he was telling her about her grandmother, and what he hoped she herself would be. then, again, she was in those awful slums near paddington, and mrs. carter was looking in at the window. christian cried out in her sleep: "go away! don't touch me." she started up as she spoke, and was wide awake again. a girl was walking down the room. star's purse still lay in christian's lap. "what is it? what are you doing? you frightened me," said christian. "sorry," replied susan in a nonchalant voice. "i came to look for a book--the 'heir of redclyffe.' don't you like it? don't you think it a beautiful story?" "i read it a couple of years ago; i forgot it now," replied christian. "are you better for your sleep?" "yes, thank you." susan opened the door. christian suddenly seemed to remember something. she started up, clasped star's purse in her hand, and ran towards the open door. "what are you going to do about--about to-night?" she said. susan laughed. "nothing at all," she said. just at that moment star came in. "oh, christian," she said, "you have got my purse! what a search i have had for it! i sent alice up to my room for it." "she gave it to me," said christian quite calmly. "she had to hurry out to her music lesson at tregellick. she could not find you." "i was in the bowling-alley. i want it." star snatched up her purse and slipped it into her pocket. she then left the room, and christian returned to her place by the fire. her sleep had wonderfully soothed her. after all, nothing mattered--that is, nothing mattered much. seven o'clock in the bowling-alley seemed a long way off. her headache was better--nearly gone; she could endure life once more. chapter xxii the bowling-alley at ten minutes to seven that evening two girls might have been seen strolling leisurely in the direction of the bowling-alley. the fog had lifted, and the clouds had rolled by. the evenings were getting long now, and there was still plenty of daylight. the girls entered the bowling-alley and paced up and down. their arms were entwined; they were talking eagerly. one girl was susan marsh, and the other her special friend maud thompson. "well," said maud, "what do you mean to do? star is quite certain not to give up the bill. will you confess to her? will you throw yourself on her mercy?" "never!" said susan. "i am not that sort." maud's eyes narrowed. she looked frightened. "it is a very awkward thing," she said after a pause, "and it makes me downright uncomfortable. just at present, too, when the easter holidays are coming; and then all the prizes which we are to compete for at the grand break-up in summer. it's horrid to be in hot water, and we are certain to be if it is known that you sent christian to dawson's to buy those things." "she won't tell," said susan. "don't fret yourself; it's all right, i assure you." "you are a wonderful girl, susan, but you can't make wrong right. as star has the bill and nothing will induce her to give it up, i don't see where we are. it seems to me it would be better to tell her than for the whole school to know. she could not be too spiteful or too much of a traitor to her own cause." "she's a horrid girl and i hate her," said susan. "she's just the sort that makes more mischief than anybody else. she's neither bad nor good; she's lukewarm. and you know what the bible says about lukewarm people. i hate her, and i'm not ashamed to say so." "of course, i must be guided by you, susan; but i do trust you not to get me into a scrape." "i will do what i can; you have no cause to be the least alarmed," said susan. "ah! here comes janet. she hasn't half nor quarter your spunk, maud, as a rule, but really she looks more calm and collected to-night." janet ran up quickly. "the others are coming," she said. "i wonder what is going to happen. i can't help feeling awfully troubled." "i think the whole thing most horrible," said maud. susan pinched her arm. just then star and christian appeared. star was holding christian by the arm. the girls walked slowly forward. "there is no hurry," said star; "it will soon be over." "i wish i was dead," said christian in a moaning voice. "oh, don't be silly!" said star. "you will soon see for yourself what a jolly time we shall have together. now then, here they are." star walked up to susan. "well, susan," she said, "the time is up; what do you mean to do?" susan gave a slow smile. her smiles were some of the most aggravating things about her. she always smiled when others stormed. "be quick," said star; "i am in a hurry. i have got to see miss peacock before eight o'clock." "but suppose you don't want to see her at all?" suddenly said maud. "i hope i may not have to see her, maud; i would much rather not. now, christian, my dear, good, frightened child, just stand near me, and don't shake so terribly from head to foot. i can't get the mystery out of christian, susan, so i have come to you. you know her secret. most likely it is all nonsense; but anyhow she has confided it to you." "i did not," suddenly interrupted christian. "then how did you get hold of it, susan?" again susan smiled, and again she was absolutely silent. "oh, bother!" said star; "we needn't inquire now into the why and wherefore of your knowledge. all we have got to discover--and to discover pretty quickly, too--is what your power over christian consists of. why is she afraid of you? why has she, who is naturally amiable and good and honorable, deliberately turned round and become dishonorable and treacherous? i must say it, christian, for it is the truth. she is afraid, and i want to get to the bottom of it. you force her to disobey the rules of the school. why, a girl could be expelled for what you made christian do. you made her break one of the strictest rules when you ordered her to go out and buy those things for the feast that ought never to be held." "i like that!" cried susan. "it doesn't sound well for you to talk, you who have enjoyed those tarts and cheese-cakes and jolly things in our attic." "it's quite true. i have enjoyed them; but i always made up my mind that if miss peacock spoke to me about it i would tell her frankly. i know miss peacock has an inkling that we enjoy ourselves occasionally in that fashion. i know also that jessie is aware of it. but i have never done anything really underhand. i have never bought tarts and cheese-cakes outside. when i gave a feast the things were sent to me from home. miss peacock doesn't object to my having hampers from home twice every term; and as the cakes and sweetmeats are always sent in tin boxes, they last a long time. but that is not the point. the point is this: why is christian mitford afraid of you--so much afraid of you that she does wrong because you tell her to? it isn't her wish to do wrong. it is contrary--altogether contrary--to her nature. why, too, should she spend her money? hitherto, when we gave feasts in our attic, we subscribed, each of us according to our means. why should christian spend her money on food for the rest of you?" "you can ask her," said susan. "she can tell you exactly what she likes. speak, christian; we are all ready to listen. tell all about that night--that wonderful night; tell all about rosy; tell about----" "don't!" said christian in a voice of agony. "you see for yourself she doesn't want you to know, star. she would infinitely prefer your being left in ignorance. much as you think of her, honorable as you esteem her, compared to your humble servant, she has done something which maud and janet and i would scorn to do. i have not told maud, and i have not told janet. i have been singularly merciful to christian, and she knows it. now, i wanted a little money for this special feast, and she was kind enough to offer to lend it to me. and as to the thing you accuse her of--namely, having got the cakes and things from dawson's in the high street--i ask you what proof you have?" "proof!" cried star. "how extraordinary you are! i can show it; and i will, too. this kind of thing must not go on. i won't be a party to it." "very well," replied susan; "you must please yourself. the bill is the thing that condemns, is it not?" "yes; it proves the truth of my words." "where is it? i should like to see it." "in my purse; you know that. you saw me put it there last night. i have not touched it since." "very well," said susan; "i think that is all. now, i have a statement to make. i refuse to betray poor christian. she did some very wrong and shameful things, but i am not going to tell. i am a good friend, although some people don't think so. cheer up, chris. do your worst, star; do your very worst." there was a mocking tone in susan's voice, and a look of defiance all over her. she held herself very erect; her large face was flushed, and her eyes looked calm as well as daring. "i wish you luck, star; i wish you luck," she said. star put her hand into her pocket and took out her purse. "i said i would do it, and i will," she said. "it is horrible beyond words, but i must do what i said. i shall take it with me and go. i said i'd go. it is all hateful. i could cry about the whole thing; but it is the only way to save christian." "a nice way of saving her!" said susan. "you talk about saving her and you get her into a most terrible row." "i would rather do that than have her any longer in your power," said star. as she spoke she bent her little head and looked into the purse. her curly hair fell forward over her eyes; she pushed it back impatiently. "it is dark," she said, "but i ought to see it. i don't see it. where can it be?" susan had partly turned away. "where is what?" she asked, and she returned again to her post close to star's side. "why, the bill--the bill from dawson's. i put it into this division last night. where is it?" "how can i say?" replied susan. "i don't keep your purse. i saw you put it in and have neither seen it nor heard of it since." star's face turned very white. she looked full at christian. "do you know, christian?" she said. "certainly not," said christian. "alice gave me your purse when i was sitting in the library by the fire. she threw it into my lap. i had a headache and fell asleep. it lay in my lap when i slept. i did not touch it until you came in. then i gave it to you." "oh!" cried susan, with a laugh, "i don't think that story will hold water." she laughed loudly. then she clutched maud by the shoulder. "you see, maud, we have nothing to fear. chris, i congratulate you; you acted with great promptitude and decision. you are one of us now. oh, chris, chris! to think you were really so knowing as all that." christian did not at first understand; but suddenly the knowledge of susan's cruel words burst upon her--the knowledge and what that knowledge meant. a crimson tide mounted to her face. she turned to say a word to star, but star had gone. chapter xxiii the resolve of the bodyguard "why have you sent for us, star?" said lucy norris. star was in her own room. it was the prettiest room in the white corridor. she had it to herself, her parents paying a little extra to secure her this privilege. round the fireplace were arranged two or three chairs, a little writing-table, and a couple of footstools. star had a fire whenever she particularly wished for it. it was blazing brightly that evening. the electric light made the room as bright as possible. star was standing by the fireplace. "why have you sent for us?" said lucy norris. "here we all are, but what is the matter?" "all" consisted of lucy norris herself, angela goring, jane price, philippa dawson, and louisa twining. the two sixth form girls appeared last. star did not answer. when philippa entered the room she just nodded to her to close the door. star as a rule was the gayest of the gay; her laugh was the merriest in the whole school. she was about the most popular girl at penwerne manor. she always had a little following of girls, and although she herself was not yet promoted to the fifth form, she led girls even of the sixth. louisa twining and philippa dawson both looked anxious as they came into the room. "here, louisa," said star, pointing to what might be considered the place of honor; "will you seat yourself here? and will you, philippa, take the other chair exactly opposite? now, girls of the fourth, establish yourselves where you like. i have something important to say--something that i must say now or forever after hold my peace." "this is all very dramatic," said philippa; "but i really want to know what it means. we have your very best interests at heart, star; and i am sure i can say, both for myself and louisa, that we would follow you to the world's end. but why were we disturbed just when we were enjoying a special supper with miss forest and mr. frederick? mr. frederick had promised to play beethoven's sonata pathetique for us after supper. well, what is it?" "of course, the occasion is important," said star. "i have something to say--something dreadful, which hurts me," said the little girl, and her lips trembled. "i have a complaint to make, and i must make it to you. i wish to say in the presence of you all that i want to have nothing whatever to do in the future with christian mitford." now, louisa knew very little of christian. it is true she had taken her in hand during her first day at school, but being very far removed from her in class and at play, she had more or less forgotten her existence. philippa, however, raised her dark brows and looked full at star. "i have noticed christian," she said. "she seemed to me to be a particularly nice and well-behaved girl--the sort of girl that you would be sure to take up, star, for you always know a thoroughly nice girl when you see her." "i did think i had that penetration," said star; "but it seems i was wrong. i took a fancy to christian; i repent of my fancy. i was mistaken; i wish to say it now in the presence of you all." "it seems an extraordinary thing to send for us to consider," said louisa, speaking again. "and i wish further to say," continued star, "that i believe you, lucy; you, angela; you, jane; and i myself are all doing wrong to have anything to do with the penwernians. i know, louisa, that you and philippa have not joined our great secret society; but of course you have heard of it." "oh, yes," said philippa; "i am quite aware of its existence. i think everyone in the school knows about it." "even miss peacock herself," said louisa. "yes, even miss peacock herself," continued philippa. "but miss peacock sees no harm in it. if she did she would put a stop to it. she once said to me: "'i don't consider it part of the duty of a head mistress to interfere with the girls as long as they do no wrong. a little secret and mystery is as the breath of life to a schoolgirl, and i shall not interfere as long as nothing wrong is done.'" "ah!" said star, "that is just it. i used to adore mystery," she continued, with a sigh. "i used to think it quite delicious, but i have changed my mind; i no longer think it delicious. i hate and loathe mystery as much," she continued, speaking with vehemence--"as much as i hate and loathe christian mitford." "but what has the poor child done?" said louisa twining. "it must be something very bad, star, for you to behave in this peculiar way. are you going to tell us?" "no, i won't tell you, for you would not be interested, and you need not know. she had better beware, however, for if she goes on with her evil practices i shall tell miss peacock." "perhaps you forget," said louisa, speaking a little sternly, "that the poor child is practically an orphan, both her parents being at the other side of the world." "i don't forget it," said star; "i remember it quite well. i know miss peacock is interested in her; she has spoken about her several times. but miss peacock does not know her. she does not belong to miss peacock's set in this school. i shall watch her. i thought i would tell you about her, but i won't; i will give her another chance. but if she goes on as she has been doing lately i shall certainly tell. i don't mind what she thinks; she belongs to the susan marsh set." "oh, dear!" exclaimed philippa, "i am amazed at that." "it is true; i have sent for you to let you clearly understand that christian mitford belongs to one set of girls in the school, and that i belong to the other; and i don't care whether you think me right or wrong. and i have given up the penwernians. lucy, angela, and jane, you must represent the committee in future, for i have given up the penwernians." "well," said lucy, "i will have nothing to do with it if you don't." "i am glad to hear that." "nor i," said angela goring. "nor i," said jane price. "very well; i believe you all are right. they are going to have a meeting in a few nights, and we will attend and give in our resignations. after that we shall have nothing whatever to do with the society." louisa rose. "i consider this meeting rather unprecedented and, if i may add it, uncalled for," she said. "no girl has a right to accuse her schoolfellow, as you have accused christian mitford to-night, without the gravest reason. if you will tell me, and allow me as the head girl of the school to give you a little advice, i shall consider what you say absolutely sacred; but as it is you bewilder me." "you are not more bewildered than i am," said star; "not more bewildered nor more disappointed. but as to telling you, there is no use, louisa. i would if i thought it would make any difference, but it won't; she is past curing." "no one is past curing," said louisa. "i am extremely sorry for you, star. i think you have taken up a wrong notion altogether." star said nothing. philippa and louisa a few minutes afterwards left the room, and the four girls who had considered themselves christian's bodyguard were alone. "why shouldn't you tell us?" said angela. "it is very odd to call us together like this, and to draw two of the sixth form girls into the matter, and then not to confide in us." "if i told you, you could not live in the same school with her, so i won't tell you," said star. "i will give her just a chance, although i will have nothing to do with her; but if she goes on with her bad ways i shall certainly tell miss peacock." meanwhile a pale girl was walking swiftly down the corridor. the white chamber where christian slept was near star's room. angela goring slept in the room next to christian's; star's room came next, and then jane price's. christian entered her room now and shut the door. it felt cold and desolate. the fog had been followed by a cold night; there was a slight frost. christian did not even trouble to turn on the electric light; she went straight across the icy-cold chamber and flung herself, dressed as she was, on the bed. there was a warm eider-down quilt on the bed, but she did not trouble to wrap herself in it. she lay still, and the cold pierced through her body, and the iron of adversity entered into her soul. she was too much stunned, too miserable, too frightened to care. she felt as though someone had tied her up in chains that she could never get rid of again; she could never extricate herself. there come times when such trouble visits the human heart that it can scarcely realize what has befallen it. such a time had come to-night to christian. susan had got her into her trap, and those girls whom she had believed to be her friends had turned against her. she had seen star in the distance when the girls entered the refectory for supper, and the look on star's face, as her bright eyes fixed themselves for one moment on christian was one which the poor child could never forget. it was impossible for christian to eat. she could not attend to her lessons; the headache which she had endured during the early part of the day was so bad that she was glad to ask jessie's permission to retire earlier than usual. as she lay on her bed she heard a sound, and looking up, she noticed that she had not fastened her door properly when she entered, and that it was now a little ajar. there was a rustle of dresses as the girls went by, and then she heard the well-known, beautiful voice of angela goring saying: "i never should have thought it of her, and if anyone else except star had told me, i should not have believed her." "but star, with all her wildness, never exaggerates," said lucy norris. "dear, dear! who _would_ have thought it?" "they are speaking of me," thought christian. "i can't live through this; i can't endure it. what is to be done?" they had scarcely gone to their own rooms before the door was opened and little jessie entered. in a twinkling there was a change of scene. she turned on the electric light. she glanced toward the bed, and the flushed face and tear-stained eyes of the girl she loved best in the entire school met her gaze. "this will never do," thought jessie. she put a match to the fire, which was already laid in the grate, and soon the crackling of the wood and the cheerful light of the blaze transformed the room. then she went up to the bed. "my child," she said, "how cold you are! let me just put this eider-down over you." she wrapped it around christian, who shivered with a sort of forlorn sense of comfort. "my poor, dear child, you are ill." "my head aches," said christian. "it has been aching all day." "what can be wrong, darling?" "everything, miss jessie." "oh, we often feel like that when we have headaches. but come; you must get into bed. i will undress you; then i will bring you a cup of something hot, and after that you will sleep." christian was so thoroughly miserable that miss jessie's ministrations were gratefully received. she allowed the little woman to take off her things and to lay her between the sheets, to wrap the eider-down over her, and then put her cool, firm hand on the burning forehead. "i'll be back in a minute, darling," she said. "you took no supper this evening. that is the worst way in the world to treat a headache of your sort. i'll be back immediately." in a very short time miss jessie returned with a little tray containing a cup of hot coffee and some bread and butter. "now you must eat, christian," she said; "you must eat and drink. afterwards you shall sleep." christian did eat and drink. it was wonderful how the food revived her, how altogether less miserable the world seemed when she had finished her little meal. "and now you won't guess what i have got for you," said miss jessie. "no, jessie, i can't. and you can't have brought me anything--anything at all that i should care for." "yes, but i have. what do you say to two letters?" "letters?" said christian, the color rising to her cheeks. "a foreign letter--i think it must come from your father or mother--and a letter from london. here they are. put them under your pillow. it is too late for you to read them to-night; or if you would really rather----" "give them to me," said christian. she looked at the writing. "yes, from father," she said; "and from my dear old nurse. i won't read them to-night," she continued. "i don't think i could understand them. jessie, the most dreadful thing has happened, and i can never, never be happy again. i don't deserve anything good, for i have been a naughty, bad girl, and i am, oh, so miserable and unhappy!" "i tell you what it is, christian," said miss jessie: "if you don't go to sleep, and in the morning tell me all about it, i will take you straight to miss peacock. that i will, for though i am an easy-going woman, when my blood is up i can be as despotic as the greatest virago in the land." chapter xxiv miss peacock the next day christian was too ill to rise. she had tossed from side to side on her restless bed during the whole of that miserable night, and when miss jessie, who could scarcely sleep herself from anxiety, went to visit her at an early hour in the morning, she found the poor child with flushed cheeks, eyes so heavy that she could scarcely look at her, and a temperature far above the normal. the doctor was hastily summoned. he said that christian had got a bad chill and must stay in bed for the day. he ordered medicines and absolute quiet, and when night brought no change for the better, and on the following morning the young girl was still very ill, with a further rise of temperature and pains and aches in all her bones, he went down to see miss peacock. "what is the matter with christian mitford?" asked that good lady. "my right hand, as i always call jessie jones, is very anxious about her." "i hope she will soon be well," said the doctor, "but at present her condition is not satisfactory. i thought yesterday that she had simply got a chill, and that by care and certain medicines we could get it under. but now i am afraid she has been subjected to some kind of shock. she refuses to eat, and looks utterly miserable. another strange thing is that she has got two letters, miss jessie tells me; one is from her father in india, and the other from an old servant in london; and she won't open them, or let anyone read them to her. she is beyond doubt in a very nervous, highly-strung state. miss jessie tells me that during the night she rambled a little and was slightly delirious. during that time she talked a great deal about one of the other girls of the school." "and what was her name?" asked miss peacock. "susan marsh. she was asking susan marsh to do something, and susan was refusing. she also mentioned miss lestrange." "then, doctor, if it is really your opinion that christian mitford is suffering from shock, what steps do you propose to take to relieve her mind?" "if she has anything on her mind, miss peacock, the sooner she unburdens herself the better." "i will do what i can, doctor. i am glad you have told me. steps must certainly be instituted at once to relieve the poor child." the doctor went away, promising to send certain medicines and to return again in the evening, or sooner if it were necessary. he had scarcely left the house before the great gong in the central hall rang for prayers, and miss peacock a few minutes afterwards entered. all the girls were present, and also all the teachers, with the exception of little jessie and christian mitford. miss peacock read a portion of the bible, then uttered the usual prayer; and when the service was over as the girls were about to scatter to their different classrooms, she raised her hand. "i have something to say," was her remark--"something which gives me a great deal of pain. as it concerns the entire school, i had better speak of it before the assembled school. servants, you may leave the room; girls and teachers, please remain." the servants filed out in their accustomed orderly manner. the door was closed behind them; the girls drew together in a group, and the teachers stood a little way off. miss peacock looked steadily at the assembled girls; she scarcely glanced at the teachers. well she knew that the mischief, if mischief there were, was to be found in that group of bright-looking girls. "i have always been very proud of my school," she began. "i have kept school here now for many years. i have been particular as to the sort of girls whom i have admitted to penwerne manor. no girl could ever come to this school without having a reference from the parents of a former pupil. by this means i have insured having in my midst girls of unimpeachable character, girls to whom the greater sins would at least be unknown. in all lives, my dear girls, there must come temptation; and such wrong-doing as worldliness, thoughtlessness, bad temper, and jealousies will disfigure and mar the peace of all communities. this must be the case as long as human nature is human nature. but there are other sins, which i have been proud--yes, proud--to think that my girls who live at penwerne manor would never commit. one of these sins is the sin of cruelty." miss peacock paused. she looked at all the girls. in particular her eyes fastened themselves upon the face of susan marsh. susan marsh, miss peacock had to admit, was a little different from the other girls. she had been sent to the school under special conditions; for her mother was dead, and her father had pleaded that as a girl whom he knew very well had been educated at penwerne manor, and had in all ways fulfilled miss peacock's ideals, so his child--his motherless child--might have a chance. and miss peacock had accepted susan, and hoped that susan was at least following in the lead of girls higher in morals than herself. to-day susan's face looked dark. she did not meet the fixed gaze of her teacher; on the contrary, she shuffled her feet and her eyes sought the ground. "the sin of cruelty," continued miss peacock, "i have at least not expected to find in your midst." and now she looked past susan and fixed her steadfast gaze on star. whatever star's faults, there was nothing underhand about her. her eyes, soft and bright--bright as a robin's--were raised full to her teacher. a flush of color did rise to her cheeks when miss peacock so steadfastly regarded her, but there was nothing underhand in those clear eyes, nor in that bright, vivacious face. "i regret to have to tell you all," continued miss peacock, looking now at none of the girls in especial, "that such a case has taken place in this school. a girl--one of the forty who are numbered as my pupils--has been cruel to a young girl who belongs to us all. the girl so cruelly treated is christian mitford. she has not been here very long, and she has come to me as a very precious legacy. i knew christian mitford's grandmother, and she was quite the most upright woman i ever met. i owe a great deal to her influence. i also know christian's father. there are few men who bear a more upright or braver character. he has been entrusted with a post which requires all the best energies of a man to carry out its duties. he has gone in the face of danger and banishment to fulfill those duties. he has gone to serve his country in a moment of great danger. i cannot exactly explain what his duties are, but any of you girls whose fathers are in the diplomatic service will understand me. christian's father has left her behind, for she could not encounter the dangers of the climate of the country where he is now living. christian's mother has gone with her husband. her child has therefore come to me more or less as an orphan. i said to her father when he wrote to beg of me to take christian, that she would be happy in my big family, that she would find her _métier_, that she would thrive in body and spirit, that she would become an accomplished and christian woman. now, christian is a particularly bright child, and particularly intelligent, and there is no reason whatsoever why she should not be happy here. that she is not happy there is not the slightest doubt. that she is so unhappy as to cause her to be ill is also, i regret to say, a fact. dr. webb saw her this morning, and he says that she has encountered a shock; he does not know of what sort, but he and i both feel that we must come to you girls for the explanation. he fears that she will not be better until the load on her mind is relieved. she is too ill to be worried; she is too ill even to be questioned. to treat her wisely and well we must know what to do. now, girls, i ask your advice. how am i to treat christian mitford? we don't want her to become seriously ill, and she is in a fair way to be so unless her mind is completely relieved. what do you say girls? have you anything to suggest?" there was a dead silence amongst all the girls. the teachers looked immensely interested. miss forest opened her lips as though to speak. mr. fredericks, who had come in just before prayers, glanced at miss forest. presently miss forest stepped forward. "i am absolutely in the dark," she said, "with regard to christian mitford's trouble, but i do know that two nights ago mr. frederick and i were entertaining two of the sixth form girls, louisa twining and phillipa dawson, at supper, when a hurried message came for them to visit star lestrange in her room. we were surprised at the time. this, of course, may have nothing to do with christian mitford, but i think it worth mentioning." "and so do i think it worth mentioning," said mr. frederick. "i observed on wednesday, when i gave christian her last music lesson, that she was disturbed, not herself. the brilliancy which always characterized her playing had deserted her." "she was unquestionably not herself on wednesday," said miss forest. "she seemed much troubled all day. did you not notice, miss peacock, when you were sent for to hear, her recite her portion from milton's works, how badly she did it?" "i certainly did. then you think she was unhappy then?" "in the light of subsequent events i very much fear she was," said miss forest. "you have nothing further to say?" "nothing. i know nothing more with regard to her case." "has anyone anything more to say with regard to her case?" louisa twining now held up her hand. "what is it, louisa, my dear?" said miss peacock, speaking with that respect which always characterized her when she addressed the head girl of the school. "i have nothing to say personally," said louisa; "i only wish i had. but i think star, if she would, could tell you something." "i would much, much rather not tell," said star. she turned very white, then crimson. "i cannot--i will not tell. please don't ask me." "i must ask you, star. my dear child, this makes me very unhappy. go to my room at once, star. i will join you presently. are you certain, louisa, that you have nothing more to say?" "except to repeat my words. star lestrange can tell you something if she will." "star, dear, go at once. you know i could never accuse you of unkindness. but go, dear; i will see you in my room immediately." miss peacock's own private sitting room was much admired by the girls of penwerne manor. it was only on rare and most special occasions that she allowed the girls of the school to visit her there. when she did it was to each and all of those girls as though they had entered into paradise. the shackles of school life seemed to fall away from them; they felt at home. all their most brilliant and most refined instincts seemed to awaken and grow stronger in miss peacock's presence. she was a very literary woman, highly accomplished in every sense of the word. her knowledge of foreign languages, her knowledge of art and the best english literature, made her conversation delightful. then she had the knack of knowing how to speak. without in the least uttering a sermon, she had the power of awaking the best in each of the young lives. the girls were enthusiastic about their head-mistress. they loved her almost with passion. miss peacock was fond of saying to them: "i intend you to obey your teachers. i have made rules for your guidance, and those rules are not to be broken, but i have made no rule--not one--with regard to your conduct to me. i will leave that conduct to the love you bear me. if you don't love me, nothing i can do will make you; if you do, all will be easy--for those who love try hard to please the beloved." amongst the girls who most adored miss lavinia peacock was star. star had naturally a most vivacious, brilliant, and affectionate nature. all that was good and beautiful in her character was drawn out by miss peacock, and the idea of going to her private room now filled her with the strangest sensations. "under ordinary circumstances i should love it," thought the girl. "as it is----" she trembled exceedingly as she turned the handle of the door and entered. the room, with its bright fire, its beautiful decorations, its lovely pictures, its still more beautiful flowers, soothed star as it always did; but then the memory of christian--christian ill, very ill--christian treated, as it seemed to the girl herself now, with great cruelty, came over her, and flinging herself into a chair, she wept. "why have i been dragged into this?" she thought. "what am i to do? no, i won't tell what i know. if i couldn't tell last night, still less can i tell now. oh, poor christian! poor christian!" it was just then when miss peacock entered. she noticed at a swift glance star's attitude of utter despair. she did not make any remark, however, but going to her accustomed chair near the fire, she took up her knitting and began to knit. her whole attitude was the very essence of peace. star, who had been sobbing so violently that she could not altogether restrain herself, soon ceased her tears. presently, with wet eyes and flushed face, she glanced at her teacher. miss peacock, to all appearance, was in a dream. she was knitting, but her eyes were gazing straight before her. sometimes her lips moved. her face was pale; her eyes were full of trouble. "oh, miss peacock!" said the child at last. then miss peacock dropped her knitting; over her whole face there came an alert, watchful, and yet affectionate expression. she held out both her arms to star, and the next instant the weeping child was clasped to her breast. miss peacock was one of those women who are mothers without ever having had children, and star knew as those firm arms clasped her, and those lips kissed her on the brow, that she was to all intents and purposes in the presence of a mother. by and by miss peacock loosened her clasp, and motioned star to a chair by her side. she took one of the girl's hands, pressed it gently, and said: "now, darling, you will tell me." "but i can't," said star in a choking voice. "you can't, stella? you can't tell me about that which i have spoken of, and yet you know?" "i may not know. i know something; i certainly don't know all; i am distressed, i am unhappy; but if you banish me from the school even, i shall not tell." star's voice gained courage as she proceeded. she looked full up at miss peacock now. "star," said her teacher, "i am the last to force anyone to act against her conscience. is it a matter of conscience with you to keep this thing to yourself?" "it would injure christian if i were to tell; it would be unfair." "can you not give me some hint, star? think of my position: a child--the child of a valued friend--very, very ill, and i am unable to cope with her malady. you can cope with it. will you?" star rose. "i will go and see her if you like," she said. "the other day i was angry; you would have been angry if you were in my place. i would not speak to her nor look at her. oh! don't ask me to say any more; it is unfair to her." "of course, i must not question you, but your words alarm me. in spite of your efforts to conceal something, you are driving me to the conclusion that christian has done something very wrong." star was silent. "is that so, star? please speak." "i cannot tell you anything; i must not. there is one perhaps who could----" "ah! you allude to susan marsh. it is an extraordinary thing," continued miss lavinia, "that from the very first entrance of christian into this school, susan marsh seems to have had a most pernicious influence on her. that such a girl as susan could affect such a girl as christian is a puzzle to me. do you agree with me, star, that susan is at the bottom of this?" "i ought not to say anything against susan, but will you question her?" "i will do so." "and may i go and see christian?" "she is very ill, but it may do her good to see you. go, my child; and god bless you. i am intensely unhappy about this. i want to act with justice to everyone--to everyone--and i confess i cannot see my way." miss peacock's large gray eyes were full of tears. star saw them, and the next instant the impulsive child had dropped on her knees. "oh, i love you--i love you!" she said. "we all love you. there is nothing i wouldn't do for you, but if you knew all you would counsel me not to tell what has happened with regard to christian. i will go to her; i will go at once." "do, star; and on your way through the schoolroom, tell susan marsh to come to me immediately." star left the room. the momentary weakness which had made her sob so bitterly was over. it seemed to her that all of a sudden her contempt for christian, her dislike to her, had vanished. she had a sort of misgiving that, after all, christian might be innocent. if such was the case, she, star, was the one who had treated christian with such rare cruelty. she entered the central hall, where the greater number of the girls had their classes during the morning. it was in this room she would be certain to find susan marsh. yes, there she was, her large face slightly flushed, her eyes suspicious and eager. she was pretending to copy a theme into one of her exercise books, but star saw at once that she was not thinking about her work. the moment star entered the room several of the girls looked up at her, and all with more or less curiosity. had she relieved the tension? had she confessed whatever she had to confess to miss peacock? was christian innocent or guilty? the whole school was in a state of great excitement with regard to christian, and different opinions were hotly argued amongst the girls with regard to the why and wherefore of her present condition. never before at penwerne manor had there been such an interesting and remarkable case under discussion. susan, however, had refused to say anything about christian. "oh, i am sick of her!" she had exclaimed when janet bouverie and another girl came and spoke to her on the subject. "do let her alone, florence. i don't want the subject mentioned in my hearing. i can only say that it was a very bad day for the school when she entered it." lessons began, and the girls were forced to keep their opinions to themselves. it was in the midst of the history lesson that star walked up the room. the history mistress paused and looked at star. star went up to her. "i have a message from miss peacock. she wants to see susan marsh at once." "at once, star? does that mean now or after school?" "now," said star briefly. "susan," said miss forest, glancing at the girl, "go at once to your head-mistress in her private room." susan gave star a very venomous look. her face turned white. she wondered if star had really told what she knew; but then she reflected that by no possibility could star know the truth. she could not know who had stolen the bill out of her purse. she could not possibly guess in what way susan marsh had become possessed of christian's secret. above all things, she had not the most remote idea that strangers were to be admitted into the attic on the following wednesday to partake of the penwernian feast. any one of these things, if known, would have insured susan's removal from the school under the most bitter and disgraceful circumstances. but no one could know, and susan tossed her head in the air, walked down the corridor, entered the central hall, quickly traversed another passage, and knocked at miss peacock's door. miss peacock said, "come in," and susan entered. "ah, susan!" said her mistress, glancing at the girl, and treating her altogether in a different manner from what her conduct had been to star; "come and stand before me. i have something to say to you." susan considered this an indignity. she augured the worst from miss peacock's somewhat stern manner. "what is it, miss peacock?" she asked. "stand quiet, susan; i want to ask you a question." susan made no remark, but she shut her lips and looked full into the face of her mistress. "i want to ask you a direct question," said miss peacock; "and i want to ask it now that we two are alone--not really alone, susan, for there is one present, mighty, all-powerful, all-knowing. here in his presence, therefore--the presence of our god, susan--i ask you if you can throw any light on the very unhappy condition of my dear pupil, christian mitford?" "i can thrown no light," answered susan. she spoke calmly enough, although her heart was beating almost to suffocation. "are you certain, susan? if you could see the one who is always present, would you make such an answer?" "i can throw no light on it," repeated susan; but now her eyes sought the ground and her lips trembled. miss peacock uttered a sigh. "star lestrange says you can." "that's just like star lestrange," replied susan. "she does know something--of that i am certain--but she won't tell, and throws the thing on me. i hate her. she's the worst, most deceitful girl in the school. i hate her more than i hate christian. but i hate them both." "susan," said miss peacock after a pause, "do you know the exact circumstances under which you came to this school?" susan raised her brows in some surprise. "i suppose as a pupil, and because my father paid for me," she said after a pause. "you certainly came as a pupil, and most certainly also your father pays your school expenses. but in a select school of this sort there is generally a very strict inquiry instituted with regard to each girl who comes here. you were at another school before you came. you were at a school at margate." "how do you know that?" said susan, and her voice became sharp with anxiety. "i happen to know it. what is more, i had a letter from the head-mistress of that school telling me certain things about you. oh, no, my dear, you need not turn so white; i have not the slightest wish to injure you with your schoolfellows; but after receiving that letter i wrote to your father declining to receive you as one of my pupils. he was much distressed. he is a good man. he came to see me, and he spoke of you as his orphan child; your mother was not long dead." "no; mother died very suddenly," said susan. her words came out falteringly; in her unattractive eyes tears swam. "your father gave a pitiful picture with regard to his motherless girl, and after due reflection and consulting jessie jones, i decided to admit you to the school. any girl who arrived at a school like this labeled as a black sheep might far better never come. i was therefore most anxious not to tell your schoolfellows anything whatever about you. nor, shall i tell them now, susan. no, i will not injure you to that extent; but unless christian mitford is happy and well by the end of the present term, and unless no further stories of your misdoings reach me, i shall expect your school life at penwerne manor to terminate at easter. have you anything to say, my dear?" "i think you are awfully unkind. i hate you all. i wish i might go." "you don't realize what it means, susan. to have been already dismissed for want of honesty and truthfulness from school at margate, and to be again dismissed--or practically dismissed--from penwerne manor, would injure you for life, my poor child. be certain of this: nothing would induce me to make you so unhappy if it were not absolutely essential. it rests with yourself, susan. a little courage and determination to cease to do evil, and to learn to do well, will make all things possible even for you. now go. you leave a very anxious and unhappy head-mistress behind you; but when you can come to me and confess, i will certainly be as lenient as circumstances can permit." "i will never, never confess," said susan. "i have nothing to confess," she added sullenly, and she left the room, hanging her head, a scowl between her brows. meanwhile star had gone straight upstairs to the white corridor. she paused for a moment outside christian's door. the door was slightly ajar. the blinds were down at the windows; the fire burned low, and yet with a bright gleam in the grate. little jessie was seated by the fire, bending forward and stirring something from time to time that simmered in a saucepan. star tapped with her knuckles on the door. jessie rose at once. "oh, my dear!" said the little woman when she saw star, "you must on no account come in; you would trouble her dreadfully. go away, dear; leave her to me. she mustn't see anyone now. i have the doctor's orders." "but i wish you would let me see her. i think--i am sure--that i won't do her any harm. i may do her good. i told miss peacock, and miss peacock is willing. please let me come in for a minute or two, jessie. and, please, when i go in, go out, jessie. what i say to her i must say to her alone. no one must be present when i talk to her." "i can't permit you to enter, star, until i get miss peacock's authority from herself. if you like to stand here just within call, i will run down to miss lavinia and find out what she wishes." miss jessie departed at once, and star stood outside the door. all was still in the room. the sick girl must be asleep. by and by miss jessie, her eyes full of tears, reappeared. "you can go in, star," she said. "but don't stay long. and do--do be guided by wisdom; and do--do be kind." "i will, jessie," said star in a voice of great affection; "if for no other reason, for your sake." miss jessie went away, and star on tiptoe entered the room. christian was asleep. she was lying on her back. her arms were flung outside the bedclothes; the heavy, dark lashes swept her pale cheeks; her fair hair was pushed back from her broad forehead. she looked wonderfully sweet and wonderfully intellectual. star noticed this first of all; then she saw the real, the latent nobility in the face. whatever its faults, deceit--real deceit--could have nothing to do with it. star felt her heart beat. she would not wake the sick girl. she must wait quietly until christian opened her eyes. star sank down on the chair by the fire. the little saucepan stood on the hob. now and then star bent forward and stirred the chicken broth which miss jessie was making. what was she to do? what was she to believe? star had never come face to face with any really complicated case of wrong-doing. she had been attracted to christian from the first; then she had been repelled by her; then she had been very much puzzled by her extraordinary allegiance to susan marsh and her set. when she saw the grocery bill in christian's history-book she had been astonished, but scarcely inclined to blame christian very severely. christian did not know, she had argued, and susan was clever and full of resources, and was absolutely sure to force the girls who were under her power to carry out her will. yes, star was terribly vexed, but she scarcely blamed christian for this. she almost took christian's part when she went up to the front attic and spoke about what she had discovered. but when on the following evening she went to the bowling-alley, and opening her purse, found that the little tell-tale bill had been removed, and when she further remembered that the purse had been in christian's possession for over an hour, her lingering liking for the girl vanished on the spot. "her looks belie her," she thought. "she is bad, deceitful, unworthy of any good girl's affection. i'll give her up." so angry was she that she had acted on impulse. she had sent for her chosen friends and for two of the most important girls in the school, and had told them that she had given christian up. she had further said that she wished to resign her post on the committee of the secret society of the penwernians. she had spoken with great heat and bitterness. then came the news of christian's illness, and star's interview with miss peacock. during that interview it seemed to the girl that she was once more forced to change her point of view. there were even yet possibilities that christian might be innocent. beyond doubt she was suffering. the very worst characters don't suffer when they commit sin. christian was suffering so badly that the doctor was anxious about her. he said she was suffering from a shock. now, what had shocked her? if her character was all that star had imagined it to be two days ago, why should the shock of what she had done make her ill? star determined now at any cost to keep christian's secret. "i don't understand things," thought the child, "but if there is a way out i will try to find it; and if there is any sort of doubt i will give christian the benefit of it." as she thought this she glanced again toward the bed; then she gave a start and stood up, for christian's eyes were wide open and were fixed on her face. now christian's young face was very pale. she did not look at all surprised at seeing star. star went up to her. "how are you, christian?" she said in a low voice. "are you better?" "i am quite well," replied christian. her words came out with a sort of indifference. she looked at star, and then she smiled. "oh, i am quite well," said the young girl. "if you are well you will get up, won't you?" "it doesn't matter," said christian. "but you needn't stay in bed if you are well, need you?" "it doesn't matter," said christian again. then the thankfulness which had filled star's heart just for a moment left it, and in its place came a queer sensation of pain and fear. although christian said she was quite well, her face belied her; and still more her words belied her. "do you know me, chris?" said star, bending towards her. "yes," replied christian; "you are star lestrange." "we have always been friends, haven't we, christian?" "no," said christian, still speaking in that level, indifferent voice; "you were never my friend." "oh, christian! but i tried to be." "no," said christian again. she gazed straight before her. her voice was never raised; it never altered its level, indifferent tones. it seemed to star as she listened that christian did not care whether they were friends or foes. for a minute the little girl was absolutely silent. "i wish to tell you something," she then said gravely. "can you listen to me, christian?" christian's eyes were fixed on star's face. she did not speak. "i wish to tell you that i am very sorry for what happened a couple of days ago. i don't mean only about not finding dawson's bill in my purse after you had it in your lap for an hour or more; i don't mean only that, but i mean what i did afterwards. for i was so hurt, and so frightened, and so angry that i scarcely knew what i was doing. i forgot myself, christian, and i sent for all my friends and told them that i had given you up." "yes," said christian. "did you know it, chris? you look as though you knew it." "i heard you--at least i heard something about it. the girls passed the door, and they spoke to each other. i knew you had given me up." "and weren't you shocked?" "shocked? no." "didn't you care?" "no." "christian, that is unlike you." "perhaps; but everything is unlike me. everything has been unlike me since i came to penwerne manor." "christian, tell me the truth. lying as you are there, looking as you now look, i am certain--positive--that you would not tell a lie." "perhaps not," said christian. "you never, never took that bill out of my purse?" "no." "you are certain?" "yes. i didn't open your purse. but it doesn't matter whether you believe me or not. you think i did; it doesn't matter. "christian, tell me what you know." "alice gave me your purse to keep for you. she threw it into my lap. i fell asleep. i slept for an hour. when i awoke it was still in my lap. i never gave it to anybody else. i don't know how the bill was taken out of your purse. but that is all as far as i am concerned." steps were heard in the corridor. miss jessie was coming back. miss jessie would certainly be impatient. christian, looking more dead than alive, was lying prone on her bed, and star had not fulfilled her mission. suddenly an idea came to her. "i am going to take both your hands," she said. christian made no movement whatever to put her hands into star's clasp. star took them. "now listen to me, christian mitford. i have done wrong, and i confess it. i hated you, but i hate you no longer. i did love you--well, i love you back again. listen to me, christian. i love you back again; and i know, christian, that you didn't take the bill out of my purse. i know that you are innocent. now get well, chris--get well, for i love you." chapter xxv the letter susan marsh was thoroughly upset. she was not repentant. it is not the nature of a girl like susan easily to repent. she was not at all sorry for what she had done, but she was terribly afraid of the consequences. she also feared that she had gone too far. at the school at margate she had lived through an ugly time. there had been a theft, and she had been concerned in it. she had, in fact, been expelled from the school. her wrong-doing at the time had by no means terrified her, but she disliked the ceremony which had meant her expulsion from mrs. anderson's school. she had to pass through a group of her schoolfellows, and the eyes of the girls seemed to burn her. they were by no means extraordinary girls in any sense of the word; they were girls quite moderately good, and with heaps of faults, but they all gazed with the utmost contempt at susan as she shuffled down the long line which they formed, and so got out of the school. now, miss peacock would certainly not expel any girl, however wicked, in so cruel a manner; but susan did not know that. she was certain that if miss peacock sent her back to her father at easter with such a report as she threatened to give, and with announcement that she would not be received in the school again, something fearful would happen. mr. marsh was a merchant, a very rich man, and susan was his only child. he was a big, red-headed, stout man, with a harsh voice and a harsh laugh; but he was quite upright. he had strong ideas with regard to honor and rectitude; and if susan came back to him so disgraced, she did not know all he would do. he would send her away; he would banish her from all other girls. he would put her under the care of the very strictest disciplinarian he could possibly find. she must not run such a risk. beyond doubt she had got herself into a scrape. it was not only that silly affair with regard to christian mitford. christian had been fairly useful to susan as long as she could obtain her money and press her into her service, but she had no time to give a thought to her now. she had got all christian's money; there was nothing of it left, and susan made up her mind to leave her alone, to announce to her friends that she thought christian mitford a fairly good girl, and, in short, if she could manage it with a few clever words, to undo the mischief she had hitherto done. christian would recover and take her place in the school; star lestrange would be her friend, and her brief time of friendship with susan and her set would be forgotten. but there were other things. there was the great feast in the front attic which was to take place next wednesday, and there were the girls who were to be invited to attend it. susan felt terribly anxious when she thought of those girls. one of them was florence dixie, who was the daughter of a lawyer who lived in the town of tregellick. florence was a bold, wild girl, with quantities of black hair which curled all over her head. she had black eyes to match the hair, a turned-up nose, and a loud laugh. it had been florence's wildest ambition to become an inmate of penwerne manor, but miss peacock did not approve of the young lady, and had declined the honor of becoming her instructress. there were also ethel and emma manners. they were the daughters of a rich greengrocer in the town. ethel and emma had more pocket-money than they knew what to do with, and once having met susan when she had no right to be out, and lent her some money. they were pleased to strike up any sort of acquaintance with a penwerne manor girl, and susan had taken advantage of their friendship to get several good things for herself. ethel and emma had told susan that if she could smuggle them into the house, and make them acquainted with some of the other girls of the manor, they would each give her a very beautiful present at easter. "we will manage," said ethel, "so that miss peacock shall never know. you'll do it, won't you?" susan had said of course she would, and she had planned the whole thing. florence dixie, who thought herself considerably above the manners girls, was still quite willing to accompany them on this occasion. they would climb up the elm-tree at the back of the house; they would tap at the window, and susan herself, aided by the other girls, who of course must be let into the secret, would admit them. then there would be high-jinks; then there would be a glorious time. oh, how they would eat, how they would drink, how they would laugh! how they would enjoy themselves! florence dixie had promised not to come empty-handed to the feast. she would bring such plumcake as had not been eaten for years by those girls. "i can manage it," said florence, "for my cousin, amy hall, was married a fortnight ago, and there is a huge wedge of her wedding-cake in the pantry. i shall get a great slice from it and bring it with me. oh, it will be fun!" "and we can all sleep on it," cried susan, almost shrieking with delight, "and dream. oh, to think of dreaming of our future husbands! what a delicious joke!" ethel and emma were to bring fruit from their father's shop, and anything else they could manage to convey. the girls of the town were very much delighted, but very much afraid of their escapade being discovered, and very proud of their acquaintance with susan. but now susan, as she sat alone in her boudoir, had sorrowfully to reflect that this glorious feast, this delightful adventure must be given up. "it can't be done," she said to herself. "miss peacock is on the watch. when lavinia opens her sleepy eyes, they do open with a vengeance; and then jessie ceases to be a lamb, and becomes a very lion of vigilance and terror. then as to star, now that she has given up the penwernians, she will certainly split on us. it can't be done. i must see maud; she must help me. maud and i must both manage in such a way that no one shall find out. florence, ethel, and emma must be spoken to; they must be told that the delightful feast is to be postponed." susan marsh was the sort of girl who never took long in making up her mind. this happened to be saturday morning; the next day was sunday. the girls had a little more freedom on sundays than on other days, and they regularly walked, two and two together, to the parish church at tregellick. susan wondered if by any possibility she could slip away from her fellows and convey a note to florence dixie with strict injunctions to give up all idea of visiting penwerne manor on the following wednesday evening, and further telling her to put off ethel and emma manners. susan felt very much frightened, and not at all sure that she could convey this note, but still she resolved to have a good try. as she sat and thought and made up her mind, star lestrange entered the boudoir. susan looked up sullenly when she observed star's bright face. "well, what is it?" she said. "what do you want?" "i thought i'd like to have a little chat with you if you don't mind." "i mind extremely," said susan. "i don't want to have anything to do with you. a girl who could be so mean as to give up the penwernians is unworthy of my notice." "oh, just as you please!" said star. "i thought perhaps you would come and have cocoa with me in our boudoir; but if you don't care about it, never mind. i only wanted to tell you now that i have discovered absolutely and conclusively that it was not christian mitford who took the bill out of my purse." "oh!" said susan, starting and turning very red. "and how did you find that out, pray?" "never mind how. i have found it out, and i thought i'd tell you. i don't want to say anything more just now." star immediately left the boudoir. susan sat on, feeling very uncomfortable; for to be told that a certain thing had been discovered, the knowledge of which spelt ruin to her, susan, was the reverse of quieting. she felt her head aching; her face flushed; her feet turned icy cold. she crept near to the fire, shivering all over. "i'll be ill myself if this sort of thing goes on," she said to herself; and just then her dearest friend, maud, walked into the boudoir. "i thought i'd find you here," said maud, speaking with some excitement. she drew a chair forward and poked up the fire into a blaze. "i wish we had some logs," she said; "they'd make the sparks flare up the chimney. it's going to be a bitterly cold night." susan made no answer. "what's the matter with you, sukey? are you sulky?" "i feel miserable enough," said susan. "you look it; you look perfectly dreadful. do you know what i have heard? i have heard that christian mitford is much worse this evening. the doctor is with her now. don't you think we are all a little hard on poor christian?" "don't mention her name," said susan passionately. "i hate her. i can't sit in the room with people who talk about her." "oh, isn't that very silly, and very unkind? she has done nothing, poor girl!" "oh, hasn't she? we were happy enough in the school until she came here." "well, there's no doubt that she is very ill. i thought that it was perhaps about her you were fretting. it's getting to be quite a weight on my conscience. if she gets the least scrap worse i shall surely have to tell myself." "you'll have to do what?" said susan. maud's words had roused her at last. "oh, dear! if i thought you were going against me--i don't know what sort of a school this is, but to have my own friends going against me--you and mary hillary and janet--although somehow janet doesn't count for much--i believe i shall go mad. i'm awfully unhappy, and i'm not at all well." "you look anything but well, poor sukey; your nose is so red and your eyes so swollen. i expect you have a bad cold." "i have. i am going to be ill myself; i have shivers down my back." "you'd best go to bed and get jessie to cosset you up." "i hate jessie; i won't let her come near me." "well, shall i go and ask her if you may have a fire in your room? and i'll give you a hot drink. i can, you know, if they allow a fire in your room. i have got a pot of that black-currant jelly; i'll make you a smoking tumbler of black-currant tea. you'll soon be better." "you are very kind, maud," said susan, who was intensely greedy, and to whom the thought of hot black-currant tea appealed most pleasantly. "but there!" she added, "that is not the worst; and that is not the way you can really help me." "well, tell me; i really am distressed to see you look so bad. of course, christian may soon get better; perhaps we needn't think about her at all." "we must think about something else, but she's the cause. you know, of course, what star said on wednesday night." "star lestrange? rather! why, the whole school is going on about it. but i don't believe she will do it." "i know she will. i tell you there's great trouble, and it's all caused by that horrid christian mitford. for my part, i shall be glad if star ceases to be a penwernian; but she can do us much damage. there's a lot--a great lot--of mischief afoot, and we have got to be careful. you can't imagine how bitterly and cruelly miss peacock spoke to me. she even said that if anything else was found out i might not be allowed to come back to the school." "oh, susy!" said maud in a shocked voice, "she couldn't have said that. that would mean to ruin you for life. she couldn't have said it, susy." "she did, maud; so you needn't wonder that i am troubled. i tell you what it is: you must and shall help me." "i will if it is in my power, and if it isn't anything very wrong, for i'm tired of doing wrong. it makes you feel so uncomfortable and ashamed of yourself." "this is putting wrong right, so i am sure you will help me. i know i have got a cold, and there isn't the most remote chance of my being allowed to go to church to-morrow. but you will go." "we're allowed to go, just as we please, either to the chapel here or to the church at tregellick," said maud. "if the weather is as bad as it is at present you will have to go to the chapel, and i dare say i shall go with you. i have a bit of a cold myself." "but you must help me; you must go to church at tregellick, and you must manage to convey a letter from me to florence dixie or to the manners' girls. you must do it, and no one else must find out." "but can't you post it?" "i dare not. florence's father might find it and open it by chance; and then--then indeed the fat would be in the fire. and it would be equally dangerous to confide a letter to the post for the manners' girls. besides, the sooner they know the better." "what have they to know?" "why, of course, that they are not to come to our feast on wednesday." "not to come to our feast!" maud stood up. "i suppose you don't mind mary hearing," she said, as mary hillary entered the boudoir. "i don't suppose i do. you will all know before the time. the strange girls can't come on wednesday night, and we must convey the fact to them in such a way that we may not be discovered ourselves." "highty-tighty!" said mary hillary. "what does this mean? not coming? but why shouldn't they come? i am sure there has been fuss enough preparing for them. and they promised to bring those delicious cakes and things. and it would be such screaming fun to have them with us for hours, and to send them away again, and dear peacock to know nothing about it. i say, susan, i don't see why you are running this show altogether. why mayn't we have a word in it now and then?" "as many words as you like afterwards," said susan; "but they can't come next wednesday. i tell you it would ruin us all; it would be discovered." "it needn't be. of course, i have heard that story about star, and i call star a mean sneak," said mary. "but if we lock the door and remain fearfully quiet, and have our feast not in the front attic, but in the far-away attic at the back, which we can get at through the front attic--the one over the room where the kitchen-maid sleeps--why, not a soul will hear us, and they'll all think we are in bed. i am going to put a pillow, dressed exactly like me, in my bed, and the rest of you can do likewise, and jessie won't know. oh, we must--we must have our feast!" susan sat down again. her face was hot and flushed; her eyes looked strange. "they can't come," she said; and all of a sudden she burst into tears. "they can't come," she continued, "for it would ruin me. oh, girls, girls, don't let me be ruined! i will be so kind to you both when i leave school. father has heaps of money, and i'll make him take a country-house and have you to stay with me, and you shall ride my ponies. oh, please help me now!" "she's in great trouble, poor thing!" said maud; "but i think she is frightening herself unnecessarily. what do you say, mary?" "i say this," answered mary somewhat defiantly--"that, as we went into the thing, we ought to carry it through; and i am sure janet bouverie will agree with me. you have always been our head, sukey, and on the whole we have put up with you, but what i say is this--don't blow both hot and cold. you asked the girls, and even if there is a spice of danger--and surely the greatest part of the fun is in that very fact--we ought to stick to our words." "i won't--i won't!" screamed susan. "oh, you drive me mad!" "leave us, mary," said maud; "i will manage her." mary, with a look of contempt on her face, left the room. maud now knelt by susan and did her best to comfort her. she did not find her task at all an easy one. susan, who was thoroughly selfish, had been frightened out of her habitual self-control. there is no greater coward than the bully, and maud could not help wondering why she had ever made a friend of this girl, as she knelt by her side, patted her hands, brushed back her hair, and did all she could to soothe her. by and by the great gong sounded for evening prayers, and susan, wiping away her tears and doing her best to recover her composure, followed maud into the central hall. it was only occasionally, on sundays and on special festivals, that the beautiful little chapel, which had been used in the olden time when penwerne manor was a priory, was lighted and warmed for divine services; but on sundays it was a perfect picture to see the girls and their mistresses in the lovely little place. miss peacock always attended private chapel at the manor, and many of the girls preferred it to any other church in the neighborhood. now, as usual, the great hall was used, and as usual the girls assembled. the electric light fell on their bright heads and graceful young figures. miss peacock mounted the little dais and read the evening lesson, prayed the evening prayer, and looked around her. just for an instant her eyes rested upon susan. her tear-stained face and wretched appearance rather pleased the head-mistress than otherwise. the same thought that filled her mind occupied the minds of many of the girls present. star felt inclined to pity susan. louisa twining said to herself: "whatever the poor thing has done--and i'm sure i don't like her--she has plenty of heart." and then the voice of the head-mistress rose in the stillness. after reading a brief lesson she knelt to pray. there was generally a hymn sung by all the girls, but on this occasion it was left out. miss peacock prayed the evening collect, then pausing, she said a few words in a solemn voice. these words startled each girl who listened to them. they were to the effect that god in his mercy might bless the means used for the recovery of dear christian mitford, who was lying dangerously ill. a pin might have been heard to drop in the room when the head-mistress paused after these impressive words. she then finished her prayer and rose to her feet. the girls crowded round her, distress in their faces. was it true? was christian really in danger? "the doctor thinks badly of her," replied miss peacock. "he will stay in the house to-night. i have sent for a trained nurse; and jessie and i will also watch in the sickroom. you must pray, my dear girls, you who love christian and admire her for many things, as all those who know her cannot help doing; you also who have misunderstood her and made her life unhappy"--here the head-mistress's eyes fixed themselves for a moment on susan's face--"all alike must pray to-night that god will spare her life. her parents are far away; that is the saddest thing of all. dear girls, 'more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.'" miss peacock hurried away, and the girls slowly left the hall. at the opposite side of the bright corridor was the refectory, but scarcely a girl turned into it. they were all shocked and depressed. susan uttered a smothered sob deep down in her heart. maud and mary suddenly pulled her away. they rushed up stairs, and all three entered susan's room. "now you mustn't give way. oh, of course, we can't stand this sort of thing much longer," said maud. her words terrified susan. "what do you mean?" "that we ought to tell; we ought to tell what we know. we have given a wrong impression of christian in this school, and if she dies i shall never forgive myself." "you daren't tell," said susan in a smothered voice. "if you do it will ruin me. oh, i know she will be better in the morning; i feel she will. i will pray to god all night." "dare you?" said mary suddenly. "oh, i dare--i dare anything. i know i am a wicked girl, but she mustn't die. we mustn't let her die. god will be merciful." the girls talked together for a little longer. finally mary went away, and susan and maud were alone. "i feel she will be better in the morning," said susan. "oh, dear, how i shiver, and how ill i am! i do feel perfectly wretched. i wish i might have my fire lit." "i'll venture to break the rules for once," said maud. "here are some matches. i'll put a light to the paper, and the fire will blaze up, and you won't feel quite so miserable." "i wish you would sleep with me to-night, maudie. i am too frightened to sleep alone." "all right; i don't care," said maud, who felt herself that she would like some sort of company. by and by the girls, a blazing fire in their room, lay side by side in susan's little bed. maud put her arms round susan, who kissed her. "you don't really think she will die, do you, maud?" "of course not," said maud; "but miss peacock would not speak as she does if she were not really frightened." "and the doctor is staying here all night," said susan. "and miss peacock herself means to stay up, and she has sent for a nurse. she must be very bad. are you very frightened of death, maud?" "yes, i think i am--a little bit. a little sister of mine died years ago, and i saw her after they put her into her coffin. she did not look like anybody else i had ever seen. i could not get her face out of my head for a long time." "i wouldn't look at a dead person for the world," said susan. "oh, i do hope she won't die! i think i shall lose my senses if she does." "she's good, you know," said maud after a pause. "she's not a bit like either you or me. we made her very unhappy." "we certainly did," said susan. "she seemed so astonished; although, of course, what she did was----" "what did she do?" "i wish i could tell you; it would relieve my mind. oh, how badly my head aches!" "do tell me, dear susy; i am dying of curiosity. i can't help it; it is one of my failings." "no, i won't, maud: i could not bear it now that she is so ill. it is bad enough to have her like this without betraying her as well." "of course, if you won't," said maud, and the two girls lay silent. maud was anxious, depressed; her conscience was pricking her with regard to christian. but her anxiety and her depression were nothing at all compared to the terrible feelings that swept over susan's brain. if christian died, she felt that she could never hold up her head again; and yet even to save christian's life she did not believe she could humble herself to the extent of confessing all her wrong-doing since christian had come to the school. towards morning she became drowsy and dropped off asleep. maud had long been sleeping peacefully by her side. when the girls awoke little jessie was looking down at them. jessie's eyes were red as though she had been crying very much. susan started up, her face turned white. "is she frightfully bad?" she gasped. "oh, i don't know," said jessie. "the doctor won't say. she has been delirious all night, and is now asleep. i don't know what to think. i came to tell you both, dear girls, to dress very quietly, and not to make the slightest noise. all the girls in the white corridor are to be moved to-day in order that she may have perfect stillness. the doctor says that her brain is very much affected. he cannot imagine what can have happened to her. he says she has got a terrible shock." "oh, dear!" said susan. "you don't look well yourself, susan. have you a cold?" "yes. my throat aches, and my eyes ache." "well, get up quietly, dear, and go downstairs. there will be big fires in all the sitting rooms, and the boudoirs will be made thoroughly comfortable. i am glad you had a fire last night, girls. yes, we must hope for the best." little jessie bustled away. susan and maud began slowly to put on their things. "there is one thing at least, maud, that must be done," said susan as she proceeded with her dressing. "that letter which i spoke of must be sent to florence dixie. someone must go to church. you must do it, maudie; you must do it for me." "but i have a cold myself," said maud. "you must do it whether you have a cold or not. you will manage better than i, or i would do it. you must go to church. no one will notice you. you must say you want specially to go this morning. you will do this for me, won't you, maud?" "i don't know. i don't see why i should do it for you." "why, think--think for yourself what would happen if they were to come now. really, girls like florence dixie and the manners girls might easily know nothing about poor christian's illness. this is sunday; wednesday will be here in no time. think of their coming at present. oh, maud! you would be expelled as well as i." "do you think so?" said maud, turning pale. "i am sure--certain of it. we should all be made examples of--we three at least; janet isn't quite so much in it." "if that is the case i will make an effort," said maud. susan proceeded more cheerfully with her dressing after this remark of maud's; and presently, their toilets completed, the girls ran downstairs. then susan, taking an opportunity when no one was looking, wrote a brief note to florence dixie. it ran as follows: "dear florry: you and the manners girls must on no account come on wednesday. don't attempt it, as you love me. i can add no more. from your friend, "susan marsh." when susan had finished her letter she folded it up. outside the little three-cornered note she wrote, "be sure you burn this when read"; and then she put it into a small envelope, which she stuck down. a minute or two later she had thrust her note into maud's hand. "put it into your pocket, and don't fail to deliver it. oh! it will be a relief when you have managed this, maud." maud nodded her head. that morning miss peacock, contrary to her wont, did not appear at family prayers; but miss forest, the english teacher, took her place. christian was again prayed for. the bulletin with regard to her state was a little worse, if anything, than it had been on the previous night. all the girls felt terribly depressed. they could not set to their accustomed sunday work. susan glided to a seat by the fire in the boudoir with a book; the others wandered here and there, not knowing what to do with themselves. presently jessie came down. "miss peacock says that there will be prayers as usual in the chapel," she said, "and she hopes that all the girls who are sufficiently well will go there in good time." maud raised her head. she also was pretending to read. susan gave her one agonized glance. maud rose slowly and went towards jessie. "do you mind, jessie," she said, "if i go to church at tregellick?" "but, my dear, miss peacock says that none of the girls are to go to the village church to-day." "only i should like to go; i like mr. white's preaching so much." miss jessie hesitated. "well, i'll ask miss peacock," she said. "you must on no account go without her leave. she is in the room with christian now, but i will ask her if i have an opportunity. does anyone else want to go to the church at tregellick?" she added, looking round at the assembled girls. jane price and one or two other girls said that they would like to go to the village church; and jessie, with four names entered in her little notebook, went upstairs. she presently returned to say that miss peacock would allow the girls to go church in the village if they went straight there and straight back and did not speak to anyone. "remember, miss peacock trusts you," said miss jessie. "she is so distressed and miserable that she can scarcely think of anything, and there is no teacher able to be spared to go with you this morning. she trusts you to behave well, to speak to no one, and to come straight home again." "oh, i'll take care that they speak to no one," said jane price. "appoint me the guardian of this party, won't you, miss jessie?" "very well, jane. you are a nice, steady girl; you will see to the others." jessie bustled from the room. "now then, you have got to obey me," said jane, with a laugh. a minute or two later maud passed susan's chair. susan bent towards her and whispered in her ear: "you are a brick to have spoken out. i won't forget this to you in the future." star was one of the girls who elected to go to tregellick church. she was too restless to stay within the grounds, and any chance of a walk outside appealed to her. there were six girls altogether who started off in time to say their prayers in the little gray church in tregellick. mr. white was an excellent preacher, and it was always a treat to star to listen to him. there were two pews in the church set apart for the penwerne manor girls, and they entered these now. the church happened to be specially full that morning. maud, who found herself between jane price and star lestrange, presently looked around her. it was necessary that she should see florence dixie. she hoped that as they were going out of the church she might have an opportunity of slipping a note into the girl's hand without anyone noticing her. jane price, who was the leader of the little party, would on no account allow her to speak to florence. but florence was aware that she was not supposed to know any of the penwerne manor girls, and she was extremely proud of her secret acquaintance with more than one of them. florence and her mother, an extremely vulgar, overdressed woman, generally sat in a pew just in front of those used by the schoolgirls. when they got to the church jane went into the second pew; but maud without making any comment, ensconced herself in the first one. jane wondered at this, but she nodded to her companions, and they all entered the first of the two pews; and maud, as has been stated, found herself between star and jane. florence glanced round once and fixed her eyes on maud's face. she had not made the acquaintance of any of the other girls present, and on no account would she pretend to know any of them. but maud colored when florence's eyes glanced at her. the service went on. the singing was better than ever. christian was prayed for in church, at miss peacock's special request, and at last the service came to an end. "now, girls, let us hasten home," said jane. "just let us walk out, two and two, as fast as ever we can, and glance neither to right nor to left, and get back to the manor in good time for early dinner." she whispered this in a somewhat loud voice to maud, who nodded her head, but could not help replying: "i wish you wouldn't talk so loud in church." jane tossed her head and looked angry. "follow me," she said. star, who was looking thoroughly depressed, followed quite meekly; then came maud. but no, she would not go now. on purpose she knocked down a prayer-book. "go on," she said to the girl next to her, and the girl went on. maud was a long time on her knees finding the prayer-book. presently she put it in its place. all the girls had now gone with the exception of maud herself. florence lingered, she scarcely knew why. maud bent towards her. "take it," she said, "and say nothing." florence covered the note with her prayer-book; and, thoroughly relieved, and suddenly in excellent spirits, maud left the church. but her good spirits were not of long duration. outside the church star stepped back and spoke to her. "why did you do that?" she asked. "do what?" asked maud, considerably startled. "of course, i saw you knock down that prayer-book on purpose. why did you give that girl--miss dixie, i think you call her--a note?" "i didn't," said maud at once. "you did. i shall tell jane price." "oh, what a horror you are!--a tell-tale and all the rest. besides, it isn't true." "it is true," said star; "i saw you do it. what is the matter, maud? there is a sort of conspiracy going on in our school. we are all fearfully unhappy, and i can't conceal things any longer. i can't and i won't." "oh, please--please don't tell jane. indeed--indeed i didn't do anything." "maud, if you deny it again i will tell jane, and this instant." "well, i'll say nothing." "you must come to me to-day to my boudoir. i shall ask to have it to myself, and only you and susan shall come. i'll get to the bottom of this thing. now, you understand." maud put on a wry face. "i won't talk to you any more at present; i despise you," said star. she ran on and joined jane price. "what's the matter with you, star? you don't look too happy." "nor would you be if you had a weight on your mind which was reducing you to abject misery," was star's response. "are you really so fond of christian?" "who wouldn't be fond of a girl who was made ill at the school all because she had been unkindly treated--a girl who is quite uncommon in herself? i can't make out what is the matter, jane. i am thoroughly wretched." "you look it, star. i never saw your face so perplexed. what were you saying to maud?" "giving her a bit of my mind. i don't like her." "i like her better than susan," whispered jane in response. "well, here we are," she added as they arrived at the well-known gates, "and i have kept my word: no one has spoken to anyone, or done a single thing that miss peacock would disapprove of." "oh, haven't they?" said star to herself; but she was silent. just before they all went in to dinner susan ran up to maud. she took her friend's hand and spoke eagerly. "have you done it?" she whispered. "yes; but i don't think i have mended matters." "what do you mean?" "star saw me do it." "maud! well, you really are the most awkward, most incapable--oh, you are a terrible girl!" "i denied it, but she stuck to it. i just got her not to tell jane price, but she means to have it out with us both this afternoon. we are to meet her in the fourth class boudoir, and she means to be there alone. i never saw star so determined. i expect we shall have a fight." "it seems to me i don't care about anything," said susan. "i think i'll run away. father couldn't turn me out if i went home; only i haven't got enough money. have you any you could lend me, maud?" "to run away and leave me behind?" said maud. "indeed, that i haven't. don't be a goose, susy; we have got to face this thing and pull ourselves through somehow. i tell you what." "yes?" "let us confide in star; let us tell her just everything. it's about the best thing to do. she's the sort of girl who'd be desperate and cruel if she were kept in the dark; but if she knew, why, she mightn't." "and you want me to tell--me--that i opened her purse and took the bill out, and laid the blame on christian. you think she'll bear it." "i don't know," said maud. "it seems to me she'll find out whether you tell her or not. oh, by the way, what is the news of christian?" "the doctor says the crisis will come to-night. jessie is in a fearful state of anxiety. we have none of us seen miss peacock for a minute to-day. you never knew anything like the gloom of the chapel. i cried all the time. the other girls quite pitied me. mr. dalzell preached a sermon about schoolgirls and their temptations. i think jessie and miss peacock must have been sneaking and telling him things he ought not to know. the girls looked at me a lot. i cried harder than ever. oh, dear! oh, dear! what a wretched creature i am!" "we are all wretched, it seems to me," said maud. "the sooner we got out of this depression the better." susan made no reply. the great gong was not allowed to be sounded that day, but jessie came to say that dinner was ready, and the girls marched into the hall. chapter xxvi the clew to the mystery sunday can be the most delightful or the most wretched day in the world. when the heart is at peace, when the sun shines brightly, and things are going well, how sweet are the golden hours; how joyful and tuneful does the church bell sound; how soothing and stimulating to the highest part of our nature are the hymns and the church services! there is rest all round, and we feel it through and through our natures. but there are other sundays, again, which are just as miserable. there is the terrible ache in the heart; there is gloom over everything, and the cessation of customary occupations but increases this tenfold. christian, although a comparative stranger in the school, was now the one object of interest. she was thought of so much that there was little or no time to remember anybody else, and but for star both susan and maud would have been allowed to have been as miserable and as naughty as they liked without anyone remarking them. but star, as she expressed it afterwards, felt almost vindictive that day. all that had gone before, and the wretched consequence of her own act of folly and unkindness in believing that christian was guilty of the most disgraceful conduct, now caused her sensitive conscience to accuse her loudly. the best way to relieve herself was to put christian right. she could only do this by forcing susan and also maud to confess. star knew very well that a special and very daring rebellion was to take place in the front attic on the following wednesday. its nature she had not the slightest idea of. she herself, as she said, would no longer be a penwernian. she would not attend the secret meeting. but that did not prevent her from being intensely unhappy about it. it was on account of that that christian had broken the rules. christian had been sent to tregellick and had spent her money at dawson's shop, and she had brought in food, and paid a bill there. susan and maud and mary hillary and janet bouverie had incited her to this act of rebellion. they were the real culprits; christian was little more than a tool. ill as christian now was the conspiracy had not ceased to exist. there was no doubt whatever on that point. star did not intend to make any more fuss--she was too broken-down for that--only she saw maud with her own eyes knock down the prayer-book in church. it had not been done by accident; star's quick eyes had detected maud in the act. the prayer-book had been deliberately dropped on the floor. this aroused the little girl's suspicions. she saw maud stoop down, and she herself was obliged to leave the pew. she looked back. maud had risen, and she was bending towards a vulgar, showy-looking girl, in the pew just in front of her, the very name of whom star did not know; and she gave the girl something--something in the nature of a letter. there was no doubt of it. "it is the clew to the mystery," thought star. "now i will be firm. now i intend to be what they call cruel. it is the clew to the mystery. i will find out. christian lies at death's door; she is dependent, perhaps, on me to save her life." after dinner star sped very quickly upstairs. she went on tiptoe. when she reached the neighborhood of the white corridor she took off her shoes. then she glided along towards the door of the sickroom. it was very slightly ajar. star peeped in. it so happened that miss peacock, who had been up all night, and was now worn out with anxiety, lay sound asleep in the arm-chair by the fire. jessie was downstairs having her dinner. neither was the nurse present. star could look in at christian. and it so happened that christian looked back at star; and although her face was white as death, and there were startling great shadows under her eyes, and although that same little face was not only white but strangely pinched, she recognized star, and it seemed to star that her eyes brightened and her lips moved in a sort of voiceless appeal. this was enough for the little girl. silently, without making the least vestige of noise, she glided across the floor and up to the sick girl's bed. "darling!" said star. now, in all the world there could never be a more thrilling voice than star lestrange could assume when she chose. and the love now in her voice, and the pity, and the longing to make reparation penetrated straight down to the heart of the girl who was slowly but surely drifting out on a nameless tide. it seemed to christian, as she floated and floated on that deep, deep sea, that a hand took her and passed round her and drew her back and back. she looked up at star, and the faintest of faint smiles awoke in her eyes. "i mean to put everything right," said star again; and then she said "darling!" once more, and then like a feather she brushed christian's forehead with her lips, and then she left the room. christian lay motionless when star had left her. what had happened? was there, after all, anything to be very sorry about? why did she drift and drift? the noise as of great waves was in her ears, and her heart beat with heavy throbs. what was the matter? after all, was it pleasant to drift out away from all the people on the shore who beckoned to her to return? was not her father there? and did not his eyes, and his lips, and his whole strong presence say, "come back to me--come back"? and mother? mother was beside him, and mother also said, "come back." and, oh, there were other friends, and they seemed to love the girl who was drifting away, and they all said, "come back, christian." but christian said feebly--oh! so feebly that her words could scarcely be heard even by them--"i go out; it is better to go out." and then another voice said, "darling!" that voice, so piercing and strong, had a clarion note in it; and it seemed to christian that she stopped drifting, and that she turned, and strong arms were stretched out, and she came back, but so slowly--so slowly. little knowing what she had done, and that she had in reality saved christian's life, star lestrange ran downstairs. her cheeks were burning; her heart was on fire. she went straight to the boudoir. "girls," she said to one or two of her friends, "may i have this room to myself for an hour if necessary?" "of course, star, dear," they answered. they loved her, and would do anything for her. one of the girls wanted to question her, but she refrained. "go away, then," said star; "there's no time to be lost." "how is christian now?" asked a girl. "don't ask me," answered star. she entered the pretty little boudoir, placed a couple of chairs near the fire, and then waited. "they will come; i know they'll come," she thought. "i will force them to come. i'll think of them until they must come.'" she had never been so determined in the whole course of her life before. the fire in her eyes seemed to get brighter. after a time she heard footsteps--lingering footsteps. then the curtain was pushed back and the face of susan marsh looked in. and susan followed her own face into the room, and maud came behind her. "there's a door," said star briefly; "you had best shut it." maud shut the door. "now then," said star, "i'm going to get to the bottom of this, and i have got to be cruel if necessary. i don't mind about either of you, even if it means that you are expelled. i want to save christian, and to put her into a position of honor, and i want you two to tell me just the very truth." susan gave a slow laugh. "you are rather ridiculous, star," she said. "what do you accuse me of?" "i accuse you," said star briefly, "of having taken my purse when christian was asleep, and of having opened it and taken out the little bill which dawson gave christian when she paid for the goods." "and why, pray," said susan, "do you accuse me of this crime?" "because i know you have done it," said star. "you are quite mistaken; i did not do it." "maud, do you know anything of this?" said star. "i know nothing," said maud. she did know, but she and susan between them had resolved on no account to tell. "very well," said star. "i thought perhaps you'd tell me. i thought it quite the best thing to do. we won't talk any more of this at present." susan looked at her now in some astonishment. this was a course of proceeding that she had not expected. "i have another thing to talk of," continued star. "you, maud thompson, went to church to-day, and you knocked down a prayer-book on purpose. i saw you take it and fling it on the floor, and then you gave a note to a girl--a showy-looking, black-eyed girl--who sat in the seat before you. you did it, because i saw you." "i did not do it," said maud. "all right, then; i shall go and speak to the girl herself." "star!" there was an amazed cry from both girls. "i shall go and speak to the girl herself," repeated star. "you can't," said maud, with a laugh, which in spite of herself was extremely nervous, "for you don't know her name." "i shall find it out. i am going to her now; don't keep me." star brushed past the two and left the room. she was carried along on a wave of keen excitement. it did not matter to her any longer what anybody thought of her conduct. susan, left behind, looked wildly at maud for a minute. "i must stop this at any cost," she said. "she mustn't--she daren't--she shan't go!" out of the boudoir flew susan. in the passage she met miss forest. "oh, miss forest, dear, do you mind if we all go for a walk? i mean outside the grounds." "what do you mean, susan? certainly not. there are no teachers to take you to-day. if you wish to walk, walk in the grounds. now, don't worry me." "do you mean to say positively that no girl is to go outside the grounds to-day?" "i do say it." "no girl? are there no exceptions?" "none. what nonsense you talk! any girl who goes outside the grounds to-day will be severely punished." "of what nature will the punishment be, dear miss forest?" asked susan. "please tell me, for sometimes i think a little punishment is worth enduring for the sake of the pleasure." "really," said miss forest, her eyes flashing, "the insubordination in this school must be put a stop to with a firm hand. you, i verily believe, are the ringleader, susan marsh. notwithstanding our anxiety and the serious illness of christian mitford, i take it upon myself to say that the girls who disobeys and leaves the school this afternoon will be put into solitary confinement and not allowed to speak to her schoolfellows for at least twenty-four hours." "thank you," said susan. she dropped a little mock courtesy and ran away. just at that moment star, in her hat and jacket, appeared. susan, who had gone down the whole length of the corridor, now stopped to watch what would happen. miss forest, terribly aroused, turned to star. "where are you going?" she said. "for a walk." "in the grounds?" "no," said star. "please--i wanted to ask your permission--please, i want to go into the town." "you can't go, stella. i have just said that no girl is to leave the grounds to-day." "oh, please, this is so important!" "i can't help it. you girls think you are so wise, and you are nothing of the sort. walk in the grounds, and please don't argue the point. the girl who ventures outside without permission shall have twenty-four hours of solitary confinement. there now! i am determined; i can't stand this spirit of insurrection any longer." star said nothing. she moved slowly down the corridor. at the corner she saw susan. "ah! yah!" said susan. "i thought i'd take the wind out of your sails." "you have done nothing of the sort," replied star. she continued to walk steadily along the corridor. presently she reached the end. at the end was a door. she opened it and went out. it led into the garden. star walked quickly. susan came and planted herself at the door. maud stood by susan's side. they saw star walk along the garden path, then stop short and turn abruptly to her left. "she's going to defy miss forest. who will believe her now?" said susan. "come, let us watch her, maud; let us watch her." they scampered down the path until they came to the place where star had turned off. they now saw star open the wicket-gate near the lodge and disappear on to the high-road. "ah, now we've caught her!" said susan. "now she's in for it." meanwhile star, with the flame of fire which christian's face had awakened in her heart still blazing brightly, pursued her way. wrong! of course she had not done wrong. she had done the only right thing in all the world. "i must bring it home to them," she thought. "the thing must be explained. there is a serpent in our midst. i must get the obnoxious creature out of the school." she walked faster and faster. presently she reached tregellick. then it suddenly occurred to her that she did not know the name of the girl to whom maud had given the letter, so she could not get the information out of her. but, of course, the little sextoness could tell her the name. as star entered the straggling high street of the small town she heard the bell in the gray church-tower begin to sound again. there was about to be a service. star felt that she must go to church. this, of course, was also strictly against rules, for the girls were not allowed to go to church in the town unbidden or unaccompanied by an escort. "as it is all disobedience, i may as well disobey thoroughly and find out what i want to find out," thought star. she entered the church. just as she did so the bell stopped. the sextoness motioned to her to go up to her own pew, but star shook her head. "put me in a pew close to the door; and i want to speak to you afterwards," she said to the woman. the woman obeyed. she knew star well by appearance, but she wondered to see a penwerne manor girl out alone. the afternoon service was short. star watched the worshipers with intentness. how relieved she was when she saw the black-haired, dark-eyed girl take possession of her pew! she came in on this occasion unaccompanied by the stout woman who had sat with her in the morning. by and by the service came to an end. it is to be feared that star did not much attend to her prayers. the worshipers filed out. star fixed her eyes on the face of florence dixie. florence was attracted by star, although she did not know the reason, but she was surprised to see her, a penwerne manor girl, out alone. she longed to stop and speak to her, but of course she did not dare. star, however, had made up her mind. quick as thought she followed the black-eyed girl out of church. the girl looked back when she heard footsteps coming after her. when she saw star she stopped. "what is the matter?" she said. "i want to know your name," said star in a polite voice. "i hope you won't think me very rude, but i should be greatly obliged to you if you would tell me your name." "my name!" said the girl, with a slight laugh. "well, i'm not ashamed of my name; it's florence dixie." star now came up to her side. "where do you live?" she asked. "i am so awfully obliged to you for telling me your name; but where do you live?" "you must be a very ignorant girl," replied florence, "not to know where i live and who i am. father is the only lawyer in the place. his house is the big brown house that you see yonder at the top of the high street. may i ask your name, miss--miss----" "my name is lestrange," said stella. "i live at the manor; i am one of the schoolgirls." "oh, of course, miss lestrange; i know you by appearance quite well. you often come to church. i was surprised to see you there this afternoon alone." "yes; i came out this afternoon alone. i am tired," said star. quickly a thought flashed into florence's brain; what a tremendous triumph it would be for her to bring this charming, aristocratic-looking young lady home to tea. "i wonder now," she said, dropping her voice and suiting her pace to that of star, "if you'd honor us, miss--miss lestrange. we are having tea at home just now--high tea. and my brothers, rufus and jasper--they're such pleasant boys--they're always at home to tea on sundays. you say you are tired. it's a good long walk back to the manor; would you honor us by having a cup of tea with us?" "i should be very much obliged," said star. at another time such a request would have horrified her, but it seemed to her now the only means to a desirable end. "i am glad; mother will be so pleased," said florence. "we all think a great deal of miss peacock and her wonderful school, miss--lestrange." florence always made a slight pause between "miss" and "lestrange," and at another time star would have used her ventriloquist voice and have said just above florence's startled ear, "a little faster, please;" but she was not in the mood to be funny at this moment, and walked in silence by her companion's side. "i know i must get her to tell me just by guile," thought the little girl; "and it's so difficult, and it seems to get more difficult each minute." presently they reached the house. florence pulled the bell, and the door was opened by a rough-looking, red-headed boy, who shouted when he saw florence; and then, as he beheld star's beautiful, refined little face, his own features subsided into a startled grin. "i have brought home a young lady from the manor," said florence in her most affected and mincing way. "are they all at tea, rufus?" "of course we are, flo. and mother's ever so cross, i can tell you. you had better take the lady upstairs." "well, perhaps," said florence dubiously, looking at star. "oh, please don't!" said star; "i can't wait a minute. i can't really. i'll just have a cup of tea, as you were so very obliging as to ask me, and then perhaps afterwards you would walk a little of the way home with me." "oh, as to that, i'm sure i'll be delighted," said florence. "you don't know how i have been longing to know you." just then the dining room door opened and mrs. dixie put her head out. "florence, you naughty girl----" she began, but then she saw star and changed her manner. "oh, my dear child! you are late. and who is your nice little friend? welcome, my dear--welcome." "mother," said florence, "this is miss lestrange, one of the young ladies from the manor. she was at church, and i have invited her home to have a cup of tea." "honored, i'm sure," said mrs. dixie. "come this way, miss." she threw the dining room door open and ushered star into a noisy scene. mr. dixie was certainly not a refined-looking man. he was sitting far back in a deep arm-chair, with one rough, spoilt-looking little girl on his knee, and another perched upon the arm of the chair. "now, dad," said one of his small daughters, "i'm going to pull your right whisker." "and i'm going to pull your left," said the other. when star came in she saw mr. dixie having his fiery whiskers violently pulled by the firm, somewhat dirty hands of the small girls. "oh, i say! let me alone and behave yourselves," he said, dropping them to the ground. they both set up shrieks of indignation, and star was motioned to a chair at the table. "here, robert," said mrs. dixie; "this is one of miss peacock's young ladies. rufus, do clear a place; brush away those crumbs, and then go out to maria and tell her to bring in fresh tea." "she's out, mother," said rufus, not attempting to stir and not removing the crumbs. "oh, dear, i'm so sorry!" said mrs. dixie. "we look upon it as such an honor having you here, miss. we think an immensity of any of the manor young ladies." "miss peacock is one of the finest, proudest, grandest women i have ever met," said mr. dixie. "have a seat, miss. here, rufus; go out and bring in some more tea." "i say maria is out," said rufus. "who's to make the tea?" "make it yourself, and be quick about it." rufus caught up the family teapot and disappeared from the room, banging the door after him. "how is it, dear," said mr. dixie, turning to his spouse, "that we always have ditch-water instead of tea on sunday evenings?" "don't blame me, robert," said the good lady. "it isn't to be wondered at. when eight spoilt children each want the strongest and the best, what can be left for a stranger? florence, you might have told us that you were going to honor us with miss lestrange's company." poor star! she had been trying to do her best, but it seemed to her that she was getting deeper and deeper into hot water each moment. what madness had seized her when she had hinted to florence dixie that she would like to go home with her? already she had broken a rule of the school--a rule just expressed when they were all in trouble, and miss peacock was specially to be cared for and loved and honored. oh, if she might only go home again! after a great deal of squabbling and difficulty, and a great many words passing between one dixie and another, a cup of tea which had been made in the kitchen was brought in and placed before star. scalding hot as it was, she drank it off, and then rose hastily to say good-by. "i am very much obliged to you," she said to mrs. dixie. mr. dixie accompanied her to the door; and florence, feeling intensely important, went with her into the street. "i'll walk all the way back with you if you like, miss lestrange." but star by no means wished for this. "surely you would not be allowed to be out so late," she said. "oh, mother wouldn't mind. i mean, under ordinary circumstances she'd mind very much; but i can assure you she is exceedingly proud that i should know you. i know one or two of the girls as it is----" here florence paused and bit her lips. she knew that she ought not to have admitted that. "i know one girl you happen to know," said star, looking at her intently. "her name is maud thompson. she handed you a note to-day after church." "oh, no, indeed she didn't!" said florence, instantly on the defensive, and determined, as she said afterwards to maud, to guard her at any expense. "i saw her do it. i thought perhaps---- oh, i must confide in you a little bit. i came to church on purpose. i wanted to see you on purpose. please don't say what isn't true. we are in great trouble at the manor just now." "are you?" said florence. "and do you mean to tell me? i can't tell you how i love exciting stories. i have always pined to go to a first-class school. over and over again i've said to father, 'if only you would send me to miss peacock's!' but father thinks miss peacock too much of a fine lady; he says she's affected." "no, she isn't," said star. "she is a lady, that is all." "what a nice way you have of talking, miss lestrange! and you are so pretty, too! oh, i am interested in you and your school! i don't mind a bit what father says. he is just eaten up with jealousy; that's a fact. if miss peacock would employ him as her lawyer, father would think her the most delightful woman in the world. as it is, of course, he is jealous. he'd give his eyes to have me admitted into the school. he said so once; he said he'd pay double fees if miss peacock would have me. oh, i should so love it! all the other girls would be mad with jealousy. now, there are the manners girls. you don't know them, do you, miss lestrange?" "no." "well, they're not really in our class of life at all. i sometimes think it rather trying that i should be expected to know them. they are the daughters of that greengrocer who owns the huge shop just round the corner. oh, and here they are coming to meet us! they'll want me to introduce you. do you mind?" star said she did not mind. in her heart of hearts she felt that she could scarcely know a more vulgar or common girl than florence. "if you will only tell them the truth, that i came to church because i wished to speak to you, i don't mind what else you do," said star. the manners girls came up slowly. they were thin, with straw-colored hair, very pale complexions, and small, weak-looking eyes. they were showily dressed, and in some ways looked even more commonplace than florence. when they saw her they made a rush towards her. then the younger one drew back a little, and it was the elder miss manners who came trippingly up to the two little girls. "i have come in person to answer you, florence. as you have got the note--i mean the one miss thompson gave you----" "oh, hush, hush!" said florence. she could not have grown any paler than she did at that moment. star moved a step or two away from her. "you told me just now----" she began. "i did--i did! don't speak to me for a minute, miss lestrange. i must walk on with you just to explain myself." "can i endure it?" thought star. "and yet i must, for i must find out what has really happened." "of course i got the note," said florence the minute they were alone; "but i was not going to tell, for poor maudie didn't wish it. now you know, however, you will take her back a message. will you say to her that i am going to speak to the mannerses, and if we can we will comply with her wishes? you may tell her at the same time that we don't like people who blow both hot and cold. the sort of friends we appreciate are those who say a thing and do it whatever the consequences. you will tell her. oh, i know you despise me. some day you will understand that a girl of my sort hasn't a chance with a girl of your sort. but, all the same, there's some good in me. i like you just awfully, for instance. i think you are sweetly pretty; and you have got such--oh, _such_ an air about you! you might be anyone. i know i'll dream of you to-night; i quite love you. you are fifty times nicer than susan marsh--although the mannerses and i thought a lot of her--or than maud thompson, or than---- oh, dear me! miss lestrange, i do wish you could get me into your school. you don't know how fine you'd polish me up; you'd show me that i ought always to speak the truth and everything else. can't you try?" florence's bold face looked wonderfully soft at that moment, and there were actually tears in her black eyes. star wondered she could speak to her, and yet when she looked again she felt touched by the expression on florence's face. "i am sorry for you, but i can't promise to--to help you to get into the school. all the same, i am sorry. you could not, i suppose, let me have that note. i wouldn't read it; i'd just give it back to maud thompson." "my dear child," replied florence, her manner instantly altering, and a hard, flippant tone coming into her voice, "i have not told you anything about the note. you asked me if i had got one, and i said 'no.' the manners girls gave me away, and i was forced to confess that i had told a little white lie. white lies _are_ allowable, aren't they?" "they are not," said star stoutly. "well, anyhow, they are amongst my set. as to the note itself, it was of such small consequence that i tore it up. well, good-by. glad to see you another day when you come to church and want a cup of tea." star looked back for a moment to where the manners girls were standing; then she put wings to her feet and ran the rest of the way back to penwerne manor. "what did she want? how is it you have got so chummy with her?" said ethel manners, turning to florence. "you did look upset when we met you! and didn't you blaze up as crimson as anything when we spoke of the note! did we do wrong to speak of it?" "you were just horribly nasty, ethel," said florence. "you might have known that when i was walking with a strange girl you two ought not to intrude. you don't know your places, and that's a fact." "we're every bit as good as you are, florry," said emma. "it was only yesterday father said that your father and he used to chum together at the same school, but that he had pennies in his pocket and your father had none. don't be a goose, florry. let's walk arm-in-arm. wouldn't you like to come in and have a bit of supper? aunt phoebe said if we met you we might ask you. and there are sweetbreads for supper, and fried liver and bacon. you know how fond you are of those things." "so i am," said florence; "and i had such a wretched tea. it's awfully uncomfortable at home on sunday; the kids make such a row all over the house. our servant is out, and there's no one to look after anything." "well," said emma, "aunt phoebe looks after things for us, and she loves something hot for supper. she's going to make pancakes, too; and we can have toasted cheese afterwards if we like." "oh, yes, and we can make coffee," said ethel. "we are going to have a real jolly time. will you come?--for if you don't, we'll ask mary ann pomfret." mary ann pomfret was the one girl in the whole of tregellick whom florence detested. "you can please yourself," she said. "i won't come near you if you have mary, but i'd love to come to you alone. your place always seems so comfy on sundays." "then let's walk arm-in-arm," said emma; and she ran round to florence's left side, and ethel took hold of her other arm, and in this fashion they walked up the high street. "i call it specially mean," said ethel, "after we have made those lovely cakes and prepared all those things to give susan and the other girls a right good time. there can be no earthly excuse in their not having us. just because a girl--and a new girl--happens to be a bit ill." "but they say she is very ill," said florence. "she was prayed for in church twice to-day. what do you mean to do, ethel?" "go, of course," said ethel. "do you really mean it?" "certainly i do. i'm going. aren't you, emma?" "i'll do whatever you do, ethel," replied the younger sister. "then i have a good mind to join you," said florence. "you know, to tell the truth, i'm not specially taken with susan marsh. i don't think she's a bit better than we are, only she just puts on airs because she's a manor girl. perhaps maud thompson is a wee bit better. but what a beautiful girl that was i walked with to-day--miss lestrange! she must be quite the beauty of the school. hasn't she eyes like stars? and such a refined, sweet little face! she's very pretty; and oh, she's fetching!" "she's a perfect beauty," said emma. "i don't say she's as good-looking as all that;" said ethel; "but she is handsome, and has what i call an air about her." "she's very different from susan marsh," said florence. "i could be good to please a girl like that. i am sure she would hate our going to the school on wednesday." "did she say anything about it?" "not a word; only she was awfully bothered about that note. i can't imagine why she should come sneaking round after it, as it were; but she did, and she looked so piteous when she asked me to give it back to her, and i had it snug in my pocket all the time. but of course i couldn't give it to her; it would be hard on poor maud." "so it would," said ethel. "well, here we are at home now. aunt phoebe will soon begin to fry the supper. i do feel starving!" ethel let herself and her companions into the house with a latchkey. they passed the great shop where the vegetables were sold, and the huge appleroom where the fruits were kept from saturday night to monday morning. up the narrow stairs they went, until at last they found themselves in a broad, low, cheerful sort of room--a nondescript room, with a thick red felt carpet on the floor, and heavy red curtains to the windows, and a laughing, cheerful, blazing fire in the grate. florence gave a sigh of relief. "it is peaceful here," she said. "i wish we had a room of this sort at home." after the girls had eaten their supper, they put their heads together and had a long and earnest consultation as to what they were to do with regard to the girls at penwerne manor. there was little doubt that they were all intensely disappointed. the manor had seemed to them, ever since they could remember anything, as a sort of earthly paradise; the girls who walked in twos up and down the sheltered, cloister-like enclosures, the girls who came to church at tregellick sunday after sunday, the girls who occasionally rode over the neighboring moors, the girls who went to the seashore in the summer and enjoyed themselves bathing or in little boats in the harbor, were all girls of a superior degree to those commonplace children in the town of tregellick. they adored them; they envied them. the chance of getting into their midst was a golden and dazzling prospect, and they were intensely loath to give it up. it was emma at last who seemed to come to a satisfactory decision. "i tell you what," she said; "susan has bound herself to receive us. we have put money into this thing; we have arranged to bring a good deal of the feast ourselves. susan owes me seven and six----" "and me five shillings," said florence. "and she has borrowed my best sash," said ethel. "she said she would be very careful of it, and let me have it back at the first opportunity." "i wonder you lent it to her," said emma. "she had such a coaxing way, and she said she wanted it so badly. in short, she made it a sort of condition with regard to giving us this pleasure." "oh, never mind that sort of thing now," said florence impatiently. "i'll have to go back home very shortly or rufus will be coming thundering round, making no end of a fuss. what shall we do, girls? that is the question. this is sunday night; wednesday is no way off at all. are we to go and enjoy ourselves, or are we to meekly sit down and give up our bit of fun?" "what do you think?" said emma. "i think we ought to go. i shouldn't hesitate a moment, only that poor miss lestrange looked so pleading, and she seems really fond of the sick girl. and if father found out by any chance that we'd been kicking up a rumpus in a house where a girl was dangerously ill, why, he'd never forgive me." it was at that moment that emma manners came to the rescue with her dazzling suggestion. "well, don't let us go," she said. "let us invite susan marsh, maud thompson, and the dear miss lestrange to have supper with us. wouldn't that be jolly, girls? let us give up all idea of the attic, and invite them to have supper with us here, and keep it a secret from everybody. we could have a gay time." "but i couldn't come," said florence. "how could i manage it?" "easily, for we'll ask you here to spend the night. bless you! there'd be nothing secret about our supper. father would be as pleased as punch; and aunt phoebe will prepare _such_ a meal! then we'll be able to reflect all the remainder of our days on the delightful fact that we invited three of the manor girls to supper, and were, in short, hail fellows well met." "it does seem rather brilliant, and a good way out of the difficulty," said florence. "of course, it isn't as thrilling as creeping up by the garden wall, and getting down by a ladder at the other side, and then sneaking up by a ladder again just under the attic window, and creeping in, and finding the girls waiting for us and delighted to welcome us; but it is better than no fun at all." "what i say is this," continued emma: "when we have succeeded in bringing these girls here, miss peacock may be inclined to relax her rule, and to allow us to join the penwerne manor girls at their lessons." "don't you imagine that for a single instant," said florence. "when i talked to-day to star--oh, bless you! i don't call her star to her face--she said we hadn't a chance. no, there's no chance of that; but it would be fun to know them. now i must be off. how is the note to get there?" "they always send to father's shop for vegetables," said emma. "we'll give a note to joseph, and tell him to bribe their man, edwards, to give it into susan's hands somehow to-morrow. now then, who'll write the note?" "you'd better write it," said florence; "you've got a better scribble than i have." emma, feeling very conceited and important, seated herself by a table and wrote the following words: "dear susan marsh, maud thompson, and star lestrange" ["don't i feel grand, talking to them by their christian names?" thought the girl as she finished this portion of her letter, bending forward and squiggling her tongue into her cheek as she proceeded]: "we are awfully sorry we can't have our fun, but sickness has to be respected. we'll agree to say nothing about it if you three will come and have supper with us on wednesday night. you can easily manage, and we'll manage to get you home without any trouble. you see, the ladder that you were placing for us will do for yourselves, and you can get in by the attic window and creep to bed. anyhow, that's your affair. our affair is that you have got to come or my father and florence's father will make a shindy, and then there will be--oh, yes, i can't help being vulgar--the fat in the fire. you will come, all three of you, and have supper with us here; and won't we give you a right jolly feast! your affectionate friend, emma manners. "_p. s._--if you come, we'll do everything in our power to help you three girls to hide up the fact that you were out once in a while in the middle of the night." emma's letter was much commented on and approved of by her companions. finally, florence went back to her own house, feeling that, on the whole, supper at the mannerses' might be as amusing and instructive and fascinating as even the stolen feast in the front attic. chapter xxvii god's will when star reached home that evening she found the whole place in a sort of hush. christian was asleep, and on that sleep all her future hung. if she awakened with her fever gone she would be extremely weak, but with great care she might be pulled through. the doctor himself sat by her bedside, his hand on her feeble, fluttering pulse. miss peacock also was in the room, and the professional nurse and jessie occupied another of the white rooms just beyond. there was intense emotion all over the house. no one thought at that moment of anyone but the girl who lay, as it were, in the shadow of death. she was loved then as she had not been loved during her days of health. each girl, as she sat with her companion, had something to say with regard to christian mitford. one girl noticed how expressive were her eyes, and another said that she looked a perfect lady. her class-mates were unanimous, too, in remarks with regard to her talents: she was so forward in all her studies; she was so imaginative; she wrote such brilliant little papers. then her voice had such a magical quality in it; it stirred the heart; particularly when she read. some of the teachers who were resident in the house also stood and talked of the sick girl. "she would have done us credit," said miss forest. professor french said he never heard a girl of her age read paradise lost as she did. he was very much impressed with her; he said she had the dramatic quality to a remarkable degree. "well, well, it does seem sad!" the teachers were evidently under the impression that christian would not get well; but the girls--at least the greater number of them--could not bring themselves to believe this possible. most of the girls had never seen death; consequently it seemed to them that to die one must be ill much longer, must suffer much more acute pain. they spoke in their ignorance, but all the same they acknowledged to a frightened fluttering at their hearts; and when one by one they stole upstairs to bed, they crept past christian's room as though they might meet her ghost on the landing. by and by susan herself went up to bed. star had not said a word to susan since her return. susan had not dared to question as to what had befallen star when she went out. the act of disobedience was of no moment just then to the girls. star was glad of this. she was so troubled and terrified about christian that she forgot that she had been disobedient; she only regretted the time she had been absent from the house. susan as she went upstairs touched maud on the shoulder. "i can't sleep alone to-night," she said; "i should be frightened. come and sleep with me, maud." maud got up quietly. "as you like," she said. "oh, dear girls!" said jessie as they were passing the refectory, "i know you are feeling it very much, all of you, but you mustn't break down; that would be the worst thing in all the world. i have got a lot of beautiful hot cocoa in jugs waiting for you. come in and have a cup each." "we may as well," said susan, who seldom or never lost her appetite. she and maud drank off a cup apiece of the nourishing, delicious drink, and susan took up a thick piece of bread and butter. a few other girls followed her example, but the greater number shook their heads sorrowfully. jessie stood by the fire; her eyes were red and sunken, and her eyelids much swollen. "is she very, very bad?" said susan at last. jessie gave her head a dismal shake. "the doctor says she gets weaker and weaker." "is there no hope, then?" asked maud, with terror in her voice. "oh, maud! i don't know; i can't tell. all i know is that she can scarcely be worse and live; but the doctor does say that while there is life there is hope. that's about all." "oh, dear!" said maud. she clutched susan's hand. they were just leaving the room when jessie called them back. "we are all going to pray that god may spare her," said jessie. "there are to be prayers at midnight in the chapel. any girl who likes to come will be welcome. miss peacock will be there, and she has asked mr. dalzell to come and pray with us." "i don't think i'd care to go," said susan; "that sort of thing frightens me very much." jessie said no more, and as susan and maud stole upstairs they saw other girls standing about in knots. "did you hear about the prayers in the chapel?" asked one. "yes," said maud. "are you going?" asked a girl of susan. "no; not for all the world," said susan. "it would terrify me into my grave." she went upstairs, and maud followed her. when they reached susan's room susan turned the key in the lock. "now then, thank goodness we're safe!" she said. "we'll get into bed and cover our heads up with the bedclothes, and pray that we may sleep all night. i'm horribly frightened. aren't you, maudie?" "i think i'm more sorry than frightened," said maud. "i wish we hadn't been so dreadful to her." "maud," said susan, raising her voice to a pitch of agony, "you dare talk of that to-night? why, it will drive me mad." "but why did we do it, susan? but for that she wouldn't be so ill." "i don't believe you. her illness has nothing to do with us. oh, do let us get into bed! it is so dreadful to be up when _that_ may be coming into the house." "death, you mean?" said maud. "i never saw death." "i did," said susan, "when my mother died. but that was a long time ago; i can scarcely remember it." "i don't want to see anyone who is dead," said maud. "of course, you needn't see her--i mean if she does die. i wish father would send for us both. i have a good mind to write to him to-morrow. this is horrible; it makes me forget even that dreadful wednesday. thank goodness, florence did get that note! but we won't worry about that now. isn't it a comfort that the precious immaculate star should have put her foot in it? she did, didn't she, when she went deliberately and broke miss peacock's command--and just when miss peacock was in such trouble?" "oh, yes," said maud; "but i don't like thinking of people getting into trouble to-night. i feel sort of repentant. don't you susan?" "not i." "you are hard, susan. do you mean to say you are not sorry that we have been so cruel to christian?" "i'm determined not to think of it," said susan. "there now, i'm in bed," she continued, springing under the bedclothes as she spoke. "let's be quick and put out the lights, and let's be quite still and go to sleep." meanwhile the rest of the girls, whose whole hearts were full of christian and her serious illness, congregated in the chapel at the hour of midnight. the service was short, but very impressive. it consisted of nothing more than an earnest--most earnest--prayer from mr. dalzell that god would spare the young life now hovering on the brink of eternity; that he would do this for the sake of her parents, for the sake of her mistresses, and for the sake of her schoolfellows; also for her own sake. "but perhaps," said mr. dalzell as he rose from his knees--"perhaps, my dear girls, it may be the will of god not to spare the life of christian mitford. it may be possible that her death may be just the most beautiful thing for her. i understand that the crisis will come to-night. the doctor says that she cannot continue in her present condition many hours longer. we shall know, therefore, the best or the worst in the morning; and even if it should be god's will to take that bright young spirit to himself, you will remember, my dear girls, that there is goodness in his severity, and a father's heart; and, beneath the terrible sorrow, a hand of love. girls, it is your first experience--your very first--that so loving a hand may have to deal the blow; but nevertheless i hope you will trust in the heavenly father." star was sobbing bitterly, as were also several of the other girls. "go to your rooms now," said miss peacock. "your attitude to-night will be one long prayer that god's will may be done, and also that his judgment may be tempered with mercy." chapter xxviii good news early on the following morning a little figure in white might have been seen gliding from room to room all along the corridors where the penwerne manor girls slept. softly door after door was opened and the little woman went in. she stood by the beds where the girls slept, and touched each young sleeper lightly on the shoulder. in many cases the girls were not asleep at all, but in others fatigue and sorrow had made them sleep soundly. to each and all jessie had the same message to give: "christian is better. the crisis is past. the doctor now hopes that she will live." the untold relief of her words brought a look of rapture to some faces, and sudden tears, which joy brought forth, to others. little jessie went last to star's room. she knew that in the whole of that house no one felt more keen anxiety than star lestrange. jessie felt that she could stay with star for a minute or two when she had given her message to the rest of the school. when she opened the door star was up. she turned quite a haggard face towards the little woman. "why, star, my dear," said jessie, "haven't you been to bed all night?" "no," replied star; "i couldn't sleep. i sat by the window, and then i knelt by the window, and then--and then---- oh, jessie, is she dead? tell me the worst; don't keep me in suspense. is she dead, jessie?" "no, star. i have good news for you. oh, my child, don't give way!" for star had suddenly flung herself face downwards on her little bed, and with arms outstretched over the bedclothes, had given way to a burst of uncontrollable tears. "she will live," said star, amongst her choking sobs. "oh! tell me what the doctor says." "she is better. she slept until three this morning; then she awoke with the fever gone, looking very calm, but, oh, so weak! we gave her nourishment by spoonfuls, and she fell asleep again. the doctor has gone home for a couple of hours; he will be back soon after ten o'clock. of course, her state is terribly precarious; but now dr. tarbut thinks there is every reason to hope." "yes, she will live now," said star. she rose suddenly to her feet. "thank you, jessie," she said. she ran up to the little woman, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her passionately. "i love you, jessie. you know it, don't you?" "i do, star. and if you could only guess how i love you!" "you love us all. you are a sort of guardian angel in the school. sometimes i think you are even nicer and more beloved than our dear miss peacock. how is she this morning?" "she looks bad, but she is keeping up wonderfully. the relief of this change for the better in christian is doing her more good than any medicine." "can i do anything to help, jessie?" "i was going to speak to you about that, star. there will naturally be a sort of reaction in the school to-day. the girls suffered severely yesterday, and miss peacock is the last person in the world to forget that fact. she says that there will only be morning lessons, and even these are to be of a very light and easy character. in the afternoon you are all to go for drives. miss peacock has ordered wagonettes to be sent round for the purpose. then she wishes you to go to bed early to-night. to-morrow, of course, the ordinary routine will prevail." "that is just like miss peacock," replied star. her face did not brighten as she thought of the programme. again she laid her hand on jessie's shoulder. "what can i do to help?" "we don't have monitresses in this school," said jessie, "but if you would act as one in your own class and amongst the girls of the third division----" "oh, amongst those girls!" said star. "do you object, dear?" "i object to nothing, jessie; but you know the girls who are in the third class--susan, maud, janet, mary. i don't like them. i have quarreled with them now, too." "but you will not think of yourself to-day, star." "indeed--indeed i will not. don't stay now; you have plenty to do. trust me to strain every nerve to help you and dear miss peacock." "i will tell her so, star. i will give her your message. i can scarcely tell you how she trusts you. she said this morning, 'get star lestrange to help. you know how fond she is of the sixth form girls.' she says that you can be more useful than any of the others to-day. you will do your best, won't you, star?" jessie left the room, and star flung herself again on her knees. she uttered a brief, passionate, earnest prayer; a cry of pure thanksgiving rose from her heart. then, finishing her toilet, she ran downstairs. the relief in the school was intense; each girl looked softened and inclined to be amiable. the knowledge, too, that they were to go for a long drive was highly appreciated. depressed spirits were lifted again on the wings of hope; in short, the girls became themselves once more. lessons went on without any special interruption or any special event occurring. no music was permitted, but the ordinary work proceeded with ordinary satisfaction. the doctor's carriage, however, caused a flutter in the breasts of many of the girls. star looked at the girls of her own class, and also at the girls of the third class. suddenly she rose. "he is going now," she said; "but i mean to be very bold. i mean to go into the entrance-hall and question him." there was an attempt at clapping hands under the tables; but at the word "hush!" from miss forest the girls refrained. "star, where are you going?" said her teacher. "i want to ask dr. tarbut how christian is," was star's response. miss forest's face showed that she longed to hear as much as the girls did. she made no remark, and star ran into the hall. "how is she?" asked the little girl. the doctor was just putting on his overcoat. he turned kindly towards her. "why, miss----" "my name is star--star lestrange," said the child. "and you are anxious?" "we are all anxious," said star. "please let me know the very, very truth." "it is this, miss star," said the doctor, and he put his hand on her shoulder. "this is the very, very truth. your friend is doing _first-rate_. now, remember she must not be startled; she must be kept absolutely quiet. you must all recollect that there is a sick girl in the house, and you must on no account do anything to disturb her rest. she will be sleeping on and off the whole of the day, and very likely to-morrow, and for several days to come; and if no one disturbs her, i have not the slightest doubt that she will be quite well in a short time. but don't forget my message to you and the other girls: no noise, please." "i'd cut my tongue out before i'd make any noise," said star; and then she flashed a grateful, beautiful glance into the doctor's face, and ran back to her fellows. her news gave intense relief, and when the hour of recess came christian was certainly the heroine, for no one else was talked about. morning lessons had come to an end; there was to be a hasty lunch, and then the girls were to start on their drive. the day was a most beautiful one for the time of the year, and they were all in good spirits. just as they were assembling in the hall, waiting for the wagonettes to come up, one of the servants, a housemaid who had been only a very short time at the manor, darted into their midst and thrust a note into susan marsh's hand. the teachers were not present. susan grabbed the note, turned white, and thrust it into her pocket. star had seen the transaction. she had not intended to drive in the same wagonette with susan; she was looking forward to a peaceful time with louisa twining and some of her own special friends; but now she changed her mind. the wagonettes came up, and star pushed herself to the front. "i am monitress," she said. "will you, so-and-so, and so-and-so"--she mentioned a few names--"get into that wagonette?" the wagonette was quickly filled. it drove a little way down the avenue to wait for the others. the next wagonette came up and also received its load of girls, and finally the fourth and last arrived at the door. "come along, susan," said star. "what! are you going to drive with us?" said susan. "yes," answered star. susan got in, looking sulky. soon the wagonette was filled. star jumped in last, banged-to the door, and told the driver to start. they reached their destination, a beautiful ruin about eight miles away, examined it to their hearts' content, had tea in a cottage near, where such things were supplied to visitors, and finally were about to start home, when star went up to susan and touched her on the arm. "read your note," she said brusquely. "my note?" "don't be silly, susan; i saw ellen give it to you. read it; i want to know the contents." "what possible affair is it of yours?" "i mean to make it my affair," said star. "you had best be quick about it. you know i disobeyed yesterday." "you did, and a fine row you'll get into. oh, you immaculate girl, whom miss peacock thinks so much of! i can open her eyes." "i can explain things to miss peacock," said star; "but that is neither here nor there. i am prepared to suffer if i have done wrong. but, susan, my wrong-doing won't put yours right. you are in a very serious position at this moment, and you had best let me help you." "help me?" said susan. "do you mean to?" "i will tell you presently. read your letter." "i--i won't." "very well. perhaps you will when i have spoken a little longer. yesterday evening i went home to tea with florence dixie." "you did? well, i never!" "i had tea with her, and she walked back with me part of the way. i asked her to tell me if you had sent her a note. she denied it." "of course she did, for i never sent her any note." "just wait a while, susan, before you tell any more lies. well, she and i were talking together, when those interesting friends of yours, the mannerses, came up. they immediately spoke to florence about the note that she had received. i can bring them forward as witnesses if necessary. that's about all for the present. maud did deliver a note to florence dixie, and i can bring witnesses to prove it." susan turned very white. "really, star," she said, "i can't imagine why i have put up with your interference." but though she said the words in a defiant tone, she was a good deal shaken and very much alarmed. "you surely don't want to make mischief now," she said--"now, when _she_ is better." "susan," said star very earnestly, "do you know why i was so awfully wretched last night?" "were you wretched? i didn't know it." "oh, susan! i could not sleep; i could not rest. i felt--oh, i can't tell you how i felt! but it was--it was almost like hell, susan. and do you know what made me most unhappy of all? it was the feeling that if she died, you, susan marsh, would be in a way responsible for her death." "oh, how dare you say so?" "yes, susan, you would. i am not angry now; i am just awfully miserable when i think about you. can't you repent? can't you be sorry? can't you thank god for being so good to you? oh, if--_if_ she had died!" star's melodious voice, and star's lovely eyes, and the pathos on the sweet little face were not altogether lost upon susan marsh at that moment. without daring to tell herself so, she too had been in terror the night before; but the difference between her state and star's was this--that star was sorry because she had done wrong, while susan was sorry because she feared punishment. "read your note," said star, suddenly altering her tone and speaking with asperity; and susan, contrary to her own inclination, took the note out of her pocket and read emma manners' words. when she had read the letter she handed it to star. "it seems to concern you too, star," she said. "i suppose it is the best way out. i have to explain to the girls. they have been looking forward to something very special on wednesday. i must tell them that on account of christian's illness our special feast has been deferred. you will come, of course." "i! what do you take me for?" "but you will, star; you will have to. there's no other way to keep the thing dark." "do you suppose i mean to keep it dark?" "star! star!" "do you suppose it for a single moment, susan?" miss forest's voice was calling to the girls: "come, girls; no more loitering. we must get back into our wagonettes and drive home or we shall be overtaken by the dusk." star and susan were obliged to postpone any further conversation, but as susan was getting into the wagonette she turned to her companion. "we must fight this thing out," susan said. "where, and when?" "in my room to-night," said star without a moment's hesitation. susan nodded and got into the wagonette. star was relieved to find that she could get into another of the carriages on her way home. she sat near her special friend angela goring. "why, star, you don't look a bit well," said angela. "angel," replied star, "if you were going through exactly what i am at this present moment you would not look well either." "you are bothered by that horrid girl." "i am very nearly as bad myself," said star. "you?" "yes; i behaved abominably to that poor child. yesterday i did wrong too." "oh! don't talk quite so loud; the others will hear." "then let us whisper together, angel, for i must relieve my mind." "well, what is it?" "in order to discover something about susan, i disobeyed miss peacock. she said none of us were to leave the grounds. she sent a message. i heard the message delivered, and i went right away--right through the garden, and down by the left walk, and out onto the high-road. i was away for some hours, and i even had tea with one of the town girls. think of that! i got home rather late. of course no one noticed." "we were all so anxious last night. but why did you do it? i must say you puzzle me a good deal." "i did it; and what is more, i am not sorry. what i am sorry about is that i ever took that cruel attitude towards dear christian." angela did not say anything more for a few minutes, but from time to time, as they were driving back through the sweet spring air, she glanced at star. star's piquant face was pale; her lashes were lowered; she looked intensely sad. suddenly angela bent towards her. "can i help you?" she asked. "is there anything i can do? you know how much i love you." "and i love you, angel." she thought for a minute. "i may want a witness to-night," she said suddenly. "i know jessie won't be too particular. this is a sort of half-holiday, and we may do things we are not allowed to do on ordinary occasions. i have asked susan marsh to meet me in my room to-night. will you be present also?" "certainly, if it will help you." "it may help me. it may be wiser. i'll let susan know, and she can bring a friend of hers. of course, she ought to bring maud thompson. i'll take care that she does. now, let's talk of other matters, angel. at ten o'clock to-night in my bedroom." angela squeezed star's hand. another girl joined in the conversation, and to hear star's merry laugh during the remainder of that drive, one could scarcely guess what a weight rested on her heart. chapter xxix rose to the rescue at an early hour on the following day there was an arrival at penwerne manor. an old woman got out of a cab and entered the house. she was accompanied by a pretty-looking little girl. this old woman was met in the hall by jessie. "that's right," said jessie. "i'm so glad you have come. christian is much better, and i am sure your face and the face of this dear little girl will be the best possible restorative." the woman gave a very respectful courtesy. "mind your manners, rosy," she said to the small girl, who dropped a courtesy in exact imitation of her relative; and then they went upstairs. girls peeped out at them from behind doors not quite tightly shut, and soon it was repeated all over the school that christian mitford's old nurse had come to look after her, and that a wonderfully pretty little girl of the name of rosy had come to help nurse and to cheer christian up. nurse and rosy had a room all to themselves in the white corridor, and christian smiled when she saw old nurse, and allowed rosy to kiss her once or twice. but she was still too weak to speak much; or indeed, for that matter, to think much. rosy was very much admired by all the different girls in the school, and when a day or two had passed, and christian still made rapid progress towards recovery, rose was invited downstairs. "may we have that dear little girl to play with us?" asked star, going into miss peacock's room. "yes, dear; certainly. rose is an old friend of christian's, and seems quite a nice child. i believe her great-aunt wants to have her trained as a lady's-maid. of course, i know nothing about her, except that she belongs to that particularly nice, intelligent old woman." "well, a little talk with her will do us no harm," said star; "and perhaps," she added, "it will do rose no harm either. she is quite as good as some of the girls in this school, and very much prettier." "by the way, star," continued the head-mistress, "in the great relief that christian's recovery has caused, i have not forgotten certain things that have taken place in this school. there are one or two matters which need inquiry into. your cheeks, my dear, are a great deal paler than they ought to be; and your eyes, which used to be so happy that it was a perfect pleasure to look at them, are now more sad than i like to see them. in short, there are matters which need to be inquired into and cleared up." "oh, there are--indeed there are!" interrupted star, and she burst into tears. "my dear stella, have you made up your mind to confide in me or not?" "i don't want to be hard on the others; and then i've not been a bit good myself," said star. "if i could tell you everything without making the others dreadfully wretched, i would; but please don't question me." "the time for questions is past, star. i just gave you that one last chance. i mean now to act on my own initiative." star left the room. she stood for a minute outside in the great hall. this was a half-holiday, and it happened to be a pouring wet day. the rain seemed absolutely to stream from the skies; you could scarcely see out of the window-panes. the booming of the billows outside made a melancholy sound. the girls stood about in groups, as was their custom during a wet half-holiday. they grumbled at the weather. who does not? suddenly, however, the appearance of little rose latimer coming rather timidly downstairs, wearing a dark-blue frock and a white pinafore, caused a diversion. "who is that pretty little girl?" said angela goring. star, who had been standing looking as dismal as a girl could, now brightened up. "oh, that is little rosy latimer, a great friend of christian's. do let us ask her to come and sit with us for a bit. she seems so nice, and is so pretty." "i don't know her," said angela. "you go and speak to her, star." a lot of girls were standing about in the hall. amongst them were susan marsh and her satellite, maud thompson. maud now hardly ever left susan's side. susan's face was gloomy, and at the same time obstinate. she looked resolved to go on at any cost, following her own sweet will. maud was thoroughly subdued and wretched. the advent of rose--a person with fresh interests--on the scene therefore caused an agreeable diversion. rose was quite ignorant of the manners of schools and the ways of schoolgirls--at least those of the upper classes were unknown to her--but she was being rigidly brought up by a most aristocratic old woman, for no one could have more aristocratic ideas than nurse. she dropped her courtesy, therefore, as she had been told to do, and smiled with great pleasure when star invited her to come into their midst. "i am very much obliged, miss," said rose, and then she dropped another courtesy. "you needn't courtesy, rose," said star. "it's a wet day, and we are all glad to have some sort of diversion. please, sit there, won't you?--there, in that easy-chair near the ingle-nook--and tell us all you can about christian." "what is your name, child?" interrupted susan marsh. rose looked full at susan, and then knit her pretty brows. "i am rosy latimer," she said. "and my great-aunt is mrs. peach; and mrs. peach is, or was nurse to miss christian." "how is christian, rose? is she really getting much better?" asked star. "yes, miss; i think so. she takes her meals, and she sleeps regular; and my aunt says a sick person can't be expected to do more." "you must have been very glad indeed when you were asked to come here in such a hurry--weren't you?" asked maud thompson. "we were surprised when we heard that christian's old nurse and a little girl were coming to look after her. we thought christian must be very ill indeed. you were glad, weren't you?" "well, miss," said rose, who, notwithstanding her good manners, was by no means troubled with shyness, "my aunt and me, we were more frightened than glad. we didn't know whatever could be up. and aunt, she cried most of the way down. she cried very near as much as she did that time when me and miss christian ran away together." "oh, you ran away together!" said angela. star suddenly laid her hand on angela's knee as though to repress her. susan's face turned crimson and then deadly white. rose, however, did not notice the effect of her words. "ah, we had a time!" she said, and her eyes grew full of the recollection. suddenly she burst into a laugh. "what is the matter?" said star. "how strange you look! why do you laugh?" "i am only thinking of miss christian and me, and the face of the woman who looked in at the window. oh, weren't miss christian brave!" one or two of the other girls had come up, and they were now looking intently at rose. star, whose first impulse it was to prevent rose from saying anything, to keep her silent at any cost, changed her mind. "one moment," she said. she sprang to her feet. rose immediately sprang to hers and dropped a courtesy. "thank you, young ladies," said rose, "but maybe i ought to be going up to my great-aunt, mrs. peach. she says i'm never to forget my manners. i'm never to forget that i'm only a poor little girl, and that you are grand young ladies." "i am sure you are a very nice little girl," said angela; "and a very interesting little girl, too. star, is she to go? what do you think?" "i want to see miss peacock," said star. "stay here, rose, till i come back. and, rose, don't tell any of that interesting, lovely story until i return." star ran along the corridor. she stood for a moment as she approached miss peacock's door. "they wouldn't tell what they knew, and they wouldn't let christian tell, and perhaps rose is going to put everything right," she thought. "and she could give us a really unvarnished statement. she could tell us the very, very truth." she burst open the door of miss peacock's room. she did not even wait to knock. miss peacock was sitting at her desk. she turned in some amazement when star, her eyes shining with excitement, came towards her. "miss peacock," said the little girl, "you know, don't you, why christian didn't come to school with the rest of us? i mean, why she came a whole fortnight later." "i don't understand you, star." "oh, please don't be angry! you know the whole truth, don't you?" "certainly." "and you resolved that it should not be told to the school?" "i thought it best. i do not understand you." "it wasn't best," said star. "it is wrong of me to say so to you, but i must say it. it was not best. do you know the little girl who has come with christian's nurse to stay here?" "a child of the name of rose latimer. she is a great friend of christian's; i sent for her on purpose. why?" "miss peacock, you gave us leave to have little rose to play with us. she is in the midst of a group of girls now in the great hall, and she began of her own accord to tell that story that you didn't wish christian to tell. may she go on with it, and will you come and listen?" miss peacock jumped up suddenly. she looked hard at star just for a minute; then she took her hand. "come," she said. they entered the hall. at the sight of the head-mistress the girls arose and dropped a courtesy, and looked more or less unlike themselves, and more or less on their good behavior. even angela, one of the best of girls, remained standing in a respectful attitude, and had she been asked to speak, her words would not have come with perfect ease. but to rose miss peacock was only just a beautiful lady without any other significance whatever. rose dropped a courtesy, in the correct manner taught her by mrs. peach, and looked quite easy in her mind. miss peacock said: "will someone place me a chair?" one of the girls rushed to get one. then miss peacock sat in the midst of the group, with star at her left hand and angela at her right, and she managed so to sit that she should be opposite susan marsh. then she turned to rose. "we are in the mood for a story," she said. "we have all told each other our stories, and our stories are somewhat stale. they relate to school life and school adventures. now we want a story outside of school life. who will tell us one?" "i could if you wished it," said rose. "we do wish it, rose. will you?" "it is miss christian's story," continued rose. "go upstairs, rose--very, very quietly--and ask christian--very, very quietly--if you may tell her story to us. if she says no, you will not tell it us; but if she says yes, then you will tell us the wonderful tale." "oh! it is wonderful and beautiful and everything else," said rose. "yes, i will go upstairs." she ran quickly up the broad stairs, went down the white corridor, and softly opened the door of the room where nurse sat by her darling's bedside. christian, well enough now to be wide awake and smiling, was listening to words from the old woman's lips. "now, what is it, rosy?" said mrs. peach. "what's the matter with you? you do seemed pleased about something." "it's a message i have to give to miss christian," said rose; "and it's from the lady they call miss peacock." "my word!" cried nurse. "why, she's the lady of the school; she's the head-mistress. she's a sort of queen here." "what is the message?" asked christian. "it's nothing as is to bother miss christian," said nurse. "there! you have made her cheeks quite pink. what is it, rose? out with it." "they want a story," said rose. "there are a lot of 'em downstairs. some of 'em are beautiful-looking young ladies, and others dull and stupid enough. there's one i didn't like a bit. i wouldn't know her if i had to live in the slums all my life. they all want a story just like any other girls. they know their own stories, they say, and they want a new one from me; and i thought i'd tell 'em the story of me and you, miss christian. and miss peacock, the grand head-mistress, the queen of the place, said: "'yes, you can tell that story if christian wishes it. if christian says yes, you may tell it; but if christian says no, you must not tell it. you go up,' says miss peacock, 'and ask her now, and do it very quietly.' "so do you wish it, miss christian? shall i tell the story? it'll hearten 'em up a good bit; it's real prime, that tale is." "yes," answered christian. she turned away as she said the words, but there was a smile in her eyes. "yes, it will be the way out, and a great, great relief. tell them, rose, and god bless you!" rose rushed from the room, and the next minute appeared again in the hall. "miss christian looked sadly weak, but she'd like me to tell the tale. she thinks it a very, very good plan," said rose. "then sit here, rose," said miss peacock. "sit just here, facing me, and tell your story exactly in your own way, just in the words you like best to use. i am sure we shall all listen with great attention." "if you please, miss peacock," said susan marsh, "need i stay? i have a letter to write to my father; and my exercise for miss forest is not half finished." "yes, you must stay, susan," replied miss peacock. "but my exercise----" "never mind that now. stay. begin, please, rose." "that's the girl i wouldn't know if i had to live in the slums," thought rose to herself. she turned her right shoulder towards susan, and spoke with her face direct towards miss peacock. "it's a wonderful, wonderful story," she began; "and maybe there's a spice of naughtiness in it--i don't say there aint. but there's something else in it too, and that's a deal of courage. and when it come home to the heart of miss christian to know that it was wrong, no one repented more sincere than she did. and here's the tale; and she wishes me to tell it her own dear self." so rosy began, and not knowing all the events that had taken place in the school, nor the circumstances that made that story so great a tragedy, she told it with a certain directness that made it extremely effective. she told it very simply, too, so that the youngest and smallest girl present could understand every word. as for the story itself, it was very thrilling, beginning with christian's experience and the old attic in the russell square house, going on to the confab that the two girls had when they lay side by side in christian's snug bed, and proceeding right up to the time when the two terrified children pushed the old bedstead against the door that could not be locked. that crucial and awful moment when mrs. carter tried to get in at the window, and christian boldly kept her back, was described with such vivid realism by rosy that one or two of the young listeners screamed. rosy also gave with much effect a description of the scene when the children found themselves in the carpenter's yard. their terror, their despair when christian discovered that her little bag of money was gone, brought down the house, so to speak. rosy herself did ample justice to the theme. she was quite dramatic in her actions. at times she could not keep still, but jumped to her feet and pointed out imaginary people with her fingers. sometimes tears rolled down her own cheeks, and sighs and almost sobs broke the narrative. but when she spoke of the carpenter and his mother, the tea the old woman gave the tired and sad young girls, and the kindness of the carpenter when he walked with them all the way to russell square, miss peacock and her pupils were so much affected that they longed to start a subscription on the spot for the worthy pair. at last the whole story was told, even to that part when miss thompson and nurse rejoiced and christian was safe back again in the old home. as miss peacock listened, she wondered much why she had never before thought of bringing rose on the scene and making her tell the story. "thank you, rose latimer," she said when a dead silence followed all the excitement. "you have told your tale beautifully; and although it is a tale of wrong-doing, there are fine points in it, and those who truly repent will always be forgiven by god. now, will you kindly go upstairs to mrs. peach? don't disturb christian if she is asleep; but if she is awake, say to her that we all send to her our dear love. am i right in giving that message, girls? we all, knowing the worst, send our dear love to christian mitford." "certainly--we send our dearest love," answered two or three. even maud thompson had given a message. susan alone was silent. "she aint worthy to be even a slum girl," thought rosy to herself. "yes, ma'am," she continued--and she dropped a most beautiful courtesy, one that even mrs. peach would have approved of--"i will take your message, ma'am. and i'm much obliged to all you young ladies. it has given me a great deal of pleasure to tell the story of my darling miss christian and myself." then rose trotted upstairs. she entered christian's room. christian had little spots of color on each cheek, and her eyes were perhaps a trifle too bright. "they all took to it most kindly, miss christian," said innocent rose. "i told them everything from beginning to end, and i think i done it well; and miss peacock said i was to tell you that they _all_ sent you their dearest love. but there's one girl down there that i can't abide anyhow. i don't think she sent any message, for i don't believe for a single moment she knows even the meaning of love. but the others did. they're precious fond of you, miss christian. i doubt if it was worth running away from a school of this sort." "oh, it was not, rosy! oh, rosy, i am _so_ relieved! they know it all--everything?" "every single crumb of it, miss christian, darling; and i did enjoy myself in the telling it." chapter xxx a prisoner in the tool-house when the story was over and the narrator had gone away, miss peacock also rose. she stood and faced the girls. "there are here," she said, "about twenty in all. the school contains forty girls, reckoning christian herself. christian cannot appear, but i should like the remaining nineteen to come to me. star lestrange, my dear, will you fetch the entire school into the hall?" star rushed off. once again susan looked as though she wished to escape, but to do so she would have had to pass miss peacock, and she knew, therefore, that her effort would be useless. star was not long in collecting the school, and when they trooped in miss peacock remarked: "stand round me, my dears; i have something to say." they collected in a group. miss peacock stood at one side of a wide circle. "my dear girls, you all know how ill christian mitford has been. you know that from the brink of the grave she has been restored to us. had she died, i can scarcely tell you what a fearful blow would have fallen upon us all. not only should we have lost a dear pupil and a brave, delightful schoolfellow, but there are circumstances attending her illness which would have made her death a very terrible matter to us all; for i wish to tell you now, girls, that there are some in this school who have not acted kindly to christian mitford. her illness has been largely caused by trouble of mind. she came here expecting sisterly affection, but from the very first she was treated with suspicion. there are some--i mention no names as yet--who behaved with cruelty to christian. had she died, those girls could scarcely know a happy moment again. my dear pupils, it has doubtless been whispered amongst you that christian mitford came to this school surrounded by a little mystery. that is perfectly true. something happened just before she came to school which delayed her coming for a fortnight. full particulars of the occurrence were sent to me, and i thought--unwisely, as it turns out--that it would be best not to acquaint the school with what, it appeared to me, did not concern it. as things happened, i was wrong. there are girls now standing before me who discovered this mystery--i do not know how--and who made a handle of it; who blackmailed christian, a girl who had never before been at school, and made her thoroughly wretched. what they did i am not prepared to say, for a great deal has been concealed from me. but i wish to declare to you all who are now present that the mystery is cleared up. twenty of you have heard christian's story, and each of you twenty girls is permitted to tell that story to the girls who were not present to hear rose latimer's narrative. i shall have more to say by and by. for the present my wish is that every girl in penwerne manor should know the true reason why christian mitford was a fortnight late in coming to school." miss peacock hastily made her way through the group of girls. as she passed susan marsh she stopped and looked at her. "you can now prepare your exercise," she said, "and do as you think fit. i think your wings are clipped," she added. "i shall have more to say by and by." never before had miss peacock looked so dignified, and never before had she said such bitter words as those now addressed to susan marsh. she left the room and went straight to her private sitting room. there she rang her bell, and told the servant to ask miss jessie jones to come to her at once. jessie appeared within a few minutes. jessie had not been present in the hall when rose latimer told christian's story. the minute she entered the room, however, she saw by lavinia peacock's face that something had happened. "now, jessie," she said, "you and i have got to clear the horizon. next we have got to rid the school of a most pernicious influence. we have got to get to the very bottom of a base conspiracy. my dear friend, this is not the hour for soft measures or kindness; this is the hour when true kindness must be severe. my school would cease to be the penwerne manor i like to think of if certain girls who have acted in a most disgraceful manner are not suitably punished." "oh, lavinia! i see you are very angry, and i don't really understand," said jessie. "of course, it is fearfully hard about our poor dear christian; but she is better now. god has saved her life." "but if she had died, should you or i ever have held up our heads again? no, my dear. i will tell you what has happened. you know little rose latimer?" "yes; mrs. peach's little grand-niece--a bright, nice little girl." "little rose, quite innocently, began to tell the story of christian's adventure before she came to us to several of the girls assembled in the hall." "but oh! you didn't let her----" "let me speak. star lestrange--i am really fond of dear star--came to me at once and asked if i would be present. i went into the hall. to little rose i am just an ordinary lady; she was not shy of me. i sent her up to ask christian's permission. the story was told. it has now been spread throughout the entire school. some of the girls are very miserable; one girl is very angry. jessie, i take shame to myself for not having allowed the child's adventure to be known from the very first. but now, dear, i must, as i said, take measures. sit down, jessie, and tell me the exact truth with regard to the secret society in the midst of the school called the penwernians." jessie's face turned very pink; tears filled her eyes. "come, jessie; i must know everything. i gave you liberty in the past; i give you none now. tell me everything." what little jessie told she did not know, nor how she told it, nor exactly what she said; but miss peacock listened calmly. after a time, going close to the little speaker, she held her hand. when this happened jessie felt that she could tell better than ever. courage came into her; she became certain that miss peacock was right. she had always adored lavinia peacock; now she knew that harshness in the real sense of the word could never come from those kind lips, nor proceed from that true and generous heart. at last jessie stopped. "i did wrong," said miss peacock when all was finished. "i love you, jessie; you are the greatest comfort i have, but a mistress in my position ought to know everything. in the future, dear, we will have just as happy a time--nay, a happier time--at penwerne manor, but we can never allow things to come to such a pass that an innocent girl can be willfully tortured by her companions." "and what about to-night?" said jessie. "at what hour is the feast generally held?" "they go to bed, you know, lavinia, apparently just as usual, and then they slip away from their rooms. oh, you needn't think, dear, that i go to bed on those nights. not i! i wait about, just hovering near, to be certain that there is no real mischief; and when they are snug in their beds, then i retire." "you, dear little, patient jessie! you have tried to act the guardian angel; but the post is too much for you, dear. to-night i, lavinia peacock, will take your place." "oh, lavinia, they would be so frightened--so terrified--if they saw you!" "it is your impression that there is going to be a very special feast to-night?" "i did think so, but i am not so sure now. some provisions were got in, but for the last two or three days all has been quiet." "well, dear, to-night i will mount guard. say nothing to anyone." jessie soon afterwards left miss peacock's presence. she felt so upset, so terrified, at what she considered her betrayal of her darling girl that she had to retire to her own room, and did not even appear at tea time. the girls, however, were all too excited to notice her absence. christian was the heroine of the hour. next to christian, rose took the highest place. wasn't she pretty? and wasn't she stanch and true and faithful? and wasn't the adventure itself quite a grand sort of affair? and wasn't christian really brave? "to think that i should ever have doubted her bravery!" thought star. as star thought in a very penitent way of her own conduct in the past, a hand was put on her arm, and looking up, she saw maud thompson by her side. "star, i do wish you'd come and speak to her. she's in the bowling-alley, and she's crying just like anything. she wouldn't come in to tea. she says she hates everyone in the place." "do you mean susan?" asked star. "yes--oh, yes! do come to her! i think she respects you if she respects anyone." star thought for a minute. the rain was still pouring. to get to the bowling-alley she had to run down a sidewalk which was dripping with moisture. turning her skirt over her head, she ran quickly, followed by maud. susan was standing where an eave from a neighboring tool-house slightly protected her. her handkerchief was pressed to her eyes; she was bending forward. as star drew near she heard her very audible sobs. "are you sorry, susan?" said star. "i sorry? no. go away; don't torture me." "oh, susan! i said i would bring her, and you said you'd listen to her. here's the key of the tool-house. let's open it and go in. we must say something to comfort you, susan. i am an awfully bad girl, but i am sorry for you." "no one is sorry for me," said susan. "oh, yes, someone is. i am, and so is star." "if she is going to repent, i'll try and be sorry," said star. "are you going to repent, susan?" "no, i can't--i won't. there's nothing to be done. i must go to those girls to-night, and you must come with me. i am crying so because everyone has forsaken me, for maud doesn't wish to come." "of course you are not going, maud," said star. "you will just stay with me; yes, you will." "no, no; i won't forsake her," said maud. "everyone else has. i told you, susy, that if you went i would go with you; but i wish you'd give it up. we are certain to be discovered." "i suppose we are," said susan, suddenly stopping her tears and looking full at star. "i suppose you have told. i always knew you would." "i have not told yet." "then, you mean to tell?" "yes, i mean to tell." "you are certain?" "yes, i am; i do mean to tell." "when?" "before you go out at midnight and disgrace us all. i shall certainly tell." "then you won't, so there!" said susan. she suddenly pushed star forward. there was a step, down which the little girl tumbled. before she could recover herself she was firmly locked into the tool-house, and susan and maud were running back to the house. "it was awfully mean of you," began maud. "i didn't think, bad as you are, that you'd do it." "yes, i did it. you have promised to come with me. she is locked safely in now. she may scream as loud as she can and not a soul will hear her there. i will let her out again if i come back. perhaps i'll never come back. perhaps i'll stay with florence dixie. i could write from there to my father. i couldn't get into greater disgrace." "then if you stay i'll stay too," said maud "but, oh, susan, i do think you are wicked!" "never mind now; come upstairs. let us keep out of the way of all the others. we'll have one last fling--one last bit of fun." a few of the penwernians were scattered about. one of them came up and spoke to susan. "do you know where star is? i want her." "i am not her keeper," said susan roughly. "but what about our feast to-night? are we to have it?" "i was going to speak about that," said susan, recollecting herself. "as that precious christian mitford, about whom everyone is making such a ridiculous fuss, is still very ill, we had best not risk matters. the feast is therefore postponed for another week." "i am glad," said the girl. "i begin to hate the penwernians." susan walked away. "now then, maud, buck up and be cheerful once again. we will account for star's absence, and you and i will have a jolly time." chapter xxxi midnight at the greengrocer's the rest of the day passed quietly. miss peacock, contrary to her usual custom, appeared at late supper that evening. she took the head of the longest table, and looked from one girl to another. she noticed that some were missing, amongst them susan marsh, maud thompson, and star lestrange. she was not surprised at the absence of the first two, but the absence of the younger girl caused her heart to sink even lower than it already was in her breast. the meal proceeded and came to an end; prayers followed, and then the greater number of the girls dispersed for the night. it was about an hour later when miss peacock, accompanied by jessie jones, went upstairs. they entered the white corridor very softly. the door of christian's room was a little ajar, and miss peacock was afraid of waking her. by and by she came to the foot of the stairs. all was quiet. "i am sure they are not there to-night. i am sure we needn't go any farther," whispered jessie. "i think we will go upstairs to make all safe," was miss peacock's answer. so jessie, who knew the trick of the door, pushed it open, and without anyone seeing, they went up the creaking stairs and entered the wide front attic. here all looked peaceful and orderly. miss jessie gave a sigh of relief. "now, jessie," said miss peacock, "will you go downstairs? first of all, go straight to star lestrange's room and ascertain if she is safe in bed; then proceed to maud thompson's room and do likewise; and, finally, visit susan marsh's bedroom. be quick, dear; and if by any chance you find that those three beds, or any of them, are vacant, go to my room and fetch me my cloak and galoshes. be as quick as you can." "yes," said miss jessie. she nodded her head. she felt terribly anxious. she even felt a fierce desire, unlike herself, to follow the trail, to bring the culprits to justice. yes, if they were wicked enough to do what miss peacock feared they had done, they ought to be punished. things must have come to a sad pass when jessie could feel like this, but those certainly were her sensations. lavinia was angry--dear, noble lavinia. whatever she said and did must be right. while jessie was absent miss peacock walked round the attic. in one corner she saw a basket filled with provisions. they none of them looked too fresh, but they were certainly there. near the open window lay a piece of paper. miss peacock picked it up, and saw that it was an untidy-looking envelope, with "john manners, greengrocer, high street, tregellick," printed across the top. why should this envelope lie on the floor of the front attic? she put it carefully into her pocket. then thrusting her head out of the window, she saw a ladder, which reached from the ground beneath to within a few feet of the window. miss peacock panted slightly when she saw this; her eyes grew bright and hard, and her face looked unlike itself. just at that moment jessie entered. she was carrying miss peacock's warm cloak on her arm, and miss peacock's galoshes were in her hand. she herself wore a bonnet and cloak. "they're none of them in their beds," she said. "i don't know what we are to do." "we will follow them," said miss peacock. "follow them? how?" "they have left the attic by means of a ladder. look out, jessie; you will see for yourself. it is not necessary for us to use it; we will go by the front door. jessie, think how severely lavinia peacock ought to blame herself for making this thing possible." "no, no, lavinia; it is my fault. you will turn me from the school after this." "i blame myself alone," said miss peacock. the ladies left the attic, ran downstairs, and let themselves out. "they have certainly gone; but where?" said jessie. "i found one of our greengrocer's envelopes on the floor. it may give me a necessary clew," said miss peacock. "anyhow, we will visit john manners this evening. come along, jessie. we shall reach the house in a quarter of an hour." how the rain did pour! how tired jessie felt! how fast lavinia walked! how stern was her face when jessie caught a glimpse of it! by and by they reached the high street. the place appeared at first to be in total darkness, but presently they perceived a cheerful light streaming through closed blinds. "i was right; they are here," said miss peacock. "oh, jessie! to think of star--to think that she could have done it. it cuts me to the heart." poor jessie had not a word to say. she adored star, but even she could not defend her favorite at this moment. miss peacock suddenly pulled the bell. presently manners appeared. he had been smoking in his kitchen. he thought it great fun to have the young ladies enjoying themselves with his daughters upstairs. but when he saw miss peacock he stepped back and grew very pale. he had certainly not reckoned on the head-mistress of the school appearing in person to demand her runaway scholars. "some of my young ladies are in your parlor," said miss peacock. "i am obliged to you, manners, for treating them so hospitably, but the hour is too late for my girls to be from home. i have come to take them back. with your permission i will go upstairs at once." "shall i announce you, ma'am?" "you will oblige me by remaining where you are. come, jessie." they pushed the little greengrocer aside and went upstairs. the fun was at its height. miss peacock softly opened the door. she saw florence dixie holding her sides in convulsions of laughter, while susan, lying back on an old chesterfield sofa, was clapping her hands at the attempts of the two manners girls to dance an irish jig. to attempt to describe the confusion, the amazement--nay, the despair--which filled the faces of two of those girls when they caught sight of miss peacock would be impossible. maud gave a bitter cry and fell on her knees. a cloud came over susan's face; she stood upright, her hands hanging to her side. "the fun is up, girls," she said, turning to her companions. "let's put out the lights and go home." making hysterical efforts, she tried to blow out one of the candles; but miss peacock came up and took her hand. "come, susan; recollect yourself. don't give yourself away more than you can help. come home with me this moment." "florence, you said you'd keep me," said susan. "oh, but i can't, really!" said florence, who showed the despicable character of the true coward when difficulties arose. "father would be wild if he knew. please, miss peacock, understand that father knows nothing of this. it was just a little fun of our own. i wouldn't shelter one of your girls against your will for the world." "oh, you're a nice friend," said susan--"a friend to be proud of!" "i'll take you home, susan. and, maud, you can follow with jessie." miss peacock's face was calm and cold; her words came out like morsels of ice. she went downstairs at once. susan put her hat on as fast as she could, and miss peacock herself stooped to tie her cloak round her neck. then they started on their way home. maud and jessie, absolutely speechless, followed them. once maud tried to say something, but she was interrupted. "don't, don't! it is best to let her have her own way now. oh! you have cut her to the heart, and she is such a dear--so noble." the moment they reached the hall miss peacock said: "there are three girls absent from their bedrooms to-night. two of them are here, but where is stella lestrange?" then maud fell on her knees. "i don't expect you to forgive us. we----" "don't screen me," said susan. "if i am bad, i am at least not ashamed of it. i was determined to have that frolic. i hate your close ways. i hate everything about this school. i want to leave to-morrow; i can't go away too soon. but i was determined to have my frolic to-night. star was equally determined that we should not go, so i locked her up in the tool-house. maud was forced to help me, but she didn't approve. you needn't scold maud. when she is with good girls she will be all right; and i shall leave in the morning." "where did you say you locked star up?" said miss peacock. "in the tool-house." "thank you." chapter xxxii the triumph of goodness early--very early--on the following morning, those girls who happened to be awake might have heard sounds of wheels on the gravel sweep without the house. they might have heard hurried steps going down the corridor; and had they chosen to rise from their beds and look out of the windows, they would have perceived a lady and a girl get into a cab. they would have seen some boxes being put on the roof, and the cab, with the lady and girl inside, leaving the place. when school did resume its ordinary functions on that unhappy day miss forest read prayers; and when prayers were over she said quite simply: "miss peacock will not attend school to-day; and susan marsh has left. matters will be explained to you to-morrow." so the day dragged on. star's face was very white; her head ached. she had taken a bad cold in the tool-house. as to maud, she shrank into a corner. "of course, i shall be dismissed. i can't expect miss peacock to keep me any longer," was her thought. late that evening miss peacock returned; and on the next morning, when prayers were over, she asked the girls to remain. "i have a few words to say," she remarked. "i have a very painful matter to explain to you all. girls, one of your schoolfellows has, i grieve to say, been removed from the school. i am most unhappy about her, but in justice to you all i could not allow her to remain here any longer. not only did she sin against the rules of rectitude and honor and honesty in this place; not only did she willfully disobey my wishes; but she did not repent. i do not think, girls, that there is any sin a schoolgirl could commit that i should not forgive if repentance followed. but this unhappy girl has not repented. i was obliged to take her back to her father, and a terrible and most bitter scene we had together. what he will do with susan in the future i do not know; but as far as penwerne manor is concerned, she has left it forever." a cry came from the lips of mary hillary. "her companions," continued miss peacock, looking full at maud and also at mary, "will understand that underhand ways are to be altogether abolished in the school; and because the penwernian society has led to evil and not good, i wish to announce here that there will no longer be such a society in the school. as to you, maud thompson, have you anything to say? if so, come forward. you at least, i know, have repented." "oh, i have! i am bitterly sorry. i know that you won't keep me. i can't expect it. i was led by susan. i feared her; i was so weak. i loved star all the time, but i didn't dare to go with her, for i dreaded susan marsh so much. i was deceitful; i did what susan told me. i have nothing more to say, except that i am bitterly sorry. i suppose," added maud, the tears streaming from her eyes, "that you will send me from the school." "what is the wish of the majority?" asked miss peacock, glancing round at the other girls. "oh, miss peacock," said louisa twining, "if she is sorry----" "yes, louisa?" "if she is sorry," repeated louisa, "and would consent for a little bit to be my friend--i mean, if she would sit in my boudoir, and i might get her to share some of the interests in my life--would you?" louisa's delicate face changed from white to pink, and then from pink to white again. "would i what, louisa dear?" "would you give her a chance?" "louisa!" said maud. she ran up to her side. she fell on her knees, clasped louisa's long, white hand, and kissed it with passion. "will you be responsible for her, louisa?" "maud, look at me," said louisa. maud did look up. "i think i may safely say that i will." "then she shall be your child for the remainder of this term. you will teach her what things are right, what things are honorable, what things are of good repute. and now, girls, let us turn from an unpleasant subject. it is necessary sometimes to weed what is really bad out of life, out of school. i would have kept susan marsh had it been possible. as it was impossible, those who believe in prayer will, i hope, pray for her that god may show her the error of her ways. she has gone, and with her the misery, the discomfort, the prying, the unkindness, which such conduct as hers could not but promote. christian mitford is out of danger, and i hope that ere long she will be among you again. she has been far from good; but who is perfect? if she did wrong, star, there were moments when you might have been more generous, kinder, less inclined to think well of yourself. each of you girls who stand before me must own to weaknesses as well as to virtues. i think, my dear girls, that the virtues do preponderate; and i think in the future there will be no school in the whole of england that will be a happier one than penwerne manor." +-------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's note: | | | |obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | +-------------------------------------------------+ huckleberry finn by mark twain part . chapter vi. well, pretty soon the old man was up and around again, and then he went for judge thatcher in the courts to make him give up that money, and he went for me, too, for not stopping school. he catched me a couple of times and thrashed me, but i went to school just the same, and dodged him or outrun him most of the time. i didn't want to go to school much before, but i reckoned i'd go now to spite pap. that law trial was a slow business--appeared like they warn't ever going to get started on it; so every now and then i'd borrow two or three dollars off of the judge for him, to keep from getting a cowhiding. every time he got money he got drunk; and every time he got drunk he raised cain around town; and every time he raised cain he got jailed. he was just suited--this kind of thing was right in his line. he got to hanging around the widow's too much and so she told him at last that if he didn't quit using around there she would make trouble for him. well, wasn't he mad? he said he would show who was huck finn's boss. so he watched out for me one day in the spring, and catched me, and took me up the river about three mile in a skiff, and crossed over to the illinois shore where it was woody and there warn't no houses but an old log hut in a place where the timber was so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't know where it was. he kept me with him all the time, and i never got a chance to run off. we lived in that old cabin, and he always locked the door and put the key under his head nights. he had a gun which he had stole, i reckon, and we fished and hunted, and that was what we lived on. every little while he locked me in and went down to the store, three miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for whisky, and fetched it home and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me. the widow she found out where i was by and by, and she sent a man over to try to get hold of me; but pap drove him off with the gun, and it warn't long after that till i was used to being where i was, and liked it--all but the cowhide part. it was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smoking and fishing, and no books nor study. two months or more run along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and i didn't see how i'd ever got to like it so well at the widow's, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regular, and be forever bothering over a book, and have old miss watson pecking at you all the time. i didn't want to go back no more. i had stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but now i took to it again because pap hadn't no objections. it was pretty good times up in the woods there, take it all around. but by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and i couldn't stand it. i was all over welts. he got to going away so much, too, and locking me in. once he locked me in and was gone three days. it was dreadful lonesome. i judged he had got drowned, and i wasn't ever going to get out any more. i was scared. i made up my mind i would fix up some way to leave there. i had tried to get out of that cabin many a time, but i couldn't find no way. there warn't a window to it big enough for a dog to get through. i couldn't get up the chimbly; it was too narrow. the door was thick, solid oak slabs. pap was pretty careful not to leave a knife or anything in the cabin when he was away; i reckon i had hunted the place over as much as a hundred times; well, i was most all the time at it, because it was about the only way to put in the time. but this time i found something at last; i found an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in between a rafter and the clapboards of the roof. i greased it up and went to work. there was an old horse-blanket nailed against the logs at the far end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from blowing through the chinks and putting the candle out. i got under the table and raised the blanket, and went to work to saw a section of the big bottom log out--big enough to let me through. well, it was a good long job, but i was getting towards the end of it when i heard pap's gun in the woods. i got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in. pap warn't in a good humor--so he was his natural self. he said he was down town, and everything was going wrong. his lawyer said he reckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long time, and judge thatcher knowed how to do it. and he said people allowed there'd be another trial to get me away from him and give me to the widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win this time. this shook me up considerable, because i didn't want to go back to the widow's any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they called it. then the old man got to cussing, and cussed everything and everybody he could think of, and then cussed them all over again to make sure he hadn't skipped any, and after that he polished off with a kind of a general cuss all round, including a considerable parcel of people which he didn't know the names of, and so called them what's-his-name when he got to them, and went right along with his cussing. he said he would like to see the widow get me. he said he would watch out, and if they tried to come any such game on him he knowed of a place six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they might hunt till they dropped and they couldn't find me. that made me pretty uneasy again, but only for a minute; i reckoned i wouldn't stay on hand till he got that chance. the old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had got. there was a fifty-pound sack of corn meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition, and a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two newspapers for wadding, besides some tow. i toted up a load, and went back and set down on the bow of the skiff to rest. i thought it all over, and i reckoned i would walk off with the gun and some lines, and take to the woods when i run away. i guessed i wouldn't stay in one place, but just tramp right across the country, mostly night times, and hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that the old man nor the widow couldn't ever find me any more. i judged i would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and i reckoned he would. i got so full of it i didn't notice how long i was staying till the old man hollered and asked me whether i was asleep or drownded. i got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark. while i was cooking supper the old man took a swig or two and got sort of warmed up, and went to ripping again. he had been drunk over in town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to look at. a body would a thought he was adam--he was just all mud. whenever his liquor begun to work he most always went for the govment, this time he says: "call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like. here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from him--a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense of raising. yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin' for him and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. and they call that govment! that ain't all, nuther. the law backs that old judge thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property. here's what the law does: the law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. they call that govment! a man can't get his rights in a govment like this. sometimes i've a mighty notion to just leave the country for good and all. yes, and i told 'em so; i told old thatcher so to his face. lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what i said. says i, for two cents i'd leave the blamed country and never come a-near it agin. them's the very words. i says look at my hat--if you call it a hat--but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's below my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o' stove-pipe. look at it, says i --such a hat for me to wear--one of the wealthiest men in this town if i could git my rights. "oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. why, looky here. there was a free nigger there from ohio--a mulatter, most as white as a white man. he had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane--the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the state. and what do you think? they said he was a p'fessor in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. and that ain't the wust. they said he could vote when he was at home. well, that let me out. thinks i, what is the country a-coming to? it was 'lection day, and i was just about to go and vote myself if i warn't too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a state in this country where they'd let that nigger vote, i drawed out. i says i'll never vote agin. them's the very words i said; they all heard me; and the country may rot for all me --i'll never vote agin as long as i live. and to see the cool way of that nigger--why, he wouldn't a give me the road if i hadn't shoved him out o' the way. i says to the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction and sold?--that's what i want to know. and what do you reckon they said? why, they said he couldn't be sold till he'd been in the state six months, and he hadn't been there that long yet. there, now--that's a specimen. they call that a govment that can't sell a free nigger till he's been in the state six months. here's a govment that calls itself a govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet's got to set stock-still for six whole months before it can take a hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger, and--" pap was agoing on so he never noticed where his old limber legs was taking him to, so he went head over heels over the tub of salt pork and barked both shins, and the rest of his speech was all the hottest kind of language--mostly hove at the nigger and the govment, though he give the tub some, too, all along, here and there. he hopped around the cabin considerable, first on one leg and then on the other, holding first one shin and then the other one, and at last he let out with his left foot all of a sudden and fetched the tub a rattling kick. but it warn't good judgment, because that was the boot that had a couple of his toes leaking out of the front end of it; so now he raised a howl that fairly made a body's hair raise, and down he went in the dirt, and rolled there, and held his toes; and the cussing he done then laid over anything he had ever done previous. he said so his own self afterwards. he had heard old sowberry hagan in his best days, and he said it laid over him, too; but i reckon that was sort of piling it on, maybe. after supper pap took the jug, and said he had enough whisky there for two drunks and one delirium tremens. that was always his word. i judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then i would steal the key, or saw myself out, one or t'other. he drank and drank, and tumbled down on his blankets by and by; but luck didn't run my way. he didn't go sound asleep, but was uneasy. he groaned and moaned and thrashed around this way and that for a long time. at last i got so sleepy i couldn't keep my eyes open all i could do, and so before i knowed what i was about i was sound asleep, and the candle burning. i don't know how long i was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful scream and i was up. there was pap looking wild, and skipping around every which way and yelling about snakes. he said they was crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek--but i couldn't see no snakes. he started and run round and round the cabin, hollering "take him off! take him off! he's biting me on the neck!" i never see a man look so wild in the eyes. pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him. he wore out by and by, and laid still a while, moaning. then he laid stiller, and didn't make a sound. i could hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. he was laying over by the corner. by and by he raised up part way and listened, with his head to one side. he says, very low: "tramp--tramp--tramp; that's the dead; tramp--tramp--tramp; they're coming after me; but i won't go. oh, they're here! don't touch me --don't! hands off--they're cold; let go. oh, let a poor devil alone!" then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. i could hear him through the blanket. by and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me. he chased me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, calling me the angel of death, and saying he would kill me, and then i couldn't come for him no more. i begged, and told him i was only huck; but he laughed such a screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. once when i turned short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders, and i thought i was gone; but i slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself. pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. he put his knife under him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who. so he dozed off pretty soon. by and by i got the old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as i could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun. i slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded, then i laid it across the turnip barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. and how slow and still the time did drag along. chapter vii. "git up! what you 'bout?" i opened my eyes and looked around, trying to make out where i was. it was after sun-up, and i had been sound asleep. pap was standing over me looking sour and sick, too. he says: "what you doin' with this gun?" i judged he didn't know nothing about what he had been doing, so i says: "somebody tried to get in, so i was laying for him." "why didn't you roust me out?" "well, i tried to, but i couldn't; i couldn't budge you." "well, all right. don't stand there palavering all day, but out with you and see if there's a fish on the lines for breakfast. i'll be along in a minute." he unlocked the door, and i cleared out up the river-bank. i noticed some pieces of limbs and such things floating down, and a sprinkling of bark; so i knowed the river had begun to rise. i reckoned i would have great times now if i was over at the town. the june rise used to be always luck for me; because as soon as that rise begins here comes cordwood floating down, and pieces of log rafts--sometimes a dozen logs together; so all you have to do is to catch them and sell them to the wood-yards and the sawmill. i went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and t'other one out for what the rise might fetch along. well, all at once here comes a canoe; just a beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long, riding high like a duck. i shot head-first off of the bank like a frog, clothes and all on, and struck out for the canoe. i just expected there'd be somebody laying down in it, because people often done that to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out most to it they'd raise up and laugh at him. but it warn't so this time. it was a drift-canoe sure enough, and i clumb in and paddled her ashore. thinks i, the old man will be glad when he sees this--she's worth ten dollars. but when i got to shore pap wasn't in sight yet, and as i was running her into a little creek like a gully, all hung over with vines and willows, i struck another idea: i judged i'd hide her good, and then, 'stead of taking to the woods when i run off, i'd go down the river about fifty mile and camp in one place for good, and not have such a rough time tramping on foot. it was pretty close to the shanty, and i thought i heard the old man coming all the time; but i got her hid; and then i out and looked around a bunch of willows, and there was the old man down the path a piece just drawing a bead on a bird with his gun. so he hadn't seen anything. when he got along i was hard at it taking up a "trot" line. he abused me a little for being so slow; but i told him i fell in the river, and that was what made me so long. i knowed he would see i was wet, and then he would be asking questions. we got five catfish off the lines and went home. while we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both of us being about wore out, i got to thinking that if i could fix up some way to keep pap and the widow from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer thing than trusting to luck to get far enough off before they missed me; you see, all kinds of things might happen. well, i didn't see no way for a while, but by and by pap raised up a minute to drink another barrel of water, and he says: "another time a man comes a-prowling round here you roust me out, you hear? that man warn't here for no good. i'd a shot him. next time you roust me out, you hear?" then he dropped down and went to sleep again; but what he had been saying give me the very idea i wanted. i says to myself, i can fix it now so nobody won't think of following me. about twelve o'clock we turned out and went along up the bank. the river was coming up pretty fast, and lots of driftwood going by on the rise. by and by along comes part of a log raft--nine logs fast together. we went out with the skiff and towed it ashore. then we had dinner. anybody but pap would a waited and seen the day through, so as to catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's style. nine logs was enough for one time; he must shove right over to town and sell. so he locked me in and took the skiff, and started off towing the raft about half-past three. i judged he wouldn't come back that night. i waited till i reckoned he had got a good start; then i out with my saw, and went to work on that log again. before he was t'other side of the river i was out of the hole; him and his raft was just a speck on the water away off yonder. i took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was hid, and shoved the vines and branches apart and put it in; then i done the same with the side of bacon; then the whisky-jug. i took all the coffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition; i took the wadding; i took the bucket and gourd; i took a dipper and a tin cup, and my old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. i took fish-lines and matches and other things--everything that was worth a cent. i cleaned out the place. i wanted an axe, but there wasn't any, only the one out at the woodpile, and i knowed why i was going to leave that. i fetched out the gun, and now i was done. i had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of the hole and dragging out so many things. so i fixed that as good as i could from the outside by scattering dust on the place, which covered up the smoothness and the sawdust. then i fixed the piece of log back into its place, and put two rocks under it and one against it to hold it there, for it was bent up at that place and didn't quite touch ground. if you stood four or five foot away and didn't know it was sawed, you wouldn't never notice it; and besides, this was the back of the cabin, and it warn't likely anybody would go fooling around there. it was all grass clear to the canoe, so i hadn't left a track. i followed around to see. i stood on the bank and looked out over the river. all safe. so i took the gun and went up a piece into the woods, and was hunting around for some birds when i see a wild pig; hogs soon went wild in them bottoms after they had got away from the prairie farms. i shot this fellow and took him into camp. i took the axe and smashed in the door. i beat it and hacked it considerable a-doing it. i fetched the pig in, and took him back nearly to the table and hacked into his throat with the axe, and laid him down on the ground to bleed; i say ground because it was ground--hard packed, and no boards. well, next i took an old sack and put a lot of big rocks in it--all i could drag--and i started it from the pig, and dragged it to the door and through the woods down to the river and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight. you could easy see that something had been dragged over the ground. i did wish tom sawyer was there; i knowed he would take an interest in this kind of business, and throw in the fancy touches. nobody could spread himself like tom sawyer in such a thing as that. well, last i pulled out some of my hair, and blooded the axe good, and stuck it on the back side, and slung the axe in the corner. then i took up the pig and held him to my breast with my jacket (so he couldn't drip) till i got a good piece below the house and then dumped him into the river. now i thought of something else. so i went and got the bag of meal and my old saw out of the canoe, and fetched them to the house. i took the bag to where it used to stand, and ripped a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for there warn't no knives and forks on the place --pap done everything with his clasp-knife about the cooking. then i carried the sack about a hundred yards across the grass and through the willows east of the house, to a shallow lake that was five mile wide and full of rushes--and ducks too, you might say, in the season. there was a slough or a creek leading out of it on the other side that went miles away, i don't know where, but it didn't go to the river. the meal sifted out and made a little track all the way to the lake. i dropped pap's whetstone there too, so as to look like it had been done by accident. then i tied up the rip in the meal sack with a string, so it wouldn't leak no more, and took it and my saw to the canoe again. it was about dark now; so i dropped the canoe down the river under some willows that hung over the bank, and waited for the moon to rise. i made fast to a willow; then i took a bite to eat, and by and by laid down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan. i says to myself, they'll follow the track of that sackful of rocks to the shore and then drag the river for me. and they'll follow that meal track to the lake and go browsing down the creek that leads out of it to find the robbers that killed me and took the things. they won't ever hunt the river for anything but my dead carcass. they'll soon get tired of that, and won't bother no more about me. all right; i can stop anywhere i want to. jackson's island is good enough for me; i know that island pretty well, and nobody ever comes there. and then i can paddle over to town nights, and slink around and pick up things i want. jackson's island's the place. i was pretty tired, and the first thing i knowed i was asleep. when i woke up i didn't know where i was for a minute. i set up and looked around, a little scared. then i remembered. the river looked miles and miles across. the moon was so bright i could a counted the drift logs that went a-slipping along, black and still, hundreds of yards out from shore. everything was dead quiet, and it looked late, and smelt late. you know what i mean--i don't know the words to put it in. i took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and start when i heard a sound away over the water. i listened. pretty soon i made it out. it was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from oars working in rowlocks when it's a still night. i peeped out through the willow branches, and there it was--a skiff, away across the water. i couldn't tell how many was in it. it kept a-coming, and when it was abreast of me i see there warn't but one man in it. think's i, maybe it's pap, though i warn't expecting him. he dropped below me with the current, and by and by he came a-swinging up shore in the easy water, and he went by so close i could a reached out the gun and touched him. well, it was pap, sure enough--and sober, too, by the way he laid his oars. i didn't lose no time. the next minute i was a-spinning down stream soft but quick in the shade of the bank. i made two mile and a half, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more towards the middle of the river, because pretty soon i would be passing the ferry landing, and people might see me and hail me. i got out amongst the driftwood, and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her float. i laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke out of my pipe, looking away into the sky; not a cloud in it. the sky looks ever so deep when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; i never knowed it before. and how far a body can hear on the water such nights! i heard people talking at the ferry landing. i heard what they said, too--every word of it. one man said it was getting towards the long days and the short nights now. t'other one said this warn't one of the short ones, he reckoned--and then they laughed, and he said it over again, and they laughed again; then they waked up another fellow and told him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he ripped out something brisk, and said let him alone. the first fellow said he 'lowed to tell it to his old woman--she would think it was pretty good; but he said that warn't nothing to some things he had said in his time. i heard one man say it was nearly three o'clock, and he hoped daylight wouldn't wait more than about a week longer. after that the talk got further and further away, and i couldn't make out the words any more; but i could hear the mumble, and now and then a laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off. i was away below the ferry now. i rose up, and there was jackson's island, about two mile and a half down stream, heavy timbered and standing up out of the middle of the river, big and dark and solid, like a steamboat without any lights. there warn't any signs of the bar at the head--it was all under water now. it didn't take me long to get there. i shot past the head at a ripping rate, the current was so swift, and then i got into the dead water and landed on the side towards the illinois shore. i run the canoe into a deep dent in the bank that i knowed about; i had to part the willow branches to get in; and when i made fast nobody could a seen the canoe from the outside. i went up and set down on a log at the head of the island, and looked out on the big river and the black driftwood and away over to the town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twinkling. a monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile up stream, coming along down, with a lantern in the middle of it. i watched it come creeping down, and when it was most abreast of where i stood i heard a man say, "stern oars, there! heave her head to stabboard!" i heard that just as plain as if the man was by my side. there was a little gray in the sky now; so i stepped into the woods, and laid down for a nap before breakfast. chapter viii. the sun was up so high when i waked that i judged it was after eight o'clock. i laid there in the grass and the cool shade thinking about things, and feeling rested and ruther comfortable and satisfied. i could see the sun out at one or two holes, but mostly it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there amongst them. there was freckled places on the ground where the light sifted down through the leaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little, showing there was a little breeze up there. a couple of squirrels set on a limb and jabbered at me very friendly. i was powerful lazy and comfortable--didn't want to get up and cook breakfast. well, i was dozing off again when i thinks i hears a deep sound of "boom!" away up the river. i rouses up, and rests on my elbow and listens; pretty soon i hears it again. i hopped up, and went and looked out at a hole in the leaves, and i see a bunch of smoke laying on the water a long ways up--about abreast the ferry. and there was the ferryboat full of people floating along down. i knowed what was the matter now. "boom!" i see the white smoke squirt out of the ferryboat's side. you see, they was firing cannon over the water, trying to make my carcass come to the top. i was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for me to start a fire, because they might see the smoke. so i set there and watched the cannon-smoke and listened to the boom. the river was a mile wide there, and it always looks pretty on a summer morning--so i was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if i only had a bite to eat. well, then i happened to think how they always put quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off, because they always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. so, says i, i'll keep a lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me i'll give them a show. i changed to the illinois edge of the island to see what luck i could have, and i warn't disappointed. a big double loaf come along, and i most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and she floated out further. of course i was where the current set in the closest to the shore--i knowed enough for that. but by and by along comes another one, and this time i won. i took out the plug and shook out the little dab of quicksilver, and set my teeth in. it was "baker's bread"--what the quality eat; none of your low-down corn-pone. i got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry-boat, and very well satisfied. and then something struck me. i says, now i reckon the widow or the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find me, and here it has gone and done it. so there ain't no doubt but there is something in that thing --that is, there's something in it when a body like the widow or the parson prays, but it don't work for me, and i reckon it don't work for only just the right kind. i lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went on watching. the ferryboat was floating with the current, and i allowed i'd have a chance to see who was aboard when she come along, because she would come in close, where the bread did. when she'd got pretty well along down towards me, i put out my pipe and went to where i fished out the bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a little open place. where the log forked i could peep through. by and by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they could a run out a plank and walked ashore. most everybody was on the boat. pap, and judge thatcher, and bessie thatcher, and jo harper, and tom sawyer, and his old aunt polly, and sid and mary, and plenty more. everybody was talking about the murder, but the captain broke in and says: "look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe he's washed ashore and got tangled amongst the brush at the water's edge. i hope so, anyway." "i didn't hope so. they all crowded up and leaned over the rails, nearly in my face, and kept still, watching with all their might. i could see them first-rate, but they couldn't see me. then the captain sung out: "stand away!" and the cannon let off such a blast right before me that it made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with the smoke, and i judged i was gone. if they'd a had some bullets in, i reckon they'd a got the corpse they was after. well, i see i warn't hurt, thanks to goodness. the boat floated on and went out of sight around the shoulder of the island. i could hear the booming now and then, further and further off, and by and by, after an hour, i didn't hear it no more. the island was three mile long. i judged they had got to the foot, and was giving it up. but they didn't yet a while. they turned around the foot of the island and started up the channel on the missouri side, under steam, and booming once in a while as they went. i crossed over to that side and watched them. when they got abreast the head of the island they quit shooting and dropped over to the missouri shore and went home to the town. i knowed i was all right now. nobody else would come a-hunting after me. i got my traps out of the canoe and made me a nice camp in the thick woods. i made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my things under so the rain couldn't get at them. i catched a catfish and haggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown i started my camp fire and had supper. then i set out a line to catch some fish for breakfast. when it was dark i set by my camp fire smoking, and feeling pretty well satisfied; but by and by it got sort of lonesome, and so i went and set on the bank and listened to the current swashing along, and counted the stars and drift logs and rafts that come down, and then went to bed; there ain't no better way to put in time when you are lonesome; you can't stay so, you soon get over it. and so for three days and nights. no difference--just the same thing. but the next day i went exploring around down through the island. i was boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and i wanted to know all about it; but mainly i wanted to put in the time. i found plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green summer grapes, and green razberries; and the green blackberries was just beginning to show. they would all come handy by and by, i judged. well, i went fooling along in the deep woods till i judged i warn't far from the foot of the island. i had my gun along, but i hadn't shot nothing; it was for protection; thought i would kill some game nigh home. about this time i mighty near stepped on a good-sized snake, and it went sliding off through the grass and flowers, and i after it, trying to get a shot at it. i clipped along, and all of a sudden i bounded right on to the ashes of a camp fire that was still smoking. my heart jumped up amongst my lungs. i never waited for to look further, but uncocked my gun and went sneaking back on my tiptoes as fast as ever i could. every now and then i stopped a second amongst the thick leaves and listened, but my breath come so hard i couldn't hear nothing else. i slunk along another piece further, then listened again; and so on, and so on. if i see a stump, i took it for a man; if i trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a person had cut one of my breaths in two and i only got half, and the short half, too. when i got to camp i warn't feeling very brash, there warn't much sand in my craw; but i says, this ain't no time to be fooling around. so i got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of sight, and i put out the fire and scattered the ashes around to look like an old last year's camp, and then clumb a tree. i reckon i was up in the tree two hours; but i didn't see nothing, i didn't hear nothing--i only thought i heard and seen as much as a thousand things. well, i couldn't stay up there forever; so at last i got down, but i kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the time. all i could get to eat was berries and what was left over from breakfast. by the time it was night i was pretty hungry. so when it was good and dark i slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled over to the illinois bank--about a quarter of a mile. i went out in the woods and cooked a supper, and i had about made up my mind i would stay there all night when i hear a plunkety-plunk, plunkety-plunk, and says to myself, horses coming; and next i hear people's voices. i got everything into the canoe as quick as i could, and then went creeping through the woods to see what i could find out. i hadn't got far when i hear a man say: "we better camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is about beat out. let's look around." i didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. i tied up in the old place, and reckoned i would sleep in the canoe. i didn't sleep much. i couldn't, somehow, for thinking. and every time i waked up i thought somebody had me by the neck. so the sleep didn't do me no good. by and by i says to myself, i can't live this way; i'm a-going to find out who it is that's here on the island with me; i'll find it out or bust. well, i felt better right off. so i took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and then let the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. the moon was shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as light as day. i poked along well on to an hour, everything still as rocks and sound asleep. well, by this time i was most down to the foot of the island. a little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as saying the night was about done. i give her a turn with the paddle and brung her nose to shore; then i got my gun and slipped out and into the edge of the woods. i sat down there on a log, and looked out through the leaves. i see the moon go off watch, and the darkness begin to blanket the river. but in a little while i see a pale streak over the treetops, and knowed the day was coming. so i took my gun and slipped off towards where i had run across that camp fire, stopping every minute or two to listen. but i hadn't no luck somehow; i couldn't seem to find the place. but by and by, sure enough, i catched a glimpse of fire away through the trees. i went for it, cautious and slow. by and by i was close enough to have a look, and there laid a man on the ground. it most give me the fantods. he had a blanket around his head, and his head was nearly in the fire. i set there behind a clump of bushes in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him steady. it was getting gray daylight now. pretty soon he gapped and stretched himself and hove off the blanket, and it was miss watson's jim! i bet i was glad to see him. i says: "hello, jim!" and skipped out. he bounced up and stared at me wild. then he drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together and says: "doan' hurt me--don't! i hain't ever done no harm to a ghos'. i alwuz liked dead people, en done all i could for 'em. you go en git in de river agin, whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to ole jim, 'at 'uz awluz yo' fren'." well, i warn't long making him understand i warn't dead. i was ever so glad to see jim. i warn't lonesome now. i told him i warn't afraid of him telling the people where i was. i talked along, but he only set there and looked at me; never said nothing. then i says: "it's good daylight. le's get breakfast. make up your camp fire good." "what's de use er makin' up de camp fire to cook strawbries en sich truck? but you got a gun, hain't you? den we kin git sumfn better den strawbries." "strawberries and such truck," i says. "is that what you live on?" "i couldn' git nuffn else," he says. "why, how long you been on the island, jim?" "i come heah de night arter you's killed." "what, all that time?" "yes--indeedy." "and ain't you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?" "no, sah--nuffn else." "well, you must be most starved, ain't you?" "i reck'n i could eat a hoss. i think i could. how long you ben on de islan'?" "since the night i got killed." "no! w'y, what has you lived on? but you got a gun. oh, yes, you got a gun. dat's good. now you kill sumfn en i'll make up de fire." so we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a grassy open place amongst the trees, i fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was all done with witchcraft. i catched a good big catfish, too, and jim cleaned him with his knife, and fried him. when breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking hot. jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most about starved. then when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied. by and by jim says: "but looky here, huck, who wuz it dat 'uz killed in dat shanty ef it warn't you?" then i told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. he said tom sawyer couldn't get up no better plan than what i had. then i says: "how do you come to be here, jim, and how'd you get here?" he looked pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for a minute. then he says: "maybe i better not tell." "why, jim?" "well, dey's reasons. but you wouldn' tell on me ef i uz to tell you, would you, huck?" "blamed if i would, jim." "well, i b'lieve you, huck. i--i run off." "jim!" "but mind, you said you wouldn' tell--you know you said you wouldn' tell, huck." "well, i did. i said i wouldn't, and i'll stick to it. honest injun, i will. people would call me a low-down abolitionist and despise me for keeping mum--but that don't make no difference. i ain't a-going to tell, and i ain't a-going back there, anyways. so, now, le's know all about it." "well, you see, it 'uz dis way. ole missus--dat's miss watson--she pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn' sell me down to orleans. but i noticed dey wuz a nigger trader roun' de place considable lately, en i begin to git oneasy. well, one night i creeps to de do' pooty late, en de do' warn't quite shet, en i hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to orleans, but she didn' want to, but she could git eight hund'd dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack o' money she couldn' resis'. de widder she try to git her to say she wouldn' do it, but i never waited to hear de res'. i lit out mighty quick, i tell you. "i tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a skift 'long de sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so i hid in de ole tumble-down cooper-shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go 'way. well, i wuz dah all night. dey wuz somebody roun' all de time. 'long 'bout six in de mawnin' skifts begin to go by, en 'bout eight er nine every skift dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap come over to de town en say you's killed. dese las' skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to see de place. sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so by de talk i got to know all 'bout de killin'. i 'uz powerful sorry you's killed, huck, but i ain't no mo' now. "i laid dah under de shavin's all day. i 'uz hungry, but i warn't afeard; bekase i knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to de camp-meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey knows i goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. de yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way. "well, when it come dark i tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. i'd made up my mine 'bout what i's agwyne to do. you see, ef i kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef i stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah i'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. so i says, a raff is what i's arter; it doan' make no track. "i see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so i wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half way acrost de river, en got in 'mongst de drift-wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder swum agin de current tell de raff come along. den i swum to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. it clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for a little while. so i clumb up en laid down on de planks. de men 'uz all 'way yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. de river wuz a-risin', en dey wuz a good current; so i reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' i'd be twenty-five mile down de river, en den i'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim asho', en take to de woods on de illinois side. "but i didn' have no luck. when we 'uz mos' down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de lantern, i see it warn't no use fer to wait, so i slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. well, i had a notion i could lan' mos' anywhers, but i couldn't--bank too bluff. i 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' i found' a good place. i went into de woods en jedged i wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. i had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so i 'uz all right." "and so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? why didn't you get mud-turkles?" "how you gwyne to git 'm? you can't slip up on um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? how could a body do it in de night? en i warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime." "well, that's so. you've had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?" "oh, yes. i knowed dey was arter you. i see um go by heah--watched um thoo de bushes." some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. he said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way when young birds done it. i was going to catch some of them, but jim wouldn't let me. he said it was death. he said his father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did. and jim said you mustn't count the things you are going to cook for dinner, because that would bring bad luck. the same if you shook the table-cloth after sundown. and he said if a man owned a beehive and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but i didn't believe that, because i had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me. i had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. jim knowed all kinds of signs. he said he knowed most everything. i said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so i asked him if there warn't any good-luck signs. he says: "mighty few--an' dey ain't no use to a body. what you want to know when good luck's a-comin' for? want to keep it off?" and he said: "ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's agwyne to be rich. well, dey's some use in a sign like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. you see, maybe you's got to be po' a long time fust, en so you might git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn' know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby." "have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, jim?" "what's de use to ax dat question? don't you see i has?" "well, are you rich?" "no, but i ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich agin. wunst i had foteen dollars, but i tuck to specalat'n', en got busted out." "what did you speculate in, jim?" "well, fust i tackled stock." "what kind of stock?" "why, live stock--cattle, you know. i put ten dollars in a cow. but i ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. de cow up 'n' died on my han's." "so you lost the ten dollars." "no, i didn't lose it all. i on'y los' 'bout nine of it. i sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents." "you had five dollars and ten cents left. did you speculate any more?" "yes. you know that one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old misto bradish? well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. well, all de niggers went in, but dey didn't have much. i wuz de on'y one dat had much. so i stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars, en i said 'f i didn' git it i'd start a bank mysef. well, o' course dat nigger want' to keep me out er de business, bekase he says dey warn't business 'nough for two banks, so he say i could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de en' er de year. "so i done it. den i reck'n'd i'd inves' de thirty-five dollars right off en keep things a-movin'. dey wuz a nigger name' bob, dat had ketched a wood-flat, en his marster didn' know it; en i bought it off'n him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars when de en' er de year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat dat night, en nex day de one-laigged nigger say de bank's busted. so dey didn' none uv us git no money." "what did you do with the ten cents, jim?" "well, i 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but i had a dream, en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name' balum--balum's ass dey call him for short; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. but he's lucky, dey say, en i see i warn't lucky. de dream say let balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for me. well, balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po' len' to de lord, en boun' to git his money back a hund'd times. so balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po', en laid low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it." "well, what did come of it, jim?" "nuffn never come of it. i couldn' manage to k'leck dat money no way; en balum he couldn'. i ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout i see de security. boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher says! ef i could git de ten cents back, i'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst." "well, it's all right anyway, jim, long as you're going to be rich again some time or other." "yes; en i's rich now, come to look at it. i owns mysef, en i's wuth eight hund'd dollars. i wisht i had de money, i wouldn' want no mo'." chapter ix. i wanted to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island that i'd found when i was exploring; so we started and soon got to it, because the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide. this place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot high. we had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so thick. we tramped and clumb around all over it, and by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side towards illinois. the cavern was as big as two or three rooms bunched together, and jim could stand up straight in it. it was cool in there. jim was for putting our traps in there right away, but i said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there all the time. jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island, and they would never find us without dogs. and, besides, he said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did i want the things to get wet? so we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there. then we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. we took some fish off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner. the door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on one side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good place to build a fire on. so we built it there and cooked dinner. we spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in there. we put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern. pretty soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was right about it. directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and i never see the wind blow so. it was one of these regular summer storms. it would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest--fst! it was as bright as glory, and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash, and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down stairs--where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know. "jim, this is nice," i says. "i wouldn't want to be nowhere else but here. pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread." "well, you wouldn't a ben here 'f it hadn't a ben for jim. you'd a ben down dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittn' mos' drownded, too; dat you would, honey. chickens knows when it's gwyne to rain, en so do de birds, chile." the river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till at last it was over the banks. the water was three or four foot deep on the island in the low places and on the illinois bottom. on that side it was a good many miles wide, but on the missouri side it was the same old distance across--a half a mile--because the missouri shore was just a wall of high bluffs. daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe, it was mighty cool and shady in the deep woods, even if the sun was blazing outside. we went winding in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes the vines hung so thick we had to back away and go some other way. well, on every old broken-down tree you could see rabbits and snakes and such things; and when the island had been overflowed a day or two they got so tame, on account of being hungry, that you could paddle right up and put your hand on them if you wanted to; but not the snakes and turtles--they would slide off in the water. the ridge our cavern was in was full of them. we could a had pets enough if we'd wanted them. one night we catched a little section of a lumber raft--nice pine planks. it was twelve foot wide and about fifteen or sixteen foot long, and the top stood above water six or seven inches--a solid, level floor. we could see saw-logs go by in the daylight sometimes, but we let them go; we didn't show ourselves in daylight. another night when we was up at the head of the island, just before daylight, here comes a frame-house down, on the west side. she was a two-story, and tilted over considerable. we paddled out and got aboard --clumb in at an upstairs window. but it was too dark to see yet, so we made the canoe fast and set in her to wait for daylight. the light begun to come before we got to the foot of the island. then we looked in at the window. we could make out a bed, and a table, and two old chairs, and lots of things around about on the floor, and there was clothes hanging against the wall. there was something laying on the floor in the far corner that looked like a man. so jim says: "hello, you!" but it didn't budge. so i hollered again, and then jim says: "de man ain't asleep--he's dead. you hold still--i'll go en see." he went, and bent down and looked, and says: "it's a dead man. yes, indeedy; naked, too. he's ben shot in de back. i reck'n he's ben dead two er three days. come in, huck, but doan' look at his face--it's too gashly." i didn't look at him at all. jim throwed some old rags over him, but he needn't done it; i didn't want to see him. there was heaps of old greasy cards scattered around over the floor, and old whisky bottles, and a couple of masks made out of black cloth; and all over the walls was the ignorantest kind of words and pictures made with charcoal. there was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some women's underclothes hanging against the wall, and some men's clothing, too. we put the lot into the canoe--it might come good. there was a boy's old speckled straw hat on the floor; i took that, too. and there was a bottle that had had milk in it, and it had a rag stopper for a baby to suck. we would a took the bottle, but it was broke. there was a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the hinges broke. they stood open, but there warn't nothing left in them that was any account. the way things was scattered about we reckoned the people left in a hurry, and warn't fixed so as to carry off most of their stuff. we got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife without any handle, and a bran-new barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all such truck in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fishline as thick as my little finger with some monstrous hooks on it, and a roll of buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine that didn't have no label on them; and just as we was leaving i found a tolerable good curry-comb, and jim he found a ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. the straps was broke off of it, but, barring that, it was a good enough leg, though it was too long for me and not long enough for jim, and we couldn't find the other one, though we hunted all around. and so, take it all around, we made a good haul. when we was ready to shove off we was a quarter of a mile below the island, and it was pretty broad day; so i made jim lay down in the canoe and cover up with the quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was a nigger a good ways off. i paddled over to the illinois shore, and drifted down most a half a mile doing it. i crept up the dead water under the bank, and hadn't no accidents and didn't see nobody. we got home all safe. chapter x. after breakfast i wanted to talk about the dead man and guess out how he come to be killed, but jim didn't want to. he said it would fetch bad luck; and besides, he said, he might come and ha'nt us; he said a man that warn't buried was more likely to go a-ha'nting around than one that was planted and comfortable. that sounded pretty reasonable, so i didn't say no more; but i couldn't keep from studying over it and wishing i knowed who shot the man, and what they done it for. we rummaged the clothes we'd got, and found eight dollars in silver sewed up in the lining of an old blanket overcoat. jim said he reckoned the people in that house stole the coat, because if they'd a knowed the money was there they wouldn't a left it. i said i reckoned they killed him, too; but jim didn't want to talk about that. i says: "now you think it's bad luck; but what did you say when i fetched in the snake-skin that i found on the top of the ridge day before yesterday? you said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch a snake-skin with my hands. well, here's your bad luck! we've raked in all this truck and eight dollars besides. i wish we could have some bad luck like this every day, jim." "never you mind, honey, never you mind. don't you git too peart. it's a-comin'. mind i tell you, it's a-comin'." it did come, too. it was a tuesday that we had that talk. well, after dinner friday we was laying around in the grass at the upper end of the ridge, and got out of tobacco. i went to the cavern to get some, and found a rattlesnake in there. i killed him, and curled him up on the foot of jim's blanket, ever so natural, thinking there'd be some fun when jim found him there. well, by night i forgot all about the snake, and when jim flung himself down on the blanket while i struck a light the snake's mate was there, and bit him. he jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light showed was the varmint curled up and ready for another spring. i laid him out in a second with a stick, and jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun to pour it down. he was barefooted, and the snake bit him right on the heel. that all comes of my being such a fool as to not remember that wherever you leave a dead snake its mate always comes there and curls around it. jim told me to chop off the snake's head and throw it away, and then skin the body and roast a piece of it. i done it, and he eat it and said it would help cure him. he made me take off the rattles and tie them around his wrist, too. he said that that would help. then i slid out quiet and throwed the snakes clear away amongst the bushes; for i warn't going to let jim find out it was all my fault, not if i could help it. jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out of his head and pitched around and yelled; but every time he come to himself he went to sucking at the jug again. his foot swelled up pretty big, and so did his leg; but by and by the drunk begun to come, and so i judged he was all right; but i'd druther been bit with a snake than pap's whisky. jim was laid up for four days and nights. then the swelling was all gone and he was around again. i made up my mind i wouldn't ever take a-holt of a snake-skin again with my hands, now that i see what had come of it. jim said he reckoned i would believe him next time. and he said that handling a snake-skin was such awful bad luck that maybe we hadn't got to the end of it yet. he said he druther see the new moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times than take up a snake-skin in his hand. well, i was getting to feel that way myself, though i've always reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. old hank bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower, and spread himself out so that he was just a kind of a layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but i didn't see it. pap told me. but anyway it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool. well, the days went along, and the river went down between its banks again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds. we couldn't handle him, of course; he would a flung us into illinois. we just set there and watched him rip and tear around till he drownded. we found a brass button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. we split the ball open with the hatchet, and there was a spool in it. jim said he'd had it there a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. it was as big a fish as was ever catched in the mississippi, i reckon. jim said he hadn't ever seen a bigger one. he would a been worth a good deal over at the village. they peddle out such a fish as that by the pound in the market-house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white as snow and makes a good fry. next morning i said it was getting slow and dull, and i wanted to get a stirring up some way. i said i reckoned i would slip over the river and find out what was going on. jim liked that notion; but he said i must go in the dark and look sharp. then he studied it over and said, couldn't i put on some of them old things and dress up like a girl? that was a good notion, too. so we shortened up one of the calico gowns, and i turned up my trouser-legs to my knees and got into it. jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. i put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove-pipe. jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. i practiced around all day to get the hang of the things, and by and by i could do pretty well in them, only jim said i didn't walk like a girl; and he said i must quit pulling up my gown to get at my britches-pocket. i took notice, and done better. i started up the illinois shore in the canoe just after dark. i started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. i tied up and started along the bank. there was a light burning in a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long time, and i wondered who had took up quarters there. i slipped up and peeped in at the window. there was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. i didn't know her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that town that i didn't know. now this was lucky, because i was weakening; i was getting afraid i had come; people might know my voice and find me out. but if this woman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all i wanted to know; so i knocked at the door, and made up my mind i wouldn't forget i was a girl. transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id= dapaaaaqaaj a hero of romance [illustration: "perhaps you don't know who i am?" (_page_ .)] _a hero of romance_.] [_frontispiece_. a hero of romance by richard marsh _author of "the datchel diamonds," "the crime and the criminal_" _etc., etc_. illustrated by harold copping london ward, lock & co. limited new york and melbourne contents chap. i punishment at mecklemburg house. ii tutor baiting. iii at mother huffham's. iv a little drive. v an evening at washington villa. vi afterwards. vii the return of the wanderer. viii preparing for flight. ix the start. x another little drive. xi the original badger. xii a "doss" house. xiii in petersham park. xiv in trouble. xv out of the frying-pan into the fire. xvi the captain's room. xvii two men and a boy. xviii the boat-train. xix to jersey with a thief. xx exit captain tom. xxi the disadvantages of not being able to speak french. xxii the end of the journey. xxiii the land of golden dreams. chapter i punishment at mecklemburg house it was about as miserable an afternoon as one could wish to see. may is the poet's month, but there was nothing of poetry about it then. true, it was early in the month, but february never boasted weather of more unmitigated misery. at half-past two it was so dark in the schoolroom of mecklemburg house that one could with difficulty see to read. outside a cold drizzling rain was falling, a shrieking east wind was rattling the windows in their frames, and a sullen haze was hiding the leaden sky. as unsatisfactory a specimen of the english spring as one could very well desire. to make things better, it was half-holiday. not that it much mattered to the young gentleman who was seated in the schoolroom; it was no half-holiday to him. a rather tall lad, some fourteen years of age, broad and strongly built. this was bertie bailey. master bertie bailey was kept in; and the outrage this was to his feelings was altogether too deep for words. to keep him in!--no wonder the heavens frowned at such a crime! master bertie bailey was seated at a desk very much the worse for wear; a long desk, divided into separate compartments, which were intended to accommodate about a dozen boys. he had his arms upon the desk, his face rested on his hands, and he was staring into vacancy with an air of tragic gloom. at the raised desk which stood in front of him before the window was seated mr. till. mr. till's general bearing and demeanour was not much more jovial than master bertie bailey's; he was the tyrant usher who had kept the youthful victim in. it was with a certain grim pleasure that bertie realized that mr. till's enjoyment of the keeping-in was perhaps not much more than his own. mr. till had a newspaper in his hand, and had apparently read it through, advertisements and all. he looked over the top of it at bertie. "don't you think you'd better get on with those lines?" he asked. bertie had a hundred lines of _paradise lost_ to copy out. he paid no attention to the inquiry; he did not even give a sign that he was aware he had been spoken to, but continued to sit with his eyes fixed on nothing, with the same air of mysterious gloom. "how many have you done?" mr. till came down to see. there was a torn copy of milton's poems lying unopened beside bertie on the desk; in front of him a slate which was quite clean, and no visible signs of a slate pencil. mr. till took up the slate and carefully examined it for anything in the shape of lines. "so you haven't begun?--why haven't you begun?" no answer. "do you hear me? why haven't you begun?" without troubling himself to alter in any way his picturesque posture, bertie made reply,-- "i haven't got a slate pencil." "you haven't got a slate pencil? do you mean to tell me you've sat there for a whole hour without asking for a slate pencil? i'll soon get you one." mr. till went to his desk and produced a piece about as long as his little finger, placing it in front of bertie. bertie eyed it from a corner of his eye. "it isn't long enough." "don't tell me; take your arms off the desk and begin those lines at once." bertie very leisurely took his arms off the desk, and delicately lifted the piece of slate pencil. "it wants sharpening," he said. he began to look for his knife, standing up to facilitate the search. he hunted in all his pockets, turning out the contents of each upon the desk; finally, from the labyrinthine depths of some mysterious depository in the lining of his waistcoat, he produced the ghost of an ancient pocket-knife. as though they were fragile treasures of the most priceless kind, he carefully replaced the contents of his pockets. then, at his ease, he commenced to give an artistic point to his two-inch piece of slate pencil. mr. till, who had taken up a position in front of the window with his hands under his coat tails, watched the proceedings with anything but a gratified countenance. "that will do," he grimly remarked, when bertie had considerably reduced the original size of his piece of pencil by attempting to produce a point of needlelike fineness. bertie wiped his knife upon his coat-sleeve, removed the pencil dust with his pocket-handkerchief, and commenced to write. before he had got half-way through the first line a catastrophe occurred. "i've broken the point," he observed, looking up at mr. till with innocence in his eyes. "i tell you what it is," said mr. till, "if you don't let me have those lines in less than no time i'll double them. do you think i'm going to stop here all the afternoon?" "you needn't stop," suggested bertie, looking at his broken pencil. "i daresay!" snorted mr. till. the last time bertie had been left alone in the schoolroom on the occasion of his being kept in, he had perpetrated atrocities which had made mr. fletcher's hair stand up on end. mr. fletcher was the head-master. orders had been given that whenever bertie was punished, somebody was to stay in with him. "now, none of your nonsense; you go on with those lines." bertie bent his head with a studious air. a hideous scratching noise arose from the slate. mr. till clapped his hands to his ears. "stop that noise!" "if you please, sir, i think this pencil scratches," bertie said. considering that he was holding the pencil perpendicularly, the circumstance was not surprising. "take my advice, bailey, and do those lines." advancing with an inflamed countenance, mr. till stood over the offending pupil. resuming his studious posture bertie recommenced to write. he wrote two lines, not too quickly, nor by any means too well, but still he wrote them. in the middle of the third line another catastrophe happened. "please, sir, i've broken the pencil right in two." it was quite unnecessary for him to say so, the fact was self-evident, though with so small a piece it had required no slight exertion of strength and some dexterous manipulation to accomplish the feat. the answer was a box on the ears. "what did you do that for?" asked bertie, rising from his seat, and rubbing the injured portion with his hand. now it was distinctly understood that mecklemburg house collegiate school was conducted on the principle of no corporal punishment. it was a prominent line in the prospectus. "_under no circumstances is corporal punishment administered_." as a rule the principle was consistently carried out to its legitimate conclusion, not with the completest satisfaction to every one concerned. yet mr. fletcher, one of the most longsuffering of men, and by no means the strictest disciplinarian conceivable, had been more than once roused into administering short and sharp justice upon refractory youth. but what was excusable in mr. fletcher was not to be dreamed of in the philosophy of anybody else. for an assistant-master to strike a pupil was a crime; and mr. till knew it, and master bertie bailey knew it too. "what did you do that for?" repeated bertie. mr. till was crimson. he was not a hasty tempered man, but to-day master bertie bailey had been a burden greater than he could bear. yet he had very literally made a false stroke, and bertie was just the young gentleman to make the most of it. "if i were to tell mr. fletcher, he'd turn you off," said bertie. "he turned mr. knox off for hitting harry goddard." harry goddard's only relation was a maiden aunt, and this maiden aunt had peculiar opinions. in her opinion for anybody to lay a punitory hand upon her nephew was to commit an act tantamount to sacrilege. harry had had a little difference with emmett minor, and had borne away the blushing honours of a bloody nose and a black eye with considerable _sang-froid_; but when mr. knox resented his filling his best hat with half-melted snow by presenting him with two or three smart taps upon a particular portion of his frame, harry wrote home to his aunt to complain of the indignity he had endured. the result was that the ancient spinster at once removed the outraged youth from the sanguinary precincts of mecklemburg house, and that mr. fletcher dismissed the offending usher. as mr. till stood eyeing his refractory pupil, all this came forcibly to his mind. he knew something more than bertie did; he knew that when mr. fletcher, smarting at the loss of a remunerative pupil, had made short work of his unfortunate assistant, he had also taken advantage of the occasion to call mr. till into his magisterial presence, and to then and there inform him, that should he at any time lay his hand upon a pupil, under any provocation of any kind whatever, the result would be that mr. knox's case would be taken as a precedent, and he would be instantaneously dismissed. and now he had struck bertie, and here was bertie threatening to inform his employer of what he had done. "if you don't let me off these lines," said bertie, pursuing his advantage, "i'll tell mr. fletcher as soon as he comes home, you see if i don't." mecklemburg house collegiate school was not a scholastic establishment of any particular eminence; indeed, whatever eminence it possessed was of an unsavoury kind. nor was the position of its assistant-master at all an enviable one. there was the senior assistant, mr. till, and there was the junior, mr. shane. mr. till received £ a year, and mr. shane, a meek, melancholy youth of about seventeen, received sixteen. nor could the duties of either of these gentlemen be considered light. but if the pay was small and the work large, the intellectual qualifications required were by no means of an unreasonable kind. establishments of the mecklemburg house type are fading fast away. english private schools are improving every day. mr. till, conscious of his deficiencies, was only too well aware that if he lost his present situation, another would be hard to find. so, in the face of bertie's threat, he temporized. "i didn't mean to hit you! you shouldn't exasperate me!" bertie looked him up and down. if ever there was a young gentleman who needed the guidance of a strong hand, bertie was he. he was not a naturally bad boy,--few boys are,--but he hated work, and he scorned authority. all means were justifiable which enabled him to shirk the one and defy the other. he was just one of those boys who might become bad if he was not brought to realize the difference between good and evil, right and wrong. and it would need sharp discipline to bring him to such knowledge. he had a supreme contempt for mr. till. all the boys had. the only person they despised more was mr. shane. it was the natural result of the system pursued at mecklemburg house that the masters were looked upon by their pupils as quite unworthy their serious attention. bertie had had about a dozen impositions inflicted on him even within the last days. he had not done one of them. he never did do them. none of the boys ever did do impositions set them by anybody but mr. fletcher. they did not by any means make a point of doing his. "you will do me fifty lines," mr. till would say to half a dozen boys half a dozen times over in the course of a single morning. he spoke to the wind; no one ever did them, no one would have been so much surprised as mr. till if they had been done. on the present occasion mr. fletcher had gone to town on business, and mr. till had been left in supreme authority. bailey had signalised the occasion by behaving in a manner so outrageous that, if any semblance of authority was to be kept at all, it was altogether impossible to let him go scot free. as it was a half-holiday, mr. till had announced his unalterable resolve that bertie should copy out a hundred lines of _paradise lost_, and that he should not leave the schoolroom till he had written them. the result so far had not been satisfactory. he had been in the schoolroom considerably over an hour; he had written not quite three lines, and here he was telling mr. till that if he did not let him off entirely he would turn the tables on his master, and make matters unpleasant for him. it looked as though bertie would win the game. having taken the tutor's mental measure, he thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and coolly seated himself upon the desk. then he made the following observation,-- "i tell you what it is, old till, i don't care a snap for you." mr. till simply glared. he realized, not for the first time, that the pupil was too much for the master. bertie continued,-- "my father always pays regularly in advance. if i wrote home and told him that you'd hit me, for nothing"--bertie paused and fixed his stony gaze on mr. till--"he'd take me home at once, and then what would fletcher say?" bertie paused again, and pointed his thumb over his left shoulder. "he'd say, 'walk it'!" this was one way of putting it. though mr. bailey was by no means such a foolish person as his son suggested. he was very much unlike harry goddard's maiden aunt. had bertie written home any such letter of complaint--which, by the way, he was far too wise to have dreamed of doing--the consequences would in all probability have been the worse for him. the father knew his son too well to be caught with chaff. unfortunately, mr. till did not know this; he had mr. knox's fate before his eyes. "you'd better let me off these lines," pursued the inexorable bertie; "you'd better, you know." "you're an impudent young----" but bertie interrupted him. "now don't call me names, or i'll tell fletcher. he only said the other day that all his pupils were to be treated like young gentlemen." "young gentlemen!" snorted mr. till with scorn. "yes, young gentlemen. and don't you say we're not young gentlemen, because mecklemburg house collegiate school is an establishment for young gentlemen." and bertie grinned. "you'd better let me off these lines, you know." "you know i never hurt you; you shouldn't exasperate me; you're the most exasperating boy i ever knew; there's absolutely no bearing with your insolence! you'd try the patience of a saint." "i shouldn't be surprised if i was deaf for a week." he rubbed the injured part reflectively. "i've heard fletcher say it's dangerous to hit a fellow on the ear. you'd better let me off those lines, you know." mr. till, fidgeting about the room, suddenly burst into eloquence. "i wonder if it's any use appealing to your better nature? they say boys have a better nature, though i never remember to have seen much of it. what pleasure do you find in making my life unbearable? what have i ever done to you that you should try to drive me mad? are you naturally cruel? my sole aim is for your future welfare! your sole aim is for my ruin!" bertie continued to rub his ear. "bailey, if i let you off these lines will you promise to try to give me less cause to punish you?" "you can't help letting me off them anyhow," said bertie. "can't i? i suppose, young gentleman, you think you're getting the best of me?" "i know i am," said bertie. "oh, you know you are! then let me do my best to relieve you of that delusion. shall i tell you what you are doing? you're doing your best to sow the seeds of a shameful manhood and a wasted life; if you don't take care you'll reap the harvest by-and-by! it isn't only that you're refusing to avail yourself of opportunities of education, you're doing yourself much greater harm than that. you think you're getting the best of me; but shall i tell you what's getting the best of you?--a mean, cruel, cowardly spirit, which will be to you a sterner master than ever i have been. you think yourself brave because you jeer and mock at me, and flout all my commands! why, my boy, were i better circumstanced, and free to act upon my own discretion, you would tremble in your shoes! the very fact of your permitting yourself to threaten me, on account of punishment which you know was perfectly well deserved, shows what sort of boy you are!" bertie's only comment was, "you had better let me off those lines." "i will let you off the lines!" bertie sprang to his feet, and began to put slate and book away with abundance of clatter. "stay one moment--leave those things alone! it is not the punishment which degrades a man, bailey; it is the thing of which he has been guilty. i cannot degrade you; it is yourself you are degrading. take my advice, turn over a new leaf, learn not to take advantage of a man whose only offence is that he does his best to do you good; don't think yourself brave because you venture to attack where defence is impossible; and, above all, don't pride yourself on taking your pigs to a bad market. you are so foolish as to think yourself clever because you throw away all your best chances, and get absolutely worse than nothing in return. bailey, get your bible, and look for a verse which runs something like this, 'cast your bread upon the waters, and you shall find it after many days.' now you can go." and bertie went; and, being in the safe neighbourhood of the door, he put his fingers to his nose; by which mr. till knew, not for the first time, that he had spoken in vain. chapter ii tutor baiting there were twenty-seven boys at mecklemburg house; and even this small number bade fair to decrease. last term there had been thirty-three; the term before there had been forty. within quite recent years considerably over a hundred boys had occupied the draughty dormitories of the great old red-brick house. but the glory was departing. it is odd how little our fathers and our grandfathers in general knew or cared about the science of education. boys were pitchforked into schools which had absolutely nothing to recommend them except a flourishing prospectus; schools in which nothing was taught, in which the physique of the lads was neglected, and in which their moral nature was treated as a thing which had no existence. a large number of "schoolmasters" had no more idea of true education than they had of flying. they were speculators pure and simple, and they treated their boys as goods out of which they were to screw as much money as they possibly could, and in the shortest possible space of time. mecklemburg house collegiate school was a case in point. it had been a school ever since the first of the georges; and it is, perhaps, not too much to say, that out of the large number of boys who had been educated beneath its roof, not one of them had received a wholesome education. yet it had always been a paying property. more than one of its principals had retired with a comfortable competency. certainly the number of its pupils had never stood at such a low ebb as at the time of which we tell. why the number should be so uncomfortably low was a mystery to its present principal, beauclerk fletcher. the place had belonged to his father, and his father had always found it bring something more than daily bread. but even daily bread was beginning to fail with beauclerk fletcher. twenty-seven pupils at such a place as mecklemburg house! and the majority of them upon "reduced terms"! mr. fletcher, never the most enterprising of men, was beginning to be overwhelmed beneath an avalanche of debt, and to feel that the fight was beyond his strength. a great, old, rambling red-brick house, about equi-distant from cobham, byfleet, weybridge--all towns in surrey--lying in about the middle of the irregular square which those four towns form, the house carried the story of its decaying glories upon its countenance. those georgian houses were solid structures, and the mere fabric was in about as good a condition as it had ever been! but in the exterior of the building the change was sadly for the worse. many of the rooms were unoccupied, panes were broken in the windows, curtains were wanting, the windows looked as though they were seldom or never cleaned. the whole place looked as though it were neglected, which indeed it was. slates were off the roof, waste water pipes hung loose and rattled in every passing breeze. as to the paved courtyard in front, grass and weeds and moss almost hid the original stones. mr. fletcher was only too conscious of the story all this told; but to put things shipshape and neat, and to keep them so, required far more money than he had to spend; so he only groaned at each new evidence of ruin and decay. the internal arrangements, the domestic economy, the whole system of education, everything in connection with mecklemburg house was in the same state of decrepitude and age--worn-out traditions rather than living things. and mr. fletcher was very far from being the man to breathe life into the dead bones and bid them live. the struggle was beyond his strength. there is no creature in god's world sharper than the average boy, no one quicker to understand the strength of the hand which holds him. the youngest pupil at mecklemburg house was perfectly aware that the school was a "duffing" school, that mr. fletcher was a "duffing" principal, and that everything about the place was "duffing" altogether. only let a boy have this opinion about his school, and, so far as any benefit is concerned which he is likely to derive from his sojourn there, he might almost as profitably be transported to the cannibal islands. on the half-holiday on which our story opens, the pupils of mecklemburg house were disporting themselves in what was called the playroom. formerly, in its prosperous days, the room had been used as a second schoolroom, the one at present used for that purpose being not nearly large enough to contain the pupils. but those days were gone; at present, so far from being overcrowded, the room looked empty, and could have with ease accommodated twice the whole number of pupils which the school contained. so what was once the schoolroom was called the playroom instead. "stupid nonsense! keeping a fellow in because it rains!" said charles griffin, looking through the dirty window at the grimy world without. "it doesn't rain," declared dick ellis. "call this rain! i say, mr. shane, can't we go down to the village? i want to get something for this cough of mine; it's frightful." and with some difficulty dick managed to produce a sepulchral cough from somewhere about the region of his boots. "mrs. fletcher says you are not to go out while it rains," answered mr. shane in his mildest possible manner. "mrs. fletcher!" grunted dick. at mecklemburg house the grey mare was the better horse. if mr. fletcher was not an ideal head-master, mrs. fletcher was emphatically head-mistress. that half-holiday was a pleasant one for mr. shane. it was a rule that the boys were never to be left alone. if they were out a master was to go with them, if they were in a master was to supervise. so, as mr. till was engaged with the refractory bertie, mr. shane was in charge of the play-room. in charge, literally, and in terror, too. for it may be maintained without the slightest exaggeration, that he was much more afraid of the boys than the boys of him. on what principle of selection mr. fletcher chose his assistant-masters it is difficult to say; but whatever else mr. shane was, a disciplinarian he certainly was not. he was the mildest-mannered young man conceivable, awkward, shy, slight, thin, not bad-looking, with a faint, watery smile, which at times gave quite a ghastly appearance to his countenance, and a deprecatory manner which seemed to say that you had only to let him alone to earn his eternal gratitude. but the boys never did let him alone, never. by day and night, awake and sleeping, they did their best to make his life a continual misery. "if we can't go out," suggests griffin, "i vote we have a lark with shane." mr. shane smiled, by no means jovially. "you mustn't make a noise," he murmured, in that soft, almost effeminate voice of his. "mrs. fletcher particularly said you were not to make a noise." "right you are. i say, shane, you stand against the wall, and let's shy things at you." this from griffin. "you're not to throw things about," said mr. shane. "then what are we to do, that's what i want to know? it seems to me we're not to do anything. i never saw such a beastly hole! i say, shane, let half of us get hold of one of your arms, and the other half of the other, and have a pull at you--tug-of-war, you know. we won't make a noise." mr. shane did not seem to consider the proposal tempting. he was seated in the window, and had a book on his knees which he wanted to read. not a work of light literature, but a german grammar. it was the dream of his life to prepare himself for matriculation at the london university. this undersized youth was a student born; he had company which never failed him, a company of dreams. he dreamed of a future in which he was a scholar of renown; and in every moment he could steal he strove to bring himself a step nearer to the realization of his dreams. "get up, shane!--what's that old book you've got?" griffin made a snatch at the grammar. mr. shane jealously put it behind his back. books were in his eyes things too precious to be roughly handled. "come and have a lark; what an old mope you are!" griffin caught him by the arm and swung him round into the room; the boy was as tall, and probably as strong as the usher. the boys were chiefly engaged in doing nothing; nobody ever did do much in that establishment. if a boy had a hobby it was laughed out of him. literature was at a discount: _spring-heeled jack_ and _the knights of the road_ were the sort of works chiefly in request. there was no school library, none of the boys seemed to have any books of their own. there was neither cricket nor football, no healthy games of any sort. even in the playground the principal occupation was loafing, with a little occasional bullying thrown in. mr. fletcher was too immersed in the troubles of pounds, shillings, and pence to have any time to spare for the amusements of the boys. mr. till was not athletic. mr. shane still less so. on fine afternoons the boys were packed off with the ushers for a walk, but no more spiritless expeditions could be imagined than the walks at mecklemburg house. the result was that the youngsters' life was a wearisome monotony, and they were in perpetual mischief for sheer want of anything else to do. and mischief so often took the shape of cruelty. charlie griffin swung mr. shane out into the middle of the room, and immediately one boy after another came stealing up to him. "i say, shane, let's play roley-poley with you," said brown major. some one in the rear threw a hard pellet of brown paper, which struck mr. shane smartly on the head. he winced. "who threw that?" asked griffin. "i say, shane, why don't you whack him? if i were a man i wouldn't let little boys throw things at me; you are a man, aren't you, shane?" he gave another jerk to the arm which he still held. "you're not to pull my arm, griffin; you hurt me. i wonder why you boys can't leave me alone." "go along! not really! we're only having a game, shane; we're not in school, you know. what shall we do with him, you fellows? i vote we tie him in a chair, and stick needles and pins into him; he's sure to like that--he's such a jolly old fellow, shane is." "why don't you let us go out?" asked ellis. "you know mrs. fletcher said you were not to go." "oh, bother mrs. fletcher! what's that got to do with it? we won't tell her if you let us go." mr. shane sighed. had it rested with him he would have been only too glad to let them go. two or three hours of his own company would have been like a glimpse of paradise. but there was mrs. fletcher; she was a lady whose indignation was not to be lightly faced. "if you won't let us go," said ellis, "we'll make it hot for you. do you think we're a lot of babies, to be melted by a drop of rain?" "you know it's no use asking me. mrs. fletcher said you were not to go out if it rained, and it is raining." "it's not raining," boldly declared griffin. "call this rain! why, it's not enough to wet a cat! i never saw such a molly-coddle set-out. i go out when i'm at home if it pours cats and dogs; nobody minds; why should they? come on, shane, let's go, there's a trump; we won't sneak, and we'll be back in half a jiff. "i wish you would let me alone," said mr. shane. somebody snatched his book out of his hand. he turned swiftly to recover it, but the captor was out of reach. "give me my book!" he cried. "how dare you take my book!" "here's a lark! catch hold, griffin." mr. shane, hurrying to recover his treasure, saw it dexterously thrown above his reach into the hands of charlie griffin. "give me my book, griffin!" and he made a rush at griffin. "catch, boys!" griffin threw the book to some one else before mr. shane could reach him. it was thrown from one to the other, from end to end of the room, probably not being improved by the way in which it was handled. the usher stood in the midst of the laughing boys, a picture of helplessness. the grammar had cost him half a crown at a second-hand bookstall. half a crown represented to him a handsome sum. there were many claims upon his sixteen pounds a year; he had to think once, and twice, and thrice before he spent half a crown upon a book. his books were to him his children. in those dreams of future glory his books were his constant companions, his open sesame, his royal road to fame; with their aid he could do so much, without their aid so little. so now and then he ventured to spend half a crown upon a volume which he wanted. the grammar, being badly aimed, fell just in front of him. he made a dash at it. some one gave him a push and he fell sprawling on the floor; but he seized the book with his left hand. griffin, falling on it tooth and nail, caught hold of it before he could secure it from danger. there was a rush of half a dozen. every one wanted a finger in the pie. the grammar was clutched by half a dozen hands at once. the back was rent off, leaves pulled out, the book was torn to shreds. mr. shane lay on the floor, with the ruins of his grammar in his hands. just then bertie bailey entered the room, victorious from his contest with mr. till. a shout of welcome greeted him. "hullo, bailey! have you done the lines?" bertie, a deliberate youth as a rule, took his time to answer. he surveyed the scene, then he put his fingers to his nose, repeating the gesture with which he had retreated from mr. till. "catch me at it!--think i'm a silly?" then he put his hands into his pockets, and slouched into the centre of the room. the boys crowded round him. "did he let you off?" asked griffin. "of course he let me off; i made him: he knew better than to try to make me do his lines." then he told the story; the boys laughed. the way in which the ushers were compelled to stultify themselves was a standing joke at mecklemburg house. that mr. till should have been forced to eat his own words, and to let insubordination go unpunished, was a humorous idea to them. mr. shane still remained upon the floor. he was engaged in gathering together the remnants of his grammar. perhaps a pot of paste, with patient manipulation, might restore it yet. he would give himself a great deal of labour to avoid the expenditure of another half-crown; perhaps he had not another half-crown to spend. "what's the row?" asked bertie, seeing mr. shane engaged in gathering up the fragmentary leaves. they told him. "i'm going out," said bailey, "and i should like to see anybody stop me. i say, mr. shane, i want to go down to the village." mr. shane repeated his stock phrase. "mrs. fletcher said no one was to go out while it rained." he had collected all the remnants of his grammar, and was rising with them in his hand. "give me hold!" exclaimed bertie; and he snatched what was left of the book out of the usher's hands. "bailey!" cried mr. shane. "look here, i want to go down to the village. i suppose i may, mayn't i?" "mrs. fletcher said no one was to go out if it rained," stammered mr. shane. "if you don't let me go, i'll burn this rubbish!" bertie flourished the ruined grammar in the tutor's face. mr. shane made a dart to recover his property; but bertie was too quick for him, and sprang aside beyond his reach. it is not improbable that if it had come to a tussle mr. shane would have got the worst of it. "who's got a match?" asked bertie. some one produced half a dozen. "will you let me go?" "don't burn it," said mr. shane. "it cost me half a crown; i only bought it last week." "then let me go." "what'll mrs. fletcher say?" "how's she to know unless you tell her? i'll be back before tea. i don't care if it cost you a hundred half-crowns, i'll burn it. make up your mind. is it going to cost you half a crown to keep me in?" bertie struck a match. mr. shane attempted to rush forward to put it out, but some of the boys held him back. his heart went out to his book as though it were a child. "if i let you go, you promise me to be back within half an hour? i don't know what mrs. fletcher will say if she should hear of it;--and don't get wet." "i'll promise you fast enough. mrs. fletcher won't hear of it; and what if she does? she can't eat you. you needn't be afraid of my getting wet." "i shan't let anybody else go." "oh yes, you will! you'll let griffin and ellis go; you don't think i'm going all that way alone?" "and me!" cried edgar wheeler. pretty nearly all the other boys joined him in the cry. "i am not going to have all you fellows coming with me," announced bertie. "wheeler can come; but as for the rest of you, you can stay at home and go to bed--that's the best place for little chaps like you. now then, shane, look alive; is it going to cost you half a crown, or isn't it?" mr. shane sighed. if ever there was a case of a round peg in a square hole, mr. shane's position at mecklemburg house was a case in point. the youth, for he was but a youth, was a good youth; he had an earnest, honest, practical belief in god; but surely god never intended him for an assistant-master. perhaps in the years to come he might drift into the place which had been prepared for him in the world, but it was difficult to believe that he was in it now. a studious dreamer, who did nothing but dream and study, he would have been no more out of his element in a bear garden than in the extremely difficult and eminently unsatisfactory position which he was supposed--it was veritable supposition--to fill at mecklemburg house. "how many of you want to go?" "there's me,"--bertie was not the boy to take the bottom seat--"and griffin, and ellis, and wheeler, that's all. now what is the good of keeping messing about like this?" "you're sure you won't be more than half an hour?" "oh, sure as sticks." "and what shall i say to mrs. fletcher if she finds out? you're sure to lay all the blame on me." mr. shane had a prophetic eye. "say you thought it didn't rain." "i don't think it does rain much." mr. shane looked out of the window, and salved his conscience with the thought. "well, if you're quite sure you won't get wet, and you won't be more than half an hour--you--can--go." the latter three words came out, as it were, edgeways and with difficulty from the speaker's mouth, as if even he found the humiliation of his attitude difficult to swallow. "come along, boys!--here's your old book!" bertie flung the grammar into the air, the leaves went flying in all directions, the four boys went clattering out of the room with noise enough for twenty, and mr. shane was left to recover his dignity and collect the scattered volume at his leisure. but nemesis awaited him. no sooner had the conquering heroes disappeared than an urchin, not more than eight or nine years of age, catching up one of the precious leaves, exclaimed,-- "let's tear the thing to pieces!" the speaker was little willie seymour, bertie bailey's cousin. it was his first term at school, but he already bade fair to do credit to the system of education pursued at mecklemburg house. "right you are, youngster," said fred philpotts, an elder boy. "it's a burning shame to let them go and keep us in. let's tear it all to pieces." and they did. there was a sudden raid upon the scattered leaves; at the mercy of twenty pairs of mischievous hands, they were soon reduced to atoms so minute as to be altogether beyond the hope of any possible recovery. nothing short of a miracle could make those tiny scraps of printed paper into a book again. and seeing it was so mr. shane leaned his head against the window-pane and cried. chapter iii at mother huffham's it was only when bailey and his friends were away from the house that it occurred to them to consider what it was they had come out for. they slunk across the grass-grown courtyard, keeping as close to the wall as possible, to avoid the lynx-eyes of mrs. fletcher. that lady was the only person in mecklemburg house whose authority was not entirely contemned. let who would be master, she would be mistress; and she had a way of impressing that fact upon those around her which made it quite impossible for those who came within reach of her influence to avoid respecting. it was truly miserable weather. any one but a schoolboy would have been only too happy to have had a roof of any kind to shelter him, but schoolboys are peculiar. it was one of those damp mists which not only penetrate through the thickest clothing, and soak one to the skin, but which render it difficult to see twenty yards in front of one, even in the middle of the day. the day was drawing in; ere long the lamps would be lighted; the world was already enshrouded in funeral gloom. not a pleasant afternoon to choose for an expedition to nowhere in particular, in quest of nothing at all. the boys slunk through the sodden mist, hands in their pockets, coat collars turned up about their ears, hats rammed down over their eyes, looking anything but a cheerful company. griffin asked a question. "i say, bailey, where are you going?" "to the village." "what are you going to the village for?" this from ellis. "for what i am." after this short specimen of convivial conversation the four trudged on. alas for their promise to mr. shane! the wet was already dripping off their hats, and splashings of mud were ascending up the legs of their trousers to about the middle of their back. in a minute or two wheeler began again. "have you got any money?" bertie pulled up short. "have you?" he asked. "i've got sevenpence." "then lend me half?" "lend me a penny? i'll pay you next week; honour bright, i will," said ellis. griffin was more concise. "lend me twopence?" he asked. wheeler looked unhappy. it appeared that he was the only capitalist among the four, and under the circumstances he did not feel exactly proud of the position. although sevenpence might do very well for one, it would not be improved by quartering. "yes, i know, i daresay," he grumbled. "you're very fond of borrowing, but you're not so fond of paying back again." he trudged on stolidly. bailey caught him by the arm. "you don't mean that you're not going to lend me anything, after my asking for you to come out with me, and all?" "i'll lend you twopence." "twopence! what's twopence?" "it's all you'll get; you can have it or lump it, i don't care; i'm not dead nuts on lending you anything." wheeler was a little wiry-built boy, and when he meant a thing very much indeed he had an almost terrier-like habit of snapping his jaws--he snapped them now. bailey trudged by his side with an air of dudgeon; he probably reflected that, after all, twopence was better than nothing. but ellis and griffin had their claims to urge. they apparently did not contemplate with pleasure the prospect of tramping to and from the village for the sake of the exercise alone. ellis began,-- "i say, old fellow, you'll lend me a penny, won't you? i'm always game for lending you." "look here, i tell you what it is, i won't lend you a blessed farthing! it's like your cheek to ask me; you owe me ninepence from last term." "but i expect a letter from home in the morning with some money in it. i'll pay you the ninepence with threepence interest--i'll pay you eighteenpence--you see if i don't. and if you'll lend me a penny now i'll give you twopence for it in the morning. do now, there's a good fellow, wheeler; honour bright, i will." for answer wheeler put his finger to his eye and raised the eyelid. "see any green in my eye?" he said. "you're a selfish beast!" replied his friend. and so the four trudged on. then griffin made his attempt. "i'll let you have that knife, wheeler, if you like." "i don't want the knife." "you can have it for threepence." "i don't want it for threepence." "you offered me fourpence for it yesterday." "i've changed my mind." charlie pondered the matter in his mind. they were about half-way to their destination, and already bore a closer resemblance to drowned rats than living schoolboys. by the time they had gone there and back again, it would be possible to wring the water out of their clothes; what mrs. fletcher would have to say remained to be seen. after they had gone a few yards further, and paddled through about half a dozen more puddles, charlie began again. "i'll let you have it for twopence." "i don't want it for twopence." "it's a good knife." no answer. "it cost a shilling." still no answer. "there's only one blade broken." still no reply. "and that's only got a bit off near the point." still silence. "it's a jolly good knife." then, with a groan, "i'll let you have it for a penny." "i wouldn't give you a smack in the eye for it." after receiving this truly elegant and generous reply, griffin subsided into speechless misery. it is not improbable that, so far as he was himself concerned, he began to think that the expedition was a failure. in silence they reached the village. it was not a village of portentous magnitude, since it only contained thirteen cottages and one shop, the shop being the smallest cottage in the place. the only point in its favour was that it was the nearest commercial establishment to mecklemburg house. the proprietor was a mrs. huffham, an ancient lady, with a very bad temper, and a still worse reputation--among the boys--for honesty in the direction of weights and measures. it must be conceded that they could have had no worse opinion of her than she had of them. "them young warmints, if they wants to buy a thing they wants ninety ounces to the pound, and if they wants to pay for it, they wants you to take eightpence for a shilling--oh, i knows 'em!" so mrs. huffham declared. at the door of this emporium parley was held. ellis suddenly remembered something. "i say, i owe old mother huffham two-and-three." so far as the gathering mist and the soaking rain enabled one to see, dick's countenance wore a lugubrious expression. "well, what of that?" "well"--dick ellis hesitated--"so long as that brute stephen isn't about the place i don't mind. he called out after me the other day, that if i didn't pay he'd take the change out of me some other way." the stephen referred to was mrs. huffham's grandson, a stalwart young fellow of twenty-one or two, who drove the carrier's cart to kingston and back. his ideas on pecuniary obligations were primitive. having learned from experience that it was vain to expect mr. fletcher to pay his pupils' debts at the village shop, he had an uncomfortable way of taking it out of refractory debtors in the shape of personal chastisement. endless disputes had arisen in consequence. mr. fletcher had on more than one occasion threatened the summary stephen with the terrors of the law; but stephen had snapped his fingers at mr. fletcher, advising him to pay his own debts, lest worse things happened to him. then mr. fletcher had forbidden mrs. huffham to give credit to the boys; but mrs. huffham was an obstinate old lady, and treated the headmaster with no more deference than her grandson. finally, mr. fletcher had forbidden the boys to deal with mrs. huffham; but in spite of his prohibition an active commerce was carried on, and on more than one occasion the irate stephen had been moved to violence. "you should have stopped at home," was wheeler's not unreasonable reply to dick's confession. "i don't owe her anything. i don't see what you wanted to come for, anyhow, if you haven't got any money and you owe her two-and-three." and turning the handle of the rickety door he entered mrs. huffham's famed establishment. bailey, rich in the possession of a prospective loan of twopence, and charlie griffin followed close upon his heels. after hesitating for a moment ellis went in too. to remain shivering outside would have been such a lame conclusion to a not otherwise too satisfactory expedition, that it seemed to him like the last straw on the camel's back. besides, it was quite on the cards that the impetuous stephen would be engaged in his carrier's work, and be pleasantly conspicuous by his absence from home. the interior of the shop was pitchy dark. the little light which remained without declined to penetrate through the small lozenge-shaped windowpanes. mrs. huffham's lamp was not yet lit, and the obscurity was increased by the quantity of goods, of almost every description, which crowded to overflowing the tiny shop. no one came. "let's nick something," suggested the virtuously minded griffin. ellis acted on the hint. "i'm not going there and back for nothing, i can tell you." on a little shelf at the side of the shop stood certain bottles of sweets. dick reached up to get one down. at that moment wheeler gave him a jerk with his arm. ellis, catching at the shelf to steady himself, brought down shelf, bottles and all, with a crash upon a counter. "thieves!" cried a voice within. "thieves!" and mrs. huffham came clattering into the shop, out of some inner sanctum, with considerable haste for one of her mature years. "thieves!" for some moments the old lady's eyes could see nothing in the darkness of the shop. she stood, half in, half out, peering forward, where the boys could just see her dimly in the shadow. they, deeming discretion to be the better part of valour, and not knowing what damage they might not have done, stood still as mice. their first impulse was to turn and flee, and griffin was just feeling for the handle of the door, preparatory to making a bolt for it, when heavy footsteps were heard approaching outside, and the door was flung open with a force which all but threw griffin back upon his friends. "hullo!" said a voice; "is anybody in there?" it was stephen huffham. with all their hearts the boys wished they had respected authority and listened to mr. shane! there was a coolness and promptness about stephen huffham's method of taking the law into his own hands upon emergency which formed the basis of many a tale of terror to which they had listened when tucked between the sheets at night in bed. mr. huffham waited for no reply to his question, but he laid an iron hand upon griffin's shoulder and dragged him out into the light. "come out of that! oh, it's you, is it?" charlie was gifted with considerable powers of denial, but he found it quite beyond his power to deny mr. huffham's assertion then. "oh, there's some more of you, are there? how many of you boys are there inside here?" "they've been a-thieving the things!" came in mrs. huffham's shrill treble from the back of the shop. "oh, they have, have they? we'll soon see about that. unless i'm blinder than i used to be, there's young ellis over there, with whom i've promised to have a word of a sort before to-day. you bring a light, granny, and look alive; don't keep these young gentlemen waiting, not by no manner of means." mrs. huffham retreated to her parlour, and presently re-appeared with a lighted lamp in her hand. this, with great deliberation, for her old bones were stiff, and rheumatism forbade anything like undue haste, she hung upon a nail, in such a position that its not too powerful light shed as great an illumination as possible upon the contents of her shop. far too powerful an illumination to suit the boys, for it brought into undue prominence the damage wrought by ellis and his friend. they eyed the ruins, and mrs. huffham eyed them, and mr. stephen huffham eyed them too. the old lady's feelings at the sight were for a moment too deep for words, but mr. stephen huffham soon found speech. "who did this?" he asked; and there was something in the tone of the inquiry which grated on his hearers' ears. had dick ellis and his friend deliberately planned to do as much mischief as possible in the shortest possible space of time, they could scarcely have succeeded better. three or four of the bottles were broken to pieces, and in their fall they had fallen on a little glass case, the chief pride and ornament of mrs. huffham's shop, which was divided into compartments, in one of which were cigars, in another reels of cotton and hanks of thread, and in a third such trifles as packets of hair-pins, pots of pomade, note-paper and envelopes, and a variety of articles which might be classified under the generic name of "fancy goods." the glass in this case was damaged beyond repair; the sweets from the broken bottles had got inside, and had become mixed with the cigars, and the paper, and the hair-pins, and the pomade, and the rest of the varied contents. mr. stephen huffman not finding himself favoured with an immediate reply to his inquiry, repeated it. "who did this? did you do this?" and he gave charlie griffin a shake which made him feel as though he were being shaken not only upside down, but inside out. "no-o-o!" said charlie, as loudly as he was able with mr. stephen huffman shaking him as a terrier shakes a rat. "i-i-i didn't! le-e-eave me alone!" "i'll leave you alone fast enough! i'll leave the lot of you alone when i've taken all the skin off your bodies! did you do this?" and mr. stephen huffham transferred his attention to bailey. "no!" roared bertie, before huffman had time to get him fairly in his grasp. mr. huffman held him at arm's length, and looked him full in the face with an intensity of scrutiny which bertie by no means relished. "i suppose none of you did do it; nobody ever does do these sort of things, so far as i can make out. it was accidental; it always is." his voice had been so far, if not conciliatory, at least not unduly elevated. but suddenly he turned upon ellis with a roar which was not unlike the bellow of a bull. "did you do it?" ellis started as though he had received an electric shock. "no-o!" he gasped. "it was wheeler!" "oh, it was wheeler, was it?" "it wasn't me," said wheeler. "oh, it wasn't you? who was it, then? that's what i want to know; who was it, then?" mr. huffham put this question in a tone of voice which would have been eminently useful had he been addressing some person a couple of miles away, but which in his present situation almost made the panes of glass rattle in the windows. "who was it, then?" and he caught hold of ellis and shook him with such velocity to and fro that it was difficult for a moment to distinguish what it was that he was shaking. "it--was--whe-e-eler!" gasped ellis, struggling with his breath. "now, just you listen to me, you boys!" began mr. huffham. (they could scarcely avoid listening to him, considering that he spoke in what was many degrees above a whisper.) "i'll put it this way, so that we can have things fair and square, and know what we're a-doing of. there's a pound's damage been done here, so perhaps one of you gentlemen will let me have a sovereign. i'm not going to ask who did it; i'm not going to ask no questions at all: all i says is, perhaps one of you young gentlemen will let me have a sovereign." he stretched out his hand as though he expected to receive a sovereign then and there; as it happened he stretched it out in the direction of bertie bailey. bertie looked at the horny, dirt-grimed palm, then up in mr. huffham's face. a dog-fancier would have said that there was some scarcely definable resemblance to the bull-dog in the expression of his eyes. "you won't get a sovereign out of me," he said. "oh, won't i? we'll see!" "we will see. i'd nothing to do with it; i don't know who did do it. you shouldn't leave the place without a light; who's to see in the dark?" "you let me finish what i've got to say, then you say your say out afterwards. what i say is this--there's a pound's worth of damage done----" "there isn't a pound's worth of damage done," said bertie. mr. huffham caught him by the shoulder. "you let me finish out my say! i say there is a pound's worth of damage done; you can settle who it was among you afterwards; and what i say is this, either you pays me that pound before you leave this shop or i'll give the whole four of you such a flogging as you never had in all your days--i'll skin you alive!" "it won't give me my money your flogging them," wailed mrs. huffham from behind the counter. "it's my money i wants! here is all them bottles broken, and the case smashed--and it cost me two pound ten, and everything inside of it's a-ruined. it's my money i wants!" "it's what i wants too; so which of you young gents is going to hand over that there sovereign?" "wheeler's got sevenpence," suggested griffin. "sevenpence! what's sevenpence? it's a pound i want! which of you is going to fork up that there pound?" "there isn't a pound's worth of damage done," said bertie; "nothing like. if you let us go, we'll get five shillings somehow, and bring it you in a week." "in a week--five shillings! you catch me at it! why, if i was once to let you outside that door, you'd put your fingers to your noses, and you'd call out, 'there goes old huffham! yah--h--h!'" and he gave a very fair imitation of the greeting which the sight of him was apt to call forth from the very youths in front of him. "if they was the young gentlemen they calls themselves they'd pay up, and not try to rob an old woman what's over seventy year." "now then, what's it going to be, your money or your life? that's the way to put it, because i'll only just let you off with your life, i'll tell you. look sharp; i want my tea! what's it going to be, your money, or rather, my old grandmother's money over there, an old woman who finds it a pretty tight fit to keep herself out of the workhouse----" "yes, that she do," interpolated the grandmother in question. "or your life?" he looked in turn from one boy to the other, and finally his gaze rested on bailey. bertie met his eyes with a sullen stare. "i tell you i'd nothing to do with it," he said. "and i tell you i don't care that who had to do with it," and mr. huffham snapped his fingers. "you're that there pack of liars i wouldn't believe you on your oath before a judge and jury, not that i wouldn't!" and his fingers were snapped again. he and bailey stood for a moment looking into each other's face. "if you hit me for what i didn't do, i'll do something worth hitting for." "will you?" mr. huffham caught him by the shoulder, and held him as in a vice. "don't you hit me!" apparently mrs. huffham was impressed by something in his manner. "don't you hit 'un hard! now don't you!" "won't i? i'll hit him so hard, i'll about do for him, that's about as hard as i'll hit him." a look came into mr. huffham's face which was not nice to see. bailey never flinched; his hard-set jaw and sullen eyes made the resemblance to the bulldog more vivid still. "you pay me that pound!" "i wouldn't if i had it!" in an instant mr. huffham had swung him round, and was raining blows with his clenched fist upon the boy's back and shoulders. but he had reckoned without his host, if he had supposed the punishment would be taken quietly. the boy fought like a cat, and struggled and kicked with such unlooked-for vigour that mr. huffham, driven against the counter and not seeing what he was doing, struck out wildly, knocked the lamp off its nail with his fist, and in an instant the boy and the man were struggling in the darkness on the floor. just then a stentorian voice shouted through the glass window of the rickety door,-- "bravo! that's the best plucked boy i've seen!" chapter iv a little drive those within the shop had been too much interested in their own proceedings to be conscious of a dog-cart, which came tearing through the darkening shadows at such a pace that startled pedestrians might be excused for thinking that it was a case of a horse running away with its driver. but such would have been convinced of their error when, in passing mrs. huffham's, on hearing mr. stephen bellowing with what seemed to be the full force of a pair of powerful lungs, the vehicle was brought to a standstill as suddenly as a regiment of soldiers halt at the word of command. the driver spoke to the horse,-- "steady! stand still, old girl!" the speaker alighted. approaching mrs. huffham's, he stood at the glass-windowed door, observing the proceedings within; and when mr. stephen, in his blind rage, struck the lamp from its place and plunged the scene in darkness, the unnoticed looker-on turned the handle of the door and entered the shop, shouting, in tones which made themselves audible above the din,-- "bravo! that's the best plucked boy i've seen!" and standing on the threshold, he repeated his assertion, "bravo! that's the best plucked boy i've seen." he drew a box of matches from his pocket, and striking one, he held the flickering flame above his head, so that some little light was shed upon what was going on within. "what's this little argument?" he asked. seeing that mr. huffman was still holding bailey firmly in his grasp, "hold hard, big one," he said; "let the little chap get up. you ought to have your little arguments outside; this place isn't above half large enough to swing a cat in. granny, bring a light!" as the match was just on the point of going out he struck another, and entered the shop with it flaming in his hand. mrs. huffham's nerves were too shaken to allow her to pay that instant attention to the new-comer's orders which he seemed to demand. "look alive, old lady; bring a light! this old band-box is as dark as pitch." thus urged, the old lady disappeared, presently reappearing with a little table-lamp in her trembling hands. "put it somewhere out of reach--if anything is out of reach in this dog-hole of a place. i shouldn't be surprised if you had a little bonfire with the next lamp that's upset." mrs. huffman placed it on a shelf in the extreme corner of the shop, from which post of vantage it did not light the scene quite so brilliantly as it might have done. mr. stephen and the boy, relaxing a moment from the extreme vigour of discussion, availed themselves of the opportunity to see what sort of person the stranger might chance to be. he was a man of gigantic stature, probably considerably over six feet high, but so broad in proportion that he seemed shorter than he actually was. a long waterproof, from which the rain was trickling in little streams, reached to his feet; the hood was drawn over his head, and under its shadow was seen a face which was excellently adapted to the enormous frame. a huge black beard streamed over the stranger's breast, and a pair of large black eyes looked out from overhanging brows. he was the first to break the silence. "well, what is this little argument?" then, without waiting for an answer, he continued, addressing mr. huffham, "you're rather a large size, don't you think, for that sized boy?" "who are you? and what do you want? if there's anything you want to buy, perhaps you'll buy it, and take yourself outside." the stranger put his hand up to his beard, and began pulling it. "there's nothing i want to buy, not just now." he looked at bailey. "what's he laying it on for?" "nothing." "that's not bad, considering. what were you laying it on for?" this to huffham. "i've not finished yet, not by no manner of means; i mean to take it out of all the lot of 'em. call themselves gents! why, if a working-man's son was to behave as they does, he'd get five years at a reformatory. i've known it done before today." "i daresay you have; you look like a man who knew a thing or two. what were you laying it on for?" "what for? why, look here!" and mr. huffham pointed to the broken bottles and the damaged case. "and i'm a hard-working woman, i am, sir, and i'm seventy-three this next july; and it's hard work i find it to pay my rent: and wherever i'm to get the money for them there things, goodness knows, i don't. it'll be the workhouse, after all!" thus mrs. huffham lifted up her voice and wept. "and they calls themselves gents, and they comes in here, and takes advantage of an old woman, and robs her right and left, and thinks they're going to get off scot free; not if i know it this time they won't." mr. stephen huffham looked as though he meant it, every word. "did you do that?" asked the stranger of bailey. "no, i didn't." "i don't care who did it; they're that there liars i wouldn't believe a word of theirs on oath; they did it between them, and that's quite enough for me." "i suppose one of you did do it?" asked the stranger. bailey thrust his hands in his pockets, looking up at the stranger with the dogged look in his eyes. "the place was pitch dark; why didn't they have a light in the place?" "because there didn't happen to be a light in the place, is that any reason why you should go smashing everything you could lay your hands on? why couldn't you wait for a light? go on with you! i'll take the skin off your back!" "how much?" asked the stranger, paying no attention to mr. stephen's eloquence. "there's a heap of mischief done, heap of mischief!" wailed the old lady in the rear. "how am i to tell all the mischief that's been done? just look at the place; a sovereign wouldn't cover it, no, that it wouldn't." "there isn't five shillings' worth of harm," said bertie. "if you were to get five shillings, you'd make a profit of half a crown." the stranger laughed, and mr. huffham scowled; the look which he cast at bertie was not exactly a look of love, but the boy met it without any sign of flinching. "i'll be even with you yet, my lad!" mr. stephen said. "if i give you a sovereign you will be even," suggested the stranger. mr. stephen's eyes glistened; and his grandmother, clasping her old withered palms together, cast a look of rapture towards the ceiling. "oh, deary me! deary me!" she said. "it's a swindle," muttered bertie. "oh, it's a swindle, is it?" snarled mr. stephen. "i'd like to swindle you, my fighting cock." "you couldn't do it," retorted bertie. the stranger laughed again. unbuttoning his waterproof, and in doing so distributing a shower of water in his immediate neighbourhood, out of his trousers pocket he took a heavy purse, out of the purse he took a sovereign, and the sovereign he handed to mr. stephen huffham. mr. stephen's palm closed on the glittering coin with a certain degree of hesitation. "now you're quits," said the stranger, "you and the boy." "quits!" said bertie, "it's seventeen-and-sixpence in his pocket!" mr. stephen smiled, not quite pleasantly; he might have been moved to speech had not the stranger interrupted him. "you're pretty large, and that's all you are; if this boy were about your size, he'd lay it on to you. i should say you were a considerable fine sample of a--coward." mr. stephen held his peace. there was something in the stranger's manner and appearance which induced him to think that perhaps he had better be content with what he had received. after having paused for a second or two, seemingly for some sort of reply from mr. huffham, the stranger addressed the boys. "get out!" they went out, rather with the air of beaten curs. the stranger followed them. "get up into the cart; i'm going to take you home to my house to tea." they looked at each other, in doubt as to whether he was jesting. "do you hear? get up into the cart! you, boy," touching bailey on the shoulder, "you ride alongside me." still they hesitated. it occurred to them that they had already broken their engagement with the credulous mr. shane, broken it in the most satisfactory manner, in each separate particular. they were not only wet and muddy, looking somewhat as though they had recently been picked out of the gutter, but that half-hour within which they had pledged themselves to return had long since gone. but if they hesitated, there was no trace of hesitation about the stranger. "now then, do you think i want to wait here all night? tumble up, you boy." and fairly lifting wheeler off his legs, he bore him bodily through the air, and planted him at the back of the trap. and not wheeler only, but griffin and ellis too. before those young gentlemen had quite realized their position, or the proposal he had made to them, they found themselves clinging to each other to prevent themselves tumbling out of the back of what was not a very large dog-cart. "you're none of you big ones! catch hold of each other's hair or something, and don't fall out; i can't stop to pick up boys. now then, bantam, up you go." and bertie, handled in the same undignified fashion, found himself on the front seat beside the driver. the stranger, big though he was, apparently allowed his size to interfere in no degree with his agility. in a twinkling he was seated in his place by bertie. "steady!" he cried. "look out, you boys!" he caught the reins in his hands; the mare knew her master's touch, and in an instant, even before the boys had altogether yet quite realized their situation, they were dashing through the darkening night. it was about as cheerless an evening as one could very well select for a drive in an open vehicle. the stranger, enveloped in his waterproof, his hood in some degree sheltering his face, a waterproof rug drawn high above his knees, was more comfortable than the boys. bailey, indeed, had a seat to sit upon and a share of the rug, but his friends had neither seat nor shelter. perhaps, on the whole, they would have been better off had they been walking. the imperfect light and the hasty start rendered it difficult for them to have a clear view of their position. the mare--which, had it been lighter and they versed in horseflesh, they would have been able to recognise as a very tolerable specimen of an american trotter--made the pace so hot that they had to cling, if not to each other's hair, at least to whatever portion of each other's person they could manage to get hold of. even then it was only by means of a series of gymnastic feats that they were able to keep their footing and save themselves from being pitched out on to the road. they had not gone far when griffin had a disaster. "i've lost my hat!" he cried. wind and pace and nervousness combined had loosened his headgear, and without staying to bid farewell to his head, it disappeared into the night. the stranger gave utterance to a loud yet musical laugh. "never mind your hat! can't stop for hats! the fresh air will do you good, cool your head, my boy!" but this was a point of view which did not occur to griffin; he was rather disposed to wonder what mr. shane and mrs. fletcher would say. "i wish you wouldn't catch hold of my throat; you'll strangle me," said wheeler, as the vehicle dashed round a sharp turn in the road, and the hatless griffin made a frantic clutch at his friend to save himself from following his hat. "i--can't--help--it," gasped his friend in reply. "i wish he wouldn't go so fast. oh--h!" the stranger laughed again. "don't tumble out! we can't stop to pick up boys! hullo! what are you up to there?" the trio in the rear were apparently engaged in a fight for life. they were uttering choking ejaculations, and struggling with each other in their desperate efforts to preserve their perpendicular. in the course of their struggle they lurched against the stranger with such unexpected violence that had he not with marvellous rapidity twisted round in his seat and caught them with his arm, they would in all probability have continued their journey on the road. at the same instant, with his disengaged hand he brought the horse, who seemed to obey the directions of its master's hand with mechanical accuracy, to a sudden halt. "now, then, are you all right?" they were very far from being all right, but were not at that moment possessed of breath to tell him so. had they not lost the power of speech they would have joined in a unanimous appeal to him to set them down, and let them go anywhere, and do anything, rather than allow them to continue any longer at the mercy of his too rapid steed. but the stranger seemed to take their involuntary silence for acquiescence. once more they were dashing through the night, and again they were hanging on for their bare lives. "like driving, youngster?" the question was addressed to bailey. "like horses? like a beast that can go? mary anne can give a lead to a flash of lightning and catch it in two t's." "mary anne" was apparently the steed. at that moment the trio in the rear would have believed anything of mary anne's powers of speed, but bailey held his peace. the stranger went on. "i like a drive on a night like this. i like dashing through the wind and the darkness and the rain. i like a thing to fire my blood, and that's the reason why i like you. that's the reason why i've asked you home to tea. what's your name?" "bailey, sir." "i knew a man named bailey down in kentucky who was hanged because he was too fond of horses--other people's, not his own. any relation of yours?" bertie disclaimed the soft impeachment. "i don't think so, sir." "there's no knowing. lots of people are hanged without their own mothers knowing anything about it, let alone their fathers, especially out kentucky way. a cousin of mine was hanged in golden city, and i shouldn't have known anything about it to this day if i hadn't come along and seen his body swinging on a tree. as nice a fellow as man need know, six-feet-one-and-three-quarters in his stockings--three-quarters of an inch shorter than me. they explained to me that they'd hanged him by mistake, which was some consolation to me, anyway, though what he thought of it is more than i can say. i cut him down, dug a hole seven foot deep, and laid him there to sleep; and there he sleeps as sound as though he'd handed in his checks upon a feather bed." bailey looked up at the speaker. he was not quite sure if he was in earnest, and was anything but sure that the little narrative which he rolled so glibly off his tongue might not be the instant coinage of his brain. but something in the speaker's voice and manner attracted him even more than his words; something he would have found it difficult to describe. "is that true?" he asked. the stranger looked down at him and laughed. "perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn't." he laughed again. "wet, youngster?" "i should rather think i am," was bertie's grim response. all the stranger did was to laugh again. bailey ventured on an inquiry. "do you live far from here?" he was conscious of a certain degree of interest as to whether the stranger was driving them to kentucky; he, too, had mr. shane and mrs. fletcher in his mind's eye. "shane'll get sacked for this, as sure as fate," was his mental observation. he was aware that at mecklemburg house the sins of the pupils not seldom fell upon the heads of the assistant-masters. "pain's hill," was the answer to his question. "ever heard of washington villa?" bertie could not say he had. "i am george washington bankes, the proprietor thereof. yes, and it isn't so long ago that if any one had said to me that i should settle down as a country gentleman, i should have said, 'there have been liars since ananias, but none quite as big as you.'" bailey eyed him from a corner of his eye. his father was a medical man, with no inconsiderable country practice. he had seen something of country gentlemen, but it occurred to him that a country gentleman in any way resembling his new acquaintance he had not yet chanced to see. "you at the school there?" taking it for granted that he referred to mecklemburg house, bertie confessed that he was. "why don't you run away? i would." bertie started; he had read of boys running away from school in stories of the penny dreadful type, but he had not yet heard of country gentlemen suggesting that course of action as a reasonable one for the rising generation to pursue. "every boy worth his salt ought to run away. i did, and i've never done a more sensible thing to this day." in that case one could not but wonder for how many sensible things mr. george washington bankes had been remarkable in the course of his career. "i've been from china to peru, from the north pole to the south. i've been round the world all sorts of ways; and the chances are that if i hadn't run away from school i should never have travelled twenty miles from my old mother's door. why don't you run away?" bertie wriggled in his seat and gasped. "i--i don't know," he said. "ah, i'll talk to you about that when i get you home. you're about the best plucked lad i've seen, or you wouldn't have stood up in the way you did to that great hulking lubber there; and rather than see a lad of parts wasting his time at school--but you wait a bit. i'll open your eyes, my lad. i'll give you some idea of what a man's life ought to be! books never did me any good, and never will. i say, throw books, like physic, to the dogs--a life of adventure's the life for me!" bertie listened open-eyed and open-mouthed; he began to think he was in a waking dream. there was a wildness about his new acquaintance, and about his mode of speech, which filled him with a sort of dull, startled wonder. there was in the boy, deep-rooted somewhere, that half-unconscious longing for things adventurous which the british youngster always has. mr. bankes struck a chord which filled the boy almost with a sense of pain. "a life of adventure's the life for me!" mr. bankes repeated his confession of faith, laughing as he did so; and the words, and the voice, and the manner, and the laugh, all mixed together, made the boy, wet as he was, glow with a sudden warmth. "a life of adventure's the life for me!" the drive was nearly ended, and during the rest of it mr. bankes kept silence. wheeler's hat had followed griffin's, but he had not mentioned it; partly because, as he thought, he would receive no sympathy and not much attention, and partly because, in his anxiety to keep his footing in the trap, and get out of it with his bones whole, it would have been a matter of comparative indifference to him if the rest of his clothing had followed his hat. but he, too, mistily wondered what mr. shane and mrs. fletcher would say. fortunately for his peace of mind, and the peace of mind of his two friends, the good steed, mary anne, brought them safely to the doors of washington villa. fond of driving as they were, as a rule, they were conscious of a distinct sense of relief when that drive was at an end. chapter v an evening at washington villa washington villa appeared, from what one could see in the darkness, to be a fairly sized house, standing in its own grounds. considerable stabling was built apart from, but close to the house, and as the trap dashed along the little carriage-drive numerous loud-voiced dogs announced the fact of an arrival to whomever it might concern. the instant the vehicle stopped, the hall door was opened, and a little wizened, shrunken man came down the steps. mr. bankes threw him the reins. "jump out, you boys, and tumble into the house. welcome to washington villa." suiting the action to the word, and before his young friends had clearly realized the fact of their having arrived at their destination, he had risen from his seat, sprung to the ground, and was standing on the threshold of the door. the boys were not long in following suit. "come this way!" striding on in front of them, through a hall of no inconsiderable dimensions, he led them into a room in which a bright fire was blazing, and which was warm with light. a pretty servant girl made a simultaneous entrance through a door on the other side of the room. "catch hold." tearing rather than taking off his waterproof and hood, he flung them to the maid. "where are my slippers?" the maid produced a pair from the fender, where they had been placed to warm; and mr. bankes thrust his feet into them, flinging his boots off on to the floor. "tea for five, and a good tea, too, and in about less time than it would take me to shoot a snake." the maid disappeared with a laugh on her face; she was apparently used to mr. bankes, and to mr. bankes' mode of speech. then, after having attended to his own comfort, the host turned his attention to his guests. "well, you're a nice lot of half-drowned puppies. by right, i ought to hang you up in front of the kitchen fire to dry." his guests shuffled about upon their feet with not quite a graceful air. it was true that they looked in about as miserable a condition as they very well could do; but considering the circumstances under which they had travelled, it was scarcely to be wondered at. had mr. bankes travelled in their place, he might have looked like a half-drowned puppy too. "but a wetting will do you good, and as for mud, why, i don't care for mud. i've swallowed too much of it in my time to stick at a trifle. when i was a boy, i was the dirtiest little blackguard ever seen. now, then, is that tea ready? come along." and off he strode into the hall, the boys following sheepishly in the rear. wheeler poked bailey in the side with his elbow, and bailey poked griffin, and they each of them poked the other, and they grinned. their feelings were altogether too much for speech. what mr. shane and mrs. fletcher would think and say--but that was a matter on which they would not improbably be able to speak more fully later on. a more unguestlike-looking set of guests could hardly be conceived. not only were their boots concealed beneath thick layers of mud, but they were spattered with mud from head to foot; their hands and faces were filthy, and their hair was in a state of untidiness better imagined than described. they had their everyday clothes on; their trousers were in general too short in the leg, and their coats too short in the sleeves; while griffin was radiant with a mighty patch in the seat of his breeches of a totally different material to the original cloth. it was fortunate that mr. bankes did not stick at trifles, or he would never have allowed his newly-discovered guests to enter his well-kept residence. they followed their host into a room on the other side of the hall, and the sight they saw almost took their breath away. a table laden with more delicacies than they remembered to have seen crowded together for a considerable space of time was, especially after the fare to which they were accustomed at mecklemburg house, a spectacle calculated at any time to fill them with a satisfaction almost amounting to awe. but to come out of such a night to such a prospect! to come to feast from worse than famine! the revulsion of feeling was considerable, and the aspect of the guests became even more sheepish than before. "sit down, and pitch in. if you're as hungry as i am, you'll eat the table, legs and all." the boys needed no second invitation. in a very short space of time host and guests alike were doing prodigies of execution. the nimble-handed servant-maid found it as much as she could do to supply their wants. on the details of the feast we need not dwell. it partook of the nature of a joke to call that elaborate meal tea. by the time it was finished the four young gentlemen had not only ceased to think of what mrs. fletcher and mr. shane might say, but they had altogether forgotten the existence of mecklemburg house collegiate school; and even charlie griffin was prepared to declare that he had thoroughly enjoyed that nightmare journey from mrs. huffham's to the present abode of bliss. the meal had been no less to the satisfaction of the host than of his guests. "done?" they signified by their eloquent looks as much as by their speech that they emphatically had. "then let's go back to the other room." and they went. a peculiarity of this other room was that all the chairs in it were arm-chairs; and in four of not the least comfortable of these arm-chairs the boys found themselves seated at their ease. over the fire-place, arranged in the fashion of a trophy, were a large number of venerable-looking pipes. taking one of these down, mr. bankes proceeded to fill it from a tobacco jar which stood in a corner of the mantelshelf. then he lit it, and, planting himself in the centre of the hearthrug, right in front of the fire, he thrust his hands into his pockets and looked down upon his guests, a huge, black-bearded giant, puffing at his pipe. "had a good feed?" they signified that they had. "do you know what i brought you here for?" the food and the warmth combined had brought them into a state of exceeding peace, and they were inclined to sleep. why he had brought them there they neither knew nor cared; they were beyond such trifling. they had had a good meal, the first for many days, and it behoved them to be thankful. "i'll tell you. i brought you here because i want to get you, the whole lot of you, to run away." his listeners opened their eyes and ears. bailey had made some acquaintance with his host's character before, but his three friends stared. "every boy worth his salt runs away from school. i did, and it was the most sensible thing i ever did in my life." when mr. bankes thus repeated the assertion which he had made to bailey in the trap, his hearers banished sleep and began to wonder. "what's the use of school? what do you do there? what do you do at that tumble-down old red-brick house on the cobham road? why, you waste your time." this assertion, if, to a certain extent, true, as it applied to the establishment in question, was a random shot as applied to schools in general. "shall i tell you what i learnt at school? i learnt to hate it, and i haven't forgotten that lesson to this day; no, and i shan't till i'm packed away with a lot of dirt on top of me. my father," mr. bankes took his pipe out of his mouth, and pointed his remarks with it as he went on, "died of a broken heart, and so should i have done if i hadn't cut it short and run away." no man ever looked less like dying of a broken heart than mr. bankes did then. "a life of adventure's the life for me!" they were the words which had thrilled through bertie when he had heard them in the trap; they thrilled him again as he heard them now, and they thrilled his companions too. they stared up at mr. bankes as though he held them with a spell; nor would that gentleman have made a bad study for a wizard. "a life of adventure's the life for me! under foreign skies in distant lands, away from the twopenny-halfpenny twaddle of spelling-books and sums, seeking fortune and finding it, a man in the midst of men, not a finicking idiot among a pack of babies. why don't you run away? you see me? i was at school at nottingham; i was just turned thirteen: i ran away with ninepence-halfpenny in my pocket. i got to london somehow; and from london i got abroad, somehow too; and abroad i've picked up fortune after fortune, thrown them all away, and picked them up again. now i've had about enough of it, i've made another little pile, and this little pile i think i'll keep, at least just yet awhile. but what a life it's been! what larks i've had, what days and nights, what months and years! why, when i think of all i've done, and of what i might have done, rotted away my life, if it hadn't been for that little bolt from school,--why, when i think of that, i never see a boy but i long to take him by the scruff of the neck, and sing out, 'youngster, why don't you do as i have done, cut away from school, and run?'" mr. bankes flung back his head and laughed. but whether he was laughing at them, or at his own words, or at his recollections of the past, was more than they could say. they looked at each other, conscious that their host was not the least part of the afternoon's entertainment, and somewhat at a loss as to whether he was drawing the long bow, taking them to be younger and more verdant than they were, or whether he was seriously advancing an educational system of his own. he startled them by putting a question point-blank to bailey, one which he had put before. "why don't you run away?" "i--i don't know!" stammered bertie. then, frankly, as the idea occurred to him, "because i never thought of it." mr. bankes laughed. his constant tendency to laughter, with or without apparent reason, seemed to be his not least remarkable characteristic. "now you have thought of it, why don't you run away?" bailey turned the matter over in his mind. "why should i?" his friends looked at each other, thinking the conversation just a trifle queer. "why ever should he run away?" asked griffin. "and wherever would he run to?" added wheeler. dick ellis said nothing, but possibly he thought the more. mr. bankes directed his reply directly at bailey. "i'll tell you why you ought to run away; because that's the shortest cut into a world into which you will never get by any other road. i'll tell you where you ought to run to, out of this little fleabite of an island, into the lands of golden dreams and golden possibilities, my lad; where men at night lay themselves down poor, and in the morning rise up rich." mr. bankes, warming with his theme, began to gesticulate and stamp about the room, the boys following him with all their eyes. "i hate your huggermuggering existence; why should a lad of parts huggermugger all his life away? when i saw you stand up to that great lout, i said to myself, 'that lad has grit; he's just the very spit of what i was when i was just his age; he's too good to be left to muddle in this old worn-out country, to waste his time with books and sums and trash.' i said to myself, 'i'll lend him a helping hand,' and so i will. i'll show you the road, if i do nothing else; and if you don't choose to take it, it's yourself's to blame, not me. "when i was out in colorado, at denver city, there was a boy came along, just about your age; he came along from away down east. he was english; he'd got himself stowed away, and he'd made his way to the promised land. he took a spade one day, and he marked out a claim, and that boy he worked it, he did, and it turned up trumps; there wasn't any dirt to dig, because pretty nearly all that his spade turned up was virgin silver. he sold that claim for , dollars, money down, and he went on and prospered. that boy is now a man; he owns, i daresay, half a dozen silver mines, and he's so rich,--ah, he's so rich he doesn't know how rich he is. now why shouldn't you have been that boy?" mr. bankes paused for a reply, but his listeners furnished none. griffin was on the point of suggesting that bailey was not that boy because he wasn't; but he refrained, thinking that perhaps that was not quite the sort of answer that was wanted. "i knew another boy when i was going up from the coast to kimberley, griqualand west. do you boys know where that is?" this sudden plunge into geographical examination took his guests aback; they did not know where griqualand west was; perhaps they had been equally misty as to the whereabouts of denver city, colorado. "it's in south africa. ah, that's the way to learn geography, to travel about and see the places,--pitch your books into the fire!" "and is the other place in south africa?" queried griffin. mr. bankes gave him a look the like of which he had never received from mr. fletcher; a look of thunder, as though he would have liked to pick him up, then and there, and pitch him after the books into the fire. "denver city, colorado, in south africa?" he roared. "why, you leather-headed noodle, where were you at school? if i were the man who taught you, i'd flog you from here to dublin with a cat-o'-nine-tails, rather than i'd let you expose your ignorance like that!" the sudden advent among them of an explosive bomb might have created a little more astonishment than this speech, but not much. griffin felt that he had better abstain from questioning, and let his host run on. "denver city is in the united states of america, in the land of the stars and bars, as every idiot knows! as i was saying, before that young gentleman wrote himself down donkey--and he looks it, every inch of him!--as i was saying, when i was going up from the coast to kimberley, there was a boy who used to do odd jobs for me; he hadn't sixpenny-worth of clothes upon his back! i lost sight of him; five years afterwards i met him again. it was like a tale out of the _arabian nights_, i tell you! that ragged boy that was, when i saw him again five years afterwards, he reckoned to cover what any half-dozen men might have put down, and double it afterwards. and look at the life he'd led! it's no good my talking about it here, you'd hardly believe me if i told you half the things he'd done. don't you believe any of your adventure books. there aren't half the adventures crowded into any book which that lad had seen. yes, a life of adventure was the life for him, and he'd had it, too!" mr. bankes returned to his post of vantage in front of the fire. in his excitement he had smoked his pipe to premature ashes; he refilled and lighted it. then he addressed himself to bailey, marking time as he went on by beating the palm of his right hand against his left. "i say, don't let a day be wasted--days lost are not recovered; now's your time, and now's your opportunity; don't let the week's end find you huggermuggering in that old school. go out into the world! learn to be a man! try your courage! put your powers to the test! search for the golden land! let a life of adventure be the life for you! as for you," mr. bankes turned with ominous suddenness towards charlie griffin, "i don't say that to you; what i say to you is this: write home to your mother for a good supply of flannel petticoats, and wrap yourself up warm, and let your hair grow long, and take care of your complexion. you're a beauty boy, one of the sort who didn't ought to be trusted out after dark alone, and who's sure to have a fit if he sees the moon!" it is a question if this sudden change of subject made griffin or his friends the more uncomfortable. thinking that mr. bankes intended a joke, and that it would be ungrateful not to laugh, ellis attempted a snigger; but a sudden gleam from his host's eyes in his direction brought his mirth to an untimely ending. "what are you laughing at?" asked mr. bankes. ellis kept silence, being most unwilling to confess that he did not know. mr. bankes addressed himself again to bailey. "it is you i am advising to do as i did, to try a fall with the world and to back yourself to win, not such things as those." under this heading he included bertie's three friends, with an eloquent wave of his hand in their direction. "it wants a boy to make a man, not a farthing sugar stick! you'll have cause to bless this evening all your life, and to bless me, too, if you take the tip i've given you. don't you listen to those who talk to you about the hardships you will meet. what's life without hardships, i should like to know; it's hardships make the man! i'm not advising you to wrap yourself up in cotton-wool; leave cotton-wool to mutton-headed dummies;" this with a significant glance in the direction of bailey's friends. "rather i tell you this, you back yourself to fight, and fight it out, and fight to win, and win you will! run away to-night, to-morrow, i don't care when, so long as it's within the week. there's nothing like striking the iron while it's hot, and set the clock a-going which will never stop until it strikes the hour of victory won and fortune made! a life of adventure's the life for me, and it's the life for you, and the sooner you begin it the longer it will last and the sweeter it will be." there was something in mr. bankes' tone and manner, when he chose to put it there, which, in the eyes of his present audience, at any rate, had all the effect of natural eloquence. his excitement excited them, and almost he persuaded them to believe in the reality of his golden dreams. bailey, indeed, sat silent, spellbound. mr. bankes, by no means a bad judge of character, had not mistaken the metal of which the boy was made, and every stroke he struck, struck home. as was not unnatural, mr. bankes' eloquence had a very much more mixed effect on bailey's friends. their host gave a sudden turn to their thoughts by taking out his watch. "eleven o'clock! whew-w-w!" this was a whistle. "they'll think you've run away already! ha! ha! ha! i'm not going to have you boys sleep here, so the sooner you go the better. now then, out you go!" his guests sprang to their feet as he made a movement as though he would turn them out with as much precipitation as he had lifted them into the trap. and, indeed, the manner of their departure was not much more ceremonious. before they quite knew what was happening, he had hustled them into the hall; the hall-door was open; they were the other side of it, and mr. bankes, standing on the doorstep, was ordering them off his premises. "now then, clear out of this! the dogs will be loose in half a second; you'd better make tracks before they take it into their heads to try their teeth upon your legs." the door was shut, and they were left standing in the night, endeavouring to realize whether their adventure of the night had been actual fact, or whether they had only dreamed it. chapter vi afterwards but wheeler's first observation brought them back to _terra firma_ with a plunge. "it's my belief that fellow's a howling madman." they cast a look over their shoulder to see if the fellow thus referred to was within hearing of this courteous speech, and then, with one accord, they made for the entrance to washington villa, not pausing till they stood clear of its precincts on the road outside. then wheeler made another observation. "this is a jolly lark!" ellis and griffin laughed, but bailey held his peace. a thought struck griffin. "i say, i wonder what old mother fletcher'll say? she'll send herself into fits! fancy its being eleven o'clock! did you ever hear of such a set-out in all your lives? and i've no more idea of where we are than the man in the moon." "i know," said bailey. he began to trudge on a few feet in front of them. it still rained--a steady, soaking drizzle--and a haze which hung about the air made the night darker than it need have done. griffin and wheeler, minus caps, were wholly at the mercy of the weather. "i shouldn't be surprised," muttered griffin, "if i didn't catch a death of cold after this." and, indeed, such was a quite possible consummation of the evening's pleasure. the boys trudged on, following bailey's lead. but wheeler's feelings could only find relief by venting themselves in speech. "did you ever hear anything like that chap? i never did, never! fancy his going on with all that stuff about running away. i should like to catch myself at it,--running away! he's about the biggest liar ever i heard!" "and didn't he snap me up!" said griffin. "did you ever see anything like it? how was i to know where the beastly place was? i don't believe there is such a place." "he's cracked!" decided ellis. then, despite the rain, the young gentleman began snapping his fingers and cutting capers in the middle of the muddy road. "he's cracked! cracked! oh lor', i never had such a spree in all my life!" then the three young gentlemen put their hands to their sides and roared with laughter, stamping about the road to save themselves from choking. but bailey trudged steadily on in front. "and didn't he give us a blow-out!" a shout of laughter. "ho, ho, ho! ha, ha, ha!" "and didn't he tell some busters!" another chorus, as before. "i wonder if he ever did run away himself, as he said he did?" this remark came from ellis, and his friends checked their laughter to consider it. they then for the first time discovered that bailey was leaving them in the rear. "you're a nice sort of fellow," shouted ellis after him. "let's catch him up! what's his little game, i wonder? let's catch him up!" they scampered after him along the road, soon catching him, for bertie, who was not hurrying himself, was only a few yards in advance. ellis slipped his arm through his. "i say, bailey, do you think he ever ran away from school himself?" "what's it got to do with me?" was bertie's reply. "whatever made him go on at you like that? he must have taken you for a ninny to think you were going to swallow all he said! fancy you running away! i think i see you at it! running away to huffham's and back is about your style. why didn't you ask him for a tip? he seemed to be so uncommon fond of you that if i'd been you i'd have asked for one. you might have said if he made it large enough you'd run away; and so you might have done--to old mother huffham's and back." and ellis nudged him in the side and laughed. but bailey held his peace. wheeler gave the conversation a different turn. "how are you fellows going to get in?" he referred to their effecting an entrance into mecklemburg house. "knock at the door, of course, and pull the bell, and dance a break-down on the steps, and make a shindy generally, so as to let 'em know we've come." these suggestions came from griffin. wheeler took up the parable. "and tell old mother fletcher to let us have something hot for supper, and to look alive and get it, and make it tripe and onions, with a glass of stout to follow. i just fancy what she'd say." "and tell her," continued griffin, "that we've been paying a visit to a nice, kind gentleman, who happens to be raving mad." "and she'd be pleased to hear that he advised us all to run away, and waste no time about it. where did he advise us to go to? the land of golden dreams? oh, my crikey, don't i see her face!" bailey made a remark of a practical kind. "we can get in fast enough, there are always plenty of windows open." it is not impossible that the young gentleman had made an entrance into mecklemburg house by some such way before. "it's easy enough to get in," said ellis, "but what are we to say in the morning? it'll take about a week to dry my things, and about a month to get the mud off." "i shouldn't be surprised if old shane got sacked," chuckled wheeler. "it will be jolly hard lines if he does," said ellis. "oh, what's the odds? he shouldn't have let us go!" which remark of wheeler's was pretty good, considering the circumstances under which mr. shane's permission had been obtained. just then bailey stopped, and began to peer about him in the night. "have you lost your way?" asked ellis. "that'll be the best joke of all if you have. fancy camping out a night like this! we shan't quite be drowned by the morning, but just about almost." "i'm going to cut across this field," said bailey. "it's ever so far round by the road, but we shall get there in less than no time if we go this way." the suggestion tickled ellis. "fancy cutting across fields on a night like this! oh, my gracious! what will old mother fletcher say?" bailey climbed over a gate, and the others clambered after him. it might be the shortest cut, but it was emphatically the dirtiest. "why, if they haven't been ploughing it!" cried griffin, before they had taken half a dozen steps. apparently they had, and very recently too. the furrows were wide and deep, the soil seemed to be a stiffish clay; walking was exercise of the most hazardous kind. there was an exclamation from some one; but as it appeared that griffin had only fallen forward on to his nose, his friends were too much occupied with their own proceedings to pay much heed. "i have lost my shoe!" declared wheeler, immediately after. "oh, i'm stuck in the mud; i believe i'm planted in this beastly field." "never mind your shoe, since you've lost your hat already," said ellis, with ready sympathy. "you might as well leave all the rest of your things behind you, for all the use they'll be after this little spree is over." "i don't know what bailey calls a short cut," grumbled griffin. "at the rate i'm going it'll take me about a couple of hours to do a hundred yards." "we shall be home with the milk," said ellis. "i've lost my other shoe!" cried wheeler. "no, have you really, though?" "i believe i have, but i don't know whether i have or whether i haven't; all i know is, i've got about a hundred pounds of mud sticking to my feet. i wish bailey was at jericho with his short cuts!" "this is nicer than that old lunatic," sang out dick ellis. "don't i wish old mother fletcher could see us now." "i don't know what you call nice," said griffin. "you'd call it nice if you had your eyes and nose and mouth bunged up. i'm down again!" "you needn't pull me with you," remonstrated ellis. but griffin did. feeling that he was going, he made a frantic clutch at ellis, who was just in front of him, and the two friends embraced each other on the treacherous ground. ellis' tone underwent a sudden change. "i'll pay you out for this!" "i couldn't help it," protested griffin. "couldn't help it! what do you mean, you couldn't help it? do you mean to say you couldn't help catching hold of me, and dragging me down into this beastly ditch?" "it isn't a ditch; it's a furrow." "i don't know what you call a furrow. i know i'm sopping wet, and where my hat's gone to i don't know." "what's it matter about your hat? i've lost mine ever so long ago! i wish i'd stopped at home, and never bothered old shane to let me out. i know whoever else calls this a spree, i don't; spree indeed!" when they had regained their feet, and were cool enough to look about them, they found that the others were out of sight, and apparently out of hearing too. "blessed if this isn't a go! if they haven't been and gone and left us. hollo!" ellis put his hand to his mouth, that his voice might carry further; but no answer came. "ba-a-ailey! ba-a-ailey!" but from bailey came no sign. "this is a pretty state of things! wherever have they gone? if this is a game they think they're having, it's the meanest thing of which i ever heard, and i'll be even with them, mark my words. which way did they go?" "how should i know? i don't even know which way we came. how's a fellow to know anything when he can't see his hand before his face in a place like this? it's my belief it's one of bailey's little games." "ba-a-ailey!" ellis gave another view-halloo. in vain, only silence answered. "well, this is a go! if it hadn't been for you i shouldn't have been in this hole." "i wish i'd never bothered old shane to let me out!" "bother old shane, and bother you too! i don't know where i am any more than adam." "i'm sure i don't." "it's no good standing here like a couple of moon-struck donkeys. i sink in the mud every time i put my foot to the ground; we shall be over head and heels by the time the morning comes. i'm going straight ahead; it must bring us somewhere, and it seems to me it don't much matter where." minus his hat, not improved in person by his contact with the ground, nor in temper by the desertion of his friends, dick ellis renewed his journeying. griffin found some difficulty in keeping up with him. how many times they lost their footing during the next few minutes it would be bootless to recount. over mud, through mire, uphill, downhill, they staggered wildly. "i wonder how large this field is," observed ellis, after about ten minutes of this sort of work. "it seems to me we've gone about six miles." "it seems to me we've gone sixty," groaned his friend. "talk about short cuts! fancy bringing a fellow into the middle of a ploughed field on a pitch-dark, rainy night, and leaving him to find his way alone! i say, ellis, supposing we lose our way?" "supposing we lose our way!" shouted dick. "i guess we've lost it! what an ass you are! what do you think we're doing here, if we haven't lost our way? do you think i'd stop in a place like this if i knew a way of getting out of it?" just then he emphasized his remarks by sitting down in the mud, and remaining seated where he was. "i can't get up; i believe i'm stuck, and here i'll stick; and in the morning they'll find me dead: you mark my words, and see if they don't." the terror of the situation moved griffin almost to tears. "let's shout," he said. "what's the good of shouting?" "i don't know," said griffin. "then what an ass you are!" with difficulty ellis staggered to his feet. "it's my belief i've got about an acre of land fastened to the seat of my breeches. i should like to know how i'm to walk and carry that about." they staggered on. a few yards further on they heard the sound of wheels upon a road. "there's the road!" cried griffin, rapture in his voice. the sound gave him courage. he quickened his pace, and hastened on. suddenly there was a splash, a cry of terror, then all was silence. "what's the matter?" cried ellis, startled he scarcely knew at what. there was no reply. "griffin, where are you? what's the matter?" there was a sound as of a splashing of water, and a stifled voice exclaimed,-- "help! i am drowning! he-elp!" ellis pulled up short, and only just in time, for the ground seemed all at once to come to an end. he stood on the edge of a declivity, and in front of him was he knew not what. it was so dark, he could not see his hand in front of him. there was only the sound as of some one struggling in water, and faint cries for help. for an instant his legs seemed to refuse their office, his knees gave way from under him, and his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. then he became conscious of wheels moving along a road which was close at hand. the sound gave him courage, and he shouted with the full force of his lungs,-- "help! help!" to his intense satisfaction, an immediate answer was returned. "hollo!" a gruff voice replied; "who's that a-calling?" "i!--here!--in the field! there's some one drowning." "hold hard! i'll bring you a light." a moment's pause; then in front of him a light was seen dimly approaching through the night. never before had a light been so heartily welcome to master richard ellis. "where are you?" "here! take care where you're coming; there's a pond, or something, just in front of you." the new-comer approached, keeping a wary eye upon the ground as he advanced. ellis saw it was a carter, and that he carried an old-fashioned round lantern in his hand, with a lighted candle stuck in the socket. the carter held the lantern above his head, standing still, and peering through the night. the man was visible to the boy, but the boy, shrouded in the blackness of the night, was invisible to the man. "where are you?" he asked, seeing nothing in the gloom. "never mind me; griffin's drowning in a pond, or something." the splashing continued. "i'm drowning! he-elp!" the carter stooped forward, so that the light fell on the ground. then ellis perceived that between the man and himself was a little pond, into which the over-anxious griffin had managed to fall. "there ain't no water there," said the carter. "where are you? come out of it. there ain't enough water to drown a cat." griffin, perceiving that the fact was as the carter stated, proceeded to betake himself to what was, in comparison, dry land. but though not drowned, a more pitiable sight could scarcely be presented. he had fallen head-foremost into the filthy pool; the water was trickling down his head and face, and his countenance was plastered with an unsavoury coating of green slime. "what are you? a boy?" inquired the carter. "well, you're a pretty sight, anyhow!" for answer griffin burst into tears. ellis, who had by this time found his way round the pond, joined in the criticism of his friend. "well, i am blessed!" in spite of his own plight, he was almost moved to mirth. "won't old mother fletcher take it out of you! i wouldn't be in your shoes for a pound." "who's she? and who are you?" asked the carter. "have you ever heard of mecklemburg house?" "what, the school? be you from the school? well, you're a pretty couple, the pair of you. what little game are you up to now--running away? won't they lay it into you!" the carter grinned; he was not aware that corporal punishment was interdicted at mecklemburg house, and already seemed to see the "laying in" in his mind's eye. "we--weren't running--away!" wept griffin. "we've lost our way." "lost your way! well, i never! that's a good one!" the carter seemed to doubt the statement. "we have lost our way," said ellis. "look here! for a couple of pins i'll take you by the scruff of your necks and walk you back myself, if you come any of your games on me." from his tone and manner the carter seemed to be indignant. griffin stared--as well as he could through his tears and the slime--and ellis stared, being both at a loss to understand his indignation. "coming with your tales to me, telling me you've lost your way, with the school just across the road." his hearers stared still more. "you don't mean it?" ellis said. "why, if--i don't believe--why, if this isn't old palmer's field, which he was only ploughing yesterday, and if you haven't tumbled into old palmer's pond! well, if we aren't a couple of beauties!" griffin stared at ellis, and the carter stared at both of them. the fact was beginning to dawn upon these young gentlemen, the startling fact, that they had been all the time in a country with every inch of which they were acquainted, and that it was only the darkness which had confused them. as the carter had said, palmer's field--which was the name by which it was known to the boys--was right in front of mecklemburg house, and, in consequence, the school, instead of being, as they supposed, a mile or so away, was just across the road. when they had fully realized this fact, the young gentlemen gave a simultaneous yell of satisfaction, and without wasting any time in compliments and thanks, dashed through the open gate, and out of sight, leaving the carter to the enjoyment of his own society. "well," was the comment of that worthy, when he perceived the full measure of ingratitude which was entailed by this unlooked-for flight, "if i ever helps another being out of a ditch i'll let him know. not even the price of half a pint!" then he shouted after them, "i hope the schoolmeaster'll tan the hide from off you. i would if i were him." possibly the expression of this pious wish in some degree relieved his feelings, for he followed the boys, though at a much more decorous pace, through the gate. when he reached the road, he stopped for a moment and looked around him, but there were no signs of any one in sight--the birds had flown. so, muttering beneath his breath what were probably not blessings, he returned to his charge, a huge vehicle, drawn by four perspiring horses, and which was loaded with market produce. climbing up to his seat, he started his horses and continued his journey through the night. but though he was not aware of it, the young gentlemen who had treated him with such ingratitude had not come to the end of their adventure. the front gate of mecklemburg house stood wide open, and they unhesitatingly dashed inside. but no sooner were they in the grass-grown courtyard than a thought struck griffin. "i wonder if bailey and wheeler have come back?" "i don't know, and i don't care," said ellis. but the interchange of speech brought them back to the sense of their situation. "how are you going to get in?" asked griffin. "through the schoolroom window; it's always open," replied his friend. but this always was a rule liable to exceptions, for on this occasion the particular window referred to happened to be shut. however, to understand all that was to follow, it is necessary to bring this chapter to an end. chapter vii the return of the wanderers while bailey and his friends were spending the evening in the company of mr. george washington bankes, the principal of mecklemburg house was in a condition in which principals are very seldom supposed to be, a condition very closely allied to tears. mr. fletcher was a tall, thin man, whose height was altogether out of proportion to his width. he was afflicted with a chronic stoop, and had a way, in walking, of shuffling, rather than stepping from foot to foot, which was scarcely dignified. his face was not unpleasing; there was a mildness in his eye and a sweetness about his infrequent smile which spoke of a gentler nature than the typical pedagogue is supposed to have. the philistines were upon him now; the battle, which he had long been feebly eluding, rather than boldly facing, had closed its ranks, and in the mere preamble to the fray he had immediately succumbed. it would have been better, perhaps, if he had been made of sterner stuff, but, unless he could have been entirely changed into another man, sooner or later the end was bound to come. mr. fletcher was ruined, and with him mecklemburg house collegiate school was ruined too. he had been on a forlorn hope to town. a certain creditor, in return for money advanced, held a bill of sale on all the contents of the academy. necessary payments had not been made, and he had threatened to swoop down upon the ancient red-brick house, and make a clearance of every desk and stool, every pot and kettle, every bed and bolster the premises contained. to appease this personage, mr. fletcher had journeyed up to town, and had journeyed up in vain. the fiat had gone forth that to-morrow, the day after, any day or any hour--in the middle of the night, for all he knew--hard-hearted strangers might and would arrive, and, without asking with your leave or by your leave, would strip mecklemburg house of every movable it contained. this was what it had come to after five-and-twenty years! when his father died he had been left a comfortable sum of ready money, untarnished credit, and a flourishing school; of all which nothing was left him now. the principal and his wife were seated in their own sitting-room, trying to look the matter boldly in the face. mr. fletcher, sitting with his elbows on the table, covered his face with his hands. mrs. fletcher, a hard-featured woman, had her arm about his neck, and strove to comfort him. her ideas of comfort were of a material sort. "come, eat your supper, now do. you've had nothing to eat all day, and when you've eaten a bit things will look brighter, perhaps." mr. fletcher turned his care-worn face up to his wife. "jane, things will never look bright to me again." the man's voice trembled, and the woman turned her face away, perhaps unwilling to let him see that in her eyes were tears. the principal got up and began to walk about the room. his stoop was more pronounced than usual, and his shuffling style of movement more ungainly. "i'm just a failure, that's what i am, a failure. the world's moved on, and i've stood still. i'm exactly where my father was, and in schools and schoolmasters there's a difference of a hundred years between his time and this. i'm not fit for keeping school in these new times. i don't know what i am fit for. i'm fit for nothing but to die!" "and if you die, what's to become of me?" "and if i live, what'll happen to you then?" "it'll happen to me that i'll have you, and do you think that's nothing?" "jane, it's worse than nothing! you ought to have been the man instead of me. i shall be a clog to you and a burden; you're fit for fifty things, and i'm not fit for one! i could not make a decent clerk. i'm very certain i could not pass the examination required of a teacher in a board-school; i doubt if i ever could have reached that standard. i'm very certain i could not now. times are changed in matters of education. people used to be satisfied with a twentieth part of what they now require. when i am turned out of the house in which i was born, and in which i have lived my whole life long, as i shall be in the course of a day or two, and you are turned out with me, wife, there will be fifty openings you will be fitted to fill, while i shall only be fit to carry circulars from house to house, or a sandwich-board through the streets." "it's no use talking in that way, beauclerk; it only breaks my heart to hear you, and it does no good. we must make up our minds to do something at once, and the great thing is, what? now come and eat your supper, or you'll be ill; you know how you suffer if you go hungry to bed." "i may as well become accustomed to it, because i shall have to go hungry very soon." "beauclerk!--what is the use of going on like that?--do you want to break my heart?" "wife, i believe mine's broken." mr. fletcher leaned his face against the wall just where he was standing, his long, lean frame shaken with his sobbing. "beauclerk! beauclerk! don't! don't!" hard-faced mrs. fletcher went to her husband, and took him in her arms, and soothed him as though he were a child of five. mr. fletcher looked up. his face was ghastly with the effort he made at self-control. "i think i will have some supper; perhaps it will do me good," husband and wife sat down to supper. there were the remains of a leg of mutton, a little glass jar half-filled with pickled cabbage, a small piece of cheese, and bread. mrs. fletcher put some mutton on her husband's plate, and a smaller portion on her own. mr. fletcher swallowed one or two mouthfuls, but apparently it went against the grain. "i can't eat it," he said, pushing away his plate; "i'm not hungry." "won't you have some cheese? it's very nice cheese." "i'm not hungry," repeated her husband. his wife held her peace; she continued eating, not, perhaps, because she was hungry, but possibly because she wished, in doing something, to find a momentary relief from the necessity of thinking. mr. fletcher sat drawing patterns with his fork upon the tablecloth. "i shall write to the parents in the morning. in fact, i ought to write to them to-night, but i don't feel up to it. i shall tell them that i am ruined, root and branch, stock and stone; that mecklemburg house collegiate school is a thing of the past, and that they had better remove their sons immediately, and let them have the means to travel with, because i have none." "when did booker say he would distrain?" booker was the creditor who held the bill of sale. "he didn't specify the exact hour and minute, but it'll only be a question of an hour or two in any case. we can't pay and the things must go." "but you have received money from some of the boys in advance." mr. fletcher got up, and began to pace the room again. "i have received money from most of them. jane, what am i to do? as you know very well, i have received from more than half the boys the term's fees in advance. i am not clear that they could not prosecute me for obtaining money by means of false pretences; but, in any case, i shall feel that i have played the part of a dishonest man. why didn't i say frankly at the beginning of the term, i am ruined, ruined hopelessly! and gone down at once without a pretence of struggling through another term?" "we have struggled through so many, we could not tell we should not be able to struggle again." "at any rate, we haven't. before we're halfway through the term we're beaten, and i have received money on what was very much like false pretences. then there are mr. till and mr. shane; they're entitled to a term's salary, if they could not lay claim to a term's notice too." mrs. fletcher's face grew cold and hard, and there was an unpleasant glitter in her eyes. "i shouldn't trouble myself about them; a more helpless lout than mr. shane, as you call him, i never saw, and to my mind mr. till never has been worth his salt. this morning, when he was left in charge, the school was like a bear-garden; i had to go in half a dozen times to ask what the noise was about. it's my belief that if you had had proper assistance you wouldn't be in the state you are in now." mr. fletcher sighed. "that is not the question, my dear; i owe them the money, and they ought to be paid. i know that they are both almost, if not quite penniless, and if i do not pay them something i doubt whether they will have the means to take them up to town. remember, too, that this is the middle of term, and that how long they will be without even the chance of getting another situation goodness only knows." "and are you better off? have you better prospect of a situation? beauclerk, before you pay either of those men a penny you will have to speak to me; i will not be robbed by them." "if i would i have nothing to pay them with, so there is an end of it, my dear." "do you know what mr. shane's latest performance has been?" struck by something in his wife's tone, mr. fletcher glanced at her with inquiry in his eyes. "i have not told you yet, because i have been too much upset by the news which you have brought to tell you anything,--goodness knows we have enough of our own to bear without having to bear the brunt of that clown's blunders too." seeing that his wife's eloquence bade fair to carry her away, mr. fletcher interposed a question. "what has mr. shane been doing?" "doing! i'll tell you what he has been doing,--and you talk of robbing yourself to give him money! he let four of those boys go out in the rain this afternoon, when i expressly told him not to; and it would seem as if he has let them go for good, for they are still out now." her husband looked at her, not quite catching the meaning of her words. "still out now?" "yes, still out now. bailey, griffin, wheeler and ellis went out this afternoon, in all the rain and fog, with mr. shane's permission; and out they've stopped, for they're not back yet." "not back yet! jane, you cannot mean it. why, it's nearly midnight." mr. fletcher looked at his venerable silver watch, which had come to him, with the rest of his possessions, from his father. "what's that?" husband and wife listened. the silence which reigned without had been broken by a crash from the schoolroom, a crash which bore a strong family resemblance to the sound made by the upsetting of a form. "it's those boys!" said mrs. fletcher. "they're getting through the window." she hurried off to see, her husband following closely after. all the lights were out; save the sitting-room which they had left, all the house was dark. she called to him to bring the lamp. returning, he snatched it from the table and went after her again. they entered the schoolroom, mr. fletcher acting as lamp-bearer. directly the door was opened they were conscious of a strong current of air within the room. mrs. fletcher went swiftly forward, picking her way among the desks and forms, and the cause of the noise they had heard and the draught they felt was soon apparent. the furthest window was wide open. in front of it a form was overturned upon the floor, a form which some one effecting a burglarious entrance through the window in the dark had unwittingly turned over. the lady's quick eye caught sight of a figure crouching behind a neighbouring desk. it did not take her long to drag a young gentleman out by the collar of his coat. "well--upon--my--word!" her astonishment was genuine, and excusable; few more disreputable figures ever greeted a lady's eye. "is this bailey?" it was bailey. perhaps at that moment bailey rather wished it wasn't; but the surprise of his sudden capture had bereft him of the power of speech, and he was unable to deny his identity. the lady did nothing else but stare. suddenly somebody else made his appearance at the window, a head rose above the window-sill, and a meek, modest voice inquired,-- "please, ma'am, may i come in?" the new-comer was edward wheeler. the lady's astonishment redoubled. "well--i--never!" taking this exclamation to convey permission, wheeler gradually raised himself the necessary height, and finally, after a few convulsive plunges to prevent himself from slipping back again, scrambled through the window and stood upon the floor. wheeler presented a companion picture to his friend. as he had lost his hat at an early hour of the evening, he, perhaps, in some slight details, bore away the palm from bailey. mrs. fletcher stared at them both in blank amazement; in all her experience of boys she never had seen anything quite equal to these two. mr. fletcher, lamp in hand, came up to join in the inspection. "where have you boys been?" he asked. "out to tea," said bailey. mrs. fletcher sniffed disdainfully. "out to tea! don't tell me that! i should think you've been out to tea in a ditch!" mr. fletcher carried on the examination. "how dare you tell me you've been to tea! where have you boys been?" "we have been out to tea," said bailey. "and where, sir, have you been having tea, that you come back at this hour, and in such a plight as that?" "washington villa," answered bailey. "washington villa! and where's washington villa? but never mind that, i shall have something to say to you in the morning. where are those other boys? where are griffin and ellis?" "they're coming," muttered bailey. just then they came. while mr. fletcher hesitated, in doubt what to do or say, a voice, unmistakably ellis', was heard without. "is that you, bailey? won't i pay you out for this, you cad! we might have got drowned for all you cared. here's griffin got half-drowned as it is." thrusting her head out of the window, mrs. fletcher replied to the wanderer; a reply, doubtless, as unexpected as undesired. "if mr. fletcher did as i wished him, he'd give each of you boys a good round flogging before you went to bed, a lot of disobedient, ungrateful, untruthful, and untrustworthy scamps!" possibly this was enough for ellis, for he subsided and was heard no more, but a sound of weeping arose. it was the grief of charlie griffin. placing the lamp upon a desk, mr. fletcher put his head out of the window beside his wife's. "i'm not going to open the hall door for you at this time of night. your friends came through the window, and you can follow your friends." they followed their friends, ellis coming first; griffin, with not unnatural bashfulness, preferring to keep in the background. mrs. fletcher's uplifted hands and cry of astonishment greeted ellis, who was indeed a notable example of the possibilities of dirt as applied to the person, but griffin's entry was followed by the silence of petrified amazement. his friends' attempts at disfigurement were altogether unsuccessful as compared to the success which had attended his. they were dandies compared to him. it was difficult at a first glance to realize that he was a boy, or indeed a human being of any kind. he was covered with a combination of weeds, green slime, particoloured filth, and yellow clay; the water dripped from the more prominent portions of his frame; his clothes were glued to his limbs; he was hatless; his face and hair were plastered with the aforesaid slime; and, to crown it all, he was convulsed with a sorrow which lay too deep for words. "griffin!" was all that the headmaster's wife could gasp. "charlie griffin!" "where have you been?" asked mr. fletcher. "i've been in the pond," gasped griffin, half choked with mud and tears. "in the pond? what pond?" "pa-almer's po-ond!" "palmer's pond! what were you doing in there? what i'm to do with you boys is more than i can say!" mr. fletcher sighed. "there's one thing, i shan't have to do with you much longer." this was muttered half beneath his breath. "what are we to do with them, my dear?" this was a question to his wife. "don't ask me; i don't know what we're to do with them. i should think that boy"--here she pointed an accusatory finger at griffin--"had better go back to palmer's pond. he appears to be fond of it, and it's the only place he's fit for." griffin was moved to wilder tears. "he had better take his things off where he stands, and throw them out into the yard; they'll never be good for anything again, and he shan't go upstairs with them on. and all four of them"--this with sudden vivacity which turned attention away from griffin--"must have a bath before they think of going to bed between my sheets. a pretty state of things to have to get baths ready at this time of night!" "griffin, you had better take off your things," said mr. fletcher mildly, when his wife had finished. "i don't know what your father will say when he hears of the way in which you treat your clothing." mrs. fletcher returned to her sitting-room, and griffin unrobed himself, flinging each separate article of clothing into the yard as he took it off. then a procession, headed by mr. fletcher, started for the bath-room. after a few moments' contact with clean, cold water, the young gentlemen, presenting a more respectable appearance, were escorted to their bedroom, mr. fletcher remaining while they put themselves to bed. having assured himself that they actually were between the sheets, "i will speak to you in the morning," he said, and disappeared. when the boys had satisfied themselves that he was out of hearing, their tongues began to wag. griffin was still whimpering. "it's all through you, bailey, i got into this row." something suspiciously like a chuckle was the only answer which came from bailey's bed. "i say, did you really tumble into palmer's pond?" inquired wheeler. "of course i did! how could i help it when you couldn't see your hand before your face?" wheeler buried himself in the bedclothes and roared with laughter. "you wouldn't have laughed if it had been you," continued the outraged griffin. "i was as nearly drowned as anything. i should have been if it hadn't been for a fellow with a lantern." "go away! drowned!" scoffed bailey, unconsciously repeating the carter's words; "why, there isn't enough water to drown a cat!" "what did you go and leave us for like that?" asked ellis. "do you think i was going to mess about in the rain all night while you two were squabbling on top of each other in the mud?" "i call it a mean thing to do!" "who cares what you call it?" "and if it weren't so jolly late, i'd give you something for yourself." "oh, would you? you'd give me something for myself! i like that! you wait till the morning, and then perhaps i'll give you something for yourself instead!" unconscious of the compliments which his affectionate pupils were bandying from one to the other, mr. fletcher returned to his wife, seated in the parlour. his whole air was one of depression, as of one who had no longer spirit enough to fight with fortune. "well, it will be over to-morrow!" he said. "i don't think i'm much good at school-keeping; i'm not strong enough; i'm not sufficiently able to impress my influence on others." going to the mantelshelf he leaned his head upon his hand. "i suspect i've failed as a schoolmaster because i deserved to fail." then, forgetting the heroes of the night, his wife began to comfort him. chapter viii preparing for flight that night bertie bailey dreamed a dream. in fact, he dreamed several dreams; his slumber-time was passed in dreamland, journeying from dream to dream. he dreamed of the land of golden dreams; of mr. bankes and washington villa; of a boy traversing a road which ran right around the world; of tumbling into ponds and scrambling out of them; of some mysterious country, peopled by a race of giants, to which there came a boy, who, single-handed, brought them low, and claimed the country for his own, and the soil of that land consisted of gold and silver, with judicious variations of precious stones. in his dreams he saw weapons flashing in the air, and he heard the sound of strange instruments of music. just before he woke he dreamed the most vivid dream of all. a moment before all had been a chaos of bewilderment, but all at once he found himself alone, in the centre of some wild place, not quite sure what sort of place it was, nor where, nor of anything about it, but he knew that it was wild. a voice was heard in the air, and he knew that it was the voice of mr. george washington bankes. the voice kept repeating, "a life of adventure's the life for me!" and every time the words were uttered the boy's heart leapt up within him, and he went bounding on. the one voice became several, the world was full of voices, yet he knew that they all belonged to the original mr. george washington bankes; and over and over again they repeated the same refrain, "a life of adventure's the life for me!" till the whole world was alive with it, and birds and beasts and sticks and stones caught up the same refrain, "a life of adventure's the life for me!" and the boy's heart was filled with a great and wondrous exultation. but all at once the voices ceased; all was still; and the boy found that he was standing in front of a mighty mountain, which filled the world with darkness, and barred the way in front of him. and he was beginning to be afraid, when out of the silence and the darkness came, in a still small whisper--which he knew to be the whisper of mr. george washington bankes--the words, "a life of adventure's the life for me!" and they put courage into his heart, and he stretched out his arm and touched the mountain, and, behold! at his touch it was cleft asunder, and in its bosom were all the treasures of the earth. but it was unfortunately at this point that he awoke. it was not unnatural that for some moments he should have refused to have acknowledged the fact--to confess that he really was awake, and that it had been nothing but a dream. it was broad daylight. the sun was peeping through the windows, along the edges of the ill-fitting blinds. it was nothing but a dream. as he began to realize the fact of the gleaming sunshine, even he was obliged to admit that it had been nothing but a dream. he turned in his bed with a dissatisfied grunt. "i never dreamed anything like that before, nothing half so real! it seemed as if i had only to put out my hand to touch that mountain now." but it only seemed, for there was no mountain there, only a coverlet, and a sheet, and a blanket or two, and a bolster, and a mattress, and a bed. bertie lay on his back, with his eyes closed, attempting, by an effort of his will, to bring back the vanished dream. and to some extent he succeeded, for as he lay quiescent he seemed to hear, ringing in his ears, the words he had heard in his dream-- "a life of adventure's the life for me!" he seemed so certainly to hear them that, just as they had done in his dream, they filled him with a sudden fire. thoroughly aroused, he sat up in bed, grasping the bedclothes with eager hands. and to himself he said, half beneath his breath, "a life of adventure's the life for me!" the other boys were still asleep in the little iron bedsteads on either side of him, but he made no attempt to recompose himself to slumber. he remained sitting up in bed, his knees huddled up to his chin, engaged in a very unwonted act for him, the act of thinking. the events of the night before were vividly before him, but principally among them, a giant in the foreground, was the figure of mr. george washington bankes. "why don't you run away?" mr. bankes' question rang in his ears. "a life of adventure's the life for me!" those other words of mr. bankes, which had been with him through the dream-haunted night, still danced before his eyes. than bertie bailey a less romantic-looking youth one could scarce conceive. but history tells us that some of the greatest heroes of romance, real, live, flesh-and-blood heroes, who actually at some time or other did exist, were anything but romantic in their persons. perhaps bailey was one of these. anyhow, stowed away in some out-of-the-way corner of his unromantic-looking person was a vein of romance of the most pronounced and unequivocal kind. his range of reading was not wide, yet he had his heroes of fiction none the less. they were rather a motley crew, and if he had been asked the question, say in an examination paper, "who is your favourite hero? give a short sketch of his life," he would have hesitated once or twice before he would have written dick turpin, robin hood, robinson crusoe, or jack the giant-killer. perhaps he would have hesitated still longer before he had attempted to sketch the life of any one of them. yet, had he told the truth, the gentleman selected would have been one of these. possibly in the act of selection his greatest difficulty would have lain. he never could quite make up his mind which of the four gentlemen named above he liked the best. there were points about dick turpin which struck his fancy. he would rather have ridden that ride to york than have had ten thousand pounds. it would have been worth his while to have been dick turpin if only to possess that horse of horses, black bess, the coal-black steed of his heart's desire, though it may be mentioned in passing that up to the present moment bertie bailey had never figured upon a horse's back. he had once ridden a donkey from ramsgate to pegwell bay, but a donkey was not black bess. on the other hand, there was no part of england with which he was better acquainted--theoretically--than the glades of sherwood forest. to have lived in those glades with robin hood, bailey would heave a great sigh at the prospect; ah, that he only could! yet certainly one had only to speak of the desert island, and of robinson crusoe on its lonely shore, for bertie to feel a wild longing to plough the distant main, a longing which was scarcely consistent with his desire for the glades of sherwood forest. it is the fashion to sneer at fairy tales, and to speak of them as though they were beneath the supposititious dignity of the common noun boy, and certainly the marvellous history and adventures of jack the giant-killer belong to the domain of the fairies. possibly bertie would have been himself ashamed to own his partiality for that hero of the nursery; and yet, to have had jack's courage and strength and skill, to have slaughtered giants and taken castles and rescued maidens--bertie sometimes dreamt of himself as another jack, and then always with a rapture too deep for words. perhaps his real, ideal, and favourite hero would have consisted of a judicious combination of the four--something of dick turpin, and something of robin hood, and something of robinson crusoe, and something of jack the giant-killer. take all these somethings and mix them well together, and you would have had the man for bailey. emphatically, although almost unconsciously, in all his waking dreams, a life of adventure had been the life for him. mr. george washington bankes had applied the match to the powder. as he thought of all that gentleman had said, even in the cool of the morning, all his soul was on fire. seeing him in his nightshirt of doubtful cleanliness, and with his touzled hair, you might not have supposed that there was fire in his soul, but there was. run away! he had heard of boys running away from school before to-day. boys had run away from mecklemburg house, and there were stories of one who, within quite recent times, had made a dash for liberty. some said he had got as far as windsor, some said dorking, before he had changed his mind and decided to come back again. but he had come back again. bailey made up his mind that when he ran away he would never come back again; never! or, at any rate, not till he had traversed the world in several different directions, as mr. george washington bankes had done. it had already become a question of _when_ he ran away. with that quickness in arriving at a decision which, so some tell us, is the sure sign of a commanding intellect, he had already decided that he would; there only remained the question of time and opportunity. "why don't you run away?" mr. bankes had asked. yes, why, indeed? especially if one had only to run away to step at once into the land of golden dreams! when the boys took their places in the schoolroom after breakfast, prepared for morning school, a startling announcement was made to them by mr. fletcher. bailey and his friends had expected that something would be said to them on the subject of their escapade of the night before; but so far, so far as those in authority were concerned, their expectations had been disappointed. they had been sufficiently cross-examined by their fellow-pupils, and in spite of a slight suggestive foreboding of something unpleasant to come, when they perceived how their proceedings appeared in the eyes of their colleagues, they were almost inclined to look upon themselves somewhat in the light of heroes. griffin, indeed, had not heard the last of the pond, and it was not of the tragic side of his misadventure that he heard the most. there were some disagreeable remarks made by personal friends who would not see that he had run imminent risk of being drowned. he almost began to wish that he had been. "you wouldn't have laughed at it then," he said. but they laughed at it now. but neither from mr. till, nor from mr. shane, nor from mr. fletcher, nor from the far more terrible mrs. fletcher, had either of the young gentlemen heard a word. and just when they were preparing for morning school mr. fletcher made his startling announcement. at first the quartett thought, not unreasonably, that his remarks were going to have particular reference to them and to their misdoings, but they were wrong. the headmaster was seated at his desk, in a seemingly more than usually preoccupied mood; but he too often was preoccupied in school, so they paid no heed, and got out their books and slates, and other implements of study, with the ordinary din and clatter. suddenly he spoke. "boys, i want to speak to you." the boys looked at him, and the quartett looked at each other. mr. fletcher did not raise his head, but with his eyes fixed on the desk in front of him continued to speak as though he found considerable difficulty in saying what he had to say. "i have had heavy losses lately in carrying on the school. some of you know that the number of boys has grown smaller by degrees and beautifully less." there was a faint smile about mr. fletcher's mouth which did not quite betoken mirth. "but i do not complain. i should not have mentioned it, only"--he paused, raised his head, and looked round the room, his eyes resting for a moment on each of the boys as they passed--"only when one has no boys one can keep no school. i have found, very certainly, that without boys school cannot keep me--my wife and i. our wants are not large--they have grown even smaller of recent years--but to satisfy the most modest wants something is required, and we have nothing." again he paused, and again something like the ghost of a smile flitted across his face. by this time the boys were listening with their eyes and ears, and mr. shane and mr. till listened with the rest. "i am a ruined schoolmaster. i should not have told you this--it is not a pleasant thing to have to tell--only my ruin is so complete, and so near. it will necessitate your returning home at once. mecklemburg house will no longer be able to offer shelter to either you or i, and i--i was born here; you will perhaps be able to go with lighter hearts. i have communicated with your parents. you must pack your things at once; some of you will, perhaps, be fetched in an hour or two. i have advised your parents that you had better be all of you removed by to-morrow morning at the latest. under these circumstances there will, of course, be no morning school; nor, indeed, in mecklemburg house any more school at any time." perhaps, in that schoolroom, the silence had never been so marked as it was when mr. fletcher ceased. the boys looked at each other, and at their master, scarcely understanding what it was that he had said, and by no means certain that they were entitled to believe their ears. no morning school! mecklemburg house ceased to exist! pack up! going home at once! these things were marvellous in their eyes. there were those among them who had not failed to see the way in which things were tending, who knew that mecklemburg house was very far from being what it was, that the glory was departed; but for such a thunderclap as this they were wholly unprepared. pack up! going home at once! the boys could do nothing else but stare. "you will disperse now, and go into the playground. put your books away quietly you will be called in as you are wanted to assist in packing." they put their books away. it was unnecessary to bid them do it quietly; their demeanour had never been so decorous. then they filed out silently, one after the other, and the headmaster and his ushers were left alone. one boy there was who walked out of that schoolroom as though he were walking in a dream. this was bailey. it was all wonderful to him. he was watching for an opportunity to fly--he knew not why, he knew not where; but that is by the way. he had only begun to watch an hour or two ago, and here was the opportunity thrust into his hand. he never doubted for an instant that here was the opportunity thrust into his hand. it was now or never. he had reasons of his own for knowing that when he had left mecklemburg house he had left boarding-school for ever. he might have a term or two at a day-school, but what was the use of running away from a school of that description? it was heroic to run away from boarding-school, but from day-school--where was the heroic quantity in that? no, it was now or never, and bertie bailey resolved it should be now. so in a secluded corner of the playground he matured his adventurous scheme; for even he was not prepared to rush through the playground gate and dash into the world upon the spot. "i must get some money." so much he decided. it may be mentioned that he arrived at this decision first of all. it may be added that his consciousness of the desirability of getting money was not lessened by the fact that he possessed none now; no, not so much as a specimen of the smallest copper coinage of the realm. "i must try to borrow some from some of the chaps." he was aware that this was not a hopeful field. "but a fellow can't go without any money at all; even mr. bankes said he had ninepence-halfpenny." he remembered every word which mr. bankes had said. "wheeler had sevenpence, and he promised to lend me twopence, but he's such a selfish beast i shouldn't be surprised if he's changed his mind. besides, i ought to have more than twopence, or sevenpence, either. perhaps he might lend me the lot; he's not a bad sort sometimes. anyhow, i'll try." he tried. slipping his arm through wheeler's he drew him on one side. he approached the matter diplomatically. "i say, wheeler, i know you're a trump." this sort of diplomacy was a mistake; wheeler was at once on the alert. "what are you buttering me up for? don't you think you're going to get anything out of me, because you just aren't; so now you know it." this was abrupt, not to say a little brutal, perhaps. bailey perceived the error he had made; he changed his tone with singular presence of mind. "look here, wheeler, i want you to lend me that sevenpence of yours." "then you'll have to want; i like your cheek!" "lend me sixpence." "i won't lend you a sight of a farthing." "you promised to lend me twopence." "oh, did i? then i won't. i'm going to buy sevenpenn'orth of cocoanut candy, and perhaps i'll give you a bit of that, though i don't promise, mind; and it'll only be a little bit, anyhow." "but look here, i want it for something--i do, i really do, or else i wouldn't ask you for it." "what do you want it for?" asked wheeler, struck by something in the other's tone. "oh! for something particular." "what do you want it for? if you tell me, perhaps i'll lend it." this was a bait; but bailey did not trust his friend so completely as he might have done. he suspected that if he told him what it really was wanted for, the story might be all over the playground in a minute; and it was possible that his friends might not view his intended flight from the heroic point of view from which it appeared to him. so he temporized. "if you'll lend me the sevenpence first, i'll tell you afterwards." "you catch me at it! what do i want to know what you want it for? i know i want it myself, and that's quite enough for me." wheeler turned away; bailey caught him by the arm. "lend me the twopence which you promised." "i won't lend you a brass farthing." bertie felt the moment was not propitious. it occurred to him that he might pick a quarrel with his friend and fight him, and that when he had fought him long enough his friend might see things in a different light, and a loan might be arranged. but of this he was by no means certain. he was not clear in his own mind as to the amount of hammering which would be required to bring about a conversion. he had never measured his strength with wheeler; and it even occurred to him that he might be the hammered one, and not his friend. on the whole, he thought that he had better leave that scheme untried; sevenpence might be bought too dearly. baffled in one quarter he tried another. in quest of money he buttonholed all the school. but this, again, was a mistaken step. it soon got about that bailey was in search of some one to devour, and, in consequence, those who were worth devouring took the hint--they by no means showed themselves anxious to be devoured. in spite of his repeated efforts, he only met with one success, and that was one of which he was scarcely entitled to be proud. willie seymour, bailey's cousin, has been already mentioned. he was the youngster who led mr. shane's german grammar on its final road to ruin. a little pale-faced boy, certainly not more than nine years old, and without even the strength of his years. bertie caught him by the jacket. "now then, where's that money of yours?" his temper was not improved by the want of confidence his friends had shown, and this was not a case in which he thought delicacy was required. "what money? bertie, don't! you're hurting my arm!" "yes, and i'll hurt it, too! where's that money of yours? i know you've got some." "i've only got one and fivepence. mamma sent it me last week to buy a birthday present. it was my birthday, you know." "oh, was it! then i'll buy you a birthday present--something spiffing. fork it up!" "but, bertie----" "fork it up!" "it's in my desk." "then just you let me see your desk. it's never safe to leave money in your desk; it might get stolen." and bailey dragged his relative indoors. it may be mentioned that willie's mother (bertie's aunt) had particularly commended her lad to bertie's care. this was the first symptom of a careful disposition he had shown. chapter ix the start with tears and sighs willie seymour produced his desk for his relative's inspection. it was a little rosewood desk which his mother had given him to keep his papers in, and envelopes, and his own particular pens, and his stamps, and his money, and his treasures. bailey proceeded to inspect it. "where's the key?" "don't take the money, bertie. mamma sent it me to buy a birthday present with, and i've spent sevenpence already. it was two shillings she sent." "oh, you've spent sevenpence, have you! then i've half a mind to give you a licking for spending such a lot. do you think your mother sent you money to chuck about all over the place? she told me to look after you, and so i will. give me the key." from a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends, which bulged out the pockets of his knickerbockers, the key was produced. "don't take the money, bertie!" bailey unlocked the desk with a magisterial air. "if your mother knew that you'd spent sevenpence, what d'ye think she'd say to me? she'd say, 'i told you to look after him, and here you let him go chucking the money i sent him to buy a birthday present into his stomach, and making himself as ill as i don't know what! is that the way to buy a birthday present? nice affectionate lad you are!'" at this point bailey, having discovered the one and fivepence, held it in his hand. "i shall put this money into my pockets, and i shall take care of it for you, and when you want it, you come to me and ask for it. d'ye hear?" at this point he slipped the money into his trousers pocket. willie wept. "what are you snivelling for? if you don't stop i'll take care of your desk as well. now i think of it, wheeler wants just such a desk as this. i shouldn't be surprised if he gave me sevenpence for it; it would just come in handy." bailey subjected the desk to a critical examination. "i'll tell mr. fletcher if you take my desk away." "what, sneak, would you? as it happens, i don't care for you or mr. fletcher either." bertie tucked the desk under his arm and moved to the door. willie flung his head upon his arms and burst into a passion of tears. at the door bertie turned and surveyed the child. "here, take your desk. think i want the thing!" he flung the desk towards his cousin. falling on the edge of a form, it burst open, and the contents were thrown out of it. leaving willie to make the best of a bad case, and pick up his ill-used property, bertie marched away with the one and fivepence in his pocket. that one and fivepence was all the cash he could secure. he made one or two efforts in the course of the day to increase his capital by the addition of a penny or two, but the efforts were in vain. none of the smaller boys had any money; some of the seniors he suspected were in possession of funds, but in face of their refusal to oblige him with a temporary loan he did not feel justified in taking them by the throats and putting into practice any theory of their money or their life. he suspected he might get neither; sundry knocks and bruises he might be the richer for, but they were riches for which he had no longing. one particularly gallant attack he made upon a suspected seat of capital does not deserve to go unchronicled. the suspected seat of capital was mr. shane. chancing to pass the schoolroom on his way downstairs, a glimpse he caught of some one within brought him to a standstill. he entered; he shut the door behind him for precaution's sake, being unwilling that his friends should intrude upon what he perceived might be a delicate interview. in a corner of the schoolroom was mr. shane. he sat with his elbows resting on the desk and his head resting on his hands. so absorbed was he in his own meditations that he paid no heed to bailey's entrance. bertie watched him in silence for a moment or two, then he made his presence known. "i say, mr. shane." mr. shane started and looked up. his face was very pale, there were traces of what were suspiciously like tears about his eyes, and his whole appearance was as of one who had received a sudden blow. without speaking he stared at bailey, whose presence evidently took him by surprise. seeing that the other held his peace, bertie came to the point. "can you lend me a shilling or two?" "lend you a shilling or two!" "i daresay you'll think it like my cheek to ask you, and so it is; but--i'm in an awful hole, i really am. i know i've not been such a civil beggar as i might have been, but--i never meant any harm; and--i'm sorry about that grammar, i really am; i'd buy you another if i'd got the money, upon my word i would--i don't know what i wouldn't do for you if you'd lend me a shilling or two--especially if you'd make it three." in spite of himself bertie grinned, and his eyes glistened at the idea of spoiling the usher. mr. shane stared at him, as well he might. he spoke with a sort of little pause between each word, as though he were doubtful if he had heard aright. "you want me to lend you a shilling or two?--me?" "yes. i'll let you have it back as soon as, i can, and i'm in an awful hole, or i wouldn't ask you. do lend it me!" mr. shane stood up, with a curious agitation in his air. "i haven't got it." "not got it i not got a shilling or two! oh, i say, come!" "i haven't got a penny in the world." "not got a penny in the world! oh, i say, aren't you piling it on!" "not a penny; not a penny in the world; not one. i'm a beggar!" mr. shane's agitation was so curious, and the air with which he proclaimed himself a beggar was so wild, that bertie's surprise grew apace. he wondered whether, as he might himself have phrased it, the usher had a tile loose in his head. "see!" mr. shane turned his coat-tail pockets inside out. there was nothing in them. "see!" he followed suit with the pockets in his trousers. they also were void and empty. "nothing! nothing! not a sou! mr. fletcher engaged to pay me sixteen pounds a year. there's fifteen shillings owing from last term. i couldn't afford to buy myself a pair of boots when i came back. look at my boots." mr. shane held up his boots, one after the other. bertie stared at them; they were very much the worse for wear. "and now he tells me that i'm to leave this very day, leave in the very middle of the term, without a penny-piece. he says he cannot let me have a penny-piece. i've worked hard for my money; he knows i've worked hard for my money; he knows i've been cruelly used; and yet he sends me away in the middle of the term a beggar, and with fifteen shillings owing from last term. what am i to do! my mother lives at braintree. i can't walk all the way to braintree in essex, especially in such boots as these; and she hasn't any money to give me when i get there, and i can't get another situation in the middle of the term. it's cruel, cruel, cruel! i'm a beggar, and i shall have to go to the workhouse and sleep in the casual ward, and break stones before they let me leave in the morning. it's wicked cruelty! i don't care who hears me say it, so it is!" mr. shane's agitation, though real enough, was also sufficiently grotesque. with his pockets turned inside out, and his collar and necktie all awry, he paced about the schoolroom, swinging his arms, speaking in his thin, cracked tones, the tears running down his cheeks, half choked with passion. it was the grotesque side of the usher's woe which appealed to bailey. "you don't mean to say mr. fletcher won't pay you your wages?" "i do, i do! he says he hasn't got it; he says he doubts if he has five shillings to call his own. what right has he to engage an usher if he has not got five shillings of his own? how does he expect to pay me, and fifteen shillings owing from last term? how am i to walk to braintree in essex in these boots without a penny in my pocket? and what will my mother say when i get home--if i ever do get home--with no money in my pocket, and turned out of a situation in the middle of a term? it's a cruel, wicked shame, and i'll shout it out in the middle of the road! i don't care what they say, i will! i won't go without my money, if it's only the fifteen shillings left owing from last term!" "then i suppose you can't lend me a shilling or two?" "lend you a shilling or two! how can i? it's for you to advance a loan to me. bailey, you've been a wicked boy to me ever since i came, and now to come and ask me to lend you money! you're all wicked about the place." "i've got one and fivepence." bailey held the money in his hand. "one and fivepence! bailey, it's your duty to lend me that one and fivepence. you can't want money, your parents will send you the means to take you home. and here am i without a penny. how am i to walk all the way to braintree in essex in these boots without a penny in my pocket? it is a wicked thing that i should ever have been induced to accept such a situation. it's your duty to make amends for your uniform bad conduct, and to sympathise with me in my distress. you ought to lend me that one and fivepence. won't you lend it to me, bailey?" bertie went through the familiar pantomime of putting his fingers to his nose. "me lend you one and fivepence--ax your grandmother! you must think me jolly green." he thrust the hand which still held the one and fivepence into his trousers pocket, and turning on his heel marched with an air of great deliberation to the door. at the door he turned, and again addressed the usher. "if i were you, old shane, i'd go to fletcher, and i'd say, 'fork up, fletcher, or i'll give you one in the eye;' and then if he didn't fork up i'd give him a couple of good fine black ones. he'd look nice with a couple of black eyes, would fletcher; and, if you like, i'll come with you now and see you do it." he paused; but seeing that mr. shane gave no immediate signs of acting on this useful hint he went on,-- "you haven't got the spirit of an old dead donkey. you'd let anybody have a kick at you. you're a regular all-round molly, shane." with this frank expression of heart-felt sympathy for mr. shane's distress he left the room, and banged the door behind him. his enterprise, though displaying boldness, had been a failure; he had not succeeded in adding to his capital. as he walked away from the schoolroom he meditated upon the matter. "one and fivepence isn't much--not to run away with--but mr. bankes said he'd only ninepence-halfpenny; i'm better than that. still, i'd like another shilling or two; one and fivepence doesn't go far, stretch it how you will. but if i can't get more i'll make it do, somehow. if mr. bankes managed with ninepence-halfpenny i don't see why i shouldn't do with one and fivepence. something is sure to turn up directly i am off." it occurred to him that perhaps mr. bankes might have had something else besides his ninepence-halfpenny--something in the shape of food, valuables, or extra clothing, or some other unconsidered trifle of that kind. bertie perceived that if he put into execution his plan of immediate flight he would have to go as he was, with his one and fivepence and nothing else. he had a misty recollection of having read somewhere of a young gentleman, just such another hero as himself, who started on his exploration of the world with baggage in the shape of a red cotton handkerchief, which contained a clean shirt, some bread and cheese, and, if his memory served him, a pair of socks which his little sister had neatly darned for him on the night before his setting out. bertie would have to start without even this amount of luggage. nor could he understand that he would be much worse off on that account; the bread and cheese might be useful--if he remembered rightly, the young gentleman referred to had eaten his bread and cheese about ten minutes after starting--but for the shirt and socks he could perceive no use whatever. he had a sort of idea that either those sort of things would not be required, or else that they could be had for asking when he was once out in the world. but his chief fear was, and it kept him on tenter hooks throughout the day, that his grand exploit would be nipped in the bud, altogether frustrated, by his being prematurely fetched home. he lived at upton, a little town in berkshire, not twenty miles away. it would not take long for mr. fletcher's communication to reach his home, and it was quite within the range of possibility that a messenger would be immediately despatched to fetch him. in that case he would sleep that night in a paternal bed, and farewell to the land of golden dreams. the flitting had already commenced. by the afternoon some of the boys, who lived close by, had already gone. the packing progressed briskly. he had seen with his own eyes his boxes locked and corded. it was with very mixed sensations that he had himself assisted at the process. within those well-worn receptacles was he locking and cording the land of golden dreams! at the mere thought of such a thing he could have shed unheroic tears. at any moment he might be called, he might be greeted by a familiar face, he might be whirled away in a cab at the rate of four or five miles an hour, with his luggage on the roof of the vehicle, and then--farewell to the land of golden dreams. he might have put an end to his uncertainty by starting at once on his progress through the world. but he had made up his mind that that was not the thing. to run away in broad daylight, like an urchin who had stolen a twopenny loaf, with half a dozen yelping curs at his heels and not impossibly the country folks all grinning--who could connect romance with such an undignified departure? no, night was the thing for him--silent, mysterious night; and, above all, the witching hour. that was the time for romance! under the cold white moon, and across the moonlit meadows, when all the world was sleeping--then he could conceive a flight into the world of mystery and of magic, and of lands of golden dreams. so he had decided that as nearly as possible midnight should be the moment for his adventures to begin. the choice of such an hour put difficulties in his way. first of all, there was the difficulty of being sure of the time. he did not himself possess a watch, and he could not rely upon some distant church clock informing him of the passage of the night. fortunately he remembered that tom graham, who slept in a bed next door but one to his, possessed a watch. he would time his departure by tom graham's watch. then there was the difficulty of egress--how was he to get away? in his strong desire to play the more heroic part, he would have liked to have dropped from the window of his bedroom some thirty-five feet on to the paving-stones of the courtyard below. but then he reflected that he would not improbably break his neck, and it would be just as well not to begin his adventures by doing that; that sort of thing would come in its proper place a little later on. he might knot his sheets together, and form an impromptu rope, and descend by means of that: there were charms about the idea which commended themselves to him. he had seen a picture somewhere of a gallant youth descending by means of such a rope a tower apparently a mile or two in height; it was an unpleasant night and the youth was whirled hither and thither by the tempestuous winds. had his bedroom been a couple of miles from the ground, why then--bailey smacked his lips, and his eyes glistened--but as it wasn't he discarded the idea. he sighed to think that they build none of those lofty towers now--at least, so far as he was aware. no; for the present it was sufficient to get away. let him first get clear away, and then he would have adventures fast enough. he decided that the old familiar schoolroom window would suffice for the occasion. he would get out of that. but the chief difficulty he had to face was the terrible risk which existed of his being fetched away. one boy after another went; hour after hour passed; a bare handful of young gentlemen remained. they had dinner, such as it was; but bertie had lost his appetite, and was for the nonce contented with meagre fare. they had tea, which was postponed to the latest possible hour, and which when it came consisted of a liquid which such boys as partook of it declared was concocted of the tea leaves which had remained at breakfast, and which was accompanied by thick slices of unbuttered bread. but bertie never grumbled; he ate his bread and he drank his tea without suggesting anything against its quality. the evening passed. the number of boys was still more diminished, yet for bailey no one came. the clock pointed to an hour at which it was declared that no one could come now--it was half-past nine. the usual hour for bed was half-past eight, but the boys had been kept up in the expectation and possible hope that at mecklemburg house it would not be necessary for them to go to bed at all. now they were ordered to their rooms. bertie could have danced, and sung, and stood on his head, and comported himself generally like a juvenile madman; but he refrained, his time was coming; he would be able to comport himself as he liked in two hours and a half, but at present the word was caution. it was arranged that all the boys who remained should sleep in the same room. there were only five: edgar wheeler, tom graham, little willie seymour, a boy whose parents were in india named hagen, and commonly called blackamoor, and bertie bailey. the first into bed was bailey. not a word was to be got out of him edgeways. he was a model of good behaviour. he even pressed the others to hurry into bed, to go to sleep, to let him sleep. they slept long before he did. he lay awake tingling all over. he listened to their regular respirations--hagen was a loud snorer and always set up a signal of distress--and when he was sure they were asleep he hugged himself in bed. then he sat up, being careful to make as little noise as possible, and in the darkness peered at his sleeping comrades. their gentle breathing and hagen's stentorian snores were music in his ears. then he lay back in bed again, biding his time. he heard a clock strike the half-hour--half-past ten. it was a church clock. he wondered which. the night was calm, and the sound travelled clearly through the air; it might have been a long way off. and then--then he went to sleep. it was not at all what he intended--very much the other way. he had supposed that he had only to make up his mind to lie awake till twelve o'clock to do it. but he was wrong; the strain at which he had kept his faculties through the day had told upon him more than he had supposed. he awoke with a start--with a consciousness that something was wrong. he listened for a moment, wondering what strange thing had roused him. then he remembered with a flash. the time had gone and he had slept. with a half-stifled cry he sprang up in bed. what time was it? had he really slept? only for a minute or two, he felt sure. he groped his way to graham's bed. that young gentleman slept with his watch beneath his pillow; bailey was awkward in his attempts to get at it without waking the sleepy owner. he got it, and took it to the window that he might see the time. half-past two! soon it would be light--bertie was almost inclined to think it was getting lighter now. he gave a cry of rage, and the watch dropped from his hand to the floor. startled, he turned to see if the sleepers were awakened by the noise. he held his breath to listen. they slumbered as before. he picked up the watch and placed it on the mantelshelf, not caring to run the risk of rousing graham by replacing it beneath his pillow. as he did so, he noticed that the glass was broken, shattered in the fall. with great rapidity he dressed himself, only pausing for a moment to see that the one and fivepence was safe. his slippers were packed; he had come to bed in his boots. holding them in his hand, in his stockinged feet he stole across the room, carefully turned the handle of the door, went out, and shut the door behind him. he met with no accident on his way to the schoolroom. within five minutes of his leaving his bed he was standing among the desks and forms. the blinds had not been drawn: the moonlight flooded the room--at any rate, the moon had not gone down. he was going to carry out so much of his plans--he was to fly through a moonlit world. perhaps after all the little accident which had caused him to shut his eyes was not of much importance. certainly, the sleep had refreshed him; he felt capable of making for the land of golden dreams without requiring to pause upon the way. among the moonlit desks and forms he put his boots on; laced them up; then, with a careful hand, slipped the hasp of the familiar window, raised the sash, got out, and lowered himself to the ground. it was only when he was on the ground that he remembered that he was without a cap. he put his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced an old cricket cap which he had privately secured when he was supposed to be assisting at the packing. then he started for the land of golden dreams. chapter x another little drive he ran across the courtyard, glancing up at the silent house behind him. in the moonlight mecklemburg house looked like a house of the dead. through the gate, and out into the road; then, for a moment, bertie paused. "which way shall i go?" he stood, hesitating, looking up and down the road. in his anxiety to reach the land of golden dreams he had not paused to consider which was the road he had to take to get there. such a detail had not occurred to him. he had taken it for granted that the road would choose itself; now he perceived that he had to choose the road. "i'll go to london--something's sure to turn up when i get there. it always does. in london all sorts of things happen to a fellow." his right hand in his pocket, clasping his one and fivepence, he turned his face towards cobham. he had a vague idea that to reach town one had to get to kingston, and he knew that through cobham and esher was the road to kingston. if he kept to the road the way was easy, he had simply to keep straight on. he had pictured himself flying across the moonlit fields; but he concluded that, for the present, at any rate, he had better confine himself to the plain broad road. the weather was glorious. it was just about that time when the night is about to give way to the morning, and there is that peculiar chill abroad in the world which, even in the height of summer, ushers in the dawn. it was as light as day--indeed, very soon it would be day; already in the eastern heavens were premonitory gleams of the approaching sun. but at present a moon which was almost at the full held undisputed reign in the cloudless sky. so bright were her rays that the stars were dimmed. all the world was flooded with her light. all was still, except the footsteps of the boy beating time upon the road. not a sound was heard, nor was there any living thing in sight with the exception of the lad. bertie bailey had it all to himself. bertie strode along the cobham road at a speed which he believed to be first rate, but which was probably under four miles an hour. every now and then he broke into a trot, but as a rule he confined himself to walking. conscious that he would not be missed till several hours had passed, he told himself that he would have plenty of time to place himself beyond reach of re-capture before pursuit could follow. secure in this belief, every now and then he stopped and looked about him on the road. he was filled with a sense of strange excitement. he did not show this in his outward bearing, for nature had formed his person in an impassive mould, and he was never able to dispossess himself of an air of phlegm. an ordinary observer would have said that this young gentleman was constitutionally heavy and dull, and impervious to strong feeling of any sort. mr. fletcher, for instance, had been wont to declare that bailey was his dullest pupil, and in continual possession of the demons of obstinacy and sulkiness. yet, on this occasion, at least, bailey was on fire with a variety of feelings to every one of which mr. fletcher would have deemed him of necessity a stranger. it seemed to him, as he walked on and on, that he walked in fairyland. he was conscious of a thousand things which were imperceptible to his outward sense. his heart seemed too light for his bosom; to soar out of it; to bear him to a land of visions. that land of golden dreams towards which he travelled he had already reached with his mind's eye, and that before he had gone a mile upon the road to cobham. mecklemburg house was already a thing of the past that petty poring over books, which some call study, and which mr. george washington bankes had declared was such a culpable waste of time, was gone for ever. no more books for him; no more school; no more rubbish of any kind. the world was at his feet for him to pick and choose. by the time he had got to cobham he was making up his mind as to the particular line of heroism to which he would apply himself. the old town, for cobham calls itself a town, was still and silent, apparently unconscious of the glorious morning which was dawning on the world, and certainly unconscious of the young gentleman who was passing through its pleasant street, scheming schemes which, when brought to full fruition, would proclaim him a hero in the sight of a universe of men. "i'll be a highwayman; i'd like to be; i will be. if a coach and four were to come along the road this minute i'd stop the horses. yes! and i'd set one of them loose, and i'd mount it, and i'd go to the window of the coach, and i'd say, 'stand and deliver.' and i'd make them hand over all they'd got, watches, purses, jewellery, everything--i shouldn't care if it was £ , ." he fingered the one and fivepence in his pocket; the sound of the rattling coppers fired his blood. "and then i'd dash away on the horse's back, and i'd buy a ship, and i'd man it with a first-rate crew, and i'd sink it in the middle of the sea. and, first of all, i'd fill the long-boat with everything that i could want--guns, and pistols, and revolvers, and swords, and bullets, and powder, and cartridges and things--and i'd get into it alone, and i'd say farewell to the sinking ship and crew, and i'd row off to a desert island, and i'd stop there five-and-twenty years. yes; and i'd tame all the birds and animals and things, and i'd be happy as a king. and then i'd come away." he did not pause to consider how he was to come away; but that was a detail too trivial to deserve consideration. by this time cobham was being left behind; but he saw nothing save the life which was to be after he had left that desert isle. "i'd go to sherwood forest, and i'd live under the greenwood tree, and i'd form a band of robbers, and i'd have them dressed in green, and i'd seize the archbishop of canterbury, and i'd make him fight me with single-sticks, and i'd let the beggars go, and i'd give the poor all the booty that i got." what the rest of the band would say to this generous distribution of their hard-earned gains was another detail which escaped consideration. "and i'd be the oppressor of the rich and the champion of the poor, and i'd make everybody happy." how the rich were to be made happy by oppression it is difficult to see; but so few systems of philosophy bear a rigorous examination. "and i'd have peace and plenty through the land, and i'd have lots of fighting, and if there was anybody in prison i'd break the prisons open and i'd let the prisoners out, and i'd be ruler of the greenwood tree." his thoughts turned to jack the giant-killer. by now the day was really breaking, and with the rising sun his spirits rose still higher. the moonlight merging into the sunshine filled the country with a rosy haze, which was just the kind of thing for magic. "i wish there still were fairies." if he only had had the eyes no fairyland would have been more beautiful than the world just then. "no, i don't exactly wish that there were fairies--fairies are such stuff; but i wish that there were giants and all that kind of thing. and i wish that i had a magic sword, and a purse that was always more full the more you emptied it, and that i could walk ten thousand miles a day. i wish that you had only got to wish for a thing to get it--wouldn't i just start wishing! i don't know what i wouldn't wish for." he did not. the catalogue would have filled a volume. "but the chief thing for which i'd wish would be to be exactly where i am, and to be going exactly where i'm going to." he laughed, and thrust his hands deeper in his pockets when he thought of this, and was so possessed by his emotions that he kicked up his heels and began to dance a sort of fandango in the middle of the road. he perceived that it was a pleasant thing to wish to be exactly where he was, and to be so well satisfied with the journey's end he had in view. it is not every boy who is bound for the land of golden dreams; and especially by the short cut which reaches it by way of the cobham road. so far he had not met a single human being, nor seen a sign, nor heard a sound of one. but when he had fairly left cobham in the rear, and was yet engaged in the performance of that dance which resembled the fandango, he heard behind him the sound of wheels rapidly approaching. they were yet a considerable distance off, but they were approaching so swiftly that one's first thought was that a luckless driver was being run away with. when bertie heard them first he started. his thought was of pursuit; his impulse was to scramble into an adjoining field, and to hide behind a hedge. it would be terrible to be re-captured in the initiatory stage of his journey to the land of golden dreams. but his alarm vanished when he turned and looked behind him. the vehicle approaching contained a friend. even at that distance he recognised it as the dog-cart of mr. george washington bankes. the ungainly-looking beast flying at such a terrific pace along the lonely road was none other than the redoubtable mary anne. in a remarkably short space of time the vehicle was level with bertie. for a moment the boy wondered if he had been recognised; but the doubt did not linger long, for with startling suddenness mary anne was brought to a halt. "hallo! who's that? haven't i seen you before? turn round, you youngster, and let me see your face. i know the cut of your jib, or i'm mistaken." bertie turned. he looked at mr. bankes and mr. bankes looked at him. mr. george washington bankes whistled. "whew--w--w, if it isn't the boy who stood up to the lout. what's your name?" "bailey, sir; bertie bailey." "oh, yes; bailey! early hours, bailey--taking a stroll, eh? what in thunder brings you here this time of day? i thought good boys like you were fast asleep in bed." bailey looked sheepish, and felt it. there was something in the tone of mr. bankes' voice which was a little trying. bertie hung his head, and held his peace. "lost your tongue? poor little dear! speak up. what are you doing here this time of day?" "if you please, sir, i'm running away." "running away!" for a moment mr. bankes started. then he burst into a loud and continued roar of laughter, which had an effect upon bertie very closely resembling that of an extinguisher upon a candle. "i say, bailey, what are you running away for?" under the circumstances bertie felt this question cruel. when he had last seen mr. bankes the question had been put the other way. he had been treated as a poor-spirited young gentleman because he had not run away already. plucking up courage, he looked up at his questioner. "you told me to run away." the only immediate answer was another roar of laughter. something very like tears came into the boy's eyes, and his face assumed that characteristically sullen expression for which he was famous. this was not the sort of treatment he had expected. "you don't mean to say--now look me in the face, youngster--you don't mean to say that you're running away because i told you to?" the last words of the question were spoken very deliberately, with a slight pause between each. bertie's answer was to the point. he looked up at mr. bankes with that sullen, bull-dog look of his, and said,-- "i do." "and where do you think you're running to?" "to the land of golden dreams." there was a sullen obstinacy about the lad's tone, as though the confession was extracted from him against his will. "to the land of golden dreams! well! here, you'd better get up. i'll give you a lift upon the road? and there's a word or two i'd like to say as we are going." bertie climbed up to the speaker's side, and mary anne was again in motion. the swift travelling through the sweet, fresh morning was pleasant; and as the current of air dashed against his cheeks bertie's heart began to re-ascend a little. for some moments not a word was spoken; but bertie felt that mr. bankes' big black eyes wandered from mary anne to him, and from him to mary anne, with a half-mocking, half-curious expression. "i say, boy, are any of your family lunatics?" the question was scarcely courteous. bertie's lips shut close. "no." "quite sure? now just you think? anybody on your mother's side just a little touched? they say insanity don't spring to a head at once, but gathers strength through successive generations." bailey did not quite understand what was meant; but knowing it was something not exactly complimentary he held his peace. "now--straight out--you don't mean to say you're running away because i told you to?" "yes, i do." "and for nothing else?" bertie paused for a moment to consider. "i don't know about nothing else, but i shouldn't have thought of it if you hadn't told me to." "then it strikes me the best thing i can do is to turn round and drive you back again." "i won't go." mr. bankes laughed. there was such a sullen meaning in the boy's slow utterance. "oh! won't you? what'll you do?" in an instant bertie had risen from his seat, and if mr. bankes had not been very quick in putting his arm about him he would have sprung out upon the road. as it was, mr. bankes, taken by surprise, gave an unintentional tug at the left rein, and had he not corrected his error with wonderful dexterity mary anne would have landed the trap and its occupants in a convenient ditch. "don't you try that on again," said mr. bankes, retaining his hold on the lad. "don't you say you'll drive me back again." "here's a fighting cock. there have been lunatics in the family--i know there have. don't be a little idiot. sit still." "promise you won't drive me back." "and supposing i won't promise you, what then?" bertie's only answer was to give a sudden twist, and before mr. bankes had realized what he intended he had slipped out of his grasp, and was sprawling on the road. fortunately the trap had been brought to a standstill, for had bertie carried out his original design of springing out with mary anne going at full speed, the probabilities are that he would have brought his adventures to a final termination on the spot. mr. bankes stared for a moment, and then laughed. "well, of all the young ones ever i heard tell of!" then, seeing that bertie had picked himself up, and was preparing to escape by scrambling through a quickset hedge into a field of uncut hay-- "stop!" he cried. "i won't take you back. i promise you upon my honour i won't. a lad of your kidney's born to be hanged; and if it's hanging you've made up your mind to, i'm not the man to stop you." the lad eyed him doubtfully. "you promise you'll let me do as i please?" "i swear it, my bantam cock. you shall do as you please, and go where you please. i can't stop mooning here all day; jump in, and let's be friends again. i'm square, upon my honour." the lad resumed his former seat; mary anne was once more started. "next time you feel it coming on, why, tip me the wink, and i'll pull up. it's a pity that a neck like yours should be broken before the proper time; and if you were to jump out while mary anne was travelling like this, why, there'd be nothing left to do but to pick up the pieces." as bertie vouchsafed no answer, after a pause mr. bankes went on. "now, bailey, joking aside, what is the place you're making for?" "i'm going to london." "london. got any friends there?" "no." "ever been there before?" "i've been there with father." "know anything about it?" "i don't know much." "so i should say, by the build of you. i shouldn't be surprised if you know more when you come back again--if you ever do come back again, my bantam. shall i tell you what generally happens to boys like you who go up to london without knowing much about it, and without any friends there? they generally"--mr. bankes, as it were, punctuated these words, laying an emphasis on each--"go under, and they stop under, and there's an end of them." he paused; if for a reply, in vain, for there was none from bailey. "do you think london's the land of golden dreams? well, it is; that's exactly what it is--it's the land of golden dreams, and the dreams are short ones, and when you wake from them you're up to your neck in filth, and you wish that you were dead. for they're nothing else but dreams, and the reality is dirt, and shame, and want, and misery, and death." again he paused; and again there was no reply from bertie. "how much money have you got?" "one and fivepence." "is that all?" "yes." "well! well! i say nothing, but i think a lot. and do you mean to tell me that you're off to london with the sum of one shilling and fivepence in your pocket?" "you said you ran away with ninepence-halfpenny." "well, that's a score! and so i did, but circumstances alter cases, and that was the foolishest thing that ever i did." "you said it was the most sensible thing you'd ever done." "you've a remarkable memory--a remarkable memory; and if you keep it up you'll improve as you go on. if i said that, i was a liar--i was the biggest liar that ever lived. i wonder if you could go through the sort of thing that i have done?" mr. bankes' eyes were again fixed on bertie, as though he would take his measure. "most men would have been dead a dozen times. i don't know that i haven't been; i know i've often wished that i could have died just once--that i could have been wiped clean out. god save you, young one, from such a life as mine. pray god to pull you up in time." another pause and then-- "what's your plans?" "i don't know." "i shouldn't think you did by the look of you. and how long do you suppose you're going to live, on the sum of one and fivepence?" "i don't know." "well, i should say that with economy you could manage to live two hours--perhaps a little more, perhaps a little less; that's to say, an hour before you have your dinner and an hour after. some could manage to stretch it out to tea, but you're not one. and when the money's gone how do you suppose you're going to get some more?" "i don't know." "now don't you think that i'd better turn mary anne right round, and take you back again? you've had a pleasant little drive, you know, and the morning air's refreshing." "i won't go, and you promised that you wouldn't." "you'll wish you had about this time to-morrow; and perhaps a little before. however, a promise is a promise, so on we go. know where you are?" bailey did not; mr. bankes had turned some sharp corners, and having left the highroad behind was guiding mary anne along a narrow lane in which there was scarcely room for two vehicles to pass abreast. "these are the ember lanes. there's east molesey right ahead, then the thames, then hampton court, and then i'll have to leave you. i've come round this way to stretch the old girl's legs." this was a graceful allusion to mary anne. "my shortest cut would have been across walton bridge, as i'm off to kempton to see a trial of a horse in which i'm interested; so when i get to hampton court i'll have to go some of my way back again. now make up your mind. there isn't much time left to do it in. say the word, and i'll take you all the way along with me, and land you back just where you started. take a hint, and think a bit before you speak." apparently bertie took the hint, for it was a moment or two before he answered. "i'm not going back." "very well. that's the last time of asking, so i wish you joy on your journey to the land of the golden dreams." chapter xi the original badger as mr. bankes spoke, mary anne dashed over the little bridge which spans the mole, and in another second they were passing through east molesey. nothing was said as they raced through the devious village street. the world in east molesey was just beginning to think of waking up. a few labourers were visible, on their road to work. when they reached the river, some of the watermen were preparing their boats, putting them ship-shape for the day, and on tagg's island there were signs of life. over hampton court bridge flew mary anne; past the barracks, where there were more signs of life, and where hussars were recommencing the slightly monotonous routine of a warrior's life, and then the mare was brought to a sudden standstill at the corner of the green. "the parting of the ways--you go yours, and i go mine, and i rather reckon, young one, it won't be long before you wish there'd been no parting, and we'd both rolled on together. which way are you going to london?" "i thought about going through kingston." "all right, you can either go through bushy park here, or you can go kingston way. but don't let me say a word about the road you go, especially as it don't seem to me to matter which it is--round by the north pole and timbuctoo for all i care, for you're in no sort of hurry, and all you want is to get there in the end." "can't i get to kingston by the river?" "certainly. you go through the barrack yard there, and through the little gate which you'll see over at the end on your right, and you'll be on the towing-path. and then you've only got to follow your nose and you'll get to kingston bridge, and there you are. the nearest is by frog's walk here, along by the walls, but please yourself." "i'd sooner go by the river." "all right." mr. bankes put his hand into his trousers pocket, and when he pulled it out it was full of money. "look here, it seems that i've had a hand in this little scrape, though i'd no more idea you'd swallow every word of what i said than i had of flying. you're about as fine a bunch of greens as ever i encountered, and that's the truth. but, anyhow, i had a hand, and as i'm a partner in the spree i'm not going to sort you all the kicks and collar all the halfpence. and i tell you"--mr. bankes raised his voice to a very loud key, as though bailey was arguing the point instead of sitting perfectly still--"i tell you that for a boy like you to cut and run with the sum of one and fivepence in his pocket is a thing i'm not going to stand. no, not on any account, so hold out your hand, you leather-headed noodle, and pocket this." bertie held out his hand, mr. bankes counted into it five separate sovereigns. "now sling your hook!" before bertie had a chance to thank him, or even to realize the sudden windfall he had encountered, mr. bankes had caught hold of him, lifted him bodily from his seat, and placed him on the road. mary anne had started, and the trap was flying past the cardinal wolsey, on the hampton road. left standing there, with the five sovereigns tightly grasped in his palm, bailey decided that mr. bankes had rather a sudden way of doing things. he remained motionless a minute watching the receding trap. perhaps he expected, perhaps he hoped, that mr. bankes would look round and wave him a parting greeting; but there was nothing of the kind. in a very short space of time the trap was out of sight and he was left alone. just for that instant, just for that first moment, in which he realized his solitude, he regretted that he had not acted on his late companion's advice, and pursued the journey with mary anne. then he looked at the five pounds he held in his hand. "well, here's a go!" he could scarcely believe his eyes. he took up each of the coins separately and examined it. then he placed them in a low on his extended palm, and stared. their radiance dazzled him. "catch me going back while i've got all this, i should rather like somebody to see me at it. five pounds!" here was a long-drawn respiration. "fancy him tipping me five pounds! i call that something like a tip. won't i spend it! just fancy having five pounds to spend on what you like! well, i never did!" "hallo, you boy, got anything nice to look at?" bertie turned. a soldier, in a considerable state of undress, was standing a few yards behind him, watching his proceedings. "what's that to you?" asked bertie. he put both his hands into his trousers pockets, keeping tight hold on the precious sovereigns, and turning, walked up the barrack yard. as he passed, the soldier grinned; but bertie condescended to pay no heed. "if i'd had a fortune left to me, i'd stand a man a drink, if it was only the price of half a pint." this was what the soldier shouted after bertie. one or two of the troopers who were engaged in various ways, and who were all more or less undressed, looking very different from the dashing pictures of military splendour which they would shortly present upon parade, stared at the boy as he went by, but no one spoke to him. once on the towing-path, he turned his face kingston-wards and hastened on. these five sovereigns burnt a hole in his pocket. when his capital had been represented by the sum of one and fivepence he had been dimly conscious that it would be necessary to be careful in his outlay. he had even outlined a system of expenditure. but five pounds! they represented boundless wealth. he had been once presented by a grateful patient of his father's with a tip of half a sovereign. that was the largest sum of which he had ever been in possession at one and the same time, and no sooner had the donor's back been turned than his mother had confiscated five shillings of that. she declared that it was intended the half-sovereign should be divided among his brothers and sisters, and the five shillings went in the division. but five pounds! what were five shillings, or even half a sovereign, to five pounds. if mr. george washington bankes had desired to dissipate whatever effect his words of warning might have had he could not have chosen a surer method. as the possessor of five pounds, bertie's belief in the land of golden dreams was stronger than ever. the pieces of golden money had as good as transported him thither upon the spot. his spirits rose to boiling-pitch as he walked beside the river. the sunshine flooded all the world, and danced upon the glancing waters, and filled his heart with joy. as he looked up, the words, "five pounds," seemed streaming in radiant golden letters across the sunlit sky. nearly opposite ditton church he sat down on the grass to revel in his fancies. the castles which he built, the schemes he schemed, the future he foretold! no one passing by, and seeing a boy with an apparently sullen face, sprawling on the grass, would have had the least conception of the world of imagination in which, at that moment, he lived and moved, and had his being. he lay there perhaps more than an hour. he might have lain there even longer had not two things recalled him to the world of fact. the first was a growing consciousness that he was hungry; and the other, the crossing of the ferry. the ditton ferry-boat made its first appearance, with two or three young fellows who had seemingly made the passage with a view of enjoying an early morning bathe on the more secluded middlesex side. when they got out, bertie got in. not that he wanted to go to ditton, nor that he even knew the name of the place which he saw upon the other side of the water, but that he fancied the row across the stream. when he was in the boat a thought struck him. "how much will you row me to kingston for?" "i can't take you in this boat, this here's the ferry-boat; but i can let you have a boat the other side, and a chap to row you, and i'll take you for--do you want to go there and back?" "no; i want to stop at kingston." "are you going to the fair there? i hear there's to be a fine fair this time, and a circus, and all." bertie had neither heard of the fair nor of the circus; but the idea was tempting. "i shouldn't be surprised if i did go. how much will you row me for?" the ferryman hesitated. he was probably debating within himself as to the capacity of the young gentleman's pockets, and also not improbably as to his capacity for being bled. "i'll row you there for five shillings." but bertie was not quite so verdant as he looked. "i'll give you eighteenpence." "well, you're a cool hand, you are, to offer a man eighteenpence for what he wants five shillings for. but i don't want to be hard upon a young gentleman what is a young gentleman. i'll row you there for four; a man's got to live, you know, and it isn't as though you wanted a boat to row yourself." but bertie was unable to see his way to paying four. finally a bargain was struck for half a crown. then a difficulty occurred as to change, and bertie entrusted one of his precious sovereigns to the ferryman to get changed at the swan. then a boat was launched, a lad not very much older than bertie was placed in charge, the fare was paid in advance, and a start was made for kingston. by the time they reached that ancient town, bertie was hungry in earnest. the walk, the drive, and now the row in the freshness of the early morning had combined to give him an appetite which, at mecklemburg house, would have been regarded with considerable disapproval. now, too, the short commons of the day before were remembered; and as bertie fingered the money in his pockets he thought with no slight satisfaction of the good things in the eating and drinking line which it would buy. he was landed at his own request on the middlesex side of kingston bridge, and having generously made the lad who had rowed him richer by the sum of sixpence, he started, with renewed vigour, to cross the bridge into the town. no sooner had he crossed than a coffee-shop met his eye. it was the very thing he wanted. with the air of a capitalist he entered and ordered a sumptuous repast--coffee, bread and butter, ham and eggs. having made a hearty meal,--and a hearty meal was a subject on which he had ideas of his own, for he followed up the ham and eggs with half a dozen open tarts and a jam puff or two, buying half a pound of sweets to eat when he got outside,--he paid the bill and sallied forth. it was cattle-market day, and unusual business seemed to be doing. not only was the market-place crowded with live stock, but they overflowed into the neighbouring streets. for the present, bertie was content to watch the proceedings. in the position of a capitalist he could travel to london in state and at his leisure. just now his mind was running on what the ferryman had said about the circus and the fair. he could go to london at any time. it was not a place which was likely to run away. but circuses and fairs were things which were quick to go, and once gone were gone for ever. bertie resolved that he would commence his journey by seeing both the circus and the fair. nor was his resolution weakened by a joyous procession which passed through the kingston street. "badger's royal popular cosmopolitan and world-famed hippodrome" was an imposing title for a circus, but not more imposing than the glories revealed by that procession. "_supported by all the greatest artists in the world chosen from all the nations of the universe_" was the continuation of the title, and, judging from the astonishing variety of ladies and gentlemen who rode the horses, who bestrode the camels, who crowded the triumphal cars, and who ran along on foot distributing handbills among the crowd, it really seemed that the statement was justified by fact. there were chinamen whose pigtails seemed quite real; there were gentlemen of colour who seemed warranted to wash; there were individuals with beards and moustaches of an altogether foreign character; and there were ladies of the most wondrous and enchanting beauty, dressed in the most picturesque and amazing styles. bertie bailey, at any rate, was persuaded that it would be absurd for him to think of going on to town till he had attended at least one performance of badger's royal popular cosmopolitan and world-famed hippodrome. he followed the procession to the fair field. and there, although it was not yet noon, the fair was already in full swing. all those immortal entertainments without which a fair would not be a fair were liberally provided. there were shows, and shooting galleries, and bottle-throwing establishments, and seas upon land, and resplendent roundabouts, and stalls at which were vended goods of the very best quality; and all those joys and raptures which go to make a fair in every part of the world in which fairs are known. but bertie cared for none of these things. all his soul was fixed upon the circus. he attended the performance. as befitted a young gentleman of fortune he occupied a front seat, price two shillings. a hypercritical spectator might have suggested that the procession had been the best part of the show. but this was not the case in bertie's eyes. he was enraptured with the feats of skill and daring which he witnessed in the ring. only one consideration marred his complete enjoyment. unfortunately he could not make up his mind whether he would rather be the gentleman who, disdaining all ordinary modes of horsemanship, standing upon the backs of two cream-coloured steeds, with streaming tails, dashed round the ring; or the clown whose business it was--a business which he seemed to think a pleasure--to keep the audience in a roar. he was not so much struck by a gentleman who performed marvels on a flying trapeze; nor by the surefootedness of a lady who walked upon an "invisible wire,"--which was, in this case, a rope about the thickness of bertie's wrist. but he quite made up his mind that he would be either the clown or the rider; and that, when he had determined which of these honourable positions he would prefer to fill, he would lose no time in laying siege to one of the ladies of the establishment, and to beg her to be his. but here the same difficulty occurred;--he was not quite certain which. however, by the time the performance was over, and the audience was dismissed, on one point he was assured, he would enlist under the banners of the world-famed badger. dick turpin, robin hood, robinson crusoe, jack the giant killer, might do for some folks, but a circus was the place for him. when he regained the open air, and had bidden an unwilling adieu to the sawdust glories, the afternoon was pretty well advanced and the fair was more crowded than ever. but bertie could not tear himself away from badger's. he hung about the exterior of the tent as though the neighbourhood was holy ground. several other loiterers lingered too; and among them were four or five men who did not look, to put it gently, as though they belonged to what are called the upper classes. "i've half a mind," said bertie to himself, "to go inside the tent, and ask mr. badger if he wants a boy. but perhaps he wouldn't like to be troubled when there's no performance on." bertie's ideas on circus management were rudimentary. mr. badger would perhaps have looked a little blue to find himself met with such a request if there had been a performance on. "what do you think of the circus?" the question was put by one of the individuals before referred to. he had apparently given his companions the slip, for they stood a little distance off, ostentatiously paying no attention to his proceedings. he was a short man, inclined to stoutness, and bertie thought he had the reddest face he had ever seen. "it's not a bad show, is it? and more it didn't ought to be, for the amount of money it cost me to put that show together no one wouldn't believe." bertie stared. it dimly occurred to him that it must have cost him all the money he possessed and so left him nothing to throw away upon his clothing, for his costume was distinctly shabby. but the stout man went on affably:-- "i saw you looking round, so i thought as perhaps you took a interest in these here kind of things. perhaps you don't know who i am?" bertie didn't and said so. "i'm badger, the original badger. i may say the only badger as was ever known,--for all them other badgers belongs to another branch of the family." the original badger put his hand to his neck, apparently with the intention of pulling up his shirt collar, which, however, wasn't there. bertie stared still more. the stout man did not by any means come up to the ideas he had formed of the world-famed badger. "you're not the mr. badger to whom the circus belongs." "ain't i! but i ham, i just ham." the original badger's enunciation of the letter was more emphatic than correct. "and i should like to see the man who says i hain't! i'd fight that man either for beer or money either now or any other time, and i shouldn't care if he was twenty stone. now look 'ere"--the original badger gave bertie so hearty a slap upon the back that that young gentleman tottered--"what i say is this. i wants a well-built young fellow about your age to learn the riding, and to train for clown, and i wants that young feller to make his first appearance this day three weeks. now what do you say to being that young feller?" "i don't think i could learn it in three weeks," was all bertie could manage to stammer. "oh couldn't you? i know better. now, look 'ere, i'm going to pay that young feller five and twenty pound a week, and find him in his clothing. what do you say to that?" bertie would have liked to say a good deal, if he could have only found the words to say it with. among other things he would probably have liked to have said that he hoped the clothing which was to accompany the five and twenty pounds a week would be of a different sort to that worn by the original badger. it would have been a hazardous experiment to have offered five and twenty pence for the stout man's costume. "now, look 'ere, there's a house i know close by where you and me can be alone, and we can talk it over. you're just the sort of young feller i've been looking for. now come along with me and i'll make your fortune for you,--you see if i don't." before bertie quite knew what was happening, the stout man had slipped his arm through his, and was hurrying him through the fair, away from it, and down some narrow streets which were not of the most aristocratic appearance. all the time he kept pouring out such a stream of words that the lad was given no chance to remonstrate, even if he had had presence of mind enough to do it with. but, metaphorically, the original badger--to use an expression in vulgar phrase--had knocked him silly. what exactly happened bertie never could remember. the original badger led him to a very doubtful looking public-house, and, before he knew it, the lad was through the door. they did not go into the public bar, but into a little room beyond. they had scarcely entered when they were joined by three or four more shabby individuals, whom the original badger greeted as his friends. if bertie had looked behind he would have perceived these gentry following close upon his heels all the time. "this young gentleman's going to stand something to drink. now, 'enery william, gin cold." the order was given by the original badger to a shrivelled-up individual without a coat who seemed to act as pot-boy. when this person disappeared, and bertie was left alone with the original badger and his friends, he by no means liked the situation. a more unpleasant looking set of vagabonds could with difficulty be found; and he felt that if these were the sort of gentry who had to do with circuses a circus was not the place for him. the pot-boy re-appeared with a bottle of water, and a tray of glasses containing gin. "two shillings," said the pot-boy. "all right; the gentleman pays." "pay in advance," said the pot-boy. "two shillings, captain!" the original badger gave bertie another of his hearty slaps upon the back. bertie felt they were too hearty by half. however, he produced a florin, with which the pot-boy disappeared, leaving the glasses on the table. "i'm going," he said, directly that functionary was gone. "what, before you've drunk your liquor? you'll never do for a circus, you won't." bertie felt he wouldn't. "why, i've got all that business to talk over with you. i'm going to engage this young feller in my circus to do the clowning and the riding for five and twenty pound a week." the original badger cast what was suspiciously like a wink in the direction of his friends. one of these friends handed the glasses round. he lingered a moment with the glass he gave to bertie before he filled it half-way up with water, then he held it towards the boy. he was a tall, sallow-looking ruffian, with ragged whiskers; the sort of man one would very unwillingly encounter on a lonely road at night. "drink that up," he said; "that's the sort of thing for circus riders." "i don't want to drink the stuff," said bertie. "drink it up, you fool!" the lad hesitated a moment, then emptied the glass at a draught. what happened afterwards he never could describe; for it seemed to him that no sooner had he drunk the contents than he fell asleep; and as he sank into slumber he seemed to hear the sound of laughter ringing in his ears. chapter xii a "doss" house when he woke it was dark. he did not know where he was. he opened his eyes, which were curiously heavy, and thought he was in a dream. he shut them again, and vainly wondered if he were back at mecklemburg house or in his home at upton. he half expected to hear familiar voices. suddenly there was a crash of instruments; he started up, supporting himself upon his arm, and listened listlessly, still not quite sure he was not dreaming. it was the crash of the circus band; they were playing "god save the queen." something like consciousness returned. he began to understand his whereabouts. a cool breeze was blowing across his face; he was in the open air; behind him there was a canvas flapping. it was a tent. around him were discords of every kind. it was night; the fair was in all its glory. he was lying in the fair field. "hallo, chappie! coming round again?" some one spoke. looking up, peering through his heavy eyes, he perceived that a lean, ragged figure was leaning over him. sufficiently roused to dislike further companionship with the original badger and his friends, he dragged himself to a sitting posture. the stranger was a lad, not much, if any, older than himself, some ragamuffin of the streets. "who are you?" asked bertie. "never mind who i am. i've had my eyes on you this ever so long. ain't you been a-going it neither. i thought that you was dead. was it----?" he gave a suggestive gesture with his hand, as though he emptied a glass into his mouth. bertie struggled to his feet. "i--i don't feel quite well." "you don't look it neither. whatever have you been doing of?" bertie tried to think. he would like to have left his new acquaintance. the original badger and his friends had been quite enough for him, but his legs refused their office, and he was perforce compelled to content himself with standing still. he did not feel quite such a hero as he had done before. "have you lost anything?" the chance question brought bertie back to recollection. he put his hand into his trousers pockets--they were empty. bewildered, he felt in the pockets of his waistcoat and of his jacket--they were empty, too! some one had relieved him of everything he possessed, down to his clasp knife and pocket handkerchief. willie seymour's one and fivepence, and mr. bankes' five pounds, both alike were gone! "i've been robbed," he said. "i shouldn't be surprised but what you had. what do you think is going to happen to you if you lies for ever so many hours in the middle of the fair field as if you was dead? how much have you lost?" "five pounds." "five pounds!--crikey, if you ain't a pretty cove! are you a-gammoning me?" bertie looked at the lad. a thought struck him. he put out his hand and took him by the shoulder. "you've robbed me," he said. "you leave me alone! who are you touching of? if you don't leave me alone, i'll make you smart." "you try it on," said bertie. the other tried it on, and with such remarkable celerity, that before he had realized what had happened, bertie bailey lay down flat. the stranger showed such science that, in his present half comatose condition, bailey went down like a log. "you wouldn't have done that if i'd been all right; and i do believe you've robbed me." "believe away! i ain't, so there! i ain't so much as seen the colour of your money, and i don't know nothing at all about it. the first i see of you was about five o'clock. you was a-lying just where you are now, and i've come and had a look at you a dozen times since. why, it must be ten o'clock, for the circus is out, and you ain't woke up only just this minute. how came you to be lying there?" "i don't know. i've been robbed, and that's quite enough for me,--my head is aching fit to split." "haven't you got any money left?" "no, i haven't." "where's your home?" "what's that to you?" "well, it ain't much to me, but i should think it's a good deal to you. if i was you i'd go home." "well, you're not me, so i won't." "all right, matey, it ain't no odds to me. if you likes lying there till the perlice come and walks you off, it's all the same to me so far as i'm concerned." "i've got no money; i've been robbed." "i tell you what i'll do, i ain't a rich chap, not by no manner of means, and i never had five pounds to lose, but i've had a stroke of luck in my small way, and if you really haven't got no home, nor yet no coin, i don't mind standing in for a bed so far as four pence goes." "i don't know what you mean; leave me alone. i've got no money; i've been robbed." "so you have, chummy, and that's a fact; so you pick yourself up and toddle along with me; there ain't no fear of your being robbed again if you've nothing to lose." bertie half resisted the stranger's endeavour to assist him in finding his feet, but the other managed so dexterously that bertie found himself accompanying his new friend with a fair amount of willingness. the fair was still at its height; the swings were fuller; the roundabout was driving a roaring trade; the sportsmen in the shooting gallery were popping away; but all these glories had lost their charm for bertie. it seemed to him that it was all a hideous nightmare, from which he vainly struggled to shake himself free. had it not been for occasional assistance, he would more than once have lost his footing. something ailed him, but what, he was at a loss to understand. all the hopes, and vigour, and high spirits of the morning had disappeared, and with them all his dreams had vanished too. he was the most miserable young gentleman in kingston fair. he kept up an under current of grumbling all the way, now and then making feeble efforts to rid himself of his companion; but the stranger was too wide awake for bertie to shake him off. had he been better acquainted with the town, and in a fit state to realize his knowledge, he would have been aware that his companion was leading him, by a series of short cuts, in the direction of the apple-market. he paused before a tumbledown old house, over the door of which a lamp was burning. bertie shrunk away, with some dim recollection of the establishment into which he had been enticed by the original badger and his friends. at sight of his unwillingness the other only laughed. "what are you afraid of? this ain't a place in which they'd rob you, even if you'd got anything worth robbing, which it seems to me you ain't. this is a doss-house, this is." so saying he entered the house, the door of which seemed to stand permanently open. the somewhat reluctant bertie entered with him. no one appearing to receive them, the stranger lost no time in informing the inmates of their arrival. "here, mr. jenkins, or mrs. jenkins, or some one, can i come up?" in answer to this appeal, a stout lady appeared at the head of a flight of stairs, which rose almost from the threshold of the door. hall there was none. she was not a very cleanly-looking lady, nor had she the softest of voices. "is that you, sam slater? who's that you've got with you?" "a friend of mine, and that's enough for you." with this brief response, the stranger, whose name appeared to be sam slater, led the way up the flight of stairs. "anybody here?" he asked, when he reached the landing. "not at present there ain't; i expect they're all at the fair." "all the better," said sam. he followed the lady through a door which faced the landing, pausing for a moment to see that bertie followed too. something in bertie's appearance struck the lady's eye. "what's the matter with your friend,--ain't he well?" she asked. "well, he's not exactly well," responded sam, favouring bertie with a curious glance from the corner of his eye. a man who was seated by a roaring fire, although the night was warm and bright, got up and joined the party. he was in his shirt-sleeves, and he also was stout, and he puffed industriously at a short black clay pipe. he stood in front of bertie, and inspected him from head to foot. "he don't look exactly well, not by any means he don't." the stout man grinned. bertie staggered. the sudden change from the sweet, fresh air to the hot, close room gave him a sudden qualm. if the stout man had not caught him he would have fallen to the floor. "steady! where do you think you're coming to? you're a nice young chap, you are! if i was you i'd turn teetotal." sam slater interfered. "you don't know anything at all about it; he's not been drinking; he's been got at, and some one's cleared him of his cash." "you leave him to me, jenkins," said the stout lady. for bertie had swooned. as easily as though he had been a baby, instead of being the great lad that he was, she lifted him and carried him to another room. when he opened his eyes again he found that he was lying on a brilliantly counterpaned bed. sam was seated on the edge, the lady was standing by the side, and mr. jenkins, a steaming tumbler in his hand, was leaning over the rail at his head. "better?" inquired the lady, perceiving that his eyes were open. for answer bertie sat up and looked about him. it was a little room, smaller than the other, and cooler, owing to the absence of a fire. "take a swig of this; that'll do you good." mr. jenkins held the steaming tumbler towards him. bertie shrank away. "it's only peppermint, made with my own hands, so i can guarantee it's good. a barrel of it wouldn't do you harm. drink up, sonny!" thus urged by the lady, he took the glass and drank. it certainly revived him, making him feel less dull and heavy; but a curious sense of excitement came instead. in the state in which he was even peppermint had a tendency to fly to his head. perceiving his altered looks the lady went on,-- "didn't i tell you it would do you good? now you feel another man." then she continued, in a tone which bertie, if he had the senses about him, would have called wheedling-- "anybody can see that you're a gentleman, and not used to such a place as this. you are a little gentleman, ain't you now?" bertie took another drink before he replied. the steaming hot peppermint was restoring him to his former heroic state of mind. "i should think i am a gentleman; i should like to see anybody say i wasn't." either this remark, or the manner of its delivery, made mr. jenkins laugh. "oh lor!" he said, "here's a three-foot-sixer!" "never mind him, my dear," observed the lady, "he knows no better. i knows a gentleman when i sees one, and directly i set eyes on you i says, 'he's a gentleman he is.' and did they rob you of your money?" "some one's robbed me of five pounds." this was not said in quite such a heroic tone as the former remark. the memory of that five pounds haunted him. "poor, dear, young gentleman, think of that now. and was the money your own, my dear?" "whose do you think it was? do you think i stole it?" under the influence of the peppermint, or harassed by the memory of his loss, bertie positively scowled at the lady. "dear no, young gentlemen never steals. five pounds! and all his own; and lost it too! what thieves this world has got! dear, dear, now." the lady paused, possibly overcome by her sympathy with the lad's misfortune. behind his back she interchanged a glance with mr. jenkins. mr. jenkins, apparently wishing to say something, but not being able to find the words to say it with, put his hand to his mouth and coughed. sam slater stared at bertie with a look of undisguised contempt. "you must be a green hand to let 'em turn you inside out like that. if i had five pounds--which i ain't never likely to have! more's the pity--i'd look 'em up and down just once or twice before i'd let 'em walk off with it like that. i wonder if your mother knows you're out." "my mother doesn't know anything at all about it; i've run away from school." under ordinary circumstances bertie would have confined that fact within his own bosom; now, with some vague idea of impressing his dignity upon the contemptuous sam, he blurted it out. directly the words were spoken a significant look passed from each of his hearers to the other. "dear, now," said the lady. "run away from school, have you now? there's a brave young gentleman; and that there sam knows nothing at all about it. it's more than he dare do." "never had a school to run away from," murmured sam. "did they use you very bad, my dear?" "it wasn't because of that; i wouldn't have minded how they used me. i ran away because i wanted to find the land of golden dreams." mr. jenkins put his hand to his mouth as if to choke what sounded very like a laugh; sam stared with a look of the most profound amazement on his face; a faint smile even flitted across the lady's face. "the land of golden dreams," said sam. "never heard tell of such a place." "you never heard tell of nothing," declared the lady. "you ain't a scholar like this young gentleman. and what's the name of the school, my dear?" "mecklemburg house collegiate school." bertie informed them of the name and title of mr. fletcher's educational establishment with what he intended to be his grandest air, with a possible intention of impressing them with its splendour. "there's a mouthful," commented sam. "oh my eye!" the lady's reception of bertie's information was more courteous. "there's a beautiful name for a school. and where might it be?" "it's not very far from cobham. but i don't live there." "no, my dear. and where do you live, my lovey?" the lady became more affectionate in her titles of endearment as she went on. mr. jenkins, leaning over the head of the bed, listened with all his ears; but on his countenance was a delighted grin. "i live at upton." "upton," said the lady, and glanced at mr. jenkins behind the bed. mr. jenkins winked at her. "my father's a doctor; he keeps two horses and a carriage; everybody knows him there; he's the best doctor in the place." "and is your mother alive, my dear?" "i should rather think she was, and won't she go it when she knows i've run away!" "dear now, think of that! i shouldn't be surprised if she was very fond of you, my dear. and i daresay, now, she'd give a deal of money to any one who told her where you were." "i should think she would. i daresay she'd give--i daresay she'd give----" he searched his imagination for the largest sum of which he could think; he desired to impress his audience with an idea of the family importance and wealth. "i daresay she'd give a thousand pounds." his hearers stared. "but she's not likely to know, for there's no one to tell her." this statement seemed to tickle mr. jenkins and sam so much, that with one accord they burst into a roar of laughter. bertie glowered. "never mind them, my lovey; it's their bad manners, they don't know no better. i'll soon send them away. now, out you go, going on with your ridiculous nonsense, and he such a brave young gentleman; i'm ashamed of you;--get away, the two of you." mr. jenkins and sam obediently went, stifling their laughter on the way. but apparently when they were outside they gave free vent to their sense of humour, for their peals of mirth came through the door. "never mind them, my dear; you undress yourself and get into bed, and have a nice long sleep, and be sure you have a friend in me. my name's jenkins, lovey, eliza jenkins, and that there silly man's my husband. by the way, you haven't told me what your name is, my dear." "my name's bailey, bertie bailey." "dear now, and you're the son of the famous dr. bailey of upton. think of that now." she left him to think of it, for immediately after mrs. jenkins followed her husband and sam. bertie, left alone, hesitated for a moment or two as to what he should do. he tried to think, but thought was just then an exercise beyond his powers. the events of the last few hours were presented in a sort of kaleidoscopic picture to his mind's eye. there was nothing clear. he found a difficulty in realizing where he was. as he looked round the unfamiliar room, with its scanty furniture, and that of the poorest and most tawdry class, he found it difficult not to persuade himself that he saw it in a dream. all the events of the day seemed to have been the incidents of a dream. mecklemburg house seemed to be a house he had seen in a dream. he seemed to have left it in a dream. that walk along the moonlit road had been a walk in a dream. he had driven with mr. george washington bankes in a dream. he had possessed five pounds in a dream; had lost it in a dream; had been to the circus in a dream; the original badger and his friends were the characters seen in a dream--a dream which had been the long nightmare of a day. one thing was certain, he was sleepy; on that point he was clear. he could hardly keep his eyes open, and his head from sinking on his breast. as in a dream he lazily undressed; as in a dream he got into the bed; and once into the bed he was almost instantly wrapped in a sound and dreamless slumber. he was awoke by the sound of voices. it seemed to him that he had only slept five minutes, but it was broad daylight; the sun was shining into the room, and, almost immediately after he opened his eyes, the clock of kingston church struck twelve. it was high noon. but he was not yet fully roused. he lay in that delicious state of languor which is neither sleep nor waking. the owners of the voices were evidently not aware that he was even partially awakened. they went on talking with perfect absence of restraint, entirely unsuspicious of there being any listener near. the speakers were mr. and mrs. jenkins. "it's all nonsense about the thousand pounds; a thousand pence will be nearer the thing; but even a thousand pence is not very far off a five-pound note, and a five-pound note's worth having." mr. jenkins ceased, and mrs. jenkins took up the strain. bertie, lying in his delightful torpor, heard it all; though he was not at first conscious that he was himself the theme of his host and hostess's conversation. "he says his father keeps two horses and a carriage; he must be tidy off. if his mother's fond of him, she wouldn't mind paying liberal to hear his whereabouts. if you goes down and tells her how you took him in without a penny in his pockets, not so much as fourpence to pay for his bed--which it's against our rule to take in anybody who doesn't pay his money in advance--and how he was ill and all, there's no knowing but what she wouldn't pay you handsome for putting her on his track and all." "it's worth trying anyhow. dr. bailey, you say, is the name?" "he says his own name is bertie bailey, and his father's name is dr. bailey." bertie pricked up his ears at the sound of his name, and began to wonder. "and his home is upton? there don't seem no railway at this here upton. slough seems the nearest station, because i asked them at the booking office, and there's a tidy bit to walk." "don't you walk it. you take a cab and drive. make out as how there wasn't no time to lose, and as how you thought the mother's heart was a longing for her son. do the thing in style. if there don't nothing else come of it they'll have to pay your expenses handsome." "i'm not going all that way for my expenses, so i'll let them know! they'll have to make it worth my while before i tell them where to lay their finger on the kid." bertie wondered more and more. he still lay motionless, but by now he was wide awake. it dawned upon him what was the meaning of the conversation. mr. and mrs. jenkins were apparently about to take advantage of his incautious frankness to betray him for the sake of a reward. he had a dim recollection of having blurted out more than he intended; and, on the strength of the information he had thus obtained, mr. jenkins was going to pay a little visit to his home. "don't you be afraid," went on the lady, "i tell you they'll pay up handsome. you and me, perhaps, wouldn't make much fuss if one of our young 'uns was to cut and run, but gentlefolks is different. it isn't likely that a lady can like the thought of a boy of hers knocking about in the gutter, and trying his luck in the ditch. just you put your hat on, and you go straight to this here upton, and you see if it isn't the best day's work you've ever done. i'll go fast enough, if you've not started soon." mr. jenkins did not seem to like this idea at all; his tone was a little sulky. "you needn't put yourself out, eliza; i'm a-going." "then why don't you go, instead of standing wool gathering there?" "you don't know his address. what am i to ask for when i get to this here upton?" "why, ask for dr. bailey; it's only a little place. you'll find he's as well known as the church clock, and perhaps better." "and about the boy; what are you going to do when he wakes up?" "i'll look after him. don't you trouble your head about the boy; you'll find him here when you come back as safe as houses." "all right, eliza, i'm off; and by to-night, i shouldn't be surprised if master bertie bailey, esquire, was returned to his fond parent's arms." his tone was jocular; but the expression of his countenance was not exactly genial when master bertie bailey sat up in bed, as he did at this identical moment, and looked his host and hostess in the face. chapter xiii in petersham park bertie looked at mr. and mrs. jenkins, and mr. and mrs. jenkins looked at him, and husband and wife looked at one another. "and have you had a nice sleep, my dear?" bertie vouchsafed no reply to the lady's question, continuing to look at her with his characteristically dogged look in his eyes. "and how long have you been awake, my dear? have you only just now woke?" bertie threw the clothes from off him, and turned to mr. jenkins. "i won't go home, even if you do go and tell my mother, you old sneak!" this uncomplimentary epithet was applied to mr. jenkins with such sullen ferocity, that that gentleman started and looked even more discomfited than he had done before. bertie got out of bed and stood upon the floor. "give me my clothes, and let me go; you've no right to keep me here." mr. jenkins was apparently speechless, but his quicker-witted wife was voluble enough. "certainly, my dear. no one wants to keep you, lovey. you pay us what you owe and you're as free as the air!" "i don't owe you anything." "not anything for a young gentleman like you; it's only six shillings, my dear." "six shillings!" "yes, six shillings. would you like your bill, my dear? jenkins, go and get the young gentleman his bill." "you're a lot of thieves!" "oh, thieves are we? very well, if you like to think us so, my dear. but i shouldn't have thought that a young gentleman like you would have liked to rob poor people of the money he owes for his board and lodging. and if you talk about thieves, my dear, jenkins will go for a policeman, and a policeman will soon show you who's the thief, if you don't pay us what you owe, my lovey. and i shouldn't be surprised if, when he heard as how you'd runned away, the policeman wasn't to take and lock you up at once, my pet. now, jenkins, you come along with me, and while i makes up the young gentleman's bill you go and fetch a policeman, because as he thinks we're thieves, he do." while the lady delivered herself of this voluble string of observations she had gradually approached the door. before bertie had perceived her design, she had pushed her husband through the door, and was through herself; the door was shut, the key turned in the lock, and bertie was a prisoner. "now we'll see who's thieves!" the lady was heard to observe outside. "now, jenkins, you go and get a policeman this instant minute, and mind you bring a good big one, too!" very few boys would be so foolish as to, what is rather erroneously termed run away; sneak away would perhaps be the correct phrase. if in any given million we were to put it that there is one such being, we should perhaps be stating a larger average than actually exists. but we may be pretty sure, that for even that young gentleman the adventures which had befallen bertie bailey at the very outset would have been quite sufficient; he would have devoted the small remainder of his energies to running, _i.e_., sneaking, back again. but bertie bailey was made of sterner stuff; he was of those young gentlemen who have to learn their lessons a good many times over before they can get the meaning of what they have learnt into their heads. those who reach the end of this story will find that he did learn his lesson to the end, and that it was a terrible lesson too, but the ending was not yet. so soon as he understood that he was a prisoner, bertie cast about for some method of escape. in his heart he could not but allow that the commencement of his journey had not been so successful as he had intended that it should be. but he was naturally slow to admit a failure. and to think that the ingenious mr. and mrs. jenkins should make capital out of his misfortunes; that was an idea he by no means relished. fortunately, the lady had left his clothes behind. it occurred to bertie that she might perceive her error and return to fetch them. to prevent any likelihood of that he put them on. then he looked about to find a path to freedom. the window immediately caught his eye. it was a very little one, in the fashion of a double lattice, which opened outwards. but bertie resolved that it was large enough for him. he opened it carefully and peeped out. it was apparently a window at the side of the house, looking out upon a narrow passage-way. had mr. and mrs. jenkins known the character of their guest, they would never have been so foolish as to think the bird was safe while he had the command of that convenient window. it was only some ten or twelve feet above the ground, and to bertie the drop was nothing. he lost no time in putting it to the test. first peering up and down the narrow passage, to see that no one was in sight and that no other window commanded a view of his operations, he brought the only chair the room contained up to the window and commenced to climb through it, feet foremost. the operation was a delicate one, but the size of the window precluded any other mode of egress. even as it was, when he was about half way through he discovered that he was stuck fast. for a few disagreeable moments he feared that he would have to remain in that uncomfortable position till mrs. jenkins returned to secure her prey. he wriggled and twisted, but for a time in vain. suddenly, however, he did more than he intended; for the result of a desperate effort was to precipitate him so rapidly backwards that he was only just able to grasp the old-fashioned, narrow, wooden window sill with his right hand in time to prevent himself from falling in a heap upon the ground. he hung for a second, to give himself chance to recover from the shock, then he loosened his hold, and, dropping, alighted on his feet upon the ground; and no sooner was he on the ground than, without waiting to see if there was any one about, he dashed helter skelter down the passage at the top of his speed. he was not pursued. on that point his mind was soon at rest. mr. and mrs. jenkins were probably too much engaged with other matters to think of the possibility of their guest effecting his escape. the passage led, by a succession of devious turnings, into the richmond road. when he reached the main thoroughfare bertie ceased to run. under the railway arch, past the shops, past the cricket field, into the lanes beyond, went bertie. he had had nothing to eat that morning, he had not a farthing in his pocket; he had no conception where money was to come from unless it tumbled from the skies; yet he went unhesitatingly forward, as though all the world was at his feet, and all its wealth was in his pocket. past ham common into petersham, and now he began to think that perhaps he was a little hungry. delicious recollections of the morning meal of yesterday floated through his mind. a dish of ham and eggs he would have welcomed as a dish worthy of the gods; but there were no ham and eggs for him just then. the road was dusty; the previous rains had disappeared, and the mud was turned to dust. by the time he reached bute house he had made up his mind that the dust and heat combined were a little more than he quite relished. by then, too, he had no doubt but that he was hungry and thirsty too. suddenly the sound of voices fell upon his ear; of children's voices, of their laughter, of their cries of pleasure as they called to one another. he looked through the rails into petersham park. the park was full of children. there was some huge school treat, and in hundreds they were passing here and there. up the hill, and along the valley, among the trees, and in the nooks and dells, as far as the eye could penetrate, there were children moving. he entered, and advancing some distance from the outer wall, he lay down upon the grass. when he had lain there some time there were races started. little boys and big raced for prizes. those in charge of the multitude of children arranged the sports. "here's a race for a shilling!" shouted one such person in authority. he held a leather bag above his head. there was a shout from the boys who crowded round him. the prize was of unusual magnitude. all the prizes seemed to be in money,--twopence, threepence, fourpence had been their value until now--and no sooner were they won than the winners rushed to spend their prizes at the stalls of fruit and sweets, the proprietors of which plied a roaring trade. when the race for a shilling was announced there was a shout from a multitude of throats. "now then, why don't you have a try to win? you're big enough. lying there as if you're half asleep; jump up, and show them how fast your feet can travel!" a young man was standing by bertie, looking down at him, evidently unaware that he was not an original member of the noisy crowd. "jump up! why don't you go in for the race? are you ill?" "i'm not ill." without another word bertie got up and joined the host of boys who were preparing to run. there were probably a hundred, and the directors of the sports had considerable difficulty in arranging a fair start. the race was confined to the bigger ones; there were no starts allowed, and they were all supposed to start from the same line. but the competitors had not the nicest sense of honour, and each endeavoured to steal a yard from his friend. finally they were got into something like a proper line. the distance to be run was about two hundred yards. the course was not a very regular one, as some were up the hill, and some were down; the breadth of the level ground was not sufficient to contain them all. two persons stood in a line to mark the winning-post, and between them they stretched a cord. the one on the right held the shilling in a bag. several false starts were made. in their anxiety to be first the competitors could not manage to stand still. half a dozen times they broke away, and had to be called back again. at last they were off. the course was from the park and towards the road, the winning-post being about a dozen yards from the school house at the gate. the race was short, and, so far as the majority of the competitors were concerned, by no means sharp. quite a third were out of it in the first six yards; half the remainder were beaten in a dozen, and before half the distance was covered there were only four or five who had a chance of winning. among these was bailey. he was not over fast on his feet as a rule, but never had the inducement to make the best possible speed been so strong before. he was running for his dinner, and, for all he knew, his tea and supper too. in the last fifty yards the race resolved itself into a struggle of three. in front was a tall, lanky boy, who, so far as length of limb was concerned, ought to have left the others at the post. but his condition was not equal to his build; he went puffing and panting along. obviously it would take him all he knew to last it out. about a couple of yards behind him, and almost side by side with bertie, was a slightly-built lad, who was straining every nerve to keep his place. the freshest of the three was bailey. yet the lanky youth looked like winning. he lumbered and blundered along, but his long legs enabled him to cover at a single stride the ground which they had to take two steps to cover. the boy by bertie's side had just given up the struggle with a gasp, when the lanky lad caught his foot in a hole and went headlong to the ground. like a flash bertie put on a spurt and dashed victorious in. the prize-holder held out the leather bag, and bertie caught it as he passed. but the lanky youth, disappointed in his expectations, having puffed himself for nothing, beheld the reward of his endeavours snatched from his grasp with a burning sense of injury. struggling to his feet he gave his emotions words. "it ain't fair! who's he? he ain't one of us! he's a stranger!" instantly the words were caught up by a host of disappointed competitors. "he's a stranger! what's he want running races along with us? and winning of the prizes?" the individual who had so hastily yielded up the reward of victory, turned to bertie. "aren't you one of our boys?" but bertie did not wait to give an answer. the shilling of which he had gained possession meant so much to him, that he instinctively felt that to wait to explain exactly who he was would be a waste of time. he had been told to run, he had run, he had fairly won, he had been handed the shilling as his by right; it meant dinner, supper, everything to him; he was not going to stop to argue the point as to who he was. so when the over hasty-individual put the question to him, his only answer was to take to his heels and run. instantly a crowd was after him. "stop him! stop him! he's a stranger! he's not one of us!" but if he had run fast before, he ran faster now. he was through the gate before any one was near him, dashing across the road, and under the shadow of the "star and garter." but the chase was relinquished almost as soon as it was begun. the person who had held the shilling stopped it. "never mind, boys; he won the race, so let him take the prize. perhaps he wants it more than we do. i daresay we can find another shilling, and next time we'll be a little more particular." the crowd returned into the park again. bertie pursued his way. when he saw that the chase had stopped he slowed a little, soon contenting himself with rapid walking. he was very hot; the perspiration stood in great beads upon his face; his clothing had an inclination to stick to his limbs. and he was very thirsty; his throat was parched and dry. he was hungry too; his long abstinence began to tell; he felt he could not go much farther without something to eat and drink. along the lower road, past petersham fields, past buccleuch house, into richmond town. the town was crowded. the afternoon was well advanced. the fine weather had brought people out into the streets. hill street and george street were crowded with both pedestrians and carriages. richmond can be both gay and lovely on a sunny afternoon. it was then. the untidy, dusty, perspiring boy looked out of place in that big bright crowd, made up as it was for the most part of well-dressed people. once or twice he stopped and looked into the confectioners' shops, but from their appearance they were evidently beyond his means. if he had only been still the possessor of five pounds he might have ruffled it with the best of them, but a shilling would not go far in those well-filled emporiums of confectionery and nice-looking but unsubstantial odds and ends, and he so hungry too. he was beginning to fear that richmond was not the place for him, and that he would have to go hungry and thirsty, when he reached the coffee palace in the kew road. here he thought he might venture in; and he did. he had a bloater and some bread-and-butter, and a cup of coffee, and there was not much change left in his pocket after that. but it was a sufficiently hearty meal, and the choice of materials did credit to his judgment. he left the shop with his hunger satisfied, feeling brighter and fresher altogether, and with fivepence in his pocket clutched tightly with his right hand. those coppers were exceeding precious in his eyes. he set out to walk to london. he knew that richmond was not very far from london, and had a general idea that he had to keep straight on. he had lingered over his meal, taking his time and resting, and watching the other customers enjoying theirs, so that it was about six o'clock when he rose and went. a curious spirit of adventure possessed him still. the bull-dog nature of the boy was roused, and it was with an implicit faith in the future that he went straight on. until he reached kew bridge all was easy sailing; there was a straight road, and he went straight on. but at kew bridge he pulled up, puzzled. he had crossed the river at hampton court, and again at kingston, and apparently here was another bridge to cross. it seemed to him that things were getting mixed. ignorant of the convolutions of the thames, of its manifold twists and turns, he began to wonder whether he had not after all gone wrong, when he found the river in front of him again. by the bridge lingered two or three of the flower-sellers who haunt the neighbourhood of kew gardens. he addressed himself to one of them. "am i right for london?" "of course you is, over the bridge, turn to the right, and go straight on. won't you buy a bookay? only this one left; ain't sold none all day,--flowers only just fresh,--only sixpence, sir." the man kept up by bertie's side, supported by one or two of his colleagues, proffering their wares. "i haven't any money." "don't say that, sir,--i'm a poor chap, sir,--i am indeed, sir,--very 'ard to stand all day and not sell nothing--just this one, sir--you shall have it for fivepence." "i tell you i haven't any money." "leave the gentleman alone, bill. don't you see he's a-going home to his ma?" his colleagues dropped off, firing a parting shot; but the man whom bertie had originally addressed kept steadily on, sticking close to his side. they crossed the bridge together. the sun was beginning to go home in the west, majestically enthroned in a bank of crimson clouds. the waters were tinted by his departing rays. "just this one, sir--take pity on a poor chap, now do, sir--you've got a nice home to go to, and a ma and all, and here's me, what hasn't earned a copper all the day, with nothing to eat and drink, and not a bed to lay me 'ead upon--buy this one, sir--you shall have it for fourpence." "i haven't any money." they went down the bridge together, the man still sticking to bertie's side. "if i was a gentleman, and a poor chap came to me, and asked me to buy a bookay, i wouldn't tell him i'd got no money, and me a hard-working chap what hasn't tasted food for a couple of days, and hasn't seen a bed for a week--just this one, sir--you shall have it for threepence, and that's less than it cost me, it is indeed, sir--won't you have it for threepence?" "i tell you i haven't any money." the man stopped, allowing bertie to wend his way alone, but his voice still followed after. "oh, you haven't any money, haven't you? would you like me to lend you half-a-crown or a suvering? i'm sure i'm game. 'ow much does your ma allow you a week? a hapenny and a smack on the 'ead? if i was you i'd ask your nurse to take you out in the pram, and buy you lollipops,--go on, you mealy-faced young 'umbug!" bertie almost wished he had not asked the way, but had been content to blunder on unaided. the flower-seller's voice was peculiarly audible; the passers by were more amused than bertie was. it was his first experience of the characteristic eloquence of a certain class of londoner; he would have been content if it had been his last. he went on, feeling somewhat smaller in his own esteem. past the "star and garter," along the kew road, never a very cheerful thoroughfare. bertie thought it particularly cheerless then. through gunnersbury, and chiswick, and turnham green, past the green itself, past duke's avenue, which is already a caricature of its former self, and threatens to be an avenue no more. past where, not so very long ago, the toll bar used to stand, though there is no memorial of its presence now. past the carriage manufactory; past the terminus of that singular railway which boasts of a single carriage and a single engine,--said railway being two if not three miles long. into king street, hammersmith, and when he had got so far upon his journey the lad began to tire. the evening was closing in. the lamps were lighted; the shops were ablaze with gas; the streets were crowded. but bertie did not know where he was; he was standing on strange ground. he wondered, rather wearily, if this were london; but after his recent experience with the vendor of bouquets he was afraid to ask. he was hungry again, and began to look into the shop windows with anxious eyes. fivepence would not go far. he tramped wearily on, right through king street. at a costermonger's stall he bought a pennyworth of apples, and munched them as he went. his capital was now reduced to fourpence, and night was come, and he was on the threshold of the great city--that land of golden dreams. chapter xiv in trouble through the broadway, along the hammersmith road, on, and on, and on. every step he took made the next seem harder. he was conscious that he could hardly walk much more. the crowd, the lights, the strangeness of the place, confused him. he wondered where he was. was this london? and was it nothing else but streets? and was this the land of golden dreams? when he reached the cedars, where the great pile of school buildings is now standing, he saw, peering through the railings, a little arab of the streets. to him he applied for information. "is this london?" the urchin withdrew his head from between the two iron rails through which he had managed to squeeze it, and eyed his questioner. he was a little lad, smaller than bertie, hatless, shoeless, in a ragged pair of trousers which were several sizes too large for him, and which were rolled up in a bunch about his ankles to enable him to put his feet far enough through to touch the ground. "what, this? this 'ere? no, this ain't london." "how far is it then?" "how far is it? what, london? it just depends what part of london might you be wanting?" "any part; i don't care." the urchin whistled. his small, keen eyes had been reading his questioner all the time, and bertie was conscious of a sense of discomfort as he observed the curious gaze. in some odd way he felt that this little lad was bigger and stronger, and older than himself; that he looked down at him, as it were, from a height. "say, matey, where might you be going to? you don't look as though you knowed your way about, not much, you don't." the cool tone of superiority irritated bertie. tired and weary as he was, and a little sick at heart, he was not going to allow a little shrimp like this to look down on him. "if you won't tell me the way, why, that's enough. i don't want any of your cheek." bertie moved on, but the other called after him. "you needn't turn rusty, you needn't; i didn't mean no harm. i'm going to london, i am, and if you like you can come along o' me." the urchin was by his side again. bertie looked at him with disgusted eyes. he had not set out upon his journey with the intention of travelling with such tag-rag and bobtail as this lad. so far the society into which he had fallen had been of an unfortunate kind; he had had enough of sam slater, and of sam slater's sort. "i'm not going with you; i'm going by myself." "alright, matey, every bloke's free to choose his pals." the urchin turned a series of catherine-wheels right under bertie's nose. then, with a whistle of unearthly shrillness, he set off running, and disappeared into the night. bertie was left no wiser than before. he dragged along till he reached addison road a gentleman in evening dress came across the road, smoking a cigar. he was of middle age, irreproachably attired, with nothing of sam slater about him. "if you please, sir, can you tell me how far it is to london?" the gentleman stopped short, puffing at his cigar. "what's that?" bertie repeated his inquiry. for answer, the gentleman took him by the shoulder, led him to a neighbouring lamp-post, and looked him in the face. "what are you doing here? you look respectable; you're from the country, aren't you?" bertie hesitated; he remembered the effect produced by his incautious frankness on mr. and mrs. jenkins. "speak up; you have got a tongue, haven't you? what are you doing here? run away from home?" the lad, giving a sudden twist, freed himself from the gentleman's grasp, and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him. the stranger, puffing at his cigar as he stood under the lamp-post, laughed as he peered after the retreating boy. but bertie, despite his weariness, still ran on. he dimly wondered, whether he bore about with him some outward sign by which any one could tell he was a runaway. he made up his mind that he would ask no more questions if he ran the risk of meeting such home thrusts in reply. he wandered onwards till he reached kensington gardens, and then the albert hall. there was a concert going on, and the place was all lit up. he stared with amazement at the enormous building, imperfectly revealed in the darkness of the night. carriages and cabs were going to and fro. some one touched him on the shoulder. it was a gorgeous footman, with powdered hair, in splendid livery. his magnificence dazzled him. "i say, you boy, do you know thurloe square?" "no, sir." "what do you mean? are you gettin' at me? you take a message for me to thurloe square, and there'll be a bob when you get there." "but i don't know thurloe square; i'm a stranger, sir." "a stranger, are you? then what do you mean by standing there, as though you was born just over the way? get on out of it! i shouldn't be surprised if you was after pockethandkerchiefs;--what's your little lay? i'll tell the policeman to keep an eye on you, telling me you don't know thurloe square;--oh yes, i jest dersay!" the footman appeared to be angry; bertie slunk away. he crossed the road to the park; a gate was open; people were going in and out. he entered too. it looked quiet inside; perhaps there was grass to sit upon. he went up towards the serpentine, and had not gone far when he came to a seat. on this he sat. never was seat more welcome; it was ecstasy to rest. he was dimly conscious of what was going on; before he knew it he was fast asleep. time passed; still he slept. a perfect sleep untroubled by dreams. some one else approached the seat, some one in the last stage of raggedness, so exhausted that he seemed hardly able to drag one foot behind the other. he, too, sat down; he, too, fell fast asleep. some one else approached,--a woman with a baby and a watercress basket. the baby was crying faintly; the woman tried to comfort it, speaking to in a droning monotone: "i've nothing to give you, bairn," she said; "i've nothing to give you, bairn! god help us all!" a policeman came along. when he reached the seat he stopped, and flashed the bull's-eye lantern in the faces of the sleepers. the woman woke up instantly, perhaps used to such a visitation. "i'm going, sir; i only sat down for a moment to rest awhile." the baby began to cry again. "i've nothing to give you, bairn," she said; "i've nothing to give you, bairn! god help us all!" it seemed to be a stereotyped form of speech. she got up, with the baby and her basket, and walked away, the baby crying as she went. the policeman remained behind, flashing his bull's-eye. "now then, this won't do, you know; wake up, you two." he took the ragged sleeper by the shoulder, and shook him; he seemed to wake in a kind of stupor, and staggered off without a word. the policeman turned to bertie. "now then!" the lad woke with a start; he thought some one was playing tricks with him. "what do you want?" "i want you to clear out of this, that's what i want." opening his eyes bertie was for a moment dazzled by the glaring light; then he saw at the back the policeman's form, looming grim and awful. possessed by a sudden fear, he sprang to his feet, and ran as for his life. "now i wonder what you've been up to?" murmured the policeman. "i don't remember seeing your face before; i should say you was a new hand, you was." bertie ran, without knowing where he was running to; across the road, under a rail. he found himself upon the grass. it was quite dark, mysterious, strange. he could hardly be followed there, so he thought at least, and strolled more slowly on. but he was very tired still, and, yielding to his weariness, when he had gone a little farther, he sat down upon the grass to rest. and this was the land of golden dreams! this was his entrance into the promised land! a gentle breeze murmured through the night; there was a sound as of rippling grass and of rustling leaves; he could see no stars; a heavy dew was falling; the grass was damp; it was chilly; the breeze blew cold; he shivered with hunger and with cold. his head was nodding on his breast; almost unconsciously he lay full length upon the sodden grass, and again fell fast asleep. but this time it was not a dreamless slumber; it was a continued nightmare. he was oppressed with horrid visions, with continuous strugglings against hideous forms of terror. unrefreshed he woke. it was broad day; but there had come a sudden change of weather, the skies were overcast and dull. his limbs were aching; he was stiff, and wet, and cold; he was soaked to the skin; his clothes stuck to his body. shivering, he struggled to his feet, rising with pain. the place was deserted. three was a solitary horseman in the distance; the horseman and the lad were the only living things in sight. it began to drizzle; the wind had risen; it whistled in the air. the fine weather had departed as though never to return. bertie's teeth were chattering; he felt dull and stupid, ignorant of what he ought to do. he began walking through the rain across the grass. how cold he was, and oh! how hungry. he must have something to eat, and something warm to drink. he thought of his money; he felt for his fourpence; it was gone! the discovery stunned him. he could not realize the fact at once, but searched in each of his pockets laboriously, one after the other. he turned them inside out; felt for holes through which it might have fallen. he remembered that he had put it in the right hand pocket of his trousers; he examined it again and again, in a sort of stupor. in vain; it was gone! he retraced his steps. it might have fallen out of his pockets in the night; he fell upon his knees and searched. there was no sign of it about. he was without a sou, and he was so hungry and so cold, and it was raining, and he was wet to the skin. he could not realize his loss. he wandered stupidly on, stopping at times, feeling in his pockets again and again. it could not be gone. but there was no money there. this was his land of golden dreams; this was the object of his journey; this was the result of his dash into the world; he was cold, and he was hungry, and he saw no signs of anything to eat. at last he left the park behind. he went out by the piccadilly gate, as miserable a figure as any to be seen, stained with mud, soaked with wet, hungry and forlorn. it was early. the early omnibuses were bringing crowds of business men to town. the drivers were muffled in their mackintoshes, the outside passengers crouched beneath their umbrellas. everything and every one looked cold, and miserable, and wet; bertie looked worst of all, for he looked hungry too. how hungry! there had been moments at mecklemburg house when hunger had made itself felt, but never hunger such as this. the very worst meal mr. fletcher had ever set before his pupils--and his system of dietary was not his strongest point--bertie would have welcomed as a feast. even a dry crust of stale bread would have been welcome; a cup of the wishy-washiest tea would have been nectar of the gods. he was footsore too. as he wandered by the piccadilly mansions and approached the shops, he became conscious that his feet were blistered. it was a discomfort to be obliged to put them to the ground. his right foot, in particular, had a blister on the heel, and another on the ball of the foot. it seemed to him that every moment these were getting larger. he would have liked to have taken his boot and sock off and examine his injuries. he was aware, too, that he was dirty; more than two days had passed since he had come in contact with soap and water. once upon a time he had had a vague idea that it was a glorious sport of the heroic character to be dirty; now he would have liked to have had a wash. but he could neither wash nor examine his feet in the middle of piccadilly. the presence of the shops caused him an additional pang. the display of costly goods in their windows seemed to add to his misery. even the possession of his fourpence, as compared to the value of such treasures, would have placed him at a disadvantage. but without it he was poor indeed. he was fascinated by the fruit shops; all the fruits of the earth, those in season and those out, seemed gathered there. he glued his nose to the window and looked and longed. "now then, what are you doing there? move on out of that!" a policeman, in a shiny cape, from which the wet was dripping, roughly shouldered him on. he was not even allowed to look. this was not at all the sort of thing he had expected. his idea of his entry into the great city had been altogether different. he was to come as the king of boys, if not of men; as something remarkable, as a heaven-born conqueror; something to be talked of; the centre of all eyes directly he was seen. to sleep upon the sodden grass, to be penniless, cold, wet, and hungry, to be shouldered by policemen, to be bidden to move on, these things had not entered into his calculations when that night at mecklemburg house he had dreamed those golden dreams. he struggled on; his feet became more painful; he was limping; rest he must. he turned down a bye-street, and then down a friendly entry, and leaned against the wall. was this what he had come for, to lean in the rain against a wall, and to be thankful for the chance of leaning? he had not read in lives of robin hood, and turpin, and crusoe, and jack the giant-killer, of episodes like this. but then, perhaps, his acquaintance with the histories of those gentlemen was not so perfect as it might have been. suddenly he heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. some one was coming along the side-street as though racing for his life. a lad about his own age came darting round the corner in such terrific haste that he almost ran into bertie's arms. "catch hold! here's a present for you." the runner gasped out the words, without pausing in his flight. like an arrow from a bow he darted on, leaving bertie standing there. to his amazement bailey found that he had thrust something in his hand; his surprise was intensified when he discovered what it was,--it was a purse. the runner had turned another corner and was already out of sight. bertie, in his bewilderment, could do nothing else but gaze. such unexpected generosity, coming at such a moment, was so astonishing that it was almost as though the gift had fallen from the skies. a good fat purse! it was like the stories after all. he could feel that it was heavy; he almost thought that he could feel that it was full. suppose it were full of gold! had it fallen from the skies? all this occupied an instant. the next he was conscious that some one else was coming up the street; apparently some one else in equal haste; apparently more than one. cries rang in his ears; he could not quite distinguish the words which were shouted, but at their sound, for some reason, a cold chill went down his back. some one came round the corner; some one who seized him as though he were some wild thing. "got you, have i! thought you'd double, did you, and slip out when i'd run past? artful, but it didn't quite do,--not this time, at any rate." his captor shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. it was a policeman, a huge, bearded fellow, six feet high. bertie was like a plaything in his hands. on hearing some one coming, the boy, without any thought of what he was doing, had slipped the hand which held the purse behind his back. the policeman was down on it at once. "what's that you've got there?" he twisted the boy round, revealing the hand which held the purse. he took it away. "oh, that's it, is it? you hadn't got time to throw it away, i suppose, or perhaps you thought it was too good to lose--worth running a little risk for, eh? well, you've run the risk just once too often." by this time others had come into the entry, and now bertie recognised the words which he had heard. what they had been shouting was, "stop thief!" the new comers showed a lively interest in the captive. a man, who looked like a respectable mechanic, reckoned him up. "that's not the boy," he said. "oh, isn't it? it doesn't look like it, not when he was hiding here, and holding the purse in his hand!" the policeman held up the purse with an air of smiling scorn. "had he got the purse? well, whether he had or whether he hadn't, all i can say is he isn't the boy who took it; i'm willing to take my oath to that. he was a different-looking sort of boy altogether, and i was standing as close to him as i am to you." "i never took the purse," said bertie, with dogged lips and dogged eyes. he realized that great trouble had come upon him, as he writhed and twisted in the policeman's hand. "it was given to me." "yes, i daresay, and by a particular friend, no doubt. you come along with me, my lad, and tell that tale elsewhere." the policeman began to drag the lad along the entry. "the boy will go quietly, i daresay, if you give him a chance," observed the man who had previously spoken. "however it may be about the purse being found upon him, i'm prepared to prove that that's not the boy who took it." "well, you can come and give your evidence, can't you? it's no good standing arguing here; the lad had got the purse, and i've got the lad, and that's quite enough for me." "where are you going to take him to?" "marlborough street police court." "all right, i'll come round and say what i've got to say. my name's william standing,--i'm a picture framer; i'll go and tell my governor where i'm off to, and i'll be there as soon as you are." the man walked away. the policeman proceeded to haul bertie off with him again. the boy was speechless. he was tired, his feet were sore; the policeman's pace was almost more than he could manage. in consequence, every now and then he received a jerk, which all but pitched him forward on his nose. "why don't you leave the boy alone?" inquired a man in the little crowd, which walked alongside in a sort of procession, whose ideas of a policeman's duty were apparently vague. "he ain't done no 'arm to you." "why, bless yer, if it wasn't for them little 'uns them policemen would have no one to collar; they daren't lay a finger on a man of your build, old pal." this remark, from another member of the crowd, produced a laugh. the original speaker was a diminutive specimen of his kind, whom the policeman could have carried in his arms with the greatest of ease. when they regained piccadilly they came upon the victim of the robbery. this was a portly, middle-aged female, who was a pleasant combination of mackintoshes and agitation. she was the centre of an interested circle, into whose sympathetic ears she was pouring her tale of woe. the arrival of the policeman with his captive created a diversion. "is this the boy?" inquired the constable. "have you got my purse?" replied the lady. "it contained thirty-seven pounds, fifteen shillings, and threepence, in two ten pound notes, two fives,--i've got the numbers in my purse,--seven pounds in gold, four of them half-sovereigns, fifteen shillings in silver, and a threepenny bit; and whatever i shall do without it i don't know. i'm the landlady of the 'rising sun,' and i was going to pay my wine-merchant's bill, and i said to my daughter only this morning, 'take all that money loose i didn't ought to do. no, mary ann, a cheque it ought to be.' but mary ann's that flighty, though she's in her thirties, though twenty-two she tries to pass herself to be----" the policeman endeavoured to stop the lady's flood of eloquence. "you can tell us all that when we get to the station. you'll have to come with me to identify the purse and charge the boy." "i don't want to charge the boy, all i want is to identify the purse. as for the young limb of a boy, i'd like to give him a good banging with my unbrella, that i would!" the lady shook her umbrella at the boy in a way which caused the crowd to laugh. but there was no laughter left in bertie. "we can't have any banging here," said the policeman, who was anxious to get on. "if you take my advice, you'll call a cab and let us all go comfortably together." "me go in a cab with a policeman and that there limb of a boy; not if i know it! i've kept the 'rising sun' respectable these six-and-twenty years,--sixteen years in my husband's time,--as respectable a man as ever breathed, though cherry brandy was his failing,--and ten long years a widow, and go to prison with a policeman and that there limb of a boy in a cab----" "nobody's asked you to go to prison," said the policeman, whose patience was beginning to fade. "i can't stand talking here all day. now then, boy, best foot forward, march!" bertie's poor best foot was blistered, so that the policeman had to assist him, with occasional awkward jerks, to march to jail. chapter xv out of the frying-pan into the fire there was a meeting in trafalgar square that day. some people thought they had a grievance, and resolved to air it. no matter what the grievance was; the world is very full of them, and too many of them are hard and stern, and old and deep, difficult to be removed. but the authorities had decided that this particular grievance should not be aired in this particular way; they would permit no meeting to be held in trafalgar square. the result was, contests with the police. the people with the grievance tried hard to air it; there were ugly rushes, the excitement spread, and in the neighbourhood adjoining there was something very like a riot. one procession of the people with a grievance making for the square, had been met by the police and turned aside. part of the processioners had been turned into piccadilly, and were being driven along that thoroughfare, helter skelter, just as the procession which escorted bertie and his captor approached. the policeman saw his danger, and tried to turn aside. it was too late. the fugitives coming tumultuously along, and seeing only a single constable, made a rush in his direction. in a moment bertie found himself the centre of a pushing, yelling, struggling crowd, with the policeman holding on to him like grim death. above the tumult could be distinguished the accents of the landlady of the "rising sun." "i'm the landlady of the 'rising sun,' and i've kept the house respectable these six-and-twenty years--ten long years a widow, and sixteen years a respectable married woman--and it's a sin and a shame that a respectable female----" but the crowd was no respecter of persons; the lady was hustled on one side, where her voice was heard no more. bertie became conscious that a contest was going on for the possession of himself. the policeman stuck to him with extraordinary tenacity; with equal tenacity the crowd endeavoured to drag him away. bertie suffered. without wasting any time in inquiring as to the rights of the case, his new friends did their best to deprive the law of its prey. but they directed their efforts with misguided zeal. if they had left him to his fate, bertie could only have suffered imprisonment at the worst; now he ran a risk of being drawn and quartered. they apparently did their best to drag his arms and legs out of their sockets; he felt his clothes giving way in all directions. through all the heat and turmoil he felt that if this was town he preferred the country. in the unequal strife the constable, unsupported, was vanquished in the end. it was well for bailey the end came when it did; if he had stuck to his prize much longer the pieces of a boy would have strewed the street. some one in the crowd struck the constable in the face with a stick. putting up his hand to ward off a second blow, bertie was instantly snatched from his grasp. his capture was so unsuspected, that the two zealous friends who were doing their best to tear him limb from limb, recoiling backwards, loosed their hold, and let him fall upon the ground. "get up, youngster, and hook it! the peelers will have you again if you don't look sharp; there's a lot of them coming down the street." a workman stooped over the lad as he lay in the mud and assisted him to rise. he regained his feet, feeling stunned and bewildered. his friendly ally gave him a push, which sent him staggering into the thick of the crowd. it was only just in time to prevent the constable from catching hold of him again. the confusion suddenly became worse confounded. "the peelers! the peelers!" was the cry. there was a trampling of hoofs; the crowd parted in all directions, each seeking safety for himself. half a dozen mounted constables went galloping through. "now you cut and run! if you aren't quick about it they'll nail you again as sure as eggs!" it was the friendly workman urging bertie to flight. he did not need much urging, but made the best of his way through the crowd, the memory of the policeman's grip still upon him. no one tried to stop him. every one, including apparently his original captor, was too much engaged in his own affairs. he did not wait to see what became of the landlady of the "rising sun," though he seemed to hear her indignant accents above the tumult and the din. as fast as his wearied legs would carry him he tore away. all that day he had nothing to eat. he saw nothing again of the policeman, nor of the crowd, nor of the lady who had lost her purse with its thirty-seven pounds, fifteen shillings, and a threepenny bit. but he had been in custody; he had signalized his entry into the land of golden dreams by being within an ace of jail; the thought was with him all the day. every policeman he saw he shrunk away from, and every policeman seemed to follow his shrinking with suspicious eyes. he was in continual expectation of feeling a hand upon his shoulder, and another experience of how it felt to be dragged through the streets. it never ceased to rain; yet the rain did not come down fast, but always in the same slow, persistent drizzle. it was a cold rain, and the wind, which every now and then became almost tempestuous, was cold. every one seemed to be in a bad temper; there were sour faces everywhere. the drivers of the various vehicles quarrelled with one another, and cursed and swore. pedestrians hustled each other into the gutter; each seemed to be persuaded that the other did his best to get into his way. bertie had paid three previous visits to london,--this made the fourth. on each of the previous occasions he had been accompanied by his father; this was the first time he had come alone. many a time that day he wished that he had postponed his personal exploration till a little later on; about the middle of the century after next, he was persuaded, would have been time enough for him. his first visit had been as one of a family party to see the pantomime. there had been a morning performance; they had left home early in the morning, returning late at night. that day was a red-letter day in bertie's calendar. "when i went to see the pantomime," was the words which formed a prelude to many a tale of the wondrous sights which he had seen. the second time he came up with father alone. the doctor had had some meeting to attend at the hospital at which he had spent his student days, and bertie bore him company. afterwards a visit had been paid to madame tussaud's and the zoological gardens. but the climax of the day had been the dinner at the restaurant in the evening before returning home. bertie always thought that he had seen life when he looked backwards at that dinner in the after days. champagne had accompanied that repast, and a band had played. but the crowning visit had been the third. a certain cousin--feminine--had been a member of the party, and she alone would have canonized the day. they had gone to the exhibition and dined there, and seen the illuminations, and he had told himself that london was a city of delights, a paradise below, fairyland to-day. this point of view did not occur to him with so much force on this, the occasion of his fourth visit. as he struggled up and down the wet and greasy streets, with his blistered feet and his empty stomach, anything more unlike a city of delights it seemed to him that he had never seen. he was continually getting into everybody's way, always being hustled into the gutter, and once, when an irate elderly gentleman sent him flying backwards to assume a sitting posture in the centre of a heap of mud, everybody laughed. but it was no joke to him. the elderly gentleman was a little sorry when he saw what he had done. "you oughtn't to get in my way! the police didn't ought to allow boys like you to hang about the streets!" that was the way he expressed his penitence, and then passed on. bertie picked himself up at leisure. he was a sorry sight, and when the people saw the spectacle he presented they laughed again. "if i was you i'd sow seeds in that there mud you've got on you; it'd be as good as 'arf a hacre of ground." this was the comment of a paper-seller. he resumed his calling, shouting, "hecho! fourth hedition! hecho!" but some one else had a word to say. this was a girl who was selling flowers for button-holes. "you let me stick these 'ere flowers in that there sile you've just picked up. they'll grow like winkin'!" all this was hard enough to bear, but the worst was the hunger and thirst. although it rained all day, his thirst remained unquenched. toward evening he found himself in covent garden. as he looked shyly round his hopes rose just a little. to begin with, there seemed shelter. if he might only be allowed to stay in this place all night! on the ground was vegetable refuse, ancient cabbage leaves, odds and ends of garbage which littered the place. if he could only pick up one or two of those cabbage leaves and see how far they would go towards staying his appetite! surely no one could object to that, since they were placed there only to be thrown away. so he began picking up the cabbage leaves. "now then, what are you doing there? none of that now! clear out of this, or i'll clear you out, and precious quick!" at the sound of a strident voice bertie trembled as though he had been guilty of a heinous crime. he dropped the cabbage leaves out of his hands again. a little man, who was apparently some one in authority, had suddenly appeared from behind one of the pillars, and was shouting at bertie with the full force of his lungs. like a frightened ewe the hero of yesterday gave a look round and slunk away. he was disappointed of his meal. the ground was evidently holy ground, and the cabbage leaves were evidently sacred cabbage leaves. the disappointment seemed to make his hunger worse. he had scarcely strength enough to slink away. he put his arms around one of the pillars, and, leaning his head against it, cried. this was what had become of all his golden dreams! of what stuff are heroes made? "i say, young one, what's in the wind? any one trodden on your precious toes? you don't seem so chirpy as some." bertie looked up through his tears to see who the speaker was. a little time ago to have been caught crying would have covered him with shame, now all shame of that sort seemed to have gone for ever. he vaguely feared that this was some new jack-in-office again bidding him move on; but he was wrong. the speaker was a boy about his own age; but there was something about him which at a very first glance showed that he was different from other boys. he was respectably dressed; the chief peculiarity about his clothing being that it seemed to fit him like his skin. a tighter pair of trousers surely never imprisoned human legs. his waistcoat fitted him without a crease, and it seemed that he had been made for his coat, and not his coat for him. he wore a billycock hat of a particularly knowing pattern, set rakishly upon the side of his head; a stand-up collar made it difficult for him to look anywhere except straight in front of him; and an enormous pin, set in the centre of a gorgeous blue necktie, made his costume quite complete. even more remarkable than his costume was his face. it has been said of the famous lord chancellor, lord thurlow, that no one could be so wise as lord thurlow looked; it was almost equally impossible that any one could be so knowing as the expression of his countenance declared this young gentleman to be. it was an unhealthy face, an unpleasant face, with something in it which reminded you of how methuselah might have appeared in his green old age. it was never still; the eyes seemed to be all over the place at once; it seemed to be continually listening to catch the first sound of something or some one drawing near. "down on your luck? what are you piping your eye for? does that sort of thing suit your constitution? turn round to the light, and let's have a look what you're like; don't keep hugging that pillar as though it was your ma." through all his misery bertie saw that this young gentleman was centuries older than himself, though they had probably entered the world within the same twelve months. besides, he was too prostrated to resist, even had he wished, and he allowed the other to drag him into a position in which he might study his features at his leisure. "i thought so,--directly i caught sight of your back i thought i knew your size. wasn't you in sackville street this morning?" "in sackville street?" repeated bertie vaguely. "yes, in sackville street, my bonny boy. never heard tell of sackville street before, i suppose? so i should think by the look of you. wasn't it you i pitched the old girl's purse to?" a light was dawning upon bertie's mind. "was it you who stole the purse?" the other gave a quick look round, as though the question took him by surprise--if anything so self-possessed could be said to be taken by surprise. "stow your cackle! do you want to have me put away? where do you live when you're at home? you must be a sharp one, though you do look so jolly green! i thought you'd be buckled to a certainty! i never expected to see you walking about as large as life. it gave me quite a start when i saw you hugging that pillar as though you loved it. how did you make tracks?" bertie was trying to collect his thoughts. this boy before him was a thief, a miserable hound who tried to escape the consequences of his own misdeeds by putting the odium of his crimes upon the innocent. but bertie was alone; alone in the great city, hungry, thirsty, tired, wet, and cold. human companionship was human companionship after all. and this boy looked so much more prosperous than he himself was. yesterday he would have done great things; to-day he would have welcomed a crust of bread coming even from this thief. "the policeman wanted to lock me up." "no! did he though? funny ones those policemen are! they're always wanting to go locking people up. and did he cop the purse?" "he took the purse away from me." "and how come you to be making love to that there pillar, instead of enjoying yourself in a nice warm cell? i suppose you didn't give the policeman one in the nose and knock him down?" "we met some people in the street, and they made him let me go." "did they though? that was kind of them! when policemen was making free with me i wish i was always meeting people in the streets who would make them interfering bobbies let me go. and now, who are you when you're at home? we're having quite a nice little conversation, ain't we, you and i? glad i met you, quite a treat!" he raised his hat to express his sense of the satisfaction which he felt. "you don't look as though you were raised in these 'ere parts." bertie hung his head; he was ashamed: ashamed of many things, but most of all just then of the company he was in. and yet, if he turned this thief adrift, where else should he find a friend? and he was so tired, so hungry, so conscious of his own helplessness. "you very nearly got me locked up this morning," was his answer. "well, my noble marquis, wasn't it better for you to be locked up than me? it'll have to come, you know--if not to-morrow the day after." to bertie this view of the matter had not occurred before. it had not entered into his calculations that a journey to the land of golden dreams would necessitate the process of locking-up. "are you on the cross, or only mouching around?" this inquiry was greek to bertie, and his questioner perceived that he failed to understand. "you're a fly bloke, that you are! what's your little game? you haven't got a fortune in your pocket, or a marquis for a pa? what do you do to live? i suppose you ain't reckoning to die just yet awhile." "i wish i could do something, but i can't." "oh, you wish you could do something, do you, but unfortunately you can't! well, you are a trial for the nerves! have you got any money?" bertie hung his head still lower. to be despised by a thief! was this the result of all his dreams? "no!" "got any friends?" "i've run away from them." and here the boy broke down. turning, and leaning against a pillar, he burst into a passion of tears. the other eyed him for a few moments, whistling beneath his breath. "that's the time of day, is it? i thought you were something of that kind from the first, i did. what did you run away for?" bertie could not have told him to save his life. to have told this thief that he had started on a journey to the land of golden dreams; that he had resolved to emulate the doings of his heroes, dick turpin, crusoe, jack the giant-killer, and robin hood! oh, ye gods! and now to be crying against a post! "father living?" no answer. "mother?" no answer. how well he knew that he loved his parents now! the mere mention of the word "mother" made him hysterical with woe. to have come within reach of his mother's loving arms, to have been folded to her breast! if he could only come within reach of her again! the other stood observing him with critical eyes, whistling all the time. "you seem to have had a considerable lot of water locked up tight. i should think you would have bust if you hadn't had a chance to let it go. what are you a-howling at? crying for your mammy?" for answer bertie turned with a sudden ferocity and struck at him savagely. but the blow was struck at random, and the other had no difficulty in avoiding it by stepping aside. "hollo! don't you come that game again, or i'll show you how to use a bunch of fives." but bertie showed no further signs of fight. it had only been an almost childish display of passionate spite at the other's coarse allusion to his "mammy"--the mother whom he was now so sure he loved so well. even the passion of his tears died away into a whimper. he had not strength enough to continue in a passion long. "are you hungry?" asked the other. "i'm starving!" "ah, i've been hungry, and more than once, and it isn't nice. i shouldn't be surprised if you found it rather nasty, especially if you aren't used to it. now, look here; let's have a look at you." he went close up to bertie and looked him straight in the face with his keen, restless eyes. bertie returned the look as well as he could with his tear-stained orbs. "you look a game 'un, somehow; and you look grit. i suppose it's feeling peckish you don't like. there's a lot of talk about courage what's always the same, but i don't believe there ever was a chap who kept up his pluck upon an empty belly. i've been hungry more than once. now, look here; if i take you to a crib i know of, and set you up in vittles and a shake-down, will you keep your mouth shut fast?" "i don't know what you mean." "oh, yes, you do; you're not so soft as that. if i act square with you, will you act square with me?" "i always do act square," said bertie. "very well, then, come along; if you do, then you're the sort for me. i did you a bad turn this morning, now i'll do you a good one to make up." chapter xvi the captain's room trusting himself to his companion's guidance, bertie went where the other chose to take him. under ordinary circumstances he would have thought a good many times before he would have allowed himself to be led blindfold he knew not where; but tired, wet, cold, and so hungry, he resigned himself to circumstances. he could not possibly find himself in a worse position than his present one; at least, so it seemed to him. certainly it had not been part of his plans to be a companion of thieves; but then nothing which had befallen him had been part of his plans. his companion led him to a court within a stone's throw of drury lane, and was just about to turn the corner when something caught his eyes. he walked straight on, taking bertie with him. "there's a peeler. i don't want him to see me go down there; it isn't quite what i care for to let them gentry have their eyes upon my family mansion." what he meant bertie failed to understand. he saw no one in sight to cause alarm, and indeed it almost seemed that his companion had eyes behind his head, for, as quickly appeared, the policeman was at their back some considerable distance off. they reached the entry to another court, and down this his companion strutted, as though he was anxious all the world should have their eyes upon him. but no sooner was he in than he slunk into a doorway. "come in here, my bonny boy, and let the gentleman go past. he's taking a little walk for the benefit of his health, poor chap. they're always taking walks, them peelers are. i wish they'd stop at home; i really do." a measured tramp, tramp, tramp approached. the thief put his hand over bertie's mouth as though he were fearful he would make a sound. the policeman reached the entry, paused a moment as if to peer into its depths, and then passed on. when he had gone the thief spoke again. "good-bye, dear boy; sorry to lose you, but the best of friends must part. come along, my rib-stone pippin; you and me'll go home to tea." satisfied that the coast was clear, the two ventured out of the doorway, reached the open street again, and this time turned without hesitation into the court which they had passed before. it was unlit by any lamp, and was so narrow that it was not difficult to believe that a man standing on a roof on one side of the way might, if he were an active fellow, spring with a single bound on to the roof on the opposite side. fortunately it was not long, the whole consisting of apparently not more than twelve or fifteen houses. at the extreme end bertie's companion stopped. the place was a _cul-de-sac_. it ended in a dead wall. but on the other side of the wall towered a house of what, in such a neighbourhood, seemed unusual dimensions. the entrance proper was in another street, and the original architect had probably had no intention that an entry should be effected from where they were. in a recess in the wall, so hidden as to be invisible to bertie in that light, and so placed as to appear to be a door opening into the last house in the court in which they actually stood, was an ancient wooden door, from which the paint had all disappeared owing to the action of time and weather. the two boys stood still for a moment, bertie dimly wondering what was going to happen next. it seemed to him that he really was an actor in a dream at last--the strangest dream he had ever dreamed. then the thief whistled a few lines of some uncouth melody in a low but singularly piercing tone. a pause again; then he gave four taps against the ancient wooden door, with a momentary pause between each one. bertie had heard of mysterious methods of effecting entrances into mysterious houses, and had been charmed with them; but he concluded that they were perhaps better in theory than practice. he would not have liked to have been kept hanging about in the wet such an unconscionable length of time every time he wanted to go home. at last the door was opened--just as bertie was beginning to think that the mysterious proceedings would have to be all gone through again. "who's there?" inquired a husky voice. it seemed that after all the whistling and the tapping caution were required. "all right, mother; it's only me and a friend. come on, ikey; cut along inside." bertie, thus addressed as "ikey," was about to "cut along inside," when he found the way barred by the old woman who acted as janitrix. she was a very unpleasant-looking old woman, old and grisly, and very much in want of soap and water: quite unpleasant-looking enough to be called a "hag"--and she smelt of gin. in her hand she carried a guttering tallow candle in a battered old tin candlestick. hitherto she had held it behind her back, as if to conceal the presence of a light from passers-by. now she raised it above her head so that its light might fall on bertie's face. he thought he had never seen a more disagreeable-looking lady. "who's the friend?" "what's that to you? he's a friend of mine, and square; that's quite enough for you. come along, my pippin." the answer reminded bertie of sam slater. even then he wondered if he had not better, after all, trust himself to the tender mercies of the streets; but the other did not allow much time for hesitation. he caught bailey by the arm, and half led, half dragged him up a flight of steep stone steps. the old woman with the candlestick sent after them what sounded very like a volley of imprecations, while she closed and locked and barred the door. the thief led the way into a fairly sized room, which was lighted by another tallow candle. the one which the old woman brought with her when she entered made the pair. there was no carpet on the floor, which was extremely dirty; a rickety deal table and four or five rickety chairs formed all the furniture. there was a bright fire burning in an antiquated fireplace, from which the ashes had apparently never been removed for months, and the atmosphere of the room was distinctly close. "what have you got to eat?" asked the thief, when the old woman reappeared. "you're always ready enough to eat, but you re not so ready to pay for what you've eaten. you boys is all the same; you'd rob an old woman of her teeth." the crone tottered to a cupboard in a corner of the room. the allusion to her teeth was not a happy one, for a solitary fang which protruded from her hideous jaws seemed to be all the teeth she still possessed. from the cupboard she produced a couple of chipped plates, a loaf of bread, and a piece of uncooked steak, which probably weighed several pounds. the thief's eyes glistened at sight of it. "that's the tuck! cut me off a chunk, and i'll frizzle it in two threes." the old woman cut off a piece which weighed at least a pound and a half. a frying-pan was produced from some unexpected corner. the young rogue, disencumbering himself of his coat and waistcoat, immediately elected himself to the office of cook. a short dialogue took place between the old woman and himself while the cooking was going on. "what luck have you had?" "what's that to you?" "that means you ain't had none. ah, freddy, you ain't what you was. i've known you when you allays came home with your pockets full of pretty things." "you ain't what you was, neither." a pause. a savoury smell began to come from the frying-pan. the old woman turned her watery, bloodshot eyes to bertie. "who's your friend?" "them who don't ask no questions don't get told no lies." "what's his lay?" "his lay's hitting old women in the eye; so now you know." the old woman shook her head, and mourned the decadence of the times. "oh, them boys! them boys! when i was a young gal there weren't none of them boys in them there days! times is changed." "and this steak's done! now then, ikey, make yourself alive and hand the plates." without the interposition of a dish the steak was divided in the frying-pan, placed in two equal portions on the plates, and bertie and the cook fell to. epicures have it that a steak fried is a steak spoiled. neither of those who ate that one would have agreed to the truth of the statement then. from the way in which they disposed of it, a finer, juicier, or more tender steak was never known. the old woman produced a jug of porter to wash it down. freddy, as the old woman called the thief, did far more justice to this than bertie did. with the aid of the dark-coloured liquid the whole pound and a half of meat rapidly disappeared, and with it the better part of a loaf as well. the old woman sat spectator of the feast. "there was a time when i could eat like that. it's over now a hundred years ago, but i mind it as though it were yesterday." "go on! you're not a hundred years old!" "i'm a hundred and twenty-two next tuesday week." bertie stared, holding a mouthful of steak suspended on his fork in the air. a hundred and twenty-two! what was his tale of years compared to that? freddy winked at him. "yes, i daresay. you were a hundred and ninety-five yesterday, and sixty-two this morning. it's my belief you're about five and twenty." "five and twenty! i daresay i look it, but i ain't. i'm more than that. i always did look a wild young thing." freddy roared; anything looking less like five and twenty, or a "wild young thing," could scarcely be conceived. the old woman went placidly on. "i remember jacky sheppard, and dicky turpin, and tommy king; they were all highwaymen in my young days." "i suppose you were a highwayman's wife?" "so i was; and they hung him the week after we were married. i went and saw him hung, and i've never seen a better hanging since. no, that i haven't. times is changed since then." "but you ain't changed. i wonder you don't marry again, a wild young thing like you." "i ain't a marrying sort--not now i ain't. i've had ten of them, and that's quite enough for me." "lor', no! what is ten?" "ten's quite enough for one young woman, and when you've been two hundred and ninety times in prison a woman don't feel much like marrying again. it takes it out of her, it do." bertie had ended his meal. the warmth and the food had given the finishing touch to his previous fatigue; his head was already nodding on his breast. he heard the old woman talking as in a dream. ten husbands! two hundred and ninety times in jail! were they part of his nightmare, the things which he heard her say? "hollo, ikey, you're blinking! now then, mother, where are you going to put my pal? can't you find a place where he can be alone?" had bertie been sufficiently wide awake he would have seen the speaker wink at the old woman. "there's only the captain's room." the woman's suggestion seemed to startle freddy, and to set him thinking. "the captain's room? where is the captain?" "how am i to know where he is or where he ain't? he don't tell me none of his goings on, none of you don't. he says to me he'd be four or five days away. that's all i know about it. times is changed!" "got the key?" "of course i've got the key." "then hand it over." the old woman produced a key from a voluminous pocket in her dress. "now, freddy, none of your tricks? he's on the square?" she pointed the key at bertie, to show the allusion was to him. the young thief took the key away from her. "he's as square as you! come along, ikey! mother, you stop there till i come back. i want to have a little talk to you." taking up one of the candlesticks, the lad led the way out of the room. bertie staggered, rather than walked, after him. the house seemed to be very old-fashioned and very large. there were a curious number of staircases, and passages, and turns and twists, and ins and outs, and ups and downs. as bertie followed his companion's lead it all seemed to him as though it were part of his dream; as though the house was built in the fashion of a maze, and he were bidden to find his way about it blindfold. at last he found himself in a room, the door of which he was vaguely conscious his companion had unlocked. although very far from being luxurious, it was better furnished than the one they had left. there was a piece of carpet on the floor; there were two or three substantial-looking chairs, a horsehair couch, an arm-chair, a table, a chest of drawers with a looking-glass on top, and in the corner an old-fashioned four-poster bed with the curtains drawn all round. the closely-drawn dirty dimity curtains made one wonder if it was occupied already, but freddy showed that it was not by going to it and drawing the curtains aside. "there's a bed for you, my bonny boy! the queen ain't got a better bed than that in buckingham palace; and if you have got a marquis for a pa, you ain't seen a better one, i know you ain't. that's the captain's bed, that is, and if he was to know i'd made you free of it he'd have a word to say. but as he's gone to see his grandma, and perhaps won't be back for ever so long, we needn't take no count of what he says." tired as he was, bertie was not by any means so prepossessed by the appearance of the bed as his companion seemed to be. it seemed to him just a trifle dirty, and more than a trifle the worse for wear. the beds at mecklemburg house were even better, while the beds at home were things of beauty and joys for ever compared to this. but still it was a bed, and a bed is a bed; and especially was a bed a bed to him just then. freddy waited while he undressed. he even watched him get between the sheets, and drew the curtains when he was there. then he went and left bertie to sleep in peace in the captain's room. and he slept in peace. just such a dreamless slumber as he had enjoyed in the kingston "doss-house," and it lasted at least as long. this young gentleman had over-calculated his strength, and had not supposed he would have been so quickly wearied on his journey to the land of golden dreams. when he awoke it was some minutes before he collected his thoughts sufficiently to understand his whereabouts. the rapidly-occurring incidents of the last day or two had bewildered a brain which was never very bright at best. putting out his hand, he parted the curtains which hung about him like so many shrouds, and looked out. the room was filled with daylight; that is to say, as much filled as it probably ever was. the only window was a small one, and at such a height from the ground that bertie would have needed to stand upon a chair to reach it even. had he desired to imitate his escape from his kingston hosts he would have found very much more difficulty in climbing from the window of the captain's room. but what interested him more than the peculiar position of the window was something which he saw on the chair beside his bed. this something was some bread and cheese, a couple of saveloys, and some stout in a jug. on the bread was a little scrap of paper. he took it up, and found that on it was written,-- "sleep it out, old pal!" this was short, and to the point. it was written on bad paper in worse writing; but what it meant was, probably, that freddy, entering with refreshments, had found bertie wrapt in slumber, and being unwilling to disturb him had left him there to sleep it out. bertie ate and drank, and lying back again upon the captain's bed prepared to act upon the hint. and he did. he woke once or twice in the course of the day, but each time it was only for a minute or two, and each time he turned round and went to sleep again. but at last he woke for good--or ill, as it turned out, for he woke to be the victim of a series of adventures which were to nearly cost him his life, and which were to show him, better than anything else possibly could have done, that he had been like the silly little child who plays with fire and burns itself with the element it does not understand. he was a young gentleman who required a considerable amount of teaching before he would consent to write himself down an ass; but he was to get much more than the requisite amount of teaching now. exactly the same thing happened as at kingston. he awoke to hear the sound of voices in the room; and now, as then, the speakers were carrying on a conversation without having the slightest idea that they were being overheard. at first he could not distinguish the words which were being spoken. he only knew that there was some one speaking. at first he took it for granted that the speakers were the lad who had brought him to the house and the old woman he had nicknamed "mother." but the delusion only lasted for a moment; he quickly perceived that the voices were voices he had never heard before, and that the speakers were two men. he perceived, too, that the day had apparently gone--he had slept it all away--and that the room was lighted by a lamp. so unconscious were the speakers of there being a listener that they made no attempt to lower their voices; and one in particular spoke with a strain of intense passion in his tones. his were the words which were the first which bertie heard. "fifty thousand pounds! fifty thousand pounds! ha, ha, ha!" the speaker repeated the words over and over again, bursting into a peal of laughter at the end. another voice replied--a colder and more measured one. the new speaker spoke with a strong nasal accent. bertie was not wise enough to know that by his speech he betrayed himself to be that new thing in nationalities, a german american. "steady, my friend; fifty thousand pounds in jewels are not fifty thousand pounds in cash, especially when the jewels are such as these." the other went on unheeding. "talk about punting on the stock exchange! there are precious few punters on the stock exchange who pick up fifty thousand pounds and walk off with it at a single coup." "and, also, there are very few punters on the stock exchange who would run the risk of getting penal servitude for life for doing it." "yes, there's that to be considered." "as you say, there's that to be considered." "do you think they'd make it penal servitude for life?" "i think it extremely probable, with your past history and mine." "suppose it came to penal servitude for life, what then?" "exactly! that is the question to be asked--'what then?'" "the countess of ferndale's jewels! lying on the table in front of me! and in my time i've run the risk of being sent to prison for a pocket-handkerchief." "but in that case you did not run the risk, my friend, of penal servitude for life, eh?' "rosenheim, what are you driving at? why do you keep harping upon that string? do you think they'll nab us?" "they will have a very good try." "they have tried before and failed." "they have also tried before and--not failed." "fifty thousand pounds! the finest set of jewels in england! insured for fifty thousand pounds--and that's a lot less than they cost--and we've got the insurance policy and the jewels too! ha! ha! ha! should we present the policy?" "we will be generous and return them that. or, better still, we will keep the policy in case that anything should happen. holding it, we might make terms with some one. there have such things been done, eh?" "fifty thousand pounds! and they cost perhaps a hundred thousand in their time! did you ever see such a necklace? those diamonds remind me of fairy tales which i have read--if i were to put the lamp out they'd light the room." "yes; but we will not put the lamp out, for fear some of the jewels should be lost--which would be a pity, eh?" "did you ever see anything like those diamonds? see how they are flashing in the lamp-light--now look at them!" bertie thought that he might as well look too. he peeped through the curtains of the bed to see what was going on. he felt a not unnatural curiosity, for what he had heard had made him open both his eyes and ears. fifty thousand pounds! the repetition of this sum had a startling effect. chapter xvii two men and a boy there was a lamp on the table. the fire was lighted in the grate; the table was drawn close up in front of it. the couch was beside the table, and on it a man reclined full length. the head was turned towards bertie, so that he only had a back view of the person lying down. he could see that he had brown hair, worn rather long, and that he was smoking a cigar, and that was all he could see. by the table, standing so that his face was turned towards bertie, was another man--evidently the impetuous speaker. he was about the middle height, slight, yet sinewy, with coal-black hair cut very short, and a dark olive skin, his face being concealed by neither moustache nor beard. he was holding something in his hands, something which he eyed with ravenous eyes. from his position bertie was not able to perceive what this something was, but he could see that the table was littered with other articles, and that a roll of paper and two boxes of a peculiar shape lay open on the floor. the dark man was holding the something in his hands in a variety of positions, so that he might get the full effect from different points of view. "did you ever see such stones?" "they are not bad, considering. their value consists in their number, my dear friend. separate stones of better quality can be found." "how much do you say we shall get for it?" "that remains to be seen. if you ask me how much it cost i should say, probably, altogether, twenty thousand pounds." twenty thousand pounds! the dark man was holding in his hand something which cost twenty thousand pounds. curiosity was too much for bertie's discretion. the magnitude of the sum had so startling an effect on his bump of inquisitiveness that before he knew it he was trying his best to see what surprising thing it was which had cost twenty thousand pounds. half-unconsciously he quitted the security of the bed, and standing in his shirt bare-legged on the floor he strained his eyes to see. just then the dark man moved into such a position that the unexpected spectator was yet unable to see what it was he held. it was aggravating, but what followed was rather more aggravating still. "fancy wearing a thing like that! i wonder how i should look with twenty thousand pounds worth of diamonds round my neck." he put his hand up to his neck, clasping round it what seemed to bertie a line of glittering light. then he turned, probably with the intention of studying the effect in the looking-glass, and, turning, he saw bertie. for a moment there was silence--silence so complete that you could have heard much fainter sounds than the fall of the proverbial pin. the man was apparently thunderstruck, as well he might be. he stared at the figure in the shirt as though it were that of one risen from the dead. as for bertie, his feet seemed glued to the floor, and his tongue to the roof of his mouth. it suddenly dawned upon him that it would have perhaps been better if he had stayed in bed. the man was the first to regain his self-possession. it was to be a very long time indeed before bertie was to be again master of his. "what the something are you?" at the sound of his companion's voice, the man on the sofa sprang to his feet as though he had been shot. he gave one quick glance; then, snatching up a revolver which lay upon the table, he fired at the frightened boy. "rosenheim!" at the very moment of pulling the trigger the dark man struck up his arm, so that the bullet was buried in the ceiling. but the effect upon bertie was just as though it had penetrated his heart--he fell like a log. "he's only a boy. you've shot him." "i have not shot him. that i will do in a minute or two." when bertie recovered from his swoon the dark man was bending over him. his companion was sitting in a chair regarding him with cold, staring eyes--a long, thin man, with a slight moustache and beard, and a peculiarly cruel cast of countenance. the dark man was the first to address him. "so you've come too, have you? perhaps it's a pity, after all. it'll only prolong your misery. now stand up, put your hands behind your back, and look me in the face." bertie did as he was bid, feeling very weak and tottering on his feet. the dark man was perched on the edge of the table, holding a revolver in his hand. his companion, the long, thin man who sat in the chair, held a revolver too. bertie felt that his position was not an agreeable one. of one thing he was conscious, that the table was cleared of its contents, and that the roll of paper and boxes which he had noticed on the floor had disappeared. the dark man commenced the cross-examination, handling his revolver in a way which was peculiarly unpleasant, as though it were a toy which he was anxious to have a little practice with. "look me in the face." bertie did as he was bid as best he could, though he found it difficult to meet the keen black eyes. "he needn't look me in the face, or i'll put five shots inside of him." this was from the long, thin man. bertie was careful not to show the slightest symptom of a desire to turn that way. the dark man went on. "do you know what truth is? if you don't it'll be a pity, because if you tell me so much as the millionth part of a lie i'll empty my revolver into you where you stand." as if to emphasize this genial threat the dark man pointed his revolver point-blank at his head. "i'm on that line. i'll empty mine inside him too." bertie was conscious that the long, thin man was following his companion's lead. a couple of revolvers were being pointed at him within three feet of his head. he felt more anxious to tell the truth, even though under difficulties, than he had ever been in all his life. "what's your name?" "bertie bailey." "what are you doing here?" "i--i don't know!" bertie very certainly didn't. if he could only have undreamt his dreams about the land of golden dreams how happy had he been. "oh, you don't know. who brought you here?" "freddy." "freddy? do you mean faking fred?" "if you please, sir, i--i don't know. the old woman called him freddy." "oh, the old woman had a finger in the pie, had she? i'll have a finger in her pie before i've done, and freddy's too. so you've been sleeping in my bed?" "please, sir, i--i didn't know it was your bed." "turn round to me." as this command came from the long, thin man--he had apparently changed his mind about being looked in the face--bertie turned with the celerity with which a teetotum turns. "where do you live?" "at upton, sir." [illustration: "a couple of revolvers were being pointed at him."] _a hero of romance_.] [_page_ . "where's that?" "in berkshire." "you're not a thief?" "no--o, sir." in his present society bertie positively felt ashamed to own it. he perhaps felt that these gentlemen might resent it as a slight upon their profession. "have you run away from home?" "ye--es, sir." "what for?" "fu--fun, sir." "a good thing to run away for." bertie felt that it was a bad thing just then, especially if this sort of thing might be looked upon in the light of fun. "what's your father?" "a doctor, sir." "so you're the son of dr. bailey, of upton, in berkshire?" "ye--es, sir." "turn round again!--sharp!" no one could have turned round sharper than bertie did then. the dark man took up the questioning. "how long have you been awake?" "i--i don't know, sir." "did you hear what we were talking about?" "ye--es, sir." "what did you hear?" "i--i don't know." "that won't do. out with it! what did you hear?" the revolver was brought on a level with bertie's face. with his eyes apparently doing their best to investigate the contents of the barrel he endeavoured to describe what he had heard. "i--i heard about the countess of ferndale's jewels, and--and about fifty thousand pounds." "oh! you did, did you? and what did you hear about the countess of ferndale's jewels?" "i heard that you had--stolen them." "is that so? you seem to be gifted with uncommonly good hearing, master bailey. what else did you hear? go on." "i--i heard that they were insured for fifty thousand pounds, and--and that--that you'd stolen the policy." "dear me! what a remarkably fine ear this boy must have! go on, young man!" bertie was painfully conscious that these compliments upon his hearing were not to be taken as they were spoken. he earnestly wished that his hearing had not been quite so good, but with that revolver staring him in the face he felt that perhaps it was better on the whole he should go on. yet the next confession was made with an effort. he felt that his audience would not receive it well. "i--i--i heard that if--if you were ta--taken you--you would get pe--penal servitude for life." there was an ominous silence. the words had had exactly the effect he had intuitively expected. it was the long, thin man who spoke. "oh! you heard that if we were caught we should get penal servitude for life? and it didn't occur to you that you might help to catch us, eh?" "no-o, sir." "it wouldn't. now wouldn't it occur to you that such a thing as a reward might perhaps be offered, which it might perhaps be worth your while to handle, eh? that such a trifle as five or ten thousand pounds, in the shape of a reward, might come in useful, eh?" bertie did not answer. he could not have answered for his life. the fellow's tone seemed to freeze his blood. the dark man put a question. "did you hear any names mentioned?" "yes, sir." "what name did you hear mentioned?" "i heard you call this gentleman rosenheim, sir." in an instant a hand was round his neck, which grasped him as though it were made of steel. there was a sudden twist, and mr. rosenheim had flung the lad upon his back. the grasp tightened; he began to choke. if mr. rosenheim had been allowed to work his own sweet will it would have been over with him there and then. but the dark man interfered. "what's the use of killing him?" the answer was hissed rather than spoken. "i'll tell you what's the use; it is i who will put him away, not he who will put me away, eh?" "leave him alone for a minute; i want to speak to you. it's a nuisance, but i don't think it's so bad as you think. anyhow, i don't see how we're going to gain anything by killing the boy--at least, not in here." there was a meaning conveyed in the speaker's last few words which mr. rosenheim seemed to understand. they looked at each other for a moment, eye to eye. then mr. rosenheim, standing up, loosed his grasp on bertie's throat, and the lad was free to breathe again. "get up; walk to the end of the room, put your hands behind your back, shut your eyes, and stand with your face to the wall. i'm going to cover you with my revolver, and if you move it'll be for the very last time of asking, for i'll shoot you as dead as mutton. sharp's the word!" sharp was the word. bewildered, half-stunned, panic-stricken as he was, bertie had still sense enough to know that he had no alternative but to do as he was bid. the dark man meant what he said, and the youthful admirer of dick turpin knew it. the ever-ready revolver covered him as he walked quickly down the room, and took up the ignominious position he was ordered to. hands behind his back, eyes shut, and his face against the wall! it was worse than standing in the corner at mecklemburg house collegiate school, and only little boys had been sent into the corner there. how long he remained standing there he never knew. it seemed to him hours. but time goes slowly when we stand with our hands behind, eyes shut, face to the wall, and know that a revolver is taking deliberate aim at us behind our backs. a minute becomes an hour, and we feel that old age will overtake us prematurely if we stand there long. they say that when a man is drowning his whole life passes in a moment before his eyes. as bailey stood with his face against the wall he felt something of that feeling too, and if ever there was a veritable land of golden dreams his home at upton was that land then. if he could only stand again within the shadow of his mother's door, ah, what a different young gentleman he would be! certainly, mr. rosenheim and his friend took their time. what they said bertie could not hear, strain his ears how he might. the sound of their subdued whispering added to the terror of the situation. what might they not be resolving? for all he knew, they might be both examining their revolvers with a view of taking alternate pops at him. the idea was torture. as the moments passed and still no sign was made his imagination entered into details. there was a movement behind him. he fancied they were taking their positions. silence again. he waited for the shooting to begin. he wondered where the first shot would hit him. somewhere, he fancied, about the region of the left knee. that would probably bring him to the ground, and the second and third shots would hit him where he fell--probably in the side. the fourth and fifth shots would miss, but the sixth would carry away his nose, while the seventh would finish his career. promiscuous shooting would ensue, the details of which would have no interest for him, but for some occult reason he decided that they would not cease firing until they had put inside him about a couple of pounds of lead. in the midst of these agreeable speculations it was a relief to hear the dark man's voice. "turn round!" bertie turned round, with surprising velocity. "where are your clothes?" "i think they're on the bed, sir." "put them on! sharp's the word!" sharp always was the word. bertie had done some quick things in dressing before to-day, but never anything quite so quick as that. mr. rosenheim was sitting in the arm-chair, still fondling his revolver, eyeing bertie with a most uncomfortable pair of eyes. when bertie found that in his haste he was putting on his trousers hind side foremost mr. rosenheim gave a start. bertie gave one too, a cold shiver went down his back, and the time in which he reversed the garment and got inside his breeches was perhaps the best on record. the dark man meanwhile was brushing his hat, putting on his overcoat, and apparently preparing himself for a journey. there was a gladstone bag on the table. into this he put several articles which he took from the chest of drawers. bertie had completed his own costume for some little time before either spoke. it was mr. rosenheim who addressed him first. "come here!" bertie went with remarkable celerity. "for a doctor's son, my friend, you are not too well dressed, eh?" bertie hung his head; he was conscious of the defects in his attire. the dark man flung him a clothes-brush. "brush yourself, and make yourself presentable. there's a jug and basin behind that curtain; wash yourself and brush your hair." bertie did as he was bid; never had he been so docile. it was the most uncomfortable toilet he had ever made. when he had carefully soaped his face all over, and was about to wash it off again, there was a report. a shot whistled through the air and buried itself in the wall about a foot above his head. he dropped as though it had struck him, and all but repeated his former swoon. "you can get up, my friend. it is only a little practice i am having." bertie got up, but the pleasure of that wash was destroyed for him. mr. rosenheim's ideas of revolver practice were so peculiar that he was in momentary terror of his aiming at an imaginary bull's-eye in the centre of his back. "how long are you going to be? come here and let me have a look at you." though only half-dried, the soap-suds still remaining in the corners of his eyes, bertie obeyed the dark man's order and stood in front of him. that gentleman still held the too-familiar revolver in his hand. it had long been the secret longing of bertie's soul to possess one of his own; henceforward he would hate the sight of the too-agile arm for evermore. "you don't look like a doctor's son. own up you lied." "i--i didn't, sir." "a pretty sort of doctor's son you look! has your father any money?" a wild idea entered bertie's brain. he remembered how mr. and mrs. jenkins had risen to the bait. "ye--yes, sir; he's very rich. he'd give a thousand pounds to get me back again." but this time the bait failed, and signally. "oh, he would, would he? then he must be about the most remarkable fool of a father i ever came across. don't you try to stuff your lies down my throat, my joker, because i'm a liar myself, and know the smell. you listen to me. you'd better; because if you don't listen to every word, and stick it inside your head, it'll be a case of shooting, though i'm hung for you five minutes after. do you hear?" "ye--yes, sir." "my name's captain loftus. do you hear that?" "ye--yes, sir." "and i'm your uncle--your uncle tom. do you hear that? i'm your uncle tom." "ye--yes, sir." "don't say 'sir,' say 'uncle tom.'" "ye--yes, un--uncle tom." "and don't you stutter and stammer; there's no stuttering and stammering about this." "this" was the revolver which "uncle tom" pointed in his playful way at his nephew. "and you've been a bad boy, and you've run away from your poor mother, and i'm going to take you back again. you understand?" "ye--yes, sir--i mean, uncle tom." "mind you do mean 'uncle tom,' and don't let us have any fooling about it. do you hear? don't let's have any fooling about it." "no--o, uncle tom." how devoutly he hoped that what his "uncle" said was true, and that he was going to be taken back to his mother. but the hope was shattered by the words which followed. "now just you listen to me. i've got half a dozen more words to say, and they're the pick of the lot. i'm going to take you with me. you'll be all right so long as you keep your mouth shut; but if you speak a word without permission from me, or if you hint anyhow at the pleasant little conversation we've had here, i'll shoot you on the spot. you see, i'm going to put my revolver into the inside pocket of my coat; it will be always there, and always ready for you, and mind you don't forget it." bertie was not likely to forget it. he watched the captain placing the weapon in a convenient inner pocket of his overcoat with an interest too deep for words. mr. rosenheim added an agreeable little remark of his own. "you understand, my friend? you are to dismiss from your mind any little ideas you may have had about the countess of ferndale's jewels, or your uncle, captain tom loftus, will practise a little revolver shooting upon you, eh, my friend?" and mr. rosenheim covered the lad with his own revolver. there was such an absolutely diabolical grin upon the gentleman's face that bertie felt as though his blood had congealed in his veins. the revolver might go off at any moment, and this time it would be a case of hitting. bertie was persuaded that one more of mr. rosenheim's little practice shots would be quite enough for him. the change from mr. rosenheim to captain loftus was actually a relief. "are you ready?" "ye--yes, sir!" "_sir?_" the "sir" was shouted in a voice of thunder, and the captain's hand moved towards the inner pocket of his coat. "un--uncle tom, i mean." "and you better mean it too, and say it, or you'll never say another word. put your hat on. catch hold of that gladstone." bertie put his hat on, and took the bag. the captain turned to mr. rosenheim. "good-bye." "good-bye, my friend; i wish you a pleasant journey, and your nephew too." the captain put his own hat on, took bertie's hand, led him out of the room, and almost before the lad knew it they were standing in the street. bertie thanked his stars that at least mr. rosenheim was left behind. chapter xviii the boat-train they did not leave the house by the same mysterious door by which freddy had entered, but by one which brought them at once into a busy street. vehicles were passing to and fro, and they had not gone many steps before the captain--to give him the title which he had not improbably himself affixed to his name--called a hansom. bertie got in. the captain directed the driver where to drive in an undertone, seated himself beside his "nephew," and they were off. during the drive not a word was spoken. where they were going bertie had not the faintest notion; he felt pretty certain that he was not really being taken home. his head was in a whirl; he was in such awe of his companion that he scarcely dared to move, far less to use his eyes in an endeavour to see where they were going. the cab almost immediately turned into a busy thoroughfare. the hubbub of the traffic and the confusion of the crowded streets completed the lad's bewilderment, making it seem to him as though they were journeying through pandemonium. the busy thoroughfare into which the cabman turned was, in fact, the strand--the strand at what is not the least busy hour of the day, when the people are crowding into the theatres. the cabman took another turn into comparative quiet, and in another minute they were whirling over waterloo bridge, along waterloo bridge road, into the huge terminus of the south-western railway. a porter came forward to help them to alight, but the captain, dismissing him, took his bag with one hand, and taking bertie's own hand in the other, stepped on to the platform of the station. he had only taken a few steps when, pulling up, he spoke to bailey in low, quick, significant tones. "look here, my lad; i don't want to haul you about as though i'd got you in custody, and i don't mean to let you get out of my sight. i'm going to loose your hand, and let you walk alone. carry this bag, and stick as close to me as wax, or----" a significant tap against the pocket which contained the revolver served to complete the sentence. bertie needed no explanation in words; the action was as full of meaning as any eloquence of speech could possibly have been. the hansom had put them down at the departure platform of the main-line trains. the captain looked at the station clock as they came in, and bertie, following the direction of the other's eye, saw that it was a quarter-past nine. the station was full of people; porters and passengers were hurrying hither and thither, mountains of baggage were passing to and fro. the captain turned into the booking-office, bertie sticking close to his side. some wild idea of making a dash for freedom did enter his mind, but to be dismissed as soon as it entered. what could he do? he was fully persuaded that if he were to make the slightest sign of attempting to escape, his companion would shoot him on the spot. but even if he did not proceed to quite such extreme lengths, what then? to have attempted to take to actual flight, and to have run for it, would have been absurd. he would have been caught in an instant. his only hope lay in an appeal to those around him. but what sort of appeal could he have made? if he had suddenly shouted, "this man has stolen the countess of ferndale's jewels, worth fifty thousand pounds!" no doubt he would have created a sensation. but the revolver! bertie was quite persuaded that before he would have had time to have made his assertion good the captain would have put his threat into execution, and killed him like a cat, even though, to use that gentleman's own words, he had had to hang for it five minutes afterwards. no; it seemed to him that the only course open to him was to obey the captain's instructions. there was a crowd round the ticket-office, at sight of which the captain put the lad in front of him, and his hand upon his shoulder, holding him tight by means of the free use of an uncomfortable amount of pressure. under these circumstances he could scarcely ask for tickets without the lad hearing what it was he asked for--as in fact he did. "two first for jersey." two first-class tickets for jersey! the tickets were stamped and paid for, and they were out of the crowd again. it was some satisfaction to know where it was they were going, but not much. he was too evidently not being taken home again. jersey and upton were a good many miles apart. the captain went up and down the train with the apparent intention of discovering a compartment which they might have for themselves. but if that was his intention he sought in vain. the tourist season had apparently set in early, and on this particular night the train was crowded. they finally found seats in a compartment in which there were already two passengers, and into which there quickly came two more. it was a smoking carriage; and as the other passengers were already smoking, and the captain lit a cigar as soon as he entered, the atmosphere soon became nice and fresh for bertie. five smoking passengers in a first-class compartment do not make things exactly pleasant for a non-smoking sixth. the captain took a corner seat; bertie sat on the middle seat next to him, right in the centre of the smoke. they started. all the passengers, with the exception of the captain and bertie, had books or papers. for a time silence reigned. the passengers read, the captain thought, the lad lamented. if the train had only been speeding towards slough instead of jersey! it may be mentioned that at this point of the expedition bertie was not even aware where jersey was, and was not even conscious that to reach it from london one had to cross the sea. as they passed woking the silence was broken for a moment. a tall, thin, severe-looking gentleman, with side whiskers, and a sealskin cap tied over his ears, having finished with the _globe_, handed it to the captain. "have you seen the _globe_?" "thank you, i haven't." the captain took it, and began to read. almost without intending it bertie watched him. for some reason, though he could scarcely have told what it was, for the reader gave no outward signs of anything of the kind, he was persuaded that the paper contained something which the captain found of startling interest. he saw the captain stare with peculiar fixedness at one paragraph, never taking his eyes off it for at least five minutes. he even thought that the captain's lips were twitching, that the captain's face grew pale. as if perceiving the inspection and resenting it, he drew the paper closer to him, so that it concealed his countenance. as they were nearing aldershot and farnham a little conversation was commenced which had a peculiar interest for bertie, if for no one else in the compartment. in the opposite corner, at the other end of the carriage, was seated a stout old gentleman, with a very red face and very white hair. he wore a gorgeous smoking-cap, which was stuck at the back of his head, and there was something about his appearance and demeanour which impressed the beholder with the fact that this was a gentleman of strong opinions. in front of him was a thin young gentleman with a pale face, who puffed at a big meerschaum pipe as though he did not exactly like it. he was reading a novel with a yellow back, which all the world could perceive was _the adventures of harry lorrequer_. the old gentleman had been reading the _evening standard_ through a pair of gold glasses of the most imposing size and pattern. he had apparently finished with his paper, for he lowered it and stared through his glasses at the thin young man in front of him. the thin young man did not seem to be made the more comfortable by his gaze. "have you seen about the countess of ferndale's jewels?" this was said in loud, magisterial tones, which commanded the attention of the whole compartment. the young man seemed startled. bertie was startled; he almost thought he saw the _globe_ tremble in the captain's hands. "i beg your pardon?" "have you seen about the countess of ferndale's jewels?" this was said in tones rather louder and more magisterial than at first. "no! no! i haven't!" "then, sir, i say it's a disgrace to the country." whether it was a disgrace to the country that the thin young man had not heard about the countess of ferndale's jewels was not quite clear. the thin young man seemed to think it was, for he turned pink. however, the old gentleman went on,-- "here's a noble lady, the wife of one of the greatest english peers, returning from personal attendance upon her sovereign, bearing with her jewels of almost priceless value, and they disappear from underneath her nose. i say it's a disgrace to the country, sir!" the thin young man seemed relieved. it was evidently not his want of knowledge which was a disgrace to the country, but the disappearance of the lady's jewels. bertie pricked up his ears; the captain gave no sign of having heard. the young man ventured on a question. "how's that? have they been stolen?" "how's that, sir! stolen, sir! i should think they have been stolen!" the words were spoken with almost volcanic force. all the carriage began to take an interest in what was being said--excepting always "uncle tom." the old gentleman grasped his paper with his right hand, and emphasized his words with the first finger of his left. "at half-past two this afternoon the countess of ferndale, who has been in attendance at windsor castle, started from windsor to london. windsor, sir, is at a distance of twenty-two miles from town--twenty-two miles; no more. the traffic between that place and london, sir, is extremely large; and yet, travelling on that short strip of railway, in one of her majesty's own state coaches----" "i don't think it was in one of the queen's own coaches she was travelling." "no; it wasn't." the first interruption came from the severe-looking gentleman who had lent the captain the _globe_; the second from a placid-looking gentleman with black whiskers, who sat beside him in front of bertie. "well, sir, and what difference does that make?" "none at all, perhaps, to the main issue," the severe gentleman allowed. "it's only a statement of fact." "well, sir, supposing it is a statement of fact, which, as at present advised, i am not prepared to allow, i suppose i may take it for granted that she was travelling in a compartment which was exclusively reserved for her own use?" "that, i believe, was the case." "well, sir, travelling on that short strip of railway, in a compartment exclusively reserved for her own use, what happens in this england of the nineteenth century? it is incredible! monstrous! she had with her certain family jewels of almost priceless value. she had been wearing them in her majesty's own presence. they were in the charge of certain officers of her household; and yet, when she comes to the end of that journey of two and twenty miles, they were gone, sir!--gone! vanished into air!" "no! if they were stolen, he must have been a jolly clever thief," observed the thin young man. "a jolly clever thief!" said, or rather roared the stout old gentleman. "you speak of the author of such an outrage as a jolly clever thief. if i had the miscreant within reach of my hand"--the stout old gentleman stretched out his hand, and the thin young man shrank out of the way--"i should consider myself justified in striking him down, and trampling the life out of his wretched carcass. i should consider the doer of such an act deserved well of his country, sir!" bertie felt a cold shiver go down his back. he pictured the stout old gentleman striking him down, and trampling the life out of his wretched carcass. at that moment he almost felt as though he had been guilty of the crime; he almost expected the stout old gentleman to read his guilt upon his countenance, and conclude the business there and then. as for the captain--the least that bertie expected him to do was to open the door and, without waiting for such a small detail as the stopping of the train, disappear into the night. what he actually did was to return the _globe_, with a courteous bow, to the severe-looking gentleman, carefully cross his knees, and light a fresh cigar. then he listened to what was being said with an air of placid interest. "what was the value of the jewels?" inquired the gentleman with the black whiskers. "priceless! priceless! how can you value jewels which have been in the possession of a noble family for generations? which are family heirlooms?" "i suppose they must be pretty well known, in which case the thieves will find considerable difficulty in getting rid of their spoil." "getting rid of their spoil! is it conceivable that such villains are to be allowed to get rid of their spoil, to sell it, and fatten on the proceeds?" "very conceivable, indeed, unless something is done to stop them." the stout old gentleman was so affected by the idea of the countess's jewels being brought into the market in such an ignoble way that words failed him, and he gasped for breath. during all this time bertie's sensations were indescribable. he felt as though he were under the power of some hideous spell. he would have given anything to have been able to spring up and denounce the miscreant who had wrought this crime. there would have been something worthy of a hero in that; but he could not do it, he was spellbound. perhaps the consciousness of the revolver which was in the captain's pocket had something to do with his state of mind; but it was not only that, he was paralysed by the position itself--by the knowledge that his own act had made him the companion of such a rogue. just at the moment the captain raised his hand, as if by chance, and tapped the inner pocket of his coat. slight though the action was, bertie saw it, and he shuddered. but there was worse to follow. the remark was made by the severe-looking gentleman. "what strikes me is, how was the theft performed? those in charge of the box swear that it was never out of their sight. when they started the jewels were in it; when they reached their journey's end they were gone. they couldn't have been spirited away." "the boxes were changed." bertie felt that his heart had ceased to beat. the words were spoken by "uncle tom." it was the first time he had opened his lips. the eyes of all in the carriage were fixed upon him. he was seated, apparently quite at his ease, a cigar in his mouth, one hand upon his knee, and, as he spoke, with the other he undid the top button of his overcoat. "how could they be changed? those in charge state that they never lost sight of the particular box in which the jewels were." the captain took his cigar out of his mouth, and puffed out a wreath of smoke. "i have a theory of my own upon the subject." "and i say it is monstrous! preposterous! incredible! do you mean to tell me such a trick as that could have been played in the light of day?" this was from the stout old gentleman. "apparently it was done in the light of day, however it was done. i have only suggested a theory. of course you are at liberty to accept it or reject it, as you please." "i do reject it entirely! absolutely! i am sixty-seven next june, and i know perfectly well that no such trick would be played on me." "you are, probably, a person of peculiar acumen." but the stout old gentleman was not to be flattered. "as you have a theory of how the robbery was performed, perhaps you have a theory of how the robbers might be caught." "i have one or two theories. i could go further and say that, if it were made worth my while, i would engage to find the thieves." "made worth your while, sir! isn't it worth every honest man's while to find a thief?" "not necessarily. take your own case. would you be prepared to find the thieves?" "if i knew where they were." "precisely; that is just the point. what you mean is, that if they were found you would give them into custody, but you have to find them first. people don't go thief-hunting from motives of pure philanthropy; even a policeman requires you to make it worth his while." "may i ask if you are an amateur detective?" inquired the severe-looking gentleman. "i shouldn't call myself quite that," said "uncle tom." "but you have evidently had considerable experience in dealing with crime?" "it has been the study of my life," said "uncle tom." "i suppose that it is a very interesting study?" "very interesting indeed." "if it is not an impertinent question, may i ask whether it has been your own experience that such a study improves the moral nature of a man?" "quite the reverse," said "uncle tom." "you are frank." "what is life unless you are?" asked "uncle tom." the captain laughed; but bertie was in agony the train began to slow. "i think this is southampton," said the thin young man. and it was. chapter xix to jersey with a thief the night's boat was the _ella_. when the train drew to a standstill and the passengers got out bertie supposed that their journey was at an end. his ideas as to the whereabouts of jersey were very vague indeed. he was surprised, therefore, when the captain, taking his hand, led him along the gangway to the boat. the stars were shining brightly overhead, but midnight never is quite as light as noon, and in the uncertain light he could neither see nor understand where it was that they were going. the captain led him to the hurricane deck, and then he paused. then he led bertie to a seat. "this will be your bed to-night. i don't choose to go into the cabin, and i don't choose that you shall go without me." bertie sat down and wondered. dark figures were passing to and fro; there were the lights on the shore; he could feel the throbbing of the engines; there was the unclouded sky above; he still was in a dream. unfortunately the figure of the captain standing near turned the dream into a nightmare. most of the passengers went at once into their cabins. no one came near them. "look up at me." bertie looked up. the captain, standing, looked down at him. "do you think i didn't see you in the train? do you think i didn't see you wanting to open your mouth and blab before all those fools? it would have been capital fun for you, now, wouldn't it?" bertie shivered. the captain's ideas of fun were singular. bertie would have almost given his life to have done what the rascal hinted at, but he would have done it in his extremity of agony and with no idea of fun. it would have taken a burden off his mind which seemed almost greater than he could bear; it threatened to drive him mad. but to have played the part suggested would have needed a touch of the heroic--a courage, a strength which bertie had not got. the captain went on. "i had half a mind to have shot you then. if you had winked your eye i think i should have done the trick. i have not quite made up my mind what i shall do with you yet. we shall soon be out at sea. boys easily fall overboard at night. i shouldn't be surprised if you fall overboard--by accident, you understand." the captain smiled; but bertie's heart stood still. "now lie down upon that seat, put your head upon that bag, and don't you move. i shan't go out of revolver range, you may rest assured." bertie lay down upon the seat. the captain began pacing to and fro. every second or two he passed the recumbent boy. once bertie could see that he was examining the lock of the revolver which he was holding in his hand. he shut his eyes, trying to keep the sight away. what an unsatisfactory difference often exists between theory and practice! if there was one point in which he had been quite sure it was his courage. to use his own words, he had pluck enough for anything. to "funk" a thing, no matter what; to show the white feather under any set of conditions which could be possibly conceived--these things were to him impossible. in such literature as he was acquainted with, the boy heroes were always heroes with a vengeance. they were gifted beings whose nerve was never known to fail. they fought, with a complete unconsciousness of there being anything unusual in such a line of conduct, against the most amazing odds. they generally conquered; but if they failed their nerves were still unshaken, and they would disengage themselves with perfect coolness from the most astounding complication of disasters. they never hesitated to take life or to risk it; blood was freely shed; they thought nothing of receiving several shots in the body and a sword-cut at the back of the head. as for dick turpin, and robin hood, and robinson crusoe, and jack the giant-killer--all the world knows that they went through adventures which makes the hair stand up on end only to read of, and through them all they never winced. bertie was modestly conscious that these gentlemen were perhaps a little above his reach--just a little, perhaps; but what the aforementioned boys had done he had thought that he himself could do. yet here he was, lying upon a seat and shutting his eyes to prevent him from seeing a revolver. why, one of those heroic boys would have faced the whole six shots and never trembled! the steamer started, and so did bertie. taken by surprise by the sudden movement, he raised himself a little on the seat. "keep still!" the captain's voice came cool and clear. bertie returned to his former position, not pausing to consider what his heroes would have done. "if you want to move you must first ask my permission; but don't you move without it, my young friend." bertie offered no remonstrance. the seat was not a comfortable one to lie upon. it was one of those which are found in steamers, formed of rails, with a space between each rail. possibly when they reached the open sea it would be less comfortable still. but bertie lay quite quiet, and never said a word. it was not exactly what his heroes would have done. they would have faced the villain, and dared him to do his worst; and when he had done his worst, and sent six shots inside them, with a single bound they would have grasped him by the throat, and with a laugh of triumph have flung him head foremost into the gurgling sea. but bertie did not do that. so long as they remained in the river one or two of the passengers still continued to move about the decks. the night was so glorious that they probably thought it a pity to confine themselves in the stifling cabins. but by degrees, one after the other, they disappeared, until finally the decks were left in possession of the captain and bertie, and those whose duty it was to keep watch at night. although they had passed hurst castle and reached the open sea, the weather was so calm that hardly any difference was perceptible in the motion of the vessel. bertie still lay on the seat, looking at the stars. he had no inclination to sleep, and even had he had such inclination, not improbably the neighbourhood of "uncle tom" and his revolver would have banished slumber from his eyes. he was not a sentimental boy. sentimental boys are oftener found in books than life. but even unsentimental boys are accessible to sentiment at times. he was not a religious boy. simple candour compels the statement that the average boy is not religious. but that night, lying on the deck, looking up at that wondrous canopy of stars, conscious of what had brought him there, aware of his danger, ignorant of the fate which was in store for him, knowing that for all he could tell just ahead of him lay instant death, he would have been more or less than boy if his thoughts had not strayed to unwonted themes. through god's beautiful world, across his wondrous sea--the companion of a thief. bertie's thoughts travelled homewards. a sudden flood of memories swept over him. all at once the captain paused in front of him. "shall i throw you overboard?" there was a glitter in his eyes. a faint smile played about his lips. bertie was not inclined to smile. his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. "i have been asking myself the question, why should i not? i shall have to dispose of you in one way or other in the end; why not by drowning now? one plunge and all is over." this sort of conversation made bertie believe in the possibility of one's hair standing straight up on end. he felt persuaded that none of his heroes had ever been spoken to like this; nothing made of flesh and blood could listen to such observations and remain unmoved, especially with the moonlit waters disappearing into the night on every side. what crimes would they not conceal? "it is this way. it is you, or--i. in the railway train you would have proclaimed me had you dared. you did not dare; sooner or later, perhaps, you will dare more. why should i wait for your courage to return? we are alone; the sea tells no tales. boys will lean overboard: what more natural than that you should fall in? it is distressing to lose one's nephew, especially so dear a one; but what is life but a great battle-field which is covered with the slain? sit up, my boy, and let us talk together." bertie sat up, not because he wished it, but because he could not help it. he had lost all control over his own movements. this man seemed to him to be some supernatural being against whom it was vain to attempt to struggle. there was no one by to listen to the somewhat curious conversation which occurred between these two. "so you have run away? i think you said you ran away for fun. you have evidently a turn for humour. does this sort of thing enter into your ideas of fun--this little trip of ours?" it emphatically did not. bertie stammered out a negative. "no--o!" "you say your father is rich, you have a good home. were you not happy there?" "ye--es!" "seriously, then, what did you propose to yourself to do when you ran away?" "i--i don't know." "did you propose to yourself a life like mine?" bertie shuddered. he shrank away from the man in front of him with an air of invincible repugnance. "answer me! look me in the face and answer me. i have a taste for learning the opinions of my fellow-men, and you are something original in boys. tell me, what is your candid opinion of myself? what do you think of me?" bertie looked up as he was bidden. there was in his face something of his old bull-dog look. something of his old courage had come back again, and on his countenance was the answer ready written. but the captain meant to have the answer in plain words. "speak! you're not moonstruck, are you? tell me what you think of me?" "you'll kill me if i do." the words came out heavily, as though he had to rid himself of an overpowering weight before he could get them out. there was a momentary pause; then the captain laughed. "i shall kill you anyhow. what difference will it make? tell me what you think of me." "you are a coward and a thief!" the words were spoken; and in speaking them perhaps bertie came nearer to what is called a hero than ever in all his life before. but their effect upon the captain was not agreeable. those who play at bowls must expect rubbers, and those who insist upon receiving an answer which they know can scarcely be agreeable should make the best of it when it comes. but the captain did not seem to see it. directly he had spoken bertie saw that he had put his foot in it. instinctively he slipped his hands between the rails of the seat and held on tight. only just in time, for the captain, stooping forward, tried to lift him in his arms. "leave go, you young brute!" bertie did leave go, but only to throw his arms about the captain's neck. instantly the captain stood up straight, holding bertie in his arms, staggering beneath his weight, for the convulsive clutch of the lad's arms about his neck encumbered him. "if you don't take your arms away i'll kill you!" but bertie only clutched the tighter. "let me go! let me go!" he screamed with the full strength of his lungs. the effect was startling. in the prevailing silence the boy's voice was heard far out across the sea. taken aback by such a show of resistance where none had before been offered, the captain promptly replaced the lad upon the seat. "what's the matter with you? it was only a joke." bertie unclasped his arms. the expression of his face showed that it had been no joke to him. he looked like one who was not even yet quite sure that he had escaped from death. the man at the helm was unable to see the seat on which they sat. the forward watch had been on the other side the ship. this man now advanced. "what's the matter there?" the captain met him with his most placid air. "did you hear my nephew's voice? he had no idea he spoke so loud; he was forgetting where we were." the man advanced still closer. "what's the matter with you, boy?" quite unconsciously the captain unbuttoned his overcoat, and his hand strayed to the pocket at the top. "no--nothing," stammered bertie. "nothing! i don't know what you call nothing! i should think you was being murdered, hollering out like that. why don't you go down to the cabin and go to sleep?" the captain drew the man aside. "my nephew is a little excitable at times," he said, and tapped his forehead. "he is best away from the cabin. he is better alone up here in the fresh air with me." the man, a weather-beaten sailor, with an unkempt grey beard, looked him straight in the face. "do you mean he's cracked?" "well, we don't call it by that name. he's excitable--not quite himself at times. you had better pay no heed to him; he has one of his fits on him to-night--the journey has excited him." "poor young feller!" and the sailor turned to look at the boy. the captain slipped something into his hand. the man touched his hat and went away, looking at the piece of money as he went. and the man and the boy were left alone again. bertie, on the seat, clutched the rails as he had done before. the captain, standing in front, looked down at him. "there's more in you than meets the eye; though, considering you pretend to have a turn for humour, one would have thought you would have been quicker to understand a joke. i say nothing of the noise you made, but you were wise not to answer that fellow's impertinent question. your presence of mind saved you from accidental contact with the waters, but nothing could have saved you from my six-shooter. you can lie down again. you need have no fear of another accident; your screeching has made that fellow, and probably his comrades, too inquisitive to make it worth one's while to venture that. but when it comes to the question of letting your tongue wag too freely, nothing can save you from my revolver--mark that. it will be then a case of you or i. if you have made up your mind to spoil me, i will spoil you, my little friend. i say you can lie down." bertie lay down; and again the captain resumed his pacing to and fro, keeping watch, as it were, over his young prisoner. the boy fell asleep. the reaction which followed the short sharp struggle beguiled him, and he slept. and oddly enough he slept the sleep of peace. and more than once the captain, pausing in his solitary vigil, bent over the sleeping boy, and looked down at him. "the young beggar's actually smiling." and in fact a smile did flit across the sleeper's face. perhaps he was dreaming of his mother. "ran away for fun, did he? yet the youngster isn't quite a fool. pity it should be a case of he or i, but self-preservation is nature's first law! that was a headline in my copy-books unless i greatly err." the captain lit a fresh cigar, and continued his patrol. what did he think of? a hopeless past and a hopeless future? god forgive him! for such as he there is no forgiveness to be had from men. that self-preservation, which is nature's first law, is a law which cuts both ways. honest men must destroy the captain loftuses, or they will be themselves destroyed. the morning dawned; the day returned to the world. still the boy slept on. at last the captain woke him. he got up, as if bewildered, and rubbed his eyes. "well, nephew mine, are you going to sleep for ever? if so, i'm sorry that i woke you. jump up and come with me." his "uncle" led the way into the cabin. they were preparing breakfast; the passengers were falling to. the night had been so tranquil that not one had suffered from sea-sickness, and appetite had come with the morning. a trained eye, looking at the fleecy clouds which were peeping over the horizon, would have prophesied a change, and that rough weather was at hand. but the day had dawned in splendour, and so far the morning was as tranquil as the night had been. so those passengers who were going through to jersey sat down with light hearts to breakfast. the captain and bertie joined them. that his "uncle" had no present intention of starving him was plain, for he was allowed a hearty meal of whatever took his fancy. and while they were at breakfast the _ella_ was brought up alongside the jetty, st. peter's port, guernsey. chapter xx exit captain tom when they returned to the deck the boat was preparing to continue her journey. the fruit vendors--and with what delicious fruit the guernsey men board the jersey boats!--were preparing to take their leave, and those passengers who had gone to stretch their legs with a saunter on the jetty were returning to the steamer. the rest of the voyage was uneventful. jersey is not very far away from guernsey, and for a considerable part of the distance the passengers were in sight of land. the breeze began to freshen, and as they steamed round jersey towards st. heliers it began to dawn upon not a few that enough of this sort of thing was as good as a feast. there is such a very striking difference between steaming over a tranquil sea and being tossed and tumbled among boisterous waves. it was fortunate they were so near their journey's end. several of the travellers were congratulating themselves that, when they reached dry land, they would be able to boast that they had voyaged from southampton to jersey without experiencing a single qualm. had the journey been prolonged much further, that boast would have been cruelly knocked on the head. when they drew up beside the pier at st. heliers, coming events, as it were, had already cast their shadows before. they were saved just in the nick of time. bertie and the captain were among the first on shore; and, not unnaturally, the young gentleman supposed that their journeying was at an end. but he was wrong. "step out! we have no time to lose! we have to catch another boat, which is due to start." bertie stepped out. he wondered if the other boat was to take them back to england. did the captain mean to pass the rest of his life in voyaging to and fro? the disappointed flymen, to whom the arrival of the mail-boat is the great event of the st. heliers day, let them pass. the hotel and boarding-house touters touted, so far as they were concerned, in vain. the captain gave no heed to their solicitations. he evidently knew his way about, for he walked quickly down the jetty, turned unhesitatingly to the left when he reached the bottom, crossed the harbour, and down the jetty again upon the other side. about half-way down was a fussy little steamer which was making ready to start. "here you are! jump on board!" if bertie did not exactly jump, he at any rate got on board. what the boat was bertie knew not, nor whither it was going. compared to the _ella_, which they had just quitted, it was so small a craft that he scarcely thought it could be going back the way the mail had come. as a matter of fact it was not. two or three times a week a fussy little steamer passes to and fro between jersey and france. the two french ports at which it touches are st. malo and st. brieuc. one journey it takes to st. malo, the next to st. brieuc. on this occasion it was about to voyage to st. brieuc. st. brieuc, as some people may not know, is the chief town of the department of cotes-du-nord, in brittany--about as unpretending a chief town as one could find. that captain loftus had some preconceived end in view, and had not started on a wild-goose chase, not, as might have at first appeared, going hither and thither as his fancy swayed him, seemed plain. a more roundabout route to france he could scarcely have chosen. had he simply desired to reach the continent, fast steamers which passed from southampton to havre in little less than half the time which the journey had already occupied, were at his disposal. very many people, some of them constant travellers, are ignorant of the fact that a little steamer is constantly plying between jersey and brittany. it is dependent on the tides for its time of departure. only in the local papers are the hours advertised. captain loftus must have been pretty well posted on the matter to have been aware that on this particular day the little steamer, _la commerce_, would be starting for st. brieuc about the time the mail-boat entered jersey. he must have had some particular object in making for that remote corner of breton france. no sooner did the boat enter the little harbour than he made a dash for the railway station. bertie seemed to have passed into another world. he had not the faintest notion where he was. he was not even sure that they had reached jersey. he heard strange tongues sounding in his ears; saw strange costumes before his eyes. in his then state of bewilderment he would have been quite ready to believe anybody who might have chosen to tell him that he had arrived in timbuctoo. some light was thrown upon the subject when they reached the station. the captain took some money out of his pocket and held it out to bertie. "go and ask for the tickets," he said. bertie stared. if he had been told to go and ask the man in the moon for a lock of his hair he could not have been more puzzled. "do you hear what i say? go and ask for the tickets." "tickets? where for?" the captain hesitated a moment, then said: "two first-class tickets for constantinople." he handed bertie some silver coins. "two first-class tickets for constantinople." bertie stammeringly repeated the words. could the captain be in earnest? "i want to catch the train; look alive, or----" the captain touched the pocket where the revolver was. bertie doubtfully advanced to the booking office, gazing behind him as he went to make quite sure that the captain had meant what he said. there was an old lady taking tickets, so he waited his turn. "two first-class tickets for constantinople." "_comment?_" he stared at the booking-clerk, and the booking-clerk stared at him, each in complete ignorance of what the other meant. "do you mean to say you can't speak french?" the captain came to the rescue, speaking so gently that his words were only audible to bertie's ears. "no--o." "do you mean to say you don't know enough to be able to ask for two first-class tickets for constantinople?" "no--o." "how much french do you know?" "no--one." the captain evidently knew a great deal, for he immediately addressed the booking-clerk in fluent french--french which that official understood, for two tickets were at once forthcoming. but whether they were for constantinople, or for jericho, or for kamtchatka, was more than the boy could tell. he was in the pleasant position of not being able to understand a word that was said; of being without the faintest notion where he was, and of not having the least idea where he was going to. it may be mentioned, however, that the captain had not asked for tickets for constantinople--which at st. brieuc he would have experienced some difficulty in getting--but for brest. they had not long to wait before the through train from paris entered the station. they got into a first-class carriage, which they had for themselves, and in due time they were off. the state of bertie's mind was easier imagined than described. he had been in a dream since he had started on his journey to the land of golden dreams; and dreams have a tendency to become more and more incoherent. his adventures up to the time of leaving london had been strange enough, but he had at least known in what part of the world he was. now he was not possessed of even that rudimentary knowledge. the continued travelling towards an unknown destination, the unresting onward rush, as though the captain meant, like the brook, to "go on for ever"--and this in the case of a boy who had never travelled more than twenty miles from home in his life--had in itself been enough to confuse him; but the sudden discovery that he was in an unknown country, in which they spoke an unknown tongue, put the climax to his mental muddle. had the captain, revolver in hand, then and there insisted on his informing him which part of his body as a rule was uppermost, he would have been wholly at a loss to state whether it was on his head or heels he was accustomed to stand. something strange, too, about the railway carriage, about the country through which they passed, about the people and the very houses he saw through the carriage window made his muddle more. the names of the roadside stations at which they stopped, which were shouted out with stentorian lungs, were such oddities. they came to one where the word "guingamp" was painted in huge letters on a large white board. guingamp! what was the pronunciation of such a word as that? and fancy living at a town with such a name! he was not aware that, like a conjurer's trick, it was only a question of knowing how it was done, and guingamp would come as glibly to his tongue as slough or upton. and then belle-isle-en-terre and plouigneau--what names! the educational system which flourished at mecklemburg house had tended to make french an even stranger tongue than it need have done. he saw the letters on the boards, but he could no more pronounce the words which they were supposed to form than he could fly. throughout the long journey--and it is a long journey from st. brieuc to brest--not a word had been exchanged. the captain had scarcely moved. he had stretched his legs out on the seat, and had taken up the easiest position which was attainable under the circumstances; but he had not closed his eyes. bertie wondered if he never slept; if those fierce black eyes remained always on the watch. the captain looked straight in front of him; and, although he seemed to pay no heed to what the boy was doing, bertie was conscious that he never moved without the captain knowing it. what a life this man must lead, to be ever on the watch; to be ever fearful that the time of the avenger had come at last; that the prison gates were about to close on him, and, perhaps, this time for ever. "uncle tom" seemed to be as much at home in brest as he had been everywhere. the station was filled with the usual crowd. porters advanced to offer their services to carry the gladstone bag and place it on a cab, outside the cabmen hailed them in the hope of a fare; but the captain, paying no heed to any of them, marched quickly on. were they at their journey's end? bertie wondered. was this constantinople, or had they another stage to go? if not constantinople, and he had a vague idea that constantinople could not be reached quite so quickly as they had come--what place was it? what struck him chiefly as they passed into the town was the number of men in uniform there seemed to be about. every third person they met seemed to wear a uniform. he supposed they were soldiers, though he had never seen soldiers dressed like these before; and then what a number of them there were! geography is not a strong point of the english education system, and he had never been taught at mecklemburg house that brest was to france much more than portsmouth is to england, and that its population consists of four classes, soldiers, sailors, dockyard labourers--looking at all those, of whatever grade, who labour in the dockyard in the light of labourers--and, a long way behind the other three, civilians: "civilians" being a generic name for that--regarded from a brest point of view--absolutely insignificant class who have no direct connection with war or making ready for war. on their arrival the day was well advanced, and as they went down the rue de siam they met the men returning from the yards. bertie had never seen such a sight before, not even in the course of his present adventures. the rue de siam runs down the hill. the dockyards are at the foot. from where they stood, as far as the eye could reach, advanced a dense mass of dirt-grimed men. they were the government employés, employed by france to make engines and ships of war, and as the seemingly never-ending stream went past he actually moved closer to the captain with a vague idea that he might--think of it, ye heroes!--need _his_ protection; for it seemed to the lad that, taken in the mass, he had never seen a more repulsive-looking set of gentlemen even in his dreams. the captain went straight down to the bridge; then he paused, seeming to hesitate a moment, then turned to the right, striking into what seemed very much like a nest of rookeries. they came to an ancient, disreputable-looking inn. this they entered; and as they did so bertie's memory suddenly travelled back to the kingston inn, into which he had been enticed by the original badger. the two houses were about on a par. apparently the establishment was not accustomed to receive guests of their distinguished appearance--though bertie was shabby enough--for the aged crone who received them was evidently bent double by her sense of the honour which was paid to the house. she and the captain carried on a voluble conversation, though, for all that bertie understood of what they said, they might as well have held their peace. he remained standing in the centre of the brick floor, shuffling from foot to foot, feeling and looking as much out of place as though he had been suddenly dropped into the middle of china. gabble, gabble went the old crone's tongue, wiggle-waggle went her picturesque white cap--the only picturesque thing there was about her--up and down went her arms and hands. she was the personification of volubility, but unfortunately she might have been dumb for any meaning which her words conveyed to bertie. yet, incomprehensible as her speech might be and was, he could not rid himself of an impression, derived from her manner to the captain, and the captain's manner to her, that they two had met before, and that, in fact, they knew each other very well indeed. but neither then nor at any other time did he get beyond impression. certainly her after-conduct was not of a kind to show that, even if she knew the gentleman, she had much faith in his integrity, unless, as was possible, the understanding between the two was of a very deep and subtle kind indeed. she showed the new arrivals up a flight of rickety stairs, into a room in which there were two beds of a somewhat better sort than might have been expected. some attempt had also been made to fit the room up after the french fashion, so that it might serve as sitting-room as well as bedroom. there was a table in the centre, and the apartment also contained two or three rush-bottomed chairs. the old crone, having shown them in, said something to the captain and disappeared. the man and the boy were left alone. they had not spoken to each other since they had left st. brieuc, and there was not much spoken now. "you can take your hat off and sit down. we shall sleep here to-night." so at any rate they had reached a temporary resting-place at last; their journey was not to be quite unceasing. it was only the night before they had left london, but it seemed to bertie that it was a year ago. he did as he was bid--took his hat off and sat on a chair. the captain sat down also, seating himself on one chair and putting his feet upon another. not a word was spoken; they simply sat and waited, perhaps twenty minutes. bertie wondered what they were waiting for, but the reappearance of the crone with a coarse white tablecloth shed light upon the matter. they had been waiting while a meal was being prepared. the prospect revived his spirits. he had not tasted food since they had left the _ella_, and his appetite was always hale and hearty. but he was thrown into the deepest agitation by a remark which the crone addressed to him. he had not the faintest notion what it was she said; but the mere fact of being addressed in a foreign and therefore unknown tongue made him feel quite ill. the captain did not improve the matter. "why don't you answer the woman?" "i don't know what she says." "are you acting, or is it real?" bertie only wished that he had been acting, and that his ignorance had not been real. at mecklemburg house the idea of learning french had seemed to him absurd, an altogether frivolous waste of time. what would he not have given then--and still more, what would he not have given a little later on--to have made better use of his opportunities when he had them? circumstances alter cases. the captain looked at him for a moment or two with his fierce black eyes; then he said something to the old woman which made her laugh. not a pleasant laugh by any means, and it did not add to bertie's sense of comfort that such a laugh was being laughed at him. "sit up to the table!" the old woman had laid the table, and had then disappeared to fetch the food to put before her guests. bertie sat up. the meal appeared. not by any means a bad one--better, like the room itself, than might have been expected. when they had finished, and the old crone had cleared the things away, the captain stood up and lighted a cigar. "now, my lad, you'd better tumble into bed. i've a strong belief in the virtue of early hours. there's nothing like sleep for boys, even for those with a turn for humour." bertie had not himself a taste for early hours as a rule--it may be even questioned if the captain had--but he was ready enough for bed just then, and he had scarcely got between the sheets before he was asleep. but what surprised him was to see the captain prepare himself for bed as well. bertie had one bed, the captain the other. the lights were put out; and at an unusually early hour silence reigned. perhaps the journey had fatigued the man as much as the boy. it is beyond question that the captain was asleep almost as soon as bertie was. but he did not sleep quite so long. while it was yet dark he got up, and, having lit a candle, looked at his watch. then he dressed very quietly, making not the slightest noise. he took his revolver from underneath his pillow, and replaced it in the top pocket of his overcoat. he also took from underneath his pillow a leathern case. he opened it. it contained a necklace of wondrous beauty, formed of diamonds of uncommon brilliancy and size. his great black eyes sparkled at the precious stones, and the precious stones sparkled back at him. it was that necklace which had once belonged to the countess of ferndale, and which, according to mr. rosenheim, had cost more than twenty thousand pounds. the captain reclosed the leathern case, and put it in the same pocket which contained his revolver. then, being fully dressed, even to his hat and boots, he crossed the room and looked at bertie. the boy was fast asleep. "the young beggar's smiling again." the young beggar was; perhaps he was again dreaming of his mother. the captain took his gladstone bag and crept on tiptoe down the stairs. curiously enough the front door was unbarred, so that it was not long before he was standing in the street. then, having lighted, not a cigar this time, but a pipe, he started at a pace considerably over four miles an hour, straight off through the country lanes, to landerneau. he must have had a complete knowledge of the country to have performed that feat, for landerneau is at a distance of not less than fifteen miles from brest; and in spite of the darkness which prevailed, at any rate when he started, he turned aside from the high road, and selected those by-paths which only a native of the country as a rule knows well. landerneau is a junction on the line which runs to nantes. he caught the first train to that great seaport, and that afternoon he boarded, at st. nazaire, a steamer which was bound for the united states of america, and by night he was far away on the high seas. henceforward he disappears from the pages of this story. he had laid his plans well. he had destroyed the trail, and the only witness of his crime whom he had any cause to fear he had left penniless in the most rabid town in france, where any englishman who is penniless, and unable to speak any language but his own, was not likely to receive much consideration from the inhabitants. chapter xxi the disadvantages of not being able to speak french in the meantime bertie slept, perhaps still continuing to dream of his mother. when he woke he thought the captain was still taking his rest. he remained for a time motionless in bed. but it began to dawn upon him that the room was very quiet, that there was no sound even of gentle breathing. if the captain slept, he slept with uncommon soundness. so he sat up to see if the captain really was asleep, and saw that the opposite bed was empty. still the truth did not at once occur to him. it was quite possible that the captain had not chosen to wait till his companion awoke before he himself got up. for the better part of an hour bertie lay and wondered. by degrees he could not but perceive that the captain's absence was peculiar. considering the close watch and ward which he had kept upon the lad, it was surprising that he should leave him so long to the enjoyment of his own society. an idea occurred to bertie. supposing the captain was guarding him even in his absence? then the door would be locked. he got up to see. no; he had only to turn the handle, and the door was open. what could it mean? bertie returned to his bed to ponder. another half-hour passed, and still no signs of the captain. bertie would have liked to get up, but did not dare. supposing when the captain returned he chose to be indignant because the lad had taken upon himself to move without his advice? there came a tapping at the door. was it the captain? he would scarcely knock at the door to ask if he might be allowed to enter. the tapping again. "come in," cried bertie. still the tapping continued. then some one spoke in french. it was the old crone's voice. "m'sieu veut se lever? c'est midi!" not in the least understanding what was said, bertie cried again, "come in!" the door was opened a few inches, and the old crone looked in. she stared at bertie sitting up in bed, and bertie stared at her. "m'sieu, vot' oncle! il dort?" "i don't know what you mean," said bertie. they were in the agreeable position of not having either of them the faintest conception of what the other said. she came further into the room and looked about her. then she saw that the captain's bed was empty. "vot' oncle! où est-il donc?" bertie stared, as though by dint of staring he could get at what she meant. the mecklemburg house curriculum had included french, but not the sort of french which the old lady talked. "mon père" and "ma mère," that was about the extent of bertie's knowledge of foreign tongues; and even those simple words he would not have recognised coming from the peculiarly voluble lips of this ancient dame. while he was still endeavouring to understand, from the expression of her face, what it was she said, all at once she began to scold him. of course he had still not the slightest knowledge as to what were the actual words she used; but her voice, her gestures, and the expression of her countenance needed no interpreter. never very much to look at, she suddenly became as though possessed with an evil spirit, seeming to rain down anathemas on his non-understanding head with all the virulence of the legendary witch of old. what was the matter bertie had not the least conception, but that something was the matter was plain enough. her shrill voice rose to a piercing screech. she seemed half choked with the velocity of her speech. her wrinkled face assumed a dozen different hideous shapes. she shook her yellow claws as though she would have liked to have attacked him then and there. suddenly she went to the door and called to some one down below. a man in sabots came stamping up the stairs. he was a great hulking fellow in a blouse and a great wide-brimmed felt hat. he listened to what the woman said, or rather screamed, looking at bertie all the time from under his overhanging brows. then he took up the lad's clothes which lay upon the bed, and very coolly turned out all the pockets. finding nothing in the shape of money to reward his search, he put them down again and glowered at bertie. some perception of the truth began to dawn upon the lad. could the captain have gone--absconded, in fact--and forgotten to pay his bill? from the proceedings of the man and woman in front of him it would seem he had. the man had apparently searched the youngster's pockets in quest of money to pay what the captain owed, and searched in vain. all at once he caught bertie by the shoulders and lifted him bodily on to the floor. then he pointed to his clothing, saying something at the same time. bertie did not understand what he said, but the meaning of his gesture was plain enough. bertie was to put on his clothes and dress. so bertie dressed. all the time the woman kept up a series of exclamations. more than once it was all that the man could do to prevent her laying hands upon the boy. he himself stood looking grimly on, every now and then seeming to grunt out a recommendation to the woman to restrain her indignation. when the boy was dressed he unceremoniously took him by the collar of the coat and marched him from the room. the old crone brought up the rear, shrieking out reproaches as they went. in this way they climbed down the rickety stairs, bertie first--a most uncomfortable first; the man next, holding his coat collar, giving him little monitory jerks, in the way the policeman had done down piccadilly; the woman last, raining abuse upon the unfortunate youngster's head. this was another stage on the journey to the land of golden dreams. across the room below to the front door. there was a temporary pause. the old crone gave the boy two sounding smacks, one on each side of the head, given with surprising vigour considering her apparent age. then the man raised his foot, sabot and all, and kicked the young gentleman into the street! then bertie felt sure that the captain had forgotten to pay his bill. he stood for a moment in the narrow street, not unnaturally surprised at this peremptory method of bidding a guest farewell. but it would have been quite as well if he had stood a little less upon the order of his going; for the crone, taking advantage of his momentary pause, caught off her slipper and flung it at his head. this, too, was delivered with vigour worthy of a younger arm, and as it struck bertie fairly on the cheek he received the full benefit of the lady's strength. the other slipper followed, but that bertie just dodged in time. still, he thought that under the circumstances, perhaps, he had better go. so he went. but not unaccompanied. a couple of urchins had witnessed his unceremonious exit, and they had also seen the slippers aimed. the whole proceeding seemed to strike them in a much more humorous light than it did bertie, and to mark their enjoyment of the fun they danced about and shrieked with laughter. as bertie began to slink away the man said to them something which seemed to make them prick up their ears. they followed bertie, pointing with their fingers. "v'là un anglais! c'est un larron! au voleur! au voleur!" what it was they shrieked in their shrill voices bertie had not the least idea, but he knew it was unpleasant to be pointed and shouted at, for their words were caught up by other urchins of their class, and soon he had a force of ragamuffins shrieking close at his heels. "v'là un anglais! un anglais! c'est un lar--r--ron!" the stress which they laid upon the _larron_ was ear-splitting. as he went, his following gathered force. they were a ragged regiment. some hatless, some shoeless, all stockingless; for even those who wore sabots showed an inch or two of naked flesh between the ends of their breeches and the tops of their wooden shoes. as bertie found his way into the better portions of the town the procession created a sensation. shopkeepers came to their doors to stare, the loungers in the cafés stood to look. some of the foot-passengers joined the rapidly-swelling crowd. the boy with his sullen face passed on, his lips compressed, his eyes with their dogged look. what the hubbub was about, why they followed him, what it was they kept on shouting, he did not understand. he knew that the captain had left him, and left him penniless. what he was himself to do, or where he was going, he had not the least idea. he only knew that the crowd was hunting him on. there was not one friendly face among those around him--not one who could understand. the boys seemed like demons, shrieking, dancing, giving him occasional shoves. separately he would have tackled any one of them, for they could not despise him for being english more heartily than he despised them for being french. but what could he do against that lot?--a host, too, which was being reinforced by men. for the cry "un anglais!" seemed to be infectious, and citizens of the grimier and more popular type began to swell the throng and shriek "un anglais!" with the boys. one man, a very dirty and evil-looking gentleman, laying his two hands on bertie's shoulders, started running, and began pushing him on in front of him. this added to the sport. the cavalcade broke into a trot. the shrieks became more vigorous. suddenly bertie, being pushed too vigorously from behind, and perhaps a little bewildered by the din, lost his footing and fell forward on his face. the man, taken unawares, fell down on top of him. the crowd shrieked with laughter. a functionary interfered, in the shape of a _sergent de ville_. he wanted to know what the disturbance was about. two or three dozen people, who knew absolutely nothing at all about it, began explaining all at once. they did not render the matter clearer. nor did the man who had pushed bertie over. he was indignant; not because he had pushed bertie over, but because he had fallen on him afterwards. he evidently considered himself outraged because bertie had not managed to enjoy a monopoly of tumbling down. the policeman, not much enlightened by the explanations which were poured upon him, marched bertie off to the _bureau de police_. they manage things differently in france, and the difference is about as much marked in a police station as anywhere else. bertie found himself confronted by an official who pelted him with questions he did not understand, and who was equally at a loss to understand the observations he made in reply. then he found himself locked up. it is probable that while he was held in durance vile an attempt was made to discover an interpreter; it would appear from what followed that if such an attempt were made, it was made in vain. the afternoon passed away. still the boy was left to enjoy his own society. he had plenty of leisure to think; to wonder what was going to happen to him--what was the next page which was to be unfolded in the history of his adventures. he had leisure to learn that he was getting hungry. but no one brought him anything to eat. at last, just as he was beginning to think that he surely was forgotten, an official appeared, who, without a word, took him by the collar of his coat--he had been taken a good many times by the collar of his coat of late--led him straight out of the station-house, through some by-streets to the outskirts of the town. then, when he had taken him some little distance outside the walls, and a long country road stretched away in front, he released the lad's collar, and with a very expressive gesture, which even bertie was not at a loss to understand, he bade him take himself away. and bertie took himself away, walking smartly off in the direction in which the sergeant pointed--away from the town. the policeman watched him for some time, standing with his hands in his pockets; and then, when a curve in the road took the lad out of sight, he returned within the walls. it was already evening. the uncertain weather which had prevailed during the last few days still proved its uncertainty. the day had been fine, the evening was clouded. the wind was high, and, blowing from the north-west, blew the clouds tumultuously in scurrying masses across the sky. the country was bare, nearly treeless. it was very flat. the scant fields of finistère offered no protection from the weather, and but little pleasure to the eye. it was a bleak, almost barren country, with but little natural vegetation--harsh, stony, and inhospitable. along the wind-swept road he steadily trudged. he knew not whither he was going, not even whence he came. he was a stranger in a strange land. the captain had asked him whether he spoke french; he supposed, therefore, that this land was france. but the captain had confused him--bidden him ask for tickets for constantinople. even bertie's scanty geographical knowledge told him that constantinople was not france. on the other hand, the same scant store suggested that it needed a longer flight than they had taken to bring him into turkey. a very slight knowledge of french would have enabled him to solve the question. if he had only been able to ask, where am i? the person asked might have taken him to be an english lunatic in a juvenile stage of his existence, but would probably have replied. unfortunately this knowledge was wanting. if sometimes a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, it is also, and not seldom, very much the other way. nearly all that night bertie went wandering on. the darkness gathered. the wind seemed to whistle more loudly when the darkness came, but there was no escape from it for him. seen in the light of clustering shadows the country seemed but scantily peopled. he scarcely met a soul. a few peasants, a cart or two--these were the only moving things he saw. and when the darkness deepened he seemed to be alone in all the world. a house or two he passed, even some villages, in which there were no signs of life except an occasional light gleaming through a wayside window. he made no attempt to ask for food, or drink, or shelter. how could he have asked? as he went further and further from the town he began to come among the breton aborigines; and in brittany, as in wales, you find whole hamlets in which scarcely one of the inhabitants has a comprehensible knowledge of the language of the country which claims them as her children. even french would have been of problematic service in the parts into which he had found, or rather lost his way, and he was not even aware that there was a place called brittany, and a tongue called breton. he was a stranger in a strange land indeed! it was a horrible night, that first one he spent wandering among the wilds of finistère. after he had gone on and on and on, and never seemed to come to anything, and the winds shrieked louder, and he was hungry and thirsty and weary and worn, and there was nothing but blackness all around and the terror-stricken clouds whirling above his head, somewhere about midnight he thought it was time he should find some shelter and rest. so he clambered over a stone wall which bound the road on either side, and on the other side of this stone wall he ventured to lie down. it was not comfortable lying; there was no grass, there were thistles, nettles, weeds, and stones--plenty of stones. on this bed he tried to take some rest, trusting to the wall to shelter him. in vain. it requires education to become accustomed to a bed of stones. all things come by custom, but those who are used to sheets find stony soil disagreeable ground. bertie gave it up. the wind seemed to come through the chinks in the wall with even greater bitterness than if there had been no wall at all. the stones were torture. there was nothing on which he could lay his head. so he got up and struck across the field, seeking for a sheltered place in which to lie. for another hour or so he wandered on, now sitting down for a moment or two, now kneeling, and feeling about with his hand for comfortable ground. in an open country, on a dark and windy night, it is weary searching for one's bed, especially in a country where stones are more plentiful than grass. in his fruitless wanderings, confused by the darkness and the strangeness of the place, bertie went over the same ground more than once. without knowing it, meaning to go forwards, he went back. when he suspected that this was the case, his helplessness came home to him more forcibly than it had done before. what was he to do if he could not tell the way he had come from the way he was going? at last he blundered on some trees. he welcomed them as though they had been friends. he sat down at the foot of one, and found that the ground was coated by what was either moss or grass. compared to his bed of stones it was like a bed of eider-down. it was quite a big tree, and he found that he could so lean against it that it would serve as a very tolerable barrier against the wind at his back. at the foot of this tree he sat down, and pillowing his head against the trunk he sought for sleep. but sleep was coy, and would not come on being wooed. the utter solitude of his position kept him wakeful. robinson crusoe's desolation was scarcely more complete; his helplessness was not so great. it came upon bertie, as it came upon crusoe in his lonely island, that he was wholly in the hands of god. the teachings which he had been taught at his mother's knee, and which seemed to go into one ear and out of the other, proved to be the bread which is cast upon the waters, returning after many days. he remembered with startling vividness how his mother had told him that god holds us all in the hollow of his hand: he understood the meaning of that saying now. he was so sleepy, so tired out and out, that from very weariness he forgot that he was hungry and athirst. yet, in some strange fantastic way, the thought, despite his weariness, prevented him from sleeping--that the winds which whistled through the night were the winds of god. the winds of god! and it seemed to him that all things were of god, the darkness and the solitude, and the mysterious place. who shall judge him? who shall say that it was only because he was in trouble that he had such thoughts? it is something even if in times of trouble we think of god. "god is a very present help in times of trouble," has been written on some page of some old book. bertie was so curiously impressed by a sense of the presence of the almighty god that he did what he had not done for a very long time--he got up, and kneeling at the foot of the friendly tree, he prayed. and it is not altogether beyond the range of possibility that, when he again sought rest, it was because of his prayer that god sent sleep unto his eyes. chapter xxii the end of the journey throughout the day which followed, and throughout the night, and throughout the succeeding days and nights, bertie wandered among the wilds of finistère, and among its lanes and villages. how he lived he himself could have scarcely told. the misfortunes which had befallen him since he had set out on his journey to the land of golden dreams had told upon him. he became ill in body and in mind. he needed rest and care, good food and careful nursing. what he got was no food, or scarcely any, strange skies to shelter him, a strange land to serve him as his bed. it was fortunate that summer was at hand. had it been winter he would have lain down at night, and in the morning they would have found him dead. but he was at least spared excessive cold. the winds were not invariably genial. the occasional rain was not at all times welcome--to him at least, whatever it might have been to the thirsty earth--but there was no frost. if frost had come he would certainly have died. what he ate he scarcely knew. throughout the whole of his wanderings he never received food from any human being. he found his breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper in the fields and on the hedges. a patch of turnips was a godsend. there was one field in particular in which grew both swedes and turnips. it was within a stone's-throw of a village; to reach it from the road you had to scramble down a bank. to this he returned again and again. he began to look upon it almost as his own. once, towards evening, the farmer saw him getting his supper. the farmer saw the lad before the lad saw him. he stole upon him unawares, bent upon capturing the thief. he had almost achieved his purpose, and was within half a dozen yards of the miscreant, when, not looking where he was going in his anxiety to keep his eyes upon the pilferer, he caught his sabot in a hole, and came down upon his knees. as he came he gave vent to a deep breton execration. startled, bertie looked behind and saw the foe. he was off like the wind. when the farmer had regained, if not his temper, at least his perpendicular, he saw, fifty yards ahead, a wild-looking, ragged figure tearing for his life. the breton was not built for speed. he perceived that he might as well attempt to rival the swallow in its flight as outrun the boy. so he contented himself with shaking his fists and shouting curses after the robber of his turnip field. never washing, never taking his clothes from his back nor his shoes from his feet, in appearance bertie soon presented a figure which would have discredited a scarecrow. scrambling through hedges, constant walking over stony ways, beds on dampish soil--these things told upon his garments; they soon began to drop away from him in shreds. his face went well with his clothing. very white and drawn, very thin and dirty, his ravenous eyes looked out from under a tangled shock of hair. one night he had been startled in his sleep, as he often was, and he had sprung up, as a wild creature springs, and run for his life, not waiting to inquire what it was that had startled him, whether it was the snapping of a twig or the movement of a rabbit or a bird. in his haste he left his hat behind him, and as he never returned to get it, afterwards he went with his head uncovered. it began to be rumoured about those parts that some strange thing had taken up its residence in the surrounding country. the breton peasants and small farmers are ignorant, credulous, superstitious. the slightest incident of an unusual character they magnify into a mystery. it was told in the hamlets that some wild creature had made its appearance in their neighbourhood. some said it was a boy, some said it was a man, some said it was a woman; some said it was neither one thing nor the other, but a monster which had taken human shape. bertie lent an air of veracity to the different versions by his own proceedings. he was not in his own right mind. had care been taken, and friends been near, all might have been well; as it was, fever was taking more and more possession of his brain. he shunned his fellow-creatures. at the sight of a little child he would take to his heels and run. he saw an enemy in every bush, in every tree; in a man or a woman he saw his worst enemy of all. in consequence the tales gained ground and grew. a lout, returning from his labour in the fields, saw on a distant slope in the gathering twilight a wild-looking figure, who, at sight of him, turned and ran like the wind. the lout ran too. the tale did not lose by being told. bertie was magnified into a giant, his speed into speed of the swiftest bird. the lout declared that he uttered mysterious sounds as he ran. he became a mysterious personage altogether--and a horrible one. others saw this thing of evil, for that it was a thing of evil all were agreed. the farmer who saw him in his turnip field had a wondrous tale to tell. he had not tripped through his own stupidity and clumsiness. on the contrary, it was all owing to the influence of the evil eye. bertie, being a thing of evil, had seen him--as things of evil have doubtless the power of doing--although his approach was made from the rear; and, seeing him, had glanced at him with his evil eye through the back of his head, as things possessing that fatal gift have, we may take it for granted, the power of doing. nay, who shall decide that the evil eye is not itself located in the back of the head? anyhow, under its influence the farmer tripped. this became clearer to his mind the more he thought of it, and, it may be also added, the farther off the accident became. the next morning he remembered that he had been conscious of a mysterious something in his joints as he approached the turnip stealer--a something not to be described, but altogether mysterious and horrible. in the afternoon he declared that he had not followed the plunderer because he had been rooted to the ground, he knew not how nor why--rooted in the manner of his own turnips, which he had seen disappearing from underneath his eyes. that night the tale grew still more horrible. he had a couple of glasses of brandy, at two sous a glass, with a select circle of his friends, and under the influence of conviviality the farmer made his neighbours' hair stand on end. he went to bed with the belief impressed firmly on his mind that he had encountered old nick in person, engaged in the nefarious and characteristic action of stealing turnips from his turnip field. thus it came about that while bertie avoided aboriginals, the aboriginals were equally careful in avoiding him. one day some one heard him speak. that was the climax. the tongue he spoke was neither breton nor french. delirium was overtaking the lad, and under its influence he was beginning to spout all sorts of nonsense in his feverish wanderings here and there. the aboriginal in question had seen him running across the field and shouting as he ran. he declared, probably with truth, that never had he heard the like before. it was undoubtedly the language which was in common use among things of evil. this conclusion was not flattering to english-speaking people, but there are occasions on which ignorance is not bliss, and it is not folly to be wise. being a breton peasant of average education, this aboriginal decided that bertie's english was the language in common use among things of evil. that settled the question. there are possibly beings--beings in this case should be written with a capital letter--of indifferent, and worse than indifferent character, who have at least some elementary acquaintance with the breton tongue. let so much be granted. but it cannot be doubted--at any rate no one did doubt it--that the fact of this stranger speaking in a strange tongue made it as plain as a pike-staff that he was the sort of character which is better left alone. so, as a rule, they left him alone in the severest manner. of course this could not endure for ever. bertie was approaching the land of golden dreams in a sense of which he had not dreamed even in his wildest dreams. one cannot subsist on roots alone. nor can a young gentleman, used to cosy beds and well-warmed rooms and regular meals, exist for long on such a diet, under ever-changing skies, in an inhospitable country, in the open air. bertie was worn to a shadow. he was wasted not only physically, but mentally and morally. he was a ghost of what he once had been, enfeebled in mind and body. if something did not happen soon to change his course of living, he would soon bring his journeying to an untimely end, and reach the land of dreams indeed. something did happen, but it was not by any means the sort of thing which was required. one day a great hunt took place in that district. it was first-rate sport. they occasionally hunt wolves, and even wild boars in finistère, but this time what was hunted was a boy. and the boy was bertie. the mayor of st. thégonnec was a wise man. all mayors are of necessity, and from the nature of their office, wise, especially the mayors of rural france; and this mayor was the wisest of wise mayors. he was a miller by trade, honest as millers go, and as pig-headed a rustic as was ever found in finistère. his name was baudry--jean baudry. it was reported to m. baudry by his colleague, the mayor of the commune of plouigneau, which lies on the other side of morlaix, that there was a being--with a capital b--which had come no one knew from whence, and which was plundering the fields in a way calculated to make the blood of all honest men turn cold--or hot, as might accord best with the natural disposition of the blood of the man in question. the mayor of st. thégonnec had told this story to the mayor of morlaix; and the mayor of morlaix, being the mayor of the _arrondissement_, had thought it an excellent opportunity to snub the mayor of a mere commune, and had snubbed the mayor of st. thégonnec accordingly; who, coming fresh from the snubbing, had encountered his colleague in the market-place, and then and there told his wrongs. the two worthies agreed that, at the first opportunity, they would lay violent hands upon this plunderer of the fields of honest men, and make him wish that he had left such fields alone. such an opportunity, or what looked like such an one, was not long in offering itself to m. baudry. one afternoon he was engaged in his occupation of grinding flour, standing in an atmosphere which would have rendered life disagreeable, if not altogether unsupportable, to any one but a miller, when robert, madame perchon's eldest born, put his head inside the open door of the mill. "this creature, m. le maire; this creature!" robert perchon was an undersized youth of some twenty years of age, who had escaped military service not only as being the eldest son of a widow, but as being in possession of an unrivalled squint, which would have excluded him in any case, and which would have rendered it really difficult for a drill sergeant to have ascertained to his own satisfaction whether, at any given moment, the recruit had his "eyes front" or behind. "ah, at last! where is this vagabond? we will settle his business in a trice!" having shouted instructions to his assistant to keep his eyes upon the stones, m. le maire came forth. "he is in the buck-wheat field! i was going to the little field by the river, when, behold! what should i see in the buck-wheat field, lying close to the hedge, and yet among the wheat, what but this creature, fast asleep! it is so, i give you my word. at this time of day, when all honest people are at work, in the middle of my field there was this creature, fast asleep. i knew him at once, although i have not seen the wretch before; but i have heard him described, and there is indeed something absolutely diabolical in his aspect even as he lies among my buck-wheat fast asleep!" "you did not wake him?" "ah, no! why should i wake him? who knows what injury the creature might have done me when he found himself disturbed?" "then we will wake him, i give you my word. we will capture this vagabond. we will discover what there is about him diabolical." the mayor's courage was applauded. there was robert perchon, his mother--in tears, at the thought of the peril which her son had only just escaped--a select assembly of the villagers, and the two gorgeous gendarmes from the st. thégonnec gendarmerie. all these people perceived that the mayor was brave. the assembly started, with the intention of making an example of the plunderer of the fields of honest men. in front was the mayor, not looking particularly dignified, for he was white with flour, though void of fear. in his hand he carried a mighty stick. behind him came the gendarmes, as was befitting. they had forgotten to buckle on their swords, but in their case dignity was everything, and it was just possible that the stick of the mayor would render more deadly weapons needless. behind--a pretty good distance behind--came the villagers. some of them carried pitchforks, others spades. one gallant lady carried a kettle full of boiling water. it did not occur to her, perhaps, that the water would have time to cool before they reached their quarry. madame perchon brought up the rear, and behind her sneaked the gallant robert. it occurred to the mayor that this was not exactly as it ought to be. he suggested to m. robert that as he alone knew exactly where the vagabond lay, it befitted him to lead the van. this, however, m. robert did not see; he preferred to shout out his directions from the rear. they entered the buck-wheat field. no persuasions would induce him to enter with the rest. he insisted on remaining outside, guiding them from a post of safety. his mother stayed to keep him company. "by there! a little to the left! keep straight on! if he has not gone, m. le maire, which is always possible, you can touch him with your stick from where you are now standing!" he had not gone. the journey was almost done. the end was drawing near. delirious, beside himself, fever-racked, hunger-stricken, not knowing what he was doing, the boy had sunk down in madame perchon's buck-wheat field to sleep. and he had slept--a mockery of sleep! a thousand hideous imaginations passed through his fevered mind. m. robert perchon, who had been contented with a single glance at the sleeping lad, had some warranty for his declaration that in his aspect there was something diabolical, for his limbs writhed and his countenance was distorted by the paroxysms of his fever. dreaming some horrible dream, the noise made by the advancing brave fell upon his fevered ear. starting upright at m. baudry's feet, with a shriek which horrified all who heard him, he rushed across the field, and flew as if all the powers of evil were treading on his heels. and, indeed, in a sense the powers of evil were, for he was delirious with fever. the first impulse of the champions of the fields of honest men was to do, with one accord, what the boy had done, to turn and flee--the other way. some, believing bertie's delirious shriek to be the veritable voice of satan, acted on this first impulse and fled. notable among them were m. robert and his mother. that gallant pair raced each other homewards, shrieking with so much vigour that it almost seemed that in that direction they had made up their minds to outdo the plunderer of the fields of honest men. but there were braver spirits abroad that day. among them was the mayor. besides, the public eye was upon him, and behind him were the two gendarmes. in france the representative of authority never runs--at least, he never runs away. it is true that when bertie sprang with such startling suddenness from right underneath his feet, and gave utterance to that ear-alarming shriek, m. baudry thought of running. but he only thought; it went no further. he would certainly have denied that he had even allowed himself to think of such an ignominious contingency a moment afterwards. the creature was running away. that was evident. it would be absurd for the champions of those fields to run away from him, when the rascal had been sensible enough to run away from them. m. baudry perceived this fact at once. "after him!" he cried. "i give you my word we shall catch him yet!" off went the assembly, helter-skelter, after the delirious boy. "forward! forward! we will teach this rogue a lesson! we will teach him to rob the fields of honest men! we will learn the stuff that he is made of--this vagabond!" courage revived. they all shouted, and they all ran. if the mayor was in the habit of giving his word as lightly as he gave it then, it could not have been worth having. it was soon evident that they had about as much chance of catching the fugitive as they had of catching the clouds which wandered above their heads. m. baudry was not built for violent exercise. he had probably not run thirty yards in the last thirty years. he was in his sabots, and sabots are not good things for running. fifty paces in madame perchon's buck-wheat field was quite enough for him. he perceived that it is not a proper thing for mayors to run; so he ran no more. instead of running he sat down to think, and to encourage, of course, his friends. the gendarmes kept on. it was evidently their duty to keep on. but they were not much fonder of running than the mayor, and a gendarme's boots, when it comes to running, are not much more satisfactory, regarded as aids to progress, than sabots. especially are gendarmes not built to run across ploughed fields. in fact the chase was prolonged for almost, if not quite, a hundred yards. then it ceased. most of the champions of the fields of honest men sat down upon the fields they championed; those who didn't gasped for breath upon their feet. the affair was, perhaps, something of a fiasco, but they consoled themselves with the reflection that they would catch the vagabond next time, when they could run a little better and a little further, and he could run a little worse--or a good deal worse, in fact. but for bertie the chase was very far from done. he fled, not from things of flesh and blood, but from things of air--the wild imaginings of fever. on and on and on--over fields and hedges, dykes and ditches--on and on and on, until the day waned and the night had come. and in the night his journey ended. even delirium would no longer give strength unto his limbs. his style of going changed. instead of running, like a maddened animal, straight forward, he went reeling, reeling, reeling, staggering from side to side. then he staggered down. he rose no more. it was the end of the journey. chapter xxiii the land of golden dreams when he returned to life he was in his mother's arms. there were familiar faces round him, and, as out of a mist, familiar voices sounded in his ear. he turned in his bed--for it was on a bed he was lying, and no longer on the stony ground--and opened his eyes, waking as from a delicious slumber. some one bent over him; some one laid a hand softly on his brow; some one's burning tears fell on his cheek. there was his mother standing by his side. "my boy! my boy! thank god for this, my darling boy!" then she kissed him; and she wept. out of the mist there came another familiar form. it was his father. "bertie! at last! thank god for this, indeed, my son!" and he, too, stooped and kissed the lad. and the mother rose to her feet, and became encircled in her husband's arms; and they two rejoiced together over the son who was lost and was found. he had been ill six weeks. six weeks delirious with fever; six weeks hovering between life and death; six weeks' sorrow; six weeks' pain. that was the end of his journey. and it would have had another ending had it not been for the providence of god. he would have journeyed into that strange, unknown country, whose name is death, but that he was found by the roadside, where he had fallen, and by a friend. it would be unwise to say that that friend was not sent to him direct from god. among his father's patients was a certain mr. yates. mr. yates was a county magistrate, a man of position and of wealth. under god he owed his life to dr. bailey's skill. it was to him reference has been made as having given bertie half a sovereign once upon a time--half a sovereign which, to bertie's disgust, he had had to divide with his brothers and sisters. mr. yates had known the youngster well. he was a bachelor, and had allowed the boy to run in and out almost as he pleased. on the eve of starting on a tour to brittany he had heard that the young gentleman had disappeared from school, no one knew why, no one knew whither. there was a pretty to-do when it was known. it was almost the last straw for mr. fletcher, that last straw which, according to the proverb, breaks the camel's back. in his bewilderment--in the general bewilderment, indeed--dr. bailey had not hesitated to lay his son's disappearance at mr. fletcher's door. he declared that he was alone to blame, that some act of remissness, some act of even positive cruelty must have goaded the lad into taking such a step. the boy had left no trace behind. the distracted father advertised for him right and left, placed the matter in the hands of the police, seeking for him on every side without finding the slightest clue to tell him if his son were alive or dead. matters were in this state when mr. yates had left for brittany. he had been there some days, when, wandering somewhat out of the beaten track, he had chartered a carriage at morlaix to take him up among those wind-swept slopes which are grandiloquently termed the montagnes d'arree, and land him at the little town of huelgoet. there are one or two things which people go to see at huelgoet, but the place became memorable to mr. yates for what he saw upon the road. he was about half-way to his destination when he observed, lying among the furze at the roadside, a lad. he might not have noticed him had not the boy been emitting cries of so peculiar a kind that they could scarcely have failed to catch a traveller's ear. going to see what was the matter, he perceived at once that the lad was delirious with fever. with some difficulty he persuaded the driver of the vehicle to convey so dubious a passenger. the same difficulty occurred at the huelgoet hotel before they would let him in. it was only when he had undertaken to recoup them for any losses they might sustain, and had got the lad comfortably in bed, that he discovered that the waif who had found in him such a good samaritan was none other than bertie bailey. * * * * * so soon as they could move him they took him home. and, as he entered the old familiar home, he knew in his heart that this place which he was entering was in fact the land of golden dreams. he had been in search of it afar off, and he had been a native of the country all the time. and there are many natives of that country who throw away the substance to grasp the shadow, not realizing their folly till the thing is done. * * * * * they never found the "captain" nor "mr. rosenheim." in due time bertie told his story, and the doctor thought it so strange an one that he felt in duty bound to communicate with the police. a detective came and heard all that bertie had to say. he asked a hundred puzzling questions; but, although not always able to answer them to the detective's satisfaction, bertie stuck to his tale. they took him to point out the house which had contained the "captain's room," but he had been a stranger in the great city, at night, hungry and worn. he had gone blindly where he had been taken, not noticing a single landmark by the way, and now when they asked him to retrace his steps, and lead them where freddy had led him, he found it impossible to discover the house again. so it came to pass that the police looked at his story with doubtful eyes. and for that cause--or some other--nothing has been heard of the countess of ferndale's jewels unto this day. * * * * * butler & tanner, the selwood printing works, frome, and london. the motor girls at lookout beach or in quest of the runaways margaret penrose contents: chapter i--summer plans chapter ii--at the strawberry patch chapter iii--the strike chapter iv--arbitration chapter v--too confident chapter vi--cora's queer plight chapter vii--the clue at the spring house chapter viii--a startling discovery chapter ix--complications chapter x--almost--but not quite chapter xi--andy's warning chapter xii--the "unplanned" plans chapter xiii--going and coming chapter xiv--lost on the road chapter xv--boys to the rescue chapter xvi--the shadow in the hedge chapter xvii--at wayside inn chapter xviii--lookout beach chapter xix--the moving picture "moved" chapter xx--the gaiety of going chapter xxi--boys and girls chapter xxii--a struggle with the waves chapter xxiii--the excursion chapter xxiv--the two orphans chapter xxv--the truth! the whole truth! chapter i summer plans bess robinson was so filled with enthusiasm that her sister belle declared there was serious danger of "blowing-up," unless there was some repression. belle herself might be equally enthusiastic, but she had a way of restraining herself, while bess just delighted in the "utmost" of everything. the two sisters were talking on the side porch of their handsome home in chelton, a new england town, located on the chelton river. it was a beautiful day, late in spring. "well, have you sufficiently quieted down, bess?" asked belle, after a pause, which succeeded the more quiet girl's attempt to curb her sister's enthusiasm--a pause that was filled with just the hint of pique. "quieted down? i should think any one would quiet down after such a call-down as you gave me, if you will allow the use of such slang in your presence, miss prim," retorted bess, with a little tilt to her stubby nose. "oh, come now, bess----" "well, don't be so fussy, then. we have always wanted to go to a real watering place, and now, when we are really to go, belle robinson, you take it as solemnly as if it were a message from boarding-school, summoning us back to class. why don't you warm up a bit? i--i feel as if i could--yell! there, that's out, and i don't care! i wish i was a boy, and then--then i could do something when i felt happy, besides sitting down, and looking pleased. boys have a way of showing their feelings. i know what i'm going to do. i'm just going to get out the car, and run over to cora kimball's. she'll know how to rejoice with me about going to lookout beach. oh, belle, isn't it just perfectly--too lovely for anything! there, i was going to say scrumbunctious, but i won't in your presence--miss prim!" "why, bess--you silly," retorted her sister. "of course i'm glad, too. but i don't have to go into kinks to show it. we will have a glorious time, i'm sure, for they say lookout beach is a perfectly ideal place." "'ideal'! oh, there you go!" and bess made a grimace of her pretty face. "'ideal'! belle, why don't you take a private room somewhere, just off the earth, so you can be just as perfectly proper as you wish. 'ideal!' whoop! why not sweet? oh, i say--burr-r-r-r! it's going to be immense! now there, and you can get mad if you want to," and with this parting shot bess hurried off to the little garage in the rear of the house. "is the car ready to take out, patrick?" she asked the man of all work about the robinson place. "yes, miss. i poured the gasolene in the little hole under the seat where you showed me, and i filled up the oil tank, and i give it a drink. i put in ice-water, miss." "ice-water? why, patrick?" for patrick was a new acquisition, and what he didn't know about automobiles would have made two large books of instructions to beginners. "why ice water, patrick?" and bess raised her pretty eyebrows. "well, sure, an' miss belle said the other day, as how the water b'iled on her, miss--that is, not exactly b'iled _on_ her, but b'iled in the tea kettle--i mean that thing punched full of holes--in the front of the car." "the radiator," suggested bess, trying not to laugh. "yes, that's it, miss, though why they calls it a radiator, when they want it to kape cool, is beyond me. howsomever----" "about the ice water, patrick." "yes, miss, i'm comin' to that. you see when miss belle said as how it b'iled over the other day, i thinks to myself that sure ice-water will never boil, so i filled the radiator with some as cold as i could bear me fist in it. arrah, an' it's no b'ilin' water ye'll have th' day, when ye takes this car out, miss bess." "oh, patrick, how kind of you!" exclaimed the girl. "and what a novel idea. i'm sure it will be all right," and she placed her hand on the radiator. it was as cold as a pump handle on a frosty morning. "i blew up the tires, too, miss," went on the man, "an' here's a four leaf clover i found. take it along." "what for?" asked bess, as she accepted the emblem. "sure, fer good luck. maybe ye'll not git a puncture now. clovers is good luck." "oh, thank you," said bess earnestly, as she cranked up, for patrick had not yet advanced this far in his auto-education. then the girl, most becomingly attired in auto hood and coat, backed the pretty little silver-colored runabout, _flyaway_, owned by herself and her sister, "the robinson twins," out of the garage, and turned it on the broad drive. "would ye mind that now!" exclaimed patrick, admiringly. "it's as--as slick as a pig's whistle, miss, savin' yer presence." bess laughed merrily. "i'm glad to see that some one besides myself uses a bit of--i mean an expression that means something--once in a while, patrick," she said, as she threw in the clutch, after adjusting the lever to low speed. "yis, miss," answered the man, as he looked with admiration at the trim and pretty figure in the little car. "now i wonder what did she mane?" he asked himself, when bess was out on the road. "sure them is two great gurls--miss isabel and miss elizabeth--great gurls!" and patrick went to curry the horses kept by mr. robinson, this being work that the genial and faithful irishman understood perfectly well. isabel, meanwhile, continued to sun her splendid hair over the railing of the side porch, in spite of the almost constant danger that it might become entangled in the honeysuckle vine, or be mistaken by a wandering bee or humming bird for some nest or hive in which to nestle. isabel was always the "dreamer." she had "nerves," and she loved everything aesthetic. bess, on the contrary, was always "on the spot," as her boy friends declared, and, while she might be a trifle over-enthusiastic at times, there was this consolation, that she was never glum, as her personal supply of good-nature never seemed to be lacking. not that isabel was moody, save at such times when she was alone, and thought of many things--for, in company, she entered into the fun with a zest equal to almost anyone's save her more volatile sister. so the robinson twins were an interesting study--so different in disposition--so unlike in taste--but so well matched on two points--their love for motoring and a good time during vacation, and their love for their chum and companion, cora kimball. while her sister was lazily dreaming away amid the honeysuckle vines, letting the gentle breeze riffle through, and dry her hair, bess was skimming along the fine chelton roads, her mind intent on the good times in prospect when she, with her mother and sister, were to go to a cottage at lookout beach. "oh, i just know it will be perfectly bang-up!" exclaimed bess, half aloud, and smiling at the chance to use words that meant something, without shocking belle. "we will have no end of good times. my! it makes me want to go fast to think about it," and, suiting the action to the word, she pressed her foot on the accelerator pedal, and the car shot forward, while the hand on the dial of the speedometer trembled around the twenty-five miles an hour mark. "i don't care!" thought bess, as she kept her foot on the pedal. "i'm going to speed for once. belle never will let me." as she suddenly swung around a turn in the road she was made aware of how fast the pace was, for the car skidded a bit dangerously, and, a moment later, without a warning blast of the horn, another auto, moving in the opposite direction, shot into view. by a quick twist of the steering wheel, nearly sending the car into the ditch at the roadside, bess avoided a collision. "why didn't you blow your horn?" she shot indignantly at the occupant of the car--a young man, who had also turned out quickly. "why didn't you blow your own?" he wanted to know, and then he smiled, for he, too, had slowed down. "i guess it's horse and horse," he added, good-naturedly, if slangily. "i was thinking of something else." "so was i," admitted bess with a half smile, and then, having slowed down too much to allow going ahead on high speed, she had to throw out the clutch just as she was about to proceed, and change back to low gear. quickly she threw into second, as a preliminary to third, but she was not quick enough. the motor stalled, and the car came to a stop, amid a grinding of the gears. "can i help you?" asked the young man, jamming on his emergency brake. "no, thank you," answered bess coolly and quickly. "i can manage," and, before he could reach her car, for he had alighted from his own, she had gotten out, cranked up, and was in her seat again. then she hurried off down the road, leaving a rather crestfallen young chap standing in the dusty highway. "remarkably pretty girl--that," he said, aloud. "i wish i could have helped her. but she was cool, all of a sudden. maybe she didn't like my slang--i wish i could break myself of using it--hang the luck--there i go again," and, with a shake of his head he went back to his car. "adventure number one," mused bess, as she swung along, not so fast this time. "i wonder what will come next? i guess i am getting a little too high-spirited. i must calm down. but i can't, when i think of lookout beach." she had not gone a hundred rods farther when a flock of chickens crossed the road, just ahead of the machine. "shoo!" cried bess. "shoo! scat! get out!" and she blew the horn vigorously. "i wonder why someone doesn't invent a horn or something to scare dogs and chickens?" she went on, as the fowls showed little disposition to do more than run, fluttering and squawking, right ahead of the car. then they darted to one side--all but one unfortunate, and the big rubber tires passed over one leg, crippling it. "hi, you! stop!" commanded a woman's harsh voice, and bess, who was running slowly now, saw an unlovely personage rushing from the yard of a dilapidated house, toward the machine. "i've got your license number," went on the woman, "and i'll make a complaint if you don't pay for my chicken. you automobile folks is allers running over 'em, and cripplin' 'em so they ain't fit fer nothing." "this is the first time i ever ran over anything," retorted bess indignantly. "i guess i know how to drive a car!" "well, it won't be the last time you run over somethin' if you scoot along like i seen you just now," went on the owner of the limping fowl. "i want pay for my chicken, or i'll have th' law on ye," and she planted herself determinedly in front of the now stationary car. "very well," answered bess, not wishing to argue with such a character. "here is fifty cents. the chicken is a small one, and that's all it's worth. besides it is hardly hurt at all." "it's wuth seventy-five cents, ef it ain't a dollar!" stormed the woman, as she accepted the coin that the girl handed her. "i've a good notion to----" but her further words were lost, for bess turned on the power, threw in the clutch, shifted the gear lever, and was off down the road. "adventure number two," she remarked grimly. "i hope it isn't three times and out. patrick's clover works by opposite, i guess," but she drove along, her high spirits not a whit repressed by what had happened. for bess was not a girl easily daunted, as those of you who have read the previous volumes of this series know. she was almost the equal of her chum, cora kimball, was bess robinson. in my first book, entitled "the motor girls," cora kimball, the tall, handsome, dark-haired daughter of mrs. grace kimball, and, likewise, the well-beloved sister of jack kimball, had first secured her auto. it was a four cylinder, touring machine, capable of good speed, and the color was cora's special choosing--a handsome maroon. the story dealt with a mystery of the road, and told how cora successfully solved it, in spite of the efforts of ida giles and sid wilcox to make trouble. as her guests cora had, on many runs of her car, the robinson twins, walter pennington, jack's college chum, and ed foster. the latter was one of the chief figures in the road mystery, for one day he suddenly missed his wallet, containing money and negotiable securities to the amount of twenty thousand dollars. a little later the pocketbook, with the money missing, was found in the tool box of cora's car. then there followed a "whirlwind" of excitement, which did not end until those responsible for the taking of the money had been discovered and the cash and papers returned. among other troubles cora and her friends had to contend with the meanness of sid wilcox and the jealousy of ida giles. in the second volume of the series, called "the motor girls on a tour; or, keeping a strange promise," there was related how cora and her friends were instrumental, after making a strange promise, in restoring to a little cripple a long-lost table, containing a will. how the hunt for the strange piece of furniture, with a secret drawer, was made, while the girls were on a tour, how the robinson twins managed their car, which they had secured in the meanwhile, and how jack kimball also succeeded in getting a runabout--all this is set down in the book. paul hastings, a young chauffeur, and his pretty sister hazel, also had their parts to play, and well they did. now it was coming on summer again, and, after much planning and discussing, the robinson twins and their mother had decided on a seashore cottage. they hoped that cora kimball could be induced to go with them, and, if cora did go, why, of course, it meant that jack would come down, occasionally, or, perhaps, oftener. and ed and walter might also happen to drop in--which would be very pleasant. "oh, it's just glorious," thought bess, as she continued to skim along. "i hope the season will be miles long and years old. we will have a gay time." bess turned the _flyaway_ into the gravel road that wound up to the handsome and stately kimball homestead. a toot of the horn brought cora out of doors quickly, while bess jammed on the brake and threw out the clutch, and then, as the car came to a squeaking standstill, she shoved over the spark and gasolene levers, with a ripping sound along the ratchets, and turned off the sparking device. "come on in and cool off," invited cora. "it's very warm. summer has almost arrived. i'm delighted to see you, bess." "and i you. indeed i am coming in. such news--you'll never guess in your whole life, cora." "you're going to get a new machine!" "no, not yet, though i think we will next season. papa is sort of softening toward a six cylinder. no, but it's almost as good as that." "what is it, dear?" and cora placed her arm around the waist of bess, as they mounted the broad steps. "cora kimball, we're going to take a cottage at lookout beach! such a delightful place--and cora dear," she panted on, "can you come? _will_ you come?" "shall i come? should i come," went on cora, teasingly. "why, my dear," she went on, "do sit down, and catch your breath before it escapes further. the boys are around here somewhere, and they are always on the still hunt for----" "cora kimball! i'm not one bit out of breath," panted bess, "but i am just dying to tell you----" "oh, that is it! well, let me make you comfortable so that the death----" she stopped, and swung back a porch chair for bess. the latter threw aside her motor bonnet and "ripped off" her gloves. "no, but seriously, cora," bess said. "will you go with us? we have taken a cottage, and we are, of course, going to take our car, and we do so want to take you!" "you dear!" exclaimed cora. "i haven't planned for summer yet, but i do think mother is going abroad, and i honestly feared i would have to tag along. i just hate to think of europe, so maybe i could induce mother to let me go with you. she has such confidence in mrs. perry robinson." "mother would take all sorts of care of you. i can assure you and your mother of that," declared bess. "and we have almost decided, without ever asking you, that you shall come along. what fun would we have motoring without you?" "without me, or without jack?" teased cora. "well, never mind, bess, perhaps we can take turns. i am sure i would rather go to lookout beach and camp than to go to europe and tramp--there i have made a rhyme, and will see my beau before nine. pray, bess, come indoors with me while i complexion. i have been motoring all morning, in this stiff breeze, and i feel as if my face will crack if i don't hurry to cream it. and then, that i am to see my beau----" the splendid color in cora's cheeks belied her words. nevertheless the girls went indoors, and, while cora removed a surprising amount of grit on each piece of cotton she daubed her cheeks with, bess had a better chance to talk over the plans for the summer at the seaside. following her cream-wash cora turned on her face the tiny spray of tepid water from her own little silver faucet in the corner, and then "feeling clean," as she expressed it, she just touched her cheeks and nose with another piece of cotton "to pat off the shine." "you know i have to go out again this afternoon, and i do find that it pays to keep in order. i suppose belle would think this sort of fixing up not half thorough enough?" "oh, she takes a regular turkish when she has been out in a dusty wind," declared bess. "but, for my part, i prefer a thick veil, in front of a cream setting. then i catch all the dirt in the cream and only have to wash it off instead of----" "washing it on. a good idea, bess. but i can't breathe back of cream. it makes my lungs sticky," and cora put a last touch to her heavy dark hair, just as her brother's voice was heard in the lower hallway. "there's jack!" exclaimed both girls at once. "let's tell him," suggested bess, who was not always able to conceal her interest in cora's handsome brother. "oh, no, don't," whispered cora, as jack was almost at the door of the sitting room. "it will be a joke to plan it all out, and surprise the boys!" but jack was actually tumbling into the room before he saw bess. he, too, was evidently "too full of good news to keep!" "oh, sis!" he yelled, still unconscious of the presence of bess, "take my hand and squeeze it, or i shall 'bust.' it's too good to be true, and too good not to be true. we are going----" then his eye fell upon cora's visitor. instantly and in a boy's inimitable way he "pulled himself together" and finished: "we are going down to the post-office this evening!" "oh, is that all you were going to say?" asked bess, in some disappointment, for it was evident that jack had some news. "well, not quite all," he replied with an air of mystery, "only i happened to hear certain peculiar whispers and admonitions as i was coming in, and i guess girls aren't the only ones who can keep a secret. i'll tell if you'll tell," he added. "we've nothing to tell; have we, cora?" and bess looked as innocent as possible. "how could you ever imagine such a thing, jack?" inquired his sister. "well, that's neither here nor there, then," was the young man's cool answer. "but if you're going after the stuff to make jam tarts with this winter, cora, you'd better start," and at this somewhat enigmatical remark, jack began whistling a tantalizing air, while bess winked at her chum. chapter ii at the strawberry patch "yes, i promised mother i would go for a crate of strawberries," cora said, by way of explanation. "would you like to come along, bess? it is a lovely ride to the berry patch." "then, i think i will run back for belle, and we, too, may fetch home a crate. mother will be delighted to get them fresh from the pickers." "suppose we meet in an hour at smith's crossing?" suggested cora. "i have some little things to attend to, and that will just about give you time to get belle, and her belongings." this was agreed upon, and the girls parted for the short time. jack insisted upon keeping his wonderful good news secret, for, try as he did, he could not coax cora to divulge the news which he knew bess must have brought. "i could see it in her cheeks," jack insisted, "and i can almost read that signal code you two have arranged." "well, when it is all settled i may--tell you," replied his sister. "but you boys imagine that girls cannot keep anything to themselves----" "wrong there, sis," he answered, picking up his cap. "we all know perfectly well that you all can keep to yourselves exactly what we want to know," and in leaving the room he tossed a sofa cushion at cora's head, hitting her squarely, and knocking her hair awry. she retaliated, however, with a floor cushion over the banister, which jack failed to dodge. at the appointed time, three o'clock, on a lovely june afternoon, cora and bess met as arranged with their autos at the cross-roads, belle dainty as ever in her flimsy veils and airy silk coat, bess, with her hand on the wheel, her eyes on the road ahead, and her jolly self done up simply in pongee, while cora, correct as ever, and equally distinctive in her true green auto hood, and cloak that matched, made up a very attractive trio of auto maids. "it's only six miles out," called cora, "and this road runs straight into squaton. they have quite a big strawberry farm out there." "yes," called back bess, turning on more gasolene and throwing in third speed, "mother was just delighted when i told her we were going there for berries." over the smooth, shaded road the cars sped, the _whirlwind_, cora's machine, exactly attuned to the hum of the _flyaway_, the car occupied by the twins. just as two clocks, placed side by side, will soon tick in harmony, so two good engines may match each other in the hum of speed. "i can smell the berries," exclaimed belle, as they neared a group of tall elms. "we are almost there," remarked cora, "and i think i, too, smell something good." under the trees by the roadside they espied some boys eating from a pail of berries. "there," said bess, "that was what you scented. those youngsters have been picking, i suppose, and that is their own personal allowance." "berries! five cents a quart!" called out one of the urchins, who at the same time stepped out into the road close to the slackened autos. "not to-day," replied cora, as she passed on, followed by the _flyaway_. "wouldn't you think they would want to take those home," said bess. "i should think they would be satisfied with their earnings at the patch." "maybe they have not been picking--except for their own use," responded cora. "but here we are. get out now, and we will walk over to the shanty where they crate the fruit." "what an ocean of green!" exclaimed belle, the aesthetic one, looking over the strawberry patch. "an ocean of dust, i think," said bess, as from the afternoon sun and breeze the grind of the picker's feet in the dusty rows between the countless lines of green vines just reached her eyes. "there are plenty of them," remarked cora, wending her way along the narrow path, toward the shanty. "and so many people picking," added belle. "just look at those boys! they are as brown as--their clothes. and see that poor old woman!" "yes, her back must ache," replied cora. "what a shame for her to be out in this sun." "she looks as if she could never bend again if she should straighten up," said bess. "see how she stares at us from under her own arms." this peculiar remark caused the other girls to smile, but bess meant exactly what she said--that the old woman was looking up from an angle lower than her elbows. just then the autoists faced two of the pickers--two girls. both stopped their work and looked up almost insolently. then they spoke under their breath to each other and "tittered" audibly. "they're rude," said belle to bess, picking her skirts as she stepped by. "oh, that's just their way," exclaimed cora. "i am going to speak to them." so saying she turned in between the rows. "is it hard work?" she asked pleasantly. "no cinch," replied the older-looking of the girls, with a toss of a very good head of auburn hair. "have you been out long?" persisted cora. "oh, we're always out," said the younger girl with a sneer. her voice said plainly that she had "no use" for talking with the motor girls. "do you work all day?" asked bess, a little timidly. bess was always ready to admit that she could talk to boys, but that she was afraid of strange girls. "all day, and all night," replied the younger girl. she had hair just a tint lighter than the other, and it was evident that the pair were sisters. "but you cannot see to work at night," belle deigned to say. "we have lamps--indoors," said the girl, "and aunt delia keeps boarders." "oh, you help with the housework too?" said cora. "i should think----" then she checked herself. why should she say what she thought--just then? perhaps it was the unmistakable kindness shown so plainly in the manner of the motor girls, that convinced the two little berry-pickers that the visitors would be friends--if they might. at any rate, both girls dropped the vines they were overhauling, and stood straight up, with evident stiffness of their young muscles. "but we are not going to do this all our lives," declared the older girl. "aunt delia has made enough out of us." "have you no parents?" ventured cora. "no, we're orphans," replied the girl, and, as she spoke the word "orphans," the ring of sadness touched the hearts of the older girls. cora instantly decided to know more about the girls. their youthful faces were already serious with cares, and they each assumed that aggressive manner peculiar to those who have been oppressed. they seemed, as they looked up, and squarely faced cora, like girls capable of better work than that in which they were engaged, and they gave the impression of belonging to the distinctive middle class--those "who have not had a chance." "can't you come over in the shade and rest awhile?" asked cora. "you must have picked almost enough for to-day." "oh, to-day won't count, anyway," said the younger girl, with hidden meaning. "nellie!" called her sister, in angry tones. "what are you talking about!" "well, i'm not afraid to tell," she replied. "you had better be," snapped the other. "oh, rose, you're a coward," and nellie laughed, as she kicked aside the vines. "i'm not going to work another minute, and you can go and tell aunt delia ramsy if you've a mind to." at that moment a figure emerged from the shed at the end of the long line of green rows. "there she is now, nellie," said rose. "you can tell her yourself if you like." without another word the girls both again began the task so lately left off, and berry after berry fell into the little baskets. rose had almost filled her tray, and nellie had hers about half full of the quart boxes. "rose!" called the woman's shrill voice, from under the big blue sunbonnet. "come up here and count these tally sticks. some of those kids are snibbying." with a sigh rose picked up her tray, and made her way through the narrow paths. cora saw that the woman had noticed her talking to bess and belle, and while wishing for a chance to talk to nellie alone, she beckoned to her companions to go along up to the shed. "maybe i'll see you soon again," almost whispered nellie, in the way which so plainly betrays the hope of youth. "i am sure you will," replied cora, smiling reassuringly. "what strange girls," remarked belle. "aren't they?" added bess, turning back to get another look at little nellie in her big-brimmed hat. "they are surely going to do something desperate," declared cora, "and i think now that we have found them, as the boys would say, 'it is up to us' to keep track of them." chapter iii the strike "oh, mercy!" exclaimed bess, as they neared the shed, "did you ever see such a hateful old woman!" "hush!" whispered belle. "do you want us to go back to chelton without our berries?" "if she ever looks at them they will sour--they couldn't keep," went on bess, recklessly, but in lowered tones. "we would like two crates of berries," cora was saying to the woman, who stood, hands on her hips, framed in the narrow doorway of the sorting shed. "yes," answered the woman. "step inside and pick 'em out. they are all fresh picked to-day. rose, don't you know enough to make room for the young lady?" and the woman glared at the girl who had hurried in from the patch. "oh, i have plenty of room," cora said with a smile to rose. "what are those little sticks for?" "them's the tally-sticks," answered the woman. "they get one for every quart they pick, and then they cash 'em in. here!" and she snapped a bunch from the trembling hands of the girl who was counting and tying up in bunches the wooden counters, "let me show 'em to the young lady." "oh, i can see them," declared cora, without trying to hide her distaste for the woman's rudeness to rose. "how many tally-sticks did you get to-day?" she asked the girl. "oh, she don't get any," spoke the woman. rose never raised her eyes. "them two girls have me robbed with their eatin' and drinkin' and airs. i have to take care of them--they're me own sister's children," and she raised the hem of her dirty apron to her eyes. "but they help you," insisted cora. "they pick berries all day, do they not?" "help me?" came with a sneer. "i would like to see how! there's shoes to be bought, clothes and all sich. then, butter is high, and them girls must have butter on their bread." "when we don't get anything else," spoke up rose, boldly. "what!" called the aunt, her eyes flashing angrily. "that's the way i'm thanked! go up to the house, and wash them dishes, and don't you leave the house till--i've talked with you," she commanded. "it's a hard job to bring up somebody else's children," and she tried to sigh, "but i am bound to do my best by 'em." bess and belle seemed actually frightened. they did not venture under the roof of the shack, but stood at the door with eyes staring. rose passed out, and, as she did so, she winked at belle. belle gave a friendly little tug at the brown apron as it passed, and then bess went inside, at cora's request, to select her crate. four very small boys slouched up the path to the shed. their crates were full and they seemed ready to drop down from exhaustion. one, with fiery red hair, pushed his way ahead of the others and presented his tray to the woman. she surveyed it critically, then said: "andy, did you swipe a bunch of tallies this morning?" "i did not!" replied the little fellow indignantly. "how many you got?" she demanded. he dug his dirty, brown hands down deep into his trousers pockets. then he brought up three bunches of the tally-sticks. "humph! i thought so," said the woman. "do you mean to tell me a monkey like you can pick ten an hour?" "he's the best picker on the patch," spoke up another lad, "and i was with him when he brought each tray in!" the girls stood back, deeply interested. the woman took the tray from andy and turned away without offering the ten little sticks which represented the gathering of ten quarts of berries. "where's my tallies?" he demanded. "you--jest--w-a-i-t," drawled the woman. the other boys stepped back. evidently they were going to "stick by andy." "i'll give you your crates, and let you go, young ladies," said the woman to cora. "these little rowdies ain't no fit company for customers in automobiles." "oh, indeed we are enjoying looking around," declared cora. "do give the boys their checks, and let them go back to the patch. they are wasting time." thus cornered, the woman was obliged to go on settling with the pickers. "well," she said, "i'll give you credit, andy, until i get a chance to look it up. here, narrow (to a very tall boy), gi'me yourn." "nope!" replied the tall boy. "we waits fer andy." "well, i'm blowed!" exclaimed the woman. "if you kids ain't got a cheek! i've a good mind to chase every one of yer." andy stepped back to where she had deposited the box. "here!" she called, entirely forgetting the presence of the motor girls. "git out of here!" and at that she struck the little fellow a blow on the head that caused him to reel, and then fall backward into an open crate of fresh berries! "now you've done it!" yelled the woman. "you have mashed every one of them! there!" and she dragged him to his little, bruised feet. "do you think i can sell stuff like that! mush! every red berry of 'em!" "oh, make her stop!" pleaded bess to cora. "she may strike him again." "what will you do with that crate of berries?" asked cora, pushing her way between the angry woman and the frightened boy. "make him pay fer 'em, of course," shouted the tyrant. "and serves him right, too, for his imperdence!" big heavy tears plowed their way through the dirty little spots on the boy's cheeks. to pay for the crate would take all his week's earnings. "you did it yourself!" declared a boy who boldly faced the woman, "and andy's not goin' to stand fer it, or we all strike; don't we, fellers?" "sure, we do!" came a chorus, not only from those who had been waiting, but from a second group that had come up in the meantime. "strike, eh?" cried the woman. "well, you kin all clear out! do you hear! every dirty one of ye! git off the place or--i'll let the dogs loose!" "oh, goodness me!" exclaimed bess, clutching cora's sleeve. "do come away! there will be--bloodshed!" "we must wait," replied cora calmly. "i guess she is not so anxious to have her berries rot on the vines, and most of the good pickers seem to be with andy." belle was nervously walking down the path toward the autos. the boys stood defiantly, waiting for the woman to produce andy's tallies. "give him his sticks," called one of them, "or we'll smash every berry in the patch!" "you will, eh!" yelled the woman. "i'll show you!" "oh, cora!" cried bess, but cora was too much interested in the boys to heed. the woman left the shed and ran toward the house. "she's after the dogs!" shouted one boy. "come ahead, fellers!" called another, and at that a dozen or more lads ran wildly through the patch; crushing the ripe luscious fruit as they went. nellie, who was still picking berries, jumped up from her work. she saw the savage dogs tear away from their kennels, their chains rattling as the woman snapped them from the collars. bess and belle ran to cora within the shed. "here, nero! nero!" suddenly called nellie. "here tige! here tige!" wonder of animal instinct! those two dogs forgot the commands of the woman to "sic 'em!" and eagerly they ran to nellie. to nellie to be patted, and caressed. to nellie who fed them! what did they care about the woman who would strike them? nellie was their friend and now they were hers! the woman, having let loose the dogs, ran on toward the house, some distance from the berry shed. chapter iv arbitration like a heroine in a drama nellie stood there, one sunburned hand thrust through the collar of each panting dog. the boys saw their advantage and ran like indians through the patch of berries, tramping the ripe fruit under foot in their unreasoning anger. "hey! stop that!" shouted nellie, "or i'll let them go!" instantly every boy stood still. "come on," called cora to the other two girls, "we must help nellie." as quickly as they could trudge along the rough pathway, cora, bess and belle hurried to where nellie stood with the dogs. "call the boys back to the shed," shouted the girl, "then i can take the dogs to their kennels." "come here, boys!" called cora. "come back to the shed, and we will see fair play!" the words "fair play" had a magical effect on the strikers. they now jumped between the rows, and it would be safe to say that not one of them, in the return, stepped on a single berry. "all right, miss," answered the lad called narrow. "we goes back to the field, if andy gets his tally-sticks." "does this woman own the patch?" asked cora. "never!" replied one of the boys. "she's only the manager. the boss comes up every night to pay us our coin." "then we should see him, i suppose," said cora, as nellie walked past with the dogs close beside her, each animal wagging his appreciation for the girl that led them on. "aunt delia scares easy," whispered nellie, almost in cora's ear. "just chuck a big bluff and she wilts." cora smiled. she was happily versed in the ways and manners of those who "had not had a chance." "i am so afraid she will--hurt rose," sighed belle. "oh dear me! what a place!" "but i think it rather fortunate we were here," replied cora. "these youngsters can scarcely take their own part--prudently." andy hung back near the shed. he was still trying to choke down the tears. how could he ever pay three dollars and seventy-five cents for that crate of crushed berries? and it had not been his fault. the strikers stood around cora, each little fellow displaying his preference for "a good honest strike" to that of hard work, in the sun, on a berry patch. "narrow speaks fer us," announced a sturdy little german lad. "eh, narrow?" "we all goes back, if andy gets his sticks," spoke narrow, who was evidently the strike leader. "well, come along," ordered cora, feeling very much like a strike breaker, "and we will see what mrs. ramsy says." led by the motor girls the procession wended its way back to the shed. "never mind, andy," said a boy called skip, who really did seem to skip rather than walk, "we will see you 'faired.'" andy rubbed his eyes more vigorously than before. cora was in the shed, and nellie hurried away with the dogs, promising to send mrs. ramsy down from the house. meanwhile cora had ample opportunity to get acquainted with her little band of strikers. they were very eager to talk, in fact all seemed anxious to talk at once. and their grievance against the woman "who ran the patch" seemed to have begun long before her present difficulty with andy. "she's as mean as dirt to them two girls," said one urchin, "and anybody kin see that them girls is all right." "they pick out here from the break of day until the moon is lit," said another, "and after that they has to work in the house. there's a couple of boarders there and the girls keeps the rooms slick." "boarders?" asked bess. "yep, and one old dame is a peach," continued the boy, not coarsely but with eager enthusiasm. "the one with the sparklers," added another. "hasn't she got 'em though?" and he smacked his lips as if to relish the fact. "there comes ramsy," whispered a third. "whew! but she looks all het up!" the woman did look that way. her face was as red as the berries in the trays and her eyes were almost dancing out of their sockets. cora spoke before anyone else had a chance to do so. "the boys are willing to arbitrate," she said. then she felt foolish for using that word. "they have come for terms," she said, more plainly. "terms!" repeated the woman scornfully. "my terms is the same now as they was first. andy murry pays for that crate!" "if the crate is paid for will it belong to him?" asked cora. the woman stopped, as if afraid of falling into some trap. "i don't care who owns 'em, when he pays for 'em. but he sneaked out one bunch of tallies----" "he did not!" shouted a chorus. "he earned every one he's got and the ten that you've got!" "and it was you who spoiled the berries by pushing him into them," shouted some others, "and we are here to see him faired." cora was perplexed. she wanted to save more trouble, yet she did not feel it "fair" to give in to the woman. "your berries are spoiling in the fields now," she suggested. "why don't you give in, and let the boys go back to work?" "me give in to a pack of kids!" shouted the enraged woman. "she is always sour on andy because his mother won't do her dirty washing," explained the german boy. "my mother is sick--and she can't wash," sobbed the unfortunate andy. "yep, and that money of his'n was for her, too," put in skip. at this point another figure sauntered down from the house. "there comes mrs. blazes!" put in narrow. "she couldn't miss the show." the woman who came down the path sent on before her the rather overpowering odor of badly mixed perfumes. "look at her sparklers," whispered a boy to cora, "that's why we call her 'blazes.'" a black lace scarf was over the woman's head and now the "sparklers," or diamonds that she wore, in evident flashy taste, could be seen at her throat, and on her fingers. bess smiled to belle, and cora turned to the boys. "we must finish up this business," she said. "it is getting late, and we have to go to chelton." "go ahead!" called the urchins. "fork out andy's sticks," shouted some others. "what is the crate worth?" asked cora. "it was worth three dollars and seventy-five cents," said the woman, "before that scamp deliberately set in it." cora did not intend to argue. "then if the berries are bought you will give the boy his tallies?" she pressed. "of course," drawled the woman, beginning to see cora's intentions. "he's not goin' to pay fer them!" interrupted narrow. "what does she take us for?" "hush!" commanded cora. "just give the boy his sticks, mrs. ramsy, and i'll attend to the rest." "what'll i give him the tallies for when he owes me more than they're worth?" "to satisfy the boys," demanded cora. "i will take that crate of berries. they will suit me as well as any others." seeing herself beaten, the farm woman handed the tally-sticks to cora, who put out her hand to take them. "now, you boys carry that crate down to the big machine in the roadway," she said, "and i will pay mrs. ramsy!" a wild shout went up from the boys! the woman had been beaten! she had not sold but the one crate of berries! and that was the one she demanded andy should pay for! cora winked at bess and belle and the girls understood perfectly what she meant. "don't the other young ladies want any?" asked the woman. "you said two crates!" "but we haven't time now to stop longer," said cora. "we can come again, when the sun will not be so hot. then we may have a better choice." it was andy who helped narrow carry the crate to the _whirlwind_. "thank you, miss," he said, "i was almost sick. and mother expected the money to-night." "yes and she gets it," declared his companion, handing up the crate to cora, who stood in the car. "whew! ain't this a good one though!" and he looked at the splendid maroon auto. "must have cost a lot." "quite a good deal," said cora. "some day, when i come again, perhaps i will give you a nice ride in it!" "there's nellie," called bess. "she wants to speak with us, i guess." the girl, who had put the dogs back on their chains, was hurrying down the path. "good-bye," she said, "i don't think we will be here when you come to-morrow." "where are you going?" asked cora. "don't speak so loud," cautioned nellie. "that old lady blazes is just as bad on us as aunt delia. and worse, for she puts her up to everything." "nellie! nellie!" shrieked the one termed "blazes." "your aunt wants you right away up at the house!" nellie turned with a nod to bess and belle. "ain't that a shame!" said skip. "we will strike fer them girls next." chapter v too confident "mother will be so disappointed not to get her berries," remarked bess, as she and belle, in their little _flyaway_, got out on the road, following cora. "but cora did wonderfully well, i think," replied the sister, "to get the better of that horrid woman. she was going to sell two crates, and she only actually sold the crate which she insisted andy should pay for. it takes cora--she is a born leader." "it certainly was diplomatic," agreed bess, "and i suppose we can come out to-morrow for the others. mother was not particular about having them done up at once. but weren't those girls queer? and how stage-like little nellie looked with those fierce dogs at her side, and the boys standing around her? i declare i think that would make a play." "better try your hand at it," suggested belle. "i always thought you had some hidden talent. it may now be discovered." "and do you think the girls are going to do something desperate?" asked bess, throwing in more speed, and brushing along at a lively rate over the broad country road. "i am sure they are going to do something very unusual, but whether it may be desperate, or simply foolish, would be impossible to surmise with any degree of certainty," replied the judicious belle. "i fancy they intend to--leave the strawberry patch, at least." cora turned, and called to bess to look out for the "thank-you-ma'ams" that were so plentifully scattered over the hill they had just come upon. some were deep and long, she said, and with the ever-increasing grade might stall an overworked engine. following the advice, bess changed to low gear, and crawled up and down the hills, after the pace set by cora. one very steep hill confronted them. the engines of both cars were fairly "gasping for breath," and cora, knowing that the hot radiators could cook anything from cabbage to pork and beans, realized that it was not wise to start up the hill until the engines had been cooled off. consequently the cars stopped near a spring house at the roadside, and the girls alighted to get a refreshing drink. the door was unlocked, and a clear, clean glass stood on a small shelf, just inside the low building. "did you ever see anything so delightful?" exclaimed belle, while cora dipped the glass in the square, cement-lined pool, and brought it up filled with the coolest, and most sparkling water imaginable. "and was it just built for--roadsters?" asked bess, taking the proffered drink. "oh, no indeed," said cora with a laugh. "these spring houses are the farm refrigerators. in this, every evening, i suppose many, many quarts of milk are put to cool for the creamery. i have often seen a spring house just filled with the big milk cans." "oh," answered bess, intelligently. "that's a good idea. just think how much money we could save on ice if we had a spring house." "maybe if we had one, you would be able to cool off sometimes," remarked her sister teasingly. "you look as if you needed a dip this very minute." the red cheeks of bess certainly did look overheated, and the way she plied her handkerchief betrayed her discomfort. "an internal dip will do nicely, thank you," answered the girl. "i don't see that i am any warmer than the rest of you." "here comes a girl from the house," said cora, as down the path a girl, in generous sunbonnet, and overgenerous apron, was seen to approach. "do they wear their sunbonnets to bed?" asked belle. "i am sure there is no sun now." "father will be down in a minute with the team," called out the girl, much to the surprise of the motor girls. "mercy!" exclaimed belle, "are we going to be arrested?" "i think not," replied cora; "however, we are trespassing, though i did think farmer folks very--liberal, especially with their spring water." "the girl is smiling like a 'basket of chips,'" said bess, almost in a whisper. "it is not likely that she is angry with us at all." "did you get a nice drink?" asked the strange girl, with unmistakable friendliness. "oh, yes, thank you very much," spoke up cora, "but i am afraid we are trespassing." "not at all," said the girl. "my name is hope--hope stevens," she said, in the most delightfully simple manner. "i always like to introduce myself--'specially to young girls." "we are very glad to know you, hope," said cora. "this is miss bess robinson, this miss belle robinson, and i am cora kimball." "oh, i know who you are now," declared hope. "they call you the motor girls." "i am afraid they do," agreed bess. "but then we are just plain girls as well--our motors do not make us--we try to make them--go!" "that is what father said when he saw you come over yonder hill, when he left the field to get the team. do you know he makes more money hauling folks with automobiles up this hill, than he does on the farm? he always stops his work and gets the team ready when he sees an auto stuck out here." "oh, that is what he intended to do," said cora. "well, it was very good of him to be so prompt, but we are always able to make our own hills--i don't really think we will need him." "lots of folks think that way," said hope. "but, of course, you ought to know--best. do you think you can get up the hill?" "yes. you see these are practically new machines," explained cora, "and we have been taught to run them carefully." "pa says that girls are more careful than men," added hope, and belle kept her eyes on the pretty face beneath the bonnet. she thought she had never seen such dimples, and such splendidly marked brows. "there comes pa now," went on the girl. "he will be----" "disappointed, of course. it was too bad for him to leave the fields," said cora. "well, the rest won't hurt his poor back," ventured hope. "pa works harder than any of the hired men, and these are very bad hills to farm." "are you ready, young ladies?" called the man from the road, as he backed the sturdy team of horses up close to the _whirlwind_. "i guess this little machine can hitch behind t'other." "really, we do not think we will need any help," said cora, rather confused. "we always take hills without trouble." "never been up this one though," declared the farmer, with a shake of his broad-brimmed hat. "i reckon you'll not be able to fly over the top." "it's awfully good of you," put in bess. "but suppose we try? you see we do not want to break our records." "plucky, all right," the man commented. "well, go ahead, and i'll stop to chat with hope. if you get stuck just give me five quick toots, and i'll be there." the girls thanked him profusely, and after cranking up both the _flyaway_ and the _whirlwind_, said good-bye to hope and her father, and started off, both machines on low gear. "it is steep," remarked belle to bess. "perhaps it would have been well to have taken his offer." "all right?" asked cora from ahead, as she looked back. "thus far," replied bess, clutching the wheel with nervous energy, and slightly retarding the spark. suddenly the _whirlwind_ stopped--but only for an instant, for directly the big four-cylinder car began to back down the steep grade, while bess and belle shouted in terror for cora to turn into the gutter! not knowing how deep and dangerous this gutter was, cora directed the runaway machine well into the side, vainly trying to make the brakes hold. the next moment there was a crash! the _whirlwind_, with cora in the car, was ditched--turned over on its side! bess tooted the horn of the _flyaway_ frantically! then she was able to bring her car to a standstill, and run to cora's assistance. chapter vi cora's queer plight springing to the back of one of the big field horses, farmer stevens responded to the frantic summons of the auto horn, and started with the pair up the hill to the assistance of cora, and the righting of her car, that almost swung between the narrow ledge of land, and the great gulf of mountainous space that lay just beneath the banked up highway. "oh, i am so afraid that cora is hurt," wailed belle. "we can't see her, and she must have been tossed over into the tonneau of the car." "she was on the right hand forward seat," gasped bess, as both girls ran along to the spot where the _whirlwind_ was ditched, "but she may have sprung out to avoid being thrown down the gully." although bess was but a short distance behind cora when the latter's car met with the mishap, it now seemed a long space of roadway that lay between them. of course bess had to bring her car to a safe place, at the side of the thoroughfare, and belle had to help some, so that it had taken a minute or two to do this, before they could run to cora. in the meantime mr. stevens came along with his horses, and hope, signalled by the tooting of the horn of the _flyaway_, had called two of his hired men from the fields, so that the ditched auto and the danger to its driver met with ready assistance. "oh, if cora should be----" then belle checked herself. she had an unfortunate habit of predicting trouble. mr. stevens left his horses by the rail fence through which the _whirlwind_ had passed without hesitation, and bess was beside him just as he reached the big car. "oh, where is she!" wailed the girl, unable longer to restrain her fears. there was the car, partly overturned but seemingly not damaged. neither within nor without was there a sign of cora! "she must have been thrown down the embankment," said the man anxiously. "she surely is not with the machine." bess now joined belle and ran to the edge of the cliff. almost afraid to look, they peered over the brink. "where can she be?" breathed belle, her hands clasped nervously. "cora! cora, dear!" called bess. "where are you?" "here!" came what seemed to be a very faint reply. "where?" shouted the girls, now making their way down, step by step, over the perilous cliffs. farmer stevens knew every inch of that hill. he often had to rescue from its uncertainties either a sheep or a young cow. he also knew that precisely where the machine was ditched, the hill shelved to a perfectly straight bank, so that instead of an incline the wall of earth actually seemed to run under the surface. "if she went over there," he told himself, "she never stopped until--she landed." "oh, cora!" called the girls again, "can't you tell us where you are?" "look out there, young ladies," cautioned mr. stevens, "or you may go down--double quick!" hope was scaling the rocks like a wild creature. the two hired men were almost jumping from cliff to cliff making straight for the clump of hemlock trees at the very edge of the stream, that, in its quiet way, defied the great hill above it. "here she is!" called hope. "here in the--bed of hemlock!" to bess and belle, not acquainted with the peculiarities of the flat-branched evergreen, finding cora in "a bed of hemlock" was rather a startling discovery, but to hope--what nest could have been safer! cora had fallen over the cliff into the soft branches of a tree that jutted out from the shelving earth. "are you hurt?" asked the girl from the farm, looking up into the branch of the big green tree. "i don't know--i don't think so, but i feel queer. i must get down," cora managed to say. by this time the others had reached the spot. bess and belle were almost hysterical lest cora should lose her hold and again fall to a more dangerous landing. but the hired men stationed themselves under the tree, and, with their strong arms netted beneath the giant evergreen, they waited for mr. stevens to give an order. "all ready?" asked mr. stevens. "yes, sir," replied the men. "young lady, can you get free of the branches?" he called to cora. "i am directly over a great hole," she answered timidly, "and i am afraid i cannot hold on another minute." "then drop," said the farmer. "we will catch you. don't be afraid. you can't escape the arms of sam and frank!" "oh, if she should go to the bottom," wailed belle, covering her face with her trembling hands and uttering sighs and sobs. bess was more courageous, but equally frightened. sam and frank stood like human statues. clasped hand to wrist, their sunburned arms looked strong and secure. presently there was a fluttering in the leaves--a slide through the branches and cora dropped--down on the human net of arms, safe, and seemingly sound, but too weak to recover herself at once from the strange position. gently as could a woman, these farm hands lowered their burden to the soft bed of moss at their feet. belle and bess leaned over the quiet form, while hope hurried to the stream below for some water, which she quickly brought in the strong cup improvised from her stiffened sunbonnet. "this is spring water," she said. "swallow a few mouthsfull." cora opened her lips and sipped from the strange cup. then she turned and tried to rise, growing stronger each instant, and determined to "pull herself together." "wasn't it silly?" she asked, finally. "wasn't it awful! are you much hurt?" inquired belle, fanning cora with her motor hood. "not a bit--that i can tell," she answered. "that natural--hammock--was a miracle." she attempted to rise, but fell back rather suddenly. "i've got a twist somewhere," she said. "i think my shoulder is sprained." without waiting to be asked to do so frank, the younger of the farm hands, put his arm about cora's waist, and brought her to her feet. "oh, thank you," she stammered rather shyly. "i am sure you have helped me wonderfully. i don't know how to thank you--all." "you can stand, eh?" asked mr. stevens, satisfaction showing in his voice, and ruddy face. "i suppose you feel--that i should have taken your offer for the horses?" she remarked with confusion. "well, there is always a first time," he replied, "but since you are no worse off you must not complain. guess the boys had better lift you to the road. then we will see if you can run your car." again, in that straightforward way, peculiar to those who know when they're right and then go ahead, the "boys" simply picked cora up, she putting her arms over their shoulders, and while the three other girls wended their way over the cliff, cora was carried safely back to the spot where still lay the helpless _whirlwind_. chapter vii the clue at the spring house just how cora did manage to run her car into chelton, with a stiffened wrist and a twisted shoulder, she was not able to explain afterward to the anxious ones at home. belle rode with her, and was sufficiently familiar with the machine to take a hand at the wheel now and then, but it was cora who drove the _whirlwind_, in spite of that. it was now two days since the eventful afternoon at the strawberry patch, and the girls were ready again to make the trip to squaton, in quest of the crate of berries promised to mrs. robinson. jack argued that his sister was not strong enough to run her car with ease, so he insisted on going along. then, when his friends, ed foster and walter pennington, heard of this they declared it was a trick of jack's to "do them out of a run with the motor girls," and they promptly arranged to go along also. ed rode with walter, in the latter's runabout, and the twins were, of course, together in the _flyaway_, while cora was beside jack in the _whirlwind_, for, although the girls were speedily turning into the years that would make them young ladies, they still maintained the decorum of riding "girls with girls" and "boys with boys," except on very rare occasions. as they rode along, an old stone house, set far back from the highway, attracted jack's attention. "let's stop here," he suggested, "and look over the place. i'll bet it has an open fire place with a crane and fixings, for cooking." word was passed to those in the other cars, and all were glad to stop, for the afternoon was delightful, and the ride to squaton rather short. as no path marked the grass that led to the old house it was evident that no one had lately occupied it. the boys ran on ahead to make sure that no ghosts or other "demons" might be lurking within the moldy place, while cora, bess and belle stopped to pick some particularly pretty forget-me-nots, from near the spring that trickled along through the neglected place. just back of the house, over the spring, the boys discovered the inevitable house for cooling milk, and here they delayed to drink from their pocket cups. "what's in the other side?" asked walter, peering through the broken boards into a second room or shed, for the shack was divided into two parts. "more spring, i suppose," replied jack, taking his third drink from the small cup. walter and ed had finished drinking just as the girls came up, and jack attended to their various degrees of thirst for pure spring water. "what a quaint old place," remarked belle. "what's in the other little house?" "we are just about to find out," said jack. "the other fellows couldn't wait, and are in there now." hurrying out, they all entered, through the battered door, into the "other side." "well, i declare!" exclaimed ed. "what does this mean?" "i also declare, 'what does this mean?'" added jack, picking up from a queer sort of wooden platform in the place, the unmistakable blue bonnet of a child or young girl. "and this!" exclaimed cora, picking up a hat. "this is--nellie's hat! nellie from the strawberry patch!" "they have run away!" gasped bess, without further investigation, "and here are the remains of their lunch!" the fragments of a very meager meal--some crusts of dry bread--and an empty strawberry box, told the story. "surely this had been the lunch of the runaways." "they must have slept here," went on cora. "poor little dears! what a shame! how frightened they must have been to sleep in such a place." "when you young ladies get through with the allegory, i hope you will give us the libretto," interrupted jack. "who may be the fair maids who have slept in this shack, and eaten the bread of freedom?" "why, the girls from the strawberry patch, of course," said bess, as if that explained everything. "why 'of course,'" said jack mockingly. "certainly, of course," put in ed, in the same tone of voice. "and, to be sure, of course," went on walter, provokingly. "why, we didn't tell you, did we?" spoke cora finally. then she did tell as much as she thought it wise to divulge about nellie and rose. this information "caused a stir," (as jack put it) among the boys. instantly they began up-turning stones, pulling down boards, and doing all sorts of foolish things searching for the runaways. but no other evidences were unearthed of the stay of the two girls in the spring house. "i hope they hear us," called jack, finally, raising his voice almost to a shout. "i must find rose," he called. "rose is all the world to me! my own little garden flower without a thorn----" walter interrupted with: "i must see nellie home! nellie! nellie! pretty little nellie!" "do be quiet," begged cora, "you will arouse the ghosts in the old house." "let's," suggested walter. "haven't seen a ghost in an age, and a ghost would be just pie for us in this place." "please don't," almost sobbed belle. "i am really awfully creepy in here." seeing that she was actually nervous, the girls went outside, but the boys were not yet satisfied with their investigations. "what on earth is this rig-a-my-gig for?" asked walter, indicating the big sloping circular platform which occupied nearly all the space in the shack. it was on a pivot and could be turned around. "why, that's--let me see, that's----" but jack couldn't just say what it was. "i know," exclaimed ed, suddenly. "that's a treadmill." "a thread mill?" asked walter. "no, a treadmill--a mill that was treaded. they used to make butter in olden times by having a sheep or a dog travel around on that sort of wheel, which was geared to a churn." "see page one hundred and eight encyclopedia fosteria," put in jack, with a good natured slap on ed's broad shoulders. "when you don't see what you want--ask ed," he finished. feeling that they had actually solved the mystery of the circular platform, the boys spent some time in examining the strange machine. meanwhile the girls were peering in the broken windows of the old house, for bess insisted that nellie and rose might have fallen ill after their long tramp from the strawberry patch, and that they might actually be lying within the tottering mass of mortar, beams and stones. but, of course, the fears of bess were soon proved unfounded, and, at the urgent order of cora, the party started again on the road to squaton to get that "much delayed" crate of berries for mrs. perry robinson. "keep a lookout along the road for the girls," cora directed, as they started off. "we might spy them resting under a tree." "you will never spy them," insisted jack. "i am going to find rose--my rose, and walter has his heart set on nellie--_the_ nellie. so you girls may go to sleep, if you wish, for all the good your looking will do." only a joke--but many a jest begets a truth! so the motor girls thought, in their long search for the unfortunate runaways. chapter viii a startling discovery all was confusion at the strawberry patch. the two orphan girls, rose and nellie catron, had disappeared the night before, it was said, and not until shortly before the arrival of our friends in the automobiles, was another loss discovered--that of a pair of very valuable diamond earrings, the property of miss hanna schenk, otherwise known among the pickers as "mrs. blazes." so it was that the chelton young folks, as jack said, "struck a hornet's nest," for mrs. ramsy, somehow, seemed to be of the opinion that cora could tell, if she would, something about the runaways. "what could give you that idea, mrs. ramsy?" demanded cora indignantly. "i only saw your nieces while i was here the other day, and i am sure i would have advised them to stay where they were, had they ever mentioned to me their intentions of leaving." "that's all very well, young lady," growled the woman, "but i noticed how them girls edged up to you, and your friends, and i warn you, if i find that you have helped them off i'll have the law on _you_." at this the young men came up to the shed where the unpleasant conversation was in progress. jack, of course, was indignant, and, not only did he oblige cora to leave the place at once, but, while doing so, he expressed his opinion directly to mrs. ramsy as to his personal measure of her character. the whole affair was rather awkward, and the robinson girls were obliged to leave the patch once more without their crate of berries. just outside the wire fence, and when the girls were about to step into the cars, they were hailed by andy--the small boy whom cora had so favored by buying the damaged crate of berries. "wait a minute, miss," he called. "i've got something fer you," and, so saying, he stepped up to the _whirlwind_ and, very cautiously, handed cora a slip of paper. she took it and read these scrawled lines: "miss: we are going away, but we think we will see you again some day. you will find your crate of berries under the tree where andy will show you. they belonged to us and we paid for them. rose catron and nellie catron." cora looked down at andy for a further explanation. "they had to go away, miss," he said; "they couldn't stand it another minute. i will show you where the berries are." "but how did the girls get the berries? they had no money," argued cora. "no, but their aunt delia took from them a ring that belonged to their own mother, and they took the crate to get even," declared andy, his voice and manner showing his high regard for the "getting even" part. cora told the girls and boys about the matter, and they decided to go after the berries. consequently cora insisted that andy ride in her car to the old willow tree, somewhat down the road, and as each tenth of a mile was marked in red on the speedometer dial the little fellow's face threatened more and more to catch fire from the auburn curls that fell in joyous affright about his temples. jack thought he had never known what it was to really enjoy a ride before, and he whispered to cora that he very much wished he might take andy home "for a paper weight, or a watch charm." "right over there," directed andy, after about a mile's ride, "under the big willow." turning the car in that direction, jack drove across a shallow ditch, and was soon under the tree, while the other machines waited on the safer roadway. andy scrambled out, and jack, leaving the wheel, went after him, followed by cora. "here," said the boy, pulling aside a thick clump of berry vines. "here's the crate." sure enough, there was the new crate, filled with berries, safe and untouched. "well, i declare!" exclaimed cora. "i really did not expect to find them." "very thoughtful of my rose-bud," declared jack, lifting the lid of the box. "what's this?" he went on, picking up a small object. "something else for cora, i wonder?" at that moment, fortunately, andy was occupied with a particularly attractive branch of red raspberries, and he did not see jack lift out the article. cora, so quick to apprehend any possible danger for others, was beside jack instantly. "hush!" she whispered. "don't tell the rest! it is an empty jewel box--earrings have been in it!" "you don't mean to say that the--girls have gone off with the old lady's earrings!" exclaimed jack. "and left the empty box in this crate to get you into trouble!" "indeed i do not mean to say anything of the kind," hastily answered cora. "i have always found that the most suspicious circumstance may turn out to be the most innocent matter, and, in this case, i have not the slightest doubt that we will find my rule to work true. in the meantime," she continued, slipping the little case within her blouse, "i will take care of the--evidence." it was not without a rather nervous fluttering of her usually reliable nerves, that cora finally did secrete the jewel box, and in spite of her firm declaration to jack, she could not just convince herself that it was altogether right for whoever had put the empty earring case in the crate, to have done so without making some sort of explanation. for a moment she thought of asking little andy if he could tell her anything of the strange affair, then she quickly concluded to await developments. "jack," she said, "we will take the crate of berries in our car. we have more room than the others, and perhaps andy would like a ride in town with us. he can take a trolley car back." this pleased the youngster immensely, and so, when the famous crate of berries was at last loaded on the _whirlwind_, and the word had been given to the others, the party started off on a merry run towards chelton. on the way cora had a chance to find out from the boy that the girls, rose and nellie, had walked away from their aunt's place after nightfall. also that he, and some other boys, had helped them carry their things, which, as far as the willow tree, included the crate of berries. cora also learned that the girls had started out "to see the world," and this last piece of information did not add to her peace of mind concerning the two orphans, who knew so little of this world, and its consequent dangers. jack was greatly taken with andy, and promised to pick him up for a ride every time the _whirlwind_ came out squaton way. "maybe you could get me a job," said the little fellow, glancing up with unstinted admiration at cora's handsome brother. "believe i could," replied jack. "let me see, what is your specialty--what can you do?" "i am a caddy," replied andy proudly. "they say i'm just as quick as any of them to trace a ball." "well now, that's fine!" declared jack. "we play golf out chelton way. suppose you just take a trolley ride in next saturday, and we will see what we can do. here is your car-fare. be sure not to lose it, for trolley fellows are no respecters of persons." meanwhile bess and belle were racing with walter and ed, and the afternoon was to them a time of that sort of enjoyment that comes unbidden, unplanned, and therefor proof against disappointment. of course cora was not by any means miserable, for no companion was to her more her chum than was jack; then little andy lent his novel personality to her surroundings, but still the thought that two young girls, rose and nellie, had deliberately run away, that they were practically accused of having taken a pair of diamond earrings valued at two hundred and fifty dollars, and that the case in which these stones seemed to have formerly reposed was actually found by cora in the berry crate--was it any wonder that she did not laugh as lightly as did bess robinson? or that she refused ed foster's pressing invitation to go into snow's for an ice cream drink? at the drug store jack stopped the _whirlwind_ to allow little andy to board a trolley car back to squaton, but, as he left, cora warned him to be very careful what he said about the runaways. "oh, don't you never fear, miss," he answered, crowding his negatives to make one good big "no." "rose and nellie are my friends, and i know how to stick by 'em." chapter ix complications "isn't it strange, jack," almost whispered cora to her brother, as, later that evening, the two sat on the veranda of their home, and talked over the day's proceedings, "i cannot believe--they--took them. but it does look very----" "well, sis," began the young man, "we have had other experiences with things that _looked_ strange, and you will remember that strange looks are not to be depended upon for absolute facts." "oh, i don't mean to say that those two poor, strange girls could be so dishonest," she hurried to say, "but the trouble is, that mrs. ramsy is angry with them for leaving her, and of course she will do all she can to make trouble for them. then she even threatened me." "she did, eh?" exclaimed jack. "well, she had better go slow. i don't call a person ignorant just because they happen to be illiterate, for i always find they know more than i do on some subject, but this woman--she is the--limit." "you see," faltered cora, hardly knowing just how to tell her brother, "the girls, it seems, had their mother's wedding ring, and she took it from them. to make up for that they took the crate of berries, then finding the earring-box in it----" "i know exactly what you are afraid to surmise, sis," said jack, "but, as i said before, it may all be wrong. i, of course, have never seen the girls, and cannot confess to so lively an interest in them as you have worked up, but i must say, i would like to see the old lady get what's coming to her." the brother and sister sat in silence for a few moments, then a step on the path attracted their attention. "here comes belle," exclaimed cora. "whatever brought her out alone, so near to nightfall? she is usually so timid." belle was actually trembling, as she took a chair on the porch. "oh dear!" she began, "i am all out of breath. i was just scared to death coming over." "why didn't you 'phone?" asked jack, "and i would have gone over after you." "cora," went on belle, ignoring jack's remark, "i am afraid--there is a strange detective in--chelton!" "well, what of that?" asked cora, with a laugh. "detectives are not really dangerous; are they?" "now don't joke," begged the girl. "i came over to warn you!" "to warn me!" "yes, i heard that they are looking for----" "detectives looking for cora!" almost yelled jack, leaping up from his chair, as if some hidden spring had thrown him to his feet. "this is some of that woman's work! tell me quickly, belle, all you have heard--all you know." "bess and i were at the post-office when two strange men alighted from a runabout," went on belle. "they came inside--and at the stamp window asked where cora kimball lived. then bess became alarmed, declared that they were detectives, and she wanted to come straight over and tell you, but father drove up at that very moment, and bess had to go in town with him. then i was on my way over when tillie, our maid, met me and told me that mother had company from the west, and i was to hurry back home. oh dear me, i did think i would never get here! such complications!" "now, dear," said cora soothingly, "don't you be the least bit alarmed. of course, it is quite natural that mrs. ramsy should try to find her nieces, and quite right, too, so there is no harm whatever in her directing any one to me, to make inquiries. she evidently thinks i know more about the girls than i do." "but there is a note in the evening paper telling all about the whole thing," declared belle, "and it mentions that one hundred dollars reward will be paid for the return of the diamond earrings." "which looks," said jack, "as if they are more anxious about the stones than they are about the girls. well, we will have to await developments. i was going down to bowl to-night, but i guess i had better hang around now." "why, don't be foolish, jack. you may just as well go out as not. even if a strange man does come up, i am sure i will be able to talk to him. i have--ahem!--met strange men before," declared cora. "all the same, i guess i'll stay. i want to take belle home, at any rate, and i am not particularly interested in the bowling game to-night, though ed wanted me to be on hand." a shout from the road, however, reminded jack that it was time to start. the voice was at once recognized as that of ed foster, and cora begged her brother to run along, and have no fears on her account. "and father and bess will stop for me later," declared belle. "they have been taking the western folks out for a run. bess has the car and papa the carriage, so there is no danger but that i shall fit in somewhere." it was, nevertheless, much against the better judgment of jack kimball that he left his sister and belle, and joined his companions bound for the bowling alleys. he did not mention to either ed or walter his fears for the comfort of cora, should she be visited by the detective, but they both noticed that he was not quite his jolly self, and that he seemed to take little interest in their conversation or the sport at the alleys. it was now almost nine o'clock, and, as belle and cora sat on the porch, enjoying the moonlight, in spite of their disturbed state of mind, they began to feel that the detective scare had been unfounded. "i can't see why they would ask where you lived," said belle, "if they did not intend to call on you." at that moment a runabout turned into the driveway. startled, the girls sprang from their seats and hurried forward to see who might be coming. belle clutched cora's arm. "oh, it is the detectives," she gasped. "i know their machine! oh, why did we let jack go away?" "don't be nervous," commanded cora. "if they really are detectives they will have reason to suspect us, if they find us frightened." then, at a sudden thought, she added: "belle, i believe you had better run indoors. you are nervous, and you might say something that would be better unsaid. i am sorry that the maids are both out, and that mother is not at home--it does seem as if we should have kept jack." there was no time for further comment, for as cora opened the french window to allow belle to enter the house without being noticed, the two men were seen coming up the path. cora had been in unpleasant predicaments before, each time the circumstance being a matter of protecting some friend, and this time she felt "keyed up" to almost any emergency. also her past experience had taught her valuable lessons, so that she had no idea now of saying one word that might in any way compromise the two helpless catron girls. but even so wise a girl as cora kimball may be careless in some matter, that, in itself, may seem unimportant, but upon which may hang the very thread of fate. "is this miss kimball?" asked the shorter of the two gentlemen who approached her. "yes," she replied with unconcern. she stepped directly under the electric light that illumined the porch. "we are sorry to disturb you, especially as it is rather late," said the other man with unmistakable politeness, "but being in town we thought to cover this end of our business without making a second trip to chelton. is your brother, or mother at home?" "no," replied cora, "but, if it is necessary, i can call for my brother, over the telephone." "well, our business is a little unpleasant," went on the man, "and we would prefer to speak with you--before your brother. yet, as he is not at home, i believe we had best call again. we really only need to make sure that you are not going out of town at once. we have heard that you intend going to the seashore, and as we are detectives, looking for the two catron girls, we felt you might be able to give us some clue as to their whereabouts. however," and he turned to go down the steps, "we will come again to-morrow--if we may now make an appointment for an interview with you." cora was much impressed with the man's manners. she moved to the edge of the steps. "certainly, i shall be at home to-morrow," she said, "and i will have my brother here with me. i will answer any questions, but really i know absolutely nothing of the whereabouts of the girls." the men were on the steps. the light from the porch lamp cast a shadow, and cora raised her hand to turn the switch that would light the lower steps. as she did so, something dropped from her blouse. the detective stooped to hand it to her. it was the empty jewel case! chapter x almost--but not quite "certainly take it," said cora, "if it is of any use to you. i found it--out near the strawberry patch." she was speaking to the surprised detective. he was examining the empty jewel case, and she had no idea of denying how she had come by it. from the description furnished to them the men were, of course, easily able to identify the tell-tale box. but in spite of their consideration, and good manners, the detectives felt that they had stumbled on a very important piece of evidence. certainly, this was the box that miss schenk had described as that in which her earrings usually were placed. true, she could not specify just when she had last put them in this box, but that this was _the_ box was an important discovery. "i cannot believe that the girls took the gems," said cora, as the men at last turned to go, "for they seemed really such innocent young girls. the only thing unusual about them, that i noticed, was that they had been overworked, and were consequently rather----" "revengeful," finished one of the men. "that is the suspicious point--even good young girls may be driven to desperation. however, miss kimball, with your permission, we will call to-morrow at four," and they raised their hats, and went down the walk. cora was stunned--that she should have placed into the very hands of the detectives so important a clue! "and i meant to hide that box safely in my room," she reflected. "that was why i kept it in my blouse,--so as not to forget it." the long window opened and belle almost fell into cora's arms. "oh, have they gone at last?" she gasped. "what dreadful thing happened?" "why, nothing happened," replied cora, making up her mind instantly that the fewer persons who knew about the jewel box the better. "i thought them very polite officers." "but when i saw you step to turn on the light i thought something happened--i saw you start." "belle, my dear, you are too romantic," said cora, evasively. "i am afraid i shall have to disappoint you this time, however, for my callers scarcely said a single word that was new. they are just looking for our runaways. and i do wonder where the poor, dear, lost, little things may be to-night!" "isn't it dreadful to think about it! i have read of such things, but to think that we really--know the girls." there was a catch in belle's voice when she said "know the girls." plainly she had her doubts about the desirability of their acquaintance. a whistle on the path told of jack's return. "dear me," exclaimed cora, "whoever would think it is almost ten o'clock!" "and what can have become of papa and the others!" pondered belle. "they were to call for me----" the familiar toot of the _flyaway's_ horn interrupted her. "there they are now," declared cora. "my! what a full evening we have had. i feel almost too flustrated to meet your western friends," and she smoothed out various discrepancies in her toilette. "come on, belle," called bess from the machine. "we can't come up. it's too late, cora!" she continued to call, "come here a moment. i want to tell you something." at this cora and belle went down to the roadway. bess was in the _flyaway_ with her mother and a strange lady, while down near the turn, at the corner, the lights of mr. robinson's carriage could be seen flickering in the summer night's shadows. he had not gone on the long road taken by the auto and in consequence, the two vehicles had arrived at the same time. "cora," began bess, without introducing the stranger, "we have had the strangest experience! away out on the river road we thought we heard the cry of a young girl! yes, and we saw something white run across the road, in such a lonely place!" "mercy!" interrupted belle. "i am glad i was not along." "well, papa happened to meet us there and stopped, and the coachman got out, and we looked all over the place with our lamps in hand, and see what we found!" in the uncertain light cora could not at once make out just what was the object bess held up for her inspection. "don't you recognize it?" asked bess. "why, it's nellie's gingham dress; the very one she wore the other day." "oh," gasped belle, "do you suppose they have drowned themselves!" "come, daughter," interrupted mrs. robinson, "we have already heard too much of these two very--indiscreet young persons. come, belle, my dear, we must get home. cora, i would not advise you to waste too much sympathy on the girls from that farm. evidently they are quite capable of looking after themselves." this was said with that authoritative manner used by older, and more prudent persons, when trying to curb the enthusiasm of the inexperienced. mrs. robinson was not unkind, but she did not think it wise to let the girls' sympathy "run away with them," as her husband put it. "all right, mamma dear," replied belle meekly, really glad to climb into the small seat at the back of the _flyaway_ and start for home. the detectives had furnished enough excitement, but now came this strange news---- "oh, i just want to tell cora one thing more," said good-natured bess. "cora, when we finally did give up the search, and had gone along a little way, a trolley car passed, and it stopped just at that turn in the road where there was an electric light." "and couldn't you see who boarded it?" asked cora. "no, it was a park resort car, and just packed full of people, so we didn't even have a chance to get a glimpse of those who either got on or got off. well, good night, dear," and bess switched on the spark and started the engine without cranking. "i will see you to-morrow. we have got to finish up our plans--for--you know." it was the approach of jack that stopped bess in her remark. the young man joked about it, and declared that he would soon discover the secret, warning the girls that cora could never keep good news away from him, and that he felt it in his bones she would tell him about it that very night. the girls retaliated with the assurance that this time, at least, jack was not to know their secret, then, when the _flyaway_ had whirred itself off, cora and jack, arm in arm, started back to the porch. cora hardly knew how to tell her brother about the jewel box, but she finally managed to explain the peculiar happening. "well," said jack, when she paused for his opinion, "there's no use crying over spilled milk. the thing to do, i suppose, is to keep one's hands off milk. now, i reckon you will be subjected to a lot of questions, when those fellows come to-morrow." "they were really very polite," cora assured him, "and i haven't the slightest dread about their questions. it seems to me, now, that we all ought to do what we can to trace the girls. from what bess just told me i am afraid they are running about at night in lonely and dangerous places. and bad as their lot might have been, with their aunt, that was safer than these night escapades." "true--very true, little sister," said jack with his usual good spirits, "at the same time if they have committed--we will call it an indiscretion, in trying earrings in their ears, it might be just as well to give them a chance. no use running them into the very teeth of the law." that was exactly how cora felt about it. "well," she said, as she picked up her fan and other little belongings, preparatory to going indoors, "we will see what comes of my official investigation. perhaps, when the detectives have finished questioning me, they will be able to go to a telephone and call the girls home. i have always heard that detectives do such wonderful things." "well, this time, sis, i will be at home when they call, unless something very unforeseen happens." jack pushed the bolt on the heavy door, and cora went over the first floor of the house, attending to the duties, with which her mother, upon her departure for the city, had entrusted her. then, handing the silver to jack, she put out the lights, and bade him an affectionate good-night. chapter xi andy's warning the parlor maid tapped at cora's door. gentle as was the touch, it awakened the girl, who answered quickly. "miss," said the maid, "there is a little boy downstairs who says he must see you at once. he simply won't take no for an answer." "a little boy?" repeated cora, sleepily. "why, it's only six o'clock!" "yes, i know that, miss," went on the girl, "but mary says he was outside on the step when she came down at five. he's a poor-looking little boy, but he doesn't want anything to eat. he says he must speak to you." without the slightest idea who her caller might be, cora hurried into a robe and went down. "he's on the side porch, miss cora," said the maid. cora went out through the opened french window. "why, andy!" she exclaimed, for her early visitor was none other than the boy from the strawberry patch. "whatever brought you into chelton so early?" "it's about the girls," he said under his breath, looking around suspiciously. "and it's about that old mrs. blazes!" "no one will hear you," cora assured him, taking a seat by his side. "what about the girls, and miss schenk?" "yes, and i was afraid i would not get here in time. she's comin' in here--to scare you. i heard her tell mrs. ramsy so." "and you hurried in to warn me!" cried cora, much amused at the lad's simplicity. "i am sure i am very, very much obliged. but tell me, what did she say?" andy shifted about uneasily. evidently the information he had was not of the nature pleasant to impart. "it was awful late last night when i heard it," began the boy. "mrs. ramsy owed mother for some washing, and she said if i went after the money late, when she had time to--bother with me, she would give it to me. well, i waited until i saw she had slicked up the work the girls used to do, and i was going to knock at the side door, when i saw two strange men get out of an automobile, and make for ramsy's front door." andy paused, evidently expecting some show of surprise at this information. "well, go on, andy," urged cora. "what did the strange men have to do with it all?" "they asked for miss schenk, and i just guessed right. they were detectives!" andy's eyes opened and closed in nervous excitement. to talk of detectives! to have seen them and to have heard _them_ talk! "well," spoke cora, almost smiling, "it was certainly right for miss schenk to have detectives look for her valuables." "that's all right," assented the boy, "but wait till you hear! they told her--them two big fellows, that you--had the empty earring box, and that they got it from you!" for a moment cora was quite as indignant as she rightly supposed andy to be. "did they say they got it from me?" she questioned. "they said they were on the right track and would have the diamonds back to miss schenk in one day. then, when i heard them say your name, and that they had got the box out here, i just rubbered fer fair, i did." "now, are you sure, andy, that you understood just what they said?" asked cora, to whom the actual report of the detectives to miss schenk meant so much. "try to tell me word for word." "oh, i heard them all right," replied the lad, "fer i crawled straight under the window, and i was as close as if i was in the old rocking chair under mrs. ramsy's arm. the thin fellow said he had found the box. mrs. ramsy asked where, and i thought she would swallow her new teeth the way she--gulped. then the fellow said he had got them from a young lady out in chelton. this was like a firecracker to the women, and they both went off at such a rate, that the fellows had to stop until they cooled off. then, when they had said about all they could think of about girls in automobiles, and girls that came out makin' believe to buy berries, and just to steal--then, the other fellow--he has young whiskers--he said, that he couldn't say any more just then, but he did have to say that he got the box from miss cora kimball." this was a very long, and trying explanation for a boy like andy, and he showed how the effort affected him. he jabbed his hands into his pockets, crossed and recrossed his sunburned legs, then at last, with one final attempt at self-possession, he got up and deliberately chased the cat off the porch. "was that your cat?" he asked sheepishly, realizing that he had no right to interfere even with a cat on another person's stoop. "why, yes," replied cora, "but it is too early for his breakfast, and he knows he is not fed--here. so it's all right." then andy sat down again, a little shy from his error, for he suddenly remembered a story his mother used to tell him of a rich young lady and her pet cat. "but you were saying," cora reminded him, her voice kinder if possible than before, "that these detectives claimed i gave them the box. or did you say they claimed to have taken it from me?" andy scratched his head, right at the left ear which always served as a cue to the forgotten thing. "they didn't say neither one," he replied finally. "they--said--they got the box in chelton--off a young lady!" cora never before realized what an error in speech might involve, but she knew it was useless to question the boy further. "well, don't worry about it," she said, "and i think now you ought to be ready for breakfast. come, i guess mary has something ready." the boy stood up beside cora, then, following an impulse that he plainly could not resist, he stepped between her and the door to the dining room. "i ain't hungry, miss," he said, "but i want to warn you. you better git out of the state!" so sudden and so unexpected was this bit of advice that cora almost laughed, but looking into the earnest face before her she was constrained to repress even a smile. "why, andy," she cried, "i am not afraid of any one. i don't have to run away." "well, you better be," he declared, his cheeks reddening to the very tint of his hair. "you better be afraid of ramsy and schenk. they're a hot team." "but what have i done?" continued cora, for the boy's manner demanded attention. "my uncle didn't do anything either when he got out of the state. and if it hadn't been for that he would have been sent up. fer nothin', too." that there was more wisdom than eloquence in this was plain to cora, but, even at that, she failed to grasp the whole meaning of andy's warning. "will you go to-day?" he almost begged. "why, andy?" "yes, please do go. i would hate to see you git into that--mix-up." "now, little boy, you must not worry about me. see what a big strong girl i am, and you know what a strong man jack is." "'taint a matter of fists," andy declared, clenching up his brown hands, "but it's them womens' tongues. you don't know what sneaks they are, and if you don't say you will go away to-day, before they git at you, i think i had better tell your brother all about it." "haven't you told _me_ all about it?" "not quite," said andy. "i don't suppose a girl ought--to know everything about--scraps!" chapter xii the "unplanned" plans cora was always a pretty girl, but in her corn-colored, empire gown, that morning at the breakfast table, even her own brother was forced to express openly his admiration for her. "whew, cora!" he exclaimed, "but you do look like a--tea-rose in that wrapper." "jack, dear, this is not a wrapper, but the very best design in empire," and she smoothed out the fullness that lay about her. "well, it's all right, anyway," declared jack. "makes me think of rose leaves, the way it clings about you." "what a pretty speech, brother. now, if that had only been saved up for bess, or belle or hazel! by the way, we haven't seen hazel this summer. i suppose she is studying as hard as ever. what a pity a bright girl like hazel is not bright enough to save her health by taking the regulation vacation." "well, with paul away i suppose hazel thinks there is nothing left to do but study. i never saw brother and sister more attached," remarked jack, taking his fruit from the dainty leaves in which, when cora "kept house," she always insisted that fruit be served. paul and hazel hastings were indeed devoted brother and sister. paul was also a devotee of the motor, and more than the amateur chauffeur, yet not quite the professional. he had an interesting part to play in the story "the motor girls on a tour." but cora had just remarked, hazel had not been with them during the summer in which this story took place, and, as jack further explained, this was due to the fact that paul hastings, after a severe illness, had taken a position to operate a car abroad, mr. robinson having arranged the "business end," in recognition of paul's heroic work for mr. robinson in a mysterious robbery. "but belle had a letter from hazel," said jack, after some thought, the trick of which was not lost on cora. "yes, she said hazel might go away with them. and now, sis, where are they going, anyway? come, haven't i waited long enough for that secret?" "it really isn't any secret, jack, but the girls have a baby way of wanting to keep things to themselves until all the preparations are made. i find it convenient to--keep my affairs to myself, so you see, dear, i have a selfish motive in humoring the others." cora's cheeks lighted under the cascade of shadows that fell from her splendid black hair. jack saw, too, that his "little sister" was growing up, and even in her summer plans there were things other than flounces and frills to be considered. the lighter vein of their conversation had been taken up after cora had told her brother all that she felt it was prudent to tell about andy's early morning call. and now---- "well, i suppose you are determined to see the detective fellows," said jack, moving cora's chair out so that she might more easily leave the table. "what else can i do?" she asked, and answered at once, with her decisive tone of voice. "i think with andy--you ought to 'git away,'" and jack smiled in imitating the earnest youngster. "and make matters look as if i were more deeply involved than i really am? now, jack, dear, that is not like you." "no matter what you make matters look like, so long as you don't make them look like themselves," replied the boy. "that's my brand of logic in a case like this. don't you see, sis, you may throw them off the track, and by getting a chance to talk with you, they are bound to find out something, or lose their badges." cora's face was bent in the roses that stood on the serving table. "but what could i do?" she asked, this time with less decision. "anything. just take a run to--the beach--or anywhere. leave me to see the officers." the rapid tooting of horn of the _flyaway_ interrupted them. "my!" exclaimed cora, "more early morning callers? there's bess!" and, true enough, there was bess, guiding her car up the drive, her veil flying in the breeze, and her cheeks like the very roses that outlined the path. "why the where-for-ness?" demanded jack. "i am startled--collapsed--i might say, by the suddenness of this--pleasure----" "now, jack," and bess had alighted from her car, "you are not to make jokes, we haven't time. i am almost dead from hurrying. mother decided, about midnight last night, that we should go to----" then she stopped. how silly it would be to blurt out in one mouthful all the story of their secret planning! "oh, go ahead," said jack with a light laugh. "i am deaf and dumb, also blind and halt. i have no idea where you are going. a trip over the rockies----" "come in, bess dear," said cora, "and leave the boy to himself. you are certainly out of breath, and----" cora drew the arm of her friend within her own, and with all sorts of glances at jack, who was actually seated in the _flyaway_ to make sure that the girls would not get away without his knowledge, bess and cora passed into the house. "we are going to-day," went on bess. "mother wants our western friends to have an outing at the beach--they have never been to salt water--and, as they must start back in a few days, we have to go to-day. can you come?" "how could i--go, this very day?" "why, we won't start until afternoon. and you have everything ready," urged bess. "it will be fun. we'll stop over night at a hotel and reach the shore next day." it seemed to cora that all the powers were conspiring to get her out of chelton that day, and it also seemed as if it might be rash to oppose such a force. true, she did have everything ready, and her household matters were always in such shape she could leave the servants on an hour's warning. bess saw that cora was uncertain, and she hurried to take advantage of the possible favorable opportunity. "oh, cora, do come! what a perfectly stupid time we would have on that long run with just mama and the others. we wanted to go in the _flyaway_ and let them go by train, but, of course, mama would not hear to that. so now papa has hired a big machine and a chauffeur from the garage and belle and i will go in our '_bird_,' while the others travel near us in the hired car. don't you see, if you go along with the _whirlwind_ what a splendid time we shall have?" "let's tell jack--or ask him," said cora finally. "he knows we are getting ready for some trip, and i guess we can trust him not to tell the other boys." "don't you want the other boys to know?" asked bess, a tone of disappointment in her voice. "do you?" asked cora, mischievously. "oh, i suppose they will find it out. and besides, cora, honestly, don't you think we would be--lonely without--the boys?" cora burst into a merry laugh. "there, bess, my dear, you have broken the watchword--you are to be responsible for the boys. we pledged ourselves, as we always do, to 'keep them out' this time." when jack heard the news he hugged cora in the very presence of bess. the sister knew what he meant (it was getting away from the detectives), although bess was somewhat embarrassed at the extravagant show of affection. then jack did what a boy does "when in doubt," he started a series of somersaults and sofa pillow turns, until cora declared he quite forgot that he was in the company of ladies. with profuse apologies he assumed an unwonted show of dignity, and without another word went upstairs and called up first ed and then walter on the telephone, telling each all he knew, and all he could guess about the trip to lookout beach, and fairly begged the boys to go along! "i am afraid the girls will have to spoil their trip if we don't go," he said to ed, who had made a half excuse, "for they really couldn't travel along that road without us!" and this in the very face of the fact that the elders were going along, and that the girls had declared that no boys _could_ go! "won't there be high jinks!" jack asked, and he told himself, with a jolly chuckle, as he hung up the receiver and went down to the girls, that if any "jinks" were lacking, it would not be his fault. "too bad we fellows can't take you out a little way," he said, innocently, as he came downstairs, "but the fact is, we have made plans--our plans are still secret!" and jack ran down the walk like the big boy that he was in spite of his few years of good record at college. turning as he reached the street, he shouted: "oh you--secrets!" then cora and bess were left alone. "well, i suppose i can go," said cora, finally, "although it does seem strange to leave town in such haste. but after all, if i remain longer, i shall only find more things to be attended to, and i will be just as well off to--escape from them." bess was delighted, of course. she knew cora so well, and she had grave fears that the methodical young girl would not run away at such short notice, but, now that she had gained her chum's consent, bess had need to hurry back and finish up her own preparations. jack was on his way to the post-office, when he saw the now familiar figure of little andy. he hailed him pleasantly, and the boy lost no time in hurrying up to the tall young man who waited for him. "now, andy," began jack, "suppose you tell me about those women--those who are after my sister. when did they say they were coming to chelton?" "i heard them tell the--the men that they would come in on the two o'clock trolley," said andy, "and that was the reason i thought it would be better fer your sister to be--out of town. is she goin'?" "i guess she is," replied jack, much amused at the boy's earnestness. "but she has no reason, you know, to want to avoid any one." andy hung his head. then he thrust his hands into his pockets. this latter gesture jack knew was equivalent to preparing for a sudden shot of information. "it looks bad," said the boy, timidly. "what looks bad?" demanded jack. "well," said andy, "maybe you won't believe me, but it was just this way. i was under the window listening, when all of a sudden old ramsy took out of her pocketbook a slip of paper. she handed it to the man, and said that she had found it in the girls' room, and that she was sure that your sister gave it to rose, for she saw her slip something into her hand as rose went out from the shed. the man read what was on the paper and then put it on the window sill. a nice little breeze came along----" "and blew it right out to you," finished jack, not attempting to hide his surprise at the boy's astuteness. "yep, and i've got it right here," andy declared, jabbing his hand into his torn blouse, and then from the depths of what might have been a handkerchief, had it not been beyond identification, he produced a card. "that's my sister's card," said jack, still showing surprise. then he turned to the reverse side. he read the words, written in pencil: clover cottage--lookout beach. "that's nothing," he added, "that's the cottage where my sister is going to spend the summer. she wrote it on the card for a memorandum, i suppose, and forgot about it." "but nellie and rose had it in their room," persisted andy. "perhaps my sister asked them to write to her," went on jack, wondering why he bothered so much with the idle chat of an ignorant urchin. "well, mrs. ramsy said if she could get hold of the girl that gave that card to her girls, she would not wait for judge or justice but she would--well, she said she would do lots of things." jack laughed outright. "now, see here," he went on, finally, "you had better take this car back to squaton, andy. you have been away from home for a long time, and the first thing you know they will have detectives looking for you. or, maybe, they will say--you ran after the girls!" it was not like jack to joke in that strain, but the lad looked so comical, and he said such serious things in contrast to his appearance, that for the life of him, jack could not resist the temptation to tease him. "nope. i'm not goin' home," declared andy. "mom knows where i am, and i am goin' to stay in town till the two o'clock trolley comes in." "to meet the ram and the schenk?" asked jack, laughing. "then at least take this change, and look the town over. buy some ice cream and--a brick bat or two to have ready when----" "there's a fellow i know," interrupted andy, and taking the proffered coin, he was soon lost to jack, and to the business of detecting the detectives. chapter xiii going and coming the weather was uncertain--it might rain, but there were cobwebs on the grass, which meant "clear." but the sun did not come out, and it was past noon. these unfavorable conditions were unusual on a day when the motor girls were to make a run, but bess, belle and cora were almost too busy with their preparations to pay much heed to the possibility of rain while en route. the start was to be made at two o'clock, and the chimes on the dining room mantel of the kimball home had just warned cora that half the hour between one and two had gone by. "we take no note of time but from its flight," quoted cora to herself, hurrying through the room to crowd a last few things into her motor trunk. "i wonder where jack is?" at that very moment jack's inevitable whistle was heard, and the next, the boy was in the room, looking as deliciously lazy as ever, in that way so peculiar to boys who have a great deal to do at the time; the science of which studied indifference is absolutely impossible for a girl to fathom. "why this fluttering fluster, sis?" he asked, crumbling deeper in the leather-cushioned chair. "you will positively get overheated and ruin--your--complex--ion!" this last was drawled out with the most aggravating yawn. "why, jack, i have to be in my car at ten minutes to two, and do you see the time?" "no, but i hear it. i wonder who on earth put a clock to ticking. bad enough to hear the hours knock, but this constant tick----" "jack, whatever you have to say to me please say it," interrupted the sister. "i know perfectly well that this preamble is portentous." "no, it's merely pretentious," answered jack, drawing from his pocket the card that andy had turned over to him. "do you happen to remember where you dropped this?" it was a simple guess, but jack tried it. "dropped that?" repeated cora, taking the card from his hand. "why, i declare! i have looked everywhere for that. i wanted it last night. i had actually forgotten the name of the cottage, and i wanted to give it to you for your note book. where did you find it?" "didn't find it, it found me. andy gave it to me." "andy!" and cora's eyes showed her surprise. "yes. he said the old lady, ramsy, found it in your strawberry girls' room." "whatever are you talking about, jack?" demanded cora with some impatience. "don't you know i have to hurry, and you are teasing me this way?" jack went over to his sister, and put his bare brown arm around her neck. she looked up from the folding of her trinkets, and smiled into his face. "now, see here, sis," he said, "i am telling you the exact truth, and when i say exact, i mean exact. andy told me he caught this card on a fly as it flew out the ramsy window, when they were letting fly their opinions about the motor girls. andy caught the card on the first bounce, stuck it in his pocket--no, let me see! he carried it against his heart, between his second and third ribs----" "oh, i know!" interrupted cora. "i dropped that in the shed when i opened my purse to pay for the berries. i thought i felt something slip from my hand." "there," and jack made a comical effort to pat himself on the back. "jack, my boy, you are a wonder! if you don't know what you want just guess it." "and they said i gave that card to the girls? to give them a place to run away to, i suppose." "that was it," replied her brother. "you see, old lady ramsy has an idea you want to abduct those girls. but it was a lucky breeze that blew the card to andy. otherwise you might expect an early call at clover cottage from the honorable mrs. r of the strawberry patch." "as if there was anything strange about me dropping my own personal card," mused cora aloud. "and what difference did it make who might pick it up?" the clock gave the alarm that the hour was about to strike. cora jumped up and slipped into her coat and bonnet. "it seemed foolish for the robinsons to hire a car to take their friends down when i am riding alone," she said, "but the girls made me promise not to offer my car, but to carry the bags in the tonneau--bess and belle expect to get as far as possible from the--chaperone conveyance. well, jack dear, i am rather a naughty sister to run away, and leave you thus, when mother specially intrusted you to my safekeeping. but you have compelled me to go, haven't you?" "forced you to," admitted jack, picking up the bag and following her to the door. the maids were in the hall waiting to assist cora, and to bid her good-bye. a word of kind instruction to each, and cora jumped into the car. jack, having cranked up, took his place beside her. "i will go as far as the trolley line," he said. "i want to see if andy takes that two o'clock car when it turns back." there were many little things to be spoken of between brother and sister, and, as they drove along, cora referred more than once to the visit of the detectives. jack assured her that he would attend to them and then, reaching the turnpike, where the trolley line ended, he bade her good-bye, jumped out, and, for a moment, watched the pretty car, and its prettier driver, fly down the avenue. the next moment a trolley car stopped at the switch. from the rear platform two elderly ladies alighted rather awkwardly. they were queerly dressed, and the larger, she in the gingham gown, with the brown shirred bonnet, almost yanked the other from the steps to the ground, in attempting to assist her. "the ramsy and the schenk!" jack told himself. "cora did not get away any too soon!" the women turned to the other side of the road. as they did, jack felt a tug at his coat. "that's them," said andy, almost in a whisper, "and there come the two detectives! if you like you can stay away from your house, and i will lay around, and find out what happens!" "why, they will want to see me!" declared jack, in some surprise at the suggestion. "suppose they do? let them want," answered the urchin. "if i was you i'd just lay low. my mother always says 'the least said is the easiest mended,' and she knows." the advice, after all, was not unwise, jack thought. he had other things to attend to besides talking to a pair of foolish women, and answering the questions of a pair of well-paid detectives. "maybe you're right, andy," he said. "i believe i am busy this afternoon. but take care that you don't get in the scrap. they will be bound to have revenge on some one." andy sprang back of the car to avoid being observed by the women, as they turned to see which way they should go. jack was not afraid of being noticed by the women, and he was a stranger to the detectives. the latter directed the women to walk over to the avenue, and then they followed at a "respectful distance." andy slunk out from his corner, darted off in the opposite direction, and jack knew he would be at the kimball homestead considerable in advance of the others. "the imp of the strawberry patch," thought jack, in his usual way of making a story from a title. "he's a queer little chap, but not so slow, after all. how very much more reasonable it is for me to turn in and talk with ed and walter, than to go back home and jab answers at that quartette." then the thought of cora's word (that she would see the detectives) crossed his mind. for a moment he almost changed his resolution. then he decided: "all's fair in love and war, and if this isn't war, it's a first-class sham battle." andy was out of sight. the last "rays" of the two country skirts could just be made out, as their owners trudged along the avenue, and jack kimball took up his tune, where he had left it off, thrust his hands into his pockets, and sauntered off in the direction of the town garage. as he anticipated, both ed and walter were there, putting walter's machine in ship-shape for the run after the girls. "are you sure, jack kimball," demanded ed, "that the young ladies will be in no way put out by our rudeness? i have a particular desire to please the ladies." "oh, you'll please them, all right," replied jack, taking a seat on the step of a handsome car, just in front of the one his friends were busy at. "there is nothing on earth pleases a girl so much as to run after her, when she distinctly says you shall not go." "hear ye! the expert!" called out walter, as he rubbed the chamois over the brass lamps at the front of his runabout. "jack happens to know all about the game. don't you remember the success of our hay-mobile run last year, when we went after the girls on their tour? well, take it from me, the event this year will be equally disastrous--only more so," and walter gave a last flourish to the lamp-polisher, then did a few fancy steps, in front of the car, to see that the reflection was correct. "what time do we start?" asked ed. "soon as we are ready," replied jack. "the girls have already gone on, and i promised mr. robinson that we would keep just near enough to be within call, should they need us, but far enough away to be out of danger of their--walter, what do you call it when a girl declares she can't bear a thing, and she just loves it?" "oh, that's--that's good taste," replied walter, running his hands through his hair with the doubtful purpose of removing from them some of their lately acquired gasoline and polishing paste. "then, according to walt, we must keep at a respectful distance from their good taste," finished jack. "you are sure--the ghost works all right?" asked walter. "there is nothing more disgusting than a ghost that refuses to work." "oh, my ghost is a regular union man--eight hours and all that," replied ed. "i've tried it on the chickens, and they almost turned into pot-pie from actual fright." "and what time are we counting on getting to a putting-up place?" walter asked further. "if we leave here about three, will we get anywhere in time to--have breakfast, for instance?" "well, my machine is in fine shape," declared jack, "and i just count on the _get there_ beating your little _comet_ if yours is a newer machine. with this calculation we should get to the wayside by eight o'clock. the motor girls are going to put up there for the night, and we may be able to put _down_ there, if it appears out of good style for us to put _up_ there." "why didn't they go right on--start in time to reach the beach to-night?" inquired ed. "oh, just a whim. girls want all that's coming to them, and a night at a wayside they count among their required experiences, don't you know. and the old folks being along made it particularly all right," declared jack. "but they'll beat us by an hour now," almost sighed walter, who was becoming famous among his chums for his keen interest in the girls and their doings. "not much," answered jack. "they are going the long way 'round. do you suppose they would go over the new road? why, the dust would blind cora if she made a single mile of that grind and grit." "well, after my beauty bath, i'll be about ready," observed walter. "ed, don't put too much witch-hazel on your locks. makes me think of the day after fourth of july, when i went to grandmama's." "not half as bad as your new gloves. they give me a regular spell of the pig skin fever. i'll bet they're made out of junk, and you got stuck. three dollars for a pair of gloves to save your lily-white hands--your lily-white hands!" and he ended in the strain of the familiar college song. "well, i'll be going," said jack. "see to it that neither of you fellows do so much primping that we miss our--guess," and with that the three young men parted, each going his own way to make ready for the run after the motor girls. chapter xiv lost on the road "look out there, walter. do you want the _comet_ to run into the _whirlwind_?" "we are getting pretty close," answered walter, shutting off the power and coasting with the emergency brake partly on, for he found he was covering a hill too quickly. "i guess we can run alongside here. it's a good enough road." jack brought the _get there_ in line with the other runabout. "my, but that shower is coming up quickly. i'll bet the girls are about scared to death," he said. "cora isn't particularly afraid of thunder showers, but i know belle is." "then, they will have to put up somewhere before they get to wayside," remarked ed. "that thunder is not far away." as he said this a blinding flash of lightning confirmed the statement. "i wonder if that chauffeur mr. robinson hired, knows any place to put up at?" asked jack, his voice showing some anxiety. "well, there doesn't happen to be any place on this road," replied ed. "i came along here last week, and the only thing like a hotel i could find, was an old roadhouse over on a back lane." "my, but that's sharp lightning!" exclaimed walter. "guess i had better get ahead, jack. it's safer now." for a mile or so the runabouts went along, "between the flashes," as ed put it. then the rain came, pelting and with a tempestuous wind. "where's the turn, ed?" asked jack. "we'd better hurry on and overtake the girls now. i don't feel like risking it in this downpour. that fellow from the garage may not know more than he has to, and i promised mr. robinson i'd sort of look after the girls." "listen!" exclaimed walter. "i don't hear the cars, do you?" both runabouts slowed up, and their occupants did not speak for some seconds. "but where could they have gone to?" questioned jack, as their strained ears failed to catch the familiar sound of a machine that had been running on ahead. all the joy of the stolen ride instantly vanished. jack kimball, ed foster, and walter pennington were no longer the jolly, laughing youths, chasing the motor girls. they were three very much frightened young men, for the girls, and the car in which the other members of the robinson family had been riding, could neither be seen nor heard! through the pouring rain the boys dashed on. the rays of light from the search-lamps revealed nothing but a stretch of mud that, every moment, became deeper and more treacherous! then came a fork in the road, and beside the turn, a lane offered a possible clue to the sudden departure of the girls from the main highway. "we've got to get out and look for their tracks," said jack. "i suppose they put on all kinds of speed to get away from the rain." but although the other cars must have passed over that place somewhere, and not more than half an hour before, not a mark of the heavy wheels could be discerned in the deep, dark mud, though jack took off one of the oil lamps and flashed it across the road. "golly!" exclaimed ed, in earnest despair. "which way?" asked walter, deferring now to the much-alarmed brother of cora kimball. "i wish i knew," replied he, with a sigh. "suppose we make straight for the wayside?" suggested ed. "they may have known of the roadhouse." "how far to wayside?" asked jack. "five miles from this turn. see, there it is on the signpost," and he flashed his lamp on the board that marked the fork in the road. "then we had better put on speed and make that," declared jack, "and if we do not find them there, we will have to turn back, that's all." "didn't cora have any idea you were going to follow?" asked walter, as he got back in his car and then shot ahead close to the already moving _get there_. "not the least," replied jack. "that comes of our foolish way of doing school-boy tricks. it seems to me the joke is turned on us this time." "hope it is," declared walter warmly. "i, for one, am now quite willing to go in the kindergarten, if that's all we have to do to make amends." "i can't see where we missed them," almost shouted jack, for the noise of the thunder and rain added to the distance of sound between the cars. "right at the spot where you told me to slow up," answered walter. "i heard them then, but not after that." each driver now put on all possible speed. it was a perilous ride. the mud splashed up in the very faces of the young men, the lights that flashed on the road were misleading, because of the almost continuous flashes of lightning, and the danger of "skidding" increased with every mile of the race. "who were in the hired car?" called walter. "mrs. robinson and her guest from the west, and the driver. i wish now i had gone over and fixed it, so that they had the right man at the wheel," yelled jack. "i don't know a thing about this fellow." "what's his name?" asked ed. "bindle or something like that," was jack's answer. ed gave walter a tug at the sleeve. "don't say anything to jack," he said, quietly, "but that's the very fellow who drove the wakleys when they went over into the ditch." the shrill whistle of a train startled them. "any other danger likely to crop up?" asked jack. "this will surely give the girls all the experience they want, i'm afraid!" but a few more miles and they must reach the inn. if only they would find the party there safe and sound! none of the boys was what might be called nervous, but when it came to possible danger for the motor girls--jack's sister, his friends and his chum's friends--somehow a fear seized each of the three young men; a fear to which they had thought themselves almost immune. "there's the lights from the wayside," announced jack, a little later, and then they turned their cars into the broad, private roadway. jack was first to reach the hotel office, but ed and walter were almost at his heels. "has a party of automobile folks come in here since eight o'clock?" he asked of the man at the desk. "yes," replied the clerk, turning over one page of the big book. the boys' hearts gave a sort of jerk--it must be their girls, of course. "have they registered?" went on jack. "were there three cars, and a number of girls?" the man looked down the list of names. "here they are," he said, indicating some fresh writing on the page. jack scanned it eagerly. then he looked at ed and walter. "not them!" he almost gasped. "we have got to turn back!" "make sure they have not come in, and are on some porch," said ed. "they may not have had a chance to get into the office." but all inquiries failed to give any clue to the lost party, and, without waiting for any refreshments, the almost exhausted young men cranked up their muddy cars, and started off again over the very road they had just succeeded in safely covering. "we've got to have more spunk if we intend to find them," said ed, for jack seemed too overcome to speak. "why, they may be snug by some farm-house fire, actually enjoying the situation." "i hope so," faltered jack. "but next time i'll _go along_--not after them," and he threw in high gear, advanced the spark and then they fairly flew over the turnpike, back to the fork that must have hidden the secret of the turn in the road. chapter xv boys to the rescue never had a ride seemed so treacherous. sharp turns threatened to overturn the cars and the brakes, on slippery hills, were of little use. fortunately the engines of both machines were in perfect running order and in spite of the bad conditions of the roads the _comet_ and the _get there_ pegged along, through mud and slush, sometimes sinking deep in the former, and ploughing madly through the latter. "i thought i saw a light," said ed to walter, after a period of hard driving. "where?" asked the pilot of the _comet_. "to the left--what place can that be?" jack's attention was called to a distant but faint gleam, and, presently, the runabouts had left the main road, and were chugging through the heaviest track they had yet encountered. they turned in between what seemed to be tall gate-posts. "why--this is--a graveyard!" exclaimed jack, as the headlight fell on a shaft across a tall monument. "well that's--something, over there," declared ed. "and i--see it--move!" he slackened the speed of the car. "now for real ghosts!" walter could not refrain from remarking, although the situation was far from reassuring. "this is a cemetery, all right," went on jack. "what's the use of us ploughing over--graves? let's get out. we took the wrong turn, i guess." "let's give a call," suggested walter, at the same moment squeezing two or three loud "honk-honks" on his horn. "hark!" "honk! honk! honk--honk--honk!" "that's cora's signal," shouted jack. "hurry on ahead, walter. they are some place in this cemetery." but it was not so easy to hurry over the gruesome driveway, for it was narrow and uncertain, and the heavy rains had washed out so many holes, that the boys felt an uncanny fear that a sudden turn might precipitate them into some strange grave. "where are you!" yelled jack at the top of his voice. "turn on your lights!" pleaded walter, without waiting for a possible answer. "we can't tell where you are!" as quickly as it could have been possible to do so, the strong searchlight of a car (surely it was cora's) gleamed over the shafts of stone, and marble, that now seemed like so many pyramids, erected to confuse the way of the alarmed young men. "we can't cut over the headstones," almost growled ed. "what on earth do folks want those things sticking up for?" the absurdity of the remark was lost on the others. "if the girls are around they must have been blown in here," declared jack, making a sudden turn, and jamming the foot-brake to keep the machine on its wheels, while he released the clutch. "here! here!" came the unmistakable voice of cora. "which way?" jack called back. "look out for the lake! turn in from the vault!" came the voice again, and none too soon, for without the drivers having any idea of being near a body of water, both runabouts a moment later, were actually on the very brink of a dangerous-looking lake. "gosh!" exclaimed walter. "we nearly got ours that time. i'm going to get out and walk." "great idea," agreed ed, and at the same time jack also left his car. more shouting and more answers soon put the searchers on the right track, and, although they were obliged to run over graves, and otherwise forget the sacredness of their surroundings, the trio soon brought up back of the vault, where the lamps of the _whirlwind_ and of the _flyaway_ told the first part of the strange story. "oh, boys!" gasped belle and bess in one breath. "jack!" exclaimed cora. "thank fortune!" came the fervent words from mrs. robinson. jack had cora in his arms before he could say a word, walter and ed divided themselves among the frightened group as best they could. belle really fell into some one's arms, and bess had difficulty in clinging to her trembling, little mother. "another moment in this dreadful place, and i should have died!" wailed mrs. robinson. "and to think that it was all my fault, that you came out just to let me--see the--ocean," cried the visitor, miss steel of chicago. "i shouldn't have consented----" "nonsense!" interrupted bess. "you had nothing to do with the accident. it was all the fault of that--disgraceful--man. he is no more a chauffeur--than----" "i knew he would do something dreadful!" put in belle, who was sobbing hysterically, while walter tried to comfort her. for some moments the scene was one of confusion, punctuated with such remarks as would spring from the frightened lips unbidden by brain or effort. then the storm seemed to suddenly clear away, and with the passing of the rain went the black blankets that had hidden the lights from the sky. it seemed almost uncanny that the stars and moon should flash so suddenly over the heads of the party in the cemetery, and reveal to them the marble shafts, and granite headstones glaring in ghostly whiteness. "let's get out of here," spoke jack, giving his terrified sister a reassuring hug. "cora, you are drenched through!" he exclaimed. "well, i tried to be on the lookout," she stammered, "and so i could not keep under shelter." "what on earth happened?" asked ed, following jack's example, and assisting mrs. robinson and miss steel over the rough mounds into the pathway. "suppose we delay investigations," suggested walter. "the ladies have certainly had a most unpleasant experience." "unpleasant!" repeated bess. "it was simply dreadful!" "how long have you been here?" asked jack. "a life time!" ejaculated belle. "and we were just approaching the re-incarnate state," added cora, with a desperate attempt at frivolity. "did you see any ghosts?" asked ed, almost lifting the little miss steel over a rough spot. "did we!" mocked belle. "oh, i mean the kind that--shine," explained ed. "not the mental species." "belle had a regular series of apparitions," declared bess, now running from the terror state into one of extreme hilarity, the natural reaction from her awful experience. "but we have to wait for that--chauffeur," wailed mrs. robinson. "why should we wait for him?" asked jack. "he has gone for something,--cora knows," concluded the woman helplessly. "why, when i found my starting system was out of commission he said it was best for him to go and get new batteries. so he hurried off in his car, to go to the shop we passed out on the turnpike. it was then we discovered we were in the graveyard. he had turned in here by the merest accident. it was so dreadfully dark." "he mistook this road for the one to wayside," interrupted belle. "and ran off and left you in a cemetery," said ed with a sneer. "but we couldn't go on without the _whirlwind_," argued cora. "had it been one of the smaller cars that failed we might have managed." "and he didn't try to fix your batteries?" inquired walter. "why, he said he--couldn't," answered cora in a tone of voice that betrayed her own suspicions. "we really cannot go on without him," declared mrs. robinson, feeling that it was due to her matronly reputation to stand firm for the chauffeur. "we really _must_ go on without him," declared jack. "are we to catch our deaths of cold here, waiting for the return of a man, who should never have gone away? i have an idea that the fellow was simply scared, and so left his post----" "oh, indeed!" interrupted belle, "he did everything he could to fix the _whirlwind_, but cora declared it would not spark, and so he said he had to go for batteries. you see we could not possibly go on without the big car." "well, we will start off. if we should meet him on the road we might--speak to him," said jack with a sort of growl, "but personally i don't think the fellow worth that much consideration." "there will be plenty of room in all the good cars now," added ed, "and we can come out to-morrow and get the _whirlwind_." "but i cannot go, and leave my car behind," objected cora. "i have never left it--on the road yet!" "let's look it over," suggested jack, who knew very well that it would be next to impossible to induce cora to go on without her machine. feeling secure now, the entire party set to the task of looking over the _whirlwind_, even the ladies taking part by holding the lights, and otherwise assisting the young men, who went to work to put the ignition system back into commission. it did not take the boys long to discover what was the trouble, and in a short time there was enough spark to start the _whirlwind_. the car was cranked up, jack was at the wheel, while ed had put the _get there_ in a position to go ahead, and assumed control of the runabout. it was not, however, so simple a matter to get the cars out of the cemetery, so the boys directed the girls and ladies to walk to the road, while the youths managed, by much twisting and turning, to run the machines to an open space. this finally accomplished, mrs. robinson got in the _whirlwind_, while miss steel took her place with ed in the _get there_. what a beautifully clear night had emerged from the folds of that storm! and what a delightful thing it was to ride in safety after the dreadful experience of being "shipwrecked" in a graveyard! "i wish we had invited you to come," said belle to walter and jack, as the _flyaway_ glided on near the other cars. "i wish we had come without being invited," amended jack. "next time we will not try to keep secrets," declared bess. "next time we will not let you have any to keep," insisted jack, "especially if there is a road ride in the combination." "what time is it?" asked cora. "i haven't dared look at my watch." "the magical hour," replied ed. "it was a pity to leave the graveyard just then. it is exactly midnight." "and there is a light by the road over there," went on cora. "what ever could have induced that man to leave the road and drive down into the cemetery? he _must_ have known." "he's--well, wait until i get back to chelton," threatened jack. "i guess we will have some fun with that fellow's license." "had we better stop at that house, and get some refreshment for you?" asked walter. "or would you rather go right on to the wayside, where you can remove your wet clothing?" this last suggestion was considered the more practical, and very soon the _whirlwind_, the _comet_, the _flyaway_ and the _get there_ were gliding as smoothly over the wet and muddy roads, as if the machines had never put their occupants into the panic of fear and terror that had furnished the motor girls such a very thrilling experience. "there are the wayside lights!" announced jack. "thank goodness!" said mrs. robinson, fervently. "i, for one, have had enough of night auto rides!" chapter xvi the shadow in the hedge one hour later the motor party had put up safely at the wayside, a comfortable, home-like place. of course the girls were disappointed that they could not enjoy any of the inn attractions that night, for a hop was in progress, but mrs. robinson insisted, and the young men reluctantly agreed with her, that it was not only wisest, but actually imperative that each one of the girls go directly to her room, take a warm bath and then a hot drink, and "get right into bed." cora and jack, however, had a short talk over their tea cups, cora insisting upon knowing just what was the matter with the ignition system of her car, for she declared, since it was so simple a matter for the young men to fix, it surely could not have been difficult for her to have understood and set it right. as the trouble was really nothing more than the short circuiting of a wire, along with weak batteries, it was easy enough for jack to explain it to her and how to remedy it. on her part cora had to tell her brother of the accident to the _whirlwind_, and the sudden precipitation into the "city of the dead," then the "escape" of the chauffeur, and the fright of all the party when "just girls and women" found themselves helpless and deserted in that lonely place. jack could not find words to express his indignation for the behavior of the man who was hired to take the party to the wayside inn. the ride from chelton was one that might have been made safely under almost any road conditions, and from the wayside to lookout beach the two ladies were to go by rail on the following morning. "but suppose," ventured cora, when, after a turn about the big porch, she was about to say good night to her brother, "that man goes back to that graveyard, and spends the night searching for us? we should have left a note, and a light at the door of the big vault." "it would do that fellow all sorts of good to spend a night in a graveyard," returned jack, "and, for my part, i would like to have the chance to slide a vault door shut on him, and give him an hour or so of silent meditation." "you haven't told me about the detectives," said cora, who was standing at the door, reluctant to leave her brother. "what did they actually say, jack?" "the detectives!" he repeated vaguely. then he recalled all about his positive engagement with the two officers--his engagement made to take cora's place in the interview. and he had broken his word with cora! "can't you tell me something they said?" she urged. "i know it is awfully late, and you can give me the details to-morrow, but i am so anxious to hear--just a word or two." "why, i didn't see them," he blurted out, finally. "didn't they come?" "not while i was--home." "then they must have been delayed--the trolleys from squaton are so unreliable," said cora. "i suppose they got to the house after you had started out? but i am not sorry you didn't wait for them," she added with a sigh, "else we might still be in the graveyard." "oh, yes," jack put in quickly. "it was a mighty good thing we found you, but the mean part of it was that we lost you. i had no idea of letting you get out of my sight, after we started." he laughed strangely. but it was the thought of the detectives with the two odd women from the strawberry patch that occasioned the mirth. "you must not laugh at us, jack. it really was not a bit funny." jack put his arm about his sister. for one brief moment they stood there in the clear moonlight. "well, i must retire," said cora, "although i feel more like sitting the night out. good-night, jack dear. we must be up with----" she stopped. "what was that?" asked the young man, as a slight figure seemed to glide over the path at the very edge of the steps they stood facing. "it--looked like a boy,--no, a girl," replied cora, instinctively clutching her brother's arm. "there it goes," jack indicated, as the figure almost disappeared in the thick hedge. "i thought at first the boys might be up to some prank, but that 'ghost' walks too firmly to be a spirit." "queer for a girl to be out at this hour," reflected cora. "i wonder who it can be, and what does she want, prowling about after midnight?" "want me to investigate?" "what; run after it?" "or--whistle," he said jestingly. cora walked down the stone steps. she hesitated and listened. there was not a sound amid the leaves, through which the figure had just disappeared. "i declare!" she said, "i feel creepy. i guess i had better go to bed. i have had enough of ghosts for one night." jack went with her up the stairs and left her at the door of the room she was to occupy. but he did not go farther down the hall, to the big room in the alcove, where he and his chums were to sleep, although he noticed that blades of light were escaping under the door which meant, of course, that ed and walter were waiting up for him. "i'll just take another look for that specter," he told himself, going down the stairs noiselessly. "i rather think he, she, or it, had something to say either to me or cora." it was a curious thought, and jack could not account for it, but he actually did make directly for the hedge where the streaks of moonlight fell, like silvery showers on the dark green foliage. a narrow path was outlined by a low hedge. he walked down this dark aisle, peering into the banks of green at either side. "who's that?" he asked, as he distinctly heard a rustle, and at the same time saw the branches move. no answer. "is there any one there?" he demanded, this time more emphatically. still no answer came. following the direction whence the movement and rustle came, jack slipped under the hedge. as he did so a figure glided out, darted across the path, and ran toward the roadway. as quickly as he could disengage himself from the tangled brush, jack, too, ran down the path after the fast-disappearing shadow. again the figure made for the hedge. jack hesitated. if he followed in, the unknown one could slip out on the other side, and get away without the possibility of being overtaken. jack waited. there was not a sound, or a movement. evidently the substance of the shadow was waiting for him to cross the hedge. at this juncture he wished he had called the boys to aid him in the search. but it was too late to regret that omission now. it seemed fully five minutes before either he, outside the hedge, or the figure within the green, moved. it was a silent challenge. jack was determined now not to take the initiative. "i can stand here until morning," he told himself. "but i will not get out of range of that person by any false move." a full minute passed. "guess it has gone to sleep," he thought, at the same moment trying to suppress a distinct yawn. then he thought he saw something move. he stepped cautiously up to the trembling leaves. like a shiver that swept through the silent darkness, the branches barely swayed. "it's creeping along," he surmised. "now, i have to move along with it." with his steps quite as noiseless as those within the hedge, jack did move toward the roadway. there the hedge would end, and something had to happen. "queer race," he was thinking, when all of a sudden, without any warning, the shadow sprang out of the branches, darted across the path not five feet from where jack stood spellbound, and dashed on back to the hotel. "good-bye," called jack lightly, realizing now that the apparition was nothing more or less than a girl. "think you might have let me take you, though." he knew now that further watching would be useless, as the broad piazzas of the hotel, with endless basement steps, afforded such seclusion that he would find it impossible to penetrate, so he, too, turned back, and crossed the other side of the hedge, as he had done in coming down. something in the bushes caught his eye, even in the shadows. it was a bundle of some sort. he stooped and touched it. then he rolled it over. it was very light, and a small package. "guess it won't bite," he thought. "i may as well take it along," and with this he very cautiously picked up the package, and walked back to the hotel. chapter xvii at wayside inn the light still gleamed under the door of the alcove room. jack was not sorry that he would have company in his bundle investigation. "but walter and ed will blame me for not giving them the tip," he told himself. "we surely could have bagged that wild bird, if there only had been some one on the other side of the hedge." ed opened the door before jack had time to knock. "where in the world have you been?" demanded the young man, who stood within the room, clothed in the splendor of a real athlete. "we had just about given you up. who is she?" "search me?" replied jack, laughing at the fitness of the slang and at the same time apologizing for its vulgarity. "if i only knew who she was i'd feel better." "if he only knew who she was," repeated walter, between a howl and a grunt. "oh, if he only knew," added ed, dragging jack into the room, and closing the door after him. then they saw the package. walter grabbed it from jack's hands. "did she send it to us?" he asked, placing it comically on the washstand and making queer "passes" in front of it. "it's for me," insisted ed. "she promised to send me just that very bundle," and he yanked it from the stand and placed it on the mantel. "oh, for goodness sake, open it," interrupted jack, glad of a good chance to get some one other than himself to attempt that uncertain proceeding. "it's light," commented ed, giving the ends of the package an undoing twist. walter and jack leaned over very close. ed stretched out his arms to keep them off. then the paper spread open and the contents were in full sight. a mass of light-brown hair! "oh, you--murderer!" exclaimed ed, as loudly as the hour would politely admit. "to scalp her!" but jack was more surprised than were his friends. "a girl's hair!" he exclaimed. "_her_ hair!" corrected ed. "oh, if he only knew who _she_ was!" and his voice mocked the words jack had uttered when he entered the room. "jack kimball!" ejaculated walter. "this is the 'unkindest cut of all.'" "we denounce you!" added ed. "this is outrageous!" jack looked closely at the severed locks. "a pretty color," he mused. "sort of burnished gold!" this attempt at the poetical brought the unrestrained wrath of his companions on his head, for both walter and ed simply "fell to," and pounded jack "good and proper." he begged for mercy. then they did let him go. "now, honest injun," started walter, "tell us about it." but the strange race through the hedge was really too unusual to be comprehended or believed at once. still jack insisted upon every detail of the affair, and his friends finally did believe a part of it, at least. "and whose locks do you suppose they are?" asked ed when the opportunity for that question arrived. "if i--only--knew!" reiterated jack. "let me see!" murmured the prudent walter. "what was the shade of hair worn by the runaways of the strawberry patch? if i mistake not----" "you win!" interrupted jack. "they were strawberry blondes!" "and it's as clear as the nose on your face that they had to cut the locks off--that they are here in the hotel at this very moment----" he was actually jumping into his outer clothes. "where are you going?" demanded jack. "to find rose," insisted ed. "my rose--or was she your rose--and is she my nellie?" "for goodness sake, man!" wailed jack, "don't make any further fuss around here to-night. the ladies and the girls will be scared to death if you start chasing my--shadow. we have got to-morrow to investigate. if the runaways are here to-night they will be here to-morrow." "that sounds like good advice," assented walter. "and if i don't get a little rest there will be great ugly dark rings under my eyes, and my complexion will simply be ruined." "and his hair won't stay up," added ed, taking up the girlish tone walter had assumed. "well, if you beauties must sleep suppose you go at it. i could snore looking at the floor," and ed suited his actions to the words, for very shortly, neither walter nor jack could compel him to answer a single question with so much as an intelligent grunt. it seemed scarcely possible that daylight had come, when a tapping at the door awoke jack. "jack," called cora, "i must speak with you. come out as soon as you can." "now what's up?" asked ed with a yawn. "we've got to get up," replied walter, "and since you managed to get to sleep first, we will give you first whack at the wash basin." "thanks, but help yourself, wallie," said ed, turning over on his single bed, three of which sort were stretched out across the long old-fashioned room. "this is a fine day for sleeping." but in spite of the young man's determination to "prolong," he was compelled, by his companions, to join them in a quick washing and dressing act, and then take breakfast with the motor party on the broad side-porch. mrs. robinson was ill--that was the important piece of information that cora wished to disclose to jack. "we must stay here to-day," insisted belle, "for mamma could never bear to travel with one of her bad headaches. of course she could not avoid one after the awful experience of last night." "well, this place isn't half bad," declared jack, showing his positive regard for the breakfast before him. "we might all do worse than spend a day at the wayside." he was thinking of the advantage that the stay would give him in making a search for the girl who had lost her package of newly-cut hair. he had not as yet had an opportunity to consult with cora; in fact, there seemed plenty to do at the wayside, and it would all require time. mrs. robinson insisted that the young folks enjoy themselves, and go wherever they wished, as she declared, she would be better and quieter with her friend miss steel. miss steel herself felt none too good after the experience and wetting of the past night, so the two ladies were not annoyed by unnecessary fussing, and unneeded attention. "isn't this a wonderful old place, though?" commented walter, as he, with the others had finished the meal, and all were about to go out exploring. "did you see the fireplace in the dining room?" thereupon all hands repaired again to the great big old-fashioned dining room, where a few rather delicate-looking persons were still lingering over their coffee. a waitress, in cap and apron, flitted about the apartment. a second girl brought some extra fruit to a little man, who sat against the wall in the corner, and as the two girls met at the buffet jack heard the remark: "wasn't it mean for them to leave without notice? it will give _us_ a good day's work." "yes," replied the second girl, "and napkin day, too. weren't they in a hurry to get away, though? you'd think some one was after them!" a titter from the older girl was interpreted to mean that no one could possibly be after those spoken of. then both girls picked up some odds and ends from different tables, and left the room. jack's heart sank--if a boy's heart ever does anything like that. at least, his hope of finding the runaway girls was, for the time, shattered. he was instantly convinced that the persons to whom the waitresses referred, could be none other than those who were so ardently sought by the motor girls. he was also just as thoroughly convinced that the runaways had already started on a new trail, and were beyond his reach. cora, bess and belle were in ecstacies over the antique settings of the big room, while ed and walter were doing what they could to emphasize the glories of a "side walk," as they termed the broad stones, in front of the fireplace. "fine for fire crackers on a wet fourth," said walter foolishly. "splendid for walnuts on a cold night," put in ed with something like common sense. jack slipped out unnoticed. he went directly to the inn office. "if only the girls had not yet left the place," he was hoping. "and to think that i should have let them slip through my fingers like that! cora will begin to lose faith in me," he reflected. "when she finds out that i have not seen the detectives, and when she really identifies the hair as that of----" at the office he was informed that all the servants of wayside inn were in charge of the housekeeper, whose office he would find at the rear, near the pergola. thither jack betook himself. he found the office without any difficulty, but the housekeeper was very busy, and could not see him at once. the wait was vexatious, but jack amused himself with noting the peculiar furnishings of the room, that served for an office. it looked more like a big clothes closet for white aprons and gingham aprons, while all sorts of towels were hung around in abundance. maids came in and took white aprons, but the presence of a young man evidently prevented them from arranging the swiss ties and sashes there, so those who seemed in a hurry went out with freshly laundered articles on their arms. several remarks that jack overheard seemed to relate to the girls who had left recently, and although he was on the alert to gather any possible definite information, none was forthcoming. finally the little window back of a shelf was raised, and the head of an elderly woman was framed therein. jack stepped up to the "ticket office." "are there two girls named catron employed here?" he asked. "i have never had any help of that name," the woman replied, promptly, but politely. "perhaps they have used some other name," ventured the young man, feeling decidedly ill at ease. "why?" asked the housekeeper who, jack learned, was miss turner. "well, the girls i am searching for--ran away from their home," he blurted out. "oh my!" exclaimed the woman. "i hope no such young ladies would present themselves at the wayside inn." "they might," ventured jack. "you see, the girls were not altogether to blame. they were orphans, and did not have a good home." the woman looked puzzled. "i wonder if they could have been the two girls who were here yesterday?" she said. "they left early this morning, and i so much wanted them to stay to-day. could you describe them?" "well, i am afraid not," said jack, "but my sister is a guest here, and it is she who is interested in these poor girls." jack felt infinitely better now that he had, in a measure, cleared himself of a personal interest in the runaways. "if you will wait until i give a few dinner orders," said miss turner, "i will go with you and talk with your sister. i am always willing, and anxious, to assist needy young girls." this offer was accepted with thanks, and presently jack conducted the matron to the private parlor, where he knew he would be able to arrange a quiet talk between her and cora. chapter xviii lookout beach "isn't it perfectly dreadful!" "simply awful!" "it surely isn't true!" "but it's there--every word of it!" these exclamations burst from the lips of belle and bess robinson, as the two sisters smoothed a newspaper out before their startled eyes. "and this paper was found at the wayside," went on bess. "no wonder the poor girls ran away again!" "when we get to the cottage i am going to ask cora all about it," declared belle. "it does not seem right that a newspaper should hint at anything that is not plainly stated! that about the young ladies from chelton who rode in autos--every one will know means us." the girls were in the _flyaway_, going along a sea cliff road, only a few miles outside of the pretty summer resort of lookout beach. the roaring of the ocean could be plainly heard now, the salt of the spray was in the air, and the sun glinted on the white roads. bess and belle, in their car, had gone on ahead, the others followed at a distance. "isn't the air glorious!" cried bess. "i am sure we are going to have a delightful time down here." "and wasn't it lovely of mamma to invite the boys?" added belle. "of course she felt perfectly helpless with just us girls; and jack is so resourceful!" "yes, i fancy it might have been rather lonely evenings without the boys. of course we will have to stay around the cottage evenings, and with them we will have some opportunity for fun." "ed says they are going to take a bungalow almost on the beach," remarked belle. "it will be fun to see how they keep house." the _flyaway_ dropped back nearer the little procession of other autos that now wended their way along the seaside boulevard to the peninsula that looked out over the bay, across the great noisy ocean, and out--out--it seemed almost to eternity. it was here, on this point of land, that the cottages were grouped, and it was this exceptional view that gave the pretty spot its name--lookout beach. "quite a pretty village," cora remarked to jack, as they drove through the center of the place. "plenty of fishing around here," said ed to walter, as the boys' car slacked along the board sidewalk, and its occupants observed numbers of men and boys slouching along, with baskets, evidently well filled with the night's catch. the _whirlwind_ stopped at the post-office, and cora stepped out to ask the exact direction to clover cottage. she glanced in the box, the number of which bess and belle had given her as the one that "went with" their cottage. two pieces of mail had already arrived and these were handed to cora by the old man who made it his particular business to welcome every "box holder" to lookout beach. "the first road to the left," the postmaster told her as she emerged from the office, and the _whirlwind_ again led the way to the cottage. the hanging sign "clover" left no doubt as to which was the particular cottage and here the four cars and their merry passengers pulled up, and stopped. "welcome to clover!" exclaimed bess and belle in chorus. "three cheers for the welcome!" replied jack, in as loud a voice as the proximity to other cottages would allow. "but the house is not open!" declared bess, who was first to reach the porch. "nettie was to have come down yesterday." "why, yes," added belle. "mother will be dreadfully put out if she gets here and we have no maid----" "oh, don't worry about that," ed interrupted. "since we have been invited, we will attend nicely to any little thing like opening up house, and setting up housekeeping," and without further ceremony he undertook to explore each window on the broad veranda, and soon he had one pair of shutters unfastened, and was opening a sash without the slightest difficulty. "was that window unlocked?" asked belle. "why, our things might have been stolen!" "just wait until i open the door," ordered ed, "then you there--walter and jack--you may take the job of portering." "i'd rather 'buttle,'" objected walter. "there's more in it. first shot at buttling!" it seemed jolly already. the door was thrown open, and ed made all sorts of bows and bends in inviting the ladies to enter. in the sitting room a paper dangled from the lamp that hung in the center of the apartment. "directions!" announced jack. "don't blow out the gas! don't waste the water! don't break any dishes!" he had taken the paper down. the room was rather dark, and he stepped to the door to read the penciled words. "it's for--cora," he announced. "now who on earth knew that cora kimball was coming down to clover!" they all stood spellbound! that a letter for cora should hang there in a cottage closed up--certainly the doors had not been opened! cora took the folded paper from jack's hand. "more--ghosts!" sighed belle. "somehow this whole trip has been----" "ghost-bound!" interrupted walter. "well, what does this particular ghost want, cora?" "it's a note--from rose and nellie," she announced. "they have been here--and--wait, let me read it." "dear miss kimball," she read aloud. "we came to your cottage last night. i hope you will forgive us. we did not sleep in any bed, but slept on the floor. we washed all the dishes this morning, and cleaned down the pantry shelves to pay for our night's lodging. we are dreadfully discouraged, and when you see aunt delia will you just tell her we have drowned ourselves on account of that piece she put in the paper about us. we did not take miss schenk's earrings. your true friends, rose and nellie catron." "oh!" gasped belle. "isn't that perfectly dreadful!" "do you really think--they have drowned themselves?" asked bess. jack was reading the letter over, and the other boys were helping him decipher it. cora waited their opinion. "isn't it strange," she said, as jack laid the paper on the table, "every place we go they leave some clue, and yet they are just clever enough to escape us." "but are they dead, do you think?" asked belle, sobbing. "not much," declared ed firmly. "they only threw that in to put ramsy off their track. you know that account in the chelton paper claimed that mrs. ramsy said she would put the girls in the reform school when she found them. now what girl is going to walk into that sort of trap?" "wasn't it good of the poor things to wash all the dishes," remarked bess, who was now looking at the clean porcelain on the closet shelves. "if they had only waited we might have hired them, since, for some unknown reason, nettie has not arrived." "and we could have helped them keep out of sight, too," added belle, to whom any thought other than that of suicide was a welcome change. "i do wish we could find them! don't you think we ought to search, before they get away--to the ocean?" "now, my dear young ladies," began ed, assuming a comical air, "since i am to be head waiter, steward and all but butler here, i insist that the thought of foreign affairs, tinged with suicide and desperation, be tabooed from--our midst," and he actually opened the piano. "please get your partners for----" but the melody he struck up was not intended for a dance. it was the old, familiar: "no place like home!" in something between a wail and a howl, the three boys took up the refrain, and kept at it until the girls begged them to stop. then ed fell in a heap on walter's neck, and the two foolish young men pretended to cry, and moaned aloud without pretense. jack found a big dishpan and he struck up a tattoo on that with a carving knife and fork. cora was not going to let the boys make all the noise so she procured the dinner bell and rang it violently. when the din subsided, the boys suggested that the windows be opened, and the place aired before the arrival of the train that was to bring to lookout beach mrs. robinson and miss steel. what fun it was to be in actual possession of a house! true it was a very small house, compared with that occupied by the robinsons in chelton, but then there were no maids, and there was no formality. just a perfect little cottage with everything in it for real housekeeping! "a regular playhouse!" commented cora. "i wish we could keep it all to ourselves without nettie, or any other maid." "you must come and see our house when we get set up," said ed. "we are going to do it all alone. take turns at cooking, and, i suppose, take turns at eating." bess and belle were busy making a room ready and comfortable for the arrival of their mother, and her guest. "i am sure mamma will like this room best," said bess, "for it looks out over the bay and has such a lovely tree just on the east end, where the sun might have been troublesome at daybreak." "yes, what a perfectly delightful room," exclaimed cora, assisting in arranging the bed with the white coverlets, that had been placed within reach, all ready for the first comers. "we never before had a furnished house," went on belle, "and just see! a cake of soap and box of matches in each room! now that is what i call _real_ furniture." and so they went on from room to room, the girls selecting and arranging according to what seemed most practical, and most pleasing. the fright of the "suicide note" was almost forgotten in the joys of exploring and experimenting. then the boys discovered that it was almost lunch time, and this was the signal for "a raid" on the town stores. ed and jack jumped into the _get there_, and were off before bess or belle had a chance to tell them what might be "nice for lunch." "oh, we may as well try our hand all alone this time," commented jack, "and if we fail in buying the right things, it will add to our general knowledge in managing 'our bungalow.'" so they drove off, while walter assisted in spreading rugs on the porch, and putting up hammocks. "wouldn't have missed this for anything," walter declared, when cora asked him to help put the leaves in the dining-room table. "isn't this just playing house, though!" "and to think that we do not have to wash any old, dusty dishes," remarked cora. "dear me! i wish we could get some tangible clue to the actual whereabouts of those two lone, miserable, runaway girls!" chapter xix the moving picture "moved" "where shall we go first?" asked bess, in a very fever of delight. "there are so many places down here. i had no idea it was such a lively place." "i vote for moving pictures," said cora. "i have not seen a really good motion picture show since last summer." "but we have to get down to our bungalow," objected jack. "when fellows rent a place they are expected to see that it doesn't burn down or--blow away." "oh, can't you put up some place else to-night?" asked belle. "mother will not let us go out alone, and we are just dying to see some of the seaside sights." "well, seein' as it's you," he replied, "we might arrange to sit on the beach all night. but otherwise we have got to get down to the bungalow, and see if there is sleeping room in it, for we will not--absolutely will not--go to a hotel." they were seated on the porch of clover cottage, having just had a supper which the young ladies prepared, and which every one, including mrs. robinson, declared was as good and tasty a supper as one could desire. true, there was some difficulty about its preparation, as there was no gas in the cottage, and the boys had considerable trouble in procuring the sort of oil that is used in the sort of stove to be found in the furnished house at the seashore. but all this, and much more, was finally accomplished, and the meal that evolved from the process did credit to the girls from chelton. "i'm with cora for the motion pictures," ed declared, as he swung himself out of the hammock, and onto his feet. "and i'm also in for a quiet little spin thereto." "we can all pile in the _whirlwind_," said jack, "and with walter at the wheel we will all have a jolly good time and nothing to do but admire the--curve of wallie's ears." "well, i guess not," objected walter. "i went for the kerosene. it's up to somebody else to do the chores this time." it was then decided that ed should drive the car, and presently the girls reappeared on the porch, each dressed in her regulation summer garb: bess in her dainty muslin princess, belle in her faultless linen outing suit, and cora in her pretty blue sailor gown. the change from motor attire was welcome, and the boys did not fail to pass their compliments, and other remarks upon it. this last included the criticism that bess might do well to add another bow behind her other ear, that belle break off at least two yards of her single pond lily stem, and that cora might shift her tie two or three degrees farther north; otherwise, the boys declared, the girls looked "very sweet." "we must put the steerage chairs in the tonneau," said cora. "belle, we vote that you and walter occupy these state chairs, as you will take up the least room." "go slow," said jack, with better intent than grammar. "we want to see--the pretty girls." "and we want to see--everything," added bess. "isn't this perfectly delightful? i am sure we will have wonderful complexions after our summer here. why, the spray fairly washes one's face." "nice of the spray," declared walter, "and i fancy it will be very useful to the bungaloafers, for we have to carry the house water from the ocean. i can see myself washing in the atmosphere." along the broad, ocean driveway the lights were already blinking and sputtering in their regular nightly glow. music could be heard from many and various attractions, and altogether the scene was as merry as the motor maids might have desired. "let's stop here and walk on the boardwalk," suggested jack. "we can put the machine up at that garage." this hint was promptly acted upon, and as soon as ed had delivered the _whirlwind_ to the man, who would charge outrageously for housing the machine for a few hours, he joined his friends, who were all expectant for the first night's pleasure at the seaside. scarcely had they decided which way to go when a shout, in a familiar voice, attracted their attention. "hello there, chelton!" came the call. "where are you bound for?" "there are paul and hazel!" exclaimed cora. "isn't that fine! now we _will_ have a party!" and sure enough, along came paul hastings and his sister hazel. paul, handsomer than ever, with the ocean tan just acquired in his return trip from europe, and hazel as bright and fetching as possible, her eyes always ready to "gleam," and her lips always ready to smile, for hazel had the reputation of being the sort of girl who is brilliant, and knows how to "do all things well." "this _is_ luck," declared jack. he was very fond of hazel. "isn't it though!" reiterated cora. she never tried to hide her admiration for paul hastings, who knew how to make his brains work for his hands. "where are you stopping?" asked belle. "we intend to stop at the spray," said hazel, "but the fact is, we only came down this afternoon and haven't stopped at all yet." "and how's old briney?" asked ed. "salty as ever?" "just seasoned to taste," replied paul. "i'm very fond of salt--taken externally." "you look it," declared walter. "i would mistake you any place for a regular tar." with additional compliments from the girls, for indeed the sea tan was very becoming to paul, the party started off to the theatre where the "barker" at the entrance announced the motion picture performance. they found the place crowded, so that the party were not able to obtain seats together. bess and hazel went with jack and walter, while paul and ed looked after cora and belle. the performance had begun. it was funny to hear a boy sing a comical song that was intended to be pathetic, and to see the illustrative pictures flashed on the big muslin. the song was all about a little girl who wanted a mamma, and who said so to a lady who knew the child's widowed father, and who finally took pity on the child and married the parent, thus affording a ready-made mamma for the little girl on the canvas. and then they were all so happy! the intensely amateurish effect put the number beyond criticism, and the chelton young folks applauded it vigorously. the small boy who sang was very much surprised at the applause--and so were many others in the playhouse. but the motor boys and girls kept it up, until the little fellow was compelled to come out front and bow. then they let him go. a wonderful story of rustic love and its "terrible" consequences was told in the regulation motion pictures, the motion of which seemed to have a very bad spell of ague. bess was compelled to clap her hand over her eyes occasionally, but the others stood the strain wonderfully, although cora declared she hadn't a wink left for the rest of her natural life. another picture story was attempted when, suddenly, there was a loud hissing sound that was followed by a roar! instantly the place was in confusion! women shouted and children cried! the lights went out, and with them seemed to go whatever amount of common sense the audience might have been expected to have held in reserve. "keep your seats! keep your seats!" shouted the manager. "there is nothing at all the matter!" the frightened and panic-stricken assemblage would not listen to the assurance, but, instead, fought their way toward the doors, until the real danger, that of being crushed to death, was evident to those who had not taken fright with the others. "don't move!" jack commanded his party, in the most emphatic tone. "keep your seats, and don't stir!" but belle was almost fainting with fear, and she begged to be allowed to get out. "what for?" asked ed. "there is absolutely nothing the matter. the lights have gone out and the motion picture machine went up, but what harm is that? stay where you are, belle," and he grasped her firmly by the arm. "i wouldn't risk my--new shoes in that mob." this quieted the girl, and she sank back against cora, who was almost laughing at the situation. presently, the manager, realizing that he could not stop the crowd with his voice, called for music and ordered the other part of the performance to go on. "work slow!" he commanded, and then the old rusty piano "took up" something--just what it was would be hard to say. to the alleged tune a song was started. it was perfectly dark in the place, no substitute lights having been provided, and when the voice of a young girl trembled above the din and racket of the people fighting for the open air, it seemed almost ridiculous. "for our special benefit," announced walter. "i don't believe there is another person seated in the place." but the girl sang on, each bar of her song of the times bringing her voice out clearer, and fuller. "i would like to see her face," said cora to ed. "there is something familiar about that voice." "well, perhaps we can make a light," he replied. "i have as many as two matches, and the other fellows may have a couple." bess leaned over to cora. "doesn't that sound like nellie?" she asked. "i am sure she had just that queer lisp." "i was just saying the same thing," returned cora. "oh, if we only could find them--here, and have no further worry about them and their--foolish suicide note," for although cora placed no credence in the drowning threat, she did not like it, and would very much preferred to have it put out of all possibility of occurring. still the child sang on--all about the roses and the birds that seemed to get in a most dangerous tangle, until the listeners found it difficult to tell which was sweeter--the song of the birds, or the color of the roses! the chelton party was not far from the place where the footlights ought to have been. "suppose i go over there and strike a match," suggested ed. "i can hold it up near her face, and then you will be able to get a glimpse." acting on this plan he felt his way through the dark and deserted place, and did almost reach the stage. then he struck a match! it went out. he lighted another--better luck this time, for it burned away while he jumped to the stage and almost thrust the little wooden taper into the face of the singer. the girl screamed, and seemed too frightened to move! the match went out, and, as the place was again black in darkness, the figure on the platform passed behind the curtain and was gone! chapter xx the gaiety of going "oh, glorious gaiety!" "oh, delightful dissipation!" "oh, luscious loafing!" "oh, wayside wanderings!" these remarks emanated from the exuberant spirits of jack kimball, paul hastings, ed foster and walter pennington. it was a few evenings after the moving picture performance had ended so abruptly, and the young men insisted that this time they would "take in" some other attractions. the young ladies were almost equally enthusiastic, and therefore it was decided that the beautiful june evening be spent in the perfectly innocent sport of further sight-seeing at the select summer colony centre. on the other evening when ed thrust the light under the eyes of the little singer, who was following the manager's instructions to "sing for all she was worth, to catch the crowd," and the girl had darted away, frightened at the rather daring act of attempt at recognition, cora insisted that the singer was none other than rose catron. but the darkness and confusion of the place made it impossible for even the chelton boys to make their way back of the stage and investigate further. jack did try it, but the tangle of boxes and heaps of stage fixings so blocked his way that he was forced to give up before he reached what ought to be the stage entrance. ed and walter searched for the manager with equally unsatisfactory results, and so, for the time being, the quest had to be abandoned; although cora was keenly disappointed in having to leave the place with no clue as to the real identity of the little singer. that the girls had not drowned themselves was all the assurance that belle needed to restore her peace of mind on that subject, while bess insisted she would take the _flyaway_ and run down to the place so early next morning that if the performer should prove to be rose, she would scarcely have had time to pick up her things in daylight, and again escape. hazel was also interested when told of the girls' strange story, and in her gentle yet decisive way, she offered to do what she could while at the beach to discover the possible whereabouts of rose and nellie. but the search was unavailing, as no one in authority at the moving picture theatre would answer questions satisfactorily. "to-night," said walter, as they started out again, "let the girls choose the attraction." they sauntered along the brilliantly-lighted boardwalk. all the style available at the colony seemed to be on parade, and, as far as our girl friends were concerned, they would really have preferred to remain in the procession, but for the knowledge that the boys wanted to see what was going on in the big building at the end of the pier. "the human washing machine!" shouted jack, after a glance at the sign. "now there is a practical attraction and i am willing to pay the bill for 'doing up' every one in the crowd." to this novelty the party betook themselves. outside the entrance were people deliberating upon going in, but hesitating because the billboards announced that "each person would be put through the most novel and most complete process of washing to be obtained anywhere, at the low cost of ten cents the person." but the chelton folks were not afraid--they might have halted at the ironing possibility, but nothing in the way of washing had any terrors for the motor girls and their friends. "oh, my!" exclaimed belle. "i could never go in that!" "why?" demanded walter. "it looks perfectly tempting. smell that soap suds!" a whiff came out of the building to them. "and look at the blueing," cried cora, pointing to a mass of blue water flowing from a pipe outside the structure. "if we never had the 'blues' we will have them now--all ready-made." "if never you've been blue, prepare to be blue now," quoted ed, with semi-tragic effect. "come along! come right along!" shouted the "barker," or man who was booming the attraction. "this way for the greatest sensation outside of flying! step this way--everybody! you pays your money and you gets a good wash! satisfaction guaranteed. the servant problem solved. here you are, young ladies and gentlemen--right this way!" and he looked at our friends in a humorous manner. "hear that?" called jack. "he has us spotted, all right. he knows we need it, maybe. i'm going in first." "that's the way to talk," commented the barker. "you'll never regret it, my friend. step this way to the ticket office. remember, ladies and gentlemen," he went on, in louder tones, "this is the only human washing machine on the beach. there are washing machines run by human beings but this is absolutely and without doubt the only self-regulated, double acting, six cylinder, four speeds forward and reverse machine, that washes human beings in the short space of ten minutes--one sixth of an hour--six hundred seconds, and i say that without fear of successful contradiction. this way--everybody!" "here goes," went on jack, as he purchased a number of tickets from a roll unwound by a woman in a little cage of an office. "i'll try it first, and if i survive the bleaching process the rest of you can come in." "oh!" cried bess. "i'll never, never do it!" "me, either," added belle. "wait until we see what it is," suggested cora. "it may be great fun, and, as long as it's not vulgar i'm going in, if jack says it's all right." "come one, come all!" the barker could be heard droning. the party of boys and girls went into the place, and found themselves in the midst of an excited and jolly crowd. some had been washed, others needed washing, some wanted washing, and others desired it, but feared to undertake the ordeal. "good-bye!" called jack, gaily, as he walked along a narrow passage, protected by a railing on either side, for an attendant directed there all who wanted to indulge in the new sensation. "hold on!" cried ed and walter. "we're coming, too!" "get a hustle on," ordered jack. "the water is just right now." the girls stood where they could watch the process. suddenly jack and his chums could be seen bobbing up and down, as if they were in a boat on a choppy sea, and then the girls noticed that the lads were on a sort of endless, moving sidewalk, that did all sorts of queer "stunts" while, underneath, water rushed and bubbled along, seemingly all about the boys, but never touching them. "you are now in the tub of soapy water," announced a man who was evidently there for that purpose. "you are getting the first layer of contamination off." faster and faster went the moving, endless sidewalk. it surged up and down, and from side to side. the boys were laughing and joking, and they had to cling to the railing to maintain their footing. "this is great!" cried jack. "all to the la-la!" added ed. "it most----" began walter, but, at that minute all three came to the end of the first scrubbing process, and were precipitated upon a highly polished slide--somewhat like the bamboo ones that are so popular at summer resorts. it was like glass, and, as there were only a few lights at this point, whereas the "tub" was brilliantly illuminated, the boys went down in a heap, and slid along. "part of the game," commented jack, grimly. "you are now on the washing board," came from the announcer. "keep perfectly still--there is no danger." in front of, and behind, the boys came other persons--slipping, sliding, shouting, yelling, laughing, gasping and struggling. "wow!" yelled ed. "here comes another tub to go through!" they had reached the end of the "washboard" and once more the three boys were tossed up and down, and from side to side, while rushing water under them seemed to give the effect of being put through a boiler of suds. "look out! here's something new!" yelled ed, a moment later, and, sure enough, they emerged, after a trip up and down, and around corners, upon a scrubbing board, made of glass, under which water was rushing with such effect that it seemed as if they were going to be soaked. "this is great!" cried jack, as he reached it. "i thought i was in for it that time, but it's all to the soap and starch; that's what!" his companions, and many others, followed, and, a moment later, they were facing what looked like two rolls, such as collars and cuffs are run through. "do we go through them?" gasped jack, halting a moment as he got on his feet after the slide down the scrubbing board. "sure--go ahead," said walter. "oh, mercy! he won't really go through those rolls, will he?" gasped belle. the rolls did look formidable, and they were whirling around at a rapid rate. "be a sport," called ed. "when you've been rolled out you'll be all right, jack." "all right--you go ahead," retorted jack, stepping back. "you can have my place." "it's all right, fellows--go ahead," one of the attendants assured them. jack faced the revolving rolls. the attendant gave him a gentle push, and, before jack knew it he was swallowed up in the whirling cylinders. "oh!" screamed bess. "he'll be killed!" but neither she nor the others could see what happened, for jack vanished, and, after him went walter and ed. once through the rolls, they were tossed with considerable force into a wringer ten times the size of the one through which they had just passed. like the first the rolls were upright, and not horizontal. they seemed to be made of rubber, and were more real than the first. jack tried to hold back, but it was of no use. he had been tossed fairly into the big wringer, and, a moment later, he found himself being drawn through. to his surprise the rolls were of straw, covered with cotton-batting, and they compressed sufficiently to allow him to go through easily. "come on, fellows!" jack tried to call to his chums, but his mouth was stopped for an instant by the soft rolls. besides, there was no need for his invitation, since ed and walter, whether they wanted to or not, found themselves being drawn in with irresistible force. by this time the girls had run up, not without some little alarm, and they saw the boys come through the rolls. "oh--they--they're all--all right," gasped belle, her hand on her heart. "of course," cried jack, with a laugh. "we're most done, ladies. then it will be your turn." "never!" declared cora. "oh, you'll like it, ladies," the attendant assured them. "next comes the blueing water," and jack and his friends, together with a number of other persons who were undertaking the ordeal, were once more on a moving sidewalk, sliding up and down, from side to side, and over a mass of blue, rushing water, which, seen through the sections of the walk, looked as if, every minute, it would surge up all about their feet. but they were as dry as the proverbial bone. "now if you will kindly step this way you will be hung out to dry," called the attendant, and a door opened, and the boys with several others were fairly shot out into a yard, where they saw what they supposed were persons hanging over clothes lines. jack recoiled at this. "go ahead. be a sport," urged ed. then walter burst into a laugh. "why, they're dummies!" he gasped. "straw figures!" and so they proved. "all over!" announced a man. "have another wash. it will do you good." "not for mine," declared jack. "i'm clean enough to last a month." "i'm going to have some more," announced walter. "so am i," declared ed. "i'll go through with the girls this time." "and there's paul yet to be initiated," added walter. they hurried back to where they had left their friends. "the greatest ever!" declared jack. "i wouldn't have missed it for anything. go ahead, girls. it's the greatest fun!" "but those wringers?" faltered bess. "aren't you pressed flat?" "try it--and see," replied jack, all unconscious of the joke he was perpetrating at the expense of the plump girl. "were they rubber?" asked belle. "go through and see," was all jack would answer. "i'll try it," volunteered paul. "so will i," added cora bravely. "oh, don't!" begged belle. "of course i will. i'm not afraid, after ed, walter and jack have been through it. besides, look at all the other girls and ladies who venture in." "that's the way to talk," said the attendant admiringly. "in you go, young lady," and he assisted cora upon the narrow footpath of the first "tub." cora went through it all, with paul close behind her. it was all perfectly proper, and not too rough, and the girl thoroughly enjoyed it, even to the two rolling machines. she came back with her cheeks flushed from the exercise and excitement. "go ahead, girls!" urged cora to her chums. "it is a most novel experience." "i would, only for the wringers," agreed bess. "and i would--only--only for the slide," declared belle, and no amount of urging could induce her or her sister to venture the novelty. but they had lots of fun watching others get "washed," and even hazel took a trip, with jack to keep her company, for he reconsidered his determination not to take another "dip." jack, his chums, the boys, and cora and hazel were such a merry party, and attracted so much attention that the man in charge of the machine, after they had each enjoyed two trips through it, came up, and said: "say, go through again--for nothing." "why?" inquired jack. "oh, because you're such a jolly bunch that you are drawing a big crowd in here," was the explanation. "the man outside is turning 'em away. that's good business for us. have another dip or two for nothing. only keep up the laughing and shouting." "no, thank you," responded cora, with a smile. "we are not human advertisements, if we have gone through a human washing machine," and, to the man's evident disappointment, they walked out of the place. bess laughed so uproariously at the sight of a stout woman essaying a trip through the machine, that the motor girl had to sit down on a box to get her breath. "oh, i never laughed so much in all my life," she said. "laugh and grow fat," commented the attendant, meaning no harm. bess stopped her mirth suddenly, and gave the man such a look, that, as jack said, if glances could kill, the poor chap would have been "crippled for life." "i wish he was!" snapped bess, who was very sensitive about her weight. "i never heard of such a thing--just because i laughed a little." "you should have gone through the rolls," ventured cora. "though they looked hard, they were as soft as a feather pillow. come on; there's time yet." but even the inducement of "feather pillows," would not tempt bess or belle to try the machine. "well, what next?" asked jack, as they stood out on the big pier, and listened to the mournful swish of the incoming tide underneath. "what do you say to another moving picture show, or the band concert, or some salt-water taffy or even a lobster supper? i'm game." "i vote for lobsters," called ed. "because they're such friends of yours," retorted walter. "mighty good friends, at the prices they charge down here," commented paul. "i haven't dared look one in the face." "silly--a lobster hasn't a face," said his sister. "well, their eyes, then," amended paul. "i think my sister and i must really go," came from paul. "it is getting late--for us." "yes, it is too late for anything more to-night," was cora's retort. "if we don't get in on good time, you know, boys, our liberty on other occasions may be restricted." "well, have your way about it," answered jack, good-naturedly. "there are other nights coming." "yes, let's go home," added belle, and bess tried to hide a sleepy yawn, for they had traveled about considerable that day, and she was tired. so paul and hazel said good-night, and the others, entering the autos, turned into the ocean boulevard and started toward clover cottage. "we'll drive up, and put the machines away later," suggested jack, when they were near their home quarters. "we really have been quite a long time away." they found mrs. robinson and miss steel waiting on the porch. "why, mamma has not retired yet," exclaimed bess. "i wonder at her sitting out of doors in the damp." but the reason of this was soon made plain. mrs. robinson was too frightened to go indoors! "oh, we have had such a dreadful time," she sobbed. "i cannot see how you could have gone and left us in this lonely place all this while." bess instantly had her arms around the trembling little woman. mrs. robinson had always been "babied" by the girls, and that she was very nervous her whole family knew too well. "mother dear," began bess, "we did not think it too late. you said we might stay until--after nine----" "but, daughter! how did i know we were to be frightened to death by--burglars!" "burglars!" chorused the boys. "yes," put in miss steel, "we distinctly heard them in the dining room, and when i had the courage to attempt to go in they--blew out the lamp!" "mercy!" exclaimed belle, recoiling from the window she had been leaning against. "it might have been--a draft of wind," suggested walter. "but a draft could not knock over a chair," miss steel told him, somewhat indignantly. "we would have gone over to the hotel if we could have left any word for you, but, you see, we could not go inside, even to write a note." a thought flashed through cora's mind. the mention of "note" had inspired it. she drew bess and belle aside. "i wouldn't wonder if these runaway girls came back," she whispered. "we must go inside and see if they--left a note." "go inside!" repeated belle. "i guess not." "come on, boys! let's investigate," said walter to the others, opening the hall door and striking a match as he did so. he lighted the hanging lamp in the little hall, while the women, with bess and belle, actually left the porch and went out on the sidewalk to be at a safe distance. cora followed the boys. "who's here?" asked jack as he entered the dining room. "light up!" commanded ed. "we might step on somebody's fingers." the dining-room light was soon burning. yes, a chair had been overturned, and another! "the flower vase is broken!" exclaimed cora, seeing the wreck in the centre of the table. "and i gathered those posies!" said ed. "just my luck!" "come right along, gentlemen," invited walter to the invisible intruders. "come along! this way to the refrigerator!" "be careful, walter," cautioned cora, for although she had undertaken to follow the boys she had not counted on seeing things thus upset. "there are candles in the pantry," suggested ed. "i know, because i put them there, after i found the oil can in the cellar." jack and walter each lighted a candle. they then undertook a systematic search. closets, cupboards, corners and stairways were ransacked, every door was opened and closed, to make sure no one swung on the hinges. then the searching party went upstairs. the same thoroughness was observed on the second floor, but no hint of whom the intruders might be was brought to light. it took some time to go over all the smaller rooms, and, when every nook had been finally explored, cora sat down for a moment on the hall seat. "listen!" she whispered. a sound from the dining room had caught her attention. "it's the girls," said walter, as he, too, heard something downstairs. "they would never come in until we assured them everything was all right," objected cora. "let's go down," said ed, at the same moment, almost falling over the bannister in his haste to get down quickly. "there they go!" called walter, who was just back of jack, and, as he said this, a figure darted out the rear door, and made away, before the boys could get out of the house to follow. "this way!" shouted jack to ed, as they finally did reach the open yard. "i saw them go over that fence." a light from the street at the rear of the cottage was now to be seen. "an auto!" yelled ed. "they are ready to start! quick, walter! head them off at the corner!" but the first buzz of the strange machine was of that determined quality that usually indicates great power, capable of spurting some rods away with one great, grand whizz! the car was out of sight, and out of sound, while walter was struggling with the stickers of a barbed wire fence. a dark stretch of road, that at once united and separated two summer resorts, made the flight of the intruders' car too simple to speculate upon. "if our garage was not so far away," complained walter, returning from the fence with bleeding fingers, "we'd have a race." "hanged funny, isn't it?" commented ed. "as if that--person--we saw get away was a robber! why, that was a girl--she crawled under the fence!" declared walter. "she may have left me a bunch of violets," remarked jack with a sigh, as they all three went back to the cottage, where, at the steps, cora was waiting. "say, sis," her brother went on, "let's go in and look over things now. i have an idea that our visitor came to wash up more dishes!" "and i also have an idea that the visitor--had been here before," replied cora. "they--he--she, or it--knew how to open that funny catch on the screen door!" re-entering the house the boys made all sorts of fun of each other, for each and all of them allowing the "burglar" to escape. "but, joking aside," said cora, "i know i heard the noise in the dining room, and i'm going to look there first." "for my violets," whimpered jack, with a sniffle. "june violets!" mocked cora. "well--daisies then. i saw daisies as we came out, and i'd just as soon have daisies." ed and jack held their candles high above their heads as they tiptoed into the dining room. a bit of paper fluttered from the hanging lamp! "more directions on 'how to use this cottage!'" roared jack. "there, didn't i tell you! this is the second note left this way. must have come by a homing-pigeon. well, i'd just as soon have a dove as a bouquet of violets." chapter xxi boys and girls a half hour later the entire party at clover cottage sat in the cozy dining room, engaged in earnest consultation. the frightened mrs. robinson, and the timid miss steel, had finally consented to come indoors, after the situation had been described, punctuated and emphasized to them, although they really did want to put up at the hotel in the circle. the subject under discussion was the note that was found dangling from the hanging lamp. it was from nellie catron, and was not addressed to any one in particular. cora had read it, and was now re-reading it. "if you don't stop hounding us," she read, "we will surely drown ourselves. we could get along if you would leave us alone, but we think that balky-horse-trick played on us the other night is about the limit." cora stopped. "now," she said, "it is perfectly plain that a girl never wrote that note. in the first place, it is not a girl's writing, and in the next, no girl would speak that way about putting a match under her nose!" in spite of the seriousness of the matter every one was forced to laugh at the remark. certainly it did seem like the old-fashioned trick used to start a balky horse--light a match under his nose. "then who do you suppose did write it, if not one of the girls?" asked bess. "why, perhaps the driver of the automobile," replied cora. "i would not bother myself about those two foolish girls, longer," said mrs. robinson. she was quite exhausted from the evening's experience, and anxious to have her cottage put in its normal condition. "mother, dear," interceded belle, "you are nervous and worried. just let me take you upstairs, and the others can settle it all to suit themselves." this offer was promptly accepted, and presently the young folks were left to decide whether or not they would further endeavor to find the runaways. "it seems to me," said cora, "that they need our help now, more than ever. they may have gotten in with some unscrupulous persons--and who can tell what may happen?" "certainly working girls do not drive autos," put in ed, "and i just suspicion that the manager of that show wants to keep the girls for the song business. they can sing a little, and talent is scarce just now. that is, if they really were in the show." "right!" exclaimed walter. "he would have to look around considerable to get girls to sing now, for all the schools are not closed, and the season of fun has not really begun yet. later, i suppose there will be a regular drift this way." "that is why father thought we ought to come down early," put in bess. "he thinks it is so much pleasanter at the seaside late and early, rather than in the regular season." "of course," said cora, "the girls are afraid of that robbery business; otherwise they would not try to keep away from us, for i am quite sure they know we would not turn them over to that aunt." "i wonder how they are making out on that robbery?" asked walter. "wasn't there something doing the day we left chelton?" "something, and then some more," replied jack, with a sly wink. "i expect a report from 'headquarters' on it very soon." "and poor little andy! i do wonder what became of him?" added cora. "ice cream became of him the last i saw him," retorted jack, "and i must say the brown part of the cone was really very becoming to him, for it matched his complexion." "then," went on ed, "we will start on a regular search to-morrow. no use letting them slip away, when you girls feel that it is really up to you to find them. we will put up at the hotel to-night, and early to-morrow start in bunga-loafing. then, when we get things to rights--we will be pleased--ahem--to--ahem--meet you at the pergola, ladies!" "no, at the pavilion," replied bess. "i am just dying to see all the sights there. and then we will be directly in the centre of everything to start out from there." this obtuse remark gave the boys no end of fun. it was so like bess--a regular "bessie," they declared, and, to discover its meaning jack, ed and walter put their heads together literally, although jack accused ed of doing all the knocking, and he had to withdraw from the conference because of a rather too vigorous bump. bess was so vexed that she ran upstairs, and left cora alone to lock the door after the young fellows. "you really must go, boys," cora insisted. "mrs. robinson is going to keep model hours, and i am only a guest here." this was taken as the ultimatum, and reluctantly the trio left with the promise of a "big day" on the morrow. cora and bess chatted a while before retiring. they had many things to talk of, but the lateness of the hour prevented a lengthy discourse. "mother is so worried because our maid nettie does not come," bess whispered. "she is always so reliable, and so prompt, we cannot imagine what can have detained her." "she may be ill," suggested cora. "father would send a message in that case," replied bess. "perhaps you will get a message on the morning mail," continued cora. "at any rate, i would not worry about matters at home." with this hopeful assurance the girls said good-night, and soon closed their eyes on that day's experience at lookout beach. the "morning dawned auspiciously," as belle would say, but according to the boys it was a "peach of a day." either way the morning was delightful, clear ocean air seeming to provide both eating and drinking to those who breathed deep of its salt tanginess and ozone. and this was the day that our boy friends were to go housekeeping! before any of the other patrons of the hotel were stirring ed, jack, and walter were roaming about the verandas, waiting for an early breakfast. nor did they depend upon waiting, alone, for they spoke pleasantly to the dining-room maids, who were arranging linen and flowers, and in response to entreaties the boys did get an early meal, and of the very best there was in the hotel. the melons were exactly cold enough, the omelette was done to a turn, and had the turn, the coffee was fragrant and strong, and the hot buns "talked," walter declared. of course, in recognition of this special favor, the boys left some tokens, in coin, at their plates, but their politeness and pleasantries were even more appreciated by the young women, who must take frowns and smiles day after day, and who must ever reply to these variable conditions, with smiles and good nature. "and now for the bungalow!" called out ed, as the three strolled off toward the irresistible beach. "gosh! but it was a lucky thing that we trailed after the girls. here we are, taking a vacation that can't be beat, and yet we just flopped right, plumb into it." "you may have flopped," remarked walter, "but it strikes me that some of us have worked for this. i hired the bungalow." "and we paid the rent!" from jack. "and us--us are going housekeeping!" added walter. each of the young men contributed his share to these expletive exclamations. they were running along in the sand, stopping occasionally to write their names, or leave an address for some mermaid. "wah-hoo! wah-hoo!" the call came from the rocks at the end of the water tongue. presently three sprites appeared. they might have been humans, but to the boys they looked like nothing more or less than water sprites. all three happened to be gowned in white, bess, cora and belle, and as they gamboled over the rocks, making their way to the water's edge, the boys were compelled to draw in long breaths of admiration. "'low there!" greeted ed. "wait till i become ulysses. hey there! circe! not so fast else thy feet will have to follow thy heads!" "ulysses!" mocked walter. "more like jupiter! just watch him make the water roll off of his head. he is going to dive!" scarcely had walter uttered the words than ed plunged over the end of the water tongue, and could not stop until he had actually splashed into the shallow water. the tongue ran to a fine point, and the point was not discernible from the viewpoint available to ed. "whew!" he spluttered. "circe had me that time! now, what do you think of that for a new pair of shoes!" by this time the girls had reached the water's edge. "better stick to plain chelton and the motor girls," said cora with a hearty laugh, in which the other girls joined. "you will find that the myths are dangerous brands of canned goods--won't keep a minute after they are opened up for review!" ed was running the water out of his shoes. they were thoroughly soaked, and the salt effect was too well known to be speculated upon. jack stood on his head in the deep sand--he was exulting over ed's "downfall." "wait! wait!" prophesied the unfortunate one. "you are not back home yet." "oh, there's the bungalow!" suddenly called out bess, who was some paces in advance. "how i wish we girls could camp!" "aren't you?" asked walter. "what do you call that place where the notes grow on the gas jets?" "why, that's a regular up-to-date cottage, including----" "mother and chaperone," added belle. "i cannot see why the most needful adjunct does not arrive in the person of nettie, our star maid. i had to dry dishes this morning," and she looked gloomily at her white hands. "that's what is called camping," advised jack. "i am going to do the supper dishes, ed will do the dinner dishes, his hands are nice and soft for grease, and walter will 'tend to the tea--things. don't forget, wallie, the tea things for yours!" "it usually rains at night," walter remarked. "i don't mind putting the things in a dishpan outside." "and have them dried in the sunny dew! oh, back to nature! you wonderful back-to-nature faker!" cried ed. "nature must have an awful 'back-ache,'" finished jack. "i would hate to have her job these days." "here we are!" announced ed, as they reached the cabin on the beach. "isn't this the real thing?" "oh, what a fine bungalow!" exclaimed cora. "isn't it splendid!" added belle. "my, but it is----" "sweet and low!" jack interrupted bess. "i like that tune for a bungalow!" they were following jack, who had the big, old-fashioned key, for the lock had been constructed to add to the novelty of the hut. it took some time to open the low door, but it did finally yield to the pressure of the three strong young men. "enter!" called jack, bowing low to the girls, "pray enter, pretty maidens. are there any more at home like you?" "there are a few, and pretty, too," responded cora, taking up the strain of the familiar song. then such antics! and such discoveries! what is more resourceful than a strange house filled with strange things, strange corners and strange--spider webs! "don't open the trunk!" shrieked belle. "there may be a----" "note in it!" finished walter. "now, nixy on notes. i want the goods or nothing, in our house." boxes were being pulled from their salty corners, hammocks were dragged out, lanterns were being "swung," and altogether it seemed merely a question of who could upset the place most thoroughly. "halt! avaunt! ship ahoy!" yelled jack. "if you breaks the stuff you pays fer it. this stock is inventoried." but the girls ran from one thing to another, regardless of dust or dampness. "oh, just look at the funny kettle!" exclaimed belle. "i'm sure that is for an outdoor fire." "certainly it is," replied ed, just as if he knew what he was talking about. "that also has to rest on nature's back." something rumbled close to the cottage, then a shriek from outside startled them. "what's that!" cried cora. ed pushed open the door. "an auto in the ocean!" he yelled, dashing out of the bungalow, while the others followed as quickly as they could make after him. ed threw off his coat as he ran. a few paces down the beach, in the very face of the rollers, was a small runabout, the terrified occupants of which were vainly struggling to get out, into a dangerous depth of water. "quick, boys!" shouted ed. "the engine is still running! maybe we can back it up!" chapter xxii a struggle with the waves when ed, jack and walter ran down the sandy beach, directly into the water, and then attempted to rescue from the waves a lady and her daughter, who were in the ocean-going auto, the girls were not afraid to follow them--to the extent of walking into the water knee deep. the helpless woman was a cripple, and when she, with an exhausting effort, managed to turn to one side and fall over the rim of the runabout seat into the water, she dropped like a stone into the surf. the daughter jumped, but in her frantic efforts to reach her mother, she crawled under the car, and was in very great danger of being lost herself. suddenly the helpless form of the crippled woman rose to the surface. jack threw his arms about the invalid, and, after shouting for walter to help him, as the force of the rollers threatened to take him off his feet, the two young men managed to make their way safely to the sand with the unconscious form. meanwhile the anxious motor girls hastened to offer what assistance they might be able to give. "lay her down here," said cora, as her brother escaped from the fury of one great, dashing mountain of water, that broke into foam as it spread out over the sand. "i think we will have to take her into the bungalow," he replied. "but where is ed? look for ed! he has not found the girl yet!" and indeed neither ed nor the girl could be seen! cora and bess left belle with jack and walter to attend to the woman, while they again stepped forward as far into the water as it seemed safe to go. "there is ed!" shouted cora, and without doing more than unclasping the leather belt that confined her waist, she struck out boldly toward a point considerably farther out than the spot where the stalled car stood in the water. "oh, you can't swim--that way, cora!" called bess. "cora! cora! come back!" but with arms over her head cora plowed her way through the waves, stroke after stroke, until she was beside ed, who was struggling to beat back the rollers that fought for the very life of the girl he had just brought up from under the heavy blanket of smothering water. "mother! mother!" wailed the girl. "let me get--mother. she is--down--down there!" "no--she is--safe!" gasped cora. "come! let us help you--out!" "oh is--she safe! i--i am all right! i--can swim!" "but you are too weak!" called ed. "let us help you!" a shriek--and the girl again disappeared. ed went down after her, and while cora kept in motion to sustain herself, ed came up with the girl again in his arms. "take hold!" he gasped to cora. "she is hurt and cannot swim." cora, with one well trained arm, conquered the waves, while with the other she helped support the form of the almost fainting girl, as ed, swimming in the same way, and almost carrying the girl with his free arm, made for the shore. forgetting everything but the danger to her friends, bess, too, ran into the waves to meet the swimmers. "go back!" shouted ed. "if you lose your footing we can't help you." scarcely had he uttered the words than bess stumbled and fell, head foremost, into the roller that was rushing up on the shore! fortunately the incoming water brought bess in--fairly tumbling her out on the sand. the same power assisted ed and cora to land with the strange young girl. meanwhile jack and walter had made their way to the bungalow, assisting the crippled woman. "oh!" shrieked bess, scrambling to her feet. "oh, i--am smothered!" "so are we!" cora managed to say. "come, bess. help us revive the young lady." "oh i--am--all--right now----" murmured the girl. "only let me--get to mother!" a sorry looking sight indeed were the motor girls--all four of them, for the strange girl should be classed with bess, belle and cora, as she, too, owned a car and drove it. true she did allow it to get beyond control, and, by a sudden wrong turn of the wheel, sent it in the ocean. still she was a motor girl for all her inexperience. "where are you hurt?" asked ed, as they all stood for a moment on the beach. the strange girl was working her shoulder with evident painful effort. "i must have injured my neck or shoulder blade when i dove under the machine," she replied. "something--is very stiff." "let us get up to the bungalow," suggested cora, for the strange girl seemed like one dazed. "your mother is there, and i hope by this time she has revived." even in their discomfiture our friends could not help noticing what a pretty and pleasant mannered girl the stranger was. every little nicety of good breeding was perfectly evident in her gentle gratitude to her rescuers, and in her earnest solicitation for her mother. ed led the way to the camp, while the girls followed. belle met them at the door. "how is she?" asked cora, knowing how anxious was the girl about her invalid mother. "she is quite revived," replied belle, "but she wants her daughter. i am so glad you have come," hurried on belle, without waiting for any formality. "she seems greatly worried about--beatrice." "oh, let me see her," exclaimed the girl. "dear, little, darling mamma," and before the others could show the way beatrice (for such was her name) had the crippled form clasped lovingly in her arms. what a strange sight in the musty little bungalow! belle was the only person who was not dripping wet--and the girls were so far from clover cottage, and from an auto to take them there, that there was a prospect they might dry out before fresh garments could be secured. beatrice looked up from the face of the trembling woman. "i wonder if we can--use the car?" she ventured. "i must get mother back to the hotel." "if we can get the machine out and the magneto is not short circuited from the water," said jack, "i don't see why you couldn't run it." "there are the life guards," exclaimed cora, who stood by the open door. "and they have a coil of rope." "good!" declared jack. "we will have something to pull with, and some one to help us now. come along, boys. girls, you will find a basket of provisions some place. there may be, in it, something of use," and with this he ran out to the beach where like two bronzed figures the life guards stood regarding the auto in the ocean. it did not take the boys long to explain the situation, and to show what needed to be done to haul out the ocean-going car. fastening the heavy ropes about the machine the three boys and the two men pulled--pulled--and pulled! at first the car would not budge. then the soft sand, in which the tires were buried, slid away some, under the urgent pressure, and finally, when the car once moved, all hands at the ropes gave a concerted pull, and the machine rolled slowly, but more and more surely, toward the edge of the shelving beach. "good!" exclaimed ed. "don't stop! keep it up!" it was heavy work, but at last the auto was clear of the water. "there!" gasped jack, almost breathless. "that's all to the gasolene! now to look her over." half an hour of steady work and then ed grasped the handle and started to crank up. it was stiff at first but presently the familiar whir-r-r-r--of the motor sounded, and walter from the seat threw in the clutch with the lever set at low speed. the magneto was all right. the little car swung out as gracefully as if it had "never tasted salt water," as jack put it. the girls were eagerly watching every move. how thankful they were, for the woman in the bungalow had need of immediate medical attention. in less time than it would seem possible to accomplish so much, jack and ed lifted the light form of the sick woman into the car, and, while beatrice supported her mother on the right, jack took his place at the wheel, and started off toward the hotel. "we will send the auto back for you young ladies," called beatrice. "it won't take any time to get to the hotel." the car once out of sight, walter and ed rushed into the bungalow, smashed a couple of dry boxes, and thrust them into the little stone fireplace, put a match to a bundle of paper, and then all four, who had assisted in the rescue, stood before the blaze, while steam sizzled up from the water that fell in puddles on the floor from the soaked garments. "we _did_ get it," remarked ed. "i never swam before--this way." "is there anything wetter than wet clothes?" asked cora. "oh, yes," replied bess. "i think the wettest thing i have ever found is the--bottom of the sea! mercy, but i did think i was gone!" "you were," replied walter, swishing a few drops of the too plentiful water in her eyes. "you were gone, but not forgotten, and you came back like--the famous penny!" "oh, you can joke!" retorted bess. "but i tell you i was almost washed out." "worse than the laundry," teased ed. "well, bess, you look a lot better. i do believe you've gotten thin!" chapter xxiii the excursion when jack returned to the bungalow, with the rescued runabout, he was all excitement over the discovery of pretty beatrice blakley. he even went so far as to declare that she had confided in him the fact that she was just about to get an electric runabout, that her father was a very wealthy man, and that she was going to be at lookout beach all summer! this information was detailed in such a way as to excite the possibility of jealousy in the other motor girls, particularly in bess, who really looked upon jack kimball as quite a friend--one whom she could depend upon to look out for her particular pleasure, and give her all the little attentions that go to make up the sum total of a good time for the summer girl. so the arrival upon the scene of miss beatrice was rather a surprise--to say the least. "come on, cora," called jack, after he had given a particularly enthusiastic description of beatrice's wonderful management of her sick mother, "i promised you would go to the hotel this afternoon to see how mrs. blakley is, and to find out if they need anything before mr. blakley gets down from town." "of course i'll go," replied cora, with a sly smile. "belle and i, or bess and i will call, certainly." "well, get in the machine, you three, and we boys will get ourselves dried out. you may keep the runabout at the clover until you are ready to go over in the afternoon. then i'll drive you." this assertion caused every one to laugh at jack. the idea of his driving two motor girls! as if they couldn't manage a little car like that! "well, we will see," said cora, as she, bess, and belle climbed into the car, which held three comfortably. "perhaps if you are very good we may take you along. or you may----" "i say, fellows!" interrupted ed. "i thought we were going to see that excursion come in from chelton this afternoon. some of our boys are coming down." "of course," added walter. "jack, you don't call on b---- this afternoon. make it some other time. we are going down to the pier to see the folks from home, and in the meantime, we've got a lot to do to get this camp pitched. and you are cook for the first week. don't forget that." "oh, all right," assented jack. "of course, if you all insist. perhaps i can live!" and he sighed dramatically. two hours later the motor girls and the boys, all refreshed in correct summer garb, without any evidence of their morning's experience, waited on the pier, while the big excursion boat columbia sailed in, her colors flying gaily, and the hands and hats of seemingly every youth in chelton, waving over the deck rails, as the annual summer outing of lincoln county put in to port at lookout beach. hazel and paul were with the kimballs and robinsons, so that all our friends from chelton united in welcoming the excursionists. "there's fred!" called jack, the first to discover a familiar face in the big crowd. "and there's ben," added ed. "as if fred bennet could travel without ben fredericks." "clear the way there, please," ordered the boatman. "we must have room for the gangplank--that's a big crowd." the girls left the inside aisle, and slipped under the rail to the outer walk of the pier, but the boys held to their place. they insisted upon seeing the people land, and it was no little fun to be real sojourners at the popular watering place, when so many other boys and girls have to be content to visit the beach for a single day. "oh, there's little nannette," called cora. "jack! jack!" she shouted, "bring nannette over here. see! she is walking with that old man!" jack ducked in and out of the crowd until he reached the girl called nannette. she was a very small creature, a cripple, and when seen by cora, the latter immediately essayed to look after the delicate child, so that she might not suffer unnecessarily in the rush and crush of the crowd. and nannette was indeed glad to see jack kimball. the young man almost carried her to cora, for nannette was a general favorite in the village--one of those human buds that never blossom, but always stay in the childhood of promise--unconscious of time and unmindful of method. "oh, we are so glad you came down," exclaimed cora, embracing the child. "you will have a lovely day. are you tired? did you enjoy the sail?" but before she could answer the other girls plied similar questions, until the little one was fairly besieged with kind attention. "hello there!" shouted some one. "where are the boys?" "brownson mclarin!" exclaimed bess, with a slight blush. "i wonder----" "if teddy is with him," finished belle, with a meaning nod to cora. "now, if teddy is here, we may all depend upon bess for a good time. teddy would rather spend money on bess than eat a shore dinner." "land o' goshen!" shouted jack. "look--at--andy!" the girls turned to see what he indicated. and sure enough, there was little andy from squaton, but so dressed up and displaying such a physical "shine," that his friends from chelton would scarcely have recognized him had not jack pointed him out. "fetch him over here," begged cora. "say, cora," replied jack, "would you like me to pull in the whole crowd, and let you take your pick? seems to me you want every one you see," but at the same time he "reached" little andy, and led him over to the rail, behind which the motor girls were sequestered. andy was delighted to see cora. he was brimming over with news--but it did not take him long to whisper that he had something "special" to tell her, as soon as she could give him a few minutes all alone. "what's it about?" asked cora eagerly. "about the 'sparklers,'" replied the lad. "we got them, and me mother got the hundred!" "the diamond earrings have been found!" exclaimed cora, startled at such a surprising piece of news. "yep, they're found, all right," replied andy. "what do you think of me suit? and i've got more home. we got the reward." "who got it," demanded cora. "me--i--we," stammered andy, somewhat confused in his grammar. "where did you find them?" persisted cora. "hey, there, andy!" yelled a boy in a very shabby outfit. "where's all that 'dough' you was telling us about? come on. it's up to you," and, before cora could get an answer from the little redheaded boy, he was gone. as he sauntered off, with his companions, cora saw that he was counting money--considerable money, too, it seemed to her. bess and belle were busy talking to nannette. they had not noticed andy. the excursionists were now almost all landed. the news so suddenly divulged by andy confused cora. what did he mean by getting the reward? of course the diamond earrings must have been found--he said that distinctly enough, but had they been hidden by the orphan girls, as was the case which contained the gems? "cora," called belle, "nannette is hungry. come up to the candy kitchen, and we will show her how they make salt water taffy." "all right," replied cora. "of course you must be hungry, nannette, you had to leave home so early." it was difficult to make their way through the steady stream of people that poured up the long pier. cora walked ahead, while bell and bess, on either side, protected the deformed child. "oh, i can smell the taffy!" exclaimed the girl, as they neared the candy kitchen. "yes, so can i," agreed cora. "it would almost make one hungry." they were now in front of the store with the big glass windows. through this glass could be seen the workers in the exhibition kitchen. there were a few girls in white aprons, and high white caps, doing up pieces of "taffy" in papers, and working beside them were two men, also clad in white linen. the men were popping corn over a gas stove. "look," said belle. "that is how they make it. stand here a moment and watch." the girls drew up in front of the window. as they stopped two men from the excursion boat also paused to observe the candy makers. cora turned and looked at the men. a remark one made about "runaways" had attracted her attention. "oh!" she suddenly gasped. then she clutched belle's arm. "come on," she whispered. "i don't care to stand here." "what's the matter?" asked bess, noting the change in cora's face. "those are--the detectives," she whispered. "i don't want to get in conversation with them. come on." but both men were looking directly at cora. she felt it was too late for her to try to escape their scrutiny. "look! look!" exclaimed bess. "there are----" but at that instant two girls behind the glass window in the candy kitchen came forward with their trays of freshly-made candy. both girls looked through the window--directly at cora and at the others with her. "nellie and rose!" exclaimed belle. "oh!" gasped cora, "if i only could tell them the diamonds are found!" for a single instant the two girls in the caps and aprons stood like statues. then they evidently saw the two men who stood directly back of cora. with a scream that penetrated the distance and the glass windows, the two unfortunate girls dropped their trays on the counter, and dashed out of the store into the kitchen, showing fright and terror as they ran. "they saw the detectives," declared cora. "oh, i must reach them! but in this crowd!" some one tapped cora on the shoulder. it was one of the squaton detectives. chapter xxiv the two orphans "oh, rose! i can't go another step! let them catch us if they want to. i think i--a--am going to--die!" "nellie dear, try to keep up. we will be at the station soon. and you know those were detectives from home! oh, try to keep on!" "i--can't! i've got to stop!" the girl sank in the sand like the poor, tired, frightened little thing that she was. rose put her arms round her sister, and her tears fell on the sunburned cheek that lay so helpless there, supported only by an arm equally sunburned, and equally exhausted. "oh, we will surely be caught," moaned rose. "don't you think, when you rest awhile, you can go on, nellie, dear? you were always so brave, and so strong." "we have got to stop some time, rose. why should we go on like this? i am almost dead for sleep, and i feel as if i could go to sleep right here." rose kissed the sad little face, and brushed back the rudely cropped hair, that lay in ringlets on nellie's head. "it has been awfully hard, little sister," she said; "perhaps we had better give up and go back!" the words seemed to startle the child, who lay on the sand. instantly she sat bolt upright. "go back!" she repeated. "to that place! we might better die here!" "then why should we not see the detectives, and tell them all about it? surely aunt delia will not be allowed----" "but she has been allowed," insisted nellie. "hasn't she treated us badly for years? and who was there to stop her? who is there to stop her now?" "perhaps those young ladies could help us," sobbed rose. "we may have done wrong to run away from them." "i did like that dark girl," assented nellie, rubbing her aching eyes, "and she did say she would see us again." the two sisters were on an isolated patch of the beach and had been trying to make their way to the railroad station. in taking this sandy walk they had avoided the regular traffic path, but the heavy traveling had been too much for the younger one, who was plainly beginning to feel, and show, the signs of her perilous adventure since the day when she ran away from the strawberry patch of squaton. it was late in the afternoon, almost dusk, but the happy shouts of the excursionists could be heard for a mile along the beach. here and there groups of boys who had left the crowds were to be seen digging holes in the sand, and capering about with all their energy, to have their very best fun in that one last hour allowed before the big boat would sail away, and carry them off home again. "there come some boys," said rose. "try to stand up, they will be sure to stop and gawk at us." nellie sat up, but made no effort to stand. presently the three boys came romping along. as rose had guessed, they did stop and look at the girls; stared at them not rudely but in wonderment, for nellie and rose were too far away from merrymakers to be mistaken for members of the excursion party. "oh!" exclaimed nellie, catching sight of one of the boys. "well, i never!" gasped the boy at the same moment. "if there ain't nellie and rose!" "oh, andy!" cried nellie, "do come and talk to us. we are not afraid to trust you. don't say who we are--don't mention our names!" the little fellow did not need to be cautioned. neither did he wait for the invitation to talk to the lonely girls. "wherever have you been?" he asked. "have you heard the news?" "we haven't heard any _good_ news," replied rose sadly. "then i've got some fer you," said the lad, shaking his manly little head. "the diamonds is found and i got the boodle!" "oh!" gasped nellie. "found! then we--won't have to hide any more. where did you find them?" the whistle of the excursion boat checked the boy's eager talk. "come on!" shouted the other lads to andy. "if you don't hustle, you'll get left!" "well, then i _will_ get left," declared andy. "i'm going to stay right here with these girls--they're friends of mine." "oh, no, andy, don't," begged rose. "run along and catch the boat. we wouldn't know what to do with you, if you got left. besides your mother would be scared to death. she would think you were drowned." andy hesitated. "do go," put in nellie, jumping up and throwing her arms about the boy. "i could just hug you to death, you have made us so happy. and you--look--just fine!" "run!" shouted the boys, as the whistle blew. "that's the last call!" "run!" called rose. "yes, do run!" pleaded nellie. turning to give the girls a look so full of meaning that even andy's bright eyes seemed overtaxed with the responsibility, the boy did run as fast as his legs could carry him. "i'm afraid they will miss it," murmured rose, as the two sisters, now so changed in expression, watched the boys make their way through the sand. "oh, rose! aren't you happy!" exclaimed nellie. "now we can do as we please." "but aunt delia might send us to the reform school for running away," mused the older girl. "oh, i can't think she would do that!" "but think of all she has done! i am afraid to trust her." the tooting of the excursion boat could be heard as the vessel steamed out. wistfully the girls looked over the broad expanse of water, out to the track made by the smoke from the _columbia_. "we might have gone back home," sighed nellie. "i would rather stay here--i feel we have some friends. those girls----" "but why did they chase us about so?" "they wanted to find us--perhaps. that was nothing against them." "do you think the man in the candy kitchen would take us back? the detectives must have gone back on the boat, and we needn't be afraid now." "why, nellie dear, perhaps the detectives are up at that store watching for us. we can't go there unless we want to----" "where can we go?" cried the child. "oh, dear me! what a dreadful thing it is--to be orphans!" and she began to cry. "there's no use crying," said rose, although her own eyes were brimful. "we have got to go somewhere for the night." "let's go to the cottage--to the automobile girls' cottage." "i am able to work, and i want to work," insisted rose stoutly. "they need girls at every hotel, that young lady in the kitchen told me." "but i am so tired--so hungry--and so--sleepy! rose, let us sleep right here. we are not afraid of anything now." "who are those people coming?" asked rose as a number of figures could be seen, outlined against the strip of sky that hung over the point of land. "there's quite a crowd," said nellie. "i guess we will have to walk along." but running ahead of the others came a boy. he was waving his cap and shouting something! "it's andy!" murmured rose. "oh, he got left!" "and--look there!" cried nellie. "those are the detectives after us! we must run! maybe they don't know the diamonds are found and will arrest us. i should die of shame then. we must run!" "we can't," replied rose miserably. "oh, yes, nellie. they have us this time," and sinking down in the sand she clasped her hands and looked up. "let us ask--mother in heaven--to take care of us!" she said reverently. then they waited until the detectives came along. chapter xxv the truth! the whole truth! "rose! nellie!" shouted andy. "get up! what's the matter?" the girls raised their eyes and saw before them not only the detectives but jack and cora kimball, also ed foster. "come, girls," began the taller of the two officers from squaton. "you seem to be having a pretty hard time of it. what are you crying for?" "oh, we didn't take the earrings!" sobbed nellie. "and we don't want--to go--to the reform school!" "who said you did take them?" inquired the officer, as cora put her arm about nellie, and assisted her to rise. "and who said you were to go to the reform school?" "that piece in the paper," replied rose. "it said we would be sent there until----" "oh, that was some of the old lady's work. don't you worry about that. just come along with us. don't you be afraid that any one is going to hurt you," for he saw distrust in rose's face. "you are among friends--all friends!" "you bet!" cried andy. "i got left from the boat just in time to tell them where you were." "come along," said jack kindly. "you both look ready to--collapse." "i was just going to," declared nellie, rubbing her hand over her inflamed eyes. "i was going to jump into the water before rose could stop me, but when she called our mother to help us i--couldn't--then." "nellie!" exclaimed rose in surprise. "now do come along," begged cora. "you must need food and rest. i am almost dead myself from running around----" "after us?" asked nellie innocently. the officer and young men smiled. "well, you see," began jack, "we just caught andy 'getting left,' as he put it, and he told us where you were----" "but andy's mother will be scared to death," insisted nellie, brightening up. "oh, we have attended to that," said jack. "we sent her a message. andy is going to visit us 'bungaloafers' for a few days. we just need a boy like andy to help us get in shape," and jack patted the smiling boy kindly. "our cars are out on the road," said cora, "and we are all to go to the cottage. so, come on, girls. we are just dying to tell your odd story to several people. your friends in the candy kitchen have been dreadfully worried since you left them so suddenly." "they thought you jumped in the ocean," blurted out andy, who had no regard for propriety in making such remarks. the orphans acted almost frightened--it seemed too strange to be true, that they were going to get in an automobile, and be allowed to go to a house without being hunted and chased--without hiding or sneaking! "here we are," announced ed, who cranked up one car into which andy "piled" without any ceremony whatever. jack started up the _whirlwind_, and into the big car nellie and rose were assisted. cora sat beside jack, and the detective insisted upon walking as he had "to meet a man" on the road and had scarcely time to keep this appointment. nellie was completely dazed. she sat bolt upright, as if afraid to lean against the soft cushions of the car. rose was more composed, but she also appeared ill at ease in the luxurious surroundings. it was only a short ride to clover cottage. bess and belle were outside as they drove up. they clapped their hands almost like children when they saw who were in the cars. "oh, you have found them!" exclaimed belle. "come right in. we have tea all ready, and you are not to speak one word until you are refreshed," and she grasped nellie's hand, and gave rose a most welcome greeting. andy was loath to leave the car. he wanted to start it, to stop it, and to do all sorts of things with the interesting machine. finally, when rose and nellie had been refreshed, bess and belle provided seats for all on the broad porch, just as the detective and a strange man turned around the corner and they, too, joined the happy group. "this is a reporter for the daily paper," said the detective. "i thought it best to have him come right down now, and get this thing all straight. it will be best to tell the story from the start, and so clear up the false impressions about the girls." the newspaper man took out a pad of paper and a pencil in the most businesslike way, without presuming on any personal privilege, such as an introduction, or a word of acknowledgment, for the detective's rather flattering account of the scribe's ability. "perhaps i had better ask you a few questions," the reporter began simply, turning to rose. "why did you run away from mrs. ramsy's house?" "because she was unjust to us," replied rose. "she had never treated us decently, but when she took the very last thing we owned of our dead mother's--her wedding ring--we just took the little case it had been in, put it in a crate of berries we left under the tree for this young lady, and then--we went away." "where did you get that jewel case?" asked the tall detective, who seemed to be doing the most of the talking. "we found it in miss schenk's scrap basket. she told us to throw out everything in the basket, and so, when we found the little leather case we decided it would be nice to keep mamma's ring in." "and that was how you got the case!" cora could not help exclaiming. "yes. why?" asked nellie in surprise. "oh, nothing. go on," said the detective. "then i found the card with the address of this house," continued rose. "we intended to come down this way to work for the summer, and we knew that this house was vacant. that is how we came to sleep here one night." "that's the card i picked up under the window," interrupted andy, to whom the whole proceedings seemed as "thrilling as could be any professional theatrical performance." "then," nellie helped out, "we slept one dreadful night in an old stone house. and it was haunted." "that was the house by the spring," volunteered jack, "where we found the hat, and other things." "yes," said nellie, "we did leave some things there." "and i found your dress away out on the road one night, very late," bess put in, while the newspaper man smiled at the queer story with so many "personal contributions." "oh, yes! we were waiting for a trolley car, and we heard an automobile coming. then i had to throw away a bundle--i didn't want to take it along with me. i thought aunt delia might describe our clothes." "you got along pretty well for amateurs," remarked the detective with a laugh. "some experts might have done worse." "then you came straight to lookout beach?" asked the reporter. "oh, no," answered nellie. "we had to work our way down. first we went to work at the wayside inn." "now, i want to speak," announced jack with a comical gesture. "i would like to know whose shadow it was i was chasing one night around the wayside? i never had such an illusionary race before in all my life. i came near concluding that my mind was haunted." nellie laughed outright. "oh, wasn't that funny!" she exclaimed. "i was trying to hide something, and you were trying to see who i was. i thought i would never get away from you, but i did fool you, after all." "that's right," admitted jack. "but you left me a lock of your hair." nellie blushed to her ear tips. rose frowned, and shook her head to call her sister's attention to the man who was taking notes. "where does my story come in?" demanded andy. "i had a part in this show." "oh, we are coming to you," replied the reporter. "seems to me this will make a serial. it's a first-rate story, all right." "don't say anything about the graveyard," whispered belle to ed. "i should hate to have that to get into print." "oh, that's another story," replied the scribe. "we've got one end of that. the chauffeur declares he went after you, and spent all night in a cemetery--looking for the party he had left stalled there." jack and ed took a hand at story telling at this juncture, and it was the orphans' turn to listen in surprise at the disclosures. finally the boys got back to the runaways' part in the happenings. "then you came to clover cottage?" suggested cora, smiling at the two girls. "yes, we came here the first night. after that we got work in the motion picture show." "and was it your nose i almost burned off?" asked ed. "i beg--your--pardon," and he made a courtly bow to nellie. "yes. that was a great trick," said rose. "we almost killed ourselves trying to hide that night. we managed to walk right past you, though, without your knowing us." "and were you the 'carrier pigeon?'" asked belle. "it was you, of course, who came up in the automobile, played ghost, and hung the note on the lamp?" "oh, yes. the manager of the show wanted us to stay on, and we felt so dreadful that nellie told him something about our trouble. then he said he would drive us out to the cottage if we wanted to leave a message. he wrote the note for us, and nellie crept in and hung it where she said you would be sure to see it." "we saw it, all right," commented jack, smiling broadly. "and so they thought we took the old earrings," spoke up rose indignantly. "well, it did look bad," said the detective, "since you had thrown the case away." "as if we would steal!" snapped nellie, her pretty eyes flashing. "when we saw that story in the newspaper we had to run away again," sighed rose. "oh, it was dreadful!" "but i was determined from the first that i would find you," said jack mischievously, "and you see--i did." "no, i did!" burst out andy. "hush there, boy! didn't i find you?" asked jack. "well, we are found, anyhow," commented nellie, "and i don't want to be lost again. but who got the earrings?" "me for the jig!" shouted andy. "now i come in. you see," and he straightened up, and thrust his hands in his pockets as he always did when he had anything important to divulge, "i gave the young lady the card. i gave her the tip about the cops. i piped off old lady schenk and ramsy, and say! you ought to see them tear around chelton when they found everybody in the game had cleared out!" andy stopped to laugh. the others laughed without stopping. "and then--golly! if me mother didn't do the old lady's wash again just because there was a strike at the patch. and--then----she finds the sparklers tied up tight in an old rag of a handkerchief!" "your mother found them!" all the girls present asked in accord. "sure thing!" replied andy. "and andy knew enough to fetch them to me," said the detective. "that is how he came to get the hundred dollars reward!" "hundred dollars reward!" repeated rose and nellie. "don't i look it?" demanded andy, swinging around to show off to advantage his new clothes. "you look a couple of hundred," replied ed. "say, i'd like to get one like that." the reporter said something about not having a camera, but andy did not hear the remark. "and now," resumed the detective, "what are we to do with these young ladies? we have sufficient evidence to keep them away from mrs. ramsy. she is not a person capable of looking after children. she has all she can do to look after the mighty dollar." "oh, if you will only let us work," pleaded rose. "i know a lot about housework." "why, we want some one right away," said bess. "our maid has nervous prostration from the fright that those two dreadful squaton women gave her the day they visited our house after going to cora's. couldn't you let rose and nellie stay right here, officer? we could give them both something to do." "they certainly can wash dishes nicely," put in cora, smilingly. "why, i don't see what's the objection," said the detective. "of course we will have to have a guardian appointed. until then they could be placed in charge of your mother!" nellie opened her eyes wider than ever. rose bit her lip to hide her confusion. "wouldn't that be jolly?" said cora. "i was sure we would be able to manage it all right. why, you girls will have a good time, after all, at lookout beach!" "you bet they will," declared andy. "i'm going to stay down here for a few days, and i've got some money to spend!" the reporter arose to go. the detective followed his example. "we are greatly obliged," said the newspaper man. "i am sure this will make a fine story." down the steps of the cottage went the tall detective and the reporter. "don't poke fun at the poor girls," begged cora of the newspaper man, in a whisper. "they have suffered enough." "indeed, and i intend to show up the woman responsible for them running away, rather than to make a spread about the poor things," the reporter assured her. "never fear, leave it to me," and with a pleasant smile he departed. bess ran upstairs, where her mother was resting. so far, mrs. robinson had heard nothing of the ending of the quest after the runaways. bess quickly told her the whole story, and broached her plan of having nellie and rose do the housework at the cottage. "indeed, my dear, they shall do nothing of the sort," instantly decided mrs. robinson. "they shall learn some useful trade. i will see to it myself." she felt rather flattered, than otherwise, that the fate of the orphan girls rested, somewhat, with her; and she resolved to make the most of her opportunity. the housework at clover, she said, could be done by any or all of the motor girls. rose and nellie gladly acquiesced in the plan, and thus their shadows were turned to sunshine. arrangements were made for their board at a cottage where the crippled woman and her daughter, who had been rescued from the surf, had spent a few days. the invalid, after paying a formal call on mrs. robinson, to thank the young people for what they had done, went back to her home. "well, all's well that ends the way it ought to," spoke jack kimball that night, as they were all gathered on the clover porch. "but those runaways certainly gave us a chase." "and to think how strangely it began, and how it unfolded bit by bit," remarked cora. "it's all to the----" began bess. "bess!" exclaimed belle, and bess subsided, but muttered something under her breath that made ed and walter laugh. "well, we certainly have had exciting times at lookout beach," spoke ed, after a pause. "may there be more of them." "not quite so exciting, please," pleaded cora. but the motor girls were destined to have further adventures, as will be told of in the next book of this series, to be called "the motor girls through new england, or, held by the gypsies." in that volume we shall learn all about a delightful tour and of a happening to cora kimball that was far out of the ordinary. "oh, i almost forgot!" suddenly exclaimed jack, leaping to his feet, and striking an attitude. "forgot what?" demanded bess. "the dance we are going to give at our bungalow night after to-morrow. it will be great! mrs. robinson, will you come and bring the girls?" "of course," assented the twins' mother. "then hurrah for the first dance of the bungaloafers!" cried ed and walter. "long may it last, we will live in the future, and forget all the past." "oh, jack--a dance!" cried bess. "tell me all about it," which jack, nothing loath, did with much wealth of detail. and there, on the porch of clover cottage, while the silver moon shone over the sea, we will say good-bye, for a time, to the motor girls and their friends. the end huckleberry finn by mark twain part . chapter xxi. it was after sun-up now, but we went right on and didn't tie up. the king and the duke turned out by and by looking pretty rusty; but after they'd jumped overboard and took a swim it chippered them up a good deal. after breakfast the king he took a seat on the corner of the raft, and pulled off his boots and rolled up his britches, and let his legs dangle in the water, so as to be comfortable, and lit his pipe, and went to getting his romeo and juliet by heart. when he had got it pretty good him and the duke begun to practice it together. the duke had to learn him over and over again how to say every speech; and he made him sigh, and put his hand on his heart, and after a while he said he done it pretty well; "only," he says, "you mustn't bellow out romeo! that way, like a bull--you must say it soft and sick and languishy, so--r-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for juliet's a dear sweet mere child of a girl, you know, and she doesn't bray like a jackass." well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke made out of oak laths, and begun to practice the sword fight--the duke called himself richard iii.; and the way they laid on and pranced around the raft was grand to see. but by and by the king tripped and fell overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had a talk about all kinds of adventures they'd had in other times along the river. after dinner the duke says: "well, capet, we'll want to make this a first-class show, you know, so i guess we'll add a little more to it. we want a little something to answer encores with, anyway." "what's onkores, bilgewater?" the duke told him, and then says: "i'll answer by doing the highland fling or the sailor's hornpipe; and you--well, let me see--oh, i've got it--you can do hamlet's soliloquy." "hamlet's which?" "hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in shakespeare. ah, it's sublime, sublime! always fetches the house. i haven't got it in the book--i've only got one volume--but i reckon i can piece it out from memory. i'll just walk up and down a minute, and see if i can call it back from recollection's vaults." so he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning horrible every now and then; then he would hoist up his eyebrows; next he would squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind of moan; next he would sigh, and next he'd let on to drop a tear. it was beautiful to see him. by and by he got it. he told us to give attention. then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved forwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back, looking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and grit his teeth; and after that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread around, and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of any acting ever i see before. this is the speech--i learned it, easy enough, while he was learning it to the king: to be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin that makes calamity of so long life; for who would fardels bear, till birnam wood do come to dunsinane, but that the fear of something after death murders the innocent sleep, great nature's second course, and makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune than fly to others that we know not of. there's the respect must give us pause: wake duncan with thy knocking! i would thou couldst; for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the law's delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take, in the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn in customary suits of solemn black, but that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns, breathes forth contagion on the world, and thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i' the adage, is sicklied o'er with care, and all the clouds that lowered o'er our housetops, with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. but soft you, the fair ophelia: ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws, but get thee to a nunnery--go! well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so he could do it first-rate. it seemed like he was just born for it; and when he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the way he would rip and tear and rair up behind when he was getting it off. the first chance we got the duke he had some showbills printed; and after that, for two or three days as we floated along, the raft was a most uncommon lively place, for there warn't nothing but sword fighting and rehearsing--as the duke called it--going on all the time. one morning, when we was pretty well down the state of arkansaw, we come in sight of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied up about three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a crick which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us but jim took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any chance in that place for our show. we struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus there that afternoon, and the country people was already beginning to come in, in all kinds of old shackly wagons, and on horses. the circus would leave before night, so our show would have a pretty good chance. the duke he hired the courthouse, and we went around and stuck up our bills. they read like this: shaksperean revival ! ! ! wonderful attraction! for one night only! the world renowned tragedians, david garrick the younger, of drury lane theatre london, and edmund kean the elder, of the royal haymarket theatre, whitechapel, pudding lane, piccadilly, london, and the royal continental theatres, in their sublime shaksperean spectacle entitled thebalcony scene in romeo and juliet ! ! ! romeo...................mr. garrick juliet..................mr. kean assisted by the whole strength of the company! new costumes, new scenes, new appointments! also: the thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling broad-sword conflict in richard iii. ! ! ! richard iii.............mr. garrick richmond................mr. kean also: (by special request) hamlet's immortal soliloquy ! ! by the illustrious kean! done by him consecutive nights in paris! for one night only, on account of imperative european engagements! admission cents; children and servants, cents. then we went loafing around town. the stores and houses was most all old, shackly, dried up frame concerns that hadn't ever been painted; they was set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be out of reach of the water when the river was over-flowed. the houses had little gardens around them, but they didn't seem to raise hardly anything in them but jimpson-weeds, and sunflowers, and ash piles, and old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles, and rags, and played-out tinware. the fences was made of different kinds of boards, nailed on at different times; and they leaned every which way, and had gates that didn't generly have but one hinge--a leather one. some of the fences had been white-washed some time or another, but the duke said it was in clumbus' time, like enough. there was generly hogs in the garden, and people driving them out. all the stores was along one street. they had white domestic awnings in front, and the country people hitched their horses to the awning-posts. there was empty drygoods boxes under the awnings, and loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them with their barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning and stretching--a mighty ornery lot. they generly had on yellow straw hats most as wide as an umbrella, but didn't wear no coats nor waistcoats, they called one another bill, and buck, and hank, and joe, and andy, and talked lazy and drawly, and used considerable many cuss words. there was as many as one loafer leaning up against every awning-post, and he most always had his hands in his britches-pockets, except when he fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. what a body was hearing amongst them all the time was: "gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, hank." "cain't; i hain't got but one chaw left. ask bill." maybe bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain't got none. some of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world, nor a chaw of tobacco of their own. they get all their chawing by borrowing; they say to a fellow, "i wisht you'd len' me a chaw, jack, i jist this minute give ben thompson the last chaw i had"--which is a lie pretty much everytime; it don't fool nobody but a stranger; but jack ain't no stranger, so he says: "you give him a chaw, did you? so did your sister's cat's grandmother. you pay me back the chaws you've awready borry'd off'n me, lafe buckner, then i'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't charge you no back intrust, nuther." "well, i did pay you back some of it wunst." "yes, you did--'bout six chaws. you borry'd store tobacker and paid back nigger-head." store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the natural leaf twisted. when they borrow a chaw they don't generly cut it off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in two; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks mournful at it when it's handed back, and says, sarcastic: "here, gimme the chaw, and you take the plug." all the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't nothing else but mud --mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some places, and two or three inches deep in all the places. the hogs loafed and grunted around everywheres. you'd see a muddy sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right down in the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she'd stretch out and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking her, and look as happy as if she was on salary. and pretty soon you'd hear a loafer sing out, "hi! so boy! sick him, tige!" and away the sow would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two swinging to each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then you would see all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the fun and look grateful for the noise. then they'd settle back again till there was a dog fight. there couldn't anything wake them up all over, and make them happy all over, like a dog fight--unless it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to death. on the river front some of the houses was sticking out over the bank, and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in, the people had moved out of them. the bank was caved away under one corner of some others, and that corner was hanging over. people lived in them yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip of land as wide as a house caves in at a time. sometimes a belt of land a quarter of a mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along till it all caves into the river in one summer. such a town as that has to be always moving back, and back, and back, because the river's always gnawing at it. the nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and thicker was the wagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time. families fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat them in the wagons. there was considerable whisky drinking going on, and i seen three fights. by and by somebody sings out: "here comes old boggs!--in from the country for his little old monthly drunk; here he comes, boys!" all the loafers looked glad; i reckoned they was used to having fun out of boggs. one of them says: "wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time. if he'd a-chawed up all the men he's ben a-gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year he'd have considerable ruputation now." another one says, "i wisht old boggs 'd threaten me, 'cuz then i'd know i warn't gwyne to die for a thousan' year." boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling like an injun, and singing out: "cler the track, thar. i'm on the waw-path, and the price uv coffins is a-gwyne to raise." he was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty year old, and had a very red face. everybody yelled at him and laughed at him and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend to them and lay them out in their regular turns, but he couldn't wait now because he'd come to town to kill old colonel sherburn, and his motto was, "meat first, and spoon vittles to top off on." he see me, and rode up and says: "whar'd you come f'm, boy? you prepared to die?" then he rode on. i was scared, but a man says: "he don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin' on like that when he's drunk. he's the best naturedest old fool in arkansaw--never hurt nobody, drunk nor sober." boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head down so he could see under the curtain of the awning and yells: "come out here, sherburn! come out and meet the man you've swindled. you're the houn' i'm after, and i'm a-gwyne to have you, too!" and so he went on, calling sherburn everything he could lay his tongue to, and the whole street packed with people listening and laughing and going on. by and by a proud-looking man about fifty-five--and he was a heap the best dressed man in that town, too--steps out of the store, and the crowd drops back on each side to let him come. he says to boggs, mighty ca'm and slow--he says: "i'm tired of this, but i'll endure it till one o'clock. till one o'clock, mind--no longer. if you open your mouth against me only once after that time you can't travel so far but i will find you." then he turns and goes in. the crowd looked mighty sober; nobody stirred, and there warn't no more laughing. boggs rode off blackguarding sherburn as loud as he could yell, all down the street; and pretty soon back he comes and stops before the store, still keeping it up. some men crowded around him and tried to get him to shut up, but he wouldn't; they told him it would be one o'clock in about fifteen minutes, and so he must go home--he must go right away. but it didn't do no good. he cussed away with all his might, and throwed his hat down in the mud and rode over it, and pretty soon away he went a-raging down the street again, with his gray hair a-flying. everybody that could get a chance at him tried their best to coax him off of his horse so they could lock him up and get him sober; but it warn't no use--up the street he would tear again, and give sherburn another cussing. by and by somebody says: "go for his daughter!--quick, go for his daughter; sometimes he'll listen to her. if anybody can persuade him, she can." so somebody started on a run. i walked down street a ways and stopped. in about five or ten minutes here comes boggs again, but not on his horse. he was a-reeling across the street towards me, bare-headed, with a friend on both sides of him a-holt of his arms and hurrying him along. he was quiet, and looked uneasy; and he warn't hanging back any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself. somebody sings out: "boggs!" i looked over there to see who said it, and it was that colonel sherburn. he was standing perfectly still in the street, and had a pistol raised in his right hand--not aiming it, but holding it out with the barrel tilted up towards the sky. the same second i see a young girl coming on the run, and two men with her. boggs and the men turned round to see who called him, and when they see the pistol the men jumped to one side, and the pistol-barrel come down slow and steady to a level--both barrels cocked. boggs throws up both of his hands and says, "o lord, don't shoot!" bang! goes the first shot, and he staggers back, clawing at the air--bang! goes the second one, and he tumbles backwards on to the ground, heavy and solid, with his arms spread out. that young girl screamed out and comes rushing, and down she throws herself on her father, crying, and saying, "oh, he's killed him, he's killed him!" the crowd closed up around them, and shouldered and jammed one another, with their necks stretched, trying to see, and people on the inside trying to shove them back and shouting, "back, back! give him air, give him air!" colonel sherburn he tossed his pistol on to the ground, and turned around on his heels and walked off. they took boggs to a little drug store, the crowd pressing around just the same, and the whole town following, and i rushed and got a good place at the window, where i was close to him and could see in. they laid him on the floor and put one large bible under his head, and opened another one and spread it on his breast; but they tore open his shirt first, and i seen where one of the bullets went in. he made about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the bible up when he drawed in his breath, and letting it down again when he breathed it out--and after that he laid still; he was dead. then they pulled his daughter away from him, screaming and crying, and took her off. she was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle looking, but awful pale and scared. well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and scrouging and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a look, but people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and folks behind them was saying all the time, "say, now, you've looked enough, you fellows; 'tain't right and 'tain't fair for you to stay thar all the time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks has their rights as well as you." there was considerable jawing back, so i slid out, thinking maybe there was going to be trouble. the streets was full, and everybody was excited. everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it happened, and there was a big crowd packed around each one of these fellows, stretching their necks and listening. one long, lanky man, with long hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his head, and a crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the ground where boggs stood and where sherburn stood, and the people following him around from one place to t'other and watching everything he done, and bobbing their heads to show they understood, and stooping a little and resting their hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places on the ground with his cane; and then he stood up straight and stiff where sherburn had stood, frowning and having his hat-brim down over his eyes, and sung out, "boggs!" and then fetched his cane down slow to a level, and says "bang!" staggered backwards, says "bang!" again, and fell down flat on his back. the people that had seen the thing said he done it perfect; said it was just exactly the way it all happened. then as much as a dozen people got out their bottles and treated him. well, by and by somebody said sherburn ought to be lynched. in about a minute everybody was saying it; so away they went, mad and yelling, and snatching down every clothes-line they come to to do the hanging with. chapter xxii. they swarmed up towards sherburn's house, a-whooping and raging like injuns, and everything had to clear the way or get run over and tromped to mush, and it was awful to see. children was heeling it ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to get out of the way; and every window along the road was full of women's heads, and there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches looking over every fence; and as soon as the mob would get nearly to them they would break and skaddle back out of reach. lots of the women and girls was crying and taking on, scared most to death. they swarmed up in front of sherburn's palings as thick as they could jam together, and you couldn't hear yourself think for the noise. it was a little twenty-foot yard. some sung out "tear down the fence! tear down the fence!" then there was a racket of ripping and tearing and smashing, and down she goes, and the front wall of the crowd begins to roll in like a wave. just then sherburn steps out on to the roof of his little front porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand, perfectly ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word. the racket stopped, and the wave sucked back. sherburn never said a word--just stood there, looking down. the stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable. sherburn run his eye slow along the crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a little to out-gaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes and looked sneaky. then pretty soon sherburn sort of laughed; not the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eating bread that's got sand in it. then he says, slow and scornful: "the idea of you lynching anybody! it's amusing. the idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a man! because you're brave enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come along here, did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your hands on a man? why, a man's safe in the hands of ten thousand of your kind--as long as it's daytime and you're not behind him. "do i know you? i know you clear through was born and raised in the south, and i've lived in the north; so i know the average all around. the average man's a coward. in the north he lets anybody walk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble spirit to bear it. in the south one man all by himself, has stopped a stage full of men in the daytime, and robbed the lot. your newspapers call you a brave people so much that you think you are braver than any other people--whereas you're just as brave, and no braver. why don't your juries hang murderers? because they're afraid the man's friends will shoot them in the back, in the dark--and it's just what they would do. "so they always acquit; and then a man goes in the night, with a hundred masked cowards at his back and lynches the rascal. your mistake is, that you didn't bring a man with you; that's one mistake, and the other is that you didn't come in the dark and fetch your masks. you brought part of a man--buck harkness, there--and if you hadn't had him to start you, you'd a taken it out in blowing. "you didn't want to come. the average man don't like trouble and danger. you don't like trouble and danger. but if only half a man--like buck harkness, there--shouts 'lynch him! lynch him!' you're afraid to back down--afraid you'll be found out to be what you are--cowards--and so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves on to that half-a-man's coat-tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big things you're going to do. the pitifulest thing out is a mob; that's what an army is--a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in them, but with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers. but a mob without any man at the head of it is beneath pitifulness. now the thing for you to do is to droop your tails and go home and crawl in a hole. if any real lynching's going to be done it will be done in the dark, southern fashion; and when they come they'll bring their masks, and fetch a man along. now leave--and take your half-a-man with you"--tossing his gun up across his left arm and cocking it when he says this. the crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart, and went tearing off every which way, and buck harkness he heeled it after them, looking tolerable cheap. i could a stayed if i wanted to, but i didn't want to. i went to the circus and loafed around the back side till the watchman went by, and then dived in under the tent. i had my twenty-dollar gold piece and some other money, but i reckoned i better save it, because there ain't no telling how soon you are going to need it, away from home and amongst strangers that way. you can't be too careful. i ain't opposed to spending money on circuses when there ain't no other way, but there ain't no use in wasting it on them. it was a real bully circus. it was the splendidest sight that ever was when they all come riding in, two and two, a gentleman and lady, side by side, the men just in their drawers and undershirts, and no shoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs easy and comfortable --there must a been twenty of them--and every lady with a lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and looking just like a gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that cost millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. it was a powerful fine sight; i never see anything so lovely. and then one by one they got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so gentle and wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy and straight, with their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up there under the tent-roof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress flapping soft and silky around her hips, and she looking like the most loveliest parasol. and then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, first one foot out in the air and then the other, the horses leaning more and more, and the ringmaster going round and round the center-pole, cracking his whip and shouting "hi!--hi!" and the clown cracking jokes behind him; and by and by all hands dropped the reins, and every lady put her knuckles on her hips and every gentleman folded his arms, and then how the horses did lean over and hump themselves! and so one after the other they all skipped off into the ring, and made the sweetest bow i ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody clapped their hands and went just about wild. well, all through the circus they done the most astonishing things; and all the time that clown carried on so it most killed the people. the ringmaster couldn't ever say a word to him but he was back at him quick as a wink with the funniest things a body ever said; and how he ever could think of so many of them, and so sudden and so pat, was what i couldn't noway understand. why, i couldn't a thought of them in a year. and by and by a drunk man tried to get into the ring--said he wanted to ride; said he could ride as well as anybody that ever was. they argued and tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't listen, and the whole show come to a standstill. then the people begun to holler at him and make fun of him, and that made him mad, and he begun to rip and tear; so that stirred up the people, and a lot of men begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm towards the ring, saying, "knock him down! throw him out!" and one or two women begun to scream. so, then, the ringmaster he made a little speech, and said he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and if the man would promise he wouldn't make no more trouble he would let him ride if he thought he could stay on the horse. so everybody laughed and said all right, and the man got on. the minute he was on, the horse begun to rip and tear and jump and cavort around, with two circus men hanging on to his bridle trying to hold him, and the drunk man hanging on to his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump, and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting and laughing till tears rolled down. and at last, sure enough, all the circus men could do, the horse broke loose, and away he went like the very nation, round and round the ring, with that sot laying down on him and hanging to his neck, with first one leg hanging most to the ground on one side, and then t'other one on t'other side, and the people just crazy. it warn't funny to me, though; i was all of a tremble to see his danger. but pretty soon he struggled up astraddle and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that; and the next minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle and stood! and the horse a-going like a house afire too. he just stood up there, a-sailing around as easy and comfortable as if he warn't ever drunk in his life--and then he begun to pull off his clothes and sling them. he shed them so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and altogether he shed seventeen suits. and, then, there he was, slim and handsome, and dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into that horse with his whip and made him fairly hum--and finally skipped off, and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room, and everybody just a-howling with pleasure and astonishment. then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled, and he was the sickest ringmaster you ever see, i reckon. why, it was one of his own men! he had got up that joke all out of his own head, and never let on to nobody. well, i felt sheepish enough to be took in so, but i wouldn't a been in that ringmaster's place, not for a thousand dollars. i don't know; there may be bullier circuses than what that one was, but i never struck them yet. anyways, it was plenty good enough for me; and wherever i run across it, it can have all of my custom every time. well, that night we had our show; but there warn't only about twelve people there--just enough to pay expenses. and they laughed all the time, and that made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway, before the show was over, but one boy which was asleep. so the duke said these arkansaw lunkheads couldn't come up to shakespeare; what they wanted was low comedy--and maybe something ruther worse than low comedy, he reckoned. he said he could size their style. so next morning he got some big sheets of wrapping paper and some black paint, and drawed off some handbills, and stuck them up all over the village. the bills said: at the court house! for nights only! the world-renowned tragedians david garrick the younger! and edmund kean the elder! of the london and continental theatres, in their thrilling tragedy of the king's cameleopard, or the royal nonesuch ! ! ! admission cents. then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which said: ladies and children not admitted. "there," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, i don't know arkansaw!" chapter xxiii. well, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage and a curtain and a row of candles for footlights; and that night the house was jam full of men in no time. when the place couldn't hold no more, the duke he quit tending door and went around the back way and come on to the stage and stood up before the curtain and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging about the tragedy, and about edmund kean the elder, which was to play the main principal part in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next minute the king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was painted all over, ring-streaked-and- striped, all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow. and--but never mind the rest of his outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful funny. the people most killed themselves laughing; and when the king got done capering and capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, and after that they made him do it another time. well, it would make a cow laugh to see the shines that old idiot cut. then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on accounts of pressing london engagements, where the seats is all sold already for it in drury lane; and then he makes them another bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them, he will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends and get them to come and see it. twenty people sings out: "what, is it over? is that all?" the duke says yes. then there was a fine time. everybody sings out, "sold!" and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and them tragedians. but a big, fine looking man jumps up on a bench and shouts: "hold on! just a word, gentlemen." they stopped to listen. "we are sold--mighty badly sold. but we don't want to be the laughing stock of this whole town, i reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as long as we live. no. what we want is to go out of here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the rest of the town! then we'll all be in the same boat. ain't that sensible?" ("you bet it is!--the jedge is right!" everybody sings out.) "all right, then--not a word about any sell. go along home, and advise everybody to come and see the tragedy." next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid that show was. house was jammed again that night, and we sold this crowd the same way. when me and the king and the duke got home to the raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about midnight, they made jim and me back her out and float her down the middle of the river, and fetch her in and hide her about two mile below town. the third night the house was crammed again--and they warn't new-comers this time, but people that was at the show the other two nights. i stood by the duke at the door, and i see that every man that went in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his coat--and i see it warn't no perfumery, neither, not by a long sight. i smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things; and if i know the signs of a dead cat being around, and i bet i do, there was sixty-four of them went in. i shoved in there for a minute, but it was too various for me; i couldn't stand it. well, when the place couldn't hold no more people the duke he give a fellow a quarter and told him to tend door for him a minute, and then he started around for the stage door, i after him; but the minute we turned the corner and was in the dark he says: "walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shin for the raft like the dickens was after you!" i done it, and he done the same. we struck the raft at the same time, and in less than two seconds we was gliding down stream, all dark and still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody saying a word. i reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it with the audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls out from under the wigwam, and says: "well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, duke?" he hadn't been up-town at all. we never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the village. then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke fairly laughed their bones loose over the way they'd served them people. the duke says: "greenhorns, flatheads! i knew the first house would keep mum and let the rest of the town get roped in; and i knew they'd lay for us the third night, and consider it was their turn now. well, it is their turn, and i'd give something to know how much they'd take for it. i would just like to know how they're putting in their opportunity. they can turn it into a picnic if they want to--they brought plenty provisions." them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that three nights. i never see money hauled in by the wagon-load like that before. by and by, when they was asleep and snoring, jim says: "don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries on, huck?" "no," i says, "it don't." "why don't it, huck?" "well, it don't, because it's in the breed. i reckon they're all alike," "but, huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat's jist what dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions." "well, that's what i'm a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions, as fur as i can make out." "is dat so?" "you read about them once--you'll see. look at henry the eight; this 'n 's a sunday-school superintendent to him. and look at charles second, and louis fourteen, and louis fifteen, and james second, and edward second, and richard third, and forty more; besides all them saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in old times and raise cain. my, you ought to seen old henry the eight when he was in bloom. he was a blossom. he used to marry a new wife every day, and chop off her head next morning. and he would do it just as indifferent as if he was ordering up eggs. 'fetch up nell gwynn,' he says. they fetch her up. next morning, 'chop off her head!' and they chop it off. 'fetch up jane shore,' he says; and up she comes, next morning, 'chop off her head'--and they chop it off. 'ring up fair rosamun.' fair rosamun answers the bell. next morning, 'chop off her head.' and he made every one of them tell him a tale every night; and he kept that up till he had hogged a thousand and one tales that way, and then he put them all in a book, and called it domesday book--which was a good name and stated the case. you don't know kings, jim, but i know them; and this old rip of ourn is one of the cleanest i've struck in history. well, henry he takes a notion he wants to get up some trouble with this country. how does he go at it --give notice?--give the country a show? no. all of a sudden he heaves all the tea in boston harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration of independence, and dares them to come on. that was his style--he never give anybody a chance. he had suspicions of his father, the duke of wellington. well, what did he do? ask him to show up? no--drownded him in a butt of mamsey, like a cat. s'pose people left money laying around where he was--what did he do? he collared it. s'pose he contracted to do a thing, and you paid him, and didn't set down there and see that he done it--what did he do? he always done the other thing. s'pose he opened his mouth--what then? if he didn't shut it up powerful quick he'd lose a lie every time. that's the kind of a bug henry was; and if we'd a had him along 'stead of our kings he'd a fooled that town a heap worse than ourn done. i don't say that ourn is lambs, because they ain't, when you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain't nothing to that old ram, anyway. all i say is, kings is kings, and you got to make allowances. take them all around, they're a mighty ornery lot. it's the way they're raised." "but dis one do smell so like de nation, huck." "well, they all do, jim. we can't help the way a king smells; history don't tell no way." "now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some ways." "yes, a duke's different. but not very different. this one's a middling hard lot for a duke. when he's drunk there ain't no near-sighted man could tell him from a king." "well, anyways, i doan' hanker for no mo' un um, huck. dese is all i kin stan'." "it's the way i feel, too, jim. but we've got them on our hands, and we got to remember what they are, and make allowances. sometimes i wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings." what was the use to tell jim these warn't real kings and dukes? it wouldn't a done no good; and, besides, it was just as i said: you couldn't tell them from the real kind. i went to sleep, and jim didn't call me when it was my turn. he often done that. when i waked up just at daybreak he was sitting there with his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself. i didn't take notice nor let on. i knowed what it was about. he was thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home before in his life; and i do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for their'n. it don't seem natural, but i reckon it's so. he was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged i was asleep, and saying, "po' little 'lizabeth! po' little johnny! it's mighty hard; i spec' i ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no mo'!" he was a mighty good nigger, jim was. but this time i somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young ones; and by and by he says: "what makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase i hear sumpn over yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er de time i treat my little 'lizabeth so ornery. she warn't on'y 'bout fo' year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful rough spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin' aroun', en i says to her, i says: "'shet de do'.' "she never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up at me. it make me mad; en i says agin, mighty loud, i says: "'doan' you hear me? shet de do'!' "she jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. i was a-bilin'! i says: "'i lay i make you mine!' "en wid dat i fetch' her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlin'. den i went into de yuther room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten minutes; en when i come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open yit, en dat chile stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down and mournin', en de tears runnin' down. my, but i wuz mad! i was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis' den--it was a do' dat open innerds--jis' den, 'long come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-blam!--en my lan', de chile never move'! my breff mos' hop outer me; en i feel so--so--i doan' know how i feel. i crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope aroun' en open de do' easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sof' en still, en all uv a sudden i says pow! jis' as loud as i could yell. she never budge! oh, huck, i bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in my arms, en say, 'oh, de po' little thing! de lord god amighty fogive po' ole jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long's he live!' oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, huck, plumb deef en dumb--en i'd ben a-treat'n her so!" chapter xxiv. next day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow towhead out in the middle, where there was a village on each side of the river, and the duke and the king begun to lay out a plan for working them towns. jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it wouldn't take but a few hours, because it got mighty heavy and tiresome to him when he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with the rope. you see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him, because if anybody happened on to him all by himself and not tied it wouldn't look much like he was a runaway nigger, you know. so the duke said it was kind of hard to have to lay roped all day, and he'd cipher out some way to get around it. he was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. he dressed jim up in king lear's outfit--it was a long curtain-calico gown, and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his theater paint and painted jim's face and hands and ears and neck all over a dead, dull, solid blue, like a man that's been drownded nine days. blamed if he warn't the horriblest looking outrage i ever see. then the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so: sick arab--but harmless when not out of his head. and he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four or five foot in front of the wigwam. jim was satisfied. he said it was a sight better than lying tied a couple of years every day, and trembling all over every time there was a sound. the duke told him to make himself free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling around, he must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl or two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light out and leave him alone. which was sound enough judgment; but you take the average man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. why, he didn't only look like he was dead, he looked considerable more than that. these rapscallions wanted to try the nonesuch again, because there was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn't be safe, because maybe the news might a worked along down by this time. they couldn't hit no project that suited exactly; so at last the duke said he reckoned he'd lay off and work his brains an hour or two and see if he couldn't put up something on the arkansaw village; and the king he allowed he would drop over to t'other village without any plan, but just trust in providence to lead him the profitable way--meaning the devil, i reckon. we had all bought store clothes where we stopped last; and now the king put his'n on, and he told me to put mine on. i done it, of course. the king's duds was all black, and he did look real swell and starchy. i never knowed how clothes could change a body before. why, before, he looked like the orneriest old rip that ever was; but now, when he'd take off his new white beaver and make a bow and do a smile, he looked that grand and good and pious that you'd say he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old leviticus himself. jim cleaned up the canoe, and i got my paddle ready. there was a big steamboat laying at the shore away up under the point, about three mile above the town--been there a couple of hours, taking on freight. says the king: "seein' how i'm dressed, i reckon maybe i better arrive down from st. louis or cincinnati, or some other big place. go for the steamboat, huckleberry; we'll come down to the village on her." i didn't have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride. i fetched the shore a half a mile above the village, and then went scooting along the bluff bank in the easy water. pretty soon we come to a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it was powerful warm weather; and he had a couple of big carpet-bags by him. "run her nose in shore," says the king. i done it. "wher' you bound for, young man?" "for the steamboat; going to orleans." "git aboard," says the king. "hold on a minute, my servant 'll he'p you with them bags. jump out and he'p the gentleman, adolphus"--meaning me, i see. i done so, and then we all three started on again. the young chap was mighty thankful; said it was tough work toting his baggage such weather. he asked the king where he was going, and the king told him he'd come down the river and landed at the other village this morning, and now he was going up a few mile to see an old friend on a farm up there. the young fellow says: "when i first see you i says to myself, 'it's mr. wilks, sure, and he come mighty near getting here in time.' but then i says again, 'no, i reckon it ain't him, or else he wouldn't be paddling up the river.' you ain't him, are you?" "no, my name's blodgett--elexander blodgett--reverend elexander blodgett, i s'pose i must say, as i'm one o' the lord's poor servants. but still i'm jist as able to be sorry for mr. wilks for not arriving in time, all the same, if he's missed anything by it--which i hope he hasn't." "well, he don't miss any property by it, because he'll get that all right; but he's missed seeing his brother peter die--which he mayn't mind, nobody can tell as to that--but his brother would a give anything in this world to see him before he died; never talked about nothing else all these three weeks; hadn't seen him since they was boys together--and hadn't ever seen his brother william at all--that's the deef and dumb one--william ain't more than thirty or thirty-five. peter and george were the only ones that come out here; george was the married brother; him and his wife both died last year. harvey and william's the only ones that's left now; and, as i was saying, they haven't got here in time." "did anybody send 'em word?" "oh, yes; a month or two ago, when peter was first took; because peter said then that he sorter felt like he warn't going to get well this time. you see, he was pretty old, and george's g'yirls was too young to be much company for him, except mary jane, the red-headed one; and so he was kinder lonesome after george and his wife died, and didn't seem to care much to live. he most desperately wanted to see harvey--and william, too, for that matter--because he was one of them kind that can't bear to make a will. he left a letter behind for harvey, and said he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he wanted the rest of the property divided up so george's g'yirls would be all right--for george didn't leave nothing. and that letter was all they could get him to put a pen to." "why do you reckon harvey don't come? wher' does he live?" "oh, he lives in england--sheffield--preaches there--hasn't ever been in this country. he hasn't had any too much time--and besides he mightn't a got the letter at all, you know." "too bad, too bad he couldn't a lived to see his brothers, poor soul. you going to orleans, you say?" "yes, but that ain't only a part of it. i'm going in a ship, next wednesday, for ryo janeero, where my uncle lives." "it's a pretty long journey. but it'll be lovely; wisht i was a-going. is mary jane the oldest? how old is the others?" "mary jane's nineteen, susan's fifteen, and joanna's about fourteen --that's the one that gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip." "poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so." "well, they could be worse off. old peter had friends, and they ain't going to let them come to no harm. there's hobson, the babtis' preacher; and deacon lot hovey, and ben rucker, and abner shackleford, and levi bell, the lawyer; and dr. robinson, and their wives, and the widow bartley, and--well, there's a lot of them; but these are the ones that peter was thickest with, and used to write about sometimes, when he wrote home; so harvey 'll know where to look for friends when he gets here." well, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied that young fellow. blamed if he didn't inquire about everybody and everything in that blessed town, and all about the wilkses; and about peter's business--which was a tanner; and about george's--which was a carpenter; and about harvey's--which was a dissentering minister; and so on, and so on. then he says: "what did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?" "because she's a big orleans boat, and i was afeard she mightn't stop there. when they're deep they won't stop for a hail. a cincinnati boat will, but this is a st. louis one." "was peter wilks well off?" "oh, yes, pretty well off. he had houses and land, and it's reckoned he left three or four thousand in cash hid up som'ers." "when did you say he died?" "i didn't say, but it was last night." "funeral to-morrow, likely?" "yes, 'bout the middle of the day." "well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go, one time or another. so what we want to do is to be prepared; then we're all right." "yes, sir, it's the best way. ma used to always say that." when we struck the boat she was about done loading, and pretty soon she got off. the king never said nothing about going aboard, so i lost my ride, after all. when the boat was gone the king made me paddle up another mile to a lonesome place, and then he got ashore and says: "now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and the new carpet-bags. and if he's gone over to t'other side, go over there and git him. and tell him to git himself up regardless. shove along, now." i see what he was up to; but i never said nothing, of course. when i got back with the duke we hid the canoe, and then they set down on a log, and the king told him everything, just like the young fellow had said it --every last word of it. and all the time he was a-doing it he tried to talk like an englishman; and he done it pretty well, too, for a slouch. i can't imitate him, and so i ain't a-going to try to; but he really done it pretty good. then he says: "how are you on the deef and dumb, bilgewater?" the duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef and dumb person on the histronic boards. so then they waited for a steamboat. about the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come along, but they didn't come from high enough up the river; but at last there was a big one, and they hailed her. she sent out her yawl, and we went aboard, and she was from cincinnati; and when they found we only wanted to go four or five mile they was booming mad, and gave us a cussing, and said they wouldn't land us. but the king was ca'm. he says: "if gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece to be took on and put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin afford to carry 'em, can't it?" so they softened down and said it was all right; and when we got to the village they yawled us ashore. about two dozen men flocked down when they see the yawl a-coming, and when the king says: "kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher' mr. peter wilks lives?" they give a glance at one another, and nodded their heads, as much as to say, "what d' i tell you?" then one of them says, kind of soft and gentle: "i'm sorry sir, but the best we can do is to tell you where he did live yesterday evening." sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went an to smash, and fell up against the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and cried down his back, and says: "alas, alas, our poor brother--gone, and we never got to see him; oh, it's too, too hard!" then he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot of idiotic signs to the duke on his hands, and blamed if he didn't drop a carpet-bag and bust out a-crying. if they warn't the beatenest lot, them two frauds, that ever i struck. well, the men gathered around and sympathized with them, and said all sorts of kind things to them, and carried their carpet-bags up the hill for them, and let them lean on them and cry, and told the king all about his brother's last moments, and the king he told it all over again on his hands to the duke, and both of them took on about that dead tanner like they'd lost the twelve disciples. well, if ever i struck anything like it, i'm a nigger. it was enough to make a body ashamed of the human race. chapter xxv. the news was all over town in two minutes, and you could see the people tearing down on the run from every which way, some of them putting on their coats as they come. pretty soon we was in the middle of a crowd, and the noise of the tramping was like a soldier march. the windows and dooryards was full; and every minute somebody would say, over a fence: "is it them?" and somebody trotting along with the gang would answer back and say: "you bet it is." when we got to the house the street in front of it was packed, and the three girls was standing in the door. mary jane was red-headed, but that don't make no difference, she was most awful beautiful, and her face and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she was so glad her uncles was come. the king he spread his arms, and mary jane she jumped for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there they had it! everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy to see them meet again at last and have such good times. then the king he hunched the duke private--i see him do it--and then he looked around and see the coffin, over in the corner on two chairs; so then him and the duke, with a hand across each other's shoulder, and t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and solemn over there, everybody dropping back to give them room, and all the talk and noise stopping, people saying "sh!" and all the men taking their hats off and drooping their heads, so you could a heard a pin fall. and when they got there they bent over and looked in the coffin, and took one sight, and then they bust out a-crying so you could a heard them to orleans, most; and then they put their arms around each other's necks, and hung their chins over each other's shoulders; and then for three minutes, or maybe four, i never see two men leak the way they done. and, mind you, everybody was doing the same; and the place was that damp i never see anything like it. then one of them got on one side of the coffin, and t'other on t'other side, and they kneeled down and rested their foreheads on the coffin, and let on to pray all to themselves. well, when it come to that it worked the crowd like you never see anything like it, and everybody broke down and went to sobbing right out loud--the poor girls, too; and every woman, nearly, went up to the girls, without saying a word, and kissed them, solemn, on the forehead, and then put their hand on their head, and looked up towards the sky, with the tears running down, and then busted out and went off sobbing and swabbing, and give the next woman a show. i never see anything so disgusting. well, by and by the king he gets up and comes forward a little, and works himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle about its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother to lose the diseased, and to miss seeing diseased alive after the long journey of four thousand mile, but it's a trial that's sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy and these holy tears, and so he thanks them out of his heart and out of his brother's heart, because out of their mouths they can't, words being too weak and cold, and all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening; and then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody amen, and turns himself loose and goes to crying fit to bust. and the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody over in the crowd struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with all their might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good as church letting out. music is a good thing; and after all that soul-butter and hogwash i never see it freshen up things so, and sound so honest and bully. then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him and his nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal friends of the family would take supper here with them this evening, and help set up with the ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor brother laying yonder could speak he knows who he would name, for they was names that was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters; and so he will name the same, to wit, as follows, vizz.:--rev. mr. hobson, and deacon lot hovey, and mr. ben rucker, and abner shackleford, and levi bell, and dr. robinson, and their wives, and the widow bartley. rev. hobson and dr. robinson was down to the end of the town a-hunting together--that is, i mean the doctor was shipping a sick man to t'other world, and the preacher was pinting him right. lawyer bell was away up to louisville on business. but the rest was on hand, and so they all come and shook hands with the king and thanked him and talked to him; and then they shook hands with the duke and didn't say nothing, but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a passel of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs with his hands and said "goo-goo--goo-goo-goo" all the time, like a baby that can't talk. so the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about pretty much everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned all sorts of little things that happened one time or another in the town, or to george's family, or to peter. and he always let on that peter wrote him the things; but that was a lie: he got every blessed one of them out of that young flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat. then mary jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, and the king he read it out loud and cried over it. it give the dwelling-house and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the tanyard (which was doing a good business), along with some other houses and land (worth about seven thousand), and three thousand dollars in gold to harvey and william, and told where the six thousand cash was hid down cellar. so these two frauds said they'd go and fetch it up, and have everything square and above-board; and told me to come with a candle. we shut the cellar door behind us, and when they found the bag they spilt it out on the floor, and it was a lovely sight, all them yaller-boys. my, the way the king's eyes did shine! he slaps the duke on the shoulder and says: "oh, this ain't bully nor noth'n! oh, no, i reckon not! why, billy, it beats the nonesuch, don't it?" the duke allowed it did. they pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted them through their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor; and the king says: "it ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich dead man and representatives of furrin heirs that's got left is the line for you and me, bilge. thish yer comes of trust'n to providence. it's the best way, in the long run. i've tried 'em all, and ther' ain't no better way." most everybody would a been satisfied with the pile, and took it on trust; but no, they must count it. so they counts it, and it comes out four hundred and fifteen dollars short. says the king: "dern him, i wonder what he done with that four hundred and fifteen dollars?" they worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it. then the duke says: "well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake--i reckon that's the way of it. the best way's to let it go, and keep still about it. we can spare it." "oh, shucks, yes, we can spare it. i don't k'yer noth'n 'bout that--it's the count i'm thinkin' about. we want to be awful square and open and above-board here, you know. we want to lug this h-yer money up stairs and count it before everybody--then ther' ain't noth'n suspicious. but when the dead man says ther's six thous'n dollars, you know, we don't want to--" "hold on," says the duke. "le's make up the deffisit," and he begun to haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket. "it's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke--you have got a rattlin' clever head on you," says the king. "blest if the old nonesuch ain't a heppin' us out agin," and he begun to haul out yaller-jackets and stack them up. it most busted them, but they made up the six thousand clean and clear. "say," says the duke, "i got another idea. le's go up stairs and count this money, and then take and give it to the girls." "good land, duke, lemme hug you! it's the most dazzling idea 'at ever a man struck. you have cert'nly got the most astonishin' head i ever see. oh, this is the boss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake 'bout it. let 'em fetch along their suspicions now if they want to--this 'll lay 'em out." when we got up-stairs everybody gethered around the table, and the king he counted it and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a pile--twenty elegant little piles. everybody looked hungry at it, and licked their chops. then they raked it into the bag again, and i see the king begin to swell himself up for another speech. he says: "friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generous by them that's left behind in the vale of sorrers. he has done generous by these yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that's left fatherless and motherless. yes, and we that knowed him knows that he would a done more generous by 'em if he hadn't ben afeard o' woundin' his dear william and me. now, wouldn't he? ther' ain't no question 'bout it in my mind. well, then, what kind o' brothers would it be that 'd stand in his way at sech a time? and what kind o' uncles would it be that 'd rob--yes, rob--sech poor sweet lambs as these 'at he loved so at sech a time? if i know william--and i think i do--he--well, i'll jest ask him." he turns around and begins to make a lot of signs to the duke with his hands, and the duke he looks at him stupid and leather-headed a while; then all of a sudden he seems to catch his meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with all his might for joy, and hugs him about fifteen times before he lets up. then the king says, "i knowed it; i reckon that 'll convince anybody the way he feels about it. here, mary jane, susan, joanner, take the money--take it all. it's the gift of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful." mary jane she went for him, susan and the hare-lip went for the duke, and then such another hugging and kissing i never see yet. and everybody crowded up with the tears in their eyes, and most shook the hands off of them frauds, saying all the time: "you dear good souls!--how lovely!--how could you!" well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the diseased again, and how good he was, and what a loss he was, and all that; and before long a big iron-jawed man worked himself in there from outside, and stood a-listening and looking, and not saying anything; and nobody saying anything to him either, because the king was talking and they was all busy listening. the king was saying--in the middle of something he'd started in on-- "--they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased. that's why they're invited here this evenin'; but tomorrow we want all to come--everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it's fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public." and so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk, and every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till the duke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of paper, "obsequies, you old fool," and folds it up, and goes to goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to him. the king he reads it and puts it in his pocket, and says: "poor william, afflicted as he is, his heart's aluz right. asks me to invite everybody to come to the funeral--wants me to make 'em all welcome. but he needn't a worried--it was jest what i was at." then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to dropping in his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done before. and when he done it the third time he says: "i say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it ain't --obsequies bein' the common term--but because orgies is the right term. obsequies ain't used in england no more now--it's gone out. we say orgies now in england. orgies is better, because it means the thing you're after more exact. it's a word that's made up out'n the greek orgo, outside, open, abroad; and the hebrew jeesum, to plant, cover up; hence inter. so, you see, funeral orgies is an open er public funeral." he was the worst i ever struck. well, the iron-jawed man he laughed right in his face. everybody was shocked. everybody says, "why, doctor!" and abner shackleford says: "why, robinson, hain't you heard the news? this is harvey wilks." the king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says: "is it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician? i--" "keep your hands off of me!" says the doctor. "you talk like an englishman, don't you? it's the worst imitation i ever heard. you peter wilks's brother! you're a fraud, that's what you are!" well, how they all took on! they crowded around the doctor and tried to quiet him down, and tried to explain to him and tell him how harvey 'd showed in forty ways that he was harvey, and knowed everybody by name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged and begged him not to hurt harvey's feelings and the poor girl's feelings, and all that. but it warn't no use; he stormed right along, and said any man that pretended to be an englishman and couldn't imitate the lingo no better than what he did was a fraud and a liar. the poor girls was hanging to the king and crying; and all of a sudden the doctor ups and turns on them. he says: "i was your father's friend, and i'm your friend; and i warn you as a friend, and an honest one that wants to protect you and keep you out of harm and trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel and have nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp, with his idiotic greek and hebrew, as he calls it. he is the thinnest kind of an impostor--has come here with a lot of empty names and facts which he picked up somewheres, and you take them for proofs, and are helped to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here, who ought to know better. mary jane wilks, you know me for your friend, and for your unselfish friend, too. now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal out--i beg you to do it. will you?" mary jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome! she says: "here is my answer." she hove up the bag of money and put it in the king's hands, and says, "take this six thousand dollars, and invest for me and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give us no receipt for it." then she put her arm around the king on one side, and susan and the hare-lip done the same on the other. everybody clapped their hands and stomped on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king held up his head and smiled proud. the doctor says: "all right; i wash my hands of the matter. but i warn you all that a time 's coming when you're going to feel sick whenever you think of this day." and away he went. "all right, doctor," says the king, kinder mocking him; "we'll try and get 'em to send for you;" which made them all laugh, and they said it was a prime good hit. under the lilacs by louisa may alcott to emma, ida, carl, and lina, over the sea, this little book is affectionately inscribed by their new friend and sister, l. m. a. contents i. a mysterious dog ii. where they found his master iii. ben iv. his story v. ben gets a place vi. a circulating library vii. new friends trot in viii. miss celia's man ix. a happy tea x. a heavy trouble xi. sunday xii. good times xiii. somebody runs away xiv. somebody gets lost xv. ben's ride xvi. detective thornton xvii. betty's bravery xviii. bows and arrows xix. speaking pieces xx. ben's birthday xxi. cupid's last appearance xxii. a boy's bargain xxiii. somebody comes xxiv. the great gate is opened under the lilacs chapter i a mysterious dog the elm-tree avenue was all overgrown, the great gate was never unlocked, and the old house had been shut up for several years. yet voices were heard about the place, the lilacs nodded over the high wall as if they said, "we could tell fine secrets if we chose," and the mullein outside the gate made haste to reach the keyhole, that it might peep in and see what was going on. if it had suddenly grown up like a magic bean-stalk, and looked in on a certain june day, it would have seen a droll but pleasant sight, for somebody evidently was going to have a party. from the gate to the porch went a wide walk, paved with smooth slabs of dark stone, and bordered with the tall bushes which met overhead, making a green roof. all sorts of neglected flowers and wild weeds grew between their stems, covering the walls of this summer parlor with the prettiest tapestry. a board, propped on two blocks of wood, stood in the middle of the walk, covered with a little plaid shawl much the worse for wear, and on it a miniature tea-service was set forth with great elegance. to be sure, the tea-pot had lost its spout, the cream-jug its handle, the sugar-bowl its cover, and the cups and plates were all more or less cracked or nicked; but polite persons would not take notice of these trifling deficiencies, and none but polite persons were invited to this party. on either side of the porch was a seat, and here a somewhat remarkable sight would have been revealed to any inquisitive eye peering through the aforesaid keyhole. upon the left-hand seat lay seven dolls, upon the right-hand seat lay six; and so varied were the expressions of their countenances, owing to fractures, dirt, age, and other afflictions, that one would very naturally have thought this a doll's hospital, and these the patients waiting for their tea. this, however, would have been a sad mistake; for if the wind had lifted the coverings laid over them, it would have disclosed the fact that all were in full dress, and merely reposing before the feast should begin. there was another interesting feature of the scene which would have puzzled any but those well acquainted with the manners and customs of dolls. a fourteenth rag baby, with a china head, hung by her neck from the rusty knocker in the middle of the door. a sprig of white and one of purple lilac nodded over her, a dress of yellow calico, richly trimmed with red-flannel scallops, shrouded her slender form, a garland of small flowers crowned her glossy curls, and a pair of blue boots touched toes in the friendliest, if not the most graceful, manner. an emotion of grief, as well as of surprise, might well have thrilled any youthful breast at such a spectacle; for why, oh! why, was this resplendent dolly hung up there to be stared at by thirteen of her kindred? was she a criminal, the sight of whose execution threw them flat upon their backs in speechless horror? or was she an idol, to be adored in that humble posture? neither, my friends. she was blonde belinda, set, or rather hung, aloft, in the place of honor, for this was her seventh birthday, and a superb ball was about to celebrate the great event. all were evidently awaiting a summons to the festive board; but such was the perfect breeding of these dolls, that not a single eye out of the whole twenty-seven (dutch hans had lost one of the black beads from his worsted countenance) turned for a moment toward the table, or so much as winked, as they lay in decorous rows, gazing with mute admiration at belinda. she, unable to repress the joy and pride which swelled her sawdust bosom till the seams gaped, gave an occasional bounce as the wind waved her yellow skirts, or made the blue boots dance a sort of jig upon the door. hanging was evidently not a painful operation, for she smiled contentedly, and looked as if the red ribbon around her neck was not uncomfortably tight; therefore, if slow suffocation suited her, who else had any right to complain? so a pleasing silence reigned, not even broken by a snore from dinah, the top of whose turban alone was visible above the coverlet, or a cry from baby jane, though her bare feet stuck out in a way that would have produced shrieks from a less well-trained infant. presently voices were heard approaching, and through the arch which led to a side-path came two little girls, one carrying a small pitcher, the other proudly bearing a basket covered with a napkin. they looked like twins, but were not, for bab was a year older than betty, though only an inch taller. both had on brown calico frocks, much the worse for a week's wear; but clean pink pinafores, in honor of the occasion, made up for that, as well as the gray stockings and thick boots. both had round, rosy faces rather sunburnt, pug noses somewhat freckled, merry blue eyes, and braided tails of hair hanging down their backs like those of the dear little kenwigses. "don't they look sweet?" cried bab, gazing with maternal pride upon the left-hand row of dolls, who might appropriately have sung in chorus, "we are seven." "very nice; but my belinda beats them all. i do think she is the splendidest child that ever was!" and betty set down the basket to run and embrace the suspended darling, just then kicking up her heels with joyful abandon. "the cake can be cooling while we fix the children. it does smell perfectly delicious!" said bab, lifting the napkin to hang over the basket, fondly regarding the little round loaf that lay inside. "leave some smell for me!" commanded betty, running back to get her fair share of the spicy fragrance. the pug noses sniffed it up luxuriously, and the bright eyes feasted upon the loveliness of the cake, so brown and shiny, with a tipsy-looking b in pie-crust staggering down one side, instead of sitting properly a-top. "ma let me put it on the very last minute, and it baked so hard i couldn't pick it off. we can give belinda that piece, so it's just as well," observed betty, taking the lead, as her child was queen of the revel. "let's set them round, so they can see too," proposed bab, going, with a hop, skip, and jump, to collect her young family. betty agreed, and for several minutes both were absorbed in seating their dolls about the table; for some of the dear things were so limp they wouldn't sit up, and others so stiff they wouldn't sit down, and all sorts of seats had to be contrived to suit the peculiarities of their spines. this arduous task accomplished, the fond mammas stepped back to enjoy the spectacle, which, i assure you, was an impressive one. belinda sat with great dignity at the head, her hands genteelly holding a pink cambric pocket-handkerchief in her lap. josephus, her cousin, took the foot, elegantly arrayed in a new suit of purple and green gingham, with his speaking countenance much obscured by a straw hat several sizes too large for him; while on either side sat guests of every size, complexion, and costume, producing a very gay and varied effect, as all were dressed with a noble disregard of fashion. "they will like to see us get tea. did you forget the buns?" inquired betty, anxiously. "no; got them in my pocket." and bab produced from that chaotic cupboard two rather stale and crumbly ones, saved from lunch for the fete. these were cut up and arranged in plates, forming a graceful circle around the cake, still in its basket. "ma couldn't spare much milk, so we must mix water with it. strong tea isn't good for children, she says." and bab contentedly surveyed the gill of skim-milk which was to satisfy the thirst of the company. "while the tea draws and the cake cools, let's sit down and rest; i'm so tired!" sighed betty, dropping down on the door-step and stretching out the stout little legs which had been on the go all day; for saturday had its tasks as well as its fun, and much business had preceded this unusual pleasure. bab went and sat beside her, looking idly down the walk toward the gate, where a fine cobweb shone in the afternoon sun. "ma says she is going over the house in a day or two, now it is warm and dry after the storm, and we may go with her. you know she wouldn't take us in the fall, cause we had whooping-cough, and it was damp there. now we shall see all the nice things; won't it be fun?" observed bab, after a pause. "yes, indeed! ma says there's lots of books in one room, and i can look at 'em while she goes round. may be i'll have time to read some, and then i can tell you," answered betty, who dearly loved stories, and seldom got any new ones. "i'd rather see the old spinning-wheel up garret, and the big pictures, and the queer clothes in the blue chest. it makes me mad to have them all shut up there, when we might have such fun with them. i'd just like to bang that old door down!" and bab twisted round to give it a thump with her boots. "you needn't laugh; you know you'd like it as much as me," she added, twisting back again, rather ashamed of her impatience. "i didn't laugh." "you did! don't you suppose i know what laughing is?" "i guess i know i didn't." "you did laugh! how darst you tell such a fib?" "if you say that again i'll take belinda and go right home; then what will you do?" "i'll eat up the cake." "no, you won't! it's mine, ma said so; and you are only company, so you'd better behave or i won't have any party at all, so now." this awful threat calmed bab's anger at once, and she hastened to introduce a safer subject. "never mind; don't let's fight before the children. do you know, ma says she will let us play in the coach-house next time it rains, and keep the key if we want to." "oh, goody! that's because we told her how we found the little window under the woodbine, and didn't try to go in, though we might have just as easy as not," cried betty, appeased at once, for, after a ten years' acquaintance, she had grown used to bab's peppery temper. "i suppose the coach will be all dust and rats and spiders, but i don't care. you and the dolls can be the passengers, and i shall sit up in front drive." "you always do. i shall like riding better than being horse all the time, with that old wooden bit in my mouth, and you jerking my arms off," said poor betty, who was tired of being horse continually. "i guess we'd better go and get the water now," suggested bab, feeling that it was not safe to encourage her sister in such complaints. "it is not many people who would dare to leave their children all alone with such a lovely cake, and know they wouldn't pick at it," said betty proudly, as they trotted away to the spring, each with a little tin pail in her hand. alas, for the faith of these too confiding mammas! they were gone about five minutes, and when they returned a sight met their astonished eyes which produced a simultaneous shriek of horror. flat upon their faces lay the fourteen dolls, and the cake, the cherished cake, was gone. for an instant the little girls could only stand motionless, gazing at the dreadful scene. then bab cast her water-pail wildly away, and, doubling up her fist, cried out fiercely,-- "it was that sally! she said she'd pay me for slapping her when she pinched little mary ann, and now she has. i'll give it to her! you run that way. i'll run this. quick! quick!" away they went, bab racing straight on, and bewildered betty turning obediently round to trot in the opposite direction as fast as she could, with the water splashing all over her as she ran, for she had forgotten to put down her pail. round the house they went, and met with a crash at the back door, but no sign of the thief appeared. "in the lane!" shouted bab. "down by the spring!" panted betty; and off they went again, one to scramble up a pile of stones and look over the wall into the avenue, the other to scamper to the spot they had just left. still, nothing appeared but the dandelions' innocent faces looking up at bab, and a brown bird scared from his bath in the spring by betty's hasty approach. back they rushed, but only to meet a new scare, which made them both cry "ow!" and fly into the porch for refuge. a strange dog was sitting calmly among the ruins of the feast, licking his lips after basely eating up the last poor bits of bun, when he had bolted the cake, basket, and all, apparently. "oh, the horrid thing!" cried bab, longing to give battle, but afraid, for the dog was a peculiar as well as a dishonest animal. "he looks like our china poodle, doesn't he?" whispered betty, making herself as small as possible behind her more valiant sister. he certainly did; for, though much larger and dirtier than the well-washed china dog, this live one had the same tassel at the end of his tail, ruffles of hair round his ankles, and a body shaven behind and curly before. his eyes, however, were yellow, instead of glassy black, like the other's; his red nose worked as he cocked it up, as if smelling for more cakes, in the most impudent manner; and never, during the three years he had stood on the parlor mantel-piece, had the china poodle done the surprising feats with which this mysterious dog now proceeded to astonish the little girls almost out of their wits. first he sat up, put his forepaws together, and begged prettily; then he suddenly flung his hind-legs into the air, and walked about with great ease. hardly had they recovered from this shock, when the hind-legs came down, the fore-legs went up, and he paraded in a soldierly manner to and fro, like a sentinel on guard. but the crowning performance was when he took his tail in his mouth and waltzed down the walk, over the prostrate dolls, to the gate and back again, barely escaping a general upset of the ravaged table. bab and betty could only hold each other tight and squeal with delight, for never had they seen any thing so funny; but, when the gymnastics ended, and the dizzy dog came and stood on the step before them barking loudly, with that pink nose of his sniffing at their feet, and his queer eyes fixed sharply upon them, their amusement turned to fear again, and they dared not stir. "whish, go away!" commanded bab. "scat!" meekly quavered betty. to their great relief, the poodle gave several more inquiring barks, and then vanished as suddenly as he appeared. with one impulse, the children ran to see what became of him, and, after a brisk scamper through the orchard, saw the tasselled tail disappear under the fence at the far end. "where do you s'pose he came from?" asked betty, stopping to rest on a big stone. "i'd like to know where he's gone, too, and give him a good beating, old thief!" scolded bab, remembering their wrongs. "oh, dear, yes! i hope the cake burnt him dreadfully if he did eat it," groaned betty, sadly remembering the dozen good raisins she chopped up, and the "lots of 'lasses" mother put into the dear lost loaf. "the party's all spoilt, so we may as well go home; and bab mournfully led the way back. betty puckered up her face to cry, but burst out laughing in spite of her woe. "it was so funny to see him spin round and walk on his head! i wish he'd do it all over again; don't you?" "yes: but i hate him just the same. i wonder what ma will say when--why! why!" and bab stopped short in the arch, with her eyes as round and almost as large as the blue saucers on the tea-tray. "what is it? oh, what is it?" cried betty, all ready to run away if any new terror appeared. "look! there! it's come back!" said bab in an awe-stricken whisper, pointing to the table. betty did look, and her eyes opened even wider,--as well they might,--for there, just where they first put it, was the lost cake, unhurt, unchanged, except that the big b had coasted a little further down the gingerbread hill. chapter ii where they found his master neither spoke for a minute, astonishment being too great for words; then, as by one impulse, both stole up and touched the cake with a timid finger, quite prepared to see it fly away in some mysterious and startling manner. it remained sitting tranquilly in the basket, however, and the children drew a long breath of relief, for, though they did not believe in fairies, the late performances did seem rather like witchcraft. "the dog didn't eat it!" "sally didn't take it!" "how do you know?" "she never would have put it back." "who did?" "can't tell, but i forgive 'em." "what shall we do now?" asked betty, feeling as if it would be very difficult to settle down to a quiet tea-party after such unusual excitement. "eat that cake up just as fast as ever we can," and bab divided the contested delicacy with one chop of the big knife, bound to make sure of her own share at all events. it did not take long, for they washed it down with sips of milk, and ate as fast as possible, glancing round all the while to see if the queer dog was coming again. "there! now i'd like to see any one take my cake away," said bab, defiantly crunching her half of the pie-crust b. "or mine either," coughed betty, choking over a raisin that wouldn't go down in a hurry. "we might as well clear up, and play there had been an earthquake," suggested bab, feeling that some such convulsion of nature was needed to explain satisfactorily the demoralized condition of her family. "that will be splendid. my poor linda was knocked right over on her nose. darlin' child, come to your mother and be fixed," purred betty, lifting the fallen idol from a grove of chickweed, and tenderly brushing the dirt from belinda's heroically smiling face. "she'll have croup to-night as sure as the world. we'd better make up some squills out of this sugar and water," said bab, who dearly loved to dose the dollies all round. "p'r'aps she will, but you needn't begin to sneeze yet awhile. i can sneeze for my own children, thank you, ma'am," returned betty, sharply, for her usually amiable spirit had been ruffled by the late occurrences. "i didn't sneeze! i've got enough to do to talk and cry and cough for my own poor dears, without bothering about yours," cried bab, even more ruffled than her sister. "then who did? i heard a real live sneeze just as plain as anything," and betty looked up to the green roof above her, as if the sound came from that direction. a yellow-bird sat swinging and chirping on the tall lilac-bush, but no other living thing was in sight. "birds don't sneeze, do they?" asked betty, eying little goldy suspiciously. "you goose! of course they don't." "well. i should just like to know who is laughing and sneezing round here. may be it is the dog," suggested betty looking relieved. "i never heard of a dog's laughing, except mother hubbard's. this is such a queer one, may be he can, though. i wonder where he went to?" and bab took a survey down both the side-paths, quite longing to see the funny poodle again. "i know where i 'm going to," said betty, piling the dolls into her apron with more haste than care. "i'm going right straight home to tell ma all about it. i don't like such actions, and i 'm afraid to stay." "i ain't; but i guess it is going to rain, so i shall have to go any way," answered bab, taking advantage of the black clouds rolling up the sky, for she scorned to own that she was afraid of any thing. clearing the table in a summary manner by catching up the four corners of the cloth, bab put the rattling bundle into her apron, flung her children on the top and pronounced herself ready to depart. betty lingered an instant to pick up and ends that might be spoilt by the rain, and, when she turned from taking the red halter off the knocker, two lovely pink roses lay on the stone steps. "oh, bab, just see! here's the very ones we wanted. wasn't it nice of the wind to blow 'em down?" she called out, picking them up and running after her sister, who had strolled moodily along, still looking about for her sworn foe, sally folsom. the flowers soothed the feelings of the little girls, because they had longed for them, and bravely resisted the temptation to climb up the trellis and help themselves, since their mother had forbidden such feats, owing to a fall bab got trying to reach a honeysuckle from the vine which ran all over the porch. home they went and poured out their tale, to mrs. moss's great amusement; for she saw in it only some playmate's prank, and was not much impressed by the mysterious sneeze and laugh. "we'll have a grand rummage monday, and find out what is going on over there," was all she said. but mrs. moss could not keep her promise, for on monday it still rained, and the little girls paddled off to school like a pair of young ducks, enjoying every puddle they came to, since india-rubber boots made wading a delicious possibility. they took their dinner, and at noon regaled a crowd of comrades with an account of the mysterious dog, who appeared to be haunting the neighborhood, as several of the other children had seen him examining their back yards with interest. he had begged of them, but to none had he exhibited his accomplishments except bab and betty; and they were therefore much set up, and called him "our dog" with an air. the cake transaction remained a riddle, for sally folsom solemnly declared that she was playing tag in mamie snow's barn at that identical time. no one had been near the old house but the two children, and no one could throw any light upon that singular affair. it produced a great effect, however; for even "teacher" was interested, and told such amazing tales of a juggler she once saw, that doughnuts were left forgotten in dinner-baskets, and wedges of pie remained suspended in the air for several minutes at a time, instead of vanishing with miraculous rapidity as usual. at afternoon recess, which the girls had first, bab nearly dislocated every joint of her little body trying to imitate the poodle's antics. she had practised on her bed with great success, but the wood-shed floor was a different thing, as her knees and elbows soon testified. "it looked just as easy as any thing; i don't see how he did it," she said, coming down with a bump after vainly attempting to walk on her hands. "my gracious, there he is this very minute!" cried betty, who sat on a little wood-pile near the door. there was a general rush,--and sixteen small girls gazed out into the rain as eagerly as if to behold cinderella's magic coach, instead of one forlorn dog trotting by through the mud. "oh, do call him in and make him dance!" cried the girls, all chirping at once, till it sounded as if a flock of sparrows had taken possession of the shed. "i will call him, he knows me," and bab scrambled up, forgetting how she had chased the poodle and called him names two days ago. he evidently had not forgotten, however; for, though he paused and looked wistfully at them, he would not approach, but stood dripping in the rain, with his frills much bedraggled, while his tasselled tail wagged slowly, and his pink nose pointed suggestively to the pails and baskets, nearly empty now. "he's hungry; give him something to eat, and then he'll see that we don't want to hurt him," suggested sally, starting a contribution with her last bit of bread and butter. bab caught up her new pail, and collected all the odds and ends; then tried to beguile the poor beast in to eat and be comforted. but he only came as far as the door, and, sitting up, begged with such imploring eyes that bab put down the pail and stepped back, saying pitifully,-- "the poor thing is starved; let him eat all he wants, and we won't touch him." the girls drew back with little clucks of interest and compassion; but i regret to say their charity was not rewarded as they expected, for, the minute the coast was clear, the dog marched boldly up, seized the handle of the pail in his mouth, and was off with it, galloping down the road at a great pace. shrieks arose from the children, especially bab and betty, basely bereaved of their new dinner-pail; but no one could follow the thief, for the bell rang, and in they went, so much excited that the boys rushed tumultuously forth to discover the cause. by the time school was over the sun was out, and bab and betty hastened home to tell their wrongs and be comforted by mother, who did it most effectually. "never mind, dears, i'll get you another pail, if he doesn't bring it back as he did before. as it is too wet for you to play out, you shall go and see the old coach-house as i promised. keep on your rubbers and come along." this delightful prospect much assuaged their woe, and away they went, skipping gayly down the gravelled path, while mrs. moss followed, with skirts well tucked up, and a great bunch of keys in her hand; for she lived at the lodge, and had charge of the premises. the small door of the coach-house was fastened inside, but the large one had a padlock on it; and this being quickly unfastened, one half swung open, and the little girls ran in, too eager and curious even to cry out when they found themselves at last in possession of the long-coveted old carriage. a dusty, musty concern enough; but it had a high seat, a door, steps that let down, and many other charms which rendered it most desirable in the eyes of children. bab made straight for the box and betty for the door; but both came tumbling down faster than they went up, when from the gloom of the interior came a shrill bark, and a low voice saying quickly, "down, sancho! down!" "who is there?" demanded mrs. moss, in a stern tone, backing toward the door with both children clinging to her skirts. the well-known curly white head was popped out of the broken window, and a mild whine seemed to say, "don't be alarmed, ladies; we won't hurt you. come out this minute, or i shall have to come and get you," called mrs. moss, growing very brave all of a sudden as she caught sight of a pair of small, dusty shoes under the coach. "yes, 'm, i'm coming, as fast as i can," answered a meek voice, as what appeared to be a bundle of rags leaped out of the dark, followed by the poodle, who immediately sat down at the bare feet of his owner with a watchful air, as if ready to assault any one who might approach too near. "now, then, who are you, and how did you get here?" asked mrs. moss, trying to speak sternly, though her motherly eyes were already full of pity, as they rested on the forlorn little figure before her. chapter iii ben "please, 'm, my name is ben brown, and i'm travellin'." "where are you going?" "anywheres to get work." "what sort of work can you do?" "all kinds. i'm used to horses." "bless me! such a little chap as you? "i'm twelve, ma'am, and can ride any thing on four legs;" and the small boy gave a nod that seemed to say, "bring on your cruisers. i'm ready for 'em." "haven't you got any folks?" asked mrs. moss, amused but still anxious, for the sunburnt face was very thin, the eyes hollow with hunger or pain, and the ragged figure leaned on the wheel as if too weak or weary to stand alone. "no, 'm, not of my own; and the people i was left with beat me so, i--run away." the last words seemed to bolt out against his will as if the woman's sympathy irresistibly won the child's confidence. "then i don't blame you. but how did you get here?" "i was so tired i couldn't go any further, and i thought the folks up here at the big house would take me in. but the gate was locked, and i was so discouraged, i jest laid down outside and give up." "poor little soul, i don't wonder," said mrs. moss, while the children looked deeply interested at mention of their gate. the boy drew a long breath, and his eyes began to twinkle in spite of his forlorn state as he went on, while the dog pricked up his ears at mention of his name:-- "while i was restin' i heard some one come along inside, and i peeked, and saw them little girls playin'. the vittles looked so nice i couldn't help wantin' 'em; but i didn't take nothin',--it was sancho, and he took the cake for me." bab and betty gave a gasp and stared reproachfully at the poodle, who half closed his eyes with a meek, unconscious look that was very droll. "and you made him put it back?" cried bab. "no; i did it myself. got over the gate when you was racin' after sancho, and then clim' up on the porch and hid," said the boy with a grin. "and you laughed?" asked bab. "yes." "and sneezed?" added betty. "yes." "and threw down the roses?" cried both. "yes; and you liked 'em, didn't you?" "course we did! what made you hide?" said bab. "i wasn't fit to be seen," muttered ben, glancing at his tatters as if he'd like to dive out of sight into the dark coach again. "how came you here?" demanded mrs. moss, suddenly remembering her responsibility. "i heard 'em talk about a little winder and a shed, and when they'd gone i found it and come in. the glass was broke, and i only pulled the nail out. i haven't done a mite of harm sleepin' here two nights. i was so tuckered out i couldn't go on nohow, though i tried a sunday." "and came back again? "yes, 'm; it was so lonesome in the rain, and this place seemed kinder like home, and i could hear 'em talkin' outside, and sanch he found vittles, and i was pretty comfortable." "well, i never!" ejaculated mrs. moss, whisking up a corner of her apron to wipe her eyes, for the thought of the poor little fellow alone there for two days and nights with no bed but musty straw, no food but the scraps a dog brought him, was too much for her. "do you know what i'm going to do with you?" she asked, trying to look calm and cool, with a great tear running down her wholesome red cheek, and a smile trying to break out at the corners of her lips. "no, ma'am, and i dunno as i care. only don't be hard on sanch; he's been real good to me, and we 're fond of one another; ain't us, old chap?" answered the boy, with his arm around the dog's neck, and an anxious look which he had not worn for himself. "i'm going to take you right home, and wash and feed and put you in a good bed; and to-morrow,--well, we'll see what'll happen then," said mrs. moss, not quite sure about it herself. "you're very kind, ma'am, i'll be glad to work for you. ain't you got a horse i can see to?" asked the boy, eagerly. "nothing but hens and a cat." bab and betty burst out laughing when their mother said that, and ben gave a faint giggle, as if he would like to join in if he only had the strength to do it. but his legs shook under him, and he felt a queer dizziness; so he could only hold on to sancho, and blink at the light like a young owl. "come right along, child. run on, girls, and put the rest of the broth to warming, and fill the kettle. i'll see to the boy," commanded mrs. moss, waving off the children, and going up to feel the pulse of her new charge, for it suddenly occurred to her that he might be sick and not safe to take home. the hand he gave her was very thin, but clean and cool, and the black eyes were clear though hollow, for the poor lad was half-starved. "i'm awful shabby, but i ain't dirty. i had a washin' in the rain last night, and i've jest about lived on water lately," he explained, wondering why she looked at him so hard. "put out your tongue." he did so, but took it in again to say quickly,-- "i ain't sick,--i'm only hungry; for i haven't had a mite but what sanch brought, for three days; and i always go halves, don't i, sanch?" the poodle gave a shrill bark, and vibrated excitedly between the door and his master as if he understood all that was going on, and recommended a speedy march toward the promised food and shelter. mrs. moss took the hint, and bade the boy follow her at once and bring his "things" with him. "i ain't got any. some big fellers took away my bundle, else i wouldn't look so bad. there's only this. i'm sorry sanch took it, and i'd like to give it back if i knew whose it was," said ben, bringing the new dinner-pail out from the depths of the coach where he had gone to housekeeping. "that's soon done; it's mine, and you're welcome to the bits your queer dog ran off with. come along, i must lock up," and mrs. moss clanked her keys suggestively. ben limped out, leaning on a broken hoe-handle, for he was stiff after two days in such damp lodgings, as well as worn out with a fortnight's wandering through sun and rain. sancho was in great spirits, evidently feeling that their woes were over and his foraging expeditions at an end, for he frisked about his master with yelps of pleasure, or made playful darts at the ankles of his benefactress, which caused her to cry, "whish!" and "scat!" and shake her skirts at him as if he were a cat or hen. a hot fire was roaring in the stove under the broth-skillet and tea-kettle, and betty was poking in more wood, with a great smirch of black on her chubby cheek, while bab was cutting away at the loaf as if bent on slicing her own fingers off. before ben knew what he was about, he found himself in the old rocking-chair devouring bread and butter as only a hungry boy can, with sancho close by gnawing a mutton-bone like a ravenous wolf in sheep's clothing. while the new-comers were thus happily employed, mrs. moss beckoned the little girls out of the room, and gave them both an errand. "bab, you run over to mrs. barton's, and ask her for any old duds billy don't want; and betty, you go to the cutters, and tell miss clarindy i'd like a couple of the shirts we made at last sewing circle. any shoes, or a hat, or socks, would come handy, for the poor dear hasn't a whole thread on him." away went the children full of anxiety to clothe their beggar; and so well did they plead his cause with the good neighbors, that ben hardly knew himself when he emerged from the back bedroom half an hour later, clothed in billy barton's faded flannel suit, with an unbleached cotton shirt out of the dorcas basket, and a pair of milly cutter's old shoes on his feet. sancho also had been put in better trim, for, after his master had refreshed himself with a warm bath, he gave his dog a good scrub while mrs. moss set a stitch here and there in the new old clothes; and sancho reappeared, looking more like the china poodle than ever, being as white as snow, his curls well brushed up, and his tasselly tail waving proudly over his back. feeling eminently respectable and comfortable, the wanderers humbly presented themselves, and were greeted with smiles of approval from the little girls and a hospitable welcome from the mother, who set them near the stove to dry, as both were decidedly damp after their ablutions. "i declare i shouldn't have known you!" exclaimed the good woman, surveying the boy with great satisfaction; for, though still very thin and tired, the lad had a tidy look that pleased her, and a lively way of moving about in his clothes, like an eel in a skin rather too big for him. the merry black eyes seemed to see every thing, the voice had an honest sound, and the sunburnt face looked several years younger since the unnatural despondency had gone out of it. "it's very nice, and me and sanch are lots obliged, ma'am," murmured ben, getting red and bashful under the three pairs of friendly eyes fixed upon him. bab and betty were doing up the tea-things with unusual despatch, so that they might entertain their guest, and just as ben spoke bab dropped a cup. to her great surprise no smash followed, for, bending quickly, the boy caught it as it fell, and presented it to her on the back of his hand with a little bow. "gracious! how could you do it?" asked bab, looking as if she thought there was magic about. "that's nothing; look here," and, taking two plates, ben sent them spinning up into the air, catching and throwing so rapidly that bab and betty stood with their mouths open, as if to swallow the plates should they fall, while mrs. moss, with her dish-cloth suspended, watched the antics of her crockery with a housewife's anxiety. "that does beat all!" was the only exclamation she had time to make; for, as if desirous of showing his gratitude in the only way he could, ben took clothes-pins from a basket near by, sent several saucers twirling up, caught them on the pins, balanced the pins on chin, nose, forehead, and went walking about with a new and peculiar sort of toadstool ornamenting his countenance. the children were immensely tickled, and mrs. moss was so amused she would have lent her best soup-tureen if he had expressed a wish for it. but ben was too tired to show all his accomplishments at once, and he soon stopped, looking as if he almost regretted having betrayed that he possessed any. "i guess you've been in the juggling business," said mrs. moss, with a wise nod, for she saw the same look on his face as when he said his name was ben brown,--the look of one who was not telling the whole truth. "yes, 'm. i used to help senor pedro, the wizard of the world, and i learned some of his tricks," stammered ben, trying to seem innocent. "now, look here, boy, you'd better tell me the whole story, and tell it true, or i shall have to send you up to judge morris. i wouldn't like to do that, for he is a harsh sort of a man; so, if you haven't done any thing bad, you needn't be afraid to speak out, and i'll do what i can for you," said mrs. moss, rather sternly, as she went and sat down in her rocking-chair, as if about to open the court. "i haven't done any thing bad, and i ain't afraid, only i don't want to go back; and if i tell, may be you'll let 'em know where i be," said ben, much distressed between his longing to confide in his new friend and his fear of his old enemies. "if they abused you, of course i wouldn't. tell the truth, and i'll stand by you. girls, you go for the milk." "oh, ma, do let us stay! we'll never tell, truly, truly!" cried bab and betty, full of dismay being sent off when secrets were about to be divulged. "i don't mind 'em," said ben handsomely. "very well, only hold your tongues. now, boy where did you come from?" said mrs. moss, as the little girls hastily sat down together on their private and particular bench opposite their mother, brimming with curiosity and beaming with satisfaction at the prospect before them. chapter iv his story "i ran away from a circus," began ben, but got no further, for bab and betty gave a simultaneous bounce of delight, and both cried out at once,-- "we've been to one! it was splendid!" "you wouldn't think so if you knew as much about it as i do," answered ben, with a sudden frown and wriggle, as if he still felt the smart of the blows he had received. "we don't call it splendid; do we, sancho?" he added, making a queer noise, which caused the poodle to growl and bang the floor irefully with his tail, as he lay close to his master's feet, getting acquainted with the new shoes they wore. "how came you there?" asked mrs. moss, rather disturbed at the news. "why, my father was the 'wild hunter of the plains.' didn't you ever see or hear of him?" said ben, as if surprised at her ignorance. "bless your heart, child, i haven't been to a circus this ten years, and i'm sure i don't remember what or who i saw then," answered mrs. moss, amused, yet touched by the son's evident admiration for his father. "didn't you see him?" demanded ben, turning to the little girls. "we saw indians and tumbling men, and the bounding brothers of borneo, and a clown and monkeys, and a little mite of a pony with blue eyes. was he any of them?" answered betty, innocently. "pooh! he didn't belong to that lot. he always rode two, four, six, eight horses to oncet, and i used to ride with him till i got too big. my father was a no. , and didn't do any thing but break horses and ride 'em," said ben, with as much pride as if his parent had been a president. "is he dead?" asked mrs. moss. "i don't know. wish i did,"--and poor ben gave a gulp as if something rose in his throat and choked him. "tell us all about it, dear, and may be we can find out where he is," said mrs. moss, leaning forward to pat the shiny dark head that was suddenly bent over the dog. "yes, ma'am. i will, thank y'," and with an effort the boy steadied his voice and plunged into the middle of his story. "father was always good to me, and i liked bein' with him after granny died. i lived with her till i was seven; then father took me, and i was trained for rider. you jest oughter have seen me when i was a little feller all in white tights, and a gold belt, and pink riggin', standing' on father's shoulder, or hangin' on to old general's tail, and him gallopin' full pelt; or father ridin' three horses with me on his head wavin' flags, and every one clapping like fun." "oh, weren't you scared to pieces?" asked betty, quaking at the mere thought. "not a bit. i liked it." "so should i!" cried bab enthusiastically. "then i drove the four ponies in the little chariot, when we paraded," continued ben, "and i sat on the great ball up top of the grand car drawed by hannibal and nero. but i didn't like that, 'cause it was awful high and shaky, and the sun was hot, and the trees slapped my face, and my legs ached holdin' on." "what's hanny bells and neroes?" demanded betty. "big elephants. father never let 'em put me up there, and they didn't darst till he was gone; then i had to, else they'd 'a' thrashed me." "didn't any one take your part?" asked mrs. moss. "yes, 'm, 'most all the ladies did; they were very good to me, 'specially 'melia. she vowed she wouldn't go on in the tunnymunt act if they didn't stop knockin' me round when i wouldn't help old buck with the bears. so they had to stop it, 'cause she led first rate, and none of the other ladies rode half as well as 'melia." "bears! oh, do tell about them!" exclaimed bab, in great excitement, for at the only circus she had seen the animals were her delight. "buck had five of 'em, cross old fellers, and he showed 'em off. i played with 'em once, jest for fun, and he thought it would make a hit to have me show off instead of him. but they had a way of clawin' and huggin' that wasn't nice, and you couldn't never tell whether they were good-natured or ready to bite your head off. buck was all over scars where they'd scratched and bit him, and i wasn't going to do it; and i didn't have to, owin' to miss st. john's standin' by me like a good one." "who was miss st. john?" asked mrs. moss, rather confused by the sudden introduction of new names and people. "why she was 'melia,--mrs. smithers, the ringmaster's wife. his name wasn't montgomery any more'n hers was st. john. they all change 'em to something fine on the bills, you know. father used to be senor jose montebello; and i was master adolphus bloomsbury, after i stopped bein' a flyin' coopid and a infant progidy." mrs. moss leaned back in her chair to laugh at that, greatly to the surprise of the little girls, who were much impressed with the elegance of these high-sounding names. "go on with your story, ben, and tell why you ran away and what became of your pa," she said, composing herself to listen, really interested in the child. "well, you see, father had a quarrel with old smithers, and went off sudden last fall, just before tenting season' was over. he told me he was goin' to a great ridin' school in new york and when he was fixed he'd send for me. i was to stay in the museum and help pedro with the trick business. he was a nice man and i liked him, and 'melia was goin' to see to me, and i didn't mind for awhile. but father didn't send for me, and i began to have horrid times. if it hadn't been for 'melia and sancho i would have cut away long before i did." "what did you have to do?" "lots of things, for times was dull and i was smart. smithers said so, any way, and i had to tumble up lively when he gave the word. i didn't mind doin' tricks or showin' off sancho, for father trained him, and he always did well with me. but they wanted me to drink gin to keep me small, and i wouldn't, 'cause father didn't like that kind of thing. i used to ride tip-top, and that just suited me till i got a fall and hurt my back; but i had to go on all the same, though i ached dreadful, and used to tumble off, i was so dizzy and weak." "what a brute that man must have been! why didn't 'melia put a stop to it?" asked mrs. moss, indignantly. "she died, ma'am, and then there was no one left but sanch; so i run away." then ben fell to patting his dog again, to hide the tears he could not keep from coming at the thought of the kind friend he had lost. "what did you mean to do?" "find father; but i couldn't, for he wasn't at the ridin' school, and they told me he had gone out west to buy mustangs for a man who wanted a lot. so then i was in a fix, for i couldn't go to father, didn't know jest where he was, and i wouldn't sneak back to smithers to be abused. tried to make 'em take me at the ridin' school, but they didn't want a boy, and i travelled along and tried to get work. but i'd have starved if it hadn't been for sanch. i left him tied up when i ran off, for fear they'd say i stole him. he's a very valuable dog, ma'am, the best trick dog i ever see, and they'd want him back more than they would me. he belongs to father, and i hated to leave him; but i did. i hooked it one dark night, and never thought i'd see him ag'in. next mornin' i was eatin' breakfast in a barn miles away, and dreadful lonesome, when he came tearin' in, all mud and wet, with a great piece of rope draggin'. he'd gnawed it and come after me, and wouldn't go back or be lost; and i'll never leave him again, will i, dear old feller?" sancho had listened to this portion of the tale with intense interest, and when ben spoke to him he stood straight up, put both paws on the boy's shoulders, licked his face with a world of dumb affection in his yellow eyes, and gave a little whine which said as plainly as words,-- "cheer up, little master; fathers may vanish and friends die, but i never will desert you." ben hugged him close and smiled over his curly, white head at the little girls, who clapped their hands at the pleasing tableau, and then went to pat and fondle the good creature, assuring him that they entirely forgave the theft of the cake and the new dinner-pail. inspired by these endearments and certain private signals given by ben, sancho suddenly burst away to perform all his best antics with unusual grace and dexterity. bab and betty danced about the room with rapture, while mrs. moss declared she was almost afraid to have such a wonderfully intelligent animal in the house. praises of his dog pleased ben more than praises of himself, and when the confusion had subsided he entertained his audience with a lively account of sancho's cleverness, fidelity, and the various adventures in which he had nobly borne his part. while he talked, mrs. moss was making up her mind about him, and when he came to an end of his dog's perfections, she said, gravely,-- "if i can find something for you to do, would you like to stay here awhile?" "oh, yes, ma'am, i'd be glad to!" answered ben, eagerly; for the place seemed home-like already, and the good woman almost as motherly as the departed mrs. smithers. "well, i'll step over to the squire's to-morrow to see what he says. shouldn't wonder if he'd take you for a chore-boy, if you are as smart as you say. he always has one in the summer, and i haven't seen any round yet. can you drive cows?" "hope so;" and ben gave a shrug, as if it was a very unnecessary question to put to a person who had driven four calico ponies in a gilded chariot. "it mayn't be as lively as riding elephants and playing with bears, but it is respectable; and i guess you'll be happier switching brindle and buttercup than being switched yourself," said mrs. moss, shaking her head at him with a smile. "i guess i will, ma'am," answered ben, with sudden meekness, remembering the trials from which he had escaped. very soon after this, he was sent off for a good night's sleep in the back bedroom, with sancho to watch over him. but both found it difficult to slumber till the racket overhead subsided; for bab insisted on playing she was a bear and devouring poor betty, in spite of her wails, till their mother came up and put an end to it by threatening to send ben and his dog away in the morning, if the girls "didn't behave and be as still as mice." this they solemnly promised; and they were soon dreaming of gilded cars and mouldy coaches, runaway boys and dinner-pails, dancing dogs and twirling teacups. chapter v ben gets a place when ben awoke next morning, he looked about him for a moment half bewildered, because there was neither a canvas tent, a barn roof, nor the blue sky above him, but a neat white ceiling, where several flies buzzed sociably together, while from without came, not the tramping of horses, the twitter of swallows, or the chirp of early birds, but the comfortable cackle of hens and the sound of two little voices chanting the multiplication table. sancho sat at the open window, watching the old cat wash her face, and trying to imitate her with his great ruffled paw, so awkwardly that ben laughed; and sanch, to hide his confusion at being caught, made one bound from chair to bed, and licked his master's face so energetically that the boy dived under the bedclothes to escape from the rough tongue. a rap on the floor from below made both jump up, and in ten minutes a shiny-faced lad and a lively dog went racing downstairs,--one to say, "good-mornin', ma'am," the other to wag his tail faster than ever tail wagged before, for ham frizzled on the stove, and sancho was fond of it. "did you rest well?" asked mrs. moss, nodding at him, fork in hand. "guess i did! never saw such a bed. i'm used to hay and a horse-blanket, and lately nothin' but sky for a cover and grass for my feather-bed," laughed ben, grateful for present comforts and making light of past hardships. "clean, sweet corn-husks ain't bad for young bones, even if they haven't got more flesh on them than yours have," answered mrs. moss, giving the smooth head a motherly stroke as she went by. "fat ain't allowed in our profession, ma'am. the thinner the better for tight-ropes and tumblin'; likewise bareback ridin' and spry jugglin'. muscle's the thing, and there you are." ben stretched out a wiry little arm with a clenched fist at the end of it, as if he were a young hercules, ready to play ball with the stove if she gave him leave. glad to see him in such good spirits, she pointed to the well outside, saying pleasantly,-- "well, then, just try your muscle by bringing in some fresh water." ben caught up a pail and ran off, ready to be useful; but, while he waited for the bucket to fill down among the mossy stones, he looked about him, well pleased with all he saw,--the small brown house with a pretty curl of smoke rising from its chimney, the little sisters sitting in the sunshine, green hills and newly-planted fields far and near, a brook dancing through the orchard, birds singing in the elm avenue, and all the world as fresh and lovely as early summer could make it. "don't you think it's pretty nice here?" asked bab, as his eye came back to them after a long look, which seemed to take in every thing, brightening as it roved. "just the nicest place that ever was. only needs a horse round somewhere to be complete," answered ben, as the long well-sweep came up with a dripping bucket at one end, an old grindstone at the other. "the judge has three, but he's so fussy about them he won't even let us pull a few hairs out of old major's tail to make rings of," said betty, shutting her arithmetic, with an injured expression. "mike lets me ride the white one to water when the judge isn't round. it's such fun to go jouncing down the lane and back. i do love horses!" cried bab, bobbing up and down on the blue bench to imitate the motion of white jenny. "i guess you are a plucky sort of a girl," and ben gave her an approving look as he went by, taking care to slop a little water on mrs. puss, who stood curling her whiskers and humping up her back at sancho. "come to breakfast!" called mrs. moss; and for about twenty minutes little was said, as mush and milk vanished in a way that would have astonished even jack the giant-killer with his leather bag. "now, girls, fly round and get your chores done up; ben, you go chop me some kindlings; and i'll make things tidy. then we can all start off at once," said mrs. moss, as the last mouthful vanished, and sancho licked his lips over the savory scraps that fell to his share. ben fell to chopping so vigorously that chips flew wildly all about the shed; bab rattled the cups into her dish-pan with dangerous haste, and betty raised a cloud of dust "sweeping-up;" while mother seemed to be everywhere at once. even sanch, feeling that his fate was at stake, endeavored to help in his own somewhat erratic way,--now frisking about ben at the risk of getting his tail chopped off, then trotting away to poke his inquisitive nose into every closet and room whither he followed mrs. moss in her "flying round" evolutions; next dragging off the mat so betty could brush the door-steps, or inspecting bab's dish-washing by standing on his hind-legs to survey the table with a critical air. when they drove him out he was not the least offended, but gayly barked puss up a tree, chased all the hens over the fence, and carefully interred an old shoe in the garden, where the remains of the mutton-bone were already buried. by the time the others were ready, he had worked off his superfluous spirits, and trotted behind the party like a well-behaved dog accustomed to go out walking with ladies. at the cross-roads they separated, the little girls running on to school, while mrs. moss and ben went up to the squire's big house on the hill. "don't you be scared, child. i'll make it all right about your running away; and if the squire gives you a job, just thank him for it, and do your best to be steady and industrious; then you'll get on, i haven't a doubt," she whispered, ringing the ben at a side-door, on which the word "morris" shone in bright letters. "come in!" called a gruff voice; and, feeling very much as if he were going to have a tooth out, ben meekly followed the good woman, who put on her pleasantest smile, anxious to make the best possible impression. a white-headed old gentleman sat reading a paper, and peered over his glasses at the new-comers with a pair of sharp eyes, saying in a testy tone, which would have rather daunted any one who did not know what a kind heart he had under his capacious waistcoat,-- "good-morning, ma'am. what's the matter now? young tramp been stealing your chickens?" "oh, dear no, sir!" exclaimed mrs. moss, as if shocked at the idea. then, in a few words, she told ben's story, unconsciously making his wrongs and destitution so pathetic by her looks and tones, that the squire could not help being interested, and even ben pitied himself as if he were somebody else. "now, then, boy, what can you do?" asked the old gentleman, with an approving nod to mrs. moss as she finished, and such a keen glance from under his bushy brows that ben felt as if he was perfectly transparent. "'most any thing, sir, to get my livin'." "can you weed?" "never did, but i can learn, sir." "pull up all the beets and leave the pigweed, hey? can you pick strawberries?" "never tried any thing but eatin' 'em, sir," "not likely to forget that part of the job. can you ride a horse to plow?" "guess i could, sir!"--and ben's eyes began to sparkle, for he dearly loved the noble animals who had been his dearest friends lately. "no antics allowed. my horse is a fine fellow, and i'm very particular about him." the squire spoke soberly, but there was a twinkle in his eye, and mrs. moss tried not to smile; for the squire's horse was a joke all over the town, being about twenty years old, and having a peculiar gait of his own, lifting his fore-feet very high, with a great show of speed, though never going out of a jog-trot. the boys used to say he galloped before and walked behind, and made all sorts of fun of the big, roman-nosed beast, who allowed no liberties to be taken with him. "i'm too fond of horses to hurt 'em, sir. as for ridin', i ain't afraid of any thing on four legs. the king of morocco used to kick and bite like fun, but i could manage him first-rate." "then you'd be able to drive cows to pasture, perhaps?" "i've drove elephants and camels, ostriches and grizzly bears, and mules, and six yellow ponies all to oncet. may be i could manage cows if i tried hard," answered ben, endeavoring to be meek and respectful when scorn filled his soul at the idea of not being able to drive a cow. the squire liked him all the better for the droll mixture of indignation and amusement betrayed by the fire in his eyes and the sly smile round his lips; and being rather tickled by ben's list of animals, he answered gravely,-- "don't raise elephants and camels much round here. bears used to be plenty, but folks got tired of them. mules are numerous, but we have the two-legged kind; and as a general thing prefer shanghae fowls to ostriches." he got no farther, for ben laughed out so infectiously that both the others joined him; and somehow that jolly laugh seemed to settle matters than words. as they stopped, the squire tapped on the window behind him, saying, with an attempt at the former gruffness,-- "we'll try you on cows awhile. my man will show you where to drive them, and give you some odd jobs through the day. i'll see what you are good for, and send you word to-night, mrs. moss. the boy can sleep at your house, can't he?" "yes, indeed, sir. he can go on doing it, and come up to his work just as well as not. i can see to him then, and he won't be a care to any one," said mrs. moss, heartily. "i'll make inquiries concerning your father, boy; meantime mind what you are about, and have a good report to give when he comes for you," returned the squire, with a warning wag of a stern fore-finger. "thanky', sir. i will, sir. father'll come just as soon as he can, if he isn't sick or lost," murmured ben, inwardly thanking his stars that he had not done any thing to make him quake before that awful finger, and resolved that he never would. here a red-headed irishman came to the door, and stood eying the boy with small favor while the squire gave his orders. "pat, this lad wants work. he's to take the cows and go for them. give him any light jobs you have, and let me know if he's good for any thing." "yis, your honor. come out o' this, b'y, till i show ye the bastes," responded pat; and, with a hasty good-by to mrs. moss, ben followed his new leader, sorely tempted to play some naughty trick upon him in return for his ungracious reception. but in a moment he forgot that pat existed, for in the yard stood the duke of wellington, so named in honor of his roman nose. if ben had known any thing about shakespeare, he would have cried, "a horse, a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" for the feeling was in his heart, and he ran up to the stately animal without a fear. duke put back his ears and swished his tail as if displeased for a moment; but ben looked straight in his eyes, gave a scientific stroke to the iron-gray nose, and uttered a chirrup which made the ears prick up as if recognizing a familiar sound. "he'll nip ye, if ye go botherin' that way. leave him alone, and attend to the cattle as his honor told ye," commanded pat, who made a great show of respect toward duke in public, and kicked him brutally in private. "i ain't afraid! you won't hurt me, will you, old feller? see there now!--he knows i 'm a friend, and takes to me right off," said ben, with an arm around duke's neck, and his own cheek confidingly laid against the animal's; for the intelligent eyes spoke to him as plainly as the little whinny which he understood and accepted as a welcome. the squire saw it all from the open window, and suspecting from pat's face that trouble was brewing, called out,-- "let the lad harness duke, if he can. i'm going out directly, and he may as well try that as any thing." ben was delighted, and proved himself so brisk and handy that the roomy chaise stood at the door in a surprisingly short time, with a smiling little ostler at duke's head when the squire came out. his affection for the horse pleased the old gentleman, and his neat way of harnessing suited as well; but ben got no praise, except a nod and a brief "all right, boy," as the equipage went creaking and jogging away. four sleek cows filed out of the barnyard when pat opened the gate, and ben drove them down the road to a distant pasture where the early grass awaited their eager cropping. by the school they went, and the boy looked pityingly at the black, brown, and yellow heads bobbing past the windows as a class went up to recite; for it seemed a hard thing to the liberty-loving lad to be shut up there so many hours on a morning like that. but a little breeze that was playing truant round the steps did ben a service without knowing it, for a sudden puff blew a torn leaf to his feet, and seeing a picture he took it up. it evidently had fallen from some ill-used history, for the picture showed some queer ships at anchor, some oddly dressed men just landing, and a crowd of indians dancing about on the shore. ben spelt out all he could about these interesting personages, but could not discover what it meant, because ink evidently had deluged the page, to the new reader's great disappointment. "i'll ask the girls; may be they will know," said ben to himself as, after looking vainly for more stray leaves, he trudged on, enjoying the bobolink's song, the warm sunshine, and a comfortable sense of friendliness and safety, which soon set him to whistling as gayly as any blackbird in the meadow. chapter vi a circulating library after supper that night, bab and betty sat in the old porch playing with josephus and belinda, and discussing the events of the day; for the appearance of the strange boy and his dog had been a most exciting occurrence in their quiet lives. they had seen nothing of him since morning, as he took his meals at the squire's, and was at work with pat in a distant field when the children passed. sancho had stuck closely to his master, evidently rather bewildered by the new order of things, and bound to see that no harm happened to ben. "i wish they'd come. it's sundown, and i heard the cows mooing, so i know they have gone home," said betty, impatiently; for she regarded the new-comer in the light of an entertaining book, and wished to read on as fast as possible. "i'm going to learn the signs he makes when he wants sancho to dance; then we can have fun with him whenever we like. he's the dearest dog i ever saw!" answered bab, who was fonder of animals than her sister. "ma said--ow, what's that?" cried betty with a start, as something bumped against the gate outside; and in a moment ben's head peeped over the top as he swung himself up to the iron arch, in the middle of which was the empty lantern frame. "please to locate, gentlemen; please to locate. the performance is about to begin with the great flyin' coopid act, in which master bloomsbury has appeared before the crowned heads of europe. pronounced by all beholders the most remarkable youthful progidy agoin'. hooray! here we are!" having rattled off the familiar speech in mr. smithers's elegant manner, ben begin to cut up such capers that even a party of dignified hens, going down the avenue to bed, paused to look on with clucks of astonishment, evidently fancying that salt had set him to fluttering and tumbling as it did them. never had the old gate beheld such antics, though it had seen gay doings in its time; for of all the boys who had climbed over it, not one had ever stood on his head upon each of the big balls which ornamented the posts, hung by his heels from the arch, gone round and round like a wheel with the bar for an axis, played a tattoo with his toes while holding on by his chin, walked about the wall on his hands, or closed the entertainment by festooning himself in an airy posture over the side of the lantern frame, and kissing his hand to the audience as a well-bred cupid is supposed to do on making his bow. the little girls clapped and stamped enthusiastically, while sancho, who had been calmly surveying the show, barked his approval as he leaped up to snap at ben's feet. "come down and tell what you did up at the squire's. was he cross? did you have to work hard? do you like it?" asked bab, when the noise had subsided. "it's cooler up here," answered ben, composing himself in the frame, and fanning his hot face with a green spray broken from the tall bushes rustling odorously all about him. "i did all sorts of jobs. the old gentleman wasn't cross; he gave me a dime, and i like him first-rate. but i just hate 'carrots;' he swears at a feller, and fired a stick of wood at me. guess i'll pay him off when i get a chance." fumbling in his pocket to show the bright dime, he found the torn page, and remembered the thirst for information which had seized him in the morning. "look here, tell me about this, will you? what are these chaps up to? the ink has spoilt all but the picture and this bit of reading. i want to know what it means. take it to 'em, sanch." the dog caught the leaf as it fluttered to the ground, and carrying it carefully in his mouth, deposited it at the feet of the little girls, seating himself before them with an air of deep interest. bab and betty picked it up and read it aloud in unison, while ben leaned from his perch to listen and learn. "'when day dawned, land was visible. a pleasant land it was. there were gay flowers, and tall trees with leaves and fruit, such as they had never seen before. on the shore were unclad copper-colored men, gazing with wonder at the spanish ships. they took them for great birds, the white sails for their wings, and the spaniards for superior beings brought down from heaven on their backs." "why, that's columbus finding san salvador. don't you know about him?" demanded bab, as if she were one of the "superior beings," and intimately acquainted with the immortal christopher. "no, i don't. who was he any way? i s'pose that's him paddlin' ahead; but which of the injuns is sam salvindoor?" asked ben, rather ashamed of his ignorance, but bent on finding out now he had begun. "my gracious! twelve years old and not know your quackenbos!" laughed bab, much amused, but rather glad to find that she could teach the "whirligig boy" something, for she considered him a remarkable creature. "i don't care a bit for your quackin' boss, whoever he is. tell about this fine feller with the ships; i like him," persisted ben. so bab, with frequent interruptions and hints from betty, told the wonderful tale in a simple way, which made it easy to understand; for she liked history, and had a lively tongue of her own. "i'd like to read some more. would my ten cents buy a book?" asked ben, anxious to learn a little since bab laughed at him. "no, indeed! i'll lend you mine when i'm not using it, and tell you all about it," promised bab; forgetting that she did not know "all about it" herself yet. "i don't have any time only evenings, and then may be you'll want it," begun ben, in whom the inky page had roused a strong curiosity. "i do get my history in the evening, but you could have it mornings before school." "i shall have to go off early, so there won't be any chance. yes, there will,--i'll tell you how to do it. let me read while i drive up the cows. squire likes 'em to eat slow along the road, so's to keep the grass short and save mowin'. pat said so, and i could do history instead of loafin' round!" cried ben full of this bright idea. "how will i get my book back in time to recite?" asked bab, prudently. "oh, i'll leave it on the window-sill, or put it inside the door as i go back. i'll be real careful, and just as soon as i earn enough, i'll buy you a new one and take the old one. will you?" "yes; but i'll tell you a nicer way to do. don't put the book on the window, 'cause teacher will see you; or inside the door, 'cause some one may steal it. you put it in my cubby-house, right at the corner of the wall nearest the big maple. you'll find a cunning place between the roots that stick up under the flat stone. that's my closet, and i keep things there. it's the best cubby of all, and we take turns to have it." "i'll find it, and that'll be a first-rate place," said ben, much gratified. "i could put my reading-book in sometimes, if you'd like it. there's lots of pretty stories in it and pictures," proposed betty, rather timidly; for she wanted to share the benevolent project, but had little to offer, not being as good a scholar as bab. "i'd like a 'rithmetic better. i read tip-top, but i ain't much on 'rithmetic; so, if you can spare yours, i might take a look at it. now i'm goin' to earn wages, i ought to know about addin' 'em up, and so on," said ben, with the air of a vanderbilt oppressed with the care of millions. "i'll teach you that. betty doesn't know much about sums. but she spells splendidly, and is always at the head of her class. teacher is real proud of her, 'cause she never misses, and spells hard, fussy words, like chi-rog-ra-phy and bron-chi-tis as easy as any thing." bab quite beamed with sisterly pride, and betty smoothed down her apron with modest satisfaction, for bab seldom praised her, and she liked it very much. "i never went to school, so that's the reason i ain't smart. i can write, though, better 'n some of the boys up at school. i saw lots of names on the shed door. see here, now,"--and scrambling down, ben pulled out a cherished bit of chalk, and flourished off ten letters of the alphabet, one on each of the dark stone slabs that paved the walk. "those are beautiful! i can't make such curly ones. who taught you to do it?" asked bab, as she and betty walked up and down admiring them. "horse blankets," answered ben, soberly. "what!" cried both girls, stopping to stare. "our horses all had their names on their blankets, and i used to copy 'em. the wagons had signs, and i learned to read that way after father taught me my letters off the red and yellow posters. first word i knew was lion, 'cause i was always goin' to see old jubal in his cage. father was real proud when i read it right off. i can draw one, too." ben proceeded to depict an animal intended to represent his lost friend; but jubal would not have recognized his portrait, since it looked much more like sancho than the king of the forest. the children admired it immensely, however, and ben gave them a lesson in natural history which was so interesting that it kept them busy and happy till bedtime; for the boy described what he had seen in such lively language, and illustrated in such a droll way, it was no wonder they were charmed. chapter vii new friends trot in next day ben ran off to his work with quackenbos's "elementary history of the united states" in his pocket, and the squire's cows had ample time to breakfast on way-side grass before they were put into their pasture. even then the pleasant lesson was not ended, for ben had an errand to town; and all the way he read busily, tumbling over the hard words, and leaving bits which he did not understand to be explained at night by bab. at "the first settlements" he had to stop, for the schoolhouse was reached, and the book must be returned. the maple-tree closet was easily found, and a little surprise hidden under the flat stone; for ben paid two sticks of red and white candy for the privilege of taking books from the new library. when recess came, great was the rejoicing of the children over their unexpected treat, for mrs. moss had few pennies to spare for sweets, and, somehow, this candy tasted particularly nice, bought out of grateful ben's solitary dime. the little girls shared their goodies with their favorite mates, but said nothing about the new arrangement, fearing it would be spoilt if generally known. they told their mother, however, and she gave them leave to lend their books and encourage ben to love learning all they could. she also proposed that they should drop patch-work, and help her make some blue shirts for ben. mrs. barton had given her the materials, and she thought it would be an excellent lesson in needle-work as well as a useful gift to ben,--who, boy-like, never troubled himself as to what he should wear when his one suit of clothes gave out. wednesday afternoon was the sewing time; so the two little b's worked busily at a pair of shirt-sleeves, sitting on their bench in the doorway, while the rusty needles creaked in and out, and the childish voices sang school-songs, with frequent stoppages for lively chatter. for a week, ben worked away bravely, and never shirked nor complained, although pat put many a hard or disagreeable job upon him, and chores grew more and more distasteful. his only comfort was the knowledge that mrs. moss and the squire were satisfied with him; his only pleasure the lessons he learned while driving the cows, and recited in the evening when the three children met under the lilacs to "play school." he had no thought of studying when he began, and hardly knew that he was doing it as he pored over the different books he took from the library. but the little girls tried him with all they possessed, and he was mortified to find how ignorant he was. he never owned it in words, but gladly accepted all the bits of knowledge they offered from their small store; getting betty to hear him spell "just for fun;" agreeing to draw bab all the bears and tigers she wanted if she would show him how to do sums on the flags, and often beguiled his lonely labors by trying to chant the multiplication table as they did. when tuesday night came round, the squire paid him a dollar, said he was "a likely boy," and might stay another week if he chose. ben thanked him and thought he would; but the next morning, after he had put up the bars, he remained sitting on the top rail to consider his prospects, for he felt uncommonly reluctant to go back to the society of rough pat. like most boys, he hated work, unless it was of a sort which just suited him; then he could toil like a beaver and never tire. his wandering life had given him no habits of steady industry; and, while he was an unusually capable lad of his age, he dearly loved to "loaf" about and have a good deal of variety and excitement in his life. now he saw nothing before him but days of patient and very uninteresting labor. he was heartily sick of weeding; even riding duke before the cultivator had lost its charms, and a great pile of wood lay in the squire's yard which he knew he would be set to piling up in the shed. strawberry-picking would soon follow the asparagus cultivation; then haying; and and so on all the long bright summer, without any fun, unless his father came for him. on the other hand, he was not obliged to stay a minute longer unless he liked. with a comfortable suit of clothes, a dollar in his pocket, and a row of dinner-baskets hanging in the school-house entry to supply him with provisions if he didn't mind stealing them, what was easier than to run away again? tramping has its charms in fair weather, and ben had lived like a gypsy under canvas for years; so he feared nothing, and began to look down the leafy road with a restless, wistful expression, as the temptation grew stronger and stronger every minute. sancho seemed to share the longing, for he kept running off a little way and stopping to frisk and bark; then rushed back to sit watching his master with those intelligent eyes of his, which seemed to say, "come on, ben, let us scamper down this pleasant road and never stop till we are tired." swallows darted by, white clouds fled before the balmy west wind, a squirrel ran along the wall, and all things seemed to echo the boy's desire to leave toil behind and roam away as care-free as they. one thing restrained him, the thought of his seeming ingratitude to good mrs. moss, and the disappointment of the little girls at the loss of their two new play-fellows. while he paused to think of this, something happened which kept him from doing what he would have been sure to regret afterward. horses had always been his best friends, and one came trotting up to help him now; though he did not know how much he owed it till long after. just in the act of swinging himself over the bars to take a shortcut across the fields, the sound of approaching hoofs, unaccompanied by the roll of wheels, caught his ear; and, pausing, he watched eagerly to see who was coming at such a pace. at the turn of road, however, the quick trot stopped, and in a moment a lady on a bay mare came pacing slowly into sight,--a young and pretty lady, all in dark blue, with a bunch of dandelions like yellow stars in her button-hole, and a silver-handled whip hanging from the pommel of her saddle, evidently more for ornament than use. the handsome mare limped a little, and shook her head as if something plagued her; while her mistress leaned down to see what was the matter, saying, as if she expected an answer of some sort,-- "now, chevalita, if you have got a stone in your foot, i shall have to get off and take it out. why don't you look where you step, and save me all this trouble?" "i'll look for you, ma'am; i'd like to!" said an eager voice so unexpectedly, that both horse and rider started as a boy came down the bank with a jump. "i wish you would. you need not be afraid; lita is as gentle as a lamb," answered the young lady, smiling, as if amused by the boy's earnestness. "she's a beauty, any way," muttered ben, lifting one foot after another till he found the stone, and with some trouble got it out. "that was nicely done, and i'm much obliged. can you tell me if that cross-road leads to the elms?" asked the lady, as she went slowly on with ben beside her. "no, ma'am; i'm new in these parts, and i only know where squire morris and mrs. moss live." "i want to see both of them, so suppose you show me the way. i was here long ago, and thought i should remember how to find the old house with the elm avenue and the big gate, but i don't." "i know it; they call that place the laylocks now, 'cause there's a hedge of 'em all down the path and front wall. it's a real pretty place; bab and betty play there, and so do i." ben could not restrain a chuckle at the recollection of his first appearance there, and, as if his merriment or his words interested her, the lady said pleasantly, "tell me all about it. are bab and betty your sisters?" quite forgetting his intended tramp, ben plunged into a copious history of himself and new-made friends, led on by a kind look, an inquiring word, and sympathetic smile, till he had told every thing. at the school-house corner he stopped and said, spreading his arms like a sign-post,-- "that's the way to the laylocks, and this is the way to the squire's." "as i'm in a hurry to see the old house, i'll go this way first, if you will be kind enough to give my love to mrs. morris, and tell the squire miss celia is coming to dine with him. i won't say good-by, because i shall see you again." with a nod and a smile, the young lady cantered away, and ben hurried up the hill to deliver his message, feeling as if something pleasant was going to happen; so it would be wise to defer running away, for the present at least. at one o'clock miss celia arrived, and ben had the delight of helping pat stable pretty chevalita; then, his own dinner hastily eaten, he fell to work at the detested wood-pile with sudden energy; for as he worked he could steal peeps into the dining-room, and see the curly brown head between the two gay ones, as the three sat round the table. he could not help hearing a word now and then, as the windows were open, and these bits of conversation filled him with curiosity for the names "thorny," "celia," and "george" were often repeated, and an occasional merry laugh from the young lady sounded like music in that usually quiet place. when dinner was over, ben's industrious fit left him, and he leisurely trundled his barrow to and fro till the guest departed. there was no chance for him to help now, since pat, anxious to get whatever trifle might be offered for his services, was quite devoted in his attentions to the mare and her mistress, till she was mounted and off. but miss celia did not forget her little guide, and, spying a wistful face behind the wood-pile, paused at the gate and beckoned with that winning smile of hers. if ten pats had stood scowling in the way, ben would have defied them all; and, vaulting over the fence, he ran up with a shining face, hoping she wanted some last favor of him. leaning down, miss celia slipped a new quarter into his hand, saying, "lita wants me to give you this for taking the stone out of her foot." "thank y', ma'am; i liked to do it, for i hate to see 'em limp, 'specially such a pretty one as she is," answered ben, stroking the glossy neck with a loving touch. "the squire says you know a good deal about horses, so i suppose you understand the houyhnhnm language? i'm learning it, and it is very nice," laughed miss celia, as chevalita gave a little whinny and snuffled her nose into ben's pocket. "no, miss, i never went to school." "that is not taught there. i'll bring you a book all about it when i come back. mr. gulliver went to the horse-country and heard the dear things speak their own tongue." "my father has been on the prairies, where there's lots of wild ones, but he didn't hear 'em speak. i know what they want without talkin'," answered ben, suspecting a joke, but not exactly seeing what it was. "i don't doubt it, but i won't forget the book. good-by, my lad, we shall soon meet again," and away went miss celia as if she were in a hurry to get back. "if she only had a red habit and a streamin' white feather, she'd look as fine as 'melia used to. she is 'most as kind and rides 'most as well. wonder where she's goin' to. hope she will come soon," thought ben, watching till the last flutter of the blue habit vanished round the corner; and then he went back to his work with his head full of the promised book, pausing now and then to chink the two silver halves and the new quarter together in his pocket, wondering what he should buy with this vast sum. bab and betty meantime had had a most exciting day; for when they went home at noon they found the pretty lady there, and she had talked to them like an old friend, given them a ride on the little horse, and kissed them both good-by when they went back to school. in the afternoon the lady was gone, the old house all open, and their mother sweeping, airing, in great spirits. so they had a splendid frolic tumbling on feather-beds, beating bits of carpet, opening closets, and racing from garret to cellar like a pair of distracted kittens. here ben found them, and was at once overwhelmed with a burst of news which excited him as much as it did them. miss celia owned the house, was coming to liver there, and things were to be made ready as soon as possible. all thought the prospect a charming one: mrs. moss, because life had been dull for her during the year she had taken charge of the old house; the little girls had heard rumors of various pets who were coming; and ben, learning that a boy and a donkey were among them, resolved that nothing but the arrival of his father should tear him from this now deeply interesting spot. "i'm in such a hurry to see the peacocks and hear them scream. she said they did, and that we'd laugh when old jack brayed," cried bab, hopping about on one foot to work off her impatience. "is a faytun a kind of a bird? i heard her say she could keep it in the coach-house," asked betty, inquiringly. "it's a little carriage," and ben rolled in the grass, much tickled at poor betty's ignorance. "of course it is. i looked it out in the dic., and you mustn't call it a payton, though it is spelt with a p," added bab, who liked to lay down the law on all occasions, and did not mention that she had looked vainly among the vs till a school-mate set her right. "you can't tell me much about carriages. but what i want to know is where lita will stay?" said ben. "oh, she's to be up at the squire's till things are fixed, and you are to bring her down. squire came and told ma all about it, and said you were a boy to be trusted, for he had tried you." ben made no answer, but secretly thanked his stars that he had not proved himself untrustworthy by running away, and so missing all this fun. "won't it be fine to have the house open all the time? we can run over and see the pictures and books whenever we like. i know we can, miss celia is so kind," began betty, who cared for these things more than for screaming peacocks and comical donkeys. "not unless you are invited," answered their mother, locking the front door behind her. "you'd better begin to pick up your duds right away, for she won't want them cluttering round her front yard. if you are not too tired, ben, you might rake round a little while i shut the blinds. i want things to look nice and tidy." two little groans went up from two afflicted little girls as they looked about them at the shady bower, the dear porch, and the winding walks where they loved to run "till their hair whistled in the wind," as the fairy-books say. "whatever shall we do! our attic is so hot and the shed so small, and the yard always full of hens or clothes. we shall have to pack all our things away, and never play any more," said bab, tragically. "may be ben could build us a little house in the orchard," proposed betty, who firmly believed that ben could do any thing. "he won't have any time. boys don't care for baby-houses," returned bab, collecting her homeless goods and chattels with a dismal face. "we sha'n't want these much when all the new things come; see if we do," said cheerful little betty, who always found out a silver lining to every cloud. chapter viii miss celia's man ben was not too tired, and the clearing-up began that very night. none too soon, for in a day or two things arrived, to the great delight of the children, who considered moving a most interesting play. first came the phaeton, which ben spent all his leisure moments in admiring; wondering with secret envy what happy boy would ride in the little seat up behind, and beguiling his tasks by planning how, when he got rich, he would pass his time driving about in just such an equipage, and inviting all the boys he met to have a ride. then a load of furniture came creaking in at the lodge gate, and the girls had raptures over a cottage piano, several small chairs, and a little low table, which they pronounced just the thing for them to play at. the live stock appeared next, creating a great stir in the neighborhood, for peacocks were rare birds there; the donkey's bray startled the cattle and convulsed the people with laughter; the rabbits were continually getting out to burrow in the newly made garden; and chevalita scandalized old duke by dancing about the stable which he had inhabited for years in stately solitude. last but by no means least, miss celia, her young brother, and two maids arrived one evening so late that only mrs. moss went over to help them settle. the children were much disappointed, but were appeased by a promise that they should all go to pay their respects in the morning. they were up so early, and were so impatient to be off, that mrs. moss let them go with the warning that they would find only the servants astir. she was mistaken, however, for, as the procession approached, a voice from the porch called out, "good-morning little neighbors!" so unexpectedly, that bab nearly spilt the new milk she carried, betty gave such a start that the fresh-laid eggs quite skipped in the dish, and ben's face broke into a broad grin over the armful of clover which he brought for the bunnies, as he bobbed his head, saying briskly,-- "she's all right, miss, lita is; and i can bring her over any minute you say." "i shall want her at four o'clock. thorny will be too tired to drive, but i must hear from the post-office, rain or shine;" and miss celia's pretty color brightened as she spoke, either from some happy thought or because she was bashful, for the honest young faces before her plainly showed their admiration of the white-gowned lady under the honeysuckles. the appearance of miranda, the maid, reminded the children of their errand; and having delivered their offerings, they were about to retire in some confusion, when miss celia said pleasantly,-- "i want to thank you for helping put things in such nice order. i see signs of busy hands and feet both inside the house and all about the grounds, and i am very much obliged." "i raked the beds," said ben, proudly eying the neat ovals and circles. "i swept all the paths," added bab, with a reproachful glance at several green sprigs fallen from the load of clover on the smooth walk. "i cleared up the porch," and betty's clean pinafore rose and fell with a long sigh, as she surveyed the late summer residence of her exiled family. miss celia guessed the meaning of that sigh, and made haste to turn it into a smile by asking anxiously,-- "what has become of the playthings? i don't see them anywhere." "ma said you wouldn't want our duds round, so we took them all home," answered betty, with a wistful face. "but i do want them round. i like dolls and toys almost as much as ever, and quite miss the little 'duds' from porch and path. suppose you come to tea with me to-night and bring some of them back? i should be very sorry to rob you of your pleasant play-place." "oh, yes, 'm, we'd love to come! and we'll bring our best things." "ma always lets us have our shiny pitchers and the china poodle when we go visiting or have company at home," said bab and betty, both speaking at once. "bring what you like, and i'll hunt up my toys, too. ben is to come also, and his poodle is especially invited," added miss celia, as sancho came and begged before her, feeling that some agreeable project was under discussion. "thank you, miss. i told them you'd be willing they should come sometimes. they like this place ever so much, and so do i," said ben, feeling that few spots combined so many advantages in the way of climbable trees, arched gates, half-a-dozen gables, and other charms suited to the taste of an aspiring youth who had been a flying cupid at the age of seven. "so do i," echoed miss celia, heartily. "ten years ago i came here a little girl, and made lilac chains under these very bushes, and picked chickweed over there for my bird, and rode thorny in his baby-wagon up and down these paths. grandpa lived here then, and we had fine times; but now they are all gone except us two." "we haven't got any father, either," said bab, for something in miss celia's face made her feel as if a cloud had come over the sun. "i have a first-rate father, if i only knew where he'd gone to," said ben, looking down the path as eagerly as if one waited for him behind the locked gate. "you are a rich boy, and you are happy little girls to have so good a mother; i've found that out already," and the sun shone again as the young lady nodded to the neat, rosy children before her. "you may have a piece of her if you want to, 'cause you haven't got any of your own," said betty with a pitiful look which made her blue eyes as sweet as two wet violets. "so i will! and you shall be my little sisters. i never had any, and i'd love to try how it seems;" and celia took both the chubby hands in hers, feeling ready to love every one this first bright morning in the new home, which she hoped to make a very happy one. bab gave a satisfied nod, and fell to examining the rings upon the white hand that held her own. but betty put her arms about the new friend's neck, and kissed her so softly that the hungry feeling in miss celia's heart felt better directly; for this was the food it wanted, and thorny had not learned yet to return one half of the affection he received. holding the child close, she played with the yellow braids while she told them about the little german girls in their funny black-silk caps, short-waisted gowns, and wooden shoes, whom she used to see watering long webs of linen bleaching on the grass, watching great flocks of geese, or driving pigs to market, knitting or spinning as they went. presently "randa," as she called her stout maid, came to tell her that "master thorny couldn't wait another minute;" and she went in to breakfast with a good appetite, while the children raced home to bounce in upon mrs. moss, talking all at once like little lunatics. "the phaeton at four,--so sweet in a beautiful white gown,--going to tea, and sancho and all the baby things invited. can't we wear our sunday frocks? a splendid new net for lita. and she likes dolls. goody, goody, won't it be fun!" with much difficulty their mother got a clear account of the approaching festivity out of the eager mouths, and with still more difficulty, got breakfast into them, for the children had few pleasures, and this brilliant prospect rather turned their heads. bab and betty thought the day would never end, and cheered the long hours by expatiating on the pleasures in store for them, till their playmates were much afflicted because they were not going also. at noon their mother kept them from running over to the old house lest they should be in the way; so they consoled themselves by going to the syringa bush at the corner and sniffing the savory odors which came from the kitchen, where katy, the cook, was evidently making nice things for tea. ben worked as if for a wager till four; then stood over pat while he curried lita till her coat shone like satin, then drove her gently down to the coach-house, where he had the satisfaction of harnessing her "all his own self". "shall i go round to the great gate and wait for you there, miss?" he asked, when all was ready, looking up at the porch, where the young lady stood watching him as she put on her gloves. "no, ben, the great gate is not to be opened till next october. i shall go in and out by the lodge, and leave the avenue to grass and dandelions, meantime," answered miss celia, as she stepped in and took the reins, with a sudden smile. but she did not start, even when ben had shaken out the new duster and laid it neatly over her knees. "isn't it all right now?" asked the boy, anxiously. "not quite; i need one thing more. can't you guess what it is?" and miss celia watched his anxious face as his eyes wandered from the tips of lita's ears to the hind-wheel of the phaeton, trying to discover what had been omitted. "no, miss, i don't see--" he began, much mortified to think he had forgotten any thing. "wouldn't a little groom up behind improve the appearance of my turnout?" she said, with a look which left no doubt in his mind that he was to be the happy boy to occupy that proud perch. he grew red with pleasure, but stammered, as he hesitated, looking down at his bare feet and blue shirt,-- "i ain't fit, miss; and i haven't got any other clothes." miss celia only smiled again more kindly than before, and answered, in a tone which he understood better than her words,--"a great man said his coat-of-arms was a pair of shirt-sleeves, and a sweet poet sang about a barefooted boy; so i need not be too proud to ride with one. up with you, ben, my man, and let us be off, or we shall be late for our party." with one bound the new groom was in his place, sitting very erect, with his legs stiff, arms folded, and nose in the air, as he had seen real grooms sit behind their masters in fine dog-carts or carriages. mrs. moss nodded as they drove past the lodge, and ben touched his torn hat-brim in the most dignified manner, though he could not suppress a broad grin of delight, which deepened into a chuckle when lita went off at a brisk trot along the smooth road toward town. it takes so little to make a child happy, it is a pity grown people do not oftener remember it and scatter little bits of pleasure before the small people, as they throw crumbs to the hungry sparrows. miss celia knew the boy was pleased, but he had no words in which to express his gratitude for the great contentment she had given him. he could only beam at all he met, smile when the floating ends of the gray veil blew against his face, and long in his heart to give the new friend a boyish hug, as he used to do his dear 'melia when she was very good to him. school was just out as they passed; and it was a spectacle, i assure you, to see the boys and girls stare at ben up aloft in such state; also to see the superb indifference with which that young man regarded the vulgar herd who went afoot. he couldn't resist an affable nod to bab and betty, for they stood under the maple-tree, and the memory of their circulating library made him forget his dignity in his gratitude. "we will take them next time, but now i want to talk to you," began miss celia, as lita climbed the hill. "my brother has been ill, and i have brought him here to get well. i want to do all sorts of things to amuse him, and i think you can help me in many ways. would you like to work for me instead of the squire? "i guess i would!" ejaculated ben, so heartily that no further assurances were needed, and miss celia went on, well pleased:-- "you see, poor thorny is weak and fretful, and does not like to exert himself, though he ought to be out a great deal, and kept from thinking of his little troubles. he cannot walk much yet, so i have a wheeled chair to push him in; and the paths are so hard, it will be easy to roll him about. that will be one thing you can do. another is to take care of his pets till he is able to do it himself. then you can tell him your adventures, and talk to him as only a boy can talk to a boy. that will amuse him when i want to write or go out; but i never leave him long, and hope he will soon be running about as well as the rest of us. how does that sort of work look to you?" "first-rate! i'll take real good care of the little feller, and do every thing i know to please him, and so will sanch; he's fond of children," answered ben, heartily, for the new place looked very inviting to him. miss celia laughed, and rather damped his ardor by her next words. "i don't know what thorny would say to hear you call him 'little.' he is fourteen, and appears to get taller and taller every day. he seems like a child to me, because i am nearly ten years older than he is; but you needn't be afraid of his long legs and big eyes, he is too feeble to do any harm; only you mustn't mind if he orders you about." "i'm used to that. i don't mind it if he won't call me a 'spalpeen,' and fire things at me," said ben, thinking of his late trials with pat. "i can promise that; and i am sure thorny will like you, for i told him your story, and he is anxious to see 'the circus boy' as he called you. squire allen says i may trust you, and i am glad to do so, for it saves me much trouble to find what i want all ready for me. you shall be well fed and clothed, kindly treated and honestly paid, if you like to stay with me." "i know i shall like it--till father comes, anyway. squire wrote to smithers right off, but hasn't got any answer yet. i know they are on the go now, so may be we won't hear for ever so long," answered ben, feeling less impatient to be off than before this fine proposal was made to him. "i dare say; meantime, we will see how we get on together, and perhaps your father will be willing leave you for the summer if he is away. now show me the baker's, the candy-shop, and the post-office," said miss celia, as they rattled down the main street of the village. ben made himself useful; and when all the other errands were done, received his reward in the shape of a new pair of shoes and a straw hat with a streaming blue ribbon, on the ends of which shone silvery anchors. he was also allowed to drive home, while his new mistress read her letters. one particularly long one, with a queer stamp on the envelope, she read twice, never speaking a word till they got back. then ben was sent off with lita and the squire's letters, promising to get his chores done in time for tea. chapter ix a happy tea exactly five minutes before six the party arrived in great state, for bab and betty wore their best frocks and hair-ribbons, ben had a new blue shirt and his shoes on as full-dress, and sancho's curls were nicely brushed, his frills as white as if just done up. no one was visible to receive them, but the low table stood in the middle of the walk, with four chairs and a foot-stool around it. a pretty set of green and white china caused the girls to cast admiring looks upon the little cups and plates, while ben eyed the feast longingly, and sancho with difficulty restrained himself from repeating his former naughtiness. no wonder the dog sniffed and the children smiled, for there was a noble display of little tarts and cakes, little biscuits and sandwiches, a pretty milk-pitcher shaped like a white calla rising out of its green leaves, and a jolly little tea-kettle singing away over the spirit-lamp as cosily as you please. "isn't it perfectly lovely?" whispered betty, who had never seen any thing like it before. "i just wish sally could see us now," answered bab, who had not yet forgiven her enemy. "wonder where the boy is," added ben, feeling as good as any one, but rather doubtful how others might regard him. here a rumbling sound caused the guests to look toward the garden, and in a moment miss celia appeared, pushing a wheeled chair, in which sat her brother. a gay afghan covered the long legs, a broad-brimmed hat half hid the big eyes, and a discontented expression made the thin face as unattractive as the fretful voice, which said, complainingly,-- "if they make a noise, i'll go in. don't see what you asked them for." "to amuse you, dear. i know they will, if you will only try to like them," whispered the sister, smiling, and nodding over the chair-back as she came on, adding aloud, "such a punctual party! i am all ready, however, and we will sit down at once. this is my brother thornton, and we are all going to be very good friends by-and-by. here 's the droll dog, thorny; isn't he nice and curly?" now, ben had heard what the other boy said, and made up his mind that he shouldn't like him; and thorny had decided beforehand that he wouldn't play with a tramp, even if he cut capers; go both looked decidedly cool and indifferent when miss celia introduced them. but sancho had better manners and no foolish pride; he, therefore, set them a good example by approaching the chair, with his tail waving like a flag of truce, and politely presented his ruffled paw for a hearty shake. thorny could not resist that appeal, and patted the white head, with a friendly look into the affectionate eyes of the dog, saying to his sister as he did so,-- "what a wise old fellow he is! it seems as if he could almost speak, doesn't it?" "he can. say 'how do you do,' sanch," commanded ben, relenting at once, for he saw admiration in thorny's face. "wow, wow, wow!" remarked sancho, in a mild and conversational tone, sitting up and touching one paw to his head, as if he saluted by taking off his hat. thorny laughed in spite of himself, and miss celia seeing that the ice was broken, wheeled him to his place at the foot of the table. then, seating the little girls on one side, ben and the dog on the other, took the head herself and told her guests to begin. bab and betty were soon chattering away to their pleasant hostess as freely as if they had known her for months; but the boys were still rather shy, and made sancho the medium through which they addressed one another. the excellent beast behaved with wonderful propriety, sitting upon his cushion in an attitude of such dignity that it seemed almost a liberty to offer him food. a dish of thick sandwiches had been provided for his especial refreshment; and, as ben from time to time laid one on his plate, he affected entire unconsciousness of it till the word was given, when it vanished at one gulp, and sancho again appeared absorbed in deep thought. but, having once tasted of this pleasing delicacy, it was very hard to repress his longing for more; and, in spite of all his efforts, his nose would work, his eye kept a keen watch upon that particular dish, and his tail quivered with excitement as it lay like a train over the red cushion. at last, a moment came when temptation proved too strong for him. ben was listening to something miss celia said; a tart lay unguarded upon his plate; sanch looked at thorny who was watching him; thorny nodded, sanch gave one wink, bolted the tart, and then gazed pensively up at a sparrow swinging on a twig overhead. the slyness of the rascal tickled the boy so much that he pushed back his hat, clapped his hands, and burst out laughing as he had not done before for weeks. every one looked round surprised, and sancho regarded them with a mildly inquiring air, as if he said, "why this unseemly mirth, my friends?" thorny forgot both sulks and shyness after that, and suddenly began to talk. ben was flattered by his interest in the dear dog, and opened out so delightfully that he soon charmed the other by his lively tales of circus-life. then miss celia felt relieved, and every thing went splendidly, especially the food; for the plates were emptied several times, the little tea-pot ran dry twice, and the hostess was just wondering if she ought to stop her voracious guests, when something occurred which spared her that painful task. a small boy was suddenly discovered standing in the path behind them, regarding the company with an air of solemn interest. a pretty, well-dressed child of six, with dark hair cut short across the brow, a rosy face, a stout pair of legs, left bare by the socks which had slipped down over the dusty little shoes. one end of a wide sash trailed behind him, a straw hat hung at his back, his right hand firmly grasped a small turtle, and his left a choice collection of sticks. before miss celia could speak, the stranger calmly announced his mission. "i have come to see the peacocks." "you shall presently--" began miss celia, but got no further, for the child added, coming a step nearer,-- "and the wabbits." "yes, but first won't you--" "and the curly dog," continued the small voice, as another step brought the resolute young personage nearer. "there he is." a pause, a long look; then a new demand with the same solemn tone, the same advance. "i wish to hear the donkey bray." "certainly, if he will." "and the peacocks scream." "any thing more, sir?" having reached the table by this time, the insatiable infant surveyed its ravaged surface, then pointed a fat little finger at the last cake, left for manners, and said, commandingly,-- "i will have some of that." "help yourself; and sit upon the step to eat it, while you tell me whose boy you are," said miss celia, much amused at his proceedings. deliberately putting down his sticks, the child took the cake, and, composing himself upon the step, answered with his rosy mouth full,-- "i am papa's boy. he makes a paper. i help him a great deal." "what is his name?" "mr. barlow. we live in springfield," volunteered the new guest, unbending a trifle, thanks to the charms of the cake. "have you a mamma, dear?" "she takes naps. i go to walk then." "without leave, i suspect. have you no brothers or sisters to go with you?" asked miss celia, wondering where the little runaway belonged. "i have two brothers, thomas merton barlow and harry sanford barlow. i am alfred tennyson barlow. we don't have any girls in our house, only bridget." "don't you go to school?" "the boys do. i don't learn any greeks and latins yet. i dig, and read to mamma, and make poetrys for her." "couldn't you make some for me? i'm very fond of poetrys," proposed miss celia, seeing that this prattle amused the children. "i guess i couldn't make any now; i made some coming along. i will say it to you." and, crossing his short legs, the inspired babe half said, half sung the following poem: ( ) "sweet are the flowers of life, swept o'er my happy days at home; sweet are the flowers of life when i was a little child. "sweet are the flowers of life that i spent with my father at home; sweet are the flowers of life when children played about the house. "sweet are the flowers of life when the lamps are lighted at night; sweet are the flowers of life when the flowers of summer bloomed. "sweet are the flowers of life dead with the snows of winter; sweet are the flowers of life when the days of spring come on. ( ) these lines were actually composed by a six-year old child. "that's all of that one. i made another one when i digged after the turtle. i will say that. it is a very pretty one," observed the poet with charming candor; and, taking a long breath, he tuned his little lyre afresh: sweet, sweet days are passing o'er my happy home. passing on swift wings through the valley of life. cold are the days when winter comes again. when my sweet days were passing at my happy home, sweet were the days on the rivulet's green brink; sweet were the days when i read my father's books; sweet were the winter days when bright fires are blazing." "bless the baby! where did he get all that?" exclaimed miss celia, amazed; while the children giggled as tennyson, jr., took a bite at the turtle instead of the half-eaten cake, and then, to prevent further mistakes, crammed the unhappy creature into a diminutive pocket in the most business-like way imaginable. "it comes out of my head. i make lots of them," began the imperturbable one, yielding more and more to the social influences of the hour. "here are the peacocks coming to be fed," interrupted bab, as the handsome birds appeared with their splendid plumage glittering in the sun. young barlow rose to admire; but his thirst for knowledge was not yet quenched, and he was about to request a song from juno and jupiter, when old jack, pining for society, put his head over the garden wall with a tremendous bray. this unexpected sound startled the inquiring stranger half out of his wits; for a moment the stout legs staggered and the solemn countenance lost its composure, as he whispered, with an astonished air, "is that the way peacocks scream?" the children were in fits of laughter, and miss celia could hardly make herself heard as she answered merrily,-- "no, dear; that is the donkey asking you to come and see him: will you go? "i guess i couldn't stop now. mamma might want me." and, without another word, the discomfited poet precipitately retired, leaving his cherished sticks behind him. ben ran after the child to see that he came to no harm, and presently returned to report that alfred had been met by a servant, and gone away chanting a new verse of his poem, in which peacocks, donkeys, and "the flowers of life" were sweetly mingled. "now i'll show you my toys, and we'll have a little play before it gets too late for thorny to stay with us," said miss celia, as randa carried away the tea-things and brought back a large tray full of picture-books, dissected maps, puzzles, games, and several pretty models of animals, the whole crowned with a large doll dressed as a baby. at sight of that, betty stretched out her arms to receive it with a cry of delight. bab seized the games, and ben was lost in admiration of the little arab chief prancing on the white horse,--all saddled and bridled and fit for the fight. thorny poked about to find a certain curious puzzle which he could put together without a mistake after long study. even sancho found something to interest him; and, standing on his hind-legs, thrust his head between the boys to paw at several red and blue letters on square blocks. "he looks as if he knew them," said thorny, amused at the dog's eager whine and scratch. "he does. spell your name, sanch;" and ben put all the gay letters down upon the flags with a chirrup which set the dog's tail to wagging as he waited till the alphabet was spread before him. then, with great deliberation, he pushed the letters about till he had picked out six; these he arranged with nose and paw till the word "sancho" lay before him correctly spelt. "isn't that clever? can he do any more?" cried thorny, delighted. "lots; that's the way he gets his livin', and mine too," answered ben; and proudly put his poodle through his well-learned lessons with such success that even miss celia was surprised. "he has been carefully trained. do you know how it was done?" she asked, when sancho lay down to rest and be caressed by the children. "no, 'm, father did it when i was a little chap, and never told me how. i used to help teach him to dance, and that was easy enough, he is so smart. father said the middle of the night was the best time to give him his lessons; it was so still then, and nothing disturbed sanch and made him forget. i can't do half the tricks, but i'm goin' to learn when father comes back. he'd rather have me show off sanch than ride, till i'm older." "i have a charming book about animals, and in it an interesting account of some trained poodles who could do the most wonderful things. would you like to hear it while you put your maps and puzzles together?" asked miss celia, glad to keep her brother interested in their four-footed guest at least. "yes,'m, yes,'m," answered the children; and, fetching the book, she read the pretty account, shortening and simplifying it here and there to suit her hearers. "i invited the two dogs to dine and spend the evening; and they came with their master, who was a frenchman. he had been a teacher in a deaf and dumb school, and thought he would try the same plan with dogs. he had also been a conjurer, and now was supported by blanche and her daughter lyda. these dogs behaved at dinner just like other dogs; but when i gave blanche a bit of cheese and asked if she knew the word for it, her master said she could spell it. so a table was arranged with a lamp on it, and round the table were laid the letters of the alphabet painted on cards. blanche sat in the middle, waiting till her master told her to spell cheese, which she at once did in french, f r o m a g e. then she translated a word for us very cleverly. some one wrote pferd, the german for horse, on a slate. blanche looked at it and pretended to read it, putting by the slate with her paw when she had done. 'now give us the french for that word,' said the man; and she instantly brought cheval. 'now, as you are at an englishman's house, give it to us in english;' and she brought me horse. then we spelt some words wrong, and she corrected them with wonderful accuracy. but she did not seem to like it, and whined and growled and looked so worried, that she was allowed to go and rest and eat cakes in a corner. "then lyda took her place on the table, and did sums on the slate with a set of figures. also mental arithmetic, which was very pretty. 'now, lyda,' said her master, 'i want to see if you understand division. suppose you had ten bits of sugar, and you met ten prussian dogs, how many lumps would you, a french dog, give to each of the prussians?' lyda very decidedly replied to this with a cipher. 'but, suppose you divided your sugar with me, how many lumps would you give me?' lyda took up the figure five and politely presented it to her master." "wasn't she smart? sanch can't do that," exclaimed ben, forced to own that the french doggie beat his cherished pet. "he is not too old to learn. shall i go on?" asked miss celia, seeing that the boys liked it, though betty was absorbed with the doll, and bab deep in a puzzle. "oh, yes! what else did they do?" "they played a game of dominoes together, sitting in chairs opposite each other, and touched the dominoes that were wanted; but the man placed them and kept telling how the game went. lyda was beaten, and hid under the sofa, evidently feeling very badly about it. blanche was then surrounded with playing-cards, while her master held another pack and told us to choose a card; then he asked her what one had been chosen, and she always took up the right one in her teeth. i was asked to go into another room, put a light on the floor with cards round it, and leave the doors nearly shut. then the man begged some one to whisper in the dog's ear what card she was to bring, and she went at once and fetched it, thus showing that she understood their names. lyda did many tricks with the numbers, so curious that no dog could possibly understand them; yet what the secret sign was i could not discover, but suppose it must have been in the tones of the master's voice, for he certainly made none with either head or hands. "it took an hour a day for eighteen months to educate a dog enough to appear in public, and (as you say, ben) the night was the best time to give the lessons. soon after this visit, the master died; and these wonderful dogs were sold because their mistress did not know how to exhibit them." "wouldn't i have liked to see 'em and find out how they were taught! sanch, you'll have to study up lively, for i'm not going to have you beaten by french dogs," said ben, shaking his finger so sternly that sancho grovelled at his feet and put both paws over his eyes in the most abject manner. "is there a picture of those smart little poodles?" asked ben, eying the book, which miss celia left open before her. "not of them, but of other interesting creatures; also anecdotes about horses, which will please you, i know," and she turned the pages for him, neither guessing how much good mr. hamerton's charming "chapters on animals" were to do the boy when he needed comfort for a sorrow which was very near. chapter x a heavy trouble "thank you, ma'am, that's a tip-top book, 'specially the pictures. but i can't bear to see these poor fellows;" and ben brooded over the fine etching of the dead and dying horses on a battle-field, one past all further pain, the other helpless, but lifting his head from his dead master to neigh a farewell to the comrades who go galloping away in a cloud of dust. "they ought to stop for him, some of 'em," muttered ben, hastily turning back to the cheerful picture of the three happy horses in the field, standing knee-deep among the grass as they prepare to drink at the wide stream. "ain't that black one a beauty? seems as if i could see his mane blow in the wind, and hear him whinny to that small feller trotting down to see if he can't get over and be sociable. how i'd like to take a rousin' run round that meadow on the whole lot of 'em!" and ben swayed about in his chair as if he was already doing it in imagination. "you may take a turn round my field on lita any day. she would like it, and thorny's saddle will be here next week," said miss celia, pleased to see that the boy appreciated the fine pictures, and felt such hearty sympathy with the noble animals whom she dearly loved herself. "needn't wait for that. i'd rather ride bareback. oh, i say, is this the book you told about, where the horses talked?" asked ben, suddenly recollecting the speech he had puzzled over ever since he heard it. "no; i brought the book, but in the hurry of my tea-party forgot to unpack it. i'll hunt it up to-night. remind me, thorny." "there, now, i've forgotten something, too! squire sent you a letter; and i'm having such a jolly time, i never thought of it." ben rummaged out the note with remorseful haste, protesting that he was in no hurry for mr. gulliver, and very glad to save him for another day. leaving the young folks busy with their games, miss celia sat in the porch to read her letters, for there were two; and as she read her face grew so sober, then so sad, that if any one had been looking he would have wondered what bad news had chased away the sunshine so suddenly. no one did look; no one saw how pitifully her eyes rested on ben's happy face when the letters were put away, and no one minded the new gentleness in her manner as she came back, to the table. but ben thought there never was so sweet a lady as the one who leaned over him to show him how the dissected map went together and never smiled at his mistakes. so kind, so very kind was she to them all, that when, after an hour of merry play, she took her brother in to bed, the three who remained fell to praising her enthusiastically as they put things to rights before taking leave. "she's like the good fairies in the books, and has all sorts of nice, pretty things in her house," said betty, enjoying a last hug of the fascinating doll whose lids would shut so that it was a pleasure to sing, "bye, sweet baby, bye," with no staring eyes to spoil the illusion. "what heaps she knows! more than teacher, i do believe; and she doesn't mind how many questions we ask. i like folks that will tell me things," added bab, whose inquisitive mind was always hungry. "i like that boy first-rate, and i guess he likes me, though i didn't know where nantucket ought to go. he wants me to teach him to ride when he's on his pins again, and miss celia says i may. she knows how to make folks feel good, don't she?" and ben gratefully surveyed the arab chief, now his own, though the best of all the collection. "won't we have splendid times? she says we may come over every night and play with her and thorny." "and she's goin', to have the seats in the porch lift up, so we can put our things in there all day and have 'em handy." "and i'm going to be her boy, and stay here all the time. i guess the letter i brought was a recommend from the squire." "yes, ben; and if i had not already made up my mind to keep you before, i certainly would now, my boy." something in miss celia's voice, as she said the last two words with her hand on ben's shoulder, made him look up quickly and turn red with pleasure, wondering what the squire had written about him. "mother must have some of the party; so you shall take her these, bab, and betty may carry baby home for the night. she is so nicely asleep, it is a pity to wake her. good by till to-morrow, little neighbors," continued miss celia, and dismissed the girls with a kiss. "is ben coming, too?" asked bab, as betty trotted off in a silent rapture with the big darling bobbing over her shoulder. "not yet; i've several things to settle with my new man. tell mother he will come by-and-by." off rushed bab with the plateful of goodies; and, drawing ben down beside her on the wide step, miss celia took out the letters, with a shadow creeping over her face as softly as the twilight was stealing over the world, while the dew fell, and every thing grew still and dim. "ben, dear, i've something to tell you," she began, slowly; and the boy waited with a happy face, for no one had called him so since 'melia died. "the squire has heard about your father, and this is the letter mr. smithers sends." "hooray! where is he, please?" cried ben, wishing she would hurry up; for miss celia did not even offer him the letter, but sat looking down at sancho on the lower step, as if she wanted him to come and help her. "he went after the mustangs, and sent some home, but could not come himself." "went further on, i s'pose. yes, he said he might go as far as california, and if he did he'd send for me. i'd like to go there; it's a real splendid place, they say." "he has gone further away than that, to a lovelier country than california, i hope." and miss celia's eyes turned to the deep sky, where early stars were shining. "didn't he send for me? where's he gone? when 's he coming back?" asked ben, quickly; for there was a quiver in her voice, the meaning of which he felt before he understood. miss celia put her arms about him, and answered very tenderly,--"ben, dear, if i were to tell you that he was never coming back, could you bear it?" "i guess i could,--but you don't mean it? oh, ma'am, he isn't dead?" cried ben, with a cry that made her heart ache, and sancho leap up with a bark. "my poor little boy, i wish i could say no." there was no need of any more words, no need of tears or kind arms around him. he knew he was an orphan now, and turned instinctively to the old friend who loved him best. throwing himself down beside his dog, ben clung about the curly neck, sobbing bitterly,-- "oh, sanch, he's never coming back again; never, never any more!" poor sancho could only whine and lick away the tears that wet the half-hidden face, questioning the new friend meantime with eyes so full of dumb love and sympathy and sorrow that they seemed almost human. wiping away her own tears, miss celia stooped to pat the white head, and to stroke the black one lying so near it that the dog's breast was the boy's pillow. presently the sobbing ceased, and ben whispered, without looking up,-- "tell me all about it; i'll be good." then, as kindly as she could, miss celia read the brief letter which told the hard news bluntly; for mr. smithers was obliged to confess that he had known the truth months before, and never told the boy, lest he should be unfitted for the work they gave him. of ben brown the elder's death there was little to tell, except that he was killed in some wild place at the west, and a stranger wrote the fact to the only person whose name was found in ben's pocket-book. mr. smithers offered to take the boy back and "do well by him," averring that the father wished his son to remain where he left him, and follow the profession to which he was trained. "will you go, ben?" asked miss celia, hoping to distract his mind from his grief by speaking of other things. "no, no; i'd rather tramp and starve. he's awful hard to me and sanch; and he'd be worse, now father's gone. don't send me back! let me stay here; folks are good to me; there's nowhere else to go." and the head ben had lifted up with a desperate sort of look, went down again on sancho's breast as if there were no other refuge left. "you shall stay here, and no one shall take you away against your will. i called you 'my boy' in play, now you shall be my boy in earnest; this shall be your home, and thorny your brother. we are orphans, too; and we will stand by one another till a stronger friend comes to help us," said miss celia, with such a mixture of resolution and tenderness in her voice, that ben felt comforted at once, and thanked her by laying his cheek against the pretty slipper that rested on the step beside him, as if he had no words in which to swear loyalty to the gentle mistress whom he meant henceforth to serve with grateful fidelity. sancho felt that he must follow suit; and gravely put his paw upon her knee, with a low whine, as if he said, "count me in, and let me help to pay my master's debt if i can." miss celia shook the offered paw cordially, and the good creature crouched at her feet like a small lion, bound to guard her and her house for evermore. "don't lie on that cold stone, ben; come here and let me try to comfort you," she said, stooping to wipe away the great drops that kept rolling down the brown cheek half hidden in her dress. but ben put his arm over his face, and sobbed out with a fresh burst of grief,-- "you can't, you didn't know him! oh, daddy! daddy! if i'd only seen you jest once more!" no one could grant that wish; but miss celia did comfort him, for presently the sound of music floated out from the parlor,--music so soft, so sweet, that involuntarily the boy stopped his crying to listen; then quieter tears dropped slowly, seeming to soothe his pain as they fell, while the sense of loneliness passed away, and it grew possible to wait till it was time to go to father in that far-off country lovelier than golden california. how long she played miss celia never minded; but, when she stole out to see if ben had gone, she found that other friends, even kinder than herself, had taken the boy into their gentle keeping. the wind had sung a lullaby among the rustling lilacs, the moon's mild face looked through the leafy arch to kiss the heavy eyelids, and faithful sancho still kept guard beside his little master, who, with his head pillowed on his arm, lay fast asleep, dreaming, happily, that daddy had come home again. chapter xi sunday mrs. moss woke ben with a kiss next morning, for her heart yearned over the fatherless lad as if he had been her own, and she had no other way of showing her sympathy. ben had forgotten his troubles in sleep; but the memory of them returned as soon as he opened his eyes, heavy with the tears they had shed. he did not cry any more, but felt strange and lonely till he called sancho and told him all about it, for he was shy even with kind mrs. moss, and glad when she went away. sancho seemed to understand that his master was in trouble, and listened to the sad little story with gurgles of interest, whines of condolence, and intelligent barks whenever the word "daddy" was uttered. he was only a brute, but his dumb affection comforted the boy more than any words; for sanch had known and loved "father" almost as long and well as his son, and that seemed to draw them closely together, now they were left alone. "we must put on mourning, old feller. it's the proper thing, and there's nobody else to do it now," said ben, as he dressed, remembering how all the company wore bits of crape somewhere about them at 'melia's funeral. it was a real sacrifice of boyish vanity to take the blue ribbon with its silver anchors off the new hat, and replace it with the dingy black band from the old one; but ben was quite sincere in doing this, though doubtless his theatrical life made him think of the effect more than other lads would have done. he could find nothing in his limited wardrobe with which to decorate sanch except a black cambric pocket. it was already half torn out of his trousers with the weight of nails, pebbles, and other light trifles; so he gave it a final wrench and tied it into the dog's collar, saying to himself, as he put away his treasures, with a sigh,-- "one pocket is enough; i sha'n't want anything but a han'k'chi'f to-day." fortunately, that article of dress was clean, for he had but one; and, with this somewhat ostentatiously drooping from the solitary pocket, the serious hat upon his head, the new shoes creaking mournfully, and sanch gravely following, much impressed with his black bow, the chief mourner descended, feeling that he had done his best to show respect to the dead. mrs. moss's eyes filled as she saw the rusty band, and guessed why it was there; but she found it difficult to repress a smile when she beheld the cambric symbol of woe on the dog's neck. not a word was said to disturb the boy's comfort in these poor attempts, however; and he went out to do his chores, conscious that he was an object of interest to his friends, especially so to bab and betty, who, having been told of ben's loss, now regarded him with a sort of pitying awe very grateful to his feelings. "i want you to drive me to church by-and-by. it is going to be pretty warm, and thorny is hardly strong enough to venture yet," said miss celia, when ben ran over after breakfast to see if she had any thing for him to do; for he considered her his mistress now, though he was not to take possession of his new quarters till the morrow. "yes, 'm, i'd like to, if i look well enough," answered ben, pleased to be asked, but impressed with the idea that people had to be very fine on such occasions. "you will do very well when i have given you a touch. god doesn't mind our clothes, ben, and the poor are as welcome as the rich to him. you have not been much, have you?" asked miss celia, anxious to help the boy, and not quite sure how to begin. "no, 'm; our folks didn't hardly ever go, and father was so tired he used to rest sundays, or go off in the woods with me." a little quaver came into ben's voice as he spoke, and a sudden motion made his hat-brim hide his eyes, for the thought of the happy times that would never come any more was almost too much for him. "that was a pleasant way to rest. i often do so, and we will go to the grove this afternoon and try it. but i have to go to church in the morning; it seems to start me right for the week; and if one has a sorrow that is the place where one can always find comfort. will you come and try it, ben, dear?" "i'd do any thing to please you," muttered ben, without looking up; for, though he felt her kindness to the bottom of his heart, he did wish that no one would talk about father for a little while; it was so hard to keep from crying, and he hated to be a baby. miss celia seemed to understand, for the next thing she said, in a very cheerful tone, was, "see what a pretty sight that is. when i was a little girl i used to think spiders spun cloth for the fairies, and spread it on the grass to bleach." ben stopped digging a hole in the ground with his toe, and looked up, to see a lovely cobweb like a wheel, circle within circle, spun across a corner of the arch over the gate. tiny drops glittered on every thread as the light shone through the gossamer curtain, and a soft breath of air made it tremble as if about to blow it away. "it's mighty pretty, but it will fly off, just as the others did. i never saw such a chap as that spider is. he keeps on spinning a new one every day, for they always get broke, and he don't seem to be discouraged a mite," said ben, glad to change the subject, as she knew he would be. "that is the way he gets his living, he spins his web and waits for his daily bread,--or fly, rather; and it always comes, i fancy. by-and-by you will see that pretty trap full of insects, and mr. spider will lay up his provisions for the day. after that he doesn't care how soon his fine web blows away." "i know him; he's a handsome feller, all black and yellow, and lives up in that corner where the shiny sort of hole is. he dives down the minute i touch the gate, but comes up after i've kept still a minute. i like to watch him. but he must hate me, for i took away a nice green fly and some little millers one day." "did you ever hear the story of bruce and his spider? most children know and like that," said miss celia, seeing that he seemed interested. "no, 'm; i don't know ever so many things most children do," answered ben, soberly; for, since he had been among his new friends, he had often felt his own deficiencies. "ah, but you also know many things which they do not. half the boys in town would give a great deal to be able to ride and run and leap as you do; and even the oldest are not as capable of taking care of themselves as you are. your active life has done much in some ways to make a man of you; but in other ways it was bad, as i think you begin to see. now, suppose you try to forget the harmful part, and remember only the good, while learning to be more like our boys, who go to school and church, and fit themselves to become industrious, honest men." ben had been looking straight up in miss celia's face as she spoke, feeling that every word was true, though he could not have expressed it if he had tried; and, when she paused, with her bright eyes inquiringly fixed on his, he answered heartily,-- "i'd like to stay here and be respectable; for, since i came, i've found out that folks don't think much of circus riders, though they like to go and see 'em. i didn't use to care about school and such things, but i do now; and i guess he'd like it better than to have me knockin' round that way without him to look after me." "i know he would; so we will try, benny. i dare say it will seem dull and hard at first, after the gay sort of life you have led, and you will miss the excitement. but it was not good for you, and we will do our best to find something safer. don't be discouraged; and, when things trouble you, come to me as thorny does, and i'll try to straighten them out for you. i've got two boys now, and i want to do my duty by both." before ben had time for more than a grateful look, a tumbled head appeared at an upper window, and a sleepy voice drawled out,-- "celia! i can't find a bit of a shoe-string, and i wish you'd come and do my neck-tie." "lazy boy, come down here, and bring one of your black ties with you. shoe-strings are in the little brown bag on my bureau," called back miss celia; adding, with a laugh, as the tumbled head disappeared mumbling something about "bothering old bags", "thorny has been half spoiled since he was ill. you mustn't mind his fidgets and dawdling ways. he'll get over them soon, and then i know you two will be good friends." ben had his doubts about that, but resolved to do his best for her sake; so, when master thorny presently appeared, with a careless "how are you, ben?" that young person answered respectfully,--"very well, thank you," though his nod was as condescending as his new master's; because he felt that a boy who could ride bareback and turn a double somersault in the air ought not to "knuckle under" to a fellow who had not the strength of a pussy-cat. "sailor's knot, please; keeps better so," said thorny, holding up his chin to have a blue-silk scarf tied to suit him, for he was already beginning to be something of a dandy. "you ought to wear red till you get more color, dear;" and his sister rubbed her blooming cheek against his pale one, as if to lend him some of her own roses. "men don't care how they look," said thorny, squirming out of her hold, for he hated to be "cuddled" before people. "oh, don't they? here 's a vain boy who brushes his hair a dozen times a day, and quiddles over his collar till he is so tired he can hardly stand," laughed miss celia, with a little tweak of his ear. "i should like to know what this is for?" demanded thorny, in a dignified tone, presenting a black tie. "for my other boy. he is going to church with me," and miss celia tied a second knot for this young gentleman, with a smile that seemed to brighten up even the rusty hat-band. "well, i like that--" began thorny, in a tone that contradicted his words. a look from his sister reminded him of what she had told him half an hour ago, and he stopped short, understanding now why she was "extra good to the little tramp." "so do i, for you are of no use as a driver yet, and i don't like to fasten lita when i have my best gloves on," said miss celia, in a tone that rather nettled master thorny. "is ben going to black my boots before he goes? with a glance at the new shoes which caused them to creak uneasily. "no; he is going to black mine, if he will be so kind. you won't need boots for a week yet, so we won't waste any time over them. you will find every thing in the shed, ben; and at ten you may go for lita." with that, miss celia walked her brother off to the diningroom, and ben retired to vent his ire in such energetic demonstrations with the blacking-brush that the little boots shone splendidly. he thought he had never seen any thing as pretty as his mistress when, an hour later, she came out of the house in her white shawl and bonnet, holding a book and a late lily-of-the-valley in the pearl-colored gloves, which he hardly dared to touch as he helped her into the carriage. he had seen a good many fine ladies in his life; and those he had known had been very gay in the colors of their hats and gowns, very fond of cheap jewelry, and much given to feathers, lace, and furbelows; so it rather puzzled him to discover why miss celia looked so sweet and elegant in such a simple suit. he did not then know that the charm was in the woman, not the clothes; or that merely living near such a person would do more to give him gentle manners, good principles, and pure thoughts, than almost any other training he could have had. but he was conscious that it was pleasant to be there, neatly dressed, in good company, and going to church like a respectable boy. somehow, the lonely feeling got better as he rolled along between green fields, with the june sunshine brightening every thing, a restful quiet in the air, and a friend beside him who sat silently looking out at the lovely world with what he afterward learned to call her "sunday face,"--a soft, happy look, as if all the work and weariness of the past week were forgotten, and she was ready to begin afresh when this blessed day was over. "well, child, what is it?" she asked, catching his eye as he stole a shy glance at her, one of many which she had not seen. "i was only thinking, you looked as if--" "as if what? don't be afraid," she said, for ben paused and fumbled at the reins, feeling half ashamed to tell his fancy. "you were saying prayers," he added, wishing she had not caught him. "so i was. don't you, when you are happy? "no,'m. i'm glad, but i don't say any thing." "words are not needed; but they help, sometimes, if they are sincere and sweet. did you never learn any prayers, ben?" "only 'now i lay me.' grandma taught me that when i was a little mite of a boy." "i will teach you another, the best that was ever made, because it says all we need ask." "our folks wasn't very pious; they didn't have time, i s'pose." "i wonder if you know just what it means to be pious?" "goin' to church, and readin' the bible, and sayin' prayers and hymns, ain't it?" "those things are a part of it; but being kind and cheerful, doing one's duty, helping others, and loving god, is the best way to show that we are pious in the true sense of the word." "then you are!" and ben looked as if her acts had been a better definition than her words. "i try to be, but i very often fail; so every sunday i make new resolutions, and work hard to keep them through the week. that is a great help, as you will find when you begin to try it." "do you think if i said in meetin', 'i won't ever swear any more,' that i wouldn't do it again?" asked ben, soberly; for that was his besetting sin just now. "i'm afraid we can't get rid of our faults quite so easily; i wish we could: but i do believe that if you keep saying that, and trying to stop, you will cure the habit sooner than you think." "i never did swear very bad, and i didn't mind much till i came here; but bab and betty looked so scared when i said 'damn,' and mrs. moss scolded me so, i tried to leave off. it's dreadful hard, though, when i get mad. 'hang it!' don't seem half so good if i want to let off steam." "thorny used to 'confound!' every thing, so i proposed that he should whistle instead; and now he sometimes pipes up so suddenly and shrilly that it makes me jump. how would that do, instead of swearing?" proposed miss celia, not the least surprised at the habit of profanity, which the boy could hardly help learning among his former associates. ben laughed, and promised to try it, feeling a mischievous satisfaction at the prospect of out-whistling master thorny, as he knew he should; for the objectionable words rose to his lips a dozen times a day. the ben was ringing as they drove into town; and, by the time lita was comfortably settled in her shed, people were coming up from all quarters to cluster around the steps of the old meeting-house like bees about a hive. accustomed to a tent, where people kept their hats on, ben forgot all about his, and was going down the aisle covered, when a gentle hand took it off, and miss celia whispered, as she gave it to him,-- "this is a holy place; remember that, and uncover at the door." much abashed, ben followed to the pew, where the squire and his wife soon joined them. "glad to see him here," said the old gentleman with an approving nod, as he recognized the boy and remembered his loss. "hope he won't nestle round in meeting-time," whispered mrs. allen, composing herself in the corner with much rustling of black silk. "i'll take care that he doesn't disturb you," answered miss celia, pushing a stool under the short legs, and drawing a palm-leaf fan within reach. ben gave an inward sigh at the prospect before him; for an hour's captivity to an active lad is hard to bear, and he really did want to behave well. so he folded his arms and sat like a statue, with nothing moving but his eyes. they rolled to and fro, up and down, from the high red pulpit to the worn hymnbooks in the rack, recognizing two little faces under blue-ribboned hats in a distant pew, and finding it impossible to restrain a momentary twinkle in return for the solemn wink billy barton bestowed upon him across the aisle. ten minutes of this decorous demeanor made it absolutely necessary for him to stir; so he unfolded his arms and crossed his legs as cautiously as a mouse moves in the presence of a cat; for mrs. allen's eye was on him, and he knew by experience that it was a very sharp one. the music which presently began was a great relief to him, for under cover of it he could wag his foot and no one heard the creak thereof; and when they stood up to sing, he was so sure that all the boys were looking at him, he was glad to sit down again. the good old minister read the sixteenth chapter of samuel, and then proceeded to preach a long and somewhat dull sermon. ben listened with all his ears, for he was interested in the young shepherd, "ruddy and of a beautiful countenance," who was chosen to be saul's armor-bearer. he wanted to hear more about him, and how he got on, and whether the evil spirits troubled saul again after david had harped them out. but nothing more came; and the old gentleman droned on about other things till poor ben felt that he must either go to sleep like the squire, or tip the stool over by accident, since "nestling" was forbidden, and relief of some sort he must have. mrs. allen gave him a peppermint, and he dutifully ate it, though it was so hot it made his eyes water. then she fanned him, to his great annoyance, for it blew his hair about; and the pride of his life was to have his head as smooth and shiny as black satin. an irrepressible sigh of weariness attracted miss celia's attention at last; for, though she seemed to be listening devoutly, her thoughts had flown over the sea, with tender prayers for one whom she loved even more than david did his jonathan. she guessed the trouble in a minute, and had provided for it, knowing by experience that few small boys can keep quiet through sermon-time. finding a certain place in the little book she had brought, she put it into his hands, with the whisper, "read if you are tired." ben clutched the book and gladly obeyed, though the title, "scripture narratives," did not look very inviting. then his eye fell on the picture of a slender youth cutting a large man's head off, while many people stood looking on. "jack, the giant-killer," thought ben, and turned the page to see the words "david and goliath", which was enough to set him to reading the story with great interest; for here was the shepherd boy turned into a hero. no more fidgets now; the sermon was no longer heard, the fan flapped unfelt, and billy barton's spirited sketches in the hymnbook were vainly held up for admiration. ben was quite absorbed in the stirring history of king david, told in a way that fitted it for children's reading, and illustrated with fine pictures which charmed the boy's eye. sermon and story ended at the same time; and, while he listened to the prayer, ben felt as if he understood now what miss celia meant by saying that words helped when they were well chosen and sincere. several petitions seemed as if especially intended for him; and he repeated them to himself that he might remember them, they sounded so sweet and comfortable heard for the first time just when he most needed comfort. miss celia saw a new expression in the boy's face as she glanced down at him, and heard a little humming at her side when all stood up to sing the cheerful hymn with which they were dismissed. "how do you like church?" asked the young lady, as they drove away. "first-rate!" answered ben, heartily. "especially the sermon?" ben laughed, and said, with an affectionate glance at the little book in her lap,-- "i couldn't understand it; but that story was just elegant. there's more; and i'd admire to read 'em, if i could." "i'm glad you like them; and we will keep the rest for another sermon-time. thorny used to do so, and always called this his 'pew book.' i don't expect you to understand much that you hear yet awhile; but it is good to be there, and after reading these stories you will be more interested when you hear the names of the people mentioned here." "yes, 'm. wasn't david a fine feller? i liked all about the kid and the corn and the ten cheeses, and killin' the lion and bear, and slingin' old goliath dead first shot. i want to know about joseph next time, for i saw a gang of robbers puttin' him in a hole, and it looked real interesting." miss celia could not help smiling at ben's way of telling things; but she was pleased to see that he was attracted by the music and the stories, and resolved to make church-going so pleasant that he would learn to love it for its own sake. "now, you have tried my way this morning, and we will try yours this afternoon. come over about four and help me roll thorny down to the grove. i am going to put one of the hammocks there, because the smell of the pines is good for him, and you can talk or read or amuse yourselves in any quiet way you like." "can i take sanch along? he doesn't like to be left, and felt real bad because i shut him up, for fear he'd follow and come walkin' into meetin' to find me." "yes, indeed; let the clever bow-wow have a good time and enjoy sunday as much as i want my boys to." quite content with this arrangement, ben went home to dinner, which he made very lively by recounting billy barton's ingenious devices to beguile the tedium of sermon time. he said nothing of his conversation with miss celia, because he had not quite made up his mind whether he liked it or not; it was so new and serious, he felt as if he had better lay it by, to think over a good deal before he could understand all about it. but he had time to get dismal again, and long for four o'clock; because he had nothing to do except whittle. mrs. moss went to take a nap; bab and betty sat demurely on their bench reading sunday books; no boys were allowed to come and play; even the hens retired under the currant-bushes, and the cock stood among them, clucking drowsily, as if reading them a sermon. "dreadful slow day!" thought ben; and, retiring to the recesses of his own room, he read over the two letters which seemed already old to him. now that the first shock was over, he could not make it true that his father was dead, and he gave up trying; for he was an honest boy, and felt that it was foolish to pretend to be more unhappy than he really was. so he put away his letters, took the black pocket off sanch's neck, and allowed himself to whistle softly as he packed up his possessions, ready to move next day, with few regrets and many bright anticipations for the future. "thorny, i want you to be good to ben, and amuse him in some quiet way this afternoon. i must stay and see the morrises, who are coming over; but you can go to the grove and have a pleasant time," said miss celia to her brother. "not much fun in talking to that horsey fellow. i'm sorry for him, but i can't do anything to amuse him," objected thorny, pulling himself up from the sofa with a great yawn. "you can be very agreeable when you like; and ben has had enough of me for this time. to-morrow he will have his work, and do very well; but we must try to help him through to-day, because he doesn't know what to do with himself. besides, it is just the time to make a good impression on him, while grief for his father softens him, and gives us a chance. i like him, and i'm sure he wants to do well; so it is our duty to help him, as there seems to be no one else." "here goes, then! where is he?" and thorny stood up, won by his sister's sweet earnestness, but very doubtful of his own success with the "horsey fellow." "waiting with the chair. randa has gone on with the hammock. be a dear boy, and i'll do as much for you some day." "don't see how you can be a dear boy. you're the best sister that ever was; so i'll love all the scallywags you ask me to." with a laugh and a kiss, thorny shambled off to ascend his chariot, good-humoredly saluting his pusher, whom he found sitting on the high rail behind, with his feet on sanch. "drive on, benjamin. i don't know the way, so i can't direct. don't spill me out,--that's all i've got to say." "all right, sir,"--and away ben trundled down the long walk that led through the orchard to a little grove of seven pines. a pleasant spot; for a soft rustle filled the air, a brown carpet of pine needles, with fallen cones for a pattern, lay under foot; and over the tops of the tall brakes that fringed the knoll one had glimpses of hill and valley, farm-houses and winding river, like a silver ribbon through the low, green meadows. "a regular summer house!" said thorny, surveying it with approval. "what's the matter, randa? won't it do?" he asked, as the stout maid dropped her arms with a puff, after vainly trying to throw the hammock rope over a branch. "that end went up beautiful, but this one won't; the branches is so high, i can't reach 'em; and i'm no hand at flinging ropes round." "i'll fix it;" and ben went up the pine like a squirrel, tied a stout knot, and swung himself down again before thorny could get out of the chair. "my patience, what a spry boy!" exclaimed randa, admiringly. "that 's nothing; you ought to see me shin up a smooth tent-pole," said ben, rubbing the pitch off his hands, with a boastful wag of the head. "you can go, randa. just hand me my cushion and books, ben; then you can sit in the chair while i talk to you," commanded thorny, tumbling into the hammock. "what's he goin' to say to me?" wondered ben to himself, as he sat down with sanch sprawling among the wheels. "now, ben, i think you'd better learn a hymn; i always used to when i was a little chap, and it is a good thing to do sundays," began the new teacher, with a patronizing air, which ruffled his pupil as much as the opprobrious term "little chap." "i'll be--whew--if i do!" whistled ben, stopping an oath just in time. "it is not polite to whistle in company," said thorny, with great dignity. "miss celia told me to. i'll say 'confound it,' if you like that better," answered ben, as a sly smile twinkled in his eyes. "oh, i see! she 's told you about it? well, then, if you want to please her, you'll learn a hymn right off. come, now, she wants me to be clever to you, and i'd like to do it; but if you get peppery, how can i?" thorny spoke in a hearty, blunt way, which suited ben much better than the other, and he responded pleasantly,-- "if you won't be grand i won't be peppery. nobody is going to boss me but miss celia; so i'll learn hymns if she wants me to." "'in the soft season of thy youth' is a good one to begin with. i learned it when i was six. nice thing; better have it." and thorny offered the book like a patriarch addressing an infant. ben surveyed the yellow page with small favor, for the long s in the old-fashioned printing bewildered him; and when he came to the last two lines, he could not resist reading them wrong,-- "the earth affords no lovelier fight than a religious youth." "i don't believe i could ever get that into my head straight. haven't you got a plain one any where round?" he asked, turning over the leaves with some anxiety. "look at the end, and see if there isn't a piece of poetry pasted in. you learn that, and see how funny celia will look when you say it to her. she wrote it when she was a girl, and somebody had it printed for other children. i like it best, myself." pleased by the prospect of a little fun to cheer his virtuous task, ben whisked over the leaves, and read with interest the lines miss celia had written in her girlhood: "my kingdom a little kingdom i possess, where thoughts and feelings dwell; and very hard i find the task of governing it well. for passion tempts and troubles me, a wayward will misleads, and selfishness its shadow casts on all my words and deeds. "how can i learn to rule myself, to be the child i should,-- honest and brave,--nor ever tire of trying to be good? how can i keep a sunny soul to shine along life's way? how can i tune my little heart to sweetly sing all day? "dear father, help me with the love that casteth out my fear! teach me to lean on thee, and feel that thou art very near; that no temptation is unseen, no childish grief too small, since thou, with patience infinite, doth soothe and comfort all. "i do not ask for any crown, but that which all may will nor seek to conquer any world except the one within. be then my guide until i find, led by a tender hand, thy happy kingdom in myself, and dare to take command." "i like that!" said ben, emphatically, when he had read the little hymn. "i understand it, and i'll learn it right away. don't see how she could make it all come out so nice and pretty." "celia can do any thing!" and thorny gave an all-embracing wave of the hand, which forcibly expressed his firm belief in his sister's boundless powers. "i made some poetry once. bab and betty thought it was first-rate, i didn't," said ben, moved to confidence by the discovery of miss celia's poetic skill. "say it," commanded thorny, adding with tact, "i can't make any to save my life,--never could but i'm fond of it." "chevalita, pretty cretr, i do love her like a brother; just to ride is my delight, for she does not kick or bite," recited ben, with modest pride, for his first attempt had been inspired by sincere affection, and pronounced "lovely" by the admiring girls. "very good! you must say them to celia, too. she likes to hear lita praised. you and she and that little barlow boy ought to try for a prize, as the poets did in athens. i'll tell you all about it some time. now, you peg away at your hymn." cheered by thorny's commendation, ben fell to work at his new task, squirming about in the chair as if the process of getting words into his memory was a very painful one. but he had quick wits, and had often learned comic songs; so he soon was able to repeat the four verses without mistake, much to his own and thorny's satisfaction. "now we'll talk," said the well-pleased preceptor; and talk they did, one swinging in the hammock, the other rolling about on the pine-needles, as they related their experiences boy fashion. ben's were the most exciting; but thorny's were not without interest, for he had lived abroad for several years, and could tell all sorts of droll stories of the countries he had seen. busied with friends, miss celia could not help wondering how the lads got on; and, when the tea-bell rang, waited a little anxiously for their return, knowing that she could tell at a glance if they had enjoyed themselves. "all goes well so far," she thought, as she watched their approach with a smile; for sancho sat bolt upright in the chair which ben pushed, while thorny strolled beside him, leaning on a stout cane newly cut. both boys were talking busily, and thorny laughed from time to time, as if his comrade's chat was very amusing. "see what a jolly cane ben cut for me! he's great fun if you don't stroke him the wrong way," said the elder lad, flourishing his staff as they came up. "what have you been doing down there? you look so merry, i suspect mischief," asked miss celia, surveying them front the steps. "we've been as good as gold. i talked, and ben learned a hymn to please you. come, young man, say your piece," said thorny, with an expression of virtuous content. taking off his hat, ben soberly obeyed, much enjoying the quick color that came up in miss celia's face as she listened, and feeling as if well repaid for the labor of learning by the pleased look with which she said, as he ended with a bow,-- "i feel very proud to think you chose that, and to hear you say it as if it meant something to you. i was only fourteen when i wrote it; but it came right out of my heart, and did me good. i hope it may help you a little." ben murmured that he guessed it would; but felt too shy to talk about such things before thorny, so hastily retired to put the chair away, and the others went in to tea. but later in the evening, when miss celia was singing like a nightingale, the boy slipped away from sleepy bab and betty to stand by the syringa bush and listen, with his heart full of new thoughts and happy feelings; for never before had he spent a sunday like this. and when he went to bed, instead of saying "now i lay me," he repeated the third verse of miss celia's hymn; for that was his favorite, because his longing for the father whom he had seen made it seem sweet and natural now to love and lean, without fear upon the father whom he had not seen. chapter xii good times every one was very kind to ben when his loss was known. the squire wrote to mr. smithers that the boy had found friends and would stay where he was. mrs. moss consoled him in her motherly way, and the little girls did their very best to "be good to poor benny." but miss celia was his truest comforter, and completely won his heart, not only by the friendly words she said and the pleasant things she did, but by the unspoken sympathy which showed itself just at the right minute, in a look, a touch, a smile, more helpful than any amount of condolence. she called him "my man," and ben tried to be one, bearing his trouble so bravely that she respected him, although he was only a little boy, because it promised well for the future. then she was so happy herself, it was impossible for those about her to be sad, and ben soon grew cheerful again in spite of the very tender memory of his father laid quietly away in the safest corner of his heart. he would have been a very unboyish boy if he had not been happy, for the new place was such a pleasant one, he soon felt as if, for the first time, he really had a home. no more grubbing now, but daily tasks which never grew tiresome, they were so varied and so light. no more cross pats to try his temper, but the sweetest mistress that ever was, since praise was oftener on her lips than blame, and gratitude made willing service a delight. at first, it seemed as if there was going to be trouble between the two boys; for thorny was naturally masterful, and illness had left him weak and nervous, so he was often both domineering and petulant. ben had been taught instant obedience to those older than him self, and if thorny had been a man ben would have made no complaint; but it was hard to be "ordered round" by a boy, and an unreasonable one into the bargain. a word from miss celia blew away the threatening cloud, however; and for her sake her brother promised to try to be patient; for her sake ben declared he never would "get mad" if mr. thorny did fidget; and both very soon forgot all about master and man and lived together like two friendly lads, taking each other's ups and downs good-naturedly, and finding mutual pleasure and profit in the new companionship. the only point on which they never could agree was legs, and many a hearty laugh did they give miss celia by their warm and serious discussion of this vexed question. thorny insisted that ben was bowlegged; ben resented the epithet, and declared that the legs of all good horsemen must have a slight curve, and any one who knew any thing about the matter would acknowledge both its necessity and its beauty. then thorny would observe that it might be all very well in the saddle, but it made a man waddle like a duck when afoot; whereat ben would retort that, for his part, he would rather waddle like a duck than tumble about like a horse with the staggers. he had his opponent there, for poor thorny did look very like a weak-kneed colt when he tried to walk; but he would never own it, and came down upon ben with crushing allusions to centaurs, or the greeks and romans, who were famous both for their horsemanship and fine limbs. ben could not answer that, except by proudly referring to the chariot-races copied from the ancients, in which he had borne a part, which was more than some folks with long legs could say. gentlemen never did that sort of thing, nor did they twit their best friends with their misfortunes, thorny would remark; casting a pensive glance at his thin hands, longing the while to give ben a good shaking. this hint would remind the other of his young master's late sufferings and all he owed his dear mistress; and he usually ended the controversy by turning a few lively somersaults as a vent for his swelling wrath, and come up with his temper all right again. or, if thorny happened to be in the wheeled chair, he would trot him round the garden at a pace which nearly took his breath away, thereby proving that if "bow-legs" were not beautiful to some benighted beings they were "good to go." thorny liked that, and would drop the subject for the time by politely introducing some more agreeable topic; so the impending quarrel would end in a laugh over some boyish joke, and the word "legs" be avoided by mutual consent till accident brought it up again. the spirit of rivalry is hidden in the best of us, and is a helpful and inspiring power if we know how to use it. miss celia knew this, and tried to make the lads help one another by means of it,--not in boastful or ungenerous comparison of each other's gifts, but by interchanging them, giving and taking freely, kindly, and being glad to love what was admirable wherever they found it. thorny admired ben's strength, activity, and independence; ben envied thorny's learning, good manners, and comfortable surroundings; and, when a wise word had set the matter rightly before them, both enjoyed the feeling that there was a certain equality between them, since money could not buy health, and practical knowledge was as useful as any that can be found in books. so they interchanged their small experiences, accomplishments, and pleasures, and both were the better, as well as the happier, for it; because in this way only can we truly love our neighbor as ourself, and get the real sweetness out of life. there was no end to the new and pleasant things ben had to do, from keeping paths and flower-beds neat, feeding the pets, and running errands, to waiting on thorny and being right-hand man to miss celia. he had a little room in the old house, newly papered with hunting scenes, which he was never tired of admiring. in the closet hung several out-grown suits of thorny's, made over for his valet; and, what ben valued infinitely more, a pair of boots, well blacked and ready for grand occasions, when he rode abroad, with one old spur, found in the attic, brightened up and merely worn for show, since nothing would have induced him to prick beloved lita with it. many pictures, cut from illustrated papers, of races, animals, and birds, were stuck round the room, giving it rather the air of a circus and menagerie. this, however, made it only the more home-like to its present owner, who felt exceedingly rich and respectable as he surveyed his premises; almost like a retired showman who still fondly remembers past successes, though now happy in the more private walks of life. in one drawer of the quaint little bureau which he used, were kept the relics of his father; very few and poor, and of no interest to any one but himself,--only the letter telling of his death, a worn-out watch-chain, and a photograph of senor jose montebello, with his youthful son standing on his head, both airily attired, and both smiling with the calmly superior expression which gentlemen of their profession usually wear in public. ben's other treasures had been stolen with his bundle; but these he cherished and often looked at when he went to bed, wondering what heaven was like, since it was lovelier than california, and usually fell asleep with a dreamy impression that it must be something like america when columbus found it,--"a pleasant land, where were gay flowers and tall trees, with leaves and fruit such as they had never seen before." and through this happy hunting-ground "father" was for ever riding on a beautiful white horse with wings, like the one of which miss celia had a picture. nice times ben had in his little room poring over his books, for he soon had several of his own; but his favorites were hamerton's "animals" and "our dumb friends," both full of interesting pictures and anecdotes such as boys love. still nicer times working about the house, helping get things in order; and best of all were the daily drives with miss celia and thorny, when weather permitted, or solitary rides to town through the heaviest rain, for certain letters must go and come, no matter how the elements raged. the neighbors soon got used to the "antics of that boy," but ben knew that he was an object of interest as he careered down the main street in a way that made old ladies cry out and brought people flying to the window, sure that some one was being run away with. lita enjoyed the fun as much as he, and apparently did her best to send him heels over head, having rapidly earned to understand the signs he gave her by the touch of hand and foot, or the tones of his voice. these performances caused the boys to regard ben brown with intense admiration, the girls with timid awe, all but bab, who burned to imitate him, and tried her best whenever she got a chance, much to the anguish and dismay of poor jack, for that long-suffering animal was the only steed she was allowed to ride. fortunately, neither she nor betty had much time for play just now, as school was about to close for the long vacation, and all the little people were busy finishing up, that they might go to play with free minds. so the "lilac-parties," as they called them, were deferred till later, and the lads amused themselves in their own way, with miss celia to suggest and advise. it took thorny a long time to arrange his possessions, for he could only direct while ben unpacked, wondering and admiring as he worked, because he had never seen so many boyish treasures before. the little printing-press was his especial delight, and leaving every thing else in confusion, thorny taught him its and planned a newspaper on the spot, with ben for printer, himself for editor, and "sister" for chief contributor, while bab should be carrier and betty office-boy. next came a postage-stamp book, and a rainy day was happily spent in pasting a new collection where each particular one belonged, with copious explanations from thorny as they went along. ben did not feel any great interest in this amusement after one trial of it, but when a book containing patterns of the flags of all nations turned up, he was seized with a desire to copy them all, so that the house could be fitly decorated on gala occasions. finding that it amused her brother, miss celia generously opened her piece-drawer and rag-bag, and as the mania grew till her resources were exhausted, she bought bits of gay cambric and many-colored papers, and startled the store-keeper by purchasing several bottles of mucilage at once. bab and betty were invited to sew the bright strips of stars, and pricked their little fingers assiduously, finding this sort of needle-work much more attractive than piecing bed-quilts. such a snipping and pasting, planning and stitching as went on in the big back room, which was given up to them, and such a noble array of banners and petitions as soon decorated its walls, would have caused the dullest eye to brighten with amusement, if not with admiration. of course, the stars and stripes hung highest, with the english lion ramping on the royal standard close by; then followed a regular picture-gallery, for there was the white elephant of siam, the splendid peacock of burmah, the double-headed russian eagle, and black dragon of china, the winged lion of venice, and the prancing pair on the red, white, and blue flag of holland. the keys and mitre of the papal states were a hard job, but up they went at last, with the yellow crescent of turkey on one side and the red full moon of japan on the other; the pretty blue and white flag of greece hung below and the cross of free switzerland above. if materials had held out, the flags of all the united states would have followed; but paste and patience were exhausted, so the busy workers rested awhile before they "flung their banner to the breeze," as the newspapers have it. a spell of ship-building and rigging followed the flag fit; for thorny, feeling too old now for such toys, made over his whole fleet to "the children," condescending, however, to superintend a thorough repairing of the same before he disposed of all but the big man-of-war, which continued to ornament his own room, with all sail set and a little red officer perpetually waving his sword on the quarter-deck. these gifts led to out-of-door water-works, for the brook had to be dammed up, that a shallow ocean might be made, where ben's piratical "red rover," with the black flag, might chase and capture bab's smart frigate, "queen," while the "bounding betsey," laden with lumber, safely sailed from kennebunkport to massachusetts bay. thorny, from his chair, was chief-engineer, and directed his gang of one how to dig the basin, throw up the embankment, and finally let in the water till the mimic ocean was full; then regulate the little water-gate, lest it should overflow and wreck the pretty squadron or ships, boats, canoes, and rafts, which soon rode at anchor there. digging and paddling in mud and water proved such a delightful pastime that the boys kept it up, till a series of water-wheels, little mills and cataracts made the once quiet brook look as if a manufacturing town was about to spring up where hitherto minnows had played in peace and the retiring frog had chanted his serenade unmolested. miss celia liked all this, for any thing which would keep thorny happy out-of-doors in the sweet june weather found favor in her eyes, and when the novelty had worn off from home affairs, she planned a series of exploring expeditions which filled their boyish souls with delight. as none of them knew much about the place, it really was quite exciting to start off on a bright morning with a roll of wraps and cushions, lunch, books, and drawing materials packed into the phaeton, and drive at random about the shady roads and lanes, pausing when and where they liked. wonderful discoveries were made, pretty places were named, plans were drawn, and all sorts of merry adventures befell the pilgrims. each day they camped in a new spot, and while lita nibbled the fresh grass at her ease, miss celia sketched under the big umbrella, thorny read or lounged or slept on his rubber blanket, and ben made himself generally useful. unloading, filling the artist's water-bottle, piling the invalid's cushions, setting out the lunch, running to and fro for a bower or a butterfly, climbing a tree to report the view, reading, chatting, or frolicking with sancho,--any sort of duty was in ben's line, and he did them all well, for an out-of-door life was natural to him and he liked it. "ben, i want an amanuensis," said thorny, dropping book and pencil one day after a brief interval of silence, broken only by the whisper of the young leaves overhead and the soft babble of the brook close by. "a what?" asked ben, pushing back his hat with such an air of amazement that thorny rather loftily inquired: "don't you know what an amanuensis is?" "well, no; not unless it's some relation to an anaconda. shouldn't think you'd want one of them, anyway." thorny rolled over with a hoot of derision, and his sister, who sat close by, sketching an old gate, looked up to see what was going on. "well, you needn't laugh at a feller. you didn't know what a wombat was when i asked you, and i didn't roar," said ben, giving his hat a slap, as nothing else was handy. "the idea of wanting an anaconda tickled me so, i couldn't help it. i dare say you'd have got me one if i had asked for it, you are such an obliging chap." "of course i would if i could. shouldn't be surprised if you did some day, you want such funny things," answered ben, appeased by the compliment. "i'll try the amanuensis first. it's only some one to write for me; i get so tired doing it without a table. you write well enough, and it will be good for you to know something about botany. i intend to teach you, ben," said thorny, as if conferring a great favor. "it looks pretty hard," muttered ben, with a doleful glance at the book laid open upon a strew of torn leaves and flowers. "no, it isn't; it's regularly jolly; and you'd be no end of a help if you only knew a little. now, suppose i say, 'bring me a "ranunculus bulbosus,"' how would you know what i wanted?" demanded thorny, waving his microscope with a learned air. "shouldn't." "there are quantities of them all round us; and i want to analyze one. see if you can't guess." ben stared vaguely from earth to sky, and was about to give it up, when a buttercup fell at his feet, and he caught sight of miss celia smiling at him from behind her brother, who did not see the flower. "s'pose you mean this? i don't call 'em rhinocerus bulburses, so i wasn't sure." and, taking the hint as quickly as it was given, ben presented the buttercup as if he knew all about it. "you guessed that remarkably well. now bring me a 'leontodon taraxacum,'" said thorny, charmed with the quickness of his pupil, and glad to display his learning. again ben gazed, but the field was full of early flowers; and, if a long pencil had not pointed to a dandelion close by, he would have been lost. "here you are, sir," he answered with a chuckle and thorny took his turn at being astonished now. "how the dickens did you know that?" "try it again, and may be you'll find out," laughed ben. diving hap-hazard into his book, thorny demanded a "trifolium pratense." the clever pencil pointed, and ben brought a red clover, mightily enjoying the joke, and thinking that their kind of botany wasn't bad fun. "look here, no fooling!" and thorny sat up to investigate the matter, so quickly that his sister had not time to sober down. "ah, i've caught you! not fair to tell, celia. now, ben, you've got to learn all about this buttercup, to pay for cheating." "werry good, sir; bring on your rhinoceriouses," answered ben, who couldn't help imitating his old friend the clown when he felt particularly jolly. "sit there and write what i tell you," ordered thorny, with all the severity of a strict schoolmaster. perching himself on the mossy stump, ben obediently floundered through the following analysis, with constant help in the spelling, and much private wonder what would come of it:-- "phaenogamous. exogenous. angiosperm. polypetalous. stamens, more than ten. stamens on the receptacle. pistils, more than one and separate. leaves without stipules. crowfoot family. genus ranunculus. botanical name, ranunculus bulbosus." "jerusalem! what a flower! pistols and crows' feet, and polly put the kettles on, and angy sperms and all the rest of 'em! if that's your botany, i won't take any more, thank you," said ben, as he paused as hot and red as if he had been running a race. "yes, you will; you'll learn that all by heart, and then i shall give you a dandelion to do. you'll like that, because it means dent de lion, or lion's tooth; and i'll show them to you through my glass. you've no idea how interesting it is, and what heaps of pretty things you'll see," answered thorny, who had already discovered how charming the study was, and had found great satisfaction in it, since he had been forbidden more active pleasures. "what's the good of it, anyway?" asked ben, who would rather have been set to mowing the big field than to the task before him. "it tells all about it in my book here,--'gray's botany for young people.' but i can tell you what use it is to us," continued thorny, crossing his legs in the air and preparing to argue the matter, comfortably lying flat on his back. "we are a scientific exploration society, and we must keep an account of all the plants, animals, minerals, and so on, as we come across them. then, suppose we get lost, and have to hunt for food, how are we to know what is safe and what isn't? come, now, do you know the difference between a toadstool and a mushroom?" "no, i don't." "then i'll teach you some day. there is sweet flag and poisonous flag, and all sorts of berries and things; and you'd better look out when you are in the woods, or you'll touch ivy and dogwood, and have a horrid time, if you don't know your botany." "thorny learned much of his by sad experience; and you will be wise to take his advice," said miss celia, recalling her brother's various mishaps before the new fancy came on. "didn't i have a time of it, though, when i had to go round for a week with plantain leaves and cream stuck all over my face! just picked some pretty red dogwood, ben; and then i was a regular guy, with a face like a lobster, and my eyes swelled out of sight. come along, and learn right away, and never get into scrapes like most fellows." impressed by this warning, and attracted by thorny's enthusiasm, ben cast himself down upon the blanket, and for an hour the two heads bobbed to and fro, from microscope to book, the teacher airing his small knowledge, the pupil more and more interested in the new and curious things he saw or heard,--though it must be confessed that ben infinitely preferred to watch ants and bugs, queer little worms and gauzy-winged flies, rather than "putter" over plants with long names. he did not dare to say so, however; but, when thorny asked him if it wasn't capital fun, he dodged cleverly by proposing to hunt up the flowers for his master to study, offering to learn about the dangerous ones, but pleading want of time to investigate this pleasing science very deeply. as thorny had talked himself hoarse, he was very ready to dismiss his class of one to fish the milk-bottle out of the brook; and recess was prolonged till next day. but both boys found a new pleasure in the pretty pastime they made of it; for active ben ranged the woods and fields with a tin box slung over his shoulder, and feeble thorny had a little room fitted up for his own use, where he pressed flowers in newspaper books, dried herbs on the walls, had bottles and cups, pans and platters, for his treasures, and made as much litter as he liked. presently, ben brought such lively accounts of the green nooks where jacks-in-the-pulpit preached their little sermons; brooks, beside which grew blue violets and lovely ferns; rocks, round which danced the columbines like rosy elves, or the trees where birds built, squirrels chattered, and woodchucks burrowed, that thorny was seized with a desire to go and see these beauties for himself. so jack was saddled, and went plodding, scrambling, and wandering into all manner of pleasant places, always bringing home a stronger, browner rider than he carried away. this delighted miss celia; and she gladly saw them ramble off together, leaving her time to stitch happily at certain dainty bits of sewing, write voluminous letters, or dream over others quite as long, swinging in her hammock under the lilacs. chapter xiii somebody runs away "'school is done, now we'll have fun," sung bab and betty, slamming down their books as if they never meant to take them up again, when they came home on the last day of june. tired teacher had dismissed them for eight whole weeks, and gone away to rest; the little school-house was shut up, lessons were over, spirits rising fast, and vacation had begun. the quiet town seemed suddenly inundated with children, all in such a rampant state that busy mothers wondered how they ever should be able to keep their frisky darlings out of mischief; thrifty fathers planned how they could bribe the idle hands to pick berries or rake hay; and the old folks, while wishing the young folks well, secretly blessed the man who invented schools. the girls immediately began to talk about picnics, and have them, too; for little hats sprung up in the fields like a new sort of mushroom,--every hillside bloomed with gay gowns, looking as if the flowers had gone out for a walk; and the woods were full of featherless birds chirping away as blithely as the thrushes, robins, and wrens. the boys took to base-ball like ducks to water, and the common was the scene of tremendous battles, waged with much tumult, but little bloodshed. to the uninitiated, it appeared as if these young men had lost their wits; for, no matter how warm it was, there they were, tearing about in the maddest manner, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, queer caps flung on any way, all batting shabby leather balls, and catching the same, as if their lives depended on it. every one talking in his gruffest tone, bawling at the top of his voice, squabbling over every point of the game, and seeming to enjoy himself immensely, in spite of the heat, dust, uproar, and imminent danger of getting eyes or teeth knocked out. thorny was an excellent player, but, not being strong enough to show his prowess, he made ben his proxy; and, sitting on the fence, acted as umpire to his heart's content. ben was a promising pupil, and made rapid progress; for eye, foot, and hand had been so well trained, that they did him good service now; and brown was considered a first-rate "catcher". sancho distinguished himself by his skill in hunting up stray balls, and guarding jackets when not needed, with the air of one of the old guard on duty at the tomb of napoleon. bab also longed to join in the fun, which suited her better than "stupid picnics" or "fussing over dolls;" but her heroes would not have her at any price; and she was obliged to content herself with sitting by thorny, and watching with breathless interest the varying fortunes of "our side." a grand match was planned for the fourth of july; but when the club met, things were found to be unpropitious. thorny had gone out of town with his sister to pass the day, two of the best players did not appear, and the others were somewhat exhausted by the festivities, which began at sunrise for them. so they lay about on the grass in the shade of the big elm, languidly discussing their various wrongs and disappointments. "it's the meanest fourth i ever saw. can't have no crackers, because somebody's horse got scared last year," growled sam kitteridge, bitterly resenting the stern edict which forbade free-born citizens to burn as much gunpowder as they liked on that glorious day. "last year jimmy got his arm blown off when they fired the old cannon. didn't we have a lively time going for the doctors and getting him home?" asked another boy, looking as if he felt defrauded of the most interesting part of the anniversary, because no accident had occurred. "ain't going to be fireworks either, unless somebody's barn burns up. don't i just wish there would," gloomily responded another youth who had so rashly indulged in pyrotechnics on a former occasion that a neighbor's cow had been roasted whole. "i wouldn't give two cents for such a slow old place as this. why, last fourth at this time, i was rumbling though boston streets on top of our big car, all in my best toggery. hot as pepper, but good fun looking in at the upper windows and hearing the women scream when the old thing waggled round and i made believe i was going to tumble off, said ben, leaning on his bat with the air of a man who had seen the world and felt some natural regret at descending from so lofty a sphere. "catch me cuttin' away if i had such a chance as that!" answered sam, trying to balance his bat on his chin and getting a smart rap across the nose as he failed to perform the feat. "much you know about it, old chap. it's hard work, i can tell you, and that wouldn't suit such a lazy-bones. then you are too big to begin, though you might do for a fat boy if smithers wanted one," said ben, surveying the stout youth, with calm contempt. "let's go in swimming, not loaf round here, if we can't play," proposed a red and shiny boy, panting for a game of leap-frog in sandy pond. "may as well; don't see much else to do," sighed sam, rising like a young elephant. the others were about to follow, when a shrill "hi, hi, boys, hold on!" made them turn about to behold billy barton tearing down the street like a runaway colt, waving a long strip of paper as he ran. "now, then, what's the matter?" demanded ben, as the other came up grinning and puffing, but full of great news. "look here, read it! i'm going; come along, the whole of you," panted billy, putting the paper into sam's hand, and surveying the crowd with a face as beaming as a full moon. "look out for the big show," read sam. "van amburgh & co.'s new great golden menagerie, circus and colosseum, will exhibit at berryville, july th, at and precisely. admission cents, children half-price. don't forget day and date. h. frost, manager." while sam read, the other boys had been gloating over the enticing pictures which covered the bill. there was the golden car, filled with noble beings in helmets, all playing on immense trumpets; the twenty-four prancing steeds with manes, tails, and feathered heads tossing in the breeze; the clowns, the tumblers, the strong men, and the riders flying about in the air as if the laws of gravitation no longer existed. but, best of all, was the grand conglomeration of animals where the giraffe appears to stand on the elephant's back, the zebra to be jumping over the seal, the hippopotamus to be lunching off a couple of crocodiles, and lions and tigers to be raining down in all directions with their mouths, wide open and their tails as stiff as that of the famous northumberland house lion. "cricky! wouldn't i like to see that," said little cyrus fay, devoutly hoping that the cage, in which this pleasing spectacle took place, was a very strong one. "you never would, it's only a picture! that, now, is something like," and ben, who had pricked up his ears at the word "circus," laid his finger on a smaller cut of a man hanging by the back of his neck with a child in each hand, two men suspended from his feet, and the third swinging forward to alight on his head. "i 'm going," said sam, with calm decision, for this superb array of unknown pleasures fired his soul and made him forget his weight. "how will you fix it?" asked ben, fingering the bill with a nervous thrill all through his wiry limbs, just as he used to feel it when his father caught him up to dash into the ring. "foot it with billy. it's only four miles, and we've got lots of time, so we can take it easy. mother won't care, if i send word by cy," answered sam, producing half a dollar, as if such magnificent sums were no strangers to his pocket. "come on, brown; you'll be a first-rate fellow to show us round, as you know all the dodges," said billy, anxious to get his money's worth. "well, i don't know," began ben, longing to go, but afraid mrs. moss would say "no!" if he asked leave. "he's afraid," sneered the red-faced boy, who felt bitterly toward all mankind at that instant, because he knew there was no hope of his going. "say that again, and i'll knock your head off," and ben faced round with a gesture which caused the other to skip out of reach precipitately. "hasn't got any money, more likely," observed a shabby youth, whose pockets never had any thing in them but a pair of dirty hands. ben calmly produced a dollar bill and waved it defiantly before this doubter, observing with dignity: "i've got money enough to treat the whole crowd, if i choose to, which i don't." "then come along and have a jolly time with sam and me. we can buy some dinner and get a ride home, as like as not," said the amiable billy, with a slap on the shoulder, and a cordial grin which made it impossible for ben to resist. "what are you stopping for?" demanded sam, ready to be off, that they might "take it easy." "don't know what to do with sancho. he'll get lost or stolen if i take him, and it's too far to carry him home if you are in a hurry," began ben, persuading himself that this was the true reason of his delay. "let cy take him back. he'll do it for a cent; won't you, cy?" proposed billy, smoothing away all objections, for he liked ben, and saw that he wanted to go. "no, i won't; i don't like him. he winks at me, and growls when i touch him," muttered naughty cy, remembering how much reason poor sanch had to distrust his tormentor. "there 's bab; she'll do it. come here, sissy; ben wants you," called sam, beckoning to a small figure just perching on the fence. down it jumped and came fluttering up, much elated at being summoned by the captain of the sacred nine. "i want you to take sanch home, and tell your mother i'm going to walk, and may be won't be back till sundown. miss celia said i might do what i pleased, all day. you remember, now." ben spoke without looking up, and affected to be very busy buckling a strap into sanch's collar, for the two were so seldom parted that the dog always rebelled. it was a mistake on ben's part, for while his eyes were on his work bab's were devouring the bill which sam still held, and her suspicions were aroused by the boys' faces. "where are you going? ma will want to know," she said, as curious as a magpie all at once. "never you mind; girls can't know every thing. you just catch hold of this and run along home. lock sanch up for an hour, and tell your mother i'm all right," answered ben, bound to assert his manly supremacy before his mates. "he's going to the circus," whispered fay, hoping to make mischief. "circus! oh, ben, do take me!" cried bab, falling into a state of great excitement at the mere thought of such delight. "you couldn't walk four miles," began ben. "yes, i could, as easy as not." "you haven't got any money." "you have; i saw you showing your dollar, and you could pay for me, and ma would pay it back." "can't wait for you to get ready." "i'll go as i am. i don't care if it is my old hat," and bab jerked it on to her head. "your mother wouldn't like it." "she won't like your going, either." "she isn't my missis now. miss celia wouldn't care, and i'm going, any way." "do, do take me, ben! i'll be just as good as ever was, and i'll take care of sanch all the way," pleaded bab, clasping her hands and looking round for some sign of relenting in the faces of the boys. "don't you bother; we don't want any girls tagging after us," said sam, walking off to escape the annoyance. "i'll bring you a roll of chickerberry lozengers, if you won't tease," whispered kind-hearted billy, with a consoling pat on the crown of the shabby straw hat. "when the circus comes here you shall go, certain sure, and betty too," said ben, feeling mean while he proposed what he knew was a hollow mockery. "they never do come to such little towns; you said so, and i think you are very cross, and i won't take care of sanch, so, now!" cried bab, getting into a passion, yet ready to cry, she was so disappointed. "i suppose it wouldn't do--" hinted billy, with a look from ben to the little girl, who stood winking hard to keep the tears back. "of course it wouldn't. i'd like to see her walking eight miles. i don't mind paying for her; it's getting her there and back. girls are such a bother when you want to knock round. no, bab, you can't go. travel right home and don't make a fuss. come along, boys; it 's most eleven, and we don't want to walk fast." ben spoke very decidedly; and, taking billy's arm, away they went, leaving poor bab and sanch to watch them out of sight, one sobbing, the other whining dismally. somehow those two figures seemed to go before ben all along the pleasant road, and half spoilt his fun; for though he laughed and talked, cut canes, and seemed as merry as a grig, he could not help feeling that he ought to have asked leave to go, and been kinder to bab. "perhaps mrs. moss would have planned somehow so we could all go, if i'd told her, i'd like to show her round, and she's been real good to me. no use now. i'll take the girls a lot of candy and make it all right." he tried to settle it in that way and trudged gayly off, hoping sancho wouldn't feel hurt at being left, wondering if any of "smithers's lot" would be round, and planning to do the honors handsomely to the boys. it was very warm; and just outside of the town they paused by a wayside watering-trough to wash their dusty faces, and cool off before plunging into the excitements of the afternoon. as they stood refreshing themselves, a baker's cart came jingling by; and sam proposed a hasty lunch while they rested. a supply of gingerbread was soon bought; and, climbing the green bank above, they lay on the grass under a wild cherry-tree, munching luxuriously, while they feasted their eyes at the same time on the splendors awaiting them; for the great tent, with all its flags flying, was visible from the hill. "we'll cut across those fields,--it 's shorter than going by the road,--and then we can look round outside till it's time to go in. i want to have a good go at every thing, especially the lions," said sam, beginning on his last cookie. "i heard 'em roar just now;" and billy stood up to gaze with big eyes at the flapping canvas which hid the king of beasts from his longing sight. "that was a cow mooing. don't you be a donkey, bill. when you hear a real roar, you'll shake in your boots," said ben, holding up his handkerchief to dry, after it had done double duty as towel and napkin. "i wish you'd hurry up, sam. folks are going in now. i see 'em!" and billy pranced with impatience; for this was his first circus, and he firmly believed that he was going to behold all that the pictures promised. "hold on a minute, while i get one more drink. buns are dry fodder," said sam, rolling over to the edge of the bank and preparing to descend with as little trouble as possible. he nearly went down head first, however; for, as he looked before he leaped, he beheld a sight which caused him to stare with all his might for an instant, then turn and beckon, saying in an eager whisper, "look here, boys,--quick!" ben and billy peered over, and both suppressed an astonished "hullo!" for there stood bab, waiting for sancho to lap his fill out of the overflowing trough. such a shabby, tired-looking couple as they were! bab with a face as red as a lobster and streaked with tears, shoes white with dust, playfrock torn at the gathers, something bundled up in her apron, and one shoe down at the heel as if it hurt her. sancho lapped eagerly, with his eyes shut; all his ruffles were gray with dust, and his tail hung wearily down, the tassel at half mast, as if in mourning for the master whom he had come to find. bab still held the strap, intent on keeping her charge safe, though she lost herself; but her courage seemed to be giving out, as she looked anxiously up and down the road, seeing no sign of the three familiar figures she had been following as steadily as a little indian on the war-trail. "oh, sanch, what shall i do if they don't come along? we must have gone by them somewhere, for i don't see any one that way, and there isn't any other road to the circus, seems to me." bab spoke as if the dog could understand and answer; and sancho looked as if he did both, for he stopped drinking, pricked up his cars, and, fixing his sharp eyes on the grass above him, gave a suspicious bark. "it's only squirrels; don't mind, but come along and be good; for i 'm so tired, i don't know what to do!" sighed bab, trying to pull him after her as she trudged on, bound to see the outside of that wonderful tent, even if she never got in. but sancho had heard a soft chirrup; and, with a sudden bound, twitched the strap away, sprang up the bank, and landed directly on ben's back as he lay peeping over. a peal of laughter greeted him; and, having got the better of his master in more ways than one, he made the most of the advantage by playfully worrying him as he kept him down, licking his face in spite of his struggles, burrowing in his neck with a ticklish nose, snapping at his buttons, and yelping joyfully, as if it was the best joke in the world to play hide-and-seek for four long miles. before ben could quiet him, bab came climbing up the bank, with such a funny mixture of fear, fatigue, determination, and relief in her dirty little face, that the boys could not look awful if they tried. "how dared you come after us, miss?" demanded sam, as she looked calmly about her, and took a seat before she was asked. "sanch would come after ben; i couldn't make him go home, so i had to hold on till he was safe here, else he'd be lost, and then ben would feel bad." the cleverness of that excuse tickled the boys immensely; and sam tried again, while ben was getting the dog down and sitting on him. "now you expect to go to the circus, i suppose." "course i do. ben said he didn't mind paying, if i could get there without bothering him, and i have; and i'll go home alone. i ain't afraid. sanch will take care of me, if you won't," answered bab, stoutly. "what do you suppose your mother will say to you?" asked ben, feeling much reproached by her last words. "i guess she'll say you led me into mischief; and the sharp child nodded, as if she defied him to deny the truth of that. "you'll catch it when you get home, ben; so you'd better have a good time while you can," advised sam, thinking bab great fun, since none of the blame of her pranks would fall on him. "what would you have done if you hadn't found us?" asked billy, forgetting his impatience in his admiration for this plucky young lady. "i'd have gone on and seen the circus, and then i'd have gone home again and told betty all about it," was the prompt answer. "but you haven't any money." "oh, i'd ask somebody to pay for me. i 'm so little, it wouldn't be much." "nobody would do it; so you'd have to stay outside, you see." "no, i wouldn't. i thought of that, and planned how i'd fix it if i didn't find ben. i'd make sanch do his tricks, and get a quarter that way; so, now! answered bab, undaunted by any obstacle. "i do believe she would! you are a smart child, bab; and if i had enough i'd take you in myself," said billy, heartily; for, having sisters of his own, he kept a soft place in his heart for girls, especially enterprising ones. "i'll take care of her. it was very naughty to come, bab; but, so long as you did, you needn't worry about any thing. i'll see to you; and you shall have a real good time," said ben, accepting his responsibilities without a murmur, and bound to do the handsome thing by his persistent friend. "i thought you would;" and bab folded her arms, as if she had nothing further to do but enjoy herself. "are you hungry?" asked billy, fishing out several fragments of gingerbread. "starving!" and bab ate them with such a relish that sam added a small contribution; and ben caught some water for her in his hand, where the little spring bubbled up beside a stone. "now, you wash your face and spat down your hair, and put your hat on straight, and then we'll go," commanded ben, giving sanch a roll on the grass to clean him. bab scrubbed her face till it shone; and, pulling down her apron to wipe it, scattered a load of treasures collected in her walk. some of the dead flowers, bits of moss, and green twigs fell near ben, and one attracted his attention,--a spray of broad, smooth leaves, with a bunch of whitish berries on it. "where did you get that?" he asked, poking it with his foot. "in a swampy place, coming along. sanch saw something down there; and i went with him, 'cause i thought may be it was a musk-rat, and you'd like one if we could get him." "was it?" asked the boys all at once, and with intense interest. "no; only a snake, and i don't care for snakes. i picked some of that, it was so green and pretty. thorny likes queer leaves and berries, you know," answered bab, "spatting," down her rough locks. "well, he won't like that, nor you either; it's poisonous, and i shouldn't wonder if you'd got poisoned, bab. don't touch it! swamp-sumach is horrid stuff,--miss celia said so;" and ben looked anxiously at bab, who felt her chubby face all over, and examined her dingy hands with a solemn air, asking, eagerly,-- "will it break out on me 'fore i get to the circus?" "not for a day or so, i guess; but it's bad when it does come." "i don't care, if i see the animals first. come quick, and never mind the old weeds and things," said bab, much relieved; for present bliss was all she had room for now in her happy little heart. chapter xiv somebody gets lost putting all care behind them, the young folks ran down the hill, with a very lively dog gambolling beside them, and took a delightfully tantalizing survey of the external charms of the big tent. but people were beginning to go in, and it was impossible to delay when they came round to the entrance. ben felt that now "his foot was on his native heath," and the superb air of indifference with which he threw down his dollar at the ticket-office, carelessly swept up the change, and strolled into the tent with his hands in his pockets, was so impressive that even big sam repressed his excitement and meekly followed their leader, as he led them from cage to cage, doing the honors as if he owned the whole concern. bab held tight to the flap of his jacket, staring about her with round eyes, and listening with little gasps of astonishment or delight to the roaring of lions, the snarling of tigers, the chatter of the monkeys, the groaning of camels, and the music of the very brass band shut up in a red bin. five elephants were tossing their hay about in the middle of the menagerie, and billy's legs shook under him as he looked up at the big beasts whose long noses and small, sagacious eyes filled him with awe. sam was so tickled by the droll monkeys that the others left him before the cage and went on to see the zebra, "striped just like ma's muslin gown," bab declared. but the next minute she forgot all about him in her raptures over the ponies and their tiny colts; especially one mite of a thing who lay asleep on the hay, such a miniature copy of its little mouse-colored mamma that one could hardly believe it was alive. "oh, ben, i must feel of it!--the cunning baby horse!" and down went bab inside the rope to pat and admire the pretty creature, while its mother smelt suspiciously at the brown hat, and baby lazily opened one eye to see what was going on. "come out of that, it isn't allowed," commanded ben, longing to do the same thing, but mindful of the proprieties and his own dignity. bab reluctantly tore herself away to find consolation in watching the young lions, who looked so like big puppies, and the tigers washing their faces just as puss did. "if i stroked 'em, wouldn't they purr?" she asked, bent on enjoying herself, while ben held her skirts lest she should try the experiment. "you'd better not go to patting them, or you'll get your hands clawed up. tigers do purr like fun when they are happy, but these fellers never are, and you'll only see 'em spit and snarl," said ben, leading the way to the humpy carrels, who were peacefully chewing their cud and longing for the desert, with a dreamy, far-away look in their mournful eyes. here, leaning on the rope, and scientifically biting a straw while he talked, ben played showman to his heart's content till the neigh of a horse from the circus tent beyond reminded him of the joys to come. "we'd better hurry along and get good seats before folks begin to crowd. i want to sit near the curtain and see if any of smitthers's lot are 'round." "i ain't going way off there; you can't see half so well, and that big drum makes such a noise you can't hear yourself think," said sam, who had rejoined them. so they settled in good places where they could see and hear all that went on in the ring and still catch glimpses of white horses, bright colors, and the glitter of helmets beyond the dingy red curtains. ben treated bab to peanuts and pop-corn like an indulgent parent, and she murmured protestations of undying gratitude with her mouth full, as she sat blissfully between him and the congenial billy. sancho, meantime, had been much excited by the familiar sights and sounds, and now was greatly exercised in his doggish mind at the unusual proceeding of his master; for he was sure that they ought to be within there, putting on their costumes, ready to take their turn. he looked anxiously at ben, sniffed disdainfully at the strap as if to remind him that a scarlet ribbon ought to take its place, and poked peanut shells about with his paw as if searching for the letters with which to spell his famous name. "i know, old boy, i know; but it can't be done. we've quit the business and must just look on. no larks for us this time, sanch, so keep quiet and behave,' whispered ben, tucking the dog away under the seat with a sympathetic cuddle of the curly head that peeped out from between his feet. "he wants to go and cut up, don't he?" said billy, "and so do you, i guess. wish you were going to. wouldn't it be fun to see ben showing off in there?" "i'd be afraid to have him go up on a pile of elephants and jump through hoops like these folks," answered bab, poring over her pictured play-bill with unabated relish. "done it a hundred times, and i'd just like to show you what i can do. they don't seem to have any boys in this lot; shouldn't wonder if they'd take me if i asked 'em," said ben, moving uneasily on his seat and casting wistful glances toward the inner tent where he knew he would feel more at home than in his present place. "i heard some men say that it's against the law to have small boys now; it's so dangerous and not good for them, this kind of thing. if that's so, you're done for, ben," observed sam, with his most grown-up air, remembering ben's remarks on "fat boys." "don't believe a word of it, and sanch and i could go this minute and get taken on, i'll bet. we are a valuable couple, and i could prove it if i chose to," began ben, getting excited and boastful. "oh, see, they're coming!--gold carriages and lovely horses, and flags and elephants, and every thing," cried bab, giving a clutch at ben's arm as the opening procession appeared headed by the band, tooting and banging till their faces were as red as their uniforms. round and round they went till every one had seen their fill, then the riders alone were left caracoling about the ring with feathers flying, horses prancing, and performers looking as tired and indifferent as if they would all like to go to sleep then and there. "how splendid!" sighed bab, as they went dashing out, to tumble off almost before the horses stopped. "that's nothing! you wait till you see the bareback riding and the 'acrobatic exercises,'" said ben, quoting from the play-bill, with the air of one who knew all about the feats to come, and could never be surprised any more. "what are 'crowbackic exercises'?" asked billy, thirsting for information. "leaping and climbing and tumbling; you'll see george! what a stunning horse!" and ben forgot every thing else to feast his eyes on the handsome creature who now came pacing in to dance, upset and replace chairs, kneel, bow, and perform many wonderful or graceful feats, ending with a swift gallop while the rider sat in a chair on its back fanning himself, with his legs crossed, as comfortably as you please. "that, now, is something like," and ben's eyes shone with admiration and envy as the pair vanished, and the pink and silver acrobats came leaping into the ring. the boys were especially interested in this part, and well they might be; for strength and agility are manly attributes which lads appreciate, and these lively fellows flew about like india-rubber balls, each trying to outdo the other, till the leader of the acrobats capped the climax by turning a double somersault over five elephants standing side by side. "there, sir, how's that for a jump?" asked ben, rubbing his hands with satisfaction as his friends clapped till their palms tingled. "we'll rig up a spring-board and try it," said billy, fired with emulation. "where'll you get your elephants?" asked sam, scornfully, for gymnastics were not in his line. "you'll do for one," retorted ben, and billy and bab joined in his laugh so heartily that a rough-looking, man who sat behind them, hearing all they said, pronounced them a "jolly set," and kept his eye on sancho, who now showed signs of insubordination. "hullo, that wasn't on the bill!" cried ben, as a parti-colored clown came in, followed by half a dozen dogs. "i'm so glad; now sancho will like it. there's a poodle that might be his ownty donty brother--the one with the blue ribbon," said bab. beaming with delight as the dogs took their seats in the chairs arranged for them. sancho did like it only too well, for be scrambled out from under the seat in a great hurry to go and greet his friends; and, being sharply checked, sat up and begged so piteously that ben found it very hard to refuse and order him down. he subsided for a moment, but when the black spaniel, who acted the canine clown, did something funny and was applauded, sancho made a dart as if bent on leaping into the ring to outdo his rival, and ben was forced to box his ears and put his feet on the poor beast, fearing he would be ordered out if he made any disturbance. too well trained to rebel again, sancho lay meditating on his wrongs till the dog act was over, carefully abstaining from any further sign of interest in their tricks, and only giving a sidelong glance at the two little poodles who came out of a basket to run up and down stairs on their fore-paws, dance jigs on their hind-legs, and play various pretty pranks to the great delight of all the children in the audience. if ever a dog expressed by look and attitude, "pooh! i could do much better than that, and astonish you all, if i were only allowed to," that dog was sancho, as he curled himself up and affected to turn his back on an unappreciative world. "it's too bad, when he knows more than all those chaps put together. i'd give any thing if i could show him off as i used to. folks always like it, and i was ever so proud of him. he's mad now because i had to cuff him, and won't take any notice of me till i make up," said ben, regretfully eying his offended friend, but not daring to beg pardon yet. more riding followed, and bab was kept in a breathless state by the marvellous agility and skill of the gauzy lady who drove four horses at once, leaped through hoops, over banners and bars, sprang off and on at full speed, and seemed to enjoy it all so much it was impossible to believe that there could be any danger or exertion in it. then two girls flew about on the trapeze, and walked on a tight rope, causing bab to feel that she had at last found her sphere; for, young as she was, her mother often said, "i really don't know what this child is fit for, except mischief, like a monkey." "i'll fix the clothes-line when i get home, and show ma how nice it is. then, may be, she'd let me wear red and gold trousers, and climb round like these girls," thought the busy little brain, much excited by all it saw on that memorable day. nothing short of a pyramid of elephants with a glittering gentleman in a turban and top boots on the summit would have made her forget this new and charming plan. but that astonishing spectacle, and the prospect of a cage of bengal tigers with a man among them, in imminent danger of being eaten before her eyes, entirely absorbed her thoughts till, just as the big animals went lumbering out, a peal of thunder caused considerable commotion in the audience. men on the highest seats popped their heads through the openings in the tent-cover and reported that a heavy shower was coming up. anxious mothers began to collect their flocks of children as hens do their chickens at sunset; timid people told cheerful stories of tents blown over in gales, cages upset and wild beasts let loose. many left in haste, and the performers hurried to finish as soon as possible. "i'm going now before the crowd comes, so i can get a lift home. i see two or three folks i know, so i'm off;" and, climbing hastily down, sam vanished without further ceremony. "better wait till the shower is over. we can go and see the animals again, and get home all dry, just as well as not," observed ben, encouragingly, as billy looked anxiously at the billowing canvas over his head, the swaying posts before him, and heard the quick patter of drops outside, not to mention the melancholy roar of the lion which sounded rather awful through the sudden gloom which filled the strange place. "i wouldn't miss the tigers for any thing. see, they are pulling in the cart now, and the shiny man is all ready with his gun. will he shoot any of them, apprehension, for the sharp crack of a rifle startled her more than the loudest thunder-clap she ever heard. "bless you, no, child; it 's only powder to make a noise and scare 'em. i wouldn't like to be in his place, though; father says you can never trust tigers as you can lions, no matter how tame they are. sly fellers, like cats, and when they scratch it's no joke, i tell you," answered ben, with a knowing wag of the head, as the sides of the cage rattled down, and the poor, fierce creatures were seen leaping and snarling as if they resented this display of their captivity. bab curled up her feet and winked fast with excitement as she watched the "shiny man" fondle the great cats, lie down among them, pull open their red mouths, and make them leap over him or crouch at his feet as he snapped the long whip. when he fired the gun and they all fell as if dead, she with difficulty suppressed a small scream and clapped her hands over her ears; but poor billy never minded it a bit, for he was pale and quaking with the fear of "heaven's artillery" thundering overhead, and as a bright flash of lightning seemed to run down the tall tent-poles he hid his eyes and wished with all his heart that he was safe with mother. "afraid of thunder, bill?" asked ben, trying to speak stoutly, while a sense of his own responsibilities began to worry him, for how was bab to be got home in such a pouring rain? "it makes me sick; always did. wish i hadn't come," sighed billy, feeling, all too late, that lemonade and "lozengers" were not the fittest food for man, or a stifling tent the best place to be in on a hot july day, especially in a thunder-storm. "i didn't ask you to come; you asked me; so it isn't my fault," said ben, rather gruffly, as people crowded by without pausing to hear the comic song the clown was singing in spite of the confusion. "oh, i'm so tired," groaned bab, getting up with a long stretch of arms and legs. "you'll be tireder before you get home, i guess. nobody asked you to come, any way;" and ben gazed dolefully round him, wishing he could see a familiar face or find a wiser head than his own to help him out of the scrape he was in. "i said i wouldn't be a bother, and i won't. i'll walk right home this minute. i ain't afraid of thunder, and the rain won't hurt these old clothes. come along," cried bab, bravely, bent on keeping her word, though it looked much harder after the fun was all over than before. "my head aches like fury. don't i wish old jack was here to take me back," said billy, following his companions in misfortune with sudden energy, as a louder peal than before rolled overhead. "you might as well wish for lita and the covered wagon while you are about it, then we could all ride," answered ben, leading the way to the outer tent, where many people were lingering in hopes of fair weather. "why, billy barton, how in the world did you get here?" cried a surprised voice as the crook of a cane caught the boy by the collar and jerked him face to face with a young farmer, who was pushing along, followed by his, wife and two or three children. "oh, uncle eben, i'm so glad you found me! i walked over, and it's raining, and i don't feel well. let me go with you, can't i?" asked billy, casting himself and all his woes upon the strong arm that had laid hold of him. "don't see what your mother was about to let you come so far alone, and you just over scarlet fever. we are as full as ever we can be, but we'll tuck you in somehow," said the pleasant-faced woman, bundling up her baby, and bidding the two little lads "keep close to father." "i didn't come alone. sam got a ride, and can't you tuck ben and bab in too? they ain't very big, either of them," whispered billy, anxious to serve his friends now that he was provided for himself. "can't do it, any way. got to pick up mother at the corner, and that will be all i can carry. it's lifting a little; hurry along, lizzie, and let us get out of this as quick is possible," said uncle eben, impatiently; for going to a circus with a young family is not an easy task, as every one knows who has ever tried it. "ben, i'm real sorry there isn't room for you. i'll tell bab's mother where she is, and may be some one will come for you," said billy, hurriedly, as he tore himself away, feeling rather mean to desert the others, though he could be of no use. "cut away, and don't mind us. i'm all right, and bab must do the best she can," was all ben had time to answer before his comrade was hustled away by the crowd pressing round the entrance with much clashing of umbrellas and scrambling of boys and men, who rather enjoyed the flurry. "no use for us to get knocked about in that scrimmage. we'll wait a minute and then go out easy. it's a regular rouser, and you'll be as wet as a sop before we get home. hope you'll like that?" added ben, looking out at the heavy rain poring down as if it never meant to stop. "don't care a bit," said bab, swinging on one of the ropes with a happy-go-lucky air, for her spirits were not extinguished yet, and she was bound to enjoy this exciting holiday to the very end. "i like circuses so much! i wish i lived here all the time, and slept in a wagon, as you did, and had these dear little colties to play with." "it wouldn't be fun if you didn't have any folks to take care of you," began ben, thoughtfully looking about the familiar place where the men were now feeding the animals, setting their refreshment tables, or lounging on the hay to get such rest as they could before the evening entertainment. suddenly he started, gave a long look, then turned to bab, and thrusting sancho's strap into her hand, said, hastily: "i see a fellow i used to know. may be he can tell me something about father. don't you stir till i come back." then he was off like a shot, and bab saw him run after a man with a bucket who bad been watering the zebra. sancho tried to follow, but was checked with an impatient,-- "no, you can't go! what a plague you are, tagging around when people don't want you." sancho might have answered, "so are you," but, being a gentlemanly dog, he sat down with a resigned expression to watch the little colts, who were now awake and seemed ready for a game of bo-peep behind their mammas. bab enjoyed their funny little frisks so much that she tied the wearisome strap to a post, and crept under the rope to pet the tiny mouse-colored one who came and talked to her with baby whinnies and confiding glances of its soft, dark eyes. "oh, luckless bab! why did you turn your back? oh, too accomplished sancho! why did you neatly untie that knot and trot away to confer with the disreputable bull-dog who stood in the entrance beckoning with friendly wavings of an abbreviated tail? oh, much afflicted ben! why did you delay till it was too late to save your pet from the rough man who set his foot upon the trailing strap, and led poor sanch quickly out of sight among the crowd? "it was bascum, but he didn't know any thing. why, where's sanch?" said ben, returning. a breathless voice made bab turn to see ben looking about him with as much alarm in his hot face as if the dog had been a two years' child. "i tied him--he's here somewhere--with the ponies," stammered bab, in sudden dismay, for no sign of a dog appeared as her eyes roved wildly to and fro. ben whistled, called and searched in vain, till one of the lounging men said, lazily, "if you are looking after the big poodle you'd better go outside; i saw him trotting off with another dog." away rushed ben, with bab following, regardless of the rain, for both felt that a great misfortune had befallen them. but, long before this, sancho had vanished, and no one minded his indignant howls as he was driven off in a covered cart. "if he is lost i'll never forgive you; never, never, never!" and ben found it impossible to resist giving bab several hard shakes, which made her yellow braids fly up and down like pump handles. "i'm dreadful sorry. he'll come back--you said he always did," pleaded bab, quite crushed by her own afflictions, and rather scared to see ben look so fierce, for he seldom lost his temper or was rough with the little girls. "if he doesn't come back, don't you speak to me for a year. now, i'm going home." and, feeling that words were powerless to express his emotions, ben walked away, looking as grim as a small boy could. a more unhappy little lass is seldom to be found than bab was, as she pattered after him, splashing recklessly through the puddles, and getting as wet and muddy as possible, as a sort of penance for her sins. for a mile or two she trudged stoutly along, while ben marched before in solemn silence, which soon became both impressive and oppressive because so unusual, and such a proof of his deep displeasure. penitent bab longed for just one word, one sign of relenting; and when none came, she began to wonder how she could possibly bear it if he kept his dreadful threat and did not speak to her for a whole year. but presently her own discomfort absorbed her, for her feet were wet and cold as well as very tired; pop-corn and peanuts were not particularly nourishing food; and hunger made her feel faint; excitement was a new thing, and now that it was over she longed to lie down and go to sleep; then the long walk with a circus at the end seemed a very different affair from the homeward trip with a distracted mother awaiting her. the shower had subsided into a dreary drizzle, a chilly east wind blew up, the hilly road seemed to lengthen before the weary feet, and the mute, blue flannel figure going on so fast with never a look or sound, added the last touch to bab's remorseful anguish. wagons passed, but all were full, and no one offered a ride. men and boys went by with rough jokes on the forlorn pair, for rain soon made them look like young tramps. but there was no brave sancho to resent the impertinence, and this fact was sadly brought to both their minds by the appearance of a great newfoundland dog who came trotting after a carriage. the good creature stopped to say a friendly word in his dumb fashion, looking up at bab with benevolent eyes, and poking his nose into ben's hand before he bounded away with his plumy tail curled over his back. ben started as the cold nose touched his fingers, gave the soft head a lingering pat, and watched the dog out of sight through a thicker mist than any the rain made. but bab broke down; for the wistful look of the creature's eyes reminded her of lost sancho, and she sobbed quietly as she glanced back longing to see the dear old fellow jogging along in the rear. ben heard the piteous sound and took a sly peep over his shoulder, seeing such a mournful spectacle that he felt appeased, saying to himself as if to excuse his late sternness,-- "she is a naughty girl, but i guess she is about sorry enough now. when we get to that sign-post i'll speak to her, only i won't forgive her till sanch comes back." but he was better than his word; for, just before the post was reached, bab, blinded by tears, tripped over the root of a tree, and, rolling down the bank, landed in a bed of wet nettles. ben had her out in a jiffy, and vainly tried to comfort her; but she was past any consolation he could offer, and roared dismally as she wrung her tingling hands, with great drops running over her cheeks almost as fast as the muddy little rills ran down the road. "oh dear, oh dear! i'm all stinged up, and i want my supper; and my feet ache, and i'm cold, and every thing is so horrid!" wailed the poor child lying on the grass, such a miserable little wet bunch that the sternest parent would have melted at the sight. "don't cry so, babby; i was real cross, and i'm sorry. i'll forgive you right away now, and never shake you any more," cried ben, so full of pity for her tribulations that he forgot his own, like a generous little man. "shake me again, if you want to; i know i was very bad to tag and lose sanch. i never will any more, and i'm so sorry, i don't know what to do," answered bab, completely bowed down by this magnanimity. "never mind; you just wipe up your face and come along, and we'll tell ma all about it, and she'll fix us as nice as can be. i shouldn't wonder if sanch got home now before we did," said ben, cheering himself as well as her by the fond hope. "i don't believe i ever shall. i'm so tired my legs won't go, and the water in my boots makes them feel dreadfully. i wish that boy would wheel me a piece. don't you s'pose he would? asked bab, wearily picking herself up as a tall lad trundling a barrow came out of a yard near by. "hullo, joslyn!" said ben, recognizing the boy as one of the "hill fellows" who came to town saturday nights for play or business. "hullo, brown!" responded the other, arresting his squeaking progress with signs of surprise at the moist tableau before him. "where goin'?" asked ben with masculine brevity. "got to carry this home, hang the old thing." "where to?" "batchelor's, down yonder," and the boy pointed to a farm-house at the foot of the next hill. "goin' that way, take it right along." "what for?" questioned the prudent youth, distrusting such unusual neighborliness. "she's tired, wants a ride; i'll leave it all right, true as i live and breathe," explained ben, half ashamed yet anxious to get his little responsibility home as soon as possible, for mishaps seemed to thicken. "ho, you couldn't cart her all that way! she's most as heavy as a bag of meal," jeered the taller lad, amused at the proposition. "i'm stronger than most fellers of my size. try, if i ain't," and ben squared off in such scientific style that joslyn responded with sudden amiability,-- "all right, let's see you do it." bab huddled into her new equipage without the least fear, and ben trundled her off at a good pace, while the boy retired to the shelter of a barn to watch their progress, glad to be rid of an irksome errand. at first, all went well, for the way was down hill, and the wheel squeaked briskly round and round; bab smiled gratefully upon her bearer, and ben "went in on his muscle with a will," as he expressed it. but presently the road grew sandy, began to ascend, and the load seemed to grow heavier with every step. "i'll get out now. it's real nice, but i guess i am too heavy," said bab, as the face before her got redder and redder, and the breath began to come in puffs. "sit still. he said i couldn't. i'm not going to give in with him looking on," panted ben, and he pushed gallantly up the rise, over the grassy lawn to the side gate of the batchelors' door-yard, with his head down, teeth set, and every muscle of his slender body braced to the task. "did ever ye see the like of that now? ah, ha! "the streets were so wide, and the lanes were so narry, he brought his wife home on a little wheelbarry," sung a voice with an accent which made ben drop his load and push back his hat, to see pat's red head looking over the fence. to have his enemy behold him then and there was the last bitter drop in poor ben's cup of humiliation. a shrill approving whistle from the hill was some comfort, however, and gave him spirit to help bab out with composure, though his hands were blistered and he had hardly breath enough to issue the command,-- "go along home, and don't mind him." "nice childer, ye are, runnin' off this way, settin' the women distracted, and me wastin' me time comin' after ye when i'd be milkin' airly so i'd get a bit of pleasure the day," grumbled pat, coming up to untie the duke, whose roman nose ben had already recognized, as well as the roomy chaise standing before the door. "did billy tell you about us?" asked bab, gladly following toward this welcome refuge. "faith he did, and the squire sent me to fetch ye home quiet and aisy. when ye found me, i'd jist stopped here to borry a light for me pipe. up wid ye, b'y, and not be wastin' me time stramashin' after a spalpeen that i'd like to lay me whip over," said pat, gruffly, as ben came along, having left the barrow in the shed. "don't you wish you could? you needn't wait for me; i'll come when i'm ready," answered ben dodging round the chaise, bound not to mind pat, if he spent the night by the road-side in consequence. "bedad, and i won't then. it's lively ye are; but four legs is better than two, as ye'll find this night, me young man." with that he whipped up and was off before bab could say a word to persuade ben to humble himself for the sake of a ride. she lamented and pat chuckled, both forgetting what an agile monkey the boy was, and as neither looked back, they were unaware master ben was hanging on behind among the straps and springs, making derisive grimaces at his unconscious foe through the little glass in the leathern back. at the lodge gate ben jumped down to run before with whoops of naughty satisfaction, which brought the anxious waiters to the door in a flock; so pat could only shake his fist at the exulting little rascal as he drove away, leaving the wanderers to be welcomed as warmly as if they were a pair of model children. mrs. moss had not been very much troubled after all; for cy had told her that bab went after ben, and billy had lately reported her safe arrival among them, so, mother-like, she fed, dried, and warmed the runaways, before she scolded them. even then, the lecture was a mild one, for when they tried to tell the adventures which to them seemed so exciting, not to say tragical, the effect astonished them immensely, as their audience went into gales of laughter, especially at the wheelbarrow episode, which bab insisted on telling, with grateful minuteness, to ben's confusion. thorny shouted, and even tender-hearted betty forgot her tears over the lost dog to join in the familiar melody when bab mimicked pat's quotation from mother goose. "we must not laugh any more, or these naughty children will think they have done something very clever in running away," said miss celia, when the fun subsided, adding, soberly, "i am displeased, but i will say nothing, for i think ben is already punished enough." "guess i am," muttered ben, with a choke in his voice as he glanced toward the empty mat where a dear curly bunch used to be with a bright eye twinkling out of the middle of it. chapter xv ben's ride great was the mourning for sancho, because his talents and virtues made him universally admired and beloved. miss celia advertised, thorny offered rewards, and even surly pat kept a sharp look-out for poodle dogs when he went to market; but no sancho or any trace of him appeared. ben was inconsolable, and sternly said it served bab right when the dogwood poison affected both face and hands. poor bab thought so, too, and dared ask no sympathy from him, though thorny eagerly prescribed plantain leaves, and betty kept her supplied with an endless succession of them steeped in cream and pitying tears. this treatment was so successful that the patient soon took her place in society as well as ever, but for ben's affliction there was no cure, and the boy really suffered in his spirits. "i don't think it's fair that i should have so much trouble,--first losing father and then sanch. if it wasn't for lita and miss celia, i don't believe i could stand it," he said, one day, in a fit of despair, about a week after the sad event. "oh, come now, don't give up so, old fellow. we'll find him if he s alive, and if he isn't i'll try and get you another as good," answered thorny, with a friendly slap on the shoulder, as ben sat disconsolately among the beans he had been hoeing. "as if there ever could be another half as good!" cried ben, indignant at the idea; "or as if i'd ever try to fill his place with the best and biggest dog that ever wagged a tail! no, sir, there's only one sanch in all the world, and if i can't have him i'll never have a dog again." "try some other sort of pet, then. you may have any of mine you like. have the peacocks; do now," urged thorny, full of boyish sympathy and good-will. "they are dreadful pretty, but i don't seem to care about em, thank you," replied the mourner. "have the rabbits, all of them," which was a handsome offer on thorny's part, for there were a dozen at least. "they don't love a fellow as a dog does; all they care for is stuff to eat and dirt to burrow in. i'm sick of rabbits." and well he might be, for he had had the charge of them ever since they came, and any boy who has ever kept bunnies knows what a care they are. "so am i! guess we'll have an auction and sell out. would jack be a comfort to you? if he will, you may have him. i'm so well now, i can walk, or ride anything," added thorny, in a burst of generosity. "jack couldn't be with me always, as sanch was, and i couldn't keep him if i had him." ben tried to be grateful, but nothing short of lita would have healed his wounded heart, and she was not thorny's to give, or he would probably have offered her to his afflicted friend. "well, no, you couldn't take jack to bed with you, or keep him up in your room, and i'm afraid he would never learn to do any thing clever. i do wish i had something you wanted, i'd so love to give it to you." he spoke so heartily and was so kind that ben looked up, feeling that he had given him one of the sweetest things in the world--friendship; he wanted to tell him so, but did not know how to do it, so caught up his hoe and fell to work, saying, in a tone thorny understood better than words,-- "you are real good to me-never mind, i won't worry about it; only it seems extra hard coming so soon after the other--" he stopped there, and a bright drop fell on the bean leaves, to shine like dew till ben saw clearly enough to bury it out of sight in a great flurry. "by jove! i'll find that dog, if he is out of the ground. keep your spirits up, my lad, and we'll have the dear old fellow back yet." with which cheering prophecy thorny went off to rack his brains as to what could be done about the matter. half an hour afterward, the sound of a hand-organ in the avenue roused him from the brown study into which he had fallen as he lay on the newly mown grass of the lawn. peeping over the wall, thorny reconnoitred, and, finding the organ a good one, the man a pleasant-faced italian, and the monkey a lively animal, he ordered them all in, as a delicate attention to ben, for music and monkey together might suggest soothing memories of the past, and so be a comfort. in they came by way of the lodge, escorted by bab and betty, full of glee, for hand-organs were rare in those parts, and the children delighted in them. smiling till his white teeth shone and his black eyes sparkled, the man played away while the monkey made his pathetic little bows, and picked up the pennies thorny threw him. "it is warm, and you look tired. sit down and i'll get you some dinner," said the young master, pointing to the seat which now stood near the great gate. with thanks in broken english the man gladly obeyed, and ben begged to be allowed to make jacko equally comfortable, explaining that he knew all about monkeys and what they liked. so the poor thing was freed from his cocked hat and uniform, fed with bread and milk, and allowed to curl himself up in the cool grass for a nap, looking so like a tired littie old man in a fur coat that the children were never weary of watching him. meantime, miss celia had come out, and was talking italian to giacomo in a way that delighted his homesick heart. she had been to naples, and could understand his longing for the lovely city of his birth, so they had a little chat in the language which is all music, and the good fellow was so grateful that he played for the children to dance till they were glad to stop, lingering afterward as if he hated to set out again upon his lonely, dusty walk. "i'd rather like to tramp round with him for a week or so. could make enough to live on as easy as not, if i only i had sanch to show off," said ben, as he was coaxing jacko into the suit which he detested. "you go wid me, yes?" asked the man, nodding and smiling, well pleased at the prospect of company, for his quick eye and what the boys let fall in their talk showed him that ben was not one of them. "if i had my dog i'd love to," and with sad eagerness ben told the tale of his loss, for the thought of it was never long out of his mind. "i tink i see droll dog like he, way off in new york. he do leetle trick wid letter, and dance, and go on he head, and many tings to make laugh," said the man, when he had listened to a list of sanch's beauties and accomplishments. "who had him?" asked thorny, full of interest at once. "a man i not know. cross fellow what beat him when he do letters bad." "did he spell his name?" cried ben, breathlessly. "no; that for why man beat him. he name generale, and he go spell sancho all times, and cry when whip fall on him. ha! yes! that name true one; not generale?" and the man nodded, waved his hands, and showed his teeth, almost as much excited as the boys. "it's sanch! let's go and get him now, right off! cried ben, in a fever to be gone. "a hundred miles away, and no clue but this man's story? we must wait a little, ben, and be sure before we set out," said miss celia, ready to do almost any thing, but not so certain as the boys. "what sort of a dog was it? a large, curly, white poodle, with a queer tail?" she asked of giacomo. "no, signorina mia, he no curly, no wite; he black, smooth dog, littel tail, small, so;" and the man held up one brown finger with a gesture which suggested a short, wagging tail. "there, you see how mistaken we were. dogs are often named sancho, especially spanish poodles; for the original sancho was a spaniard, you know. this dog is not ours, and i'm so sorry." the boys' faces had fallen dismally as their hope was destroyed; but ben would not give up. for him there was and could be only one sancho in the world, and his quick wits suggested an explanation which no one else thought of. "it may be my dog,--they color 'em as we used to paint over trick horses. i told you he was a valuable chap, and those that stole him hide him that way, else he'd be no use, don't you see? because we'd know him." "but the black dog had no tail," began thorny, longing to be convinced, but still doubtful. ben shivered as if the mere thought hurt him, as he said, in a grim tone,-- "they might have cut sanch's off." "oh, no! no! they mustn't,--they wouldn't! how could any one be so wicked?" cried bab and betty, horrified at the suggestion. "you don't know what such fellows would do to make all safe, so they could use a dog to earn their living for 'em," said ben, with mysterious significance, quite forgetting in his wrath that he had just proposed to get his own living in that way himself. "he no your dog? sorry i not find him for you. addio, signorina! grazia, signor! buon giorno, buon giorno!" and, kissing his hand, the italian shouldered organ and monkey, ready to go. miss celia detained him long enough to give him her address, and beg him to let her know if he met poor sanch in any of his wanderings; for such itinerant showmen often cross each other's paths. ben and thorny walked to the school-corner with him, getting more exact information about the black dog and his owner, for they had no intention of giving it up so soon. that very evening, thorny wrote to a boy cousin in new york, giving all the particulars of the case, and begging him to hunt up the man, investigate the dog, and see that the police made sure that every thing was right. much relieved by this performance, the boys waited anxiously for a reply, and when it came found little comfort in it. cousin horace had done his duty like a man, but regretted that he could only report a failure. the owner of the black poodle was a suspicious character, but told a straight story, how he had bought the dog from a stranger, and exhibited him with success till he was stolen. knew nothing of his history, and was very sorry to lose him, for he was a remarkably clever beast. "i told my dog-man to look about for him, but he says he has probably been killed, with ever so many more; so there is an end of it, and i call it a mean shame." "good for horace! i told you he'd do it up thoroughly and see the end of it," said thorny, as he read that paragraph in the deeply interesting letter. "may be the end of that dog, but not of mine. i'll bet he ran away; and if it was sanch, he'll come home. you see if he doesn't!" cried ben, refusing to believe that all was over. "a hundred wiles off? oh, he couldn't find you without help, smart as he is," answered thorny, incredulously. ben looked discouraged, but miss celia cheered him up again by saying,-- "yes, he could. my father had a friend who left a little dog in paris; and the creature found her in milan, and died of fatigue next day. that was very wonderful, but true; and i've no doubt that if sanch is alive he will come home. let us hope so, and be happy, while we wait." "we will!" said the boys; and day after day looked for the wanderer's return, kept a bone ready in the old place if he should arrive at night, and shook his mat to keep it soft for his weary bones when he came. but weeks passed, and still no sanch. something else happened, however, so absorbing that he was almost forgotten for a time; and ben found a way to repay a part of all he owed his best friend. miss celia went off for a ride one afternoon, and an hour afterward, as ben sat in the porch reading, lita dashed into the yard with the reins dangling about her legs, the saddle turned round, and one side covered with black mud, showing that she had been down. for a minute, ben's heart stood still; then he flung away his book, ran to the horse, and saw at once by her heaving flanks, dilated nostrils, and wet coat, that she must have come a long way and at full speed. "she has had a fall, but isn't hurt or frightened," thought the boy, as the pretty creature rubbed her nose against his shoulder, pawed the ground, and champed her bit, as if she tried to tell him all about the disaster, whatever it was. "lita, where's miss celia?" he asked, looking straight into the intelligent eyes, which were troubled but not wild. lita threw up her head, and neighed loud and clear, as if she called her mistress; and, turning, would have gone again if ben had not caught the reins and held her. "all right, we'll find her;" and, pulling off the broken saddle, kicking away his shoes, and ramming his hat firmly on, ben was up like a flash, tingling all over with a sense of power as he felt the bare back between his knees, and caught the roll of lita's eye as she looked round with an air of satisfaction. "hi, there! mrs. moss! something has happened to miss celia, and i'm going to find her. thorny is asleep; tell him easy, and i'll come back as soon as i can!" then, giving lita her head, he was off before the startled woman had time to do more than wring her hands and cry out,-- "go for the squire! oh, what shall we do?" as if she knew exactly what was wanted of her, lita went back the way she had come, as ben could see by the fresh, irregular tracks that cut up the road where she had galloped for help. for a mile or more they went, then she paused at a pair of bars, which were let down to allow the carts to pass into the wide hay-fields beyond. on she went again, cantering across the new-mown turf toward a brook, across which she had evidently taken a leap before; for, on the further side, at a place where cattle went to drink, the mud showed signs of a fall. "you were a fool to try there; but where is miss celia?" said ben, who talked to animals as if they were people, and was understood much better than any one not used to their companionship would imagine. now lita seemed at a loss, and put her head down, as if she expected to find her mistress where she had left her, somewhere on the ground. ben called, but there was no answer; and he rode slowly along the brook-side, looking far and wide with anxious eyes. "may be she wasn't hurt, and has gone to that house to wait," thought the boy, pausing for a last survey of the great, sunny field, which had no place of shelter in it but one rock on the other side of the little stream. as his eye wandered over it, something dark seemed to blow out from behind it, as if the wind played in the folds of a shirt, or a human limb moved. away went lita, and in a moment ben had found miss celia, lying in the shadow of the rock, so white and motionless, he feared that she was dead. he leaped down, touched her, spoke to her; and, receiving no answer, rushed away to bring a little water in his leaky hat to sprinkle in her face, as he had seen them do when any of the riders got a fall in the circus, or fainted from exhaustion after they left the ring, where "do or die" was the motto all adopted. in a minute, the blue eyes opened, and she recognized the anxious face bending over her, saying faintly, as she touched it,-- "my good little ben, i knew you'd find me,--i sent lita for you,-- i'm so hurt, i couldn't come." "oh, where? what shall i do? had i better run up to the house?" asked ben, overjoyed to hear her speak, but much dismayed by her seeming helplessness, for he had seen bad falls, and had them, too. "i feel bruised all over, and my arm is broken, i'm afraid. lita tried not to hurt me. she slipped, and we went down. i came here into the shade, and the pain made me faint, i suppose. call somebody, and get me home." then she shut her eyes, and looked so white that ben hurried away, and burst upon old mrs. paine, placidly knitting at the end door, so suddenly that, as she afterward said, "it sca't her like a clap o' thunder." "ain't a man nowheres around. all down in the big medder gettin' in hay," was her reply to ben's breathless demand for "everybody to come and see to miss celia." he turned to mount, for he had flung himself off before lita stopped, but the old lady caught his jacket, and asked half a dozen questions in a breath. "who's your folks? what's broke? how'd she fall? where is she? why didn't she come right here? is it a sunstroke?" as fast as words could tumble out of his mouth, ben answered, and then tried to free himself; but the old lady held on, while she gave her directions, expressed her sympathy, and offered her hospitality with incoherent warmth. "sakes alive! poor dear! fetch her right in. liddy, get out the camphire; and, melissy, you haul down a bed to lay her on. falls is dretful uncert'in things; shouldn't wonder if her back was broke. father's down yender, and he and bijah will see to her. you go call 'em, and i'll blow the horn to start 'em up. tell her we'd be pleased to see her, and it won't make a mite of trouble." ben heard no more, fur as mrs. paine turned to take down the tin horn he was up and away. several long and dismal toots sent lita galloping through the grassy path as the sound of the trumpet excites a war-horse, and "father and bijah," alarmed by the signal at that hour, leaned on their rakes to survey with wonder the distracted-looking little horseman approaching like a whirlwind. "guess likely grandpa's had 'nother stroke. told 'em to send over soon 's ever it come," said the farmer, calmly. "shouldn't wonder ef suthing was afire some'r's," conjectured the hired man, surveying the horizon for a cloud of smoke. instead of advancing to meet the messenger, both stood like statues in blue overalls and red flannel shirts, till the boy arrived and told his tale. "sho, that's bad," said the farmer, anxiously. "that brook always was the darndest place," added bijah; then both men bestirred themselves helpfully, the former hurrying to miss cella while the latter brought up the cart and made a bed of hay to lay her on. "now then, boy, you go for the doctor. my own folks will see to the lady, and she'd better keep quiet up yender till we see what the matter is," said the farmer, when the pale girl was lifted in as carefully as four strong arms could do it. "hold on," he added, as ben made one leap to lita's back. "you'll have to go to berryville. dr. mills is a master hand for broken bones and old dr. babcock ain't. 'tisn't but about three miles from here to his house, and you'll fetch him 'fore there's any harm done waitin'." "don't kill lita," called miss celia from the cart, as it began to move. but ben did not hear her, for he was off across the fields, riding as if life and death depended upon his speed. "that boy will break his neck," said mr. paine, standing still to watch horse and rider go over the wall as if bent on instant destruction. "no fear for ben, he can ride any thing, and lita was trained to leap," answered miss celia, falling back on the hay with a groan, for she had involuntarily raised her head to see her little squire dash away in gallant style. "i should hope so; regular jockey, that boy. never see any thing like it out of a race-ground," and farmer paine strode on, still following with his eye the figures that went thundering over the bridge, up the hill, out of sight, leaving a cloud of cloud of dust behind. now that his mistress was safe, ben enjoyed that wild ride mightily, and so did the bay mare; for lita had good blood in her, and proved it that day by doing her three miles in a wonderfully short time. people jogging along in wagons and country carry-alls stared amazed as the reckless pair went by. women, placidly doing their afternoon sewing at the front windows, dropped their needles to run out with exclamations of alarm, sure some one was being run away with; children playing by the roadside scattered like chickens before a hawk, as ben passed with a warning whoop, and baby-carriages were scrambled into door-yards with perilous rapidity at his approach. but when he clattered into town, intense interest was felt in this barefooted boy on the foaming steed, and a dozen voices asked, "who's killed?" as he pulled up at the doctor's gate. "jest drove off that way; mrs. flynn's baby's in a fit," cried a stout lady from the piazza, never ceasing to rock, though several passers-by paused to hear the news, for she was a doctor's wife, and used to the arrival of excited messengers from all quarters at all hours of the day and night. deigning no reply to any one, ben rode away, wishing he could leap a yawning gulf, scale a precipice, or ford a raging torrent, to prove his devotion to miss celia, and his skill in horsemanship. but no dangers beset his path, and he found the doctor pausing to water his tired horse at the very trough where bab and sancho had been discovered on that ever-memorable day. the story was quickly told, and, promising to be there as soon as possible, dr. mills drove on to relieve baby flynn's inner man, a little disturbed by a bit of soap and several buttons, upon which he had privately lunched while his mamma was busy at the wash-tub. ben thanked his stars, as he had already done more than once, that he knew how to take care of a horse; for he delayed by the watering-place long enough to wash out lita's mouth with a handful of wet grass, to let her have one swallow to clear her dusty throat, and then went slowly back over the breezy hills, patting and praising the good creature for her intelligence and speed. she knew well enough that she had been a clever little mare, and tossed her head, arched her glossy neck, and ambled daintily along, as conscious and coquettish as a pretty woman, looking round at her admiring rider to return his compliments by glance of affection, and caressing sniffs of a velvet nose at his bare feet. miss celia had been laid comfortably in bed by the farmer's wife and daughter; and, when the doctor arrived, bore the setting of her arm bravely. no other serious damage appeared, and bruises soon heal, so ben was sent home to comfort thorny with a good report, and ask the squire to drive up in his big carry-all for her the next day, if she was able to be moved. mrs. moss had been wise enough to say nothing, but quietly made what preparations she could, and waited for tidings. bab and betty were away berrying, so no one had alarmed thorny, and he had his afternoon nap in peace,--an unusually long one, owing to the stillness which prevailed in the absence of the children; and when he awoke he lay reading for a while before he began to wonder where every one was. lounging out to see, he found ben and lita reposing side by side on the fresh straw in the loose box, which had been made for her in the coach-house. by the pails, sponges and curry-combs lying about, it was evident that she had been refreshed by a careful washing and rubbing down, and my lady was now luxuriously resting after her labors, with her devoted groom half asleep close by. "well, of all queer boys you are the queerest, to spend this hot afternoon fussing over lita, just for the fun of it!" cried thorny, looking in at them with much amusement. "if you knew what we'd been doing, you'd think i ought to fuss over her, and both of us had a right to rest!" answered ben, rousing up as bright as a button; for he longed to tell his thrilling tale, and had with difficulty been restrained from bursting in on thorny as soon as he arrived. he made short work of the story, but was quite satisfied with the sensation it produced; for his listener was startled, relieved, excited and charmed, in such rapid succession, that he was obliged to sit upon the meal-chest and get his breath before he could exclaim, with an emphatic demonstration of his heels against the bin,-- "ben brown, i'll never forget what you've done for celia this day, or say 'bow-legs' again as long as i live." "george! i felt as if i had six legs when we were going the pace. we were all one piece, and had a jolly spin, didn't we, my beauty?" and ben chuckled as he took lita's head in his lap, while she answered with a gusty sigh that nearly blew him away. "like the fellow that brought the good news from ghent to aix," said thorny, surveying the recumbent pair with great admiration. "what follow?" asked ben, wondering if he didn't mean sheridan, of whose ride he had heard. "don't you know that piece? i spoke it at school. give it to you now; see if it isn't a rouser." and, glad to find a vent from his excitement, thorny mounted the meal-chest, to thunder out that stirring ballad with such spirit that lita pricked up her ears and ben gave a shrill "hooray!" as the last verse ended. "and all i remember is friends flocking round, as i sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, and no voice but was praising this roland of mine, as i poured down his throat our last measure of wine, which (the burgesses voted by common consent) was no more than his due who brought good news from ghent." chapter xvi detective thornton a few days later, miss celia was able to go about with her arm in a sling, pale still, and rather stiff, but so much better than any one expected, that all agreed mr. paine was right in pronouncing dr. mills "a master hand with broken bones." two devoted little maids waited on her, two eager pages stood ready to run her errands, and friendly neighbors sent in delicacies enough to keep these four young persons busily employed in disposing of them. every afternoon the great bamboo lounging chair was brought out and the interesting invalid conducted to it by stout randa, who was head nurse, and followed by a train of shawl, cushion, foot-stool and book bearers, who buzzed about like swarming bees round a new queen. when all were settled, the little maids sewed and the pages read aloud, with much conversation by the way; for one of the rules was, that all should listen attentively, and if any one did not understand what was read, he or she should ask to have it explained on the spot. whoever could answer was invited to do so, and at the end of the reading miss celia could ask any she liked, or add any explanations which seemed necessary. in this way much pleasure and profit was extracted from the tales ben and thorny read, and much unexpected knowledge as well as ignorance displayed, not to mention piles of neatly hemmed towels for which bab and betty were paid like regular sewing-women. so vacation was not all play, and the girls found their picnics, berry parties, and "goin' a visitin'," all the more agreeable for the quiet hour spent with miss celia. thorny had improved wonderfully, and was getting to be quite energetic, especially since his sister's accident; for while she was laid up he was the head of the house, and much enjoyed his promotion. but ben did not seem to flourish as he had done at first. the loss of sancho preyed upon him sadly, and the longing to go and find his dog grew into such a strong temptation that he could hardly resist it. he said little about it; but now, and then a word escaped him which might have enlightened any one who chanced to be watching him. no one was, just then, so he brooded over this fancy, day by day, in silence and solitude, for there was no riding and driving now. thorny was busy with his sister trying to show her that he remembered how good she had been to him when he was ill, and the little girls had their own affairs. miss celia was the first to observe the change, having nothing to do but lie on the sofa and amuse herself by seeing others work or play. ben was bright enough at the readings, because then he forgot his troubles; but when they were over and his various duties done, he went to his own room or sought consolation with lita, being sober and quiet, and quite unlike the merry monkey all knew and liked so well. "thorny, what is the matter with ben?" asked miss celia, one day, when she and her brother were alone in the "green parlor," as they called the lilac-tree walk. "fretting about sanch, i suppose. i declare i wish that dog had never been born! losing him has just spoilt ben. not a bit of fun left in him, and he won't have any thing i offer to cheer him up." thorny spoke impatiently, and knit his brows over the pressed flowers he was neatly gumming into his herbal. "i wonder if he has any thing on his mind? he acts as if he was hiding a trouble he didn't dare to tell. have you talked with him about it?" asked miss celia, looking as if she was hiding a trouble she did not like to tell. "oh, yes, i poke him up now and then, but he gets peppery, so i let him alone. may be he is longing for his old circus again. shouldn't blame him much if he was; it isn't very lively here, and he's used to excitement, you know." "i hope it isn't that. do you think he would slip away without telling us, and go back to the old life again? don't believe he would. ben isn't a bit of a sneak; that's why i like him." "have you ever found him sly or untrue in any way?" asked miss celia, lowering her voice. "no; he's as fair and square a fellow as i ever saw. little bit low, now and then, but he doesn't mean it, and wants to be a gentleman, only he never lived with one before, and it's all new to him. i'll get him polished up after a while." "oh, thorny, there are three peacocks on the place, and you are the finest!" laughed miss celia, as her brother spoke in his most condescending way with a lift of the eyebrows very droll to see. "and two donkeys, and ben's the biggest, not to know when he is well off and happy!" retorted the "gentleman," slapping a dried specimen on the page as if he were pounding discontented ben. "come here and let me tell you something which worries me. i would not breathe it to another soul, but i feel rather helpless, and i dare say you can manage the matter better than i." looking much mystified, thorny went and sat on the stool at his sister's feet, while she whispered confidentially in his ear: "i've lost some money out of my drawer, and i'm so afraid ben took it." "but it's always locked up and you keep the keys of the drawer and the little room?" "it is gone, nevertheless, and i've had my keys safe all the time." "but why think it is he any more than randa, or katy, or me?" "because i trust you three as i do myself. i've known the girls for years, and you have no object in taking it since all i have is yours, dear." "and all mine is yours, of course. but, celia, how could he do it? he can't pick locks, i know, for we fussed over my desk together, and had to break it after all." "i never really thought it possible till to-day when you were playing ball and it went in at the upper window, and ben climbed up the porch after it; you remember you said, 'if it had gone in at the garret gable you couldn't have done that so well;' and he answered, 'yes, i could, there isn't a spout i can't shin up, or a bit of this roof i haven't been over.'" "so he did; but there is no spout near the little room window." "there is a tree, and such an agile boy as ben could swing in and out easily. now, thorny, i hate to think this of him, but it has happened twice, and for his own sake i must stop it. if he is planning to run away, money is a good thing to have. and he may feel that it is his own; for you know he asked me to put his wages in the bank, and i did. he may not like to come to me for that, because he can give no good reason for wanting it. i'm so troubled i really don't know what to do." she looked troubled, and thorny put his arms about her as if to keep all worries but his own away from her. "don't you fret, cely, dear; you leave it to me. i'll fix him--ungrateful little scamp!" "that is not the way to begin. i am afraid you will make him angry and hurt his feelings, and then we can do nothing." "bother his feelings! i shall just say, calmly and coolly: 'now, look here, ben, hand over the money you took out of my sister's drawer, and we'll let you off easy,' or something like that." "it wouldn't do, thorny; his temper would be up in a minute, and away he would go before we could find out whether he was guilty or not. i wish i knew how to manage." "let me think," and thorny leaned his chin on the arm of the chair, staring hard at the knocker as if he expected the lion's mouth to open with words of counsel then and there. "by jove, i do believe ben took it!" he broke out suddenly; "for when i went to his room this morning to see why he didn't come and do my boots, he shut the drawer in his bureau as quick as a flash, and looked red and queer, for i didn't knock, and sort of startled him." "he wouldn't be likely to put stolen money there. ben is too wise for that." "he wouldn't keep it there, but he might be looking at it and pitch it in when i called. he's hardly spoken to me since, and when i asked him what his flag was at half-mast for, he wouldn't answer. besides, you know in the reading this afternoon he didn't listen, and when you asked what he was thinking about, he colored up and muttered something about sanch. i tell you, celia, it looks bad--very bad," and thorny shook his head with a wise air. "it does, and yet we may be all wrong. let us wait a little and give the poor boy a chance to clear himself before we speak. i'd rather lose my money than suspect him falsely." "how much was it?" "eleven dollars; a one went first, and i supposed i'd miscalculated somewhere when i took some out; but when i missed a ten, i felt that i ought not to let it pass." "look here, sister, you just put the case into my hands and let me work it up. i won't say any thing to ben till you give the word; but i'll watch him, and now that my eyes are open, it won't be easy to deceive me." thorny was evidently pleased with the new play of detective, and intended to distinguish himself in that line; but when miss celia asked how he meant to begin, he could only respond with a blank expression: "don't know! you give me the keys and leave a bill or two in the drawer, and may be i can find him out somehow." so the keys were given, and the little dressing-room where the old secretary stood was closely watched for a day or two. ben cheered up a trifle which looked as if he knew an eye was upon him, but otherwise he went on as usual, and miss celia feeling a little guilty at even harboring a suspicion of him, was kind and patient with his moods. thorny was very funny in the unnecessary mystery and fuss he made; his affectation of careless indifference to ben's movements and his clumsy attempts to watch every one of them; his dodgings up and down stairs, ostentatious clanking of keys, and the elaborate traps he set to catch his thief, such as throwing his ball in at the dressing-room window and sending ben up the tree to get it, which he did, thereby proving beyond a doubt that he alone could have taken the money, thorny thought. another deep discovery was, that the old drawer was so shrunken that the lock could be pressed down by slipping a knife-blade between the hasp and socket. "now it is as clear as day, and you'd better let me speak," he said, full of pride as well as regret at this triumphant success of his first attempt as a detective. "not yet, and you need do nothing more. i'm afraid it was a mistake of mine to let you do this; and if it has spoiled your friendship with ben, i shall be very sorry; for i do not think he is guilty," answered miss celia. "why not?" and thorny looked annoyed. "i've watched also, and he doesn't act like a deceitful boy. to-day i asked him if he wanted any money, or should i put what i owe him with the rest, and he looked me straight in the face with such honest, grateful eyes, i could not doubt him when he said 'keep it, please, i don't need any thing here, you are all so good to me.'" "now, celia, don't you be soft-hearted. he's a sly little dog, and knows my eye is on him. when i asked him what he saw in the dressing-room, after he brought out the ball, and looked sharply at him, he laughed, and said 'only a mouse,' as saucy as you please." "do set the trap there, i heard the mouse nibbling last night, and it kept me awake. we must have a cat or we shall be overrun." "well, shall i give ben a good blowing up, or will you?" asked thorny, scorning such poor prey as mice, and bound to prove that he was in the right. "i'll let you know what i have decided in the morning. be kind to ben, meantime, or i shall feel as if i had done you harm by letting you watch him." so it was left for that day, and by the next, miss celia had made up her mind to speak to ben. she was just going down to breakfast when the sound of loud voices made her pause and listen. it came from ben's room, where the two boys seemed to be disputing about something. "i hope thorny has kept his promise," she thought, and hurried through the back entry, fearing a general explosion. ben's chamber was at the end, and she could see and hear what was going on before she was near enough to interfere. ben stood against his closet door looking as fierce and red as a turkey-cock; thorny sternly confronted him, saying in an excited tone, and with a threatening gesture: "you are hiding something in there, and you can't deny it." "i don't." "better not; i insist on seeing it." "well, you won't." "what have you been stealing now?" "didn't steal it,--used to be mine,--i only took it when i wanted it." "i know what that means. you'd better give it back or i'll make you." "stop!" cried a third voice, as thorny put out his arm to clutch ben, who looked ready to defend himself to the last gasp, "boys, i will settle this affair. is there anything hidden in the closet, ben?" and miss celia came between the belligerent parties with her one hand up to part them. thorny fell back at once, looking half ashamed of his heat, and ben briefly answered, with a gulp as if shame or anger made it hard to speak steadily: "yes 'm, there is." "does it belong to you?" "yes 'm, it does." "where did you get it?" "up to squire's." "that's a lie!" muttered thorny to himself. ben's eye flashed, and his fist doubled up in spite of him, but he restrained himself out of respect for miss celia, who looked puzzled, as she asked another question, not quite sure how to proceed with the investigation: "is it money, ben?" "no 'm, it isn't." "then what can it be?" "meow!" answered a fourth voice from the closet; and as ben flung open the door a gray kitten walked out, purring with satisfaction at her release. miss celia fell into a chair and laughed till her eyes were full; thorny looked foolish, and ben folded his arms, curled up his nose, and regarded his accuser with calm defiance, while pussy sat down to wash her face as if her morning toilette had been interrupted by her sudden abduction. "that's all very well, but it doesn't mend matters much, so you needn't laugh, celia," began thorny, recovering himself, and stubbornly bent on sifting the case to the bottom, now he had begun. "well, it would, if you'd let a feller alone. she said she wanted a cat, so i went and got the one they gave me when i was at the squire's. i went early and took her without asking, and i had a right to," explained ben, much aggrieved by having his surprise spoiled. "it was very kind of you, and i'm glad to have this nice kitty. we will shut her up in my room to catch the mice that plague me," said miss celia, picking up the little cat, and wondering how she would get her two angry boys safely down stairs. "the dressing-room, she means; you know the way, and you don't need keys to get in," added thorny, with such sarcastic emphasis that ben felt some insult was intended, and promptly resented it. "you won't get me to climb any more trees after your balls, and my cat won't catch any of your mice, so you needn't ask me." "cats don't catch thieves, and they are what i'm after!" "what do you mean by that?" fiercely demanded ben. "celia has lost some money out of her drawer, and you won't let me see what's in yours; so i thought, perhaps, you'd got it!" blurted out thorny, finding it hard to say the words, angry as he was, for the face opposite did not look like a guilty one. for a minute, ben did not seem to understand him, plainly as he spoke; then he turned an angry scarlet, and, with a reproachful glance at his mistress, opened the little drawer so that both could see all that it contained. "they ain't any thing; but i'm fond of 'em they are all i've got--i was afraid he'd laugh at me that time, so i wouldn't let him look--it was father's birthday, and i felt bad about him and sanch--" ben's indignant voice got more and more indistinct as he stumbled on, and broke down over the last words. he did not cry, however, but threw back his little treasures as if half their sacredness was gone; and, making a strong effort at self-control, faced around, asking of miss celia, with a grieved look, "did you think i'd steal anything of yours?" "i tried not to, ben, but what could i do? it was gone, and you the only stranger about the place." "wasn't there any one to think bad of but me? he said, so sorrowfully that miss celia made up her mind on the spot that he was as innocent of the theft as the kitten now biting her buttons, no other refreshment being offered. "nobody, for i know my girls well. yet, eleven dollars are gone, and i cannot imagine where or how for both drawer and door are always locked, because my papers and valuables are in that room." "what a lot! but how could i get it if it was locked up?" and ben looked as if that question was unanswerable. "folks that can climb in at windows for a ball, can go the same way for money, and get it easy enough when they've only to pry open an old lock!" thorny's look and tone seemed to make plain to ben all that they had been suspecting, and, being innocent, he was too perplexed and unhappy to defend himself. his eye went from one to the other, and, seeing doubt in both faces, his boyish heart sunk within him; for he could prove nothing, and his first impulse was to go away at once. "i can't say any thing, only that i didn't take the money. you won't believe it, so i'd better go back where i come from. they weren't so kind, but they trusted me, and knew i wouldn't steal a cent. you may keep my money, and the kitty, too; i don't want 'em," and, snatching up his hat, ben would gone straight away, if thorny had not barred his passage. "come, now, don't be mad. let's talk it over, and if i 'm wrong i'll take it all back and ask your pardon," he said, in a friendly tone, rather scared at the consequences of his first attempt, though as sure as ever that he was right. "it would break my heart to have you go in that way, ben. stay at least till your innocence is proved, then no one can doubt what you say now." "don't see how it can be proved," answered ben, appeased by her evident desire to trust him. "we'll try as well as we know how, and the first thing we will do is to give that old secretary a good rummage from top to bottom. i've done it once, but it is just possible that the bills may have slipped out of sight. come, now, i can't rest till i've done all i can to comfort you and convince thorny." miss celia rose as she spoke, and led the way to the dressing-room, which had no outlet except through her chamber. still holding his hat, ben followed with a troubled face, and thorny brought up the rear, doggedly determined to keep his eye on "the little scamp" till the matter was satisfactorily cleared up. miss celia had made her proposal more to soothe the feelings of one boy and to employ the superfluous energies of the other, than in the expectation of throwing any light upon the mystery; for she was sadly puzzled by ben's manner, and much regretted that she had let her brother meddle in the matter. "there," she said, unlocking the door with the key thorny reluctantly gave up to her, "this is the room and that is the drawer on the right. the lower ones have seldom been opened since we came, and hold only some of papa's old books. those upper ones you may turn out and investigate as much as you-- bless me! here's something in your trap," thorny and miss celia gave a little skip as she nearly trod on a long, gray tall, which hung out of the bole now filled by a plump mouse. but her brother was intent on more serious things, and merely pushed the trap aside as he pulled out the drawer with an excited gesture, which sent it and all its contents clattering to the floor. "confound the old thing! it always stuck so i had to give a jerk. now, there it is, topsy-turvy," and thorny looked much disgusted at his own awkwardness. "no harm done; i left nothing of value in it. look back there, ben, and see if there is room for a paper to get worked over the top of the drawer. i felt quite a crack, but i don't believe it is possible for things to slip out; the place was never full enough to overflow in any way." miss celia spoke to ben, who was kneeling down to pick up the scattered papers, among which were two marked dollar bills,--thorny's bait for the thief. ben looked into the dusty recess, and then put in his hand, saying carelessly,-- "there's nothing but a bit of red stuff." "my old pen-wiper--why, what's the matter?" asked miss celia, as ben dropped the handful of what looked like rubbish. "something warm and wiggly inside of it," answered ben, stooping to examine the contents of the little scarlet bundle. "baby mice! ain't they funny? look just like mites of young pigs. we'll have to kill 'em if you've caught their mamma," he said, forgetting his own trials in boyish curiosity about his "find." miss celia stooped also, and gently poked the red cradle with her finger; for the tiny mice were nestling deeper into the fluff with small squeals of alarm. suddenly she cried out: "boys, boys, i've found the thief! look here; pull out these bits and see if they won't make up my lost bills." down went the motherless babies as four ruthless hands pulled apart their cosey nest, and there, among the nibbled fragments, appeared enough finely printed, greenish paper, to piece out parts of two bank bills. a large cypher and part of a figure one were visible, and that accounted for the ten; but though there were other bits, no figures could be found, and they were willing to take the other bill on trust. "now, then, am i a thief and a liar?" demanded ben, pointing proudly to the tell-tale letters spread forth on the table, over which all three had been eagerly bending. "no; i beg your pardon, and i'm very sorry that we didn't look more carefully before we spoke, then we all should have been spared this pain." "all right, old fellow, forgive and forget. i'll never think hard of you again,--on my honor i won't." as they spoke, miss celia and her brother held out their hands frankly and heartily. ben shook both, but with a difference; for he pressed the soft one gratefully, remembering that its owner had always been good to him; but the brown paw he gripped with a vengeful squeeze that made thorny pull it away in a hurry, exclaiming, good-naturedly, in spite of both physical and mental discomfort,-- "come, ben, don't you bear malice; for you've got the laugh on your side, and we feel pretty small. i do, any way; for, after my fidgets, all i've caught is a mouse!" "and her family. i'm so relieved i'm almost sorry the poor little mother is dead--she and her babies were so happy in the old pen-wiper," said miss celia, hastening to speak merrily, for ben still looked indignant, and she was much grieved at what had happened. "a pretty expensive house," began thorny, looking about for the interesting orphans, who had been left on the floor while their paper-hangings were examined. no further anxiety need be felt for them, however; kitty had come upon the scene, and as judge, jury, and prisoner, turned to find the little witnesses, they beheld the last pink mite going down pussy's throat in one mouthful. "i call that summary justice,--the whole family executed on the spot! give kit the mouse also, and let us go to breakfast. i feel as if i had found my appetite, now this worry is off my mind," said miss celia, laughing so infectiously that ben had to join in spite of himself, as she took his arm and led him away with a look which mutely asked his pardon over again. "rather lively for a funeral procession," said thorny, following with the trap in his hand and puss at his heels, adding, to comfort his pride as a detective: "well, i said i'd catch the thief, and i have, though it is rather a small one!" chapter xvii betty's bravery "celia, i've a notion that we ought to give ben something. a sort of peace-offering, you know; for he feels dreadfully hurt about our suspecting him," said thorny, at dinner that day. "i see he does, though he tries to seem as bright and pleasant as ever. i do not wonder, and i've been thinking what i could do to soothe his feelings. can you suggest any thing?" "cuff-buttons. i saw some jolly ones over at berryville, oxidized silver, with dogs' heads on them, yellow eyes, and all as natural as could be. those, now, would just suit him for his go-to-meeting white shirts,--neat, appropriate, and in memoriam." miss celia could not help laughing, it was such a boyish suggestion; but she agreed to it, thinking thorny knew best, and hoping the yellow-eyed dogs would be as balm to ben's wounds. "well, dear, you may give those, and lita shall give the little whip with a horse's foot for a handle, if it is not gone. i saw it at the harness shop in town; and ben admired it so much that i planned to give it to him on his birthday." "that will tickle him immensely; and if you'd just let him put brown tops to my old boots, and stick a cockade in his hat when he sits up behind the phaeton, he'd be a happy fellow," laughed thorny, who had discovered that one of ben's ambitions was to be a tip-top groom. "no, thank you; those things are out of place in america, and would be absurd in a small country place like this. his blue suit and straw hat please me better for a boy; though a nicer little groom, in livery or out, no one could desire, and you may tell him i said so." "i will, and he'll look as proud as punch; for he thinks every word you say worth a dozen from any one else. but won't you give him something? just some little trifle, to show that we are both eating humble pie, feeling sorry about the mouse money." "i shall give him a set of school-books, and try to get him ready to begin when vacation is over. an education is the best present we can make him; and i want you to help me fit him to enter as well is he can. bab and betty began, little dears,--lent him their books and taught all they knew; so ben got a taste, and, with the right encouragement, would like to go on, i am sure." "that's so like you celia! always thinking of the best thing and doing it handsomely. i'll help like a house a-fire, if he will let me; but, all day, he's been as stiff as a poker, so i don't believe he forgives me a bit." "he will in time, and if you are kind and patient, he will be glad to have you help him. i shall make it a sort of favor to me on his part, to let you see to his lessons, now and then. it will be quite true, for i don't want you to touch your latin or algebra till cool weather; teaching him will be play to you." miss celia's last words made her brother unbend his brows, for he longed to get at his books again, and the idea of being tutor to his "man-servant" did not altogether suit him. "i'll tool him along at a great pace, if he will only go. geography and arithmetic shall be my share, and you may have the writing and spelling; it gives me the fidgets to set copies', and hear children make a mess of words. shall i get the books when i buy the other things? can i go this afternoon?" "yes, here is the list; bab gave it to me. you can go if you will come home early and have your tooth filled." gloom fell at once upon thorny's beaming face, and he gave such a shrill whistle that his sister jumped in her chair, as she added, persuasively,-- "it won't hurt a bit, now, and the longer you leave it the worse it will be. dr. mann is ready at any time; and, once over, you will be at peace for months. come, my hero, give your orders, and take one of the girls to support you in the trying hour. have bab; she will enjoy it, and amuse you with her chatter." "as if i needed girls round for such a trifle as that!" returned thorny with a shrug, though he groaned inwardly at the prospect before him, as most of us do on such occasions. "i wouldn't take bab at any price; she'd only get into some scrape, and upset the whole plan. betty is the chicken for me,--a real little lady, and as nice and purry as a kitten." "very well; ask her mother, and take good care of her. let her tuck her dolly in, and she will be contented anywhere. there's a fine air, and the awning is on the phaeton, so you won't feel the sun. start about three, and drive carefully." betty was charmed to go, for thorny was a sort of prince in her eyes; and to be invited to such a grand expedition was an overwhelming honor. bab was not surprised, for, since sancho's loss, she had felt herself in disgrace, and been unusually meek; ben let her "severely alone," which much afflicted her, for he was her great admiration, and had been pleased to express his approbation of her agility and courage so often, that she was ready to attempt any fool-hardy feat to recover his regard. but vainly did she risk her neck jumping off the highest beams in the barn, trying to keep her balance standing on the donkey's back, and leaping the lodge gate at a bound; ben vouchsafed no reward by a look, a smile, a word of commendation; and bab felt that nothing but sancho's return would ever restore the broken friendship. into faithful betty's bosom did she pour forth her remorseful lamentations, often bursting out with the passionate exclamation, "if i could only find sanch, and give him back to ben, i wouldn't care if i tumbled down and broke all my legs right away!" such abandonment of woe made a deep impression on betty; and she fell into the way of consoling her sister by cheerful prophecies, and a firm belief that the organ-man would yet appear with the lost darling. "i've got five cents of my berry money, and i'll buy you an orange if i see any," promised betty stepping to kiss bab, as the phaeton came to the door, and thorny handed in a young lady whose white frock was so stiff with starch that it crackled like paper. "lemons will do if oranges are gone. i like 'em to suck with lots of sugar," answered bab, feeling that the sour sadly predominated in her cup just now. "don't she look sweet, the dear!" murmured mrs. moss, proudly surveying her youngest. she certainly did, sitting under the fringed canopy with "belinda," all in her best, upon her lap, as she turned to smile and nod, with a face so bright and winsome under the little blue hat, that it was no wonder mother and sister thought there never was such a perfect child as "our betty." dr. mann was busy when they arrived, but would be ready in an hour; so they did their shopping at once, having made sure of the whip as they came along. thorny added some candy to bab's lemon, and belinda had a cake, which her mamma obligingly ate for her. betty thought that aladdin's palace could not have been more splendid than the jeweller's shop where the canine cuff-buttons were bought; but when they came to the book-store, she forgot gold, silver, and precious stones, to revel in picture-books, while thorny selected ben's modest school outfit. seeing her delight, and feeling particularly lavish with plenty of money in his pocket, the young gentleman completed the child's bliss by telling her to choose whichever one she liked best out of the pile of walter crane's toy-books lying in bewildering colors before her. "this one; bab always wanted to see the dreadful cupboard, and there's a picture of it here," answered betty, clasping a gorgeous copy of "bluebeard" to the little bosom, which still heaved with the rapture of looking at that delicious mixture of lovely fatimas in pale azure gowns, pink sister annes on the turret top, crimson tyrants, and yellow brothers with forests of plumage blowing wildly from their mushroom-shaped caps. "very good; there you are, then. now, come on, for the fun is over and the grind begins," said thorny, marching away to his doom, with his tongue in his tooth, and trepidation in his manly breast. "shall i shut my eyes and hold your head?" quavered devoted betty, as they went up the stairs so many reluctant feet had mounted before them. "nonsense, child, never mind me! you look out of window and amuse yourself; we shall not be long, i guess;" and in went thorn silently hoping that the dentist had been suddenly called away, or some person with an excruciating toothache would be waiting to take ether, and so give our young man an excuse for postponing his job. but no; dr. mann was quite at leisure, and, full of smiling interest, awaited his victim, laying forth his unpleasant little tools with the exasperating alacrity of his kind. glad to be released from any share in the operation, betty retired to the back window to be as far away as possible, and for half in hour was so absorbed in her book that poor thorny might have groaned dismally without disturbing her. "done now, directly, only a trifle of polishing off and a look round," said dr. mann, at last; and thorny, with a yawn that nearly rent him asunder, called out,-- "thank goodness! pack up, bettykin." "i'm all ready!" and, shutting her book with a start, she slipped down from the easy chair in a great hurry. but "looking round" took time; and, before the circuit of thorny's mouth was satisfactorily made, betty had become absorbed by a more interesting tale than even the immortal "bluebeard." a noise of children's voices in the narrow alley-way behind the house attracted her attention; the long window opened directly on the yard, and the gate swung in the wind. curious as fatima, betty went to look; but all she saw was a group of excited boys peeping between the bars of another gate further down. "what's the matter?" she asked of two small girls, who stood close by her, longing but not daring to approach the scene of action. "boys chasing a great black cat, i believe," answered one child. "want to come and see?" added the other, politely extending the invitation to the stranger. the thought of a cat in trouble would have nerved betty to face a dozen boys; so she followed at once, meeting several lads hurrying away on some important errand, to judge from their anxious countenances. "hold tight, jimmy, and let 'em peek, if they want to. he can't hurt anybody now," said one of the dusty huntsmen, who sat on the wide coping of the wall, while two others held the gate, as if a cat could only escape that way. "you peek first, susy, and see if it looks nice," said one little girl, boosting her friend so that she could look through the bars in the upper part of the gate. "no; it 's only an ugly old dog!" responded susy, losing all interest at once, and descending with a bounce. "he's mad! and jud's gone to get his gun, so we can shoot him!" called out one mischievous boy, resenting the contempt expressed for their capture. "ain't, neither!" howled another lad from his perch. "mad dogs won't drink; and this one is lapping out of a tub of water." "well, he may be, and we don't know him, and he hasn't got any muzzle on, and the police will kill him if jud don't," answered the sanguinary youth who had first started the chase after the poor animal, which had come limping into town, so evidently a lost dog that no one felt any hesitation in stoning him. "we must go right home; my mother is dreadful 'fraid of mad dogs, and so is yours," said susy; and, having satisfied their curiosity, the young ladies prudently retired. but betty had not had her "peep," and could not resist one look; for she had heard of these unhappy animals, and thought bab would like to know how they looked. so she stood on tip-toe and got a good view of a dusty, brownish dog, lying on the grass close by, with his tongue hanging out while he panted, as if exhausted by fatigue and fear, for he still cast apprehensive glances at the wall which divided him from his tormentors. "his eyes are just like sanch's," said betty to herself, unconscious that she spoke aloud, till she saw the creature prick up his cars and half rise, as if he had been called. "he looks as if he knew me, but it isn't our sancho; he was a lovely dog." betty said that to the little boy peeping in beside her; but before he could make any reply, the brown beast stood straight up with an inquiring bark, while his eyes shone like topaz, and the short tail wagged excitedly. "why, that's just the way sanch used to do!" cried betty, bewildered by the familiar ways of this unfamiliar-looking dog. as if the repetition of his name settled his own doubts, he leaped toward the gate and thrust a pink nose between the bars, with a howl of recognition as betty's face was more clearly seen. the boys tumbled precipitately from their perches, and the little girl fell back alarmed, yet could not bear to run away and leave those imploring eyes pleading to her through the bars so eloquently. "he acts just like our dog, but i don't see how it can be him. sancho, sancho, is it really you?" called betty, at her wits' end what to do. "bow, wow, wow!" answered the well-known bark, and the little tail did all it could to emphasize the sound, while the eyes were so full of dumb love and joy, the child could not refuse to believe that this ugly stray was their own sancho strangely transformed. all of a sudden, the thought rushed into her mind, how glad ben would be!--and bab would feel all happy again. "i must carry him home." never stopping to think of danger, and forgetting all her doubts, betty caught the gate handle out of jimmy's grasp, exclaiming eagerly: "he is our dog! let me go in; i ain't afraid." "not till jud comes back; he told us we mustn't," answered the astonished jimmy, thinking the little girl as mad as the dog. with a confused idea that the unknown jud had gone for a gun to shoot sanch, betty gave a desperate pull at the latch and ran into the yard, bent on saving her friend. that it was a friend there could be no further question; for, though the creature rushed at her as if about to devour her at a mouthful, it was only to roll ecstatically at her feet, lick her hands, and gaze into her face, trying to pant out the welcome which he could not utter. an older and more prudent person would have waited to make sure before venturing in; but confiding betty knew little of the danger which she might have run; her heart spoke more quickly than her head, and, not stopping to have the truth proved, she took the brown dog on trust, and found it was indeed dear sanch. sitting on the grass, she hugged him close, careless of tumbled hat, dusty paws on her clean frock, or a row of strange boys staring from the wall. "darling doggy, where have you been so long?" she cried, the great thing sprawling across her lap, as if he could not get near enough to his brave little protector. "did they make you black and beat you, dear? oh, sanch, where is your tail--your pretty tail?" a plaintive growl and a pathetic wag was all the answer he could make to these tender inquiries; for never would the story of his wrongs be known, and never could the glory of his doggish beauty be restored. betty was trying to comfort him with pats and praises, when a new face appeared at the gate, and thorny's authoritative voice called out,-- "betty moss, what on earth are you doing in there with that dirty beast?" "it's sanch, it's sanch! oh, come and see!" shrieked betty, flying up to lead forth her prize. but the gate was held fast, for some one said the words, "mad dog," and thorny was very naturally alarmed, because he had already seen one. "don't stay there another minute. get up on that bench and i'll pull you over," directed thorny, mounting the wall to rescue his charge in hot haste; for the dog did certainly behave queerly, limping hurriedly to and fro, as if anxious to escape. no wonder, when sancho heard a voice he knew, and recognized another face, yet did not meet as kind a welcome as before. "no, i'm not coming out till he does. it is sanch, and i'm going to take him home to ben," answered betty, decidedly, as she wet her handkerchief in the rain water to bind up the swollen paw that had travelled many miles to rest in her little hand again. "you're crazy, child. that is no more ben's dog than i am." "see if it isn't!" cried betty, perfectly unshaken in her faith; and, recalling the words of command as well as she could, she tried to put sancho through his little performance, as the surest proof that she was right. the poor fellow did his best, weary and foot-sore though he was; but when it came to taking his tail in his mouth to waltz, he gave it up, and, dropping down, hid his face in his paws, as he always did when any of his tricks failed. the act was almost pathetic now, for one of the paws was bandaged, and his whole attitude expressed the humiliation of a broken spirit. that touched thorny, and, quite convinced both of the dog's sanity and identity, he sprung down from the wall with ben's own whistle, which gladdened sancho's longing ear as much as the boy's rough caresses comforted his homesick heart. "now, let's carry him right home, and surprise ben. won't he be pleased?" said betty, so in earnest that she tried to lift the big brute in spite of his protesting yelps. "you are a little trump to find him out in spite of all the horrid things that have been done to him. we must have a rope to lead him, for he's got no collar and no muzzle. he has got friends though, and i'd like to see any one touch him now. out of the way, there, boy!" looking as commanding as a drum-major, thorny cleared a passage, and with one arm about his neck, betty proudly led her treasure magnanimously ignoring his late foes, and keeping his eye fixed on the faithful friend whose tender little heart had known him in spite of all disguises. "i found him, sir," and the lad who had been most eager for the shooting, stepped forward to claim any reward that might be offered for the now valuable victim. "i kept him safe till she came," added the jailer jimmy, speaking for himself. "i said he wasn't mad," cried a third, feeling that his discrimination deserved approval. "jud ain't my brother," said the fourth, eager to clear his skirts from all offence. "but all of you chased and stoned him, i suppose? you'd better look out or you'll get reported to the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals." with this awful and mysterious threat, thorny slammed the doctor's gate in the faces of the mercenary youths, nipping their hopes in the bud, and teaching them a good lesson. after one astonished stare, lita accepted sancho without demur, and they greeted one another cordially, nose to nose, instead of shaking hands. then the dog nestled into his old place under the linen duster with a grunt of intense content, and soon fell fast asleep, quite worn out with fatigue. no roman conqueror bearing untold treasures with him, ever approached the eternal city feeling richer or prouder than did miss betty as she rolled rapidly toward the little brown house with the captive won by her own arms. poor belinda was forgotten in a corner, "bluebeard" was thrust under the cushion, and the lovely lemon was squeezed before its time by being sat upon; for all the child could think of was ben's delight, bab's remorseful burden lifted off, "ma's" surprise, and miss celia's pleasure. she could hardly realize the happy fact, and kept peeping under the cover to be sure that the dear dingy bunch at her feet was truly there. "i'll tell you how we'll do it," said thorny, breaking a long silence as betty composed herself with an irrepressible wriggle of delight after one of these refreshing peeps. "we'll keep sanch hidden, and smuggle him into ben's old room at your house. then i'll drive on to the barn, and not say a word, but send ben to get something out of that room. you just let him in, to see what he'll do. i'll bet you a dollar he won't know his own dog." "i don't believe i can keep from screaming right out when i see him, but i'll try. oh, won't it be fun!"--and betty clapped her hands in joyful anticipation of that exciting moment. a nice little plan, but master thorny forgot the keen senses of the amiable animal snoring peacefully among his boots; and, when they stopped at the lodge, he had barely time to say in a whisper, "ben's coming; cover sanch and let me get him in quick!" before the dog was out of the phaeton like a bombshell, and the approaching boy went down as if shot, for sancho gave one leap, and the two rolled over and over, with a shout and a bark of rapturous recognition. "who is hurt?" asked mrs. moss, running out with floury hands uplifted in alarm. "is it a bear?" cried bab, rushing after her, beater in hand, for a dancing bear was the delight of her heart. "sancho's found! sancho's found!" shouted thorny, throwing up his hat like a lunatic. "found, found, found!" echoed betty, dancing wildly about as if she too had lost her little wits. "where? how? when? who did it?" asked mrs. moss, clapping her dusty hands delightedly. "it isn't; it's an old dirty brown thing," stammered bab, as the dog came uppermost for a minute, and then rooted into ben's jacket as if he smelt a woodchuck, and was bound to have him out directly. then thorny, with many interruptions from betty, poured forth the wondrous tale, to which bab and his mother listened breathlessly, while the muffins burned as black as a coal, and nobody cared a bit. "my precious lamb, how did you dare to do such a thing?" exclaimed mrs. moss, hugging the small heroine with mingled admiration and alarm. "i'd have dared, and slapped those horrid boys, too. i wish i'd gone!" and bab felt that she had for ever lost the chance of distinguishing herself. "who cut his tail off?" demanded ben, in a menacing tone, as he came uppermost in his turn, dusty, red and breathless, but radiant. "the wretch who stole him, i suppose; and he deserves to be hung," answered thorny, hotly. "if ever i catch him, i'll--i'll cut his nose off," roared ben, with such a vengeful glare that sanch barked fiercely; and it was well that the unknown "wretch" was not there, for it would have gone hardly with him, since even gentle betty frowned, while bab brandished the egg-beater menacingly, and their mother indignantly declared that "it was too bad!" relieved by this general outburst, they composed their outraged feelings; and while the returned wanderer went from one to another to receive a tender welcome from each, the story of his recovery was more calmly told. ben listened with his eye devouring the injured dog; and when thorny paused, he turned to the little heroine, saying solemnly, as he laid her hand with his own on sancho's head, "betty moss, i'll never forget what you did; from this minute half of sanch is your truly own, and if i die you shall have the whole of him," and ben sealed the precious gift with a sounding kiss on either chubby check. betty was so deeply touched by this noble bequest, that the blue eyes filled and would have overflowed if sanch had not politely offered his tongue like a red pocket-handkerchlef, and so made her laugh the drops away, while bab set the rest off by saying gloomily,-- "i mean to play with all the mad dogs i can find; then folks will think i'm smart and give me nice things." "poor old bab, i'll forgive you now, and lend you my half whenever you want it," said ben, feeling at peace now with all mankind, including, girls who tagged. "come and show him to celia," begged thorny, eager to fight his battles over again. "better wash him up first; he's a sight to see, poor thing," suggested mrs. moss, as she ran in, suddenly remembering her muffins. "it will take a lot of washings to get that brown stuff off. see, his pretty, pink skin is all stained with it. we'll bleach him out, and his curls will grow, and he'll be as good as ever--all but--" ben could not finish, and a general wail went up for the departed tassel that would never wave proudly in the breeze again. "i'll buy him a new one. now form the procession and let us go in style," said thorny, cheerily, as he swung betty to his shoulder and marched away whistling "hail! the conquering hero comes," while ben and his bow-wow followed arm-in-arm, and bab brought up the rear, banging on a milk-pan with the egg-beater. chapter xviii bows and arrows if sancho's abduction made a stir, one may easily imagine with what warmth and interest he was welcomed back when his wrongs and wanderings were known. for several days he held regular levees, that curious boys and sympathizing girls might see and pity the changed and curtailed dog. sancho behaved with dignified affability, and sat upon his mat in the coach-house pensively eying his guests, and patiently submitting to their caresses; while ben and thorny took turns to tell the few tragical facts which were not shrouded in the deepest mystery. if the interesting sufferer could only have spoken, what thrilling adventures and hair-breadth escapes he might have related. but, alas! he was dumb; and the secrets of that memorable month never were revealed. the lame paw soon healed, the dingy color slowly yielded to many washings, the woolly coat began to knot up into little curls, a new collar, handsomely marked, made him a respectable dog, and sancho was himself again. but it was evident that his sufferings were not forgotten; his once sweet temper was a trifle soured; and, with a few exceptions, he had lost his faith in mankind. before, he had been the most benevolent and hospitable of dogs; now, he eyed all strangers suspiciously, and the sight of a shabby man made him growl and bristle up, as if the memory of his wrongs still burned hotly within him. fortunately, his gratitude was stronger than his resentment, and he never seemed to forget that he owed his life to betty,--running to meet her whenever she appeared, instantly obeying her commands, and suffering no one to molest her when he walked watchfully beside her, with her hand upon his neck, as they had walked out of the almost fatal backyard together, faithful friends for ever. miss celia called them little una and her lion, and read the pretty story to the children when they wondered what she meant. ben, with great pains, taught the dog to spell "betty," and surprised her with a display of this new accomplishment, which gratified her so much that she was never tired of seeing sanch paw the five red letters into place, then come and lay his nose in her hand, as if he added, "that's the name of my dear mistress." of course bab was glad to have everything pleasant and friendly again; but in a little dark corner of her heart there was a drop of envy, and a desperate desire to do something which would make every one in her small world like and praise her as they did betty. trying to be as good and gentle did not satisfy her; she must do something brave or surprising, and no chance for distinguishing herself in that way seemed likely to appear. betty was as fond as ever, and the boys were very kind to her; but she felt that they both liked "little betcinda," as they called her, best, because she found sanch, and never seemed to know that she had done any thing brave in defending him against all odds. bab did not tell any one how she felt, but endeavored to be amiable, while waiting for her chance to come; and, when it did arrive, made the most of it, though there was nothing heroic to add a charm. miss celia's arm had been doing very well, but would, of course, be useless for some time longer. finding that the afternoon readings amused herself as much as they did the children, she kept them up, and brought out all her old favorites enjoying a double pleasure in seeing that her young audience relished them as much as she did when a child for to all but thorny they were brand new. out of one of these stories came much amusement for all, and satisfaction for one of the party. "celia, did you bring our old bows?" asked her brother, eagerly, as she put down the book from which she had been reading miss edgeworth's capital story of "waste not want not; or, two strings to your bow." "yes, i brought all the playthings we left stored away in uncle's garret when we went abroad. the bows are in the long box where you found the mallets, fishing-rods, and bats. the old quivers and a few arrows are there also, i believe. what is the idea now? asked miss celia in her turn, as thorny bounced up in a great hurry. "i'm going to teach ben to shoot. grand fun this hot weather; and by-and-by we'll have an archery meeting, and you can give us a prize. come on, ben. i've got plenty of whip-cord to rig up the bows, and then we'll show the ladies some first-class shooting." "i can't; never had a decent bow in my life. the little gilt one i used to wave round when i was a coopid wasn't worth a cent to go," answered ben, feeling as if that painted "prodigy" must have been a very distant connection of the respectable young person now walking off arm in arm with the lord of the manor. "practice is all you want. i used to be a capital shot, but i don't believe i could hit any thing but a barn-door now," answered thorny, encouragingly. as the boys vanished, with much tramping of boots and banging of doors, bab observed, in the young-ladyish tone she was apt to use when she composed her active little mind and body to the feminine task of needlework,-- "we used to make bows of whalebone when we were little girls, but we are too old to play so now." "i'd like to, but bab won't, 'cause she 's most 'leven years old," said honest betty, placidly rubbing her needle in the "ruster," as she called the family emery-bag. "grown people enjoy archery, as bow and arrow shooting is called, especially in england. i was reading about it the other day, and saw a picture of queen victoria with her bow; so you needn't be ashamed of it, bab," said miss celia, rummaging among the books and papers in her sofa corner to find the magazine she wanted, thinking a new play would be as good for the girls as for the big boys. "a queen, just think!" and betty looked much impressed by the fact, as well as uplifted by the knowledge that her friend did not agree in thinking her silly because she preferred playing with a harmless home-made toy to firing stones or snapping a pop-gun. "in old times, bows and arrows were used to fight great battles with; and we read how the english archers shot so well that the air was dark with arrows, and many men were killed." "so did the indians have 'em; and i've got some stone arrow-heads,--found 'em by the river, in the dirt!" cried bab, waking up, for battles interested her more than queens. "while you finish your stints i'll tell you a little story about the indians," said miss celia, lying back on her cushions, while the needles began to go again, for the prospect of a story could not be resisted. "a century or more ago, in a small settlement on the banks of the connecticut,--which means the long river of pines,--there lived a little girl called matty kilburn. on a hill stood the fort where the people ran for protection in any danger, for the country was new and wild, and more than once the indians had come down the river in their canoes and burned the houses, killed men, and carried away women and children. matty lived alone with her father, but felt quite safe in the log house, for he was never far away. one afternoon, as the farmers were all busy in their fields, the bell rang suddenly,--a sign that there was danger near,--and, dropping their rakes or axes, the men hurried to their houses to save wives and babies, and such few treasures as they could. mr. kilburn caught up his gun with one hand and his little girl with the other, and ran as fast as he could toward the fort. but before he could reach it he heard a yell, and saw the red men coming up from the river. then he knew it would be in vain to try to get in, so he looked about for a safe place to hide matty till he could come for her. he was a brave man, and could fight, so he had no thought of hiding while his neighbors needed help; but the dear little daughter must be cared for first. "in the corner of the lonely pasture which they dared not cross, stood a big hollow elm, and there the farmer hastily hid matty, dropping her down into the dim nook, round the mouth of which young shoots had grown, so that no one would have suspected any hole was there. "lie still, child, till i come; say your prayers and wait for father,' said the man, as he parted the leaves for a last glance at the small, frightened face looking up at him. "'come soon,' whispered matty, and tried to smile bravely, as a stout settler's girl should. "mr. kilburn went away, and was taken prisoner in the fight, carried off, and for years no one knew whether he was alive or dead. people missed matty, but supposed she was with her father, and never expected to see her again. a great while afterward the poor man came back, having escaped and made his way through the wilderness to his old home. his first question was for matty, but no one had seen her; and when he told them where he had left her, they shook their heads as if they thought he was crazy. but they went to look, that he might be satisfied; and he was; for they they found some little bones, some faded bits of cloth, and two rusty silver buckles marked with matty's name in what had once been her shoes. an indian arrow lay there, too, showing why she had never cried for help, but waited patiently so long for father to come and find her." if miss celia expected to see the last bit of hem done when her story ended, she was disappointed; for not a dozen stitches had been taken. betty was using her crash towel for a handkerchief, and bab's lay on the ground as she listened with snapping eyes to the little tragedy. "is it true?" asked betty, hoping to find relief in being told that it was not. "yes; i have seen the tree, and the mound where the fort was, and the rusty buckles in an old farmhouse where other kilburns live, near the spot where it all happened," answered miss celia, looking out the picture of victoria to console her auditors. "we'll play that in the old apple-tree. betty can scrooch down, and i'll be the father, and put leaves on her, and then i'll be a great injun and fire at her. i can make arrows, and it will be fun, won't it?" cried bab, charmed with the new drama in which she could act the leading parts. "no, it won't! i don't like to go in a cobwebby hole, and have you play kill me, i'll make a nice fort of hay, and be all safe, and you can put dinah down there for matty. i don't love her any more, now her last eye has tumbled out, and you may shoot her just as much as yon like." before bab could agree to this satisfactory arrangement, thorny appeared, singing, as he aimed at a fat robin, whose red waistcoat looked rather warm and winterish that august day,-- "so he took up his bow, and he feathered his arrow, and said, 'i will shoot this little cock-sparrow.'" "but he didn't," chirped the robin, flying away, with a contemptuous flirt of his rusty-black tail. "that is exactly what you must promise not to do, boys. fire away at your targets as much as you like, but do not harm any living creature," said miss celia, as ben followed armed and equipped with her own long-unused accoutrements. "of course we won't if you say so; but, with a little practice, i could bring down a bird as well as that fellow you read to me about with his woodpeckers and larks and herons," answered thorny, who had much enjoyed the article, while his sister lamented over the destruction of the innocent birds. "you'd do well to borrow the squire's old stuffed owl for a target; there would be some chance of your hitting him, he is so big," said his sister, who always made fun of the boy when he began to brag. thorny's only reply was to send his arrow straight up so far out of sight that it was a long while coming down again to stick quivering in the ground near by, whence sancho brought it in his mouth, evidently highly approving of a game in which he could join. "not bad for a beginning. now, ben, fire away." but ben's experience with bows was small, and, in spite of his praiseworthy efforts to imitate his great exemplar, the arrow only turned a feeble sort of somersault and descended perilously near bab's uplifted nose. "if you endanger other people's life and liberty in your pursuit of happiness, i shall have to confiscate your arms, boys. take the orchard for your archery ground; that is safe, and we can see you as we sit here. i wish i had two hands, so that i could paint you a fine, gay target;" and miss celia looked regretfully at the injured arm, which as yet was of little use. "i wish you could shoot, too; you used to beat all the girls, and i was proud of you," answered thorny, with the air of a fond elder brother; though, at the time he alluded to, he was about twelve, and hardly up to his sister's shoulder. "thank you. i shall be happy to give my place to bab and betty if you will make them some bows and arrows; they could not use those long ones." the young gentlemen did not take the hint as quickly as miss celia hoped they would; in fact, both looked rather blank at the suggestion, as boys generally do when it is proposed that girls--especially small ones--shall join in any game they are playing. "p'r'aps it would be too much trouble," began betty, in her winning little voice. "i can make my own," declared bab, with an independent toss of the head. "not a bit; i'll make you the jolliest small bow that ever was, belinda," thorny hastened to say, softened by the appealing glance of the little maid. "you can use mine, bab; you've got such a strong fist, i guess you could pull it," added ben, remembering that it would not be amiss to have a comrade who shot worse than he did, for he felt very inferior to thorny in many ways, and, being used to praise, had missed it very much since he retired to private life. "i will be umpire, and brighten up the silver arrow i sometimes pin my hair with, for a prize, unless we can find something better," proposed miss celia, glad to see that question settled, and every prospect of the new play being a pleasant amusement for the hot weather. it was astonishing how soon archery became the fashion in that town, for the boys discussed it enthusiastically all that evening, formed the "william tell club" next day, with bab and betty as honorary members, and, before the week was out, nearly every lad was seen, like young norval, "with bended bow and quiver full of arrows," shooting away, with a charming disregard of the safety of their fellow citizens. banished by the authorities to secluded spots, the members of the club set up their targets and practised indefatigably, especially ben, who soon discovered that his early gymnastics had given him a sinewy arm and a true eye; and, taking sanch into partnership as picker-up, he got more shots out of an hour than those who had to run to and fro. thorny easily recovered much of his former skill, but his strength had not fully returned, and he soon grew tired. bab, on the contrary, threw herself into the contest heart and soul, and tugged away at the new bow miss celia gave her, for ben's was too heavy. no other girls were admitted, so the outsiders got up a club of their own, and called it "the victoria," the name being suggested by the magazine article, which went the rounds as a general guide and reference book. bab and betty belonged to this club and duly reported the doings of the boys, with whom they had a right to shoot if they chose, but soon waived the right, plainly seeing that their absence would be regarded in the light of a favor. the archery fever raged as fiercely as the base-ball epidemic had done before it, and not only did the magazine circulate freely, but miss edgeworth's story, which was eagerly read, and so much admired that the girls at once mounted green ribbons, and the boys kept yards of whip-cord in their pockets like the provident benjamin of the tale. every one enjoyed the new play very much, and something grew out of it which was a lasting pleasure to many, long after the bows and arrows were forgotten. seeing how glad the children were to get a new story, miss celia was moved to send a box of books--old and new--to the town library, which was but scantily supplied, as country libraries are apt to be. this donation produced a good effect; for other people hunted up all the volumes they could spare for the same purpose, and the dusty shelves in the little room behind the post-office filled up amazingly. coming in vacation time they were hailed with delight, and ancient books of travel, as well as modern tales, were feasted upon by happy young folks, with plenty of time to enjoy them in peace. the success of her first attempt at being a public benefactor pleased miss celia very much, and suggested other ways in which she might serve the quiet town, where she seemed to feel that work was waiting for her to do. she said little to any one but the friend over the sea, yet various plans were made then that blossomed beautifully by-and-by. chapter xix speaking pieces the first of september came all too soon, and school began. among the boys and girls who went trooping up to the "east corner knowledge-box," as they called it, was our friend ben, with a pile of neat books under his arm. he felt very strange, and decidedly shy; but put on a bold face, and let nobody guess that, though nearly thirteen, he had never been to school before. miss celia had told his story to teacher, and she, being a kind little woman, with young brothers of her own, made things as easy for him as she could. in reading and writing he did very well, and proudly took his place among lads of his own age; but when it came to arithmetic and geography, he had to go down a long way, and begin almost at the beginning, in spite of thorny's efforts to "tool him along fast." it mortified him sadly, but there was no help for it; and in some of the classes he had dear little betty to console with him when he failed, and smile contentedly when he got above her, as he soon began to do,--for she was not a quick child, and plodded through first parts long after sister bab was flourishing away among girls much older than herself. fortunately, ben was a short boy and a clever one, so he did not look out of place among the ten and eleven year olders, and fell upon his lessons with the same resolution with which he used to take a new leap, or practise patiently till he could touch his heels with his head. that sort of exercise had given him a strong, elastic little body; this kind was to train his mind, and make its faculties as useful, quick and sure, as the obedient muscles, nerves and eye, which kept him safe where others would have broken their necks. he knew this, and found much consolation in the fact that, though mental arithmetic was a hopeless task, he could turn a dozen somersaults, and come up as steady as a judge. when the boys laughed at him for saying that china was in africa, he routed them entirely by his superior knowledge of the animals belonging to that wild country; and when "first class in reading" was called, he marched up with the proud consciousness that the shortest boy in it did better than tall moses towne or fat sam kitteridge. teacher praised him all she honestly could, and corrected his many blunders so quietly that he soon ceased to be a deep, distressful red during recitation, and tugged away so manfully that no one could help respecting him for his efforts, and trying to make light of his failures. so the first hard week went by, and though the boy's heart had sunk many a time at the prospect of a protracted wrestle with his own ignorance, he made up his mind to win, and went at it again on the monday with fresh zeal, all the better and braver for a good, cheery talk with miss celia in the sunday evening twilight. he did not tell her one of his greatest trials, however, because he thought she could not help him there. some of the children rather looked down upon him, called him "tramp" and "beggar," twitted him with having been a circus boy, and lived in a tent like a gypsy. they did not mean to be cruel, but did it for the sake of teasing, never stopping to think how much such sport can make a fellow-creature suffer. being a plucky fellow, ben pretended not to mind; but he did feel it keenly, because he wanted to start afresh, and be like other boys. he was not ashamed of the old life; but, finding those around him disapproved of it, he was glad to let it be forgotten, even by himself; for his latest recollections were not happy ones, and present comforts made past hardships seem harder than before. he said nothing of this to miss celia; but she found it out, and liked him all the better for keeping some of his small worries to himself. bab and betty came over monday afternoon full of indignation at some boyish insult sam had put upon ben; and, finding them too full of it to enjoy the reading, miss celia asked what the matter was. then both little girls burst out in a rapid succession of broken exclamations, which did not give a very clear idea of the difficulty,-- "sam didn't like it because ben jumped farther than he did--" "and he said ben ought to be in the poor-house." "and ben said he ought to be in it pigpen." "so he had!--such a greedy thing, bringing lovely big apples, and not giving any one a single bite!" "then he was mad, and we all laughed; and he said, 'want to fight?' "and ben said, 'no, thanky, not much fun in pounding a feather-bed.'" "oh, he was awfully mad then, and chased ben up the big maple." "he's there now, for sam won't let him come down till he takes it all back." "ben won't; and i do believe he'll have to stay up all night," said betty, distressfully. "he won't care, and we'll have fun firing up his supper. nut cakes and cheese will go splendidly; and may be baked pears wouldn't get smashed, he's such a good catch," added bab, decidedly relishing the prospect. "if he does not come by tea-time, we will go and look after him. it seems to me i have heard something about sam's troubling him before, haven't i?" asked miss celia, ready to defend her protege against all unfair persecution. "yes,'m, sam and mose are always plaguing ben. they are big boys, and we can't make them stop. i won't let the girls do it, and the little boys don't dare to, since teacher spoke to them." answered bab. "why does not teacher speak to the big ones? "ben won't tell of them, or let us. he says he'll fight his own battles, and hates tell-tales. i guess he won't like to have us tell you, but i don't care, for it is too bad!" and betty looked ready to cry over her friend's tribulations. "i'm glad you did, for i will attend to it, and stop this sort of thing," said miss celia, after the children had told some of the tormenting speeches which had tried poor ben. just then thorny appeared, looking much amused, and the little girls both called out in a breath, "did you see ben and get him down?" "he got himself down in the neatest way you can imagine;" and thorny laughed at the recollection. "where is sam?" asked bab. "staring up at the sky to see where ben has flown to." "oh, tell about it!" begged betty. "well, i came along and found ben treed, and sam stoning him. i stopped that at once, and told the 'fat boy' to be off. he said he wouldn't till ben begged his pardon; and ben said he wouldn't do it, if he stayed up for a week. i was just preparing to give that rascal a scientific thrashing, when a load of hay came along, and ben dropped on to it so quietly that sam, who was trying to bully me, never saw him go. it tickled me so, i told sam i guessed i'd let him off that time, and walked away, leaving him to hunt for ben, and wonder where the dickens he had vanished to." the idea of sam's bewilderment amused the others as much as thorny, and they all had a good laugh over it before miss celia asked,-- "where has ben gone now?" "oh, he'll take a little ride, and then slip down and race home full of the fun of it. but i've got to settle sam. i won't have our ben hectored by any one--" "but yourself," put in his sister, with a sly smile, for thorny was rather domineering at times. "he doesn't mind my poking him up now and then, it's good for him; and i always take his part against other people. sam is a bully, and so is mose; and i'll thrash them both if they don't stop." anxious to curb her brother's pugnacious propensities, miss celia proposed milder measures, promising to speak to the boys herself if there was any more trouble. "i have been thinking that we should have some sort of merry-making for ben on his birthday. my plan was a very simple one; but i will enlarge it, and have all the young folks come, and ben shall be king of the fun. he needs encouragement in well-doing, for he does try; and now the first hard part is nearly over, i am sure he will get on bravely. if we treat him with respect, and show our regard for him, others will follow our example; and that will be better than fighting about it." "so it will! what shall we do to make our party tip-top?" asked thorny, falling into the trap at once; for he dearly loved to get up theatricals, and had not had any for a long time. "we will plan something splendid, a 'grand combination,' as you used to call your droll mixtures of tragedy, comedy, melodrama and farce," answered his sister, with her head already full of lively plots. "we'll startle the natives. i don't believe they ever saw a play in all their lives, hey, bab?" "i've seen a circus." "we dress up and do 'babes in the wood,'" added betty, with dignity. "pho! that's nothing. i'll show you acting that will make your hair stand on end, and you shall act too. bab will be capital for the naughty girls," began thorny, excited by the prospect of producing a sensation on the boards, and always ready to tease the girls. before betty could protest that she did not want her hair to stand up, or bab could indignantly decline the role offered her, a shrill whistle was heard, and miss celia whispered, with a warning look,-- "hush! ben is coming, and he must not know any thing about this yet." the next day was wednesday, and in the afternoon miss celia went to hear the children "speak pieces," though it was very seldom that any of the busy matrons and elder sisters found time or inclination for these displays of youthful oratory. miss celia and mrs. moss were all the audience on this occasion, but teacher was both pleased and proud to see them, and a general rustle went through the school as they came in, all the girls turning from the visitors to nod at bab and betty, who smiled all over their round faces to see "ma" sitting up "'side of teacher," and the boys grinned at ben, whose heart began to beat fast at the thought of his dear mistress coming so far to hear him say his piece. thorny had recommended marco bozzaris, but ben preferred john gilpin, and ran the famous race with much spirit, making excellent time in some parts and having to be spurred a little in others, but came out all right, though quite breathless at the end, sitting down amid great applause, some of which, curiously enough, seemed to come from outside; which in fact it did, for thorny was bound to hear but would not come in, lest his presence should abash one orator at least. other pieces followed, all more or less patriotic and warlike, among the boys; sentimental among the girls. sam broke down in his attempt to give one of webster's great speeches, little cy fay boldly attacked "again to the battle, achaians!" and shrieked his way through it in a shrill, small voice, bound to do honor to the older brother who had trained him even if he broke a vessel in the attempt. billy chose a well-worn piece, but gave it a new interest by his style of delivery; for his gestures were so spasmodic he looked as if going into a fit, and he did such astonishing things with his voice that one never knew whether a howl or a growl would come next. when "the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed;" billy's arms went round like the sails of a windmill; the "hymns of lofty cheer" not only "shook the depths of the desert gloom," but the small children on their little benches, and the school-house literally rang "to the anthems of the free!" when "the ocean eagle soared," billy appeared to be going bodily up, and the "pines of the forest roared" as if they had taken lessons of van amburgh's biggest lion. "woman's fearless eye" was expressed by a wild glare; "manhood's brow, severely high," by a sudden clutch at the reddish locks falling over the orator's hot forehead, and a sounding thump on his blue checked bosom told where "the fiery heart of youth" was located. "what sought they thus far?" he asked, in such a natural and inquiring tone, with his eye fixed on mamie peters, that the startled innocent replied, "dunno," which caused the speaker to close in haste, devoutly pointing a stubby finger upward at the last line. this was considered the gem of the collection, and billy took his seat proudly conscious that his native town boasted an orator who, in time, would utterly eclipse edward everett and wendell phillips. sally folsom led off with "the coral grove," chosen for the express purpose of making her friend almira mullet start and blush, when she recited the second line of that pleasing poem, "where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove." one of the older girls gave wordsworth's "lost love" in a pensive tone, clasping her hands and bringing out the "o" as if a sudden twinge of toothache seized her when she ended. "but she is in her grave, and o, the difference to me!" bab always chose a funny piece, and on this afternoon set them all laughing by the spirit with which she spoke the droll poem, "pussy's class," which some of my young readers may have read. the "meou" and the "sptzz" were capital, and when the "fond mamma rubbed her nose," the children shouted, for miss bab made a paw of her hand and ended with an impromptu purr, which was considered the best imitation ever presented to an appreciative public. betty bashfully murmurred "little white lily," swaying to and fro as regularly as if in no other way could the rhymes be ground out of her memory. "that is all, i believe. if either of the ladies would like to say a few words to the children, i should be pleased to have them," said teacher, politely, pausing before she dismissed school with a song. "please, 'm. i'd like to speak my piece," answered miss celia, obeying a sudden impulse; and, stepping forward with her hat in her hand, she made a pretty courtesy before she recited mary howitt's sweet little ballad, "mabel on midsummer day." she looked so young and merry, and used such simple but expressive gestures, and spoke in such a clear, soft voice that the children sat as if spell-bound, learning several lessons from this new teacher, whose performance charmed them from beginning to end, and left a moral which all could understand and carry away in that last verse,-- "'tis good to make all duty sweet, to be alert and kind; 'tis good, like littie mabel, to have a willing mind." of course there was an enthusiastic clapping when miss celia sat down, but even while hands applauded, consciences pricked, and undone tasks, complaining words and sour faces seemed to rise up reproachfully before many of the children, as well as their own faults of elocution. "now we will sing," said teacher, and a great clearing of throats ensued, but before a note could be uttered, the half-open door swung wide, and sancho, with ben's hat on, walked in upon his hind-legs, and stood with his paws meekly folded, while a voice from the entry sang rapidly,-- "benny had a little dog, his fleece was white as snow, and everywhere that benny went, the dog was sure to go. he went into the school one day, which was against the rule; it made the children laugh and play to see a dog--" mischievous thorny got no further, for a general explosion of laughter drowned the last words, and ben's command "out, you rascal!" sent sanch to the right-about in double-quick time. miss celia tried to apologize for her bad brother, and teacher tried to assure her that it didn't matter in the least, as this was always a merry time, and mrs. moss vainly shook her finger at her naughty daughters; they as well as the others would have their laugh out, and only partially sobered down when the bell rang for "attention." they thought they were to be dismissed, and repressed their giggles as well as they could in order to get a good start for a vociferous roar when they got out. but, to their great surprise, the pretty lady stood up again and said, in her friendly way,-- "i just want to thank you for this pleasant little exhibition, and ask leave to come again. i also wish to invite you all to my boy's birthday party on saturday week. the archery meeting is to be in the afternoon, and both clubs will be there, i believe. in the evening we are going to have some fun, when we can laugh as much as we please without breaking any of the rules. in ben's name i invite you, and hope you will all come, for we mean to make this the happiest birthday he ever had." there were twenty pupils in the room, but the eighty hands and feet made such a racket at this announcement that an outsider would have thought a hundred children, at least, must have been at it. miss celia was a general favorite because she nodded to all the girls, called the boys by their last names, even addressing some of the largest as "mr." which won their hearts at once, so that if she had invited them all to come and be whipped they would have gone sure that it was some delightful joke. with what eagerness they accepted the present invitation one can easily imagine, though they never guessed why she gave it in that way, and ben's face was a sight to see, he was so pleased and proud at the honor done him that he did not know where to look, and was glad to rush out with the other boys and vent his emotions in whoops of delight. he knew that some little plot was being concocted for his birthday, but never dreamed of any thing so grand as asking the whole school, teacher and all. the effect of the invitation was seen with comical rapidity, for the boys became overpowering in their friendly attentions to ben. even sam, fearing he might be left out, promptly offered the peaceful olive-branch in the shape of a big apple, warm from his pocket, and mose proposed a trade of jack-knives which would be greatly to ben's advantage. but thorny made the noblest sacrifice of all, for he said to his sister, as they walked home together,-- "i'm not going to try for the prize at all. i shoot so much better than the rest, having had more practice, you know, that it is hardly fair. ben and billy are next best, and about even, for ben's strong wrist makes up for billy's true eye, and both want to win. if i am out of the way ben stands a good chance, for the other fellows don't amount to much." "bab does; she shoots nearly as well as ben, and wants to win even more than he or billy. she must have her chance at any rate." "so she may, but she won't do any thing; girls can't, though it 's good exercise and pleases them to try." "if i had full use of both my arms i'd show you that girls can do a great deal when they like. don't be too lofty, young man, for you may have to come down," laughed miss celia, amused by his airs. "no fear," and thorny calmly departed to set his targets for ben's practice. "we shall see," and from that moment miss celia made bab her especial pupil, feeling that a little lesson would be good for mr. thorny, who rather lorded it over the other young people. there was a spice of mischief in it, for miss celia was very young at heart, in spite of her twenty-four years, and she was bound to see that her side had a fair chance, believing that girls can do whatever they are willing to strive patiently and wisely for. so she kept bab at work early and late, giving her all the hints and help she could with only one efficient hand, and bab was delighted to think she did well enough to shoot with the club. her arms ached and her fingers grew hard with twanging the bow, but she was indefatigable, and being a strong, tall child of her age, with a great love of all athletic sports, she got on fast and well, soon learning to send arrow after arrow with ever increasing accuracy nearer and nearer to the bull's-eye. the boys took very little notice of her, being much absorbed in their own affairs, but betty did for bab what sancho did for ben, and trotted after arrows till her short legs were sadly tired, though her patience never gave out. she was so sure bab would win that she cared nothing about her own success, practising little and seldom hitting any thing when she tried. chapter xx ben's birthday a superb display of flags flapped gayly in the breeze on the september morning when ben proudly entered his teens. an irruption of bunting seemed to have broken out all over the old house, for banners of every shape and size, color and design, flew from chimney-top to gable, porch and gate-way, making the quiet place look as lively as a circus tent, which was just what ben most desired and delighted in. the boys had been up very early to prepare the show, and when it was ready enjoyed it hugely, for the fresh wind made the pennons cut strange capers. the winged lion of venice looked as if trying to fly away home; the chinese dragon appeared to brandish his forked tail as he clawed at the burmese peacock; the double-headed eagle of russia pecked at the turkish crescent with one beak, while the other seemed to be screaming to the english royal beast, "come on and lend a paw." in the hurry of hoisting the siamese elephant got turned upside down, and now danced gayly on his head, with the stars and stripes waving proudly over him. a green flag with a yellow harp and sprig of shamrock hung in sight of the kitchen window, and katy, the cook, got breakfast to the tune of "st. patrick's day in the morning." sancho's kennel was half hidden under a rustling paper imitation of the gorgeous spanish banner, and the scarlet sun-and-moon flag of arabia snapped and flaunted from the pole over the coach-house, as a delicate compliment to lita, arabian horses being considered the finest in the world. the little girls came out to see, and declared it was the loveliest sight they ever beheld, while thorny played "hail columbia" on his fife, and ben, mounting the gate-post, crowed long and loud like a happy cockerel who had just reached his majority. he had been surprised and delighted with the gifts he found in his room on awaking and guessed why miss celia and thorny gave him such pretty things, for among them was a match-box made like a mouse-trap. the doggy buttons and the horsey whip were treasures, indeed, for miss celia had not given them when they first planned to do so, because sancho's return seemed to be joy and reward enough for that occasion. but he did not forget to thank mrs. moss for the cake she sent him, nor the girls for the red mittens which they had secretly and painfully knit. bab's was long and thin, with a very pointed thumb, betty's short and wide, with a stubby thumb, and all their mother's pulling and pressing could not make them look alike, to the great affliction of the little knitters. ben, however, assured them that he rather preferred odd ones, as then he could always tell which was right and which left. he put them on immediately and went about cracking the new whip with an expression of content which was droll to see, while the children followed after, full of admiration for the hero of the day. they were very busy all the morning preparing for the festivities to come, and as soon as dinner was over every one scrambled into his or her best clothes as fast as possible, because, although invited to come at two, impatient boys and girls were seen hovering about the avenue as early as one. the first to arrive, however, was an uninvited guest, for just as bab and betty sat down on the porch steps, in their stiff pink calico frocks and white ruffled aprons, to repose a moment before the party came in, a rustling was heard among the lilacs, and out stepped alfred tennyson barlow, looking like a small robin hood, in a green blouse with a silver buckle on his broad belt, a feather in his little cap and a bow in his hand. "i have come to shoot. i heard about it. my papa told me what arching meant. will there be any little cakes? i like them." with these opening remarks the poet took a seat and calmly awaited a response. the young ladies, i regret to say, giggled, then remembering their manners, hastened to inform him that there would be heaps of cakes, also that miss celia would not mind his coming without an invitation, they were quite sure. "she asked me to come that day. i have been very busy. i had measles. do you have them here?" asked the guest, as if anxious to compare notes on the sad subject. "we had ours ever so long ago. what have you been doing besides having measles?" said betty, showing a polite interest. "i had a fight with a bumble-bee." "who beat?" demanded bab. "i did. i ran away and he couldn't catch me." "can you shoot nicely?" "i hit a cow. she did not mind at all. i guess she thought it was a fly." "did your mother know you were coming?" asked bab, feeling an interest in runaways. "no; she is gone to drive, so i could not ask her." "it is very wrong to disobey. my sunday-school book says that children who are naughty that way never go to heaven," observed virtuous betty, in a warning tone. "i do not wish to go," was the startling reply. "why not?" asked betty, severely. "they don't have any dirt there. my mamma says so. i am fond of dirt. i shall stay here where there is plenty of it," and the candid youth began to grub in the mould with the satisfaction of a genuine boy. "i am afraid you're a very bad child." "oh yes, i am. my papa often says so and he knows all about it," replied alfred with an involuntary wriggle suggestive of painful memories. then, as if anxious to change the conversation from its somewhat personal channel, he asked, pointing to a row of grinning heads above the wall, "do you shoot at those?" bab and betty looked up quickly and recognized the familiar faces of their friends peering down at them, like a choice collection of trophies or targets. "i should think you'd be ashamed to peek before the party was ready!" cried bab, frowning darkly upon the merry young ladies. "miss celia told us to come before two, and be ready to receive folks, if she wasn't down," added betty, importantly. "it is striking two now. come along, girls;" and over scrambled sally folsom, followed by three or four kindred spirits, just as their hostess appeared. "you look like amazons storming a fort," she said, as the girls cattle up, each carrying her bow and arrows, while green ribbons flew in every direction. "how do you do, sir? i have been hoping you would call again," added miss celia, shaking hands with the pretty boy, who regarded with benign interest the giver of little cakes. here a rush of boys took place, and further remarks were cut short, for every one was in a hurry to begin. so the procession was formed at once, miss celia taking the lead, escorted by ben in the post of honor, while the boys and girls paired off behind, arm in arm, bow on shoulder, in martial array. thorny and billy were the band, and marched before, fifing and drumming "yankee doodle" with a vigor which kept feet moving briskly, made eyes sparkle, and young hearts dance under the gay gowns and summer jackets. the interesting stranger was elected to bear the prize, laid out on a red pin-cushion; and did so with great dignity, as he went beside the standard bearer, cy fay, who bore ben's choicest flag, snow-white, with a green wreath surrounding a painted bow and arrow, and with the letters w. t. c. done in red below. such a merry march all about the place, out at the lodge gate, up and down the avenue, along the winding paths, till they halted in the orchard, where the target stood, and seats were placed for the archers while they waited for their turns. various rules and regulations were discussed, and then the fun began. miss celia had insisted that the girls should be invited to shoot with the boys; and the lads consented without much concern, whispering to one another with condescending shrugs, "let 'em try, if they like; they can't do any thing." there were various trials of skill before the great match came off, and in these trials the young gentlemen discovered that two at least of the girls could do something; for bab and sally shot better than many of the boys, and were well rewarded for their exertions by, the change which took place in the faces and conversation of their mates. "why, bab, you do as well as if i'd taught you myself," said thorny, much surprised and not altogether pleased at the little girl's skill. "a lady taught me; and i mean to beat every one of you," answered bab, saucily, while her sparkling eyes turned to miss celia with a mischievous twinkle in them. "not a bit of it," declared thorny, stoutly; but he went to ben and whispered, "do your best, old fellow, for sister has taught bab all the scientific points, and the little rascal is ahead of billy." "she won't get ahead of me," said ben, picking out his best arrow, and trying the string of his bow with a confident air which re-assured thorny, who found it impossible to believe that a girl ever could, would, or should excel a boy in any thing he cared to try. it really did look as if bab would beat when the match for the prize came off; and the children got more and more excited as the six who were to try for it took turns at the bull's-eye. thorny was umpire, and kept account of each shot, for the arrow which went nearest the middle would win. each had three shots; and very soon the lookers-on saw that ben and bab were the best marksmen, and one of them would surely get the silver arrow. sam, who was too lazy to practise, soon gave up the contest, saying, as thorny did, "it wouldn't be fair for such a big fellow to try with the little chaps," which made a laugh, as his want of skill was painfully evident. but mose went at it gallantly; and, if his eye had been as true as his arms were strong, the "little chaps" would have trembled. but his shots were none of them as near as billy's; and he retired after the third failure, declaring that it was impossible to shoot against the wind, though scarcely a breath was stirring. sally folsom was bound to beat bab, and twanged away in great style; all in vain, however, as with tall maria newcomb, the third girl who attempted the trial. being a little near-sighted, she had borrowed her sister's eye-glasses, and thereby lessened her chance of success; for the pinch on her nose distracted her attention, and not one of her arrows went beyond the second ring to her great disappointment. billy did very well, but got nervous when his last shot came, and just missed the bull's-eye by being in a hurry. bab and ben each had one turn more; and, as they were about even, that last arrow would decide the victory. both had sent a shot into the bull's-eye, but neither was exactly in the middle; so there was room to do better, even, and the children crowded round, crying eagerly, "now, ben!" "now, bab!" "hit her up, ben!" "beat him, bab!" while thorny looked as anxious as if the fate of the country depended on the success of his man. bab's turn came first; and, as miss celia examined her bow to see that all was right, the little girl said, with her eyes on her rival's excited face,-- "i want to beat, but ben will feel so bad, i 'most hope i sha'n't." "losing a prize sometimes makes one happier than gaining it. you have proved that you could do better than most of them; so, if you do not beat, you may still feet proud," answered miss celia, giving back the bow with a smile that said more than her words. it seemed to give bab a new idea, for in a minute all sorts of recollections, wishes, and plans rushed through her lively little mind, and she followed a sudden generous impulse as blindly as she often did a wilful one. "i guess he'll beat," she said, softly, with a quick sparkle of the eyes, as she stepped to her place and fired without taking her usual careful aim. her shot struck almost as near the centre on the right as her last one had hit on the left; and there was a shout of delight from the girls as thorny announced it before he hurried back to ben, whispering anxiously,-- "steady, old man, steady; you must beat that, or we shall never hear the last of it." ben did not say, "she won't get ahead of me," as he had said at the first; he set his teeth, threw off his hat, and, knitting his brows with a resolute expression, prepared to take steady aim, though his heart beat fast and his thumb trembled as he pressed it on the bowstring. "i hope you'll beat, i truly do," said bab, at his elbow; and, as if the breath that framed the generous wish helped it on its way, the arrow flew straight to the bull's-eye, hitting, apparently, the very spot where bab's best shot had left a hole. "a tie! a tie!" cried the girls, as a general rush took place toward the target. "no, ben's is nearest. ben's beat!" hooray shouted the boys, throwing up their hats. there was only a hair's-breadth difference, and bab could honestly have disputed the decision; but she did not, though for an instant she could not help wishing that the cry had been "bab's beat! hurrah!" it sounded so pleasant. then she saw ben's beaming face, thorny's intense relief, and caught the look miss celia sent her over the heads of the boys, and decided, with a sudden warm glow all over her little face, that losing a prize did sometimes make one happier than winning it. up went her best hat, and she burst out in a shrill, "rah, rah, rah!" that sounded very funny coming all alone after the general clamor had subsided. "good for you, bab! you are an honor to the club, and i'm proud of you", said prince thorny, with a hearty handshake; for, as his man had won, he could afford to praise the rival who had put him on his mettle, though she was a girl. bab was much uplifted by the royal commendation, but a few minutes later felt pleased as well as proud when ben, having received the prize, came to her, as she stood behind a tree sucking her blistered thumb, while betty braided up her dishevelled locks. "i think it would be fairer to call it a tie, bab, for it really was, and i want you to wear this. i wanted the fun of beating, but i don't care a bit for this girl's thing and i'd rather see it on you." as he spoke, ben offered the rosette of green ribbon which held the silver arrow, and bab's eyes brightened as they fell upon the pretty ornament, for to her "the girl's thing" was almost as good as the victory. "oh no; you must wear it to show who won. miss celia wouldn't like it. i don't mind not getting it; i did better than all the rest, and i guess i shouldn't like to beat you," answered bab, unconsciously putting into childish words the sweet generosity which makes so many sisters glad to see their brothers carry off the prizes of life, while they are content to know that they have earned them and can do without the praise. but if bab was generous, ben was just; and though he could not explain the feeling, would not consent to take all the glory without giving his little friend a share. "you must wear it; i shall feel real mean if you don't. you worked harder than i did, and it was only luck my getting this. do, bab, to please me," he persisted, awkwardly trying to fasten the ornament in the middle of bab's' white apron. "then i will. now do you forgive me for losing sancho?" asked bab, with a wistful look which made ben say, heartily,-- "i did that when he came home." "and you don't think i'm horrid?" "not a bit of it; you are first-rate, and i'll stand by you like a man, for you are 'most as good as a boy!" cried ben, anxious to deal handsomely with his feminine rival, whose skill had raised her immensely in his opinion. feeling that he could not improve that last compliment, bab was fully satisfied, and let him leave the prize upon her breast, conscious that she had some claim to it. "that is where it should be, and ben is a true knight, winning the prize that he may give it to his lady, while he is content with the victory," said miss celia, laughingly, to teacher, as the children ran off to join in the riotous games which soon made the orchard ring. "he learned that at the circus 'tunnyments,' as he calls them. he is a nice boy, and i am much interested in him; for he has the two things that do most toward making a man, patience and courage," answered teacher, also as she watched the young knight play and the honored lady tearing about in a game of tag. "bab is a nice child, too," said miss celia; "she is as quick as a flash to catch an idea and carry it out, though very often the ideas are wild ones. she could have won just now, i fancy, if she had tried, but took the notion into her head that it was nobler to let ben win, and so atone for the trouble she gave him in losing the dog. i saw a very sweet look on her face just now, and am sure that ben will never know why he beat." "she does such things at school sometimes, and i can't bear to spoil her little atonements, though they are not always needed or very wise," answered teacher. "not long ago i found that she had been giving her lunch day after day to a poor child who seldom had any, and when i asked her why, she said, with tears, 'i used to laugh at abby, because she had only crusty, dry bread, and so she wouldn't bring any. i ought to give her mine and be hungry, it was so mean to make fun of her poorness." "did you stop the sacrifice?" "no; i let bab 'go halves,' and added an extra bit to my own lunch, so i could make my contribution likewise." "come and tell me about abby. i want to make friends with our poor people, for soon i shall have a right to help them;" and, putting her arm in teacher's, miss celia led her away for a quiet chat in the porch, making her guest's visit a happy holiday by confiding several plans and asking advice in the friendliest way. chapter xxi cupid's last appearance a picnic supper on the grass followed the games, and then, as twilight began to fall, the young people were marshalled to the coach-house, now transformed into a rustic theatre. one big door was open, and seats, arranged lengthwise, faced the red table-cloths which formed the curtain. a row of lamps made very good foot-lights, and an invisible band performed a wagner-like overture on combs, tin trumpets, drums, and pipes, with an accompaniment of suppressed laughter. many of the children had never seen any thing like it, and sat staring about them in mute admiration and expectancy; but the older ones criticised freely, and indulged in wild speculations as to the meaning of various convulsions of nature going on behind the curtain. while teacher was dressing the actresses for the tragedy, miss celia and thorny, who were old hands at this sort of amusement, gave a "potato" pantomime as a side show. across an empty stall a green cloth was fastened, so high that the heads of the operators were not seen. a little curtain flew up, disclosing the front of a chinese pagoda painted on pasteboard, with a door and window which opened quite naturally. this stood on one side, several green trees with paper lanterns hanging from the boughs were on the other side, and the words "tea garden," printed over the top, showed the nature of this charming spot. few of the children had ever seen the immortal punch and judy, so this was a most agreeable novelty, and before they could make out what it meant, a voice began to sing, so distinctly that every word was heard,-- "in china there lived a little man, his name was chingery wangery chan." here the hero "took the stage" with great dignity, clad in a loose yellow jacket over a blue skirt, which concealed the hand that made his body. a pointed hat adorned his head, and on removing this to bow he disclosed a bald pate with a black queue in the middle, and a chinese face nicely painted on the potato, the lower part of which was hollowed out to fit thorny's first finger, while his thumb and second finger were in the sleeves of the yellow jacket, making a lively pair of arms. while he saluted, the song went on,-- "his legs were short, his feet were small, and this little man could not walk at all." which assertion was proved to be false by the agility with which the "little man" danced a jig in time to the rollicking chorus,-- "chingery changery ri co day, ekel tekel happy man; uron odesko canty oh, oh, gallopy wallopy china go." at the close of the dance and chorus, chan retired into the tea garden, and drank so many cups of the national beverage, with such comic gestures, that the spectators were almost sorry when the opening of the opposite window drew all eyes in that direction. at the lattice appeared a lovely being; for this potato had been pared, and on the white surface were painted pretty pink checks, red lips, black eyes, and oblique brows; through the tuft of dark silk on the head were stuck several glittering pins, and a pink jacket shrouded the plump figure of this capital little chinese lady. after peeping coyly out, so that all could see and admire, she fell to counting the money from a purse, so large her small hands could hardly hold it on the window seat. while she did this, the song went on to explain,-- "miss ki hi was short and squat, she had money and he had not so off to her he resolved to go, and play her a tune on his little banjo." during the chorus to this verse chan was seen tuning his instrument in the garden, and at the end sallied gallantly forth to sing the following tender strain,-- "whang fun li, tang hua ki, hong kong do ra me! ah sin lo, pan to fo, tsing up chin leute!" carried away by his passion, chan dropped his banjo, fell upon his knees, and, clasping his hands, bowed his forehead in the dust before his idol. but, alas!-- "miss ki hi heard his notes of love, and held her wash-bowl up above it fell upon the little man, and this was the end of chingery chan," indeed it was; for, as the doll's basin of real water was cast forth by the cruel charmer, poor chan expired in such strong convulsions that his head rolled down among the audience. miss ki hi peeped to see what had become of her victim, and the shutter decapitated her likewise, to the great delight of the children, who passed around the heads, pronouncing a "potato" pantomime "first-rate fun." then they settled themselves for the show, having been assured by manager thorny that they were about to behold the most elegant and varied combination ever produced on any stage. and when one reads the following very inadequate description of the somewhat mixed entertainment, it is impossible to deny that the promise made was nobly kept. after some delay and several crashes behind the curtain, which mightily amused the audience, the performance began with the well-known tragedy of "bluebeard;" for bab had set her heart upon it, and the young folks had acted it so often in their plays that it was very easy to get up, with a few extra touches to scenery and costumes. thorny was superb as the tyrant with a beard of bright blue worsted, a slouched hat and long feather, fur cloak, red hose, rubber boots, and a real sword which clanked tragically as he walked. he spoke in such a deep voice, knit his corked eye-brows, and glared so frightfully, that it was no wonder poor fatima quaked before him as he gave into her keeping an immense bunch of keys with one particularly big, bright one, among them. bab was fine to see, with miss celia's blue dress sweeping behind her, a white plume in her flowing hair, and a real necklace with a pearl locket about her neck. she did her part capitally, especially the shriek she gave when she looked into the fatal closet, the energy with which she scrubbed the tell-tale key, and her distracted tone when she called out: "sister anne, o, sister anne, do you see anybody coming?" while her enraged husband was roaring: "will you come down, madam, or shall i come and fetch you?" betty made a captivating anne,--all in white muslin, and a hat full of such lovely pink roses that she could not help putting up one hand to feel them as she stood on the steps looking out at the little window for the approaching brothers who made such a din that it sounded like a dozen horsemen instead if two. ben and billy were got up regardless of expense in the way of arms; for their belts were perfect arsenals, and their wooden swords were big enough to strike terror into any soul, though they struck no sparks out of bluebeard's blade in the awful combat which preceded the villain's downfall and death. the boys enjoyed this part intensely, and cries of "go it, ben!" "hit him again, billy!" "two against one isn't fair!" "thorny's a match for 'em." "now he's down, hurray!" cheered on the combatants, till, after a terrific struggle, the tyrant fell, and with convulsive twitchings of the scarlet legs, slowly expired while the ladies sociably fainted in each other's arms, and the brothers waved their swords and shook hands over the corpse of their enemy. this piece was rapturously applauded, and all the performers had to appear and bow their thanks, led by the defunct bluebeard, who mildly warned the excited audience that if they "didn't look out the seats would break down, and then there'd be a nice mess." calmed by this fear they composed themselves, and waited with ardor for the next play, which promised to be a lively one, judging from the shrieks of laughter which came from behind the curtain. "sanch 's going to be in it, i know; for i heard ben say, 'hold him still; he won't bite,'" whispered sam, longing to "jounce up and down, so great was his satisfaction at the prospect, for the dog was considered the star of the company. "i hope bab will do something else, she is so funny. wasn't her dress elegant?" said sally folsum, burning to wear a long silk gown and a feather in her hair. "i like betty best, she's so cunning, and she peeked out of the window just as if she really saw somebody coming," answered liddy peckham, privately resolving to tease mother for some pink roses before another sunday came. up went the curtain at last, and a voice announced "a tragedy in three tableaux." "there's betty!" was the general exclamation, as the audience recognized a familiar face under the little red hood worn by the child who stood receiving a basket from teacher, who made a nice mother with her finger up, as if telling the small messenger not to loiter by the way. "i know what that is!" cried sally; "it's 'mabel on midsummer day.' the piece miss celia spoke; don't you know?" "there isn't any sick baby, and mabel had a 'kerchief pinned about her head.' i say it's red riding hood," answered liddy, who had begun to learn mary howitt's pretty poem for her next piece, and knew all about it. the question was settled by the appearance of the wolf in the second scene, and such a wolf! on few amateur stages do we find so natural an actor for that part, or so good a costume, for sanch was irresistibly droll in the gray wolf-skin which usually lay beside miss celia's bed, now fitted over his back and fastened neatly down underneath, with his own face peeping out at one end, and the handsome tail bobbing gayly at the other. what a comfort that tail was to sancho, none but a bereaved bow-wow could ever tell. it reconciled him to his distasteful part at once, it made rehearsals a joy, and even before the public he could not resist turning to catch a glimpse of the noble appendage, while his own brief member wagged with the proud consciousness that though the tail did not match the head, it was long enough to be seen of all men and dogs. that was a pretty picture, for the little maid came walking in with the basket on her arm, and such an innocent face inside the bright hood that it was quite natural the gray wolf should trot up to her with deceitful friendliness, that she should pat and talk to him confidingly about the butter for grandma, and then that they should walk away together, he politely carrying her basket, she with her hand on his head, little dreaming what evil plans were taking shape inside. the children encored that, but there was no time to repeat it, so they listened to more stifled merriment behind the red table-cloths, and wondered whether the next scene would be the wolf popping his head out of the window as red riding hood knocks, or the tragic end of that sweet child. it was neither, for a nice bed had been made, and in it reposed the false grandmother, with a ruffled nightcap on, a white gown, and spectacles. betty lay beside the wolf, staring at him as if just about to say, "why, grandma, what great teeth you've got!" for sancho's mouth was half open and a red tongue hung out, as he panted with the exertion of keeping still. this tableau was so very good, and yet so funny, that the children clapped and shouted frantically; this excited the dog, who gave a bounce and would have leaped off the bed to bark at the rioters, if betty had not caught him by the legs, and thorny dropped the curtain just at the moment when the wicked wolf was apparently in the act of devouring the poor little girl, with most effective growls. they had to come out then, and did so, both much dishevelled by the late tussle, for sancho's cap was all over one eye, and betty's hood was anywhere but on her head. she made her courtesy prettily, however; her fellow-actor bowed with as much dignity as a short night-gown permitted, and they retired to their well-earned repose. then thorny, looking much excited, appeared to make the following request: "as one of the actors in the next piece is new to the business, the company must all keep as still as mice, and not stir till i give the word. it's perfectly splendid! so don't you spoil it by making a row." "what do you suppose it is?" asked every one, and listened with all their might to get a hint, if possible. but what they heard only whetted their curiosity and mystified them more and more. bab's voice cried in a loud whisper, "isn't ben beautiful?" then there was a thumping noise, and miss celia said, in an anxious tone, "oh, do be careful," while ben laughed out as if he was too happy to care who heard him, and thorny bawled "whoa!" in a way which would have attracted attention if lita's head had not popped out of her box, more than once, to survey the invaders of her abode, with a much astonished expression. "sounds kind of circusy, don't it?" said sam to billy, who had come out to receive the compliments of the company and enjoy the tableau at a safe distance. "you just wait till you see what's coming. it beats any circus i ever saw," answered billy, rubbing his hands with the air of a man who had seen many instead of but one. "ready! be quick and get out of the way when she goes off!" whispered ben, but they heard him and prepared for pistols, rockets or combustibles of some sort, as ships were impossible under the circumstances, and no other "she" occurred to them. a unanimous "o-o-o-o!" was heard when the curtain rose, but a stern "hush!" from thorny kept them mutely staring with all their eyes at the grand spectacle of the evening. there stood lita with a wide flat saddle on her back, a white head-stall and reins, blue rosettes in her ears, and the look of a much-bewildered beast in her bright eyes. but who the gauzy, spangled, winged creature was, with a gilt crown on its head, a little bow in its hand, and one white slipper in the air, while the other seemed merely to touch the saddle, no one could tell for a minute, so strange and splendid did the apparition appear. no wonder ben was not recognized in this brilliant disguise, which was more natural to him than billy's blue flannel or thorny's respectable garments. he had so begged to be allowed to show himself "just once," as he used to be in the days when "father" tossed him up on the bare-backed old general, for hundreds to see and admire, that miss celia had consented, much against her will, and hastily arranged some bits of spangled tarlatan over the white cotton suit which was to simulate the regulation tights. her old dancing slippers fitted, and gold paper did the rest, while ben, sure of his power over lita, promised not to break his bones, and lived for days on the thought of the moment when he could show the boys that he had not boasted vainly of past splendors. before the delighted children could get their breath, lita gave signs of her dislike to the foot-lights, and, gathering up the reins that lay on her neck, ben gave the old cry, "houp-la!" and let her go, as he had often done before, straight out of the coach-house for a gallop round the orchard. "just turn about and you can see perfectly well, but stay where you are till he comes back," commanded thorny, as signs of commotion appeared in the excited audience. round went the twenty children as if turned by one crank, and sitting there they looked out into the moonlight where the shining figure flashed to and fro, now so near they could see the smiling face under the crown, now so far away that it glittered like a fire-fly among the dusky green. lita enjoyed that race as heartily as she had done several others of late, and caracoled about as if anxious to make up for her lack of skill by speed and obedience. how much ben liked it there is no need to tell, yet it was a proof of the good which three months of a quiet, useful life had done him, that even as he pranced gayly under the boughs thick with the red and yellow apples almost ready to be gathered, he found this riding in the fresh air with only his mates for an audience pleasanter than the crowded tent, the tired horses, profane men, and painted women, friendly as some of them had been to him. after the first burst was over, he felt rather glad, on the whole, that he was going back to plain clothes, helpful school, and kindly people, who cared more to have him a good boy than the most famous cupid that ever stood on one leg with a fast horse under him. "you may make as much noise as you like, now; lita's had her run and will be as quiet as a lamb after it. pull up, ben, and come in; sister says you'll get cold," shouted thorny, as the rider came cantering round after a leap over the lodge gate and back again. so ben pulled up, and the admiring boys and girls were allowed to gather about him, loud in their praises as they examined the pretty mare and the mythological character who lay easily on her back. he looked very little like the god of love now; for he had lost one slipper and splashed his white legs with dew and dust, the crown had slipped down upon his neck, and the paper wings hung in an apple-tree where he had left them as he went by. no trouble in recognizing ben, now; but somehow he didn't want to be seen, and, instead of staying to be praised, he soon slipped away, making lita his excuse to vanish behind the curtain while the rest went into the house to have a finishing-off game of blindman's-buff in the big kitchen. "well, ben, are you satisfied?" asked miss celia, as she stayed a moment to unpin the remains of his gauzy scarf and tunic. "yes, 'm, thank you, it was tip-top." "but you look rather sober. are you tired, or is it because you don't want to take these trappings off and be plain ben again?" she said, looking down into his face as he lifted it for her to free him from his gilded collar. "i want to take 'em off; for somehow i don't feel respectable," and he kicked away the crown he had helped to make so carefully, adding with a glance that said more than his words: "i'd rather be 'plain ben' than any one else, for you like to have me." "indeed i do; and i'm so glad to hear you say that, because i was afraid you'd long to be off to the old ways, and all i've tried to do would be undone. would you like to go back, ben?" and miss celia held his chin an instant, to watch the brown face that looked so honestly back at her. "no, i wouldn't--unless--he was there and wanted me." the chin quivered just a bit, but the black eyes were as bright as ever, and the boy's voice so earnest, she knew he spoke the truth, and laid her white hand softly on his head, as she answered in the tone he loved so much, because no one else had ever used it to him,-- "father is not there; but i know he wants you, dear, and i am sure he would rather see you in a home like this than in the place you came from. now go and dress; but, tell me first, has it been a happy birthday?" "oh, miss celia! i didn't know they could be so beautiful, and this is the beautifulest part of it; i don't know how to thank you, but i'm going to try--" and, finding words wouldn't come fast enough, ben just put his two arms round her, quite speechless with gratitude; then, as if ashamed of his little outburst, he knelt down in a great hurry to untie his one shoe. but miss celia liked his answer better than the finest speech ever made her, and went away through the moonlight, saying to herself,-- "if i can bring one lost lamb into the fold, i shall be the fitter for a shepherd's wife, by-and-by." chapter xxii a boy's bargain it was some days before the children were tired of talking over ben's birthday party; for it was a great event in their small world; but, gradually, newer pleasures came to occupy their minds, and they began to plan the nutting frolics which always followed the early frosts. while waiting for jack to open the chestnut burrs, they varied the monotony of school life by a lively scrimmage long known as "the wood-pile fight." the girls liked to play in the half-empty shed, and the boys, merely for the fun of teasing, declared that they should not, so blocked up the doorway as fast as the girls cleared it. seeing that the squabble was a merry one, and the exercise better for all than lounging in the sun or reading in school during recess, teacher did not interfere, and the barrier rose and fell almost as regularly as the tide. it would be difficult to say which side worked the harder; for the boys went before school began to build up the barricade, and the girls stayed after lessons were over to pull down the last one made in afternoon recess. they had their play-time first; and, while the boys waited inside, they heard the shouts of the girls, the banging of the wood, and the final crash, as the well-packed pile went down. then, as the lassies came in, rosy, breathless, and triumphant, the lads rushed out to man the breach, and labor gallantly till all was as tight as hard blows could make it. so the battle raged, and bruised knuckles, splinters in fingers, torn clothes, and rubbed shoes, were the only wounds received, while a great deal of fun was had out of the maltreated logs, and a lasting peace secured between two of the boys. when the party was safely over, sam began to fall into his old way of tormenting ben by calling names, as it cost no exertion to invent trying speeches, and slyly utter them when most likely to annoy. ben bore it as well as he could; but fortune favored him at last, as it usually does the patient, and he was able to make his own terms with his tormentor. when the girls demolished the wood-pile, they performed a jubilee chorus on combs, and tin kettles, played like tambourines; the boys celebrated their victories with shrill whistles, and a drum accompaniment with fists on the shed walls. billy brought his drum, and this was such an addition that sam hunted up an old one of his little brother's, in order that he might join the drum corps. he had no sticks, however, and, casting about in his mind for a good substitute for the genuine thing, bethought him of bulrushes. "those will do first-rate, and there are lots in the ma'sh, if i can only get 'em," he said to himself, and turned off from the road on his way home to get a supply. now, this marsh was a treacherous spot, and the tragic story was told of a cow who got in there and sank till nothing was visible but a pair of horns above the mud, which suffocated the unwary beast. for this reason it was called "cowslip marsh," the wags said, though it was generally believed to be so named for the yellow flowers which grew there in great profusion in the spring. sam had seen ben hop nimbly from one tuft of grass to another when he went to gather cowslips for betty, and the stout boy thought he could do the same. two or three heavy jumps landed him, not among the bulrushes, as he had hoped, but in a pool of muddy water, where he sank up to his middle with alarming rapidity. much scared, he tried to wade out, but could only flounder to a tussock of grass, and cling there, while he endeavored to kick his legs free. he got them out, but struggled in vain to coil them up or to hoist his heavy body upon the very small island in this sea of mud. down they splashed again; and sam gave a dismal groan as he thought of the leeches and water-snakes which might be lying in wait below. visions of the lost cow also flashed across his agitated mind, and he gave a despairing shout very like a distracted "moo!" few people passed along the lane, and the sun was setting, so the prospect of a night in the marsh nerved sam to make a frantic plunge toward the bulrush island, which was nearer than the mainland, and looked firmer than any tussock round him. but he failed to reach this haven of rest, and was forced to stop at an old stump which stuck up, looking very like the moss-grown horns of the "dear departed." roosting here, sam began to shout for aid in every key possible to the human voice. such hoots and howls, whistles and roars, never woke the echoes of the lonely marsh before, or scared the portly frog who resided there in calm seclusion. he hardly expected any reply but the astonished "caw!" of the crow, who sat upon a fence watching him with gloomy interest; and when a cheerful "hullo, there!" sounded from the lane, he was so grateful that tears of joy rolled down his fat cheeks. "come on! i'm in the ma'sh. lend a hand and get me out!" bawled sam, anxiously waiting for his deliverer to appear, for he could only see a hat bobbing along behind the hazel-bushes that fringed the lane. steps crashed through the bushes, and then over the wall came an active figure, at the sight of which sam was almost ready to dive out of sight, for, of all possible boys, who should it be but ben, the last person in the world whom he would like to have see him in his present pitiful plight. "is it you, sam? well, you are in a nice fix!" and ben's eyes began to twinkle with mischievous merriment, as well they might, for sam certainly was a spectacle to convulse the soberest person. perched unsteadily on the gnarled stump, with his muddy legs drawn up, his dismal face splashed with mud, and the whole lower half of his body as black as if he had been dipped in an inkstand, he presented such a comically doleful object that ben danced about, laughing like a naughty will-o'-the-wisp who, having led a traveller astray then fell to jeering at him. "stop that, or i'll knock your head off!" roared sam, in a rage. "come on and do it; i give you leave," answered ben, sparring away derisively as the other tottered on his perch, and was forced to hold tight lest he should tumble off. "don't laugh, there 's a good chap, but fish me out somehow, or i shall get my death sitting here all wet and cold," whined sam, changing his tune, and feeling bitterly that ben had the upper hand now. ben felt it also; and, though a very good-natured boy, could not resist the temptation to enjoy this advantage for a moment at least. "i won't laugh if i can help it; only you do look so like a fat, speckled frog, i may not be able to hold in. i'll pull you out pretty soon; but first i'm going to talk to you, sam," said ben, sobering down as he took a seat on the little point of land nearest the stranded samuel. "hurry up, then; i'm as stiff as a board now, and it's no fun sitting here on this knotty old thing," growled sam, with a discontented squirm. "dare say not, but 'it is good for you,' as you say when you rap me over the head. look here, i've got you in a tight place, and i don't mean to help you a bit till you promise to let me alone. now then!" and ben's face grew stern with his remembered wrongs as he grimly eyed his discomfited foe. "i'll promise fast enough if you won't tell anyone about this," answered sam, surveying himself and his surroundings with great disgust. "i shall do as i like about that." "then i won't promise a thing! i'm not going to have the whole school laughing at me," protested sam, who hated to be ridiculed even more than ben did. "very well; good-night!" and ben walked off with his hands in his pockets as coolly as if the bog was sam's favorite retreat. "hold on, don't be in such a hurry!" shouted sam, seeing little hope of rescue if he let this chance go. "all right!" and back came ben, ready for further negotiations. "i'll promise not to plague you, if you'll promise not to tell on me. is that what you want?" "now i come to think of it, there is one thing more. i like to make a good bargain when i begin," said ben, with a shrewd air. "you must promise to keep mose quiet, too. he follows your lead, and if you tell him to stop it he will. if i was big enough, i'd make you hold your tongues. i ain't, so we'll try this way." "yes, yes, i'll see to mose. now, bring on a rail, there's a good fellow. i've got a horrid cramp in my legs," began sam, thinking he had bought help dearly, yet admiring ben's cleverness in making the most of his chance. ben brought the rail, but, just as he was about to lay it from the main-land to the nearest tussock, he stopped, saying, with the naughty twinkle in his black eyes again, "one more little thing must be settled first, and then i'll get you ashore. promise you won't plague the girls either, 'specially bab and betty. you pull their hair, and they don't like it." "don't neither! wouldn't touch that bab for a dollar; she scratches and bites like a mad cat," was sam's sulky reply. "glad of it; she can take care of herself. betty can't; and if you touch one of her pig-tails i'll up and tell right out how i found you snivelling in the ma'sh like a great baby. so now!" and ben emphasized his threat with a blow of the suspended rail which splashed the water over poor sam, quenching his last spark of resistance. "stop! i will!--i will!" "true as you live and breathe!" demanded ben, sternly binding him by the most solemn oath he knew. "true as i live and breathe," echoed sam, dolefully relinquishing his favorite pastime of pulling betty's braids and asking if she was at home. "i'll come over there and crook fingers on the bargain," said ben, settling the rail and running over it to the tuft, then bridging another pool and crossing again till he came to the stump. "i never thought of that way," said sam, watching him with much inward chagrin at his own failure. "i should think you'd written 'look before you leap,' in your copy-book often enough to get the idea into your stupid head. come, crook," commanded ben, leaning forward with extended little finger. sam obediently performed the ceremony, and then ben sat astride one of the horns of the stump while the muddy crusoe went slowly across the rail from point to point till he landed safely on the shore, when he turned about and asked with an ungrateful jeer,-- "now what's going to become of you, old look-before-you-leap?" "mud turtles can only sit on a stump and bawl till they are taken off, but frogs have legs worth something, and are not afraid of a little water," answered ben, hopping away in an opposite direction, since the pools between him and sam were too wide for even his lively legs. sam waddled off to the brook in the lane to rinse the mud from his nether man before facing his mother, and was just wringing himself out when ben came up, breathless but good natured, for he felt that he had made an excellent bargain for himself and friends. "better wash your face; it's as speckled as a tiger-lily. here's my handkerchief if yours is wet," he said, pulling out a dingy article which had evidently already done service as a towel. "don't want it," muttered sam, gruffly, as he poured the water out of his muddy shoes. "i was taught to say 'thanky' when folks got me out of scrapes. but you never had much bringing up, though you do 'live in a house with a gambrel roof,'" retorted ben, sarcastically quoting sam's frequent boast; then he walked off, much disgusted with the ingratitude of man. sam forgot his manners, but he remembered his promise, and kept it so well that all the school wondered. no one could guess the secret of ben's power over him, though it was evident that he had gained it in some sudden way, for at the least sign of sam's former tricks ben would crook his little finger and wag it warningly, or call out "bulrushes!" and sam subsided with reluctant submission, to the great amazement of his mates. when asked what it meant, sa, turned sulky; but ben had much fun out of it, assuring the other boys that those were the signs and password of a secret society to which he and sam belonged, and promised to tell them all about it if sam would give him leave, which, of course, he would not. this mystery, and the vain endeavors to find it out caused a lull in the war of the wood-pile, and before any new game was invented something happened which gave the children plenty to talk about for a time. a week after the secret alliance was formed, ben ran in one evening with a letter for miss celia. he found her enjoying the cheery blaze of the pine-cones the little girls had picked up for her, and bab and betty sat in the small chairs rocking luxuriously as they took turns to throw on the pretty fuel. miss celia turned quickly to receive the expected letter, glanced at the writing, post-mark and stamp, with an air of delighted surprise, then clasped it close in both hands, saying, as she hurried out of the room,-- "he has come! he has come! now you may tell them, thorny." "tell its what? asked bab, pricking up her cars at once. "oh, it's only that george has come, and i suppose we shall go and get married right away," answered thorny, rubbing his hands as if he enjoyed the prospect. "are you going to be married? asked betty, so soberly that the boys shouted, and thorny, with difficulty composed himself sufficiently to explain. "no, child, not just yet; but sister is, and i must go and see that all is done up ship-shape, and bring you home some wedding-cake. ben will take care of you while i'm gone." "when shall you go?" asked bab, beginning to long for her share of cake. "to-morrow, i guess. celia has been packed and ready for a week. we agreed to meet george in new york, and be married as soon as he got his best clothes unpacked. we are men of our word, and off we go. won't it be fun?" "but when will you come back again?" questioned betty, looking anxious. "don't know. sister wants to come soon, but i'd rather have our honeymoon somewhere else,--niagara, newfoundland, west point, or the rocky mountains," said thorny, mentioning a few of the places he most desired to see. "do you like him?" asked ben, very naturally wondering if the new master would approve of the young man-of-all-work. "don't i? george is regularly jolly; though now he's a minister, perhaps he'll stiffen up and turn sober. won't it be a shame if he does?" and thorny looked alarmed at the thought of losing his congenial friend. "tell about him; miss celia said you might", put in bab, whose experience of "jolly" ministers had been small. "oh, there isn't much about it. we met in switzerland going up mount st. bernard in a storm, and--" "where the good dogs live?" inquired betty, hoping they would come into the story. "yes; we spent the night up there, and george gave us his room; the house was so full, and he wouldn't let me go down a steep place where i wanted to, and celia thought he'd saved my life, and was very good to him. then we kept meeting, and the first thing i knew she went and was engaged to him. i didn't care, only she would come home so he might go on studying hard and get through quick. that was a year ago, and last winter we were in new york at uncle's; and then, in the spring, i was sick, and we came here, and that's all." "shall you live here always when you come back? asked bab, as thorny paused for breath. "celia wants to. i shall go to college, so i don't mind. george is going to help the old minister here and see how he likes it. i'm to study with him, and if he is as pleasant as he used to be we shall have capital times,--see if we don't." "i wonder if he will want me round," said ben, feeling no desire to be a tramp again. "i do, so you needn't fret about that, my hearty," answered thorny, with a resounding slap on the shoulder which reassured ben more than any promises. "i'd like to see a live wedding, then we could play it with our dolls. i've got a nice piece of mosquito netting for a veil, and belinda's white dress is clean. do you s'pose miss celia will ask us to hers?" said betty to bab, as the boys began to discuss st. bernard dogs with spirit. "i wish i could, dears," answered a voice behind them; and there was miss celia, looking so happy that the little girls wondered what the letter could have said to give her such bright eyes and smiling lips. "i shall not be gone long, or be a bit changed when i come back, to live among you years i hope, for i am fond of the old place now, and mean it shall be home," she added, caressing the yellow heads as if they were dear to her. "oh, goody!" cried bab, while betty whispered with both arms round miss celia,-- "i don't think we could bear to have anybody else come here to live." "it is very pleasant to hear you say that, and i mean to make others feel so, if i can. i have been trying a little this summer, but when i come back i shall go to work in earnest to be a good minister's wife, and you must help me." "we will," promised both children, ready for any thing except preaching in the high pulpit. then miss celia turned to ben, saying, in the respectful way that always made him feel at least twenty-five,-- "we shall be off to-morrow, and i leave you in charge. go on just as if we were here, and be sure nothing will be changed as far as you are concerned when we come back." ben's face beamed at that; but the only way he could express his relief was by making such a blaze in honor of the occasion that he nearly roasted the company. next morning, the brother and sister slipped quietly away, and the children hurried to school, eager to tell the great news that "miss celia and thorny had gone to be married, and were coming back to live here for ever and ever." chapter xxiii somebody comes bab and betty had been playing in the avenue all the afternoon several weeks later, but as the shadows began to lengthen both agreed to sit upon the gate and rest while waiting for ben, who had gone nutting with a party of boys. when they played house bab was always the father, and went hunting or fishing with great energy and success, bringing home all sorts of game, from elephants and crocodiles to humming-birds and minnows. betty was the mother, and a most notable little housewife, always mixing up imaginary delicacies with sand and dirt in old pans and broken china, which she baked in an oven of her own construction. both had worked hard that day, and were glad to retire to their favorite lounging-place, where bab was happy trying to walk across the wide top bar without falling off, and betty enjoyed slow, luxurious swings while her sister was recovering from her tumbles. on this occasion, having indulged their respective tastes, they paused for a brief interval of conversation, sitting side by side on the gate like a pair of plump gray chickens gone to roost. "don't you hope ben will get his bag full? we shall have such fun eating nuts evenings observed bab, wrapping her arms in her apron, for it was october now, and the air was growing keen. "yes, and ma says we may boil some in our little kettles. ben promised we should have half," answered betty, still intent on her cookery. "i shall save some of mine for thorny." "i shall keep lots of mine for miss celia." "doesn't it seem more than two weeks since she went away?" "i wonder what she'll bring us." before bab could conjecture, the sound of a step and a familiar whistle made both look expectantly toward the turn in the road, all ready to cry out in one voice, "how many have you got?" neither spoke a word, however, for the figure which presently appeared was not ben, but a stranger,--a man who stopped whistling, and came slowly on dusting his shoes in the way-side grass, and brushing the sleeves of his shabby velveteen coat as if anxious to freshen himself up a bit. "it's a tramp, let's run away," whispered betty, after a hasty look. "i ain't afraid," and bab was about to assume her boldest look when a sneeze spoilt it, and made her clutch the gate to hold on. at that unexpected sound the man looked up, showing a thin, dark face, with a pair of sharp, black eyes, which surveyed the little girls so steadily that betty quaked, and bab began to wish she had at least jumped down inside the gate. "how are you?" said the man with a goodnatured nod and smile, as if to re-assure the round-eyed children staring at him. "pretty well, thank you, sir," responded bab, politely nodding back at him. "folks at home?" asked the man, looking over their heads toward the house. "only ma; all the rest have gone to be married." "that sounds lively. at the other place all the folks had gone to a funeral," and the man laughed as he glanced at the big house on the hill. "why, do you know the squire?" exclaimed bab, much surprised and re-assured. "come on purpose to see him. just strolling round till he gets back," with an impatient sort of sigh. "betty thought you was a tramp, but i wasn't afraid. i like tramps ever since ben came," explained bab, with her usual candor. "who 's ben!" and the man came nearer so quickly that betty nearly fell backward. "don't you be scared, sissy. i like little girls, so you set easy and tell me about ben," he added, in a persuasive tone, as he leaned on the gate so near that both could see what a friendly face he had in spite of its eager, anxious look. "ben is miss celia's boy. we found him most starved in the coach-house, and he's been here ever since," answered bab, comprehensively. "tell me about it. i like tramps, too," and the man looked as if he did very much, as bab told the little story in a few childish words that were better than a much more elegant account. "you were very good to the little feller," was all the man said when she ended her somewhat confused tale, in which she had jumbled the old coach and miss celia, dinner-pails and nutting, sancho and circuses. "'course we were! he's a nice boy and we are fond of him, and he likes us," said bab, heartily. "'specially me," put in betty, quite at ease now, for the black eyes had softened wonderfully, and the brown face was smiling all over. "don't wonder a mite. you are the nicest pair of little girls i've seen this long time," and the man put a hand on either side of them, as if he wanted to hug the chubby children. but he didn't do it; he merely smiled and stood there asking questions till the two chatterboxes had told him every thing there was to tell in the most confiding manner, for he very soon ceased to seem like a stranger, and looked so familiar that bab, growing inquisitive in her turn, suddenly said,-- "haven't you ever been here before? it seems as if i'd seen you." "never in my life. guess you've seen somebody that looks like me," and the black eyes twinkled for a minute as they looked into the puzzled little faces before him, then he said, soberly,-- "i'm looking round for a likely boy; don't you think this ben would suite me? i want just such a lively sort of chap." "are you a circus man?" asked bab, quickly. "well, no, not now. i'm in better business." "i'm glad of it--we don't approve of 'em; but i do think they're splendid!" bab began by gravely quoting miss celia, and ended with an irrepressible burst of admiration which contrasted drolly with her first remark. betty added, anxiously: "we can't let ben go any way. i know he wouldn't want to, and miss celia would feel bad. please don't ask him." "he can do as he likes, i suppose. he hasn't got any folks of his own, has he?" "no, his father died in california, and ben felt so bad he cried, and we were real sorry, and gave him a piece of ma, 'cause he was so lonesome," answered betty, in her tender little voice, with a pleading look which made the man stroke her smooth check and say, quite softly,-- "bless your heart for that! i won't take him away, child, or do a thing to trouble anybody that's been good to him." "he 's coming now. i hear sanch barking at the squirrels!" cried bab, standing up to get a good look down the road. the man turned quickly, and betty saw that he breathed fast as he watched the spot where the low sunshine lay warmly on the red maple at the corner. into this glow came unconscious ben, whistling "rory o'moore," loud and clear, as he trudged along with a heavy bag of nuts over his shoulder and the light full on his contented face. sancho trotted before and saw the stranger first, for the sun in ben's eyes dazzled him. since his sad loss sancho cherished a strong dislike to tramps, and now he paused to growl and show his teeth, evidently intending to warn this one off the premises. "he won't hurt you--" began bab, encouragingly; but before she could add a chiding word to the dog, sanch gave an excited howl, and flew at the man's throat as if about to throttle him. betty screamed, and bab was about to go to the rescue when both perceived that the dog was licking the stranger's face in an ecstasy of joy, and heard the man say as he hugged the curly beast,-- "good old sanch! i knew he wouldn't forget master, and he doesn't." "what's the matter?" called ben, coming up briskly, with a strong grip of his stout stick. there was no need of any answer, for, as he came into the shadow, he saw the man, and stood looking at him as if he were a ghost. "it's father, benny; don't you know me?" asked the man, with an odd sort of choke in his voice, as he thrust the dog away, and held out both hands to the boy. down dropped the nuts, and crying, "oh, daddy, daddy!" ben cast himself into the arms of the shabby velveteen coat, while poor sanch tore round them in distracted circles, barking wildly, as if that was the only way in which he could vent his rapture. what happened next bab and betty never stopped to see, but, dropping from their roost, they went flying home like startled chicken littles with the astounding news that "ben's father has come alive, and sancho knew him right away!" mrs. moss had just got her cleaning done up, and was resting a minute before setting the table, but she flew out of her old rocking-chair when the excited children told the wonderful tale, exclaiming as they ended,-- "where is he? go bring him here. i declare it fairly takes my breath away!" before bab could obey, or her mother compose herself, sancho bounced in and spun round like an insane top, trying to stand on his head, walk upright, waltz and bark all at once, for the good old fellow had so lost his head that he forgot the loss of his tail. "they are coming! they are coming! see, ma, what a nice man he is," said bab, hopping about on one foot as she watched the slowly approaching pair. "my patience, don't they look alike! i should know he was ben's pa anywhere!" said mrs. moss, running to the door in a hurry. they certainly did resemble one another, and it was almost comical to see the same curve in the legs, the same wide-awake style of wearing the hat, the same sparkle of the eye, good-natured smile and agile motion of every limb. old ben carried the bag in one hand while young ben held the other fast, looking a little shame-faced at his own emotion now, for there were marks of tears on his cheeks, but too glad to repress the delight he felt that he had really found daddy this side heaven. mrs. moss unconsciously made a pretty little picture of herself as she stood at the door with her honest face shining and both hands ont, saying in a hearty tone, which was a welcome in itself, "i'm real glad to see you safe and well, mr. brown! come right in and make yourself to home. i guess there isn't a happier boy living than ben is to-night." "and i know there isn't a gratefuler man living than i am for your kindness to my poor forsaken little feller," answered mr. brown, dropping both his burdens to give the comely woman's hands a hard shake. "now don't say a word about it, but sit down and rest, and we'll have tea in less'n no time. ben must be tired and hungry, though he's so happy i don't believe he knows it," laughed mrs. moss, bustling away to hide the tears in her eyes, anxious to make things sociable and easy all round. with this end in view she set forth her best china, and covered the table with food enough for a dozen, thanking her stars that it was baking day, and every thing had turned out well. ben and his father sat talking by the window till they were bidden to "draw up and help themselves" with such hospitable warmth that every thing had an extra relish to the hungry pair. ben paused occasionally to stroke the rusty coat-sleeve with bread-and-buttery fingers to convince himself that "daddy" had really come, and his father disposed of various inconvenient emotions by eating as if food was unknown in california. mrs. moss beamed on every one from behind the big tea-pot like a mild full moon, while bab and betty kept interrupting one another in their eagerness to tell something new about ben and how sanch lost his tail. "now you let mr. brown talk a little; we all want to hear how he 'came alive,' as you call it," said mrs. moss, as they drew round the fire in the "settin'-room," leaving the tea-things to take care of themselves. it was not a long story, but a very interesting one to this circle of listeners; all about the wild life on the plains trading for mustangs, the terrible kick from a vicious horse that nearly killed ben, sen., the long months of unconsciousness in the california hospital, the slow recovery, the journey back, mr. smithers's tale of the boy's disappearance, and then the anxious trip to find out from squire allen where he now was. "i asked the hospital folks to write and tell you as soon as i knew whether i was on my head or my heels, and they promised; but they didn't; so i came off the minute i could, and worked my way back, expecting to find you at the old place. i was afraid you'd have worn out your welcome here and gone off again, for you are as fond of travelling as your father." "i wanted to sometimes, but the folks here were so dreadful good to me i couldn't," confessed ben, secretly surprised to find that the prospect of going off with daddy even cost him a pang of regret, for the boy had taken root in the friendly soil, and was no longer a wandering thistle-down, tossed about by every wind that blew. "i know what i owe 'em, and you and i will work out that debt before we die, or our name isn't b.b.," said mr. brown, with an emphatic slap on his knee, which ben imitated half unconsciously as he exclaimed heartily,-- "that's so!" adding, more quietly, "what are you going to do now? go back to smithers and the old business?" "not likely, after the way he treated you, sonny. i've had it out with him, and he won't want to see me again in a hurry," answered mr. brown, with a sudden kindling of the eye that reminded bab of ben's face when he shook her after losing sancho. "there's more circuses than his in the world; but i'll have to limber out ever so much before i'm good for much in that line," said the boy, stretching his stout arms and legs with a curious mixture of satisfaction and regret. "you've been living in clover and got fat, you rascal," and his father gave him a poke here and there, as mr. squeers did the plump wackford, when displaying him as a specimen of the fine diet at do-the-boys hall. "don't believe i could put you up now if i tried, for i haven't got my strength back yet, and we are both out of practice. it's just as well, for i've about made up my mind to quit the business and settle down somewhere for a spell, if i can get any thing to do," continued the rider, folding his arms and gazing thoughtfully into the fire. "i shouldn't wonder a mite if you could right here, for mr. towne has a great boarding-stable over yonder, and he's always wanting men." said mrs. moss, eagerly, for she dreaded to have ben go, and no one could forbid it if his father chose to take him away. "that sounds likely. thanky, ma'am. i'll look up the concern and try my chance. would you call it too great a come-down to have father an 'ostler after being first rider in the 'great golden menagerie, circus, and colossem,' hey, ben?" asked mr. brown, quoting the well-remembered show-bill with a laugh. "no, i shouldn't; it's real jolly up there when the big barn is full and eighty horses have to be taken care of. i love to go and see 'em. mr. towne asked me to come and be stable-boy when i rode the kicking gray the rest were afraid of. i hankered to go, but miss celia had just got my new books, and i knew she'd feel bad if i gave up going to school. now i'm glad i didn't, for i get on first rate and like it." "you done right, boy, and i'm pleased with you. don't you ever be ungrateful to them that befriended you, if you want to prosper. i'll tackle the stable business a monday and see what's to be done. now i ought to be walking, but i'll be round in the morning ma'am, if you can spare ben for a spell to-morrow. we'd like to have a good sunday tramp and talk; wouldn't we, sonny?" and mr. brown rose to go with his hand on ben's shoulder, as if loth to leave him even for the night. mrs. moss saw the longing in his face, and forgetting that he was an utter stranger, spoke right out of her hospitable heart. "it's a long piece to the tavern, and my little back bedroom is always ready. it won't make a mite of trouble if you don't mind a plain place, and you are heartily welcome." mr. brown looked pleased, but hesitated to accept any further favor from the good soul who had already done so much for him and his. ben gave him no time to speak, however, for running to a door he flung it open and beckoned, saying, eagerly,-- "do stay, father; it will be so nice to have you. this is a tip-top room; i slept here the night i came, and that bed was just splendid after bare ground for a fortnight." "i'll stop, and as i'm pretty well done up, i guess we may as well turn in now," answered the new guest; then, as if the memory of that homeless little lad so kindly cherished made his heart overflow in spite of him, mr. brown paused at the door to say hastily, with a hand on bab and betty's heads, as if his promise was a very earnest one,-- "i don't forget, ma'am, these children shall never want a friend while ben brown's alive;" then he shut the door so quickly that the other ben's prompt "hear, hear!" was cut short in the middle. "i s'pose he means that we shall have a piece of ben's father, because we gave ben a piece of our mother," said betty, softly. "of course he does, and it's all fair," answered bab, decidedly. "isn't he a nice man, ma? "go to bed, children," was all the answer she got; but when they were gone, mrs. moss, as she washed up her dishes, more than once glanced at a certain nail where a man's hat had not hung for five years, and thought with a sigh what a natural, protecting air that slouched felt had. if one wedding were not quite enough for a child's story, we might here hint what no one dreamed of then, that before the year came round again ben had found a mother, bab and betty a father, and mr. brown's hat was quite at home behind the kitchen door. but, on the whole, it is best not to say a word about it. chapter xxiv the great gate is opened the browns were up and out so early next morning that bab and betty were sure they had run away in the night. but on looking for them, they were discovered in the coach-house criticising lita, both with their hands in their pockets, both chewing straws, and looking as much alike as a big elephant and a small one. "that's as pretty a little span as i've seen for a long time," said the elder ben, as the children came trotting down the path hand in hand, with the four blue bows at the ends of their braids bobbing briskly up and down. "the nigh one is my favorite, but the off one is the best goer, though she's dreadfully hard bitted," answered ben the younger, with such a comical assumption of a jockey's important air that his father laughed as he said in an undertone,-- "come, boy, we must drop the old slang since we've given up the old business. these good folks are making a gentleman of you, and i won't be the one to spoil their work. hold on, my dears, and i'll show you how they say good-morning in california," he added, beckoning to the little girls, who now came up rosy and smiling. "breakfast is ready, sir," said betty, looking much relieved to find them. "we thought you'd run away from us," explained bab, as both put out their hands to shake those extended to them. "that would be a mean trick. but i'm going to run away with you," and mr. brown whisked a little girl to either shoulder before they knew what had happened, while ben, remembering the day, with difficulty restrained himself from turning a series of triumphant somersaults before them all the way to the door, where mrs. moss stood waiting for them. after breakfast ben disappeared for a short time, and returned in his sunday suit, looking so neat and fresh that his father surveyed him with surprise and pride as he came in full of boyish satisfaction in his trim array. "here's a smart young chap! did you take all that trouble just to go to walk with old daddy?" asked mr. brown, stroking the smooth head, for they were alone just then, mrs. moss and the children being up stairs preparing for church. "i thought may be you'd like to go to meeting first," answered ben, looking up at him with such a happy face that it was hard to refuse any thing. "i'm too shabby, sonny, else i'd go in a minute to please you." "miss celia said god didn't mind poor clothes, and she took me when i looked worse than you do. i always go in the morning; she likes to have me," said ben, turning his hat about as if not quite sure what he ought to do. "do you want to go?" asked his father in a tone of surprise. "i want to please her, if you don't mind. we could have our tramp this afternoon." "i haven't been to meeting since mother died, and it don't seem to come easy, though i know i ought to, seeing i'm alive and here," and mr. brown looked soberly out at the lovely autumn world as if glad to be in it after his late danger and pain. "miss celia said church was a good place to take our troubles, and to be thankful in. i went when i thought you were dead, and now i'd love to go when i've got my daddy safe again." no one saw him, so ben could not resist giving his father a sudden hug, which was warmly returned as the man said earnestly,-- "i'll go, and thank the lord hearty for giving me back my boy better'n i left him!" for a minute nothing was heard but the loud tick of the old clock and a mournful whine front sancho, shut up in the shed lest he should go to church without an invitation. then, as steps were heard on the stairs, mr. brown caught up his hat, saying hastily,-- "i ain't fit to go with them, you tell 'm, and i'll slip into a back seat after folks are in. i know the way." and, before ben could reply, he was gone. nothing was seen of him along the way, but he saw the little party, and rejoiced again over his boy, changed in so many ways for the better; for ben was the one thing which had kept his heart soft through all the trials and temptations of a rough life. "i promised mary i'd do my best for the poor baby she had to leave, and i tried; but i guess a better friend than i am has been raised up for him when he needed her most. it won't hurt me to follow him in this road," thought mr. brown, as he came out into the highway from his stroll "across-lots," feeling that it would be good for him to stay in this quiet place, for his own as well as his son's sake. the bell had done ringing when he reached the green, but a single boy sat on the steps and rail to meet him, saying, with a reproachful look,-- "i wasn't going to let you be alone, and have folks think i was ashamed of my father. come, daddy, we'll sit together." so ben led his father straight to the squire's pew, and sat beside him with a face so full of innocent pride and joy, that people would have suspected the truth if he had not already told many of them. mr. brown, painfully conscious of his shabby coat, was rather "taken aback," as he expressed it; but the squire's shake of the hand, and mrs. allen's gracious nod enabled him to face the eyes of the interested congregation, the younger portion of which stared steadily at him all sermon time, in spite of paternal frowns and maternal tweakings in the rear. but the crowning glory of the day came after church, when the squire said to ben, and sam heard him,-- "i've got a letter for you from miss celia. come home with me, and bring your father. i want to talk to him." the boy proudly escorted his parent to the old carry-all, and, tucking himself in behind with mrs. allen, had the satisfaction of seeing the slouched felt hat side by side with the squire's sunday beaver in front, as they drove off at such an unusually smart pace, it was evident that duke knew there was a critical eye upon him. the interest taken in the father was owing to the son at first; but, by the time the story was told, old ben had won friends for himself not only because of the misfortunes which he had evidently borne in a manly way, but because of his delight in the boy's improvement, and the desire he felt to turn his hand to any honest work, that he might keep ben happy and contented in this good home. "i'll give you a line to towne. smithers spoke well of you, and your own ability will be the best recommendation," said the squire, as he parted from them at his door, having given ben the letter. miss celia had been gone a fortnight, and every one was longing to have her back. the first week brought ben a newspaper, with a crinkly line drawn round the marriages to attract attention to that spot, and one was marked by a black frame with a large hand pointing at it from the margin. thorny sent that; but the next week came a parcel for mrs. moss, and in it was discovered a box of wedding cake for every member of the family, including sancho, who ate his at one gulp, and chewed up the lace paper which covered it. this was the third week; and, as if there could not be happiness enough crowded into it for ben, the letter he read on his way home told him that his dear mistress was coming back on the following saturday. one passage particularly pleased him,-- "i want the great gate opened, so that the new master may go in that way. will you see that it is done, and all made neat afterward? randa will give you the key, and you may have out all your flags if you like, for the old place cannot look too gay for this home-coming." sunday though it was, ben could not help waving the letter over his head as he ran in to tell mrs. moss the glad news, and begin at once to plan the welcome they would give miss celia, for he never called her any thing else. during their afternoon stroll in the mellow sunshine, ben continued to talk of her, never tired of telling about his happy summer under her roof. and mr. brown was never weary of hearing, for every hour showed him more plainly what a lovely miracle her gentle words had wrought, and every hour increased his gratitude, his desire to return the kindness in some humble way. he had his wish, and did his part handsomely when he least expected to have a chance. on monday he saw mr. towne, and, thanks to the squire's good word, was engaged for a month on trial, making himself so useful that it was soon evident he was the right man in the right place. he lived on the hill, but managed to get down to the little brown house in the evening for a word with ben, who just now was as full of business as if the president and his cabinet were coming. every thing was put in apple-pie order in and about the old house; the great gate, with much creaking of rusty hinges and some clearing away of rubbish, was set wide open, and the first creature who entered it was sancho, solemnly dragging the dead mullein which long ago had grown above the keyhole. october frosts seemed to have spared some of the brightest leaves for this especial occasion; and on saturday the arched gate-way was hung with gay wreaths, red and yellow sprays strewed the flags, and the porch was a blaze of color with the red woodbine, that was in its glory when the honeysuckle was leafless. fortunately it was a half-holiday, so the children could trim and chatter to their heart's content, and the little girls ran about sticking funny decorations where no one would ever think of looking for them. ben was absorbed in his flags, which were sprinkled all down the avenue with a lavish display, suggesting several fourth of julys rolled into one. mr. brown had come to lend a hand, and did so most energetically, for the break-neck things he did with his son during the decoration fever would have terrified mrs. moss out of her wits, if she had not been in the house giving last touches to every room, while randa and katy set forth a sumptuous tea. all was going well, and the train would be due in an hour, when luckless bab nearly turned the rejoicing into mourning, the feast into ashes. she heard her mother say to randa, "there ought to be a fire in every room, it looks so cheerful, and the air is chilly spite of the sunshine;" and, never waiting to hear the reply that some of the long-unused chimneys were not safe till cleaned, off went bab with an apron full of old shingles, and made a roaring blaze in the front room fire-place, which was of all others the one to be let alone, as the flue was out of order. charmed with the brilliant light and the crackle of the tindery fuel, miss bab refilled her apron, and fed the fire till the chimney began to rumble ominously, sparks to fly out at the top, and soot and swallows' nests to come tumbling down upon the hearth. then, scared at what she had done, the little mischief-maker hastily buried her fire, swept up the rubbish, and ran off, thinking no one would discover her prank if she never told. everybody was very busy, and the big chimney blazed and rumbled unnoticed till the cloud of smoke caught ben's eye as he festooned his last effort in the flag line, part of an old sheet with the words "father has come!" in red cambric letters half a foot long sewed upon it. "hullo! i do believe they've got up a bonfire, without asking my leave. miss celia never would let us, because the sheds and roofs are so old and dry; i must see about it. catch me, daddy, i'm coming down!" cried ben, dropping out of the elm with no more thought of where he might light than a squirrel swinging from bough to bough. his father caught him, and followed in haste as his nimble-footed son raced up the avenue, to stop in the gate-way, frightened at the prospect before him, for falling sparks had already kindled the roof here and there, and the chimney smoked and roared like a small volcano, while katy's wails and randa's cries for water came from within. "up there with wet blankets, while i get out the hose!" cried mr. brown, as he saw at a glance what the danger was. ben vanished; and, before his father got the garden hose rigged, he was on the roof with a dripping blanket over the worst spot. mrs. moss had her wits about her in a minute, and ran to put in the fireboard, and stop the draught. then, stationing randa to watch that the falling cinders did no harm inside, she hurried off to help mr. brown, who might not know where things were. but he had roughed it so long, that he was the man for emergencies, and seemed to lay his hand on whatever was needed, by a sort of instinct. finding that the hose was too short to reach the upper part of the roof, he was on the roof in a jiffy with two pails of water, and quenched the most dangerous spots before much harm was done. this he kept up till the chimney burned itself out, while ben dodged about among the gables with a watering pot, lest some stray sparks should be over-looked, and break out afresh. while they worked there, betty ran to and fro with a dipper of water, trying to help; and sancho barked violently, as if he objected to this sort of illumination. but where was bab, who revelled in flurries? no one missed her till the fire was out, and the tired, sooty people met to talk over the danger just escaped. "poor miss celia wouldn't have had a roof over her head, if it hadn't been for you, mr. brown," said mrs. moss, sinking into a kitchen chair, pale with the excitement. "it would have burnt lively, but i guess it's all right now. keep an eye on the roof, ben, and i'll step up garret and see if all's safe there. didn't you know that chimney was foul, ma'am?" asked the man, as he wiped the perspiration off his grimy face. "randa said it was, and i 'in surprised she made a fire there," began mrs. moss, looking at the maid, who just then came in with a pan full of soot. "bless you, ma'am, i never thought of such a thing, nor katy neither. that naughty bab must have done it, and so don't dar'st to show herself," answered the irate randa, whose nice room was in a mess. "where is the child?" asked her mother; and a hunt was immediately instituted by betty and sancho, while the elders cleared up. anxious betty searched high and low, called and cried, but all in vain; and was about to sit down in despair, when sancho made a bolt into his new kennel and brought out a shoe with a foot in it while a doleful squeal came from the straw within. "oh, bab, how could you do it? ma was frightened dreadfully," said betty, gently tugging at the striped leg, as sancho poked his head in for another shoe. "is it all burnt up?" demanded a smothered voice from the recesses of the kennel. "only pieces of the roof. ben and his father put it out, and i helped," answered betty, cheering up a little as she recalled her noble exertions. "what do they do to folks who set houses afire?" asked the voice again. "i don't know; but you needn't be afraid, there isn't much harm done, i guess, and miss celia will forgive you, she's so good." "thorny won't; he calls me a 'botheration,' and i guess i am," mourned the unseen culprit, with sincere contrition. "i'll ask him; he is always good to me. they will be here pretty soon, so you'd better come out and be made tidy," suggested the comforter. "i never can come out, for every one will hate me," sobbed bab among the straw, as she pulled in her foot, as if retiring for ever from an outraged world. "ma won't, she's too busy cleaning up; so it's a good time to come. let's run home, wash our hands, and be all nice when they see us. i'll love you, no matter what anybody else does," said betty, consoling the poor little sinner, and proposing the sort of repentance most likely to find favor in the eyes of the agitated elders. "p'raps i'd better go home, for sanch will want his bed," and bab gladly availed herself of that excuse to back out of her refuge, a very crumpled, dusty young lady, with a dejected face and much straw sticking in her hair. betty led her sadly away, for she still protested that she never should dare to meet the offended public again; but in fifteen minutes both appeared in fine order and good spirits, and naughty bab escaped a lecture for the time being, as the train would soon be due. at the first sound of the car whistle every one turned good-natured as if by magic, and flew to the gate smiling as if all mishaps were forgiven and forgotten. mrs. moss, however, slipped quietly away, and was the first to greet mrs. celia as the carriage stopped at the entrance of the avenue, so that the luggage might go in by way of the lodge. "we will walk up and you shall tell us the news as we go, for i see you have some," said the young lady, in her friendly manner, when mrs. moss had given her welcome and paid her respects to the gentleman who shook hands in a way that convinced her he was indeed what thorny called him, "regularly jolly," though he was a minister. that being exactly what she came for, the good woman told her tidings as rapidly as possible, and the new-comers were so glad to hear of ben's happiness they made very light of bab's bonfire, though it had nearly burnt their house down. "we won't say a word about it, for every one must be happy to-day," said mr. george, so kindly that mrs. moss felt a load taken off her heart at once. "bab was always teasing me for fireworks, but i guess she has had enough for the present," laughed thorny, who was gallantly escorting bab's mother up the avenue. "every one is so kind! teacher was out with the children to cheer us as we passed, and here you all are making things pretty for me," said mrs. celia, smiling with tears in her eyes, as they drew near the great gate, which certainly did present an animated if not an imposing appearance. randa and katy stood on one side, all in their best, bobbing delighted courtesies; mr. brown, half hidden behind the gate on the other side, was keeping sancho erect, so that he might present arms promptly when the bride appeared. as flowers were scarce, on either post stood a rosy little girl clapping her hands, while out from the thicket of red and yellow boughs, which made a grand bouquet in the lantern frame, came ben's head and shoulders, as he waved his grandest flag with its gold paper "welcome home!" on a blue ground. "isn't it beautiful!" cried mrs. celia, throwing kisses to the children, shaking hands with her maids, and glancing brightly at the stranger who was keeping sanch quiet. "most people adorn their gate-posts with stone balls, vases, or griffins; your living images are a great improvement, love, especially the happy boy in the middle," said mr. george, eying ben with interest, as he nearly tumbled overboard, top-heavy with his banner. "you must finish what i have only begun," answered celia, adding gayly as sancho broke loose and came to offer both his paw and his congratulations. "sanch, introduce your master, that i may thank him for coming back in time to save my old house." "if i'd saved a dozen it wouldn't have half paid for all you've done for my boy, ma'am," answered mr. brown, bursting out from behind the gate quite red with gratitude and pleasure. "i loved to do it, so please remember that this is still his home till you make one for him. thank god, he is no longer fatherless!" and her sweet face said even more than her words as the white hand cordially shook the brown one with a burn across the back. "come on, sister. i see the tea-table all ready, and i'm awfully hungry," interrupted thorny, who had not a ray of sentiment about him, though very glad ben had got his father back again. "come over, by-and-by, little friends, and let me thank you for your pretty welcome,--it certainly is a warm one;" and mrs. celia glanced merrily from the three bright faces above her to the old chimney, which still smoked sullenly. "oh, don't!" cried bab, hiding her face. "she didn't mean to," added betty, pleadingly. "three cheers for the bride!" roared ben, dipping his flag, as leaning on her husband's arm his dear mistress passed under the gay arch, along the leaf-strewn walk, over the threshold of the house which was to be her happy home for many years. the closed gate where the lonely little wanderer once lay was always to stand open now, and the path where children played before was free to all comers, for a hospitable welcome henceforth awaited rich and poor, young and old, sad and gay, under the lilacs. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) [illustration: one young woman brought a great pan of stew and bread and three spoons to the van. _frontispiece._] the corner house girls among the gypsies how they met what happened and how it ended by grace brooks hill author of "the corner house girls," "the corner house girls on a houseboat," etc. illustrated by thelma gooch barse & hopkins publishers newark, n. j. new york, n. y. * * * * * books for girls the corner house girls series by grace brooks hill _ mo. cloth. illustrated._ the corner house girls the corner house girls at school the corner house girls under canvas the corner house girls in a play the corner house girls' odd find the corner house girls on a tour the corner house girls growing up the corner house girls snowbound the corner house girls on a houseboat the corner house girls among the gypsies publishers barse & hopkins newark, n. j. new york, n. y. * * * * * copyright, , by barse & hopkins _the corner house girls among the gypsies_ printed in u. s. a. contents chapter page i the fretted silver bracelet ii a profound mystery iii sammy pinkney in trouble iv the gypsy trail v sammy occasions much excitement vi the gypsy's words vii the bracelet again to the fore viii the misfortunes of a runaway ix things go wrong x all is not gold that glitters xi mysteries accumulate xii getting in deeper xiii over the hills and far away xiv almost had him xv uncertainties xvi the dead end of nowhere xvii ruth begins to worry xviii the junkman again xix the house is haunted xx plotters at work xxi tess and dot take a hand xxii excitement galore xxiii a surprising meeting xxiv the captives xxv it must be all right list of illustrations one young woman brought a great pan of stew and bread and three spoons to the van title "you have found it!" he chattered with great excitement the girls could sit under the trees while luke reclined on a swinging cot "they want that silver thing back. it wasn't meant for you" the corner house girls among the gypsies chapter i--the fretted silver bracelet if sammy pinkney had not been determined to play a "joey" and hooked back one of the garage doors so as to enter astride a broomstick with a dash and the usual clown announcement, "here we are again!" all would not have happened that did happen to the corner house girls--at least, not in just the way the events really occurred. even dot, who was inclined to be forgiving of most of sammy's sins both of omission and commission, admitted that to be true. tess, the next oldest corner house girl (nobody ever dignified her with the name of "theresa," unless it were aunt sarah maltby) was inclined to reflect the opinion regarding most boys held by their oldest sister, ruth. tess's frank statement to this day is that it was entirely sammy's fault that they were mixed up with the gypsies at all. but-- "well, if i'm going to be in your old circus," sammy announced doggedly, "i'm going to be a joey--or _nothin'_." "you know very well, sammy, that you can't be that," said tess reprovingly. "huh? why can't i? i bet i'd make just as good a clown as mr. sully sorber, who is neale's half-uncle, or mr. asa scruggs, who is barnabetta's father." "i don't mean you can't be a clown," interrupted tess. "i mean you can't be just _nothing_. you occupy space, so you must be something. our teacher says so." "shucks!" ejaculated sammy pinkney. "don't i know that? and i wish you wouldn't talk about school. why! we're only in the middle of our vacation, i should hope." "it seems such a long time since we went to school," murmured dot, who was sitting by, nursing the alice-doll in her arms and waiting her turn to be called into the circus ring, which was the cleared space in the middle of the cement floor. "that's because all you folks went off cruising on that houseboat and never took me with you," grumbled sammy, who still held a deep-seated grouch because of the matter mentioned. "but 'tain't been long since school closed--and it isn't going to be long before the old thing opens again." "why, sammy!" admonished tess. "i just _hate_ school, so i do!" vigorously announced the boy. "i'd rather be a tramp--or a gypsy. yes, i would." "or a pirate, sammy?" suggested dot reflectively. "you know, me and you didn't have a very nice time when we went off to be pirates. 'member?" "huh!" grumbled sammy, "that was because you was along. girls can't be pirates worth shucks. and anyway," he concluded, "i'm going to be the joey in this show, or i won't play." "it will be supper time and the others will be back with the car, so none of us can play if we don't start in pretty soon," tess observed. "dot and i want to practice our gym work that neale o'neil has been teaching us. but you can clown it all you want to, sammy." "well, that lets me begin the show anyway," sammy stated with satisfaction. he always did want to lead. and now he immediately ran to hook back the door and prepared to make his entrance into the ring in true clowning style, as he had seen sully sorber do in twomley & sorber's herculean circus and menagerie. the kenway garage opened upon willow street and along that pleasantly shaded and quiet thoroughfare just at this time came three rather odd looking people. two were women carrying brightly stained baskets of divers shapes, and one of these women--usually the younger one--went into the yard of each house and knocked at the side or back door, offering the baskets for sale. the younger one was black-eyed and rather pretty. she was neatly dressed in very bright colors and wore a deal of gaudy jewelry. the older woman was not so attractive--or so clean. loitering on the other side of the street, and keeping some distance behind the gypsy women, slouched a tall, roughly clad fellow who was evidently their escort. the women came to the kenway garage some time after sammy pinkney had made his famous "entrance" and dot had abandoned the alice-doll while she did several handsprings on the mattress that tess had laid down. dot did these very well indeed. neale o'neil, who had been trained in the circus, had given both the smaller corner house girls the benefit of his advice and training. they loved athletic exercises. mrs. mccall, the corner house housekeeper, declared tess and dot were as active as grasshoppers. the two dark-faced women, as they peered in at the open doorway of the garage, seemed to think dot's handsprings were marvelously well done, too; they whispered together excitedly and then the older one slyly beckoned the big gypsy man across the street to approach. when he arrived to look over the women's heads it was tess who was actively engaged on the garage floor. she was as supple as an eel. of course, tess kenway would not like to be compared to an eel; but she was proud of her ability to "wriggle into a bow knot and out again"--as sammy vociferously announced. "say, tess! that's a peach of a trick," declared the boy with enthusiasm. "say! lemme--huh! what do _you_ want?" for suddenly he saw the two gypsy women at the door of the garage. the man was now out of sight. "ah-h!" whined the old woman cunningly, "will not the young master and the pretty little ladies buy a nice basket of the poor gypsy? good fortune goes with it." "gee! who wants to buy a basket?" scoffed sammy. "you only have to carry things in it." the bane of sammy pinkney's existence was the running of errands. "but they _are_ pretty," murmured tess. "oh--oo! see that nice green and yellow one with the cover," gasped dot. "do you suppose we've got money enough to buy that one, tess? how nice it would be to carry the children's clothes in when we go on picnics." by "children" dot meant their dolls, of which, the two smaller corner house girls possessed a very large number. several of these children, besides the alice-doll, were grouped upon a bench in the corner of the garage as a part of the circus audience. the remainder of the spectators were sandyface and her family. sandyface was now a great, _great_ grandmother cat, and more of her progeny than one would care to catalog tranquilly viewed the little girls' circus or rolled in kittenish frolic on the floor. it sometimes did seem as though the old corner house demesne was quite given up to feline inhabitants. and the recurrent appearance of new litters of kittens belonging to sandyface herself, her daughters and granddaughters, had ceased to make even a ripple in the pool of corner house existence. this explanation regarding the dolls and cats is really aside from our narrative. tess and dot both viewed with eager eyes the particular covered basket held out enticingly by the old gypsy woman. of course the little girls had no pockets in their gymnasium suits. but in a pocket of her raincoat which tess had worn down to the garage over her blouse and bloomers, she found a dime and two pennies--"just enough for two ice-cream cones," sammy pinkey observed. "oh! and my alice-doll has eight cents in her cunning little beaded bag," cried dot, with sudden animation. she produced the coins. but there was only twenty cents in all! "i--i--what do you ask for that basket, please?" tess questioned cautiously. "won't the pretty little ladies give the poor old gypsy woman half a dollar for the basket?" the little girls lost hope. they were not allowed to break into their banks for any purpose without asking ruth's permission, and their monthly stipend of pocket money was very low. "it is a very nice basket, little ladies," said the younger gypsy woman--she who was so gayly dressed and gaudily bejeweled. "i know," tess admitted wistfully. "but if we haven't so much money, how can we buy it?" "say!" interrupted the amateur joey, hands in pockets and viewing the controversy quite as an outsider. "say, tess! if you and dot really want that old basket, i've got two-bits i'll lend you." "oh, sammy!" gasped dot. "a whole quarter?" "have you got it here with you?" tess asked. "yep," announced the boy. "i don't think ruth would mind our borrowing twenty-five cents of you, sammy," said tess, slowly. "of course not," urged dot. "why, sammy is just like one of the family." "only when you girls go off cruising, i ain't," observed sammy, his face clouding with remembrance. "_then_ i ain't even a step-child." but he produced the quarter and offered it to tess. she counted it with the money already in her hand. "but--but that makes only forty-five cents," she said. the two gypsy women spoke hissingly to each other in a tongue that the children did not, of course, understand. then the older woman thrust the basket out again. "take!" she said. "take for forty-fi' cents, eh? the little ladies can have." "go ahead," sammy said as tess hesitated. "that's all the old basket is worth. i can get one bigger than that at the chain store for seven cents." "oh, sammy, it isn't as bee-_you_-tiful as this!" gasped dot. "well, it's a basket just the same." tess put the silver and pennies in the old woman's clawlike hand and the longed-for basket came into her possession. "it is a good-fortune basket, pretty little ladies," repeated the old gypsy, grinning at them toothlessly. "you are honest little ladies, i can see. you would never cheat the old gypsy, would you? this is all the money you have to pay for the beautiful basket? forty-fi' cents?" "aw, say!" grumbled sammy, "a bargain is a bargain, ain't it? and forty-five cents is a good deal of money." "if--if you think we ought to pay more--" tess held the basket out hesitatingly. dot fairly squealed: "don't be a ninny, tessie kenway! it's ours now." "the basket is yours, little ladies," croaked the crone as the younger woman pulled sharply at her shawl. "but good fortune goes with it only if you are honest with the poor old gypsy. good-bye." the two strange women hurried away. sammy lounged to the door, hands in pockets, to look after them. he caught a momentary glimpse of the tall gypsy man disappearing around a corner. the two women quickly followed him. "oh, what a lovely basket!" dot was saying. "i--i hope ruth won't scold because we borrowed that quarter of sammy," murmured tess. "shucks!" exclaimed their boy friend. "don't tell her. you can pay me when you get some more money." "oh, no!" tess said. "i would not hide anything from ruth." "you couldn't, anyway," said the practical dot. "she will want to know where we got the money to pay for the basket. oh, _do_ open it, tess. isn't it lovely?" the cover worked on a very ingeniously contrived hinge. had the children known much about such things they must have seen that the basket was worth much more than the price they had paid for it--much more indeed than the price the gypsies had first asked. tess lifted the cover. dot crowded nearer to look in. the shadows of the little girls' heads at first hid the bottom of the basket. then both saw something gleaming dully there. tess and dot cried out in unison; but it was the latter's brown hand that darted into the basket and brought forth the bracelet. "a silver bracelet!" tess gasped. "oh, look at it!" cried dot. "did you _ever_? do you s'pose it's real silver, tess?" "of course it is," replied her sister, taking the circlet in her own hand. "how pretty! it's all engraved with fret-work--" "hey!" ejaculated sammy coming closer. "what's that?" "oh, sammy! a silver bracelet--all fretted, too," exclaimed the highly excited dot. "huh! what's that? 'fretted'? when my mother's fretted she's--say! how can a silver bracelet be cross, i want to know?" "oh, sammy," tess suddenly ejaculated, "these gypsy women will be cross enough when they miss this bracelet!" "oh! oh!" wailed dot. "maybe they'll come back and want to take it and the pretty basket, tess. let's run and hide 'em!" chapter ii--a profound mystery tess kenway was positively shocked by her sister dot's suggestion. to think of trying to keep the silver bracelet which they knew must belong to the gypsy woman who had sold them the green and yellow basket, was quite a horrifying thought to tess. "how _can_ you say such a thing, dottie kenway?" she demanded sternly. "of course we cannot keep the bracelet. and that old gypsy lady said we were honest, too. she could _see_ we were. and, then, what would ruthie say?" their older sister's opinion was always the standard for the other corner house girls. and that might well be, for ruth kenway had been mentor and guide to her sisters ever since dot, at least, could remember. their mother had died so long ago that tess but faintly remembered her. the kenways had lived in a very moderately priced tenement in bloomsburg when mr. howbridge (now their guardian) had searched for and found them, bringing them with aunt sarah maltby to the old corner house in milton. in the first volume of this series, "the corner house girls," these matters are fully explained. the six succeeding volumes relate in detail the adventures of the four sisters and their friends--and some most remarkable adventures have they had at school, under canvas, at the seashore, as important characters in a school play, solving the mystery of a long-lost fortune, on an automobile tour through the country, and playing a winning part in the fortunes of luke and cecile shepard in the volume called "the corner house girls growing up." in "the corner house girls snowbound," the eighth book of the series, the kenways and a number of their young friends went into the north woods with their guardian to spend the christmas holidays. eventually they rescued the twin birdsall children, who likewise had come under the care of the elderly lawyer who had so long been the kenway sisters' good friend. during the early weeks of the summer, just previous to the opening of our present story, the corner house girls had enjoyed a delightful trip on a houseboat in the neighboring waters. the events of this trip are related in "the corner house girls on a houseboat." during this outing there was more than one exciting incident. but the most exciting of all was the unexpected appearance of neale o'neil's father, long believed lost in alaska. mr. o'neil's return to the states could only be for a brief period, for his mining interests called him back to nome. his son, however, no longer mourned him as lost, and naturally (though this desire he kept secret from agnes) the boy hoped, when his school days were over, to join his father in that far northland. there was really no thought in the mind of the littlest corner house girl to take that which did not belong to her. most children believe implicitly in "findings-keepings," and it seemed to dot kenway that as they had bought the green and yellow basket in good faith of the two gypsy women, everything it contained should belong to them. this, too, was sammy pinkney's idea of the matter. sammy considered himself very worldly wise. "say! what's the matter with you, tess kenway? of course that bracelet is yours--if you want it. who's going to stop you from keeping it, i want to know?" "but--but it must belong to one of those gypsy ladies," gasped tess. "the old lady asked us if we were honest. of course we are!" "pshaw! if they miss it, they'll be back after that silver thing fast enough." "but, sammy, suppose they don't know the bracelet fell into this basket?" "then you and dot are that much in," was the prompt rejoinder of their boy friend. "you bought the basket and all that was in it. they couldn't claim the _air_ in that basket, could they? well, then! how could they lay claim to anything else in the basket?" such logic seemed unanswerable to dot's mind. but tess shook a doubtful head. she had a feeling that they ought to run after the gypsies to return to them at once the bracelet. only, neither she nor dot was dressed properly to run through milton's best residential streets after the romany people. as for sammy-- happily, so tess thought, she did not have to decide the matter. musically an automobile horn sounded its warning and the children ran out to welcome the two older corner house girls and neale o'neil, who acted as their chauffeur on this particular trip. they had been far out into the country for eggs and fresh vegetables, to the farm, in fact, of mr. bob buckham, the strawberry king and the corner house girls' very good friend. in these times of very high prices for food, ruth kenway considered it her duty to save money if she could by purchasing at first cost for the household's needs. "otherwise," this very capable young housewife asked, "how shall we excuse the keeping of an automobile when the up-keep and everything is so high?" "oh, _do_," begged agnes, the flyaway sister, "_do_ let us have something impractical, ruth. i just hate the man who wrote the first treatise on political economy." "i fancy it is 'household economy' you mean, aggie," returned her sister, smiling. "and i warrant the author of the first treatise on that theme was a woman." "mrs. eva adam, i bet!" chuckled neale o'neil, hearing this controversy from the driver's seat. "it has always been in my mind that the first lady of the garden of eden was tempted to swipe those apples more because the price of other fruit was so high than for any other reason." "then adam was stingy with the household money," declared agnes. "i really wish you would not use such words as 'swipe' before the children, neale," sighed ruth who, although she was no purist, did not wish the little folk to pick up (as they so easily did) slang phrases. she stepped out of the car when neale had halted it within the garage and agnes handed her the egg basket. tess and dot immediately began dancing about their elder sister, both shouting at once, the smallest girl with the green and yellow basket and tess with the silver bracelet in her hand. "oh, ruthie, what do you think?" "see how pretty it is! and they never missed it." "_can't_ we keep it, ruthie?" this from dot. "we paid those gypsy ladies for the basket and all that was in it. sammy says so." "then it must be true of course," scoffed agnes. "what is it?" "well, i guess i know some things," observed sammy, bridling. "if you buy a walnut you buy the kernel as well as the shell, don't you? and that bracelet was inside that covered basket, like the kernel in a nut." "listen!" exclaimed neale likewise getting out of the car. "sammy's a very solomon for judgment." "now don't you call me that, neale o'neil!" ejaculated sammy angrily. "i ain't a pig." "wha--what! who called you a pig, sammy?" "well, that's what mr. con murphy calls _his_ pig--'solomon.' you needn't call me by any pig-name, so there!" "i stand reproved," rejoined neale with mock seriousness. "but, see here: what's all this about the basket and the bracelet--a two-fold mystery?" "it sounds like a thriller in six reels," cried agnes, jumping out of the car herself to get a closer view of the bracelet and the basket. "my! where did you get that gorgeous bracelet, children?" the beauty of the family, who loved "gew-gaws" of all kinds, seized the silver circlet and tried it upon her own plump arm. ruth urged tess to explain and had to place a gentle palm upon dot's lips to keep them quiet so that she might get the straight of the story from the more sedate tess. "and so, that's how it was," concluded tess. "we bought the basket after borrowing sammy's twenty-five cent piece, and of course the basket belongs to us, doesn't it, ruthie?" "most certainly, my dear," agreed the elder sister. "and inside was that beautiful fretted silver bracelet. and that--" "just as certainly belongs to the gypsies," finished ruth. "at least, it does not belong to you and dot." "aw shu-u-cks!" drawled sammy in dissent. even agnes cast a wistful glance at the older girl. ruth was always so uncompromising in her decisions. there was never any middle ground in her view. either a thing was right, or it was wrong, and that was all there was to it! "well," sighed tess, "that gypsy lady _said_ she knew we were honest." "i think," ruth observed thoughtfully, "that neale had better run the car out again and look about town for those gypsy women. they can't have got far away." "say, ruth! it's most supper time," objected neale. "have a heart!" "anyway, i wouldn't trouble myself about a crowd of gypsies," said agnes. "they may have stolen the bracelet." "oh!" gasped tess and dot in unison. "you know what june wildwood told us about them. and she lived with gypsies for months." "gypsies are not all alike," the elder sister said confidently in answer to this last remark by agnes. "remember mira and king david stanley, and how nice they were to tess and dottie?" she asked, speaking of an incident related in "the corner house girls on a tour." "i don't care!" exclaimed agnes, pouting, and still viewing the bracelet on her arm with admiration. "i wouldn't run _my_ legs off chasing a band of gypsies." they were all, however, bound to be influenced by ruth's decision. "well, i'll hunt around after supper," neale said. "i'll take sammy with me. you'll know those women if you see them again, won't you, kid?" "sure," agreed sammy, forgiving neale for calling him "kid" with the prospect of an automobile ride in the offing. "but--but," breathed tess in ruth's ear, "if those gypsy ladies don't take back the bracelet, it belongs to dot and me, doesn't it, sister?" "of course. agnes! do give it back, now. i expect it will cause trouble enough if those women are not found. a bone of contention! both these children will want to wear the bracelet at the same time. don't _you_ add to the difficulty, agnes." "why," drawled agnes, slowly removing the curiously engraved silver ornament from her arm, "of course they will return for it. or neale will find them." this statement, however, was not borne out by the facts. neale and sammy drove all about town that evening without seeing the gypsy women. the next day the smaller corner house girls were taken into the suburbs all around milton; but nowhere did they find trace of the gypsies or of any encampment of those strange, nomadic people in the vicinity. the finding of the bracelet in the basket remained a mystery that the corner house girls could not soon forget. "it does seem," said tess, "as though those gypsy ladies couldn't have meant to give us the bracelet, dot. the old one said so much about our being honest. she didn't expect us to _steal_ it." "oh, no!" agreed dot. "but neale o'neil says maybe the gypsy ladies stole it, and were afraid to keep it. so they gave it to us." "m-mm," considered tess. "but that doesn't explain it at all. even if they wanted to get rid of the bracelet, they need not have given it to us in such a lovely basket. ruth says the basket is worth a whole lot more than the forty-five cents we paid for it." "it _is_ awful pretty," sighed dot in agreement. "some day they will surely come back for the bracelet." "oh, i hope not!" murmured the littlest corner house girl. "it makes such a be-_you_-tiful belt for my alice-doll, when it's my turn to wear it." chapter iii--sammy pinkney in trouble uncle rufus, who was general factotum about the old corner house and even acted as butler on "date and state occasions," was a very brown man with a shiny bald crown around three-quarters of the circumference of which was a hedge of white wool. aided by neale o'neil (who still insisted on earning a part of his own support in spite of the fact that mr. jim o'neil, his father, expected in time to be an alaskan millionaire gold-miner), uncle rufus did all of the chores about the place. and those chores were multitudinous. besides the lawns and the flower gardens to care for, there was a good-sized vegetable garden to weed and to hoe. uncle rufus suffered from what he called a "misery" in his back that made it difficult for him to stoop to weed the small plants in the garden. "i don't know, missy ruth," complained the old darkey to the eldest corner house girl, "how i's goin' to get that bed of winter beets weeded--i dunno, noways. my misery suah won't let me stoop down to them rows, and there's a big patch of 'em." "do they need weeding right now, uncle rufus?" "suah do, missy. dey is sufferin' fo' hit. i'd send wo'd for some o' mah daughter pechunia's young 'uns to come over yere, but i knows dat all o' them that's big enough to work is reg'larly employed by de farmers out dat a-way. picking crops for de canneries is now at de top-notch, missy; and even burnejones whistler and louise-annette is big enough to pick beans." "goodness me!" exclaimed agnes, who overheard the old man's complaint. "there ought to be kids enough around these corners to hire, without sending to foreign lands for any. they are always under foot if you _don't_ want them." "ain't it de truf?" chuckled the old man. "usual' i can't look over de hedge without spyin' dat sammy pinkney and a dozen of his crew. they's jest as plenty as bugs under a chip. but now--" "well, why not get sammy?" interrupted ruth. "he ought to be of some use, that is sure," added agnes. "can yo' put yo' hand on dat boy?" demanded uncle rufus. "'nless he's in mischief i don't know where to look for him." "i can find him all right," agnes declared. "but i cannot guarantee that he will take the job." "offer him fifty cents to weed those beet rows," ruth said briskly. "the bed i see is just a mat of weeds." they had walked down to the garden while the discussion was going on. "if sammy will do it i'll be glad to pay the half dollar." she bustled away about some other domestic matter; for despite the fact that mrs. mccall bore the greater burden of housekeeping affairs, ruth kenway did not shirk certain responsibilities that fell to her lot both outside and inside the corner house. after all was said and done, sammy pinkney looked upon agnes as his friend. she was more lenient with him than even dot was. ruth and tess looked upon most boys as merely "necessary evils." but agnes had always liked to play with boys and was willing to overlook their shortcomings. "i got a lot to do," ventured sammy, shying as usual at the idea of work. "but if you really want me to, aggie--" "and if you want to make a whole half dollar," suggested agnes, not much impressed by the idea that sammy would weed beets as a favor. "all right," agreed the boy, and shooing buster, his bulldog, out of the corner house premises, for buster and billy bumps, the goat, were sworn enemies, sammy proceeded to the vegetable garden. now, both uncle rufus and agnes particularly showed sammy which were the infant beets and which the weeds. it is a fact, however, that there are few garden plants grown for human consumption that do not have their counterpart among the noxious weeds. the young beets, growing in scattered clumps in the row (for each seed-burr contains a number of seeds), looked much like a certain weed of the lambs'-quarters variety; and this reddish-green weed pretty well covered the beet bed. tess and dot had gone to a girls' party at mrs. adams', just along on willow street, that afternoon, so they did not appear to disturb sammy at his task. in fact, the boy had it all his own way. neither uncle rufus nor any other older person came near him, and he certainly made a thorough job of that beet bed. mrs. mccall "set great store," as she said, by beets--both pickled and fresh--for winter consumption. when neale o'neil chanced to go into the garden toward supper time to see what sammy was doing there, it was too late to save much of the crop. "well, of all the dunces!" ejaculated neale, almost immediately seeing what sammy had been about. "say! you didn't do that on purpose, did you? or don't you know any better?" "know any better'n _what_?" demanded the bone-weary sammy, in no mood to endure scolding in any case. "ain't i done it all right? i bet you can't find a weed in that whole bed, so now." "great grief, kid!" gasped the older boy, seeing that sammy was quite in earnest, "i don't believe you've left anything _but_ weeds in those rows. it--it's a knock-out!" "aw--i never," gulped sammy. "i guess i know beets." "huh! it looks as though you don't even know _beans_," chortled neale, unable to keep his gravity. "what a mess! mrs. mccall will be as sore as she can be." "i don't care!" cried the tired boy wildly. "i saved just what aggie told me to, and threw away everything else. and see how the rows are." "why, sammy, those aren't where the rows of beets were at all. see! _these_ are beets. _those_ are weeds. oh, great grief!" and the older boy went off into another gale of laughter. "i--i do-o-on't care," wailed sammy. "i did just what aggie told me to. and i want my half dollar." "you want to be paid for wasting all mrs. mccall's beets?" "i don't care, i earned it." neale could not deny the statement. as far as the work went, sammy certainly had spent time and labor on the unfortunate task. "wait a minute," said neale, as sammy started away in anger. "maybe all those beet plants you pulled up aren't wilted. we can save some of them. beets grow very well when they are transplanted--especially if the ground is wet enough and the sun isn't too hot. it looks like rain for to-night, anyway." "aw--i--" "come on! we'll get some water and stick out what we can save. i'll help you and the girls needn't know you were such a dummy." "dummy, yourself!" snarled the tired and over-wrought boy. "i'll never weed another beet again--no, i won't!" sammy made a bee-line out of the garden and over the fence into willow street, leaving neale fairly shaking with laughter, yet fully realizing how dreadfully cut-up sammy must feel. the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune seem much greater to the mind of a youngster like sammy pinkney than to an adult person. the ridicule which he knew he must suffer because of his mistake about the beet bed, seemed something that he really could not bear. besides, he had worked all the afternoon for nothing (as he presumed) and only the satisfaction of having earned fifty cents would have counteracted the ache in his muscles. harried by his disappointment, sammy was met by his mother in a stern mood, her first question being: "where have you been wasting your time ever since dinner, sammy pinkney? i never did see such a lazy boy!" it was true that he had wasted his time. but his sore muscles cried out against the charge that he was lazy. he could not explain, however, without revealing his shame. to be ridiculed was the greatest punishment sammy pinkney knew. "aw, what do you want me to do, maw? work _all_ the time? ain't this my vacation?" "but your father says you are to work enough in the summer to keep from forgetting what work is. and look how grubby you are. faugh!" "what do you want me to do, maw?" "you might do a little weeding in our garden, you know, sammy." "weeding!" groaned the boy, fairly horrified by the suggestion after what he had been through that afternoon. "you know very well that our onions and carrots need cleaning out. and i don't believe you could even find our beets." "beets!" sammy's voice rose to a shriek. he never was really a bad boy; but this was too much. "beets!" cried sammy again. "i wouldn't weed a beet if nobody ever ate another of 'em. no, i wouldn't." he darted by his mother into the house and ran up to his room. her reiterated command that he return and explain his disgraceful speech and violent conduct did not recall sammy to the lower floor. "very well, young man. don't you come down to supper, either. and we'll see what your father has to say about your conduct when he comes home." this threat boded ill for sammy, lying sobbing and sore upon his bed. he was too desperate to care much what his father did to him. but to face the ridicule of the neighborhood--above all to face the prospect of weeding another bed of beets!--was more than the boy could contemplate. "i'll run away and be a pirate--that's just what i'll do," choked sammy, his old obsession enveloping his harassed thoughts. "i'll show 'em! they'll be sorry they treated me so--all of 'em." just who "'em" were was rather vague in sammy pinkney's mind. but the determination to get away from all these older people, whom he considered had abused him, was not vague at all. chapter iv--the gypsy trail mr. pinkney, sammy's father, heard all about it before he arrived home, for he always passed the side door of the old corner house on his return from business. he came at just that time when neale o'neil was telling the assembled family--including mrs. mccall, uncle rufus, and linda the maid-of-all-work--about the utter wreck of the beet bed. "i've saved what i could--set 'em out, you know, and soaked 'em well," said the laughing neale. "but make up your mind, mrs. mccall, that you'll have to buy a good share of your beets this winter." "well! what do you know about that, mr. pinkney?" demanded agnes of their neighbor, who had halted at the gate. "just like that boy," responded mr. pinkney, shaking his head over his son's transgressions. "just the same," neale added, chuckling, "sammy says you showed him which were weeds and which were beets, aggie." "of course i did," flung back the quick-tempered agnes. "and so did uncle rufus. but that boy is so heedless--" "i agree that sammy pays very little attention to what is told him," said sammy's father. here tess put in a soothing word, as usual: "of course he didn't mean to pull up all your beets, mrs. mccall." "and i don't like beets anyway," proclaimed dot. "he certainly must have worked hard," ruth said, producing a fifty-cent piece and running down the steps to press it into mr. pinkney's palm. "i am sure sammy had no intention of spoiling our beet bed. and i am not sure that it is not partly our fault. he should not have been left all the afternoon without some supervision." "he should be more observing," said mr. pinkney. "i never did see such a rattlebrain." "'the servant is worthy of his hire,'" quoted ruth. "and tell him, mr. pinkney, that we forgive him." "just the same," cried agnes after their neighbor, "although sammy may know beans, as neale says, he doesn't seem to know beets! oh, what a boy!" so mr. pinkney brought home the story of sammy's mistake and he and his wife laughed over it. but when mrs. pinkney called upstairs for the boy to come down to a late supper she got only a muffled response that he "didn't want no supper." "he must be sick," she observed to her husband, somewhat anxiously. "he's sick of the mess he's made--that's all," declared mr. pinkney cheerfully. "let him alone. he'll come around all right in the morning." meanwhile at the corner house the kenway sisters had something more important (at least, as they thought) to talk about than sammy pinkney and his errors of judgment. what dot had begun to call the "fretful silver bracelet" was a very live topic. the local jeweler had pronounced the bracelet of considerable value because of its workmanship. it did not seem possible that the gypsy women could have dropped the bracelet into the basket they had sold the smaller corner house girls and then forgotten all about it. "it is not reasonable," ruth kenway declared firmly, "that it could just be a mistake. that basket is worth two dollars at least; and they sold it to the children for forty-five cents. it is mysterious." "they seemed to like tess and me a whole lot," dot said complacently. "that is why they gave it to us so cheap." "and that is the very reason i am worried," ruth added. "why don't you report it to the police?" croaked aunt sarah maltby. "maybe they'll try to rob the house." "o-oh," gasped dot, round-eyed. "who? the police?" giggled agnes in ruth's ear. "maybe we ought to look again for those gypsy ladies," tess said. "but the bracelet is awful pretty." "i tell you! let's ask june wildwood. she knows all about gypsies," cried agnes. "she used to travel with them. don't you remember, ruth? they called her queen zaliska, and she made believe tell fortunes. of course, not being a real gypsy she could not tell them very well." "crickey!" ejaculated neale o'neil, who was present. "you don't believe in that stuff, do you, aggie?" "i don't know whether i do or not. but it's awfully thrilling to think of learning ahead what is going to happen." "huh!" snorted her boy friend. "like the weather man, eh? but he has some scientific data to go on." "probably the gypsy fortune tellers have reduced their business to a science, too," ruth calmly said. "anyhow," laughed neale, "queen zaliska now works in byburg's candy store. some queen, i'll tell the world!" "neale!" admonished ruth. "_such_ slang!" "come on, neale," said the excited agnes. "let you and me go down to byburg's and ask her about the bracelet." "i really don't see how june can tell us anything," observed ruth slowly. "anyway," agnes briskly said, putting on her hat, "we need some candy. come on, neale." the wildwoods were southerners who had not lived long in milton. their story is told in "the corner house girls under canvas." the kenways were very well acquainted with juniper wildwood and her sister, rosa. agnes felt privileged to question june about her life with the gypsies. "i saw big jim in town the other day," confessed the girl behind the candy counter the moment agnes broached the subject. "i am awfully afraid of him. i ran all the way home. and i told mr. budd, the policeman on this beat, and i think mr. budd warned big jim to get out of town. there is some talk about getting a law through the legislature putting a heavy tax on each gypsy family that does not keep moving. _that_ will drive them away from milton quicker than anything else. and that big jim is a bad, bad man. why! he's been in jail for stealing." "oh, my! he's a regular convict, then," gasped agnes, much impressed. "pshaw!" said neale. "they don't call a man a convict unless he has been sent to the state prison, or to the federal penitentiary. but that big jim looked to be tough enough, when we saw him down at pleasant cove, to belong in prison for life. remember him, aggie?" "the children did not say anything about a gypsy man," observed his friend. "there were two gypsy women." she went on to tell june wildwood all about the basket purchase and the finding of the silver bracelet. the older girl shook her head solemnly as she said: "i don't understand it at all. gypsies are always shrewd bargainers. they never sell things for less than they cost." "but they made that basket," agnes urged. "perhaps it didn't cost them so much as ruth thinks." june smiled in a superior way. "oh, no, they didn't make it. they don't waste their time nowadays making baskets when they can buy them from the factories so much cheaper and better. oh, no!" "crackey!" exclaimed neale. "then they are fakers, are they?" "that bracelet is no fake," declared agnes. "that is what puzzles me most," said june. "gypsies are very tricky. at least, all i ever knew. and if those two women you speak of belonged to big jim's tribe, i would not trust them at all." "but it seems they have done nothing at all bad in this case," agnes observed. "tess and dot are sure ahead of the game, so far," chuckled neale in agreement. "just the same," said june wildwood, "i would not be careless. don't let the children talk to the gypsies if they come back for the bracelet. be sure to have some older person see the women and find out what they want. oh, they are very sly." june had then to attend to other customers, and agnes and neale walked home. on the way they decided that there was no use in scaring the little ones about the gypsies. "i don't believe in bugaboos," agnes declared. "we'll just tell ruth." this she proceeded to do. but perhaps she did not repeat june wildwood's warning against the gypsy band with sufficient emphasis to impress ruth's mind. or just about this time the older corner house girl had something of much graver import to trouble her thought. by special delivery, on this evening just before they retired, arrived an almost incoherent letter from cecile shepard, part of which ruth read aloud to agnes: "... and just as aunt lorina is only beginning to get better! i feel as though this family is fated to have trouble this year. luke was doing so well at the hotel and the proprietor liked him. it isn't _his_ fault that that outside stairway was untrustworthy and fell with him. the doctor says it is only a strained back and a broken wrist. but luke is in bed. i am going by to-morrow's train to see for myself. i don't dare tell aunt lorina--nor even neighbor. neighbor--mr. northrup--is not well himself, and he would only worry about luke if he knew.... now, don't _you_ worry, and i will send you word how luke is just the minute i arrive." "but how can i help being anxious?" ruth demanded of her sister. "poor luke! and he was working so hard this summer so as not to be obliged to depend entirely on neighbor for his college expenses next year." ruth was deeply interested in luke shepard--had been, in fact, since the winter previous when all the corner house family were snowbound at the birdsall winter camp in the north woods. of course, ruth and luke were both very young, and luke had first to finish his college course and get into business. still and all, the fact that luke shepard had been hurt quite dwarfed the gypsy bracelet matter in ruth's mind. and in that of agnes, too, of course. in addition, the very next morning mrs. pinkney ran across the street and in at the side door of the corner house in a state of panic. "oh! have you seen him?" she cried. "seen whom, mrs. pinkney?" asked ruth with sympathy. "is buster lost again?" demanded tess, poising a spoonful of breakfast food carefully while she allowed her curiosity to take precedence over the business of eating. "that dog always _is_ getting lost." "it isn't sammy's dog," wailed mrs. pinkney. "it is sammy himself. i can't find him." "can't find sammy?" repeated agnes. "his bed hasn't been slept in! i thought he was just sulky last night. but he is _gone_!" "well," said tess, practically, "sammy is always running away, you know." "oh, this is serious," cried the distracted mother. "he has broken open his bank and taken all his money--almost four dollars." "my!" murmured dot, "it must cost lots more to run away and be pirates now than it used to." "everything is much higher," agreed tess. chapter v--sammy occasions much excitement "i do hope and pray," aunt sarah maltby declared, "that mrs. pinkney won't go quite distracted about that boy. boys make so much trouble usually that a body would near about believe that it must be an occasion for giving thanks to get rid of one like sammy pinkney." this was said of course after sammy's mother had gone home in tears--and agnes had accompanied her to give such comfort as she might. the whole neighborhood was roused about the missing sammy. all agreed that the boy never was of so much importance as when he was missing. "i do hope and pray that the little rascal will turn up soon," continued aunt sarah, "for mrs. pinkney's sake." "i wonder," murmured dot to tess, "why it is aunt sarah always says she 'hopes and prays'? wouldn't just praying be enough? you're sure to get what you pray for, aren't you?" "but what is the use of praying if you don't hope?" demanded tess, the hair-splitting theologian. "they must go together, dot. i should think you'd see that." mrs. pinkney had lost hope of finding sammy, however, right at the start. she knew him of course of old. he had been running away ever since he could toddle out of the gate; but she and mr. pinkney tried to convince themselves that each time would be the last--that he was "cured." for almost always sammy's runaway escapades ended disastrously for him and covered him with ridicule. particularly ignominious was the result of his recent attempt, which is narrated in the volume immediately preceding this, to accompany the corner house girls on their canal-boat cruise, when he appeared as a stowaway aboard the boat in the company of billy bumps, the goat. "and he hasn't even taken buster with him this time," proclaimed mrs. pinkney. "he chained buster down cellar and the dog began to howl. so mournful! it got on my nerves. i went down after mr. pinkney went to business early this morning and let buster out. then, because of the dog's actions, i began to suspect sammy had gone. i called him. no answer. and he hadn't had any supper last night either." "i am awfully sorry, mrs. pinkney," agnes said. "it was too bad about the beets. but he needn't have run away because of _that_. ruth sent him his fifty cents, you know." "that's just it!" exclaimed the distracted woman. "his father did not give sammy the half dollar. as long as the boy was so sulky last evening, and refused to come down to eat, mr. pinkney said let him wait for that money till he came down this morning. _he_ thought ruth was too good. sammy is always doing something." "oh, he's not so bad," said the comforting agnes. "i am sure there are lots worse boys. and are you sure, mrs. pinkney, that he has really run away this time?" "buster can't find him. the poor dog has been running around and snuffing for an hour. i've telephoned to his father." "who--_what_? buster's father?" "mr. pinkney," explained sammy's mother. "i suppose he'll tell the police. he says--mr. pinkney does--that the police must think it is a 'standing order' on their books to find sammy." "oh, my!" giggled agnes, who was sure to appreciate the comical side of the most serious situation. "i should think the policemen would be so used to looking for sammy that they would pick him up anywhere they chanced to see him with the idea that he was running away." "well," sighed mrs. pinkney, "buster can't find him. there he lies panting over by the currant bushes. the poor dog has run his legs off." "i don't believe bulldogs are very keen on a scent. our old tom jonah could do better. but of course sammy went right out into the street and the scent would be difficult for the best dog to follow. do you think sammy went early this morning?" "that dog began to howl soon after we went to bed. mr. pinkney sleeps so soundly that it did not annoy him. but i _knew_ something was wrong when buster howled so. "perhaps i'm superstitious. but we had an old dog that howled like that years ago when my grandmother died. she was ninety-six and had been bedridden for ten years, and the doctors said of course that she was likely to die almost any time. but that old towser _did_ howl the night grandma was taken." "so you think," agnes asked, without commenting upon mrs. pinkney's possible trend toward superstition, "that sammy has been gone practically all night?" "i fear so. he must have waited for his father and me to go to bed. then he slipped down the back stairs, tied buster, and went out by the cellar door. all night long he's been wandering somewhere. the poor, foolish boy!" she took agnes up to the boy's room--a museum of all kinds of "useless truck," as his mother said, but dear to the boyish heart. "oh, he's gone sure enough," she said, pointing to the bank which was supposed to be incapable of being opened until five dollars in dimes had been deposited within it. a screw-driver, however, had satisfied the burglarious intent of sammy. she pointed out the fact, too, that a certain extension bag that had figured before in her son's runaway escapades was missing. "the silly boy has taken his bathing suit and that cowboy play-suit his father bought him. i never did approve of that. such things only give boys crazy notions about catching dogs and little girls with a rope, or shooting stray cats with a popgun. "of course, he has taken his gun with him and a bag of shot that he had to shoot in it. the gun shoots with a spring, you know. it doesn't use real powder, of course. i have always believed such things are dangerous. but, you know, his father-- "well, he wore his best shoes, and they will hurt him dreadfully, i am sure, if he walks far. and i can't find that new cap i bought him only last week." all the time she was searching in sammy's closet and in the bureau drawers. she stood up suddenly and began to peer at the conglomeration of articles on the top of the bureau. "oh!" she cried. "it's gone!" "what is it, mrs. pinkney?" asked agnes sympathetically, seeing that the woman's eyes were overflowing again. "what is it you miss?" "oh! he is determined i am sure to run away for good this time," sobbed mrs. pinkney. "the poor, foolish boy! i wish i had said nothing to him about the beets--i do. i wonder if both his father and i have not been too harsh with him. and i'm sure he loves us. just think of his taking _that_." "but what is it?" cried agnes again. "it stood right here on his bureau propped up against the glass. sammy must have thought a great deal of it," flowed on the verbal torrent. "who would have thought of that boy being so sentimental about it?" "mrs. pinkney!" begged the curious agnes, almost distracted herself now, "_do_ tell me what it is that is missing?" "that picture. we had it taken--his father and sammy and me in a group together--the last time we went to pleasure cove. sammy begged to keep it up here. and--now--the dear child--has--has carried--it--away with him!" mrs. pinkney broke down utterly at this point. she was finally convinced that at last sammy had fulfilled his oft-repeated threat to "run away for good and all"--whether to be a pirate or not, being a mooted question. agnes comforted her as well as she could. but the poor woman felt that she had not taken her son seriously enough, and that she could have averted this present disaster in some way. "she is quite distracted," agnes said, on arriving home, repeating aunt sarah's phrase. "quite distracted." "but if she is extracted," dot proposed, "why doesn't she have dr. forsyth come to see her?" "mercy, dot!" admonished tess. "_dis_tracted, not _ex_tracted. you do so mispronounce the commonest words." "i don't, either," the smaller girl denied vigorously. "i don't mispernounce any more than you do, tess kenway! you just make believe you know so much." "dot! mis_per_nounce! there you go again!" this was a sore subject, and ruth attempted to change the trend of the little girls' thoughts by suggesting that mrs. mccall needed some groceries from a certain store situated away across town. "if you can get uncle rufus to harness scalawag you girls can drive over to penny & marchant's for those things. and you can stop at mr. howbridge's house with this note. he must be told about poor luke's injury." "why, ruthie?" asked little miss inquisitive, otherwise dot kenway. "mr. howbridge isn't luke shepard's guardian, too, is he?" "now, don't be a chatterbox!" exclaimed the elder sister, who was somewhat harassed on this morning and did not care to explain to the little folk just what she had in her mind. ruth was not satisfied to know that cecile had gone to attend her brother. the oldest kenway girl longed to go herself to the resort in the mountains where luke shepard lay ill. but she did not wish to do this without first seeking their guardian's permission. tess and dot ran off in delight, forgetting their small bickerings, to find uncle rufus. the old colored man, as long as he could get about, would do anything for "his chillun," as he called the four kenway sisters. it needed no coaxing on the part of tess and dot to get their will of the old man on this occasion. scalawag was fat and lazy enough in any case. in the spring neale had plowed and harrowed the garden with him and on occasion he was harnessed to a light cart for work about the place. his main duty, however, was to draw the smaller girls about the quieter streets of milton in a basket phaeton. to this vehicle he was now harnessed by uncle rufus. "you want to be mought' car'ful 'bout them automobiles, chillun," the old man admonished them. "dat sammy pinkney boy was suah some good once in a while. he was a purt' car'ful driber." "but he's a good driver _now_--wherever he is," said dot. "you talk as though sammy would never get back home from being a pirate. of course he will. he always does!" secretly tess felt herself to be quite as able to drive the pony as ever sammy pinkney was. she was glad to show her prowess. scalawag shook his head, danced playfully on the old stable floor, and then proceeded to wheel the basket phaeton out of the barn and into willow street. by a quieter thoroughfare than main street, tess kenway headed him for the other side of town. "maybe we'll run across sammy," suggested dot, sitting sedately with her ever-present alice-doll. "then we can tell his mother where he is being a pirate. she won't be so extracted then." tess overlooked this mispronunciation, knowing it was useless to object, and turned the subject by saying: "or maybe we'll see those gypsies." "oh, i hope not!" cried the smaller girl. "i hope we'll never see those gypsy women again." for just at this time the alice-doll was wearing the fretted silver bracelet for a girdle. chapter vi--the gypsy's words that very forenoon after the two smallest girls had set out on their drive with scalawag a telegram came to the old corner house for ruth. as agnes said, a telegram was "an event in their young sweet lives." and this one did seem of great importance to ruth. it was from cecile shepard and read: "arrived oakhurst. they will not let me see luke." aside from the natural shock that the telegram itself furnished, cecile's declaration that she was not allowed to see her brother was bound to make ruth kenway fear the worst. "oh!" she cried, "he must be very badly hurt indeed. it is much worse than cecile thought when she wrote. oh, agnes! what shall i do?" "telegraph her for particulars," suggested agnes, quite practically. "a broken wrist can't be such an awful thing, ruthie." "but his back! suppose he has seriously hurt his back?" "goodness me! that would be awful, of course. he might grow a hump like poor fred littleburg. but i don't believe that anything like that has happened to luke, ruthie." her sister was not to be easily comforted. "think! there must be something very serious the matter or they would not keep his own sister from seeing him." ruth herself had had no word from luke since the accident. neither of the sisters knew that cecile shepard had never had occasion to send a telegram before and had never received one in all her life. but she learned that a message of ten words could be sent for thirty-two cents to milton, so she had divided what she wished to say in two equal parts! the second half of her message, however, because of the mistake of the filing clerk at the telegraph office in oakhurst, did not arrive at the corner house for several hours after the first half of the message. ruth kenway meanwhile grew almost frantic as she considered the possible misfortune that might have overtaken luke shepard. she grew quite as "extracted"--to quote dot--as mrs. pinkney was about the absence of sammy. "well," agnes finally declared, "if i felt as you do about it i would not wait to hear from mr. howbridge. i'd start right now. here's the time table. i've looked up the trains. there is one at ten minutes to one--twelve-fifty. i'll call neale and he'll drive you down to the station. you might have gone with the children if that telegram had come earlier." agnes was not only practical, she was helpful on this occasion. she packed ruth's bag--and managed to get into it a more sensible variety of articles than sammy pinkey had carried in his! "now, don't be worried about _us_," said agnes, when ruth, dressed for departure, began to speak with anxiety about domestic affairs, including the continued absence of the little girls. "haven't we got mrs. mccall--and linda? you _do_ take your duties so seriously, ruth kenway." "do you think so?" rejoined ruth, smiling rather wanly at the flyaway sister. "if anything should happen while i am gone--" "nothing will happen that wouldn't happen anyway, whether you are at home or not," declared the positive agnes. ruth made ready to go in such a hurry that nobody else in the corner house save agnes herself realized that the older sister was going until the moment that neale o'neil drove around to the front gate with the car. then ruth ran into aunt sarah's room to kiss her good-bye. but aunt sarah had always lived a life apart from the general existence of the corner house family and paid little attention to what her nieces did save to criticise. mrs. mccall was busy this day preserving--"up tae ma eyen in wark, ma lassie"--and ruth kissed her, called good-bye to linda, and ran to the front door before any of the three actually realized what was afoot. agnes ran with her to the street. at the gate stood a dark-faced, brilliantly dressed young woman, with huge gold rings in her ears, several other pieces of jewelry worn in sight, and a flashing smile as she halted the kenway sisters with outstretched hand. "will the young ladies let me read their palms?" she said suavely. "i can tell them the good fortune." "oh, dear me!" exclaimed agnes, pushing by the gypsy. "we can't stop to have our fortunes told now." ruth kept right on to the car. "do not neglect the opportunity of having the good fortune told, young ladies," said the gypsy girl shrewdly. "i can see that trouble is feared. the dark young lady goes on a journey because of the threat of _ill_ fortune. perhaps it is not so bad as it seems." agnes was really impressed. left to herself she actually would have heeded the gypsy's words. but ruth hurried into the car, neale reached back and slammed the tonneau door, and they were off for the station with only a few minutes to catch the twelve-fifty train. "there!" ejaculated agnes, standing at the curb to wave her hand and look after the car. "the blonde young lady does not believe the gypsy can tell her something that will happen--and in the near future?" "oh!" exclaimed agnes. "i don't know." and she dragged her gaze from the car and looked doubtfully upon the dark face of the gypsy girl which was now serious. the latter said: "something has sent the dark young lady from home in much haste and anxiety?" the question was answered of course before it was asked. any observant person could have seen as much. but agnes's interest was attracted and she nodded. "had your sister," the gypsy girl said, guessing easily enough at the relationship of the two corner house girls, "not been in such haste, she could have learned something that will change the aspect of the threatened trouble. more news is on the way." agnes was quite startled by this statement. without explaining further the gypsy girl glided away, disappearing into willow street. agnes failed to see, as the gypsy quite evidently did, the leisurely approach of the telegraph messenger boy with the yellow envelope in his hand and his eyes fixed upon the old corner house. agnes ran within quickly. she was more than a little impressed by the gypsy girl's words, and a few minutes later when the front doorbell rang and she took in the second telegram addressed to ruth, she was pretty well converted to fortune telling as an exact science. * * * * * sammy pinkney had marched out of the house late at night, as his mother suspected, lugging his heavy extension-bag, with a more vague idea of his immediate destination than was even usual when he set forth on such escapades. to "run away" seemed to sammy the only thing for a boy to do when home life and restrictions became in his opinion unbearable. it might be questioned by stern disciplinarians if mr. and mrs. pinkney had properly punished sammy after he had run away the first few times, the boy would not have been cured of his wanderlust. fortunately, although sammy's father was stern enough, he very well knew that this desire for wandering could not be beaten out of the boy. merely if he were beaten, when he grew big enough to fend for himself in the world, he would leave home and never return rather than face corporal punishment. "i was just such a kid when i was his age," admitted mr. pinkney. "my father licked me for running away, so finally i ran away when i was fourteen, and stayed away. sammy has less reason for leaving home than i had, and he'll get over his foolishness, get a better education than i obtained, and be a better man, i hope, in the end. it's in the pinkney blood to rove." this, of course, while perhaps being satisfactory to a man, did not at all calm sammy's mother. she expected the very worst to happen to her son every time he disappeared; and as has been shown on this occasion, the boy's absence stirred the community to its very dregs. had mrs. pinkney known that after tramping as far as the outskirts of the town, and almost dropping from exhaustion, sammy had gone to bed on a pile of straw in an empty cow stable, she would have been even more troubled than she was. sammy, however, came to no harm. he slept so soundly in fact on the rude couch that it was mid-forenoon before he awoke--stiff, sore in muscles, clamorously hungry, and in a frame of mind to go immediately home and beg for breakfast. he had more money tied up in his handkerchief, however, than he had ever possessed before when he had run away. there was a store in sight at the roadside not far ahead. he hid his bag in the bushes and bought crackers, ham, cheese, and a big bottle of sarsaparilla, and so made a hearty if not judicious breakfast and lunch. at least, this picnic meal cured the slight attack of homesickness which he suffered. he was no longer for turning back. the whole world was before him and he strode away into it--lugging that extension-bag. while his troubled mother was showing agnes kenway the unmistakable traces of his departure for parts unknown, sammy was trudging along pretty contentedly, the bag awkwardly knocking against his knees, and his sharp eyes alive to everything that went on along the road. sammy had little love for natural history or botany, or anything like that. he suffered preparatory lessons in those branches of enforced knowledge during the school year. he did not care a bit to know the difference between a gray squirrel and a striped chipmunk. they both chattered at him saucily, and he stopped to try a shot at each of them with his gun. to sammy's mind they were legitimate game. he visualized himself building a fire in a fence corner, skinning and cleaning his game and roasting it over the flames for supper. but the squirrel and the chipmunk visualized quite a different outcome to the adventure and they refused to be shot by the amateur sportsman. sammy struck into a road that led across the canal by a curved bridge and right out into a part of the country with which he was not at all familiar. the houses were few and far between, and most of them were set well back from the road. sometimes dogs barked at him, but he was not afraid of watch dogs. he did not venture into the yards or up the private lanes. he had bought enough crackers and cheese to make another meal when he should want it. and there were sweet springs beside the road, or in the pastures where the cattle grazed. few vehicles passed him in either direction. it was the time of the late hay harvest and everybody was at work in the fields--and usually when he saw the haymakers at all, they were far from the road. he met no pedestrians at all. being quite off the line of the railroad, there were no tramps on this road, and of course there was nothing else to harm the boy. his mother, in her anxiety, peopled the world with those that would do sammy harm. in truth, he was never safer in his life! but adventure? why, the world was full of it, and sammy pinkney expected to meet any number of exciting incidents as he went on. "sammy," dot kenway once said, "has just a _wunnerful_ 'magination. why! if he sees our old sandyface creeping through the grass after a poor little field mouse, sammy can think she's a whole herd of tigers. his 'magination is just wunnerful!" chapter vii--the bracelet again to the fore while sammy's sturdy, if short, legs were leaving home and milton steadily behind him, dot and tess were driving scalawag, the calico pony, to penny & marchant's store, and later to mr. howbridge's house to deliver the note ruth had entrusted to them. their guardian had always been fond of the kenway sisters--since he had been appointed their guardian by the court, of course--and tess and dot could not merely call at mr. howbridge's door and drive right away again. besides, there were ralph and rowena birdsall. the birdsall twins had of late likewise come under mr. howbridge's care, and circumstances were such that it was best for their guardian to take the twins into his own home. having two extremely active and rather willful children in his household had most certainly disturbed mr. howbridge out of the rut of his old existence. and ralph and rowena quite "turned the 'ouse hupside down," to quote hedden, mr. howbridge's butler. the moment the twins spied tess and dot in the pony phaeton they tore down the stairs from their quarters at the top of the howbridge house, and flew out of the door to greet the little corner house girls. "oh, tessie and dot!" cried rowena, who looked exactly like her brother, only her hair was now grown long again and she no longer wore boy's garments, as she had when the kenways first knew her. "how nice to see you!" "where's sammy?" ralph demanded. "why didn't he come along, too?" "we're glad to see you, rowena and rafe," tess said sedately. but dot replied eagerly to the boy twin: "oh, rafe! what do you think? sammy's run away again." "get out!" "i'm going to," said dot, considering ralph's ejaculation of amazement an invitation to alight, and she forthwith jumped down from the step of the phaeton. "you can't mean that sammy has run off?" cried ralph. "listen to this, rowdy." "what a silly boy!" criticised his sister. "i don't know," chuckled ralph birdsall. "'member how you and i ran away that time, rowdy?" "oh--well," said his sister. "we had reason for doing so. but you know sammy pinkney's got a father and a mother--and for pity's sake, rafe, stop calling me rowdy." "and he's got a real nice bulldog, too," added dot, reflectively considering any possibility why sammy should run away. "i can't understand why he does it. he only has to come back home again. i did it once, and i never mean to run away from home again." meanwhile tess left ralph to hitch scalawag while she marched up the stone steps of the howbridge house to deliver ruth's note into hedden's hand, who took it at once to mr. howbridge. dot interested the twins almost immediately in another topic. rowena naturally was first to spy the silver girdle around the alice-doll's waist. "what a splendid belt!" cried rowena birdsall. "is it real silver, dot?" "it--it's fretful silver," replied the littlest corner house girl. "isn't it pretty?" "why," declared ralph after an examination, "it's an old, old bracelet." "well, it is old, i s'pose," admitted dot. "but my alice-doll doesn't know that. _she_ thinks it is a brand new belt. but of course she can't wear it every day, for half the time the bracelet belongs to tess." this statement naturally aroused the twins' curiosity, and when tess ran back to join them in the front yard the story of the gypsy basket and the finding of the bracelet lost nothing of detail by being narrated by both of the corner house girls. "oh, my!" cried rowena. "maybe those gypsies are just waiting to grab you. gypsies steal children sometimes. don't they, rafe?" "course they do," agreed her twin. dot looked rather frightened at this suggestion, but tess scorned the possibility. "why, how foolish," she declared. "dot and i were lost once--all by ourselves. even tom jonah wasn't with us. weren't we, dot? and we slept out under a tree all night, and a nice gypsy woman found us in the morning and took us to her camp. didn't she, dot?" "oh, yes! and an owl howled at us," agreed the smaller girl. "and i'd much rather sleep in a gypsy tent than have owls howl at me." "the owl _hooted_, dot," corrected tess. "well, what's the difference between a hoot and a howl?" demanded dot, rather crossly. she did so hate to be corrected! "well, of course," said rowena birdsall thoughtfully, "if you are acquainted with gypsies maybe you wouldn't be scared. but i don't believe they gave you this bracelet for nothing." "no," agreed dot quickly. "for forty-five cents. and we still owe sammy pinkney twenty-five cents of it. and he's run away." so they got around again to the first exciting piece of news tess and dot had brought, and were discussing that when mr. howbridge came out to speak to the little visitors, giving them his written answer to ruth's note. he heard about sammy's escapade and some mention of the gypsies. "well," he chuckled, "if sammy pinkney has been carried off by the gypsies, i sympathize with the gypsies. i have a very vivid recollection of how much trouble sammy can make--and without half trying. "now, children, give my note to ruth. i am very sorry that luke shepard is ill. if he does not at once recover it may be well to bring him here to milton. with his aunt only just recovering from her illness, it would be unwise to take the boy home." this he said more to himself than to the little girls. because of their errand tess and dot could remain no longer. ralph unhitched the pony and tess drove away. around the very first corner they spied a dusty, rather battered touring-car just moving away. a big, dark man, with gold hoops in his ears, was driving it. there was a brilliantly dressed young woman in the tonneau, which was otherwise filled with boxes, baskets, a crate of fruit, and odd-shaped packages. "oh, tess!" squealed dot. "see there!" "oh, dot!" rejoined her sister quite as excitedly. "that is the young gypsy lady." "oh-oo!" moaned dot. "have we _got_ to give her back this fretful silver bracelet, tessie?" "we must _try_," declared tess firmly. "ruth says so. get up, scalawag! come on--hurry! we must catch them." the touring-car was going away from the pony-phaeton. scalawag objected very much to going faster than his usual easy jog trot--unless it were to dance behind a band! _he_ didn't care to overtake the gypsies' motor-car. and that car was going faster and faster. tess stopped talking to the aggravating scalawag and lifted up her voice to shout after the gypsies. "oh, stop! stop!" she called. "miss--miss gypsy! we've got something for you! why, dot, you are not hollering at all!" "i--i'm trying to," wailed the smaller girl. "but i do so hate to make alice give up her belt." the gypsy turned his car into a cross street ahead and disappeared. when scalawag brought the corner house girls to that corner the car was so far away that the girls' voices at their loudest pitch could not have reached the ears of the romany folk. "now, just see! we'll never be able to give that bracelet back if you don't do your share of the hollering, dot kenway," complained tess. "i--i will," promised dot. "anyway, i will when it's your turn to wear the bracelet." the little girls reached home again at a time when the whole corner house family seemed disrupted. to the amazement of tess and dot their sister ruth had departed for the mountains. neale had only just then returned from seeing her aboard the train. "and it's too late to stop her, never mind what mr. howbridge says in this note," cried agnes. "that foolish cecile! here is the second half of her telegraph message," and she read it aloud again: "until afternoon; will wire you then how he is." "crickey!" gasped neale, red in the face with laughter, and taking the two telegrams to read them in conjunction: "arrived oakhurst. they will not let me see luke until afternoon. will wire you then how he is." "isn't that just like a girl?" "no more like a girl than it is like a boy," snapped agnes. "i'm sure all the brains in the world are not of the masculine gender." "i stand corrected," meekly agreed her friend. "just the same, i don't think that even you, aggie, would award cecile shepard a medal for perspicuity." "why--_why_," gasped the listening dot, "has cecile got one of those things the matter with her? i thought it was luke who got hurt?" "you are perfectly right, dottie," said agnes, before neale could laugh at the little girl. "it _is_ luke who is hurt. but this neale o'neil is very likely to dislocate his jaw if he pronounces many such big words. he is only showing off." "squelched!" admitted neale good-naturedly. "well, what do you wish done with the car? shall i put it up? can't chase ruth's train in it, and bring her back." "you might chase the gypsies," suggested tess slowly. "we saw them again--dot and me." "oh! the gypsies? what do you think, neale? i do believe there is something in that fortune-telling business," agnes cried. "i bet there is," agreed neale. "money for the gypsies." but agnes repeated what the gypsy girl had said to ruth and herself just as the elder corner house girl was starting for the train. "i saw that gyp of course," agreed neale. "but, pshaw! she only just _guessed_. of course there isn't any truth in what those fortune tellers hand you. not much!" "there was something in that basket they handed tess and me," said dot, complacently eyeing the silver girdle on the alice-doll. "say! about that bracelet, aggie," broke in neale. "do you know what i believe?" "what, neale?" "i believe those gypsies must have stolen it. then they got scared, thinking that the police were after them, and the women dropped it into the basket the kids bought, believing they could get the bracelet back when it was safe for them to do so." "do you really suppose that is the explanation?" "i am afraid the bracelet is 'stolen goods.' perhaps the children had better not carry it away from the house any more. or until we are sure. the police--" "mercy me, neale! you surely would not tell the police about the bracelet?" "not yet. but i was going to suggest to ruth that she advertise the bracelet in the milton _morning post_. advertise it in the 'lost and found' column, just as though it had been picked up somewhere. then let us see if the gypsies--or somebody else--comes after it." "and if somebody does?" "well, we can always refuse to give it up until ownership is proved," declared neale. "all right. let's advertise it at once. we needn't wait for ruth to come back," said the energetic agnes. "how should such an advertisement be worded, neale?" they proceeded to evolve a reading notice advertising the finding of the silver bracelet, which when published added not a little to the complications of the matter. chapter viii--the misfortunes of a runaway in this present instance sammy pinkney was not obliged to exert his imagination to any very great degree to make himself believe that he was having real adventure. romance very soon took the embryo pirate by the hand and led him into most exciting and quite unlooked-for events. sammy's progress was slow because of the weight of the extension-bag. yet as he trudged on steadily he put a number of miles behind him that afternoon. had his parents known in which direction to look for him they might easily have overtaken the runaway. neale o'neil could have driven out this road in the kenway's car and brought sammy back before supper time. mr. pinkney, however, labored under the delusion that because sammy was piratically inclined, he would head toward the sea. so he got in touch with people all along the railroad line to pleasant cove, suspecting that the boy might have purchased a ticket in that direction with a part of the contents of his burglarized bank. the nearest thing to the sea that sammy came to after passing the canal on the edge of milton was a big pond which he sighted about mid-afternoon. its dancing blue waters looked very cool and refreshing, and the young traveler thought of his bathing suit right away. "i can hide this bag and take a swim," he thought eagerly. "i bet that pond is all right. hullo! there's some kids. i wonder if they would steal my things if i go in swimming?" he was not incautious. being mischievously inclined himself, he suspected other boys of having similar propensities. the boys he had observed were playing down by the water's edge where an ice-house had once stood. but the building had been destroyed by fire, all but its roof. the eaves of this shingled roof, which was quite intact, now rested on the ground. the boys were sliding from the ridge of the roof to the ground, and then climbing up again to repeat the performance. it looked to be a lot of fun. after sammy had hidden his extension-bag in a clump of bushes, he approached the slide. one boy, who was the largest and oldest of the group, called to sammy: "come on, kid. try it. the slide's free." it looked to be real sport, and sammy could not resist the invitation given so frankly. he saw that the bigger boy sat on a piece of board when he slid down the shingles; but the others slid on the seat of their trousers--and so did sammy. it proved to be an hilarious occasion. one might have heard those boys shouting and laughing a mile away. a series of races were held, and sammy pinkney managed to win his share of them. this so excited him that he failed for all of the time to notice what fatal effect the friction was having upon his trousers. he was suddenly reminded, however, by a startling happening. all the shingles on that roof were not worn smooth. some were "splintery." sammy emitted a sharp cry as he reached the ground after a particularly swift descent of the roof, and rising, he clapped his hand to that part of his anatomy upon which he had been tobogganing, with a most rueful expression on his countenance. "oh, my! oh, my!" cried sammy. "i've got two big holes worn right through my pants! my good pants, too. my maw will give me fits, so she will. i'll never _dare_ go home now." the big boy who had saved his own trousers from disaster by using the piece of board to slide on, shouted with laughter. but another of the party said to sammy: "don't tell your mother. i aren't going to tell _my_ mother, you bet. by and by she'll find the holes and think they just wore through naturally." "well," said sammy, with a sigh, "i guess i've slid down enough for to-day, anyway. good-bye, you fellers, i'll see you later." he did not feel at all as cheerful as he spoke. he was really smitten with remorse, for this was almost a new suit he had on. he wished heartily that he had put on that cowboy suit--even his bathing suit--before joining that coasting party. "that big feller," grumbled sammy, "is a foxy one, he is! he didn't wear through his pants, you bet. but _me_--" sammy was very much lowered in his own estimation over this mishap. he was by no means so smart as he had believed himself to be. he felt gingerly from time to time of the holes in his trousers. they were of such a nature that they could scarcely be hidden. "crickey!" he muttered, "she sure will give me fits." the boys he had been playing with disappeared. sammy secured his bag and suddenly found it very, very heavy. evening was approaching. the sun was so low now that its almost level rays shone into his eyes as he plodded along the road. a farmer going to milton market in an auto-truck, its load covered with a brown tarpaulin, passed sammy. if it had not been for the holes in his trousers, and what his mother would do and say about it, the boy surely would have asked the farmer for a ride back home! his hesitancy cost him the ride. and he met nobody else on this road he was traveling. he struggled on, his courage beginning to ebb. he had eaten the last crumbs of his lunch. after the pond was out of sight behind him the runaway saw no dwellings at all. the road had entered a wood, and that wood grew thicker and darker as he advanced. fireflies twinkled in the bushes. there was a hum of insect life and somewhere a big bullfrog tuned his bassoon--a most eerie sound. a bat flew low above his head and sammy dodged, uttering a startled squawk. "crickey! i don't like this a bit," he panted. but the runaway was no coward. he was quite sure that there was nothing in these woods that would really hurt him. he could still see some distance back from the road on either hand, and he selected a big chestnut tree at the foot of which, between two roots, there was a hollow filled with leaves and trash. this made not a bad couch, as he very soon found. he thrust the bag that had become so heavy farther into the hollow and lay down before it. but tired as he was, he could not at once go to sleep. somewhere near he heard a trickle of water. the sound made the boy thirsty. he finally got up and stumbled through the brush, along the roadside in the direction of the running water. he found it--a spring rising in the bank above the road. sammy carried a pocket-cup and soon satisfied his thirst by its aid. he had some difficulty in finding his former nest; but when he did come to the hollow between two huge roots, with the broadly spreading chestnut tree boughs overhead, he soon fell asleep. nothing disturbed sammy thereafter until it was broad daylight. he awoke as much refreshed as though he had slept in his own bed at home. young muscles recover quickly from strain. all he remembered, too, was the fun he had had the day before, while he was foot-loose. even the disaster to his trousers seemed of little moment now. he had always envied ragged urchins; they seemed to have so few cares and nobody to bother them. he ran with a whoop to the spring, drank his fill from it, and then doused his face and hands therein. the sun and air dried his head after his ablutions and there was nobody to ask if "he had washed behind his ears." he returned to the chestnut tree where he had lain all night, whistling. of course he was hungry; but he believed there must be some house along the road where he could buy breakfast. sammy pinkney was not at all troubled by his situation until, stooping to look into the cavity near which he had slept, he made the disconcerting discovery that his extension-bag was not there! "wha--wha--_what_?" stammered sammy. "it's gone! who took it?" that he had been robbed while he went to the spring was the only explanation there could be of this mysterious disappearance. at least, so thought sammy. he ran around the tree, staring all about--even up into the thickly leaved branches where the clusters of green burrs were already formed. then he plunged through the fringe of bushes into the road to see if he could spy the robber making away in either direction. all he saw was a rabbit hopping placidly across the highway. a jay flew overhead with raucous call, as though he laughed at the bereft boy. and sammy pinkney was in no mood to stand being laughed at! "you mean old thing!" he shouted at the flashing jay--which merely laughed at him again, just as though he did know who had stolen sammy's bag and hugely enjoyed the joke. in that bag were many things that sammy considered precious as well as necessary articles of clothing. there was his gun and the shot for it! how could he defend himself from attack or shoot game in the wilds, if either became necessary? "oh, dear!" sammy finally sniffed, not above crying a few tears as there was nobody by to see. "oh, dear! now i've _got_ to wear this good suit--although 'tain't so good anyway with holes in the pants. "but all my other things--crickey! ain't it just mean? whoever took my bag, i hope he'll have the baddest kind of luck. i--i hope he'll have to go to the dentist's and have all his teeth pulled, so i do!" which, from a recent experience of the runaway, seemed the most painful punishment that could be exacted from the thief. wishing any amount of ill-fortune for the robber would not bring back his bag. sammy quite realized this. he had his money safely tied into a very grubby handkerchief, so that was all right. but when he started off along the road at last, he was in no very cheerful frame of mind. chapter ix--things go wrong of course there was no real reason why life at the old corner house should not flow quite as placidly with ruth away as when the elder sister was at home. it was a fact, however, that things seemed to begin to go wrong almost at once. having written the notice advertising the silver bracelet as though it had been found by chance, agnes made neale run downtown again at once with it so as to be sure the advertisement would be inserted in the next morning's _post_. as the automobile had not been put into the garage after the return from taking ruth to the station, neale used it on this errand, and on his way back there was a blowout. of course if ruth had been at home she could scarcely have averted this misfortune. however, had she been at home the advertisement regarding the bracelet might not have been written at all. meanwhile, mrs. mccall's preserve jars did not seal well, and the next day the work had to be done all over again. linda cut her finger "to the bone," as she gloomily announced. and uncle rufus lost a silver dollar somewhere in the grass while he was mowing the lawn. "an' dollars is as scarce wid me as dem hen's teef dey talks about," said the old darkey. "an' i never yet did see a hen wid teef--an' ah reckon i've seen a million of 'em." "oh-oo!" murmured dot kenway. "a million hens, unc' rufus? _is_ there that many?" "he, he!" chuckled the old man. "ain't that the beatenes' chile dat ever was? always a-questionin' an' a-questionin'. yo' can't git by wid any sprodigious statement when she is around--no, suh!" nor could such an expression as "sprodigious" go unchallenged with dot on the scene--no, indeed! a big word in any case attracted miss dorothy. "what does that mean, unc' rufus?" she promptly demanded. "is--is 'sprodigious' a dictionary word, or just one of your made-up words?" "go 'long chile!" chuckled the old man. "can't uncle rufus make up words just as good as any dictionary-man? if i knows what ah wants to say, ah says it, ne'er mind de dictionary!" "that's all very well, unc' rufus," tess put in. "but ruthie only wants us to use language that you find in books. so i guess you'd better not take that one from uncle rufus, dottie." "howcome missy ruth so pertic'lar?" grumbled the old man. "yo' little gals is gettin' too much l'arnin'--suah is! but none of hit don't find de ol' man his dollar." at this complaint tess and dot went to work immediately to hunt for the missing dollar. it was while they were searching along the hedgerow next to the creamers' premises that the little girls got into their memorable argument with mabel creamer about the lobster--an argument, which, being overheard by agnes, was reported to the family with much hilarity. mabel, an energetic and sharp-tongued child, and bubby, her little brother, were playing in their yard. that is, bubby was playing while mabel nagged and thwarted him in almost everything he wanted to do. "now, don't stoop over like that, bubby. your face gets all red like a lobster does. maybe you'll turn into one." "i _ain't_ a lobs'er," shouted bubby. "you will be one if you get red like that," repeated his sister in a most aggravating way. "i won't be a lobs'er!" wailed bubby. "of course you won't be a lobster, bubby," spoke up tess from across the hedge. "you're just a boy." "course i's a boy," declared bubby stoutly, sensing that tess kenway's assurance was half a criticism. "i don't want to be a lobs'er--nor a dirl, so there!" "oh-oo!" gasped dot. "you will be a lobster and turn all red if you are a bad boy," declared mabel, who was always in a bad temper when she was made to mind bubby. "why, mabel," murmured dot, who knew a thing or two about lobsters herself, "you wouldn't boil bubby, would you?" "don't have to boil 'em to make 'em turn red," declared mabel, referring to the lobster, not the boy. "my father brought home live lobsters once and the big one got out of the basket on to the kitchen floor." "oh, my!" exclaimed the interested dot. "what happened?" with her imagination thus spurred by appreciation, mabel pursued the fancy: "and there were three little ones in the basket, and that old, big lobster tried to make them get out on the floor too. and when they wouldn't, what do you think?" "i don't know," breathed dot. "why, he got so mad at them that he turned red all over. i saw him--" "why, mabel creamer!" interrupted tess, unable to listen further to such a flight of fancy without registering a protest. "that can't be so--you know it can't." "i'd like to know why it can't be so?" demanded mabel. "'cause lobsters only turn red when they are boiled. they are all green when they are alive." "how do you know so much, tess kenway?" cried mabel. "these are my lobsters and i'll have them turn blue if i want to--so there!" there seemed to be no room for further argument. besides, mabel grabbed bubby by the hand and dragged him away from the hedge. "my!" murmured dot, "mabel has _such_ a 'magination. and maybe that lobster did get mad, tess. we don't know." "she never had a live lobster in her family," declared tess, quite emphatically. "you know very well, dot kenway, that mr. creamer wouldn't bring home such a thing as a live lobster, when there are little children in his house." "m--mm--i guess that's so," agreed dot. "a live lobster would be worse than sammy pinkney's bulldog." thus reminded of the absent sammy the two smaller corner house girls postponed any further search for uncle rufus's dollar and went across the street to learn if any news had been gained of their runaway playmate. mrs. pinkney was still despairing. she had imagined already a score of misfortunes that might have befallen her absent son, ranging from his eating of green apples to being run over by an automobile. "but, mrs. pinkney!" burst forth tess at last, "if sammy has run away to sea to be a pirate, there won't be any green apples for him to eat--and no automobiles." "oh, you can never tell what trouble sammy pinkney will manage to get into," moaned his mother. "i can only expect the very worst." "well," dot remarked with a sigh, as she and tess trudged home to supper, "i'm glad there is only one boy in _my_ family. my boy doll, nosmo king kenway, will probably be a source of great anxiety when he is older." "i wouldn't worry about that," tess told her placidly. "if he is very bad you can send him to the reform school." "oh--oo!" gasped dot, all her maternal instincts aroused at such a suggestion. "that would be awful." "i don't know. they do send boys to the reform school. jimmy mulligan, whose mother lives in that little house on willow wythe, is in the reform school because he wouldn't mind his mother." "but they don't send sammy there," urged dot. "no--o. of course," admitted the really tender-hearted tess, "we know sammy isn't really naughty. he is only silly to run away every once in a while." there was much bustle inside the old corner house that evening. because they really missed ruth so much, her sisters invented divers occupations to fill the hours until bedtime. tess and dot, for instance, had never cut out so many paper-dolls in all their lives. another telegram had arrived from cecile shepard (sent, of course, before ruth had reached oakhurst), stating that she had been allowed to see her brother and that, although he could not be immediately moved, he was improving and was absolutely in no danger. "if ruthie had only waited to get _this_ message," complained agnes, "she would not have gone up there to the mountains at all. and just see, neale, how right that gypsy girl was. there was news on the way that changed the whole aspect of affairs. she was quite wonderful, _i_ think." by this time neale saw that it was better not to try to ridicule agnes' budding belief in fortune telling. "less said, the soonest mended," was his wise opinion. "i like cecile shepard," agnes went on to say, "and always shall; but i don't think she has shown much sense about her brother's illness. scaring everybody to death, and sending telegrams like a patch-work quilt!" "maybe ruth will come right home again when she finds luke is all right," said tess hopefully. "dear, me! aren't boys a lot of trouble?" "sammy and luke are," agreed dot. "all but neale," said the loyal agnes, her boy chum having departed. "i don't see what this family would do without neale o'neil." in the morning the older sister's absence seemed to make quite as great a gap in the household of the old corner house as at night. but neale rushed in early with the morning paper to show agnes their advertisement in print. under the "lost and found" heading appeared the following: "found:--silver bracelet, antique design. owner can regain it by proving property and paying for this advertisement. apply kenway, willow and main streets." "it sounds quite dignified," decided agnes admiringly. "i guess ruth would approve." "crickey!" ejaculated neale o'neil, "this is _one_ thing ruth is not bossing. we did this off our own bat, aggie." "just the same," ruminated agnes, "i wonder what mr. howbridge will say if he reads it?" "i am glad," said neale with gratitude, "that my father doesn't interfere with what i do. and i haven't any guardian, unless it is dear old con murphy. folks let me pretty much alone." "if they didn't," said agnes saucily, "i suppose you would run away as you did from the circus." "no," laughed her chum. "one runaway in the neighborhood is enough. mr. pinkney has been up half the night, he tells me, telephoning and sending telegrams. he has about made up his mind that sammy hasn't gone in the direction of pleasant cove, after all." "we ought to help hunt for sammy," cried agnes eagerly. "let us take mrs. pinkney in the auto, neale, and search for that little rascal." "no. she will not leave the house. she wants to greet sammy when he comes back--no matter whether it is day or night," chuckled neale. "but mr. pinkney is going to get away from the office this afternoon, and we'll take him. he is afraid his wife will be really ill." "poor woman!" "she cannot be contented to sit down and wait for sammy to turn up--as he always does." "you mean, he always gets turned up," giggled agnes. "somebody is sure to find him." "well, then, it might as well be us," agreed neale. "i'll tune up the engine, and see that the car is all right. we should be able to go over a lot of these roads in an afternoon. sammy could not have got very far from milton in two days, or less." chapter x--all is not gold that glitters quite unsuspicious of the foregoing plans for his apprehension, sammy pinkney was journeying on, going steadily away from milton, and traveling much faster now that he did not have to carry the extension-bag. the boy had no idea who could have stolen his possessions; but he rubbed his knuckles in his eyes, forced back the tears, and pressed on, feeling that freedom even without a change of garments was preferable to the restrictions of home and all the comforts there to be found. he walked two miles or more and was very hungry before he came to the first house. it stood just at the edge of the big wood in which sammy had spent the night. it was scarcely more than a tumbled-down hut, with broken panes of glass more common than whole ones in the windows, these apertures stuffed with hats and discarded garments, while half the bricks had fallen from the chimney-top. there were half a dozen barefooted children running about, while a very wide and red-faced woman stood in the doorway. "hullo, me bye!" she called to sammy, as he lingered outside the broken fence with a longing eye upon her. "where be yez bound so airly in the marnin'?" "i'm just traveling, ma'am," sammy returned with much dignity. "could--could you sell me some breakfast?" "breakfast, is it?" repeated the smiling woman. "shure, i'd give yez it, if mate wasn't so high now. come in me kitchen and sit ye down. there's tay in the pot, and i'll fry yez up a spider full o' pork and taters, if that'll do yez?" the menu sounded tempting indeed to sammy. he accepted the woman's invitation instantly and entered the house, past the staring children. the two oldest of the group, a shrewd-faced boy and a sharp-featured girl, stood back and whispered together while they watched the visitor. sammy was so much interested in the bountiful breakfast with which the housewife supplied him that he thought very little about the children peering in at the door and open windows. when he had eaten the last crumb he asked his hostess how much he should pay her. "well, me bye, i'll not overcharge ye," she replied. "if yez have ten cents about ye we'll call it square--an' that's only for the mate, as i said before is so high, i dunno." sammy produced the knotted handkerchief, put it on the table and untied it, displaying the coins it held with something of a flourish. the jingle of so many dimes brought a sigh of wonder in unison from the young spectators at door and windows. the woman accepted her dime without comment. sammy thanked her politely, wiped his mouth on his sleeve (napery was conspicuous by its absence in this household) and started out the door. the smaller children scattered to give him passage; the older boy and girl had already gone out of the badly fenced yard and were loitering along the road in the direction sammy was traveling. "hullo! here's raggedy-pants," said the girl saucily, when sammy came along. "how did you get them holes in your breeches, kid?" added the boy. "never you mind," rejoined sammy gruffly. "they're _my_ pants." "stuck up, ain't you?" jeered the girl and stuck out her tongue at him. sammy thought these were two very impolite children, and although he was not rated at home for his own chivalrous conduct, he considered these specimens in the road before him quite unpleasant young people. "ne'er mind," said the boy, looking at sammy slyly, "he don't know everything. he ain't seen everything if he is traveling all by himself. i bet he's run away." "i ain't running away from you," was sammy's belligerent rejoinder. "you would if i said 'boo!' to you." "no, i wouldn't." "ya!" scoffed the girl, leering at sammy, "don't talk so much. do something to him, peter." peter glanced warily back at the house. perhaps he knew the large, red-faced woman might take a hand in proceedings if he pitched upon the strange boy. "i bet," he said, starting on another tack, "that he never saw a cherry-colored calf like our'n." "i bet he never did," crowed the girl in delight. "a cherry-colored calf," scoffed sammy. "get out! there ain't such a thing. a calf might be red; there _are_ red cows--" "this calf is cherry-colored," repeated the boy earnestly. "it's down there in our pasture." "don't believe it," said sammy flatly. "'tis so!" cried the girl. "i tell you," said the very shrewd-looking boy. "we'll show it to you for ten cents." "i don't believe it," repeated sammy, but more doubtfully. the girl laughed at him more scornfully than before. "he's afraid to spend a dime--an' him with so much money," she cried. "i don't believe you've got a cherry-colored calf to show me." "gimme the dime and i'll show you whether we have or not," said peter. "no," said the cautious sammy. "i'll give you a dime _if_ you show it to me. but no foolin'. i won't give you a cent if the calf is any other color." "all right," shouted the other boy. "come on and i'll show you. come on, liz." "all right, peter," said the girl, quite as eagerly. "hurry up, raggedy-pants. we can use that dime, peter and me can." the bare-legged youngsters got through a rail fence and darted down a path into a scrubby pasture, as wild as unbroken colts. sammy, feeling fine after the bountiful breakfast he had eaten, chased after them wishing that he had thought to remove his shoes and stockings too. peter and liz seemed so much more free and untrammeled than he! "hold on!" puffed sammy, coming finally to the bottom of the slope. "i ain't going to run my head off for any old calf--huh!" from behind a clump of brush appeared suddenly a cow--a black and white cow, probably of the holstein breed. there followed a scrambling in the bushes. liz jumped into them with a shriek and drove out a little, blatting, stiff-legged calf. it was all of a glossy black, from its nose to the tip of its tail. "that's him! that's him!" shrieked liz. "a cherry-colored calf." "what did i tell you?" demanded the boy, peter. "give us the dime." "you go on!" exclaimed sammy. "i knew all the time you were story-telling. that's no cherry-colored calf." "'tis too! it's just the color of a black-heart cherry," giggled liz. "you got to give up ten cents." "won't neither," sammy declared. "i'll take it off you," threatened peter, growing belligerent. "you won't," stubbornly declared sammy, who did not propose to be cheated. peter jumped for him and sammy could not run. one reason why he could not retreat was because liz grabbed him from the rear, holding him around the waist. she pulled him over backward, while her brother began to pummel sammy most heartily from above. it was a most unfair attack and a most uncomfortable situation for the runaway. although he managed to defend his face for the most part from peter's blows, he could do little else. "lemme up! lemme up!" bawled sammy. "gimme the dime," panted peter. "i won't! 'tain't fair!" gasped sammy, too plucky to give in. liz had now squirmed from under the struggling boys. she must have seen at the house in which pocket sammy kept the knotted handkerchief, for she thrust her hand into that pocket and snatched out the hoard of dimes before the owner realized what she was doing. "hey! stop! lemme up!" roared sammy again. "i got it, peter!" shrieked liz, and, springing up, she darted into the bushes and disappeared. "stop! she's stole my money," gasped sammy in horror and alarm. "she never! you didn't have no money!" declared peter, and with a final blow that stunned sammy for the moment, the other leaped up and followed his wild companion into the brush. sammy, weeping in good earnest now, bruised and scratched in body and sore in spirit, climbed slowly to his feet. never before in any of his runaway escapades had he suffered such ignominy and loss. why! he had actually fallen among thieves. first his bag and all his chattels therein had been stolen. now these two ragamuffins had robbed him of every penny he possessed. he dared not go back to the house where he had bought breakfast and complain. the other youngsters there might fall upon and beat him again! sammy pinkney at last was tasting the bitter fruits of wrong doing. even weeding another beet-bed could have been no more painful than these experiences which he was now suffering. chapter xi--mysteries accumulate "and if you go to the store, or anywhere else for mrs. mccall or linda, remember _don't_ take that bracelet with you," commanded agnes in a most imperative manner, fairly transfixing her two smaller sisters with an index finger. "remember!" "ruthie didn't say so," complained dot. "did she, tess?" "but i guess we'd better mind what agnes says when ruth isn't at home," confessed tess, more amenable to discipline. "you know, aggie has got to be responsible now." "well," muttered the rebellious dot, "never mind if she is 'sponserble, she needn't be so awful bossy about it!" agnes did, of course, feel her importance while ruth was away. it was not often that she was made responsible for the family welfare in any particular. and just now the matter of the silver bracelet loomed big on her horizon. she scarcely expected the advertisement in the _morning post_ to bring immediate results. yet, it might. the gypsies' gift to the little girls was a very queer matter indeed. the suggestion that the bracelet had been stolen by the romany folk did not seem at all improbable. and if this was so, whoever had lost the ornament would naturally be watching the "lost and found" column in the newspaper. "unless the owner doesn't know he has lost it," agnes suggested to neale. "how's that? he'd have to be more absent-minded than professor ware not to miss a bracelet like that," scoffed her boy chum. "oh, professor ware!" giggled agnes, suddenly. "_he_ would forget anything, i do believe. do you know what happened at his house the other evening when the millers and mr. and mrs. crandall went to call?" "the poor professor made a bad break i suppose," grinned neale. "what did he do?" "why, mrs. ware saw the callers coming just before they rang the bell and the professor had been digging in the garden. of course she straightened things up a little before she appeared in the parlor to welcome the visitors. but the professor did not appear. somebody asked for him at last and mrs. ware went to the foot of the stairs to call him. "'oh, professor!' she called up the stairs, and the company heard him answer back just as plain: "'maria, i can't remember whether you sent me up here to change my clothes or to go to bed.'" "i can believe it!" chortled neale o'neil. "he has made some awful breaks in school. but i don't believe _he_ ever owned that bracelet, aggie." * * * * * the first person who displayed interest in the advertisement in the _post_ about the bracelet, save the two young people who put it in the paper, proved to add much to the mystery of the affair and nothing at all to the peace of mind of agnes, at least. agnes was busy at some mending--actually hose-darning, for ruth insisted that the flyaway sister should mend her own stockings, which aunt sarah's keen eyes inspected--when she chanced to raise her head to glance out of the front window of the sewing room. a strange looking turnout had halted before the front gate. the vehicle itself was a decrepit express wagon on the side of which in straggling blue letters was painted the one word "junk," but the horse drawing the wagon was a surprisingly well-kept and good looking animal. the back of the wagon was piled high with bundles of newspapers, and bags, evidently stuffed with rags, were likewise in the wagon body. the man climbing down from the seat just as agnes looked did not seem at all like the usual junk dealer who passed through milton's streets heralded by a "chime" of tin-can bells. he was a small, swarthy man, and even at the distance of the front gate from agnes' window the girl could see that he wore gold hoops in his ears. he was quick but furtive in his motions. he glanced in a birdlike way down the street and across the parade ground, which was diagonally opposite the old corner house, before he entered the front gate. "he'd better go around to the side door," thought agnes aloud. "he must be a very fashionable junkman to come to the front of the house. and at that i don't believe mrs. mccall has any rags or papers to sell just now." the swarthy man came straight on to the porch and up the steps. agnes heard the bell, and knowing linda was busy and being likewise rather curious, she dropped her stocking darning and ran into the front hall. the moment she unlatched the big door the swarthy stranger inserted himself into the house. "why! who are you?" she demanded, fairly thrust aside by the man's eagerness. she saw then that he had a folded paper in one hand. he thrust it before her eyes, pointing to a place upon it with a very grimy finger. "you have found it!" he chattered with great excitement. "that ancient bracelet which has for so many generations been an heirloom--yes?--of the costello. queen alma herself wore it at a time long ago. you have found it?" agnes was made almost speechless by his vehemence as well as by the announcement itself. "i--i--what _do_ you mean?" she finally gasped. "you know!" he ejaculated, rapping on the newspaper with his finger like a woodpecker on a dead limb. "you put in the paper--_here_. it is lost. you find. _you_ are kenway, and you say the so-antique bracelet shall be give to who proves property." "we will return it to the owner. only to the owner," interrupted agnes, backing away from him again, for his vehemence half frightened her. "shall i bring queen alma here to say it was her property?" he cried. [illustration: "you have found it!" he chattered with great excitement.] "that would be better. if queen alma--whoever she is--owns the bracelet we will give it to her when she proves property." the little man uttered a staccato speech in a foreign tongue. agnes did not understand. he spread wide his arms in a gesture of seemingly utter despair. "and queen alma!" he sputtered. "she is dead these two--no! t'ree hundred year!" "mercy me!" gasped agnes, backing away from him and sitting suddenly down in one of the straight-backed hall chairs. "mercy me!" chapter xii--getting in deeper "you see, mees kenway," sputtered the swarthy man eagerly, "i catch the paper, here." he rapped the _post_ again with his finger. "i read the engleesh--yes. i see the notice you, the honest kenway, have put in the paper--" "let me tell you, sir," said agnes, starting up, "_all_ the kenways are honest. i am not the only honest person in our family i should hope!" agnes was much annoyed. the excitable little foreigner spread abroad his hands again and bowed low before her. "please! excuse!" he said. "i admire all your family, oh, so very much! but it is to you who put in the paper the words here, about the very ancient silver bracelet." again that woodpecker rapping on the lost and found column in the _post_. "no?" "yes. i put the advertisement in the paper," acknowledged agnes, but wishing very much that she had not, or that neale o'neil was present at this exciting moment to help her handle the situation. "so! i have come for it," cried the swarthy man, as though the matter were quite settled. but agnes' mind began to function pretty well again. she determined not to be "rushed." this strange foreigner might be perfectly honest. but there was not a thing to prove that the bracelet given to tess and dot by the gypsy women belonged to him. "how do you know," she asked, "that the bracelet we have in our possession is the one you have lost?" "i? oh, no, lady! i did not lose the ancient heirloom. oh, no." "but you say--" "i am only its rightful owner," he explained. "had queen alma's bracelet been in my possession it never would have been lost and so found by the so--gracious kenway. indeed, no!" "then, what have you come here for?" cried agnes, in some desperation. "i cannot give the bracelet to anybody but the one who lost it--" "you say here the owner!" cried the man, beginning again the woodpecker tapping on the paper. "but how do i know you own it?" she gasped. "show it me. in one moment's time can i tell--at the one glance," was the answer of assurance. "oh, yes, yes, yes!" these "yeses" were accompanied by the emphatic tapping on the paper. agnes wondered that the _post_ at that spot was not quite worn through. perhaps it was fortunate that at this moment neale o'neil came in. that he came direct from the garage and apparently from a struggle with oily machinery, both his hands and face betrayed. "hey!" he exploded. "if we are going to take mr. pinkney out on a cross-country chase after that missing pirate this afternoon, we've got to get a hustle on. you going to be ready, aggie? mr. pinkney gets home at a quarter to one." "oh, neale!" cried agnes, turning eagerly to greet the boy. "talk to this man--do! i don't know what to say to him." the boy's countenance broadened in a smile. "'say "hullo!" and "how-de-do!" "how's the world a-using you?"'" quoted neale, and chuckled outright. "what's his name? what does he want?" "costello--that me," interposed the strange junkman. he gazed curiously at neale with his snapping black eyes. "_you_ are not kenway--here in the pape'?" again the finger tapped upon the lost and found column in the _post_. neale shook his head. he glanced out of the open door and spied the wagon and its informative sign. "you are a junkman, are you, mr. costello?" "yes, yes, yes! i buy the pape', buy the rag and bot'--buy anytheeng i get cheap. but not to buy do i come this time to mees kenway. no, no! i come because of this in the paper." his tapping finger called attention again to the advertisement of the bracelet. neale expelled a surprised whistle. "oh, aggie!" he said, "is he after the gypsy bracelet?" the swarthy man's face was all eagerness again. "yes, yes, yes!" he sputtered. "i am gypsy. spanish gypsy. of the tribe of costello. i am--what you say?--direct descendent of queen alma who live three hunder'--maybe more--year ago, and she own that bracelet the honest kenway find!" "she--she's dead, then? this queen alma?" stammered neale. "_si, si!_ yes, yes! but the so-antique bracelet descend by right to our family. that beeg jeem--" he burst again into the language he had used before which was quite unintelligible to either of his listeners; but neale thought by the man's expression of countenance that his opinion of "beeg jeem" was scarcely to be told in polite english. "wait!" neale broke in. "let's get this straight. we--we find a bracelet which we advertise. you say the bracelet is yours. where and how did you lose it?" "i already tell the honest kenway, i do _not_ lose it." "it was stolen from you, then?" "yes, yes, yes! it was stole. a long ago it was stole. and now beeg jeem say he lose it. you find--yes?" "this seems to be complicated," neale declared, shaking his head and gazing wonderingly at agnes. "if you did not lose it yourself, mr. costello--" "but it is mine!" cried the man. "we don't know that," said neale, somewhat bruskly. "you must prove it." "prove it?" "yes. in the first place, describe the bracelet. tell us just how it is engraved, or ornamented, or whatever it is. how wide and thick is it? what kind of a bracelet is it, aside from its being made of silver?" "ah! queen alma's bracelet is so well known to the costello--how shall i say? yes, yes, yes!" cried the man, with rather graceful gestures. "and when beeg jeem tell me she is lost--" "all right. describe it," put in neale. agnes suddenly tugged at neale's sleeve. her pretty face was aflame with excitement. "oh, neale!" she interposed in a whisper. "even if he can describe it exactly we do not know that he is the real owner." "shucks! that's right," agreed the boy. he turned to costello again demanding: "how can you prove that this bracelet--if it is the one you think it is--belongs to you?" "she belong to the costello family. it is an heirloom. i tell it you." "that's all right. but you've got to prove it. even if you describe the thing that only proves that you have seen it, or heard it described yourself. it might be so, you know, mr. costello. you must give us some evidence of ownership." "queen alma's bracelet--" began costello. the junkman made a despairing gesture with wide-spread arms. "me? how can i tell you, sir, and the honest kenway? it has always belong to the costello. yes, yes, yes! that so-ancient bracelet, beeg jeem have no right to it." "but he was the one who lost it!" exclaimed neale, being quite confident now of the identity of "beeg jeem." "yes, yes, yes! so he say. i no believe. then i see the reading here in the pape', of the honest kenway"--tap, tap, tapping once more of the forefinger--"and i see it must be so. i--" "hold on!" exclaimed neale. "you did not lose the bracelet. this other fellow did. you bring him here and let him prove ownership." "no, no!" raved costello, shaking both clenched hands above his head. "he shall not have it. it is mine. i am _the_ costello. queen alma, she give it to the great, great, great gran'mudder of _my_ great, great, great--" "shucks!" ejaculated neale. "now you are going too deep into the family records for me. i can't follow you. it looks to me like a case for the courts to settle." "oh, neale!" gasped agnes. "why, aggie, we'd get into hot water if we let this fellow, or any of those other gypsies, have the bracelet offhand. if this chap wants it, he will have to see mr. howbridge." "oh, yes!" murmured the girl with sudden relief in her voice. "we can tell mr. howbridge." "guess we'll have to," agreed neale. "we certainly have bit off more than we can chew, aggie. i'll say we have. i guess maybe we'd have been wiser if we had told your guardian about the old bracelet before advertising it. and ruth has nothing on us, at that! she did not tell him. "we're likely," concluded neale, with a side glance at the swarthy man, "to have a dozen worse than this one come here to bother us. we surely did start something when we had that ad. printed, aggie." chapter xiii--over the hills and far away costello, the junkman, could not be further ignored, for at this point he began another excitable harangue. the queen alma bracelet, "beeg jeem," his own sorrows, and the fact that he saw no reason why agnes should not immediately give up to him the silver bracelet, were all mixed up together in a clamor that became almost deafening. "oh, what shall i do? what _shall_ i do?" exclaimed the corner house girl. but neale o'neil was quite level-headed. like agnes, at first he had for a little while been swept off his feet by the swarthy man's vehemence. he regained his balance now. "we're not going to do anything. we won't even show him the bracelet," said the boy firmly. "but it is mine! it is the heirloom of the costello! i, myself, tell you so," declared the junkman, beating his breast now instead of the newspaper. "all right. i believe you. don't yell so about it," said neale, but quite calmly. "that does not alter the fact that we cannot give the bracelet up. that is, miss kenway cannot." "but she say here--in the paper--" "oh, stop it!" exclaimed the exasperated boy. "it doesn't say in that paper that she will hand the thing out to anybody who comes and asks for it. if this other fellow you have been talking about should come here, do you suppose we would give it up to him, just on his say so?" "no, no! it is not his. it never should have been in the possession of his family, sir. i assure you _i_ am the costello to whose ancestors the great queen alma of our tribe delivered the bracelet." "all right. let it go at that," answered neale. "all the more reason why we must be careful who gets it now. if it is honestly your bracelet you will get it, mr. costello. but you will have to see miss kenway's guardian and let him decide." "her--what you call it--does he have the bracelet?" cried the man. "he will have it. you go there to-morrow. i will give you his address. to-morrow he will talk to you. he is not in his office to-day. he is a lawyer." "oh, la, la! the law! i no like the law," declared costello. "no, i presume you gypsies don't," muttered neale, pulling out an envelope and the stub of a pencil with which to write the address of mr. howbridge's office. "there it is. now, that is the best we can do for you. only, nobody shall be given the bracelet until you have talked with mr. howbridge." "but, i no like! the honest kenway say here, in the paper--" as he began to tap upon the newspaper again neale, who was a sturdy youth, crowded him out upon the veranda of the old corner house. "now, go!" advised neale, when he heard the click of the door latch behind him. "you'll make nothing by lingering here and talking. there's your horse starting off by himself. better get him." this roused the junk dealer's attention. the horse was tired of standing and was half a block away. costello uttered an excited yelp and darted after his junk wagon. agnes let neale inside the house again. she was much relieved. "there! isn't this a mess?" she said. "i am glad you thought of mr. howbridge. but i _do_ wish ruth had been at home. she would have known just what to say to that funny little man." "humph! maybe it would have been a good idea if she had been here," admitted neale slowly. "ruth is awfully bossy, but things do go about right when she is on the job." "we'll have to see mr. howbridge--" "but that can wait until to-morrow morning," neale declared. "we can't do so this afternoon in any case. i happen to know he is out of town. and we have promised mr. pinkney to take him on a hunt for sammy." "all right. it is almost noon. you'd better go and wash your face, neale," and she began to giggle at him. "don't i know that? i came in here just to remind you to begin to prink before dinner or you'd never be ready." she was already halfway up the stairs and she leaned over the balustrade to make a gamin's face at him. "just you tend to your own apple cart, neale o'neil!" she told him. "i will be ready as soon as you are." at dinner, which was eaten in the middle of the day at this time of year at the old corner house, agnes appeared ready all but her hat for the car. "oh, aggie! can we go too?" cried dot. "we want to ride in the automobile, don't we, tess?" "we maybe want to go riding," confessed the other sister slowly. "but i guess we can't, dot. you forget that margie and holly pease are coming over at three o'clock. they haven't seen the fretted silver bracelet." "that reminds me," said agnes firmly. "you must not take that bracelet out of the house. understand? not at all." "why, aggie!" murmured tess, while dot grew quite red with indignation. "if you wish to play with it indoors, all right," agnes said. "whose turn to have it, is it to-day?" "mine," admitted tess. "then i hold you responsible. not out of the house. we have got to get mr. howbridge's advice about it, in any case." "ruth didn't say we couldn't wear the bracelet out-of-doors," declared dot, pouting. "i am in ruth's place," responded the older sister promptly. "now, remember! you might lose it anyway. and _then_ what would we do if the owner really comes for it?" "but they won't!" cried dot, confidently. "those gypsy ladies gave it to us for keeps. i am sure." "you certainly would not wish to keep the bracelet if the person the gypsies stole it from came here to get it?" said agnes sternly. "oh--oo! no-o," murmured dot. "of course we would not, sister," tess declared briskly. "if we knew just where their camp is we would take it to them anyway. of course we would, dot!" "oh, of course," agreed dot, but very faintly. "you children are so seldom observant," went on agnes in her most grown-up manner. "you should have looked into that basket when you bought it of the gypsies. then you would have seen the bracelet before the women got away. you are almost _never_ observant." "why, aggie!" tess exclaimed, rather hurt by the accusation of her older sister. "that is what your mr. marks said when he came into our grade at school just before the end of term last june." mr. curtis g. marks was the principal of the high school which agnes attended. "what was mr. marks doing over in your room, tess?" agnes asked curiously. "visiting. our teacher asked him to 'take the class.' you know, visiting teachers always _are_ so nosey," added tess with more frankness than good taste. "better not let ruth hear you use that expression, child," laughed agnes. "but what about being observant--or _un_observant?" "he told us," tess went on to say, "to watch closely, and then asked for somebody to give him a number. so somebody said thirty-two." "yes?" "and mr. marks went to the board and wrote twenty-three on it. of course, none of us said anything. then mr. marks asked for another number and somebody gave him ninety-four. then he wrote forty-nine on the board, and nobody said a word." "why didn't you?" asked agnes in wonder. "did you think he was teaching you some new game?" "i--i guess we were too polite. you see, he was a visitor. and he said right out loud to our teacher: 'you see, they do not observe. is it dense stupidity, or just inattention?' that's _just_ what he said," added tess, her eyes flashing. "oh!" murmured dot. "didn't he know how to write the number right?" "so," continued tess, "i guess we all felt sort of hurt. and belle littleweed got so fidgety that she raised her hand. mr. marks says: 'very well, you give me a number.' "belle lisps a little, you know, aggie, and she said right out: 'theventy-theven; thee if you can turn that around!' he didn't think we noticed anything, and were stupid; but i guess he knows better now," added tess with satisfaction. "that is all right," said agnes with a sigh. "i heartily wish you and dot had been observant when those women gave you the basket and you had found the bracelet in it before they got away. it is going to make us trouble i am afraid." agnes told the little ones nothing about the strange junkman and his claim. nor did she mention the affair to any of the remainder of the corner house family. she only added: "so don't you take the bracelet out of the house or let anybody at all have it--if neale or i are not here." "why, it would not be right to give the bracelet to anybody but the gypsy ladies, would it?" said tess. "of course not," agreed dot. "and _they_ haven't come after it." agnes did not notice these final comments of the two smaller girls. she had given them instructions, and those instructions were sufficient, she thought, to avert any trouble regarding the mysterious bracelet--whether it was "queen alma's" or not. the junkman, costello, certainly had filled agnes' mind with most romantic imaginations! if the old silver bracelet was a gypsy heirloom and had been handed down through the costello tribe--as the junkman claimed--for three hundred years and more, of course it would not be considered stolen property. the mystery remained why the gypsy women had left the bracelet in the basket they had almost forced upon the kenway children. the explanation of this was quite beyond agnes, unless it had been done because the gypsy women feared that this very costello was about to claim the heirloom, and they considered it safer with tess and dot than in their own possession. true, this seemed a far-fetched explanation of the affair; yet what so probable? the gypsies might be quite familiar with milton, and probably knew a good deal about the old corner house and the family now occupying it. the little girls would of course be honest. the gypsies were shrewd people. they were quite sure, no doubt, that the kenways would not give the bracelet to any person but the women who sold the basket, unless the right to the property could be proved. "and even if that costello man does own the bracelet, how is he going to prove it?" agnes asked neale, as they ran the car out of the garage after dinner. "i guess we are going to hand dear old mr. howbridge a big handful of trouble." "crickey! isn't that a fact?" grumbled neale. "the more i think of it, the sorrier i am we put that advertisement in the paper, aggie." there was nothing more to be said about that at the time, for mr. pinkney was already waiting for them on his front steps. his wife was at the door and she looked so weary-eyed and pale of face that agnes at least felt much sympathy for her. "oh, don't worry, mrs. pinkney!" cried the girl from her seat beside neale. "i am sure sammy will turn up all right. neale says so--everybody says so! he is such a plucky boy, anyway. nothing would happen to him." "but this seems worse than any other time," said the poor woman. "he must have never meant to come back, or he would not have taken that picture with him." "nonsense!" exclaimed her husband cheerfully. "sammy sort of fancied himself in that picture, that is all. he is not without his share of vanity." "that is what _you_ say," complained sammy's mother. "but i just feel that something dreadful has happened to him this time." "never mind," called neale, starting the engine, "we'll go over the hills and far away, but we'll find some trace of him, mrs. pinkney. sammy can't have hidden himself so completely that we cannot discover where he has been and where he is going." that is exactly what they did. they flew about the environs of milton in a rapid search for the truant. wherever they stopped and made inquiries for the first hour or so, however, they gained no word of sammy. it was three o'clock, and they were down toward the canal on the road leading to hampton mills, when they gained the first possible clue of the missing one. and that clue was more than twenty-four hours old. a storekeeper remembered a boy who answered to sammy's description buying something to eat the day before, and sitting down on the store step to eat it. that boy carried a heavy extension-bag and went on after he had eaten along the hampton mills road. "we've struck his trail!" declared neale with satisfaction. "don't you think so, mr. pinkney?" "how did he pay you for the things he bought?" asked the father of the runaway, addressing the storekeeper again. "what kind of money did he have?" "he had ten cent pieces, i remember. and he had them tied in a handkerchief. nicked his bank before he started, did he?" and the man laughed. "that is exactly what he did," admitted mr. pinkney, returning hurriedly to the car. "drive on, neale. i guess we are on the right trail." chapter xiv--almost had him neale drove almost recklessly for the first few miles after passing the roadside store; but the eyes of all three people in the car were very wide open and their minds observant. anything or anybody that might give trace of the truant sammy were scrutinized. "he was at that store before noon," agnes shouted into neale's ear. "how long before he would be hungry again?" "no knowing. pretty soon, of course," admitted her chum. "but i heard that storekeeper tell mr. pinkney that the boy bought more than he could eat at once and he carried the rest away in a paper bag." "that is so," admitted mr. pinkney, leaning over the forward seat. "but he has an appetite like a boa constrictor." "a _boy_-constrictor," chuckled neale. "i'll say he has!" "he would not likely stop anywhere along here to buy more food, then," agnes said. "he could have gone off the road, however, for a dozen different things," said the missing boy's father. "that child has got more crotchets in his head than you can shake a stick at. there is no knowing--" "hold on!" ejaculated neale suddenly. "there are some kids down there by that pond. suppose i run down and interview them?" "i don't see anybody among them who looks like sammy," observed agnes, standing up in the car to look. "never mind. you go ahead, neale. they will talk to you more freely, perhaps, than they will to me. boys are that way." "i'll try," said neale, and jumped out of the car and ran down toward the roof of the old ice-house that the afternoon before had so attracted sammy pinkney--incidentally wrecking his best trousers. as it chanced, neale had seen and now interviewed the very party of boys with whom sammy had previously made friends. but neale said nothing at first to warn these boys that he was searching for one whom they all considered "a good kid." "say, fellows," neale began, "was this an ice-house before it got burned down?" "yep," replied the bigger boy of the group. "and only the roof left? crickey! what have you chaps been doing? sliding down it?" for he had observed as he came down from the car two of the smaller boys doing just that. "it's great fun," said the bigger boy, grinning, perhaps at the memory of what had happened to sammy pinkney's trousers the previous afternoon. "want to try?" neale grinned more broadly, and gave the shingled roof another glance. "i bet _you_ don't slide down it like those little fellows i just saw doing it. how do their pants stand it?" the boys giggled at that. "say!" the bigger one said, "there was a kid came along yesterday that didn't get on to that--_till afterward_." "oh, ho!" chuckled neale. "he wore 'em right through, did he?" "yes, he did. and then he was sore. said his mother would give him fits." "where does he live? around here?" asked neale carelessly. "i never saw him before," admitted the bigger boy. "he was a good fellow just the same. you looking for him?" he asked with sudden suspicion. "i don't know. if he's the boy i mean he needn't be afraid to go home because of his torn pants. you tell him so if you see him again." "sure. i didn't know he was running away. he didn't say anything." "didn't he have a bag with him--sort of a suitcase?" "didn't see it," replied the boy. "we all went home to supper and he went his way." "which way?" "could not tell you that," the other said reflectively, and was evidently honest about it. "he was coming from that way," and he pointed back toward milton, "when he joined us here at the slide." "then he probably kept on toward--what is in that direction?" and neale pointed at the nearest road, the very one into which sammy had turned. "oh, that goes up through the woods," said the boy. "hampton mills is over around the pond--you follow yonder road." "yes, i know. but you think this fellow you speak of might have gone into that by road?" "he was headed that way when we first saw him," said the boy. "wasn't he, jimmy?" "sure," agreed the smaller boy addressed. "and, tony, i bet he _did_ go that way. when i looked back afterward i remember i saw a boy lugging something heavy going up that road." "i didn't see that that fellow had a bag," argued the bigger boy. "but he might have hid it when he came down here." "likely he did," admitted neale. "anyway, we will go up that road through the woods and see." "_is_ his mother going to give him fits for those torn pants?" asked another of the group. "she'll be so glad to see him home again," confessed neale, "that he could tear every pair of pants he's got and she wouldn't say a word!" he made his way up the bank to the car and reported. "i don't know where that woods-road leads to. i neglected to bring a map. but it looks as though we could get through it with the car. we'll try, sha'n't we?" "oh, do, neale," urged agnes. "i guess it is as good a lead as any," observed mr. pinkney. "somehow, i begin to feel as though the boy had got a good way off this time. even this clue is almost twenty-four hours old." "he must have stayed somewhere last night," cried agnes suddenly. "if there is a house up there in the woods--or beyond--we can ask." "right you are, aggie," agreed neale, starting the car again. "sammy pinkney is an elusive youngster, sure enough," said the truant's father. "something has got to stop him from running away. it costs too much time and money to overtake him and bring him back." "and we haven't done that yet," murmured agnes. the car struck heavy going in the road through the woods before they had gone very far up the rise. in places the road was soft and had been cut up by the wheels of heavy trucks or wagons. and they did not pass a single house--not even a cleared spot in the wood--on either hand. "if he started up this way so near supper time last evening, as those boys say," mr. pinkney ruminated, "where was he at supper time?" "here, or hereabout, i should say!" exclaimed neale o'neil. "why, it must have been pretty dark when he got this far." "if he really came this far," added agnes. "well, let us run along and see if there is a house anywhere," mr. pinkney said. "of course, sammy might have slept out--" "it wouldn't be the first time, i bet!" chuckled neale. "and of course there would be nothing to hurt him in these woods?" suggested agnes. "nothing bigger than a rabbit, i guess," agreed their neighbor. "well--" neale increased the speed of the car again, turned a blind corner, and struck a soft place in the road before he could stop. having no skidding chains on the rear wheels of course, the car was out of control in an instant. it slued around. agnes screamed. mr. pinkney shouted his alarm. the car slid over the bank of the ditch beside the road and both right wheels sank in mud and water to the hubs. "some pretty mess--i'll tell the world!" groaned neale o'neil, shutting off the engine, while agnes clung to his arm grimly to keep from sliding out into the ditch, too. "now, you _have_ done it!" shrilled the girl. "thanks. many thanks. i expected you to say that, aggie," he replied. "m-mm! well, i don't suppose you meant to--" "no use worrying about how it was done or who did it," interposed mr. pinkney, briskly getting out of the tonneau on the left side. "the question is, how are we going to right the car and get under way again?" "a truer word was never spoken," agreed neale o'neil. "come on, agnes. we'll creep out on this side, too. that's it. looks to me, mr. pinkney, as though we should need a couple of good, strong levers to pry up the wheels. you and i can do that while agnes gets in under the wheel and manipulates the mechanism, as it were." "you are the boss, here, neale," said the older man, immediately entering the wood on the right side of the road. "i see a stick here that looks promising." he passed under the broadly spreading branches of a huge chestnut tree. there were several of these monsters along the edge of the wood. mr. pinkney suddenly shouted something, and dropped upon his knees between two outcropping roots of the tree. "what is it, mr. pinkney?" cried agnes, running across the road. their neighbor appeared, erect again. in his hand he bore the well-remembered extension-bag which sammy pinkney had so often borne away from home upon his truant escapades. "what do you know about this?" demanded sammy's father. "here's his bag--filled with his possessions, by the feel of it. but where is the boy?" "he--he's got away!" gasped agnes. "and we almost had him," was neale's addition to the amazed remarks of the trio of searchers. chapter xv--uncertainties the secret had now been revealed! but of course it did not do sammy pinkney the least bit of good. his extension-bag had not been stolen at all. merely, when that sleepy boy had stumbled away the night before to the spring for a drink of water, he had not returned to the right tree for the remainder of the night. in his excitement in the morning, after discovering his loss, sammy ran about a good deal (as uncle rufus would have said) "like a chicken wid de haid cut off." he did not manage to find the right tree at all. the extension-bag was now in his father's hands. mr. pinkney brought it to the mired car and opened it. there was no mistaking the contents of the bag for anything but sammy's possessions. "what do you know about that?" murmured the amazed father of the embryo pirate. he rummaged through the conglomeration of chattels in the bag. "no, it is not here." "what are you looking for, mr. pinkney?" demanded agnes, feeling rather serious herself. something might have happened to the truant. "that picture his mother spoke of," the father answered, with a sigh. "hoh!" exclaimed neale o'neil, "if the kid thinks as much of it as mrs. pinkney says, he's got it with him. of course." "it looks so," admitted mr. pinkney. "but why should he abandon his clothes--and all?" "oh, maybe he hasn't!" cried agnes eagerly. "maybe he is coming back here." "you think this old tree," said mr. pinkney in doubt, "is sammy's headquarters?" "i--don't--know--" "that wouldn't be like sammy," declared neale, with conviction. "he always keeps moving--even when he is stowaway on a canalboat," and he chuckled at the memory of that incident. "for some reason he was chased away from here. or," hitting the exact truth without knowing it, "he tucked the bag under that tree root and forgot where he put it." "does that sound reasonable?" gasped agnes. "quite reasonable--for sammy," grumbled mr. pinkney. "he is just so scatter-brained. but what shall i tell his mother when i take this bag home to her? she will feel worse than she has before." "maybe we will find him yet," agnes interposed. "that's what we are out for," neale added with confidence. "let's not give up hope. why, we're finding clues all the time." "and now you manage to get us stuck in the mud," put in agnes, giving her boy friend rather an unfair dig. "have a heart! how could i help it? anyway, we'll get out all right. we sha'n't have to camp here all night, if sammy did." "that is it," interposed sammy's father. "i wonder if he stayed here all night or if he abandoned the bag here and kept on. maybe the woods were too much for his nerves," and he laughed rather uncertainly. "i bet sammy was not scared," announced neale, with confidence. "he is a courageous chap. if he wasn't, he would not start out alone this way." "true enough," said mr. pinkney, not without some pride. "but nevertheless it would help some if we were sure he was here only twelve hours ago, instead of twenty-four." "let's get the car out of the ditch and see if we can go on," neale suggested. "i'll get that pole you saw, mr. pinkney. and i see another lever over there." while mr. pinkney buckled the straps of the extension-bag again and stowed the bag under the seat, neale brought the two sticks of small timber which he thought would be strong enough to lift the wheels of the stalled car out of the ditch. but first he used the butt of one of the sticks to knock down the edge of the bank in front of each wheel. "you see," he said to agnes, "when you get it started you want to turn the front wheels, if you can, to the left and climb right out on to the road. mr. pinkney and i will do the best we can for you; but it is the power of the engine that must get us out of the ditch." "i--i don't know that i can handle it right, neale," hesitated agnes. "sure you can. you've got to!" he told her. "come on, mr. pinkney! let's see if we can get these sticks under the wheels on this side." "wait a moment," urged the man, who was writing hastily on a page torn from his notebook. "i must leave a note for sammy--if perhaps he should come back here looking for his bag." "better not say anything about his torn trousers, mr. pinkney," giggled agnes. "he will shy at that." "he can tear all his clothes to pieces if he'll only come home and stop his mother's worrying. only, the little rascal ought to be soundly trounced just the same for all the trouble he is causing us." "if only i had stayed with him at that beet bed and made sure he knew what he was doing," sighed agnes, who felt somewhat condemned. "it would have been something else that sent him off in this way, if it hadn't been beets," grumbled mr. pinkney. "he was about due for a break-away. i should have paid more attention to him myself. but business was confining. "oh, well; we always see our mistakes when it is too late. but that boy needs somebody's oversight besides his mother's. she is always afraid i will be too harsh with him. but she doesn't manage him, that is sure." "we'd better catch the rabbit before we make the rabbit stew," chuckled neale o'neil. "sammy is a good kid, i tell you. only he has crazy notions." "pooh!" put in agnes. "you need not talk in so old-fashioned a way. you used to have somewhat similar 'crazy notions' yourself. you ran away a couple of times." "well, did i have a real home and a mother and father to run from?" demanded the boy. "guess not!" "you've got a father now," laughed agnes. "but he isn't like a real father," sighed neale. "he has run away from me! i know it is necessary for him to go back to alaska to attend to that mine. but i'll be glad when he comes home for good--or i can go to him." "oh, neale! you wouldn't?" gasped the girl. "wouldn't what?" he asked, surprised by her vehemence. "go away up to alaska?" "i'd like to," admitted the boy. "wouldn't you?" "oh--well--if you can take me along," rejoined agnes with satisfaction, "all right. but under no other circumstances can you go, neale o'neil." chapter xvi--the dead end of nowhere mr. pinkney and neale went to work to hoist the motor-car into the road again. no easy nor brief struggle was this. a dozen times agnes started the car and the wheels slipped off the poles or neale or mr. pinkney lost his grip. before long they were well bespattered with mud (for there was considerable water in the ditch) and so was the automobile. neale and their neighbor worked to the utmost of their muscular strength, and agnes was in tears. "pluck up your courage, aggie," panted her boy friend. "we'll get it yet." "i just feel that it is my fault," sobbed the girl. "all this slipping and sliding. if i could only just get it to start right--" "again!" cried neale cheerfully. and this time the forewheels really got on solid ground. mr. pinkney thrust his lever in behind the sloughed hind wheel and blocked it from sliding back. "great!" yelled neale. "once more, aggie!" she obeyed his order, and although the automobile engine rattled a good deal and the car itself plunged like a bucking broncho, they finally got all the wheels out of the mud and on the firm road. "crickey!" gasped neale. "it looks like a battlefield." "and we look as though we had been in the battle all right," said mr. pinkney. "guess mamma pinkney will have something to say about _my_ trousers when we get home, let alone sammy's." "do you suppose the car will run all right?" asked the anxious agnes. "i don't know what ruth would say if we broke down." "she'd say a-plenty," returned neale. "but wait till i get some of this mud off me and i'll try her out again. by the way she bucked that last time i should say there was nothing much the matter with her machinery." this proved to be true. if anything was strained about the mechanism it did not immediately show up. neale got the automobile under way without any difficulty and they drove ahead through the now fast darkening road. the belt of woods was not very wide, but the car ran slowly and when the searchers came out upon the far side, the old shack which housed the big, red-faced woman, who had been kind to sammy, and her brood of children, some of whom had been not at all kind, the place looked to be deserted. in truth, the family were berry pickers and had been gone all day (after sammy's adventure with the cherry-colored calf) up in the hills after berries. they had not yet returned for the evening meal, and although neale stopped the car in front of the shack mr. pinkney decided sammy would not have remained at the abandoned place. and, of course, sammy had not remained here. after his exciting fight with peter and liz, and fearing to return to the house to complain, he had gone right on. where he had gone was another matter. the automobile party drove to the town of crimbleton, which was the next hamlet, and there mr. pinkney made exhaustive inquiries regarding his lost boy, but to no good result. "we'll try again to-morrow, mr. pinkney, if you say so," urged neale. "of course we will," agreed agnes. "we'll go every day until you find him." their neighbor shook his head with some sadness. "i am afraid it will do no good. sammy has given us the slip this time. perhaps i would better put the matter in the hands of a detective agency. for myself, i should be contented to wait until he shows up of his own volition. but his mother--" agnes and neale saw, however, that the man was himself very desirous of getting hold of his boy again. they made a hasty supper at the crimbleton inn and then started homeward at a good rate of speed. when they came up the grade toward the old house beside the road, at the edge of the wood, the big woman and her family had returned, made their own supper, and gone to bed. the place looked just as deserted as before. "the dead-end of nowhere," neale called it, and the automobile gathered speed as it went by. so the searchers missed making inquiry at the very spot where inquiry might have done the most good. the trail of sammy pinkney was lost. neale o'neil wanted to satisfy himself about one thing. he said nothing to agnes about it, but after he had put up the car and locked the garage, he walked down main street to byburg's candy store. june wildwood was always there until half past nine, and saturday nights until later. she was at her post behind the sweets counter on this occasion when neale entered. "i am glad to see you, neale," she said. "i'm awfully curious." "about that bracelet?" "yes," she admitted. "what has come of it? anything?" "enough. tell me," began neale, before she could put in any further question, "while you were with the gypsies did you hear anything about queen alma?" "queen zaliska. i was queen zaliska. they dressed me up and stained my face to look the part." "oh, i know all about that," neale returned. "but this queen alma was some ancient lady. she lived three hundred years ago." "goodness! how you talk, neale o'neil. of course i don't know anything about such a person." "those gypsies you were with never talked of her?" "i didn't hear them. i never learned much of the language they use among themselves." "well, we got a tip," said the boy, "that the bracelet belonged to this queen alma, and that there is a row among the gypsies over the ownership of it." "you don't tell me!" "i am telling you. we heard so. say, is that big jim a spaniard? a spanish gypsy, i mean?" "i don't know. maybe. he looks like a spaniard, or a mexican, or an italian." "yes. i thought he did. he comes of some latin race, anyway. what is his last name?" "why--i--i am not sure that i know." "is it costello? did you hear that name while you were with the gypsies, june?" "some of them are named costello. it is a family name among them i guess. and about that jim. do you know that i saw him yesterday driving down main street in an automobile?" "you don't mean it? gypsies are going to become flivver traders instead of horse swappers, are they?" and neale laughed. "oh, it was a big, seven-passenger car," said june. "those gypsies have money, if they want to spend it." "did you ever hear of a gypsy junkman?" chuckled neale. "of course not. although i guess junkmen make good money nowadays," drawled june wildwood, laughing too. "you are a funny boy, neale o'neil. do you want to know anything else?" "lots of things. but i guess you cannot tell me much more about the gypsies that would be pertinent to the bracelet business. we hear that the costello gypsies are fighting over the possession of the heirloom--the bracelet, you know. that is why one bunch of them wanted to get it off their hands for a while--and so gave it into the keeping of tess and dot." "mercy!" "does that seem improbable to you, june?" "no-o. not much. they might. it makes me think that maybe the gypsies have been watching the old corner house and know all about the kenways." "they might easily do that. you know, they might know us all from that time away back when we brought you home from pleasant cove with us. this is some of the same tribe you were with--sure enough!" "i know it," sighed june wildwood. "i've been scared a little about them too. but for my own sake. i haven't dared tell rosa; but pap comes down here to the store for me every evening and beaus me home. i feel safer." "the bracelet business has nothing to do with you, of course?" "of course not. but those gypsies might have some evil intent about ruth and her sisters." "guess they are just trying to use them for a convenience. while that bracelet is in the corner house no other claimant but those gypsy women are likely to get hold of it. believe me, it is a puzzle," he concluded. "i guess we will have to put it up to mr. howbridge, sure enough." "oh! the kenways's lawyer?" cried june. "their guardian. sure enough. that is what we will have to do." but when neale and agnes kenway, after an early breakfast, hurried downtown to mr. howbridge's office the next morning to tell the lawyer all about the gypsies and queen alma's bracelet, they made a surprising discovery. mr. howbridge had left town the evening before on important business. he might not return for a week. chapter xvii--ruth begins to worry oakhurst, in the mountains, was a very lovely spot. besides the hotel where luke shepard had worked and where he had met with his accident, there were bungalows and several old-fashioned farmhouses where boarders were received. there was a lake, fine golf links, bridlepaths through the woods, and mountains to climb. it was a popular if quiet resort. ruth and cecile shepard had rooms in one of the farmhouses, for the hotel was expensive. besides, the farmer owned a beautifully shaded lawn overlooking the lake and the girls could sit there under the trees while the invalid, as they insisted upon calling luke, reclined on a swinging cot. "believe me!" cecile often insisted, "i will never send another telegram as long as i live. i cannot forgive myself for making such a mess of it. but then, if i hadn't done so, you would not be here now, ruthie." "isn't that a fact?" agreed her brother. "you are all right, sis! i am for you, strong." ruth laughed. yet there were worried lines between her eyes. "it is all right," she murmured. "i might have come in any case--for mr. howbridge advised it by this letter that they remailed to me. but i should not have left in such haste, and i should have left somebody besides mrs. mccall to look after the girls." "pooh!" ejaculated luke. "what is the matter with agnes?" "that is just it," laughed ruth again, but shaking her head too. "it is agnes, and what she may do, that troubles me more than anything else." "goodness me! she is a big girl," declared cecile. "and she has lots of sense." "she usually succeeds in hiding her good sense, then," rejoined ruth. "of course she can take care of herself. but will she give sufficient attention to the little ones. that is the doubt that troubles me." "well, you just can't go away now!" wailed cecile. "you have got to stay till the doctor says we can move luke. i can't take him back alone." "now, don't make me out so badly off. i am lying here like a poor log because that sawbones and you girls make me. but i know i could get up and play baseball." [illustration: the girls could sit under the tree while luke reclined on a swinging cot.] "don't you dare!" cried his sister. "you would not be so unwise," said ruth promptly. "all right. then you stop worrying, ruth," the young fellow said. "otherwise i shall 'take up my bed and walk'--you see! this lying around like an ossified man is a nuisance, and it's absurd, anyway." ruth had immediately written to mr. howbridge asking him to look closely after family affairs at the corner house. had she known the lawyer was not at home when her letter arrived in milton she certainly would have started back by the very next train. she wrote mrs. mccall, too, for exact news. and naturally she poured into her letter to agnes all the questions and advice of which she could think. agnes was too busy when that letter arrived to answer it at all. things were happening at the old corner house at that time of which ruth had never dreamed. ruth was really glad to be with cecile and luke in the mountains. and she tried to throw off her anxiety. luke insisted that his sister and ruth should go over to the hotel to dance in the evening when he had to go to bed, as the doctor ordered. he had become acquainted with most of the hotel guests before his injury, and the young people liked luke shepard. they welcomed his sister and ruth as one of themselves, and the two girls had the finest kind of a time. at least, cecile did, and she said that ruth might have had, had she not been thinking of the home-folk so much. several days passed, and although ruth heard nothing from home save a brief and hurried note from agnes, telling of their unsuccessful search for sammy--and nothing much else--the older kenway girl began to feel that her anxiety had been unnecessary. then came mrs. mccall's labored letter. the old scotchwoman was never an easy writer. and her thoughts did not run to the way of clothing facts in readable english. she was plain and blunt. at least a part of her letter immediately made ruth feel that she was needed at home, and that even her interest in luke shepard should not detain her longer at oakhurst. * * * * * "we have got to have another watchdog. old tom jonah is too old; it is my opinion. i mind he is getting deaf, or something, or he wouldn't have let that man come every night and stare in at the window. faith, he is a nuisance--the man, i mean, ruth, not the old dog. "i have spoke to the police officer on the beat; but mr. howbridge being out of town i don't know what else to do about that man. and such a foxy looking man as he is! "neale o'neil, who is a good lad, i'm saying, and no worse than other boys of his age for sure, offers to watch by night. but i have not allowed it. he and aggie talk of gypsies, and they show me that silver bracelet--a bit barbarous thing that you remember the children had to play with--and say the dark man who comes to the window nights is a gypsy. i think he is a plain tramp, that is all, my lass. "don't let these few lines worry you. linda goes to bed with the stove poker every night, and uncle rufus says he has oiled up your great uncle's old shotgun. but i know that gun has no hammer to it, so i am not afraid of the weapon at all. i just want to make that black-faced man go away from the house and mind his own business. it is a nuisance he is." * * * * * "i must go home--oh, i must!" ruth said to cecile as soon as she had read this effusion from the old housekeeper. "just think! a man spying on them--and a gypsy!" "pooh! it can't be anything of importance," scoffed cecile. "it must be. think! i told you about the gypsy bracelet. there must be more of importance connected with that than we thought." she had already told luke and cecile about the mystery of the silver ornament. "why, i thought you had told mr. howbridge about it," cecile said. "i did not. i really forgot to when the news of luke's illness came," and ruth blushed. "that quite drove everything else out of your head, did it?" laughed the other girl. "but now why let it bother you? of course mr. howbridge will attend to things--" "but he seems to be away," murmured ruth. "evidently mrs. mccall and agnes have not been able to reach him. oh, cecile! i must really go home." "then you will have to come back," declared cecile shepard. "i could not possibly travel with luke alone." the physician had confided more to the girls than to luke himself about the young man's physical condition. the medical man feared some spinal trouble if luke did not remain quiet and lie flat on his back for some time to come. but the day following ruth's receipt of mrs. mccall's anxiety-breeding letter, dr. moline agreed to the young man's removal. "but only in a compartment. you must take the afternoon train on which you can engage a compartment. he must lie at ease all the way. i will take him to the station in my car. and have a car to meet him when you get to the milton station." the first of these instructions ruth was able to follow faithfully. the cost of such a trip was not to be considered. she would not even allow luke and cecile to speak about it. ruth had her own private bank account, arranged for and supervised, it was true, by mr. howbridge, and she prided herself upon doing business in a businesslike way. just before they boarded the train at oakhurst station she telegraphed home that they were coming and for neale to meet them with the car, late though their arrival would be. if on time, the train would stop at milton just after midnight. when that telegram arrived at the old corner house it failed to make much of a disturbance in the pool of the household existence. and for a very good reason. so much had happened there during the previous few hours that the advent of the king and queen of england (and this mrs. mccall herself said) would have created a very small "hooroo." as for neale o'neil's getting out the car and going down to the station to meet ruth and her friends when they arrived, that seemed to be quite impossible. the coming of the telegram was at an hour when already the kenway automobile was far away from milton, and neale and agnes in it were having high adventure. chapter xviii--the junkman again when ruth started home with luke and cecile shepard several days had elapsed since neale o'neil and agnes had discovered that mr. howbridge was out of town. the chief clerk at the lawyer's office had little time to give to the youthful visitors, for just then he had his hands full with a caller whom neale and agnes had previously found was a person not easily to be pacified. "there is a crazy man in here," grumbled the clerk. "i don't know what he means. he says he 'comes from kenway,' and there is something about queen alma and her bracelet. what do you know about this, miss kenway?" "oh, my prophetic soul!" gasped neale o'neil. "costello, the junkman!" "dear, me! we thought we could see mr. howbridge before that man came." "tell me what it means," urged the clerk. "then i will know what to say to the lunatic." "i guess he's a nut all right," admitted neale. he told the lawyer's clerk swiftly all they knew about the junkman, and all they knew about the silver bracelet. "all right. it is something for mr. howbridge to attend to himself," declared the clerk. "you hang on to that bracelet and don't let anybody have it. i'll try to shoo off this fellow. anyway, it may not belong to his family at all. i'll hold him here till you two get away." neale and agnes were glad to escape contact with the junkman again. he was too vehement. "he'll walk right in and search the house for the thing," grumbled neale. "we can't have him frightening the children." "and i don't want to be frightened myself," added agnes. they hurried home, and all that day, every time the bell rang or she heard a voice at the side door, the girl felt a sudden qualm. "wish we had never advertised that bracelet at all," she confessed in secret. "dear, me! i wonder what ruth will say?" nevertheless she failed to take her older sister into her confidence regarding queen alma's bracelet when she wrote to her. she felt quite convinced that ruth would not approve of what she and neale had done, so why talk about it? this was the attitude agnes maintained. perhaps the whole affair would be straightened out before ruth came back. and otherwise, she considered, everything was going well at the corner house in milton. it was miss ann titus who evinced interest next in the "lost and found" advertisement. miss ann titus was the woman whom dot called "such a fluid speaker" and who said so many "and-so's" that "ain't-so's." in other words, miss titus, the dressmaker, was a very gossipy person, although she was not intentionally unkind. she came in this afternoon, "stopping by" as she termed it, from spending a short sewing day with mrs. pease, a willow street neighbor of the corner house girls. "and i must say that mrs. pease, for a woman of her age, has young idees about dress," miss titus confided to mrs. mccall and agnes, who were in the sewing room. aunt sarah "couldn't a-bear" miss ann titus, so they did not invite the seamstress to go upstairs. "yes, her idees is some young," repeated miss titus. "but then, nowadays if you foller the styles in the fashion papers nobody can tell you and your grandmother apart, back to! skirts are so skimpy--and _short_!" miss titus fanned herself rapidly, and allowed her emphasis to suggest her own opinion of modern taste in dress. "of course, mrs. pease is slim and ain't lost all her good looks; but it does seem to me if i was a married woman," she simpered here a little, for miss titus had by no means given up all hope of entering the wedded state, "i should consider my husband's feelings. i would not go on the street looking below my knees as though i was twelve year old instead of thirty-two." "maybe mr. pease likes her to look young," suggested agnes. "hech! hech!" clucked mrs. mccall placidly. "thirty-twa is not so very auld. not as we live these days, at any rate." "but think of the example she sets her children," sniffed miss titus, bridling. "tut, tut! how much d'you expect margie and holly pease is influenced by their mother's style o' dress?" exclaimed the housekeeper. "the twa bairns scarce know much about that." "i guess that is so," chimed in agnes. "and i think she is a pretty woman and dresses nicely. so there!" "ah, you young things cannot be expected to think as i do," smirked miss titus. "i take that as a compliment, my dear," said the housekeeper comfortably. "and i never expect tae be vairy old until i die. still and all, i am some older than agnes." "that reminds me," said miss titus, more briskly (though it did not remind her, for she had come into the corner house for the special purpose of broaching the subject that she now announced), "which of you kenways is it has found a silver bracelet?" "now, _that_ is agnes' affair," chuckled mrs. mccall. "oh! it is not ruth that advertised?" queried the curious miss titus. "na, na! tell it her, agnes," said the housekeeper. but agnes was not sure she wished to describe to this gossipy seamstress all the incidents connected with queen alma's bracelet. she only said: "of course, you do not know anybody who has lost such a bracelet?" "how can i tell till i have seen it?" demanded miss titus. "well, we have about decided that until somebody comes who describes the bracelet and can explain how and where it was lost that we had better not display it at all," agnes said, with more firmness than was usual with her. "oh!" sniffed miss titus. "i hope you do not think that _i_ have any interest--any personal interest--in inquiring about it?" "if i thought it was yours, miss titus, i would let you see it immediately," agnes hastened to assure her. "but of course--" "there was a bracelet lost right on this street," said miss titus earnestly, meaning willow street and pointing that way, "that never was recovered to my knowledge." "oh! you don't mean it?" cried the puzzled girl. "of course, we don't _know_ that this one belongs to any of those gypsies--" "i should say not!" clucked miss titus. "the bracelet i mean was worn by sarah turner. she and i went together regular when we were girls. and going to prayer meeting one night, walking along here by the old corner house, sarah dropped her bracelet." "but--but!" gasped agnes, "that must have been some time ago, miss titus." "it is according to how you compute time," the dressmaker said. "sarah and i were about of an age. and she isn't more than forty years old right now!" "i don't think this bracelet we have is the one your friend lost," agnes said faintly, but confidently. she wanted to laugh but did not dare. "how do you know?" demanded miss ann titus in her snappy way--like the biting off of a thread when she was at work. "i should know it, even so long after it was lost, i assure you." "why--how?" asked the corner house girl curiously. "by the scratches on it," declared miss titus. "sarah's brother john made them with his pocketknife--on the inside of the bracelet--to see if it was real silver. oh! he was a bad boy--as bad as sammy pinkney. and what do you think of _his_ running away again?" agnes was glad the seamstress changed the subject right here. it seemed to her as though she had noticed scratches on the bracelet the gypsies had placed in the basket the children bought. could it be possible-- "no! that is ridiculous!" agnes told herself. "it could not be possible that a bracelet lost forty years ago on willow street should turn up at this late date. and, having found it, why should those gypsy women give it to tess and dot? there would be no sense in that." yet, when the talkative miss titus had gone agnes went to the room the little folks kept their playthings and doll families in, and picked up the alice-doll which chanced that day to be wearing the silver band. she removed it from the doll and took it to the window where the light was better. yes! it was true as she had thought. there were several crosswise scratches on the inside of the circlet. they might easily have been made by a boy's jackknife. "i declare! who really knows where this bracelet came from, and who actually owns it? maybe it is not queen alma's ornament after all. dear, me! this kenway family is forever getting mixed up in difficulties that positively have nothing to do with _us_. "the silly old bracelet! why couldn't those gypsy women have sold that basket to margaret and holly pease, or to some other little girls instead of to our tess and dot. mrs. mccall says that some people seem to attract trouble, just as lightning-rods attract lightning, and i guess the kenways are some of those people!" neale did not come over again that day, so she had nobody to discuss this new slant in the matter with. and if agnes could not "talk out loud" about her troubles, she was apt to grow irritable. at least, the little girls said after supper that she was cross. "ruth doesn't talk that way to us," declared tess, quite hurt, and gathering up her playthings from the various chairs in the sitting room where the family usually gathered in the evenings. "i don't think i should like her to be away all the time." this was tess's polite way of criticising agnes. but dot was not so hampered by politeness. "crosspatch!" she exclaimed. "that's just what you are, aggie kenway." and she started for bed in quite a huff. agnes was glad, a few minutes later, that the two smaller girls had gone upstairs, even if they had gone away in this unhappy state of mind. mrs. mccall had come in and sat down at some mending and the room was very quiet. suddenly a noise outside on the porch made agnes raise her head and look at the nearest window. "what is the matter wi' ye, lassie?" asked mrs. mccall, startled. "did you hear that?" whispered the girl, staring at the window. the shade was not drawn down to the sill, and the curtains were the very thinnest of scrim. at the space of four inches below the shade agnes saw a white splotch against the pane. "oh! see! a face!" gasped agnes in three smothered shrieks. "hech, mon! such a flibbertigibbet as the lass is." mrs. mccall adjusted her glasses and stared, first at the frightened girl, then at the window. but she, too, saw the face. "what can the matter be?" she demanded, half rising. "is that neale o'neil up tae some o' his jokes?" "oh, no, mrs. mac! it's not neale," half sobbed agnes. "i know who it is. it's that awful junkman!" "a junkman?" repeated mrs. mccall. "at this time o' night? we've naethin' tae sellit him. the impudence!" she rose, quite determined to drive the importunate junkman away. chapter xix--the house is haunted "why do ye fash yoursel' so?" demanded mrs. mccall in growing wonder and exasperation. "let me see the foolish man." she approached the window and raised the shade sharply. then she hoisted the sash itself. but costello, the junkman, was gone. "there is naebody here," she complained, looking out on the side porch. "but he _was_ there! you saw him," faintly declared agnes. "he was nae ghost, if that's what you mean," said the housekeeper dryly. "but what and who is he? a junkman? how do you come to know junkmen, lassie?" "i only know that junkman," explained agnes. "aye?" the housekeeper's eyes as well as her voice was sharp. "and when did you make his acquaintance? costello, d'you say?" "so he said his name was. he--he is one of the gypsies, i do believe!" "gypsies! the idea! is the house surrounded by gypsies?" "i don't know, mrs. mccall," said agnes faintly. "i only know they are giving us a lot of trouble." "who are?" "the gypsies." "hear the lass!" exclaimed the troubled housekeeper. "who ever heard the like? why should gypsies give us any trouble? is it that bit bracelet the bairns play wi'? then throw it out and let the gypsies have it." "but that would not be right, would it, mrs. mccall?" demanded the troubled girl. "if--if the bracelet belongs to them--" "hech! to this junkman?" "he claims it," confessed agnes. "tut, tut! what is going on here that i do not know about?" demanded the scotch woman with deeper interest. she closed the window, drew the shade again, and returned to her seat. she stared at agnes rather sternly over her glasses. "come now, my lass," said the housekeeper, "what has been going on so slyly here? i never heard of any costello, junkman or not. who is he? what does he want, peering in at a body's windows at night?" agnes told the whole story then--and managed to tell it clearly enough for the practical woman to gain a very good idea of the whole matter. "of course," was her comment, grimly said, "you and that neale could not let well enough alone. you never can. if you had not advertised the bit bracelet, this junkman would not have troubled you." "but we thought it ought to be advertised," murmured agnes in defense. "aye, aye! ye thought mooch i've nae doot. and to little good purpose. well, 'tis a matter for mr. howbridge now, sure enough. and what he'll say--" "but i hope that costello does not come to the house again," ventured the girl, in some lingering alarm. "you or neale go to mr. howbridge's clerk in the morning and tell him. he should tell the police of this crazy man. a gypsy, too, you say?" "i think he must be. the bracelet seems to be a bone of contention between two branches of the gypsy tribe. if it belonged to that old queen alma--" "fiddle-faddle!" exclaimed the housekeeper. "who ever heard of a queen among those dirty gypsies? 'tis foolishness." the fact that costello, the junkman, was lingering about the old corner house was not to be denied. they saw him again before bedtime. uncle rufus had gone to bed and linda was so easily frightened that mrs. mccall did not want to tell her. so the housekeeper grabbed a broom and started out on the side porch with the avowed intention of "breaking the besom over the chiel's head!" but the lurker refused to be caught and darted away into the shadows. and all without making a sound, or revealing in any way what his intention might be. mrs. mccall and the trembling agnes went all about the house, locking each lower window, and of course all the doors. tom jonah, the old newfoundland dog, slept out of doors these warm nights, and sometimes wandered away from the premises. "we ought to have buster, sammy pinkney's bulldog, over here. then that horrid man would not dare come into the yard," agnes said. "you might as well turn that old billy-goat loose," sniffed mrs. mccall. "he'd do little more harm than that bull pup--and nae more good, either." they went to bed--earlier than usual, perhaps. and that may be the reason why agnes could not sleep. she considered the possibility of costello's climbing up the porch posts to the roof, and so reaching the second story windows. "if he is going to haunt the house like this," agnes declared to the housekeeper in the morning, "let us make neale come here and stay at night." "that lad?" returned the housekeeper, who had no very exalted opinion of boys in any case--no more than had ruth. "haven't we all troubles enough, i want to know? this is a case for the police. you go tell mr. howbridge's clerk about the gypsy, that is what you do." but agnes would not do even that without taking neale into her confidence. neale at once was up in arms when he heard of the lurking junkman. he declared he would come over and hide in the closet on the kenways' back porch and try to catch the man if he appeared again at night. "he is a very strong man, neale," objected agnes. "and he might have a knife, too. you know, those gypsies are awfully fierce-tempered." "i don't know that he is," objected neale. "he looked to me like just plain crazy." "well, you come down to the office with me," commanded agnes. "i don't even want to meet that excitable costello man on the street when i am alone." "i suppose you are scared, aggie. but i don't think he would really hurt you. come on!" so they went down to mr. howbridge's office again and interviewed the clerk, telling him first of all of the appearance of the junkman the night before. "i had fairly to drive him out of these offices," said the clerk. "he is of a very excitable temperament, to say the least. but i did not think there was any real harm in him." "just the same," neale objected, "he wants to keep away from the house and not frighten folks at night." "oh, we will soon stop that," said mr. howbridge's representative. "i will report it to the police." "but perhaps he does not mean any harm," faltered agnes. "i do not think he does," said the man. "nevertheless, we will warn him." this promise relieved agnes a good deal. she was tender-hearted and she did not wish the junkman arrested. but when evening came and he once more stared in at the windows, and tapped on the panes, and wandered around and around the house-- "well, this is too much!" cried the girl, when neale and mrs. mccall both ran out to try to apprehend the marauder. "i do wish we had a telephone. i am going to _beg_ ruth to have one put in just as soon as she comes back. we could call the police and they would catch that man." perhaps the police, had they been informed, might have caught costello. but mrs. mccall and neale did not. the latter remained until the family went to bed and then the boy did a little lurking in the bushes on his own account. but he did not spy the strange man again. in the morning, without saying anything to the kenway family about it, neale o'neil set out to find costello, the junkman. he certainly was not afraid of the man by daylight. he had had experience with him. from mr. howbridge's clerk he had already obtained the address the junkman had given when he was at the office. the place was down by the canal in the poorer section of the town, of course. there were several cellars and first-floors of old houses given up to ragpickers and dealers in junk of all kinds. after some inquiry among a people who quite evidently were used to dodging the answering of incriminating questions, neale learned that there had been a junkman living in a certain room up to within a day or two before, whose name was costello. but he had disappeared. oh, yes! neale's informant was quite sure that costello had gone away for good. "but he had a horse and wagon. he had a business of his own. where has he gone?" demanded the boy. he was gone. that was all these people would tell him. they pointed out the old shed where costello had kept his horse. was it a good horse? it was a good looking horse, with smiles which seemed to indicate that costello was a true gypsy and was not above "doctoring" a horse into a deceiving appearance of worthiness. "he drove away with that horse. he did not say where he was going. i guess he go to make a sale, eh? he will come back with some old plug that he make look fine, eh?" this was the nearest to real information that neale could obtain, and this from a youth who worked for one of the established junk dealers. so neale had to give up the inquiry as useless. when he came back to the old corner house he confessed to agnes: "he is hiding somewhere, and coming around here after dark. wish i had a shotgun--" "oh, neale! how wicked!" "loaded with rock-salt," grinned the boy. "a dose of that might do the gyp. a world of good." chapter xx--plotters at work the adventures of the corner house girls and their friends did not usually include anything very terrible. perhaps there was no particular peril threatened by costello, the gypsy junkman, who was lurking about the premises at night. just the same, agnes kenway was inclined to do what mrs. mccall suggested and throw the silver bracelet out upon the ash heap. of course they had no moral right to do that, and the housekeeper's irritable suggestion was not to be thought of for a serious moment. yet agnes would have been glad to get rid of the responsibility connected with possession of queen alma's ornament. "if it is that costello heirloom!" she said. "maybe after all it belongs to miss ann titus's friend, sarah whatshername. goodness! i wonder how many other people will come to claim the old thing. i do wish ruth would return." "just so you could hand the responsibility over to her," accused neale. "m-mm. well?" "we ought to hunt up those gypsies--'beeg jeem' and his crowd--and get their side of the story," declared neale. "no! i will not!" cried agnes. "i have met all the gypsies i ever want to meet." but within the hour she met another. she was in the kitchen, and linda and mrs. mccall were both in the front of the house, cleaning. there came a timid-sounding rap on the door. agnes unthinkingly threw it open. a slender girl stood there--a girl younger than agnes herself. this stranger was very ragged, not at all clean looking, and very brown. she had flashing white teeth and flashing black eyes. agnes actually started back when she saw her and suppressed a scream. for she instantly knew the stranger was one of the gypsy tribe. that she seemed to be alone was the only thing that kept agnes from slamming the door again right in the girl's face. "will the kind lady give me something to eat?" whined the beggar. "i am hungry. i eat nothing all the day." agnes was doubtful of the truth of this. the dark girl did not look ill-fed. but she had an appearance of need just the same; and it was a rule of the corner house household never to turn a hungry person away. "stay there on the mat," agnes finally said. "don't come in. i will see what i can find for you." "yes, ma'am," said the girl. "haven't you had any breakfast?" asked agnes, moving toward the pantry, and her sympathies becoming excited. "no, ma'am. and no supper last night. nobody give me nothing." "well," said agnes, with more warmth, expanding to this tale of woe, as was natural, "i will see what i can find." she found a plate heaped with bread and meat and a wedge of cake, which she brought to the screen door. the girl had stood there motionless, only her black eyes roved about the kitchen and seemed to mark everything in it. "sit down there on the steps and eat it," said agnes, passing the plate through a narrow opening, as she might have handed food into the cage of an animal at a menagerie. she really was half afraid of the girl just because she looked so much like a gypsy. the stranger ate as though she was quite as ravenously hungry as she had claimed to be. there could be no doubt that the food disappeared with remarkable celerity. she sat for a moment or two after she had eaten the last crumb with the plate in her lap. then she rose and brought it timidly to the door. "did you have enough?" asked agnes, feeling less afraid now. "oh, yes, lady! it was so nice," and the girl flashed her teeth in a beaming smile. she was quite a pretty girl--if she had only been clean and decently dressed. she handed the plate to agnes, and then turned and ran out of the yard and down the street as fast as she could run. agnes stared after her in increased amazement. why had she run away? "if she is a gypsy--well, they are queer people, that is sure. oh! what is this?" her fingers had found something on the under side of the plate. she turned it up and saw a soiled piece of paper sticking there. agnes, wondering, if no longer alarmed, drew the paper from the plate, turned it over, and saw that some words were scrawled in blue pencil on the paper. "goodness me! more mysteries!" gasped the corner house girl. briefly and plainly the message read: _do not_ _give the bracelet to miguel. he is a thief._ agnes sat down and stared almost breathlessly at the paper. that it was a threatening command from one crowd of gypsies or the other, she was sure. but whether it was from big jim's crowd or from costello, the junkman, she did not know. her first thought, after she had digested the matter for a few moments, was to run with the paper to mrs. mccall. but mrs. mccall was not at all sympathetic about this bracelet matter. she was only angry with the gypsies, and, perhaps, a little angry with agnes for having unwittingly added to the trouble by putting the advertisement in the paper. neale, after all, could be her only confident; and, making sure that no other dark-visaged person was in sight about the house, the girl ran down the long yard beyond the garden to the stable and billy bumps' quarters, and there climbed the board fence that separated the kenway yard from that of con murphy, the cobbler. "hoo, hoo! hoo, hoo!" agnes called, looking over the top rail of the fence. "hoo, hoo, yerself!" croaked a voice. "i'd have yez know we kape no owls on these premises." the bent figure of mr. murphy, always busy at his bench, was visible through the back window of his shop. "is it that young yahoo called neale o'neil that yez want, miss aggie?" added the smiling cobbler. "if so--" but neale o'neil appeared just then to answer to the summons of his girl friend. he had been to the store, and he tumbled all his packages on con's bench to run out into the yard to greet agnes. "what's happened now?" he cried, seeing in the girl's face that something out of the ordinary troubled her. "oh, neale! what do you think?" she gasped. "there's been another of them at the house." "not one of those gypsies?" "i believe she was." "oh! a _she_!" said the boy, much relieved. "well, she didn't bite you, of course?" "come here and look at this," commanded his friend. neale went to the fence, climbed up and took the paper that agnes had found stuck to the plate on which she had placed the food for the gypsy girl. when he had read the abrupt and unsigned message, neale began to grow excited, too. "where did you get this?" agnes told him about it. of course, the hungry girl had been a messenger from one party of gypsies or the other. which? was agnes' eager question. "guess i can answer that," neale said gravely. "it does look as though things were getting complicated. i bet this girl you fed is one of big jim's bunch." "how can you be so positive?" "there are probably only two parties of gypsies fighting over the possession of that old bracelet. now, i learned down there in that junk neighborhood that costello--the costello who is bothering us--is called miguel. they are all costellos--big jim's crowd and all. june wildwood says so. they distinguish our junkman from themselves by calling him by his first name. therefore--" "oh, of course i see," sighed agnes. "it is a terrible mess, neale! i do wish mr. howbridge would get back. or that the police would find that junkman and shut him up. or--or that ruthie would come home!" "oh, don't be a baby, aggie!" ejaculated neale. "who is the baby, i want to know?" flashed back the girl. "i'm not!" "then pluck up your spirits and don't turn on the sprinkler," said the slangy youth. "why, this is nothing to cry about. when it is all over we shall be looking back at the mystery as something great in our young lives." "you can try to laugh if you want to," snapped agnes. "but being haunted by a junkman, and getting notes from gypsies like that! huh! who wouldn't be scared? why, we don't know what those people might do to us if we give up the bracelet to the wrong person." "it doesn't belong to any of the gypsies, perhaps." "that is exactly it!" she cried. "maybe, after all, it is the property of miss ann titus' friend, sarah." "and was lost somewhere on willow street--about where your garage now stands--forty years ago!" scoffed neale. "well, you are pretty soft, agnes kenway." this naturally angered the girl, and she pouted and got down from the fence without replying. as she went back up the yard she saw mrs. pinkney, with her head tied up with a towel, shaking a dustcloth at one of her front windows. it at least changed the current of the girl's thought. "oh, mrs. pinkney!" she cried, running across the street to speak to sammy's mother, "have you heard anything?" "about sammy? not a word," answered the woman. "i have to keep working all the time, agnes kenway, or i should go insane. i know i should! i have cleaned this whole house, from attic to cellar, three times since sammy ran away." "why, mrs. pinkney! if you don't go insane--and i don't believe you will--i am sure you will overwork and be ill." "i must keep doing. i must keep going. if i sit down to think i imagine the most horrible things happening to the dear child. it is awful!" agnes knew that never before had the woman been so much disturbed by her boy's absences from home. it seemed as though she really had lost control of herself, and the corner house girl was quite worried over mrs. pinkney. "if we could only help you and mr. pinkney," said agnes doubtfully. "do you suppose it would do any good to go off in the car again--neale and me and your husband--to look for sammy?" "mr. pinkney is so tied down by his business that he cannot go just now," she sighed. "and he has put the search into the hands of an agency. i did not want the police to get after sammy. but what could we do? and they say there are gypsies around." "oh!" gasped agnes. "do you suppose--?" "you never can tell what those people will do. i am told they have stolen children." "isn't that more talk than anything else?" asked agnes, trying to speak quite casually. "i don't know. one of my neighbors tells me she hears that there is a big encampment of gypsies out on the buckshot road. you know, out beyond the poole farm. they have autovans instead of horses, so they say, and maybe could carry any children they stole out of the state in a very short time." "oh, dear me, mrs. pinkney! i would not think of such things," agnes urged. "it does not sound reasonable." "that the gypsies should travel by auto instead of behind horse?" rejoined sammy's mother. "why not? everybody else is using automobiles for transportation. i tell mr. pinkney that if we had a machine perhaps sammy might not have been so eager to leave home." "oh, dear, me!" thought agnes, as she made her way home again, "i am sorry for mr. pinkney. just now i guess he is having a hard time at home as well as at business!" but she treasured up what she had heard about the gypsy encampment on the buckshot road to tell neale--when she should not be so "put-out" with him. the buckshot road was in an entirely different direction from milton than that they had followed in their automobile on the memorable search for sammy. agnes did not suppose for a moment that the missing boy had gone with the gypsies. chapter xxi--tess and dot take a hand up to this time tess and dot kenway had heard nothing about the gypsy junkman haunting the house at night, or about other threatening things connected with the wonderful silver bracelet. their young minds were quite as excited about the ornament as in the beginning, however; for in the first place they had to keep run exactly of whose turn it was to "wear" the gypsies' gift. "i don't see what we'll do about it when alice grows up," dot said. she was always looking forward in imagination to the time when her favorite doll should become adult. "she will want to wear that belt, tess, for evening dress. you know, a lady's jewelry should belong to her." "i'm not going to give up my share to your alice-doll," announced tess, quite firmly for her. "and, anyway, you must not be so sure that it is going to be ours all the time. see! aggie says we can't take it out of the house to play with." "i don't care!" whined dot. "i don't want to give it back to those gypsy ladies." "neither do i. but we must of course, if we can find them. honest is honest." "it--it's awful uncomfortable to be so dreadful' honest," blurted out the smaller girl. "and i think they meant us to have the bracelet." "all right, then. it's only polite to offer it back to them. then if they don't want it we'll know that it is ours and even ruth won't say anything." "but--but when my alice-doll grows up--" "now, don't be a little piggie, dot kenway!" exclaimed tess, rather crossly. "when your wrist gets big enough so the bracelet won't slip over your hand so easy, you will want to wear it yourself--just as i do. and agnes wants it, too." "oh! but it's ours--if it isn't the gypsy ladies'," dot hastened to say. two claimants for the ornament were quite enough. she did not wish to hear of any other people desiring to wear it. as it chanced, tess and dot heard about the gypsy encampment on the buckshot road through the tongue of neighborhood gossip, quite as had sammy's mother. margaret and holly pease heard the store man tell their mother; and having enviously eyed the silver bracelet in the possession of the kenway girls, they ran to tell the latter about the gypsies. "they've come back," declared margaret decidedly, "to look for that bracelet you've got. you'll see them soon enough." "oh, margie! do you think so?" murmured tess, while dot was immediately so horror-stricken that tears came to her eyes. "maybe they will bring the police and have you locked up," continued the cheerful pease child. "you know they might accuse you of stealing the bracelet." "we never!" wailed dot. "we never! they gave it to us!" "well, they are going to take it back, so now!" margaret pease declared. "i don't think it is nice of you to say what you do, margie," said tess. "everybody knows we are honest. why! if dot and i knew how to find them, we would take the bracelet right to the gypsy ladies. wouldn't we, dot?" "but--but we don't know where to find them," blurted out the youngest corner house girl. "you can find them i guess--out on the buckshot road." "we don't know that _our_ gypsy ladies are there," said tess, with some defiance. "you don't dare go to see," said margaret pease. it was a question to trouble the minds of tess and dot. should they try to find the gypsies, and see if the very ladies who had given them the bracelet were in that encampment? at least it was a leading question in tess kenway's mind. it must be confessed that dot only hoped it would prove a false alarm. she was very grateful to the strange gypsy women for having put the silver ornament in the green and yellow basket; but she hoped never to see those two kind women again! the uncertainty was so great in both of the small girls' minds that they said nothing at all about it in the hearing of any other member of the family. had ruth been at home they might have confided in her. they had always confided everything to their eldest sister. but just now the two smaller corner house girls were living their own lives, very much shut away from the existence agnes, for instance, was leading. agnes had a secret--several of them, indeed. she did not take tess and dot into her confidence. so, if for no other reason, the smaller girls did not talk to agnes about the gypsies. the kenways owned some tenement property in a much poorer part of the town than that prominent corner on which the corner house stood. early in their coming to milton from bloomsburg, the corner house girls had become acquainted with the humble tenants whose rents helped swell the funds which mr. howbridge cared for and administered. some of these poorer people, especially the children near their own age, interested the kenway girls very much because they met these poorer children in school. so when news was brought to agnes one afternoon (it was soon after lunch) that maria maroni, whose father kept the coal, wood, ice and vegetable cellar in one of the stower houses and who possessed a wife and big family of children as well, had been taken ill, agnes was much disturbed. agnes liked maria maroni. maria was very bright and forward in her studies and was a pretty italian girl, as well. the maronis lived much better than they once had, too. they now occupied one of the upstairs tenements over mrs. kranz's delicatessen store, instead of all living in the basement. the boy who ran into the kenway yard and told agnes this while she was tying up the gladioli stems after a particularly hard night's rain, did not seem to be an italian. indeed, he was no boy that agnes ever remembered having seen before. but tenants were changing all the time over there where maria lived. this might be a new boy in that neighborhood. and, anyway, agnes was not bothered in her mind much about the boy. it was maria's illness that troubled her. "what is the matter with the poor girl?" agnes wanted to know. "what does the doctor say it is?" "they ain't got no doc," said the boy. "she's just sick, maria is. i don't know what she's got besides." this sounded bad enough to agnes. and the fact that the sick girl had no medical attention was the greater urge for the kenway girl to do something about it. of course, joe and his wife must have a doctor for maria at once. agnes went into the house and told mrs. mccall about it. she even borrowed the green and yellow basket from the little girls and packed some jelly and a bowl of broth and other nice things to take to maria maroni. the kenways seldom went to the tenements empty-handed. she would have taken neale with her, only she felt that after their incipient "quarrel" of the previous morning she did not care immediately to make up with the boy. sometimes she felt that neale o'neil took advantage of her easy disposition. so agnes went off alone with her basket. half an hour later a boy rang the front door bell of the corner house. he had a note for mrs. mccall. it was written in blue pencil, and while the housekeeper was finding her reading glasses the messenger ran away so that she could not question him. the note purported to be from hedden, mr. howbridge's butler. it said that the lawyer had been "brought home" and had asked for mrs. mccall to be sent for. it urged expedition in her answer to the request, and it threw mrs. mccall into "quite a flutter" as she told linda and aunt sarah maltby. "the puir mon!" wailed the scotch woman who before she came to the old corner house to care for the kenway household had been housekeeper for mr. howbridge himself for many years. "there is something sad happened to him, nae doot. i must go awa' wi' me at aince. see to the bairns, miss maltby, that's the good soul. even agnes is not in the hoose." "of course i will see to them--if it becomes necessary," said aunt sarah. her idea of attending to the younger children, however, was to remain in her own room knitting, only occasionally going to the head of the back stairs to ask linda if tess and dot were all right. the finnish girl's answer was always "shure, mum," and in her opinion tess and dot were all right as long as she did not see that they were in trouble. to tell the truth, linda saw the smaller girls very little after mrs. mccall hurried out of the house to take the street car for the lawyer's residence. once linda observed tess and dot in the side yard talking to a boy through the pickets. she had no idea that the sharp-featured boy was the same who had brought the news of maria maroni's illness to agnes, and the message from hedden to mrs. mccall! the boy in question had come slowly along the pavement on willow street, muttering to himself as he approached as though saying over several sentences that he had learned by rote. he was quite evidently a keen-minded boy, but he was not at all a trustworthy looking one. tess and dot both saw him, and that he was a stranger made the little girls eye him curiously. when he hailed them they were not quite sure whether they ought to reply or not. [illustration: "they want that silver thing back. it wasn't meant for you."] "i guess you don't know us," tess said doubtfully. "you don't belong in this neighborhood." "i know you all right," said the boy. "you're the two girls those women sold the basket to. i know you." "oh!" gasped tess. "the gypsy ladies!" murmured dot. "that's the one. they sold you the basket for forty-five cents. didn't they?" "yes," admitted tess. "and it's _ours_," cried dot. "we paid for it." "that's all right," said the boy slowly. "but you didn't buy what was in it. no, sir! they want it back." "oh! the basket?" cried tess. "what you found in it." the boy seemed very sure of what he was saying, but he spoke slowly. "they want that silver thing back. it wasn't meant for you. it was a mistake. you know very well it isn't yours. if you are honest--and you told them you were--you will bring it back to them." "oh! they did ask us if we were honest," tess said faintly. "and of course we are. aren't we, dot?" "why--why-- do we have to be so dreadful' honest," whispered the smallest corner house girl, quite borne down with woe. "of course we have. just think of what ruthie would say," murmured tess. then to the boy: "where are those ladies?" "huh?" he asked. "what ladies?" "the gypsy ladies we bought the basket from?" "oh, _them_?" he rejoined hurriedly, glancing along the street with eagerness. "you go right out along this street," and he pointed in the direction from which he had come. "you keep on walking until you reach the brick-yard." "oh! are they camped there?" asked tess. "no. but a man with an automobile will meet you there. he is a man who will take you right to the gypsy camp and bring you back again. don't be afraid, kids. it's all right." he went away then, and the little girls could not call him back. they wanted to ask further questions; but it was evident that the boy had delivered his message and was not to be cross-examined. "what _shall_ we do?" tess exclaimed. "oh, let's wait. let's wait till ruth comes home," cried dot, saying something very sensible indeed. but responsibility weighed heavily on tess's mind. she considered that if the gypsy women wished their bracelet returned, it was her duty to take it to them without delay. besides, there was the man in the automobile waiting for them. why the man had not come to the house with the car, or why he had not brought the two gypsy women to the corner house, were queries that did not occur to the little girls. if tess kenway was nothing else, she was strictly honest. "no," she sighed, "we cannot wait. we must go and see the women now. i will go in and get the bracelet, dot. do you want your hat? mrs. mccall and agnes are both away. we will have to go right over and tend to this ourselves." chapter xxii--excitement galore when agnes kenway reached the tenement where maria maroni resided and found that brisk young person helping in the delicatessen store as she did almost every day during the busy hours and when there was no school, the corner house girl was surprised; but she was not suspicious. that is, she was not suspicious of any plot really aimed at the happiness of the corner house family. she merely believed that the strange boy had deliberately fooled her for an idle purpose. "maria maroni! what do you think?" agnes burst out. "who could that boy be? oh, i'd like to catch him! i'd make him sorry he told me such a story." "it is too bad you were troubled so, agnes," said maria, when she understood all about it. "i can't imagine who that boy could be. but i am glad you came over to see us, never mind what the reason is that brings you." "a sight you are for sore eyes yet," declared the ponderous mrs. kranz, who had kissed agnes warmly when she first appeared. "come the back room in and sit down. let ikey tend to the customers yet, maria. we will visit with agnes, and have some tea and sweet crackers." "and you must tell me of somebody in the row, mrs. kranz, who needs these delicacies. somebody who is ill," said agnes. "i must not take them home again. and maria looks altogether too healthy for jelly and chicken broth." mrs. kranz laughed at that. but she added with seriousness: "there is always somebody sick here in the tenements, miss agnes. they will not take care themselfs of--no! i tell them warm flannels and good food is better than doctors yet. but they will not mind me." she sighed. "who is ill now?" asked agnes, at once interested. she loved to play "lady bountiful"; and, really, the kenway sisters had done a great deal of good among their poor tenants and others in the row. "mrs. leary. you know, her new baby died and the poor woman," said maria quickly, "is sick of grief, i do believe." "ach, yes!" cried mrs. kranz. "she needs the cheerful word. you see her, miss agnes. then she be better--sure!" "thank you!" cried agnes, dimpling and blushing. "do you really think i can help her?" "and there is little susie marowsky," urged the delicatessen shopkeeper. "that child is fading away like a sick rose. she iss doing just that! if she could have country eggs and country milk--ach! if we were all rich!" and she sighed ponderously again. "i'll tell our ruth about her," said agnes eagerly. "and i'll see her, too, before i go home. i'll give her the broth, yes? and mrs. leary the jelly, bread, and fruit?" "no!" cried mrs. kranz. "the fruit to dominic nevin, the scissors grinder. he craves fruit. you know, he cut his hand and got blood poisoning, and it was so long yet that he could not work. you see him, too, miss agnes." so altogether, what with the tea and cakes and the visits to the sick, agnes was away from the corner house quite three hours. when she was on her way home she was delayed by an unforeseen incident too. at the corner of willow street not far from the brick-yard a figure suddenly darted into agnes' path. she was naturally startled by the sudden appearance of this figure, and doubly so when she saw it was the costello that she knew as the junkman, and whose first name she now believed to be miguel. "what do you want? go away!" cried the girl faintly, backing away from the vehement little man. "oh, do not be afraid! you are the honest kenway i am sure. you have queen alma's bracelet," urged the little man. "you will give her to me--yes?" "i--i haven't it," cried agnes, looking all about for help and seeing nobody near. "ha!" ejaculated the man. "you have not give it to beeg jeem?" "we have given it to nobody. and we will not let you or anybody have it until mr. howbridge tells us what to do. go away!" begged agnes. "i go to that man. he no have the queen alma bracelet. _you_ have it--" "just as sure as i get home," cried the frightened agnes, "i will send that bracelet down to the lawyer's office and they must keep it. it shall be in the house no longer! don't you dare come there for it!" she got past him then and ran as hard as she could along willow street. when she finally looked back she discovered that the man had not followed her, but had disappeared. "oh, dear me! i don't care what the children say. that bracelet goes into mr. howbridge's safe this very afternoon. neale must take it there for me," agnes kenway decided. she reached the side door of the corner house just as mrs. mccall entered the front door, having got off the car at the corner. the housekeeper came through the hall and into the rear premises a good deal like a whirlwind. she was so excited that agnes forgot her own fright and stared at the housekeeper breathlessly. "is it you home again, agnes kenway?" cried mrs. mccall. "well, thanks be for _that_. then you are all right." "why, of course! though he did scare me. but what is the matter with you, mrs. mccall?" "what is the matter wi' me? a plenty. a plenty, i tellit ye. if i had that jackanapes of a boy i'd shake him well, so i would!" "what has neale been doing now?" cried the girl. "not neale." "then is it sammy?" "nor sammy pinkney. 'tis that other lad that came here wi' a lying note tae get me clear across town for naething!" "why, mrs. mccall! what can you mean? did a boy fool you, too?" "hech!" the woman started and stared at the girl. "who brought you news of that little girl being sick?" "but she wasn't sick!" cried agnes. "that boy was an awful little story-teller." "ye was fooled then? that maria maroni--" "was not ill at all." "and," cried mrs. mccall, "that boy who brought a note to me from hedden never came from mr. howbridge's house at all. it nearly scar't me tae death! it said mr. howbridge was ill. he isn't even at home yet, and when mr. hedden heard from his master this morning he was all right--the gude mon!" "oh, mrs. mccall!" gasped agnes, gazing at the housekeeper with terrified visage. "what can it mean?" "somebody has foolit us weel," ejaculated the enraged housekeeper. "but why?" the woman turned swiftly. she had grown suddenly pale. she called up the back stairs for linda. a sleepy voice replied: "here i be, mum!" "where are the children? where are tess and dot?" demanded mrs. mccall, her voice husky. "they was in the yard, mum, the last i see of them." "that girl!" ejaculated the housekeeper angrily. "she neglects everything. if there's harm happened to those bairns--" she rushed to the porch. uncle rufus was coming slowly up from the garden, hoe and rake over his shoulder. it was evident that the old colored man had been working steadily, and for some time, among the vegetables. "oh, uncle rufus!" cried the excited woman. "ya-as'm! ya-as'm! i's a-comin'," said the old man rather querulously. "step here a minute," said mrs. mccall. "i's a-steppin', ma'am," grumbled the other. "does seem as though dey wants me for fust one t'ing an' den anudder. i don't no more'n git t'roo one chore den sumpin' else hops right out at me. lawsy me!" and he mopped his bald brown brow with a big bandanna. "i only want to ask you something," said the housekeeper, less raspingly. "are the little ones down there? have you seen them?" "them chillun? no'm. i ain't seen 'em fo' some time. they was playin' up this-a-way den." "how long ago?" "i done reckon it was nigh two hours ago." "hunt for them, agnes!" gasped the housekeeper. "i fear me something bad has happened. you, linda," for the finnish girl now appeared, "run to the neighbors--all of them! see if you can find those bairns." "tess and dottie, mum?" cried the finnish girl, already in tears. "oh! they ain't losted are they?" "for all _you_ know they are!" declared mrs. mccall. "look around the house for them, uncle rufus. i will look inside--" "they may be upstairs with aunt sarah," cried agnes, getting her breath at last. "i'll know that in a moment!" declared mrs. mccall, and darted within. agnes ran in the other direction. she felt such a lump in her throat that she could scarcely speak or breathe. the possibility of something having happened to the little girls--and with ruth away!--cost the second corner house girl every last bit of her self-control. "oh, neale! neale!" she murmured over and over again, as she ran to the lower end of the premises. she fairly threw herself at the fence and scrambled to her usual perch. there he was cleaning mr. con murphy's yard. "neale!" she gasped. at first he did not hear her, but she drubbed upon the fence with the toes of her shoes. "neale!" "why, hullo, aggie!" exclaimed the boy, turning around and seeing her. "oh, neale! come here!" he was already coming closer. he saw that again she was much overwrought. "what has happened now?" "have you seen tess and dot?" "not to-day." "i--i mean within a little while? two hours?" "i tell you i have not seen them at all to-day. i have been busy right here for con." "then they are gone! the gypsies have got them!" for agnes, without much logic of thought, had immediately jumped to this conclusion. neale stared. "what sort of talk is that, agnes?" he demanded. "you know that can't be so." "i tell you it is so! it must be so! they got mrs. mccall and me out of the house--" "who did?" interrupted neale, getting hastily over the fence and taking the girl's hand. "now, tell me all about it--everything!" as well as she could for her excitement and fear, the girl told the story of the boy who had brought her the false message about maria maroni, and then about the message mrs. mccall had received calling her across town. "it must be that they have kidnapped the children!" moaned agnes. "not likely," declared the boy. "the kids have just gone visiting without asking leave. in fact, there was nobody to ask. but i see that there is a game on just the same." he started hastily for the corner house and agnes trotted beside him. "but where _are_ tess and dot?" she demanded. "how do i know?" he returned. "i want to find out if there is something else missing." "what do you mean?" "that bracelet." "goodness, neale! is it that bracelet that has brought us trouble again?" "it looks like a plot all right to me. a plot to get you and mrs. mccall out of the house so that somebody could slip in and steal the bracelet. didn't that ever occur to you?" "goodness me, neale!" cried agnes again, but with sudden relief in her voice. "if that is all it is i'll be glad if the old bracelet is stolen. then it cannot make us any more trouble, that is one sure thing!" chapter xxiii--a surprising meeting tess and dot kenway, with no suspicion that anything was awaiting them save the possible loss of the silver bracelet, but otherwise quite enjoying the adventure, walked hurriedly along willow street as far as the brick-yard. that they were disobeying a strict injunction in taking the bracelet out of the house was a matter quite overlooked at the time. they came to the corner and there, sure enough, was a big, dusty automobile, with a big, dark man in the driver's seat. he smiled at the two little girls and tess remembered him instantly. "oh, dot!" she exclaimed, "it is the man we saw in this auto with the young gypsy lady when we were driving home with scalawag from mr. howbridge's the other day. don't you remember?" "yes," said dot, with a sigh. "i guess it is the same one. oh, dear, me!" for the nearer the time came to give up the silver bracelet, the worse dot felt about it. the big gypsy looked around at the two little girls and smiled broadly. "you leetle ladies tak' ride with beeg jeem?" he asked. "you go to see the poor gypsy women who let you have the fine bracelet to play with? yes?" "he knows all about it, tess," murmured dot. "yes, we will give them back the bracelet," tess said firmly to the gypsy man. "but we will not give it up to anybody else." "get right into my car," said big jim, reaching back to open the tonneau door. "you shall be taken to the camp and there find the ones who gave you the bracelet. sure!" there was something quite "grownupish" in thus getting into the big car all alone, and tess and dot were rather thrilled as they seated themselves on the back seat and the gypsy drove them away. fifteen minutes or so later agnes came to this very corner and had her unpleasant interview with miguel costello. but of course by that time the children were far away. the big gypsy drove them very rapidly and by lonely roads into a part of the country that tess and dot never remembered having seen before. whenever he saw anybody on the road, either afoot or in other cars, big jim increased his speed and flashed by them so that there was little likelihood of these other people seeing that the two little girls were other than gypsy girls. he did nothing to frighten tess and dot. indeed, he was so smiling and so pleasant that they enjoyed the drive immensely and came finally in a state of keen enjoyment to the camp which was made a little back from the highway. "well, if we have to give up the bracelet," sighed tess, as they got out of the car, "we can say that we have had a fine ride." "that is all right. but how will my alice-doll feel when she finds out she can't wear that pretty belt again?" said dot. there were many people in the camp, both men and women and children. the latter kept at a distance from tess and dot, but stared at them very curiously. they kept the dogs away from the visitors, too, and the little girls were glad of that. "where can we find the two ladies that--that sold us the basket?" asked tess politely, of big jim. "you look around, leetle ladies. you find," he assured them. there were four or five motor vans of good size in which the gypsies evidently lived while they were traveling. but there were several tents set up as well. it was a big camp. timidly at first the two sisters, hand in hand, the silver bracelet firmly clutched inside tess's dress against her side, began walking about. they tried to ask questions about the women they sought; but nobody seemed to understand. they all smiled and shook their heads. "dear me! it must be dreadful to be born a foreigner," dot finally said. "how can they make themselves understood _at all_?" "but they seem to be very pleasant persons," tess rejoined decidedly. the children ran away from them. perhaps they had been ordered to by the older gypsies. by and by tess, at least, grew somewhat worried when they did not find either of the women who had sold them the yellow and green basket. dot, secretly, hoped the two in question had gone away. suddenly, however, the two kenway girls came face to face with somebody they did know. but so astonished were they by this discovery that for a long minute neither could believe her eyes! "sammy pinkney!" gasped tess at last. "it--ain't--_never_!" murmured the smaller girl. the figure which had tried to dodge around the end of a motor van to escape observation looked nothing at all like the sammy pinkney the kenway girls had formerly known. never in their experience of sammy--not even when he had slipped down the chimney at the old corner house and landed on the hearth, a very sooty santa claus--had the boy looked so disgracefully ragged and dirty. "well, what's the matter with me?" he demanded defiantly. "why--why there looks to be most _every_thing the matter with you, sammy pinkney," declared tess, with disgust. "what _do_ you s'pose your mother would say to you?" "i ain't going home to find out," said sammy. "and--and your pants are all tored," gasped dot. "oh, that happened long ago," said sammy, quite as airy as the trousers. "and i'm having the time of my life here. nobody sends me errands, or makes me--er--weed beet beds! so there! i can do just as i please." "you look as though you had, sammy," was tess's critical speech. "i guess your mother wouldn't want you home looking the way you do." "i look well enough," he declared defiantly. "and don't you tell where i am. will you?" "but, sammy!" exclaimed dot, "you ran away to be a pirate." "what if i did?" "but you can't be a pirate here." "i can be a gypsy. and that's lots more fun. if i joined a pirate crew i couldn't get to be captain right away of course, so i would have to mind somebody. here i don't have to mind anybody at all." "well, i never!" ejaculated tess kenway. "well, i never!" repeated dot, with similar emphasis. "say, what are you kids here for?" demanded sammy, with an attempt to turn the conversation from his own evident failings. "oh, we were brought here on a visit," tess returned rather haughtily. "huh! you _was_? who you visiting? is aggie with you? or neale?" and he looked around suddenly as though choosing a way of escape. "we are here all alone," said dot reassuringly. "you needn't be afraid, sammy." "who's afraid?" he said gruffly. "you would be if neale was with us, for neale would make you go home," said the smallest kenway girl. "but who brought you? what you here for? oh! that old bracelet i bet!" "yes," sighed dot. "they want it back." "who want it back?" "those two ladies that sold us the basket," explained tess. "are they with this bunch of gypsies?" asked sammy in surprise. "i haven't seen them. and i've been here two whole days." "how did you come to be a gypsy, sammy?" asked dot with much curiosity. "why, i--er--well, i lost my clothes and my money and didn't have much to eat and that big gypsy saw me on the road and asked me if i wanted to ride. so i came here with him and he let me stay. and nobody does a thing to me. i licked one boy," added sammy with satisfaction, "so the others let me alone." "but haven't you seen either of those two ladies that sold us the basket?" demanded tess, beginning to be worried a little. "nope. i don't believe they are here." "but that man says they are here," cried tess. "let's go ask him. i--i won't give that bracelet to anybody else but one of those ladies." "crickey!" exclaimed sammy. "don't feel so bad about it. course there is a mistake somehow. these folks are real nice folks. they wouldn't fool you." the three, sammy looking very important, went to find big jim. he was just as smiling as ever. "oh, yes! the little ladies are not to be worried. the women they want will soon come." "you see?" said sammy, boldly. "it will be all right. why, these people treat you _right_. i tell you! you can do just as you please in a gypsy camp and nobody says anything to you." "see!" exclaimed tess suddenly. "are they packing up to leave? or do they stay here all the time?" it was now late afternoon. instead of the supper fires being revived, they were smothered. men and women had begun loading the heavier vans. the tents were coming down. clotheslines stretched between the trees were now being coiled by the children. all manner of rubbish was being thrown into the bushes. "i don't know if they are moving. i'll ask," said sammy, somewhat in doubt. he went to a boy bigger than himself, but who seemed to be friendly. the little girls waited, staring all about for the two women with whom they had business. "i don't care," whispered dot. "if they don't come pretty soon, and these gypsies are going away from here, we'll just go back home, tess. we _can't_ give them the bracelet if we don't see them." "but we do not want to walk home," her sister said slowly in return. "and we ought to make sammy go with us." "you try to _make_ sammy do anything!" exclaimed dot, with scorn. their boy friend returned, swaggering as usual. "well, they are going to move," he said. "but i'm going with them. that boy--he was the one i licked, but he's a good kid--says they are going to a pond where the fishing is great. wish i had my fishpole." "but you must come back home with us, sammy," began tess gravely. "not much i won't! don't you think it," cried sammy. "but you might get my fishing tackle and jointed pole and sneak 'em out to me. there's good kids!" "we will do nothing sneaky for you at all, sammy pinkney!" exclaimed tess indignantly. "aw, go on! you can just as easy." "we can, but we won't. so there! and if you don't go home with us when the man takes us back in his car we certainly will tell where you are." "be a telltale. _i_ don't care," cried sammy, roughly. "and i won't say just where we are going from here, so you needn't think my folks will find me." one of the closed vans--something like a moving van only with windows in the sides, a stove-pipe sticking out of the roof, and a door at the rear, with steps--seemed now to be ready to start. a man climbed into the front seat to drive it. several women and smaller children got in at the rear after the various bales and packages that had been tossed in. the big man suddenly shouted and beckoned to tess and dot. "here, little ladies," he said, still smiling his wide smile. "you come go wit' my mudder, eh? take you to find the gypsy women you want to see." "but--er--mr. gypsy," said tess, somewhat disturbed now, "we must go back home." "sure. tak' you home soon as you see those women and give them what you got for them." he strode across the camp to them. his smile was quite as wide, but did not seem to forecast as much good-nature as at first. "come now! get in!" he commanded. "hey!" cried sammy. "what you doing? those little girls are friends of mine. you want to let them ride in that open car--not in that box. what d'you think we are?" "get out the way, boy!" commanded big jim. he seized tess suddenly by the shoulders, swung her up bodily despite her screams and tossed her through the rear door of the gypsy van. dot followed so quickly that she could scarcely utter a frightened gasp. "hey! stop that! those are the kenway girls. why! mr. howbridge will come after them and he'll--he'll--" sammy's excited threat was stopped in his throat. big jim's huge hand caught the boy a heavy blow upon the side of his head. the next moment he was shot into the motor-van too and the door was shut. he heard tess and dot sobbing somewhere among the women and children already crowded into the van. it was a stuffy place, for none of the windows were open. although this nomadic people lived mostly out of doors, and never under a real roof if they could help it, they did not seem to mind the smothering atmosphere of the van which now, with a sudden lurch, started out of the place of encampment. "never you mind, tess and dot, they won't dare carry you far. maybe they are taking you home anyway," said sammy in a low voice. "the first time they stop and let us out we'll run away. i will get you home all right." "you--you can't get yourself home, sammy," sobbed dot. "maybe you like it being a gypsy, but we don't," added tess. "i'll fix it for you all right--" one of the old crones reached out in the semi-darkness and slapped sammy across the mouth. "shut up!" she commanded harshly. but when she tried to slap the boy again she screamed. it must be confessed that sammy bit her! "you lemme alone," snarled the boy captive. "and don't you hit those girls. if you do i--i'll bite the whole lot of you!" the women jabbered a good deal together in their own tongue; but nobody tried to interfere with sammy thereafter. he shoved his way into the van until he stood beside tess and dot. "let's not cry about it," he whispered. "that won't get us anywhere, that is sure. but the very first chance we get--" no chance for escape however was likely to arise while the gypsy troop were en route. the children could hear the rumble of the vans behind. soon big jim in his touring car passed this first van and shouted to the driver. then the procession settled into a steady rate of speed and the three little captives had not the least idea in which direction they were headed nor where they were bound. * * * * * back at the old corner house affairs were in a terrible state of confusion. linda had returned from her voyage among the neighbors with absolutely no news of the smaller girls. and agnes had discovered that the silver bracelet was missing. "it was tess's day for wearing it, but she did not have it on when she went out to play," the older sister explained. "do you suppose the house has been robbed, neale o'neil?" neale had been examining closely the piece of paper that agnes had found stuck to the plate on which she had fed the beggar girl the day before and also the note mrs. mccall had received purporting to come from mr. howbridge's butler. both were written in blue pencil, and by the same hand without any doubt. "it's a plot clear enough. and naturally we may believe that it was not hatched by that miguel costello, the junkman. it looks as though it was done by big jim's crowd." "but what have they done with the bairns?" demanded the housekeeper, in horror. "oh, neale! have they stolen tess and dot, as well as the silver bracelet?" was agnes' bitter cry. "got me. don't know," muttered the boy. "and what would they want the children for, anyway?" "let us find out if any gypsies have been seen about the house this afternoon," agnes proposed. "you see, neale. don't send linda." linda, indeed, was in a hopeless state. she didn't know, declared mrs. mccall, whether she was on her head or her heels! neale ran out and searched the neighborhood over. when he came back he had found nobody who had set eyes on any gypsies; but he had heard from mrs. pease that gypsies were camped out of town. the store man had told her so. "oh!" gasped agnes, suddenly remembering. "i heard about that. mrs. pinkney told me. they are on the buckshot road, out beyond where carrie poole lives. you know, neale." "sure i know where the poole place is," admitted neale. "we have all been there often enough. and i can get the car--" "do! do!" begged mrs. mccall. "you cannot go too quickly, neale o'neil. and take the police wi' ye, laddie!" "take me with you, neale!" commanded agnes. "we can find a constable out that way if we need one. i know mr. ben stryker who lives just beyond the pooles. and he is a constable, for he stopped the car once when i was driving and said he would have to arrest me if i did not drive slower." "sure!" said neale. "agnes knows all the traffic cops on the route, i bet. but we don't _know_ that the children have gone with the gypsies." "and we never will know if you stand here and argue. anyway, it looks as though the silver bracelet has been stolen by them." "or by somebody," granted the boy. "ne'er mind the bit bracelet," commanded the housekeeper. "find tess and dot. i am going to put on my bonnet and shawl and go to the police station mysel'. do you children hurry away in the car as you promised." it was already supper time, but nobody thought of that meal, unless it was aunt sarah. when she came down to see what the matter was--why the evening meal was so delayed--she found linda sobbing with her apron over her head in the kitchen and the tea kettle boiled completely dry. that was nothing, however, to the condition of affairs at one o'clock that night when ruth, with luke and cecile shepard, arrived at the old corner house. they had been delayed at the station half an hour while ruth telephoned for and obtained a comfortable touring car for her visitors and herself. agnes did not have to beg her older sister to put in a telephone. after this experience ruth was determined to do just that. the party arrived home to find the corner house lit up as though for a reception. but it was not in honor of their arrival. the telegram announcing ruth's coming had scarcely been noticed by mrs. mccall. mrs. mccall had recovered a measure of her composure and good sense; but she could scarcely welcome the guests properly. aunt sarah maltby had gone to bed, announcing that she was utterly prostrated and should never get up again unless tess and dot were found. linda and uncle rufus were equally distracted. "but where are agnes and neale?" ruth demanded, very white and determined. "what are they doing?" "they started out in the machine around eight o'clock," explained mrs. mccall. "they are searching high and low for the puir bairns." "all alone?" gasped ruth. "mr. pinkney has gone with them. and i believe they were to pick up a constable. that neale o'neil declares he will raid every gypsy camp and tramp's roost in the county. and sammy's father took a pistol with him." "and you let agnes go with them!" murmured ruth. "suppose she gets shot?" "my maircy!" cried the housekeeper, clasping her hands. "i never thought about that pistol being dangerous, any more than uncle rufus's gun with the broken hammer." chapter xxiv--the captives that ride, shut in the gypsy van, was one that neither tess nor dot nor sammy pinkney were likely soon to forget. the car plunged along the country road, and the distance the party traveled was considerable, although the direction was circuitous and did not, after two hours, take the gypsy clan much farther from milton than they had been at the previous camp. by eleven o'clock they pulled off the road into a little glade that had been well known to the leaders of the party. a new camp was established in a very short time. tents were again erected, fires kindled for the late supper, and the life of the gypsy town was re-begun. but sammy and the two little corner house girls were forbidden to leave the van in which they had been made to ride. big jim came over himself, banged sammy with his broad palm, and told him: "you keep-a them here--you see? if those kids get out, i knock you good. see?" sammy saw stars at least! he would not answer the man. there was something beside stubbornness to sammy pinkney. but stubbornness stood him in good stead just now. "don't you mind, tess and dot," he whispered, his own voice broken with half-stifled sobs. "i'll get you out of it. we'll run away first chance we get." "but it never does _you_ any good to run away, sammy," complained tess. "you only get into trouble. dot and i don't want to be beaten by that man. he is horrid." "i wish we could see those nice ladies who sold us the basket," wailed dot, quite desperate now. "i--i'd be _glad_ to give 'em back the bracelet." "sh!" hissed sammy. "we'll run away and we'll take the bracelet along. these gyps sha'n't ever get it again, so there!" "humph! i don't see what you have to say about _that_, sammy," scoffed tess. "if the women own it, of course they have got to have it. but i don't want that big jim to have it--not at all!" "he won't get it. you leave it to me," said sammy, with recovered assurance. the van door was neither locked nor barred. but if the children had stepped out of it the firelight would have revealed their figures instantly to the gypsies. either the women bending over the pots and pans at the fires or the children running about the encampment would have raised a hue and cry if the little captives had attempted to run away. and there were a dozen burly men sitting about, smoking and talking and awaiting the call to supper. this meal was finally prepared. the fumes from the pots reached the nostrils of tess, dot, and sammy, and they were all ravenously hungry. nor were they denied food. the gypsies evidently had no intention of maltreating the captives in any particular as long as they obeyed and did not try to escape. one young woman brought a great pan of stew and bread and three spoons to the van and set it on the upper step for the children. "you eat," said she, smiling, and the firelight shining on her gold earrings. "it do you goot--yes?" "oh, miss gypsy!" begged tess, "we want to go home." "that all right. beeg jeem tak-a you. to-morrow, maybe." she went away hurriedly. but she had left them a plentiful supper. the three were too ravenous to be delicate. they each seized a spoon and, as sammy advised, "dug in." "this is the way all gypsies eat," he said, proud of his knowledge. "sometimes the men use their pocket knives to cut up the meat. but they don't seem to have any forks. and i guess forks aren't necessary anyway." "but they are nicer than fingers," objected tess. "huh? are they?" observed the young barbarian. after they had completely cleared the pan of every scrap and eaten every crumb of bread and drunk the milk that had been brought to them in a quart cup, dot naturally gave way to sleepiness. she began to whimper a little too. "if that big, bad gypsy man doesn't take us home pretty soon i shall have to sleep here, sister," she complained. "you lie right down on this bench," said tess kindly, "and i will cover you up and you can sleep as long as you want to." so dot did this. but sammy was not at all sleepy. his mind was too active for that. he was prowling about the more or less littered van. "say!" he whispered to tess, "there is a little window here in the front overlooking the driver's seat. and it swings on a hinge like a door." "i don't care, sammy. i--i'm sleepy, too," confessed tess, with a yawn behind her hand. "say! don't _you_ go to sleep like a big kid," snapped the boy. "we've got to get away from these gyps." "i thought you were going to stay with them forever." "not to let that big jim bang me over the head. not much!" ejaculated sammy fiercely. "if my father saw him do that--" "but your father isn't here. if he was--" "if he was you can just bet," said sammy with confidence, "that big jim would not dare hit me." "i--i wish your father would come and take us all home then," went on tess, with another yawn. "well," admitted sammy, "i wish he would, too. crickey! but it's awful to have girls along, whether you are a pirate or a gypsy." "you needn't talk!" snapped tess, quite tart for her. "we did not ask to come. and you were here 'fore we got here. and now you can't get away any more than dot and i can." "sh!" advised sammy again, and earnestly. "i got an idea." "what is it?" asked tess, without much curiosity. "this here window in front!" whispered the boy. "we can open it. it is all dark at that end of the van. if we can slide out on to the seat we'll climb down in the dark and get into the woods. i know the way to the road. i can see a patch of it through the window. what say?" "but dot? she sleeps so hard," breathed tess. "we can poke her through the window on to the seat. then we will crawl through. if she doesn't wake up and holler--" "i'll stop her from hollering," agreed tess firmly. "we'll try it, sammy, before those awful women get back into the van." fortunately for the attempt of the captives their own supper had been dispatched with promptness. the gypsies were still sitting about over the meal when sammy opened that front window in the van. he and tess lifted dot, who complained but faintly and kept her eyes tightly closed, and pushed her feet first through the small window. the driver's seat was broad and roomy. the little girl lay there all right while first tess and then sammy crept through the window. it was dark here, and they could scarcely see the way to the ground. but sammy ventured down first, and after barking his shins a little found the step and whispered his directions to tess about passing dot down to him. they actually got to the ground themselves and brought the smallest corner house girl with them without any serious mishap. sammy tried to carry dot over his shoulder, but he could not stagger far with her. and, too, the sleepy child began to object. "sh! keep still!" hissed her sister in dot's ear. "do you want the gypsies to get you again?" she had to help sammy carry the child, however. dot was such a heavy sleeper--especially when she first went to sleep--that nothing could really bring her back to realities. the two stumbled along with her in the deep shadows and actually reached the woods that bordered the encampment. suddenly a dog barked. somebody shouted to the animal and it subsided with a sullen growl. but in a moment another dog began to yap. the guards of the camp realized that something was going wrong, although as yet none of the dogs had scented the escaping children exactly. "oh, hurry! hurry!" gasped tess. "the dogs will chase us." "i am afraid they will," admitted sammy. "we got to hide our trail." "how'll we do that, sammy?" gasped tess. "like the indians do," declared the boy. "we got to find a stream of water and wade in it." "but i've got shoes and stockings on. and mrs. mccall says we can't go wading without asking permission." "crickey! how you going to run away from these gypsies if you've got to mind what you're told all the time?" asked sammy desperately. "but won't the water be cold? and why wade in it, anyway?" "so the dogs can't follow our scent. they can't follow scent through water. come on. we got to find a brook or something." "there's the canal," ventured tess, in an awed whisper. "the canal, your granny!" exclaimed the exasperated boy. "that's over your head, tess kenway." "well! i don't know of any other water. oh! hear those dogs bark." "don't you s'pose i've got ears?" snapped sammy. "they sound awful savage." "yes. they've got some savage dogs," admitted the boy. "will they bite us? oh, sammy! will they bite us?" "not if they don't catch us," replied the boy, staggering on, bearing the heavier end of dot while tess carried her sister's feet. they suddenly burst through a fringe of bushes upon the open road. there was just starlight enough to show them the way. the dogs were still barking vociferously back at the gypsy camp. but there seemed to be no pursuit. "oh, my gracious! i've torn my frock," gasped tess. "do wait, sammy." the boy stopped. indeed he had to, for his own breath had given out. the three fell right down on the grass beside the road, and dot began to whimper. "you stop her, tess!" exclaimed sammy. "you said you could. she will bring those gypsies right here." "dot! dot!" whispered tess, shaking the smaller girl. "do you want to be a prisoner again? keep still!" "my--my knees are cold," whined dot. "je-ru-sa-lem!" gasped sammy explosively. "_now_ she's done it! we're caught again." he jumped to his feet, but not quickly enough to escape the outstretched hand of the figure that had suddenly appeared beside them. a dark face bent over the trio of frightened children. "he's a gyp!" cried sammy. "we're done for, tess!" chapter xxv--it must be all right as mrs mccall told ruth kenway when she arrived with luke and cecile at the old corner house, the other kenway sister and neale o'neil had not started out on their hunt for the gypsy encampment alone. mr. pinkney, hearing of the absence of the smaller girls, had volunteered to go with the searchers. "somehow, my wife feels that sammy may be with tess and dot," he explained to neale and agnes. "i never contradict her at such times. and perhaps he is. no knowing where that boy of mine is likely to turn up, anyway." "but you do not suppose for one instant, mr. pinkney, that sammy has come and coaxed my sisters to run away?" cried agnes from the tonneau, as the car started out through willow street. "i am not so sure about that. you know, he got dot to run away with him once," chuckled mr. pinkney. "this is nothing like that, i am sure!" declared agnes. "i am with you there, aggie," admitted neale. "i guess this is a serious affair. the gypsies are in it." between the two, the boy and the girl told mr. pinkney all about the silver bracelet and the events connected with it. the man listened with appreciation. "i don't know, of course, anything about the fight between the two factions of gypsies over what you call queen alma's bracelet--" "if it doesn't prove to be sarah turner's bracelet," interjected agnes. "yes. that is possible. they may have just found it--those gypsy women. and the story costello, the junkman, told us might be a fake," said neale. "however," broke in mr. pinkney again, "there is a chance that the bracelet was given to tess and dot for a different purpose from any you have suggested." "what do you mean by that?" asked neale and agnes in unison. "it is a fact that some gypsies do steal children. now, don't be startled! it isn't commonly done. they are often accused without good reason. but gypsies are always more or less mixed up with traveling show people. there are many small tent shows traveling about the country at this time of year." "like twomley & sorber's circus," burst out agnes. "smaller than that. just one-ring affairs. and the shows are regular 'fly-by-nights.' gypsies fraternize with them of course. and often children are trained in those shows to be acrobats who are doubtless picked up around the country--usually children who have no guardians. and the gypsies sometimes pick up such." "oh, but, mr. pinkney!" cried agnes, "we are so careful of tess and dot. usually, i mean. i don't know what ruth will say when she gets home to-night. it looks as though we had been very careless while she was gone." "i know what children have to go through in a circus," said neale soberly. "but why should the gypsies have selected tess and dot?" "because, you tell me, they were playing circus, and doing stunts at the very time the gypsy women sold them the basket." "oh! so they were," agreed agnes. "oh, neale!" "crickey! it might be, i suppose. i never thought of that," admitted the boy. he was carefully running the car while this talk was going on. he soon drove past the poole place and later stopped at a little house where the constable lived. mr. ben stryker was at home. it was not often that automobile parties called at his door. usually they did not want to see mr. stryker, who was a stickler for the "rules of the road." "what's the matter?" asked the constable, coming out to the car. "want to pay me your fine, so as not to have to wait to see the justice of the peace?" he said it jokingly. when he heard about the missing kenway children and of the reason to fear gypsies had something to do with it, he jumped into the car, taking mr. pinkney's place in the front seat beside neale. "i've had my eye on big jim costello ever since he has been back here," stryker declared. "i sent him away to jail once. he is a bad one. and if he is mixed up in any kidnapping, i'll put him into the penitentiary for a long term." "but of course we would not want to make them trouble if the children went to the camp alone," ventured agnes. "you know, they might have been hunting for the two women who sold them the basket." "those gypsies know what to do in such a case. they know where i live, and they should have brought the two little girls to me. i certainly have it in for big jim." but as we have seen, when the party arrived at the spot where the gypsies had been encamped, not a trace of them was left. that is, no trace that pointed to the time or the direction of their departure. "maybe these gypsies did not have a thing to do with the absence of tess and dot," whispered agnes. "and maybe they had everything to do with it," declared neale, aloud. "looks to me as though they had turned the trick and escaped." "and in those motor-vans they can cover a deal of ground," suggested mr. pinkney. agnes broke down at this point and wept. the constable had got out and with the aid of his pocket lamp searched the vicinity. he saw plainly where the vans had turned into the dusty road and the direction they had taken. "the best we can do is to follow them," he advised. "if i can catch them inside the county i'll be able to handle them. and if they go into the next county i'll get help. well search their vans, no matter where we catch them. all ready?" the party went on. to catch the moving gypsies was no easy matter. frequently mr. stryker got down to look at the tracks. this was at every cross road. fortunately the wheels of one of the gypsy vans had a peculiar tread. it was easy to see the marks of these wheels in the dust. therefore, although the pursuit was slow, they managed to be sure they were going right. from eleven o'clock until three in the morning the motor-car was driven over the circuitous route the nomad procession had taken earlier in the night. then they came to the new encampment. their approach was announced by the barking of the mongrel dogs that guarded the camp. half the tribe seemed to be awake when the car slowed down and stopped on the roadway. mr. stryker got out and shouted for big jim. "come out here!" said the constable threateningly. "i know you are here, and i want to talk with you, jim costello." "well, whose chicken roost has been raided now?" demanded big jim, approaching with his smile and his impudence both in evidence. "no chicken thievery," snapped stryker, flashing his electric light into the big gypsy's face. "where are those kids?" "what kids? i got my own--and there's a raft of them. i'll give you a couple if you want." big jim seemed perfectly calm and the other gypsies were like him. they routed out every family in the camp. the constable and neale searched the tents and the vans. no trace of tess and dot was to be found. "everything you lay to the poor gypsy," said big jim complainingly. "now it is not chickens--it is kids. bah!" he slouched away. stryker called after him: "never mind, jim. we'll get you yet! you watch your step." he came back to the kenway car shaking his head. "i guess they have not been here. i'll come back to-morrow when the gypsies don't expect me and look again if your little sisters do not turn up elsewhere. what shall we do now?" agnes was weeping so that she could not speak. neale shook his head gloomily. mr. pinkney sighed. "well," the latter said, "we might as well start for home. no good staying here." "i'll get you to milton in much shorter time than it took to get here," said the constable. "keep right ahead, mr. o'neil. we'll take the first turn to the right and run on till we come to hampton mills. it's pretty near a straight road from there to milton. and i can get a ride from the mills to my place with a fellow i know who passes my house every morning." neale started the car and they left the buzzing camp behind them. they had no idea that the moment the sound of the car died away the gypsies leaped to action, packed their goods and chattels again, and the tribe started swiftly for the state line. big jim did not mean to be caught if he could help it by constable stryker, who knew his record. the corner house car whirred over the rather good roads to hampton mills and there the constable parted from them. he promised to report any news he might get of the absent children, and they were to send him word if tess and dot were found. the car rounded the pond where sammy had had his adventure at the ice-house and had ruined his knickerbockers. it was a straight road from that point to milton. going up the hill beside the pond in the gray light of dawn, they saw ahead of them a man laboring on in the middle of the road with a child upon his shoulders, while two other small figures walked beside him, clinging to his coat. "there's somebody else moving," said mr. pinkney to agnes. "what do you know about little children being abroad at this time of the morning?" "shall we give them a lift?" asked neale. "only i don't want to stop on this hill." but he did. he stopped in another minute because agnes uttered a piercing scream. "oh, tessie! oh, dot! it's them! it's the children!" "great moses!" ejaculated mr. pinkney, forced likewise into excitement, "is that sammy pinkney?" the man carrying dot turned quickly. tess and sammy both uttered eager yelps of recognition. dot bobbed sleepily above the head of the man who carried her pickaback. "oh, agnes! isn't this my day for wearing that bracelet? say, isn't it?" she demanded. the dark man came forward, speaking very politely and swiftly. "it is the honest kenway--yes? you remember costello? i am he. i find your sisters with the bad gypsies--yes. then you will give me queen alma's bracelet--the great heirloom of our family? i am friend--i bring children back for you. you give me bracelet?" tess and dot were tumbled into their sister's arms. mr. pinkney jumped out of the car and grabbed sammy before he could run. costello, the junkman, repeated his request over and over while agnes was greeting the two little girls as they deserved to be greeted. finally he made some impression upon her mind. "oh, dear me!" agnes cried in exasperation, "how can i give it you? i don't know where it is. it's been stolen." "stolen? that beeg jeem!" again costello exploded in his native tongue. tess nestled close to agnes. she lifted her lips and whispered in her sister's ear: "don't tell him. he's a gypsy, too, though i guess he is a good one. i have got that bracelet inside my dress. it's safe." they did not tell costello, the junkman, that at this time. in fact, it was some months before mr. howbridge, by direction of the court, gave queen alma's bracelet into the hands of miguel costello, who really proved in the end that he had the better right to the bracelet that undoubtedly had once belonged to the queen of the spanish gypsies. it had not been merely by chance that the young gypsy woman who had sold the green and yellow basket to tess and dot had dropped that ornament into the basket. she had worn the bracelet, for she was big jim's daughter. without doubt it was the intention of the gypsies to engage the little girls' interest through this bracelet and get their confidence, to bring about the very situation which they finally consummated. one of the women confessed in court that they could sell tess and dot for acrobats. or they thought they could. the appearance of miguel costello in milton, claiming the rightful ownership of the silver bracelet, made the matter unexpectedly difficult for big jim and his clan. indeed, the kenways had much to thank miguel costello for. however, these mysteries were explained long after this particular morning on which the children were recovered. no such home-coming had ever been imagined, and the old corner house and vicinity staged a celebration that will long be remembered. luke shepard had been put to bed soon after his arrival. but he would not be content until he got up again and came downstairs in his bathrobe to greet the returned wanderers. agnes just threw herself into ruth's arms when she first saw her elder sister, crying: "oh! don't you _dare_ ever go away again, ruth kenway, without taking the rest of us with you. we're not fit to be left alone." "i am afraid some day, agnes, you will have to get along without me," said ruth placidly, but smiling into luke's eyes as she said it. "you know, we are growing up." "aggie isn't ever going to grow up," grumbled neale. "she is just a kid." "oh, is _that_ so, mr. smartie?" cried agnes, suddenly drying her eyes. "i'd have you know i am just as much grown up as you are." "oh, dear, me, i'm so sleepy," moaned dot. "i--i didn't sleep very well at all last night." "goodness! i should think sammy and i ought to be the ones to be sleepy. we didn't have any chance at all!" tess exclaimed. as for sammy, he was taken home by an apparently very stern father to meet a wildly grateful mother. mrs. pinkney drew the sting from all verbal punishment mr. pinkney might have given his son. "and the dear boy! i knew he had not forgotten us when i found he had taken that picture with him. did you, sammy?" "did i what, mom?" asked sammy, his mouth comfortably filled with cake. "that picture. you know, the one we all had taken down at pleasant cove that time. the one of your father and you and me that you kept on your bureau. when i saw that you had taken that with you to remember us by----" "oh, crickey, mom! buster, the bull pup, ate that old picture up a month ago," said the nonsentimental sammy. the end charming stories for girls the corner house girls series by grace brooks hill four girls from eight to fourteen years of age receive word that a rich bachelor uncle has died, leaving them the old corner house he occupied. they move into it and then the fun begins. what they find and do will provoke many a hearty laugh. later, they enter school and make many friends. one of these invites the girls to spend a few weeks at a bungalow owned by her parents, and the adventures they meet with make very interesting reading. clean, wholesome stories of humor and adventure, sure to appeal to all young girls. corner house girls. corner house girls at school. corner house girls under canvas. corner house girls in a play. corner house girls' odd find. corner house girls on a tour. corner house girls growing up. corner house girls snowbound. corner house girls on a houseboat. corner house girls among the gypsies. corner house girls on palm island. the corner house girls solve a mystery. barse & hopkins new york, n.y., newark, n.j. "the polly" series by dorothy whitehill polly pendleton is a resourceful, wide-awake american girl who goes to a boarding school on the hudson river some miles above new york. by her pluck and resourcefulness, she soon makes a place for herself and this she holds right through the course. the account of boarding school life is faithful and pleasing and will attract every girl in her teens. cloth, large mo. illustrated polly's first summer year at boarding school polly's summer vacation polly's senior year at boarding school polly sees the world at war polly and lois polly and bob polly's re-union polly's polly barse & hopkins publishers new york, n.y., newark, n.j. huckleberry finn by mark twain part . chapter xvi. we slept most all day, and started out at night, a little ways behind a monstrous long raft that was as long going by as a procession. she had four long sweeps at each end, so we judged she carried as many as thirty men, likely. she had five big wigwams aboard, wide apart, and an open camp fire in the middle, and a tall flag-pole at each end. there was a power of style about her. it amounted to something being a raftsman on such a craft as that. we went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up and got hot. the river was very wide, and was walled with solid timber on both sides; you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light. we talked about cairo, and wondered whether we would know it when we got to it. i said likely we wouldn't, because i had heard say there warn't but about a dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen to have them lit up, how was we going to know we was passing a town? jim said if the two big rivers joined together there, that would show. but i said maybe we might think we was passing the foot of an island and coming into the same old river again. that disturbed jim--and me too. so the question was, what to do? i said, paddle ashore the first time a light showed, and tell them pap was behind, coming along with a trading-scow, and was a green hand at the business, and wanted to know how far it was to cairo. jim thought it was a good idea, so we took a smoke on it and waited. there warn't nothing to do now but to look out sharp for the town, and not pass it without seeing it. he said he'd be mighty sure to see it, because he'd be a free man the minute he seen it, but if he missed it he'd be in a slave country again and no more show for freedom. every little while he jumps up and says: "dah she is?" but it warn't. it was jack-o'-lanterns, or lightning bugs; so he set down again, and went to watching, same as before. jim said it made him all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom. well, i can tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear him, because i begun to get it through my head that he was most free--and who was to blame for it? why, me. i couldn't get that out of my conscience, no how nor no way. it got to troubling me so i couldn't rest; i couldn't stay still in one place. it hadn't ever come home to me before, what this thing was that i was doing. but now it did; and it stayed with me, and scorched me more and more. i tried to make out to myself that i warn't to blame, because i didn't run jim off from his rightful owner; but it warn't no use, conscience up and says, every time, "but you knowed he was running for his freedom, and you could a paddled ashore and told somebody." that was so--i couldn't get around that noway. that was where it pinched. conscience says to me, "what had poor miss watson done to you that you could see her nigger go off right under your eyes and never say one single word? what did that poor old woman do to you that you could treat her so mean? why, she tried to learn you your book, she tried to learn you your manners, she tried to be good to you every way she knowed how. that's what she done." i got to feeling so mean and so miserable i most wished i was dead. i fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, and jim was fidgeting up and down past me. we neither of us could keep still. every time he danced around and says, "dah's cairo!" it went through me like a shot, and i thought if it was cairo i reckoned i would die of miserableness. jim talked out loud all the time while i was talking to myself. he was saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a free state he would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent, and when he got enough he would buy his wife, which was owned on a farm close to where miss watson lived; and then they would both work to buy the two children, and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd get an ab'litionist to go and steal them. it most froze me to hear such talk. he wouldn't ever dared to talk such talk in his life before. just see what a difference it made in him the minute he judged he was about free. it was according to the old saying, "give a nigger an inch and he'll take an ell." thinks i, this is what comes of my not thinking. here was this nigger, which i had as good as helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying he would steal his children--children that belonged to a man i didn't even know; a man that hadn't ever done me no harm. i was sorry to hear jim say that, it was such a lowering of him. my conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last i says to it, "let up on me--it ain't too late yet--i'll paddle ashore at the first light and tell." i felt easy and happy and light as a feather right off. all my troubles was gone. i went to looking out sharp for a light, and sort of singing to myself. by and by one showed. jim sings out: "we's safe, huck, we's safe! jump up and crack yo' heels! dat's de good ole cairo at las', i jis knows it!" i says: "i'll take the canoe and go and see, jim. it mightn't be, you know." he jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as i shoved off, he says: "pooty soon i'll be a-shout'n' for joy, en i'll say, it's all on accounts o' huck; i's a free man, en i couldn't ever ben free ef it hadn' ben for huck; huck done it. jim won't ever forgit you, huck; you's de bes' fren' jim's ever had; en you's de only fren' ole jim's got now." i was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. i went along slow then, and i warn't right down certain whether i was glad i started or whether i warn't. when i was fifty yards off, jim says: "dah you goes, de ole true huck; de on'y white genlman dat ever kep' his promise to ole jim." well, i just felt sick. but i says, i got to do it--i can't get out of it. right then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns, and they stopped and i stopped. one of them says: "what's that yonder?" "a piece of a raft," i says. "do you belong on it?" "yes, sir." "any men on it?" "only one, sir." "well, there's five niggers run off to-night up yonder, above the head of the bend. is your man white or black?" i didn't answer up prompt. i tried to, but the words wouldn't come. i tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it, but i warn't man enough--hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. i see i was weakening; so i just give up trying, and up and says: "he's white." "i reckon we'll go and see for ourselves." "i wish you would," says i, "because it's pap that's there, and maybe you'd help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. he's sick--and so is mam and mary ann." "oh, the devil! we're in a hurry, boy. but i s'pose we've got to. come, buckle to your paddle, and let's get along." i buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. when we had made a stroke or two, i says: "pap'll be mighty much obleeged to you, i can tell you. everybody goes away when i want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and i can't do it by myself." "well, that's infernal mean. odd, too. say, boy, what's the matter with your father?" "it's the--a--the--well, it ain't anything much." they stopped pulling. it warn't but a mighty little ways to the raft now. one says: "boy, that's a lie. what is the matter with your pap? answer up square now, and it'll be the better for you." "i will, sir, i will, honest--but don't leave us, please. it's the--the --gentlemen, if you'll only pull ahead, and let me heave you the headline, you won't have to come a-near the raft--please do." "set her back, john, set her back!" says one. they backed water. "keep away, boy--keep to looard. confound it, i just expect the wind has blowed it to us. your pap's got the small-pox, and you know it precious well. why didn't you come out and say so? do you want to spread it all over?" "well," says i, a-blubbering, "i've told everybody before, and they just went away and left us." "poor devil, there's something in that. we are right down sorry for you, but we--well, hang it, we don't want the small-pox, you see. look here, i'll tell you what to do. don't you try to land by yourself, or you'll smash everything to pieces. you float along down about twenty miles, and you'll come to a town on the left-hand side of the river. it will be long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help you tell them your folks are all down with chills and fever. don't be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter. now we're trying to do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us, that's a good boy. it wouldn't do any good to land yonder where the light is--it's only a wood-yard. say, i reckon your father's poor, and i'm bound to say he's in pretty hard luck. here, i'll put a twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it floats by. i feel mighty mean to leave you; but my kingdom! it won't do to fool with small-pox, don't you see?" "hold on, parker," says the other man, "here's a twenty to put on the board for me. good-bye, boy; you do as mr. parker told you, and you'll be all right." "that's so, my boy--good-bye, good-bye. if you see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them, and you can make some money by it." "good-bye, sir," says i; "i won't let no runaway niggers get by me if i can help it." they went off and i got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low, because i knowed very well i had done wrong, and i see it warn't no use for me to try to learn to do right; a body that don't get started right when he's little ain't got no show--when the pinch comes there ain't nothing to back him up and keep him to his work, and so he gets beat. then i thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on; s'pose you'd a done right and give jim up, would you felt better than what you do now? no, says i, i'd feel bad--i'd feel just the same way i do now. well, then, says i, what's the use you learning to do right when it's troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same? i was stuck. i couldn't answer that. so i reckoned i wouldn't bother no more about it, but after this always do whichever come handiest at the time. i went into the wigwam; jim warn't there. i looked all around; he warn't anywhere. i says: "jim!" "here i is, huck. is dey out o' sight yit? don't talk loud." he was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. i told him they were out of sight, so he come aboard. he says: "i was a-listenin' to all de talk, en i slips into de river en was gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come aboard. den i was gwyne to swim to de raf' agin when dey was gone. but lawsy, how you did fool 'em, huck! dat wuz de smartes' dodge! i tell you, chile, i'spec it save' ole jim--ole jim ain't going to forgit you for dat, honey." then we talked about the money. it was a pretty good raise--twenty dollars apiece. jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat now, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free states. he said twenty mile more warn't far for the raft to go, but he wished we was already there. towards daybreak we tied up, and jim was mighty particular about hiding the raft good. then he worked all day fixing things in bundles, and getting all ready to quit rafting. that night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away down in a left-hand bend. i went off in the canoe to ask about it. pretty soon i found a man out in the river with a skiff, setting a trot-line. i ranged up and says: "mister, is that town cairo?" "cairo? no. you must be a blame' fool." "what town is it, mister?" "if you want to know, go and find out. if you stay here botherin' around me for about a half a minute longer you'll get something you won't want." i paddled to the raft. jim was awful disappointed, but i said never mind, cairo would be the next place, i reckoned. we passed another town before daylight, and i was going out again; but it was high ground, so i didn't go. no high ground about cairo, jim said. i had forgot it. we laid up for the day on a towhead tolerable close to the left-hand bank. i begun to suspicion something. so did jim. i says: "maybe we went by cairo in the fog that night." he says: "doan' le's talk about it, huck. po' niggers can't have no luck. i awluz 'spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn't done wid its work." "i wish i'd never seen that snake-skin, jim--i do wish i'd never laid eyes on it." "it ain't yo' fault, huck; you didn' know. don't you blame yo'self 'bout it." when it was daylight, here was the clear ohio water inshore, sure enough, and outside was the old regular muddy! so it was all up with cairo. we talked it all over. it wouldn't do to take to the shore; we couldn't take the raft up the stream, of course. there warn't no way but to wait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the chances. so we slept all day amongst the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh for the work, and when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe was gone! we didn't say a word for a good while. there warn't anything to say. we both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rattlesnake-skin; so what was the use to talk about it? it would only look like we was finding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more bad luck--and keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep still. by and by we talked about what we better do, and found there warn't no way but just to go along down with the raft till we got a chance to buy a canoe to go back in. we warn't going to borrow it when there warn't anybody around, the way pap would do, for that might set people after us. so we shoved out after dark on the raft. anybody that don't believe yet that it's foolishness to handle a snake-skin, after all that that snake-skin done for us, will believe it now if they read on and see what more it done for us. the place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. but we didn't see no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours and more. well, the night got gray and ruther thick, which is the next meanest thing to fog. you can't tell the shape of the river, and you can't see no distance. it got to be very late and still, and then along comes a steamboat up the river. we lit the lantern, and judged she would see it. up-stream boats didn't generly come close to us; they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs; but nights like this they bull right up the channel against the whole river. we could hear her pounding along, but we didn't see her good till she was close. she aimed right for us. often they do that and try to see how close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel bites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs, and thinks he's mighty smart. well, here she comes, and we said she was going to try and shave us; but she didn't seem to be sheering off a bit. she was a big one, and she was coming in a hurry, too, looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it; but all of a sudden she bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth, and her monstrous bows and guards hanging right over us. there was a yell at us, and a jingling of bells to stop the engines, a powwow of cussing, and whistling of steam--and as jim went overboard on one side and i on the other, she come smashing straight through the raft. i dived--and i aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot wheel had got to go over me, and i wanted it to have plenty of room. i could always stay under water a minute; this time i reckon i stayed under a minute and a half. then i bounced for the top in a hurry, for i was nearly busting. i popped out to my armpits and blowed the water out of my nose, and puffed a bit. of course there was a booming current; and of course that boat started her engines again ten seconds after she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now she was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather, though i could hear her. i sung out for jim about a dozen times, but i didn't get any answer; so i grabbed a plank that touched me while i was "treading water," and struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. but i made out to see that the drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore, which meant that i was in a crossing; so i changed off and went that way. it was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so i was a good long time in getting over. i made a safe landing, and clumb up the bank. i couldn't see but a little ways, but i went poking along over rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and then i run across a big old-fashioned double log-house before i noticed it. i was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howling and barking at me, and i knowed better than to move another peg. chapter xvii. in about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting his head out, and says: "be done, boys! who's there?" i says: "it's me." "who's me?" "george jackson, sir." "what do you want?" "i don't want nothing, sir. i only want to go along by, but the dogs won't let me." "what are you prowling around here this time of night for--hey?" "i warn't prowling around, sir, i fell overboard off of the steamboat." "oh, you did, did you? strike a light there, somebody. what did you say your name was?" "george jackson, sir. i'm only a boy." "look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid--nobody'll hurt you. but don't try to budge; stand right where you are. rouse out bob and tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. george jackson, is there anybody with you?" "no, sir, nobody." i heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light. the man sung out: "snatch that light away, betsy, you old fool--ain't you got any sense? put it on the floor behind the front door. bob, if you and tom are ready, take your places." "all ready." "now, george jackson, do you know the shepherdsons?" "no, sir; i never heard of them." "well, that may be so, and it mayn't. now, all ready. step forward, george jackson. and mind, don't you hurry--come mighty slow. if there's anybody with you, let him keep back--if he shows himself he'll be shot. come along now. come slow; push the door open yourself--just enough to squeeze in, d' you hear?" i didn't hurry; i couldn't if i'd a wanted to. i took one slow step at a time and there warn't a sound, only i thought i could hear my heart. the dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind me. when i got to the three log doorsteps i heard them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting. i put my hand on the door and pushed it a little and a little more till somebody said, "there, that's enough--put your head in." i done it, but i judged they would take it off. the candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, and me at them, for about a quarter of a minute: three big men with guns pointed at me, which made me wince, i tell you; the oldest, gray and about sixty, the other two thirty or more--all of them fine and handsome --and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her two young women which i couldn't see right well. the old gentleman says: "there; i reckon it's all right. come in." as soon as i was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred it and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns, and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and got together in a corner that was out of the range of the front windows --there warn't none on the side. they held the candle, and took a good look at me, and all said, "why, he ain't a shepherdson--no, there ain't any shepherdson about him." then the old man said he hoped i wouldn't mind being searched for arms, because he didn't mean no harm by it--it was only to make sure. so he didn't pry into my pockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was all right. he told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but the old lady says: "why, bless you, saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and don't you reckon it may be he's hungry?" "true for you, rachel--i forgot." so the old lady says: "betsy" (this was a nigger woman), "you fly around and get him something to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls go and wake up buck and tell him--oh, here he is himself. buck, take this little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him up in some of yours that's dry." buck looked about as old as me--thirteen or fourteen or along there, though he was a little bigger than me. he hadn't on anything but a shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. he came in gaping and digging one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other one. he says: "ain't they no shepherdsons around?" they said, no, 'twas a false alarm. "well," he says, "if they'd a ben some, i reckon i'd a got one." they all laughed, and bob says: "why, buck, they might have scalped us all, you've been so slow in coming." "well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right i'm always kept down; i don't get no show." "never mind, buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have show enough, all in good time, don't you fret about that. go 'long with you now, and do as your mother told you." when we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a roundabout and pants of his, and i put them on. while i was at it he asked me what my name was, but before i could tell him he started to tell me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woods day before yesterday, and he asked me where moses was when the candle went out. i said i didn't know; i hadn't heard about it before, no way. "well, guess," he says. "how'm i going to guess," says i, "when i never heard tell of it before?" "but you can guess, can't you? it's just as easy." "which candle?" i says. "why, any candle," he says. "i don't know where he was," says i; "where was he?" "why, he was in the dark! that's where he was!" "well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?" "why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? say, how long are you going to stay here? you got to stay always. we can just have booming times--they don't have no school now. do you own a dog? i've got a dog--and he'll go in the river and bring out chips that you throw in. do you like to comb up sundays, and all that kind of foolishness? you bet i don't, but ma she makes me. confound these ole britches! i reckon i'd better put 'em on, but i'd ruther not, it's so warm. are you all ready? all right. come along, old hoss." cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk--that is what they had for me down there, and there ain't nothing better that ever i've come across yet. buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two young women. they all smoked and talked, and i eat and talked. the young women had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs. they all asked me questions, and i told them how pap and me and all the family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of arkansaw, and my sister mary ann run off and got married and never was heard of no more, and bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard of no more, and tom and mort died, and then there warn't nobody but just me and pap left, and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he died i took what there was left, because the farm didn't belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that was how i come to be here. so they said i could have a home there as long as i wanted it. then it was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and i went to bed with buck, and when i waked up in the morning, drat it all, i had forgot what my name was. so i laid there about an hour trying to think, and when buck waked up i says: "can you spell, buck?" "yes," he says. "i bet you can't spell my name," says i. "i bet you what you dare i can," says he. "all right," says i, "go ahead." "g-e-o-r-g-e j-a-x-o-n--there now," he says. "well," says i, "you done it, but i didn't think you could. it ain't no slouch of a name to spell--right off without studying." i set it down, private, because somebody might want me to spell it next, and so i wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like i was used to it. it was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. i hadn't seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so much style. it didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses in town. there warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them. there was a big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another brick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they call spanish-brown, same as they do in town. they had big brass dog-irons that could hold up a saw-log. there was a clock on the middle of the mantelpiece, with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front, and a round place in the middle of it for the sun, and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it. it was beautiful to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of these peddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape, she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she got tuckered out. they wouldn't took any money for her. well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock, made out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. by one of the parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other; and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't open their mouths nor look different nor interested. they squeaked through underneath. there was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spread out behind those things. on the table in the middle of the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges and peaches and grapes piled up in it, which was much redder and yellower and prettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because you could see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, or whatever it was, underneath. this table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around. it come all the way from philadelphia, they said. there was some books, too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table. one was a big family bible full of pictures. one was pilgrim's progress, about a man that left his family, it didn't say why. i read considerable in it now and then. the statements was interesting, but tough. another was friendship's offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry; but i didn't read the poetry. another was henry clay's speeches, and another was dr. gunn's family medicine, which told you all about what to do if a body was sick or dead. there was a hymn book, and a lot of other books. and there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too--not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an old basket. they had pictures hung on the walls--mainly washingtons and lafayettes, and battles, and highland marys, and one called "signing the declaration." there was some that they called crayons, which one of the daughters which was dead made her own self when she was only fifteen years old. they was different from any pictures i ever see before --blacker, mostly, than is common. one was a woman in a slim black dress, belted small under the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping willow, and her other hand hanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the picture it said "shall i never see thee more alas." another one was a young lady with her hair all combed up straight to the top of her head, and knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels up, and underneath the picture it said "i shall never hear thy sweet chirrup more alas." there was one where a young lady was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she had an open letter in one hand with black sealing wax showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a chain to it against her mouth, and underneath the picture it said "and art thou gone yes thou art gone alas." these was all nice pictures, i reckon, but i didn't somehow seem to take to them, because if ever i was down a little they always give me the fan-tods. everybody was sorry she died, because she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do, and a body could see by what she had done what they had lost. but i reckoned that with her disposition she was having a better time in the graveyard. she was at work on what they said was her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day and every night it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it done, but she never got the chance. it was a picture of a young woman in a long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had two arms folded across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two more reaching up towards the moon--and the idea was to see which pair would look best, and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as i was saying, she died before she got her mind made up, and now they kept this picture over the head of the bed in her room, and every time her birthday come they hung flowers on it. other times it was hid with a little curtain. the young woman in the picture had a kind of a nice sweet face, but there was so many arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to me. this young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to paste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out of the presbyterian observer, and write poetry after them out of her own head. it was very good poetry. this is what she wrote about a boy by the name of stephen dowling bots that fell down a well and was drownded: ode to stephen dowling bots, dec'd and did young stephen sicken, and did young stephen die? and did the sad hearts thicken, and did the mourners cry? no; such was not the fate of young stephen dowling bots; though sad hearts round him thickened, 'twas not from sickness' shots. no whooping-cough did rack his frame, nor measles drear with spots; not these impaired the sacred name of stephen dowling bots. despised love struck not with woe that head of curly knots, nor stomach troubles laid him low, young stephen dowling bots. o no. then list with tearful eye, whilst i his fate do tell. his soul did from this cold world fly by falling down a well. they got him out and emptied him; alas it was too late; his spirit was gone for to sport aloft in the realms of the good and great. if emmeline grangerford could make poetry like that before she was fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could a done by and by. buck said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. she didn't ever have to stop to think. he said she would slap down a line, and if she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. she warn't particular; she could write about anything you choose to give her to write about just so it was sadful. every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she would be on hand with her "tribute" before he was cold. she called them tributes. the neighbors said it was the doctor first, then emmeline, then the undertaker--the undertaker never got in ahead of emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was whistler. she warn't ever the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined away and did not live long. poor thing, many's the time i made myself go up to the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and i had soured on her a little. i liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let anything come between us. poor emmeline made poetry about all the dead people when she was alive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about her now she was gone; so i tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but i couldn't seem to make it go somehow. they kept emmeline's room trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked to have them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. the old lady took care of the room herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and read her bible there mostly. well, as i was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains on the windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles with vines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. there was a little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, i reckon, and nothing was ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing "the last link is broken" and play "the battle of prague" on it. the walls of all the rooms was plastered, and most had carpets on the floors, and the whole house was whitewashed on the outside. it was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was roofed and floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the middle of the day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. nothing couldn't be better. and warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too! chapter xviii. col. grangerford was a gentleman, you see. he was a gentleman all over; and so was his family. he was well born, as the saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the widow douglas said, and nobody ever denied that she was of the first aristocracy in our town; and pap he always said it, too, though he warn't no more quality than a mudcat himself. col. grangerford was very tall and very slim, and had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of red in it anywheres; he was clean shaved every morning all over his thin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may say. his forehead was high, and his hair was black and straight and hung to his shoulders. his hands was long and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it. he carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. there warn't no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud. he was as kind as he could be--you could feel that, you know, and so you had confidence. sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. he didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners --everybody was always good-mannered where he was. everybody loved to have him around, too; he was sunshine most always--i mean he made it seem like good weather. when he turned into a cloudbank it was awful dark for half a minute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week. when him and the old lady come down in the morning all the family got up out of their chairs and give them good-day, and didn't set down again till they had set down. then tom and bob went to the sideboard where the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till tom's and bob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said, "our duty to you, sir, and madam;" and they bowed the least bit in the world and said thank you, and so they drank, all three, and bob and tom poured a spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple brandy in the bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and buck, and we drank to the old people too. bob was the oldest and tom next--tall, beautiful men with very broad shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes. they dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman, and wore broad panama hats. then there was miss charlotte; she was twenty-five, and tall and proud and grand, but as good as she could be when she warn't stirred up; but when she was she had a look that would make you wilt in your tracks, like her father. she was beautiful. so was her sister, miss sophia, but it was a different kind. she was gentle and sweet like a dove, and she was only twenty. each person had their own nigger to wait on them--buck too. my nigger had a monstrous easy time, because i warn't used to having anybody do anything for me, but buck's was on the jump most of the time. this was all there was of the family now, but there used to be more --three sons; they got killed; and emmeline that died. the old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a hundred niggers. sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from ten or fifteen mile around, and stay five or six days, and have such junketings round about and on the river, and dances and picnics in the woods daytimes, and balls at the house nights. these people was mostly kinfolks of the family. the men brought their guns with them. it was a handsome lot of quality, i tell you. there was another clan of aristocracy around there--five or six families --mostly of the name of shepherdson. they was as high-toned and well born and rich and grand as the tribe of grangerfords. the shepherdsons and grangerfords used the same steamboat landing, which was about two mile above our house; so sometimes when i went up there with a lot of our folks i used to see a lot of the shepherdsons there on their fine horses. one day buck and me was away out in the woods hunting, and heard a horse coming. we was crossing the road. buck says: "quick! jump for the woods!" we done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves. pretty soon a splendid young man come galloping down the road, setting his horse easy and looking like a soldier. he had his gun across his pommel. i had seen him before. it was young harney shepherdson. i heard buck's gun go off at my ear, and harney's hat tumbled off from his head. he grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place where we was hid. but we didn't wait. we started through the woods on a run. the woods warn't thick, so i looked over my shoulder to dodge the bullet, and twice i seen harney cover buck with his gun; and then he rode away the way he come--to get his hat, i reckon, but i couldn't see. we never stopped running till we got home. the old gentleman's eyes blazed a minute--'twas pleasure, mainly, i judged--then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says, kind of gentle: "i don't like that shooting from behind a bush. why didn't you step into the road, my boy?" "the shepherdsons don't, father. they always take advantage." miss charlotte she held her head up like a queen while buck was telling his tale, and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. the two young men looked dark, but never said nothing. miss sophia she turned pale, but the color come back when she found the man warn't hurt. soon as i could get buck down by the corn-cribs under the trees by ourselves, i says: "did you want to kill him, buck?" "well, i bet i did." "what did he do to you?" "him? he never done nothing to me." "well, then, what did you want to kill him for?" "why, nothing--only it's on account of the feud." "what's a feud?" "why, where was you raised? don't you know what a feud is?" "never heard of it before--tell me about it." "well," says buck, "a feud is this way: a man has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills him; then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the cousins chip in--and by and by everybody's killed off, and there ain't no more feud. but it's kind of slow, and takes a long time." "has this one been going on long, buck?" "well, i should reckon! it started thirty year ago, or som'ers along there. there was trouble 'bout something, and then a lawsuit to settle it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot the man that won the suit--which he would naturally do, of course. anybody would." "what was the trouble about, buck?--land?" "i reckon maybe--i don't know." "well, who done the shooting? was it a grangerford or a shepherdson?" "laws, how do i know? it was so long ago." "don't anybody know?" "oh, yes, pa knows, i reckon, and some of the other old people; but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place." "has there been many killed, buck?" "yes; right smart chance of funerals. but they don't always kill. pa's got a few buckshot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't weigh much, anyway. bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and tom's been hurt once or twice." "has anybody been killed this year, buck?" "yes; we got one and they got one. 'bout three months ago my cousin bud, fourteen year old, was riding through the woods on t'other side of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blame' foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse a-coming behind him, and sees old baldy shepherdson a-linkin' after him with his gun in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the wind; and 'stead of jumping off and taking to the brush, bud 'lowed he could out-run him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more, the old man a-gaining all the time; so at last bud seen it warn't any use, so he stopped and faced around so as to have the bullet holes in front, you know, and the old man he rode up and shot him down. but he didn't git much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid him out." "i reckon that old man was a coward, buck." "i reckon he warn't a coward. not by a blame' sight. there ain't a coward amongst them shepherdsons--not a one. and there ain't no cowards amongst the grangerfords either. why, that old man kep' up his end in a fight one day for half an hour against three grangerfords, and come out winner. they was all a-horseback; he lit off of his horse and got behind a little woodpile, and kep' his horse before him to stop the bullets; but the grangerfords stayed on their horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he peppered away at them. him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crippled, but the grangerfords had to be fetched home--and one of 'em was dead, and another died the next day. no, sir; if a body's out hunting for cowards he don't want to fool away any time amongst them shepherdsons, becuz they don't breed any of that kind." next sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback. the men took their guns along, so did buck, and kept them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. the shepherdsons done the same. it was pretty ornery preaching--all about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith and good works and free grace and preforeordestination, and i don't know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the roughest sundays i had run across yet. about an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in their chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull. buck and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep. i went up to our room, and judged i would take a nap myself. i found that sweet miss sophia standing in her door, which was next to ours, and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft, and asked me if i liked her, and i said i did; and she asked me if i would do something for her and not tell anybody, and i said i would. then she said she'd forgot her testament, and left it in the seat at church between two other books, and would i slip out quiet and go there and fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody. i said i would. so i slid out and slipped off up the road, and there warn't anybody at the church, except maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any lock on the door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time because it's cool. if you notice, most folks don't go to church only when they've got to; but a hog is different. says i to myself, something's up; it ain't natural for a girl to be in such a sweat about a testament. so i give it a shake, and out drops a little piece of paper with "half-past two" wrote on it with a pencil. i ransacked it, but couldn't find anything else. i couldn't make anything out of that, so i put the paper in the book again, and when i got home and upstairs there was miss sophia in her door waiting for me. she pulled me in and shut the door; then she looked in the testament till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it she looked glad; and before a body could think she grabbed me and give me a squeeze, and said i was the best boy in the world, and not to tell anybody. she was mighty red in the face for a minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it made her powerful pretty. i was a good deal astonished, but when i got my breath i asked her what the paper was about, and she asked me if i had read it, and i said no, and she asked me if i could read writing, and i told her "no, only coarse-hand," and then she said the paper warn't anything but a book-mark to keep her place, and i might go and play now. i went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty soon i noticed that my nigger was following along behind. when we was out of sight of the house he looked back and around a second, and then comes a-running, and says: "mars jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp i'll show you a whole stack o' water-moccasins." thinks i, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday. he oughter know a body don't love water-moccasins enough to go around hunting for them. what is he up to, anyway? so i says: "all right; trot ahead." i followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the swamp, and waded ankle deep as much as another half-mile. we come to a little flat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and vines, and he says: "you shove right in dah jist a few steps, mars jawge; dah's whah dey is. i's seed 'm befo'; i don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'." then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees hid him. i poked into the place a-ways and come to a little open patch as big as a bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a man laying there asleep--and, by jings, it was my old jim! i waked him up, and i reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise to him to see me again, but it warn't. he nearly cried he was so glad, but he warn't surprised. said he swum along behind me that night, and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, because he didn't want nobody to pick him up and take him into slavery again. says he: "i got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so i wuz a considable ways behine you towards de las'; when you landed i reck'ned i could ketch up wid you on de lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when i see dat house i begin to go slow. i 'uz off too fur to hear what dey say to you--i wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but when it 'uz all quiet agin i knowed you's in de house, so i struck out for de woods to wait for day. early in de mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne to de fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can't track me on accounts o' de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me how you's a-gitt'n along." "why didn't you tell my jack to fetch me here sooner, jim?" "well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, huck, tell we could do sumfn--but we's all right now. i ben a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as i got a chanst, en a-patchin' up de raf' nights when--" "what raft, jim?" "our ole raf'." "you mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all to flinders?" "no, she warn't. she was tore up a good deal--one en' of her was; but dey warn't no great harm done, on'y our traps was mos' all los'. ef we hadn' dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night hadn' ben so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'. but it's jis' as well we didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed up agin mos' as good as new, en we's got a new lot o' stuff, in de place o' what 'uz los'." "why, how did you get hold of the raft again, jim--did you catch her?" "how i gwyne to ketch her en i out in de woods? no; some er de niggers foun' her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben', en dey hid her in a crick 'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout which un 'um she b'long to de mos' dat i come to heah 'bout it pooty soon, so i ups en settles de trouble by tellin' 'um she don't b'long to none uv um, but to you en me; en i ast 'm if dey gwyne to grab a young white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? den i gin 'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo' raf's 'ud come along en make 'm rich agin. dey's mighty good to me, dese niggers is, en whatever i wants 'm to do fur me i doan' have to ast 'm twice, honey. dat jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart." "yes, he is. he ain't ever told me you was here; told me to come, and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins. if anything happens he ain't mixed up in it. he can say he never seen us together, and it 'll be the truth." i don't want to talk much about the next day. i reckon i'll cut it pretty short. i waked up about dawn, and was a-going to turn over and go to sleep again when i noticed how still it was--didn't seem to be anybody stirring. that warn't usual. next i noticed that buck was up and gone. well, i gets up, a-wondering, and goes down stairs--nobody around; everything as still as a mouse. just the same outside. thinks i, what does it mean? down by the wood-pile i comes across my jack, and says: "what's it all about?" says he: "don't you know, mars jawge?" "no," says i, "i don't." "well, den, miss sophia's run off! 'deed she has. she run off in de night some time--nobody don't know jis' when; run off to get married to dat young harney shepherdson, you know--leastways, so dey 'spec. de fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour ago--maybe a little mo'--en' i tell you dey warn't no time los'. sich another hurryin' up guns en hosses you never see! de women folks has gone for to stir up de relations, en ole mars saul en de boys tuck dey guns en rode up de river road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him 'fo' he kin git acrost de river wid miss sophia. i reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty rough times." "buck went off 'thout waking me up." "well, i reck'n he did! dey warn't gwyne to mix you up in it. mars buck he loaded up his gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch home a shepherdson or bust. well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, i reck'n, en you bet you he'll fetch one ef he gits a chanst." i took up the river road as hard as i could put. by and by i begin to hear guns a good ways off. when i came in sight of the log store and the woodpile where the steamboats lands i worked along under the trees and brush till i got to a good place, and then i clumb up into the forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach, and watched. there was a wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of the tree, and first i was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was luckier i didn't. there was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the open place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside of the steamboat landing; but they couldn't come it. every time one of them showed himself on the river side of the woodpile he got shot at. the two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they could watch both ways. by and by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. they started riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle. all the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and started to carry him to the store; and that minute the two boys started on the run. they got half way to the tree i was in before the men noticed. then the men see them, and jumped on their horses and took out after them. they gained on the boys, but it didn't do no good, the boys had too good a start; they got to the woodpile that was in front of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the bulge on the men again. one of the boys was buck, and the other was a slim young chap about nineteen years old. the men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. as soon as they was out of sight i sung out to buck and told him. he didn't know what to make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. he was awful surprised. he told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the men come in sight again; said they was up to some devilment or other --wouldn't be gone long. i wished i was out of that tree, but i dasn't come down. buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and his cousin joe (that was the other young chap) would make up for this day yet. he said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or three of the enemy. said the shepherdsons laid for them in ambush. buck said his father and brothers ought to waited for their relations--the shepherdsons was too strong for them. i asked him what was become of young harney and miss sophia. he said they'd got across the river and was safe. i was glad of that; but the way buck did take on because he didn't manage to kill harney that day he shot at him--i hain't ever heard anything like it. all of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns--the men had slipped around through the woods and come in from behind without their horses! the boys jumped for the river--both of them hurt--and as they swum down the current the men run along the bank shooting at them and singing out, "kill them, kill them!" it made me so sick i most fell out of the tree. i ain't a-going to tell all that happened--it would make me sick again if i was to do that. i wished i hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. i ain't ever going to get shut of them--lots of times i dream about them. i stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down. sometimes i heard guns away off in the woods; and twice i seen little gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so i reckoned the trouble was still a-going on. i was mighty downhearted; so i made up my mind i wouldn't ever go anear that house again, because i reckoned i was to blame, somehow. i judged that that piece of paper meant that miss sophia was to meet harney somewheres at half-past two and run off; and i judged i ought to told her father about that paper and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would a locked her up, and this awful mess wouldn't ever happened. when i got down out of the tree i crept along down the river bank a piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and tugged at them till i got them ashore; then i covered up their faces, and got away as quick as i could. i cried a little when i was covering up buck's face, for he was mighty good to me. it was just dark now. i never went near the house, but struck through the woods and made for the swamp. jim warn't on his island, so i tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the willows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful country. the raft was gone! my souls, but i was scared! i couldn't get my breath for most a minute. then i raised a yell. a voice not twenty-five foot from me says: "good lan'! is dat you, honey? doan' make no noise." it was jim's voice--nothing ever sounded so good before. i run along the bank a piece and got aboard, and jim he grabbed me and hugged me, he was so glad to see me. he says: "laws bless you, chile, i 'uz right down sho' you's dead agin. jack's been heah; he say he reck'n you's ben shot, kase you didn' come home no mo'; so i's jes' dis minute a startin' de raf' down towards de mouf er de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en leave soon as jack comes agin en tells me for certain you is dead. lawsy, i's mighty glad to git you back again, honey." i says: "all right--that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll think i've been killed, and floated down the river--there's something up there that 'll help them think so--so don't you lose no time, jim, but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can." i never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in the middle of the mississippi. then we hung up our signal lantern, and judged that we was free and safe once more. i hadn't had a bite to eat since yesterday, so jim he got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage and greens--there ain't nothing in the world so good when it's cooked right--and whilst i eat my supper we talked and had a good time. i was powerful glad to get away from the feuds, and so was jim to get away from the swamp. we said there warn't no home like a raft, after all. other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. you feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft. chapter xix. two or three days and nights went by; i reckon i might say they swum by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. here is the way we put in the time. it was a monstrous big river down there--sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon as night was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up--nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and then cut young cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft with them. then we set out the lines. next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee deep, and watched the daylight come. not a sound anywheres--perfectly still --just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe. the first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line--that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn't make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness spreading around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along ever so far away--trading scows, and such things; and long black streaks --rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log-cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of the river, being a woodyard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet to smell on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they've left dead fish laying around, gars and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you've got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it! a little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take some fish off of the lines and cook up a hot breakfast. and afterwards we would watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by and by lazy off to sleep. wake up by and by, and look to see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing along up-stream, so far off towards the other side you couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she was a stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see--just solid lonesomeness. next you'd see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe a galoot on it chopping, because they're most always doing it on a raft; you'd see the axe flash and come down --you don't hear nothing; you see that axe go up again, and by the time it's above the man's head then you hear the k'chunk!--it had took all that time to come over the water. so we would put in the day, lazying around, listening to the stillness. once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things that went by was beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn't run over them. a scow or a raft went by so close we could hear them talking and cussing and laughing--heard them plain; but we couldn't see no sign of them; it made you feel crawly; it was like spirits carrying on that way in the air. jim said he believed it was spirits; but i says: "no; spirits wouldn't say, 'dern the dern fog.'" soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about the middle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wanted her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, and talked about all kinds of things--we was always naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us--the new clothes buck's folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides i didn't go much on clothes, nohow. sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybe a spark--which was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the water you could see a spark or two--on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from one of them crafts. it's lovely to live on a raft. we had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened. jim he allowed they was made, but i allowed they happened; i judged it would have took too long to make so many. jim said the moon could a laid them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so i didn't say nothing against it, because i've seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. we used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. jim allowed they'd got spoiled and was hove out of the nest. once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the river still again; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or something. after midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two or three hours the shores was black--no more sparks in the cabin windows. these sparks was our clock--the first one that showed again meant morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up right away. one morning about daybreak i found a canoe and crossed over a chute to the main shore--it was only two hundred yards--and paddled about a mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if i couldn't get some berries. just as i was passing a place where a kind of a cowpath crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men tearing up the path as tight as they could foot it. i thought i was a goner, for whenever anybody was after anybody i judged it was me--or maybe jim. i was about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and sung out and begged me to save their lives--said they hadn't been doing nothing, and was being chased for it--said there was men and dogs a-coming. they wanted to jump right in, but i says: "don't you do it. i don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've got time to crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways; then you take to the water and wade down to me and get in--that'll throw the dogs off the scent." they done it, and soon as they was aboard i lit out for our towhead, and in about five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the men away off, shouting. we heard them come along towards the crick, but couldn't see them; they seemed to stop and fool around a while; then, as we got further and further away all the time, we couldn't hardly hear them at all; by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us and struck the river, everything was quiet, and we paddled over to the towhead and hid in the cottonwoods and was safe. one of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald head and very gray whiskers. he had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses--no, he only had one. he had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags. the other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. after breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come out was that these chaps didn't know one another. "what got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to t'other chap. "well, i'd been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth--and it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with it--but i stayed about one night longer than i ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out when i ran across you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off. so i told you i was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter out with you. that's the whole yarn--what's yourn? "well, i'd ben a-running' a little temperance revival thar 'bout a week, and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for i was makin' it mighty warm for the rummies, i tell you, and takin' as much as five or six dollars a night--ten cents a head, children and niggers free--and business a-growin' all the time, when somehow or another a little report got around last night that i had a way of puttin' in my time with a private jug on the sly. a nigger rousted me out this mornin', and told me the people was getherin' on the quiet with their dogs and horses, and they'd be along pretty soon and give me 'bout half an hour's start, and then run me down if they could; and if they got me they'd tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. i didn't wait for no breakfast--i warn't hungry." "old man," said the young one, "i reckon we might double-team it together; what do you think?" "i ain't undisposed. what's your line--mainly?" "jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-actor --tragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there's a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecture sometimes--oh, i do lots of things--most anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. what's your lay?" "i've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. layin' on o' hands is my best holt--for cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and i k'n tell a fortune pretty good when i've got somebody along to find out the facts for me. preachin's my line, too, and workin' camp-meetin's, and missionaryin' around." nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and says: "alas!" "what 're you alassin' about?" says the bald-head. "to think i should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degraded down into such company." and he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag. "dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?" says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish. "yes, it is good enough for me; it's as good as i deserve; for who fetched me so low when i was so high? i did myself. i don't blame you, gentlemen--far from it; i don't blame anybody. i deserve it all. let the cold world do its worst; one thing i know--there's a grave somewhere for me. the world may go on just as it's always done, and take everything from me--loved ones, property, everything; but it can't take that. some day i'll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest." he went on a-wiping. "drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead; "what are you heaving your pore broken heart at us f'r? we hain't done nothing." "no, i know you haven't. i ain't blaming you, gentlemen. i brought myself down--yes, i did it myself. it's right i should suffer--perfectly right--i don't make any moan." "brought you down from whar? whar was you brought down from?" "ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes--let it pass --'tis no matter. the secret of my birth--" "the secret of your birth! do you mean to say--" "gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn, "i will reveal it to you, for i feel i may have confidence in you. by rights i am a duke!" jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and i reckon mine did, too. then the baldhead says: "no! you can't mean it?" "yes. my great-grandfather, eldest son of the duke of bridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. the second son of the late duke seized the titles and estates--the infant real duke was ignored. i am the lineal descendant of that infant--i am the rightful duke of bridgewater; and here am i, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heart-broken, and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!" jim pitied him ever so much, and so did i. we tried to comfort him, but he said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. he said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say "your grace," or "my lord," or "your lordship"--and he wouldn't mind it if we called him plain "bridgewater," which, he said, was a title anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done. well, that was all easy, so we done it. all through dinner jim stood around and waited on him, and says, "will yo' grace have some o' dis or some o' dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to him. but the old man got pretty silent by and by--didn't have much to say, and didn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was going on around that duke. he seemed to have something on his mind. so, along in the afternoon, he says: "looky here, bilgewater," he says, "i'm nation sorry for you, but you ain't the only person that's had troubles like that." "no?" "no you ain't. you ain't the only person that's ben snaked down wrongfully out'n a high place." "alas!" "no, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth." and, by jings, he begins to cry. "hold! what do you mean?" "bilgewater, kin i trust you?" says the old man, still sort of sobbing. "to the bitter death!" he took the old man by the hand and squeezed it, and says, "that secret of your being: speak!" "bilgewater, i am the late dauphin!" you bet you, jim and me stared this time. then the duke says: "you are what?" "yes, my friend, it is too true--your eyes is lookin' at this very moment on the pore disappeared dauphin, looy the seventeen, son of looy the sixteen and marry antonette." "you! at your age! no! you mean you're the late charlemagne; you must be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least." "trouble has done it, bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. yes, gentlemen, you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled, trampled-on, and sufferin' rightful king of france." well, he cried and took on so that me and jim didn't know hardly what to do, we was so sorry--and so glad and proud we'd got him with us, too. so we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to comfort him. but he said it warn't no use, nothing but to be dead and done with it all could do him any good; though he said it often made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated him according to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him, and always called him "your majesty," and waited on him first at meals, and didn't set down in his presence till he asked them. so jim and me set to majestying him, and doing this and that and t'other for him, and standing up till he told us we might set down. this done him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. but the duke kind of soured on him, and didn't look a bit satisfied with the way things was going; still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the duke's great-grandfather and all the other dukes of bilgewater was a good deal thought of by his father, and was allowed to come to the palace considerable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by and by the king says: "like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this h-yer raft, bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour? it 'll only make things oncomfortable. it ain't my fault i warn't born a duke, it ain't your fault you warn't born a king--so what's the use to worry? make the best o' things the way you find 'em, says i--that's my motto. this ain't no bad thing that we've struck here--plenty grub and an easy life--come, give us your hand, duke, and le's all be friends." the duke done it, and jim and me was pretty glad to see it. it took away all the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it, because it would a been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on the raft; for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right and kind towards the others. it didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn't no kings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. but i never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best way; then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble. if they wanted us to call them kings and dukes, i hadn't no objections, 'long as it would keep peace in the family; and it warn't no use to tell jim, so i didn't tell him. if i never learnt nothing else out of pap, i learnt that the best way to get along with his kind of people is to let them have their own way. chapter xx. they asked us considerable many questions; wanted to know what we covered up the raft that way for, and laid by in the daytime instead of running --was jim a runaway nigger? says i: "goodness sakes! would a runaway nigger run south?" no, they allowed he wouldn't. i had to account for things some way, so i says: "my folks was living in pike county, in missouri, where i was born, and they all died off but me and pa and my brother ike. pa, he 'lowed he'd break up and go down and live with uncle ben, who's got a little one-horse place on the river, forty-four mile below orleans. pa was pretty poor, and had some debts; so when he'd squared up there warn't nothing left but sixteen dollars and our nigger, jim. that warn't enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck passage nor no other way. well, when the river rose pa had a streak of luck one day; he ketched this piece of a raft; so we reckoned we'd go down to orleans on it. pa's luck didn't hold out; a steamboat run over the forrard corner of the raft one night, and we all went overboard and dove under the wheel; jim and me come up all right, but pa was drunk, and ike was only four years old, so they never come up no more. well, for the next day or two we had considerable trouble, because people was always coming out in skiffs and trying to take jim away from me, saying they believed he was a runaway nigger. we don't run daytimes no more now; nights they don't bother us." the duke says: "leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the daytime if we want to. i'll think the thing over--i'll invent a plan that'll fix it. we'll let it alone for to-day, because of course we don't want to go by that town yonder in daylight--it mightn't be healthy." towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the heat lightning was squirting around low down in the sky, and the leaves was beginning to shiver--it was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy to see that. so the duke and the king went to overhauling our wigwam, to see what the beds was like. my bed was a straw tick better than jim's, which was a corn-shuck tick; there's always cobs around about in a shuck tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and when you roll over the dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of dead leaves; it makes such a rustling that you wake up. well, the duke allowed he would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't. he says: "i should a reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten for me to sleep on. your grace 'll take the shuck bed yourself." jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute, being afraid there was going to be some more trouble amongst them; so we was pretty glad when the duke says: "'tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron heel of oppression. misfortune has broken my once haughty spirit; i yield, i submit; 'tis my fate. i am alone in the world--let me suffer; can bear it." we got away as soon as it was good and dark. the king told us to stand well out towards the middle of the river, and not show a light till we got a long ways below the town. we come in sight of the little bunch of lights by and by--that was the town, you know--and slid by, about a half a mile out, all right. when we was three-quarters of a mile below we hoisted up our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock it come on to rain and blow and thunder and lighten like everything; so the king told us to both stay on watch till the weather got better; then him and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the night. it was my watch below till twelve, but i wouldn't a turned in anyway if i'd had a bed, because a body don't see such a storm as that every day in the week, not by a long sight. my souls, how the wind did scream along! and every second or two there'd come a glare that lit up the white-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd see the islands looking dusty through the rain, and the trees thrashing around in the wind; then comes a h-whack!--bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum--and the thunder would go rumbling and grumbling away, and quit--and then rip comes another flash and another sockdolager. the waves most washed me off the raft sometimes, but i hadn't any clothes on, and didn't mind. we didn't have no trouble about snags; the lightning was glaring and flittering around so constant that we could see them plenty soon enough to throw her head this way or that and miss them. i had the middle watch, you know, but i was pretty sleepy by that time, so jim he said he would stand the first half of it for me; he was always mighty good that way, jim was. i crawled into the wigwam, but the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around so there warn't no show for me; so i laid outside--i didn't mind the rain, because it was warm, and the waves warn't running so high now. about two they come up again, though, and jim was going to call me; but he changed his mind, because he reckoned they warn't high enough yet to do any harm; but he was mistaken about that, for pretty soon all of a sudden along comes a regular ripper and washed me overboard. it most killed jim a-laughing. he was the easiest nigger to laugh that ever was, anyway. i took the watch, and jim he laid down and snored away; and by and by the storm let up for good and all; and the first cabin-light that showed i rousted him out, and we slid the raft into hiding quarters for the day. the king got out an old ratty deck of cards after breakfast, and him and the duke played seven-up a while, five cents a game. then they got tired of it, and allowed they would "lay out a campaign," as they called it. the duke went down into his carpet-bag, and fetched up a lot of little printed bills and read them out loud. one bill said, "the celebrated dr. armand de montalban, of paris," would "lecture on the science of phrenology" at such and such a place, on the blank day of blank, at ten cents admission, and "furnish charts of character at twenty-five cents apiece." the duke said that was him. in another bill he was the "world-renowned shakespearian tragedian, garrick the younger, of drury lane, london." in other bills he had a lot of other names and done other wonderful things, like finding water and gold with a "divining-rod," "dissipating witch spells," and so on. by and by he says: "but the histrionic muse is the darling. have you ever trod the boards, royalty?" "no," says the king. "you shall, then, before you're three days older, fallen grandeur," says the duke. "the first good town we come to we'll hire a hall and do the sword fight in richard iii. and the balcony scene in romeo and juliet. how does that strike you?" "i'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, bilgewater; but, you see, i don't know nothing about play-actin', and hain't ever seen much of it. i was too small when pap used to have 'em at the palace. do you reckon you can learn me?" "easy!" "all right. i'm jist a-freezn' for something fresh, anyway. le's commence right away." so the duke he told him all about who romeo was and who juliet was, and said he was used to being romeo, so the king could be juliet. "but if juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and my white whiskers is goin' to look oncommon odd on her, maybe." "no, don't you worry; these country jakes won't ever think of that. besides, you know, you'll be in costume, and that makes all the difference in the world; juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight before she goes to bed, and she's got on her night-gown and her ruffled nightcap. here are the costumes for the parts." he got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was meedyevil armor for richard iii. and t'other chap, and a long white cotton nightshirt and a ruffled nightcap to match. the king was satisfied; so the duke got out his book and read the parts over in the most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting at the same time, to show how it had got to be done; then he give the book to the king and told him to get his part by heart. there was a little one-horse town about three mile down the bend, and after dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea about how to run in daylight without it being dangersome for jim; so he allowed he would go down to the town and fix that thing. the king allowed he would go, too, and see if he couldn't strike something. we was out of coffee, so jim said i better go along with them in the canoe and get some. when we got there there warn't nobody stirring; streets empty, and perfectly dead and still, like sunday. we found a sick nigger sunning himself in a back yard, and he said everybody that warn't too young or too sick or too old was gone to camp-meeting, about two mile back in the woods. the king got the directions, and allowed he'd go and work that camp-meeting for all it was worth, and i might go, too. the duke said what he was after was a printing-office. we found it; a little bit of a concern, up over a carpenter shop--carpenters and printers all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. it was a dirty, littered-up place, and had ink marks, and handbills with pictures of horses and runaway niggers on them, all over the walls. the duke shed his coat and said he was all right now. so me and the king lit out for the camp-meeting. we got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping, for it was a most awful hot day. there was as much as a thousand people there from twenty mile around. the woods was full of teams and wagons, hitched everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs and stomping to keep off the flies. there was sheds made out of poles and roofed over with branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread to sell, and piles of watermelons and green corn and such-like truck. the preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only they was bigger and held crowds of people. the benches was made out of outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive sticks into for legs. they didn't have no backs. the preachers had high platforms to stand on at one end of the sheds. the women had on sun-bonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico. some of the young men was barefooted, and some of the children didn't have on any clothes but just a tow-linen shirt. some of the old women was knitting, and some of the young folks was courting on the sly. the first shed we come to the preacher was lining out a hymn. he lined out two lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of grand to hear it, there was so many of them and they done it in such a rousing way; then he lined out two more for them to sing--and so on. the people woke up more and more, and sung louder and louder; and towards the end some begun to groan, and some begun to shout. then the preacher begun to preach, and begun in earnest, too; and went weaving first to one side of the platform and then the other, and then a-leaning down over the front of it, with his arms and his body going all the time, and shouting his words out with all his might; and every now and then he would hold up his bible and spread it open, and kind of pass it around this way and that, shouting, "it's the brazen serpent in the wilderness! look upon it and live!" and people would shout out, "glory!--a-a-men!" and so he went on, and the people groaning and crying and saying amen: "oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black with sin! (amen!) come, sick and sore! (amen!) come, lame and halt and blind! (amen!) come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (a-a-men!) come, all that's worn and soiled and suffering!--come with a broken spirit! come with a contrite heart! come in your rags and sin and dirt! the waters that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open--oh, enter in and be at rest!" (a-a-men! glory, glory hallelujah!) and so on. you couldn't make out what the preacher said any more, on account of the shouting and crying. folks got up everywheres in the crowd, and worked their way just by main strength to the mourners' bench, with the tears running down their faces; and when all the mourners had got up there to the front benches in a crowd, they sung and shouted and flung themselves down on the straw, just crazy and wild. well, the first i knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear him over everybody; and next he went a-charging up on to the platform, and the preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and he done it. he told them he was a pirate--been a pirate for thirty years out in the indian ocean--and his crew was thinned out considerable last spring in a fight, and he was home now to take out some fresh men, and thanks to goodness he'd been robbed last night and put ashore off of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it; it was the blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he was a changed man now, and happy for the first time in his life; and, poor as he was, he was going to start right off and work his way back to the indian ocean, and put in the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else, being acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean; and though it would take him a long time to get there without money, he would get there anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to him, "don't you thank me, don't you give me no credit; it all belongs to them dear people in pokeville camp-meeting, natural brothers and benefactors of the race, and that dear preacher there, the truest friend a pirate ever had!" and then he busted into tears, and so did everybody. then somebody sings out, "take up a collection for him, take up a collection!" well, a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, "let him pass the hat around!" then everybody said it, the preacher too. so the king went all through the crowd with his hat swabbing his eyes, and blessing the people and praising them and thanking them for being so good to the poor pirates away off there; and every little while the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down their cheeks, would up and ask him would he let them kiss him for to remember him by; and he always done it; and some of them he hugged and kissed as many as five or six times--and he was invited to stay a week; and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said they'd think it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day of the camp-meeting he couldn't do no good, and besides he was in a sweat to get to the indian ocean right off and go to work on the pirates. when we got back to the raft and he come to count up he found he had collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. and then he had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found under a wagon when he was starting home through the woods. the king said, take it all around, it laid over any day he'd ever put in in the missionarying line. he said it warn't no use talking, heathens don't amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a camp-meeting with. the duke was thinking he'd been doing pretty well till the king come to show up, but after that he didn't think so so much. he had set up and printed off two little jobs for farmers in that printing-office--horse bills--and took the money, four dollars. and he had got in ten dollars' worth of advertisements for the paper, which he said he would put in for four dollars if they would pay in advance--so they done it. the price of the paper was two dollars a year, but he took in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on condition of them paying him in advance; they were going to pay in cordwood and onions as usual, but he said he had just bought the concern and knocked down the price as low as he could afford it, and was going to run it for cash. he set up a little piece of poetry, which he made, himself, out of his own head--three verses--kind of sweet and saddish--the name of it was, "yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart"--and he left that all set up and ready to print in the paper, and didn't charge nothing for it. well, he took in nine dollars and a half, and said he'd done a pretty square day's work for it. then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't charged for, because it was for us. it had a picture of a runaway nigger with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and "$ reward" under it. the reading was all about jim, and just described him to a dot. it said he run away from st. jacques' plantation, forty mile below new orleans, last winter, and likely went north, and whoever would catch him and send him back he could have the reward and expenses. "now," says the duke, "after to-night we can run in the daytime if we want to. whenever we see anybody coming we can tie jim hand and foot with a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and say we captured him up the river, and were too poor to travel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on credit from our friends and are going down to get the reward. handcuffs and chains would look still better on jim, but it wouldn't go well with the story of us being so poor. too much like jewelry. ropes are the correct thing--we must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards." we all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn't be no trouble about running daytimes. we judged we could make miles enough that night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the duke's work in the printing office was going to make in that little town; then we could boom right along if we wanted to. we laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn't hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it. when jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning, he says: "huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost any mo' kings on dis trip?" "no," i says, "i reckon not." "well," says he, "dat's all right, den. i doan' mine one er two kings, but dat's enough. dis one's powerful drunk, en de duke ain' much better." i found jim had been trying to get him to talk french, so he could hear what it was like; but he said he had been in this country so long, and had so much trouble, he'd forgot it. snow-white; or, the house in the wood by laura e. richards author of "captain january," "melody," "three margarets," "queen hildegarde," etc. boston dana estes & company publishers _copyright, _ by dana estes & company colonial press: electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u.s.a. to e. a. r. with affectionate greeting contents. chap. page i. the house ii. the child iii. the man iv. asking questions v. phillips; and a story vi. milking the cow vii. the story viii. the key of the fields ix. restored to life x. good-bye snow-white; or, the house in the wood. chapter i. the house. the house was so well hidden, one might almost stumble against it before one became aware of it. all round the woods stood tall and dense, old woods of pine and hemlock, with here and there great smooth, squat beeches, and ragged, glistening yellow birches. for the most part they jostled one another so close that one almost fancied they must be uncomfortable; but in one spot they fell away from a steep, rocky bank or ledge, drawing back and standing in a circle at some little distance, leaving an open space of sunny green, at the foot of the rock. it was on this open space that the house looked; and as the house was built of stone, and leaned up against the ledge behind it, one could hardly tell where man's hand had begun, or where left off. the stones might almost have been flung together by a boy at play; yet, rough as they were, they fitted close, and kept the weather out. the roof was of bark; the whole thing was half-covered with creepers that made their way down in a leisurely fashion from the ledge above, not too inquisitive, but still liking to know what was going on. to this end they looked in at the windows, which stood open all summer long, and saw many things which must have surprised them. the squirrels went in boldly, several times a day; so did the birds, the braver of them; and all came out looking pleased with themselves and with things in general. so there was necessarily something or somebody pleasant inside the house. i said that the trees stood well back from the house in the wood. i ought to have excepted three, a stately pine, and two glorious yellow birches, which stood close to it, as close as might be. in fact, part of the hut seemed to be built round the bole of the pine, which disappeared for several feet, as if the stones had clasped it in a rough embrace, and refused to let go their hold. the birches were a few feet from the door, but near enough for one to lean out of window and pull off the satin fringes. their roots swelled out above the ground, and twisted themselves into curves that might make a delightful seat, under the green bending canopy, through whose waving folds the trunk glistened like a giant prince of rags and tatters. in the centre of the tiny glade stood a buttonwood-tree, whose vast girth seemed curiously out of proportion to its surroundings. the pine and the birches were noble trees; all the forest round was full of towering stems and knotted, powerful branches; but beside the great buttonwood, they seemed like sturdy dwarfs. if there had been any one to measure the trunk, he would have found a girth of twenty-five feet or more, near the base; while above the surrounding forest, it towered a hundred feet and more in air. at a height of twelve or fifteen feet appeared an opening, two or three feet in diameter. a hollow? surely! not so large as that in the lycian plane-tree, where licinius mucianus dined with nineteen companions,--yes, and slept too, and enjoyed himself immensely,--but large enough to hold two or three persons with all comfort, if not convenience. as for the number of squirrels it might hold, that was past counting; they were running in and out all day long, and made such a noise that they disturbed the woodpeckers, and made them irritable on a hot day. there never was such a wood for birds! partly from its great age, partly from favourable accidents of soil and aspect, it had accumulated an unusual variety of trees; and any bird, looking about for a good building site, was sure of finding just the particular tree he liked best, with building materials, food, and every other requisite to heart's desire. so the trees rustled and quivered with wings, and rang with song, all day long, except in the hot sleepy noons, when most respectable birds keep within nests, and only the woodthrush from time to time sends out his few perfect notes, to show that all times are alike to the true singer. not content with the forest itself, some families--i think they were ruby-crowned wrens and bluebirds--had made their nests in the creepers that matted the roof of the hut with green; and the great buttonwood was a positive metropolis, densely populated with titmice, warblers, and flycatchers of every description. if anybody lived in the stone hut, he would not want for company, what with the birds and the squirrels, and the woodchucks that came and went across the little green as unconcernedly as if it were their own front dooryard. decidedly, the inhabitant, if there were one, must be of kin to the wildwood creatures, for his dwelling and its surroundings evidently belonged as much to the forest people as to him. on the day when my story begins, the house in the wood was the only lifeless thing, or so it seemed, in the whole joyous little scene. it was a day in early may, and the world was so delighted with itself that it laughed and twinkled all over. the trees were hardly yet in full leaf, but had the gray-green misty look of spring, that makes one see erl-könig's daughters shimmering in every willow, and rustling out of sight behind the white birch-trunks. the great buttonwood had put out its leaves, covered with thick white down; the air was full of sweet smells, for it had rained in the night, and wet leaves, pine needles, new ferns, and a hundred other lovely awakening things, made the air a life-giving ether. the little green was starred with anemones and eyebrights; under the cool of the trees one might see other things glimmering, exquisite shadowy forms,--hepaticas, were they, or fairies in purple and gray fur? one felt the presence of mayflowers, though one could not see them unless one went close and pulled away the brown dry leaves; then the lovely rosy creatures would peep out and laugh, as only mayflowers can when they play at hide and seek. there seemed to be a robin party going on under the buttonwood-tree. a dozen of them or more were running and hopping and strutting about, with their breasts well forward, doing amazing things in the matter of worms. yes, it must surely have rained in the night, or there could not have been such a worm-harvest. there seemed almost to be enough for the robins, and any one who knows robins is aware that this is an extravagant statement. the titmice had apparently not been invited; they sat in the branches and looked on, or hopped and ran about their green leafy city. there was no need for them to travel all that distance to the ground; besides, they considered worms vulgar and coarse food. a self-respecting titmouse, who provides over two hundred grubs a day for himself and his family, may well be content to live in his own city, the murmuring, rustling place where grubs lie close on the bough and under the bark, and where flies are ready for the bill; he has no need to pierce the friendly earth, and drag up her unsightly creeping things, to swallow piecemeal. a titmouse has his opinion of robins, though he is on intimate terms with most birds in the forest. now and then some sudden wave of instinct or purpose would run through all the great army of birds,--those in the buttonwood city, the robins struggling on the green, and far in the dim forest depths thrush and song-sparrow and warbler. first a stray note here and there, setting the pitch, it might be; then, fuller and fuller, a chorus, rising high and higher, fluting, trilling, whistling, singing away like mad, every little ruffled throat of them all. praise, was it, or profession of belief, or simply of joy of being alive and able to sing under green leaves and summer sun? but even these outbursts of rapture did not rouse the house in the wood. it lay there in the morning glory, gray, silent, senseless, crouched against the wall of rock behind it. chapter ii. the child. the child had grown tired of the road. at first it had been delightful to patter along in the soft white dust, leaving the print of her feet so clear behind her. she might be a hundred little girls, she thought, instead of one. the prints reached away back, as far as she could see, hundreds and hundreds of little trotty feet, each with its toes marked as plain as if you drew them with a pencil. and the dust felt soft and smooth, and when you put your foot down it went up puff in the air, and made little clouds; only when it got in your throat it made you cough and sneeze, and it was gritty in your eyes, too. by and by, as i said, she grew tired of this, and it was a new joy to see the little river that came running along just then. "running and running, without any feet; running and running, and isn't it sweet!" that was what the child sang, for she had a way of singing when she was alone. without hesitating, she plumped into the river, and the water was cool and delicious to her hot little toes. she walked along, holding her petticoats high, though there was no need of that, as they were short enough before; splashing just enough to make silver sparkles at every step. the river did not seem to grow deeper; it was just precisely made to wade in, the child thought. for some way the banks were fringed with meadow-rue, and she had to stop every little while to admire the fluffy white blossoms, and the slender, graceful stems. then came alders, stubby and thick, with last year's berries still clinging here and there to the black twigs. then, somehow, all at once there began to be trees along by the river side. the child had been so absorbed in making sparkles and shouting at them, she had forgotten the banks for awhile; now, when she looked up, there was no more meadow-rue. trees came crowding down to the water's edge; trees were all about her, ranks upon ranks of them; wherever she looked, she saw only green rustling tents and waving curtains. "i am in a woods!" said the child. she laughed aloud at the idea, and looked round again, full of joy and wonder. it was pretty enough, surely. the woods were not so thick but that sunbeams could find their way down through the branches, dappling the green gloom with fairy gold. here and there the gold lay on the river, too, and that was a wonderful thing, handfuls of gold and diamonds flung down from the sky, shimmering and sparkling on a crystal floor; but in other places the water slept still and black in the shadow, only broken where a stone humped itself out, shining and mossy, with the silver breaking over it and running down with cheerful babblings into the soft blackness below. by and by there was a stone so big that its top stood out dry and brown above the water. it was a flat top, and the child sat down on it, and gathered her petticoats about her, and let her feet rest in the cool flowing. that was a great pleasure, to be really part of the brook, or of the rock. she laughed aloud, suddenly, and kicked a little; till the bright drops flew over her head; then she began to sing and talk, both together. "and i comed away, and i runned away, and i said i thought i did not _want_ to stay! "well, and if miss tyler won't be surprised! she will say 'oh, dear me! where _is_ that child?' and then she will look everywhere, and everywhere, _and_ everywhere, and i won't be nowhere!" she broke out into a funny little bubbling laugh, and the brook laughed in almost exactly the same way, so that the child nodded at it, and kicked up the sparkles again, to show her appreciation. "and then they will send out all over the village, and everybody will say, 'oh, yes, we seed that child. we seed her going into the store, and we seed her going into the house, and we seed her running about all over the place.' yes! but, nobody seed me run, and nobody seed me go, and nobody don't know nothing, and nothing don't nobody know!" and she bubbled again. this time a green frog came up out of the water and looked at her, and said "croak," in an inquisitive tone. "why did i?" said the child, looking at him sidewise. "well, if i tell, won't you tell anybody, never no more? honest injun? well, then, i won't tell you! i don't tell things to frogs!" she splashed a great splash, and the frog departed in anger. "huh!" said the child. "he was noffin but an old frog. he wasn't a fairy; though there _was_ the frog prince, you know." she frowned thoughtfully, but soon shook her head. "no, that wasn't him, i'm sure it wasn't. he'd have had gold spots on his green, and this frog hadn't a single one, he hadn't. he wasn't a prince; i'd know a frog that was a prince, minute i seed him, i 'spect. and he'd say: "'king's daughter youngest, open the door!' "and then i would, and he would come in, and--and--i'd put him in miss tyler's plate, and wouldn't she yellup and jump? and mamma--" here the child suddenly looked grave. "mamma!" she repeated, "mamma. well, she went away and left me first, and that was how it was. when you leave this kinds of child alone, it runs away, that's what it does; and miss tylers isn't any kind of persons to leave this kinds of child wiz, anyhow, and so i told them at first. "and i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said i thought i did not _want_ to stay! and they teared their hair, and they made despair, and--and-- and i said i thought perhaps i did not care! "that's a long one. when i come to some fairies i'll make more. when i am big, i'll talk that way all the time, wiz poetry in it." she was silent for a few minutes, watching the bubbles that came sailing down the stream. most of the way they were clear like glass, with a little rim of foam where they joined on, she thought; but when they came to a certain place, where a shaft of yellow light came down and made sparkles on the water, every bubble turned rainbow colour, most beautiful. only, some of them would go the wrong way, over into the shadow. "hi!" she shouted to them. "come over here and be rainbows! you are a stupid, you are! if i was a bubble, i would know enough to come to the right place, and be a rainbow, yes, i would. i'll kick you, old bubble, if you go there!" stretching out her foot, she stretched it a little too far, and sat down in the stream with a souse. she scrambled out hastily, but this time on the bank. she had had enough of the brook, and was red with anger. "you needn't have your old stones so slippery!" she said. "i needn't have sat on your old stone, anyhow, but i thought it might be pleased. and my feet was cold, and i won't stay there any more, not a single minute, so you can make all the noise you want to, and noffin but frogs will stay in you, and not prince frogs one bit, only just common ones, so now!" she shook her head at the brook, and turned away. then she turned back again, and her baby forehead clouded. "see here!" said the child. "i 'spect i'm lost." there seemed no doubt about that. there was no sign of a path anywhere. the still trees came crowding down to the water's edge, sometimes leaning far over, so that their drooping branches met across the still pools. on every side were green arcades, long reaches of shimmering leaves, cool deeps of fern; nothing else. the child had never known fear, and it did not come to her now. she reflected for a moment; then her brow cleared. "i must find a house in the wood!" she announced to the brook. she spoke with decision, and cheerfulness reigned in her mind. of course there was a house somewhere; there always was, in every wood. sometimes two children lived in it, and the brother was a white fawn all day, and turned into a boy at night; that would be fun! and sometimes it was an old woman--oh, dear, yes, but sometimes that old woman was a witch, and put you in a chicken-coop, and ate you up when you were fat. yes; but you would know that house, because it was all made of candy and pancakes and things, and you could just run round behind it, and pull off some pancakes from the shed, p'r'aps, and then run away as fast as ever you could, and old womans couldn't run half so fast as children, and so! but the best house, on the whole, would be the dwarf house. yes, that was the one to look for. the house where seven dwarfs lived, and they had the table all ready set when you came, and you took a little out of one bowl, and a little out of another cup; and then they came in and found you asleep, and said, "who is this sweet maiden?" and then you stayed and cooked for them, just like snow-white, and--and--it was just lovely! "well, i wish it would be pretty soon!" said the child. "i'm pretty hungry, i 'spect p'raps." she was a brave child; she was hungry, and her legs and feet ached; but she pushed on cheerfully, sometimes talking and singing, sometimes silent, making her way through the tangle of ferns and hanging branches; following the brook, because there was a little boy in the newspaper that her papa read, and he got lost, and just he followed the brook, and it brought him right along to where there were people, and he had blackberries all the way. she looked for blackberries, but they are hard to find in early may, except in the fairy books. there, as the child knew very well, you had only to go to the right place and take a broom and brush away the snow, and there you found strawberries, the finest that ever were seen, to take home to your sick sister. it was true that you had to be very good and polite to the proper old woman, or else you would never find the strawberries; but the child would be polite, she truly would. she would sweep the old woman's house, and give her half her own bread--only she had no bread! here a great pang of emptiness smote the child; she felt that there was a sob about somewhere, waiting to get into her throat. it should not come in; she shook her head, and pressed on. it was all right; god was close by, anyhow, and he had to take care of children, because he said he would. so it was all right, only-- suddenly the child stopped; for it _was_ all right. she had found the house in the wood. standing breast-high in ferns, she looked away from the brook; and there was a break in the trees, and beyond the break a space of sunny green, with a huge tree in the middle; and on the farther side the house itself. gray and silent; leaning against a great rock-face behind it; the door shut, but the windows standing wide open; the roof all green and blossoming, like a queer little garden place,--there it was, exactly the way it was in the fairy books. the child saw at once that there was no danger of cannibal old women here. this house was not made of pancakes, and the windows were not barley sugar at all, but plain glass. no, this was the house of the seven dwarfs; and she was really in a fairy story, and she was going to have the best time she had ever had in her life. the child stood quiet for a few minutes, looking in pure delight. perhaps one of the dwarfs would come out. she thought she might feel a little shy if one were to come out just this very minute. then she remembered that they must all be out at work in the forest, for they always were, and they did not come back till night. "well, i can't wait!" she said, decidedly. "first place, snow-white didn't, not a minute she didn't wait. and besides, i'm too hungry, and i s'pose everything is ready and waiting inside, and so i'll go." she advanced boldly across the green, but paused again at the door. no sound came from the house. the creepers waved on the roof, the birds made an amazed and amazing chatter in the great buttonwood-tree; but that was all. the child pushed the door, the latch yielded, and the door swung slowly open. two steps, and she stood inside. even the very bravest child may be excused for feeling a little strange in such a house as this. she felt her heart beating in her ears, and her throat was dry; but as she looked about her, everything was so perfectly right that her sense of fitness asserted itself once more, and she was content and glad. the room in which she stood was not large, except for dwarfs; for them it would be a great hall. it was floored and walled with clean, shining wood, and there were two doors, one at either end. there was an open fire-place, in which two black iron dogs with curly tails held up some logs of wood that were smouldering and purring in a comfortable way, as if they had been lighted more for pleasure than for warmth. near the fire stood an easy-chair, and another chair was drawn up by a table that stood in the window. it was on seeing this table that the child began to fear all was not quite right. it was a neat little table, just about high enough for dwarfs, if they were not very short dwarfs; it was laid with a snowy cloth, as they always are; but--where were the seven places? there was only one at this table. there was a plate, a knife and fork, a cup and saucer, a little loaf of bread and a little pat of butter, a pitcher of milk, and a comb of golden honey. what did this mean? "well, i can't help it," said the child, suddenly. "if they is gone away all but one of them, i can't help it; they shouldn't play that way, and i'm hungry. just i'll take a little bit, as snow-white did. just that's what i'll do!" she seated herself at the table, and poured some milk into the cup. oh, how good it was! she broke off a bit of bread, and nibbled it; her spirits rose, and she began to feel again that she was having the most splendid time that ever was. she broke out into her song-- "and i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said i thought i did not--" then she stopped, for the door of the further room opened quietly, and the dwarf came in. chapter iii. the man. the child's song broke off in a little scream, for things are sometimes startling even when you have been expecting them; but the scream bubbled into a laugh. "ah! i--i mean i'm laughing because you look so funny. i took some bread and milk because i was hungry." she stopped abruptly, feeling that sob somewhere about her again. the dwarf advanced toward her, and she held on to the back of the chair; but he held out his hand and smiled. "how do you do?" he said. "i am very glad to see you; pray sit down again and finish your supper." "it's your supper," said the child, who was honest. "i didn't mean to steal it; i don't know p'r'aps there isn't enough for both of us." she had a way of leaving out words in her sentences that sometimes confused people, but the dwarf seemed to understand. "there's plenty for both!" he said. "come! i'll sit down here, and you shall give me some milk. i am hungry, too. have some honey!" he nodded at her, and smiled again; he had the most delightful smile the child had ever seen. somebody once said you could warm yourself at it as at a fire. the child took a piece of bread, and looked at him over it as she nibbled. he was not a tiny dwarf, not one of the kind that get into flowers, and fight with grass-blades, and that sort of thing. no, indeed! he was just a little man; why, he was taller than she was, though not so very much taller. he had brown hair and a soft brown beard; his eyes were brown, too, and full of light. all brown and gray, for his dress was gray and soft, "kind of humplety velvet," the child said to herself, though it was really only corduroy. he seemed all of a piece with the house, and the gray rock behind it. now he looked at her, and smiled again. "you look as if you were wondering something very much," he said. "have some more milk! what are you wondering?" "partly i was wondering where the rest of you was!" said the child. "the rest of me?" said the man. "there isn't any more of me. this is all there is. don't you think it's enough?" he smiled still, but this time it was only his mouth, and his eyes looked dark, as if something hurt him. "i mean the others," the child explained. "the rest of the seven. i guess it's six, p'r'aps. there was seven of 'em where snow-white came to, you know." "seven what?" asked the man. "dwarfs!" said the child. "oh!" said the man. he was silent for a moment, as if he were thinking; then he laughed, and the child laughed, too. "isn't it funny?" she said. "what are you laughing at?" "yes, it is funny!" said the man. "why, you are just like snow-white, aren't you? but there aren't any more dwarfs. i'm the only one there is here." the child thought that was a pity. "you could have much more fun if there were seven of you," she said. "why don't you get some more?" then suddenly recollecting herself, she added, hastily, "i never did cook, but i can stir porridge, and dust i can, too, and i 'spect i could make your bed, 'cause it wouldn't be so big, you see. i tried to make beds, but i get all mixed up in the sheets, and the blankets are horrid, and i never know which is the wrong side of the spread. so you see!" "i see!" said the man. "but i 'spect i could make yours, don't you? should you mind if once i didn't get the spread right, you know?" "not a bit. besides, i don't like spreads. we'll throw it away." "oh, let's!" said the child. "hurrah! do you say hurrah?" "hurrah!" said the man. "do you mind if i smoke a pipe?" no, the child did not mind at all. so he brought a most beautiful pipe, and filled and lighted it; then he sat down, and looked at the child thoughtfully. "i suppose you ought to tell me where you came from," he said. "it isn't half so much fun, but i suppose they will be missing you at home, don't you? your mamma--" the child hastened to explain. her mamma was away, had gone quite away with her papa, and left her, the child, alone with miss tyler and the nurse. now miss tyler was no kinds of a person to leave a child wiz; she poked and she fussed, and she said it was shocking whenever you did anything, but just anything at all except sit still and learn hymns. "i hate hymns!" said the child. "so do i!" said the man, fervently. "it's a pity about miss tyler. where is it you came from, snow-white?" "oh! it's somewhere else; a long way off. i can't go back there. dwarfs never send people back there; they let them stay and do the work. and i'm almost as big as you are!" the child ended, with a little quaver. "so you are," said the man. "now we'll wash the dishes, and forget all about it for to-night, anyhow." it was glorious fun washing the dishes, such pretty dishes, blue and white, with houses and birds on them. they went into the kitchen through one of the doors, and there all the things were bright and shining, as if they were made of silver. the child asked the dwarf if they were really silver, but he said oh, dear, no, only britannia. that sounded like nonsense, because the child knew that britannia ruled the waves, her papa sang a song about it; but she thought perhaps dwarfs didn't understand about that, so she said nothing. the dwarf brought a little cricket, and she stood on that and wiped the dishes while he washed them; and he said he never liked washing them so much before, and she said she never liked wiping them so much. everything was as handy as possible. the dish-pan was as bright as the rest of the things, and there were plenty of clean towels, and when you shook the soap-shaker about, it made the most charming bubbles in the clean hot water. "do you ever make bubbles in your pipe?" said the child. "not in this one," said the dwarf. "i used to have a pipe for them; perhaps i can find one for you by and by." "i made bubbles in the river," she announced, polishing a glass vigorously. "there was a stone, and i sat on it, and bubbles i made wiz kicks, you know, in the water; and songs i made, too, and the river went bubble, too, all the time. there was a frog, too, and he came and said things to me, but i kicked at him. he wasn't the frog prince, 'cause he had no gold spots on him. do you know the frog prince? does he live here in this river? do you have gold balls when you play ball?" "i'll get one," said the dwarf, recklessly. "it's no fun playing ball alone, but now we'll have one, i shouldn't wonder. how far did you come along the river, snow-white?" "miles!" said snow-white. "and didn't you have shoes and stockings when you started?" yes, the child had had shoes and stockings, but she took them off to see her toes make dust-toes in the dust. did ever the dwarf do that? it was fun! she left them away back there, miles away, before she came to the river and the woods. and her hat-- she laughed suddenly. "did ever you put flowers in your hat and send it sailing for a boat?" "is that what you did, snow-white?" "yes! and it was fun. it went bob, bob, right along wiz the water and bubbles; and then it tipped against a stone, and then it went round the corner, and--and that's all i know," she ended, suddenly. "you are sleepy, snow-white," said the dwarf. "see! the dishes are all done; now we will put them away in the cupboard, and then we will see about putting you away to bed." the child objected that it was still daylight; she tried to look wide awake, and succeeded for a few minutes, while they were putting away the dishes in the most charming little hanging cupboard with glass doors; but after that her head grew heavy, and her eyelids, as she expressed it, kept flopping into her eyes. "where am i going to sleep?" she asked. "there ought to be little white beds, you know, and one would be too big, and the next would be too small, and--no, that's the three bears, isn't it? i don't see any beds at all in this place." she began to rub her eyes, and it was clear that there must be no further delay. "come in here," said the man. "here is your bed, all ready for you." he led her through the other door, and there was a tiny bedroom, all shining and clean, like the other rooms. the bed stood in one corner, white and smooth, with a plumpy pillow that seemed to be waiting for the child. she sighed, a long sigh of contented weariness, and put up her arms in a fashion which the man seemed to understand. he sat down in a low chair and took her in his arms, where she nestled like a sleepy kitten. he rocked her gently, patting her in an absent fashion; but presently she raised her eyes with an indignant gleam. "you aren't singing anything!" she said. "sing!" "hush!" said the man. "how can i sing unless you are quiet?" he hummed under his breath, as if trying to recall something; then he laughed, in a helpless sort of way, and said to the door, "look at this, will you?" but there was really nothing to look at; and after awhile he began to sing, in a soft, crooning voice, about birds, and flowers, and children, all going to sleep: such a drowsy song, the words seemed to nod along the music till they nodded themselves sound asleep. when he finished, the child seemed to be asleep too; but she roused herself once more. she sat up on his knee and rubbed her eyes. "does dwarfs know about prayers?" she said, drowsily. "do you know about them?" the man's eyes looked dark again. "not much," he said; "but i know enough to hear yours, snow-white. will you say it on my knee here?" but the child slipped down to the floor, and dropped her head on his knee in a business-like way. "'now i lay me down to sleep, i pray the lord my soul to keep.' "i don't say the rest, 'cause i don't like it. and god bless papa and mamma, and make me a goo'--l'--girl--amen. and god bless this dwarf," she added. "that's all." then she lifted her head, and looked at the dwarf; and something in her look, flushed as she was with sleep, the light in her eyes half veiled, made the man start and flinch, and turn very pale. "no!" he said, putting out his hands as if to push the child away. "no; leave me alone!" the child opened her eyes a little wider, and looked at him. "what is the matter of you, dwarf?" she said. "i wasn't touching you. are you cross?" "no," said the man; and he smiled again. "snow-white, if i don't put you to bed, you'll be going to sleep on my best floor, and i can't have that." he laid her in the little bed, and tucked the bed-clothes round her smoothly; she was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow. the man stood looking at her a long time. presently he took up one of her curls and examined it, holding it up to the fading light. it was a pretty curl, fine and soft, and of a peculiar shade of reddish brown. he went to a box and took out a folded paper. unfolding this, took out another curl of hair, and laid it beside the child's; they might have grown on the same head. "though i take the wings of the morning--" said the man. then he laid the curl back in the box, and went out and shut the door softly behind him. chapter iv. asking questions. "how many birds have you got, dwarf?" asked the child. they were sitting at breakfast the next morning. to look at the child, no one would have thought she had ever been sleepy in her life; she was twinkling all over with eagerness and curiosity. "how many?" repeated the man, absently. he hardly seemed to hear what the child said; he looked searchingly at her, and seemed to be trying to make out something that was puzzling him. "yes, how many?" repeated the child, with some asperity. "seems to me you are rather stupid this morning, dwarf; but perhaps you are like bats, and sleep in the daytime. are you like bats? are dwarfs like bats? can you hang up by your heels in trees? have you got claws on them?" her eyes dilated with awful joy; but the man shook his head and laughed. "no, no, snow-white. i wasn't sleepy at all; i was only thinking." "did you sleep last night?" asked the child, slightly disappointed. "i was in your bed, so you couldn't sleep. if you did sleep, where did you? please give me some more bread. i don't see where you get bread; and i don't see where you slept; and you didn't tell me how many birds you had. i shall be angry pretty soon, i don't wonder." "snow-white," said the dwarf, "if you talk so fast, your tongue will be worn out before you are seventy." "what is seventy?" said the child. "i hate it, anyway, and i won't be it." "hurrah!" said the man, "i hate it, too, and i won't be it, either. but as to the birds; how many should you think there were? have you seen any of them?" "i've seen lots and lots!" said the child, "and i've heard all the rest. when i woke up, they were singing and singing, as if they were seeing who could most. one of them came in the window, and he sat on my toe, and he was yellow. then i said, 'boo!' and then he flew away just as hard as he could fly. do you have that bird?" "yes," said the man. "that is my cousin goldfinch. i'm sorry you frightened him away, snow-white. if you had kept quiet, he would have sung you a pretty song. he isn't used to having people say 'boo!' to him. he comes in every morning to see me, and sing me his best song." "are they all your birds?" queried the child. "aren't you ever going to tell me how many you have? i don't think you are very polite. miss tyler says it's horrid rude not to answer questions." "miss tyler is not here!" said the man, gravely. "i thought you said we were not to talk about her." "so i did!" cried the child. "i say hurrah she isn't here, dwarf. do you say it, too?" "hurrah!" said the man, fervently. "now come, snow-white, and i'll show you how many birds i have." "before we wash the dishes? isn't that horrid?" "no, not at all horrid. wait, and you'll see." the man crumbled a piece of bread in his hand, and went out on the green before the house, bidding the child stay where she was and watch from the window. watching, the child saw him scatter the crumbs on the shining sward, and heard him cry in a curious kind of soft whistle: "coo! coo! coo!" immediately there was a great rustling all about; in the living green of the roof, in the yellow birches, but most of all in the vast depths of the buttonwood tree. in another moment the birds appeared, clouds and clouds of them, flying so close that their wings brushed each other; circling round and round the man, as he stood motionless under the great tree; then settling softly down, on his head, on his shoulders, on his outstretched arms, on the ground at his feet. he broke another piece from the loaf, and crumbled it, scattering the crumbs lavishly. the little creatures took their morning feast eagerly, gratefully; they threw back their tiny heads and chirped their thanks; they hopped and ran and fluttered about the sunny green space, till the whole seemed alive with swift, happy motion. standing still among them, the man talked to them gently, and they seemed to understand. now and then he took one in his hand and caressed it, with fingers as light as their own fluffy wings; and when he did that, the bird would throw back its head and sing; and the others would chime in, till the whole place rang with the music of them. it was a very wonderful thing, if any one had been there who understood about wonderful things; but to the child it seemed wholly natural, being like many other matters in the fairy books; only she wished she could do it, too, and determined she would, as soon as she learned a little more about the ways of dwarfs. by and by, when he had fed and caressed and talked to them, the man raised his arm; and the gray fluttering cloud rose in the air with merry cries, and vanished in the leafy gloom. the child was at the door in a moment. "how do you do that?" she asked, eagerly. "who telled you that? why can't i do it, too? what is their names of all those birds? why don't you answer things when i say them at you?" "snow-white," said the man, "i haven't yet answered the questions you asked me last night, and i haven't even begun on this morning's batch." "but you will answer them all?" cried the child. "yes, i will answer them all, if you give me time." "'cause i have to know, you know!" said the child, with a sigh of relief. "yes, you have to know. but first i must ask you some questions, snow-white. come and sit down here on the roots of the birch; see, it makes an arm-chair just big enough for you." the child came slowly, and seated herself as she was bid. but, though the seat was easy as a cradle, her brow was clouded. "i don't like to answer things," she announced. "only i like to ask them." "but we must play fair," said the man. "it wouldn't be fair for you to have all the fun." "no more it would. well, i'll answer a fewly, dwarf; not many i won't, 'cause when you're little you don't have to know things first; only you have to find out about them." "snow-white, why did you run away from home?" "last night i told you that, dwarf. i made a song, too. i'll sing it for you." she sat up, folded her hands, shut her eyes tight, and sang at the top of her voice: "and i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said i thought i did not _want_ to stay; and they tore their hair, and they made despair. and i said i thought perhaps i did not care." "do you like that song?" she said, opening her eyes wide at the man. yes, the man liked it very much, but she was not answering his question. "i sang it that way because that way miss tyler sings. she shuts her eyes and opens her mouth, and screeches horrid; but i don't screech, i truly sing. don't i truly sing? don't you think i was a bird if you didn't see me? don't you, dwarf?" the dwarf said he was not going to answer any more questions. the child fidgetted on her seat, sighed, said he was stupid, and finally resigned herself. "i told you that last night!" she said again. "my mamma went to new york, and my papa, too. they leaved me alone after i told them not to. and i told them; i said if they did, then i would; and they would, and so i did. and so you see!" she looked up suddenly at the man, and once more he winced and drew in his breath. "what's the matter?" asked the child, with quick sympathy. "have you got a pain? is it here? is it in your front? often i have them in my front. you take a tablet, and then you curl up wiz the hot-water bottle, and perhaps it goes away pretty soon. green apples makes it!" she nodded wisely. "dwarfs didn't ought to eat them, any more than children. where is the tree?" the man did not answer this time. he seemed to be trying to pull up a weight that lay on him, or in him and sat moodily looking on the ground. at last-- "what is your mother's name?" he said; and then one saw that he had got the weight up. "evelyn!" said the child. "yes, of course!" said the man. "what makes you say that?" asked the child. "did ever you see her?" "did ever you see a toad with three tails?" said the man. "aren't you funny? say, is all dwarfs funny? aren't there really any more of you? didn't there ever was? where did the rest of them go? why do you stay in this place alone? i want to know all those things." she settled herself comfortably, and looked at the man confidently. but he seemed still to be labouring with something. "would your mother--would she be very unhappy, if she should come home and find you gone, snow-white?" the child opened her eyes at him. "oh, i s'pose she'd go crazy distracted; but she isn't coming home, not a long time isn't she coming home; that's why i comed away, _and_ i runned away, and i said--what makes you look like that, dwarf?" "i suppose i ought to send you home, snow-white. i suppose you ought to go this very day, don't you?" he stopped abruptly, for the signs were ominous; the child's lower lip was going up in the middle and coming down at the corners; her eyes were growing wider and wider, rounder and rounder; now they began to glitter. "don't cry!" said the man, hastily. "don't cry, snow-white. the other snow-white never cried, you know." the child sniffed tearfully. "the other snow-white never was treated so!" she said. "never those dwarfs tried to send her away, never. she cooked their dinner, and she swept, and they liked her, and they never said noffin, and--i haven't any hanky!" she concluded suddenly, after a vain search in her pink calico pocket. the man handed her a great square of white cobweb linen, and she dried her eyes. "never i heard of dwarfs sending children away!" she said, in conclusion. "i don't believe p'r'aps you aren't the right kind. is you got any name? not ever dwarfs has names." "i'm afraid i have a kind of name!" the man admitted. "but it isn't much of one. you might call me mark, though, if you like." "that isn't no name at all. it's just you do it wiz a pencil. aren't you funny? truly is it your name? what made you have such a name?" but the man declared he had lost his way in the questions. "i haven't begun on this morning's yet," he protested, "and now you are asking me to-morrow's, snow-white. but we must do the dishes now, and then i'll show you where i slept last night. you asked me that the very first thing this morning, and you have not been still long enough yet for me to tell you." that would be great! the child thought. on the whole, she thought perhaps he was the right kind of dwarf, after all. why did he have a hump on his back, though? not in the snow-white picture they did. wasn't it funny, when she stood on the cricket she was just as tall as he? wasn't that nice? wasn't he glad he wasn't any taller? didn't he think he was made that way just for little girls? did ever he see any little girls before? did he think she looked like snow-white? why didn't he talk when she spoke to him? it was a merry time, the dish-washing. the man had put away whatever it was that kept his eyes dark, and was smiling again, and chatting cheerfully. it appeared that he was an extraordinary person, after all, and quite like the books. he lived here all alone. yes, always alone. no; he never had wanted any one else till now, but then he didn't know there were any snow-whites; that made a great difference, you see. did--she broke off to laugh--did he like snow-whites, honest and true, black and blue? did he think she was beautiful, more beautiful than wicked stepmothers if she had one, only she hadn't, only mamma was awfully beautiful; did he know that? how did he know that? did ever he see mamma? what made him look so queer in his eyes? did he get soap in them? poor dwarf! well, why weren't there any more dwarfs, anyhow? why didn't he get six more when he comed here the first time? it appeared that he did not want any more. it appeared that when he came away he never wished to see anybody again as long as he lived. the child thought this so funny that she bubbled quite over, and dropped the cup she was wiping back into the hot water. why didn't he want to see people? had they been horrid to him? yes, they had been very horrid. he came away into the woods to stay till he was tired, and then he was going farther away. where? oh, he did not know; to wherever he belonged; he was not sure where it was, but he knew the way to get there. no, not by the brook, that was too slow, he knew a quick way. show it to her? well, no, he thought not. how long had he been here? oh, a good while. at first, after they had been horrid to him--no, he could not stop to tell her now; sometime, perhaps, when they had nothing else to do; at first he had gone across the sea, oh, a long way across; yes, he would tell her all about that by and by. then, when he came back-- "why do you keep stopping like that?" asked the child. "do you forget what you was going to say? often i do! you said when you came back; did you go and tell them they was mean old things to be horrid to you, and never you wouldn't play wiz them no more?" "no," said the man, slowly. "no, snow-white, i didn't do that; it wouldn't have done any good, you see. i came here instead." "didn't you tell them at all that they was mean?" "no; where was the use?" "don't they know you are here, dwarf?" "no." the child grew red in the face. "well, i think you was dreadfully silly!" she said. "i would told 'em all about it, and stamped my foot at 'em, so! and--" but the stamp was too much for the composure of the cricket, which turned over at this point, bringing the child down suddenly, with her chin against the hot dish-pan. this was a grievous matter, and consolation was the only possible thing to be thought of. the man took her in his arms, and carried her out-of-doors; she was sobbing a little, but the sobs died away as he stood with her under the great buttonwood, and bade her look up into the rustling dome. "you asked where i slept last night, snow-white," he said. "i slept up there, in my tree-room. look! a good way up, just above that great branch, do you see a hole? well, in there is a hollow, big enough to sit in or lie down and sleep in. i often go up there and sit with the brother birds; and last night i slept there, and very well i slept, too." "did you"--the child hesitated between a sob and a chuckle--"did you have any bed?" "the finest bed in the world, moss and dry leaves. would you like to come up and see, snow-white? i think i can manage to get you up." "oh, what a nice dwarf you are!" cried the child, slipping down from his arms and dancing around him. "aren't you glad i came? i'm glad you were here. how i shall get up? stand on your hump? isn't it nice you have a hump, dwarf? was it made for little girls to stand up on? did you have them make it? did you think about little girls when you had it made? do you like to have it for me to stand on? can i jump up and down on it?" standing on the hump, which certainly made an excellent thing to stand on, she could grasp the lowest branch of the tree. could she put her arms round that and hang for just a moment? yes, she could, and did; and in an instant the active dwarf was beside her, and had her up on the branch beside him. from there it was easy to ascend, branch by branch, till they reached the black hole. the child caught her breath a moment as the man swung her in; then her laughter broke and bubbled up so loud and clear that the birds rose in a cloud from the murmuring depths of the tree, and then sank down again with chirp and twitter and gurgle of welcome, as if recognising one of their own kind. chapter v. phillips; and a story. "well, mr. ellery, here i am!" the dwarf had come down from the tree, leaving the child asleep in the tree-hollow, with cousin goldfinch to keep watch over her; now he was sitting in the root-seat of the yellow birch, looking up at a man who stood before him. "yes," said the dwarf; "here you are. anything new? it isn't a month since you came." the man said it was more than a month. "i've brought the papers," he said. "there are deeds to sign, and a lot of things to look over. hadn't we better come into the house, sir?" "presently!" said the dwarf, looking up at the tree. he was not absolutely sure that the child was sound asleep, and if she waked suddenly she might be frightened to find herself alone. "you are not looking well, phillips!" he remarked, easily. "i'm not well, mr. ellery," said the man, with some heat. "i'm worn out, sir, with all this business. how you can persist in such foolishness passes my comprehension. here are leases running out, petitions coming in, bills and letters and--the office looks like the dead letter office," he broke out, "and the clerks are over their heads in work, and i am almost broke down, as i tell you, and you are--" "by the way!" said the dwarf, settling himself comfortably, "where am i, phillips?" "in thibet!" replied the other, sulkily. "hunting the wild ass." "and a fine sport!" said the dwarf, musingly. "that shows invention, phillips. that really shows ingenuity, do you know? you grumble, my good fellow, but you don't seem to realise what this is doing for you. you have lived forty odd years without imagination; now you are developing one; against your will, it is true, but the effect is no less admirable. i admire you, phillips; i do indeed." he smiled up at the man, who regarded him gloomily, yet with a look of affection. "i wish you would give it up," he said, simply. "i wish to goodness you would give it up, mr. ellery, and come home. a man like you living this life--the life of an animal, sir--it's monstrous. think of your interests, think of your estate, of all the people who looked to you; of--" "by the way," said the dwarf again, "have you paid those legacies?" "i know nothing about any legacies," replied the man, peevishly. "i'll have nothing to do with any such talk as that. when i see you dead and in your coffin, mark ellery, it'll be time enough to talk about legacies." "i don't like coffins!" murmured the dwarf, looking up at the black hole in the great buttonwood tree. "i never intend--go on, phillips. you paid the money, did you say?" "yes, sir, i did; but i did not tell the old ladies you were dead, because you were not, and i am not engaged to tell lies of that description. professional fiction i must use, since you drive me to it; but lie to those old women i could not and did not!" "no," said the dwarf, soothingly, "surely not; i could not expect that, phillips. and you told them that i was--" "in thibet," said the man. "hunting the wild ass. i told you that before." "precisely," said the dwarf. "don't limit yourself too strictly, phillips. you might vary the place a little oftener than you do, and find it more amusing. it would have impressed the old ladies more, for instance, if you had said that i was in mashonaland, converting the wild ass--i mean the black man. the old ladies are well, i trust?" "pretty feeble, mr. ellery. they cried a good deal, and said you were the best and--" "et cetera!" said the dwarf. "suppose we skip that part, phillips. a--before i forget it, i want you to get me some things in town. let me see,"--he considered, and began to check off items on his fingers. "a doll, the handsomest doll that can be found, with a trunk full of clothes, or you might say two trunks, phillips. and--some picture-books, please, and a go-cart--no, i can make that myself. well, then, a toy dinner-set. you might get it in silver, if you find one; and some bonbons, a lot of bonbons, say ten pounds or so. and--get me a couple of new rugs, thick, soft ones, the best you can find; and--oh! cushions; get a dozen or so cushions, satin and velvet; down pillows, you understand. what's the matter?" the man whom he called phillips was looking at him in a kind of terror that sent the dwarf into a sudden fit of laughter. he gave way to it for a few minutes, then restrained himself, and wiped his eyes with a fine handkerchief, like the one he had given the child. "phillips, you certainly have the gift of amusing," he murmured. "i am not mad, my dear man; never was saner in my life, i assure you. observe my eye; feel my pulse; do. you see i am calm, if only you wouldn't make me laugh too much. far calmer than you are, phillips. now we'll come in and go over the papers. first, though,"--he glanced up at the tree again, and seemed to listen, but all was silent, save for the piping and trilling that was seldom still,--"first, is there any news? i don't mean politics. i won't hear a word of politics, you know. i mean--any--any news among--people i used to know?" the man brightened visibly; then seemed to search his mind. "mr. tenby is dead, sir; left half a million. you can have that place now for a song, if you want to invest. old mrs. vivian had a stroke the other day, and isn't expected to live. she'll be worth--" the dwarf made a movement of impatience. "old people!" he said. "why shouldn't they die? who cares whether they die or live, except themselves and their heirs? are there no--young people--left in the place?" phillips pondered. "no one that you'd be interested in, sir," he said. "there's been a great to-do about a lost child, yesterday. mr. valentine's little girl ran away from home, and can't be found. wild little thing, they say; given her governess no end of trouble. parents away from home. they're afraid the child has been kidnapped, but i think it's likely she'll turn up; she has run away before, they say. pretty little girl, six years old; image of her mother. mother was a miss--" here he stopped, for the dwarf turned upon him in a kind of fury and bade him be still. "what do i care about people's children?" he said. "you are an idle chatterer. come and let me see this business, whatever it is. curse the whole of it, deed and house, land and letter! come on, i tell you, and when you have done, begone, and leave me in peace!" * * * * * when the child woke, she was at first too much surprised to speak. she had forgotten things, for she had been sleeping hard, as children do in their noonday naps; and she would naturally have opened her eyes upon a pink nursery with gold trimmings. instead, here she was in--what kind of place? around her, on all sides save one, were brown walls; walls that felt soft and crumbly, and smelt queer; yet it was a pleasant queerness. on the one side where they were not, she looked out into a green sky; or perhaps--no, it wasn't a sky, it was woods, very thick woods, and there was no ground at all. she was lying on something soft, and partly it rustled, and partly it felt like thick cold velvet. now some of the rustling came alive, and two or three birds hopped down from somewhere and sat on her foot and sang. at that the child laughed aloud, instead of screaming, as she had just been beginning to think she might; and then in a moment there was the dwarf, looking in at the green entrance, smiling and nodding at her. "oh, you dear dwarf!" said the child. "i am glad to see you. i forgotted where i was in this funny place. isn't it a funny place, dwarf? how did you get here? what made you know about it? why don't you always live here all the time? what's that that's bright up there?" indeed, the hollow in the tree made a good-sized room enough, if a person were not too big. the walls were pleasant to sight, touch, and smell; their colours ran from deepest black-brown up to an orange so rich and warm that it glowed like coals. when you touched the surface, it crumbled a little, soft and sympathetic, as if it came away to please you. the cushion of moss was thicker than any mattress ever made by man; altogether, a delightful place--always supposing one to be the right size. now the dwarf and the child were exactly the right size, and there seemed no reason why they should not live here all their lives. this was evident to the child. in one place, a natural shelf ran part way round the tree-wall; and on this shelf lay something that glittered. "what is that that's bright?" the child repeated. "give it to me, please, dwarf!" she stretched out her hand with an imperious gesture. the man took the object down, but did not give it to her. "this," he said "is a key, snow-white." "huh!" said the child. "it looks like a pistol. what for a key is it to? where did you get it? is there doors like bluebeard? why don't you tell me, dwarf?" "yes, it does look like a pistol," the man assented, weighing the object in his hand. "but it is a key, snow-white, to--oh! all kinds of places. i don't know about the bluebeard chamber; you see, i haven't used it yet. but it is the key of the fields, you understand." he was speaking slowly, and for the time seemed to forget the child, and to be speaking to himself. "freedom and forgetfulness; the sting left behind, instead of carried about with one, world without end. the weary at rest--at rest!" "no wives?" asked the child. the man looked at her with startled eyes. "wives?" he repeated. "dead ones," said the child. "hanging up by their hairs, you know, dwarf, just heads of 'em, all the rest gone dead. isn't that awful? would you go in just the same? i would!" "no, no wives!" said the dwarf; and he laughed, not his pleasant laugh, but one that sounded more like a bark, the child told him. "no wives!" he repeated; "my own or other people's, snow-white. what should i have to do with wives, dead or alive?" the child considered him attentively. "i don't suppose you could get one, anyhow, do you?" she said. "always, you know, the dwarfs try to get the princesses, but never they do. you never was yellow, was you?" she asked, with a sudden note of apprehension in her voice. "no, snow-white, never yellow; only green." the child bubbled over. "was you truly green?" she cried. "isn't that funny, dwarf? and then you turned brown, didn't you? you don't suppose i'll turn brown, do you? because i ain't green, am i? but i was just thinking, suppose you should be the yellow dwarf, wouldn't it be awful?" "probably it would. he was a pretty bad sort of fellow, was he, snow-white? i--it's a good while since i heard anything about him, you see." "oh, he was just puffickly frightful! he--do you want me to tell you the story, dwarf?" yes, the dwarf wanted that very much indeed. "well, then, if i tell you that, you must tell me one about some dwarfs what you knew. i suppose you knew lots and lots of them, didn't you? was they different colours? was they blue and green and red? what made you turn brown when you was green? well! "once they was a queen, and she had twenty children, and they was all dead except the princess all-fair, and she wouldn't marry any of the kings what wanted to marry her, and so her mother went to ask the desert fairy what she should do wiz her. so she took a cake for the lions, and it was made of millet and sugar-candy and crocodiles' eggs, but she went to sleep and lost it. did ever you eat a cake like that? should you think it would be nasty? i should! well, and so there was the yellow dwarf sitting in the tree--why, just the way you are, dwarf. we might play i was the queen, and you was the yellow dwarf. let's play it." "but i don't want to be a horrid one," the man objected, "and i want to hear the story, besides." "oh, well, so i will. well, he said he would save her from the lion, if she would let him marry the princess, and she didn't want to one bit, but she said she supposed she'd have to, so he saved her, and she found herself right back there in the palace. well, and so then she was very unhappy all the time, and the princess didn't know what upon earth _was_ the matter wiz her, so she thought _she_ would go and ask the desert fairy. so she went just the same way what her mother went, but she ate so many oranges off the tree that she lost her cake, too. that was greedy, don't you think so?" "very greedy! she was old enough to know better." "why, yes! why, i'm only six, and i don't eat so many as all that, only till i feel queer in front, and then i _always_ stop. do always you stop when you feel queer in front? well! so then the yellow dwarf comed along, and he said her mother said she had to marry him, anyway. and the princess said, '_how!_ my mother promised me to you in marriage! _you_, such a fright as _you_!' "and he was puffickly horrid. he said, 'well, if you don't, the lions will get you, and eat you up every scrap, and i sha'n't care a bit.' wasn't he mean? so she said she s'posed she'd have to; and right off then she went to sleep, and there she was in her own bed, and all trimmed up wiz ribbons, and on her finger was a ring, and it was just one red hair, and she couldn't get it off. wasn't that puffickly awful, dwarf?" "it chills my marrow, snow-white. go on!" "what is your marrow? what does it look like? why do you have it, if it gets cold so easy as that? i wouldn't! well! so at last the princess said she guessed she would marry the king of the golden mines, 'cause he was puffickly beautiful, and most prob'ly the old dwarf wouldn't dare to say a word when he found how beautiful he was, and strong and big and rich and everything." "no!" said the dwarf, bitterly. "the poor dwarf would have no chance, certainly, against that kind of king. he might as well have given up in the beginning." "but, mark, this dwarf wasn't poor, or anything else but just as horrid as he could be. why, when the princess and the king was going to be married, all in gold and silver, wiz roses and candy and everything lovely, they saw a box coming along, and an old woman was on it and she said she was the desert fairy, and the yellow dwarf was her friend, and they shouldn't get married. so they said they didn't care, they would--oh, and she said if they did she would burn her crutch; and they said they didn't care one bit if she did. they were just as brave! and the king of the golden mines told her get out, or he would kill her; and then the top of the box comed off, and there was the yellow dwarf, and he was riding on a cat,--did ever you ride on a cat, mark?" "no, never." "well, he was; and he said the princess promised to marry him, and the king said he didn't care, she shouldn't do _noffing_ of the kind. so they had a fight, and while they were fighting that horrid old fairy hit the princess, and then the yellow dwarf took her up on the cat, and flewed away wiz her. that's all about the first part. don't you think it's time for luncheon?" "oh, but you are never going to stop there, snow-white! i want to know what became of them. even if the dwarf did carry off the princess, and even if she had promised to marry him,--for she did promise, you say,--still, of course he did not get her. dwarfs have no rights that anybody is bound to respect, have they, snow-white?" "well, i don't like the last part, because it doesn't end right. the desert fairy falled in love wiz the king, and she hoped he would marry her, but he said no indeed, he wouldn't have her in the same place wiz him at all; so he wouldn't stay in the house, but he went out to walk by the wall that was made of emeralds, and a mermaid came up and said she was sorry, and if he hit everything wiz this sword it would kill them, but he must never let go of it. so he thanked her very much, and he went along, and he killed lots of things, spinxes and nymps and things, and at last he came to the princess, but then he was so glad to see her that he let go of the sword _just a minute_, and what do you think that horrid dwarf did? why, he comed right along and took it, and said he shouldn't have it back unless he would give up the princess. 'no,' said the king, 'i scorn thy favour on such terms.' and then that mean old thing stabbed him to the heart, and so he was dead; and the princess said, 'you puffickly hideous old horrid thing, i won't marry you, anyway!' and then she fell down and perspired wizout a sigh. and that's all. and the mermaid turned them into palm-trees, because that was all she knew how to do, don't you know? and that's all. aren't you going to get me something to eat? can't we have it up here in this place? aren't you glad i'm here to keep you company and tell you stories? don't you say hurrah for us, dwarf? i do; hurrah!" chapter vi. milking the cow. "what let's do now?" said the child. they had had dinner; a most exciting dinner, all coming out of tin boxes and delightful china pots. it was almost as good as little two-eyes' feasts in "little kid milk, table appear," as the child preferred to call the story. the child shut her eyes and said what she wanted, and when she opened them, there it mostly was, standing on the table before her. at least, that was the way it happened when she said chicken, and jam, and albert biscuits; but when she said sponge cake, there was none, and the dwarf was mortified, and said he would tell the people they ought to be ashamed of themselves. "where all do you get them?" asked the child. "do you stamp your foot on the floor, and say, 'jam!' like that, hard, just as loud as you can? do you? does it come up pop through holes? will you do it now, this minute?" no, the dwarf could not do it now, he had not the right kind of shoes on. besides, there were other reasons. "well, then, what let's do?" asked the child again. "let us go and milk the cow," said the dwarf. oh, that _was_ exciting! was it a truly cow? did it turn into things all day, and be a cow at night, or the other way? what did it turn into? sometimes they were fawns and sometimes they were ducks, and sometimes--what would he like to be if he didn't have to be a dwarf? could he be things if he wanted to? was he only just playing dwarf, and by and by he would turn into a beautiful prince all gold and silver, wiz diamond clothes and a palace all made of candy? would he? "and then you could marry me, you know!" said the child. "i shall be grown up by that time--" "yes, i think you will!" said the dwarf. "and we will be married, and i will wear a dress like the sun, and we will go in a gold coach, wiz six black horses--or do you say white, mark?" "i say white." "so do i say! and fezzers on their heads; and--and--so--well, anyhow, you will show me all your treasures, you know, dwarf. you haven't showed me any yet, not any at all. where are they?" "i haven't but one," said the dwarf. "and that i stole." "really stole it? but stealing is wicked, don't you know that? can dwarfs do it? mans can't, unless they are bad. are dwarfs like mans at all much, mark?" "not much, snow-white. but, after all, i did not steal my treasure, i only found it." the child was greatly relieved. that made it all right, she assured him. always everybody could keep the things they found, though of course the wicked fairies and dragons tried to get the treasure away. she cited many cases from the fairy books, and the dwarf said he felt a great deal better. "tell me all about it," she urged. "tell me that story what you said you knew. you haven't told me any story at all yet, mark!" she looked at him with marked disapproval. "it isn't the way they do!" she explained. "why, when the bear came to snow-white and rosy red's house, he told them stories all the time till he turned into a prince." "yes, but i am not a bear," said the dwarf, "and i am not going to turn into a prince, you see. however, i will tell you a story, snow-white, i truly will; only, you see, that poor cow has to be milked." "all i forgot her!" cried the child. "now we will hurry, mark, and run. we will run all the way. you can't run much faster than me, 'cause your legs is short, too. are you glad? i am! 'most i wish i was a dwarf, to stay little like you." "come!" said the man. his voice sounded rough and harsh; but when the child looked up, startled, he took her in his arms, and kissed her very tenderly, and set her on his back. he would be her horse now, he said, and give her a good ride. and wasn't the hump comfortable to sit on? now she must hold on tight, and he would trot. he trotted gently through the green wood, and the child shouted with joy, and jumped up and down on the hump. it was a round, smooth hump, and made a good seat. they did not get on very fast, in spite of the trotting, there was so much to see by the way. little paths wound here and there through the forest, as if some one walked in it a great deal. the trees in this part were mostly pine and hemlock, and the ground was covered with a thick carpet of brown needles. the hermit thrush called them from deeper depths of woodland; close by, squirrels frisked and chattered among the branches, and dropped bits of pine-cone on the child's head. were they tame? she asked; the dwarf said she should judge for herself. they sat down, and he bade her keep still, and then gave a queer whistle. presently a squirrel came, then another, and another, till there were half a dozen of them, gray and red, with one little striped beauty. they sat up on the brown needles, and looked at the dwarf with bright, asking eyes. he took some nuts from his pocket, and then there was a scramble for his knee and his shoulder, and he fed them, talking to them the while, they whisking their tails and cocking their heads, and taking the nuts in their paws as politely as possible. one big gray fellow made a little bow, and that was charming to see. "good boy!" said the dwarf. "good old simeon! i taught him to do that, snow-white. you need not be afraid, sim. this is only snow-white. she has come to do my cooking and all my work, and she will not touch you. his name is simeon stylites, and he lives on a pillar--i mean a dead tree, with all the branches gone. simeon, if you are greedy, you'll get no more. consider the example you have to set!" "why is he named that?" asked the child. "because when he sits up straight on top of his tree, and folds his paws, he looks like an old gentleman of that name, who used to live on top of a pillar, a long time ago." "why did he? but why couldn't he get down? but how did he get up? what did he have to eat? why don't you tell me?" "i never thought much about his getting up," said the dwarf. "i suppose he must have shinned, don't you? and as for getting down, he just didn't. he stayed there. he used to let down a basket every day, or whenever he was hungry, and people put food in it, and then he pulled it up. what did they put? oh, figs, i suppose, and black bread, and honey. rather fun, don't you think, to see what would come up?" the child sprang up and clapped her hands. "mark," she cried, "i will be him!" "on a pillar?" said the dwarf. "see, you have frightened simeon away, and he hadn't had half enough; and you couldn't possibly climb his tree, snow-white." "in your tree! in the hole! it will be _just_ as good as little kid milk. not in _any_ of the stories a little girl did that; all mineself i will do it. i love you, mark!" she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him till he choked. when the soft arms loosened their hold, his eyes were dark. "you love me because i have a tree?" he said, "and because you like the things in the china pots?" "yes!" said the child, "and because you are a dwarf, and because you are nice. _most_ because you are nice, mark, when those other dwarfs is yellow and horrid and all kinds of things." "all right!" said the dwarf. "i love you, too. now soon we are coming to the cow. we must hurry, snow-white." but it was not easy to hurry. he had to look and see how the ferns were unrolling, and to say what they looked like. the child thought they were like the little brown cakes, only green, what you bought them at the cake-shop. didn't he know the cake-shop? but could he buy things? did they let dwarfs buy things just as if they were mans? could he have money, or did he have to dig up pearls and diamonds and rubies, out of the ground? was there a place here where he dug them up? when would he show it to her? then there were the anemones just out; and at sight of them the child jumped up and down, and had to be told what they were. the name was very funny, she thought. "i can make a song wiz that!" she said, and then she sang: "any money, ain't it funny? ain't it funny, any money? "it hasn't any money, this frower hasn't. all it's white, just like milk. do you like money, mark?" "no, i hate it!" "me, too!" cried the child, bubbling into a laugh. "in my bank, i had lots and lots of money; and the man with the black shirt said about the poor children, and so i took it out and gave it to him, and then they said i couldn't have it back!" "who said so?" asked the dwarf. "miss tyler! well, but so i said i would, and so she punished me, and so i beat her, and she said to stay in my room, and i runned away. are you glad i runned away, mark?" "very glad, to-day, snow-white; i don't know how it will be to-morrow. but tell me what you wanted to do with your money!" it appeared that the child wanted to buy candy, and a pony, and a watch, and a doll with wink-eyes and hair down to her feet, and a real stove, and a popgun, and--what was this place? the wood broke open suddenly, and there was a bit of pasture-land, with rocks scattered about, and a little round blue pond, and by the pond a brown cow grazing. at the sound of voices the cow raised her head, and seeing the dwarf, lowed gently and began to move leisurely toward him. the child clapped her hands and danced. "is she saying 'hurrah'?" she cried. "does she love you? do you love her? is she"--her voice dropped suddenly--"is she real, mark?" "real, snow-white? why, see her walk! did you think i wound her up? she's too big; and besides, i haven't been near her." the child brushed these remarks aside with a wave. "does she stay all the time a cow?" she whispered, putting her mouth close to the dwarf's ear. "or does she turn at night into a princess?" she drew back and pointed a stern finger at him. "tell me the troof, mark!" the dwarf was very humble. so far as he knew, he said, she was a real cow. she mooed like one, and she acted like one; moreover, he had bought her for one. "but you see," he added, "i don't stay here at night, so how can i tell?" they both looked at the cow, who returned the stare with unaffected interest, but with no appearance of any hidden meaning in her calm brown gaze. "i think," said the child, after a long, searching inspection, "i think--she's--only just a cow!" "i think so, too," said the dwarf, in a tone of relief. "i'm glad, aren't you, snow-white? i think it would be awkward to have a princess. now i'll milk her, and you can frisk about and pick flowers." the child frisked merrily for a time. she found a place where there were some brownish common-looking leaves; and stepping on them just to hear them crackle, there was a pink flush along the ground, and lo! a wonder of mayflowers. they lay with their rosy cheeks close against the moss, and seemed to laugh out at the child; and she laughed, too, and danced for joy, and put some of them in her hair. then she picked more, and made a posy, and ran to stick it in the dwarf's coat. he looked lovely, she told him, with the pink flowers in his gray coat; she said she didn't care much if he never turned into anything; he was nice enough the way he was; and the dwarf said it was just as well, and he was glad to hear it. "and you look _so_ nice when you smile in your eyes like that, mark! i think i'll kiss you now." "i never kiss ladies when i am milking," said the dwarf. and then the child said he was a horrid old thing, and she wouldn't now, anyhow, and perhaps she wouldn't at all ever in her life, and anyhow not till she went to bed. by and by she found a place where the ground was wet, near the edge of the pond, and she could go pat, pat with her feet, and make smooth, deep prints. this grew more and more pleasant the farther she went, till presently the water came lapping cool and clear over her feet. yes, but just then a butterfly came, a bright yellow one, and she tried to catch it, and in trying tripped and fell her length in the pond. that was sad, indeed; and it was fortunate the milking was ended just at that time, for at first she meant to cry hard, and the only thing that stopped her was riding home on the dwarf's hump, dripping water all over his gray velvet clothes. he didn't care, he said, so long as she did not drip into the milk. chapter vii. the story. "i aspect, mark," said the child,--"do you like better i call you mark all the time than dwarf? then i will. i do really aspect you'll have to get me a clean dress to put on." she held up her frock, and the dwarf looked at it anxiously. it was certainly very dirty. the front was entirely covered with mud, and matters had not been improved by her scrubbing it with leaves that she pulled off the trees as they came along. "dear me, snow-white!" said the dwarf. "that is pretty bad, isn't it?" "yes," said the child; "it is _too_ bad! you'll have to get me another. what kind will you get?" "well," said the dwarf, slowly; "you see--i hardly--wait a minute, snow-white." he went into the house, and the child waited cheerfully, sitting in the root-seat. of course he would find a dress; he had all the other things, and most prob'ly likely there was a box that had dresses and things in it. she hoped it would be blue, because she was tired of this pink one. there might be a hat, too; when you had that kind of box, it was just as easy to have everything as only something; a pink velvet hat with white feathers, like the lady in the circus. the child sighed comfortably, and folded her hands, and watched the robins pulling up worms on the green. but the dwarf went into the bedroom, and began pulling out drawers and opening chests with a perplexed air. piles of handkerchiefs, socks, underwear, all of the finest and best; gray suits like the one he had on--but never a sign of a blue dress. he took down a dressing-gown from a peg, and looked it over anxiously; it was of brown velvet, soft and comfortable-looking, but it had evidently been lived in a good deal, and it smelt of smoke; no, that would never do. he hung it up again, and looked about him helplessly. suddenly his brow cleared, and his eyes darkened. he laughed; not his usual melodious chuckle, but the short harsh note that the child compared to a bark. "why not?" he said. "it's all in the family!" he opened a deep carved chest that stood in a corner; the smell that came from it was sweet and old, and seemed to belong to far countries. he hunted in the corners, and presently brought out a folded paper, soft and foreign looking. this he opened, and took out, and shook out, a shawl or scarf of eastern silk, pale blue, covered with butterflies and birds in bright embroidery. he looked at it grimly for a moment; then he shut the chest, for the child was calling, "mark! where are you?" and hastened out. "never i thought you were coming," said the child. "see at that robin, mark. he ate all a worm five times as longer as him, and now he's trying to get away that other one's. i told him he mustn't, and he will. isn't he a greedy?" "he's the greediest robin on the place," said the dwarf. "i mean to put him on allowance some day. see here, snow-white, i'm awfully sorry, but i can't find a dress for you." the child opened great eyes at him. "can't find one, mark? has you looked?" "yes, i have looked everywhere, but there really doesn't seem to be one, you know; so i thought, perhaps--" "but not in all the boxes you've looked, mark!" cried the child. "why, you got everything, don't you 'member you did, for dinner?" yes; but that was different, the dwarf said. dresses didn't come in china pots, nor in tin cans either. no, he didn't think it would be of any use to stamp his foot and say to bring a blue dress this minute. but, look here, wouldn't this do? couldn't she wrap herself up in this, while he washed her dress? he held up the gay thing, and at sight of it the child clasped her hands together and then flung them out, with a gesture that made him wince. but it was the most beautiful thing in the world, the child said. but it was better than dresses, ever and ever so much better, because there were no buttons. and she might dress up in it? that would be fun! like the pictures she would be, in the japanesy book at home. did ever he see the japanesy book? but it was on the big table in the long parlour, and he could see it any time he went in, but any time, if his hands were clean. always he had to show his hands, to make sure they were clean. and she would be like the pictures, and he was a _very_ nice dwarf, and she loved him. in a wonderfully short time the child was enveloped in the blue silk shawl, and sitting on the kitchen-table cross-legged like a small idol, watching the dwarf while he washed the dress. he was handy enough at the washing, and before long the pink frock was moderately clean (some of the stains would not come out, and could hardly be blamed for it), and was flapping in the wind on a low-hanging branch. now, the child said to the dwarf, was the time for him to tell her a story. what story? oh, a story about a dwarf, any of the dwarfs he used to know, only except the yellow dwarf, or the seven ones in the wood, or the one in "snow-white and rosy red," because she knowed those herself. the dwarf smiled, and then frowned; then he lighted his pipe and smoked for a time in silence, while the child waited with expectant eyes; then, after about a week, she thought, he began. "once upon a time--" the child nodded, and drew a long breath of relief. she had not been sure that he would know the right way to tell a story, but he did, and it was all right. "once upon a time, snow-white, there was a man--" "not a man! a dwarf!" cried the child. "you are right!" said mark ellery. "i made a mistake, snow-white. not a man,--a dwarf! i'll begin again, if you like. once upon a time there was a dwarf." "that's right!" said the child. she drew the blue shawl around her, and sighed with pleasure. "go on, mark." "the trouble is," he went on, "he--this dwarf--was born a man-thing, a man-child; it was not till his nurse dropped him that it was settled that he was to be a dwarf-thing, and never a man. that was unfortunate, you see, for he had some things born with him that a dwarf has no business with. what things? oh, nothing much; a heart, and brains, and feelings; that kind of thing." "feelings? if you pinched him did it hurt, just like a man?" "just; you would have thought he was a man sometimes, if you had not seen him. the trouble was, his mother let him grow up thinking he was a man. she loved him very much, you see, and--she was a foolish woman. she taught him to think that the inside of a man was what mattered; and that if that were all right,--if he were clean and kind and right-minded, and perhaps neither a fool nor a coward,--people would not mind about the outside. he grew up thinking that." "was he quite stupid?" the child asked. "he must have been, i think, mark." "yes, he was very stupid, snow-white." "because he might have looked in the glass, you know." "of course he might; he did now and then. but he thought that other women, other people, were like his mother, you see; and they weren't, that was all. "he was very rich, this dwarf--" the child's eyes brightened. the story had been rather stupid so far, but now things were going to begin. did he live in a gold house? she asked. did he have chariots and crowns and treasure, bags and bags of treasure? was there a princess in it? when was he going to tell her about her? why didn't he go on? "i can't go on if you talk, snow-white. he was rich, i say, and for that reason everybody made believe that he was a man, and treated him like one. silly? yes, very silly. but he was stupid, as you say, and he thought it was all right; and everybody was kind, and his mother loved him; and so--he grew up." "but he still stayed a dwarf?" "yes, still a dwarf." "what like did he look? was he puffickly frightful, wiz great goggle eyes and a long twisty nose? was he green? you said once you was green, mark, before you turned brown." "yes, he was rather green; not a bright green, you understand; just a dull, blind sort of green." "wiz goggle eyes?" "n-no! i don't know that they goggled particularly, snow-white. i hope not. "well, when he was grown up,--only he never grew up!--his mother died." the child was trying hard to be good, but her patience gave out at last, the man was silent so long. "what is the matter wiz you, mark? i think this is a stupid story. didn't anything happen to him at all? why do you bark?" "yes, things happened to him. this is a slow story, snow-white, and you must have patience. you see, i never told it before, and the words don't come just as i want to have them." the child nodded sympathetically, and promised to be patient; she knew how it was herself sometimes, when she tried to tell a story what she didn't know it very well. didn't he know this one very well, perhaps? was there another he knowed better? "no, no other i know half so well, little girl. his mother died, i say and then--then he met the princess." the child beamed again. "was she beautiful as the day? did she live in a nivory tower, and let her hair down out of the window? was there dragons? did the dwarf fall in love wiz her right off that minute he seed her?" "the tower was brown," said the dwarf, "brown stone. no, she didn't let her hair down, and there were no dragons; quite the contrary, the door was always open--always open, and the way seemed clear. but she was beautiful, and he fell in love with her. oh, yes! she had soft clear eyes, and soft pale cheeks, and soft dark hair; everything about her was soft and sweet and-- "well, this dwarf fell in love with her, and wanted to marry her. yes, as you say, they always do. for a long time, a very long time, he did not dare to think of its being possible that she could love him. he would have been content--content and thankful--just to be her friend, just to be allowed to see her now and then, and take her hand, and feel her smile through and through him like wine. but--her eyes were so soft--and she looked at him so--that he asked her--" "mark, what for do you keep stopping like that? never you must, when you are telling a story; always they go right on." "what was i saying?" the dwarf looked at the child, with eyes that seemed not to see her, but something beyond her. "what was i saying, snow-white?" "he asked her would she marry him!" said the child, promptly. "and she said no indeed, she wouldn't do noffin of the kind, she was going to marry a beautiful prince, wiz--" "i beg your pardon, snow-white; you are wrong this time. she said she would marry him. she looked at him with her soft eyes, and said she loved him. she said--the kind of things his mother had said; and the dwarf, being stupid, believed her." the child bubbled over with laughter. "wasn't he silly? but of course she didn't, mark!" "of course not. but he thought she was going to; so he built a house,--well, we'll call it a palace if you like, snow-white; perhaps it was as good as some palaces. at any rate, it was the best he could build. and he filled it full of things,--what kind of things? oh, pictures and statues and draperies, and,--yes, silver and gold and jewels, any quantity of jewels; and he sent abroad for silks and satins and shawls,--" "like this what i've got on?" "very like it. he meant to have in the house everything that her heart could desire, so that when she wished for anything, he could say, 'here it is, ready for you, my beloved!' "well, and so the dwarf worked away, and heaped up treasures, the regular dwarf way, and saw the princess every day, and was happy; and she looked at him with her soft eyes, and told him she loved him; and so it came near the time of the wedding. then--one day--" "the prince came!" cried the child, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. "i know! let me tell a little bit now, mark. may i? well, the prince came, and he was tall and handsome, wiz golden hair and blue eyes, and he was ever and ever so much richer than the dwarf; and so the princess falled in love wiz him the minute she seed him, and he falled in love wiz her, too; and he said, 'this is my princess!' and she said, 'this is my prince!' isn't that the way, mark?" "precisely!" said the dwarf. "i couldn't have told it better myself, snow-white; perhaps not so well. the prince was richer, and handsomer, and younger, and that settled it. it always does, doesn't it?" "and then what became of the dwarf, mark?" "oh! it doesn't matter what became of the dwarf, does it? he was only a dwarf, you know. the story always ends when the prince and princess are married. 'they lived happily ever after.' that's the end, don't you remember?" the child reflected, with a puzzled look. "yes," she said, presently. "but you see, mark, this is a different kind of story. that other kind is when you begin wiz the princess, and tell all about her; and then the dwarf just comes in, and is puffickly horrid, and then the prince comes, and so--but this story began wiz the dwarf, don't you see?" "what difference does that make, snow-white? nobody cares what becomes of a dwarf." "but yes, but when it is his own story, mark. but aren't you stupid? and besides, them all was horrid, and this was a nice dwarf. was he like you, mark?" "a little--perhaps." "then he was _very_ nice, and i love him. like this." the child threw her arms around the dwarf, and gave him a strangling hug; then she drew back and looked at him. "it _seems_," she said, "as if most likely p'r'aps i loved you better than princes. do you s'pose could i?" the dwarf's eyes were very kind as he looked at her, but he shook his head, and loosed the little arms gently. "no, snow-white," he said, "i don't believe you could. but as to this other dwarf, there isn't very much to tell. he gave her back her freedom, as they call it in the books, and then he shut up the fine house and went away." "where did he go?" "oh, he went everywhere, or pretty near it. he travelled, and saw strange places and people. but nothing mattered much to him, and at last he found that there was only one country he really cared to see, and that was the country that has never been discovered." "then how did he know it was there, mark? but where was it? was it like 'east o' the sun and west o' the moon,' and old womans told him about it?" "yes, perhaps; at least, his mother used to tell him about it. but he never thought then--he didn't think much about it. but now he was tired, and nothing mattered, and so he thought he would go and see that country--if it were really there--and possibly he might find his mother, if the things she said were true. so--did i say his mother was dead? so i did! oh, well, never mind that now. so he bought a key that would open the door of that country--yes, something like that thing i called a key--and then he came to a place--well, it was something like this place, snow-white. he wanted to be quiet, you see, for some time, before he went away. he wanted to be alone, and think--think--gather up the threads and thoughts of his life and try to straighten them into something like an even skein. then, if he were allowed, if there should be any possibility that he might take them with him, he could say to his mother--he could excuse himself--he could tell her--" "mark," said the child, "do you know what i think?" the man started, and looked at her. "what you think, snow-white?" "yes! i think you are talking puffick foolishness. i don't know one word what you are saying, and i don't believe do you either." "no more i do, snow-white. i think this is enough story, don't you? you see i was right, it didn't matter what became of the dwarf. let us come out and feed the birds." "let's," said the child. chapter viii. the key of the fields. "the question before the court is, what next?" it was mark ellery who spoke. he was sitting on the green at the foot of the buttonwood-tree. it was noon, and the birds were all quiet, save one confidential titmouse, who had come to make a call, and was perched on the tip of the dwarf's shoe, cocking his bright eye at him expressively. "tweet-tweet," said the titmouse. "precisely," said the dwarf. "what next?" was he speaking to the bird, or was it merely that the sound of his own voice had grown friendly to him during these silent years? he went on. "how if i waited still a little longer, and took a little pleasure before i go? "but as in wailing there's naught availing, and death unfailing will strike the blow, then for that reason, and for a season, let us be merry before we go!" "do you agree, brother titmouse? see now. she--they--went away and left their treasure. i did not send them away, did i? no fault of mine in that, at least. fate--or something--call it god, if you like--brought the treasure to my door; have i no right to keep it, for a little, at least? the joy i might have! and i have not had too much, perhaps. they have each other. this is a solitary little creature, living in her fairy stories, left pretty much to nurse and governess; no mother touches to tell another kind of story. the prince and princess"--again his laugh sounded like a bark, the child would have said--"don't need her very much, if they can go off for two months and leave her, the little pearl, the little flower, the little piece of delight, alone with strangers. i could make her happy; i could fill her little hands full, full. she should have all the things that are waiting there shut up; those, and as many more, ten times over. we might have our play for a few weeks or a few months; and then, when she was tired--no, before she was tired, oh, surely before that!--i would give her back. give her back! and how should i do that? there are several ways." he moved his foot, tossing the bird up in the air. it fluttered, hovered a moment over his head, then settled on his wrist, and smoothed its feathers in absolute content. "well, brother, well," said mark ellery. "you like me pretty well, do you? you find me pleasant to live with? you think i could make a child happy?" the titmouse flirted its tail and looked at him; it seemed a pity it could not smile; but it rubbed its bill against his hand, and he understood all it wanted to say. "several ways," the dwarf repeated. "i could simply take the child in my hand and go to them; hobble up the steps,--i hear their house is twice as fine as the one i built,--and stand at the door humbly, asking admission. 'here is your child, madam; you left her to wander about uncared for, and she came to me. you took all else i had, take now this also, as a gift from the dwarf.' i think i could bring the trouble into her eyes, and the colour into her soft pale cheeks. if only she would not speak! if i should hear her speak-- "or i might send for her to come to me. that would be the dramatic thing to do! wait for her here, under the tree. it might be a time like this, the little one asleep up there. "'i sent for you, madam, to ask if you had lost anything. oh, i don't know how greatly you value it,--a child, a little girl, who wandered here some time ago. she was lost in the wood; it is a wonder she did not starve. she came to me barefoot and hungry, and i took her in. she is asleep now, up in her favourite chamber in yonder tree. it seems a pity to wake her; she sleeps very sweetly. oh, i would gladly keep her, and i think it might not be difficult; at least, she has never tried to run away; but we are old neighbours, and i thought it right to let you know that she was here.' "then to wake the child, and bring her down, flushed with her lovely sleep, clinging with both arms round my neck--no horror of the hateful dwarf, no shrinking; the little velvet cheek pressed against my brown, rough face, the sweet eyes looking at me--me, mark ellery--with love in them. yes, by heaven, love; no lying here! ah, yes, that would be the dramatic thing. the trouble is, i am not a dramatic figure; am i, brother titmouse? "well, then, there remains the third way, the easy, clear, blessed way, and i swear i believe i'll do it. just let things take their own course; let fate--or god, if you like--have right of way, do the work without me. why should i meddle? he is capable, surely? the child is here; very well, let them find her, since they lost her. keep my jewel, treasure it, make much of it, till they search far enough afield. they are sure to do that. they will send out search-parties--very likely they are afoot now. it would be a pity, if they could not find this bit of forest, only a few miles from the town. private property, belonging to the eccentric dwarf millionaire who threw over his life, and went abroad seven years ago? that will not hinder them from searching it. when i hear them coming, call my lamb, fill her hands with trinkets,--phillips can get me trinkets,--kiss her good-bye, push her into their arms. 'lost child? surely! here she is. how should i know whose child it was, living so retired? take her! make my apologies to the parents for saving her life, and feeding and caring for her these days, or weeks.' "then, when she is gone, and the house empty again, and dark--how dark it will be!--why, then, the key of the fields!" he whistled softly to the titmouse, which ruffled and cheeped in answer; then glanced upward at the tree, and repeated, "the key of the fields!" it was days since he had held it in his hands, his favourite toy, the smooth shining thing he had played with so long. he had been afraid the child might get hold of it, so had left it untouched on its shelf. he missed the habit that had grown upon him of taking it out every day, holding it in his hand, polishing it, pressing the cold circle of the barrel against his temple, and fancying how it would be. how often--he could not tell how often!--he had said, "it shall be to-day!" and had set things in decent order and looked forward to his journey. but always he had decided to wait a little, and again a little; till the young birds were fledged, till they were flown, till the autumn trees brightened, till the snow was gone and he could find the first mayflowers once more. the world was so fair, he still put off leaving it, since at any time he could go, since the key was in his hand, and rest under the crook of his finger. but when the child was gone, he would not stay behind alone. it would be different now; he must make haste to be gone on his journey--that is, if there were a journey! some flight of the spirit from the crumpled, unsightly chrysalis, some waking in new, unthinkable conditions; unthinkable, not unimaginable. he had no knowledge that he might not see his mother's face, and feel her hand on his head. there was no proof against it. then, if it might be, he would tell her all, as he had so often told her, alone here in the wood. how he had come near to what we call heaven, here on earth; how he had drunk the waters of hell,--six streams, were there? styx, acheron, phlegethon, lethe--only one never could get a taste of that! scraps of school latin ran together in his head; sleepy, was he? but as he was saying, he would tell his mother all--if she existed, if he should still exist; if-- or on the other hand, if it should be rest simple, rest absolute, no sound or sight for ever,--why, then,--all the more should the key be turned, since then could be no question of right or wrong, sin or virtue, heaven or hell. sleep! meantime, he was alive, on a day like this! no one could think of shutting his eyes for ever, or of starting on a pilgrimage,--or a wild-goose chase,--on a day like this. the sunlight of early may, softly brilliant, came sifting down through the branches of the great tree. the leaves rustled, and the sound was hardly rougher than if all the flocks that nestled in its deep, airy bowers should plume themselves at once. the birds slept their noonday sleep with the child; even the titmouse was gone now to his siesta; but other wildwood creatures came and went at their ease across the green, hardly even glancing at the familiar gray figure curled up at the foot of the tree. that was where he often sat. it seemed stupid, when there were branches to swing on, pleasant burrows under the forest-mould; since he even had his own nest, bigger than any fish-hawk's, up there in the tree itself; but it was his way. brother chipmunk, passing by on an errand, regarded him benignantly. he was a harmless monster, and often useful in the way of victual. if smoke came out of his mouth now and then, what did brother chipmunk care? that was the way the creature was made; the question of importance was, had he any nuts in his side-pouches? the pretty creature ran up the man's leg, and sat on his knee, looking at him with bright, expectant eyes; but he met no friendly answering glance; the brown eyes were closed, the man was asleep. yet, that was his kind of note, surely! was he speaking? no; the sound came from above. oh! listen, brother chipmunk; kind little forest brother, listen! and let the sound speak to you, and warn you to wake the slumbering figure here, ere it be too late, ere horror seize him, and despair take his heart for her own. what is that voice above? wake, wake, mark ellery, if there be life in you! * * * * * a sleepy babble at first, the waking murmur of a happy child; then a call, "mark! mark, where are you?" silence, and then a livelier prattle. "i guess most prob'ly p'r'aps he's getting dinner; that's what he is. well, then, i'll play a little till he comes; only there's noffin' here to play wiz. oh! yes, there is mark's silver key, what looks like a pistol. i believe it is a pistol, and he doesn't know, 'cause he's a dwarf. dwarfs has swords and daggers and things; never a dwarf had a pistol, not even the yellow one. well, mark said i mustn't; well, of course, i won't, only just i'll take it down and see what it is. you see, that can't possumbly do any harm, just to look and see what it is; and if it is a pistol, then he ought not to have it there, 'cause they go off and kill people dead. and when they aren't loaded, in the newspapers all the same they kill people; and--just i can reach it if i stand on my tippy-toe-toes--my tippy-toe-toes--and--" mark ellery woke. woke, staggering to his feet, with a crack shattering his ears, with a cry ringing through his soul. "mark! mark! it killed me!" then silence; and the man fell on his knees, and the pistol-smoke drifted down, and floated across his face like a passing soul. * * * * * was it a heart-beat, was it a lifetime, before that silence was broken? the forest held its breath; its myriad leaves hung motionless; there was no movement save the drifting of that blue cloud, that was now almost gone, only the ragged edges of its veil melting away among the tree-trunks. surely neither sound nor motion would come from that gray image kneeling under the tree, its hands locked together till the nails pierced the flesh, its eyes set and staring. is it death they are staring at? lo! this man has been playing with death; toying, coquetting, dallying with him, month after month, sure of his own power, confident that his own hand held both scythe and hour-glass. now death has laughed, and reached behind him and taken his own. o god! can this thing be? god of terror and majesty, working thine awful will in steadfastness while we play and fret and strut under thy silent heavens--has he sinned enough for this, this terrible damnation? is there no hope for him, now or hereafter through the ages? but hark! oh, hark! o god, once more! god of mercy and tenderness; god who givest sight to the blind, and bringest the dead heart into life again--is _this_ thy will, and has he won heaven so soon? what sound now from above? a bird, is it, waked from its sleep in fear? no! no bird ever sobbed in its throat; no bird ever cried through tears like this. "mark! i want you, mark! not killed i is, but i's frightened, and i want you, mark, my mark!" * * * * * when the child was going to bed that night the dwarf took her in his arms, and held her a long, long time, silent. then he said: "snow-white, i want you to say your prayer with me to-night." "wiz you, mark? i thought never dwarfs said prayers." "kneel down with me here, snow-white, little darling child. hold hands with me--so! now say after me the words i say." and wondering, the child repeated after him: "'whither shall i go from thy spirit? or whither shall i flee from thy presence? if i ascend up into heaven, thou art there; if i make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. if i take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea: even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. amen.'" "amen," said the child. "that's kind of a funny prayer, isn't it, mark? i like that prayer. i think i'll have that for mine, 'stead of 'now i lay me.' mark!" "yes, snow-white." "is you terrible glad i wasn't killed wiz that pistol key?" "yes, snow-white; terrible glad!" "is you glad enough not to be cross wiz me 'cause i took it? 'cause i was naughty, 'cause you told me not." "yes, snow-white." "not one single bit cross?" "not one single bit, my little darling child." the child drew a long sigh of content, and put up her arms. "here i want to go to sleep," she said. "your lap is so nice, mark; and your shoulder comes just right for my head. is you comfy so, mark?" "very comfy, snow-white." "do you love me?" "very much, little one; very, very much." "me too you. good-night, mark. i'm glad--you was--a dwarf, and--just right--for me!" through the long night those tender arms held her. her sweet head rested on his shoulder; he never moved; he timed his breathing so that it might come and go with hers, softly rising, softly falling, hour after hour. only toward morning, when the dawn chill came on, he laid the lax limbs and heavy head on the bed, and covered them tenderly, and sat and watched beside the bed till day. it was more than the child's mother had ever done, but why should she do it, when the nurses were always there? chapter ix. restored to life. so it came to pass that james phillips, driving in painful state toward the forest, met the third great surprise of his life. the first had been when, as a child, he was snatched from the hands of the brutal father whose lash still, whenever he thought of it, whistled its way down on his cringing body. he often recalled that moment; the centring of agony in one nerve and another of his tortured frame as the blows fell, the setting of his teeth to keep the screams back because that other should not have the pleasure of hearing him scream; then the sudden flash, the cry, the little figure, no bigger than his own, standing over him, ablaze with wrath, the hulking bully cowering abject, the lash dropped and never raised again. following this, the years of kindness without intermission; the watching, befriending, educating. phillips was not a man of expression, or he would have said that, if god almighty created him, mark ellery made him. and always so wise, so kind, with the light in his eyes, and the smile that people would turn in the street to look after. and on all this had come the second surprise. suddenly, with no reason given--or asked--the light gone out of his master's kind eyes, the smile coming no more, though he would still laugh sometimes, a harsh, unlovely laugh, in place of the mellow sound that used to warm the heart like wine. then--the life changed with the nature; the grave cares, the beneficent responsibilities cast aside, the ceaseless flow of cordial kindness checked, all business thrown into his own willing but timid hands. the wandering life abroad, of which a few random lines dropped now and then had told him; then the return, unguessed by any save himself alone; the seclusion in the bit of lonely forest that bordered the wide ellery domain, the life--or death-in-life--for to phillips it seemed that his master might as well be nailed in his coffin as living like this. so it had seemed, at least; but now, it appeared that yet worse might be. at least the man, mark ellery, had been there, alive and sane, however cruelly changed. but now, if his mind were indeed failing, if some obscure and terrible disease were depriving him of his faculties,--what would happen? what must happen? so far he, phillips, had simply obeyed every dictate, however whimsical and fantastic. here he was, for instance, the carriage filled with things which for very shame and grief he had hidden in boxes and baskets,--toys, cushions, frippery of every description. he had bought them with a sinking heart; he could have wept over every foolish prettiness, but he had bought sternly and faithfully, and every article was the best of its kind. what did it mean? his best hope was that some farmer's child, straying near the wood, had struck and pleased his master's wandering fancy; his worst--but when he thought of that, james phillips straightened his shoulders, and a dark flush crept over his sallow cheek. to him, thus riding in state and misery, came, i say, the third great surprise of his life. suddenly the coachman uttered an exclamation, and checked his horses. now the coachman, like all mark ellery's servants, was as near deaf and dumb as was possible for a man possessed of all his faculties. phillips raised his eyes, and beheld two figures advancing along the road toward him. his master, mark ellery, walking erect and joyful, as he used to walk, his eyes alight, his mouth smiling the old glad way; and holding his hand, dancing and leaping beside him, a child. no farmer's child, though its feet were bare, and bare its curly head, and though the pink frock fluttered in torn folds about it. the child who was now mourned as dead in the splendid house where till now careless pleasure had reigned prodigal and supreme. the child whose dainty hat, dripping and broken, but still half-filled with flowers, had this very day been brought to the distracted woman who now lay prone on her velvet couch, waking from one swoon only to shriek and moan and shudder away into another,--for in most women the mother nature wakes sooner or later, only sometimes it is too late. the child for whose drowned body the search-parties were fathoming every black pool and hidden depth in the stream that, flowing far through woodland and meadow, had brought the flower-laden hat to the very gates of the town, to the very feet of her father, as he rode out on his last frantic search. the same child, not dead, not stolen or lost or mazed, tripping and dancing and swinging by mark ellery's hand, talking and chattering like any squirrel, while her curls blew in the may wind. "they _is_ white! mark, the horses is white, just the way you said. oh, i do love you! who is that? is it a man? is he real? why like a doll does he look wiz his eyes? does he wind up behind? what for is his mouth open? can he speak?" "no, he can't speak!" said the dwarf, laughing. "at least, he'd better not. it isn't good for his health,--is it, phillips? see, snow-white, the carriage has stopped now, and we will get in and go home to mamma. oh! yes, you do want to go, very much indeed; and she'll have brought you something pretty from new york, i shouldn't wonder." "always she mostly sometimes does!" said the child. "but i am coming back here; very soon i am coming, mark? both together we are coming back to live parts of the times? because you know, mark!" "yes, i know, snow-white! yes, if mamma--and papa--are willing, we will come back now and then." "because the squirrels, you know, mark!" "yes, i know." "and the birds! do you think all day those crumbs will last them, do you? do you think cousin goldfinch understood when you asplained to him? do you think simeon is lonely? _poor_ simeon! why don't you speak and tell me, mark? _mark!_" "well, snow-white?" "_the cow!_" "what of her, my child?" "mark, who will milk her? you know--whisper!" she put her mouth to his ear. "you know _real_ cows _has_ to be milked; and we said she was real, both we did, mark!" "this man will milk her," said mark, smiling at the speechless image opposite him. "did you ever milk a cow, phillips?" but phillips did not speak, and the child said, openly, that he needed winding up. so they drove back to the town and through the streets, where people started at sight of them, and stared after them, and whispered to one another; to the splendid house where, above the marble steps, the white ribbons waved on the door, with white roses above them to show that a child was mourned as dead. the child wanted to know why the ribbons were there, and whether it was a party, and a party for her; but for once no one answered her. the carriage stopped, and she flung her arms around mark ellery's neck, and clung tight. "you will take me in, mark?" "yes, snow-white!" "you will carry me up the steps, and into the house?" "yes, snow-white." "because i love you! because i love you better as--" "hush, my child! hush, my little darling child!" * * * * * the white-faced butler tore down the ribbons and flung them behind him as he opened the door. he could not speak, but he looked imploringly at the stately gentleman who stood before him with the child in his arms. "yes," said mark ellery, "i am coming in, barton. take me to your mistress." * * * * * james phillips sat in the carriage outside, and faced the gathering crowd. the rumour spread like wildfire; men and women came running with eager questions, with wide incredulous eyes. was it true? could it be true? who had seen her? here was james phillips; what did phillips say? was the child found? was she alive? had mark ellery brought her back? they surged and babbled about the carriage. phillips, who had received his instructions in a few quiet words, turned an impassive face to the crowd. yes, he said, it was true. mr. ellery had found the little girl. yes, she was alive and well, had no hurt of any kind. yes, mr. ellery had taken her into the house; he was in the house now. he had come back; his own house was to be opened; he would be at the office to-morrow. "where has he been?" cried several eager voices. for here was a fresh wonder, almost as great as that of the dead restored to life. "where has mark ellery been, james phillips?" james phillips searched his mind for a painful instant; groped for some new light of imagination, but found none; could only make the old answer that he had made so many times before: "he has been in thibet--hunting the wild ass!" chapter x. good-bye. the birds did not know what to make of it. at first--for several days--they flew at the windows, as they were in the habit of doing when they felt that a little change from worms would be pleasant. it had come to be an understood thing that when they came to the places where the air was hard, they should flap and beat against it with wings and beak. then their friend would push up the hard air, or open his tree and come out, and would scatter food for them, food which they could not name, but which was easy and pleasant to eat, and did not wriggle. then they would flutter about him, and perch on head and hand and shoulder, and tell him all the news. he was always interested to hear how the nest was getting on, and how many eggs there were; and later, of the extraordinary beauty and virtue of the nestlings. he listened to all the forest gossip with evident pleasure, and often made noises as if he were trying to reply; though, having no bill, of course he only produced uncouth sounds. he meant so well, though, and was so liberal with his food, that all loved him, and not the youngest titmouse ever thought of making fun of him. now he was gone, and the birds did not know what to make of it. they flew and beat against the hard air spaces, but there was no movement within. they consulted the squirrels, and the squirrels went and told simeon stylites, who came down from his pillar in distress, and climbed down the hard red hollow tree that stood on top of the house. he was gone some time, and when he reappeared the squirrels and birds screamed and chattered in affright, for he had gone down a gray squirrel, and he came up black as a crow. but he soothed them, and explained that the inside of the tree was covered with black fur which came off on him. moreover, all was as usual in the place below where their friend lived; only, he was not there. he had found some nuts, but intended to keep them for his trouble; and so he departed. for a long time the birds called and sang and swooped about the house; but no friendly face appeared, no voice answered their call, no hand scattered the daily dole. the creepers rustled and swung their green tendrils down over the house, but it remained senseless, silent, crouched against the wall of gray rock behind it. * * * * * so it stands, and the forest blooms and fades and shrivels round it, year after year. only, once in every year, when the mayflowers are blossoming warm and rosy under the brown leaves, the owner of the house comes back to it. comes with weary step and careworn brow,--life being so full, and the rush of it bringing more work and thought and anxiety than the days can hold,--yet with serene countenance, and eves full of quiet peace, ready to break on the instant into light and laughter. in his hand he brings the child, growing every year into new beauty, new grace, and brightness. and there for a happy week they live and play, and wash the pretty dishes, and feed the birds, and milk the brown cow which is always mysteriously there in the pasture, ready to be milked. "do you know, mark?" said the child once, when they had patted the cow, and were turning away with their shining pail full--the child was a big girl now, but she had the same inconsequent way of talking-- "know what, snow-white?" "i really did think perhaps she was a princess, that first time. wasn't that funny?" she bubbled over with laughter, just the old way. "but we can play just as well now, can't we, mark?" "just as well, snow-white." "and i am not so horribly big, mark, am i?" "not yet, snow-white. not yet, my big little girl." "but you will love me just the same if i do get horribly big, mark?" "just the same, snow-white! a little more every year, to allow for growth." "because i can't help it, you know, mark." "surely not, my dear. surely mark would not have you help it." "but always i shall be the right size for you, mark, and always you will be my own dwarf?" "always and always, snow-white!" "because i love you!" says the child. so the two saunter back through the wood, and the ferns unroll beside their path, and the mayflowers peep out at them from under the leaves, and overhead the birds flit and the squirrels frisk, and all is as it has always been in the good green wood. only, when the milk is carefully set away, mark ellery comes out of the house, and stands under the great buttonwood-tree, silent, with bent head. and seeing him so, the girl comes out after him, and puts her arms around his neck, and leans her head on his breast, and is silent too; for she knows he is saying his prayer, the prayer that is now this long time his life, that she means shall guide and raise her own life, and bring it a little nearer his. "even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me!" the end. * * * * * _books by laura e. richards._ "mrs. richards has made for herself a little niche apart in the literary world, from her delicate treatment of new england village life."--_boston post._ the captain january series captain january. a charming idyl of new england coast life, whose success has been very remarkable. one reads it, is thoroughly charmed by it, tells others, and so its fame has been heralded by its readers, until to-day it is selling by the thousands, constantly enlarging the circle of its delighted admirers. melody. the story of a child. "had there never been a 'captain january,' 'melody' would easily take first place."--_boston times._ marie. "seldom has mrs. richards drawn a more irresistible picture, or framed one with more artistic literary adjustment."--_boston herald._ "a perfect literary gem."--_boston transcript._ narcissa, and a companion story, in verona. "each is a simple, touching, sweet little story of rustic new england life, full of vivid pictures of interesting character, and refreshing for its unaffected genuineness and human feeling."--_congregationalist._ jim of hellas; or, in durance vile, and a companion story, bethesda pool. rosin the beau. a sequel to "melody." snow-white; or the house in the wood. isla heron. a charming prose idyl of quaint new england life. nautilus. a very interesting story, with illustrations. five minute stories. a charming collection of short stories and clever poems for children. three margarets. one of the most clever stories for girls that the author has written. margaret montfort. the second volume in the series of which "three margarets" was so successful as the initial volume. peggy. the third volume in the series of which the preceding ones have been so successful. rita. the fourth volume in the series, being an account of rita, the cuban margaret, and her friends. love and rocks. a charming story of one of the pleasant islands that dot the rugged maine coast. with etching frontispiece by mercier. _dana estes & company, publishers, boston._ the adventures of tom sawyer by mark twain (samuel langhorne clemens) part chapter iv the sun rose upon a tranquil world, and beamed down upon the peaceful village like a benediction. breakfast over, aunt polly had family worship: it began with a prayer built from the ground up of solid courses of scriptural quotations, welded together with a thin mortar of originality; and from the summit of this she delivered a grim chapter of the mosaic law, as from sinai. then tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and went to work to "get his verses." sid had learned his lesson days before. tom bent all his energies to the memorizing of five verses, and he chose part of the sermon on the mount, because he could find no verses that were shorter. at the end of half an hour tom had a vague general idea of his lesson, but no more, for his mind was traversing the whole field of human thought, and his hands were busy with distracting recreations. mary took his book to hear him recite, and he tried to find his way through the fog: "blessed are the--a--a--" "poor"-- "yes--poor; blessed are the poor--a--a--" "in spirit--" "in spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they--they--" "theirs--" "for theirs. blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. blessed are they that mourn, for they--they--" "sh--" "for they--a--" "s, h, a--" "for they s, h--oh, i don't know what it is!" "shall!" "oh, shall! for they shall--for they shall--a--a--shall mourn--a--a-- blessed are they that shall--they that--a--they that shall mourn, for they shall--a--shall what? why don't you tell me, mary?--what do you want to be so mean for?" "oh, tom, you poor thick-headed thing, i'm not teasing you. i wouldn't do that. you must go and learn it again. don't you be discouraged, tom, you'll manage it--and if you do, i'll give you something ever so nice. there, now, that's a good boy." "all right! what is it, mary, tell me what it is." "never you mind, tom. you know if i say it's nice, it is nice." "you bet you that's so, mary. all right, i'll tackle it again." and he did "tackle it again"--and under the double pressure of curiosity and prospective gain he did it with such spirit that he accomplished a shining success. mary gave him a brand-new "barlow" knife worth twelve and a half cents; and the convulsion of delight that swept his system shook him to his foundations. true, the knife would not cut anything, but it was a "sure-enough" barlow, and there was inconceivable grandeur in that--though where the western boys ever got the idea that such a weapon could possibly be counterfeited to its injury is an imposing mystery and will always remain so, perhaps. tom contrived to scarify the cupboard with it, and was arranging to begin on the bureau, when he was called off to dress for sunday-school. mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap, and he went outside the door and set the basin on a little bench there; then he dipped the soap in the water and laid it down; turned up his sleeves; poured out the water on the ground, gently, and then entered the kitchen and began to wipe his face diligently on the towel behind the door. but mary removed the towel and said: "now ain't you ashamed, tom. you mustn't be so bad. water won't hurt you." tom was a trifle disconcerted. the basin was refilled, and this time he stood over it a little while, gathering resolution; took in a big breath and began. when he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes shut and groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony of suds and water was dripping from his face. but when he emerged from the towel, he was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory stopped short at his chin and his jaws, like a mask; below and beyond this line there was a dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in front and backward around his neck. mary took him in hand, and when she was done with him he was a man and a brother, without distinction of color, and his saturated hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls wrought into a dainty and symmetrical general effect. [he privately smoothed out the curls, with labor and difficulty, and plastered his hair close down to his head; for he held curls to be effeminate, and his own filled his life with bitterness.] then mary got out a suit of his clothing that had been used only on sundays during two years--they were simply called his "other clothes"--and so by that we know the size of his wardrobe. the girl "put him to rights" after he had dressed himself; she buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his vast shirt collar down over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned him with his speckled straw hat. he now looked exceedingly improved and uncomfortable. he was fully as uncomfortable as he looked; for there was a restraint about whole clothes and cleanliness that galled him. he hoped that mary would forget his shoes, but the hope was blighted; she coated them thoroughly with tallow, as was the custom, and brought them out. he lost his temper and said he was always being made to do everything he didn't want to do. but mary said, persuasively: "please, tom--that's a good boy." so he got into the shoes snarling. mary was soon ready, and the three children set out for sunday-school--a place that tom hated with his whole heart; but sid and mary were fond of it. sabbath-school hours were from nine to half-past ten; and then church service. two of the children always remained for the sermon voluntarily, and the other always remained too--for stronger reasons. the church's high-backed, uncushioned pews would seat about three hundred persons; the edifice was but a small, plain affair, with a sort of pine board tree-box on top of it for a steeple. at the door tom dropped back a step and accosted a sunday-dressed comrade: "say, billy, got a yaller ticket?" "yes." "what'll you take for her?" "what'll you give?" "piece of lickrish and a fish-hook." "less see 'em." tom exhibited. they were satisfactory, and the property changed hands. then tom traded a couple of white alleys for three red tickets, and some small trifle or other for a couple of blue ones. he waylaid other boys as they came, and went on buying tickets of various colors ten or fifteen minutes longer. he entered the church, now, with a swarm of clean and noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started a quarrel with the first boy that came handy. the teacher, a grave, elderly man, interfered; then turned his back a moment and tom pulled a boy's hair in the next bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy turned around; stuck a pin in another boy, presently, in order to hear him say "ouch!" and got a new reprimand from his teacher. tom's whole class were of a pattern--restless, noisy, and troublesome. when they came to recite their lessons, not one of them knew his verses perfectly, but had to be prompted all along. however, they worried through, and each got his reward--in small blue tickets, each with a passage of scripture on it; each blue ticket was pay for two verses of the recitation. ten blue tickets equalled a red one, and could be exchanged for it; ten red tickets equalled a yellow one; for ten yellow tickets the superintendent gave a very plainly bound bible (worth forty cents in those easy times) to the pupil. how many of my readers would have the industry and application to memorize two thousand verses, even for a dore bible? and yet mary had acquired two bibles in this way--it was the patient work of two years--and a boy of german parentage had won four or five. he once recited three thousand verses without stopping; but the strain upon his mental faculties was too great, and he was little better than an idiot from that day forth--a grievous misfortune for the school, for on great occasions, before company, the superintendent (as tom expressed it) had always made this boy come out and "spread himself." only the older pupils managed to keep their tickets and stick to their tedious work long enough to get a bible, and so the delivery of one of these prizes was a rare and noteworthy circumstance; the successful pupil was so great and conspicuous for that day that on the spot every scholar's heart was fired with a fresh ambition that often lasted a couple of weeks. it is possible that tom's mental stomach had never really hungered for one of those prizes, but unquestionably his entire being had for many a day longed for the glory and the eclat that came with it. in due course the superintendent stood up in front of the pulpit, with a closed hymn-book in his hand and his forefinger inserted between its leaves, and commanded attention. when a sunday-school superintendent makes his customary little speech, a hymn-book in the hand is as necessary as is the inevitable sheet of music in the hand of a singer who stands forward on the platform and sings a solo at a concert --though why, is a mystery: for neither the hymn-book nor the sheet of music is ever referred to by the sufferer. this superintendent was a slim creature of thirty-five, with a sandy goatee and short sandy hair; he wore a stiff standing-collar whose upper edge almost reached his ears and whose sharp points curved forward abreast the corners of his mouth--a fence that compelled a straight lookout ahead, and a turning of the whole body when a side view was required; his chin was propped on a spreading cravat which was as broad and as long as a bank-note, and had fringed ends; his boot toes were turned sharply up, in the fashion of the day, like sleigh-runners--an effect patiently and laboriously produced by the young men by sitting with their toes pressed against a wall for hours together. mr. walters was very earnest of mien, and very sincere and honest at heart; and he held sacred things and places in such reverence, and so separated them from worldly matters, that unconsciously to himself his sunday-school voice had acquired a peculiar intonation which was wholly absent on week-days. he began after this fashion: "now, children, i want you all to sit up just as straight and pretty as you can and give me all your attention for a minute or two. there --that is it. that is the way good little boys and girls should do. i see one little girl who is looking out of the window--i am afraid she thinks i am out there somewhere--perhaps up in one of the trees making a speech to the little birds. [applausive titter.] i want to tell you how good it makes me feel to see so many bright, clean little faces assembled in a place like this, learning to do right and be good." and so forth and so on. it is not necessary to set down the rest of the oration. it was of a pattern which does not vary, and so it is familiar to us all. the latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights and other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings and whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to the bases of isolated and incorruptible rocks like sid and mary. but now every sound ceased suddenly, with the subsidence of mr. walters' voice, and the conclusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent gratitude. a good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which was more or less rare--the entrance of visitors: lawyer thatcher, accompanied by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged gentleman with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless the latter's wife. the lady was leading a child. tom had been restless and full of chafings and repinings; conscience-smitten, too--he could not meet amy lawrence's eye, he could not brook her loving gaze. but when he saw this small new-comer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in a moment. the next moment he was "showing off" with all his might --cuffing boys, pulling hair, making faces--in a word, using every art that seemed likely to fascinate a girl and win her applause. his exaltation had but one alloy--the memory of his humiliation in this angel's garden--and that record in sand was fast washing out, under the waves of happiness that were sweeping over it now. the visitors were given the highest seat of honor, and as soon as mr. walters' speech was finished, he introduced them to the school. the middle-aged man turned out to be a prodigious personage--no less a one than the county judge--altogether the most august creation these children had ever looked upon--and they wondered what kind of material he was made of--and they half wanted to hear him roar, and were half afraid he might, too. he was from constantinople, twelve miles away--so he had travelled, and seen the world--these very eyes had looked upon the county court-house--which was said to have a tin roof. the awe which these reflections inspired was attested by the impressive silence and the ranks of staring eyes. this was the great judge thatcher, brother of their own lawyer. jeff thatcher immediately went forward, to be familiar with the great man and be envied by the school. it would have been music to his soul to hear the whisperings: "look at him, jim! he's a going up there. say--look! he's a going to shake hands with him--he is shaking hands with him! by jings, don't you wish you was jeff?" mr. walters fell to "showing off," with all sorts of official bustlings and activities, giving orders, delivering judgments, discharging directions here, there, everywhere that he could find a target. the librarian "showed off"--running hither and thither with his arms full of books and making a deal of the splutter and fuss that insect authority delights in. the young lady teachers "showed off" --bending sweetly over pupils that were lately being boxed, lifting pretty warning fingers at bad little boys and patting good ones lovingly. the young gentlemen teachers "showed off" with small scoldings and other little displays of authority and fine attention to discipline--and most of the teachers, of both sexes, found business up at the library, by the pulpit; and it was business that frequently had to be done over again two or three times (with much seeming vexation). the little girls "showed off" in various ways, and the little boys "showed off" with such diligence that the air was thick with paper wads and the murmur of scufflings. and above it all the great man sat and beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all the house, and warmed himself in the sun of his own grandeur--for he was "showing off," too. there was only one thing wanting to make mr. walters' ecstasy complete, and that was a chance to deliver a bible-prize and exhibit a prodigy. several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough --he had been around among the star pupils inquiring. he would have given worlds, now, to have that german lad back again with a sound mind. and now at this moment, when hope was dead, tom sawyer came forward with nine yellow tickets, nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and demanded a bible. this was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. walters was not expecting an application from this source for the next ten years. but there was no getting around it--here were the certified checks, and they were good for their face. tom was therefore elevated to a place with the judge and the other elect, and the great news was announced from headquarters. it was the most stunning surprise of the decade, and so profound was the sensation that it lifted the new hero up to the judicial one's altitude, and the school had two marvels to gaze upon in place of one. the boys were all eaten up with envy--but those that suffered the bitterest pangs were those who perceived too late that they themselves had contributed to this hated splendor by trading tickets to tom for the wealth he had amassed in selling whitewashing privileges. these despised themselves, as being the dupes of a wily fraud, a guileful snake in the grass. the prize was delivered to tom with as much effusion as the superintendent could pump up under the circumstances; but it lacked somewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow's instinct taught him that there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two thousand sheaves of scriptural wisdom on his premises--a dozen would strain his capacity, without a doubt. amy lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make tom see it in her face--but he wouldn't look. she wondered; then she was just a grain troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went--came again; she watched; a furtive glance told her worlds--and then her heart broke, and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated everybody. tom most of all (she thought). tom was introduced to the judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath would hardly come, his heart quaked--partly because of the awful greatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. he would have liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. the judge put his hand on tom's head and called him a fine little man, and asked him what his name was. the boy stammered, gasped, and got it out: "tom." "oh, no, not tom--it is--" "thomas." "ah, that's it. i thought there was more to it, maybe. that's very well. but you've another one i daresay, and you'll tell it to me, won't you?" "tell the gentleman your other name, thomas," said walters, "and say sir. you mustn't forget your manners." "thomas sawyer--sir." "that's it! that's a good boy. fine boy. fine, manly little fellow. two thousand verses is a great many--very, very great many. and you never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for knowledge is worth more than anything there is in the world; it's what makes great men and good men; you'll be a great man and a good man yourself, some day, thomas, and then you'll look back and say, it's all owing to the precious sunday-school privileges of my boyhood--it's all owing to my dear teachers that taught me to learn--it's all owing to the good superintendent, who encouraged me, and watched over me, and gave me a beautiful bible--a splendid elegant bible--to keep and have it all for my own, always--it's all owing to right bringing up! that is what you will say, thomas--and you wouldn't take any money for those two thousand verses--no indeed you wouldn't. and now you wouldn't mind telling me and this lady some of the things you've learned--no, i know you wouldn't--for we are proud of little boys that learn. now, no doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples. won't you tell us the names of the first two that were appointed?" tom was tugging at a button-hole and looking sheepish. he blushed, now, and his eyes fell. mr. walters' heart sank within him. he said to himself, it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest question--why did the judge ask him? yet he felt obliged to speak up and say: "answer the gentleman, thomas--don't be afraid." tom still hung fire. "now i know you'll tell me," said the lady. "the names of the first two disciples were--" "david and goliah!" let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene. chapter v about half-past ten the cracked bell of the small church began to ring, and presently the people began to gather for the morning sermon. the sunday-school children distributed themselves about the house and occupied pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision. aunt polly came, and tom and sid and mary sat with her--tom being placed next the aisle, in order that he might be as far away from the open window and the seductive outside summer scenes as possible. the crowd filed up the aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who had seen better days; the mayor and his wife--for they had a mayor there, among other unnecessaries; the justice of the peace; the widow douglass, fair, smart, and forty, a generous, good-hearted soul and well-to-do, her hill mansion the only palace in the town, and the most hospitable and much the most lavish in the matter of festivities that st. petersburg could boast; the bent and venerable major and mrs. ward; lawyer riverson, the new notable from a distance; next the belle of the village, followed by a troop of lawn-clad and ribbon-decked young heart-breakers; then all the young clerks in town in a body--for they had stood in the vestibule sucking their cane-heads, a circling wall of oiled and simpering admirers, till the last girl had run their gantlet; and last of all came the model boy, willie mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as if she were cut glass. he always brought his mother to church, and was the pride of all the matrons. the boys all hated him, he was so good. and besides, he had been "thrown up to them" so much. his white handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket behind, as usual on sundays--accidentally. tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys who had as snobs. the congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once more, to warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the church which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the choir in the gallery. the choir always tittered and whispered all through service. there was once a church choir that was not ill-bred, but i have forgotten where it was, now. it was a great many years ago, and i can scarcely remember anything about it, but i think it was in some foreign country. the minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in a peculiar style which was much admired in that part of the country. his voice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached a certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost word and then plunged down as if from a spring-board: shall i be car-ri-ed toe the skies, on flow'ry beds of ease, whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro' bloody seas? he was regarded as a wonderful reader. at church "sociables" he was always called upon to read poetry; and when he was through, the ladies would lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps, and "wall" their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say, "words cannot express it; it is too beautiful, too beautiful for this mortal earth." after the hymn had been sung, the rev. mr. sprague turned himself into a bulletin-board, and read off "notices" of meetings and societies and things till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of doom--a queer custom which is still kept up in america, even in cities, away here in this age of abundant newspapers. often, the less there is to justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it. and now the minister prayed. a good, generous prayer it was, and went into details: it pleaded for the church, and the little children of the church; for the other churches of the village; for the village itself; for the county; for the state; for the state officers; for the united states; for the churches of the united states; for congress; for the president; for the officers of the government; for poor sailors, tossed by stormy seas; for the oppressed millions groaning under the heel of european monarchies and oriental despotisms; for such as have the light and the good tidings, and yet have not eyes to see nor ears to hear withal; for the heathen in the far islands of the sea; and closed with a supplication that the words he was about to speak might find grace and favor, and be as seed sown in fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest of good. amen. there was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down. the boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only endured it--if he even did that much. he was restive all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously --for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman's regular route over it--and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly. in the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat-tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was perfectly safe. as indeed it was; for as sorely as tom's hands itched to grab for it they did not dare--he believed his soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the prayer was going on. but with the closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal forward; and the instant the "amen" was out the fly was a prisoner of war. his aunt detected the act and made him let it go. the minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod --and yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be hardly worth the saving. tom counted the pages of the sermon; after church he always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew anything else about the discourse. however, this time he was really interested for a little while. the minister made a grand and moving picture of the assembling together of the world's hosts at the millennium when the lion and the lamb should lie down together and a little child should lead them. but the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great spectacle were lost upon the boy; he only thought of the conspicuousness of the principal character before the on-looking nations; his face lit with the thought, and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if it was a tame lion. now he lapsed into suffering again, as the dry argument was resumed. presently he bethought him of a treasure he had and got it out. it was a large black beetle with formidable jaws--a "pinchbug," he called it. it was in a percussion-cap box. the first thing the beetle did was to take him by the finger. a natural fillip followed, the beetle went floundering into the aisle and lit on its back, and the hurt finger went into the boy's mouth. the beetle lay there working its helpless legs, unable to turn over. tom eyed it, and longed for it; but it was safe out of his reach. other people uninterested in the sermon found relief in the beetle, and they eyed it too. presently a vagrant poodle dog came idling along, sad at heart, lazy with the summer softness and the quiet, weary of captivity, sighing for change. he spied the beetle; the drooping tail lifted and wagged. he surveyed the prize; walked around it; smelt at it from a safe distance; walked around it again; grew bolder, and took a closer smell; then lifted his lip and made a gingerly snatch at it, just missing it; made another, and another; began to enjoy the diversion; subsided to his stomach with the beetle between his paws, and continued his experiments; grew weary at last, and then indifferent and absent-minded. his head nodded, and little by little his chin descended and touched the enemy, who seized it. there was a sharp yelp, a flirt of the poodle's head, and the beetle fell a couple of yards away, and lit on its back once more. the neighboring spectators shook with a gentle inward joy, several faces went behind fans and handkerchiefs, and tom was entirely happy. the dog looked foolish, and probably felt so; but there was resentment in his heart, too, and a craving for revenge. so he went to the beetle and began a wary attack on it again; jumping at it from every point of a circle, lighting with his fore-paws within an inch of the creature, making even closer snatches at it with his teeth, and jerking his head till his ears flapped again. but he grew tired once more, after a while; tried to amuse himself with a fly but found no relief; followed an ant around, with his nose close to the floor, and quickly wearied of that; yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle entirely, and sat down on it. then there was a wild yelp of agony and the poodle went sailing up the aisle; the yelps continued, and so did the dog; he crossed the house in front of the altar; he flew down the other aisle; he crossed before the doors; he clamored up the home-stretch; his anguish grew with his progress, till presently he was but a woolly comet moving in its orbit with the gleam and the speed of light. at last the frantic sufferer sheered from its course, and sprang into its master's lap; he flung it out of the window, and the voice of distress quickly thinned away and died in the distance. by this time the whole church was red-faced and suffocating with suppressed laughter, and the sermon had come to a dead standstill. the discourse was resumed presently, but it went lame and halting, all possibility of impressiveness being at an end; for even the gravest sentiments were constantly being received with a smothered burst of unholy mirth, under cover of some remote pew-back, as if the poor parson had said a rarely facetious thing. it was a genuine relief to the whole congregation when the ordeal was over and the benediction pronounced. tom sawyer went home quite cheerful, thinking to himself that there was some satisfaction about divine service when there was a bit of variety in it. he had but one marring thought; he was willing that the dog should play with his pinchbug, but he did not think it was upright in him to carry it off. chapter vi monday morning found tom sawyer miserable. monday morning always found him so--because it began another week's slow suffering in school. he generally began that day with wishing he had had no intervening holiday, it made the going into captivity and fetters again so much more odious. tom lay thinking. presently it occurred to him that he wished he was sick; then he could stay home from school. here was a vague possibility. he canvassed his system. no ailment was found, and he investigated again. this time he thought he could detect colicky symptoms, and he began to encourage them with considerable hope. but they soon grew feeble, and presently died wholly away. he reflected further. suddenly he discovered something. one of his upper front teeth was loose. this was lucky; he was about to begin to groan, as a "starter," as he called it, when it occurred to him that if he came into court with that argument, his aunt would pull it out, and that would hurt. so he thought he would hold the tooth in reserve for the present, and seek further. nothing offered for some little time, and then he remembered hearing the doctor tell about a certain thing that laid up a patient for two or three weeks and threatened to make him lose a finger. so the boy eagerly drew his sore toe from under the sheet and held it up for inspection. but now he did not know the necessary symptoms. however, it seemed well worth while to chance it, so he fell to groaning with considerable spirit. but sid slept on unconscious. tom groaned louder, and fancied that he began to feel pain in the toe. no result from sid. tom was panting with his exertions by this time. he took a rest and then swelled himself up and fetched a succession of admirable groans. sid snored on. tom was aggravated. he said, "sid, sid!" and shook him. this course worked well, and tom began to groan again. sid yawned, stretched, then brought himself up on his elbow with a snort, and began to stare at tom. tom went on groaning. sid said: "tom! say, tom!" [no response.] "here, tom! tom! what is the matter, tom?" and he shook him and looked in his face anxiously. tom moaned out: "oh, don't, sid. don't joggle me." "why, what's the matter, tom? i must call auntie." "no--never mind. it'll be over by and by, maybe. don't call anybody." "but i must! don't groan so, tom, it's awful. how long you been this way?" "hours. ouch! oh, don't stir so, sid, you'll kill me." "tom, why didn't you wake me sooner? oh, tom, don't! it makes my flesh crawl to hear you. tom, what is the matter?" "i forgive you everything, sid. [groan.] everything you've ever done to me. when i'm gone--" "oh, tom, you ain't dying, are you? don't, tom--oh, don't. maybe--" "i forgive everybody, sid. [groan.] tell 'em so, sid. and sid, you give my window-sash and my cat with one eye to that new girl that's come to town, and tell her--" but sid had snatched his clothes and gone. tom was suffering in reality, now, so handsomely was his imagination working, and so his groans had gathered quite a genuine tone. sid flew down-stairs and said: "oh, aunt polly, come! tom's dying!" "dying!" "yes'm. don't wait--come quick!" "rubbage! i don't believe it!" but she fled up-stairs, nevertheless, with sid and mary at her heels. and her face grew white, too, and her lip trembled. when she reached the bedside she gasped out: "you, tom! tom, what's the matter with you?" "oh, auntie, i'm--" "what's the matter with you--what is the matter with you, child?" "oh, auntie, my sore toe's mortified!" the old lady sank down into a chair and laughed a little, then cried a little, then did both together. this restored her and she said: "tom, what a turn you did give me. now you shut up that nonsense and climb out of this." the groans ceased and the pain vanished from the toe. the boy felt a little foolish, and he said: "aunt polly, it seemed mortified, and it hurt so i never minded my tooth at all." "your tooth, indeed! what's the matter with your tooth?" "one of them's loose, and it aches perfectly awful." "there, there, now, don't begin that groaning again. open your mouth. well--your tooth is loose, but you're not going to die about that. mary, get me a silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the kitchen." tom said: "oh, please, auntie, don't pull it out. it don't hurt any more. i wish i may never stir if it does. please don't, auntie. i don't want to stay home from school." "oh, you don't, don't you? so all this row was because you thought you'd get to stay home from school and go a-fishing? tom, tom, i love you so, and you seem to try every way you can to break my old heart with your outrageousness." by this time the dental instruments were ready. the old lady made one end of the silk thread fast to tom's tooth with a loop and tied the other to the bedpost. then she seized the chunk of fire and suddenly thrust it almost into the boy's face. the tooth hung dangling by the bedpost, now. but all trials bring their compensations. as tom wended to school after breakfast, he was the envy of every boy he met because the gap in his upper row of teeth enabled him to expectorate in a new and admirable way. he gathered quite a following of lads interested in the exhibition; and one that had cut his finger and had been a centre of fascination and homage up to this time, now found himself suddenly without an adherent, and shorn of his glory. his heart was heavy, and he said with a disdain which he did not feel that it wasn't anything to spit like tom sawyer; but another boy said, "sour grapes!" and he wandered away a dismantled hero. shortly tom came upon the juvenile pariah of the village, huckleberry finn, son of the town drunkard. huckleberry was cordially hated and dreaded by all the mothers of the town, because he was idle and lawless and vulgar and bad--and because all their children admired him so, and delighted in his forbidden society, and wished they dared to be like him. tom was like the rest of the respectable boys, in that he envied huckleberry his gaudy outcast condition, and was under strict orders not to play with him. so he played with him every time he got a chance. huckleberry was always dressed in the cast-off clothes of full-grown men, and they were in perennial bloom and fluttering with rags. his hat was a vast ruin with a wide crescent lopped out of its brim; his coat, when he wore one, hung nearly to his heels and had the rearward buttons far down the back; but one suspender supported his trousers; the seat of the trousers bagged low and contained nothing, the fringed legs dragged in the dirt when not rolled up. huckleberry came and went, at his own free will. he slept on doorsteps in fine weather and in empty hogsheads in wet; he did not have to go to school or to church, or call any being master or obey anybody; he could go fishing or swimming when and where he chose, and stay as long as it suited him; nobody forbade him to fight; he could sit up as late as he pleased; he was always the first boy that went barefoot in the spring and the last to resume leather in the fall; he never had to wash, nor put on clean clothes; he could swear wonderfully. in a word, everything that goes to make life precious that boy had. so thought every harassed, hampered, respectable boy in st. petersburg. tom hailed the romantic outcast: "hello, huckleberry!" "hello yourself, and see how you like it." "what's that you got?" "dead cat." "lemme see him, huck. my, he's pretty stiff. where'd you get him ?" "bought him off'n a boy." "what did you give?" "i give a blue ticket and a bladder that i got at the slaughter-house." "where'd you get the blue ticket?" "bought it off'n ben rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick." "say--what is dead cats good for, huck?" "good for? cure warts with." "no! is that so? i know something that's better." "i bet you don't. what is it?" "why, spunk-water." "spunk-water! i wouldn't give a dern for spunk-water." "you wouldn't, wouldn't you? d'you ever try it?" "no, i hain't. but bob tanner did." "who told you so!" "why, he told jeff thatcher, and jeff told johnny baker, and johnny told jim hollis, and jim told ben rogers, and ben told a nigger, and the nigger told me. there now!" "well, what of it? they'll all lie. leastways all but the nigger. i don't know him. but i never see a nigger that wouldn't lie. shucks! now you tell me how bob tanner done it, huck." "why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the rain-water was." "in the daytime?" "certainly." "with his face to the stump?" "yes. least i reckon so." "did he say anything?" "i don't reckon he did. i don't know." "aha! talk about trying to cure warts with spunk-water such a blame fool way as that! why, that ain't a-going to do any good. you got to go all by yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know there's a spunk-water stump, and just as it's midnight you back up against the stump and jam your hand in and say: 'barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-meal shorts, spunk-water, spunk-water, swaller these warts,' and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then turn around three times and walk home without speaking to anybody. because if you speak the charm's busted." "well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain't the way bob tanner done." "no, sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz he's the wartiest boy in this town; and he wouldn't have a wart on him if he'd knowed how to work spunk-water. i've took off thousands of warts off of my hands that way, huck. i play with frogs so much that i've always got considerable many warts. sometimes i take 'em off with a bean." "yes, bean's good. i've done that." "have you? what's your way?" "you take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some blood, and then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take and dig a hole and bury it 'bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean. you see that piece that's got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing, trying to fetch the other piece to it, and so that helps the blood to draw the wart, and pretty soon off she comes." "yes, that's it, huck--that's it; though when you're burying it if you say 'down bean; off wart; come no more to bother me!' it's better. that's the way joe harper does, and he's been nearly to coonville and most everywheres. but say--how do you cure 'em with dead cats?" "why, you take your cat and go and get in the graveyard 'long about midnight when somebody that was wicked has been buried; and when it's midnight a devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you can't see 'em, you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear 'em talk; and when they're taking that feller away, you heave your cat after 'em and say, 'devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow cat, i'm done with ye!' that'll fetch any wart." "sounds right. d'you ever try it, huck?" "no, but old mother hopkins told me." "well, i reckon it's so, then. becuz they say she's a witch." "say! why, tom, i know she is. she witched pap. pap says so his own self. he come along one day, and he see she was a-witching him, so he took up a rock, and if she hadn't dodged, he'd a got her. well, that very night he rolled off'n a shed wher' he was a layin drunk, and broke his arm." "why, that's awful. how did he know she was a-witching him?" "lord, pap can tell, easy. pap says when they keep looking at you right stiddy, they're a-witching you. specially if they mumble. becuz when they mumble they're saying the lord's prayer backards." "say, hucky, when you going to try the cat?" "to-night. i reckon they'll come after old hoss williams to-night." "but they buried him saturday. didn't they get him saturday night?" "why, how you talk! how could their charms work till midnight?--and then it's sunday. devils don't slosh around much of a sunday, i don't reckon." "i never thought of that. that's so. lemme go with you?" "of course--if you ain't afeard." "afeard! 'tain't likely. will you meow?" "yes--and you meow back, if you get a chance. last time, you kep' me a-meowing around till old hays went to throwing rocks at me and says 'dern that cat!' and so i hove a brick through his window--but don't you tell." "i won't. i couldn't meow that night, becuz auntie was watching me, but i'll meow this time. say--what's that?" "nothing but a tick." "where'd you get him?" "out in the woods." "what'll you take for him?" "i don't know. i don't want to sell him." "all right. it's a mighty small tick, anyway." "oh, anybody can run a tick down that don't belong to them. i'm satisfied with it. it's a good enough tick for me." "sho, there's ticks a plenty. i could have a thousand of 'em if i wanted to." "well, why don't you? becuz you know mighty well you can't. this is a pretty early tick, i reckon. it's the first one i've seen this year." "say, huck--i'll give you my tooth for him." "less see it." tom got out a bit of paper and carefully unrolled it. huckleberry viewed it wistfully. the temptation was very strong. at last he said: "is it genuwyne?" tom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy. "well, all right," said huckleberry, "it's a trade." tom enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box that had lately been the pinchbug's prison, and the boys separated, each feeling wealthier than before. when tom reached the little isolated frame schoolhouse, he strode in briskly, with the manner of one who had come with all honest speed. he hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with business-like alacrity. the master, throned on high in his great splint-bottom arm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of study. the interruption roused him. "thomas sawyer!" tom knew that when his name was pronounced in full, it meant trouble. "sir!" "come up here. now, sir, why are you late again, as usual?" tom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he saw two long tails of yellow hair hanging down a back that he recognized by the electric sympathy of love; and by that form was the only vacant place on the girls' side of the schoolhouse. he instantly said: "i stopped to talk with huckleberry finn!" the master's pulse stood still, and he stared helplessly. the buzz of study ceased. the pupils wondered if this foolhardy boy had lost his mind. the master said: "you--you did what?" "stopped to talk with huckleberry finn." there was no mistaking the words. "thomas sawyer, this is the most astounding confession i have ever listened to. no mere ferule will answer for this offence. take off your jacket." the master's arm performed until it was tired and the stock of switches notably diminished. then the order followed: "now, sir, go and sit with the girls! and let this be a warning to you." the titter that rippled around the room appeared to abash the boy, but in reality that result was caused rather more by his worshipful awe of his unknown idol and the dread pleasure that lay in his high good fortune. he sat down upon the end of the pine bench and the girl hitched herself away from him with a toss of her head. nudges and winks and whispers traversed the room, but tom sat still, with his arms upon the long, low desk before him, and seemed to study his book. by and by attention ceased from him, and the accustomed school murmur rose upon the dull air once more. presently the boy began to steal furtive glances at the girl. she observed it, "made a mouth" at him and gave him the back of her head for the space of a minute. when she cautiously faced around again, a peach lay before her. she thrust it away. tom gently put it back. she thrust it away again, but with less animosity. tom patiently returned it to its place. then she let it remain. tom scrawled on his slate, "please take it--i got more." the girl glanced at the words, but made no sign. now the boy began to draw something on the slate, hiding his work with his left hand. for a time the girl refused to notice; but her human curiosity presently began to manifest itself by hardly perceptible signs. the boy worked on, apparently unconscious. the girl made a sort of noncommittal attempt to see, but the boy did not betray that he was aware of it. at last she gave in and hesitatingly whispered: "let me see it." tom partly uncovered a dismal caricature of a house with two gable ends to it and a corkscrew of smoke issuing from the chimney. then the girl's interest began to fasten itself upon the work and she forgot everything else. when it was finished, she gazed a moment, then whispered: "it's nice--make a man." the artist erected a man in the front yard, that resembled a derrick. he could have stepped over the house; but the girl was not hypercritical; she was satisfied with the monster, and whispered: "it's a beautiful man--now make me coming along." tom drew an hour-glass with a full moon and straw limbs to it and armed the spreading fingers with a portentous fan. the girl said: "it's ever so nice--i wish i could draw." "it's easy," whispered tom, "i'll learn you." "oh, will you? when?" "at noon. do you go home to dinner?" "i'll stay if you will." "good--that's a whack. what's your name?" "becky thatcher. what's yours? oh, i know. it's thomas sawyer." "that's the name they lick me by. i'm tom when i'm good. you call me tom, will you?" "yes." now tom began to scrawl something on the slate, hiding the words from the girl. but she was not backward this time. she begged to see. tom said: "oh, it ain't anything." "yes it is." "no it ain't. you don't want to see." "yes i do, indeed i do. please let me." "you'll tell." "no i won't--deed and deed and double deed won't." "you won't tell anybody at all? ever, as long as you live?" "no, i won't ever tell anybody. now let me." "oh, you don't want to see!" "now that you treat me so, i will see." and she put her small hand upon his and a little scuffle ensued, tom pretending to resist in earnest but letting his hand slip by degrees till these words were revealed: "i love you." "oh, you bad thing!" and she hit his hand a smart rap, but reddened and looked pleased, nevertheless. just at this juncture the boy felt a slow, fateful grip closing on his ear, and a steady lifting impulse. in that vise he was borne across the house and deposited in his own seat, under a peppering fire of giggles from the whole school. then the master stood over him during a few awful moments, and finally moved away to his throne without saying a word. but although tom's ear tingled, his heart was jubilant. as the school quieted down tom made an honest effort to study, but the turmoil within him was too great. in turn he took his place in the reading class and made a botch of it; then in the geography class and turned lakes into mountains, mountains into rivers, and rivers into continents, till chaos was come again; then in the spelling class, and got "turned down," by a succession of mere baby words, till he brought up at the foot and yielded up the pewter medal which he had worn with ostentation for months. chapter vii the harder tom tried to fasten his mind on his book, the more his ideas wandered. so at last, with a sigh and a yawn, he gave it up. it seemed to him that the noon recess would never come. the air was utterly dead. there was not a breath stirring. it was the sleepiest of sleepy days. the drowsing murmur of the five and twenty studying scholars soothed the soul like the spell that is in the murmur of bees. away off in the flaming sunshine, cardiff hill lifted its soft green sides through a shimmering veil of heat, tinted with the purple of distance; a few birds floated on lazy wing high in the air; no other living thing was visible but some cows, and they were asleep. tom's heart ached to be free, or else to have something of interest to do to pass the dreary time. his hand wandered into his pocket and his face lit up with a glow of gratitude that was prayer, though he did not know it. then furtively the percussion-cap box came out. he released the tick and put him on the long flat desk. the creature probably glowed with a gratitude that amounted to prayer, too, at this moment, but it was premature: for when he started thankfully to travel off, tom turned him aside with a pin and made him take a new direction. tom's bosom friend sat next him, suffering just as tom had been, and now he was deeply and gratefully interested in this entertainment in an instant. this bosom friend was joe harper. the two boys were sworn friends all the week, and embattled enemies on saturdays. joe took a pin out of his lapel and began to assist in exercising the prisoner. the sport grew in interest momently. soon tom said that they were interfering with each other, and neither getting the fullest benefit of the tick. so he put joe's slate on the desk and drew a line down the middle of it from top to bottom. "now," said he, "as long as he is on your side you can stir him up and i'll let him alone; but if you let him get away and get on my side, you're to leave him alone as long as i can keep him from crossing over." "all right, go ahead; start him up." the tick escaped from tom, presently, and crossed the equator. joe harassed him awhile, and then he got away and crossed back again. this change of base occurred often. while one boy was worrying the tick with absorbing interest, the other would look on with interest as strong, the two heads bowed together over the slate, and the two souls dead to all things else. at last luck seemed to settle and abide with joe. the tick tried this, that, and the other course, and got as excited and as anxious as the boys themselves, but time and again just as he would have victory in his very grasp, so to speak, and tom's fingers would be twitching to begin, joe's pin would deftly head him off, and keep possession. at last tom could stand it no longer. the temptation was too strong. so he reached out and lent a hand with his pin. joe was angry in a moment. said he: "tom, you let him alone." "i only just want to stir him up a little, joe." "no, sir, it ain't fair; you just let him alone." "blame it, i ain't going to stir him much." "let him alone, i tell you." "i won't!" "you shall--he's on my side of the line." "look here, joe harper, whose is that tick?" "i don't care whose tick he is--he's on my side of the line, and you sha'n't touch him." "well, i'll just bet i will, though. he's my tick and i'll do what i blame please with him, or die!" a tremendous whack came down on tom's shoulders, and its duplicate on joe's; and for the space of two minutes the dust continued to fly from the two jackets and the whole school to enjoy it. the boys had been too absorbed to notice the hush that had stolen upon the school awhile before when the master came tiptoeing down the room and stood over them. he had contemplated a good part of the performance before he contributed his bit of variety to it. when school broke up at noon, tom flew to becky thatcher, and whispered in her ear: "put on your bonnet and let on you're going home; and when you get to the corner, give the rest of 'em the slip, and turn down through the lane and come back. i'll go the other way and come it over 'em the same way." so the one went off with one group of scholars, and the other with another. in a little while the two met at the bottom of the lane, and when they reached the school they had it all to themselves. then they sat together, with a slate before them, and tom gave becky the pencil and held her hand in his, guiding it, and so created another surprising house. when the interest in art began to wane, the two fell to talking. tom was swimming in bliss. he said: "do you love rats?" "no! i hate them!" "well, i do, too--live ones. but i mean dead ones, to swing round your head with a string." "no, i don't care for rats much, anyway. what i like is chewing-gum." "oh, i should say so! i wish i had some now." "do you? i've got some. i'll let you chew it awhile, but you must give it back to me." that was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about, and dangled their legs against the bench in excess of contentment. "was you ever at a circus?" said tom. "yes, and my pa's going to take me again some time, if i'm good." "i been to the circus three or four times--lots of times. church ain't shucks to a circus. there's things going on at a circus all the time. i'm going to be a clown in a circus when i grow up." "oh, are you! that will be nice. they're so lovely, all spotted up." "yes, that's so. and they get slathers of money--most a dollar a day, ben rogers says. say, becky, was you ever engaged?" "what's that?" "why, engaged to be married." "no." "would you like to?" "i reckon so. i don't know. what is it like?" "like? why it ain't like anything. you only just tell a boy you won't ever have anybody but him, ever ever ever, and then you kiss and that's all. anybody can do it." "kiss? what do you kiss for?" "why, that, you know, is to--well, they always do that." "everybody?" "why, yes, everybody that's in love with each other. do you remember what i wrote on the slate?" "ye--yes." "what was it?" "i sha'n't tell you." "shall i tell you?" "ye--yes--but some other time." "no, now." "no, not now--to-morrow." "oh, no, now. please, becky--i'll whisper it, i'll whisper it ever so easy." becky hesitating, tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm about her waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his mouth close to her ear. and then he added: "now you whisper it to me--just the same." she resisted, for a while, and then said: "you turn your face away so you can't see, and then i will. but you mustn't ever tell anybody--will you, tom? now you won't, will you?" "no, indeed, indeed i won't. now, becky." he turned his face away. she bent timidly around till her breath stirred his curls and whispered, "i--love--you!" then she sprang away and ran around and around the desks and benches, with tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, with her little white apron to her face. tom clasped her about her neck and pleaded: "now, becky, it's all done--all over but the kiss. don't you be afraid of that--it ain't anything at all. please, becky." and he tugged at her apron and the hands. by and by she gave up, and let her hands drop; her face, all glowing with the struggle, came up and submitted. tom kissed the red lips and said: "now it's all done, becky. and always after this, you know, you ain't ever to love anybody but me, and you ain't ever to marry anybody but me, ever never and forever. will you?" "no, i'll never love anybody but you, tom, and i'll never marry anybody but you--and you ain't to ever marry anybody but me, either." "certainly. of course. that's part of it. and always coming to school or when we're going home, you're to walk with me, when there ain't anybody looking--and you choose me and i choose you at parties, because that's the way you do when you're engaged." "it's so nice. i never heard of it before." "oh, it's ever so gay! why, me and amy lawrence--" the big eyes told tom his blunder and he stopped, confused. "oh, tom! then i ain't the first you've ever been engaged to!" the child began to cry. tom said: "oh, don't cry, becky, i don't care for her any more." "yes, you do, tom--you know you do." tom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and turned her face to the wall, and went on crying. tom tried again, with soothing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again. then his pride was up, and he strode away and went outside. he stood about, restless and uneasy, for a while, glancing at the door, every now and then, hoping she would repent and come to find him. but she did not. then he began to feel badly and fear that he was in the wrong. it was a hard struggle with him to make new advances, now, but he nerved himself to it and entered. she was still standing back there in the corner, sobbing, with her face to the wall. tom's heart smote him. he went to her and stood a moment, not knowing exactly how to proceed. then he said hesitatingly: "becky, i--i don't care for anybody but you." no reply--but sobs. "becky"--pleadingly. "becky, won't you say something?" more sobs. tom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass knob from the top of an andiron, and passed it around her so that she could see it, and said: "please, becky, won't you take it?" she struck it to the floor. then tom marched out of the house and over the hills and far away, to return to school no more that day. presently becky began to suspect. she ran to the door; he was not in sight; she flew around to the play-yard; he was not there. then she called: "tom! come back, tom!" she listened intently, but there was no answer. she had no companions but silence and loneliness. so she sat down to cry again and upbraid herself; and by this time the scholars began to gather again, and she had to hide her griefs and still her broken heart and take up the cross of a long, dreary, aching afternoon, with none among the strangers about her to exchange sorrows with. archive: american libraries. [illustration: photo of the author with signature "s. l. clemens"] the adventures of huckleberry finn (tom sawyer's comrade) scene: the mississippi valley time: forty to fifty years ago by mark twain illustrated _new edition from new plates_ harper & brothers publishers new york and london ====== books by mark twain st. joan of arc the innocents abroad roughing it the gilded age a tramp abroad following the equator pudd'nhead wilson sketches new and old the american claimant christian science a connecticut yankee at the court of king arthur the adventures of huckleberry finn personal recollections of joan of arc life on the mississippi the man that corrupted hadleyburg the prince and the pauper the $ , bequest the adventures of tom sawyer tom sawyer abroad what is man? the mysterious stranger adam's diary a dog's tale a double-barreled detective story editorial wild oats eve's diary in defense of harriet shelly and other essays is shakespeare dead? capt. stormfield's visit to heaven a horse's tale the jumping frog the , , pound bank-note travels at home travels in history mark twain's letters mark twain's speeches ====== harper & brothers, new york [established ] the adventures of huckleberry finn ----- copyright, . by samuel l. clemens ----- copyright. and . by harper & brothers ----- copyright. , by clara gabrilowitsch ----- printed in the united states of america contents chap. notice explanatory i. i discover moses and the bulrushers. ii. our gang's dark oath iii. we ambuscade the a-rabs iv. the hair-ball oracle v. pap starts in on a new life vi. pap struggles with the death angel vii. i fool pap and get away viii. i spare miss watson's jim ix. the house of death floats by x. what comes of handlin' snake-skin xi. they're after us! xii. "better let blame well alone" xiii. honest loot from the "walter scott" xiv. was solomon wise? xv. fooling poor old jim xvi. the rattlesnake-skin does its work xvii. the grangerfords take me in xviii. why harney rode away for his hat xix. the duke and the dauphin come aboard xx. what royalty did to parkville xxi. an arkansaw difficulty xxii. why the lynching bee failed xxiii. the orneriness of kings xxiv. the king turns parson xxv. all full of tears and flapdoodle xxvi. i steal the king's plunder xxvii. dead peter has his gold xxviii. overreaching don't pay xxix. i light out in the storm xxx. the gold saves the thieves xxxi. you can't pray a lie xxxii. i have a new name xxxiii. the pitiful ending of royalty xxxiv. we cheer up jim xxxv. dark, deep-laid plans xxxvi. trying to help jim xxxvii. jim gets his witch-pie xxxviii. "here a captive heart busted" xxxix. tom writes nonnamous letters xl. a mixed-up and splendid rescue xli. "must 'a' been sperits" xlii. why they didn't hang jim chapter the last. nothing more to write illustrations portrait of the author huckleberry finn "'gimme a chaw'" tom advises a witch pie notice persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. by order of the author, per g. g., chief of ordnance. explanatory in this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the missouri negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods southwestern dialect; the ordinary "pike county" dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. the shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech. i make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding. the author. huckleberry finn chapter i you don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of _the adventures of tom sawyer;_ but that ain't no matter. that book was made by mr. mark twain, and he told the truth, mainly. there was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth. that is nothing. i never seen anybody but lied one time or another, without it was aunt polly, or the widow, or maybe mary. aunt polly--tom's aunt polly, she is--and mary, and the widow douglas is all told about in that book, which is mostly a true book, with some stretchers, as i said before. now the way that the book winds up is this: tom and me found the money that the robbers hid in the cave, and it made us rich. we got six thousand dollars apiece--all gold. it was an awful sight of money when it was piled up. well, judge thatcher he took it and put it out at interest, and it fetched us a dollar a day apiece all the year round--more than a body could tell what to do with. the widow douglas she took me for her son, and allowed she would sivilize me; but it was rough living in the house all the time, considering how dismal regular and decent the widow was in all her ways; and so when i couldn't stand it no longer i lit out. i got into my old rags and my sugar-hogshead again, and was free and satisfied. but tom sawyer he hunted me up and said he was going to start a band of robbers, and i might join if i would go back to the widow and be respectable. so i went back. the widow she cried over me, and called me a poor lost lamb, and she called me a lot of other names, too, but she never meant no harm by it. she put me in them new clothes again, and i couldn't do nothing but sweat and sweat, and feel all cramped up. well, then, the old thing commenced again. the widow rung a bell for supper, and you had to come to time. when you got to the table you couldn't go right to eating, but you had to wait for the widow to tuck down her head and grumble a little over the victuals, though there warn't really anything the matter with them--that is, nothing only everything was cooked by itself. in a barrel of odds and ends it is different; things get mixed up, and the juice kind of swaps around, and the things go better. after supper she got out her book and learned me about moses and the bulrushers, and i was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then i didn't care no more about him, because i don't take no stock in dead people. pretty soon i wanted to smoke, and asked the widow to let me. but she wouldn't. she said it was a mean practice and wasn't clean, and i must try to not do it any more. that is just the way with some people. they get down on a thing when they don't know nothing about it. here she was a-bothering about moses, which was no kin to her, and no use to anybody, being gone, you see, yet finding a power of fault with me for doing a thing that had some good in it. and she took snuff, too; of course that was all right, because she done it herself. her sister, miss watson, a tolerable slim old maid, with goggles on, had just come to live with her, and took a set at me now with a spelling-book. she worked me middling hard for about an hour, and then the widow made her ease up. i couldn't stood it much longer. then for an hour it was deadly dull, and i was fidgety. miss watson would say, "don't put your feet up there, huckleberry"; and "don't scrunch up like that, huckleberry--set up straight"; and pretty soon she would say, "don't gap and stretch like that, huckleberry--why don't you try to behave?" then she told me all about the bad place, and i said i wished i was there. she got mad then, but i didn't mean no harm. all i wanted was to go somewheres; all i wanted was a change, i warn't particular. she said it was wicked to say what i said; said she wouldn't say it for the whole world; she was going to live so as to go to the good place. well, i couldn't see no advantage in going where she was going, so i made up my mind i wouldn't try for it. but i never said so, because it would only make trouble, and wouldn't do no good. now she had got a start, and she went on and told me all about the good place. she said all a body would have to do there was to go around all day long with a harp and sing, forever and ever. so i didn't think much of it. but i never said so. i asked her if she reckoned tom sawyer would go there, and she said not by a considerable sight. i was glad about that, because i wanted him and me to be together. miss watson she kept pecking at me, and it got tiresome and lonesome. by and by they fetched the niggers in and had prayers, and then everybody was off to bed. i went up to my room with a piece of candle, and put it on the table. then i set down in a chair by the window and tried to think of something cheerful, but it warn't no use. i felt so lonesome i most wished i was dead. the stars were shining, and the leaves rustled in the woods ever so mournful; and i heard an owl, away off, who-whooing about somebody that was dead, and a whippowill and a dog crying about somebody that was going to die; and the wind was trying to whisper something to me, and i couldn't make out what it was, and so it made the cold shivers run over me. then away out in the woods i heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving. i got so downhearted and scared i did wish i had some company. pretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and i flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before i could budge it was all shriveled up. i didn't need anybody to tell me that that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so i was scared and most shook the clothes off of me. i got up and turned around in my tracks three times and crossed my breast every time; and then i tied up a little lock of my hair with a thread to keep witches away. but i hadn't no confidence. you do that when you've lost a horseshoe that you've found, instead of nailing it up over the door, but i hadn't ever heard anybody say it was any way to keep off bad luck when you'd killed a spider. i set down again, a-shaking all over, and got out my pipe for a smoke; for the house was all as still as death now, and so the widow wouldn't know. well, after a long time i heard the clock away off in the town go boom--boom--boom--twelve licks; and all still again--stiller than ever. pretty soon i heard a twig snap down in the dark amongst the trees--something was a-stirring. i set still and listened. directly i could just barely hear a "me-yow! me-yow!" down there. that was good! says i, "me-yow! me-yow!" as soft as i could, and then i put out the light and scrambled out of the window on to the shed. then i slipped down to the ground and crawled in among the trees, and, sure enough, there was tom sawyer waiting for me. chapter ii we went tiptoeing along a path amongst the trees back toward the end of the widow's garden, stooping down so as the branches wouldn't scrape our heads. when we was passing by the kitchen i fell over a root and made a noise. we scrouched down and laid still. miss watson's big nigger, named jim, was setting in the kitchen door; we could see him pretty clear, because there was a light behind him. he got up and stretched his neck out about a minute, listening. then he says: "who dah?" he listened some more; then he came tiptoeing down and stood right between us; we could 'a' touched him, nearly. well, likely it was minutes and minutes that there warn't a sound, and we all there so close together. there was a place on my ankle that got to itching, but i dasn't scratch it; and then my ear begun to itch; and next my back, right between my shoulders. seemed like i'd die if i couldn't scratch. well, i've noticed that thing plenty times since. if you are with the quality, or at a funeral, or trying to go to sleep when you ain't sleepy--if you are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upward of a thousand places. pretty soon jim says: "say, who is you? whar is you? dog my cats ef i didn' hear sumf'n. well, i know what i's gwyne to do: i's gwyne to set down here and listen tell i hears it ag'in." so he set down on the ground betwixt me and tom. he leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. my nose begun to itch. it itched till the tears come into my eyes. but i dasn't scratch. then it begun to itch on the inside. next i got to itching underneath. i didn't know how i was going to set still. this miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. i was itching in eleven different places now. i reckoned i couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but i set my teeth hard and got ready to try. just then jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore--and then i was pretty soon comfortable again. tom he made a sign to me--kind of a little noise with his mouth--and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. when we was ten foot off tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie jim to the tree for fun. but i said no; he might wake and make a disturbance, and then they'd find out i warn't in. then tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. i didn't want him to try. i said jim might wake up and come. but tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and tom laid five cents on the table for pay. then we got out, and i was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do tom but he must crawl to where jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. i waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome. as soon as tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. tom said he slipped jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. afterward jim said the witches bewitched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the state, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. and next time jim told it he said they rode him down to new orleans; and, after that, every time he told it he spread it more and more, till by and by he said they rode him all over the world, and tired him most to death, and his back was all over saddle-boils. jim was monstrous proud about it, and he got so he wouldn't hardly notice the other niggers. niggers would come miles to hear jim tell about it, and he was more looked up to than any nigger in that country. strange niggers would stand with their mouths open and look him all over, same as if he was a wonder. niggers is always talking about witches in the dark by the kitchen fire; but whenever one was talking and letting on to know all about such things, jim would happen in and say, "hm! what you know 'bout witches?" and that nigger was corked up and had to take a back seat. jim always kept that five-center piece round his neck with a string, and said it was a charm the devil give to him with his own hands, and told him he could cure anybody with it and fetch witches whenever he wanted to just by saying something to it; but he never told what it was he said to it. niggers would come from all around there and give jim anything they had, just for a sight of that five-center piece; but they wouldn't touch it, because the devil had had his hands on it. jim was most ruined for a servant, because he got stuck up on account of having seen the devil and been rode by witches. well, when tom and me got to the edge of the hilltop we looked away down into the village and could see three or four lights twinkling, where there was sick folks, maybe; and the stars over us was sparkling ever so fine; and down by the village was the river, a whole mile broad, and awful still and grand. we went down the hill and found joe harper and ben rogers, and two or three more of the boys, hid in the old tanyard. so we unhitched a skiff and pulled down the river two mile and a half, to the big scar on the hillside, and went ashore. we went to a clump of bushes, and tom made everybody swear to keep the secret, and then showed them a hole in the hill, right in the thickest part of the bushes. then we lit the candles, and crawled in on our hands and knees. we went about two hundred yards, and then the cave opened up. tom poked about amongst the passages, and pretty soon ducked under a wall where you wouldn't 'a' noticed that there was a hole. we went along a narrow place and got into a kind of room, all damp and sweaty and cold, and there we stopped. tom says: "now, we'll start this band of robbers and call it tom sawyer's gang. everybody that wants to join has got to take an oath, and write his name in blood." everybody was willing. so tom got out a sheet of paper that he had wrote the oath on, and read it. it swore every boy to stick to the band, and never tell any of the secrets; and if anybody done anything to any boy in the band, whichever boy was ordered to kill that person and his family must do it, and he mustn't eat and he mustn't sleep till he had killed them and hacked a cross in their breasts, which was the sign of the band. and nobody that didn't belong to the band could use that mark, and if he did he must be sued; and if he done it again he must be killed. and if anybody that belonged to the band told the secrets, he must have his throat cut, and then have his carcass burnt up and the ashes scattered all around, and his name blotted off the list with blood and never mentioned again by the gang, but have a curse put on it and be forgot forever. everybody said it was a real beautiful oath, and asked tom if he got it out of his own head. he said some of it, but the rest was out of pirate-books and robber-books, and every gang that was high-toned had it. some thought it would be good to kill the _families_ of boys that told the secrets. tom said it was a good idea, so he took a pencil and wrote it in. then ben rogers says: "here's huck finn, he hain't got no family; what you going to do 'bout him?" "well, hain't he got a father?" says tom sawyer. "yes, he's got a father, but you can't never find him these days. he used to lay drunk with the hogs in the tanyard, but he hain't been seen in these parts for a year or more." they talked it over, and they was going to rule me out, because they said every boy must have a family or somebody to kill, or else it wouldn't be fair and square for the others. well, nobody could think of anything to do--everybody was stumped, and set still. i was most ready to cry; but all at once i thought of a way, and so i offered them miss watson--they could kill her. everybody said: "oh, she'll do. that's all right. huck can come in." then they all stuck a pin in their fingers to get blood to sign with, and i made my mark on the paper. "now," says ben rogers, "what's the line of business of this gang?" "nothing only robbery and murder," tom said. "but who are we going to rob?--houses, or cattle, or--" "stuff! stealing cattle and such things ain't robbery; it's burglary," says tom sawyer. "we ain't burglars. that ain't no sort of style. we are highwaymen. we stop stages and carriages on the road, with masks on, and kill the people and take their watches and money." "must we always kill the people?" "oh, certainly. it's best. some authorities think different, but mostly it's considered best to kill them--except some that you bring to the cave here, and keep them till they're ransomed." "ransomed? what's that?" "i don't know. but that's what they do. i've seen it in books; and so of course that's what we've got to do." "but how can we do it if we don't know what it is?" "why, blame it all, we've _got_ to do it. don't i tell you it's in the books? do you want to go to doing different from what's in the books, and get things all muddled up?" "oh, that's all very fine to _say,_ tom sawyer, but how in the nation are these fellows going to be ransomed if we don't know how to do it to them?--that's the thing i want to get at. now, what do you reckon it is?" "well, i don't know. but per'aps if we keep them till they're ransomed, it means that we keep them till they're dead." "now, that's something _like._ that'll answer. why couldn't you said that before? we'll keep them till they're ransomed to death; and a bothersome lot they'll be, too--eating up everything, and always trying to get loose." "how you talk, ben rogers. how can they get loose when there's a guard over them, ready to shoot them down if they move a peg?" "a guard! well, that _is_ good. so somebody's got to set up all night and never get any sleep, just so as to watch them. i think that's foolishness. why can't a body take a club and ransom them as soon as they get here?" "because it ain't in the books so--that's why. now, ben rogers, do you want to do things regular, or don't you?--that's the idea. don't you reckon that the people that made the books knows what's the correct thing to do? do you reckon _you_ can learn 'em anything? not by a good deal. no, sir, we'll just go on and ransom them in the regular way." "all right. i don't mind; but i say it's a fool way, anyhow. say, do we kill the women, too?" "well, ben rogers, if i was as ignorant as you i wouldn't let on. kill the women? no; nobody ever saw anything in the books like that. you fetch them to the cave, and you're always as polite as pie to them; and by and by they fall in love with you, and never want to go home any more." "well, if that's the way i'm agreed, but i don't take no stock in it. mighty soon we'll have the cave so cluttered up with women, and fellows waiting to be ransomed, that there won't be no place for the robbers. but go ahead, i ain't got nothing to say." little tommy barnes was asleep now, and when they waked him up he was scared, and cried, and said he wanted to go home to his ma, and didn't want to be a robber any more. so they all made fun of him, and called him cry-baby, and that made him mad, and he said he would go straight and tell all the secrets. but tom give him five cents to keep quiet, and said we would all go home and meet next week, and rob somebody and kill some people. ben rogers said he couldn't get out much, only sundays, and so he wanted to begin next sunday; but all the boys said it would be wicked to do it on sunday, and that settled the thing. they agreed to get together and fix a day as soon as they could, and then we elected tom sawyer first captain and joe harper second captain of the gang, and so started home. i clumb up the shed and crept into my window just before day was breaking. my new clothes was all greased up and clayey, and i was dog-tired. chapter iii well, i got a good going-over in the morning from old miss watson on account of my clothes; but the widow she didn't scold, but only cleaned off the grease and clay, and looked so sorry that i thought i would behave awhile if i could. then miss watson she took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it. she told me to pray every day, and whatever i asked for i would get it. but it warn't so. i tried it. once i got a fish-line, but no hooks. it warn't any good to me without hooks. i tried for the hooks three or four times, but somehow i couldn't make it work. by and by, one day, i asked miss watson to try for me, but she said i was a fool. she never told me why, and i couldn't make it out no way. i set down one time back in the woods, and had a long think about it. i says to myself, if a body can get anything they pray for, why don't deacon winn get back the money he lost on pork? why can't the widow get back her silver snuff-box that was stole? why can't miss watson fat up? no, says i to myself, there ain't nothing in it. i went and told the widow about it, and she said the thing a body could get by praying for it was "spiritual gifts." this was too many for me, but she told me what she meant--i must help other people, and do everything i could for other people, and look out for them all the time, and never think about myself. this was including miss watson, as i took it. i went out in the woods and turned it over in my mind a long time, but i couldn't see no advantage about it--except for the other people; so at last i reckoned i wouldn't worry about it any more, but just let it go. sometimes the widow would take me one side and talk about providence in a way to make a body's mouth water; but maybe next day miss watson would take hold and knock it all down again. i judged i could see that there was two providences, and a poor chap would stand considerable show with the widow's providence, but if miss watson's got him there warn't no help for him any more. i thought it all out, and reckoned i would belong to the widow's if he wanted me, though i couldn't make out how he was a-going to be any better off then than what he was before, seeing i was so ignorant, and so kind of low-down and ornery. pap he hadn't been seen for more than a year, and that was comfortable for me; i didn't want to see him no more. he used to always whale me when he was sober and could get his hands on me; though i used to take to the woods most of the time when he was around. well, about this time he was found in the river drownded, about twelve mile above town, so people said. they judged it was him, anyway; said this drownded man was just his size, and was ragged, and had uncommon long hair, which was all like pap; but they couldn't make nothing out of the face, because it had been in the water so long it warn't much like a face at all. they said he was floating on his back in the water. they took him and buried him on the bank. but i warn't comfortable long, because i happened to think of something. i knowed mighty well that a drownded man don't float on his back, but on his face. so i knowed, then, that this warn't pap, but a woman dressed up in a man's clothes. so i was uncomfortable again. i judged the old man would turn up again by and by, though i wished he wouldn't. we played robber now and then about a month, and then i resigned. all the boys did. we hadn't robbed nobody, hadn't killed any people, but only just pretended. we used to hop out of the woods and go charging down on hog-drivers and women in carts taking garden stuff to market, but we never hived any of them. tom sawyer called the hogs "ingots," and he called the turnips and stuff "julery," and we would go to the cave and powwow over what we had done, and how many people we had killed and marked. but i couldn't see no profit in it. one time tom sent a boy to run about town with a blazing stick, which he called a slogan (which was the sign for the gang to get together), and then he said he had got secret news by his spies that next day a whole parcel of spanish merchants and rich a-rabs was going to camp in cave hollow with two hundred elephants, and six hundred camels, and over a thousand "sumter" mules, all loaded down with di'monds, and they didn't have only a guard of four hundred soldiers, and so we would lay in ambuscade, as he called it, and kill the lot and scoop the things. he said we must slick up our swords and guns, and get ready. he never could go after even a turnip-cart but he must have the swords and guns all scoured up for it, though they was only lath and broomsticks, and you might scour at them till you rotted, and then they warn't worth a mouthful of ashes more than what they was before. i didn't believe we could lick such a crowd of spaniards and a-rabs, but i wanted to see the camels and elephants, so i was on hand next day, saturday, in the ambuscade; and when we got the word we rushed out of the woods and down the hill. but there warn't no spaniards and a-rabs, and there warn't no camels nor no elephants. it warn't anything but a sunday-school picnic, and only a primer class at that. we busted it up, and chased the children up the hollow; but we never got anything but some doughnuts and jam, though ben rogers got a rag doll, and joe harper got a hymn-book and a tract; and then the teacher charged in, and made us drop everything and cut. i didn't see no di'monds, and i told tom sawyer so. he said there was loads of them there, anyway; and he said there was a-rabs there, too, and elephants and things. i said, why couldn't we see them, then? he said if i warn't so ignorant, but had read a book called don quixote, i would know without asking. he said it was all done by enchantment. he said there was hundreds of soldiers there, and elephants and treasure, and so on, but we had enemies which he called magicians, and they had turned the whole thing into an infant sunday-school, just out of spite. i said, all right; then the thing for us to do was to go for the magicians. tom sawyer said i was a numskull. "why," said he, "a magician could call up a lot of genies, and they would hash you up like nothing before you could say jack robinson. they are as tall as a tree and as big around as a church." "well," i says, "s'pose we got some genies to help _us_--can't we lick the other crowd then?" "how you going to get them?" "i don't know. how do _they_ get them?" "why, they rub an old tin lamp or an iron ring, and then the genies come tearing in, with the thunder and lightning a-ripping around and the smoke a-rolling, and everything they're told to do they up and do it. they don't think nothing of pulling a shot-tower up by the roots, and belting a sunday-school superintendent over the head with it--or any other man." "who makes them tear around so?" "why, whoever rubs the lamp or the ring. they belong to whoever rubs the lamp or the ring, and they've got to do whatever he says. if he tells them to build a palace forty miles long out of di'monds, and fill it full of chewing-gum, or whatever you want, and fetch an emperor's daughter from china for you to marry, they've got to do it--and they've got to do it before sun-up next morning, too. and more: they've got to waltz that palace around over the country wherever you want it, you understand." "well," says i, "i think they are a pack of flatheads for not keeping the palace themselves 'stead of fooling them away like that. and what's more--if i was one of them i would see a man in jericho before i would drop my business and come to him for the rubbing of an old tin lamp." "how you talk, huck finn. why, you'd _have_ to come when he rubbed it, whether you wanted to or not." "what! and i as high as a tree and as big as a church? all right, then; i _would_ come; but i lay i'd make that man climb the highest tree there was in the country." "shucks, it ain't no use to talk to you, huck finn. you don't seem to know anything, somehow--perfect saphead." i thought all this over for two or three days, and then i reckoned i would see if there was anything in it. i got an old tin lamp and an iron ring, and went out in the woods and rubbed and rubbed till i sweat like an injun, calculating to build a palace and sell it; but it warn't no use, none of the genies come. so then i judged that all that stuff was only just one of tom sawyer's lies. i reckoned he believed in the a-rabs and the elephants, but as for me i think different. it had all the marks of a sunday-school. chapter iv well, three or four months run along, and it was well into the winter now. i had been to school most all the time and could spell and read and write just a little, and could say the multiplication table up to six times seven is thirty-five, and i don't reckon i could ever get any further than that if i was to live forever. i don't take no stock in mathematics, anyway. at first i hated the school, but by and by i got so i could stand it. whenever i got uncommon tired i played hookey, and the hiding i got next day done me good and cheered me up. so the longer i went to school the easier it got to be. i was getting sort of used to the widow's ways, too, and they warn't so raspy on me. living in a house and sleeping in a bed pulled on me pretty tight mostly, but before the cold weather i used to slide out and sleep in the woods sometimes, and so that was a rest to me. i liked the old ways best, but i was getting so i liked the new ones, too, a little bit. the widow said i was coming along slow but sure, and doing very satisfactory. she said she warn't ashamed of me. one morning i happened to turn over the salt-cellar at breakfast. i reached for some of it as quick as i could to throw over my left shoulder and keep off the bad luck, but miss watson was in ahead of me, and crossed me off. she says, "take your hands away, huckleberry; what a mess you are always making!" the widow put in a good word for me, but that warn't going to keep off the bad luck, i knowed that well enough. i started out, after breakfast, feeling worried and shaky, and wondering where it was going to fall on me, and what it was going to be. there is ways to keep off some kinds of bad luck, but this wasn't one of them kind; so i never tried to do anything, but just poked along low-spirited and on the watch-out. i went down to the front garden and clumb over the stile where you go through the high board fence. there was an inch of new snow on the ground, and i seen somebody's tracks. they had come up from the quarry and stood around the stile awhile, and then went on around the garden fence. it was funny they hadn't come in, after standing around so. i couldn't make it out. it was very curious, somehow. i was going to follow around, but i stooped down to look at the tracks first. i didn't notice anything at first, but next i did. there was a cross in the left boot-heel made with big nails, to keep off the devil. i was up in a second and shinning down the hill. i looked over my shoulder every now and then, but i didn't see nobody. i was at judge thatcher's as quick as i could get there. he said: "why, my boy, you are all out of breath. did you come for your interest?" "no, sir," i says; "is there some for me?" "oh, yes, a half-yearly is in last night--over a hundred and fifty dollars. quite a fortune for you. you had better let me invest it along with your six thousand, because if you take it you'll spend it." "no, sir," i says, "i don't want to spend it. i don't want it at all--nor the six thousand, nuther. i want you to take it; i want to give it to you--the six thousand and all." he looked surprised. he couldn't seem to make it out. he says: "why, what can you mean, my boy?" i says, "don't you ask me no questions about it, please. you'll take it--won't you?" he says: "well, i'm puzzled. is something the matter?" "please take it," says i, "and don't ask me nothing--then i won't have to tell no lies." he studied awhile, and then he says: "oho-o! i think i see. you want to _sell_ all your property to me--not give it. that's the correct idea." then he wrote something on a paper and read it over, and says: "there; you see it says 'for a consideration.' that means i have bought it of you and paid you for it. here's a dollar for you. now you sign it." so i signed it, and left. miss watson's nigger, jim, had a hair-ball as big as your fist, which had been took out of the fourth stomach of an ox, and he used to do magic with it. he said there was a spirit inside of it, and it knowed everything. so i went to him that night and told him pap was here again, for i found his tracks in the snow. what i wanted to know was, what he was going to do, and was he going to stay? jim got out his hair-ball and said something over it, and then he held it up and dropped it on the floor. it fell pretty solid, and only rolled about an inch. jim tried it again, and then another time, and it acted just the same. jim got down on his knees, and put his ear against it and listened. but it warn't no use; he said it wouldn't talk. he said sometimes it wouldn't talk without money. i told him i had an old slick counterfeit quarter that warn't no good because the brass showed through the silver a little, and it wouldn't pass nohow, even if the brass didn't show, because it was so slick it felt greasy, and so that would tell on it every time. (i reckoned i wouldn't say nothing about the dollar i got from the judge.) i said it was pretty bad money, but maybe the hair-ball would take it, because maybe it wouldn't know the difference. jim smelt it and bit it and rubbed it, and said he would manage so the hair-ball would think it was good. he said he would split open a raw irish potato and stick the quarter in between and keep it there all night, and next morning you couldn't see no brass, and it wouldn't feel greasy no more, and so anybody in town would take it in a minute, let alone a hair-ball. well, i knowed a potato would do that before, but i had forgot it. jim put the quarter under the hair-ball, and got down and listened again. this time he said the hair-ball was all right. he said it would tell my whole fortune if i wanted it to. i says, go on. so the hair-ball talked to jim, and jim told it to me. he says: "yo' ole father doan' know yit what he's a-gwyne to do. sometimes he spec he'll go 'way, en den ag'in he spec he'll stay. de bes' way is to res' easy en let de ole man take his own way. dey's two angels hoverin' roun' 'bout him. one uv 'em is white en shiny, en t'other one is black. de white one gits him to go right a little while, den de black one sail in en bust it all up. a body can't tell yit which one gwyne to fetch him at de las'. but you is all right. you gwyne to have considable trouble in yo' life, en considable joy. sometimes you gwyne to git hurt, en sometimes you gwyne to git sick; but every time you's gwyne to git well ag'in. dey's two gals flyin' 'bout you in yo' life. one uv 'em's light en t'other one is dark. one is rich en t'other is po'. you's gwyne to marry de po' one fust en de rich one by en by. you wants to keep 'way fum de water as much as you kin, en don't run no resk, 'kase it's down in de bills dat you's gwyne to git hung." when i lit my candle and went up to my room that night there sat pap--his own self! chapter v i had shut the door to. then i turned around, and there he was. i used to be scared of him all the time, he tanned me so much. i reckoned i was scared now, too; but in a minute i see i was mistaken--that is, after the first jolt, as you may say, when my breath sort of hitched, he being so unexpected; but right away after i see i warn't scared of him worth bothring about. he was most fifty, and he looked it. his hair was long and tangled and greasy, and hung down, and you could see his eyes shining through like he was behind vines. it was all black, no gray; so was his long, mixed-up whiskers. there warn't no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like another man's white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl--a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white. as for his clothes--just rags, that was all. he had one ankle resting on t'other knee; the boot on that foot was busted, and two of his toes stuck through, and he worked them now and then. his hat was laying on the floor--an old black slouch with the top caved in, like a lid. i stood a-looking at him; he set there a-looking at me, with his chair tilted back a little. i set the candle down. i noticed the window was up; so he had clumb in by the shed. he kept a-looking me all over. by and by he says: "starchy clothes--very. you think you're a good deal of a big-bug, _don't_ you?" "maybe i am, maybe i ain't," i says. "don't you give me none o' your lip," says he. "you've put on considerable many frills since i been away. i'll take you down a peg before i get done with you. you're educated, too, they say--can read and write. you think you're better'n your father, now, don't you, because he can't? _i'll_ take it out of you. who told you you might meddle with such hifalut'n foolishness, hey?--who told you you could?" "the widow. she told me." "the widow, hey?--and who told the widow she could put in her shovel about a thing that ain't none of her business?" "nobody never told her." "well, i'll learn her how to meddle. and looky here--you drop that school, you hear? i'll learn people to bring up a boy to put on airs over his own father and let on to be better'n what _he_ is. you lemme catch you fooling around that school again, you hear? your mother couldn't read, and she couldn't write, nuther, before she died. none of the family couldn't before _they_ died. i can't; and here you're a-swelling yourself up like this. i ain't the man to stand it--you hear? say, lemme hear you read." i took up a book and begun something about general washington and the wars. when i'd read about a half a minute, he fetched the book a whack with his hand and knocked it across the house. he says: "it's so. you can do it. i had my doubts when you told me. now looky here; you stop that putting on frills. i won't have it. i'll lay for you, my smarty; and if i catch you about that school i'll tan you good. first you know you'll get religion, too. i never see such a son." he took up a little blue and yaller picture of some cows and a boy, and says: "what's this?" "it's something they give me for learning my lessons good." he tore it up, and says: "i'll give you something better--i'll give you a cowhide." he set there a-mumbling and a-growling a minute, and then he says: "_ain't_ you a sweet-scented dandy, though? a bed; and bedclothes; and a look'n'-glass; and a piece of carpet on the floor--and your own father got to sleep with the hogs in the tanyard. i never see such a son. i bet i'll take some o' these frills out o' you before i'm done with you. why, there ain't no end to your airs--they say you're rich. hey?--how's that?" "they lie--that's how." "looky here--mind how you talk to me; i'm a-standing about all i can stand now--so don't gimme no sass. i've been in town two days, and i hain't heard nothing but about you bein' rich. i heard about it away down the river, too. that's why i come. you git me that money to-morrow--i want it." "i hain't got no money." "it's a lie. judge thatcher's got it. you git it. i want it." "i hain't got no money, i tell you. you ask judge thatcher; he'll tell you the same." "all right. i'll ask him; and i'll make him pungle, too, or i'll know the reason why. say, how much you got in your pocket? i want it." "i hain't got only a dollar, and i want that to--" "it don't make no difference what you want it for--you just shell it out." he took it and bit it to see if it was good, and then he said he was going down-town to get some whisky; said he hadn't had a drink all day. when he had got out on the shed he put his head in again, and cussed me for putting on frills and trying to be better than him; and when i reckoned he was gone he come back and put his head in again, and told me to mind about that school, because he was going to lay for me and lick me if i didn't drop that. next day he was drunk, and he went to judge thatcher's and bullyragged him, and tried to make him give up the money; but he couldn't, and then he swore he'd make the law force him. the judge and the widow went to law to get the court to take me away from him and let one of them be my guardian; but it was a new judge that had just come, and he didn't know the old man; so he said courts mustn't interfere and separate families if they could help it; said he'd druther not take a child away from its father. so judge thatcher and the widow had to quit on the business. that pleased the old man till he couldn't rest. he said he'd cowhide me till i was black and blue if i didn't raise some money for him. i borrowed three dollars from judge thatcher, and pap took it and got drunk, and went a-blowing around and cussing and whooping and carrying on; and he kept it up all over town, with a tin pan, till most midnight; then they jailed him, and next day they had him before court, and jailed him again for a week. but he said _he_ was satisfied; said he was boss of his son, and he'd make it warm for _him._ when he got out the new judge said he was a-going to make a man of him. so he took him to his own house, and dressed him up clean and nice, and had him to breakfast and dinner and supper with the family, and was just old pie to him, so to speak. and after supper he talked to him about temperance and such things till the old man cried, and said he'd been a fool, and fooled away his life; but now he was a-going to turn over a new leaf and be a man nobody wouldn't be ashamed of, and he hoped the judge would help him and not look down on him. the judge said he could hug him for them words; so he cried, and his wife she cried again; pap said he'd been a man that had always been misunderstood before, and the judge said he believed it. the old man said that what a man wanted that was down was sympathy, and the judge said it was so; so they cried again. and when it was bedtime the old man rose up and held out his hand, and says: "look at it, gentlemen and ladies all; take a-hold of it; shake it. there's a hand that was the hand of a hog; but it ain't so no more; it's the hand of a man that's started in on a new life, and'll die before he'll go back. you mark them words--don't forget i said them. it's a clean hand now; shake it--don't be afeard." so they shook it, one after the other, all around, and cried. the judge's wife she kissed it. then the old man he signed a pledge--made his mark. the judge said it was the holiest time on record, or something like that. then they tucked the old man into a beautiful room, which was the spare room, and in the night some time he got powerful thirsty and clumb out on to the porch-roof and slid down a stanchion and traded his new coat for a jug of forty-rod, and clumb back again and had a good old time; and toward daylight he crawled out again, drunk as a fiddler, and rolled off the porch and broke his left arm in two places, and was most froze to death when somebody found him after sun-up. and when they come to look at that spare room they had to take soundings before they could navigate it. the judge he felt kind of sore. he said he reckoned a body could reform the old man with a shotgun, maybe, but he didn't know no other way. chapter vi well, pretty soon the old man was up and around again, and then he went for judge thatcher in the courts to make him give up that money, and he went for me, too, for not stopping school. he catched me a couple of times and thrashed me, but i went to school just the same, and dodged him or outrun him most of the time. i didn't want to go to school much before, but i reckoned i'd go now to spite pap. that law trial was a slow business--appeared like they warn't ever going to get started on it; so every now and then i'd borrow two or three dollars off of the judge for him, to keep from getting a cowhiding. every time he got money he got drunk; and every time he got drunk he raised cain around town; and every time he raised cain he got jailed. he was just suited--this kind of thing was right in his line. he got to hanging around the widow's too much, and so she told him at last that if he didn't quit using around there she would make trouble for him. well, _wasn't_ he mad? he said he would show who was huck finn's boss. so he watched out for me one day in the spring, and catched me, and took me up the river about three mile in a skiff, and crossed over to the illinois shore where it was woody and there warn't no houses but an old log hut in a place where the timber was so thick you couldn't find it if you didn't know where it was. he kept me with him all the time, and i never got a chance to run off. we lived in that old cabin, and he always locked the door and put the key under his head nights. he had a gun which he had stole, i reckon, and we fished and hunted, and that was what we lived on. every little while he locked me in and went down to the store, three miles, to the ferry, and traded fish and game for whisky, and fetched it home and got drunk and had a good time, and licked me. the widow she found out where i was by and by, and she sent a man over to try to get hold of me; but pap drove him off with the gun, and it warn't long after that till i was used to being where i was, and liked it--all but the cowhide part. it was kind of lazy and jolly, laying off comfortable all day, smoking and fishing, and no books nor study. two months or more run along, and my clothes got to be all rags and dirt, and i didn't see how i'd ever got to like it so well at the widow's, where you had to wash, and eat on a plate, and comb up, and go to bed and get up regular, and be forever bothering over a book, and have old miss watson pecking at you all the time. i didn't want to go back no more. i had stopped cussing, because the widow didn't like it; but now i took to it again because pap hadn't no objections. it was pretty good times up in the woods there, take it all around. but by and by pap got too handy with his hick'ry, and i couldn't stand it. i was all over welts. he got to going away so much, too, and locking me in. once he locked me in and was gone three days. it was dreadful lonesome. i judged he had got drownded, and i wasn't ever going to get out any more. i was scared. i made up my mind i would fix up some way to leave there. i had tried to get out of that cabin many a time, but i couldn't find no way. there warn't a window to it big enough for a dog to get through. i couldn't get up the chimbly; it was too narrow. the door was thick, solid oak slabs. pap was pretty careful not to leave a knife or anything in the cabin when he was away; i reckon i had hunted the place over as much as a hundred times; well, i was most all the time at it, because it was about the only way to put in the time. but this time i found something at last; i found an old rusty wood-saw without any handle; it was laid in between a rafter and the clapboards of the roof. i greased it up and went to work. there was an old horse-blanket nailed against the logs at the far end of the cabin behind the table, to keep the wind from blowing through the chinks and putting the candle out. i got under the table and raised the blanket, and went to work to saw a section of the big bottom log out--big enough to let me through. well, it was a good long job, but i was getting toward the end of it when i heard pap's gun in the woods. i got rid of the signs of my work, and dropped the blanket and hid my saw, and pretty soon pap come in. pap warn't in a good humor--so he was his natural self. he said he was down-town, and everything was going wrong. his lawyer said he reckoned he would win his lawsuit and get the money if they ever got started on the trial; but then there was ways to put it off a long time, and judge thatcher knowed how to do it. and he said people allowed there'd be another trial to get me away from him and give me to the widow for my guardian, and they guessed it would win this time. this shook me up considerable, because i didn't want to go back to the widow's any more and be so cramped up and sivilized, as they called it. then the old man got to cussing, and cussed everything and everybody he could think of, and then cussed them all over again to make sure he hadn't skipped any, and after that he polished off with a kind of a general cuss all round, including a considerable parcel of people which he didn't know the names of, and so called them what's-his-name when he got to them, and went right along with his cussing. he said he would like to see the widow get me. he said he would watch out, and if they tried to come any such game on him he knowed of a place six or seven mile off to stow me in, where they might hunt till they dropped and they couldn't find me. that made me pretty uneasy again, but only for a minute; i reckoned i wouldn't stay on hand till he got that chance. the old man made me go to the skiff and fetch the things he had got. there was a fifty-pound sack of corn meal, and a side of bacon, ammunition, and a four-gallon jug of whisky, and an old book and two newspapers for wadding, besides some tow. i toted up a load, and went back and set down on the bow of the skiff to rest. i thought it all over, and i reckoned i would walk off with the gun and some lines, and take to the woods when i run away. i guessed i wouldn't stay in one place, but just tramp right across the country, mostly night-times, and hunt and fish to keep alive, and so get so far away that the old man nor the widow couldn't ever find me any more. i judged i would saw out and leave that night if pap got drunk enough, and i reckoned he would. i got so full of it i didn't notice how long i was staying till the old man hollered and asked me whether i was asleep or drownded. i got the things all up to the cabin, and then it was about dark. while i was cooking supper the old man took a swig or two and got sort of warmed up, and went to ripping again. he had been drunk over in town, and laid in the gutter all night, and he was a sight to look at. a body would 'a' thought he was adam--he was just all mud. whenever his liquor begun to work he most always went for the govment. this time he says: "call this a govment! why, just look at it and see what it's like. here's the law a-standing ready to take a man's son away from him--a man's own son, which he has had all the trouble and all the anxiety and all the expense of raising. yes, just as that man has got that son raised at last, and ready to go to work and begin to do suthin' for _him_ and give him a rest, the law up and goes for him. and they call _that_ govment! that ain't all, nuther. the law backs that old judge thatcher up and helps him to keep me out o' my property. here's what the law does: the law takes a man worth six thousand dollars and up'ards, and jams him into an old trap of a cabin like this, and lets him go round in clothes that ain't fitten for a hog. they call that govment! a man can't get his rights in a govment like this. sometimes i've a mighty notion to just leave the country for good and all. yes, and i _told_ 'em so; i told old thatcher so to his face. lots of 'em heard me, and can tell what i said. says i, for two cents i'd leave the blamed country and never come a-near it ag'in. them's the very words. i says, look at my hat--if you call it a hat--but the lid raises up and the rest of it goes down till it's below my chin, and then it ain't rightly a hat at all, but more like my head was shoved up through a jint o' stove-pipe. look at it, says i--such a hat for me to wear--one of the wealthiest men in this town if i could git my rights. "oh, yes, this is a wonderful govment, wonderful. why, looky here. there was a free nigger there from ohio--a mulatter, most as white as a white man. he had the whitest shirt on you ever see, too, and the shiniest hat; and there ain't a man in that town that's got as fine clothes as what he had; and he had a gold watch and chain, and a silver-headed cane--the awfulest old gray-headed nabob in the state. and what do you think? they said he was a p'fessor in a college, and could talk all kinds of languages, and knowed everything. and that ain't the wust. they said he could _vote_ when he was at home. well, that let me out. thinks i, what is the country a-coming to? it was 'lection day, and i was just about to go and vote myself if i warn't too drunk to get there; but when they told me there was a state in this country where they'd let that nigger vote, i drawed out. i says i'll never vote ag'in. them's the very words i said; they all heard me; and the country may rot for all me--i'll never vote ag'in as long as i live. and to see the cool way of that nigger--why, he wouldn't 'a' give me the road if i hadn't shoved him out o' the way. i says to the people, why ain't this nigger put up at auction and sold?--that's what i want to know. and what do you reckon they said? why, they said he couldn't be sold till he'd been in the state six months, and he hadn't been there that long yet. there, now--that's a specimen. they call that a govment that can't sell a free nigger till he's been in the state six months. here's a govment that calls itself a govment, and lets on to be a govment, and thinks it is a govment, and yet's got to set stock-still for six whole months before it can take a-hold of a prowling, thieving, infernal, white-shirted free nigger, and--" pap was a-going on so he never noticed where his old limber legs was taking him to, so he went head over heels over the tub of salt pork and barked both shins, and the rest of his speech was all the hottest kind of language--mostly hove at the nigger and the govment, though he give the tub some, too, all along, here and there. he hopped around the cabin considerable, first on one leg and then on the other, holding first one shin and then the other one, and at last he let out with his left foot all of a sudden and fetched the tub a rattling kick. but it warn't good judgment, because that was the boot that had a couple of his toes leaking out of the front end of it; so now he raised a howl that fairly made a body's hair raise, and down he went in the dirt, and rolled there, and held his toes; and the cussing he done then laid over anything he had ever done previous. he said so his own self afterwards. he had heard old sowberry hagan in his best days, and he said it laid over him, too; but i reckon that was sort of piling it on, maybe. after supper pap took the jug, and said he had enough whisky there for two drunks and one delirium tremens. that was always his word. i judged he would be blind drunk in about an hour, and then i would steal the key, or saw myself out, one or t'other. he drank and drank, and tumbled down on his blankets by and by; but luck didn't run my way. he didn't go sound asleep, but was uneasy. he groaned and moaned and thrashed around this way and that for a long time. at last i got so sleepy i couldn't keep my eyes open all i could do, and so before i knowed what i was about i was sound asleep, and the candle burning. i don't know how long i was asleep, but all of a sudden there was an awful scream and i was up. there was pap looking wild, and skipping around every which way and yelling about snakes. he said they was crawling up his legs; and then he would give a jump and scream, and say one had bit him on the cheek--but i couldn't see no snakes. he started and run round and round the cabin, hollering "take him off! take him off! he's biting me on the neck!" i never see a man look so wild in the eyes. pretty soon he was all fagged out, and fell down panting; then he rolled over and over wonderful fast, kicking things every which way, and striking and grabbing at the air with his hands, and screaming and saying there was devils a-hold of him. he wore out by and by, and laid still awhile, moaning. then he laid stiller, and didn't make a sound. i could hear the owls and the wolves away off in the woods, and it seemed terrible still. he was laying over by the corner. by and by he raised up part way and listened, with his head to one side. he says, very low: "tramp--tramp--tramp; that's the dead; tramp--tramp--tramp; they're coming after me; but i won't go. oh, they're here! don't touch me--don't! hands off--they're cold; let go. oh, let a poor devil alone!" then he went down on all fours and crawled off, begging them to let him alone, and he rolled himself up in his blanket and wallowed in under the old pine table, still a-begging; and then he went to crying. i could hear him through the blanket. by and by he rolled out and jumped up on his feet looking wild, and he see me and went for me. he chased me round and round the place with a clasp-knife, calling me the angel of death, and saying he would kill me, and then i couldn't come for him no more. i begged, and told him i was only huck; but he laughed _such_ a screechy laugh, and roared and cussed, and kept on chasing me up. once when i turned short and dodged under his arm he made a grab and got me by the jacket between my shoulders, and i thought i was gone; but i slid out of the jacket quick as lightning, and saved myself. pretty soon he was all tired out, and dropped down with his back against the door, and said he would rest a minute and then kill me. he put his knife under him, and said he would sleep and get strong, and then he would see who was who. so he dozed off pretty soon. by and by i got the old split-bottom chair and clumb up as easy as i could, not to make any noise, and got down the gun. i slipped the ramrod down it to make sure it was loaded, and then i laid it across the turnip-barrel, pointing towards pap, and set down behind it to wait for him to stir. and how slow and still the time did drag along. chapter vii "git up! what you 'bout?" i opened my eyes and looked around, trying to make out where i was. it was after sun-up, and i had been sound asleep. pap was standing over me looking sour--and sick, too. he says: "what you doin' with this gun?" i judged he didn't know nothing about what he had been doing, so i says: "somebody tried to get in, so i was laying for him." "why didn't you roust me out?" "well, i tried to, but i couldn't; i couldn't budge you." "well, all right. don't stand there palavering all day, but out with you and see if there's a fish on the lines for breakfast. i'll be along in a minute." he unlocked the door, and i cleared out up the river-bank. i noticed some pieces of limbs and such things floating down, and a sprinkling of bark; so i knowed the river had begun to rise. i reckoned i would have great times now if i was over at the town. the june rise used to be always luck for me; because as soon as that rise begins here comes cordwood floating down, and pieces of log rafts--sometimes a dozen logs together; so all you have to do is to catch them and sell them to the woodyards and the sawmill. i went along up the bank with one eye out for pap and t'other one out for what the rise might fetch along. well, all at once here comes a canoe; just a beauty, too, about thirteen or fourteen foot long, riding high like a duck. i shot head-first off of the bank like a frog, clothes and all on, and struck out for the canoe. i just expected there'd be somebody laying down in it, because people often done that to fool folks, and when a chap had pulled a skiff out most to it they'd raise up and laugh at him. but it warn't so this time. it was a drift-canoe sure enough, and i clumb in and paddled her ashore. thinks i, the old man will be glad when he sees this--she's worth ten dollars. but when i got to shore pap wasn't in sight yet, and as i was running her into a little creek like a gully, all hung over with vines and willows, i struck another idea: i judged i'd hide her good, and then, 'stead of taking to the woods when i run off, i'd go down the river about fifty mile and camp in one place for good, and not have such a rough time tramping on foot. it was pretty close to the shanty, and i thought i heard the old man coming all the time; but i got her hid; and then i out and looked around a bunch of willows, and there was the old man down the path a piece just drawing a bead on a bird with his gun. so he hadn't seen anything. when he got along i was hard at it taking up a "trot" line. he abused me a little for being so slow; but i told him i fell in the river, and that was what made me so long. i knowed he would see i was wet, and then he would be asking questions. we got five catfish off the lines and went home. while we laid off after breakfast to sleep up, both of us being about wore out, i got to thinking that if i could fix up some way to keep pap and the widow from trying to follow me, it would be a certainer thing than trusting to luck to get far enough off before they missed me; you see, all kinds of things might happen. well, i didn't see no way for a while, but by and by pap raised up a minute to drink another barrel of water, and he says: "another time a man comes a-prowling round here you roust me out, you hear? that man warn't here for no good. i'd a shot him. next time you roust me out, you hear?" then he dropped down and went to sleep again; what he had been saying give me the very idea i wanted. i says to myself, i can fix it now so nobody won't think of following me. about twelve o'clock we turned out and went along up the bank. the river was coming up pretty fast, and lots of driftwood going by on the rise. by and by along comes part of a log raft--nine logs fast together. we went out with the skiff and towed it ashore. then we had dinner. anybody but pap would 'a' waited and seen the day through, so as to catch more stuff; but that warn't pap's style. nine logs was enough for one time; he must shove right over to town and sell. so he locked me in and took the skiff, and started off towing the raft about half past three. i judged he wouldn't come back that night. i waited till i reckoned he had got a good start; then i out with my saw, and went to work on that log again. before he was t'other side of the river i was out of the hole; him and his raft was just a speck on the water away off yonder. [illustration: huckleberry finn] i took the sack of corn meal and took it to where the canoe was hid, and shoved the vines and branches apart and put it in; then i done the same with the side of bacon; then the whisky-jug. i took all the coffee and sugar there was, and all the ammunition; i took the wadding; i took the bucket and gourd; took a dipper and a tin cup, and my old saw and two blankets, and the skillet and the coffee-pot. i took fish-lines and matches and other things--everything that was worth a cent. i cleaned out the place. i wanted an ax, but there wasn't any, only the one out at the woodpile, and i knowed why i was going to leave that. i fetched out the gun, and now i was done. i had wore the ground a good deal crawling out of the hole and dragging out so many things. so i fixed that as good as i could from the outside by scattering dust on the place, which covered up the smoothness and the sawdust. then i fixed the piece of log back into its place, and put two rocks under it and one against it to hold it there, for it was bent up at that place and didn't quite touch ground. if you stood four or five foot away and didn't know it was sawed, you wouldn't never notice it; and besides, this was the back of the cabin, and it warn't likely anybody would go fooling around there. it was all grass clear to the canoe, so i hadn't left a track. i followed around to see. i stood on the bank and looked out over the river. all safe. so i took the gun and went up a piece into the woods, and was hunting around for some birds when i see a wild pig; hogs soon went wild in them bottoms after they had got away from the prairie-farms. i shot this fellow and took him into camp. i took the ax and smashed in the door. i beat it and hacked it considerable a-doing it. i fetched the pig in, and took him back nearly to the table and hacked into his throat with the ax, and laid him down on the ground to bleed; i say ground because it was ground--hard packed, and no boards. well, next i took an old sack and put a lot of big rocks in it--all i could drag--and i started it from the pig, and dragged it to the door and through the woods down to the river and dumped it in, and down it sunk, out of sight. you could easy see that something had been dragged over the ground. i did wish tom sawyer was there; i knowed he would take an interest in this kind of business, and throw in the fancy touches. nobody could spread himself like tom sawyer in such a thing as that. well, last i pulled out some of my hair, and blooded the ax good, and stuck it on the back side, and slung the ax in the corner. then i took up the pig and held him to my breast with my jacket (so he couldn't drip) till i got a good piece below the house and then dumped him into the river. now i thought of something else. so i went and got the bag of meal and my old saw out of the canoe, and fetched them to the house. i took the bag to where it used to stand, and ripped a hole in the bottom of it with the saw, for there warn't no knives and forks on the place--pap done everything with his clasp-knife about the cooking. then i carried the sack about a hundred yards across the grass and through the willows east of the house, to a shallow lake that was five mile wide and full of rushes--and ducks too, you might say, in the season. there was a slough or a creek leading out of it on the other side that went miles away, i don't know where, but it didn't go to the river. the meal sifted out and made a little track all the way to the lake. i dropped pap's whetstone there too, so as to look like it had been done by accident. then i tied up the rip in the meal-sack with a string, so it wouldn't leak no more, and took it and my saw to the canoe again. it was about dark now; so i dropped the canoe down the river under some willows that hung over the bank, and waited for the moon to rise. i made fast to a willow; then i took a bite to eat, and by and by laid down in the canoe to smoke a pipe and lay out a plan. i says to myself, they'll follow the track of that sackful of rocks to the shore and then drag the river for me. and they'll follow that meal track to the lake and go browsing down the creek that leads out of it to find the robbers that killed me and took the things. they won't ever hunt the river for anything but my dead carcass. they'll soon get tired of that, and won't bother no more about me. all right; i can stop anywhere i want to. jackson's island is good enough for me; i know that island pretty well, and nobody ever comes there. and then i can paddle over to town nights, and slink around and pick up things i want. jackson's island's the place. i was pretty tired, and the first thing i knowed i was asleep. when i woke up i didn't know where i was for a minute. i set up and looked around, a little scared. then i remembered. the river looked miles and miles across. the moon was so bright i could 'a' counted the drift-logs that went a-slipping along, black and still, hundreds of yards out from shore. everything was dead quiet, and it looked late, and _smelt_ late. you know what i mean--i don't know the words to put it in. i took a good gap and a stretch, and was just going to unhitch and start when i heard a sound away over the water. i listened. pretty soon i made it out. it was that dull kind of a regular sound that comes from oars working in rowlocks when it's a still night. i peeped out through the willow branches, and there it was--a skiff, away across the water. i couldn't tell how many was in it. it kept a-coming, and when it was abreast of me i see there warn't but one man in it. thinks i, maybe it's pap, though i warn't expecting him. he dropped below me with the current, and by and by he came a-swinging up shore in the easy water, and he went by so close i could 'a' reached out the gun and touched him. well, it _was_ pap, sure enough--and sober, too, by the way he laid his oars. i didn't lose no time. the next minute i was a-spinning down-stream soft, but quick, in the shade of the bank. i made two mile and a half, and then struck out a quarter of a mile or more toward the middle of the river, because pretty soon i would be passing the ferry-landing, and people might see me and hail me. i got out amongst the driftwood, and then laid down in the bottom of the canoe and let her float. i laid there, and had a good rest and a smoke out of my pipe, looking away into the sky; not a cloud in it. the sky looks ever so deep when you lay down on your back in the moonshine; i never knowed it before. and how far a body can hear on the water such nights! i heard people talking at the ferry-landing. i heard what they said, too--every word of it. one man said it was getting towards the long days and the short nights now. t'other one said _this_ warn't one of the short ones, he reckoned--and then they laughed, and he said it over again, and they laughed again; then they waked up another fellow and told him, and laughed, but he didn't laugh; he ripped out something brisk, and said let him alone. the first fellow said he 'lowed to tell it to his old woman--she would think it was pretty good; but he said that warn't nothing to some things he had said in his time. i heard one man say it was nearly three o'clock, and he hoped daylight wouldn't wait more than about a week longer. after that the talk got further and further away, and i couldn't make out the words any more; but i could hear the mumble, and now and then a laugh, too, but it seemed a long ways off. i was away below the ferry now. i rose up, and there was jackson's island, about two mile and a half down-stream, heavy-timbered and standing up out of the middle of the river, big and dark and solid, like a steamboat without any lights. there warn't any signs of the bar at the head--it was all under water now. it didn't take me long to get there. i shot past the head at a ripping rate, the current was so swift, and then i got into the dead water and landed on the side towards the illinois shore. i run the canoe into a deep dent in the bank that i knowed about; i had to part the willow branches to get in; and when i made fast nobody could 'a' seen the canoe from the outside. i went up and set down on a log at the head of the island, and looked out on the big river and the black driftwood and away over to the town, three mile away, where there was three or four lights twinkling. a monstrous big lumber-raft was about a mile upstream, coming along down, with a lantern in the middle of it. i watched it come creeping down, and when it was most abreast of where i stood i heard a man say, "stern oars, there! heave her head to stabboard!" i heard that just as plain as if the man was by my side. there was a little gray in the sky now; so i stepped into the woods, and laid down for a nap before breakfast. chapter viii the sun was up so high when i waked that i judged it was after eight o'clock. i laid there in the grass and the cool shade thinking about things, and feeling rested and ruther comfortable and satisfied. i could see the sun out at one or two holes, but mostly it was big trees all about, and gloomy in there amongst them. there was freckled places on the ground where the light sifted down through the leaves, and the freckled places swapped about a little, showing there was a little breeze up there. a couple of squirrels set on a limb and jabbered at me very friendly. i was powerful lazy and comfortable--didn't want to get up and cook breakfast. well, i was dozing off again when i thinks i hears a deep sound of "boom!" away up the river. i rouses up, and rests on my elbow and listens; pretty soon i hears it again. i hopped up, and went and looked out at a hole in the leaves, and i see a bunch of smoke laying on the water a long ways up--about abreast the ferry. and there was the ferryboat full of people floating along down. i knowed what was the matter now. "boom!" i see the white smoke squirt out of the ferryboat's side. you see, they was firing cannon over the water, trying to make my carcass come to the top. i was pretty hungry, but it warn't going to do for me to start a fire, because they might see the smoke. so i set there and watched the cannon-smoke and listened to the boom. the river was a mile wide there, and it always looks pretty on a summer morning--so i was having a good enough time seeing them hunt for my remainders if i only had a bite to eat. well, then i happened to think how they always put quicksilver in loaves of bread and float them off, because they always go right to the drownded carcass and stop there. so, says i, i'll keep a lookout, and if any of them's floating around after me i'll give them a show. i changed to the illinois edge of the island to see what luck i could have, and i warn't disappointed. a big double loaf come along, and i most got it with a long stick, but my foot slipped and she floated out further. of course i was where the current set in the closest to the shore--i knowed enough for that. but by and by along comes another one, and this time i won. i took out the plug and shook out the little dab of quicksilver, and set my teeth in. it was "baker's bread"--what the quality eat; none of your low-down corn-pone. i got a good place amongst the leaves, and set there on a log, munching the bread and watching the ferry-boat, and very well satisfied. and then something struck me. i says, now i reckon the widow or the parson or somebody prayed that this bread would find me, and here it has gone and done it. so there ain't no doubt but there is something in that thing--that is, there's something in it when a body like the widow or the parson prays, but it don't work for me, and i reckon it don't work for only just the right kind. i lit a pipe and had a good long smoke, and went on watching. the ferryboat was floating with the current, and i allowed i'd have a chance to see who was aboard when she come along, because she would come in close, where the bread did. when she'd got pretty well along down towards me, i put out my pipe and went to where i fished out the bread, and laid down behind a log on the bank in a little open place. where the log forked i could peep through. by and by she come along, and she drifted in so close that they could 'a' run out a plank and walked ashore. most everybody was on the boat. pap, and judge thatcher, and bessie thatcher, and joe harper, and tom sawyer, and his old aunt polly, and sid and mary, and plenty more. everybody was talking about the murder, but the captain broke in and says: "look sharp, now; the current sets in the closest here, and maybe he's washed ashore and got tangled amongst the brush at the water's edge. i hope so, anyway." i didn't hope so. they all crowded up and leaned over the rails, nearly in my face, and kept still, watching with all their might. i could see them first-rate, but they couldn't see me. then the captain sung out: "stand away!" and the cannon let off such a blast right before me that it made me deef with the noise and pretty near blind with the smoke, and i judged i was gone. if they'd 'a' had some bullets in, i reckon they'd 'a' got the corpse they was after. well, i see i warn't hurt, thanks to goodness. the boat floated on and went out of sight around the shoulder of the island. i could hear the booming now and then, further and further off, and by and by, after an hour, i didn't hear it no more. the island was three mile long. i judged they had got to the foot, and was giving it up. but they didn't yet awhile. they turned around the foot of the island and started up the channel on the missouri side, under steam, and booming once in a while as they went. i crossed over to that side and watched them. when they got abreast the head of the island they quit shooting and dropped over to the missouri shore and went home to the town. i knowed i was all right now. nobody else would come a-hunting after me. i got my traps out of the canoe and made me a nice camp in the thick woods. i made a kind of a tent out of my blankets to put my things under so the rain couldn't get at them. i catched a catfish and haggled him open with my saw, and towards sundown i started my camp-fire and had supper. then i set out a line to catch some fish for breakfast. when it was dark i set by my camp-fire smoking, and feeling pretty well satisfied; but by and by it got sort of lonesome, and so i went and set on the bank and listened to the current swashing along, and counted the stars and drift-logs and rafts that come down, and then went to bed; there ain't no better way to put in time when you are lonesome; you can't stay so, you soon get over it. and so for three days and nights. no difference--just the same thing. but the next day i went exploring around down through the island. i was boss of it; it all belonged to me, so to say, and i wanted to know all about it; but mainly i wanted to put in the time. i found plenty strawberries, ripe and prime; and green summer grapes, and green razberries; and the green blackberries was just beginning to show. they would all come handy by and by, i judged. well, i went fooling along in the deep woods till i judged i warn't far from the foot of the island. i had my gun along, but i hadn't shot nothing; it was for protection; thought i would kill some game nigh home. about this time i mighty near stepped on a good-sized snake, and it went sliding off through the grass and flowers, and i after it, trying to get a shot at it. i clipped along, and all of a sudden i bounded right on to the ashes of a camp-fire that was still smoking. my heart jumped up amongst my lungs. i never waited for to look further, but uncocked my gun and went sneaking back on my tiptoes as fast as ever i could. every now and then i stopped a second amongst the thick leaves and listened, but my breath come so hard i couldn't hear nothing else. i slunk along another piece further, then listened again; and so on, and so on. if i see a stump, i took it for a man; if i trod on a stick and broke it, it made me feel like a person had cut one of my breaths in two and i only got half, and the short half, too. when i got to camp i warn't feeling very brash, there warn't much sand in my craw; but i says, this ain't no time to be fooling around. so i got all my traps into my canoe again so as to have them out of sight, and i put out the fire and scattered the ashes around to look like an old last-year's camp, and then clumb a tree. i reckon i was up in the tree two hours; but i didn't see nothing, i didn't hear nothing--i only _thought_ i heard and seen as much as a thousand things. well, i couldn't stay up there forever; so at last i got down, but i kept in the thick woods and on the lookout all the time. all i could get to eat was berries and what was left over from breakfast. by the time it was night i was pretty hungry. so when it was good and dark i slid out from shore before moonrise and paddled over to the illinois bank--about a quarter of a mile. i went out in the woods and cooked a supper, and i had about made up my mind i would stay there all night when i hear a _plunkety-plunk_, _plunkety-plunk_, and says to myself, horses coming; and next i hear people's voices. i got everything into the canoe as quick as i could, and then went creeping through the woods to see what i could find out. i hadn't got far when i hear a man say: "we better camp here if we can find a good place; the horses is about beat out. let's look around." i didn't wait, but shoved out and paddled away easy. i tied up in the old place, and reckoned i would sleep in the canoe. i didn't sleep much. i couldn't, somehow, for thinking. and every time i waked up i thought somebody had me by the neck. so the sleep didn't do me no good. by and by i says to myself, i can't live this way; i'm a-going to find out who it is that's here on the island with me; i'll find it out or bust. well, i felt better right off. so i took my paddle and slid out from shore just a step or two, and then let the canoe drop along down amongst the shadows. the moon was shining, and outside of the shadows it made it most as light as day. i poked along well on to an hour, everything still as rocks and sound asleep. well, by this time i was most down to the foot of the island. a little ripply, cool breeze begun to blow, and that was as good as saying the night was about done. i give her a turn with the paddle and brung her nose to shore; then i got my gun and slipped out and into the edge of the woods. i sat down there on a log, and looked out through the leaves. i see the moon go off watch, and the darkness begin to blanket the river. but in a little while i see a pale streak over the treetops, and knowed the day was coming. so i took my gun and slipped off towards where i had run across that camp-fire, stopping every minute or two to listen. but i hadn't no luck somehow; i couldn't seem to find the place. but by and by, sure enough, i catched a glimpse of fire away through the trees. i went for it, cautious and slow. by and by i was close enough to have a look, and there laid a man on the ground. it most give me the fantods. he had a blanket around his head, and his head was nearly in the fire. i set there behind a clump of bushes in about six foot of him, and kept my eyes on him steady. it was getting gray daylight now. pretty soon he gapped and stretched himself and hove off the blanket, and it was miss watson's jim! i bet i was glad to see him. i says: "hello, jim!" and skipped out. he bounced up and stared at me wild. then he drops down on his knees, and puts his hands together and says: "doan' hurt me--don't! i hain't ever done no harm to a ghos'. i alwuz liked dead people, en done all i could for 'em. you go en git in de river ag'in, whah you b'longs, en doan' do nuffn to ole jim, 'at 'uz alwuz yo' fren'." well, i warn't long making him understand i warn't dead. i was ever so glad to see jim. i warn't lonesome now. i told him i warn't afraid of _him_ telling the people where i was. i talked along, but he only set there and looked at me; never said nothing. then i says: "it's good daylight. le's get breakfast. make up your camp-fire good." "what's de use er makin' up de camp-fire to cook strawbries en sich truck? but you got a gun, hain't you? den we kin git sumfn better den strawbries." "strawberries and such truck," i says. "is that what you live on?" "i couldn' git nuffn else," he says. "why, how long you been on the island, jim?" "i come heah de night arter you's killed." "what, all that time?" "yes-indeedy." "and ain't you had nothing but that kind of rubbage to eat?" "no, sah--nuffn else." "well, you must be most starved, ain't you?" "i reck'n i could eat a hoss. i think i could. how long you ben on de islan'?" "since the night i got killed." "no! w'y, what has you lived on? but you got a gun. oh, yes, you got a gun. dat's good. now you kill sumfn en i'll make up de fire." so we went over to where the canoe was, and while he built a fire in a grassy open place amongst the trees, i fetched meal and bacon and coffee, and coffee-pot and frying-pan, and sugar and tin cups, and the nigger was set back considerable, because he reckoned it was all done with witchcraft. i catched a good big catfish, too, and jim cleaned him with his knife, and fried him. when breakfast was ready we lolled on the grass and eat it smoking hot. jim laid it in with all his might, for he was most about starved. then when we had got pretty well stuffed, we laid off and lazied. by and by jim says: "but looky here, huck, who wuz it dat 'uz killed in dat shanty ef it warn't you?" then i told him the whole thing, and he said it was smart. he said tom sawyer couldn't get up no better plan than what i had. then i says: "how do you come to be here, jim, and how'd you get here?" he looked pretty uneasy, and didn't say nothing for a minute. then he says: "maybe i better not tell." "why, jim?" "well, dey's reasons. but you wouldn' tell on me ef i 'uz to tell you, would you, huck?" "blamed if i would, jim." "well, i b'lieve you, huck. i--i _run off_." "jim!" "but mind, you said you wouldn' tell--you know you said you wouldn' tell, huck." "well, i did. i said i wouldn't, and i'll stick to it. honest _injun_, i will. people would call me a low-down abolitionist and despise me for keeping mum--but that don't make no difference. i ain't a-going to tell, and i ain't a-going back there, anyways. so, now, le's know all about it." "well, you see, it 'uz dis way. ole missus--dat's miss watson--she pecks on me all de time, en treats me pooty rough, but she awluz said she wouldn' sell me down to orleans. but i noticed dey wuz a nigger trader roun' de place considable lately, en i begin to git oneasy. well, one night i creeps to de do' pooty late, en de do' warn't quite shet, en i hear old missus tell de widder she gwyne to sell me down to orleans, but she didn' want to, but she could git eight hund'd dollars for me, en it 'uz sich a big stack o' money she couldn' resis'. de widder she try to git her to say she wouldn't do it, but i never waited to hear de res'. i lit out mighty quick, i tell you. "i tuck out en shin down de hill, en 'spec to steal a skift 'long de sho' som'ers 'bove de town, but dey wuz people a-stirring yit, so i hid in de ole tumbledown cooper shop on de bank to wait for everybody to go 'way. well, i wuz dah all night. dey wuz somebody roun' all de time. 'long 'bout six in de mawnin' skifts begin to go by, en 'bout eight er nine every skift dat went 'long wuz talkin' 'bout how yo' pap come over to de town en say you's killed. dese las' skifts wuz full o' ladies en genlmen a-goin' over for to see de place. sometimes dey'd pull up at de sho' en take a res' b'fo' dey started acrost, so by de talk i got to know all 'bout de killin'. i 'uz powerful sorry you's killed, huck, but i ain't no mo' now. "i laid dah under de shavin's all day. i 'uz hungry, but i warn't afeard; bekase i knowed ole missus en de widder wuz goin' to start to de camp-meet'n' right arter breakfas' en be gone all day, en dey knows i goes off wid de cattle 'bout daylight, so dey wouldn' 'spec to see me roun' de place, en so dey wouldn' miss me tell arter dark in de evenin'. de yuther servants wouldn' miss me, kase dey'd shin out en take holiday soon as de ole folks 'uz out'n de way. "well, when it come dark i tuck out up de river road, en went 'bout two mile er more to whah dey warn't no houses. i'd made up my mine 'bout what i's a-gwyne to do. you see, ef i kep' on tryin' to git away afoot, de dogs 'ud track me; ef i stole a skift to cross over, dey'd miss dat skift, you see, en dey'd know 'bout whah i'd lan' on de yuther side, en whah to pick up my track. so i says, a raff is what i's arter; it doan' _make_ no track. "i see a light a-comin' roun' de p'int bymeby, so i wade' in en shove' a log ahead o' me en swum more'n half-way acrost de river, en got in 'mongst de drift-wood, en kep' my head down low, en kinder swum agin de current tell de raff come along. den i swum to de stern uv it en tuck a-holt. it clouded up en 'uz pooty dark for a little while. so i clumb up en laid down on de planks. de men 'uz all 'way yonder in de middle, whah de lantern wuz. de river wuz a-risin', en dey wuz a good current; so i reck'n'd 'at by fo' in de mawnin' i'd be twenty-five mile down de river, en den i'd slip in jis b'fo' daylight en swim asho', en take to de woods on de illinois side. "but i didn' have no luck. when we 'uz mos' down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de lantern. i see it warn't no use fer to wait, so i slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. well, i had a notion i could lan' mos' anywhers, but i couldn't--bank too bluff. i uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' i foun' a good place. i went into de woods en jedged i wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. i had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so i 'uz all right." "and so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? why didn't you get mud-turkles?" "how you gwyne to git 'm? you can't slip up on um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? how could a body do it in de night? en i warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime." "well, that's so. you've had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?" "oh, yes. i knowed dey was arter you. i see um go by heah--watched um thoo de bushes." some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. he said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way when young birds done it. i was going to catch some of them, but jim wouldn't let me. he said it was death. he said his father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did. and jim said you mustn't count the things you are going to cook for dinner, because that would bring bad luck. the same if you shook the tablecloth after sundown. and he said if a man owned a beehive and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but i didn't believe that, because i had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me. i had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. jim knowed all kinds of signs. he said he knowed most everything. i said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so i asked him if there warn't any good-luck signs. he says: "mighty few--an' _dey_ ain't no use to a body. what you want to know when good luck's a-comin' for? want to keep it off?" and he said: "ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign dat you's a-gwyne to be rich. well, dey's some use in a sign like dat, 'kase it's so fur ahead. you see, maybe you's got to be po' a long time fust, en so you might git discourage' en kill yo'sef 'f you didn' know by de sign dat you gwyne to be rich bymeby." "have you got hairy arms and a hairy breast, jim?" "what's de use to ax dat question? don't you see i has?" "well, are you rich?" "no, but i ben rich wunst, and gwyne to be rich ag'in. wunst i had foteen dollars, but i tuck to specalat'n', en got busted out." "what did you speculate in, jim?" "well, fust i tackled stock." "what kind of stock?" "why, live stock--cattle, you know. i put ten dollars in a cow. but i ain' gwyne to resk no mo' money in stock. de cow up 'n' died on my han's." "so you lost the ten dollars." "no, i didn't lose it all. i on'y los' 'bout nine of it. i sole de hide en taller for a dollar en ten cents." "you had five dollars and ten cents left. did you speculate any more?" "yes. you know that one-laigged nigger dat b'longs to old misto bradish? well, he sot up a bank, en say anybody dat put in a dollar would git fo' dollars mo' at de en' er de year. well, all de niggers went in, but dey didn't have much. i wuz de on'y one dat had much. so i stuck out for mo' dan fo' dollars, en i said 'f i didn' git it i'd start a bank mysef. well, o' course dat nigger want' to keep me out er de business, bekase he says dey warn't business 'nough for two banks, so he say i could put in my five dollars en he pay me thirty-five at de en' er de year. "so i done it. den i reck'n'd i'd inves' de thirty-five dollars right off en keep things a-movin'. dey wuz a nigger name' bob, dat had ketched a wood-flat, en his marster didn' know it; en i bought it off'n him en told him to take de thirty-five dollars when de en' er de year come; but somebody stole de wood-flat dat night, en nex' day de one-laigged nigger say de bank's busted. so dey didn' none uv us git no money." "what did you do with the ten cents, jim?" "well, i 'uz gwyne to spen' it, but i had a dream, en de dream tole me to give it to a nigger name' balum--balum's ass dey call him for short; he's one er dem chuckleheads, you know. but he's lucky, dey say, en i see i warn't lucky. de dream say let balum inves' de ten cents en he'd make a raise for me. well, balum he tuck de money, en when he wuz in church he hear de preacher say dat whoever give to de po' len' to de lord, en boun' to git his money back a hund'd times. so balum he tuck en give de ten cents to de po', en laid low to see what wuz gwyne to come of it." "well, what did come of it, jim?" "nuffn never come of it. i couldn' manage to k'leck dat money no way; en balum he couldn'. i ain' gwyne to len' no mo' money 'dout i see de security. boun' to git yo' money back a hund'd times, de preacher says! ef i could git de ten _cents_ back, i'd call it squah, en be glad er de chanst." "well, it's all right anyway, jim, long as you're going to be rich again some time or other." "yes; en i's rich now, come to look at it. i owns mysef, en i's wuth eight hund'd dollars. i wisht i had de money, i wouldn' want no mo'." chapter ix i wanted to go and look at a place right about the middle of the island that i'd found when i was exploring; so we started and soon got to it, because the island was only three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide. this place was a tolerable long, steep hill or ridge about forty foot high. we had a rough time getting to the top, the sides was so steep and the bushes so thick. we tramped and clumb around all over it, and by and by found a good big cavern in the rock, most up to the top on the side towards illinois. the cavern was as big as two or three rooms bunched together, and jim could stand up straight in it. it was cool in there. jim was for putting our traps in there right away, but i said we didn't want to be climbing up and down there all the time. jim said if we had the canoe hid in a good place, and had all the traps in the cavern, we could rush there if anybody was to come to the island, and they would never find us without dogs. and, besides, he said them little birds had said it was going to rain, and did i want the things to get wet? so we went back and got the canoe, and paddled up abreast the cavern, and lugged all the traps up there. then we hunted up a place close by to hide the canoe in, amongst the thick willows. we took some fish off of the lines and set them again, and begun to get ready for dinner. the door of the cavern was big enough to roll a hogshead in, and on one side of the door the floor stuck out a little bit, and was flat and a good place to build a fire on. so we built it there and cooked dinner. we spread the blankets inside for a carpet, and eat our dinner in there. we put all the other things handy at the back of the cavern. pretty soon it darkened up, and begun to thunder and lighten; so the birds was right about it. directly it begun to rain, and it rained like all fury, too, and i never see the wind blow so. it was one of these regular summer storms. it would get so dark that it looked all blue-black outside, and lovely; and the rain would thrash along by so thick that the trees off a little ways looked dim and spider-webby; and here would come a blast of wind that would bend the trees down and turn up the pale underside of the leaves; and then a perfect ripper of a gust would follow along and set the branches to tossing their arms as if they was just wild; and next, when it was just about the bluest and blackest--_fst!_ it was as bright as glory, and you'd have a little glimpse of tree-tops a-plunging about away off yonder in the storm, hundreds of yards further than you could see before; dark as sin again in a second, and now you'd hear the thunder let go with an awful crash, and then go rumbling, grumbling, tumbling, down the sky towards the under side of the world, like rolling empty barrels down-stairs--where it's long stairs and they bounce a good deal, you know. "jim, this is nice," i says. "i wouldn't want to be nowhere else but here. pass me along another hunk of fish and some hot corn-bread." "well, you wouldn't 'a' ben here 'f it hadn't 'a' ben for jim. you'd 'a' ben down dah in de woods widout any dinner, en gittin' mos' drownded, too; dat you would, honey. chickens knows when it's gwyne to rain, en so do de birds, chile." the river went on raising and raising for ten or twelve days, till at last it was over the banks. the water was three or four foot deep on the island in the low places and on the illinois bottom. on that side it was a good many miles wide, but on the missouri side it was the same old distance across--a half a mile--because the missouri shore was just a wall of high bluffs. daytimes we paddled all over the island in the canoe. it was mighty cool and shady in the deep woods, even if the sun was blazing outside. we went winding in and out amongst the trees, and sometimes the vines hung so thick we had to back away and go some other way. well, on every old broken-down tree you could see rabbits and snakes and such things; and when the island had been overflowed a day or two they got so tame, on account of being hungry, that you could paddle right up and put your hand on them if you wanted to; but not the snakes and turtles--they would slide off in the water. the ridge our cavern was in was full of them. we could 'a' had pets enough if we'd wanted them. one night we catched a little section of a lumber-raft--nice pine planks. it was twelve foot wide and about fifteen or sixteen foot long, and the top stood above water six or seven inches--a solid, level floor. we could see saw-logs go by in the daylight sometimes, but we let them go; we didn't show ourselves in daylight. another night when we was up at the head of the island, just before daylight, here comes a frame-house down, on the west side. she was a two-story, and tilted over considerable. we paddled out and got aboard--clumb in at an up-stairs window. but it was too dark to see yet, so we made the canoe fast and set in her to wait for daylight. the light begun to come before we got to the foot of the island. then we looked in at the window. we could make out a bed, and a table, and two old chairs, and lots of things around about on the floor, and there was clothes hanging against the wall. there was something laying on the floor in the far corner that looked like a man. so jim says: "hello, you!" but it didn't budge. so i hollered again, and then jim says: "de man ain't asleep--he's dead. you hold still--i'll go en see." he went, and bent down and looked, and says: "it's a dead man. yes, indeedy; naked, too. he's ben shot in de back. i reck'n he's ben dead two er three days. come in, huck, but doan' look at his face--it's too gashly." i didn't look at him at all. jim throwed some old rags over him, but he needn't done it; i didn't want to see him. there was heaps of old greasy cards scattered around over the floor, and old whisky-bottles, and a couple of masks made out of black cloth; and all over the walls was the ignorantest kind of words and pictures made with charcoal. there was two old dirty calico dresses, and a sun-bonnet, and some women's underclothes hanging against the wall, and some men's clothing, too. we put the lot into the canoe--it might come good. there was a boy's old speckled straw hat on the floor; i took that, too. and there was a bottle that had had milk in it, and it had a rag stopper for a baby to suck. we would 'a' took the bottle, but it was broke. there was a seedy old chest, and an old hair trunk with the hinges broke. they stood open, but there warn't nothing left in them that was any account. the way things was scattered about we reckoned the people left in a hurry, and warn't fixed so as to carry off most of their stuff. we got an old tin lantern, and a butcher-knife without any handle, and a bran-new barlow knife worth two bits in any store, and a lot of tallow candles, and a tin candlestick, and a gourd, and a tin cup, and a ratty old bedquilt off the bed, and a reticule with needles and pins and beeswax and buttons and thread and all such truck in it, and a hatchet and some nails, and a fish-line as thick as my little finger with some monstrous hooks on it, and a roll of buckskin, and a leather dog-collar, and a horseshoe, and some vials of medicine that didn't have no label on them; and just as we was leaving i found a tolerable good currycomb, and jim he found a ratty old fiddle-bow, and a wooden leg. the straps was broke off of it, but, barring that, it was a good enough leg, though it was too long for me and not long enough for jim, and we couldn't find the other one, though we hunted all around. and so, take it all around, we made a good haul. when we was ready to shove off we was a quarter of a mile below the island, and it was pretty broad day; so i made jim lay down in the canoe and cover up with the quilt, because if he set up people could tell he was a nigger a good ways off. i paddled over to the illinois shore, and drifted down most a half a mile doing it. i crept up the dead water under the bank, and hadn't no accidents and didn't see nobody. we got home all safe. chapter x after breakfast i wanted to talk about the dead man and guess out how he come to be killed, but jim didn't want to. he said it would fetch bad luck; and besides, he said, he might come and ha'nt us; he said a man that warn't buried was more likely to go a-ha'nting around than one that was planted and comfortable. that sounded pretty reasonable, so i didn't say no more; but i couldn't keep from studying over it and wishing i knowed who shot the man, and what they done it for. we rummaged the clothes we'd got, and found eight dollars in silver sewed up in the lining of an old blanket overcoat. jim said he reckoned the people in that house stole the coat, because if they'd 'a' knowed the money was there they wouldn't 'a' left it. i said i reckoned they killed him, too; but jim didn't want to talk about that. i says: "now you think it's bad luck; but what did you say when i fetched in the snake-skin that i found on the top of the ridge day before yesterday? you said it was the worst bad luck in the world to touch a snake-skin with my hands. well, here's your bad luck! we've raked in all this truck and eight dollars besides. i wish we could have some bad luck like this every day, jim." "never you mind, honey, never you mind. don't you git too peart. it's a-comin'. mind i tell you, it's a-comin'." it did come, too. it was a tuesday that we had that talk. well, after dinner friday we was laying around in the grass at the upper end of the ridge, and got out of tobacco. i went to the cavern to get some, and found a rattlesnake in there. i killed him, and curled him up on the foot of jim's blanket, ever so natural, thinking there'd be some fun when jim found him there. well, by night i forgot all about the snake, and when jim flung himself down on the blanket while i struck a light the snake's mate was there, and bit him. he jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light showed was the varmint curled up and ready for another spring. i laid him out in a second with a stick, and jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun to pour it down. he was barefooted, and the snake bit him right on the heel. that all comes of my being such a fool as to not remember that wherever you leave a dead snake its mate always comes there and curls around it. jim told me to chop off the snake's head and throw it away, and then skin the body and roast a piece of it. i done it, and he eat it and said it would help cure him. he made me take off the rattles and tie them around his wrist, too. he said that that would help. then i slid out quiet and throwed the snakes clear away amongst the bushes; for i warn't going to let jim find out it was all my fault, not if i could help it. jim sucked and sucked at the jug, and now and then he got out of his head and pitched around and yelled; but every time he come to himself he went to sucking at the jug again. his foot swelled up pretty big, and so did his leg; but by and by the drunk begun to come, and so i judged he was all right; but i'd druther been bit with a snake than pap's whisky. jim was laid up for four days and nights. then the swelling was all gone and he was around again. i made up my mind i wouldn't ever take a-holt of a snake-skin again with my hands, now that i see what had come of it. jim said he reckoned i would believe him next time. and he said that handling a snake-skin was such awful bad luck that maybe we hadn't got to the end of it yet. he said he druther see the new moon over his left shoulder as much as a thousand times than take up a snake-skin in his hand. well, i was getting to feel that way myself, though i've always reckoned that looking at the new moon over your left shoulder is one of the carelessest and foolishest things a body can do. old hank bunker done it once, and bragged about it; and in less than two years he got drunk and fell off of the shot-tower, and spread himself out so that he was just a kind of a layer, as you may say; and they slid him edgeways between two barn doors for a coffin, and buried him so, so they say, but i didn't see it. pap told me. but anyway it all come of looking at the moon that way, like a fool. well, the days went along, and the river went down between its banks again; and about the first thing we done was to bait one of the big hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a man, being six foot two inches long, and weighed over two hundred pounds. we couldn't handle him, of course; he would 'a' flung us into illinois. we just set there and watched him rip and tear around till he drownded. we found a brass button in his stomach and a round ball, and lots of rubbage. we split the ball open with the hatchet, and there was a spool in it. jim said he'd had it there a long time, to coat it over so and make a ball of it. it was as big a fish as was ever catched in the mississippi, i reckon. jim said he hadn't ever seen a bigger one. he would 'a' been worth a good deal over at the village. they peddle out such a fish as that by the pound in the market-house there; everybody buys some of him; his meat's as white as snow and makes a good fry. next morning i said it was getting slow and dull, and i wanted to get a stirring-up some way. i said i reckoned i would slip over the river and find out what was going on. jim liked that notion; but he said i must go in the dark and look sharp. then he studied it over and said, couldn't i put on some of them old things and dress up like a girl? that was a good notion, too. so we shortened up one of the calico gowns, and i turned up my trouser-legs to my knees and got into it. jim hitched it behind with the hooks, and it was a fair fit. i put on the sun-bonnet and tied it under my chin, and then for a body to look in and see my face was like looking down a joint of stove-pipe. jim said nobody would know me, even in the daytime, hardly. i practised around all day to get the hang of the things, and by and by i could do pretty well in them, only jim said i didn't walk like a girl; and he said i must quit pulling up my gown to get at my britches-pocket. i took notice, and done better. i started up the illinois shore in the canoe just after dark. i started across to the town from a little below the ferry-landing, and the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. i tied up and started along the bank. there was a light burning in a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long time, and i wondered who had took up quarters there. i slipped up and peeped in at the window. there was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. i didn't know her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that town that i didn't know. now this was lucky, because i was weakening; i was getting afraid i had come; people might know my voice and find me out. but if this woman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all i wanted to know; so i knocked at the door, and made up my mind i wouldn't forget i was a girl. chapter xi "come in," says the woman, and i did. she says: "take a cheer." i done it. she looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says: "what might your name be?" "sarah williams." "where'bouts do you live? in this neighborhood?" "no'm. in hookerville, seven mile below. i've walked all the way and i'm all tired out." "hungry, too, i reckon. i'll find you something." "no'm, i ain't hungry. i was so hungry i had to stop two miles below here at a farm; so i ain't hungry no more. it's what makes me so late. my mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and i come to tell my uncle abner moore. he lives at the upper end of the town, she says. i hain't ever been here before. do you know him?" "no; but i don't know everybody yet. i haven't lived here quite two weeks. it's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. you better stay here all night. take off your bonnet." "no," i says; "i'll rest awhile, i reckon, and go on. i ain't afeard of the dark." she said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be in by and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him along with me. then she got to talking about her husband, and about her relations up the river, and her relations down the river, and about how much better off they used to was, and how they didn't know but they'd made a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well alone--and so on and so on, till i was afeard i had made a mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then i was pretty willing to let her clatter right along. she told about me and tom sawyer finding the twelve thousand dollars (only she got it twenty) and all about pap and what a hard lot he was, and what a hard lot i was, and at last she got down to where i was murdered. i says: "who done it? we've heard considerable about these goings-on down in hookerville, but we don't know who 'twas that killed huck finn." "well, i reckon there's a right smart chance of people _here_ that 'd like to know who killed him. some think old finn done it himself." "no--is that so?" "most everybody thought it at first. he'll never know how nigh he come to getting lynched. but before night they changed around and judged it was done by a runaway nigger named jim." "why _he_--" i stopped. i reckoned i better keep still. she run on, and never noticed i had put in at all: "the nigger run off the very night huck finn was killed. so there's a reward out for him--three hundred dollars. and there's a reward out for old finn, too--two hundred dollars. you see, he come to town the morning after the murder, and told about it, and was out with 'em on the ferryboat hunt, and right away after he up and left. before night they wanted to lynch him, but he was gone, you see. well, next day they found out the nigger was gone; they found out he hadn't ben seen sence ten o'clock the night the murder was done. so then they put it on him, you see; and while they was full of it, next day, back comes old finn, and went boo-hooing to judge thatcher to get money to hunt for the nigger all over illinois with. the judge gave him some, and that evening he got drunk, and was around till after midnight with a couple of mighty hard-looking strangers, and then went off with them. well, he hain't come back sence, and they ain't looking for him back till this thing blows over a little, for people thinks now that he killed his boy and fixed things so folks would think robbers done it, and then he'd get huck's money without having to bother a long time with a lawsuit. people do say he warn't any too good to do it. oh, he's sly, i reckon. if he don't come back for a year he'll be all right. you can't prove anything on him, you know; everything will be quieted down then, and he'll walk in huck's money as easy as nothing." "yes, i reckon so, 'm. i don't see nothing in the way of it. has everybody quit thinking the nigger done it?" "oh, no, not everybody. a good many thinks he done it. but they'll get the nigger pretty soon now, and maybe they can scare it out of him." "why, are they after him yet?" "well, you're innocent, ain't you! does three hundred dollars lay around every day for people to pick up? some folks think the nigger ain't far from here. i'm one of them--but i hain't talked it around. a few days ago i was talking with an old couple that lives next door in the log shanty, and they happened to say hardly anybody ever goes to that island over yonder that they call jackson's island. don't anybody live there? says i. no, nobody, says they. i didn't say any more, but i done some thinking. i was pretty near certain i'd seen smoke over there, about the head of the island, a day or two before that, so i says to myself, like as not that nigger's hiding over there; anyway, says i, it's worth the trouble to give the place a hunt. i hain't seen any smoke sence, so i reckon maybe he's gone, if it was him; but husband's going over to see--him and another man. he was gone up the river; but he got back to-day, and i told him as soon as he got here two hours ago." i had got so uneasy i couldn't set still. i had to do something with my hands; so i took up a needle off of the table and went to threading it. my hands shook, and i was making a bad job of it. when the woman stopped talking i looked up, and she was looking at me pretty curious and smiling a little. i put down the needle and thread, and let on to be interested--and i was, too--and says: "three hundred dollars is a power of money. i wish my mother could get it. is your husband going over there to-night?" "oh, yes. he went up-town with the man i was telling you of, to get a boat and see if they could borrow another gun. they'll go over after midnight." "couldn't they see better if they was to wait till daytime?" "yes. and couldn't the nigger see better, too? after midnight he'll likely be asleep, and they can slip around through the woods and hunt up his campfire all the better for the dark, if he's got one." "i didn't think of that." the woman kept looking at me pretty curious, and i didn't feel a bit comfortable. pretty soon she says: "what did you say your name was, honey?" "m--mary williams." somehow it didn't seem to me that i said it was mary before, so i didn't look up--seemed to me i said it was sarah; so i felt sort of cornered, and was afeard maybe i was looking it, too. i wished the woman would say something more; the longer she set still the uneasier i was. but now she says: "honey, i thought you said it was sarah when you first come in?" "oh, yes'm, i did. sarah mary williams. sarah's my first name. some calls me sarah, some calls me mary." "oh, that's the way of it?" "yes'm." i was feeling better then, but i wished i was out of there, anyway. i couldn't look up yet. well, the woman fell to talking about how hard times was, and how poor they had to live, and how the rats was as free as if they owned the place, and so forth and so on, and then i got easy again. she was right about the rats. you'd see one stick his nose out of a hole in the corner every little while. she said she had to have things handy to throw at them when she was alone, or they wouldn't give her no peace. she showed me a bar of lead twisted up into a knot, and said she was a good shot with it generly, but she'd wrenched her arm a day or two ago, and didn't know whether she could throw true now. but she watched for a chance, and directly banged away at a rat; but she missed him wide, and said, "ouch!" it hurt her arm so. then she told me to try for the next one. i wanted to be getting away before the old man got back, but of course i didn't let on. i got the thing, and the first rat that showed his nose i let drive, and if he'd 'a' stayed where he was he'd 'a' been a tolerable sick rat. she said that was first-rate, and she reckoned i would hive the next one. she went and got the lump of lead and fetched it back, and brought along a hank of yarn which she wanted me to help her with. i held up my two hands and she put the hank over them, and went on talking about her and her husband's matters. but she broke off to say: "keep your eye on the rats. you better have the lead in your lap, handy." so she dropped the lump into my lap just at that moment, and i clapped my legs together on it and she went on talking. but only about a minute. then she took off the hank and looked me straight in the face, and very pleasant, and says: "come, now, what's your real name?" "wh-hat, mum?" "what's your real name? is it bill, or tom, or bob?--or what is it?" i reckon i shook like a leaf, and i didn't know hardly what to do. but i says: "please to don't poke fun at a poor girl like me, mum. if i'm in the way here, i'll--" "no, you won't. set down and stay where you are. i ain't going to hurt you, and i ain't going to tell on you, nuther. you just tell me your secret, and trust me. i'll keep it; and, what's more, i'll help you. so'll my old man if you want him to. you see, you're a runaway 'prentice, that's all. it ain't anything. there ain't no harm in it. you've been treated bad, and you made up your mind to cut. bless you, child, i wouldn't tell on you. tell me all about it now, that's a good boy." so i said it wouldn't be no use to try to play it any longer, and i would just make a clean breast and tell her everything, but she mustn't go back on her promise. then i told her my father and mother was dead, and the law had bound me out to a mean old farmer in the country thirty mile back from the river, and he treated me so bad i couldn't stand it no longer; he went away to be gone a couple of days, and so i took my chance and stole some of his daughter's old clothes and cleared out, and i had been three nights coming the thirty miles. i traveled nights, and hid daytimes and slept, and the bag of bread and meat i carried from home lasted me all the way, and i had a-plenty. i said i believed my uncle abner moore would take care of me, and so that was why i struck out for this town of goshen. "goshen, child? this ain't goshen. this is st. petersburg. goshen's ten mile further up the river. who told you this was goshen?" "why, a man i met at daybreak this morning, just as i was going to turn into the woods for my regular sleep. he told me when the roads forked i must take the right hand, and five mile would fetch me to goshen." "he was drunk, i reckon. he told you just exactly wrong." "well, he did act like he was drunk, but it ain't no matter now. i got to be moving along. i'll fetch goshen before daylight." "hold on a minute. i'll put you up a snack to eat. you might want it." so she put me up a snack, and says: "say, when a cow's laying down, which end of her gets up first? answer up prompt now--don't stop to study over it. which end gets up first?" "the hind end, mum." "well, then, a horse?" "the for'rard end, mum." "which side of a tree does the moss grow on?" "north side." "if fifteen cows is browsing on a hillside, how many of them eats with their heads pointed the same direction?" "the whole fifteen, mum." "well, i reckon you _have_ lived in the country. i thought maybe you was trying to hocus me again. what's your real name, now?" "george peters, mum." "well, try to remember it, george. don't forget and tell me it's elexander before you go, and then get out by saying it's george elexander when i catch you. and don't go about women in that old calico. you do a girl tolerable poor, but you might fool men, maybe. bless you, child, when you set out to thread a needle don't hold the thread still and fetch the needle up to it; hold the needle still and poke the thread at it; that's the way a woman most always does, but a man always does t'other way. and when you throw at a rat or anything, hitch yourself up a-tiptoe and fetch your hand up over your head as awkward as you can, and miss your rat about six or seven foot. throw stiff-armed from the shoulder, like there was a pivot there for it to turn on, like a girl; not from the wrist and elbow, with your arm out to one side, like a boy. and, mind you, when a girl tries to catch anything in her lap she throws her knees apart; she don't clap them together, the way you did when you catched the lump of lead. why, i spotted you for a boy when you was threading the needle; and i contrived the other things just to make certain. now trot along to your uncle, sarah mary williams george elexander peters, and if you get into trouble you send word to mrs. judith loftus, which is me, and i'll do what i can to get you out of it. keep the river road all the way, and next time you tramp take shoes and socks with you. the river road's a rocky one, and your feet 'll be in a condition when you get to goshen, i reckon." i went up the bank about fifty yards, and then i doubled on my tracks and slipped back to where my canoe was, a good piece below the house. i jumped in, and was off in a hurry. i went up-stream far enough to make the head of the island, and then started across. i took off the sun-bonnet, for i didn't want no blinders on then. when i was about the middle i heard the clock begin to strike, so i stops and listens; the sound come faint over the water but clear--eleven. when i struck the head of the island i never waited to blow, though i was most winded, but i shoved right into the timber where my old camp used to be, and started a good fire there on a high and dry spot. then i jumped in the canoe and dug out for our place, a mile and a half below, as hard as i could go. i landed, and slopped through the timber and up the ridge and into the cavern. there jim laid, sound asleep on the ground. i roused him out and says: "git up and hump yourself, jim! there ain't a minute to lose. they're after us!" jim never asked no questions, he never said a word; but the way he worked for the next half an hour showed about how he was scared. by that time everything we had in the world was on our raft, and she was ready to be shoved out from the willow cove where she was hid. we put out the camp-fire at the cavern the first thing, and didn't show a candle outside after that. i took the canoe out from the shore a little piece, and took a look; but if there was a boat around i couldn't see it, for stars and shadows ain't good to see by. then we got out the raft and slipped along down in the shade, past the foot of the island dead still--never saying a word. chapter xii it must 'a' been close on to one o'clock when we got below the island at last, and the raft did seem to go mighty slow. if a boat was to come along we was going to take to the canoe and break for the illinois shore; and it was well a boat didn't come, for we hadn't ever thought to put the gun in the canoe, or a fishing-line, or anything to eat. we was in ruther too much of a sweat to think of so many things. it warn't good judgment to put _everything_ on the raft. if the men went to the island i just expect they found the camp-fire i built, and watched it all night for jim to come. anyways, they stayed away from us, and if my building the fire never fooled them it warn't no fault of mine. i played it as low down on them as i could. when the first streak of day began to show we tied up to a towhead in a big bend on the illinois side, and hacked off cottonwood branches with the hatchet, and covered up the raft with them so she looked like there had been a cave-in in the bank there. a towhead is a sand-bar that has cottonwoods on it as thick as harrow-teeth. we had mountains on the missouri shore and heavy timber on the illinois side, and the channel was down the missouri shore at that place, so we warn't afraid of anybody running across us. we laid there all day, and watched the rafts and steamboats spin down the missouri shore, and up-bound steamboats fight the big river in the middle. i told jim all about the time i had jabbering with that woman; and jim said she was a smart one, and if she was to start after us herself she wouldn't set down and watch a camp-fire--no, sir, she'd fetch a dog. well, then, i said, why couldn't she tell her husband to fetch a dog? jim said he bet she did think of it by the time the men was ready to start, and he believed they must 'a' gone up-town to get a dog and so they lost all that time, or else we wouldn't be here on a towhead sixteen or seventeen mile below the village--no, indeedy, we would be in that same old town again. so i said i didn't care what was the reason they didn't get us as long as they didn't. when it was beginning to come on dark we poked our heads out of the cottonwood thicket, and looked up and down and across; nothing in sight; so jim took up some of the top planks of the raft and built a snug wigwam to get under in blazing weather and rainy, and to keep the things dry. jim made a floor for the wigwam, and raised it a foot or more above the level of the raft, so now the blankets and all the traps was out of reach of steamboat waves. right in the middle of the wigwam we made a layer of dirt about five or six inches deep with a frame around it for to hold it to its place; this was to build a fire on in sloppy weather or chilly; the wigwam would keep it from being seen. we made an extra steering-oar, too, because one of the others might get broke on a snag or something. we fixed up a short forked stick to hang the old lantern on, because we must always light the lantern whenever we see a steamboat coming down-stream, to keep from getting run over; but we wouldn't have to light it for up-stream boats unless we see we was in what they call a "crossing"; for the river was pretty high yet, very low banks being still a little under water; so up-bound boats didn't always run the channel, but hunted easy water. this second night we run between seven and eight hours, with a current that was making over four mile an hour. we catched fish and talked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. it was kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel like talking loud, and it warn't often that we laughed--only a little kind of a low chuckle. we had mighty good weather as a general thing, and nothing ever happened to us at all--that night, nor the next, nor the next. every night we passed towns, some of them away up on black hillsides, nothing but just a shiny bed of lights; not a house could you see. the fifth night we passed st. louis, and it was like the whole world lit up. in st. petersburg they used to say there was twenty or thirty thousand people in st. louis, but i never believed it till i see that wonderful spread of lights at two o'clock that still night. there warn't a sound there; everybody was asleep. every night now i used to slip ashore toward ten o'clock at some little village, and buy ten or fifteen cents' worth of meal or bacon or other stuff to eat; and sometimes i lifted a chicken that warn't roosting comfortable, and took him along. pap always said, take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you don't want him yourself you can easy find somebody that does, and a good deed ain't ever forgot. i never see pap when he didn't want the chicken himself, but that is what he used to say, anyway. mornings before daylight i slipped into corn-fields and borrowed a watermelon, or a mushmelon, or a punkin, or some new corn, or things of that kind. pap always said it warn't no harm to borrow things if you was meaning to pay them back some time; but the widow said it warn't anything but a soft name for stealing, and no decent body would do it. jim said he reckoned the widow was partly right and pap was partly right; so the best way would be for us to pick out two or three things from the list and say we wouldn't borrow them any more--then he reckoned it wouldn't be no harm to borrow the others. so we talked it over all one night, drifting along down the river, trying to make up our minds whether to drop the watermelons, or the cantelopes, or the mushmelons, or what. but toward daylight we got it all settled satisfactory, and concluded to drop crabapples and p'simmons. we warn't feeling just right before that, but it was all comfortable now. i was glad the way it come out, too, because crabapples ain't ever good, and the p'simmons wouldn't be ripe for two or three months yet. we shot a water-fowl now and then that got up too early in the morning or didn't go to bed early enough in the evening. take it all round, we lived pretty high. the fifth night below st. louis we had a big storm after midnight, with a power of thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in a solid sheet. we stayed in the wigwam and let the raft take care of itself. when the lightning glared out we could see a big straight river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. by and by says i, "hel-_lo_, jim, looky yonder!" it was a steamboat that had killed herself on a rock. we was drifting straight down for her. the lightning showed her very distinct. she was leaning over, with part of her upper deck above water, and you could see every little chimbly-guy clean and clear, and a chair by the big bell, with an old slouch hat hanging on the back of it, when the flashes come. well, it being away in the night and stormy, and all so mysterious-like, i felt just the way any other boy would 'a' felt when i seen that wreck laying there so mournful and lonesome in the middle of the river. i wanted to get aboard of her and slink around a little, and see what there was there. so i says: "le's land on her, jim." but jim was dead against it at first. he says: "i doan' want to go fool'n' 'long er no wrack. we's doin' blame' well, en we better let blame' well alone, as de good book says. like as not dey's a watchman on dat wrack." "watchman your grandmother," i says; "there ain't nothing to watch but the texas and the pilot-house; and do you reckon anybody's going to resk his life for a texas and a pilot-house such a night as this, when it's likely to break up and wash off down the river any minute?" jim couldn't say nothing to that, so he didn't try. "and besides," i says, "we might borrow something worth having out of the captain's stateroom. seegars, i bet you--and cost five cents apiece, solid cash. steamboat captains is always rich, and get sixty dollars a month, and _they_ don't care a cent what a thing costs, you know, long as they want it. stick a candle in your pocket; i can't rest, jim, till we give her a rummaging. do you reckon tom sawyer would ever go by this thing? not for pie, he wouldn't. he'd call it an adventure--that's what he'd call it; and he'd land on that wreck if it was his last act. and wouldn't he throw style into it?--wouldn't he spread himself, nor nothing? why, you'd think it was christopher c'lumbus discovering kingdom come. i wish tom sawyer _was_ here." jim he grumbled a little, but give in. he said we mustn't talk any more than we could help, and then talk mighty low. the lightning showed us the wreck again just in time, and we fetched the stabboard derrick, and made fast there. the deck was high out here. we went sneaking down the slope of it to labboard, in the dark, towards the texas, feeling our way slow with our feet, and spreading our hands out to fend off the guys, for it was so dark we couldn't see no sign of them. pretty soon we struck the forward end of the skylight, and clumb on to it; and the next step fetched us in front of the captain's door, which was open, and by jimminy, away down through the texas-hall we see a light! and all in the same second we seem to hear low voices in yonder! jim whispered and said he was feeling powerful sick, and told me to come along. i says, all right, and was going to start for the raft; but just then i heard a voice wail out and say: "oh, please don't, boys; i swear i won't ever tell!" another voice said, pretty loud: "it's a lie, jim turner. you've acted this way before. you always want more'n your share of the truck, and you've always got it, too, because you've swore 't if you didn't you'd tell. but this time you've said it jest one time too many. you're the meanest, treacherousest hound in this country." by this time jim was gone for the raft. i was just a-biling with curiosity; and i says to myself, tom sawyer wouldn't back out now, and so i won't either; i'm a-going to see what's going on here. so i dropped on my hands and knees in the little passage, and crept aft in the dark till there warn't but one stateroom betwixt me and the cross-hall of the texas. then in there i see a man stretched on the floor and tied hand and foot, and two men standing over him, and one of them had a dim lantern in his hand, and the other one had a pistol. this one kept pointing the pistol at the man's head on the floor, and saying: "i'd _like_ to! and i orter, too--a mean skunk!" the man on the floor would shrivel up and say, "oh, please don't, bill; i hain't ever goin' to tell." and every time he said that the man with the lantern would laugh and say: "'deed you _ain't!_ you never said no truer thing 'n that, you bet you." and once he said: "hear him beg! and yit if we hadn't got the best of him and tied him he'd 'a' killed us both. and what _for_? jist for noth'n'. jist because we stood on our _rights_--that's what for. but i lay you ain't a-goin' to threaten nobody any more, jim turner. put _up_ that pistol, bill." bill says: "i don't want to, jake packard. i'm for killin' him--and didn't he kill old hatfield jist the same way--and don't he deserve it?" "but i don't _want_ him killed, and i've got my reasons for it." "bless yo' heart for them words, jake packard! i'll never forgit you long's i live!" says the man on the floor, sort of blubbering. packard didn't take no notice of that, but hung up his lantern on a nail and started toward where i was, there in the dark, and motioned bill to come. i crawfished as fast as i could about two yards, but the boat slanted so that i couldn't make very good time; so to keep from getting run over and catched i crawled into a stateroom on the upper side. the man came a-pawing along in the dark, and when packard got to my stateroom, he says: "here--come in here." and in he come, and bill after him. but before they got in i was up in the upper berth, cornered, and sorry i come. then they stood there, with their hands on the ledge of the berth, and talked. i couldn't see them, but i could tell where they was by the whisky they'd been having. i was glad i didn't drink whisky; but it wouldn't made much difference anyway, because most of the time they couldn't 'a' treed me because i didn't breathe. i was too scared. and, besides, a body _couldn't_ breathe and hear such talk. they talked low and earnest. bill wanted to kill turner. he says: "he's said he'll tell, and he will. if we was to give both our shares to him _now_ it wouldn't make no difference after the row and the way we've served him. shore's you're born, he'll turn state's evidence; now you hear _me._ i'm for putting him out of his troubles." "so'm i," says packard, very quiet. "blame it, i'd sorter begun to think you wasn't. well, then, that's all right. le's go and do it." "hold on a minute; i hain't had my say yit. you listen to me. shooting's good, but there's quieter ways if the things _got_ to be done. but what _i_ say is this: it ain't good sense to go court'n' around after a halter if you can git at what you're up to in some way that's jist as good and at the same time don't bring you into no resks. ain't that so?" "you bet it is. but how you goin' to manage it this time?" "well, my idea is this: we'll rustle around and gather up whatever pickin's we've overlooked in the staterooms, and shove for shore and hide the truck. then we'll wait. now i say it ain't a-goin' to be more'n two hours befo' this wrack breaks up and washes off down the river. see? he'll be drownded, and won't have nobody to blame for it but his own self. i reckon that's a considerable sight better 'n killin' of him. i'm unfavorable to killin' a man as long as you can git aroun' it; it ain't good sense, it ain't good morals. ain't i right?" "yes, i reck'n you are. but s'pose she _don't_ break up and wash off?" "well, we can wait the two hours anyway and see, can't we?" "all right, then; come along." so they started, and i lit out, all in a cold sweat, and scrambled forward. it was dark as pitch there; but i said, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "jim!" and he answered up, right at my elbow, with a sort of a moan, and i says: "quick, jim, it ain't no time for fooling around and moaning; there's a gang of murderers in yonder, and if we don't hunt up their boat and set her drifting down the river so these fellows can't get away from the wreck there's one of 'em going to be in a bad fix. but if we find their boat we can put _all_ of 'em in a bad fix--for the sheriff 'll get 'em. quick--hurry! i'll hunt the labboard side, you hunt the stabboard. you start at the raft, and--" "oh, my lordy, lordy! _raf'?_ dey ain' no raf' no mo'; she done broke loose en gone!--en here we is!" chapter xiii well, i catched my breath and most fainted. shut up on a wreck with such a gang as that! but it warn't no time to be sentimentering. we'd _got_ to find that boat now--had to have it for ourselves. so we went a-quaking and shaking down the stabboard side, and slow work it was, too--seemed a week before we got to the stern. no sign of a boat. jim said he didn't believe he could go any farther--so scared he hadn't hardly any strength left, he said. but i said, come on, if we get left on this wreck we are in a fix, sure. so on we prowled again. we struck for the stern of the texas, and found it, and then scrabbled along forwards on the skylight, hanging on from shutter to shutter, for the edge of the skylight was in the water. when we got pretty close to the cross-hall door there was the skiff, sure enough! i could just barely see her. i felt ever so thankful. in another second i would 'a' been aboard of her, but just then the door opened. one of the men stuck his head out only about a couple of foot from me, and i thought i was gone; but he jerked it in again, and says: "heave that blame lantern out o' sight, bill!" he flung a bag of something into the boat, and then got in himself and set down. it was packard. then bill _he_ come out and got in. packard says, in a low voice: "all ready--shove off!" i couldn't hardly hang on to the shutters, i was so weak. but bill says: "hold on--'d you go through him?" "no. didn't you?" "no. so he's got his share o' the cash yet." "well, then, come along; no use to take truck and leave money." "say, won't he suspicion what we're up to?" "maybe he won't. but we got to have it anyway. come along." so they got out and went in. the door slammed to because it was on the careened side; and in a half second i was in the boat, and jim come tumbling after me. i out with my knife and cut the rope, and away we went! we didn't touch an oar, and we didn't speak nor whisper, nor hardly even breathe. we went gliding swift along, dead silent, past the tip of the paddle-box, and past the stern; then in a second or two more we was a hundred yards below the wreck, and the darkness soaked her up, every last sign of her, and we was safe, and knowed it. when we was three or four hundred yards down-stream we see the lantern show like a little spark at the texas door for a second, and we knowed by that that the rascals had missed their boat, and was beginning to understand that they was in just as much trouble now as jim turner was. then jim manned the oars, and we took out after our raft. now was the first time that i begun to worry about the men--i reckon i hadn't had time to before. i begun to think how dreadful it was, even for murderers, to be in such a fix. i says to myself, there ain't no telling but i might come to be a murderer myself yet, and then how would i like it? so says i to jim: "the first light we see we'll land a hundred yards below it or above it, in a place where it's a good hiding-place for you and the skiff, and then i'll go and fix up some kind of a yarn, and get somebody to go for that gang and get them out of their scrape, so they can be hung when their time comes." but that idea was a failure; for pretty soon it begun to storm again, and this time worse than ever. the rain poured down, and never a light showed; everybody in bed, i reckon. we boomed along down the river, watching for lights and watching for our raft. after a long time the rain let up, but the clouds stayed, and the lightning kept whimpering, and by and by a flash showed us a black thing ahead, floating, and we made for it. it was the raft, and mighty glad was we to get aboard of it again. we seen a light now away down to the right, on shore. so i said i would go for it. the skiff was half full of plunder which that gang had stole there on the wreck. we hustled it on to the raft in a pile, and i told jim to float along down, and show a light when he judged he had gone about two mile, and keep it burning till i come; then i manned my oars and shoved for the light. as i got down towards it three or four more showed--up on a hillside. it was a village. i closed in above the shore light, and laid on my oars and floated. as i went by i see it was a lantern hanging on the jackstaff of a double-hull ferryboat. i skimmed around for the watchman, a-wondering whereabouts he slept; and by and by i found him roosting on the bitts forward, with his head down between his knees. i gave his shoulder two or three little shoves, and begun to cry. he stirred up in a kind of a startlish way; but when he see it was only me he took a good gap and stretch, and then he says: "hello, what's up? don't cry, bub. what's the trouble?" i says: "pap, and mam, and sis, and--" then i broke down. he says: "oh, dang it now, _don't_ take on so; we all has to have our troubles, and this 'n 'll come out all right. what's the matter with 'em?" "they're--they're--are you the watchman of the boat?" "yes," he says, kind of pretty-well-satisfied like. "i'm the captain and the owner and the mate and the pilot and watchman and head deck-hand; and sometimes i'm the freight and passengers. i ain't as rich as old jim hornback, and i can't be so blame' generous and good to tom, dick, and harry as what he is, and slam around money the way he does; but i've told him a many a time 't i wouldn't trade places with him; for, says i, a sailor's life's the life for me, and i'm derned if _i'd_ live two mile out o' town, where there ain't nothing ever goin' on, not for all his spondulicks and as much more on top of it. says i--" i broke in and says: "they're in an awful peck of trouble, and--" "_who_ is?" "why, pap and mam and sis and miss hooker; and if you'd take your ferryboat and go up there--" "up where? where are they?" "on the wreck." "what wreck?" "why, there ain't but one." "what, you don't mean the _walter scott?"_ "yes." "good land! what are they doin' _there_, for gracious sakes?" "well, they didn't go there a-purpose." "i bet they didn't! why, great goodness, there ain't no chance for 'em if they don't git off mighty quick! why, how in the nation did they ever git into such a scrape?" "easy enough. miss hooker was a-visiting up there to the town--" "yes, booth's landing--go on." "she was a-visiting there at booth's landing, and just in the edge of the evening she started over with her nigger woman in the horse-ferry to stay all night at her friend's house, miss what-you-may-call-her--i disremember her name--and they lost their steering-oar, and swung around and went a-floating down, stern first, about two mile, and saddle-baggsed on the wreck, and the ferryman and the nigger woman and the horses was all lost, but miss hooker she made a grab and got aboard the wreck. well, about an hour after dark we come along down in our trading-scow, and it was so dark we didn't notice the wreck till we was right on it; and so _we_ saddle-baggsed; but all of us was saved but bill whipple--and oh, he _was_ the best cretur!--i most wish 't it had been me, i do." "my george! it's the beatenest thing i ever struck. and _then_ what did you all do?" "well, we hollered and took on, but it's so wide there we couldn't make nobody hear. so pap said somebody got to get ashore and get help somehow. i was the only one that could swim, so i made a dash for it, and miss hooker she said if i didn't strike help sooner, come here and hunt up her uncle, and he'd fix the thing. i made the land about a mile below, and been fooling along ever since, trying to get people to do something, but they said, 'what, in such a night and such a current? there ain't no sense in it; go for the steam-ferry.' now if you'll go and--" "by jackson, i'd _like_ to, and, blame it, i don't know but i will; but who in the dingnation's a-going to _pay_ for it? do you reckon your pap--" "why _that's_ all right. miss hooker she tole me, _particular_, that her uncle hornback--" "great guns! is _he_ her uncle? looky here, you break for that light over yonder-way, and turn out west when you git there, and about a quarter of a mile out you'll come to the tavern; tell 'em to dart you out to jim hornback's, and he'll foot the bill. and don't you fool around any, because he'll want to know the news. tell him i'll have his niece all safe before he can get to town. hump yourself, now; i'm a-going up around the corner here to roust out my engineer." i struck for the light, but as soon as he turned the corner i went back and got into my skiff and bailed her out, and then pulled up shore in the easy water about six hundred yards, and tucked myself in among some wood-boats; for i couldn't rest easy till i could see the ferryboat start. but take it all around, i was feeling ruther comfortable on accounts of taking all this trouble for that gang, for not many would 'a' done it. i wished the widow knowed about it. i judged she would be proud of me for helping these rapscallions, because rapscallions and dead-beats is the kind the widow and good people takes the most interest in. well, before long here comes the wreck, dim and dusky, sliding along down! a kind of cold shiver went through me, and then i struck out for her. she was very deep, and i see in a minute there warn't much chance for anybody being alive in her. i pulled all around her and hollered a little, but there wasn't any answer; all dead still. i felt a little bit heavy-hearted about the gang, but not much, for i reckoned if they could stand it i could. then here comes the ferryboat; so i shoved for the middle of the river on a long down-stream slant; and when i judged i was out of eye-reach i laid on my oars, and looked back and see her go and smell around the wreck for miss hooker's remainders, because the captain would know her uncle hornback would want them; and then pretty soon the ferryboat give it up and went for the shore, and i laid into my work and went a-booming down the river. it did seem a powerful long time before jim's light showed up; and when it did show it looked like it was a thousand mile off. by the time i got there the sky was beginning to get a little gray in the east; so we struck for an island, and hid the raft, and sunk the skiff, and turned in and slept like dead people. chapter xiv by and by, when we got up, we turned over the truck the gang had stole off of the wreck, and found boots, and blankets, and clothes, and all sorts of other things, and a lot of books, and a spy-glass, and three boxes of seegars. we hadn't ever been this rich before in neither of our lives. the seegars was prime. we laid off all the afternoon in the woods talking, and me reading the books, and having a general good time. i told jim all about what happened inside the wreck and at the ferryboat, and i said these kinds of things was adventures; but he said he didn't want no more adventures. he said that when i went in the texas and he crawled back to get on the raft and found her gone he nearly died, because he judged it was all up with _him_ anyway it could be fixed; for if he didn't get saved he would get drownded; and if he did get saved, whoever saved him would send him back home so as to get the reward, and then miss watson would sell him south, sure. well, he was right; he was most always right; he had an uncommon level head for a nigger. i read considerable to jim about kings and dukes and earls and such, and how gaudy they dressed, and how much style they put on, and called each other and so on, 'stead of mister; and jim's eyes bugged out, and he was interested. he says: "i didn' know dey was so many un um. i hain't hearn 'bout none un um, skasely, but ole king sollermun, onless you counts dem kings dat's in a pack er k'yards. how much do a king git?" "get?" i says; "why, they get a thousand dollars a month if they want it; they can have just as much as they want; everything belongs to them." "_ain'_ dat gay? en what dey got to do, huck?" "_they_ don't do nothing! why, how you talk! they just set around." "no; is dat so?" "of course it is. they just set around--except, maybe, when there's a war; then they go to the war. but other times they just lazy around; or go hawking--just hawking and sp--sh!--d'you hear a noise?" we skipped out and looked; but it warn't nothing but the flutter of a steamboat's wheel away down, coming around the point; so we come back. "yes," says i, "and other times, when things is dull, they fuss with the parlyment; and if everybody don't go just so he whacks their heads off. but mostly they hang round the harem." "roun' de which?" "harem." "what's de harem?" "the place where he keeps his wives. don't you know about the harem? solomon had one; he had about a million wives." "why, yes, dat's so; i--i'd done forgot it. a harem's a bo'd'n-house, i reck'n. mos' likely dey has rackety times in de nussery. en i reck'n de wives quarrels considable; en dat 'crease de racket. yit dey say sollermun de wises' man dat ever live'. i doan' take no stock in dat. bekase why: would a wise man want to live in de mids' er sich a blim-blammin' all de time? no--'deed he wouldn't. a wise man 'ud take en buil' a biler-factry; en den he could shet _down_ de biler-factry when he want to res'." "well, but he _was_ the wisest man, anyway; because the widow she told me so, her own self." "i doan' k'yer what de widder say, he _warn't_ no wise man nuther. he had some er de dad-fetchedes' ways i ever see. does you know 'bout dat chile dat he 'uz gwyne to chop in two?" "yes, the widow told me all about it." "_well_, den! warn' dat de beatenes' notion in de worl'? you jes' take en look at it a minute. dah's de stump, dah--dat's one er de women; heah's you--dat's de yuther one; i's sollermun; en dish yer dollar bill's de chile. bofe un you claims it. what does i do? does i shin aroun' mongs' de neighbors en fine out which un you de bill _do_ b'long to, en han' it over to de right one, all safe en soun', de way dat anybody dat had any gumption would? no; i take en whack de bill in _two_, en give half un it to you, en de yuther half to de yuther woman. dat's de way sollermun was gwyne to do wid de chile. now i want to ast you: what's de use er dat half a bill?--can't buy noth'n wid it. en what use is a half a chile? i wouldn' give a dern for a million un um." "but hang it, jim, you've clean missed the point--blame it, you've missed it a thousand mile." "who? me? go 'long. doan' talk to me 'bout yo' pints. i reck'n i knows sense when i sees it; en dey ain' no sense in sich doin's as dat. de 'spute warn't 'bout a half a chile, de 'spute was 'bout a whole chile; en de man dat think he kin settle a 'spute 'bout a whole chile wid a half a chile doan' know enough to come in out'n de rain. doan' talk to me 'bout sollermun, huck, i knows him by de back." "but i tell you you don't get the point." "blame de point! i reck'n i knows what i knows. en mine you, de _real_ pint furder--it's down deeper. it lays in de way sollermun was raised. you take a man dat's got on'y one or two chillen; is dat man gwyne to be waseful o' chillen? no, he ain't; he can't 'ford it. _he_ know how to value 'em. but you take a man dat's got 'bout five million chillen runnin' roun' de house, en it's diffunt. _he_ as soon chop a chile in two as a cat. dey's plenty mo'. a chile er two, mo' er less, warn't no consekens to sollermun, dad fetch him!" i never see such a nigger. if he got a notion in his head once, there warn't no getting it out again. he was the most down on solomon of any nigger i ever see. so i went to talking about other kings, and let solomon slide. i told about louis sixteenth that got his head cut off in france long time ago; and about his little boy the dolphin, that would 'a' been a king, but they took and shut him up in jail, and some say he died there. "po' little chap." "but some says he got out and got away, and come to america." "dat's good! but he'll be pooty lonesome--dey ain' no kings here, is dey, huck?" "no." "den he cain't git no situation. what he gwyne to do?" "well, i don't know. some of them gets on the police, and some of them learns people how to talk french." "why, huck, doan' de french people talk de same way we does?" "_no_, jim; you couldn't understand a word they said--not a single word." "well, now, i be ding-busted! how do dat come?" "_i_ don't know; but it's so. i got some of their jabber out of a book. s'pose a man was to come to you and say polly-voo-franzy--what would you think?" "i wouldn' think nuffn; i'd take en bust him over de head--dat is, if he warn't white. i wouldn't 'low no nigger to call me dat." "shucks, it ain't calling you anything. it's only saying, do you know how to talk french?" "well, den, why couldn't he _say_ it?" "why, he _is_ a-saying it. that's a frenchman's _way_ of saying it." "well, it's a blame ridicklous way, en i doan' want to hear no mo' 'bout it. dey ain' no sense in it." "looky here, jim; does a cat talk like we do?" "no, a cat don't." "well, does a cow?" "no, a cow don't, nuther." "does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?" "no, dey don't." "it's natural and right for 'em to talk different from each other, ain't it?" "course." "and ain't it natural and right for a cat and a cow to talk different from _us_?" "why, mos' sholy it is." "well, then, why ain't it natural and right for a _frenchman_ to talk different from us? you answer me that." "is a cat a man, huck?" "no." "well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a man. is a cow a man?--er is a cow a cat?" "no, she ain't either of them." "well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like either one er the yuther of 'em. is a frenchman a man?" "yes." "_well_, den! dad blame it, why doan' he _talk_ like a man? you answer me _dat!"_ i see it warn't no use wasting words--you can't learn a nigger to argue. so i quit. chapter xv we judged that three nights more would fetch us to cairo, at the bottom of illinois, where the ohio river comes in, and that was what we was after. we would sell the raft and get on a steamboat and go way up the ohio amongst the free states, and then be out of trouble. well, the second night a fog begun to come on, and we made for a towhead to tie to, for it wouldn't do to try to run in a fog; but when i paddled ahead in the canoe, with the line to make fast, there warn't anything but little saplings to tie to. i passed the line around one of them right on the edge of the cut bank, but there was a stiff current, and the raft come booming down so lively she tore it out by the roots and away she went. i see the fog closing down, and it made me so sick and scared i couldn't budge for most a half a minute it seemed to me--and then there warn't no raft in sight; you couldn't see twenty yards. i jumped into the canoe and run back to the stern, and grabbed the paddle and set her back a stroke. but she didn't come. i was in such a hurry i hadn't untied her. i got up and tried to untie her, but i was so excited my hands shook so i couldn't hardly do anything with them. as soon as i got started i took out after the raft, hot and heavy, right down the towhead. that was all right as far as it went, but the towhead warn't sixty yards long, and the minute i flew by the foot of it i shot out into the solid white fog, and hadn't no more idea which way i was going than a dead man. thinks i, it won't do to paddle; first i know i'll run into the bank or a towhead or something; i got to set still and float, and yet it's mighty fidgety business to have to hold your hands still at such a time. i whooped and listened. away down there somewheres i hears a small whoop, and up comes my spirits. i went tearing after it, listening sharp to hear it again. the next time it come i see i warn't heading for it, but heading away to the right of it. and the next time i was heading away to the left of it--and not gaining on it much either, for i was flying around, this way and that and t'other, but it was going straight ahead all the time. i did wish the fool would think to beat a tin pan, and beat it all the time, but he never did, and it was the still places between the whoops that was making the trouble for me. well, i fought along, and directly i hears the whoop _behind_ me. i was tangled good now. that was somebody else's whoop, or else i was turned around. i throwed the paddle down. i heard the whoop again; it was behind me yet, but in a different place; it kept coming, and kept changing its place, and i kept answering, till by and by it was in front of me again, and i knowed the current had swung the canoe's head down-stream, and i was all right if that was jim and not some other raftsman hollering. i couldn't tell nothing about voices in a fog, for nothing don't look natural nor sound natural in a fog. the whooping went on, and in about a minute i come a-booming down on a cut bank with smoky ghosts of big trees on it, and the current throwed me off to the left and shot by, amongst a lot of snags that fairly roared, the current was tearing by them so swift. in another second or two it was solid white and still again. i set perfectly still then, listening to my heart thump, and i reckon i didn't draw a breath while it thumped a hundred. i just give up then. i knowed what the matter was. that cut bank was an island, and jim had gone down t'other side of it. it warn't no towhead that you could float by in ten minutes. it had the big timber of a regular island; it might be five or six miles long and more than half a mile wide. i kept quiet, with my ears cocked, about fifteen minutes, i reckon. i was floating along, of course, four or five miles an hour; but you don't ever think of that. no, you _feel_ like you are laying dead still on the water; and if a little glimpse of a snag slips by you don't think to yourself how fast _you're_ going, but you catch your breath and think, my! how that snag's tearing along. if you think it ain't dismal and lonesome out in a fog that way by yourself in the night, you try it once--you'll see. next, for about a half an hour, i whoops now and then; at last i hears the answer a long ways off, and tries to follow it, but i couldn't do it, and directly i judged i'd got into a nest of towheads, for i had little dim glimpses of them on both sides of me--sometimes just a narrow channel between, and some that i couldn't see i knowed was there because i'd hear the wash of the current against the old dead brush and trash that hung over the banks. well, i warn't long loosing the whoops down amongst the towheads; and i only tried to chase them a little while, anyway, because it was worse than chasing a jack-o'-lantern. you never knowed a sound dodge around so, and swap places so quick and so much. i had to claw away from the bank pretty lively four or five times, to keep from knocking the islands out of the river; and so i judged the raft must be butting into the bank every now and then, or else it would get further ahead and clear out of hearing--it was floating a little faster than what i was. well, i seemed to be in the open river again by and by, but i couldn't hear no sign of a whoop nowheres. i reckoned jim had fetched up on a snag, maybe, and it was all up with him. i was good and tired, so i laid down in the canoe and said i wouldn't bother no more. i didn't want to go to sleep, of course; but i was so sleepy i couldn't help it; so i thought i would take jest one little cat-nap. but i reckon it was more than a cat-nap, for when i waked up the stars was shining bright, the fog was all gone, and i was spinning down a big bend stern first. first i didn't know where i was; i thought i was dreaming; and when things began to come back to me they seemed to come up dim out of last week. it was a monstrous big river here, with the tallest and the thickest kind of timber on both banks; just a solid wall, as well as i could see by the stars. i looked away down-stream, and seen a black speck on the water. i took after it; but when i got to it it warn't nothing but a couple of saw-logs made fast together. then i see another speck, and chased that; then another, and this time i was right. it was the raft. when i got to it jim was setting there with his head down between his knees, asleep, with his right arm hanging over the steering-oar. the other oar was smashed off, and the raft was littered up with leaves and branches and dirt. so she'd had a rough time. i made fast and laid down under jim's nose on the raft, and began to gap, and stretch my fists out against jim, and says: "hello, jim, have i been asleep? why didn't you stir me up?" "goodness gracious, is dat you, huck? en you ain' dead--you ain' drownded--you's back ag'in? it's too good for true, honey, it's too good for true. lemme look at you chile, lemme feel o' you. no, you ain' dead! you's back ag'in, 'live en soun', jis de same ole huck--de same ole huck, thanks to goodness!" "what's the matter with you, jim? you been a-drinking?" "drinkin'? has i ben a-drinkin'? has i had a chance to be a-drinkin'?" "well, then, what makes you talk so wild?" "how does i talk wild?" "_how?_ why, hain't you been talking about my coming back, and all that stuff, as if i'd been gone away?" "huck--huck finn, you look me in de eye; look me in de eye. _hain't_ you ben gone away?" "gone away? why, what in the nation do you mean? _i_ hain't been gone anywheres. where would i go to?" "well, looky here, boss, dey's sumfn wrong, dey is. is i _me_, or who _is_ i? is i heah, or whah _is_ i? now dat's what i wants to know." "well, i think you're here, plain enough, but i think you're a tangle-headed old fool, jim." "i is, is i? well, you answer me dis: didn't you tote out de line in de canoe fer to make fas' to de towhead?" "no, i didn't. what towhead? i hain't seen no towhead." "you hain't seen no towhead? looky here, didn't de line pull loose en de raf' go a-hummin' down de river, en leave you en de canoe behine in de fog?" "what fog?" "why, _de_ fog!--de fog dat's been aroun' all night. en didn't you whoop, en didn't i whoop, tell we got mix' up in de islands en one un us got los' en t'other one was jis' as good as los', 'kase he didn' know whah he wuz? en didn't i bust up agin a lot er dem islands en have a turrible time en mos' git drownded? now ain' dat so, boss--ain't it so? you answer me dat." "well, this is too many for me, jim. i hain't seen no fog, nor no islands, nor no troubles, nor nothing. i been setting here talking with you all night till you went to sleep about ten minutes ago, and i reckon i done the same. you couldn't 'a' got drunk in that time, so of course you've been dreaming." "dad fetch it, how is i gwyne to dream all dat in ten minutes?" "well, hang it all, you did dream it, because there didn't any of it happen." "but, huck, it's all jis' as plain to me as--" "it don't make no difference how plain it is; there ain't nothing in it. i know, because i've been here all the time." jim didn't say nothing for about five minutes, but set there studying over it. then he says: "well, den, i reck'n i did dream it, huck; but dog my cats ef it ain't de powerfulest dream i ever see. en i hain't ever had no dream b'fo' dat's tired me like dis one." "oh, well, that's all right, because a dream does tire a body like everything sometimes. but this one was a staving dream; tell me all about it, jim." so jim went to work and told me the whole thing right through, just as it happened, only he painted it up considerable. then he said he must start in and "'terpret" it, because it was sent for a warning. he said the first towhead stood for a man that would try to do us some good, but the current was another man that would get us away from him. the whoops was warnings that would come to us every now and then, and if we didn't try hard to make out to understand them they'd just take us into bad luck, 'stead of keeping us out of it. the lot of towheads was troubles we was going to get into with quarrelsome people and all kinds of mean folks, but if we minded our business and didn't talk back and aggravate them, we would pull through and get out of the fog and into the big clear river, which was the free states, and wouldn't have no more trouble. it had clouded up pretty dark just after i got on to the raft, but it was clearing up again now. "oh, well, that's all interpreted well enough as far as it goes, jim," i says; "but what does _these_ things stand for?" it was the leaves and rubbish on the raft and the smashed oar. you could see them first-rate now. jim looked at the trash, and then looked at me, and back at the trash again. he had got the dream fixed so strong in his head that he couldn't seem to shake it loose and get the facts back into its place again right away. but when he did get the thing straightened around he looked at me steady without ever smiling, and says: "what do dey stan' for? i's gwyne to tell you. when i got all wore out wid work, en wid de callin' for you, en went to sleep, my heart wuz mos' broke bekase you wuz los', en i didn' k'yer no' mo' what become er me en de raf'. en when i wake up en fine you back ag'in, all safe en soun', de tears come, en i could 'a' got down on my knees en kiss yo' foot, i's so thankful. en all you wuz thinkin' 'bout wuz how you could make a fool uv ole jim wid a lie. dat truck dah is _trash_; en trash is what people is dat puts dirt on de head er dey fren's en makes 'em ashamed." then he got up slow and walked to the wigwam, and went in there without saying anything but that. but that was enough. it made me feel so mean i could almost kissed _his_ foot to get him to take it back. it was fifteen minutes before i could work myself up to go and humble myself to a nigger; but i done it, and i warn't ever sorry for it afterward, neither. i didn't do him no more mean tricks, and i wouldn't done that one if i'd 'a' knowed it would make him feel that way. chapter xvi we slept most all day, and started out at night, a little ways behind a monstrous long raft that was as long going by as a procession. she had four long sweeps at each end, so we judged she carried as many as thirty men, likely. she had five big wigwams aboard, wide apart, and an open camp-fire in the middle, and a tall flag-pole at each end. there was a power of style about her. it _amounted_ to something being a raftsman on such a craft as that. we went drifting down into a big bend, and the night clouded up and got hot. the river was very wide, and was walled with solid timber on both sides; you couldn't see a break in it hardly ever, or a light. we talked about cairo, and wondered whether we would know it when we got to it. i said likely we wouldn't, because i had heard say there warn't but about a dozen houses there, and if they didn't happen to have them lit up, how was we going to know we was passing a town? jim said if the two big rivers joined together there, that would show. but i said maybe we might think we was passing the foot of an island and coming into the same old river again. that disturbed jim--and me too. so the question was, what to do? i said, paddle ashore the first time a light showed, and tell them pap was behind, coming along with a trading-scow, and was a green hand at the business, and wanted to know how far it was to cairo. jim thought it was a good idea, so we took a smoke on it and waited. there warn't nothing to do now but to look out sharp for the town, and not pass it without seeing it. he said he'd be mighty sure to see it, because he'd be a free man the minute he seen it, but if he missed it he'd be in a slave country again and no more show for freedom. every little while he jumps up and says: "dah she is?" but it warn't. it was jack-o'-lanterns, or lightning-bugs; so he set down again, and went to watching, same as before. jim said it made him all over trembly and feverish to be so close to freedom. well, i can tell you it made me all over trembly and feverish, too, to hear him, because i begun to get it through my head that he _was_ most free--and who was to blame for it? why, _me_. i couldn't get that out of my conscience, no how nor no way. it got to troubling me so i couldn't rest; i couldn't stay still in one place. it hadn't ever come home to me before, what this thing was that i was doing. but now it did; and it stayed with me, and scorched me more and more. i tried to make out to myself that _i_ warn't to blame, because _i_ didn't run jim off from his rightful owner; but it warn't no use, conscience up and says, every time, "but you knowed he was running for his freedom, and you could 'a' paddled ashore and told somebody." that was so--i couldn't get around that no way. that was where it pinched. conscience says to me, "what had poor miss watson done to you that you could see her nigger go off right under your eyes and never say one single word? what did that poor old woman do to you that you could treat her so mean? why, she tried to learn you your book, she tried to learn you your manners, she tried to be good to you every way she knowed how. _that's_ what she done." i got to feeling so mean and so miserable i most wished i was dead. i fidgeted up and down the raft, abusing myself to myself, and jim was fidgeting up and down past me. we neither of us could keep still. every time he danced around and says, "dah's cairo!" it went through me like a shot, and i thought if it _was_ cairo i reckoned i would die of miserableness. jim talked out loud all the time while i was talking to myself. he was saying how the first thing he would do when he got to a free state he would go to saving up money and never spend a single cent, and when he got enough he would buy his wife, which was owned on a farm close to where miss watson lived; and then they would both work to buy the two children, and if their master wouldn't sell them, they'd get an ab'litionist to go and steal them. it most froze me to hear such talk. he wouldn't ever dared to talk such talk in his life before. just see what a difference it made in him the minute he judged he was about free. it was according to the old saying, "give a nigger an inch and he'll take an ell." thinks i, this is what comes of my not thinking. here was this nigger, which i had as good as helped to run away, coming right out flat-footed and saying he would steal his children--children that belonged to a man i didn't even know; a man that hadn't ever done me no harm. i was sorry to hear jim say that, it was such a lowering of him. my conscience got to stirring me up hotter than ever, until at last i says to it, "let up on me--it ain't too late yet--i'll paddle ashore at the first light and tell." i felt easy and happy and light as a feather right off. all my troubles was gone. i went to looking out sharp for a light, and sort of singing to myself. by and by one showed. jim sings out: "we's safe, huck, we's safe! jump up and crack yo' heels! dat's de good ole cairo at las', i jis knows it!" i says: "i'll take the canoe and go and see, jim. it mightn't be, you know." he jumped and got the canoe ready, and put his old coat in the bottom for me to set on, and give me the paddle; and as i shoved off, he says: "pooty soon i'll be a-shout'n' for joy, en i'll say, it's all on accounts o' huck; i's a free man, en i couldn't ever ben free ef it hadn' ben for huck; huck done it. jim won't ever forgit you, huck; you's de bes' fren' jim's ever had; en you's de _only_ fren' ole jim's got now." i was paddling off, all in a sweat to tell on him; but when he says this, it seemed to kind of take the tuck all out of me. i went along slow then, and i warn't right down certain whether i was glad i started or whether i warn't. when i was fifty yards off, jim says: "dah you goes, de ole true huck; de on'y white genlman dat ever kep' his promise to ole jim." well, i just felt sick. but i says, i _got_ to do it--i can't get _out_ of it. right then along comes a skiff with two men in it with guns, and they stopped and i stopped. one of them says: "what's that yonder?" "a piece of a raft," i says. "do you belong on it?" "yes, sir." "any men on it?" "only one, sir." "well, there's five niggers run off to-night up yonder, above the head of the bend. is your man white or black?" i didn't answer up prompt. i tried to, but the words wouldn't come. i tried for a second or two to brace up and out with it, but i warn't man enough--hadn't the spunk of a rabbit. i see i was weakening; so i just give up trying, and up and says: "he's white." "i reckon we'll go and see for ourselves." "i wish you would," says i, "because it's pap that's there, and maybe you'd help me tow the raft ashore where the light is. he's sick--and so is mam and mary ann." "oh, the devil! we're in a hurry, boy. but i s'pose we've got to. come, buckle to your paddle, and let's get along." i buckled to my paddle and they laid to their oars. when we had made a stroke or two, i says: "pap 'll be mighty much obleeged to you, i can tell you. everybody goes away when i want them to help me tow the raft ashore, and i can't do it by myself." "well, that's infernal mean. odd, too. say, boy, what's the matter with your father?" "it's the--a--the--well, it ain't anything much." they stopped pulling. it warn't but a mighty little ways to the raft now. one says: "boy, that's a lie. what _is_ the matter with your pap? answer up square now, and it 'll be the better for you." "i will, sir, i will, honest--but don't leave us, please. it's the--the--gentlemen, if you'll only pull ahead, and let me heave you the headline, you won't have to come a-near the raft--please do." "set her back, john, set her back!" says one. they backed water. "keep away, boy--keep to looard. confound it, i just expect the wind has blowed it to us. your pap's got the smallpox, and you know it precious well. why didn't you come out and say so? do you want to spread it all over?" "well," says i, a-blubbering, "i've told everybody before, and they just went away and left us." "poor devil, there's something in that. we are right down sorry for you, but we--well, hang it, we don't want the smallpox, you see. look here, i'll tell you what to do. don't you try to land by yourself, or you'll smash everything to pieces. you float along down about twenty miles, and you'll come to a town on the left-hand side of the river. it will be long after sun-up then, and when you ask for help you tell them your folks are all down with chills and fever. don't be a fool again, and let people guess what is the matter. now we're trying to do you a kindness; so you just put twenty miles between us, that's a good boy. it wouldn't do any good to land yonder where the light is--it's only a wood-yard. say, i reckon your father's poor, and i'm bound to say he's in pretty hard luck. here, i'll put a twenty-dollar gold piece on this board, and you get it when it floats by. i feel mighty mean to leave you; but my kingdom! it won't do to fool with small-pox, don't you see?" "hold on, parker," says the man, "here's a twenty to put on the board for me. good-by, boy; you do as mr. parker told you, and you'll be all right." "that's so, my boy--good-by, good-bye. if you see any runaway niggers you get help and nab them, and you can make some money by it." "good-by, sir," says i; "i won't let no runaway niggers get by me if i can help it." they went off and i got aboard the raft, feeling bad and low, because i knowed very well i had done wrong, and i see it warn't no use for me to try to learn to do right; a body that don't get _started_ right when he's little ain't got no show--when the pinch comes there ain't nothing to back him up and keep him to his work, and so he gets beat. then i thought a minute, and says to myself, hold on; s'pose you'd 'a' done right and give jim up, would you felt better than what you do now? no, says i, i'd feel bad--i'd feel just the same way i do now. well, then, says i, what's the use you learning to do right when it's troublesome to do right and ain't no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same? i was stuck. i couldn't answer that. so i reckoned i wouldn't bother no more about it, but after this always do whichever come handiest at the time. i went into the wigwam; jim warn't there. i looked all around; he warn't anywhere. i says: "jim!" "here i is, huck. is dey out o' sight yit? don't talk loud." he was in the river under the stern oar, with just his nose out. i told him they were out of sight, so he come aboard. he says: "i was a-listenin' to all de talk, en i slips into de river en was gwyne to shove for sho' if dey come aboard. den i was gwyne to swim to de raf' agin when dey was gone. but lawsy, how you did fool 'em, huck! dat _wuz_ de smartes' dodge! i tell you, chile, i 'spec it save' ole jim--ole jim ain't going to forgit you for dat, honey." then we talked about the money. it was a pretty good raise--twenty dollars apiece. jim said we could take deck passage on a steamboat now, and the money would last us as far as we wanted to go in the free states. he said twenty mile more warn't far for the raft to go, but he wished we was already there. towards daybreak we tied up, and jim was mighty particular about hiding the raft good. then he worked all day fixing things in bundles, and getting all ready to quit rafting. that night about ten we hove in sight of the lights of a town away down in a left-hand bend. i went off in the canoe to ask about it. pretty soon i found a man out in the river with a skiff, setting a trot-line. i ranged up and says: "mister, is that town cairo?" "cairo? no. you must be a blame' fool." "what town is it, mister?" "if you want to know, go and find out. if you stay here botherin' around me for about a half a minute longer you'll get something you won't want." i paddled to the raft. jim was awful disappointed, but i said never mind, cairo would be the next place, i reckoned. we passed another town before daylight, and i was going out again; but it was high ground, so i didn't go. no high ground about cairo, jim said. i had forgot it. we laid up for the day on a towhead tolerable close to the left-hand bank. i begun to suspicion something. so did jim. i says: "maybe we went by cairo in the fog that night." he says: "doan' le's talk about it, huck. po' niggers can't have no luck. i awluz 'spected dat rattlesnake-skin warn't done wid its work." "i wish i'd never seen that snake-skin, jim--i do wish i'd never laid eyes on it." "it ain't yo' fault, huck; you didn't know. don't you blame yo'self 'bout it." when it was daylight, here was the clear ohio water inshore, sure enough, and outside was the old regular muddy! so it was all up with cairo. we talked it all over. it wouldn't do to take to the shore; we couldn't take the raft up the stream, of course. there warn't no way but to wait for dark, and start back in the canoe and take the chances. so we slept all day amongst the cottonwood thicket, so as to be fresh for the work, and when we went back to the raft about dark the canoe was gone! we didn't say a word for a good while. there warn't anything to say. we both knowed well enough it was some more work of the rattlesnake-skin; so what was the use to talk about it? it would only look like we was finding fault, and that would be bound to fetch more bad luck--and keep on fetching it, too, till we knowed enough to keep still. by and by we talked about what we better do, and found there warn't no way but just to go along down with the raft till we got a chance to buy a canoe to go back in. we warn't going to borrow it when there warn't anybody around, the way pap would do, for that might set people after us. so we shoved out after dark on the raft. anybody that don't believe yet that it's foolishness to handle a snake-skin, after all that that snake-skin done for us, will believe it now if they read on and see what more it done for us. the place to buy canoes is off of rafts laying up at shore. but we didn't see no rafts laying up; so we went along during three hours and more. well, the night got gray and ruther thick, which is the next meanest thing to fog. you can't tell the shape of the river, and you can't see no distance. it got to be very late and still, and then along comes a steamboat up the river. we lit the lantern, and judged she would see it. up-stream boats didn't generly come close to us; they go out and follow the bars and hunt for easy water under the reefs; but nights like this they bull right up the channel against the whole river. we could hear her pounding along, but we didn't see her good till she was close. she aimed right for us. often they do that and try to see how close they can come without touching; sometimes the wheel bites off a sweep, and then the pilot sticks his head out and laughs, and thinks he's mighty smart. well, here she comes, and we said she was going to try and shave us; but she didn't seem to be sheering off a bit. she was a big one, and she was coming in a hurry, too, looking like a black cloud with rows of glow-worms around it; but all of a sudden she bulged out, big and scary, with a long row of wide-open furnace doors shining like red-hot teeth, and her monstrous bows and guards hanging right over us. there was a yell at us, and a jingling of bells to stop the engines, a powwow of cussing, and whistling of steam--and as jim went overboard on one side and i on the other, she come smashing straight through the raft. i dived--and i aimed to find the bottom, too, for a thirty-foot wheel had got to go over me, and i wanted it to have plenty of room. i could always stay under water a minute; this time i reckon i stayed under a minute and a half. then i bounced for the top in a hurry, for i was nearly busting. i popped out to my armpits and blowed the water out of my nose, and puffed a bit. of course there was a booming current; and of course that boat started her engines again ten seconds after she stopped them, for they never cared much for raftsmen; so now she was churning along up the river, out of sight in the thick weather, though i could hear her. i sung out for jim about a dozen times, but i didn't get any answer; so i grabbed a plank that touched me while i was "treading water," and struck out for shore, shoving it ahead of me. but i made out to see that the drift of the current was towards the left-hand shore, which meant that i was in a crossing; so i changed off and went that way. it was one of these long, slanting, two-mile crossings; so i was a good long time in getting over. i made a safe landing, and clumb up the bank. i couldn't see but a little ways, but i went poking along over rough ground for a quarter of a mile or more, and then i run across a big old-fashioned double log house before i noticed it. i was going to rush by and get away, but a lot of dogs jumped out and went to howling and barking at me, and i knowed better than to move another peg. chapter xvii in about a minute somebody spoke out of a window without putting his head out, and says: "be done, boys! who's there?" i says: "it's me." "who's me?" "george jackson, sir." "what do you want?" "i don't want nothing, sir. i only want to go along by, but the dogs won't let me." "what are you prowling around here this time of night for--hey?" "i warn't prowling around, sir; i fell overboard off of the steamboat." "oh, you did, did you? strike a light there, somebody. what did you say your name was?" "george jackson, sir. i'm only a boy." "look here, if you're telling the truth you needn't be afraid--nobody 'll hurt you. but don't try to budge; stand right where you are. rouse out bob and tom, some of you, and fetch the guns. george jackson, is there anybody with you?" "no, sir, nobody." i heard the people stirring around in the house now, and see a light. the man sung out: "snatch that light away, betsy, you old fool--ain't you got any sense? put it on the floor behind the front door. bob, if you and tom are ready, take your places." "all ready." "now, george jackson, do you know the shepherdsons?" "no, sir; i never heard of them." "well, that may be so, and it mayn't. now, all ready. step forward, george jackson. and mind, don't you hurry--come mighty slow. if there's anybody with you, let him keep back--if he shows himself he'll be shot. come along now. come slow; push the door open yourself--just enough to squeeze in, d'you hear?" i didn't hurry; i couldn't if i'd a-wanted to. i took one slow step at a time and there warn't a sound, only i thought i could hear my heart. the dogs were as still as the humans, but they followed a little behind me. when i got to the three log doorsteps i heard them unlocking and unbarring and unbolting. i put my hand on the door and pushed it a little and a little more till somebody said, "there, that's enough--put your head in." i done it, but i judged they would take it off. the candle was on the floor, and there they all was, looking at me, and me at them, for about a quarter of a minute: three big men with guns pointed at me, which made me wince, i tell you; the oldest, gray and about sixty, the other two thirty or more--all of them fine and handsome--and the sweetest old gray-headed lady, and back of her two young women which i couldn't see right well. the old gentleman says: "there; i reckon it's all right. come in." as soon as i was in the old gentleman he locked the door and barred it and bolted it, and told the young men to come in with their guns, and they all went in a big parlor that had a new rag carpet on the floor, and got together in a corner that was out of the range of the front windows--there warn't none on the side. they held the candle, and took a good look at me, and all said, "why, _he_ ain't a shepherdson--no, there ain't any shepherdson about him." then the old man said he hoped i wouldn't mind being searched for arms, because he didn't mean no harm by it--it was only to make sure. so he didn't pry into my pockets, but only felt outside with his hands, and said it was all right. he told me to make myself easy and at home, and tell all about myself; but the old lady says: "why, bless you, saul, the poor thing's as wet as he can be; and don't you reckon it may be he's hungry?" "true for you, rachel--i forgot." so the old lady says: "betsy" (this was a nigger woman), "you fly around and get him something to eat as quick as you can, poor thing; and one of you girls go and wake up buck and tell him--oh, here he is himself. buck, take this little stranger and get the wet clothes off from him and dress him up in some of yours that's dry." buck looked about as old as me--thirteen or fourteen or along there, though he was a little bigger than me. he hadn't on anything but a shirt, and he was very frowzy-headed. he came in gaping and digging one fist into his eyes, and he was dragging a gun along with the other one. he says: "ain't they no shepherdsons around?" they said, no, 'twas a false alarm. "well," he says, "if they'd 'a' ben some, i reckon i'd 'a' got one." they all laughed, and bob says: "why, buck, they might have scalped us all, you've been so slow in coming." "well, nobody come after me, and it ain't right. i'm always kept down; i don't get no show." "never mind, buck, my boy," says the old man, "you'll have show enough, all in good time, don't you fret about that. go 'long with you now, and do as your mother told you." when we got up-stairs to his room he got me a coarse shirt and a roundabout and pants of his, and i put them on. while i was at it he asked me what my name was, but before i could tell him he started to tell me about a bluejay and a young rabbit he had catched in the woods day before yesterday, and he asked me where moses was when the candle went out. i said i didn't know; i hadn't heard about it before, no way. "well, guess," he says. "how'm i going to guess," says i, "when i never heard tell of it before?" "but you can guess, can't you? it's just as easy." "_which_ candle?" i says. "why, any candle," he says. "i don't know where he was," says i; "where was he?" "why, he was in the _dark_! that's where he was!" "well, if you knowed where he was, what did you ask me for?" "why, blame it, it's a riddle, don't you see? say, how long are you going to stay here? you got to stay always. we can just have booming times--they don't have no school now. do you own a dog? i've got a dog--and he'll go in the river and bring out chips that you throw in. do you like to comb up sundays, and all that kind of foolishness? you bet i don't, but ma she makes me. confound these ole britches! i reckon i'd better put 'em on, but i'd ruther not, it's so warm. are you all ready? all right. come along, old hoss." cold corn-pone, cold corn-beef, butter and buttermilk--that is what they had for me down there, and there ain't nothing better that ever i've come across yet. buck and his ma and all of them smoked cob pipes, except the nigger woman, which was gone, and the two young women. they all smoked and talked, and i eat and talked. the young women had quilts around them, and their hair down their backs. they all asked me questions, and i told them how pap and me and all the family was living on a little farm down at the bottom of arkansaw, and my sister mary ann run off and got married and never was heard of no more, and bill went to hunt them and he warn't heard of no more, and tom and mort died, and then there warn't nobody but just me and pap left, and he was just trimmed down to nothing, on account of his troubles; so when he died i took what there was left, because the farm didn't belong to us, and started up the river, deck passage, and fell overboard; and that was how i come to be here. so they said i could have a home there as long as i wanted it. then it was most daylight and everybody went to bed, and i went to bed with buck, and when i waked up in the morning, drat it all, i had forgot what my name was. so i laid there about an hour trying to think, and when buck waked up i says: "can you spell, buck?" "yes," he says. "i bet you can't spell my name," says i. "i bet you what you dare i can," says he. "all right," says i, "go ahead." "g-e-o-r-g-e j-a-x-o-n--there now," he says. "well," says i, "you done it, but i didn't think you could. it ain't no slouch of a name to spell--right off without studying." i set it down, private, because somebody might want _me_ to spell it next, and so i wanted to be handy with it and rattle it off like i was used to it. it was a mighty nice family, and a mighty nice house, too. i hadn't seen no house out in the country before that was so nice and had so much style. it didn't have an iron latch on the front door, nor a wooden one with a buckskin string, but a brass knob to turn, the same as houses in town. there warn't no bed in the parlor, nor a sign of a bed; but heaps of parlors in towns has beds in them. there was a big fireplace that was bricked on the bottom, and the bricks was kept clean and red by pouring water on them and scrubbing them with another brick; sometimes they wash them over with red water-paint that they call spanish-brown, same as they do in town. they had big brass dog-irons that could hold up a saw-log. there was a clock on the middle of the mantelpiece, with a picture of a town painted on the bottom half of the glass front, and a round place in the middle of it for the sun, and you could see the pendulum swinging behind it. it was beautiful to hear that clock tick; and sometimes when one of these peddlers had been along and scoured her up and got her in good shape, she would start in and strike a hundred and fifty before she got tuckered out. they wouldn't took any money for her. well, there was a big outlandish parrot on each side of the clock, made out of something like chalk, and painted up gaudy. by one of the parrots was a cat made of crockery, and a crockery dog by the other; and when you pressed down on them they squeaked, but didn't open their mouths nor look different nor interested. they squeaked through underneath. there was a couple of big wild-turkey-wing fans spread out behind those things. on the table in the middle of the room was a kind of a lovely crockery basket that had apples and oranges and peaches and grapes piled up in it, which was much redder and yellower and prettier than real ones is, but they warn't real because you could see where pieces had got chipped off and showed the white chalk, or whatever it was, underneath. this table had a cover made out of beautiful oilcloth, with a red and blue spread-eagle painted on it, and a painted border all around. it come all the way from philadelphia, they said. there was some books, too, piled up perfectly exact, on each corner of the table. one was a big family bible full of pictures. one was pilgrim's progress, about a man that left his family, it didn't say why. i read considerable in it now and then. the statements was interesting, but tough. another was friendship's offering, full of beautiful stuff and poetry; but i didn't read the poetry. another was henry clay's speeches, and another was dr. gunn's family medicine, which told you all about what to do if a body was sick or dead. there was a hymn-book, and a lot of other books. and there was nice split-bottom chairs, and perfectly sound, too--not bagged down in the middle and busted, like an old basket. they had pictures hung on the walls--mainly washingtons and lafayettes, and battles, and highland marys, and one called "signing the declaration." there was some that they called crayons, which one of the daughters which was dead made her own self when she was only fifteen years old. they was different from any pictures i ever see before--blacker, mostly, than is common. one was a woman in a slim black dress, belted small under the armpits, with bulges like a cabbage in the middle of the sleeves, and a large black scoop-shovel bonnet with a black veil, and white slim ankles crossed about with black tape, and very wee black slippers, like a chisel, and she was leaning pensive on a tombstone on her right elbow, under a weeping willow, and her other hand hanging down her side holding a white handkerchief and a reticule, and underneath the picture it said "shall i never see thee more alas." another one was a young lady with her hair all combed up straight to the top of her head, and knotted there in front of a comb like a chair-back, and she was crying into a handkerchief and had a dead bird laying on its back in her other hand with its heels up, and underneath the picture it said "i shall never hear thy sweet chirrup more alas." there was one where a young lady was at a window looking up at the moon, and tears running down her cheeks; and she had an open letter in one hand with black sealing-wax showing on one edge of it, and she was mashing a locket with a chain to it against her mouth, and underneath the picture it said "and art thou gone yes thou art gone alas." these was all nice pictures, i reckon, but i didn't somehow seem to take to them, because if ever i was down a little they always give me the fan-tods. everybody was sorry she died, because she had laid out a lot more of these pictures to do, and a body could see by what she had done what they had lost. but i reckoned that with her disposition she was having a better time in the graveyard. she was at work on what they said was her greatest picture when she took sick, and every day and every night it was her prayer to be allowed to live till she got it done, but she never got the chance. it was a picture of a young woman in a long white gown, standing on the rail of a bridge all ready to jump off, with her hair all down her back, and looking up to the moon, with the tears running down her face, and she had two arms folded across her breast, and two arms stretched out in front, and two more reaching up toward the moon--and the idea was to see which pair would look best, and then scratch out all the other arms; but, as i was saying, she died before she got her mind made up, and now they kept this picture over the head of the bed in her room, and every time her birthday come they hung flowers on it. other times it was hid with a little curtain. the young woman in the picture had a kind of a nice sweet face, but there was so many arms it made her look too spidery, seemed to me. this young girl kept a scrap-book when she was alive, and used to paste obituaries and accidents and cases of patient suffering in it out of the presbyterian observer, and write poetry after them out of her own head. it was very good poetry. this is what she wrote about a boy by the name of stephen dowling bots that fell down a well and was drownded: ode to stephen dowling bots, dec'd and did young stephen sicken, and did young stephen die? and did the sad hearts thicken, and did the mourners cry? no; such was not the fate of young stephen dowling bots; though sad hearts round him thickened, 'twas not from sickness' shots. no whooping-cough did rack his frame, nor measles drear with spots; not these impaired the sacred name of stephen dowling bots. despised love struck not with woe that head of curly knots, nor stomach troubles laid him low, young stephen dowling bots. o no. then list with tearful eye, whilst i his fate do tell. his soul did from this cold world fly by falling down a well. they got him out and emptied him; alas it was too late; his spirit was gone for to sport aloft in the realms of the good and great. if emmeline grangerford could make poetry like that before she was fourteen, there ain't no telling what she could 'a' done by and by. buck said she could rattle off poetry like nothing. she didn't ever have to stop to think. he said she would slap down a line, and if she couldn't find anything to rhyme with it would just scratch it out and slap down another one, and go ahead. she warn't particular; she could write about anything you choose to give her to write about just so it was sadful. every time a man died, or a woman died, or a child died, she would be on hand with her "tribute" before he was cold. she called them tributes. the neighbors said it was the doctor first, then emmeline, then the undertaker--the undertaker never got in ahead of emmeline but once, and then she hung fire on a rhyme for the dead person's name, which was whistler. she warn't ever the same after that; she never complained, but she kinder pined away and did not live long. poor thing, many's the time i made myself go up to the little room that used to be hers and get out her poor old scrap-book and read in it when her pictures had been aggravating me and i had soured on her a little. i liked all that family, dead ones and all, and warn't going to let anything come between us. poor emmeline made poetry about all the dead people when she was alive, and it didn't seem right that there warn't nobody to make some about her now she was gone; so i tried to sweat out a verse or two myself, but i couldn't seem to make it go somehow. they kept emmeline's room trim and nice, and all the things fixed in it just the way she liked to have them when she was alive, and nobody ever slept there. the old lady took care of the room herself, though there was plenty of niggers, and she sewed there a good deal and read her bible there mostly. well, as i was saying about the parlor, there was beautiful curtains on the windows: white, with pictures painted on them of castles with vines all down the walls, and cattle coming down to drink. there was a little old piano, too, that had tin pans in it, i reckon, and nothing was ever so lovely as to hear the young ladies sing "the last link is broken" and play "the battle of prague" on it. the walls of all the rooms was plastered, and most had carpets on the floors, and the whole house was whitewashed on the outside. it was a double house, and the big open place betwixt them was roofed and floored, and sometimes the table was set there in the middle of the day, and it was a cool, comfortable place. nothing couldn't be better. and warn't the cooking good, and just bushels of it too! chapter xviii col. grangerford was a gentleman, you see. he was a gentleman all over; and so was his family. he was well born, as the saying is, and that's worth as much in a man as it is in a horse, so the widow douglas said, and nobody ever denied that she was of the first aristocracy in our town; and pap he always said it, too, though he warn't no more quality than a mudcat himself. col. grangerford was very tall and very slim, and had a darkish-paly complexion, not a sign of red in it anywheres; he was clean-shaved every morning all over his thin face, and he had the thinnest kind of lips, and the thinnest kind of nostrils, and a high nose, and heavy eyebrows, and the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may say. his forehead was high, and his hair was gray and straight and hung to his shoulders. his hands was long and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it. he carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it. there warn't no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud. he was as kind as he could be--you could feel that, you know, and so you had confidence. sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards. he didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners--everybody was always good-mannered where he was. everybody loved to have him around, too; he was sunshine most always--i mean he made it seem like good weather. when he turned into a cloud-bank it was awful dark for half a minute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week. when him and the old lady come down in the morning all the family got up out of their chairs and give them good day, and didn't set down again till they had set down. then tom and bob went to the sideboard where the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till tom's and bob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said, "our duty to you, sir, and madam"; and _they_ bowed the least bit in the world and said thank you, and so they drank, all three, and bob and tom poured a spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple-brandy in the bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and buck, and we drank to the old people too. bob was the oldest and tom next--tall, beautiful men with very broad shoulders and brown faces, and long black hair and black eyes. they dressed in white linen from head to foot, like the old gentleman, and wore broad panama hats. then there was miss charlotte; she was twenty-five, and tall and proud and grand, but as good as she could be when she warn't stirred up; but when she was she had a look that would make you wilt in your tracks, like her father. she was beautiful. so was her sister, miss sophia, but it was a different kind. she was gentle and sweet like a dove, and she was only twenty. each person had their own nigger to wait on them--buck too. my nigger had a monstrous easy time, because i warn't used to having anybody do anything for me, but buck's was on the jump most of the time. this was all there was of the family now, but there used to be more--three sons; they got killed; and emmeline that died. the old gentleman owned a lot of farms and over a hundred niggers. sometimes a stack of people would come there, horseback, from ten or fifteen mile around, and stay five or six days, and have such junketings round about and on the river, and dances and picnics in the woods daytimes, and balls at the house nights. these people was mostly kinfolks of the family. the men brought their guns with them. it was a handsome lot of quality, i tell you. there was another clan of aristocracy around there--five or six families--mostly of the name of shepherdson. they was as high-toned and well born and rich and grand as the tribe of grangerfords. the shepherdsons and grangerfords used the same steamboat-landing, which was about two mile above our house; so sometimes when i went up there with a lot of our folks i used to see a lot of the shepherdsons there on their fine horses. one day buck and me was away out in the woods hunting, and heard a horse coming. we was crossing the road. buck says: "quick! jump for the woods!" we done it, and then peeped down the woods through the leaves. pretty soon a splendid young man came galloping down the road, setting his horse easy and looking like a soldier. he had his gun across his pommel. i had seen him before. it was young harney shepherdson. i heard buck's gun go off at my ear, and harney's hat tumbled off from his head. he grabbed his gun and rode straight to the place where we was hid. but we didn't wait. we started through the woods on a run. the woods warn't thick, so i looked over my shoulder to dodge the bullet, and twice i seen harney cover buck with his gun; and then he rode away the way he come--to get his hat, i reckon, but i couldn't see. we never stopped running till we got home. the old gentleman's eyes blazed a minute--'twas pleasure, mainly, i judged--then his face sort of smoothed down, and he says, kind of gentle: "i don't like that shooting from behind a bush. why didn't you step into the road, my boy?" "the shepherdsons don't, father. they always take advantage." miss charlotte she held her head up like a queen while buck was telling his tale, and her nostrils spread and her eyes snapped. the two young men looked dark, but never said nothing. miss sophia she turned pale, but the color come back when she found the man warn't hurt. soon as i could get buck down by the corn-cribs under the trees by ourselves, i says: "did you want to kill him, buck?" "well, i bet i did." "what did he do to you?" "him? he never done nothing to me." "well, then, what did you want to kill him for?" "why, nothing--only it's on account of the feud." "what's a feud?" "why, where was you raised? don't you know what a feud is?" "never heard of it before--tell me about it." "well," says buck, "a feud is this way: a man has a quarrel with another man, and kills him; then that other man's brother kills _him_; then the other brothers, on both sides, goes for one another; then the _cousins_ chip in--and by and by everybody's killed off, and there ain't no more feud. but it's kind of slow, and takes a long time." "has this one been going on long, buck?" "well, i should _reckon!_ it started thirty year ago, or som'ers along there. there was trouble 'bout something, and then a lawsuit to settle it; and the suit went agin one of the men, and so he up and shot the man that won the suit--which he would naturally do, of course. anybody would." "what was the trouble about. buck?--land?" "i reckon maybe--i don't know." "well, who done the shooting? was it a grangerford shepherdson?" "laws, how do i know? it was so long ago." "don't anybody know?" "oh, yes, pa knows, i reckon, and some of the other old people; but they don't know now what the row was about in the first place." "has there been many killed, buck?" "yes; right smart chance of funerals. but they don't always kill. pa's got a few buckshot in him; but he don't mind it 'cuz he don't weigh much, anyway. bob's been carved up some with a bowie, and tom's been hurt once or twice." "has anybody been killed this year, buck?" "yes; we got one and they got one. 'bout three months ago my cousin bud, fourteen year old, was riding through the woods on t'other side of the river, and didn't have no weapon with him, which was blame' foolishness, and in a lonesome place he hears a horse a-coming behind him, and sees old baldy shepherdson a-linkin' after him with his gun in his hand and his white hair a-flying in the wind; and 'stead of jumping off and taking to the brush, bud 'lowed he could outrun him; so they had it, nip and tuck, for five mile or more, the old man a-gaining all the time; so at last bud seen it warn't any use, so he stopped and faced around so as to have the bullet-holes in front, you know, and the old man he rode up and shot him down. but he didn't git much chance to enjoy his luck, for inside of a week our folks laid _him_ out." "i reckon that old man was a coward, buck." "i reckon he _warn't_ a coward. not by a blame' sight. there ain't a coward amongst them shepherdsons--not a one. and there ain't no cowards amongst the grangerfords either. why, that old man kep' up his end in a fight one day for half an hour against three grangerfords, and come out winner. they was all a-horseback; he lit off of his horse and got behind a little woodpile, and kep' his horse before him to stop the bullets; but the grangerfords stayed on their horses and capered around the old man, and peppered away at him, and he peppered away at them. him and his horse both went home pretty leaky and crippled, but the grangerfords had to be _fetched_ home--and one of 'em was dead, and another died the next day. no, sir; if a body's out hunting for cowards he don't want to fool away any time amongst them shepherdsons, becuz they don't breed any of that _kind_." next sunday we all went to church, about three mile, everybody a-horseback. the men took their guns along, so did buck, and kept them between their knees or stood them handy against the wall. the shepherdsons done the same. it was pretty ornery preaching--all about brotherly love, and such-like tiresomeness; but everybody said it was a good sermon, and they all talked it over going home, and had such a powerful lot to say about faith and good works and free grace and preforeordestination, and i don't know what all, that it did seem to me to be one of the roughest sundays i had run across yet. about an hour after dinner everybody was dozing around, some in their chairs and some in their rooms, and it got to be pretty dull. buck and a dog was stretched out on the grass in the sun sound asleep. i went up to our room, and judged i would take a nap myself. i found that sweet miss sophia standing in her door, which was next to ours, and she took me in her room and shut the door very soft, and asked me if i liked her, and i said i did; and she asked me if i would do something for her and not tell anybody, and i said i would. then she said she'd forgot her testament, and left it in the seat at church between two other books, and would i slip out quiet and go there and fetch it to her, and not say nothing to nobody. i said i would. so i slid out and slipped off up the road, and there warn't anybody at the church, except maybe a hog or two, for there warn't any lock on the door, and hogs likes a puncheon floor in summer-time because it's cool. if you notice, most folks don't go to church only when they've got to; but a hog is different. says i to myself, something's up; it ain't natural for a girl to be in such a sweat about a testament. so i give it a shake, and out drops a little piece of paper with "_half past two_" wrote on it with a pencil. i ransacked it, but couldn't find anything else. i couldn't make anything out of that, so i put the paper in the book again, and when i got home and upstairs there was miss sophia in her door waiting for me. she pulled me in and shut the door; then she looked in the testament till she found the paper, and as soon as she read it she looked glad; and before a body could think she grabbed me and give me a squeeze, and said i was the best boy in the world, and not to tell anybody. she was mighty red in the face for a minute, and her eyes lighted up, and it made her powerful pretty. i was a good deal astonished, but when i got my breath i asked her what the paper was about, and she asked me if i had read it, and i said no, and she asked me if i could read writing, and i told her "no, only coarse-hand," and then she said the paper warn't anything but a book-mark to keep her place, and i might go and play now. i went off down to the river, studying over this thing, and pretty soon i noticed that my nigger was following along behind. when we was out of sight of the house he looked back and around a second, and then comes a-running, and says: "mars jawge, if you'll come down into de swamp i'll show you a whole stack o' water-moccasins." thinks i, that's mighty curious; he said that yesterday. he oughter know a body don't love water-moccasins enough to go around hunting for them. what is he up to, anyway? so i says: "all right; trot ahead." i followed a half a mile; then he struck out over the swamp, and waded ankle-deep as much as another half-mile. we come to a little flat piece of land which was dry and very thick with trees and bushes and vines, and he says: "you shove right in dah jist a few steps, mars jawge; dah's whah dey is. i's seed 'm befo'; i don't k'yer to see 'em no mo'." then he slopped right along and went away, and pretty soon the trees hid him. i poked into the place a-ways and come to a little open patch as big as a bedroom all hung around with vines, and found a man laying there asleep--and, by jings, it was my old jim! i waked him up, and i reckoned it was going to be a grand surprise to him to see me again, but it warn't. he nearly cried he was so glad, but he warn't surprised. said he swum along behind me that night, and heard me yell every time, but dasn't answer, because he didn't want nobody to pick _him_ up and take him into slavery again. says he: "i got hurt a little, en couldn't swim fas', so i wuz a considerable ways behine you towards de las'; when you landed i reck'ned i could ketch up wid you on de lan' 'dout havin' to shout at you, but when i see dat house i begin to go slow. i 'uz off too fur to hear what dey say to you--i wuz 'fraid o' de dogs; but when it 'uz all quiet ag'in i knowed you's in de house, so i struck out for de woods to wait for day. early in de mawnin' some er de niggers come along, gwyne to de fields, en dey tuk me en showed me dis place, whah de dogs can't track me on accounts o' de water, en dey brings me truck to eat every night, en tells me how you's a-gittin' along." "why didn't you tell my jack to fetch me here sooner, jim?" "well, 'twarn't no use to 'sturb you, huck, tell we could do sumfn--but we's all right now. i ben a-buyin' pots en pans en vittles, as i got a chanst, en a-patchin' up de raf' nights when--" "_what_ raft, jim?" "our ole raf'." "you mean to say our old raft warn't smashed all to flinders?" "no, she warn't. she was tore up a good deal--one en' of her was; but dey warn't no great harm done, on'y our traps was mos' all los'. ef we hadn' dive' so deep en swum so fur under water, en de night hadn't ben so dark, en we warn't so sk'yerd, en ben sich punkin-heads, as de sayin' is, we'd a seed de raf'. but it's jis' as well we didn't, 'kase now she's all fixed up ag'in mos' as good as new, en we's got a new lot o' stuff, in de place o' what 'uz los'." "why, how did you get hold of the raft again, jim--did you catch her?" "how i gwyne to ketch her en i out in de woods? no; some er de niggers foun' her ketched on a snag along heah in de ben', en dey hid her in a crick 'mongst de willows, en dey wuz so much jawin' 'bout which un 'um she b'long to de mos' dat i come to heah 'bout it pooty soon, so i ups en settles de trouble by tellin' 'um she don't b'long to none uv 'um, but to you en me; en i ast 'm if dey gwyne to grab a young white genlman's propaty, en git a hid'n for it? den i gin 'm ten cents apiece, en dey 'uz mighty well satisfied, en wisht some mo' raf's 'ud come along en make 'm rich ag'in. dey's mighty good to me, dese niggers is, en whatever i wants 'm to do fur me i doan' have to ast 'm twice, honey. dat jack's a good nigger, en pooty smart." "yes, he is. he ain't ever told me you was here; told me to come, and he'd show me a lot of water-moccasins. if anything happens _he_ ain't mixed up in it. he can say he never seen us together, and it 'll be the truth." i don't want to talk much about the next day. i reckon i'll cut it pretty short. i waked up about dawn, and was a-going to turn over and go to sleep again when i noticed how still it was--didn't seem to be anybody stirring. that warn't usual. next i noticed that buck was up and gone. well, i gets up, a-wondering, and goes down-stairs--nobody around; everything as still as a mouse. just the same outside. thinks i, what does it mean? down by the woodpile i comes across my jack, and says: "what's it all about?" says he: "don't you know, mars jawge?" "no," says i, "i don't." "well, den, miss sophia's run off! 'deed she has. she run off in de night some time--nobody don't know jis' when; run off to get married to dat young harney shepherdson, you know--leastways, so dey 'spec. de fambly foun' it out 'bout half an hour ago--maybe a little mo'--en' i _tell_ you dey warn't no time los'. sich another hurryin' up guns en hosses _you_ never see! de women folks has gone for to stir up de relations, en ole mars saul en de boys tuck dey guns en rode up de river road for to try to ketch dat young man en kill him 'fo' he kin git acrost de river wid miss sophia. i reck'n dey's gwyne to be mighty rough times." "buck went off 'thout waking me up." "well, i reck'n he _did!_ dey warn't gwyne to mix you up in it. mars buck he loaded up his gun en 'lowed he's gwyne to fetch home a shepherdson or bust. well, dey'll be plenty un 'm dah, i reck'n, en you bet you he'll fetch one ef he gits a chanst." i took up the river road as hard as i could put. by and by i begin to hear guns a good ways off. when i came in sight of the log store and the woodpile where the steamboats lands i worked along under the trees and brush till i got to a good place, and then i clumb up into the forks of a cottonwood that was out of reach, and watched. there was a wood-rank four foot high a little ways in front of the tree, and first i was going to hide behind that; but maybe it was luckier i didn't. there was four or five men cavorting around on their horses in the open place before the log store, cussing and yelling, and trying to get at a couple of young chaps that was behind the wood-rank alongside of the steamboat-landing; but they couldn't come it. every time one of them showed himself on the river side of the woodpile he got shot at. the two boys was squatting back to back behind the pile, so they could watch both ways. by and by the men stopped cavorting around and yelling. they started riding towards the store; then up gets one of the boys, draws a steady bead over the wood-rank, and drops one of them out of his saddle. all the men jumped off of their horses and grabbed the hurt one and started to carry him to the store; and that minute the two boys started on the run. they got half-way to the tree i was in before the men noticed. then the men see them, and jumped on their horses and took out after them. they gained on the boys, but it didn't do no good, the boys had too good a start; they got to the woodpile that was in front of my tree, and slipped in behind it, and so they had the bulge on the men again. one of the boys was buck, and the other was a slim young chap about nineteen years old. the men ripped around awhile, and then rode away. as soon as they was out of sight i sung out to buck and told him. he didn't know what to make of my voice coming out of the tree at first. he was awful surprised. he told me to watch out sharp and let him know when the men come in sight again; said they was up to some devilment or other--wouldn't be gone long. i wished i was out of that tree, but i dasn't come down. buck begun to cry and rip, and 'lowed that him and his cousin joe (that was the other young chap) would make up for this day yet. he said his father and his two brothers was killed, and two or three of the enemy. said the shepherdsons laid for them in ambush. buck said his father and brothers ought to waited for their relations--the shepherdsons was too strong for them. i asked him what was become of young harney and miss sophia. he said they'd got across the river and was safe. i was glad of that; but the way buck did take on because he didn't manage to kill harney that day he shot at him--i hain't ever heard anything like it. all of a sudden, bang! bang! bang! goes three or four guns--the men had slipped around through the woods and come in from behind without their horses! the boys jumped for the river--both of them hurt--and as they swum down the current the men run along the bank shooting at them and singing out, "kill them, kill them!" it made me so sick i most fell out of the tree. i ain't a-going to tell _all_ that happened--it would make me sick again if i was to do that. i wished i hadn't ever come ashore that night to see such things. i ain't ever going to get shut of them--lots of times i dream about them. i stayed in the tree till it begun to get dark, afraid to come down. sometimes i heard guns away off in the woods; and twice i seen little gangs of men gallop past the log store with guns; so i reckoned the trouble was still a-going on. i was mighty downhearted; so i made up my mind i wouldn't ever go anear that house again, because i reckoned i was to blame, somehow. i judged that that piece of paper meant that miss sophia was to meet harney somewheres at half past two and run off; and i judged i ought to told her father about that paper and the curious way she acted, and then maybe he would 'a' locked her up, and this awful mess wouldn't ever happened. when i got down out of the tree i crept along down the river-bank a piece, and found the two bodies laying in the edge of the water, and tugged at them till i got them ashore; then i covered up their faces, and got away as quick as i could. i cried a little when i was covering up buck's face, for he was mighty good to me. it was just dark now. i never went near the house, but struck through the woods and made for the swamp. jim warn't on his island, so i tramped off in a hurry for the crick, and crowded through the willows, red-hot to jump aboard and get out of that awful country. the raft was gone! my souls, but i was scared! i couldn't get my breath for most a minute. then i raised a yell. a voice not twenty-five foot from me says: "good lan'! is dat you, honey? doan' make no noise." it was jim's voice--nothing ever sounded so good before. i run along the bank a piece and got aboard, and jim he grabbed me and hugged me, he was so glad to see me. he says: "laws bless you, chile, i 'uz right down sho' you's dead ag'in. jack's been heah; he say he reck'n you's ben shot, kase you didn' come home no mo'; so i's jes' dis minute a-startin' startin' de raf' down towards de mouf er de crick, so's to be all ready for to shove out en leave soon as jack comes ag'in en tells me for certain you _is_ dead. lawsy, i's mighty glad to git you back ag'in, honey." i says: "all right--that's mighty good; they won't find me, and they'll think i've been killed, and floated down the river--there's something up there that 'll help them think so--so don't you lose no time, jim, but just shove off for the big water as fast as ever you can." i never felt easy till the raft was two mile below there and out in the middle of the mississippi. then we hung up our signal lantern, and judged that we was free and safe once more. i hadn't had a bite to eat since yesterday, so jim he got out some corn-dodgers and buttermilk, and pork and cabbage and greens--there ain't nothing in the world so good when it's cooked right--and whilst i eat my supper we talked and had a good time. i was powerful glad to get away from the feuds, and so was jim to get away from the swamp. we said there warn't no home like a raft, after all. other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. you feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft. chapter xix two or three days and nights went by; i reckon i might say they swum by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. here is the way we put in the time. it was a monstrous big river down there--sometimes a mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes; soon as night was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up--nearly always in the dead water under a towhead; and then cut young cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft with them. then we set out the lines. next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where the water was about knee-deep, and watched the daylight come. not a sound anywheres--perfectly still--just like the whole world was asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe. the first thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull line--that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn't make nothing else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness spreading around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't black any more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along ever so far away--trading-scows, and such things; and long black streaks--rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or jumbled-up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of the streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you make out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on t'other side of the river, being a wood-yard, likely, and piled by them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and fresh and sweet to smell on account of the woods and the flowers; but sometimes not that way, because they've left dead fish laying around, gars and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you've got the full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just going it! a little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take some fish off of the lines and cook up a hot breakfast. and afterwards we would watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by and by lazy off to sleep. wake up by and by, and look to see what done it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing along up-stream, so far off towards the other side you couldn't tell nothing about her only whether she was a stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see--just solid lonesomeness. next you'd see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, and maybe a galoot on it chopping, because they're most always doing it on a raft; you'd see the ax flash and come down--you don't hear nothing; you see that ax go up again, and by the time it's above the man's head then you hear the _k'chunk!_--it had took all that time to come over the water. so we would put in the day, lazying around, listening to the stillness. once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things that went by was beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn't run over them. a scow or a raft went by so close we could hear them talking and cussing and laughing--heard them plain; but we couldn't see no sign of them; it made you feel crawly; it was like spirits carrying on that way in the air. jim said he believed it was spirits; but i says: "no; spirits wouldn't say, 'dern the dern fog.'" soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about the middle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wanted her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, and talked about all kinds of things--we was always naked, day and night, whenever the mosquitoes would let us--the new clothes buck's folks made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides i didn't go much on clothes, nohow. sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest time. yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and maybe a spark--which was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on the water you could see a spark or two--on a raft or a scow, you know; and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from one of them crafts. it's lovely to live on a raft. we had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened. jim he allowed they was made, but i allowed they happened; i judged it would have took too long to _make_ so many. jim said the moon could 'a' _laid_ them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so i didn't say nothing against it, because i've seen a frog lay most as many, so of course it could be done. we used to watch the stars that fell, too, and see them streak down. jim allowed they'd got spoiled and was hove out of the nest. once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink out and her powwow shut off and leave the river still again; and by and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for you couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or something. after midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two or three hours the shores was black--no more sparks in the cabin windows. these sparks was our clock--the first one that showed again meant morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up right away. one morning about daybreak i found a canoe and crossed over a chute to the main shore--it was only two hundred yards--and paddled about a mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if i couldn't get some berries. just as i was passing a place where a kind of a cowpath crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men tearing up the path as tight as they could foot it. i thought i was a goner, for whenever anybody was after anybody i judged it was _me_--or maybe jim. i was about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to me then, and sung out and begged me to save their lives--said they hadn't been doing nothing, and was being chased for it--said there was men and dogs a-coming. they wanted to jump right in, but i says: "don't you do it. i don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've got time to crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways; then you take to the water and wade down to me and get in--that 'll throw the dogs off the scent." they done it, and soon as they was aboard i lit out for our towhead, and in about five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the men away off, shouting. we heard them come along towards the crick, but couldn't see them; they seemed to stop and fool around awhile; then, as we got further and further away all the time, we couldn't hardly hear them at all; by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us and struck the river, everything was quiet, and we paddled over to the towhead and hid in the cottonwoods and was safe. one of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald head and very gray whiskers. he had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue woolen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses--no, he only had one. he had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpet-bags. the other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. after breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come out was that these chaps didn't know one another. "what got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to t'other chap. "well, i'd been selling an article to take the tartar off the teeth--and it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with it--but i stayed about one night longer than i ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out when i ran across you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off. so i told you i was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter out _with_ you. that's the whole yarn--what's yourn?" "well, i'd ben a-runnin' a little temperance revival thar 'bout a week, and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for i was makin' it mighty warm for the rummies, i _tell_ you, and takin' as much as five or six dollars a night--ten cents a head, children and niggers free--and business a-growin' all the time, when somehow or another a little report got around last night that i had a way of puttin' in my time with a private jug on the sly. a nigger rousted me out this mornin', and told me the people was getherin' on the quiet with their dogs and horses, and they'd be along pretty soon and give me 'bout half an hour's start, and then run me down if they could; and if they got me they'd tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. i didn't wait for no breakfast--i warn't hungry." "old man," said the young one, "i reckon we might double-team it together; what do you think?" "i ain't undisposed. what's your line--mainly?" "jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-actor--tragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there's a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecture sometimes--oh, i do lots of things--most anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. what's your lay?" "i've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. layin' on o' hands is my best holt--for cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and i k'n tell a fortune pretty good when i've got somebody along to find out the facts for me. preachin's my line, too, and workin' camp-meetin's, and missionaryin' around." nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and says: "alas!" "what 're you alassin' about?" says the baldhead. "to think i should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degraded down into such company." and he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag. "dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?" says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish. "yes, it _is_ good enough for me; it's as good as i deserve; for who fetched me so low when i was so high? i did myself. i don't blame _you_, gentlemen--far from it; i don't blame anybody. i deserve it all. let the cold world do its worst; one thing i know--there's a grave somewhere for me. the world may go on just as it's always done, and take everything from me--loved ones, property, everything; but it can't take that. some day i'll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest." he went on a-wiping. "drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead; "what are you heaving your pore broken heart at _us_ f'r? _we_ hain't done nothing." "no, i know you haven't. i ain't blaming you, gentlemen. i brought myself down--yes, i did it myself. it's right i should suffer--perfectly right--i don't make any moan." "brought you down from whar? whar was you brought down from?" "ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes--let it pass--'tis no matter. the secret of my birth--" "the secret of your birth! do you mean to say--" "gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn, "i will reveal it to you, for i feel i may have confidence in you. by rights i am a duke!" jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and i reckon mine did, too. then the baldhead says: "no! you can't mean it?" "yes. my great-grandfather, eldest son of the duke of bridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. the second son of the late duke seized the titles and estates--the infant real duke was ignored. i am the lineal descendant of that infant--i am the rightful duke of bridgewater; and here am i, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heartbroken, and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!" jim pitied him ever so much, and so did i. we tried to comfort him, but he said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. he said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say "your grace," or "my lord," or "your lordship"--and he wouldn't mind it if we called him plain "bridgewater," which, he said, was a title anyway, and not a name; and one of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little thing for him he wanted done. well, that was all easy, so we done it. all through dinner jim stood around and waited on him, and says, "will yo' grace have some o' dis or some o' dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty pleasing to him. but the old man got pretty silent by and by--didn't have much to say, and didn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was going on around that duke. he seemed to have something on his mind. so, along in the afternoon, he says: "looky here, bilgewater," he says, "i'm nation sorry for you, but you ain't the only person that's had troubles like that." "no?" "no, you ain't. you ain't the only person that's ben snaked down wrongfully out'n a high place." "alas!" "no, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth." and, by jings, _he_ begins to cry. "hold! what do you mean?" "bilgewater, kin i trust you?" says the old man, still sort of sobbing. "to the bitter death!" he took the old man by the hand and squeezed it, and says, "that secret of your being: speak!" "bilgewater, i am the late dauphin!" you bet you, jim and me stared this time. then the duke says: "you are what?" "yes, my friend, it is too true--your eyes is lookin' at this very moment on the pore disappeared dauphin, looy the seventeen, son of looy the sixteen and marry antonette." "you! at your age! no! you mean you're the late charlemagne; you must be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least." "trouble has done it, bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. yes, gentlemen, you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled, trampled-on, and sufferin' rightful king of france." well, he cried and took on so that me and jim didn't know hardly what to do, we was so sorry--and so glad and proud we'd got him with us, too. so we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to comfort _him._ but he said it warn't no use, nothing but to be dead and done with it all could do him any good; though he said it often made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated him according to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him, and always called him "your majesty," and waited on him first at meals, and didn't set down in his presence till he asked them. so jim and me set to majestying him, and doing this and that and t'other for him, and standing up till he told us we might set down. this done him heaps of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. but the duke kind of soured on him, and didn't look a bit satisfied with the way things was going; still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the duke's great-grandfather and all the other dukes of bilgewater was a good deal thought of by _his_ father, and was allowed to come to the palace considerable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by and by the king says: "like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this h-yer raft, bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour? it 'll only make things oncomfortable. it ain't my fault i warn't born a duke, it ain't your fault you warn't born a king--so what's the use to worry? make the best o' things the way you find 'em, says i--that's my motto. this ain't no bad thing that we've struck here--plenty grub and an easy life--come, give us your hand, duke, and le's all be friends." the duke done it, and jim and me was pretty glad to see it. it took away all the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it, because it would 'a' been a miserable business to have any unfriendliness on the raft; for what you want, above all things, on a raft, is for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right and kind towards the others. it didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn't no kings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. but i never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best way; then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble. if they wanted us to call them kings and dukes, i hadn't no objections, 'long as it would keep peace in the family; and it warn't no use to tell jim, so i didn't tell him. if i never learnt nothing else out of pap, i learnt that the best way to get along with his kind of people is to let them have their own way. chapter xx they asked us considerable many questions; wanted to know what we covered up the raft that way for, and laid by in the daytime instead of running--was jim a runaway nigger? says i: "goodness sakes! would a runaway nigger run _south?_" no, they allowed he wouldn't. i had to account for things some way, so i says: "my folks was living in pike county, in missouri, where i was born, and they all died off but me and pa and my brother ike. pa, he 'lowed he'd break up and go down and live with uncle ben, who's got a little one-horse place on the river forty-four mile below orleans. pa was pretty poor, and had some debts; so when he'd squared up there warn't nothing left but sixteen dollars and our nigger, jim. that warn't enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck passage nor no other way. well, when the river rose pa had a streak of luck one day; he ketched this piece of a raft; so we reckoned we'd go down to orleans on it. pa's luck didn't hold out; a steamboat run over the forrard corner of the raft one night, and we all went overboard and dove under the wheel; jim and me come up all right, but pa was drunk, and ike was only four years old, so they never come up no more. well, for the next day or two we had considerable trouble, because people was always coming out in skiffs and trying to take jim away from me, saying they believed he was a runaway nigger. we don't run daytimes no more now; nights they don't bother us." the duke says: "leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the daytime if we want to. i'll think the thing over--i'll invent a plan that 'll fix it. we'll let it alone for to-day, because of course we don't want to go by that town yonder in daylight--it mightn't be healthy." towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the heat-lightning was squirting around low down in the sky, and the leaves was beginning to shiver--it was going to be pretty ugly, it was easy to see that. so the duke and the king went to overhauling our wigwam, to see what the beds was like. my bed was a straw tick--better than jim's, which was a corn-shuck tick; there's always cobs around about in a shuck tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and when you roll over the dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of dead leaves; it makes such a rustling that you wake up. well, the duke allowed he would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't. he says: "i should 'a' reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to you that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten for me to sleep on. your grace 'll take the shuck bed yourself." jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute, being afraid there was going to be some more trouble amongst them; so we was pretty glad when the duke says: "'tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron heel of oppression. misfortune has broken my once haughty spirit; i yield, i submit; 'tis my fate. i am alone in the world--let me suffer; i can bear it." we got away as soon as it was good and dark. the king told us to stand well out towards the middle of the river, and not show a light till we got a long ways below the town. we come in sight of the little bunch of lights by and by--that was the town, you know--and slid by, about a half a mile out, all right. when we was three-quarters of a mile below we hoisted up our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock it come on to rain and blow and thunder and lighten like everything; so the king told us to both stay on watch till the weather got better; then him and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the night. it was my watch below till twelve, but i wouldn't 'a' turned in anyway if i'd had a bed, because a body don't see such a storm as that every day in the week, not by a long sight. my souls, how the wind did scream along! and every second or two there'd come a glare that lit up the white-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd see the islands looking dusty through the rain, and the trees thrashing around in the wind; then comes a _h-whack!_--bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum--and the thunder would go rumbling and grumbling away, and quit--and then _rip_ comes another flash and another sock-dolager. the waves most washed me off the raft sometimes, but i hadn't any clothes on, and didn't mind. we didn't have no trouble about snags; the lightning was glaring and flittering around so constant that we could see them plenty soon enough to throw her head this way or that and miss them. i had the middle watch, you know, but i was pretty sleepy by that time, so jim he said he would stand the first half of it for me; he was always mighty good that way, jim was. i crawled into the wigwam, but the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around so there warn't no show for me; so i laid outside--i didn't mind the rain, because it was warm, and the waves warn't running so high now. about two they come up again, though, and jim was going to call me; but he changed his mind, because he reckoned they warn't high enough yet to do any harm; but he was mistaken about that, for pretty soon all of a sudden along comes a regular ripper and washed me overboard. it most killed jim a-laughing. he was the easiest nigger to laugh that ever was, anyway. i took the watch, and jim he laid down and snored away; and by and by the storm let up for good and all; and the first cabin-light that showed i rousted him out, and we slid the raft into hiding-quarters for the day. the king got out an old ratty deck of cards after breakfast, and him and the duke played seven-up awhile, five cents a game. then they got tired of it, and allowed they would "lay out a campaign," as they called it. the duke went down into his carpet-bag, and fetched up a lot of little printed bills and read them out loud. one bill said, "the celebrated dr. armand de montalban, of paris," would "lecture on the science of phrenology" at such and such a place, on the blank day of blank, at ten cents admission, and "furnish charts of character at twenty-five cents apiece." the duke said that was _him._ in another bill he was the "world-renowned shakespearian tragedian, garrick the younger, of drury lane, london." in other bills he had a lot of other names and done other wonderful things, like finding water and gold with a "divining-rod," "dissipating witch spells," and so on. by and by he says: "but the histrionic muse is the darling. have you ever trod the boards, royalty?" "no," says the king. "you shall, then, before you're three days older, fallen grandeur," says the duke. "the first good town we come to we'll hire a hall and do the swordfight in 'richard iii.' and the balcony scene in 'romeo and juliet.' how does that strike you?" "i'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, bilgewater; but, you see, i don't know nothing about play-actin', and hain't ever seen much of it. i was too small when pap used to have 'em at the palace. do you reckon you can learn me?" "easy!" "all right. i'm jist a-freezin' for something fresh, anyway. le's commence right away." so the duke he told him all about who romeo was and who juliet was, and said he was used to being romeo, so the king could be juliet. "but if juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and my white whiskers is goin' to look oncommon odd on her, maybe." "no, don't you worry; these country jakes won't ever think of that. besides, you know, you'll be in costume, and that makes all the difference in the world; juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight before she goes to bed, and she's got on her nightgown and her ruffled nightcap. here are the costumes for the parts." he got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was meedyevil armor for richard iii. and t'other chap, and a long white cotton nightshirt and a ruffled nightcap to match. the king was satisfied; so the duke got out his book and read the parts over in the most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting at the same time, to show how it had got to be done; then he give the book to the king and told him to get his part by heart. there was a little one-horse town about three mile down the bend, and after dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea about how to run in daylight without it being dangersome for jim; so he allowed he would go down to the town and fix that thing. the king allowed he would go, too, and see if he couldn't strike something. we was out of coffee, so jim said i better go along with them in the canoe and get some. when we got there there warn't nobody stirring; streets empty, and perfectly dead and still, like sunday. we found a sick nigger sunning himself in a back yard, and he said everybody that warn't too young or too sick or too old was gone to camp-meeting, about two mile back in the woods. the king got the directions, and allowed he'd go and work that camp-meeting for all it was worth, and i might go, too. the duke said what he was after was a printing-office. we found it; a little bit of a concern, up over a carpenter-shop--carpenters and printers all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. it was a dirty, littered-up place, and had ink-marks, and handbills with pictures of horses and runaway niggers on them, all over the walls. the duke shed his coat and said he was all right now. so me and the king lit out for the camp-meeting. we got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping, for it was a most awful hot day. there was as much as a thousand people there from twenty mile around. the woods was full of teams and wagons, hitched everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs and stomping to keep off the flies. there was sheds made out of poles and roofed over with branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread to sell, and piles of watermelons and green corn and such-like truck. the preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only they was bigger and held crowds of people. the benches was made out of outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive sticks into for legs. they didn't have no backs. the preachers had high platforms to stand on at one end of the sheds. the women had on sun-bonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham ones, and a few of the young ones had on calico. some of the young men was barefooted, and some of the children didn't have on any clothes but just a tow-linen shirt. some of the old women was knitting, and some of the young folks was courting on the sly. the first shed we come to the preacher was lining out a hymn. he lined out two lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of grand to hear it, there was so many of them and they done it in such a rousing way; then he lined out two more for them to sing--and so on. the people woke up more and more, and sung louder and louder; and towards the end some begun to groan, and some begun to shout. then the preacher begun to preach, and begun in earnest, too; and went weaving first to one side of the platform and then the other, and then a-leaning down over the front of it, with his arms and his body going all the time, and shouting his words out with all his might; and every now and then he would hold up his bible and spread it open, and kind of pass it around this way and that, shouting, "it's the brazen serpent in the wilderness! look upon it and live!" and people would shout out, "glory!--a-a-_men_!" and so he went on, and the people groaning and crying and saying amen: "oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black with sin! (_amen!_) come, sick and sore! (_amen!_) come, lame and halt and blind! (_amen!_) come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (_a-a-men!_) come, all that's worn and soiled and suffering!--come with a broken spirit! come with a contrite heart! come in your rags and sin and dirt! the waters that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open--oh, enter in and be at rest!" (_a-a-men! glory, glory hallelujah!_) and so on. you couldn't make out what the preacher said any more, on account of the shouting and crying. folks got up everywheres in the crowd, and worked their way just by main strength to the mourners' bench, with the tears running down their faces; and when all the mourners had got up there to the front benches in a crowd, they sung and shouted and flung themselves down on the straw, just crazy and wild. well, the first i knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear him over everybody; and next he went a-charging up onto the platform, and the preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and he done it. he told them he was a pirate--been a pirate for thirty years out in the indian ocean--and his crew was thinned out considerable last spring in a fight, and he was home now to take out some fresh men, and thanks to goodness he'd been robbed last night and put ashore off of a steamboat without a cent, and he was glad of it; it was the blessedest thing that ever happened to him, because he was a changed man now, and happy for the first time in his life; and, poor as he was, he was going to start right off and work his way back to the indian ocean, and put in the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates into the true path; for he could do it better than anybody else, being acquainted with all pirate crews in that ocean; and though it would take him a long time to get there without money, he would get there anyway, and every time he convinced a pirate he would say to him, "don't you thank me, don't you give me no credit; it all belongs to them dear people in pokeville camp-meeting, natural brothers and benefactors of the race, and that dear preacher there, the truest friend a pirate ever had!" and then he busted into tears, and so did everybody. then somebody sings out, "take up a collection for him, take up a collection!" well, a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, "let _him_ pass the hat around!" then everybody said it, the preacher too. so the king went all through the crowd with his hat, swabbing his eyes, and blessing the people and praising them and thanking them for being so good to the poor pirates away off there; and every little while the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down their cheeks, would up and ask him would he let them kiss him for to remember him by; and he always done it; and some of them he hugged and kissed as many as five or six times--and he was invited to stay a week; and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said they'd think it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day of the camp-meeting he couldn't do no good, and besides he was in a sweat to get to the indian ocean right off and go to work on the pirates. when we got back to the raft and he come to count up he found he had collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. and then he had fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found under a wagon when he was starting home through the woods. the king said, take it all around, it laid over any day he'd ever put in in the missionarying line. he said it warn't no use talking, heathens don't amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a camp-meeting with. the duke was thinking _he'd_ been doing pretty well till the king come to show up, but after that he didn't think so so much. he had set up and printed off two little jobs for farmers in that printing-office--horse bills--and took the money, four dollars. and he had got in ten dollars' worth of advertisements for the paper, which he said he would put in for four dollars if they would pay in advance--so they done it. the price of the paper was two dollars a year, but he took in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on condition of them paying him in advance; they were going to pay in cordwood and onions as usual, but he said he had just bought the concern and knocked down the price as low as he could afford it, and was going to run it for cash. he set up a little piece of poetry, which he made, himself, out of his own head--three verses--kind of sweet and saddish--the name of it was, "yes, crush, cold world, this breaking heart"--and he left that all set up and ready to print in the paper, and didn't charge nothing for it. well, he took in nine dollars and a half, and said he'd done a pretty square day's work for it. then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't charged for, because it was for us. it had a picture of a runaway nigger with a bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and "$ reward" under it. the reading was all about jim and just described him to a dot. it said he run away from st. jacques's plantation, forty mile below new orleans, last winter, and likely went north, and whoever would catch him and send him back he could have the reward and expenses. "now," says the duke, "after to-night we can run in the daytime if we want to. whenever we see anybody coming we can tie jim hand and foot with a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and say we captured him up the river, and were too poor to travel on a steamboat, so we got this little raft on credit from our friends and are going down to get the reward. handcuffs and chains would look still better on jim, but it wouldn't go well with the story of us being so poor. too much like jewelry. ropes are the correct thing--we must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards." we all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn't be no trouble about running daytimes. we judged we could make miles enough that night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the duke's work in the printing-office was going to make in that little town; then we could boom right along if we wanted to. we laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn't hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it. when jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning, he says: "huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost any mo' kings on dis trip?" "no," i says, "i reckon not." "well," says he, "dat's all right, den. i doan' mine one er two kings, but dat's enough. dis one's powerful drunk, en de duke ain' much better." i found jim had been trying to get him to talk french, so he could hear what it was like; but he said he had been in this country so long, and had so much trouble, he'd forgot it. chapter xxi it was after sun-up now, but we went right on and didn't tie up. the king and the duke turned out by and by looking pretty rusty; but after they'd jumped overboard and took a swim it chippered them up a good deal. after breakfast the king he took a seat on the corner of the raft, and pulled off his boots and rolled up his britches, and let his legs dangle in the water, so as to be comfortable, and lit his pipe, and went to getting his "romeo and juliet" by heart. when he had got it pretty good him and the duke begun to practise it together. the duke had to learn him over and over again how to say every speech; and he made him sigh, and put his hand on his heart, and after a while he said he done it pretty well; "only," he says, "you mustn't bellow out _romeo!_ that way, like a bull--you must say it soft and sick and languishy, so--r-o-o-meo! that is the idea; for juliet's a dear sweet mere child of a girl, you know, and she doesn't bray like a jackass." well, next they got out a couple of long swords that the duke made out of oak laths, and begun to practise the sword-fight--the duke called himself richard iii.; and the way they laid on and pranced around the raft was grand to see. but by and by the king tripped and fell overboard, and after that they took a rest, and had a talk about all kinds of adventures they'd had in other times along the river. after dinner the duke says: "well, capet, we'll want to make this a first-class show, you know, so i guess we'll add a little more to it. we want a little something to answer encores with, anyway." "what's onkores, bilgewater?" the duke told him, and then says: "i'll answer by doing the highland fling or the sailor's hornpipe; and you--well, let me see--oh, i've got it--you can do hamlet's soliloquy." "hamlet's which?" "hamlet's soliloquy, you know; the most celebrated thing in shakespeare. ah, it's sublime, sublime! always fetches the house. i haven't got it in the book--i've only got one volume--but i reckon i can piece it out from memory. i'll just walk up and down a minute, and see if i can call it back from recollection's vaults." so he went to marching up and down, thinking, and frowning horrible every now and then; then he would hoist up his eyebrows; next he would squeeze his hand on his forehead and stagger back and kind of moan; next he would sigh, and next he'd let on to drop a tear. it was beautiful to see him. by and by he got it. he told us to give attention. then he strikes a most noble attitude, with one leg shoved forwards, and his arms stretched away up, and his head tilted back, looking up at the sky; and then he begins to rip and rave and grit his teeth; and after that, all through his speech, he howled, and spread around, and swelled up his chest, and just knocked the spots out of any acting ever _i_ see before. this is the speech--i learned it, easy enough, while he was learning it to the king: to be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin that makes calamity of so long life; for who would fardels bear, till birnam wood do come to dunsinane, but that the fear of something after death murders the innocent sleep, great nature's second course, and makes us rather sling the arrows of outrageous fortune than fly to others that we know not of. there's the respect must give us pause: wake duncan with thy knocking! i would thou couldst; for who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the law's delay, and the quietus which his pangs might take, in the dead waste and middle of the night, when churchyards yawn in customary suits of solemn black, but that the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns, breathes forth contagion on the world, and thus the native hue of resolution, like the poor cat i' the adage, is sicklied o'er with care, and all the clouds that lowered o'er our housetops, with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. but soft you, the fair ophelia: ope not thy ponderous and marble jaws, but get thee to a nunnery--go! well, the old man he liked that speech, and he mighty soon got it so he could do it first rate. it seemed like he was just born for it; and when he had his hand in and was excited, it was perfectly lovely the way he would rip and tear and rair up behind when he was getting it off. the first chance we got the duke he had some show-bills printed; and after that, for two or three days as we floated along, the raft was a most uncommon lively place, for there warn't nothing but sword-fighting and rehearsing--as the duke called it--going on all the time. one morning, when we was pretty well down the state of arkansaw, we come in sight of a little one-horse town in a big bend; so we tied up about three-quarters of a mile above it, in the mouth of a crick which was shut in like a tunnel by the cypress trees, and all of us but jim took the canoe and went down there to see if there was any chance in that place for our show. we struck it mighty lucky; there was going to be a circus there that afternoon, and the country-people was already beginning to come in, in all kinds of old shackly wagons, and on horses. the circus would leave before night, so our show would have a pretty good chance. the duke he hired the court-house, and we went around and stuck up our bills. they read like this: shaksperean revival ! ! ! wonderful attraction! for one night only! the world renowned tragedians, david garrick the younger, of drury lane theatre, london, and edmund kean the elder, of the royal haymarket theatre, whitechapel, pudding lane, piccadilly, london, and the royal continental theatres, in their sublime shaksperean spectacle entitled the balcony scene in romeo and juliet ! ! ! romeo...................mr. garrick juliet..................mr. kean assisted by the whole strength of the company! new costumes, new scenery, new appointments! also: the thrilling, masterly, and blood-curdling broad-sword conflict in richard iii. ! ! ! richard iii.............mr. garrick richmond................mr. kean also: (by special request) hamlet's immortal soliloquy ! ! by the illustrious kean! done by him consecutive nights in paris! for one night only, on account of imperative european engagements! admission cents; children and servants, cents. then we went loafing around town. the stores and houses was most all old, shackly, dried-up frame concerns that hadn't ever been painted; they was set up three or four foot above ground on stilts, so as to be out of reach of the water when the river was overflowed. the houses had little gardens around them, but they didn't seem to raise hardly anything in them but jimpson-weeds, and sunflowers, and ash-piles, and old curled-up boots and shoes, and pieces of bottles, and rags, and played-out tinware. the fences was made of different kinds of boards, nailed on at different times; and they leaned every which way, and had gates that didn't generly have but one hinge--a leather one. some of the fences had been whitewashed some time or another, but the duke said it was in columbus's time, like enough. there was generly hogs in the garden, and people driving them out. all the stores was along one street. they had white domestic awnings in front, and the country-people hitched their horses to the awning-posts. there was empty dry-goods boxes under the awnings, and loafers roosting on them all day long, whittling them with their barlow knives; and chawing tobacco, and gaping and yawning and stretching--a mighty ornery lot. they generly had on yellow straw hats most as wide as an umbrella, but didn't wear no coats nor waistcoats; they called one another bill, and buck, and hank, and joe, and andy, and talked lazy and drawly, and used considerable many cuss-words. there was as many as one loafer leaning up against every awning-post, and he most always had his hands in his britches pockets, except when he fetched them out to lend a chaw of tobacco or scratch. what a body was hearing amongst them all the time was: "gimme a chaw 'v tobacker, hank." "cain't; i hain't got but one chaw left. ask bill." maybe bill he gives him a chaw; maybe he lies and says he ain't got none. some of them kinds of loafers never has a cent in the world, nor a chaw of tobacco of their own. they get all their chawing by borrowing; they say to a fellow, "i wisht you'd len' me a chaw, jack, i jist this minute give ben thompson the last chaw i had"--which is a lie pretty much every time; it don't fool nobody but a stranger; but jack ain't no stranger, so he says: "_you_ give him a chaw, did you? so did your sister's cat's grandmother. you pay me back the chaws you've awready borry'd off'n me, lafe buckner, then i'll loan you one or two ton of it, and won't charge you no back intrust, nuther." "well, i _did_ pay you back some of it wunst." "yes, you did--'bout six chaws. you borry'd store tobacker and paid back nigger-head." store tobacco is flat black plug, but these fellows mostly chaws the natural leaf twisted. when they borrow a chaw they don't generly cut it off with a knife, but set the plug in between their teeth, and gnaw with their teeth and tug at the plug with their hands till they get it in two; then sometimes the one that owns the tobacco looks mournful at it when it's handed back, and says, sarcastic: "here, gimme the _chaw_, and you take the _plug_." [illustration:"'gimme a chaw'"] all the streets and lanes was just mud; they warn't nothing else _but_ mud--mud as black as tar and nigh about a foot deep in some places, and two or three inches deep in _all_ the places. the hogs loafed and grunted around everywheres. you'd see a muddy sow and a litter of pigs come lazying along the street and whollop herself right down in the way, where folks had to walk around her, and she'd stretch out and shut her eyes and wave her ears whilst the pigs was milking her, and look as happy as if she was on salary. and pretty soon you'd hear a loafer sing out, "hi! _so_ boy! sick him, tige!" and away the sow would go, squealing most horrible, with a dog or two swinging to each ear, and three or four dozen more a-coming; and then you would see all the loafers get up and watch the thing out of sight, and laugh at the fun and look grateful for the noise. then they'd settle back again till there was a dog-fight. there couldn't anything wake them up all over, and make them happy all over, like a dog-fight--unless it might be putting turpentine on a stray dog and setting fire to him, or tying a tin pan to his tail and see him run himself to death. on the river-front some of the houses was sticking out over the bank, and they was bowed and bent, and about ready to tumble in. the people had moved out of them. the bank was caved away under one corner of some others, and that corner was hanging over. people lived in them yet, but it was dangersome, because sometimes a strip of land as wide as a house caves in at a time. sometimes a belt of land a quarter of a mile deep will start in and cave along and cave along till it all caves into the river in one summer. such a town as that has to be always moving back, and back, and back, because the river's always gnawing at it. the nearer it got to noon that day the thicker and thicker was the wagons and horses in the streets, and more coming all the time. families fetched their dinners with them from the country, and eat them in the wagons. there was considerable whisky-drinking going on, and i seen three fights. by and by somebody sings out: "here comes old boggs!--in from the country for his little old monthly drunk; here he comes, boys!" all the loafers looked glad; i reckoned they was used to having fun out of boggs. one of them says: "wonder who he's a-gwyne to chaw up this time. if he'd a-chawed up all the men he's ben a-gwyne to chaw up in the last twenty year he'd have considerable ruputation now." another one says, "i wisht old boggs 'd threaten me, 'cuz then i'd know i warn't gwyne to die for a thousan' year." boggs comes a-tearing along on his horse, whooping and yelling like an injun, and singing out: "cler the track, thar. i'm on the waw-path, and the price uv coffins is a-gwyne to raise." he was drunk, and weaving about in his saddle; he was over fifty year old, and had a very red face. everybody yelled at him and laughed at him and sassed him, and he sassed back, and said he'd attend to them and lay them out in their regular turns, but he couldn't wait now because he'd come to town to kill old colonel sherburn, and his motto was, "meat first, and spoon vittles to top off on." he see me, and rode up and says: "whar'd you come f'm, boy? you prepared to die?" then he rode on. i was scared, but a man says: "he don't mean nothing; he's always a-carryin' on like that when he's drunk. he's the best-naturedest old fool in arkansaw--never hurt nobody, drunk nor sober." boggs rode up before the biggest store in town, and bent his head down so he could see under the curtain of the awning and yells: "come out here, sherburn! come out and meet the man you've swindled. you're the houn' i'm after, and i'm a-gwyne to have you, too!" and so he went on, calling sherburn everything he could lay his tongue to, and the whole street packed with people listening and laughing and going on. by and by a proud-looking man about fifty-five--and he was a heap the best-dressed man in that town, too--steps out of the store, and the crowd drops back on each side to let him come. he says to boggs, mighty ca'm and slow--he says: "i'm tired of this, but i'll endure it till one o'clock. till one o'clock, mind--no longer. if you open your mouth against me only once after that time you can't travel so far but i will find you." then he turns and goes in. the crowd looked mighty sober; nobody stirred, and there warn't no more laughing. boggs rode off blackguarding sherburn as loud as he could yell, all down the street; and pretty soon back he comes and stops before the store, still keeping it up. some men crowded around him and tried to get him to shut up, but he wouldn't; they told him it would be one o'clock in about fifteen minutes, and so he _must_ go home--he must go right away. but it didn't do no good. he cussed away with all his might, and throwed his hat down in the mud and rode over it, and pretty soon away he went a-raging down the street again, with his gray hair a-flying. everybody that could get a chance at him tried their best to coax him off of his horse so they could lock him up and get him sober; but it warn't no use--up the street he would tear again, and give sherburn another cussing. by and by somebody says: "go for his daughter!--quick, go for his daughter; sometimes he'll listen to her. if anybody can persuade him, she can." so somebody started on a run. i walked down street a ways and stopped. in about five or ten minutes here comes boggs again, but not on his horse. he was a-reeling across the street towards me, bareheaded, with a friend on both sides of him a-holt of his arms and hurrying him along. he was quiet, and looked uneasy; and he warn't hanging back any, but was doing some of the hurrying himself. somebody sings out: "boggs!" i looked over there to see who said it, and it was that colonel sherburn. he was standing perfectly still in the street, and had a pistol raised in his right hand--not aiming it, but holding it out with the barrel tilted up towards the sky. the same second i see a young girl coming on the run, and two men with her. boggs and the men turned round to see who called him, and when they see the pistol the men jumped to one side, and the pistol-barrel come down slow and steady to a level--both barrels cocked. boggs throws up both of his hands and says, "o lord, don't shoot!" bang! goes the first shot, and he staggers back, clawing at the air--bang! goes the second one, and he tumbles backwards onto the ground, heavy and solid, with his arms spread out. that young girl screamed out and comes rushing, and down she throws herself on her father, crying, and saying, "oh, he's killed him, he's killed him!" the crowd closed up around them, and shouldered and jammed one another, with their necks stretched, trying to see, and people on the inside trying to shove them back and shouting, "back, back! give him air, give him air!" colonel sherburn he tossed his pistol onto the ground, and turned around on his heels and walked off. they took boggs to a little drug store, the crowd pressing around just the same, and the whole town following, and i rushed and got a good place at the window, where i was close to him and could see in. they laid him on the floor and put one large bible under his head, and opened another one and spread it on his breast; but they tore open his shirt first, and i seen where one of the bullets went in. he made about a dozen long gasps, his breast lifting the bible up when he drawed in his breath, and letting it down again when he breathed it out--and after that he laid still; he was dead. then they pulled his daughter away from him, screaming and crying, and took her off. she was about sixteen, and very sweet and gentle looking, but awful pale and scared. well, pretty soon the whole town was there, squirming and scrouging and pushing and shoving to get at the window and have a look, but people that had the places wouldn't give them up, and folks behind them was saying all the time, "say, now, you've looked enough, you fellows; 'tain't right and 'tain't fair for you to stay thar all the time, and never give nobody a chance; other folks has their rights as well as you." there was considerable jawing back, so i slid out, thinking maybe there was going to be trouble. the streets was full, and everybody was excited. everybody that seen the shooting was telling how it happened, and there was a big crowd packed around each one of these fellows, stretching their necks and listening. one long, lanky man, with long hair and a big white fur stovepipe hat on the back of his head, and a crooked-handled cane, marked out the places on the ground where boggs stood and where sherburn stood, and the people following him around from one place to t'other and watching everything he done, and bobbing their heads to show they understood, and stooping a little and resting their hands on their thighs to watch him mark the places on the ground with his cane; and then he stood up straight and stiff where sherburn had stood, frowning and having his hat-brim down over his eyes, and sung out, "boggs!" and then fetched his cane down slow to a level, and says "bang!" staggered backwards, says "bang!" again, and fell down flat on his back. the people that had seen the thing said he done it perfect; said it was just exactly the way it all happened. then as much as a dozen people got out their bottles and treated him. well, by and by somebody said sherburn ought to be lynched. in about a minute everybody was saying it; so away they went, mad and yelling, and snatching down every clothes-line they come to to do the hanging with. chapter xxii they swarmed up towards sherburn's house, a-whooping and raging like injuns, and everything had to clear the way or get run over and tromped to mush, and it was awful to see. children was heeling it ahead of the mob, screaming and trying to get out of the way; and every window along the road was full of women's heads, and there was nigger boys in every tree, and bucks and wenches looking over every fence; and as soon as the mob would get nearly to them they would break and skaddle back out of reach. lots of the women and girls was crying and taking on, scared most to death. they swarmed up in front of sherburn's palings as thick as they could jam together, and you couldn't hear yourself think for the noise. it was a little twenty-foot yard. some sung out "tear down the fence! tear down the fence!" then there was a racket of ripping and tearing and smashing, and down she goes, and the front wall of the crowd begins to roll in like a wave. just then sherburn steps out onto the roof of his little front porch, with a double-barrel gun in his hand, and takes his stand, perfectly ca'm and deliberate, not saying a word. the racket stopped, and the wave sucked back. sherburn never said a word--just stood there, looking down. the stillness was awful creepy and uncomfortable. sherburn run his eye slow along the crowd; and wherever it struck the people tried a little to outgaze him, but they couldn't; they dropped their eyes and looked sneaky. then pretty soon sherburn sort of laughed; not the pleasant kind, but the kind that makes you feel like when you are eating bread that's got sand in it. then he says, slow and scornful: "the idea of _you_ lynching anybody! it's amusing. the idea of you thinking you had pluck enough to lynch a _man!_ because you're brave enough to tar and feather poor friendless cast-out women that come along here, did that make you think you had grit enough to lay your hands on a _man?_ why, a _man's_ safe in the hands of ten thousand of your kind--as long as it's daytime and you're not behind him. "do i know you? i know you clear through. i was born and raised in the south, and i've lived in the north; so i know the average all around. the average man's a coward. in the north he lets anybody walk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble spirit to bear it. in the south one man, all by himself, has stopped a stage full of men in the daytime, and robbed the lot. your newspapers call you a brave people so much that you think you are braver than any other people--whereas you're just _as_ brave, and no braver. why don't your juries hang murderers? because they're afraid the man's friends will shoot them in the back, in the dark--and it's just what they _would_ do. "so they always acquit; and then a _man_ goes in the night, with a hundred masked cowards at his back, and lynches the rascal. your mistake is, that you didn't bring a man with you; that's one mistake, and the other is that you didn't come in the dark and fetch your masks. you brought _part_ of a man--buck harkness, there--and if you hadn't had him to start you, you'd 'a' taken it out in blowing. "you didn't want to come. the average man don't like trouble and danger. _you_ don't like trouble and danger. but if only _half_ a man--like buck harkness, there--shouts 'lynch him! lynch him!' you're afraid to back down--afraid you'll be found out to be what you are--_cowards_--and so you raise a yell, and hang yourselves onto that half-a-man's coat-tail, and come raging up here, swearing what big things you're going to do. the pitifulest thing out is a mob; that's what an army is--a mob; they don't fight with courage that's born in them, but with courage that's borrowed from their mass, and from their officers. but a mob without any _man_ at the head of it is _beneath_ pitifulness. now the thing for _you_ to do is to droop your tails and go home and crawl in a hole. if any real lynching's going to be done it will be done in the dark, southern fashion; and when they come they'll bring their masks, and fetch a _man_ along. now _leave_--and take your half-a-man with you"--tossing his gun up across his left arm and cocking it when he says this. the crowd washed back sudden, and then broke all apart, and went tearing off every which way, and buck harkness he heeled it after them, looking tolerable cheap. i could 'a' stayed if i wanted to, but i didn't want to. i went to the circus and loafed around the back side till the watchman went by, and then dived in under the tent. i had my twenty-dollar gold piece and some other money, but i reckoned i better save it, because there ain't no telling how soon you are going to need it, away from home and amongst strangers that way. you can't be too careful. i ain't opposed to spending money on circuses when there ain't no other way, but there ain't no use in _wasting_ it on them. it was a real bully circus. it was the splendidest sight that ever was when they all come riding in, two and two, and gentleman and lady, side by side, the men just in their drawers and undershirts, and no shoes nor stirrups, and resting their hands on their thighs easy and comfortable--there must 'a' been twenty of them--and every lady with a lovely complexion, and perfectly beautiful, and looking just like a gang of real sure-enough queens, and dressed in clothes that cost millions of dollars, and just littered with diamonds. it was a powerful fine sight; i never see anything so lovely. and then one by one they got up and stood, and went a-weaving around the ring so gentle and wavy and graceful, the men looking ever so tall and airy and straight, with their heads bobbing and skimming along, away up there under the tent-roof, and every lady's rose-leafy dress flapping soft and silky around her hips, and she looking like the most loveliest parasol. and then faster and faster they went, all of them dancing, first one foot out in the air and then the other, the horses leaning more and more, and the ringmaster going round and round the center pole, cracking his whip and shouting "hi!--hi!" and the clown cracking jokes behind him; and by and by all hands dropped the reins, and every lady put her knuckles on her hips and every gentleman folded his arms, and then how the horses did lean over and hump themselves! and so one after the other they all skipped off into the ring, and made the sweetest bow i ever see, and then scampered out, and everybody clapped their hands and went just about wild. well, all through the circus they done the most astonishing things; and all the time that clown carried on so it most killed the people. the ringmaster couldn't ever say a word to him but he was back at him quick as a wink with the funniest things a body ever said; and how he ever _could_ think of so many of them, and so sudden and so pat, was what i couldn't no way understand. why, i couldn't 'a' thought of them in a year. and by and by a drunken man tried to get into the ring--said he wanted to ride; said he could ride as well as anybody that ever was. they argued and tried to keep him out, but he wouldn't listen, and the whole show come to a standstill. then the people begun to holler at him and make fun of him, and that made him mad, and he begun to rip and tear; so that stirred up the people, and a lot of men begun to pile down off of the benches and swarm toward the ring, saying, "knock him down! throw him out!" and one or two women begun to scream. so, then, the ringmaster he made a little speech, and said he hoped there wouldn't be no disturbance, and if the man would promise he wouldn't make no more trouble he would let him ride if he thought he could stay on the horse. so everybody laughed and said all right, and the man got on. the minute he was on, the horse begun to rip and tear and jump and cavort around, with two circus men hanging on to his bridle trying to hold him, and the drunk man hanging on to his neck, and his heels flying in the air every jump, and the whole crowd of people standing up shouting and laughing till tears rolled down. and at last, sure enough, all the circus men could do, the horse broke loose, and away he went like the very nation, round and round the ring, with that sot laying down on him and hanging to his neck, with first one leg hanging most to the ground on one side, and then t'other one on t'other side, and the people just crazy. it warn't funny to me, though; i was all of a tremble to see his danger. but pretty soon he struggled up astraddle and grabbed the bridle, a-reeling this way and that; and the next minute he sprung up and dropped the bridle and stood! and the horse a-going like a house afire, too. he just stood up there, a-sailing around as easy and comfortable as if he warn't ever drunk in his life--and then he begun to pull off his clothes and sling them. he shed them so thick they kind of clogged up the air, and altogether he shed seventeen suits. and, then, there he was, slim and handsome, and dressed the gaudiest and prettiest you ever saw, and he lit into that horse with his whip and made him fairly hum--and finally skipped off, and made his bow and danced off to the dressing-room, and everybody just a-howling with pleasure and astonishment. then the ringmaster he see how he had been fooled, and he _was_ the sickest ringmaster you ever see, i reckon. why, it was one of his own men! he had got up that joke all out of his own head, and never let on to nobody. well, i felt sheepish enough to be took in so, but i wouldn't 'a' been in that ringmaster's place, not for a thousand dollars. i don't know; there may be bullier circuses than what that one was, but i never struck them yet. anyways, it was plenty good enough for _me_; and wherever i run across it, it can have all of _my_ custom every time. well, that night we had _our_ show; but there warn't only about twelve people there--just enough to pay expenses. and they laughed all the time, and that made the duke mad; and everybody left, anyway, before the show was over, but one boy which was asleep. so the duke said these arkansaw lunkheads couldn't come up to shakespeare; what they wanted was low comedy--and maybe something ruther worse than low comedy, he reckoned. he said he could size their style. so next morning he got some big sheets of wrapping-paper and some black paint, and drawed off some handbills, and stuck them up all over the village. the bills said: at the court house! for nights only! _the world-renowned tragedians_ david garrick the younger! and edmund kean the elder! of the london and continental theatres, in their thrilling tragedy of the king's cameleopard, or the royal nonesuch ! ! ! _admission cents._ then at the bottom was the biggest line of all, which said: ladies and children not admitted "there," says he, "if that line don't fetch them, i don't know arkansaw!" chapter xxiii i well, all day him and the king was hard at it, rigging up a stage and a curtain and a row of candles for footlights; and that night the house was jam full of men in no time. when the place couldn't hold no more, the duke he quit tending door and went around the back way and come onto the stage and stood up before the curtain and made a little speech, and praised up this tragedy, and said it was the most thrillingest one that ever was; and so he went on a-bragging about the tragedy, and about edmund kean the elder, which was to play the main principal part in it; and at last when he'd got everybody's expectations up high enough, he rolled up the curtain, and the next minute the king come a-prancing out on all fours, naked; and he was painted all over, ring-streaked-and-striped, all sorts of colors, as splendid as a rainbow. and--but never mind the rest of his outfit; it was just wild, but it was awful funny. the people most killed themselves laughing; and when the king got done capering and capered off behind the scenes, they roared and clapped and stormed and haw-hawed till he come back and done it over again, and after that they made him do it another time. well, it would make a cow laugh to see the shines that old idiot cut. then the duke he lets the curtain down, and bows to the people, and says the great tragedy will be performed only two nights more, on accounts of pressing london engagements, where the seats is all sold already for it in drury lane; and then he makes them another bow, and says if he has succeeded in pleasing them and instructing them, he will be deeply obleeged if they will mention it to their friends and get them to come and see it. twenty people sings out: "what, is it over? is that _all_?" the duke says yes. then there was a fine time. everybody sings out, "sold!" and rose up mad, and was a-going for that stage and them tragedians. but a big, fine-looking man jumps up on a bench and shouts: "hold on! just a word, gentlemen." they stopped to listen. "we are sold--mighty badly sold. but we don't want to be the laughing-stock of this whole town, i reckon, and never hear the last of this thing as long as we live. _no_. what we want is to go out of here quiet, and talk this show up, and sell the _rest_ of the town! then we'll all be in the same boat. ain't that sensible?" ("you bet it is!--the jedge is right!" everybody sings out.) "all right, then--not a word about any sell. go along home, and advise everybody to come and see the tragedy." next day you couldn't hear nothing around that town but how splendid that show was. house was jammed again that night, and we sold this crowd the same way. when me and the king and the duke got home to the raft we all had a supper; and by and by, about midnight, they made jim and me back her out and float her down the middle of the river, and fetch her in and hide her about two mile below town. the third night the house was crammed again--and they warn't new-comers this time, but people that was at the show the other two nights. i stood by the duke at the door, and i see that every man that went in had his pockets bulging, or something muffled up under his coat--and i see it warn't no perfumery, neither, not by a long sight. i smelt sickly eggs by the barrel, and rotten cabbages, and such things; and if i know the signs of a dead cat being around, and i bet i do, there was sixty-four of them went in. i shoved in there for a minute, but it was too various for me; i couldn't stand it. well, when the place couldn't hold no more people the duke he give a fellow a quarter and told him to tend door for him a minute, and then he started around for the stage door, i after him; but the minute we turned the corner and was in the dark he says: "walk fast now till you get away from the houses, and then shin for the raft like the dickens was after you!" i done it, and he done the same. we struck the raft at the same time, and in less than two seconds we was gliding down-stream, all dark and still, and edging towards the middle of the river, nobody saying a word. i reckoned the poor king was in for a gaudy time of it with the audience, but nothing of the sort; pretty soon he crawls out from under the wigwam, and says: "well, how'd the old thing pan out this time, duke?" he hadn't been up-town at all. we never showed a light till we was about ten mile below the village. then we lit up and had a supper, and the king and the duke fairly laughed their bones loose over the way they'd served them people. the duke says: "greenhorns, flatheads! i knew the first house would keep mum and let the rest of the town get roped in; and i knew they'd lay for us the third night, and consider it was _their_ turn now. well, it _is_ their turn, and i'd give something to know how much they'd take for it. i _would_ just like to know how they're putting in their opportunity. they can turn it into a picnic if they want to--they brought plenty provisions." them rapscallions took in four hundred and sixty-five dollars in that three nights. i never see money hauled in by the wagon-load like that before. by and by, when they was asleep and snoring, jim says: "don't it s'prise you de way dem kings carries on, huck?" "no," i says, "it don't." "why don't it, huck?" "well, it don't, because it's in the breed. i reckon they're all alike." "but, huck, dese kings o' ourn is reglar rapscallions; dat's jist what dey is; dey's reglar rapscallions." "well, that's what i'm a-saying; all kings is mostly rapscallions, as fur as i can make out." "is dat so?" "you read about them once--you'll see. look at henry the eight; this 'n' 's a sunday-school superintendent to _him_. and look at charles second, and louis fourteen, and louis fifteen, and james second, and edward second, and richard third, and forty more; besides all them saxon heptarchies that used to rip around so in old times and raise cain. my, you ought to seen old henry the eight when he was in bloom. he _was_ a blossom. he used to marry a new wife every day, and chop off her head next morning. and he would do it just as indifferent as if he was ordering up eggs. 'fetch up nell gwynn,' he says. they fetch her up. next morning, 'chop off her head!' and they chop it off. 'fetch up jane shore,' he says; and up she comes. next morning, 'chop off her head'--and they chop it off. 'ring up fair rosamun.' fair rosamun answers the bell. next morning, 'chop off her head.' and he made every one of them tell him a tale every night; and he kept that up till he had hogged a thousand and one tales that way, and then he put them all in a book, and called it domesday book--which was a good name and stated the case. you don't know kings, jim, but i know them; and this old rip of ourn is one of the cleanest i've struck in history. well, henry he takes a notion he wants to get up some trouble with this country. how does he go at it--give notice?--give the country a show? no. all of a sudden he heaves all the tea in boston harbor overboard, and whacks out a declaration of independence, and dares them to come on. that was _his_ style--he never give anybody a chance. he had suspicions of his father, the duke of wellington. well, what did he do? ask him to show up? no--drownded him in a butt of mamsey, like a cat. s'pose people left money laying around where he was--what did he do? he collared it. s'pose he contracted to do a thing, and you paid him, and didn't set down there and see that he done it--what did he do? he always done the other thing. s'pose he opened his mouth--what then? if he didn't shut it up powerful quick he'd lose a lie every time. that's the kind of a bug henry was; and if we'd 'a' had him along 'stead of our kings he'd 'a' fooled that town a heap worse than ourn done. i don't say that ourn is lambs, because they ain't, when you come right down to the cold facts; but they ain't nothing to _that_ old ram, anyway. all i say is, kings is kings, and you got to make allowances. take them all around, they're a mighty ornery lot. it's the way they're raised." "but dis one do _smell_ so like de nation, huck." "well, they all do, jim. we can't help the way a king smells; history don't tell no way." "now de duke, he's a tolerble likely man in some ways." "yes, a duke's different. but not very different. this one's a middling hard lot for a duke. when he's drunk there ain't no near-sighted man could tell him from a king." "well, anyways, i doan' hanker for no mo' un um, huck. dese is all i kin stan'." "it's the way i feel, too, jim. but we've got them on our hands, and we got to remember what they are, and make allowances. sometimes i wish we could hear of a country that's out of kings." what was the use to tell jim these warn't real kings and dukes? it wouldn't 'a' done no good; and, besides, it was just as i said: you couldn't tell them from the real kind. i went to sleep, and jim didn't call me when it was my turn. he often done that. when i waked up just at daybreak he was sitting there with his head down betwixt his knees, moaning and mourning to himself. i didn't take notice nor let on. i knowed what it was about. he was thinking about his wife and his children, away up yonder, and he was low and homesick; because he hadn't ever been away from home before in his life; and i do believe he cared just as much for his people as white folks does for their'n. it don't seem natural, but i reckon it's so. he was often moaning and mourning that way nights, when he judged i was asleep, and saying, "po' little 'lizabeth! po' little johnny! it's mighty hard; i spec' i ain't ever gwyne to see you no mo', no mo'!" he was a mighty good nigger, jim was. but this time i somehow got to talking to him about his wife and young ones; and by and by he says: "what makes me feel so bad dis time 'uz bekase i hear sumpn over yonder on de bank like a whack, er a slam, while ago, en it mine me er de time i treat my little 'lizabeth so ornery. she warn't on'y 'bout fo' year ole, en she tuck de sk'yarlet fever, en had a powful rough spell; but she got well, en one day she was a-stannin' aroun', en i says to her, i says: "'shet de do'.' "she never done it; jis' stood dah, kiner smilin' up at me. it make me mad; en i says ag'in, mighty loud, i says: "'doan' you hear me? shet de do'!" "she jis stood de same way, kiner smilin' up. i was a-bilin'! i says: "'i lay i _make_ you mine!' "en wid dat i fetch' her a slap side de head dat sont her a-sprawlin'. den i went into de yuther room, en 'uz gone 'bout ten minutes; en when i come back dah was dat do' a-stannin' open _yit_, en dat chile stannin' mos' right in it, a-lookin' down and mournin', en de tears runnin' down. my, but i _wuz_ mad! i was a-gwyne for de chile, but jis' den--it was a do' dat open innerds--jis' den, 'long come de wind en slam it to, behine de chile, ker-_blam!_--en my lan', de chile never move'! my breff mos' hop outer me; en i feel so--so--i doan' know _how_ i feel. i crope out, all a-tremblin', en crope aroun' en open de do' easy en slow, en poke my head in behine de chile, sof' en still, en all uv a sudden i says _pow!_ jis' as loud as i could yell. she _never budge!_ oh, huck, i bust out a-cryin' en grab her up in my arms, en say, 'oh, de po' little thing! de lord god amighty fogive po' ole jim, kaze he never gwyne to fogive hisself as long's he live!' oh, she was plumb deef en dumb, huck, plumb deef en dumb--en i'd ben a-treat'n her so!" chapter xxiv next day, towards night, we laid up under a little willow towhead out in the middle, where there was a village on each side of the river, and the duke and the king begun to lay out a plan for working them towns. jim he spoke to the duke, and said he hoped it wouldn't take but a few hours, because it got mighty heavy and tiresome to him when he had to lay all day in the wigwam tied with the rope. you see, when we left him all alone we had to tie him, because if anybody happened on to him all by himself and not tied it wouldn't look much like he was a runaway nigger, you know. so the duke said it _was_ kind of hard to have to lay roped all day, and he'd cipher out some way to get around it. he was uncommon bright, the duke was, and he soon struck it. he dressed jim up in king lear's outfit--it was a long curtain-calico gown, and a white horse-hair wig and whiskers; and then he took his theater paint and painted jim's face and hands and ears and neck all over a dead, dull solid blue, like a man that's been drownded nine days. blamed if he warn't the horriblest-looking outrage i ever see. then the duke took and wrote out a sign on a shingle so: _sick arab--but harmless when not out of his head._ and he nailed that shingle to a lath, and stood the lath up four or five foot in front of the wigwam. jim was satisfied. he said it was a sight better than lying tied a couple of years every day, and trembling all over every time there was a sound. the duke told him to make himself free and easy, and if anybody ever come meddling around, he must hop out of the wigwam, and carry on a little, and fetch a howl or two like a wild beast, and he reckoned they would light out and leave him alone. which was sound enough judgment; but you take the average man, and he wouldn't wait for him to howl. why, he didn't only look like he was dead, he looked considerable more than that. these rapscallions wanted to try the nonesuch again, because there was so much money in it, but they judged it wouldn't be safe, because maybe the news might 'a' worked along down by this time. they couldn't hit no project that suited exactly; so at last the duke said he reckoned he'd lay off and work his brains an hour or two and see if he couldn't put up something on the arkansaw village; and the king he allowed he would drop over to t'other village without any plan, but just trust in providence to lead him the profitable way--meaning the devil, i reckon. we had all bought store clothes where we stopped last; and now the king put his'n on, and he told me to put mine on. i done it, of course. the king's duds was all black, and he did look real swell and starchy. i never knowed how clothes could change a body before. why, before, he looked like the orneriest old rip that ever was; but now, when he'd take off his new white beaver and make a bow and do a smile, he looked that grand and good and pious that you'd say he had walked right out of the ark, and maybe was old leviticus himself. jim cleaned up the canoe, and i got my paddle ready. there was a big steamboat laying at the shore away up under the point, about three mile above the town--been there a couple of hours, taking on freight. says the king: "seein' how i'm dressed, i reckon maybe i better arrive down from st. louis or cincinnati, or some other big place. go for the steamboat, huckleberry; we'll come down to the village on her." i didn't have to be ordered twice to go and take a steamboat ride. i fetched the shore a half a mile above the village, and then went scooting along the bluff bank in the easy water. pretty soon we come to a nice innocent-looking young country jake setting on a log swabbing the sweat off of his face, for it was powerful warm weather; and he had a couple of big carpet-bags by him. "run her nose inshore," says the king. i done it. "wher' you bound for, young man?" "for the steamboat; going to orleans." "git aboard," says the king. "hold on a minute, my servant 'll he'p you with them bags. jump out and he'p the gentleman, adolphus"--meaning me, i see. i done so, and then we all three started on again. the young chap was mighty thankful; said it was tough work toting his baggage such weather. he asked the king where he was going, and the king told him he'd come down the river and landed at the other village this morning, and now he was going up a few mile to see an old friend on a farm up there. the young fellow says: "when i first see you i says to myself, 'it's mr. wilks, sure, and he come mighty near getting here in time.' but then i says again, 'no, i reckon it ain't him, or else he wouldn't be paddling up the river.' you _ain't_ him, are you?" "no, my name's blodgett--elexander blodgett--_reverend_ elexander blodgett, i s'pose i must say, as i'm one o' the lord's poor servants. but still i'm jist as able to be sorry for mr. wilks for not arriving in time, all the same, if he's missed anything by it--which i hope he hasn't." "well, he don't miss any property by it, because he'll get that all right; but he's missed seeing his brother peter die--which he mayn't mind, nobody can tell as to that--but his brother would 'a' give anything in this world to see _him_ before he died; never talked about nothing else all these three weeks; hadn't seen him since they was boys together--and hadn't ever seen his brother william at all--that's the deef and dumb one--william ain't more than thirty or thirty-five. peter and george were the only ones that come out here; george was the married brother; him and his wife both died last year. harvey and william's the only ones that's left now; and, as i was saying, they haven't got here in time." "did anybody send 'em word?" "oh, yes; a month or two ago, when peter was first took; because peter said then that he sorter felt like he warn't going to get well this time. you see, he was pretty old, and george's g'yirls was too young to be much company for him, except mary jane, the red-headed one; and so he was kinder lonesome after george and his wife died, and didn't seem to care much to live. he most desperately wanted to see harvey--and william, too, for that matter--because he was one of them kind that can't bear to make a will. he left a letter behind for harvey, and said he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he wanted the rest of the property divided up so george's g'yirls would be all right--for george didn't leave nothing. and that letter was all they could get him to put a pen to." "why do you reckon harvey don't come? wher' does he live?" "oh, he lives in england--sheffield--preaches there--hasn't ever been in this country. he hasn't had any too much time--and besides he mightn't 'a' got the letter at all, you know." "too bad, too bad he couldn't 'a' lived to see his brothers, poor soul. you going to orleans, you say?" "yes, but that ain't only a part of it. i'm going in a ship, next wednesday, for ryo janeero, where my uncle lives." "it's a pretty long journey. but it'll be lovely; i wisht i was a-going. is mary jane the oldest? how old is the others?" "mary jane's nineteen, susan's fifteen, and joanna's about fourteen--that's the one that gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip." "poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so." "well, they could be worse off. old peter had friends, and they ain't going to let them come to no harm. there's hobson, the babtis' preacher; and deacon lot hovey, and ben rucker, and abner shackleford, and levi bell, the lawyer; and dr. robinson, and their wives, and the widow bartley, and--well, there's a lot of them; but these are the ones that peter was thickest with, and used to write about sometimes, when he wrote home; so harvey 'll know where to look for friends when he gets here." well, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied that young fellow. blamed if he didn't inquire about everybody and everything in that blessed town, and all about the wilkses; and about peter's business--which was a tanner; and about george's--which was a carpenter; and about harvey's--which was a dissentering minister; and so on, and so on. then he says: "what did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?" "because she's a big orleans boat, and i was afeard she mightn't stop there. when they're deep they won't stop for a hail. a cincinnati boat will, but this is a st. louis one." "was peter wilks well off?" "oh, yes, pretty well off. he had houses and land, and it's reckoned he left three or four thousand in cash hid up som'ers." "when did you say he died?" "i didn't say, but it was last night." "funeral to-morrow, likely?" "yes, 'bout the middle of the day." "well, it's all terrible sad; but we've all got to go, one time or another. so what we want to do is to be prepared; then we're all right." "yes, sir, it's the best way. ma used to always say that." when we struck the boat she was about done loading, and pretty soon she got off. the king never said nothing about going aboard, so i lost my ride, after all. when the boat was gone the king made me paddle up another mile to a lonesome place, and then he got ashore and says: "now hustle back, right off, and fetch the duke up here, and the new carpet-bags. and if he's gone over to t'other side, go over there and git him. and tell him to git himself up regardless. shove along, now." i see what _he_ was up to; but i never said nothing, of course. when i got back with the duke we hid the canoe, and then they set down on a log, and the king told him everything, just like the young fellow had said it--every last word of it. and all the time he was a-doing it he tried to talk like an englishman; and he done it pretty well, too, for a slouch. i can't imitate him, and so i ain't a-going to try to; but he really done it pretty good. then he says: "how are you on the deef and dumb, bilgewater?" the duke said, leave him alone for that; said he had played a deef and dumb person on the histrionic boards. so then they waited for a steamboat. about the middle of the afternoon a couple of little boats come along, but they didn't come from high enough up the river; but at last there was a big one, and they hailed her. she sent out her yawl, and we went aboard, and she was from cincinnati; and when they found we only wanted to go four or five mile they was booming mad, and gave us a cussing, and said they wouldn't land us. but the king was ca'm. he says: "if gentlemen kin afford to pay a dollar a mile apiece to be took on and put off in a yawl, a steamboat kin afford to carry 'em, can't it?" so they softened down and said it was all right; and when we got to the village they yawled us ashore. about two dozen men flocked down when they see the yawl a-coming, and when the king says: "kin any of you gentlemen tell me wher' mr. peter wilks lives?" they give a glance at one another, and nodded their heads, as much as to say, "what 'd i tell you?" then one of them says, kind of soft and gentle: "i'm sorry, sir, but the best we can do is to tell you where he _did_ live yesterday evening." sudden as winking the ornery old cretur went all to smash, and fell up against the man, and put his chin on his shoulder, and cried down his back, and says: "alas, alas, our poor brother--gone, and we never got to see him; oh, it's too, too hard!" then he turns around, blubbering, and makes a lot of idiotic signs to the duke on his hands, and blamed if he didn't drop a carpet-bag and bust out a-crying. if they warn't the beatenest lot, them two frauds, that ever i struck. well, the men gathered around and sympathized with them, and said all sorts of kind things to them, and carried their carpet-bags up the hill for them, and let them lean on them and cry, and told the king all about his brother's last moments, and the king he told it all over again on his hands to the duke, and both of them took on about that dead tanner like they'd lost the twelve disciples. well, if ever i struck anything like it, i'm a nigger. it was enough to make a body ashamed of the human race. chapter xxv the news was all over town in two minutes, and you could see the people tearing down on the run from every which way, some of them putting on their coats as they come. pretty soon we was in the middle of a crowd, and the noise of the tramping was like a soldier march. the windows and dooryards was full; and every minute somebody would say, over a fence: "is it _them?_" and somebody trotting along with the gang would answer back and say: "you bet it is." when we got to the house the street in front of it was packed, and the three girls was standing in the door. mary jane _was_ red-headed, but that don't make no difference, she was most awful beautiful, and her face and her eyes was all lit up like glory, she was so glad her uncles was come. the king he spread his arms, and mary jane she jumped for them, and the hare-lip jumped for the duke, and there they _had_ it! everybody most, leastways women, cried for joy to see them meet again at last and have such good times. then the king he hunched the duke private--i see him do it--and then he looked around and see the coffin, over in the corner on two chairs; so then him and the duke, with a hand across each other's shoulder, and t'other hand to their eyes, walked slow and solemn over there, everybody dropping back to give them room, and all the talk and noise stopping, people saying "'sh!" and all the men taking their hats off and drooping their heads, so you could 'a' heard a pin fall. and when they got there they bent over and looked in the coffin, and took one sight, and then they bust out a-crying so you could 'a' heard them to orleans, most; and then they put their arms around each other's necks, and hung their chins over each other's shoulders; and then for three minutes, or maybe four, i never see two men leak the way they done. and, mind you, everybody was doing the same; and the place was that damp i never see anything like it. then one of them got on one side of the coffin, and t'other on t'other side, and they kneeled down and rested their foreheads on the coffin, and let on to pray all to themselves. well, when it come to that it worked the crowd like you never see anything like it, and everybody broke down and went to sobbing right out loud--the poor girls, too; and every woman, nearly, went up to the girls, without saying a word, and kissed them, solemn, on the forehead, and then put their hand on their head, and looked up towards the sky, with the tears running down, and then busted out and went off sobbing and swabbing, and give the next woman a show. i never see anything so disgusting. well, by and by the king he gets up and comes forward a little, and works himself up and slobbers out a speech, all full of tears and flapdoodle, about its being a sore trial for him and his poor brother to lose the diseased, and to miss seeing diseased alive after the long journey of four thousand mile, but it's a trial that's sweetened and sanctified to us by this dear sympathy and these holy tears, and so he thanks them out of his heart and out of his brother's heart, because out of their mouths they can't, words being too weak and cold, and all that kind of rot and slush, till it was just sickening; and then he blubbers out a pious goody-goody amen, and turns himself loose and goes to crying fit to bust. and the minute the words were out of his mouth somebody over in the crowd struck up the doxolojer, and everybody joined in with all their might, and it just warmed you up and made you feel as good as church letting out. music is a good thing; and after all that soul-butter and hogwash i never see it freshen up things so, and sound so honest and bully. then the king begins to work his jaw again, and says how him and his nieces would be glad if a few of the main principal friends of the family would take supper here with them this evening, and help set up with the ashes of the diseased; and says if his poor brother laying yonder could speak he knows who he would name, for they was names that was very dear to him, and mentioned often in his letters; and so he will name the same, to wit, as follows, viz.:--rev. mr. hobson, and deacon lot hovey, and mr. ben rucker, and abner shackleford, and levi bell, and dr. robinson, and their wives, and the widow bartley. rev. hobson and dr. robinson was down to the end of the town a-hunting together--that is, i mean the doctor was shipping a sick man to t'other world, and the preacher was pinting him right. lawyer bell was away up to louisville on business. but the rest was on hand, and so they all come and shook hands with the king and thanked him and talked to him; and then they shook hands with the duke and didn't say nothing, but just kept a-smiling and bobbing their heads like a passel of sapheads whilst he made all sorts of signs with his hands and said "goo-goo--goo-goo-goo" all the time, like a baby that can't talk. so the king he blattered along, and managed to inquire about pretty much everybody and dog in town, by his name, and mentioned all sorts of little things that happened one time or another in the town, or to george's family, or to peter. and he always let on that peter wrote him the things; but that was a lie: he got every blessed one of them out of that young flathead that we canoed up to the steamboat. then mary jane she fetched the letter her father left behind, and the king he read it out loud and cried over it. it give the dwelling-house and three thousand dollars, gold, to the girls; and it give the tanyard (which was doing a good business), along with some other houses and land (worth about seven thousand), and three thousand dollars in gold to harvey and william, and told where the six thousand cash was hid down cellar. so these two frauds said they'd go and fetch it up, and have everything square and above-board; and told me to come with a candle. we shut the cellar door behind us, and when they found the bag they spilt it out on the floor, and it was a lovely sight, all them yaller-boys. my, the way the king's eyes did shine! he slaps the duke on the shoulder and says: "oh, _this_ ain't bully nor noth'n! oh, no, i reckon not! why, biljy, it beats the nonesuch, _don't_ it?" the duke allowed it did. they pawed the yaller-boys, and sifted them through their fingers and let them jingle down on the floor; and the king says: "it ain't no use talkin'; bein' brothers to a rich dead man and representatives of furrin heirs that's got left is the line for you and me, bilge. thish yer comes of trust'n to providence. it's the best way, in the long run. i've tried 'em all, and ther' ain't no better way." most everybody would 'a' been satisfied with the pile, and took it on trust; but no, they must count it. so they counts it, and it comes out four hundred and fifteen dollars short. says the king: "dern him, i wonder what he done with that four hundred and fifteen dollars?" they worried over that awhile, and ransacked all around for it. then the duke says: "well, he was a pretty sick man, and likely he made a mistake--i reckon that's the way of it. the best way's to let it go, and keep still about it. we can spare it." "oh, shucks, yes, we can _spare_ it. i don't k'yer noth'n 'bout that--it's the _count_ i'm thinkin' about. we want to be awful square and open and above-board here, you know. we want to lug this h'yer money up-stairs and count it before everybody--then ther' ain't noth'n suspicious. but when the dead man says ther's six thous'n dollars, you know, we don't want to--" "hold on," says the duke. "le's make up the deffisit," and he begun to haul out yaller-boys out of his pocket. "it's a most amaz'n' good idea, duke--you _have_ got a rattlin' clever head on you," says the king. "blest if the old nonesuch ain't a heppin' us out ag'in," and _he_ begun to haul out yaller-jackets and stack them up. it most busted them, but they made up the six thousand clean and clear. "say," says the duke, "i got another idea. le's go up-stairs and count this money, and then take and _give it to the girls."_ "good land, duke, lemme hug you! it's the most dazzling idea 'at ever a man struck. you have cert'nly got the most astonishin' head i ever see. oh, this is the boss dodge, ther' ain't no mistake 'bout it. let 'em fetch along their suspicions now if they want to--this 'll lay 'em out." when we got up-stairs everybody gethered around the table, and the king he counted it and stacked it up, three hundred dollars in a pile--twenty elegant little piles. everybody looked hungry at it, and licked their chops. then they raked it into the bag again, and i see the king begin to swell himself up for another speech. he says: "friends all, my poor brother that lays yonder has done generous by them that's left behind in the vale of sorrers. he has done generous by these yer poor little lambs that he loved and sheltered, and that's left fatherless and motherless. yes, and we that knowed him knows that he would 'a' done _more_ generous by 'em if he hadn't ben afeard o' woundin' his dear william and me. now, _wouldn't_ he? ther' ain't no question 'bout it in _my_ mind. well, then, what kind o' brothers would it be that 'd stand in his way at sech a time? and what kind o' uncles would it be that 'd rob--yes, _rob_--sech poor sweet lambs as these 'at he loved so at sech a time? if i know william--and i _think_ i do--he--well, i'll jest ask him." he turns around and begins to make a lot of signs to the duke with his hands, and the duke he looks at him stupid and leather-headed awhile; then all of a sudden he seems to catch his meaning, and jumps for the king, goo-gooing with all his might for joy, and hugs him about fifteen times before he lets up. then the king says, "i knowed it; i reckon _that_ 'll convince anybody the way _he_ feels about it. here, mary jane, susan, joanner, take the money--take it _all._ it's the gift of him that lays yonder, cold but joyful." mary jane she went for him, susan and the hare-lip went for the duke, and then such another hugging and kissing i never see yet. and everybody crowded up with the tears in their eyes, and most shook the hands off of them frauds, saying all the time: "you _dear_ good souls!--how _lovely!_--how _could_ you!" well, then, pretty soon all hands got to talking about the diseased again, and how good he was, and what a loss he was, and all that; and before long a big iron-jawed man worked himself in there from outside, and stood a-listening and looking, and not saying anything; and nobody saying anything to him either, because the king was talking and they was all busy listening. the king was saying--in the middle of something he'd started in on-- "--they bein' partickler friends o' the diseased. that's why they're invited here this evenin'; but tomorrow we want _all_ to come--everybody; for he respected everybody, he liked everybody, and so it's fitten that his funeral orgies sh'd be public." and so he went a-mooning on and on, liking to hear himself talk, and every little while he fetched in his funeral orgies again, till the duke he couldn't stand it no more; so he writes on a little scrap of paper, "_obsequies_, you old fool," and folds it up, and goes to goo-gooing and reaching it over people's heads to him. the king he reads it and puts it in his pocket, and says: "poor william, afflicted as he is, his _heart's_ aluz right. asks me to invite everybody to come to the funeral--wants me to make 'em all welcome. but he needn't 'a' worried--it was jest what i was at." then he weaves along again, perfectly ca'm, and goes to dropping in his funeral orgies again every now and then, just like he done before. and when he done it the third time he says: "i say orgies, not because it's the common term, because it ain't--obsequies bein' the common term--but because orgies is the right term. obsequies ain't used in england no more now--it's gone out. we say orgies now in england. orgies is better, because it means the thing you're after more exact. it's a word that's made up out'n the greek _orgo_, outside, open, abroad; and the hebrew _jeesum_, to plant, cover up; hence in_ter_. so, you see, funeral orgies is an open er public funeral." he was the _worst_ i ever struck. well, the iron-jawed man he laughed right in his face. everybody was shocked. everybody says, "why, _doctor!_" and abner shackleford says: "why, robinson, hain't you heard the news? this is harvey wilks." the king he smiled eager, and shoved out his flapper, and says: "_is_ it my poor brother's dear good friend and physician? i--" "keep your hands off me!" says the doctor. "_you_ talk like an englishman, _don't_ you? it's the worst imitation i ever heard. _you_ peter wilks's brother! you're a fraud, that's what you are!" well, how they all took on! they crowded around the doctor and tried to quiet him down, and tried to explain to him and tell him how harvey's showed in forty ways that he _was_ harvey, and knowed everybody by name, and the names of the very dogs, and begged and _begged_ him not to hurt harvey's feelings and the poor girls' feelings, and all that. but it warn't no use; he stormed right along, and said any man that pretended to be an englishman and couldn't imitate the lingo no better than what he did was a fraud and a liar. the poor girls was hanging to the king and crying; and all of a sudden the doctor ups and turns on _them._ he says: "i was your father's friend, and i'm your friend; and i warn you as a friend, and an honest one that wants to protect you and keep you out of harm and trouble, to turn your backs on that scoundrel and have nothing to do with him, the ignorant tramp, with his idiotic greek and hebrew, as he calls it. he is the thinnest kind of an impostor--has come here with a lot of empty names and facts which he picked up somewheres; and you take them for _proofs_, and are helped to fool yourselves by these foolish friends here, who ought to know better. mary jane wilks, you know me for your friend, and for your unselfish friend, too. now listen to me; turn this pitiful rascal out--i _beg_ you to do it. will you?" mary jane straightened herself up, and my, but she was handsome! she says: "_here_ is my answer." she hove up the bag of money and put it in the king's hands, and says, "take this six thousand dollars, and invest for me and my sisters any way you want to, and don't give us no receipt for it." then she put her arm around the king on one side, and susan and the hare-lip done the same on the other. everybody clapped their hands and stomped on the floor like a perfect storm, whilst the king held up his head and smiled proud. the doctor says: "all right; i wash _my_ hands of the matter. but i warn you all that a time's coming when you're going to feel sick whenever you think of this day." and away he went. "all right, doctor," says the king, kinder mocking him; "we'll try and get 'em to send for you;" which made them all laugh, and they said it was a prime good hit. chapter xxvi well, when they was all gone the king he asks mary jane how they was off for spare rooms, and she said she had one spare room, which would do for uncle william, and she'd give her own room to uncle harvey, which was a little bigger, and she would turn into the room with her sisters and sleep on a cot; and up garret was a little cubby, with a pallet in it. the king said the cubby would do for his valley--meaning me. so mary jane took us up, and she showed them their rooms, which was plain but nice. she said she'd have her frocks and a lot of other traps took out of her room if they was in uncle harvey's way, but he said they warn't. the frocks was hung along the wall, and before them was a curtain made out of calico that hung down to the floor. there was an old hair trunk in one corner, and a guitar-box in another, and all sorts of little knickknacks and jimcracks around, like girls brisken up a room with. the king said it was all the more homely and more pleasanter for these fixings, and so don't disturb them. the duke's room was pretty small, but plenty good enough, and so was my cubby. that night they had a big supper, and all them men and women was there, and i stood behind the king and the duke's chairs and waited on them, and the niggers waited on the rest. mary jane she set at the head of the table, with susan alongside of her, and said how bad the biscuits was, and how mean the preserves was, and how ornery and tough the fried chickens was--and all that kind of rot, the way women always do for to force out compliments; and the people all knowed everything was tiptop, and said so--said "how _do_ you get biscuits to brown so nice?" and "where, for the land's sake, _did_ you get these amaz'n pickles?" and all that kind of humbug talky-talk, just the way people always does at a supper, you know. and when it was all done me and the hare-lip had supper in the kitchen off of the leavings, whilst the others was helping the niggers clean up the things. the hare-lip she got to pumping me about england, and blest if i didn't think the ice was getting mighty thin sometimes. she says: "did you ever see the king?" "who? william fourth? well, i bet i have--he goes to our church." i knowed he was dead years ago, but i never let on. so when i says he goes to our church, she says: "what--regular?" "yes--regular. his pew's right over opposite ourn--on t'other side the pulpit." "i thought he lived in london?" "well, he does. where _would_ he live?" "but i thought _you_ lived in sheffield?" i see i was up a stump. i had to let on to get choked with a chicken-bone, so as to get time to think how to get down again. then i says: "i mean he goes to our church regular when he's in sheffield. that's only in the summer-time, when he comes there to take the sea baths." "why, how you talk--sheffield ain't on the sea." "well, who said it was?" "why, you did." "i _didn't_, nuther." "you did!" "i didn't." "you did." "i never said nothing of the kind." "well, what _did_ you say, then?" "said he come to take the sea _baths_--that's what i said." "well, then, how's he going to take the sea baths if it ain't on the sea?" "looky here," i says; "did you ever see any congress-water?" "yes." "well, did you have to go to congress to get it?" "why, no." "well, neither does william fourth have to go to the sea to get a sea bath." "how does he get it, then?" "gets it the way people down here gets congress-water--in barrels. there in the palace at sheffield they've got furnaces, and he wants his water hot. they can't bile that amount of water away off there at the sea. they haven't got no conveniences for it." "oh, i see, now. you might 'a' said that in the first place and saved time." when she said that i see i was out of the woods again, and so i was comfortable and glad. next, she says: "do you go to church, too?" "yes--regular." "where do you set?" "why, in our pew." "_whose_ pew?" "why, _ourn_--your uncle harvey's." "his'n? what does _he_ want with a pew?" "wants it to set in. what did you _reckon_ he wanted with it?" "why, i thought he'd be in the pulpit." rot him, i forgot he was a preacher. i see i was up a stump again, so i played another chicken-bone and got another think. then i says: "blame it, do you suppose there ain't but one preacher to a church?" "why, what do they want with more?" "what!--to preach before a king? i never did see such a girl as you. they don't have no less than seventeen." "seventeen! my land! why, i wouldn't set out such a string as that, not if i _never_ got to glory. it must take 'em a week." "shucks, they don't _all_ of 'em preach the same day--only _one_ of 'em." "well, then, what does the rest of 'em do?" "oh, nothing much. loll around, pass the plate--and one thing or another. but mainly they don't do nothing." "well, then, what are they _for_?" "why, they're for _style_. don't you know nothing?" "well, i don't _want_ to know no such foolishness as that. how is servants treated in england? do they treat 'em better 'n we treat our niggers?" "_no!_ a servant ain't nobody there. they treat them worse than dogs." "don't they give 'em holidays, the way we do, christmas and new year's week, and fourth of july?" "oh, just listen! a body could tell _you_ hain't ever been to england by that. why, hare-l--why, joanna, they never see a holiday from year's end to year's end; never go to the circus, nor theater, nor nigger shows, nor nowheres." "nor church?" "nor church." "but _you_ always went to church." well, i was gone up again. i forgot i was the old man's servant. but next minute i whirled in on a kind of an explanation how a valley was different from a common servant, and _had_ to go to church whether he wanted to or not, and set with the family, on account of its being the law. but i didn't do it pretty good, and when i got done i see she warn't satisfied. she says: "honest injun, now, hain't you been telling me a lot of lies?" "honest injun," says i. "none of it at all?" "none of it at all. not a lie in it," says i. "lay your hand on this book and say it." i see it warn't nothing but a dictionary, so i laid my hand on it and said it. so then she looked a little better satisfied, and says: "well, then, i'll believe some of it; but i hope to gracious if i'll believe the rest." "what is it you won't believe, jo?" says mary jane, stepping in with susan behind her. "it ain't right nor kind for you to talk so to him, and him a stranger and so far from his people. how would you like to be treated so?" "that's always your way, maim--always sailing in to help somebody before they're hurt. i hain't done nothing to him. he's told some stretchers, i reckon, and i said i wouldn't swallow it all; and that's every bit and grain i _did_ say. i reckon he can stand a little thing like that, can't he?" "i don't care whether 'twas little or whether 'twas big; he's here in our house and a stranger, and it wasn't good of you to say it. if you was in his place it would make you feel ashamed; and so you oughtn't to say a thing to another person that will make _them_ feel ashamed." "why, maim, he said--" "it don't make no difference what he _said_--that ain't the thing. the thing is for you to treat him _kind,_ and not be saying things to make him remember he ain't in his own country and amongst his own folks." i says to myself, _this_ is a girl that i'm letting that old reptile rob her of her money! then susan _she_ waltzed in; and if you'll believe me, she did give hare-lip hark from the tomb! says i to myself, and this is _another_ one that i'm letting him rob her of her money! then mary jane she took another inning, and went in sweet and lovely again--which was her way; but when she got done there warn't hardly anything left o' poor hare-lip. so she hollered. "all right, then," says the other girls; "you just ask his pardon." she done it, too; and she done it beautiful. she done it so beautiful it was good to hear; and i wished i could tell her a thousand lies, so she could do it again. i says to myself, this is _another_ one that i'm letting him rob her of her money. and when she got through they all jest laid theirselves out to make me feel at home and know i was amongst friends. i felt so ornery and low down and mean that i says to myself, my mind's made up; i'll hive that money for them or bust. so then i lit out--for bed, i said, meaning some time or another. when i got by myself i went to thinking the thing over. i says to myself, shall i go to that doctor, private, and blow on these frauds? no--that won't do. he might tell who told him; then the king and the duke would make it warm for me. shall i go, private, and tell mary jane? no--i dasn't do it. her face would give them a hint, sure; they've got the money, and they'd slide right out and get away with it. if she was to fetch in help i'd get mixed up in the business before it was done with, i judge. no; there ain't no good way but one. i got to steal that money, somehow; and i got to steal it some way that they won't suspicion that i done it. they've got a good thing here, and they ain't a-going to leave till they've played this family and this town for all they're worth, so i'll find a chance time enough. i'll steal it and hide it; and by and by, when i'm away down the river, i'll write a letter and tell mary jane where it's hid. but i better hive it to-night if i can, because the doctor maybe hasn't let up as much as he lets on he has; he might scare them out of here yet. so, thinks i, i'll go and search them rooms. upstairs the hall was dark, but i found the duke's room, and started to paw around it with my hands; but i recollected it wouldn't be much like the king to let anybody else take care of that money but his own self; so then i went to his room and begun to paw around there. but i see i couldn't do nothing without a candle, and i dasn't light one, of course. so i judged i'd got to do the other thing--lay for them and eavesdrop. about that time i hears their footsteps coming, and was going to skip under the bed; i reached for it, but it wasn't where i thought it would be; but i touched the curtain that hid mary jane's frocks, so i jumped in behind that and snuggled in amongst the gowns, and stood there perfectly still. they come in and shut the door; and the first thing the duke done was to get down and look under the bed. then i was glad i hadn't found the bed when i wanted it. and yet, you know, it's kind of natural to hide under the bed when you are up to anything private. they sets down then, and the king says: "well, what is it? and cut it middlin' short, because it's better for us to be down there a-whoopin' up the mournin' than up here givin' 'em a chance to talk us over." "well, this is it, capet. i ain't easy; i ain't comfortable. that doctor lays on my mind. i wanted to know your plans. i've got a notion, and i think it's a sound one." "what is it, duke?" "that we better glide out of this before three in the morning, and clip it down the river with what we've got. specially, seeing we got it so easy--_given_ back to us, flung at our heads, as you may say, when of course we allowed to have to steal it back. i'm for knocking off and lighting out." that made me feel pretty bad. about an hour or two ago it would 'a' been a little different, but now it made me feel bad and disappointed. the king rips out and says: "what! and not sell out the rest o' the property? march off like a passel of fools and leave eight or nine thous'n' dollars' worth o' property layin' around jest sufferin' to be scooped in?--and all good, salable stuff, too." the duke he grumbled; said the bag of gold was enough, and he didn't want to go no deeper--didn't want to rob a lot of orphans of _everything_ they had. "why, how you talk!" says the king. "we sha'n't rob 'em of nothing at all but jest this money. the people that _buys_ the property is the suff'rers; because as soon 's it's found out 'at we didn't own it--which won't be long after we've slid--the sale won't be valid, and it 'll all go back to the estate. these yer orphans 'll git their house back ag'in, and that's enough for _them;_ they're young and spry, and k'n easy earn a livin'. _they_ ain't a-goin' to suffer. why, jest think--there's thous'n's and thous'n's that ain't nigh so well off. bless you, _they_ ain't got noth'n' to complain of." well, the king he talked him blind; so at last he give in, and said all right, but said he believed it was blamed foolishness to stay, and that doctor hanging over them. but the king says: "cuss the doctor! what do we k'yer for _him?_ hain't we got all the fools in town on our side? and ain't that a big enough majority in any town?" so they got ready to go down-stairs again. the duke says: "i don't think we put that money in a good place." that cheered me up. i'd begun to think i warn't going to get a hint of no kind to help me. the king says: "why?" "because mary jane 'll be in mourning from this out; and first you know the nigger that does up the rooms will get an order to box these duds up and put 'em away; and do you reckon a nigger can run across money and not borrow some of it?" "your head's level ag'in, duke," says the king; and he comes a-fumbling under the curtain two or three foot from where i was. i stuck tight to the wall and kept mighty still, though quivery; and i wondered what them fellows would say to me if they catched me; and i tried to think what i'd better do if they did catch me. but the king he got the bag before i could think more than about a half a thought, and he never suspicioned i was around. they took and shoved the bag through a rip in the straw tick that was under the feather-bed, and crammed it in a foot or two amongst the straw and said it was all right now, because a nigger only makes up the feather-bed, and don't turn over the straw tick only about twice a year, and so it warn't in no danger of getting stole now. but i knowed better. i had it out of there before they was half-way down-stairs. i groped along up to my cubby, and hid it there till i could get a chance to do better. i judged i better hide it outside of the house somewheres, because if they missed it they would give the house a good ransacking: i knowed that very well. then i turned in, with my clothes all on; but i couldn't 'a' gone to sleep if i'd 'a' wanted to, i was in such a sweat to get through with the business. by and by i heard the king and the duke come up; so i rolled off my pallet and laid with my chin at the top of my ladder, and waited to see if anything was going to happen. but nothing did. so i held on till all the late sounds had quit and the early ones hadn't begun yet; and then i slipped down the ladder. chapter xxvii i crept to their doors and listened; they was snoring. so i tiptoed along, and got downstairs all right. there warn't a sound anywheres. i peeped through a crack of the dining-room door, and see the men that was watching the corpse all sound asleep on their chairs. the door was open into the parlor, where the corpse was laying, and there was a candle in both rooms. i passed along, and the parlor door was open; but i see there warn't nobody in there but the remainders of peter; so i shoved on by; but the front door was locked, and the key wasn't there. just then i heard somebody coming down the stairs, back behind me. i run in the parlor and took a swift look around, and the only place i see to hide the bag was in the coffin. the lid was shoved along about a foot, showing the dead man's face down in there, with a wet cloth over it, and his shroud on. i tucked the money-bag in under the lid, just down beyond where his hands was crossed, which made me creep, they was so cold, and then i run back across the room and in behind the door. the person coming was mary jane. she went to the coffin, very soft, and kneeled down and looked in; then she put up her handkerchief, and i see she begun to cry, though i couldn't hear her, and her back was to me. i slid out, and as i passed the dining-room i thought i'd make sure them watchers hadn't seen me; so i looked through the crack, and everything was all right. they hadn't stirred. i slipped up to bed, feeling ruther blue, on accounts of the thing playing out that way after i had took so much trouble and run so much resk about it. says i, if it could stay where it is, all right; because when we get down the river a hundred mile or two i could write back to mary jane, and she could dig him up again and get it; but that ain't the thing that's going to happen; the thing that's going to happen is, the money'll be found when they come to screw on the lid. then the king 'll get it again, and it 'll be a long day before he gives anybody another chance to smouch it from him. of course i _wanted_ to slide down and get it out of there, but i dasn't try it. every minute it was getting earlier now, and pretty soon some of them watchers would begin to stir, and i might get catched--catched with six thousand dollars in my hands that nobody hadn't hired me to take care of. i don't wish to be mixed up in no such business as that, i says to myself. when i got down-stairs in the morning the parlor was shut up, and the watchers was gone. there warn't nobody around but the family and the widow bartley and our tribe. i watched their faces to see if anything had been happening, but i couldn't tell. towards the middle of the day the undertaker come with his man, and they set the coffin in the middle of the room on a couple of chairs, and then set all our chairs in rows, and borrowed more from the neighbors till the hall and the parlor and the dining-room was full. i see the coffin lid was the way it was before, but i dasn't go to look in under it, with folks around. then the people begun to flock in, and the beats and the girls took seats in the front row at the head of the coffin, and for a half an hour the people filed around slow, in single rank, and looked down at the dead man's face a minute, and some dropped in a tear, and it was all very still and solemn, only the girls and the beats holding handkerchiefs to their eyes and keeping their heads bent, and sobbing a little. there warn't no other sound but the scraping of the feet on the floor and blowing noses--because people always blows them more at a funeral than they do at other places except church. when the place was packed full the undertaker he slid around in his black gloves with his softy soothering ways, putting on the last touches, and getting people and things all ship-shape and comfortable, and making no more sound than a cat. he never spoke; he moved people around, he squeezed in late ones, he opened up passageways, and done it with nods, and signs with his hands. then he took his place over against the wall. he was the softest, glidingest, stealthiest man i ever see; and there warn't no more smile to him than there is to a ham. they had borrowed a melodeum--a sick one; and when everything was ready a young woman set down and worked it, and it was pretty skreeky and colicky, and everybody joined in and sung, and peter was the only one that had a good thing, according to my notion. then the reverend hobson opened up, slow and solemn, and begun to talk; and straight off the most outrageous row busted out in the cellar a body ever heard; it was only one dog, but he made a most powerful racket, and he kept it up right along; the parson he had to stand there, over the coffin, and wait--you couldn't hear yourself think. it was right down awkward, and nobody didn't seem to know what to do. but pretty soon they see that long-legged undertaker make a sign to the preacher as much as to say, "don't you worry--just depend on me." then he stooped down and begun to glide along the wall, just his shoulders showing over the people's heads. so he glided along, and the powwow and racket getting more and more outrageous all the time; and at last, when he had gone around two sides of the room, he disappears down cellar. then in about two seconds we heard a whack, and the dog he finished up with a most amazing howl or two, and then everything was dead still, and the parson begun his solemn talk where he left off. in a minute or two here comes this undertaker's back and shoulders gliding along the wall again; and so he glided and glided around three sides of the room, and then rose up, and shaded his mouth with his hands, and stretched his neck out towards the preacher, over the people's heads, and says, in a kind of a coarse whisper, "_he had a rat!_" then he drooped down and glided along the wall again to his place. you could see it was a great satisfaction to the people, because naturally they wanted to know. a little thing like that don't cost nothing, and it's just the little things that makes a man to be looked up to and liked. there warn't no more popular man in town than what that undertaker was. well, the funeral sermon was very good, but pison long and tiresome; and then the king he shoved in and got off some of his usual rubbage, and at last the job was through, and the undertaker begun to sneak up on the coffin with his screw-driver. i was in a sweat then, and watched him pretty keen. but he never meddled at all; just slid the lid along as soft as mush, and screwed it down tight and fast. so there i was! i didn't know whether the money was in there or not. so, says i, s'pose somebody has hogged that bag on the sly?--now how do _i_ know whether to write to mary jane or not? s'pose she dug him up and didn't find nothing, what would she think of me? blame it, i says, i might get hunted up and jailed; i'd better lay low and keep dark, and not write at all; the thing's awful mixed now; trying to better it, i've worsened it a hundred times, and i wish to goodness i'd just let it alone, dad fetch the whole business! they buried him, and we come back home, and i went to watching faces again--i couldn't help it, and i couldn't rest easy. but nothing come of it; the faces didn't tell me nothing. the king he visited around in the evening, and sweetened everybody up, and made himself ever so friendly; and he give out the idea that his congregation over in england would be in a sweat about him, so he must hurry and settle up the estate right away and leave for home. he was very sorry he was so pushed, and so was everybody; they wished he could stay longer, but they said they could see it couldn't be done. and he said of course him and william would take the girls home with them; and that pleased everybody too, because then the girls would be well fixed and amongst their own relations; and it pleased the girls, too--tickled them so they clean forgot they ever had a trouble in the world; and told him to sell out as quick as he wanted to, they would be ready. them poor things was that glad and happy it made my heart ache to see them getting fooled and lied to so, but i didn't see no safe way for me to chip in and change the general tune. well, blamed if the king didn't bill the house and the niggers and all the property for auction straight off--sale two days after the funeral; but anybody could buy private beforehand if they wanted to. so the next day after the funeral, along about noon-time, the girls' joy got the first jolt. a couple of nigger-traders come along, and the king sold them the niggers reasonable, for three-day drafts as they called it, and away they went, the two sons up the river to memphis, and their mother down the river to orleans. i thought them poor girls and them niggers would break their hearts for grief; they cried around each other, and took on so it most made me down sick to see it. the girls said they hadn't ever dreamed of seeing the family separated or sold away from the town. i can't ever get it out of my memory, the sight of them poor miserable girls and niggers hanging around each other's necks and crying; and i reckon i couldn't 'a' stood it all, but would 'a' had to bust out and tell on our gang if i hadn't knowed the sale warn't no account and the niggers would be back home in a week or two. the thing made a big stir in the town, too, and a good many come out flatfooted and said it was scandalous to separate the mother and the children that way. it injured the frauds some; but the old fool he bulled right along, spite of all the duke could say or do, and i tell you the duke was powerful uneasy. next day was auction day. about broad day in the morning the king and the duke come up in the garret and woke me up, and i see by their look that there was trouble. the king says: "was you in my room night before last?" "no, your majesty"--which was the way i always called him when nobody but our gang warn't around. "was you in there yisterday er last night?" "no, your majesty." "honor bright, now--no lies." "honor bright, your majesty, i'm telling you the truth. i hain't been a-near your room since miss mary jane took you and the duke and showed it to you." the duke says: "have you seen anybody else go in there?" "no, your grace, not as i remember, i believe." "stop and think." i studied awhile and see my chance; then i says: "well, i see the niggers go in there several times." both of them gave a little jump, and looked like they hadn't ever expected it, and then like they _had_. then the duke says: "what, _all_ of them?" "no--leastways, not all at once--that is, i don't think i ever see them all come _out_ at once but just one time." "hello! when was that?" "it was the day we had the funeral. in the morning. it warn't early, because i overslept. i was just starting down the ladder, and i see them." "well, go on, _go_ on! what did they do? how'd they act?" "they didn't do nothing. and they didn't act anyway much, as fur as i see. they tiptoed away; so i seen, easy enough, that they'd shoved in there to do up your majesty's room, or something, s'posing you was up; and found you _warn't_ up, and so they was hoping to slide out of the way of trouble without waking you up, if they hadn't already waked you up." "great guns, _this_ is a go!" says the king; and both of them looked pretty sick and tolerable silly. they stood there a-thinking and scratching their heads a minute, and the duke he bust into a kind of a little raspy chuckle, and says: "it does beat all how neat the niggers played their hand. they let on to be _sorry_ they was going out of this region! and i believed they _was_ sorry, and so did you, and so did everybody. don't ever tell _me_ any more that a nigger ain't got any histrionic talent. why, the way they played that thing it would fool _anybody._ in my opinion, there's a fortune in 'em. if i had capital and a theater, i wouldn't want a better lay-out than that--and here we've gone and sold 'em for a song. yes, and ain't privileged to sing the song yet. say, where _is_ that song--that draft?" "in the bank for to be collected. where _would_ it be?" "well, that's all right then, thank goodness." says i, kind of timid-like: "is something gone wrong?" the king whirls on me and rips out: "none o' your business! you keep your head shet, and mind y'r own affairs--if you got any. long as you're in this town don't you forgit _that_--you hear?" then he says to the duke, "we got to jest swaller it and say noth'n': mum's the word for _us_." as they was starting down the ladder the duke he chuckles again, and says: "quick sales _and_ small profits! it's a good business--yes." the king snarls around on him and says: "i was trying to do for the best in sellin' 'em out so quick. if the profits has turned out to be none, lackin' considable, and none to carry, is it my fault any more'n it's yourn?" "well, _they'd_ be in this house yet and we _wouldn't_ if i could 'a' got my advice listened to." the king sassed back as much as was safe for him, and then swapped around and lit into _me_ again. he give me down the banks for not coming and _telling_ him i see the niggers come out of his room acting that way--said any fool would 'a' _knowed_ something was up. and then waltzed in and cussed _himself_ awhile, and said it all come of him not laying late and taking his natural rest that morning, and he'd be blamed if he'd ever do it again. so they went off a-jawing; and i felt dreadful glad i'd worked it all off onto the niggers, and yet hadn't done the niggers no harm by it. chapter xxviii by and by it was getting-up time. so i come down the ladder and started for down-stairs; but as i come to the girls' room the door was open, and i see mary jane setting by her old hair trunk, which was open and she'd been packing things in it--getting ready to go to england. but she had stopped now with a folded gown in her lap, and had her face in her hands, crying. i felt awful bad to see it; of course anybody would. i went in there and says: "miss mary jane, you can't a-bear to see people in trouble, and _i_ can't--most always. tell me about it." so she done it. and it was the niggers--i just expected it. she said the beautiful trip to england was most about spoiled for her; she didn't know _how_ she was ever going to be happy there, knowing the mother and the children warn't ever going to see each other no more--and then busted out bitterer than ever, and flung up her hands, and says: "oh, dear, dear, to think they ain't _ever_ going to see each other any more!" "but they _will_--and inside of two weeks--and i _know_ it!" says i. laws, it was out before i could think! and before i could budge she throws her arms around my neck and told me to say it _again_, say it _again_, say it _again!_ i see i had spoke too sudden and said too much, and was in a close place. i asked her to let me think a minute; and she set there, very impatient and excited and handsome, but looking kind of happy and eased-up, like a person that's had a tooth pulled out. so i went to studying it out. i says to myself, i reckon a body that ups and tells the truth when he is in a tight place is taking considerable many resks, though i ain't had no experience, and can't say for certain; but it looks so to me, anyway; and yet here's a case where i'm blest if it don't look to me like the truth is better and actuly _safer_ than a lie. i must lay it by in my mind, and think it over some time or other, it's so kind of strange and unregular. i never see nothing like it. well, i says to myself at last, i'm a-going to chance it; i'll up and tell the truth this time, though it does seem most _like_ setting down on a kag of powder and touching it off just to see where you'll go to. then i says: "miss mary jane, is there any place out of town a little ways where you could go and stay three or four days?" "yes; mr. lothrop's. why?" "never mind why yet. if i'll tell you how i know the niggers will see each other again--inside of two weeks--here in this house--and _prove_ how i know it--will you go to mr. lothrop's and stay four days?" "four days!" she says; "i'll stay a year!" "all right," i says, "i don't want nothing more out of _you_ than just your word--i druther have it than another man's kiss-the-bible." she smiled and reddened up very sweet, and i says, "if you don't mind it, i'll shut the door--and bolt it." then i come back and set down again, and says: "don't you holler. just set still and take it like a man. i got to tell the truth, and you want to brace up, miss mary, because it's a bad kind, and going to be hard to take, but there ain't no help for it. these uncles of yourn ain't no uncles at all; they're a couple of frauds--regular dead-beats. there, now we're over the worst of it, you can stand the rest middling easy." it jolted her up like everything, of course; but i was over the shoal water now, so i went right along, her eyes a-blazing higher and higher all the time, and told her every blame thing, from where we first struck that young fool going up to the steamboat, clear through to where she flung herself onto the king's breast at the front door and he kissed her sixteen or seventeen times--and then up she jumps, with her face afire like sunset, and says: "the brute! come, don't waste a minute--not a _second_--we'll have them tarred and feathered, and flung in the river!" says i: "cert'nly. but do you mean _before_ you go to mr. lothrop's, or--" "oh," she says, "what am i _thinking_ about!" she says, and set right down again. "don't mind what i said--please don't--you _won't_, now, _will_ you?" laying her silky hand on mine in that kind of a way that i said i would die first. "i never thought, i was so stirred up," she says; "now go on, and i won't do so any more. you tell me what to do, and whatever you say i'll do it." "well," i says, "it's a rough gang, them two frauds, and i'm fixed so i got to travel with them a while longer, whether i want to or not--i druther not tell you why; and if you was to blow on them this town would get me out of their claws, and i'd be all right; but there'd be another person that you don't know about who'd be in big trouble. well, we got to save _him_, hain't we? of course. well, then, we won't blow on them." saying them words put a good idea in my head. i see how maybe i could get me and jim rid of the frauds; get them jailed here, and then leave. but i didn't want to run the raft in the daytime without anybody aboard to answer questions but me; so i didn't want the plan to begin working till pretty late to-night. i says: "miss mary jane, i'll tell you what we'll do, and you won't have to stay at mr. lothrop's so long, nuther. how fur is it?" "a little short of four miles--right out in the country, back here." "well, that 'll answer. now you go along out there, and lay low till nine or half past to-night, and then get them to fetch you home again--tell them you've thought of something. if you get here before eleven put a candle in this window, and if i don't turn up wait _till_ eleven, and _then_ if i don't turn up it means i'm gone, and out of the way, and safe. then you come out and spread the news around, and get these beats jailed." "good," she says, "i'll do it." "and if it just happens so that i don't get away, but get took up along with them, you must up and say i told you the whole thing beforehand, and you must stand by me all you can." "stand by you! indeed i will. they sha'n't touch a hair of your head!" she says, and i see her nostrils spread and her eyes snap when she said it, too. "if i get away i sha'n't be here," i says, "to prove these rapscallions ain't your uncles, and i couldn't do it if i _was_ here. i could swear they was beats and bummers, that's all, though that's worth something. well, there's others can do that better than what i can, and they're people that ain't going to be doubted as quick as i'd be. i'll tell you how to find them. gimme a pencil and a piece of paper. there--'_royal nonesuch, bricksville._' put it away, and don't lose it. when the court wants to find out something about these two, let them send up to bricksville and say they've got the men that played the 'royal nonesuch,' and ask for some witnesses--why, you'll have that entire town down here before you can hardly wink, miss mary. and they'll come a-biling, too." i judged we had got everything fixed about right now. so i says: "just let the auction go right along, and don't worry. nobody don't have to pay for the things they buy till a whole day after the auction on accounts of the short notice, and they ain't going out of this till they get that money; and the way we've fixed it the sale ain't going to count, and they ain't going to get no money. it's just like the way it was with the niggers--it warn't no sale, and the niggers will be back before long. why, they can't collect the money for the _niggers_ yet--they're in the worst kind of a fix, miss mary." "well," she says, "i'll run down to breakfast now, and then i'll start straight for mr. lothrop's." "'deed, _that_ ain't the ticket, miss mary jane," i says, "by no manner of means; go _before_ breakfast." "why?" "what did you reckon i wanted you to go at all for, miss mary?" "well, i never thought--and come to think, i don't know. what was it?" "why, it's because you ain't one of these leather-face people. i don't want no better book than what your face is. a body can set down and read it off like coarse print. do you reckon you can go and face your uncles when they come to kiss you good-morning, and never--" "there, there, don't! yes, i'll go before breakfast--i'll be glad to. and leave my sisters with them?" "yes; never mind about them. they've got to stand it yet awhile. they might suspicion something if all of you was to go. i don't want you to see them, nor your sisters, nor nobody in this town; if a neighbor was to ask how is your uncles this morning your face would tell something. no, you go right along, miss mary jane, and i'll fix it with all of them. i'll tell miss susan to give your love to your uncles and say you've went away for a few hours for to get a little rest and change, or to see a friend, and you'll be back to-night or early in the morning." "gone to see a friend is all right, but i won't have my love given to them." "well, then, it sha'n't be." it was well enough to tell _her_ so--no harm in it. it was only a little thing to do, and no trouble; and it's the little things that smooths people's roads the most, down here below; it would make mary jane comfortable, and it wouldn't cost nothing. then i says: "there's one more thing--that bag of money." "well, they've got that; and it makes me feel pretty silly to think _how_ they got it." "no, you're out, there. they hain't got it." "why, who's got it?" "i wish i knowed, but i don't. i _had_ it, because i stole it from them; and i stole it to give to you; and i know where i hid it, but i'm afraid it ain't there no more. i'm awful sorry, miss mary jane, i'm just as sorry as i can be; but i done the best i could; i did honest. i come nigh getting caught, and i had to shove it into the first place i come to, and run--and it warn't a good place." "oh, stop blaming yourself--it's too bad to do it, and i won't allow it--you couldn't help it; it wasn't your fault. where did you hide it?" i didn't want to set her to thinking about her troubles again; and i couldn't seem to get my mouth to tell her what would make her see that corpse laying in the coffin with that bag of money on his stomach. so for a minute i didn't say nothing; then i says: "i'd ruther not _tell_ you where i put it, miss mary jane, if you don't mind letting me off; but i'll write it for you on a piece of paper, and you can read it along the road to mr. lothrop's, if you want to. do you reckon that 'll do?" "oh, yes." so i wrote: "i put it in the coffin. it was in there when you was crying there, away in the night. i was behind the door, and i was mighty sorry for you, miss mary jane." it made my eyes water a little to remember her crying there all by herself in the night, and them devils laying there right under her own roof, shaming her and robbing her; and when i folded it up and give it to her i see the water come into her eyes, too; and she shook me by the hand, hard, and says: "_good_-by. i'm going to do everything just as you've told me; and if i don't ever see you again, i sha'n't ever forget you, and i'll think of you a many and a many a time, and i'll _pray_ for you, too!"--and she was gone. pray for me! i reckoned if she knowed me she'd take a job that was more nearer her size. but i bet she done it, just the same--she was just that kind. she had the grit to pray for judus if she took the notion--there warn't no back-down to her, i judge. you may say what you want to, but in my opinion she had more sand in her than any girl i ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand. it sounds like flattery, but it ain't no flattery. and when it comes to beauty--and goodness, too--she lays over them all. i hain't ever seen her since that time that i see her go out of that door; no, i hain't ever seen her since, but i reckon i've thought of her a many and a many a million times, and of her saying she would pray for me; and if ever i'd 'a' thought it would do any good for me to pray for _her_, blamed if i wouldn't 'a' done it or bust. well, mary jane she lit out the back way, i reckon; because nobody see her go. when i struck susan and the hare-lip, i says: "what's the name of them people over on t'other side of the river that you all goes to see sometimes?" they says: "there's several; but it's the proctors, mainly." "that's the name," i says; "i most forgot it. well, miss mary jane she told me to tell you she's gone over there in a dreadful hurry--one of them's sick." "which one?" "i don't know; leastways, i kinder forget; but i thinks it's--" "sakes alive, i hope it ain't _hanner?_" "i'm sorry to say it," i says, "but hanner's the very one." "my goodness, and she so well only last week! is she took bad?" "it ain't no name for it. they set up with her all night, miss mary jane said, and they don't think she'll last many hours." "only think of that, now! what's the matter with her?" i couldn't think of anything reasonable, right off that way, so i says: "mumps." "mumps your granny! they don't set up with people that's got the mumps." "they don't, don't they? you better bet they do with _these_ mumps. these mumps is different. it's a new kind, miss mary jane said." "how's it a new kind?" "because it's mixed up with other things." "what other things?" "well, measles, and whooping-cough, and erysiplas, and consumption, and yaller janders, and brain-fever, and i don't know what all." "my land! and they call it the _mumps?_" "that's what miss mary jane said." "well, what in the nation do they call it the _mumps_ for?" "why, because it _is_ the mumps. that's what it starts with." "well, ther' ain't no sense in it. a body might stump his toe, and take pison, and fall down the well, and break his neck, and bust his brains out, and somebody come along and ask what killed him, and some numskull up and say, 'why, he stumped his _toe_.' would ther' be any sense in that? _no_. and ther' ain't no sense in _this_, nuther. is it ketching?" "is it _ketching?_ why, how you talk. is a _harrow_ catching--in the dark? if you don't hitch on to one tooth, you're bound to on another, ain't you? and you can't get away with that tooth without fetching the whole harrow along, can you? well, these kind of mumps is a kind of a harrow, as you may say--and it ain't no slouch of a harrow, nuther, you come to get it hitched on good." "well, it's awful, i think," says the hare-lip. "i'll go to uncle harvey and--" "oh, yes," i says, "i _would._ of _course_ i would. i wouldn't lose no time." "well, why wouldn't you?" "just look at it a minute, and maybe you can see. hain't your uncles obleeged to get along home to england as fast as they can? and do you reckon they'd be mean enough to go off and leave you to go all that journey by yourselves? _you_ know they'll wait for you. so fur, so good. your uncle harvey's a preacher, ain't he? very well, then; is a _preacher_ going to deceive a steamboat clerk? is he going to deceive a _ship clerk?_--so as to get them to let miss mary jane go aboard? now _you_ know he ain't. what _will_ he do, then? why, he'll say, 'it's a great pity, but my church matters has got to get along the best way they can; for my niece has been exposed to the dreadful pluribus-unum mumps, and so it's my bounden duty to set down here and wait the three months it takes to show on her if she's got it.' but never mind, if you think it's best to tell your uncle harvey--" "shucks, and stay fooling around here when we could all be having good times in england whilst we was waiting to find out whether mary jane's got it or not? why, you talk like a muggins." "well, anyway, maybe you'd better tell some of the neighbors." "listen at that, now. you do beat all for natural stupidness. can't you _see_ that _they'd_ go and tell? ther' ain't no way but just to not tell anybody at _all_." "well, maybe you're right--yes, i judge you _are_ right." "but i reckon we ought to tell uncle harvey she's gone out awhile, anyway, so he won't be uneasy about her?" "yes, miss mary jane she wanted you to do that. she says, 'tell them to give uncle harvey and william my love and a kiss, and say i've run over the river to see mr.'--mr.--what _is_ the name of that rich family your uncle peter used to think so much of?--i mean the one that--" "why, you must mean the apthorps, ain't it?" "of course; bother them kind of names, a body can't ever seem to remember them, half the time, somehow. yes, she said, say she has run over for to ask the apthorps to be sure and come to the auction and buy this house, because she allowed her uncle peter would ruther they had it than anybody else; and she's going to stick to them till they say they'll come, and then, if she ain't too tired, she's coming home; and if she is, she'll be home in the morning anyway. she said, don't say nothing about the proctors, but only about the apthorps--which 'll be perfectly true, because she is going there to speak about their buying the house; i know it, because she told me so herself." "all right," they said, and cleared out to lay for their uncles, and give them the love and the kisses, and tell them the message. everything was all right now. the girls wouldn't say nothing because they wanted to go to england; and the king and the duke would ruther mary jane was off working for the auction than around in reach of doctor robinson. i felt very good; i judged i had done it pretty neat--i reckoned tom sawyer couldn't 'a' done it no neater himself. of course he would 'a' throwed more style into it, but i can't do that very handy, not being brung up to it. well, they held the auction in the public square, along towards the end of the afternoon, and it strung along, and strung along, and the old man he was on hand and looking his level pisonest, up there longside of the auctioneer, and chipping in a little scripture now and then, or a little goody-goody saying of some kind, and the duke he was around goo-gooing for sympathy all he knowed how, and just spreading himself generly. but by and by the thing dragged through, and everything was sold--everything but a little old trifling lot in the graveyard. so they'd got to work _that_ off--i never see such a girafft as the king was for wanting to swallow _everything_. well, whilst they was at it a steamboat landed, and in about two minutes up comes a crowd a-whooping and yelling and laughing and carrying on, and singing out: "_here's_ your opposition line! here's your two sets o' heirs to old peter wilks--and you pays your money and you takes your choice!" chapter xxix they was fetching a very nice-looking old gentleman along, and a nice-looking younger one, with his right arm in a sling. and, my souls, how the people yelled and laughed, and kept it up. but i didn't see no joke about it, and i judged it would strain the duke and the king some to see any. i reckoned they'd turn pale. but no, nary a pale did _they_ turn. the duke he never let on he suspicioned what was up, but just went a goo-gooing around, happy and satisfied, like a jug that's googling out buttermilk; and as for the king, he just gazed and gazed down sorrowful on them new-comers like it give him the stomach-ache in his very heart to think there could be such frauds and rascals in the world. oh, he done it admirable. lots of the principal people gethered around the king, to let him see they was on his side. that old gentleman that had just come looked all puzzled to death. pretty soon he begun to speak, and i see straight off he pronounced _like_ an englishman--not the king's way, though the king's _was_ pretty good for an imitation. i can't give the old gent's words, nor i can't imitate him; but he turned around to the crowd, and says, about like this: "this is a surprise to me which i wasn't looking for; and i'll acknowledge, candid and frank, i ain't very well fixed to meet it and answer it; for my brother and me has had misfortunes; he's broke his arm, and our baggage got put off at a town above here last night in the night by a mistake. i am peter wilks's brother harvey, and this is his brother william, which can't hear nor speak--and can't even make signs to amount to much, now't he's only got one hand to work them with. we are who we say we are; and in a day or two, when i get the baggage, i can prove it. but up till then i won't say nothing more, but go to the hotel and wait." so him and the new dummy started off; and the king he laughs, and blethers out: "broke his arm--_very_ likely, _ain't_ it?--and very convenient, too, for a fraud that's got to make signs, and ain't learnt how. lost their baggage! that's _mighty_ good!--and mighty ingenious--under the _circumstances!_" so he laughed again; and so did everybody else, except three or four, or maybe half a dozen. one of these was that doctor; another one was a sharp-looking gentleman, with a carpet-bag of the old-fashioned kind made out of carpet-stuff, that had just come off of the steamboat and was talking to him in a low voice, and glancing towards the king now and then and nodding their heads--it was levi bell, the lawyer that was gone up to louisville; and another one was a big rough husky that come along and listened to all the old gentlemen said, and was listening to the king now. and when the king got done this husky up and says: "say, looky here; if you are harvey wilks, when'd you come to this town?" "the day before the funeral, friend," says the king. "but what time o' day?" "in the evenin'--'bout an hour er two before sundown." "how'd you come?" "i come down on the _susan powell_ from cincinnati." "well, then, how'd you come to be up at the pint in the _mornin_'--in a canoe?" "i warn't up at the pint in the mornin'." "it's a lie." several of them jumped for him and begged him not to talk that way to an old man and a preacher. "preacher be hanged, he's a fraud and a liar. he was up at the pint that mornin'. i live up there, don't i? well, i was up there, and he was up there. i see him there. he come in a canoe, along with tim collins and a boy." the doctor he up and says: "would you know the boy again if you was to see him, hines?" "i reckon i would, but i don't know. why, yonder he is, now. i know him perfectly easy." it was me he pointed at. the doctor says: "neighbors, i don't know whether the new couple is frauds or not; but if _these_ two ain't frauds, i am an idiot, that's all. i think it's our duty to see that they don't get away from here till we've looked into this thing. come along, hines; come along, the rest of you. we'll take these fellows to the tavern and affront them with t'other couple, and i reckon we'll find out _something_ before we get through." it was nuts for the crowd, though maybe not for the king's friends; so we all started. it was about sundown. the doctor he led me along by the hand, and was plenty kind enough, but he never let go my hand. we all got in a big room in the hotel, and lit up some candles, and fetched in the new couple. first, the doctor says: "i don't wish to be too hard on these two men, but i think they're frauds, and they may have complices that we don't know nothing about. if they have, won't the complices get away with that bag of gold peter wilks left? it ain't unlikely. if these men ain't frauds, they won't object to sending for that money and letting us keep it till they prove they're all right--ain't that so?" everybody agreed to that. so i judged they had our gang in a pretty tight place right at the outstart. but the king he only looked sorrowful, and says: "gentlemen, i wish the money was there, for i ain't got no disposition to throw anything in the way of a fair, open, out-and-out investigation o' this misable business; but, alas, the money ain't there; you k'n send and see, if you want to." "where is it, then?" "well, when my niece give it to me to keep for her i took and hid it inside o' the straw tick o' my bed, not wishin' to bank it for the few days we'd be here, and considerin' the bed a safe place, we not bein' used to niggers, and suppos'n' 'em honest, like servants in england. the niggers stole it the very next mornin' after i had went down-stairs; and when i sold 'em i hadn't missed the money yit, so they got clean away with it. my servant here k'n tell you 'bout it, gentlemen." the doctor and several said "shucks!" and i see nobody didn't altogether believe him. one man asked me if i see the niggers steal it. i said no, but i see them sneaking out of the room and hustling away, and i never thought nothing, only i reckoned they was afraid they had waked up my master and was trying to get away before he made trouble with them. that was all they asked me. then the doctor whirls on me and says: "are _you_ english, too?" i says yes; and him and some others laughed, and said, "stuff!" well, then they sailed in on the general investigation, and there we had it, up and down, hour in, hour out, and nobody never said a word about supper, nor ever seemed to think about it--and so they kept it up, and kept it up; and it _was_ the worst mixed-up thing you ever see. they made the king tell his yarn, and they made the old gentleman tell his'n; and anybody but a lot of prejudiced chuckleheads would 'a' _seen_ that the old gentleman was spinning truth and t'other one lies. and by and by they had me up to tell what i knowed. the king he give me a left-handed look out of the corner of his eye, and so i knowed enough to talk on the right side. i begun to tell about sheffield, and how we lived there, and all about the english wilkses, and so on; but i didn't get pretty fur till the doctor begun to laugh; and levi bell, the lawyer, says: "set down, my boy; i wouldn't strain myself if i was you. i reckon you ain't used to lying, it don't seem to come handy; what you want is practice. you do it pretty awkward." i didn't care nothing for the compliment, but i was glad to be let off, anyway. the doctor he started to say something, and turns and says: "if you'd been in town at first, levi bell--" the king broke in and reached out his hand, and says: "why, is this my poor dead brother's old friend that he's wrote so often about?" the lawyer and him shook hands, and the lawyer smiled and looked pleased, and they talked right along awhile, and then got to one side and talked low; and at last the lawyer speaks up and says: "that 'll fix it. i'll take the order and send it, along with your brother's, and then they'll know it's all right." so they got some paper and a pen, and the king he set down and twisted his head to one side, and chawed his tongue, and scrawled off something; and then they give the pen to the duke--and then for the first time the duke looked sick. but he took the pen and wrote. so then the lawyer turns to the new old gentleman and says: "you and your brother please write a line or two and sign your names." the old gentleman wrote, but nobody couldn't read it. the lawyer looked powerful astonished, and says: "well, it beats _me_--and snaked a lot of old letters out of his pocket, and examined them, and then examined the old man's writing, and then _them_ again; and then says: "these old letters is from harvey wilks; and here's _these_ two handwritings, and anybody can see _they_ didn't write them" (the king and the duke looked sold and foolish, i tell you, to see how the lawyer had took them in), "and here's _this_ old gentleman's handwriting, and anybody can tell, easy enough, _he_ didn't write them--fact is, the scratches he makes ain't properly _writing_ at all. now, here's some letters from--" the new old gentleman says: "if you please, let me explain. nobody can read my hand but my brother there--so he copies for me. it's _his_ hand you've got there, not mine." "_well!_" says the lawyer, "this _is_ a state of things. i've got some of william's letters, too; so if you'll get him to write a line or so we can com--" "he _can't_ write with his left hand," says the old gentleman. "if he could use his right hand, you would see that he wrote his own letters and mine too. look at both, please--they're by the same hand." the lawyer done it, and says: "i believe it's so--and if it ain't so, there's a heap stronger resemblance than i'd noticed before, anyway. well, well, well! i thought we was right on the track of a slution, but it's gone to grass, partly. but anyway, _one_ thing is proved--_these_ two ain't either of 'em wilkses"--and he wagged his head towards the king and the duke. well, what do you think? that mule-headed old fool wouldn't give in _then!_ indeed he wouldn't. said it warn't no fair test. said his brother william was the cussedest joker in the world, and hadn't _tried_ to write--_he_ see william was going to play one of his jokes the minute he put the pen to paper. and so he warmed up and went warbling right along till he was actuly beginning to believe what he was saying _himself_; but pretty soon the new gentleman broke in, and says: "i've thought of something. is there anybody here that helped to lay out my br--helped to lay out the late peter wilks for burying?" "yes," says somebody, "me and ab turner done it. we're both here." then the old man turns toward the king, and says: "peraps this gentleman can tell me what was tattooed on his breast?" blamed if the king didn't have to brace up mighty quick, or he'd 'a' squshed down like a bluff bank that the river has cut under, it took him so sudden; and, mind you, it was a thing that was calculated to make most _anybody_ sqush to get fetched such a solid one as that without any notice, because how was _he_ going to know what was tattooed on the man? he whitened a little; he couldn't help it; and it was mighty still in there, and everybody bending a little forwards and gazing at him. says i to myself, _now_ he'll throw up the sponge--there ain't no more use. well, did he? a body can't hardly believe it, but he didn't. i reckon he thought he'd keep the thing up till he tired them people out, so they'd thin out, and him and the duke could break loose and get away. anyway, he set there, and pretty soon he begun to smile, and says: "mf! it's a _very_ tough question, _ain't_ it! _yes_, sir, i k'n tell you what's tattooed on his breast. it's jest a small, thin, blue arrow--that's what it is; and if you don't look clost, you can't see it. _now_ what do you say--hey?" well, _i_ never see anything like that old blister for clean out-and-out cheek. the new old gentleman turns brisk towards ab turner and his pard, and his eye lights up like he judged he'd got the king _this_ time, and says: "there--you've heard what he said! was there any such mark on peter wilks's breast?" both of them spoke up and says: "we didn't see no such mark." "good!" says the old gentleman. "now, what you _did_ see on his breast was a small dim p, and a b (which is an initial he dropped when he was young), and a w, and dashes between them, so: p--b--w"--and he marked them that way on a piece of paper. "come, ain't that what you saw?" both of them spoke up again, and says: "no, we _didn't_. we never seen any marks at all." well, everybody _was_ in a state of mind now, and they sings out: "the whole _bilin'_ of 'm 's frauds! le's duck 'em! le's drown 'em! le's ride 'em on a rail!" and everybody was whooping at once, and there was a rattling powwow. but the lawyer he jumps on the table and yells, and says: "gentlemen--gentle_men!_ hear me just a word--just a _single_ word--if you please! there's one way yet--let's go and dig up the corpse and look." that took them. "hooray!" they all shouted, and was starting right off; but the lawyer and the doctor sung out: "hold on, hold on! collar all these four men and the boy, and fetch _them_ along, too!" "we'll do it!" they all shouted; "and if we don't find them marks we'll lynch the whole gang!" i _was_ scared, now, i tell you. but there warn't no getting away, you know. they gripped us all, and marched us right along, straight for the graveyard, which was a mile and a half down the river, and the whole town at our heels, for we made noise enough, and it was only nine in the evening. as we went by our house i wished i hadn't sent mary jane out of town; because now if i could tip her the wink she'd light out and save me, and blow on our dead-beats. well, we swarmed along down the river road, just carrying on like wildcats; and to make it more scary the sky was darking up, and the lightning beginning to wink and flitter, and the wind to shiver amongst the leaves. this was the most awful trouble and most dangersome i ever was in; and i was kinder stunned; everything was going so different from what i had allowed for; stead of being fixed so i could take my own time if i wanted to, and see all the fun, and have mary jane at my back to save me and set me free when the close-fit come, here was nothing in the world betwixt me and sudden death but just them tattoo-marks. if they didn't find them-- i couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, i couldn't think about nothing else. it got darker and darker, and it was a beautiful time to give the crowd the slip; but that big husky had me by the wrist--hines--and a body might as well try to give goliar the slip. he dragged me right along, he was so excited, and i had to run to keep up. when they got there they swarmed into the graveyard and washed over it like an overflow. and when they got to the grave they found they had about a hundred times as many shovels as they wanted, but nobody hadn't thought to fetch a lantern. but they sailed into digging anyway by the flicker of the lightning, and sent a man to the nearest house, a half a mile off, to borrow one. so they dug and dug like everything; and it got awful dark, and the rain started, and the wind swished and swushed along, and the lightning come brisker and brisker, and the thunder boomed; but them people never took no notice of it, they was so full of this business; and one minute you could see everything and every face in that big crowd, and the shovelfuls of dirt sailing up out of the grave, and the next second the dark wiped it all out, and you couldn't see nothing at all. at last they got out the coffin and begun to unscrew the lid, and then such another crowding and shouldering and shoving as there was, to scrouge in and get a sight, you never see; and in the dark, that way, it was awful. hines he hurt my wrist dreadful pulling and tugging so, and i reckon he clean forgot i was in the world, he was so excited and panting. all of a sudden the lightning let go a perfect sluice of white glare, and somebody sings out: "by the living jingo, here's the bag of gold on his breast!" hines let out a whoop, like everybody else, and dropped my wrist and give a big surge to bust his way in and get a look, and the way i lit out and shinned for the road in the dark there ain't nobody can tell. i had the road all to myself, and i fairly flew--leastways, i had it all to myself except the solid dark, and the now-and-then glares, and the buzzing of the rain, and the thrashing of the wind, and the splitting of the thunder; and sure as you are born i did clip it along! when i struck the town i see there warn't nobody out in the storm, so i never hunted for no back streets, but humped it straight through the main one; and when i begun to get towards our house i aimed my eye and set it. no light there; the house all dark--which made me feel sorry and disappointed, i didn't know why. but at last, just as i was sailing by, _flash_ comes the light in mary jane's window! and my heart swelled up sudden, like to bust; and the same second the house and all was behind me in the dark, and wasn't ever going to be before me no more in this world. she _was_ the best girl i ever see, and had the most sand. the minute i was far enough above the town to see i could make the towhead, i begun to look sharp for a boat to borrow, and the first time the lightning showed me one that wasn't chained i snatched it and shoved. it was a canoe, and warn't fastened with nothing but a rope. the towhead was a rattling big distance off, away out there in the middle of the river, but i didn't lose no time; and when i struck the raft at last i was so fagged i would 'a' just laid down to blow and gasp if i could afforded it. but i didn't. as i sprung aboard i sung out: "out with you, jim, and set her loose! glory be to goodness, we're shut of them!" jim lit out, and was a-coming for me with both arms spread, he was so full of joy; but when i glimpsed him in the lightning my heart shot up in my mouth and i went overboard backwards; for i forgot he was old king lear and a drownded a-rab all in one, and it most scared the livers and lights out of me. but jim fished me out, and was going to hug me and bless me, and so on, he was so glad i was back and we was shut of the king and the duke, but i says: "not now; have it for breakfast, have it for breakfast! cut loose and let her slide!" so in two seconds away we went a-sliding down the river, and it _did_ seem so good to be free again and all by ourselves on the big river, and nobody to bother us. i had to skip around a bit, and jump up and crack my heels a few times--i couldn't help it; but about the third crack i noticed a sound that i knowed mighty well, and held my breath and listened and waited; and sure enough, when the next flash busted out over the water, here they come!--and just a-laying to their oars and making their skiff hum! it was the king and the duke. so i wilted right down onto the planks then, and give up; and it was all i could do to keep from crying. chapter xxx when they got aboard the king went for me, and shook me by the collar, and says: "tryin' to give us the slip, was ye, you pup! tired of our company, hey?" i says: "no, your majesty, we warn't--_please_ don't, your majesty!" "quick, then, and tell us what _was_ your idea, or i'll shake the insides out o' you!" "honest, i'll tell you everything just as it happened, your majesty. the man that had a-holt of me was very good to me, and kept saying he had a boy about as big as me that died last year, and he was sorry to see a boy in such a dangerous fix; and when they was all took by surprise by finding the gold, and made a rush for the coffin, he lets go of me and whispers, 'heel it now, or they'll hang ye, sure!' and i lit out. it didn't seem no good for _me_ to stay--i couldn't do nothing, and i didn't want to be _hung_ if i could get away. so i never stopped running till i found the canoe; and when i got here i told jim to hurry, or they'd catch me and hang me yet, and said i was afeard you and the duke wasn't alive now, and i was awful sorry, and so was jim, and was awful glad when we see you coming; you may ask jim if i didn't." jim said it was so; and the king told him to shut up, and said, "oh, yes, it's _mighty_ likely!" and shook me up again, and said he reckoned he'd drownd me. but the duke says: "leggo the boy, you old idiot! would _you_ 'a' done any different? did you inquire around for _him_ when you got loose? i don't remember it." so the king let go of me, and begun to cuss that town and everybody in it. but the duke says: "you better a blame' sight give _yourself_ a good cussing, for you're the one that's entitled to it most. you hain't done a thing from the start that had any sense in it, except coming out so cool and cheeky with that imaginary blue-arrow mark. that _was_ bright--it was right down bully; and it was the thing that saved us. for if it hadn't been for that they'd 'a' jailed us till them englishmen's baggage come--and then--the penitentiary, you bet! but that trick took 'em to the graveyard, and the gold done us a still bigger kindness; for if the excited fools hadn't let go all holts and made that rush to get a look we'd 'a' slept in our cravats to-night--cravats warranted to _wear_, too--longer than _we'd_ need 'em." they was still a minute--thinking; then the king says, kind of absent-minded like: "mf! and we reckoned the _niggers_ stole it!" that made me squirm! "yes," says the duke, kinder slow and deliberate and sarcastic, "_we_ did." after about a half a minute the king drawls out: "leastways, i did." the duke says, the same way: "on the contrary, _i_ did." the king kind of ruffles up, and says: "looky here, bilgewater, what'r you referrin' to?" the duke says, pretty brisk: "when it comes to that, maybe you'll let me ask what was _you_ referring to?" "shucks!" says the king, very sarcastic; "but _i_ don't know--maybe you was asleep, and didn't know what you was about." the duke bristles up now, and says: "oh, let _up_ on this cussed nonsense; do you take me for a blame' fool? don't you reckon i know who hid that money in that coffin?" "_yes_, sir! i know you _do_ know, because you done it yourself!" "it's a lie!"--and the duke went for him. the king sings out: "take y'r hands off!--leggo my throat!--i take it all back!" the duke says: "well, you just own up, first, that you _did_ hide that money there, intending to give me the slip one of these days, and come back and dig it up, and have it all to yourself." "wait jest a minute, duke--answer me this one question, honest and fair; if you didn't put the money there, say it, and i'll b'lieve you, and take back everything i said." "you old scoundrel, i didn't, and you know i didn't. there, now!" "well, then, i b'lieve you. but answer me only jest this one more--now _don't_ git mad; didn't you have it in your mind to hook the money and hide it?" the duke never said nothing for a little bit; then he says: "well, i don't care if i _did_, i didn't _do_ it, anyway. but you not only had it in mind to do it, but you _done_ it." "i wisht i never die if i done it, duke, and that's honest. i won't say i warn't goin' to do it, because i _was_; but you--i mean somebody--got in ahead o' me." "it's a lie! you done it, and you got to _say_ you done it, or--" the king began to gurgle, and then he gasps out: "'nough!--i _own up!_" i was very glad to hear him say that; it made me feel much more easier than what i was feeling before. so the duke took his hands off and says: "if you ever deny it again i'll drown you. it's _well_ for you to set there and blubber like a baby--it's fitten for you, after the way you've acted. i never see such an old ostrich for wanting to gobble everything--and i a-trusting you all the time, like you was my own father. you ought to been ashamed of yourself to stand by and hear it saddled on to a lot of poor niggers, and you never say a word for 'em. it makes me feel ridiculous to think i was soft enough to _believe_ that rubbage. cuss you, i can see now why you was so anxious to make up the deffisit--you wanted to get what money i'd got out of the 'none-such' and one thing or another, and scoop it _all!_" the king says, timid, and still a-snuffling: "why, duke, it was you that said make up the deffersit; it warn't me." "dry up! i don't want to hear no more out of you!" says the duke. "and _now_ you see what you _got_ by it. they've got all their own money back, and all of _ourn_ but a shekel or two _besides_. g'long to bed, and don't you deffersit _me_ no more deffersits, long 's _you_ live!" so the king sneaked into the wigwam and took to his bottle for comfort, and before long the duke tackled _his_ bottle; and so in about a half an hour they was as thick as thieves again, and the tighter they got the lovinger they got, and went off a-snoring in each other's arms. they both got powerful mellow, but i noticed the king didn't get mellow enough to forget to remember to not deny about hiding the money-bag again. that made me feel easy and satisfied. of course when they got to snoring we had a long gabble, and i told jim everything. chapter xxxi we dasn't stop again at any town for days and days; kept right along down the river. we was down south in the warm weather now, and a mighty long ways from home. we begun to come to trees with spanish moss on them, hanging down from the limbs like long, gray beards. it was the first i ever see it growing, and it made the woods look solemn and dismal. so now the frauds reckoned they was out of danger, and they begun to work the villages again. first they done a lecture on temperance; but they didn't make enough for them both to get drunk on. then in another village they started a dancing-school; but they didn't know no more how to dance than a kangaroo does; so the first prance they made the general public jumped in and pranced them out of town. another time they tried to go at yellocution; but they didn't yellocute long till the audience got up and give them a solid good cussing, and made them skip out. they tackled missionarying, and mesmerizing, and doctoring, and telling fortunes, and a little of everything; but they couldn't seem to have no luck. so at last they got just about dead broke, and laid around the raft as she floated along, thinking and thinking, and never saying nothing, by the half a day at a time, and dreadful blue and desperate. and at last they took a change and begun to lay their heads together in the wigwam and talk low and confidential two or three hours at a time. jim and me got uneasy. we didn't like the look of it. we judged they was studying up some kind of worse deviltry than ever. we turned it over and over, and at last we made up our minds they was going to break into somebody's house or store, or was going into the counterfeit-money business, or something. so then we was pretty scared, and made up an agreement that we wouldn't have nothing in the world to do with such actions, and if we ever got the least show we would give them the cold shake and clear out and leave them behind. well, early one morning we hid the raft in a good, safe place about two mile below a little bit of a shabby village named pikesville, and the king he went ashore and told us all to stay hid whilst he went up to town and smelt around to see if anybody had got any wind of the "royal nonesuch" there yet. ("house to rob, you _mean_," says i to myself; "and when you get through robbing it you'll come back here and wonder what has become of me and jim and the raft--and you'll have to take it out in wondering.") and he said if he warn't back by midday the duke and me would know it was all right, and we was to come along. so we stayed where we was. the duke he fretted and sweated around, and was in a mighty sour way. he scolded us for everything, and we couldn't seem to do nothing right; he found fault with every little thing. something was a-brewing, sure. i was good and glad when midday come and no king; we could have a change, anyway--and maybe a chance for _the_ chance on top of it. so me and the duke went up to the village, and hunted around there for the king, and by and by we found him in the back room of a little low doggery, very tight, and a lot of loafers bullyragging him for sport, and he a-cussing and a-threatening with all his might, and so tight he couldn't walk, and couldn't do nothing to them. the duke he begun to abuse him for an old fool, and the king begun to sass back, and the minute they was fairly at it i lit out and shook the reefs out of my hind legs, and spun down the river road like a deer, for i see our chance; and i made up my mind that it would be a long day before they ever see me and jim again. i got down there all out of breath but loaded up with joy, and sung out: "set her loose, jim; we're all right now!" but there warn't no answer, and nobody come out of the wigwam. jim was gone! i set up a shout--and then another--and then another one; and run this way and that in the woods, whooping and screeching; but it warn't no use--old jim was gone. then i set down and cried; i couldn't help it. but i couldn't set still long. pretty soon i went out on the road, trying to think what i better do, and i run across a boy walking, and asked him if he'd seen a strange nigger dressed so and so, and he says: "yes." "whereabouts?" says i. "down to silas phelps's place, two mile below here. he's a runaway nigger, and they've got him. was you looking for him?" "you bet i ain't! i run across him in the woods about an hour or two ago, and he said if i hollered he'd cut my livers out--and told me to lay down and stay where i was; and i done it. been there ever since; afeard to come out." "well," he says, "you needn't be afeard no more, becuz they've got him. he run off f'm down south som'ers." "it's a good job they got him." "well, i _reckon!_ there's two hundred dollars dollars' reward on him. it's like picking up money out'n the road." "yes, it is--and i could 'a' had it if i'd been big enough; i see him _first_. who nailed him?" "it was an old fellow--a stranger--and he sold out his chance in him for forty dollars, becuz he's got to go up the river and can't wait. think o' that, now! you bet _i'd_ wait, if it was seven year." "that's me, every time," says i. "but maybe his chance ain't worth no more than that, if he'll sell it so cheap. maybe there's something ain't straight about it." "but it _is_, though--straight as a string. i see the handbill myself. it tells all about him, to a dot--paints him like a picture, and tells the plantation he's frum, below newr_leans_. no-sirree-_bob_, they ain't no trouble 'bout _that_ speculation, you bet you. say, gimme a chaw tobacker, won't ye?" i didn't have none, so he left. i went to the raft, and set down in the wigwam to think. but i couldn't come to nothing. i thought till i wore my head sore, but i couldn't see no way out of the trouble. after all this long journey, and after all we'd done for them scoundrels, here it was all come to nothing, everything all busted up and ruined, because they could have the heart to serve jim such a trick as that, and make him a slave again all his life, and amongst strangers, too, for forty dirty dollars. once i said to myself it would be a thousand times better for jim to be a slave at home where his family was, as long as he'd _got_ to be a slave, and so i'd better write a letter to tom sawyer and tell him to tell miss watson where he was. but i soon give up that notion for two things: she'd be mad and disgusted at his rascality and ungratefulness for leaving her, and so she'd sell him straight down the river again; and if she didn't, everybody naturally despises an ungrateful nigger, and they'd make jim feel it all the time, and so he'd feel ornery and disgraced. and then think of _me!_ it would get all around that huck finn helped a nigger to get his freedom; and if i was ever to see anybody from that town again i'd be ready to get down and lick his boots for shame. that's just the way: a person does a low-down thing, and then he don't want to take no consequences of it. thinks as long as he can hide, it ain't no disgrace. that was my fix exactly. the more i studied about this the more my conscience went to grinding me, and the more wicked and low-down and ornery i got to feeling. and at last, when it hit me all of a sudden that here was the plain hand of providence slapping me in the face and letting me know my wickedness was being watched all the time from up there in heaven, whilst i was stealing a poor old woman's nigger that hadn't ever done me no harm, and now was showing me there's one that's always on the lookout, and ain't a-going to allow no such miserable doings to go only just so fur and no further, i most dropped in my tracks i was so scared. well, i tried the best i could to kinder soften it up somehow for myself by saying i was brung up wicked, and so i warn't so much to blame; but something inside of me kept saying, "there was the sunday-school, you could 'a' gone to it; and if you'd 'a' done it they'd 'a' learnt you there that people that acts as i'd been acting about that nigger goes to everlasting fire." it made me shiver. and i about made up my mind to pray, and see if i couldn't try to quit being the kind of a boy i was and be better. so i kneeled down. but the words wouldn't come. why wouldn't they? it warn't no use to try and hide it from him. nor from _me_, neither. i knowed very well why they wouldn't come. it was because my heart warn't right; it was because i warn't square; it was because i was playing double. i was letting _on_ to give up sin, but away inside of me i was holding on to the biggest one of all. i was trying to make my mouth _say_ i would do the right thing and the clean thing, and go and write to that nigger's owner and tell where he was; but deep down in me i knowed it was a lie, and he knowed it. you can't pray a lie--i found that out. so i was full of trouble, full as i could be; and didn't know what to do. at last i had an idea; and i says, i'll go and write the letter--and then see if i can pray. why, it was astonishing, the way i felt as light as a feather right straight off, and my troubles all gone. so i got a piece of paper and a pencil, all glad and excited, and set down and wrote: miss watson, your runaway nigger jim is down here two mile below pikesville, and mr. phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send. huck finn. i felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time i had ever felt so in my life, and i knowed i could pray now. but i didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking--thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near i come to being lost and going to hell. and went on thinking. and got to thinking over our trip down the river; and i see jim before me all the time: in the day and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing. but somehow i couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. i'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, 'stead of calling me, so i could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when i come back out of the fog; and when i come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me, and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last i struck the time i saved him by telling the men we had smallpox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said i was the best friend old jim ever had in the world, and the _only_ one he's got now; and then i happened to look around and see that paper. it was a close place. i took it up, and held it in my hand. i was a-trembling, because i'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and i knowed it. i studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself: "all right, then, i'll _go_ to hell"--and tore it up. it was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. and i let them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. i shoved the whole thing out of my head, and said i would take up wickedness again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other warn't. and for a starter i would go to work and steal jim out of slavery again; and if i could think up anything worse, i would do that, too; because as long as i was in, and in for good, i might as well go the whole hog. then i set to thinking over how to get at it, and turned over some considerable many ways in my mind; and at last fixed up a plan that suited me. so then i took the bearings of a woody island that was down the river a piece, and as soon as it was fairly dark i crept out with my raft and went for it, and hid it there, and then turned in. i slept the night through, and got up before it was light, and had my breakfast, and put on my store clothes, and tied up some others and one thing or another in a bundle, and took the canoe and cleared for shore. i landed below where i judged was phelps's place, and hid my bundle in the woods, and then filled up the canoe with water, and loaded rocks into her and sunk her where i could find her again when i wanted her, about a quarter of a mile below a little steam-sawmill that was on the bank. then i struck up the road, and when i passed the mill i see a sign on it, "phelps's sawmill," and when i come to the farm-houses, two or three hundred yards further along, i kept my eyes peeled, but didn't see nobody around, though it was good daylight now. but i didn't mind, because i didn't want to see nobody just yet--i only wanted to get the lay of the land. according to my plan, i was going to turn up there from the village, not from below. so i just took a look, and shoved along, straight for town. well, the very first man i see when i got there was the duke. he was sticking up a bill for the "royal nonesuch--three-night performance--like that other time. they had the cheek, them frauds! i was right on him before i could shirk. he looked astonished, and says: "hel-_lo!_ where'd _you_ come from?" then he says, kind of glad and eager, "where's the raft?--got her in a good place?" i says: "why, that's just what i was going to ask your grace." then he didn't look so joyful, and says: "what was your idea for asking _me?_" he says. "well," i says, "when i see the king in that doggery yesterday i says to myself, we can't get him home for hours, till he's soberer; so i went a-loafing around town to put in the time and wait. a man up and offered me ten cents to help him pull a skiff over the river and back to fetch a sheep, and so i went along; but when we was dragging him to the boat, and the man left me a-holt of the rope and went behind him to shove him along, he was too strong for me and jerked loose and run, and we after him. we didn't have no dog, and so we had to chase him all over the country till we tired him out. we never got him till dark; then we fetched him over, and i started down for the raft. when i got there and see it was gone, i says to myself, 'they've got into trouble and had to leave; and they've took my nigger, which is the only nigger i've got in the world, and now i'm in a strange country, and ain't got no property no more, nor nothing, and no way to make my living'; so i set down and cried. i slept in the woods all night. but what _did_ become of the raft, then?--and jim--poor jim!" "blamed if i know--that is, what's become of the raft. that old fool had made a trade and got forty dollars, and when we found him in the doggery the loafers had matched half-dollars with him and got every cent but what he'd spent for whisky; and when i got him home late last night and found the raft gone, we said, 'that little rascal has stole our raft and shook us, and run off down the river.'" "i wouldn't shake my _nigger_, would i?--the only nigger i had in the world, and the only property." "we never thought of that. fact is, i reckon we'd come to consider him _our_ nigger; yes, we did consider him so--goodness knows we had trouble enough for him. so when we see the raft was gone and we flat broke, there warn't anything for it but to try the 'royal nonesuch' another shake. and i've pegged along ever since, dry as a powder-horn. where's that ten cents? give it here." i had considerable money, so i give him ten cents, but begged him to spend it for something to eat, and give me some, because it was all the money i had, and i hadn't had nothing to eat since yesterday. he never said nothing. the next minute he whirls on me and says: "do you reckon that nigger would blow on us? we'd skin him if he done that!" "how can he blow? hain't he run off?" "no! that old fool sold him, and never divided with me, and the money's gone." "_sold_ him?" i says, and begun to cry; "why, he was _my_ nigger, and that was my money. where is he?--i want my nigger." "well, you can't _get_ your nigger, that's all--so dry up your blubbering. looky here--do you think _you'd_ venture to blow on us? blamed if i think i'd trust you. why, if you _was_ to blow on us--" he stopped, but i never see the duke look so ugly out of his eyes before. i went on a-whimpering, and says: "i don't want to blow on nobody; and i ain't got no time to blow, nohow; i got to turn out and find my nigger." he looked kinder bothered, and stood there with his bills fluttering on his arm, thinking, and wrinkling up his forehead. at last he says: "i'll tell you something. we got to be here three days. if you'll promise you won't blow, and won't let the nigger blow, i'll tell you where to find him." so i promised, and he says: "a farmer by the name of silas ph--" and then he stopped. you see, he started to tell me the truth; but when he stopped that way, and begun to study and think again, i reckoned he was changing his mind. and so he was. he wouldn't trust me; he wanted to make sure of having me out of the way the whole three days. so pretty soon he says: "the man that bought him is named abram foster--abram g. foster--and he lives forty mile back here in the country, on the road to lafayette." "all right," i says, "i can walk it in three days. and i'll start this very afternoon." "no you won't, you'll start _now_; and don't you lose any time about it, neither, nor do any gabbling by the way. just keep a tight tongue in your head and move right along, and then you won't get into trouble with _us_, d'ye hear?" that was the order i wanted, and that was the one i played for. i wanted to be left free to work my plans. "so clear out," he says; "and you can tell mr. foster whatever you want to. maybe you can get him to believe that jim _is_ your nigger--some idiots don't require documents--leastways i've heard there's such down south here. and when you tell him the handbill and the reward's bogus, maybe he'll believe you when you explain to him what the idea was for getting 'em out. go 'long now, and tell him anything you want to; but mind you don't work your jaw any _between_ here and there." so i left, and struck for the back country. i didn't look around, but i kinder felt like he was watching me. but i knowed i could tire him out at that. i went straight out in the country as much as a mile before i stopped; then i doubled back through the woods towards phelps's. i reckoned i better start in on my plan straight off without fooling around, because i wanted to stop jim's mouth till these fellows could get away. i didn't want no trouble with their kind. i'd seen all i wanted to of them, and wanted to get entirely shut of them. chapter xxxii when i got there it was all still and sunday-like, and hot and sunshiny; the hands was gone to the fields; and there was them kind of faint dronings of bugs and flies in the air that makes it seem so lonesome and like everybody's dead and gone; and if a breeze fans along and quivers the leaves it makes you feel mournful, because you feel like it's spirits whispering--spirits that's been dead ever so many years--and you always think they're talking about _you._ as a general thing it makes a body wish _he_ was dead, too, and done with it all. phelps's was one of these little one-horse cotton plantations, and they all look alike. a rail fence round a two-acre yard; a stile made out of logs sawed off and up-ended in steps, like barrels of a different length, to climb over the fence with, and for the women to stand on when they are going to jump onto a horse; some sickly grass-patches in the big yard, but mostly it was bare and smooth, like an old hat with the nap rubbed off; big double log house for the white folks--hewed logs, with the chinks stopped up with mud or mortar, and these mud-stripes been whitewashed some time or another; round-log kitchen, with a big broad, open but roofed passage joining it to the house; log smokehouse back of the kitchen; three little nigger cabins in a row t'other side the smokehouse; one little hut all by itself away down against the back fence, and some outbuildings down a piece the other side; ash-hopper and big kettle to bile soap in by the little hut; bench by the kitchen door, with bucket of water and a gourd; hound asleep there in the sun; more hounds asleep round about; about three shade trees away off in a corner; some currant bushes and gooseberry bushes in one place by the fence; outside of the fence a garden and a watermelon patch; then the cotton-fields begins, and after the fields the woods. i went around and clumb over the back stile by the ash-hopper, and started for the kitchen. when i got a little ways i heard the dim hum of a spinning-wheel wailing along up and sinking along down again; and then i knowed for certain i wished i was dead--for that _is_ the lonesomest sound in the whole world. i went right along, not fixing up any particular plan, but just trusting to providence to put the right words in my mouth when the time come; for i'd noticed that providence always did put the right words in my mouth if i left it alone. when i got half-way, first one hound and then another got up and went for me, and of course i stopped and faced them, and kept still. and such another powwow as they made! in a quarter of a minute i was a kind of a hub of a wheel, as you may say--spokes made out of dogs--circle of fifteen of them packed together around me, with their necks and noses stretched up towards me, a-barking and howling; and more a-coming; you could see them sailing over fences and around corners from every-wheres. a nigger woman come tearing out of the kitchen with a rolling-pin in her hand, singing out, "begone! _you_ tige! you spot! begone sah!" and she fetched first one and then another of them a clip and sent them howling, and then the rest followed; and the next second half of them come back, wagging their tails around me, and making friends with me. there ain't no harm in a hound, nohow. and behind the woman comes a little nigger girl and two little nigger boys without anything on but tow-linen shirts, and they hung on to their mother's gown, and peeped out from behind her at me, bashful, the way they always do. and here comes the white woman running from the house, about forty-five or fifty year old, bareheaded, and her spinning-stick in her hand; and behind her comes her little white children, acting the same way the little niggers was going. she was smiling all over so she could hardly stand--and says: "it's _you_, at last!--_ain't_ it?" i out with a "yes'm" before i thought. she grabbed me and hugged me tight; and then gripped me by both hands and shook and shook; and the tears come in her eyes, and run down over; and she couldn't seem to hug and shake enough, and kept saying, "you don't look as much like your mother as i reckoned you would; but law sakes, i don't care for that, i'm so glad to see you! dear, dear, it does seem like i could eat you up! children, it's your cousin tom!--tell him howdy." but they ducked their heads, and put their fingers in their mouths, and hid behind her. so she run on: "lize, hurry up and get him a hot breakfast right away--or did you get your breakfast on the boat?" i said i had got it on the boat. so then she started for the house, leading me by the hand, and the children tagging after. when we got there she set me down in a split-bottomed chair, and set herself down on a little low stool in front of me, holding both of my hands, and says: "now i can have a _good_ look at you; and, laws-a-me, i've been hungry for it a many and a many a time, all these long years, and it's come at last! we been expecting you a couple of days and more. what kep' you?--boat get aground?" "yes'm--she--" "don't say yes'm--say aunt sally. where'd she get aground?" i didn't rightly know what to say, because i didn't know whether the boat would be coming up the river or down. but i go a good deal on instinct; and my instinct said she would be coming up--from down towards orleans. that didn't help me much, though; for i didn't know the names of bars down that way. i see i'd got to invent a bar, or forget the name of the one we got aground on--or--now i struck an idea, and fetched it out: "it warn't the grounding--that didn't keep us back but a little. we blowed out a cylinder-head." "good gracious! anybody hurt?" "no'm. killed a nigger." "well, it's lucky; because sometimes people do get hurt. two years ago last christmas your uncle silas was coming up from newrleans on the old lally rook, and she blowed out a cylinder-head and crippled a man. and i think he died afterwards. he was a baptist. your uncle silas knowed a family in baton rouge that knowed his people very well. yes, i remember now, he _did_ die. mortification set in, and they had to amputate him. but it didn't save him. yes, it was mortification--that was it. he turned blue all over, and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection. they say he was a sight to look at. your uncle's been up to the town every day to fetch you. and he's gone again, not more'n an hour ago; he'll be back any minute now. you must 'a' met him on the road, didn't you?--oldish man, with a--" "no, i didn't see nobody, aunt sally. the boat landed just at daylight, and i left my baggage on the wharf-boat and went looking around the town and out a piece in the country, to put in the time and not get here too soon; and so i come down the back way." "who'd you give the baggage to?" "nobody." "why, child, it 'll be stole!" "not where i hid it i reckon it won't," i says. "how'd you get your breakfast so early on the boat?" it was kinder thin ice, but i says: "the captain see me standing around, and told me i better have something to eat before i went ashore; so he took me in the texas to the officers' lunch, and give me all i wanted." i was getting so uneasy i couldn't listen good. i had my mind on the children all the time; i wanted to get them out to one side and pump them a little, and find out who i was. but i couldn't get no show, mrs. phelps kept it up and run on so. pretty soon she made the cold chills streak all down my back, because she says: "but here we're a-running on this way, and you hain't told me a word about sis, nor any of them. now i'll rest my works a little, and you start up yourn; just tell me _everything_--tell me all about 'm all--every one of 'm; and how they are, and what they're doing, and what they told you to tell me; and every last thing you can think of." well, i see i was up a stump--and up it good. providence had stood by me this fur all right, but i was hard and tight aground now. i see it warn't a bit of use to try to go ahead--i'd got to throw up my hand. so i says to myself, here's another place where i got to resk the truth. i opened my mouth to begin; but she grabbed me and hustled me in behind the bed, and says: "here he comes! stick your head down lower--there, that'll do; you can't be seen now. don't you let on you're here. i'll play a joke on him. children, don't you say a word." i see i was in a _fix_ now. but it warn't no use to worry; there warn't nothing to do but just hold still, and try and be ready to stand from under when the lightning struck. i had just one little glimpse of the old gentleman when he come in; then the bed hid him. mrs. phelps she jumps for him, and says: "has he come?" "no," says her husband. "good-_ness_ gracious!" she says, "what in the world _can_ have become of him?" "i can't imagine," says the old gentleman; "and i must say it makes me dreadful uneasy." "uneasy!" she says; "i'm ready to go distracted! he _must_ 'a' come; and you've missed him along the road. i _know_ it's so--something tells me so." "why, sally, i _couldn't_ miss him along the road--_you_ know that." "but oh, dear, dear, what _will_ sis say! he must 'a' come! you must 'a' missed him. he--" "oh, don't distress me any more'n i'm already distressed. i don't know what in the world to make of it. i'm at my wit's end, and i don't mind acknowledging 't i'm right down scared. but there's no hope that he's come; for he _couldn't_ come and me miss him. sally, it's terrible--just terrible--something's happened to the boat, sure!" "why, silas! look yonder!--up the road!--ain't that somebody coming?" he sprung to the window at the head of the bed, and that give mrs. phelps the chance she wanted. she stooped down quick at the foot of the bed and give me a pull, and out i come; and when he turned back from the window there she stood, a-beaming and a-smiling like a house afire, and i standing pretty meek and sweaty alongside. the old gentleman stared, and says: "why, who's that?" "who do you reckon 'tis?" "i hain't no idea. who _is_ it?" "it's _tom sawyer!_" by jings, i most slumped through the floor! but there warn't no time to swap knives; the old man grabbed me by the hand and shook, and kept on shaking; and all the time how the woman did dance around and laugh and cry; and then how they both did fire off questions about sid, and mary, and the rest of the tribe. but if they was joyful, it warn't nothing to what i was; for it was like being born again, i was so glad to find out who i was. well, they froze to me for two hours; and at last, when my chin was so tired it couldn't hardly go any more, i had told them more about my family--i mean the sawyer family--than ever happened to any six sawyer families. and i explained all about how we blowed out a cylinder-head at the mouth of white river, and it took us three days to fix it. which was all right, and worked first-rate; because _they_ didn't know but what it would take three days to fix it. if i'd 'a' called it a bolthead it would 'a' done just as well. now i was feeling pretty comfortable all down one side, and pretty uncomfortable all up the other. being tom sawyer was easy and comfortable, and it stayed easy and comfortable till by and by i hear a steamboat coughing along down the river. then i says to myself, s'pose tom sawyer comes down on that boat? and s'pose he steps in here any minute, and sings out my name before i can throw him a wink to keep quiet? well, i couldn't _have_ it that way; it wouldn't do at all. i must go up the road and waylay him. so i told the folks i reckoned i would go up to the town and fetch down my baggage. the old gentleman was for going along with me, but i said no, i could drive the horse myself, and i druther he wouldn't take no trouble about me. chapter xxxiii so i started for town in the wagon, and when i was half-way i see a wagon coming, and sure enough it was tom sawyer, and i stopped and waited till he come along. i says "hold on!" and it stopped alongside, and his mouth opened up like a trunk, and stayed so; and he swallowed two or three times like a person that's got a dry throat, and then says: "i hain't ever done you no harm. you know that. so, then, what you want to come back and ha'nt _me_ for?" i says: "i hain't come back--i hain't been _gone_." when he heard my voice it righted him up some, but he warn't quite satisfied yet. he says: "don't you play nothing on me, because i wouldn't on you. honest injun, you ain't a ghost?" "honest injun, i ain't," i says. "well--i--i--well, that ought to settle it, of course; but i can't somehow seem to understand it no way. looky here, warn't you ever murdered _at all?_" "no. i warn't ever murdered at all--i played it on them. you come in here and feel of me if you don't believe me." so he done it; and it satisfied him; and he was that glad to see me again he didn't know what to do. and he wanted to know all about it right off, because it was a grand adventure, and mysterious, and so it hit him where he lived. but i said, leave it alone till by and by; and told his driver to wait, and we drove off a little piece, and i told him the kind of a fix i was in, and what did he reckon we better do? he said, let him alone a minute, and don't disturb him. so he thought and thought, and pretty soon he says: "it's all right; i've got it. take my trunk in your wagon, and let on it's your'n; and you turn back and fool along slow, so as to get to the house about the time you ought to; and i'll go towards town a piece, and take a fresh start, and get there a quarter or a half an hour after you; and you needn't let on to know me at first." i says: "all right; but wait a minute. there's one more thing--a thing that _nobody_ don't know but me. and that is, there's a nigger here that i'm a-trying to steal out of slavery, and his name is _jim_--old miss watson's jim." he says: "what! why, jim is--" he stopped and went to studying. i says: "_i_ know what you'll say. you'll say it's dirty, low-down business; but what if it is? _i_'m low down; and i'm a-going to steal him, and i want you keep mum and not let on. will you?" his eye lit up, and he says: "i'll _help_ you steal him!" well, i let go all holts then, like i was shot. it was the most astonishing speech i ever heard--and i'm bound to say tom sawyer fell considerable in my estimation. only i couldn't believe it. tom sawyer a _nigger-stealer!_ "oh, shucks!" i says; "you're joking." "i ain't joking, either." "well, then," i says, "joking or no joking, if you hear anything said about a runaway nigger, don't forget to remember that _you_ don't know nothing about him, and i don't know nothing about him." then he took the trunk and put it in my wagon, and he drove off his way and i drove mine. but of course i forgot all about driving slow on accounts of being glad and full of thinking; so i got home a heap too quick for that length of a trip. the old gentleman was at the door, and he says: "why, this is wonderful! whoever would 'a' thought it was in that mare to do it? i wish we'd 'a' timed her. and she hain't sweated a hair--not a hair. it's wonderful. why, i wouldn't take a hundred dollars for that horse now--i wouldn't, honest; and yet i'd 'a' sold her for fifteen before, and thought 'twas all she was worth." that's all he said. he was the innocentest, best old soul i ever see. but it warn't surprising; because he warn't only just a farmer, he was a preacher, too, and had a little one-horse log church down back of the plantation, which he built it himself at his own expense, for a church and schoolhouse, and never charged nothing for his preaching, and it was worth it, too. there was plenty other farmer-preachers like that, and done the same way, down south. in about half an hour tom's wagon drove up to the front stile, and aunt sally she see it through the window, because it was only about fifty yards, and says: "why, there's somebody come! i wonder who 'tis? why, i do believe it's a stranger. jimmy" (that's one of the children), "run and tell lize to put on another plate for dinner." everybody made a rush for the front door, because, of course, a stranger don't come _every_ year, and so he lays over the yaller-fever, for interest, when he does come. tom was over the stile and starting for the house; the wagon was spinning up the road for the village, and we was all bunched in the front door. tom had his store clothes on, and an audience--and that was always nuts for tom sawyer. in them circumstances it warn't no trouble to him to throw in an amount of style that was suitable. he warn't a boy to meeky along up that yard like a sheep; no, he come ca'm and important, like the ram. when he got a-front of us he lifts his hat ever so gracious and dainty, like it was the lid of a box that had butterflies asleep in it and he didn't want to disturb them, and says: "mr. archibald nichols, i presume?" "no, my boy," says the old gentleman, "i'm sorry to say 't your driver has deceived you; nichols's place is down a matter of three mile more. come in, come in." tom he took a look back over his shoulder, and says, "too late--he's out of sight." "yes, he's gone, my son, and you must come in and eat your dinner with us; and then we'll hitch up and take you down to nichols's." "oh, i _can't_ make you so much trouble; i couldn't think of it. i'll walk--i don't mind the distance." "but we won't _let_ you walk--it wouldn't be southern hospitality to do it. come right in." "oh, _do_,"' says aunt sally; "it ain't a bit of trouble to us, not a bit in the world. you must stay. it's a long, dusty three mile, and we can't let you walk. and, besides, i've already told 'em to put on another plate when i see you coming; so you mustn't disappoint us. come right in and make yourself at home." so tom he thanked them very hearty and handsome, and let himself be persuaded, and come in; and when he was in he said he was a stranger from hicksville, ohio, and his name was william thompson--and he made another bow. well, he run on, and on, and on, making up stuff about hicksville and everybody in it he could invent, and i getting a little nervious, and wondering how this was going to help me out of my scrape; and at last, still talking along, he reached over and kissed aunt sally right on the mouth, and then settled back again in his chair comfortable, and was going on talking; but she jumped up and wiped it off with the back of her hand, and says: "you owdacious puppy!" he looked kind of hurt, and says: "i'm surprised at you, m'am." "you're s'rp--why, what do you reckon _i_ am? i've a good notion to take and--say, what do you mean by kissing me?" he looked kind of humble, and says: "i didn't mean nothing, m'am. i didn't mean no harm. i--i--thought you'd like it." "why, you born fool!" she took up the spinning-stick, and it looked like it was all she could do to keep from giving him a crack with it. "what made you think i'd like it?" "well, i don't know. only, they--they--told me you would." "_they_ told you i would. whoever told you's _another_ lunatic. i never heard the beat of it. who's _they?_" "why, everybody. they all said so, m'am." it was all she could do to hold in; and her eyes snapped, and her fingers worked like she wanted to scratch him; and she says: "who's 'everybody'? out with their names, or ther'll be an idiot short." he got up and looked distressed, and fumbled his hat, and says: "i'm sorry, and i warn't expecting it. they told me to. they all told me to. they all said, kiss her; and said she'd like it. they all said it--every one of them. but i'm sorry, m'am, and i won't do it no more--i won't, honest." "you won't, won't you? well, i sh'd _reckon_ you won't!" "no'm, i'm honest about it; i won't ever do it again--till you ask me." "till i _ask_ you! well, i never see the beat of it in my born days! i lay you'll be the methusalem-numskull of creation before ever _i_ ask you--or the likes of you." "well," he says, "it does surprise me so. i can't make it out, somehow. they said you would, and i thought you would. but--" he stopped and looked around slow, like he wished he could run across a friendly eye somewheres, and fetched up on the old gentleman's, and says, "didn't _you_ think she'd like me to kiss her, sir?" "why, no; i--i--well, no, i b'lieve i didn't." then he looks on around the same way to me, and says: "tom, didn't _you_ think aunt sally 'd open out her arms and say, 'sid sawyer--'" "my land!" she says, breaking in and jumping for him, "you impudent young rascal, to fool a body so--" and was going to hug him, but he fended her off, and says: "no, not till you've asked me first." so she didn't lose no time, but asked him; and hugged him and kissed him over and over again, and then turned him over to the old man, and he took what was left. and after they got a little quiet again she says: "why, dear me, i never see such a surprise. we warn't looking for _you_ at all, but only tom. sis never wrote to me about anybody coming but him." "it's because it warn't _intended_ for any of us to come but tom," he says; "but i begged and begged, and at the last minute she let me come, too; so, coming down the river, me and tom thought it would be a first-rate surprise for him to come here to the house first, and for me to by and by tag along and drop in, and let on to be a stranger. but it was a mistake, aunt sally. this ain't no healthy place for a stranger to come." "no--not impudent whelps, sid. you ought to had your jaws boxed; i hain't been so put out since i don't know when. but i don't care, i don't mind the terms--i'd be willing to stand a thousand such jokes to have you here. well, to think of that performance! i don't deny it, i was most putrified with astonishment when you give me that smack." we had dinner out in that broad open passage betwixt the house and the kitchen; and there was things enough on that table for seven families--and all hot, too; none of your flabby, tough meat that's laid in a cupboard in a damp cellar all night and tastes like a hunk of old cold cannibal in the morning. uncle silas he asked a pretty long blessing over it, but it was worth it; and it didn't cool it a bit, neither, the way i've seen them kind of interruptions do lots of times. there was a considerable good deal of talk all the afternoon, and me and tom was on the lookout all the time; but it warn't no use, they didn't happen to say nothing about any runaway nigger, and we was afraid to try to work up to it. but at supper, at night, one of the little boys says: "pa, mayn't tom and sid and me go to the show?" "no," says the old man, "i reckon there ain't going to be any; and you couldn't go if there was; because the runaway nigger told burton and me all about that scandalous show, and burton said he would tell the people; so i reckon they've drove the owdacious loafers out of town before this time." so there it was!--but _i_ couldn't help it. tom and me was to sleep in the same room and bed; so, being tired, we bid good night and went up to bed right after supper, and clumb out of the window and down the lightning-rod, and shoved for the town; for i didn't believe anybody was going to give the king and the duke a hint, and so if i didn't hurry up and give them one they'd get into trouble sure. on the road tom he told me all about how it was reckoned i was murdered, and how pap disappeared pretty soon, and didn't come back no more, and what a stir there was when jim run away; and i told tom all about our "royal nonesuch" rapscallions, and as much of the raft voyage as i had time to; and as we struck into the town and up through the middle of it--it was as much as half after eight then--here comes a raging rush of people with torches, and an awful whooping and yelling, and banging tin pans and blowing horns; and we jumped to one side to let them go by; and as they went by i see they had the king and the duke astraddle of a rail--that is, i knowed it _was_ the king and the duke, though they was all over tar and feathers, and didn't look like nothing in the world that was human--just looked like a couple of monstrous big soldier-plumes. well, it made me sick to see it; and i was sorry for them poor pitiful rascals, it seemed like i couldn't ever feel any hardness against them any more in the world. it was a dreadful thing to see. human beings _can_ be awful cruel to one another. we see we was too late--couldn't do no good. we asked some stragglers about it, and they said everybody went to the show looking very innocent; and laid low and kept dark till the poor old king was in the middle of his cavortings on the stage; then somebody give a signal, and the house rose up and went for them. so we poked along back home, and i warn't feeling so brash as i was before, but kind of ornery, and humble, and to blame, somehow--though i hadn't done nothing. but that's always the way; it don't make no difference whether you do right or wrong, a person's conscience ain't got no sense, and just goes for him _anyway._ if i had a yaller dog that didn't know no more than a person's conscience does i would pison him. it takes up more room than all the rest of a person's insides, and yet ain't no good, nohow. tom sawyer he says the same. chapter xxxiv we stopped talking, and got to thinking. by and by tom says: "looky here, huck, what fools we are to not think of it before! i bet i know where jim is." "no! where?" "in that hut down by the ash-hopper. why, looky here. when we was at dinner, didn't you see a nigger man go in there with some vittles?" "yes." "what did you think the vittles was for?" "for a dog." "so 'd i. well, it wasn't for a dog." "why?" "because part of it was watermelon." "so it was--i noticed it. well, it does beat all that i never thought about a dog not eating watermelon. it shows how a body can see and don't see at the same time." "well, the nigger unlocked the padlock when he went in, and he locked it again when he came out. he fetched uncle a key about the time we got up from table--same key, i bet. watermelon shows man, lock shows prisoner; and it ain't likely there's two prisoners on such a little plantation, and where the people's all so kind and good. jim's the prisoner. all right--i'm glad we found it out detective fashion; i wouldn't give shucks for any other way. now you work your mind, and study out a plan to steal jim, and i will study out one, too; and we'll take the one we like the best." what a head for just a boy to have! if i had tom sawyer's head i wouldn't trade it off to be a duke, nor mate of a steamboat, nor clown in a circus, nor nothing i can think of. i went to thinking out a plan, but only just to be doing something; i knowed very well where the right plan was going to come from. pretty soon tom says: "ready?" "yes," i says. "all right--bring it out." "my plan is this," i says. "we can easy find out if it's jim in there. then get up my canoe to-morrow night, and fetch my raft over from the island. then the first dark night that comes steal the key out of the old man's britches after he goes to bed, and shove off down the river on the raft with jim, hiding daytimes and running nights, the way me and jim used to do before. wouldn't that plan work?" "_work?_ why, cert'nly it would work, like rats a-fighting. but it's too blame' simple; there ain't nothing _to_ it. what's the good of a plan that ain't no more trouble than that? it's as mild as goose-milk. why, huck, it wouldn't make no more talk than breaking into a soap factory." i never said nothing, because i warn't expecting nothing different; but i knowed mighty well that whenever he got _his_ plan ready it wouldn't have none of them objections to it. and it didn't. he told me what it was, and i see in a minute it was worth fifteen of mine for style, and would make jim just as free a man as mine would, and maybe get us all killed besides. so i was satisfied, and said we would waltz in on it. i needn't tell what it was here, because i knowed it wouldn't stay the way it was. i knowed he would be changing it around every which way as we went along, and heaving in new bullinesses wherever he got a chance. and that is what he done. well, one thing was dead sure, and that was that tom sawyer was in earnest, and was actuly going to help steal that nigger out of slavery. that was the thing that was too many for me. here was a boy that was respectable and well brung up; and had a character to lose; and folks at home that had characters; and he was bright and not leather-headed; and knowing and not ignorant; and not mean, but kind; and yet here he was, without any more pride, or rightness, or feeling, than to stoop to this business, and make himself a shame, and his family a shame, before everybody. i _couldn't_ understand it no way at all. it was outrageous, and i knowed i ought to just up and tell him so; and so be his true friend, and let him quit the thing right where he was and save himself. and i _did_ start to tell him; but he shut me up, and says: "don't you reckon i know what i'm about? don't i generly know what i'm about?" "yes." "didn't i _say_ i was going to help steal the nigger?" "yes." "well, then." that's all he said, and that's all i said. it warn't no use to say any more; because when he said he'd do a thing, he always done it. but i couldn't make out how he was willing to go into this thing; so i just let it go, and never bothered no more about it. if he was bound to have it so, i couldn't help it. when we got home the house was all dark and still; so we went on down to the hut by the ash-hopper for to examine it. we went through the yard so as to see what the hounds would do. they knowed us, and didn't make no more noise than country dogs is always doing when anything comes by in the night. when we got to the cabin we took a look at the front and the two sides; and on the side i warn't acquainted with--which was the north side--we found a square window-hole, up tolerable high, with just one stout board nailed across it. i says: "here's the ticket. this hole's big enough for jim to get through if we wrench off the board." tom says: "it's as simple as tit-tat-toe, three-in-a-row, and as easy as playing hooky. i should _hope_ we can find a way that's a little more complicated than _that_, huck finn." "well, then," i says, "how'll it do to saw him out, the way i done before i was murdered that time?" "that's more _like_," he says. "it's real mysterious, and troublesome, and good," he says; "but i bet we can find a way that's twice as long. there ain't no hurry; le's keep on looking around." betwixt the hut and the fence, on the back side, was a lean-to that joined the hut at the eaves, and was made out of plank. it was as long as the hut, but narrow--only about six foot wide. the door to it was at the south end, and was padlocked. tom he went to the soap-kettle and searched around, and fetched back the iron thing they lift the lid with; so he took it and prized out one of the staples. the chain fell down, and we opened the door and went in, and shut it, and struck a match, and see the shed was only built against a cabin and hadn't no connection with it; and there warn't no floor to the shed, nor nothing in it but some old rusty played-out hoes and spades and picks and a crippled plow. the match went out, and so did we, and shoved in the staple again, and the door was locked as good as ever. tom was joyful. he says: "now we're all right. we'll _dig_ him out. it 'll take about a week!" then we started for the house, and i went in the back door--you only have to pull a buckskin latch-string, they don't fasten the doors--but that warn't romantical enough for tom sawyer; no way would do him but he must climb up the lightning-rod. but after he got up half-way about three times, and missed fire and fell every time, and the last time most busted his brains out, he thought he'd got to give it up; but after he was rested he allowed he would give her one more turn for luck, and this time he made the trip. in the morning we was up at break of day, and down to the nigger cabins to pet the dogs and make friends with the nigger that fed jim--if it _was_ jim that was being fed. the niggers was just getting through breakfast and starting for the fields; and jim's nigger was piling up a tin pan with bread and meat and things; and whilst the others was leaving, the key come from the house. this nigger had a good-natured, chuckle-headed face, and his wool was all tied up in little bunches with thread. that was to keep witches off. he said the witches was pestering him awful these nights, and making him see all kinds of strange things, and hear all kinds of strange words and noises, and he didn't believe he was ever witched so long before in his life. he got so worked up, and got to running on so about his troubles, he forgot all about what he'd been a-going to do. so tom says: "what's the vittles for? going to feed the dogs?" the nigger kind of smiled around graduly over his face, like when you heave a brickbat in a mud-puddle, and he says: "yes, mars sid, _a_ dog. cur'us dog, too. does you want to go en look at 'im?" "yes." i hunched tom, and whispers: "you going, right here in the daybreak? _that_ warn't the plan." "no, it warn't; but it's the plan _now._" so, drat him, we went along, but i didn't like it much. when we got in we couldn't hardly see anything, it was so dark; but jim was there, sure enough, and could see us; and he sings out: "why, _huck!_ en good _lan'!_ ain' dat misto tom?" i just knowed how it would be; i just expected it. i didn't know nothing to do; and if i had i couldn't 'a' done it, because that nigger busted in and says: "why, de gracious sakes! do he know you genlmen?" we could see pretty well now. tom he looked at the nigger, steady and kind of wondering, and says: "does _who_ know us?" "why, dis-yer runaway nigger." "i don't reckon he does; but what put that into your head?" "what _put_ it dar? didn' he jis' dis minute sing out like he knowed you?" tom says, in a puzzled-up kind of way: "well, that's mighty curious. _who_ sung out? _when_ did he sing out? _what_ did he sing out?" and turns to me, perfectly ca'm, and says, "did _you_ hear anybody sing out?" of course there warn't nothing to be said but the one thing; so i says: "no; _i_ ain't heard nobody say nothing." then he turns to jim, and looks him over like he never see him before, and says: "did you sing out?" "no, sah," says jim; "i hain't said nothing, sah." "not a word?" "no, sah, i hain't said a word." "did you ever see us before?" "no, sah; not as i knows on." so tom turns to the nigger, which was looking wild and distressed, and says, kind of severe: "what do you reckon's the matter with you, anyway? what made you think somebody sung out?" "oh, it's de dad-blame' witches, sah, en i wisht i was dead, i do. dey's awluz at it, sah, en dey do mos' kill me, dey sk'yers me so. please to don't tell nobody 'bout it sah, er ole mars silas he'll scole me; 'kase he say dey _ain't_ no witches. i jis' wish to goodness he was heah now--_den_ what would he say! i jis' bet he couldn' fine no way to git aroun' it _dis_ time. but it's awluz jis' so; people dat's _sot_, stays sot; dey won't look into noth'n' en fine it out f'r deyselves, en when _you_ fine it out en tell um 'bout it, dey doan' b'lieve you." tom give him a dime, and said we wouldn't tell nobody; and told him to buy some more thread to tie up his wool with; and then looks at jim, and says: "i wonder if uncle silas is going to hang this nigger. if i was to catch a nigger that was ungrateful enough to run away, i wouldn't give him up, i'd hang him." and whilst the nigger stepped to the door to look at the dime and bite it to see if it was good, he whispers to jim and says: "don't ever let on to know us. and if you hear any digging going on nights, it's us; we're going to set you free." jim only had time to grab us by the hand and squeeze it; then the nigger come back, and we said we'd come again some time if the nigger wanted us to; and he said he would, more particular if it was dark, because the witches went for him mostly in the dark, and it was good to have folks around then. chapter xxxv it would be most an hour yet till breakfast, so we left and struck down into the woods; because tom said we got to have _some_ light to see how to dig by, and a lantern makes too much, and might get us into trouble; what we must have was a lot of them rotten chunks that's called fox-fire, and just makes a soft kind of a glow when you lay them in a dark place. we fetched an armful and hid it in the weeds, and set down to rest, and tom says, kind of dissatisfied: "blame it, this whole thing is just as easy and awkward as it can be. and so it makes it so rotten difficult to get up a difficult plan. there ain't no watchman to be drugged--now there _ought_ to be a watchman. there ain't even a dog to give a sleeping-mixture to. and there's jim chained by one leg, with a ten-foot chain, to the leg of his bed: why, all you got to do is to lift up the bedstead and slip off the chain. and uncle silas he trusts everybody; sends the key to the punkin-headed nigger, and don't send nobody to watch the nigger. jim could 'a' got out of that window-hole before this, only there wouldn't be no use trying to travel with a ten-foot chain on his leg. why, drat it, huck, it's the stupidest arrangement i ever see. you got to invent _all_ the difficulties. well, we can't help it; we got to do the best we can with the materials we've got. anyhow, there's one thing--there's more honor in getting him out through a lot of difficulties and dangers, where there warn't one of them furnished to you by the people who it was their duty to furnish them, and you had to contrive them all out of your own head. now look at just that one thing of the lantern. when you come down to the cold facts, we simply got to _let on_ that a lantern's resky. why, we could work with a torchlight procession if we wanted to, _i_ believe. now, whilst i think of it, we got to hunt up something to make a saw out of the first chance we get." "what do we want of a saw?" "what do we _want_ of a saw? hain't we got to saw the leg of jim's bed off, so as to get the chain loose?" "why, you just said a body could lift up the bedstead and slip the chain off." "well, if that ain't just like you, huck finn. you _can_ get up the infant-schooliest ways of going at a thing. why, hain't you ever read any books at all?--baron trenck, nor casanova, nor benvenuto chelleeny, nor henri iv., nor none of them heroes? who ever heard of getting a prisoner loose in such an old-maidy way as that? no; the way all the best authorities does is to saw the bed-leg in two, and leave it just so, and swallow the sawdust, so it can't be found, and put some dirt and grease around the sawed place so the very keenest seneskal can't see no sign of its being sawed, and thinks the bed-leg is perfectly sound. then, the night you're ready, fetch the leg a kick, down she goes; slip off your chain, and there you are. nothing to do but hitch your rope ladder to the battlements, shin down it, break your leg in the moat--because a rope ladder is nineteen foot too short, you know--and there's your horses and your trusty vassles, and they scoop you up and fling you across a saddle, and away you go to your native langudoc, or navarre, or wherever it is. it's gaudy, huck. i wish there was a moat to this cabin. if we get time, the night of the escape, we'll dig one." i says: "what do we want of a moat when we're going to snake him out from under the cabin?" but he never heard me. he had forgot me and everything else. he had his chin in his hand, thinking. pretty soon he sighs and shakes his head; then sighs again, and says: "no, it wouldn't do--there ain't necessity enough for it." "for what?" i says. "why, to saw jim's leg off," he says. "good land!" i says; "why, there ain't _no_ necessity for it. and what would you want to saw his leg off for, anyway?" "well, some of the best authorities has done it. they couldn't get the chain off, so they just cut their hand off and shoved. and a leg would be better still. but we got to let that go. there ain't necessity enough in this case; and, besides, jim's a nigger, and wouldn't understand the reasons for it, and how it's the custom in europe; so we'll let it go. but there's one thing--he can have a rope ladder; we can tear up our sheets and make him a rope ladder easy enough. and we can send it to him in a pie; it's mostly done that way. and i've et worse pies." "why, tom sawyer, how you talk," i says; "jim ain't got no use for a rope ladder." "he _has_ got use for it. how _you_ talk, you better say; you don't know nothing about it. he's _got_ to have a rope ladder; they all do." "what in the nation can he _do_ with it?" "_do_ with it? he can hide it in his bed, can't he? that's what they all do; and _he's_ got to, too. huck, you don't ever seem to want to do anything that's regular; you want to be starting something fresh all the time. s'pose he _don't_ do nothing with it? ain't it there in his bed, for a clue, after he's gone? and don't you reckon they'll want clues? of course they will. and you wouldn't leave them any? that would be a _pretty_ howdy-do, _wouldn't_ it! i never heard of such a thing." "well," i says, "if it's in the regulations, and he's got to have it, all right, let him have it; because i don't wish to go back on no regulations; but there's one thing, tom sawyer--if we go to tearing up our sheets to make jim a rope ladder, we're going to get into trouble with aunt sally, just as sure as you're born. now, the way i look at it, a hickry-bark ladder don't cost nothing, and don't waste nothing, and is just as good to load up a pie with, and hide in a straw tick, as any rag ladder you can start; and as for jim, he ain't had no experience, and so he don't care what kind of a--" "oh, shucks, huck finn, if i was as ignorant as you i'd keep still--that's what i'd do. who ever heard of a state prisoner escaping by a hickry-bark ladder? why, it's perfectly ridiculous." "well, all right, tom, fix it your own way; but if you'll take my advice, you'll let me borrow a sheet off of the clothes-line." he said that would do. and that gave him another idea, and he says: "borrow a shirt, too." "what do we want of a shirt, tom?" "want it for jim to keep a journal on." "journal your granny--_jim_ can't write." "s'pose he _can't_ write--he can make marks on the shirt, can't he, if we make him a pen out of an old pewter spoon or a piece of an old iron barrel-hoop?" "why, tom, we can pull a feather out of a goose and make him a better one; and quicker, too." "_prisoners_ don't have geese running around the donjon-keep to pull pens out of, you muggins. they _always_ make their pens out of the hardest, toughest, troublesomest piece of old brass candlestick or something like that they can get their hands on; and it takes them weeks and weeks and months and months to file it out, too, because they've got to do it by rubbing it on the wall. _they_ wouldn't use a goose-quill if they had it. it ain't regular." "well, then, what 'll we make him the ink out of?" "many makes it out of iron-rust and tears; but that's the common sort and women; the best authorities uses their own blood. jim can do that; and when he wants to send any little common ordinary mysterious message to let the world know where he's captivated, he can write it on the bottom of a tin plate with a fork and throw it out of the window. the iron mask always done that, and it's a blame' good way, too." "jim ain't got no tin plates. they feed him in a pan." "that ain't nothing; we can get him some." "can't nobody _read_ his plates." "that ain't got anything to _do_ with it, huck finn. all _he's_ got to do is to write on the plate and throw it out. you don't _have_ to be able to read it. why, half the time you can't read anything a prisoner writes on a tin plate, or anywhere else." "well, then, what's the sense in wasting the plates?" "why, blame it all, it ain't the _prisoner's_ plates." "but it's _somebody's_ plates, ain't it?" "well, spos'n it is? what does the _prisoner_ care whose--" he broke off there, because we heard the breakfast-horn blowing. so we cleared out for the house. along during the morning i borrowed a sheet and a white shirt off of the clothes-line; and i found an old sack and put them in it, and we went down and got the fox-fire, and put that in too. i called it borrowing, because that was what pap always called it; but tom said it warn't borrowing, it was stealing. he said we was representing prisoners; and prisoners don't care how they get a thing so they get it, and nobody don't blame them for it, either. it ain't no crime in a prisoner to steal the thing he needs to get away with, tom said; it's his right; and so, as long as we was representing a prisoner, we had a perfect right to steal anything on this place we had the least use for to get ourselves out of prison with. he said if we warn't prisoners it would be a very different thing, and nobody but a mean, ornery person would steal when he warn't a prisoner. so we allowed we would steal everything there was that come handy. and yet he made a mighty fuss, one day, after that, when i stole a watermelon out of the nigger patch and eat it; and he made me go and give the niggers a dime without telling them what it was for. tom said that what he meant was, we could steal anything we _needed._ well, i says, i needed the watermelon. but he said i didn't need it to get out of prison with; there's where the difference was. he said if i'd 'a' wanted it to hide a knife in, and smuggle it to jim to kill the seneskal with, it would 'a' been all right. so i let it go at that, though i couldn't see no advantage in my representing a prisoner if i got to set down and chaw over a lot of gold-leaf distinctions like that every time i see a chance to hog a watermelon. well, as i was saying, we waited that morning till everybody was settled down to business, and nobody in sight around the yard; then tom he carried the sack into the lean-to whilst i stood off a piece to keep watch. by and by he come out, and we went and set down on the woodpile to talk. he says: "everything's all right now except tools; and that's easy fixed." "tools?" i says. "yes." "tools for what?" "why, to dig with. we ain't a-going to _gnaw_ him out, are we?" "ain't them old crippled picks and things in there good enough to dig a nigger out with?" i says. he turns on me, looking pitying enough to make a body cry, and says: "huck finn, did you _ever_ hear of a prisoner having picks and shovels, and all the modern conveniences in his wardrobe to dig himself out with? now i want to ask you--if you got any reasonableness in you at all--what kind of a show would _that_ give him to be a hero? why, they might as well lend him the key and done with it. picks and shovels--why, they wouldn't furnish 'em to a king." "well, then," i says, "if we don't want the picks and shovels, what do we want?" "a couple of case-knives." "to dig the foundations out from under that cabin with?" "yes." "confound it, it's foolish, tom." "it don't make no difference how foolish it is, it's the _right_ way--and it's the regular way. and there ain't no _other_ way, that ever i heard of, and i've read all the books that gives any information about these things. they always dig out with a case-knife--and not through dirt, mind you; generly it's through solid rock. and it takes them weeks and weeks and weeks, and for ever and ever. why, look at one of them prisoners in the bottom dungeon of the castle deef, in the harbor of marseilles, that dug himself out that way; how long was _he_ at it, you reckon?" "i don't know." "well, guess." "i don't know. a month and a half." "_thirty-seven year_--and he come out in china. _that's_ the kind. i wish the bottom of _this_ fortress was solid rock." "_jim_ don't know nobody in china." "what's _that_ got to do with it? neither did that other fellow. but you're always a-wandering off on a side issue. why can't you stick to the main point?" "all right--i don't care where he comes out, so he _comes_ out; and jim don't, either, i reckon. but there's one thing, anyway--jim's too old to be dug out with a case-knife. he won't last." "yes he will _last,_ too. you don't reckon it's going to take thirty-seven years to dig out through a _dirt_ foundation, do you?" "how long will it take, tom?" "well, we can't resk being as long as we ought to, because it mayn't take very long for uncle silas to hear from down there by new orleans. he'll hear jim ain't from there. then his next move will be to advertise jim, or something like that. so we can't resk being as long digging him out as we ought to. by rights i reckon we ought to be a couple of years; but we can't. things being so uncertain, what i recommend is this: that we really dig right in, as quick as we can; and after that, we can _let on_, to ourselves, that we was at it thirty-seven years. then we can snatch him out and rush him away the first time there's an alarm. yes, i reckon that 'll be the best way." "now, there's _sense_ in that," i says. "letting on don't cost nothing; letting on ain't no trouble; and if it's any object, i don't mind letting on we was at it a hundred and fifty year. it wouldn't strain me none, after i got my hand in. so i'll mosey along now, and smouch a couple of case-knives." "smouch three," he says; "we want one to make a saw out of." "tom, if it ain't unregular and irreligious to sejest it," i says, "there's an old rusty saw-blade around yonder sticking under the weather-boarding behind the smokehouse." he looked kind of weary and discouraged-like, and says: "it ain't no use to try to learn you nothing, huck. run along and smouch the knives--three of them." so i done it. chapter xxxvi as soon as we reckoned everybody was asleep that night we went down the lightning-rod, and shut ourselves up in the lean-to, and got out our pile of fox-fire, and went to work. we cleared everything out of the way, about four or five foot along the middle of the bottom log. tom said we was right behind jim's bed now, and we'd dig in under it, and when we got through there couldn't nobody in the cabin ever know there was any hole there, because jim's counterpin hung down most to the ground, and you'd have to raise it up and look under to see the hole. so we dug and dug with the case-knives till most midnight; and then we was dog-tired, and our hands was blistered, and yet you couldn't see we'd done anything hardly. at last i says: "this ain't no thirty-seven-year job; this is a thirty-eight-year job, tom sawyer." he never said nothing. but he sighed, and pretty soon he stopped digging, and then for a good little while i knowed that he was thinking. then he says: "it ain't no use, huck, it ain't a-going to work. if we was prisoners it would, because then we'd have as many years as we wanted, and no hurry; and we wouldn't get but a few minutes to dig, every day, while they was changing watches, and so our hands wouldn't get blistered, and we could keep it up right along, year in and year out, and do it right, and the way it ought to be done. but _we_ can't fool along; we got to rush; we ain't got no time to spare. if we was to put in another night this way we'd have to knock off for a week to let our hands get well--couldn't touch a case-knife with them sooner." "well, then, what we going to do, tom?" "i'll tell you. it ain't right, and it ain't moral, and i wouldn't like it to get out; but there ain't only just the one way: we got to dig him out with the picks, and _let on_ it's case-knives." "_now_ you're _talking!_" i says; "your head gets leveler and leveler all the time, tom sawyer," i says. "picks is the thing, moral or no moral; and as for me, i don't care shucks for the morality of it, nohow. when i start in to steal a nigger, or a watermelon, or a sunday-school book, i ain't no ways particular how it's done so it's done. what i want is my nigger; or what i want is my watermelon; or what i want is my sunday-school book; and if a pick's the handiest thing, that's the thing i'm a-going to dig that nigger or that watermelon or that sunday-school book out with; and i don't give a dead rat what the authorities thinks about it nuther." "well," he says, "there's excuse for picks and letting on in a case like this; if it warn't so, i wouldn't approve of it, nor i wouldn't stand by and see the rules broke--because right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a body ain't got no business doing wrong when he ain't ignorant and knows better. it might answer for _you_ to dig jim out with a pick, _without_ any letting on, because you don't know no better; but it wouldn't for me, because i do know better. gimme a case-knife." he had his own by him, but i handed him mine. he flung it down, and says: "gimme a _case-knife._" i didn't know just what to do--but then i thought. i scratched around amongst the old tools, and got a pickax and give it to him, and he took it and went to work, and never said a word. he was always just that particular. full of principle. so then i got a shovel, and then we picked and shoveled, turn about, and made the fur fly. we stuck to it about a half an hour, which was as long as we could stand up; but we had a good deal of a hole to show for it. when i got up-stairs i looked out at the window and see tom doing his level best with the lightning-rod, but he couldn't come it, his hands was so sore. at last he says: "it ain't no use, it can't be done. what you reckon i better do? can't you think of no way?" "yes," i says, "but i reckon it ain't regular. come up the stairs, and let on it's a lightning-rod." so he done it. next day tom stole a pewter spoon and a brass candlestick in the house, for to make some pens for jim out of, and six tallow candles; and i hung around the nigger cabins and laid for a chance, and stole three tin plates. tom says it wasn't enough; but i said nobody wouldn't ever see the plates that jim throwed out, because they'd fall in the dog-fennel and jimpson weeds under the window-hole--then we could tote them back and he could use them over again. so tom was satisfied. then he says: "now, the thing to study out is, how to get the things to jim." "take them in through the hole," i says, "when we get it done." he only just looked scornful, and said something about nobody ever heard of such an idiotic idea, and then he went to studying. by and by he said he had ciphered out two or three ways, but there warn't no need to decide on any of them yet. said we'd got to post jim first. that night we went down the lightning-rod a little after ten, and took one of the candles along, and listened under the window-hole, and heard jim snoring; so we pitched it in, and it didn't wake him. then we whirled in with the pick and shovel, and in about two hours and a half the job was done. we crept in under jim's bed and into the cabin, and pawed around and found the candle and lit it, and stood over jim awhile, and found him looking hearty and healthy, and then we woke him up gentle and gradual. he was so glad to see us he most cried; and called us honey, and all the pet names he could think of; and was for having us hunt up a cold-chisel to cut the chain off of his leg with right away, and clearing out without losing any time. but tom he showed him how unregular it would be, and set down and told him all about our plans, and how we could alter them in a minute any time there was an alarm; and not to be the least afraid, because we would see he got away, _sure_. so jim he said it was all right, and we set there and talked over old times awhile, and then tom asked a lot of questions, and when jim told him uncle silas come in every day or two to pray with him, and aunt sally come in to see if he was comfortable and had plenty to eat, and both of them was kind as they could be, tom says: "_now_ i know how to fix it. we'll send you some things by them." i said, "don't do nothing of the kind; it's one of the most jackass ideas i ever struck"; but he never paid no attention to me; went right on. it was his way when he'd got his plans set. so he told jim how we'd have to smuggle in the rope-ladder pie and other large things by nat, the nigger that fed him, and he must be on the lookout, and not be surprised, and not let nat see him open them; and we would put small things in uncle's coat pockets and he must steal them out; and we would tie things to aunt's apron-strings or put them in her apron pocket, if we got a chance; and told him what they would be and what they was for. and told him how to keep a journal on the shirt with his blood, and all that. he told him everything. jim he couldn't see no sense in the most of it, but he allowed we was white folks and knowed better than him; so he was satisfied, and said he would do it all just as tom said. jim had plenty corn-cob pipes and tobacco; so we had a right down good sociable time; then we crawled out through the hole, and so home to bed, with hands that looked like they'd been chawed. tom was in high spirits. he said it was the best fun he ever had in his life, and the most intellectural; and said if he only could see his way to it we would keep it up all the rest of our lives and leave jim to our children to get out; for he believed jim would come to like it better and better the more he got used to it. he said that in that way it could be strung out to as much as eighty year, and would be the best time on record. and he said it would make us all celebrated that had a hand in it. in the morning we went out to the woodpile and chopped up the brass candlestick into handy sizes, and tom put them and the pewter spoon in his pocket. then we went to the nigger cabins, and while i got nat's notice off, tom shoved a piece of candlestick into the middle of a corn-pone that was in jim's pan, and we went along with nat to see how it would work, and it just worked noble; when jim bit into it it most mashed all his teeth out; and there warn't ever anything could 'a' worked better. tom said so himself. jim he never let on but what it was only just a piece of rock or something like that that's always getting into bread, you know; but after that he never bit into nothing but what he jabbed his fork into it in three or four places first. and whilst we was a-standing there in the dimmish light, here comes a couple of the hounds bulging in from under jim's bed; and they kept on piling in till there was eleven of them, and there warn't hardly room in there to get your breath. by jings, we forgot to fasten that lean-to door! the nigger nat he only just hollered "witches" once, and keeled over onto the floor amongst the dogs, and begun to groan like he was dying. tom jerked the door open and flung out a slab of jim's meat, and the dogs went for it, and in two seconds he was out himself and back again and shut the door, and i knowed he'd fixed the other door too. then he went to work on the nigger, coaxing him and petting him, and asking him if he'd been imagining he saw something again. he raised up, and blinked his eyes around, and says: "mars sid, you'll say i's a fool, but if i didn't b'lieve i see most a million dogs, er devils, er some'n, i wisht i may die right heah in dese tracks. i did, mos' sholy. mars sid, i _felt_ um--i _felt_ um, sah; dey was all over me. dad fetch it, i jis' wisht i could git my han's on one er dem witches jis' wunst--on'y jis' wunst--it's all i'd ast. but mos'ly i wisht dey'd lemme 'lone, i does." tom says: "well, i tell you what _i_ think. what makes them come here just at this runaway nigger's breakfast-time? it's because they're hungry; that's the reason. you make them a witch pie; that's the thing for _you_ to do." "but my lan', mars sid, how's i gwyne to make 'm a witch pie? i doan' know how to make it. i hain't ever hearn er sich a thing b'fo'." "well, then, i'll have to make it myself." "will you do it, honey?--will you? i'll wusshup de groun' und' yo' foot, i will!" [illustration: tom advises a witch pie] "all right, i'll do it, seeing it's you, and you've been good to us and showed us the runaway nigger. but you got to be mighty careful. when we come around, you turn your back; and then whatever we've put in the pan, don't you let on you see it at all. and don't you look when jim unloads the pan--something might happen, i don't know what. and above all, don't you _handle_ the witch-things." "_hannel_ 'm, mars sid? what _is_ you a-talkin' 'bout? i wouldn' lay de weight er my finger on um, not f'r ten hund'd thous'n billion dollars, i wouldn't." chapter xxxvii _that_ was all fixed. so then we went away and went to the rubbage-pile in the back yard, where they keep the old boots, and rags, and pieces of bottles, and wore-out tin things, and all such truck, and scratched around and found an old tin washpan, and stopped up the holes as well as we could, to bake the pie in, and took it down cellar and stole it full of flour and started for breakfast, and found a couple of shingle-nails that tom said would be handy for a prisoner to scrabble his name and sorrows on the dungeon walls with, and dropped one of them in aunt sally's apron pocket which was hanging on a chair, and t'other we stuck in the band of uncle silas's hat, which was on the bureau, because we heard the children say their pa and ma was going to the runaway nigger's house this morning, and then went to breakfast, and tom dropped the pewter spoon in uncle silas's coat pocket, and aunt sally wasn't come yet, so we had to wait a little while. and when she come she was hot and red and cross, and couldn't hardly wait for the blessing; and then she went to sluicing out coffee with one hand and cracking the handiest child's head with her thimble with the other, and says: "i've hunted high and i've hunted low, and it does beat all what _has_ become of your other shirt." my heart fell down amongst my lungs and livers and things, and a hard piece of corn-crust started down my throat after it and got met on the road with a cough, and was shot across the table, and took one of the children in the eye and curled him up like a fishing-worm, and let a cry out of him the size of a war-whoop, and tom he turned kinder blue around the gills, and it all amounted to a considerable state of things for about a quarter of a minute or as much as that, and i would 'a' sold out for half price if there was a bidder. but after that we was all right again--it was the sudden surprise of it that knocked us so kind of cold. uncle silas he says: "it's most uncommon curious, i can't understand it. i know perfectly well i took it _off_, because--" "because you hain't got but one _on_. just _listen_ at the man! i know you took it off, and know it by a better way than your wool-gethering memory, too, because it was on the clo's-line yesterday--i see it there myself. but it's gone, that's the long and the short of it, and you'll just have to change to a red flann'l one till i can get time to make a new one. and it 'll be the third i've made in two years. it just keeps a body on the jump to keep you in shirts; and whatever you do manage to _do_ with 'm all is more'n i can make out. a body'd think you _would_ learn to take some sort of care of 'em at your time of life." "i know it, sally, and i do try all i can. but it oughtn't to be altogether my fault, because, you know, i don't see them nor have nothing to do with them except when they're on me; and i don't believe i've ever lost one of them _off_ of me." "well, it ain't _your_ fault if you haven't, silas; you'd 'a' done it if you could, i reckon. and the shirt ain't all that's gone, nuther. ther's a spoon gone; and _that_ ain't all. there was ten, and now ther' only nine. the calf got the shirt, i reckon, but the calf never took the spoon, _that's_ certain." "why, what else is gone, sally?" "ther's six _candles_ gone--that's what. the rats could 'a' got the candles, and i reckon they did; i wonder they don't walk off with the whole place, the way you're always going to stop their holes and don't do it; and if they warn't fools they'd sleep in your hair, silas--_you'd_ never find it out; but you can't lay the _spoon_ on the rats, and that i _know_." "well, sally, i'm in fault, and i acknowledge it; i've been remiss; but i won't let to-morrow go by without stopping up them holes." "oh, i wouldn't hurry; next year 'll do. matilda angelina araminta _phelps!_" whack comes the thimble, and the child snatches her claws out of the sugar-bowl without fooling around any. just then the nigger woman steps onto the passage, and says: "missus, dey's a sheet gone." "a _sheet_ gone! well, for the land's sake!" "i'll stop up them holes to-day," says uncle silas, looking sorrowful. "oh, _do_ shet up!--s'pose the rats took the _sheet?_ _where's_ it gone, lize?" "clah to goodness i hain't no notion, miss' sally. she wuz on de clo's-line yistiddy, but she done gone: she ain' dah no mo' now." "i reckon the world _is_ coming to an end. i _never_ see the beat of it in all my born days. a shirt, and a sheet, and a spoon, and six can--" "missus," comes a young yaller wench, "dey's a brass cannelstick miss'n." "cler out from here, you hussy, er i'll take a skillet to ye!" well, she was just a-biling. i begun to lay for a chance; i reckoned i would sneak out and go for the woods till the weather moderated. she kept a-raging right along, running her insurrection all by herself, and everybody else mighty meek and quiet; and at last uncle silas, looking kind of foolish, fishes up that spoon out of his pocket. she stopped, with her mouth open and her hands up; and as for me, i wished i was in jeruslem or somewheres. but not long, because she says: "it's _just_ as i expected. so you had it in your pocket all the time; and like as not you've got the other things there, too. how'd it get there?" "i reely don't know, sally," he says, kind of apologizing, "or you know i would tell. i was a-studying over my text in acts seventeen before breakfast, and i reckon i put it in there, not noticing, meaning to put my testament in, and it must be so, because my testament ain't in; but i'll go and see; and if the testament is where i had it, i'll know i didn't put it in, and that will show that i laid the testament down and took up the spoon, and--" "oh, for the land's sake! give a body a rest! go 'long now, the whole kit and biling of ye; and don't come nigh me again till i've got back my peace of mind." i'd 'a' heard her if she'd 'a' said it to herself, let alone speaking it out; and i'd 'a' got up and obeyed her if i'd 'a' been dead. as we was passing through the setting-room the old man he took up his hat, and the shingle-nail fell out on the floor, and he just merely picked it up and laid it on the mantel-shelf, and never said nothing, and went out. tom see him do it, and remembered about the spoon, and says: "well, it ain't no use to send things by _him_ no more, he ain't reliable." then he says: "but he done us a good turn with the spoon, anyway, without knowing it, and so we'll go and do him one without _him_ knowing it--stop up his rat-holes." there was a noble good lot of them down cellar, and it took us a whole hour, but we done the job tight and good and shipshape. then we heard steps on the stairs, and blowed out our light and hid; and here comes the old man, with a candle in one hand and a bundle of stuff in t'other, looking as absent-minded as year before last. he went a-mooning around, first to one rat-hole and then another, till he'd been to them all. then he stood about five minutes, picking tallow-drip off of his candle and thinking. then he turns off slow and dreamy towards the stairs, saying: "well, for the life of me i can't remember when i done it. i could show her now that i warn't to blame on account of the rats. but never mind--let it go. i reckon it wouldn't do no good." and so he went on a-mumbling up-stairs, and then we left. he was a mighty nice old man. and always is. tom was a good deal bothered about what to do for a spoon, but he said we'd got to have it; so he took a think. when he had ciphered it out he told me how we was to do; then we went and waited around the spoon-basket till we see aunt sally coming, and then tom went to counting the spoons and laying them out to one side, and i slid one of them up my sleeve, and tom says: "why, aunt sally, there ain't but nine spoons _yet_." she says: "go 'long to your play, and don't bother me. i know better, i counted 'm myself." "well, i've counted them twice, aunty, and _i_ can't make but nine." she looked out of all patience, but of course she come to count--anybody would. "i declare to gracious ther' _ain't_ but nine!" she says. "why, what in the world--plague _take_ the things, i'll count 'm again." so i slipped back the one i had, and when she got done counting, she says: "hang the troublesome rubbage, ther's _ten_ now!" and she looked huffy and bothered both. but tom says: "why, aunty, i don't think there's ten." "you numskull, didn't you see me _count_ 'm?" "i know, but--" "well, i'll count 'm again." so i smouched one, and they come out nine, same as the other time. well, she _was_ in a tearing way--just a-trembling all over, she was so mad. but she counted and counted till she got that addled she'd start to count in the basket for a spoon sometimes; and so, three times they come out right, and three times they come out wrong. then she grabbed up the basket and slammed it across the house and knocked the cat galley-west; and she said cler out and let her have some peace, and if we come bothering around her again betwixt that and dinner she'd skin us. so we had the odd spoon, and dropped it in her apron pocket whilst she was a-giving us our sailing orders, and jim got it all right, along with her shingle-nail, before noon. we was very well satisfied with this business, and tom allowed it was worth twice the trouble it took, because he said _now_ she couldn't ever count them spoons twice alike again to save her life; and wouldn't believe she'd counted them right if she _did_; and said that after she'd about counted her head off for the next three days he judged she'd give it up and offer to kill anybody that wanted her to ever count them any more. so we put the sheet back on the line that night, and stole one out of her closet; and kept on putting it back and stealing it again for a couple of days till she didn't know how many sheets she had any more, and she didn't _care_, and warn't a-going to bullyrag the rest of her soul out about it, and wouldn't count them again not to save her life; she druther die first. so we was all right now, as to the shirt and the sheet and the spoon and the candles, by the help of the calf and the rats and the mixed-up counting; and as to the candlestick, it warn't no consequence, it would blow over by and by. but that pie was a job; we had no end of trouble with that pie. we fixed it up away down in the woods, and cooked it there; and we got it done at last, and very satisfactory, too; but not all in one day; and we had to use up three wash-pans full of flour before we got through, and we got burnt pretty much all over, in places, and eyes put out with the smoke; because, you see, we didn't want nothing but a crust, and we couldn't prop it up right, and she would always cave in. but of course we thought of the right way at last--which was to cook the ladder, too, in the pie. so then we laid in with jim the second night, and tore up the sheet all in little strings and twisted them together, and long before daylight we had a lovely rope that you could 'a' hung a person with. we let on it took nine months to make it. and in the forenoon we took it down to the woods, but it wouldn't go into the pie. being made of a whole sheet, that way, there was rope enough for forty pies if we'd 'a' wanted them, and plenty left over for soup, or sausage, or anything you choose. we could 'a' had a whole dinner. but we didn't need it. all we needed was just enough for the pie, and so we throwed the rest away. we didn't cook none of the pies in the washpan--afraid the solder would melt; but uncle silas he had a noble brass warming-pan which he thought considerable of, because it belonged to one of his ancesters with a long wooden handle that come over from england with william the conqueror in the _mayflower_ or one of them early ships and was hid away up garret with a lot of other old pots and things that was valuable, not on account of being any account, because they warn't, but on account of them being relicts, you know, and we snaked her out, private, and took her down there, but she failed on the first pies, because we didn't know how, but she come up smiling on the last one. we took and lined her with dough, and set her in the coals, and loaded her up with rag rope, and put on a dough roof, and shut down the lid, and put hot embers on top, and stood off five foot, with the long handle, cool and comfortable, and in fifteen minutes she turned out a pie that was a satisfaction to look at. but the person that et it would want to fetch a couple of kags of toothpicks along, for if that rope ladder wouldn't cramp him down to business i don't know nothing what i'm talking about, and lay him in enough stomach-ache to last him till next time, too. nat didn't look when we put the witch pie in jim's pan; and we put the three tin plates in the bottom of the pan under the vittles; and so jim got everything all right, and as soon as he was by himself he busted into the pie and hid the rope ladder inside of his straw tick, and scratched some marks on a tin plate and throwed it out of the window-hole. chapter xxxviii making them pens was a distressid tough job, and so was the saw; and jim allowed the inscription was going to be the toughest of all. that's the one which the prisoner has to scrabble on the wall. but he had to have it; tom said he'd _got_ to; there warn't no case of a state prisoner not scrabbling his inscription to leave behind, and his coat of arms. "look at lady jane grey," he says; "look at gilford dudley; look at old northumberland! why, huck, s'pose it _is_ considerble trouble?--what you going to do?--how you going to get around it? jim's _got_ to do his inscription and coat of arms. they all do." jim says: "why, mars tom, i hain't got no coat o' arm; i hain't got nuffn but dish yer ole shirt, en you knows i got to keep de journal on dat." "oh, you don't understand, jim; a coat of arms is very different." "well," i says, "jim's right, anyway, when he says he ain't got no coat of arms, because he hain't." "i reckon i knowed that," tom says, "but you bet he'll have one before he goes out of this--because he's going out _right_, and there ain't going to be no flaws in his record." so whilst me and jim filed away at the pens on a brickbat apiece, jim a-making his'n out of the brass and i making mine out of the spoon, tom set to work to think out the coat of arms. by and by he said he'd struck so many good ones he didn't hardly know which to take, but there was one which he reckoned he'd decide on. he says: "on the scutcheon we'll have a bend _or_ in the dexter base, a saltire _murrey_ in the fess, with a dog, couchant, for common charge, and under his foot a chain embattled, for slavery, with a chevron _vert_ in a chief engrailed, and three invected lines on a field _azure_, with the nombril points rampant on a dancette indented; crest, a runaway nigger, _sable_, with his bundle over his shoulder on a bar sinister; and a couple of gules for supporters, which is you and me; motto, _maggiore fretta, minore atto_. got it out of a book--means the more haste the less speed." "geewhillikins," i says, "but what does the rest of it mean?" "we ain't got no time to bother over that," he says; "we got to dig in like all git-out." "well, anyway," i says, "what's _some_ of it? what's a fess?" "a fess--a fess is--_you_ don't need to know what a fess is. i'll show him how to make it when he gets to it." "shucks, tom," i says, "i think you might tell a person. what's a bar sinister?" "oh, i don't know. but he's got to have it. all the nobility does." that was just his way. if it didn't suit him to explain a thing to you, he wouldn't do it. you might pump at him a week, it wouldn't make no difference. he'd got all that coat-of-arms business fixed, so now he started in to finish up the rest of that part of the work, which was to plan out a mournful inscription--said jim got to have one, like they all done. he made up a lot, and wrote them out on a paper, and read them off, so: _ . here a captive heart busted. . here a poor prisoner, forsook by the world and friends, fretted his sorrowful life. . here a lonely heart broke, and a worn spirit went to its rest, after thirty-seven years of solitary captivity. . here, homeless and friendless, after thirty-seven years of bitter captivity, perished a noble stranger, natural son of louis xiv._ tom's voice trembled whilst he was reading them, and he most broke down. when he got done he couldn't no way make up his mind which one for jim to scrabble onto the wall, they was all so good; but at last he allowed he would let him scrabble them all on. jim said it would take him a year to scrabble such a lot of truck onto the logs with a nail, and he didn't know how to make letters, besides; but tom said he would block them out for him, and then he wouldn't have nothing to do but just follow the lines. then pretty soon he says: "come to think, the logs ain't a-going to do; they don't have log walls in a dungeon: we got to dig the inscriptions into a rock. we'll fetch a rock." jim said the rock was worse than the logs; he said it would take him such a pison long time to dig them into a rock he wouldn't ever get out. but tom said he would let me help him do it. then he took a look to see how me and jim was getting along with the pens. it was most pesky tedious hard work and slow, and didn't give my hands no show to get well of the sores, and we didn't seem to make no headway, hardly; so tom says: "i know how to fix it. we got to have a rock for the coat of arms and mournful inscriptions, and we can kill two birds with that same rock. there's a gaudy big grindstone down at the mill, and we'll smouch it, and carve the things on it, and file out the pens and the saw on it, too." it warn't no slouch of an idea; and it warn't no slouch of a grindstone nuther; but we allowed we'd tackle it. it warn't quite midnight yet, so we cleared out for the mill, leaving jim at work. we smouched the grindstone, and set out to roll her home, but it was a most nation tough job. sometimes, do what we could, we couldn't keep her from falling over, and she come mighty near mashing us every time. tom said she was going to get one of us, sure, before we got through. we got her halfway; and then we was plumb played out, and most drownded with sweat. we see it warn't no use; we got to go and fetch jim. so he raised up his bed and slid the chain off of the bed-leg, and wrapt it round and round his neck, and we crawled out through our hole and down there, and jim and me laid into that grindstone and walked her along like nothing; and tom superintended. he could out-superintend any boy i ever see. he knowed how to do everything. our hole was pretty big, but it warn't big enough to get the grindstone through; but jim he took the pick and soon made it big enough. then tom marked out them things on it with the nail, and set jim to work on them, with the nail for a chisel and an iron bolt from the rubbage in the lean-to for a hammer, and told him to work till the rest of his candle quit on him, and then he could go to bed, and hide the grindstone under his straw tick and sleep on it. then we helped him fix his chain back on the bed-leg, and was ready for bed ourselves. but tom thought of something, and says: "you got any spiders in here, jim?" "no, sah, thanks to goodness i hain't, mars tom." "all right, we'll get you some." "but bless you, honey, i doan' _want_ none. i's afeard un um. i jis' 's soon have rattlesnakes aroun'." tom thought a minute or two, and says: "it's a good idea. and i reckon it's been done. it _must_ 'a' been done; it stands to reason. yes, it's a prime good idea. where could you keep it?" "keep what, mars tom?" "why, a rattlesnake." "de goodness gracious alive, mars tom! why, if dey was a rattlesnake to come in heah i'd take en bust right out thoo dat log wall, i would, wid my head." "why, jim, you wouldn't be afraid of it after a little. you could tame it." "_tame_ it!" "yes--easy enough. every animal is grateful for kindness and petting, and they wouldn't _think_ of hurting a person that pets them. any book will tell you that. you try--that's all i ask; just try for two or three days. why, you can get him so in a little while that he'll love you; and sleep with you; and won't stay away from you a minute; and will let you wrap him round your neck and put his head in your mouth." "_please_, tom--_doan_' talk so! i can't _stan'_ it! he'd _let_ me shove his head in my mouf--fer a favor, hain't it? i lay he'd wait a pow'ful long time 'fo' i _ast_ him. en mo' en dat, i doan' _want_ him to sleep wid me." "jim, don't act so foolish. a prisoner's _got_ to have some kind of a dumb pet, and if a rattlesnake hain't ever been tried, why, there's more glory to be gained in your being the first to ever try it than any other way you could ever think of to save your life." "why, mars tom, i doan' _want_ no sich glory. snake take 'n bite jim's chin off, den _whah_ is de glory? no, sah, i doan' want no sich doin's." "blame it, can't you _try?_ i only _want_ you to try--you needn't keep it up if it don't work." "but de trouble all _done_ ef de snake bite me while i's a-tryin' him. mars tom, i's willin' to tackle mos' anything 'at ain't onreasonable, but ef you en huck fetches a rattlesnake in heah for me to tame, i's gwyne to _leave_, dat's _shore_." "well, then, let it go, let it go, if you're so bull-headed about it. we can get you some garter-snakes, and you can tie some buttons on their tails, and let on they're rattlesnakes, and i reckon that 'll have to do." "i k'n stan' _dem_, mars tom, but blame' 'f i couldn' get along widout um, i tell you dat. i never knowed b'fo' 'twas so much bother and trouble to be a prisoner." "well, it _always_ is when it's done right. you got any rats around here?" "no, sah, i hain't seed none." "well, we'll get you some rats." "why, mars tom, i doan' _want_ no rats. dey's de dadblamedest creturs to 'sturb a body, en rustle roun' over 'im, en bite his feet, when he's tryin' to sleep, i ever see. no, sah, gimme g'yarter-snakes, 'f i's got to have 'm, but doan' gimme no rats; i hain' got no use f'r um, skasely." "but, jim, you _got_ to have 'em--they all do. so don't make no more fuss about it. prisoners ain't ever without rats. there ain't no instance of it. and they train them, and pet them, and learn them tricks, and they get to be as sociable as flies. but you got to play music to them. you got anything to play music on?" "i ain' got nuffn but a coase comb en a piece o' paper, en a juice-harp; but i reck'n dey wouldn' take no stock in a juice-harp." "yes they would. _they_ don't care what kind of music 'tis. a jews-harp's plenty good enough for a rat. all animals like music--in a prison they dote on it. specially, painful music; and you can't get no other kind out of a jew's-harp. it always interests them; they come out to see what's the matter with you. yes, you're all right; you're fixed very well. you want to set on your bed nights before you go to sleep, and early in the mornings, and play your jew's-harp; play 'the last link is broken'--that's the thing that 'll scoop a rat quicker 'n anything else; and when you've played about two minutes you'll see all the rats, and the snakes, and spiders and things begin to feel worried about you, and come. and they'll just fairly swarm over you, and have a noble good time." "yes, _dey_ will, i reck'n, mars tom, but what kine er time is _jim_ havin'? blest if i kin see de pint. but i'll do it ef i got to. i reck'n i better keep de animals satisfied, en not have no trouble in de house." tom waited to think it over, and see if there wasn't nothing else; and pretty soon he says: "oh, there's one thing i forgot. could you raise a flower here, do you reckon?" "i doan' know but maybe i could, mars tom; but it's tolable dark in heah, en i ain' got no use f'r no flower, nohow, en she'd be a pow'ful sight o' trouble." "well, you try it, anyway. some other prisoners has done it." "one er dem big cat-tail-lookin' mullen-stalks would grow in heah, mars tom, i reck'n, but she wouldn't be wuth half de trouble she'd coss." "don't you believe it. we'll fetch you a little one and you plant it in the corner over there, and raise it. and don't call it mullen, call it pitchiola--that's its right name when it's in a prison. and you want to water it with your tears." "why, i got plenty spring water, mars tom." "you don't _want_ spring water; you want to water it with your tears. it's the way they always do." "why, mars tom, i lay i kin raise one er dem mullen-stalks twyste wid spring water whiles another man's a start'n one wid tears." "that ain't the idea. you _got_ to do it with tears." "she'll die on my han's, mars tom, she sholy will; kase i doan' skasely ever cry." so tom was stumped. but he studied it over, and then said jim would have to worry along the best he could with an onion. he promised he would go to the nigger cabins and drop one, private, in jim's coffee-pot, in the morning. jim said he would "jis' 's soon have tobacker in his coffee"; and found so much fault with it, and with the work and bother of raising the mullen, and jew's-harping the rats, and petting and flattering up the snakes and spiders and things, on top of all the other work he had to do on pens, and inscriptions, and journals, and things, which made it more trouble and worry and responsibility to be a prisoner than anything he ever undertook, that tom most lost all patience with him; and said he was just loadened down with more gaudier chances than a prisoner ever had in the world to make a name for himself, and yet he didn't know enough to appreciate them, and they was just about wasted on him. so jim he was sorry, and said he wouldn't behave so no more, and then me and tom shoved for bed. chapter xxxix in the morning we went up to the village and bought a wire rat-trap and fetched it down, and unstopped the best rat-hole, and in about an hour we had fifteen of the bulliest kind of ones; and then we took it and put it in a safe place under aunt sally's bed. but while we was gone for spiders little thomas franklin benjamin jefferson elexander phelps found it there, and opened the door of it to see if the rats would come out, and they did; and aunt sally she come in, and when we got back she was a-standing on top of the bed raising cain, and the rats was doing what they could to keep off the dull times for her. so she took and dusted us both with the hickry, and we was as much as two hours catching another fifteen or sixteen, drat that meddlesome cub, and they warn't the likeliest, nuther, because the first haul was the pick of the flock. i never see a likelier lot of rats than what that first haul was. we got a splendid stock of sorted spiders, and bugs, and frogs, and caterpillars, and one thing or another; and we like to got a hornet's nest, but we didn't. the family was at home. we didn't give it right up, but stayed with them as long as we could; because we allowed we'd tire them out or they'd got to tire us out, and they done it. then we got allycumpain and rubbed on the places, and was pretty near all right again, but couldn't set down convenient. and so we went for the snakes, and grabbed a couple of dozen garters and house-snakes, and put them in a bag, and put it in our room, and by that time it was supper-time, and a rattling good honest day's work: and hungry?--oh, no, i reckon not! and there warn't a blessed snake up there when we went back--we didn't half tie the sack, and they worked out somehow, and left. but it didn't matter much, because they was still on the premises somewheres. so we judged we could get some of them again. no, there warn't no real scarcity of snakes about the house for a considerable spell. you'd see them dripping from the rafters and places every now and then; and they generly landed in your plate, or down the back of your neck, and most of the time where you didn't want them. well, they was handsome and striped, and there warn't no harm in a million of them; but that never made no difference to aunt sally; she despised snakes, be the breed what they might, and she couldn't stand them no way you could fix it; and every time one of them flopped down on her, it didn't make no difference what she was doing, she would just lay that work down and light out. i never see such a woman. and you could hear her whoop to jericho. you couldn't get her to take a-holt of one of them with the tongs. and if she turned over and found one in bed she would scramble out and lift a howl that you would think the house was afire. she disturbed the old man so that he said he could most wish there hadn't ever been no snakes created. why, after every last snake had been gone clear out of the house for as much as a week aunt sally warn't over it yet; she warn't near over it; when she was setting thinking about something you could touch her on the back of her neck with a feather and she would jump right out of her stockings. it was very curious. but tom said all women was just so. he said they was made that way for some reason or other. we got a licking every time one of our snakes come in her way, and she allowed these lickings warn't nothing to what she would do if we ever loaded up the place again with them. i didn't mind the lickings, because they didn't amount to nothing; but i minded the trouble we had to lay in another lot. but we got them laid in, and all the other things; and you never see a cabin as blithesome as jim's was when they'd all swarm out for music and go for him. jim didn't like the spiders, and the spiders didn't like jim; and so they'd lay for him, and make it mighty warm for him. and he said that between the rats and the snakes and the grindstone there warn't no room in bed for him, skasely; and when there was, a body couldn't sleep, it was so lively, and it was always lively, he said, because _they_ never all slept at one time, but took turn about, so when the snakes was asleep the rats was on deck, and when the rats turned in the snakes come on watch, so he always had one gang under him, in his way, and t'other gang having a circus over him, and if he got up to hunt a new place the spiders would take a chance at him as he crossed over. he said if he ever got out this time he wouldn't ever be a prisoner again, not for a salary. well, by the end of three weeks everything was in pretty good shape. the shirt was sent in early, in a pie, and every time a rat bit jim he would get up and write a line in his journal whilst the ink was fresh; the pens was made, the inscriptions and so on was all carved on the grindstone; the bed-leg was sawed in two, and we had et up the sawdust, and it give us a most amazing stomach-ache. we reckoned we was all going to die, but didn't. it was the most undigestible sawdust i ever see; and tom said the same. but as i was saying, we'd got all the work done now, at last; and we was all pretty much fagged out, too, but mainly jim. the old man had wrote a couple of times to the plantation below orleans to come and get their runaway nigger, but hadn't got no answer, because there warn't no such plantation; so he allowed he would advertise jim in the st. louis and new orleans papers; and when he mentioned the st. louis ones it give me the cold shivers, and i see we hadn't no time to lose. so tom said, now for the nonnamous letters. "what's them?" i says. "warnings to the people that something is up. sometimes it's done one way, sometimes another. but there's always somebody spying around that gives notice to the governor of the castle. when louis xvi. was going to light out of the tooleries a servant-girl done it. it's a very good way, and so is the nonnamous letters. we'll use them both. and it's usual for the prisoner's mother to change clothes with him, and she stays in, and he slides out in her clothes. we'll do that, too." "but looky here, tom, what do we want to _warn_ anybody for that something's up? let them find it out for themselves--it's their lookout." "yes, i know; but you can't depend on them. it's the way they've acted from the very start--left us to do _everything_. they're so confiding and mullet-headed they don't take notice of nothing at all. so if we don't _give_ them notice there won't be nobody nor nothing to interfere with us, and so after all our hard work and trouble this escape 'll go off perfectly flat; won't amount to nothing--won't be nothing _to_ it." "well, as for me, tom, that's the way i'd like." "shucks!" he says, and looked disgusted. so i says: "but i ain't going to make no complaint. any way that suits you suits me. what you going to do about the servant-girl?" "you'll be her. you slide in, in the middle of the night, and hook that yaller girl's frock." "why, tom, that 'll make trouble next morning; because, of course, she prob'bly hain't got any but that one." "i know; but you don't want it but fifteen minutes, to carry the nonnamous letter and shove it under the front door." "all right, then, i'll do it; but i could carry it just as handy in my own togs." "you wouldn't look like a servant-girl _then_, would you?" "no, but there won't be nobody to see what i look like, _anyway_." "that ain't got nothing to do with it. the thing for us to do is just to do our _duty_, and not worry about whether anybody _sees_ us do it or not. hain't you got no principle at all?" "all right, i ain't saying nothing; i'm the servant-girl. who's jim's mother?" "i'm his mother. i'll hook a gown from aunt sally." "well, then, you'll have to stay in the cabin when me and jim leaves." "not much. i'll stuff jim's clothes full of straw and lay it on his bed to represent his mother in disguise, and jim 'll take the nigger woman's gown off of me and wear it, and we'll all evade together. when a prisoner of style escapes it's called an evasion. it's always called so when a king escapes, f'rinstance. and the same with a king's son; it don't make no difference whether he's a natural one or an unnatural one." so tom he wrote the nonnamous letter, and i smouched the yaller wench's frock that night, and put it on, and shoved it under the front door, the way tom told me to. it said: _beware. trouble is brewing. keep a sharp lookout. unknown friend._ next night we stuck a picture, which tom drawed in blood, of a skull and crossbones on the front door; and next night another one of a coffin on the back door. i never see a family in such a sweat. they couldn't 'a' been worse scared if the place had 'a' been full of ghosts laying for them behind everything and under the beds and shivering through the air. if a door banged, aunt sally she jumped and said "ouch!" if anything fell, she jumped and said "ouch!" if you happened to touch her, when she warn't noticing, she done the same; she couldn't face no way and be satisfied, because she allowed there was something behind her every time--so she was always a-whirling around sudden, and saying "ouch," and before she'd got two-thirds around she'd whirl back again, and say it again; and she was afraid to go to bed, but she dasn't set up. so the thing was working very well, tom said; he said he never see a thing work more satisfactory. he said it showed it was done right. so he said, now for the grand bulge! so the very next morning at the streak of dawn we got another letter ready, and was wondering what we better do with it, because we heard them say at supper they was going to have a nigger on watch at both doors all night. tom he went down the lightning-rod to spy around; and the nigger at the back door was asleep, and he stuck it in the back of his neck and come back. this letter said: _don't betray me, i wish to be your friend. there is a desprate gang of cutthroats from over in the indian territory going to steal your runaway nigger to-night, and they have been trying to scare you so as you will stay in the house and not bother them. i am one of the gang, but have got religgion and wish to quit it and lead an honest life again, and will betray the helish design. they will sneak down from northards, along the fence, at midnight exact, with a false key, and go in the nigger's cabin to get him. i am to be off a piece and blow a tin horn if i see any danger; but stead of that i will ba like a sheep soon as they get in and not blow at all; then whilst they are getting his chains loose, you slip there and lock them in, and can kill them at your leasure. don't do anything but just the way i am telling you; if you do they will suspicion something and raise whoop-jamboreehoo. i do not wish any reward but to know i have done the right thing. unknown friend._ chapter xl we was feeling pretty good after breakfast, and took my canoe and went over the river a-fishing, with a lunch, and had a good time, and took a look at the raft and found her all right, and got home late to supper, and found them in such a sweat and worry they didn't know which end they was standing on, and made us go right off to bed the minute we was done supper, and wouldn't tell us what the trouble was, and never let on a word about the new letter, but didn't need to, because we knowed as much about it as anybody did, and as soon as we was half up-stairs and her back was turned we slid for the cellar cubboard and loaded up a good lunch and took it up to our room and went to bed, and got up about half past eleven, and tom put on aunt sally's dress that he stole and was going to start with the lunch, but says: "where's the butter?" "i laid out a hunk of it," i says, "on a piece of a corn-pone." "well, you _left_ it laid out, then--it ain't here." "we can get along without it," i says. "we can get along _with_ it, too," he says; "just you slide down cellar and fetch it. and then mosey right down the lightning-rod and come along. i'll go and stuff the straw into jim's clothes to represent his mother in disguise, and be ready to _ba_ like a sheep and shove soon as you get there." so out he went, and down cellar went i. the hunk of butter, big as a person's fist, was where i had left it, so i took up the slab of corn-pone with it on, and blowed out my light, and started up-stairs very stealthy, and got up to the main floor all right, but here comes aunt sally with a candle, and i clapped the truck in my hat, and clapped my hat on my head, and the next second she see me; and she says: "you been down cellar?" "yes'm." "what you been doing down there?" "noth'n." "_noth'n!_" "no'm." "well, then, what possessed you to go down there this time of night?" "i don't know 'm." "you don't _know?_ don't answer me that way. tom, i want to know what you been _doing_ down there." "i hain't been doing a single thing, aunt sally, i hope to gracious if i have." i reckoned she'd let me go now, and as a generl thing she would; but i s'pose there was so many strange things going on she was just in a sweat about every little thing that warn't yard-stick straight; so she says, very decided: "you just march into that setting-room and stay there till i come. you been up to something you no business to, and i lay i'll find out what it is before _i'm_ done with you." so she went away as i opened the door and walked into the setting-room. my, but there was a crowd there! fifteen farmers, and every one of them had a gun. i was most powerful sick, and slunk to a chair and set down. they was setting around, some of them talking a little, in a low voice, and all of them fidgety and uneasy, but trying to look like they warn't; but i knowed they was, because they was always taking off their hats, and putting them on, and scratching their heads, and changing their seats, and fumbling with their buttons. i warn't easy myself, but i didn't take my hat off, all the same. i did wish aunt sally would come, and get done with me, and lick me, if she wanted to, and let me get away and tell tom how we'd overdone this thing, and what a thundering hornet's nest we'd got ourselves into, so we could stop fooling around straight off, and clear out with jim before these rips got out of patience and come for us. at last she come and begun to ask me questions, but i _couldn't_ answer them straight, i didn't know which end of me was up; because these men was in such a fidget now that some was wanting to start right _now_ and lay for them desperadoes, and saying it warn't but a few minutes to midnight; and others was trying to get them to hold on and wait for the sheep-signal; and here was aunty pegging away at the questions, and me a-shaking all over and ready to sink down in my tracks i was that scared; and the place getting hotter and hotter, and the butter beginning to melt and run down my neck and behind my ears; and pretty soon, when one of them says, "_i'm_ for going and getting in the cabin _first_ and right _now_, and catching them when they come," i most dropped; and a streak of butter come a-trickling down my forehead, and aunt sally she see it, and turns white as a sheet, and says: "for the land's sake, what _is_ the matter with the child? he's got the brain-fever as shore as you're born, and they're oozing out!" and everybody runs to see, and she snatches off my hat, and out comes the bread and what was left of the butter, and she grabbed me, and hugged me, and says: "oh, what a turn you did give me! and how glad and grateful i am it ain't no worse; for luck's against us, and it never rains but it pours, and when i see that truck i thought we'd lost you, for i knowed by the color and all it was just like your brains would be if--dear, dear, whyd'nt you _tell_ me that was what you'd been down there for, _i_ wouldn't 'a' cared. now cler out to bed, and don't lemme see no more of you till morning!" i was up-stairs in a second, and down the lightning-rod in another one, and shinning through the dark for the lean-to. i couldn't hardly get my words out, i was so anxious; but i told tom as quick as i could we must jump for it now, and not a minute to lose--the house full of men, yonder, with guns! his eyes just blazed; and he says: "no!--is that so? _ain't_ it bully! why, huck, if it was to do over again, i bet i could fetch two hundred! if we could put it off till--" "hurry! _hurry!_" i says. "where's jim?" "right at your elbow; if you reach out your arm you can touch him. he's dressed, and everything's ready. now we'll slide out and give the sheep-signal." but then we heard the tramp of men coming to the door, and heard them begin to fumble with the padlock, and heard a man say: "i _told_ you we'd be too soon; they haven't come--the door is locked. here, i'll lock some of you into the cabin, and you lay for 'em in the dark and kill 'em when they come; and the rest scatter around a piece, and listen if you can hear 'em coming." so in they come, but couldn't see us in the dark, and most trod on us whilst we was hustling to get under the bed. but we got under all right, and out through the hole, swift but soft--jim first, me next, and tom last, which was according to tom's orders. now we was in the lean-to, and heard trampings close by outside. so we crept to the door, and tom stopped us there and put his eye to the crack, but couldn't make out nothing, it was so dark; and whispered and said he would listen for the steps to get further, and when he nudged us jim must glide out first, and him last. so he set his ear to the crack and listened, and listened, and listened, and the steps a-scraping around out there all the time; and at last he nudged us, and we slid out, and stooped down, not breathing, and not making the least noise, and slipped stealthy towards the fence in injun file, and got to it all right, and me and jim over it; but tom's britches catched fast on a splinter on the top rail, and then he hear the steps coming, so he had to pull loose, which snapped the splinter and made a noise; and as he dropped in our tracks and started somebody sings out: "who's that? answer, or i'll shoot!" but we didn't answer; we just unfurled our heels and shoved. then there was a rush, and a _bang,_ _bang,_ _bang!_ and the bullets fairly whizzed around us! we heard them sing out: "here they are! they've broke for the river! after 'em, boys, and turn loose the dogs!" so here they come, full tilt. we could hear them because they wore boots and yelled, but we didn't wear no boots and didn't yell. we was in the path to the mill; and when they got pretty close onto us we dodged into the bush and let them go by, and then dropped in behind them. they'd had all the dogs shut up, so they wouldn't scare off the robbers; but by this time somebody had let them loose, and here they come, making powwow enough for a million; but they was our dogs; so we stopped in our tracks till they catched up; and when they see it warn't nobody but us, and no excitement to offer them, they only just said howdy, and tore right ahead towards the shouting and clattering; and then we up-steam again, and whizzed along after them till we was nearly to the mill, and then struck up through the bush to where my canoe was tied, and hopped in and pulled for dear life towards the middle of the river, but didn't make no more noise than we was obleeged to. then we struck out, easy and comfortable, for the island where my raft was; and we could hear them yelling and barking at each other all up and down the bank, till we was so far away the sounds got dim and died out. and when we stepped onto the raft i says: "now, old jim, you're a free man _again_, and i bet you won't ever be a slave no more." "en a mighty good job it wuz, too, huck. it 'uz planned beautiful, en it 'uz _done_ beautiful; en dey ain't _nobody_ kin git up a plan dat's mo' mixed up en splendid den what dat one wuz." we was all glad as we could be, but tom was the gladdest of all because he had a bullet in the calf of his leg. when me and jim heard that we didn't feel as brash as what we did before. it was hurting him considerable, and bleeding; so we laid him in the wigwam and tore up one of the duke's shirts for to bandage him, but he says: "gimme the rags; i can do it myself. don't stop now; don't fool around here, and the evasion booming along so handsome; man the sweeps, and set her loose! boys, we done it elegant!--'deed we did. i wish _we'd_ 'a' had the handling of louis xvi., there wouldn't 'a' been no 'son of saint louis, ascend to heaven!' wrote down in _his_ biography; no, sir, we'd 'a' whooped him over the _border_--that's what we'd 'a' done with _him_--and done it just as slick as nothing at all, too. man the sweeps--man the sweeps!" but me and jim was consulting--and thinking. and after we'd thought a minute, i says: "say it, jim." so he says: "well, den, dis is de way it look to me, huck. ef it wuz _him_ dat 'uz bein' sot free, en one er de boys wuz to git shot, would he say, 'go on en save me, nemmine 'bout a doctor f'r to save dis one'? is dat like mars tom sawyer? would he say dat? you _bet_ he wouldn't! _well_, den, is _jim_ gywne to say it? no, sah--i doan' budge a step out'n dis place 'dout a _doctor_; not if it's forty year!" i knowed he was white inside, and i reckoned he'd say what he did say--so it was all right now, and i told tom i was a-going for a doctor. he raised considerable row about it, but me and jim stuck to it and wouldn't budge; so he was for crawling out and setting the raft loose himself; but we wouldn't let him. then he give us a piece of his mind, but it didn't do no good. so when he sees me getting the canoe ready, he says: "well, then, if you're bound to go, i'll tell you the way to do when you get to the village. shut the door and blindfold the doctor tight and fast, and make him swear to be silent as the grave, and put a purse full of gold in his hand, and then take and lead him all around the back alleys and everywheres in the dark, and then fetch him here in the canoe, in a roundabout way amongst the islands, and search him and take his chalk away from him, and don't give it back to him till you get him back to the village, or else he will chalk this raft so he can find it again. it's the way they all do." so i said i would, and left, and jim was to hide in the woods when he see the doctor coming till he was gone again. chapter xli the doctor was an old man; a very nice, kind-looking old man when i got him up. i told him me and my brother was over on spanish island hunting yesterday afternoon, and camped on a piece of a raft we found, and about midnight he must 'a' kicked his gun in his dreams, for it went off and shot him in the leg, and we wanted him to go over there and fix it and not say nothing about it, nor let anybody know, because we wanted to come home this evening and surprise the folks. "who is your folks?" he says. "the phelpses, down yonder." "oh," he says. and after a minute, he says: "how'd you say he got shot?" "he had a dream," i says, "and it shot him." "singular dream," he says. so he lit up his lantern, and got his saddle-bags, and we started. but when he see the canoe he didn't like the look of her--said she was big enough for one, but didn't look pretty safe for two. i says: "oh, you needn't be afeard, sir, she carried the three of us easy enough." "what three?" "why, me and sid, and--and--and _the guns_; that's what i mean." "oh," he says. but he put his foot on the gunnel and rocked her, and shook his head, and said he reckoned he'd look around for a bigger one. but they was all locked and chained; so he took my canoe, and said for me to wait till he come back, or i could hunt around further, or maybe i better go down home and get them ready for the surprise if i wanted to. but i said i didn't; so i told him just how to find the raft, and then he started. i struck an idea pretty soon. i says to myself, spos'n he can't fix that leg just in three shakes of a sheep's tail, as the saying is? spos'n it takes him three or four days? what are we going to do?--lay around there till he lets the cat out of the bag? no, sir; i know what _i'll_ do. i'll wait, and when he comes back if he says he's got to go any more i'll get down there, too, if i swim; and we'll take and tie him, and keep him, and shove out down the river; and when tom's done with him we'll give him what it's worth, or all we got, and then let him get ashore. so then i crept into a lumber-pile to get some sleep; and next time i waked up the sun was away up over my head! i shot out and went for the doctor's house, but they told me he'd gone away in the night some time or other, and warn't back yet. well, thinks i, that looks powerful bad for tom, and i'll dig out for the island right off. so away i shoved, and turned the corner, and nearly rammed my head into uncle silas's stomach! he says: "why, _tom!_ where you been all this time, you rascal?" "_i_ hain't been nowheres," i says, "only just hunting for the runaway nigger--me and sid." "why, where ever did you go?" he says. "your aunt's been mighty uneasy." "she needn't," i says, "because we was all right. we followed the men and the dogs, but they outrun us, and we lost them; but we thought we heard them on the water, so we got a canoe and took out after them and crossed over, but couldn't find nothing of them; so we cruised along up-shore till we got kind of tired and beat out; and tied up the canoe and went to sleep, and never waked up till about an hour ago; then we paddled over here to hear the news, and sid's at the post-office to see what he can hear, and i'm a-branching out to get something to eat for us, and then we're going home." so then we went to the post-office to get "sid"; but just as i suspicioned, he warn't there; so the old man he got a letter out of the office, and we waited awhile longer, but sid didn't come; so the old man said, come along, let sid foot it home, or canoe it, when he got done fooling around--but we would ride. i couldn't get him to let me stay and wait for sid; and he said there warn't no use in it, and i must come along, and let aunt sally see we was all right. when we got home aunt sally was that glad to see me she laughed and cried both, and hugged me, and give me one of them lickings of hern that don't amount to shucks, and said she'd serve sid the same when he come. and the place was plum full of farmers and farmers' wives, to dinner; and such another clack a body never heard. old mrs. hotchkiss was the worst; her tongue was a-going all the time. she says: "well, sister phelps, i've ransacked that-air cabin over, an' i b'lieve the nigger was crazy. i says to sister damrell--didn't i, sister damrell?--s'i, he's crazy, s'i--them's the very words i said. you all hearn me: he's crazy, s'i; everything shows it, s'i. look at that-air grindstone, s'i; want to tell _me't_ any cretur 't's in his right mind 's a goin' to scrabble all them crazy things onto a grindstone? s'i. here sich 'n' sich a person busted his heart; 'n' here so 'n' so pegged along for thirty-seven year, 'n' all that--natcherl son o' louis somebody, 'n' sich everlast'n rubbage. he's plumb crazy, s'i; it's what i says in the fust place, it's what i says in the middle, 'n' it's what i says last 'n' all the time--the nigger's crazy--crazy 's nebokoodneezer, s'i." "an' look at that-air ladder made out'n rags, sister hotchkiss," says old mrs. damrell; "what in the name o' goodness _could_ he ever want of--" "the very words i was a-sayin' no longer ago th'n this minute to sister utterback, 'n' she'll tell you so herself. sh-she, look at that-air rag ladder, sh-she; 'n' s'i, yes, look at it, s'i--what _could_ he 'a' wanted of it, s'i. sh-she, sister hotchkiss, sh-she--" "but how in the nation'd they ever _git_ that grindstone _in_ there, _anyway?_ 'n' who dug that-air _hole?_ 'n' who--" "my very _words_, brer penrod! i was a-sayin'--pass that-air sasser o' m'lasses, won't ye?--i was a-sayin' to sister dunlap, jist this minute, how _did_ they git that grindstone in there? s'i. without _help,_ mind you--'thout _help! thar's_ where 'tis. don't tell _me,_ s'i; there _wuz_ help, s'i; 'n' ther' wuz a _plenty_ help, too, s'i; ther's ben a _dozen_ a-helpin' that nigger, 'n' i lay i'd skin every last nigger on this place but _i'd_ find out who done it, s'i; moreover, s'i--" "a _dozen_ says you!--_forty_ couldn't 'a' done everything that's been done. look at them case-knife saws and things, how tedious they've been made; look at that bed-leg sawed off with 'm, a week's work for six men: look at that nigger made out'n straw on the bed; and look at--" "you may _well_ say it, brer hightower! it's jist as i was a-sayin' to brer phelps, his own self. s'e, what do _you_ think of it, sister hotchkiss? s'e. think o' what, brer phelps? s'i. think o' that bed-leg sawed off that a way? s'e? _think_ of it? s'i. i lay it never sawed _itself_ off, s'i--somebody _sawed_ it, s'i; that's my opinion, take it or leave it, it mayn't be no 'count, s'i, but sich as 't is, it's my opinion, s'i, 'n' if anybody k'n start a better one, s'i, let him _do_ it, s'i, that's all. i says to sister dunlap, s'i--" "why, dog my cats, they must 'a' ben a house-full o' niggers in there every night for four weeks to 'a' done all that work, sister phelps. look at that shirt--every last inch of it kivered over with secret african writ'n done with blood! must 'a' ben a raft uv 'm at it right along, all the time, amost. why, i'd give two dollars to have it read to me; 'n' as for the niggers that wrote it, i 'low i'd take 'n' lash 'm t'll--" "people to _help_ him, brother marples! well, i reckon you'd _think_ so if you'd 'a' been in this house for a while back. why, they've stole everything they could lay their hands on--and we a-watching all the time, mind you. they stole that shirt right off o' the line! and as for that sheet they made the rag ladder out of, ther' ain't no telling how many times they _didn't_ steal that; and flour, and candles, and candlesticks, and spoons, and the old warming-pan, and most a thousand things that i disremember now, and my new calico dress; and me and silas and my sid and tom on the constant watch day _and_ night, as i was a-telling you, and not a one of us could catch hide nor hair nor sight nor sound of them; and here at the last minute, lo and behold you, they slides right in under our noses and fools us, and not only fools _us_ but the injun territory robbers too, and actuly gets _away_ with that nigger safe and sound, and that with sixteen men and twenty-two dogs right on their very heels at that very time! i tell you, it just bangs anything i ever _heard_ of. why, _sperits_ couldn't 'a' done better and been no smarter. and i reckon they must 'a' _been_ sperits--because, because, _you_ know our dogs, and ther' ain't no better; well, them dogs never even got on the _track_ of 'm once! you explain _that_ to me if you can!--_any_ of you!" "well, it does beat--" "laws alive, i never--" "so help me, i wouldn't 'a' be--" "_house_-thieves as well as--" "goodnessgracioussakes, i'd 'a' ben afeard to _live_ in sich a--" "fraid to _live!_--why, i was that scared i dasn't hardly go to bed, or get up, or lay down, or _set_ down, sister ridgeway. why, they'd steal the very--why, goodness sakes, you can guess what kind of a fluster i was in by the time midnight come last night. i hope to gracious if i warn't afraid they'd steal some o' the family! i was just to that pass i didn't have no reasoning faculties no more. it looks foolish enough _now_, in the daytime; but i says to myself, there's my two poor boys asleep, 'way upstairs in that lonesome room, and i declare to goodness i was that uneasy 't i crep' up there and locked 'em in! i _did_. and anybody would. because, you know, when you get scared that way, and it keeps running on, and getting worse and worse all the time, and your wits gets to addling, and you get to doing all sorts o' wild things, and by and by you think to yourself, spos'n i was a boy, and was away up there, and the door ain't locked, and you--" she stopped, looking kind of wondering, and then she turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit on me--i got up and took a walk. says i to myself, i can explain better how we come to not be in that room this morning if i go out to one side and study over it a little. so i done it. but i dasn't go fur, or she'd 'a' sent for me. and when it was late in the day the people all went, and then i come in and told her the noise and shooting waked up me and "sid," and the door was locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn't never want to try _that_ no more. and then i went on and told her all what i told uncle silas before; and then she said she'd forgive us, and maybe it was all right enough anyway, and about what a body might expect of boys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she could see; and so, as long as no harm hadn't come of it, she judged she better put in her time being grateful we was alive and well and she had us still, stead of fretting over what was past and done. so then she kissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped into a kind of a brown-study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says: "why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and sid not come yet! what _has_ become of that boy?" i see my chance; so i skips up and says: "i'll run right up to town and get him," i says. "no you won't," she says. "you'll stay right wher' you are; _one's_ enough to be lost at a time. if he ain't here to supper, your uncle 'll go." well, he warn't there to supper; so right after supper uncle went. he come back about ten a little bit uneasy; hadn't run across tom's track. aunt sally was a good _deal_ uneasy; but uncle silas he said there warn't no occasion to be--boys will be boys, he said, and you'll see this one turn up in the morning all sound and right. so she had to be satisfied. but she said she'd set up for him awhile anyway, and keep a light burning so he could see it. and then when i went up to bed she come up with me and fetched her candle, and tucked me in, and mothered me so good i felt mean, and like i couldn't look her in the face; and she set down on the bed and talked with me a long time, and said what a splendid boy sid was, and didn't seem to want to ever stop talking about him; and kept asking me every now and then if i reckoned he could 'a' got lost, or hurt, or maybe drownded, and might be laying at this minute somewheres suffering or dead, and she not by him to help him, and so the tears would drip down silent, and i would tell her that sid was all right, and would be home in the morning, sure; and she would squeeze my hand, or maybe kiss me, and tell me to say it again, and keep on saying it, because it done her good, and she was in so much trouble. and when she was going away she looked down in my eyes so steady and gentle, and says: "the door ain't going to be locked, tom, and there's the window and the rod; but you'll be good, _won't_ you? and you won't go? for _my_ sake." laws knows i _wanted_ to go bad enough to see about tom, and was all intending to go; but after that i wouldn't 'a' went, not for kingdoms. but she was on my mind and tom was on my mind, so i slept very restless. and twice i went down the rod away in the night, and slipped around front, and see her setting there by her candle in the window with her eyes towards the road and the tears in them; and i wished i could do something for her, but i couldn't, only to swear that i wouldn't never do nothing to grieve her any more. and the third time i waked up at dawn, and slid down, and she was there yet, and her candle was most out, and her old gray head was resting on her hand, and she was asleep. chapter xlii the old man was uptown again before breakfast, but couldn't get no track of tom; and both of them set at the table thinking, and not saying nothing, and looking mournful, and their coffee getting cold, and not eating anything. and by and by the old man says: "did i give you the letter?" "what letter?" "the one i got yesterday out of the post-office." "no, you didn't give me no letter." "well, i must 'a' forgot it." so he rummaged his pockets, and then went off somewheres where he had laid it down, and fetched it, and give it to her. she says: "why, it's from st. petersburg--it's from sis." i allowed another walk would do me good; but i couldn't stir. but before she could break it open she dropped it and run--for she see something. and so did i. it was tom sawyer on a mattress; and that old doctor; and jim, in _her_ calico dress, with his hands tied behind him; and a lot of people. i hid the letter behind the first thing that come handy, and rushed. she flung herself at tom, crying, and says: "oh, he's dead, he's dead, i know he's dead!" and tom he turned his head a little, and muttered something or other, which showed he warn't in his right mind; then she flung up her hands, and says: "he's alive, thank god! and that's enough!" and she snatched a kiss of him, and flew for the house to get the bed ready, and scattering orders right and left at the niggers and everybody else, as fast as her tongue could go, every jump of the way. i followed the men to see what they was going to do with jim; and the old doctor and uncle silas followed after tom into the house. the men was very huffy, and some of them wanted to hang jim for an example to all the other niggers around there, so they wouldn't be trying to run away like jim done, and making such a raft of trouble, and keeping a whole family scared most to death for days and nights. but the others said, don't do it, it wouldn't answer at all; he ain't our nigger, and his owner would turn up and make us pay for him, sure. so that cooled them down a little, because the people that's always the most anxious for to hang a nigger that hain't done just right is always the very ones that ain't the most anxious to pay for him when they've got their satisfaction out of him. they cussed jim considerble, though, and give him a cuff or two side the head once in a while, but jim never said nothing, and he never let on to know me, and they took him to the same cabin, and put his own clothes on him, and chained him again, and not to no bed-leg this time, but to a big staple drove into the bottom log, and chained his hands, too, and both legs, and said he warn't to have nothing but bread and water to eat after this till his owner come, or he was sold at auction because he didn't come in a certain length of time, and filled up our hole, and said a couple of farmers with guns must stand watch around about the cabin every night, and a bulldog tied to the door in the daytime; and about this time they was through with the job and was tapering off with a kind of generl good-by cussing, and then the old doctor comes and takes a look, and says: "don't be no rougher on him than you're obleeged to, because he ain't a bad nigger. when i got to where i found the boy i see i couldn't cut the bullet out without some help, and he warn't in no condition for me to leave to go and get help; and he got a little worse and a little worse, and after a long time he went out of his head, and wouldn't let me come a-nigh him any more, and said if i chalked his raft he'd kill me, and no end of wild foolishness like that, and i see i couldn't do anything at all with him; so i says, i got to have _help_ somehow; and the minute i says it out crawls this nigger from somewheres and says he'll help, and he done it, too, and done it very well. of course i judged he must be a runaway nigger, and there i _was!_ and there i had to stick right straight along all the rest of the day and all night. it was a fix, i tell you! i had a couple of patients with the chills, and of course i'd of liked to run up to town and see them, but i dasn't, because the nigger might get away, and then i'd be to blame; and yet never a skiff come close enough for me to hail. so there i had to stick plumb until daylight this morning; and i never see a nigger that was a better nuss or faithfuler, and yet he was risking his freedom to do it, and was all tired out, too, and i see plain enough he'd been worked main hard lately. i liked the nigger for that; i tell you, gentlemen, a nigger like that is worth a thousand dollars--and kind treatment, too. i had everything i needed, and the boy was doing as well there as he would 'a' done at home--better, maybe, because it was so quiet; but there i _was_, with both of 'm on my hands, and there i had to stick till about dawn this morning; then some men in a skiff come by, and as good luck would have it the nigger was setting by the pallet with his head propped on his knees sound asleep; so i motioned them in quiet, and they slipped up on him and grabbed him and tied him before he knowed what he was about, and we never had no trouble. and the boy being in a kind of a flighty sleep, too, we muffled the oars and hitched the raft on, and towed her over very nice and quiet, and the nigger never made the least row nor said a word from the start. he ain't no bad nigger, gentlemen; that's what i think about him." somebody says: "well, it sounds very good, doctor, i'm obleeged to say." then the others softened up a little, too, and i was mighty thankful to that old doctor for doing jim that good turn; and i was glad it was according to my judgment of him, too; because i thought he had a good heart in him and was a good man the first time i see him. then they all agreed that jim had acted very well, and was deserving to have some notice took of it, and reward. so every one of them promised, right out and hearty, that they wouldn't cuss him no more. then they come out and locked him up. i hoped they was going to say he could have one or two of the chains took off, because they was rotten heavy, or could have meat and greens with his bread and water; but they didn't think of it, and i reckoned it warn't best for me to mix in, but i judged i'd get the doctor's yarn to aunt sally somehow or other as soon as i'd got through the breakers that was laying just ahead of me--explanations, i mean, of how i forgot to mention about sid being shot when i was telling how him and me put in that dratted night paddling around hunting the runaway nigger. but i had plenty time. aunt sally she stuck to the sick-room all day and all night, and every time i see uncle silas mooning around i dodged him. next morning i heard tom was a good deal better, and they said aunt sally was gone to get a nap. so i slips to the sick-room, and if i found him awake i reckoned we could put up a yarn for the family that would wash. but he was sleeping, and sleeping very peaceful, too; and pale, not fire-faced the way he was when he come. so i set down and laid for him to wake. in about half an hour aunt sally comes gliding in, and there i was, up a stump again! she motioned me to be still, and set down by me, and begun to whisper, and said we could all be joyful now, because all the symptoms was first-rate, and he'd been sleeping like that for ever so long, and looking better and peacefuler all the time, and ten to one he'd wake up in his right mind. so we set there watching, and by and by he stirs a bit, and opened his eyes very natural, and takes a look, and says: "hello!--why, i'm at _home!_ how's that? where's the raft?" "it's all right," i says. "and _jim?_" "the same," i says, but couldn't say it pretty brash. but he never noticed, but says: "good! splendid! _now_ we're all right and safe! did you tell aunty?" i was going to say yes; but she chipped in and says: "about what, sid?" "why, about the way the whole thing was done." "what whole thing?" "why, _the_ whole thing. there ain't but one; how we set the runaway nigger free--me and tom." "good land! set the run--what _is_ the child talking about! dear, dear, out of his head again!" "_no_, i ain't out of my head; i know all what i'm talking about. we _did_ set him free--me and tom. we laid out to do it, and we _done_ it. and we done it elegant, too." he'd got a start, and she never checked him up, just set and stared and stared, and let him clip along, and i see it warn't no use for _me_ to put in. "why, aunty, it cost us a power of work--weeks of it--hours and hours, every night, whilst you was all asleep. and we had to steal candles, and the sheet, and the shirt, and your dress, and spoons, and tin plates, and case-knives, and the warming-pan, and the grindstone, and flour, and just no end of things, and you can't think what work it was to make the saws, and pens, and inscriptions, and one thing or another, and you can't think half the fun it was. and we had to make up the pictures of coffins and things, and nonnamous letters from the robbers, and get up and down the lightning-rod, and dig the hole into the cabin, and make the rope ladder and send it in cooked up in a pie, and send in spoons and things to work with in your apron pocket--" "mercy sakes!" "--and load up the cabin with rats and snake's and so on, for company for jim; and then you kept tom here so long with the butter in his hat that you come near spiling the whole business, because the men come before we was out of the cabin, and we had to rush, and they heard us and let drive at us, and i got my share, and we dodged out of the path and let them go by, and when the dogs come they warn't interested in us, but went for the most noise, and we got our canoe, and made for the raft, and was all safe, and jim was a free man, and we done it all by ourselves, and _wasn't_ it bully. aunty!" "well, i never heard the likes of it in all my born days! so it was _you_, you little rapscallions, that's been making all this trouble, and turned everybody's wits clean inside out and scared us all most to death. i've as good a notion as ever i had in my life to take it out o' you this very minute. to think, here i've been, night after night, a--_you_ just get well once, you young scamp, and i lay i'll tan the old harry out o' both o' ye!" but tom, he _was_ so proud and joyful, he just _couldn't_ hold in, and his tongue just _went_ it--she a-chipping in, and spitting fire all along, and both of them going it at once, like a cat convention; and she says: "_well_, you get all the enjoyment you can out of it _now_, for mind i tell you if i catch you meddling with him again--" "meddling with _who_ tom says, dropping his smile and looking surprised. "with _who?_ why, the runaway nigger, of course. who'd you reckon?" tom looks at me very grave, and says: "tom, didn't you just tell me he was all right? hasn't he got away?" "_him?_" says aunt sally; "the runaway nigger? 'deed he hasn't. they've got him back, safe and sound, and he's in that cabin again, on bread and water, and loaded down with chains, till he's claimed or sold!" tom rose square up in bed, with his eye hot, and his nostrils opening and shutting like gills, and sings out to me: "they hain't no _right_ to shut him up! _shove!_--and don't you lose a minute. turn him loose! he ain't no slave; he's as free as any cretur that walks this earth!" "what _does_ the child mean?" "i mean every word i _say_, aunt sally, and if somebody don't go, _i'll_ go. i've knowed him all his life, and so has tom, there. old miss watson died two months ago, and she was ashamed she ever was going to sell him down the river, and _said_ so; and she set him free in her will." "then what on earth did _you_ want to set him free for, seeing he was already free?" "well, that _is_ a question, i must say; and _just_ like women! why, i wanted the _adventure_ of it; and i'd 'a' waded neck-deep in blood to--goodness alive, _aunt polly!"_ if she warn't standing right there, just inside the door, looking as sweet and contented as an angel half full of pie, i wish i may never! aunt sally jumped for her, and most hugged the head off of her, and cried over her, and i found a good enough place for me under the bed, for it was getting pretty sultry for _us_, seemed to me. and i peeped out, and in a little while tom's aunt polly shook herself loose and stood there looking across at tom over her spectacles--kind of grinding him into the earth, you know. and then she says: "yes, you _better_ turn y'r head away--i would if i was you, tom." "oh, deary me!" says aunt sally; "_is_ he changed so? why, that ain't _tom_, it's sid; tom's--tom's--why, where is tom? he was here a minute ago." "you mean where's huck _finn_--that's what you mean! i reckon i hain't raised such a scamp as my tom all these years not to know him when i _see_ him. that _would_ be a pretty howdy-do. come out from under that bed, huck finn." so i done it. but not feeling brash. aunt sally she was one of the mixed-upest-looking persons i ever see--except one, and that was uncle silas, when he come in and they told it all to him. it kind of made him drunk, as you may say, and he didn't know nothing at all the rest of the day, and preached a prayer-meeting sermon that night that gave him a rattling ruputation, because the oldest man in the world couldn't 'a' understood it. so tom's aunt polly, she told all about who i was, and what; and i had to up and tell how i was in such a tight place that when mrs. phelps took me for tom sawyer--she chipped in and says, "oh, go on and call me aunt sally, i'm used to it now, and 'taint no need to change"--that when aunt sally took me for tom sawyer i had to stand it--there warn't no other way, and i knowed he wouldn't mind, because it would be nuts for him, being a mystery, and he'd make an adventure out of it, and be perfectly satisfied. and so it turned out, and he let on to be sid, and made things as soft as he could for me. and his aunt polly she said tom was right about old miss watson setting jim free in her will; and so, sure enough, tom sawyer had gone and took all that trouble and bother to set a free nigger free! and i couldn't ever understand before, until that minute and that talk, how he _could_ help a body set a nigger free with his bringing-up. well, aunt polly she said that when aunt sally wrote to her that tom and _sid_ had come all right and safe, she says to herself: "look at that, now! i might have expected it, letting him go off that way without anybody to watch him. so now i got to go and trapse all the way down the river, eleven hundred mile, and find out what that creetur's up to _this_ time, as long as i couldn't seem to get any answer out of you about it." "why, i never heard nothing from you," says aunt sally. "well, i wonder! why, i wrote you twice to ask you what you could mean by sid being here." "well, i never got 'em. sis." aunt polly she turns around slow and severe, and says: "you, tom!" "well--_what?_" he says, kind of pettish. "don't you what _me_, you impudent thing--hand out them letters." "what letters?" "_them_ letters. i be bound, if i have to take a-holt of you i'll--" "they're in the trunk. there, now. and they're just the same as they was when i got them out of the office. i hain't looked into them, i hain't touched them. but i knowed they'd make trouble, and i thought if you warn't in no hurry, i'd--" "well, you _do_ need skinning, there ain't no mistake about it. and i wrote another one to tell you i was coming; and i s'pose he--" "no, it come yesterday; i hain't read it yet, but _it's_ all right, i've got that one." i wanted to offer to bet two dollars she hadn't, but i reckoned maybe it was just as safe to not to. so i never said nothing. chapter the last the first time i catched tom private i asked him what was his idea, time of the evasion?--what it was he'd planned to do if the evasion worked all right and he managed to set a nigger free that was already free before? and he said, what he had planned in his head from the start, if we got jim out all safe, was for us to run him down the river on the raft, and have adventures plumb to the mouth of the river, and then tell him about his being free, and take him back up home on a steamboat, in style, and pay him for his lost time, and write word ahead and get out all the niggers around, and have them waltz him into town with a torchlight procession and a brass-band, and then he would be a hero, and so would we. but i reckoned it was about as well the way it was. we had jim out of the chains in no time, and when aunt polly and uncle silas and aunt sally found out how good he helped the doctor nurse tom, they made a heap of fuss over him, and fixed him up prime, and give him all he wanted to eat, and a good time, and nothing to do. and we had him up to the sick-room, and had a high talk; and tom give jim forty dollars for being prisoner for us so patient, and doing it up so good, and jim was pleased most to death and busted out, and says: "_dah_, now, huck, what i tell you?--what i tell you up dah on jackson islan'? i tole you i got a hairy breas', en what's de sign un it; en i _tole_ you i ben rich wunst, en gwineter to be rich _ag'in;_ en it's come true; en heah she _is! dah_, now! doan' talk to _me_--signs is _signs_, mine i tell you; en i knowed jis' 's well 'at i 'uz gwineter be rich ag'in as i's a-stannin' heah dis minute!" and then tom he talked along and talked along, and says, le's all three slide out of here one of these nights and get an outfit, and go for howling adventures amongst the injuns, over in the territory, for a couple of weeks or two; and i says, all right, that suits me, but i ain't got no money for to buy the outfit, and i reckon i couldn't get none from home, because it's likely pap's been back before now, and got it all away from judge thatcher and drunk it up. "no, he hain't," tom says; "it's all there yet--six thousand dollars and more; and your pap hain't ever been back since. hadn't when i come away, anyhow." jim says, kind of solemn: "he ain't a-comin' back no mo', huck." i says: "why, jim?" "nemmine why, huck--but he ain't comin' back no mo'." but i kept at him; so at last he says: "doan' you 'member de house dat was float'n down de river, en dey wuz a man in dah, kivered up, en i went in en unkivered him and didn' let you come in? well, den, you kin git yo' money when you wants it, kase dat wuz him." tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a watch-guard for a watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so there ain't nothing more to write about, and i am rotten glad of it, because if i'd 'a' knowed what a trouble it was to make a book i wouldn't 'a' tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more. but i reckon i got to light out for the territory ahead of the rest, because aunt sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and i can't stand it. i been there before. the end archibald hughson, the young shetlander--an arctic story, by w.h.g. kingston. ________________________________________________________________________ archibald is a teenager living in shetland, that group of islands to the north of scotland. his father is dead, and his mother not very well. he longs to go to sea, and a seaman he knows aids him to stow away in a whaling ship, the "kate", just parting for greenland, where there is an abundance of whales. the captain is very kind, and accepts the situation. but one day when the boats are sent out in search of whales archy stows away again, to see the fun. this does not work out too well, as the boat they are in is stove in, and its occupants have to jump helpless onto the ice. they are rescued by another whaling ship, the "laplander", but this in turn is beset by the ice and broken to splinters. some of the people, including archy, after walking a long way over the ice, make it back to the "kate", now herself beset by ice. however, in spite of illness among the crew, they eventually get free, and manage to get the vessel, in a not very seaworthy condition, back to shetland. ________________________________________________________________________ archibald hughson, the young shetlander--an arctic story, by w.h.g. kingston. chapter one. archibald hughson, a young shetland lad, having a strong desire to go to sea, and his mother withholding her consent, determines to run from home.--he is treacherously assisted by max inkster, a wicked sailor, who succeeds in getting him stowed away on board the "kate," a greenland whaler. "where are you going, archy?" asked maggie hughson, as she ran after her brother, who was stealing away from the house, evidently not wishing to be intercepted. the young hughson's home stood high up on the slope of a hill on the small island of bressay, one of the shetland group. hence the eye ranged over the northern ocean, while to the eastward appeared the isle of noss, with the rocky holm of noss beyond, the abode of numberless sea-fowl, and to be reached by a rope-way cradle over a broad chasm of fearful depth. the house, roofed with stone, and strongly-built, as it needed to be to withstand the fierce gales blowing over that wild sea, was surrounded by patches of cultivated ground, without trench or bank, or a tree to be seen far or near. archy stopped when he heard his sister's voice; for, though headstrong and obstinate, he loved her more than any other human being. "i am going over to lerwick to see max inkster," he answered, looking back at her. "the `kate' sails to-morrow, and i promised him a visit before he goes." "oh, surely you don't forget that our mother told you she wished you would not have anything to say to that man!" exclaimed maggie. "he is bad in many ways, and he can only do you harm." "i am not going to be led by any one," answered archy. "i like to hear his tales of the sea, and his adventures when chasing the whale, or hunting white bears, and those sort of things away in greenland, and perhaps some day i may go to sea myself, and i want to know what sort of a life i am likely to lead. i am not going to be kept digging potatoes, and tending cattle and sheep all my life." "oh archy! don't think of it," said maggie. "it would break our mother's heart to have you go. you know that our father was lost at sea, and so was uncle magnus, and many other relations and friends. god will bless you, and you will be far happier, if, in obedience to her, you give up your wild notions and stay at home." "i am not going to be dictated to, maggie, by mother or you," exclaimed archy. "max is a fine fellow, notwithstanding what you say. he is expecting me, and i am not going to break my engagement; so, good-bye, maggie. go back home, and look after mother--that's your duty, which you are so fond of talking about." maggie, finding that her arguments were of no avail, returned home, as she could not venture longer to leave her mother, who was ill in bed. archy took his way till he was out of sight of the house, and then from beneath a large stone, he pulled out a bundle, which he slung at the end of a stick over his shoulder, and proceeded across the island till he came to the shore of the sound which divides it from the mainland. several large black high-sided ships lay at anchor, with numerous boats hanging to the davits, and mostly barque-rigged. they were whalers, belonging to hull and other english and scotch ports, on their way to baffin bay, or the shores of greenland. archy found a boat just about to cross the sound to lerwick, and, asking for a passage, he jumped in. on landing, he made his way to the house where max inkster lodged. the door was open. archy walked in. max was alone in a little room on one side of the passage; he was smoking, and a bottle and glass were on the table. "glad to see you, lad," he said. "sit down. i doubted that you would come." "why?" asked archy. "i thought your mother and sister would advise you to keep away from a fellow like me," answered max, looking hard at his young guest. he was a strongly-built broad-shouldered man, with an unpleasant expression in his weather-beaten countenance. "my mother is ill, and did not know i was coming, and i am not going to be dictated to by maggie," said archy. "that's the right spirit, boy," said max. "if they suspect what you intend doing, they will take good care to prevent you." "i don't intend to let them know," replied archy. "but i wish mother was not ill. i am half inclined to stop at home till next season, and then i'll do what i choose, whatever they may say." "i see how it is," observed max, with a sneer on his lips. "you are beginning to think we lead too hard a life for you, and you would rather be looking after the cows, and being at the beck and call of mistress maggie. i thought you had more spirit. you are afraid--that's the truth of it." "no one shall say i am afraid," exclaimed archy. "i have asked several captains to take me, but they refused without my mother's leave, and that she won't give, just because my father and uncle magnus were lost at sea, and so she has taken it into her head that i shall be lost also. if you can help me to go in the `kate,' i am ready. there's my bundle of clothes." "no great stock for a voyage to the arctic seas; but we must rig you out when you get on board," observed max, taking up archy's bundle, and stowing it away in a large seaman's bag which stood in the corner of the room. "you will have to keep pretty close till we are well clear of the land, or the captain will be for putting you on shore again. here, take a glass of grog, it will help to keep up your courage." max mixed a strong glass of whisky and water, and pushed it across the table to archy. archy's scruples soon vanished. he now only thought of the adventures he hoped to meet with among the icebergs. max had gained his object. from a quarrel which had occurred years before, he had long harboured an ill-feeling towards the hughson's; and, for the purpose of thwarting and annoying mrs hughson, he was ready to encourage archy in his disobedience to her. when once a person yields to the suggestions of satan, he knows not into what crimes he may be hurried. those who associate with unprincipled people run a fearful risk of being led astray by them. archy, notwithstanding his mother's warnings, had persisted in visiting max inkster, for the sake of hearing his long yarns of nautical adventure, and he would at first have been excessively indignant had he been told that he was likely, in consequence, to be led into any further act of disobedience. "did any one see you come in here?" asked max. "no; nanny clousta was out, and no one was passing at the time," answered archy. "well, then, stay quiet here till dark, and i'll take you on board, and stow you away in the hold," said max. "you must remain there till i give you a signal to come out; but, remember, that you are not to tell the captain or any one else that i had a hand in helping you. just say that you slipped on board in a shore boat, and hid yourself of your own accord. you will promise me that?" archy had not been in the habit of telling falsehoods; but he had already made one step in the downward course, and though he hesitated, he at last said, "i promise. i needn't tell that i knew who took me on board, and i can find my own way below, so there's no necessity to mention your name." "that's it," said max. "you will want some food, though. here, just fill your pockets with this bread and cheese." he took some from a cupboard. "and here is a flask of whisky and water. you may have to lie hid for a couple of days, or more, may be; so you must manage your provisions accordingly." max went out, and archy fell asleep, with his head on the table. it was late at night before his evil councillor returned. "rouse up, boy," he whispered. "it's time we were aboard. i have got a man to take us off, and he will think you belong to the ship. here, shoulder my bag, and come along." max placed his heavy sea-bag on his young companion's shoulder. archy staggered on under it till he reached the boat. the boatman, who had been paid before, pulled away, and they were soon alongside the whaler. max clambered up the side, and hoisted his bag by a rope after him. archy followed. the officer of the watch was aft, and as the crew and their friends were constantly coming and going, no notice was taken of them. max took up his bag, and as he passed up the main hatchway, which was open, having ascertained that there was no one below, he made a sign to archy to slip down the ladder. "i'll be with you in a few minutes," he whispered. "no one is likely to go there at this hour." archy did as he was bid, and felt his way in the dark, till he found himself among the empty casks in the hold, which were stowed ready for use. there were certain spaces between the tiers which would afford him room to hide himself away. into one of these he crept, and lay down waiting for max. he fancied that where he was he should not be seen by anyone moving about the hold, unless expressly looking for him. he thought that max was a long time in coming, and perhaps would not come at all. on the return of daylight, which would stream down through the open hatchway, should he not be discovered? he thought. the crew would certainly be at work at an early hour, and he might not have time to find a more secure hiding-place. then he would have to undergo the annoyance and disgrace of being put on shore, and severely reprimanded by the captain, a very severe man, he had been told. at last he heard some one moving, and presently a light fell on his eyes. he was afraid to stir, almost to breathe, lest he should be discovered. "well, if i had not come you would have been hauled out to a certainty in the morning," said max, who had only just then been able to pay him his promised visit. "you must come down lower than this. here, keep after me. now crawl in there, and don't come out till you hear three blows, which i'll give on the casks above your head. you will know by the movement of the ship when we have been at sea a couple of days or so. there; now you have got your will. here's your bundle; it will serve as a pillow, and, remember, don't take any notice of me. i am your friend, but i am not a man who chooses to be trifled with." saying this, max, putting out the lantern, crept away, and archy was left in solitude and total darkness. the liquor his evil councillor had given him made him sleepy, so he could not think. otherwise his conscience might have been aroused, and he might have recollected his poor mother lying on a bed of sickness, and his affectionate sister watching for his return. satan knows that he has his victims secure when they are in that condition. archy hughson was at length awakened by the loud tramp of the crew on deck, the boats being hoisted in, the anchor hove up. he could hear the ripple of the water against the sides of the ship. the "kate" was under way, but she was not yet even out of bressay sound. the hours passed by. he began to grow very weary of his imprisonment, and to long for the expected signal from max, even though he should soon afterwards have to face the captain, and perhaps be punished for having concealed himself on board. as he thought of this, he began to wish he had waited till he had overcome his mother's objections, and been able to go sea, like other lads, with a proper outfit. now and then a better feeling, akin to remorse, stole over him, when he thought of the sorrow and anxiety his absence must cause his mother, who, though over-indulgent, had ever been affectionate and kind to him. still he did not perceive the wickedness of his own heart, or the cruel ingratitude of which he had been guilty. "she should have let me go, it's her own fault," he repeated, hardening himself. "it's too late now to draw back. i should look very foolish if i was to be set on shore on unst, and have to find my way home by myself." unst is the most northern of the shetland islands, and archy guessed that by that time the "kate" was not far off it. he had little appetite to eat the food he had brought, but he soon drank up the contents of the flask. the mixture was somewhat strong, and sent him off to sleep again. once more satan had him at an advantage, for even then, had he gone to the captain, he would have been sent on shore, and retrieved his fault by returning home and relieving his mother's anxiety. undo it he could not; for a sin, once committed, can never by man's power be undone, never forgiven. all sin is committed against god--the slightest evil thought, the slightest departure from truth, is sin against god's pure and holy law, and he alone can forgive sin. he forgives it only according to the one way he has appointed. he blots it out altogether from remembrance. that way is through faith in the perfect and complete atonement of jesus christ, whose blood, shed for man, "cleanseth from all sin." there is no other way. he accepts no other recompense for sin. there is no undoing a sin, no making amends. all sins, from such as those which men call the smallest to the greatest, are registered, to be brought up in judgment against the sinner, and the all-cleansing blood of jesus can alone blot them out. man, as a proof of his living faith in christ's atonement,--of his sorrow for sins committed,--of his hatred of sin, of his repentance,-- will, of necessity, do all he can to make amends to his fellow-man for the wrong he has done him; he will restore what he has taken; he will explain the truth where he has spoken falsely; he will be kind and gentle to those he has treated harshly; he will give to those of his substance, or forward their interests whom he has injured in any way. but all this cannot blot out one letter in the eternal register of accusations to be brought against him at the day of judgment. oh! that people did but know this, and would remember that when they sin they sin not only against their fellow-man, but against the all-pure, all-holy god, who can by no means overlook iniquity; in whose sight even the heavens are unclean, without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground, and by whom the very hairs of our head are numbered. chapter two. appearing on deck, archy is severely reprimanded by the captain, a strict, yet a kind and religious man--his first sunday at sea--among the icebergs and ice--capture of a whale. archy hughson felt very weak and very wretched. the ship had for some hours been tumbling fearfully about, so it seemed to him, now pitching into the seas, which struck her stout bows with heavy blows, now rolling from side to side. he knew that a strong gale was blowing, and he could not help dreading that the casks might break loose, and come down upon him. he longed to escape from his prison, and began to think that max must have forgotten him altogether. at length he again fell asleep. he was awakened by three heavy knocks above his head, max's promised signal. he waited the time agreed on, and then began to crawl out, and grope his way upwards. at last he saw daylight above him, and scrambling along, he reached the foot of a ladder. climbing up with uncomfortable feelings at his heart as to the reception he might meet with, he gained the upper deck. the first person he encountered was an old man with weather-beaten features, but a kind expression of countenance, andrew scollay by name, a boat-steerer, who was at that moment about to descend. "why, lad, where do you come from?" asked old andrew, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. "i wanted to come to sea; so i hid myself away," answered archy. "i hope i have not done wrong." "you have not done right, boy, or you would not have needed to hide yourself away," said andrew, scanning his features. "i think i have seen you before. what is your name?" archy told him. "what, widow hughson's son? oh, boy, boy, you have acted a cruel part towards your poor mother. anyhow, i would we had found you out two days ago. however, come along with me to the captain--you'll hear what he has to say." andrew led archy aft, where captain irvine was standing, and explained in a few words what he knew of him. captain irvine, looking sternly at him, inquired how he had managed to conceal himself so long on board? on that point archy gave a truthful reply. "how did you know you could find a place where you could hide yourself?" asked the captain. "i have often before been on board whalers, and knew how the casks were stowed," answered archy, hoping that he should avoid further questions which might implicate max inkster. "you are deserving of severe punishment for coming on board without my leave," said the captain. "i must consider how i shall treat you. if we fall in with a homeward-bound ship, i shall put you on board. if not, see how you behave yourself. had your mother asked me to take you i would have done so, and you would have come in for a share of profits; but you have done more wrong to her than you have to me; and though i might flog you, as you deserve, i shall let your own conscience punish you. i hope you have got one, which will make you mourn for your fault. now go for'ard. you must not eat the bread of idleness, and mr scollay will put you to some work or other. i must speak to you again about this, and let me see, as you have chosen to come on board, that you do your best to learn your duty." archy's conscience was not aroused. he went forward, well pleased at having, as he thought, got off so cheaply; yet he did not feel at his ease. he looked, indeed, very pale and sick, and miserable. old andrew's kind heart was touched, as he remarked his woe-begone appearance. he took him below, and got the steward to give him some food. he then sent him to wash himself. "i must see about rigging you out," he said. "the clothes you have on are not fit for the work you will have to do." archy felt grateful to old andrew, and thanked him warmly. "don't speak about that, boy," remarked andrew. "it's not that you deserve what i may do for you; but you are poor, and helpless, and wretched, and that's just the state man was in when christ came down from heaven to help him; and so i have a notion that it becomes his disciples, who desire to be like him, to assist the helpless and miserable." the crew generally did not treat archy as kindly as old andrew had done. they attacked him, as soon as he got among them, with all sorts of questions, laughing and jeering at his folly. no one laughed at him more than max inkster. archy felt inclined to retort, but he remembered his promise to max, and gave him no sign of recognition, he was treated as one of the ship's boys, and was put to do all sorts of drudgery and dirty work. often and often he wished that he had remained at home, to look after his mother's farm, and help maggie in attending to her. several days passed by--archy was beginning to find himself at home among the crew--max at length spoke to him as if to a stranger. "we must make a sailor of you, boy, as you have chosen to come to sea," he said, when the order had just been given to reef topsails. "lay out on the yard with me, and i'll show you what to do." archy had several times been aloft, but had never assisted in reefing. he now followed max up the rigging. there was a heavy sea running, and the ship was pitching violently. "now, don't be afraid--come out on the yard," said max. "there--lean over, and catch hold of those reef points. cling tight though, with your knees and elbows, or you will pitch down on deck, and have your brains dashed out." archy did as he was bid. he felt very nervous, though, and was thankful when he was safe off the yard. it was coming on to blow harder and harder, and the canvas was still further reduced. max did not again invite him to go aloft--none but practised seamen could have ventured on the yards. at length, all the canvas was taken off the ship, except a close-reefed main-topsail, when the helm was put down, and she was hove-to. the wind whistled shrilly through the bare poles and rigging. it was blowing a perfect hurricane. all around appeared mountains of heaving water, each succeeding sea threatening to swallow up the labouring ship. archy was surprised at the calmness of the officers and crew, when he expected every moment that one of those tremendous seas would come on board, and send the ship to the bottom. he wished that he could pray, as his mother had taught him to do, but he dared not; yet he trembled at the thought of what would happen. night came on--the gale seemed to increase. he, with all except the watch on deck, had gone below. "what, lad, art afraid?" asked max, who observed his pale countenance. "you thought a life at sea was all sunshine and calm." "i have found out what it is, and i wish that i had not been fool enough to come," answered archy, with some bitterness. max laughed. "many a lad thinks like you," he said. "they get accustomed to it, and so must you, though the training is not pleasant, i'll allow." while max was speaking, a tremendous blow was felt, as if the ship had struck a rock, and then came a sound of rending and crashing timbers, while the water rushed down the hatchway. "the ship's on her beam ends," cried several voices, and all hands sprang on deck. archy followed. a scene of wreck and destruction met his sight. the sea had swept over the ship, carrying away the staunchions, bulwarks, and rails, the binnacle, and the chief portion of the wheel. a fearful shriek reached his ears, and he caught sight for an instant of a man clinging to the binnacle. no help could be afforded him--the poor fellow knew that too well; still he clung to life; but in a few seconds a sea washed over him and he disappeared. the captain was on deck, calmly issuing his orders,--the crew flew to obey them, while archy clung to the main-mast, expecting every moment to be his last. things were at length put to rights; spare spars were lashed to the remaining staunchions--life lines were stretched along the deck, fore and aft. the names of the crew were then called over--two did not answer, another, it was found, had unseen been carried to his dread account. the next day was the sabbath. the gale had moderated, and the ship was again put on her course. on that day the captain invariably invited all not on duty to assemble for service in his cabin; max and a few others generally made excuses for not attending. the captain took this occasion to speak of the uncertainty of human life. "the fate of our shipmates may be that of any one of us, my lads," he observed. "i do not ask how they were prepared to meet their god, but how are you prepared? even if you are living pure and blameless lives, have you made peace with tim according to the only way he has offered to reconcile you to himself? have you a living faith in the atoning blood of jesus shed for you? he wishes you to be reconciled to him, and he has offered to you the easiest and simplest way, the only way by which you can be so. remember, `now is the accepted time,' `now is the day of salvation.' it is god tells you this. if you put off that day it may be too late--for he says nothing about to-morrow. some of you may say that you lead hard lives, have little enjoyment, and much suffering, and that that must satisfy god and give you a right to heaven. god does not tell you that; but he says, `believe on the lord jesus christ, and thou shalt be saved. he that believeth not is condemned.' oh lads, if you knew of the love of jesus for you, and how he longs for you all to be saved, you could not stand aloof from him as you do, and try to keep him out of your thoughts, and do nothing to please or serve him. i speak to young and old, for he loves the youngest boy on board here as well as the oldest, and his blood, which cleanseth from all sin, will wash away the sins of the greatest criminal as completely as it will cleanse the most harmless youngster, though he, too, needs to be washed as much as the other." such was the substance of captain irvine's discourse on the sunday after the storm. archy had attended, and the words were continually haunting him. max, as usual, had kept away. "i wonder you can stand that sort of thing," he said to archy, when he next met him. "i have no fancy for those discourses of the skipper; but if you want to curry favour with him, by all means go, just as old andrew and dr sinclair, and some others do. they have prayers with him every morning in his cabin. you will not turn psalm-singer, i hope, lad." "i don't suppose i shall," answered archy. "but still i should not like to be washed overboard, as bill and ned were the other night." "as to that, you must run your chance as others do," answered max. "i don't let such things trouble me." archy could not help letting them trouble him, though. the next day the whole crew were busily employed in getting the whale boats ready and the gear fitted. there were seven boats in all--three slung to the davits on each side, and one over the stern, with a harpooner to each. the whale lines were spliced and coiled away in the stern of the boats; the harpoons were spanned, that is, fastened to the ends of the lines, and various articles were stowed away in the boats, so that they were all ready to be lowered, and to shove off at a moment's notice, should a whale appear. the crow's-nest was also got up to the main topgallant mast-head. it is like a tall cask with a seat in it, where the officer can take his station and look out far and wide over the ocean to watch for the spouting of the monsters of the deep. next morning, when archy went on deck, he saw at no great distance from the ship a vast white towering mass, glittering like alabaster in the rays of the sun. at the lower part were projecting points and curious arches, and a deep cavern, with numberless columns and long icicles hanging from the roof, while the summit was crowned with pinnacles and towers of every possible shape. from the higher points, as the ice melted under the rays of the hot sun, came down two or three tiny cascades of bright water, leaping from ledge to ledge till they fell with a splash into the calm ocean. archy had often heard of icebergs, but he had formed little conception of what they really were. he stood gazing at it for some minutes, lost in wonder. "well, boy, what do you think of it?" asked andrew scollay, who was passing at the time. "it's very wonderful," said archy. "all god's works are wonderful," observed old andrew. "you will see thousands of such bergs as this where we are going, all formed by god's will, just as he forms everything else in the world; and yet if all the kings of the earth and their people were to try and build up one like them, they could not succeed. now, archy, i put it to you, whether it is not wise to try and be friends with such a god--to know that you are under his care and protection, instead of disobeying him and daring his power? the time may come before long when you will feel how helpless you are to take care of yourself, boy. i have seen stout ships crushed in a moment between masses of ice, as if they had been made of paper, and once i saw one of those large bergs come down and overwhelm a passing ship, not a soul on board escaping. ay, and i have known numbers of poor fellows, when their ships have gone done, wandering over the ice till they have been frozen or starved to death. i don't tell you these things to frighten you, but that you may learn to put your trust in god. the person who truly trusts him is never frightened. it is a blessed thing to know that he cares for us." archy was unable to make any reply; but the old man's words were not forgotten. the next day many more icebergs were seen, and as the ship passed near some of them, archy could not help dreading that they might topple over and carry her and all on board to the bottom. in a short time the ship made the ice. as far as the eye could reach, the whole ocean was covered with broken sheets of ice,--some several miles in extent, others of smaller size, which the seamen called floes,--huge icebergs towering up among them. the ship sailed along the edge of a large floe for some distance, till an opening appearing, her head was pointed towards it. she entered and sailed onwards for a considerable distance, the water being as smooth as in the most sheltered harbour. the captain, or an officer, was continually stationed in the crow's-nest to look out for the widest openings. into these she forced her way, now and then being impeded by pieces of ice, against which her bow was driven to turn them aside. at length, after running through a narrow passage, her further progress was stopped by a sheet of ice through which she could not force her way, while beyond the water appeared perfectly open. the sails were furled; the ice-saws got out, and the crew commenced sawing out large blocks, so as to form a passage towards the open water. the work was very laborious; for, in addition to the operation of sawing, each block had to be towed out into the wider channel. at length a canal was formed, and the ship glided through it. once more the sails were set and she steered to the northward. again, however, she had to encounter similar obstructions. still the captain pushed on, eager to get to a part of the bay where whales were plentiful. generally there was a breeze, and she made good progress through the open water, but sometimes she lay becalmed, with her sails hanging against the masts. all the time a sharp look out was kept for whales, but hitherto, although a few had been seen, the wary monsters had escaped the harpoons of their pursuers. at that season, in those northern regions, when the sun but just sinks below the horizon ere it rises again, night and day are much alike. archy, with the watch below, had turned in. he was awakened by a loud stamping on the deck, and the cry of "a fall, a fall." the men rushed up on deck, carrying their clothes with them, and dressing as they went. instantly running to the boats, they began to lower them. in the distance was a boat with a flag flying, a signal that a whale had been struck, and was fast. the boats shoved off, and away they went at a rapid rate to the assistance of their friends. the monster soon appeared on the surface. the boats pulled towards it, and numberless lances were darted at its body. again it sounded, to reappear shortly still closer to the ship. once more the boats dashed on--the water around the animal was dyed red with blood, mixed with oil, which issued from its wounds and blow-holes. the boats again drew near, and more lances were hurled at it. suddenly the creature reared its tail high in the air, whirling it round with a loud noise, which reached the ship. at the same moment the nearest boat was thrown upwards several feet, while the crew were sent flying on every side into the water, the boat itself being reduced to a mass of wreck. their companions went forward to rescue the drowning men, who were seen to be hauled into the boats; but whether any had perished could not be discovered by those who, with archy, were eagerly watching what was taking place, from the deck of the ship. directly afterwards the whale rolled over on its side, and remained perfectly quiet. the flag was lowered, and the men, standing up in the boats, gave three loud huzzas, which were echoed by those on board. two holes being made in the tail of the whale, ropes were passed through them, which being made fast to the boats, they towed their prize in triumph to the ship. the animal now being secured alongside, the process of flensing or cutting off the blubber commenced. tackles were rigged with hooks, which were fixed in the blubber. this was cut by means of spades, and the tackle being worked by a windlass, as the blubber was cut off in long strips, it was hoisted on board. here it was cut into pieces, and stowed in casks in the hold. thus, as the whale was turned round and round, the blubber was stripped off, till the whole coat was removed. the whalebone, of which the gills are formed, being then extracted, the carcase was cast adrift, when it was seen to be surrounded by vast numbers of fish and wild sea-birds, coming from all directions to banquet on the remaining flesh. the operation, which lasted five hours, being concluded, the crew were piped to supper. "there, archy, you have seen our first whale killed," observed max. "i hope we shall have many more before long, and soon be back home again; and if you are tired of the life, you can go on shore and look after your mother's farm." chapter three. the "kate" encounters a fearful gale amid icebergs, and narrowly escapes a falling berg.--calm after storm.--though scoffed at by his shipmates, archy tries, unsuccessfully, to follow the advice given him by captain irvine. captain irvine was anxious to reach the northern point of baffin bay, where whales were said to abound. he used, therefore, every exertion to force the ship through the ice. sometimes she threaded her way through narrow passages, at the risk of being caught and nipped by the floes pressing together; at others, to avoid this catastrophe, she had to take shelter in a dock, cut out as rapidly as the crew could use their saws, in one side of a floe. scarcely had she been thus secured when another floe, with a sullen roar, pressed on by an unseen power, would come grinding and crashing against the first with irresistible force, and the before level surface, rent and broken asunder, would appear heaved up into large hillocks, and huge masses, many hundred tons in weight, would be lifted on to the opposing barrier, threatening to overwhelm the ship. suddenly the whole field of ice would be again in motion, the broken fragments would be thrown back on each other or pressed down beneath the surface, and a lane of water would appear, edged on each side by a wall of ice. the boats would then be lowered to tow the ship along, or, should the wind be favourable, the sails were set, and in spite of the blows she might receive from the floating fragments, she would force her way onwards towards the open water. often and often as archy watched what was taking place, he fully expected to find the ship crushed to fragments, and wondered that captain irvine could venture into so fearfully dangerous a position. still the ship, escaping all dangers, made her way to the north, and by degrees archy grew accustomed to the scenes he witnessed, and viewed them with the same indifference as the rest of the crew. for a whole day she had made her way through open water, with a strong breeze. the weather began to lour--the wind blew stronger and stronger--numerous icebergs appeared ahead--in a short time the ship was surrounded by them. now one was passed by, now another. it seemed often as if no power could save her from being dashed against their precipitous sides. perhaps the captain expected the gale to moderate, if so, he was mistaken. it soon blew fiercer than ever. at length the ship got under the lee of a large berg, which towered up a hundred feet or more above the mast-heads. the sails were furled--the boats carried out ice anchors and made them fast to the foot of the berg. there the ship rode, sheltered from the gale, in smooth water, while the wind howled and roared, and the sea, hissing and foaming, dashed with fury against the bergs, which were observed at a distance on either side. archy recollected the account max had given him some time before of icebergs suddenly overturning, and as he looked up at the frozen mountain above him, he could not help thinking what their fate might be, should the gale, which blew on the other side, force the berg over. still he had not learned to put his trust in god. fear made his heart sink within him, but he dared not contemplate the future. all he could say to himself was, "i hope it will not. how dreadful it would be. what would become of us!" he had no one to whom he could go for consolation. max, he knew, would only laugh at him and call him a coward. he wished that old andrew would speak to him, but he was on duty on deck, and had the ship to attend to. several hours passed by, still the gale did not abate. archy thought the captain and officers looked more serious than usual. several of them turned their eyes ever and anon towards the summit of the berg. at length the chief mate came forward. he had just reached the forecastle, when a small piece of ice, the size of a bullet it seemed, fell splashing into the water just ahead of the ship. another and another followed. with a startling cry, the captain shouted, "cut the hawser, loose the jib and fore-staysail, hands aloft for your lives lads." the head sails were hoisted, the fore-topsail sheeted home. the ship, coming round, shot away from the berg. the after sails were speedily loosed. in another instant, with a crashing thundering noise, down came vast masses of ice, falling into the water, with loud splashes, close astern, while numerous smaller pieces fell with fearful force on deck. happily no one was struck, but a piece went right through one of the quarter boats. the ship, as if aware of her danger, flew on. downwards came the vast mountain of ice with a crashing roar, louder than any thunder, directly on the spot where she had just before floated, sending the spray in thick sheets flying over her poop. had she remained a moment longer she must have been overwhelmed. many a cheek of the hardy crew was blanched with horror. even now it seemed that they had scarcely escaped the fearful danger, for the berg astern of them rocked to and fro as if still intent on their destruction. the first mate and one of the best hands were at the helm; the wind whistled loudly, the sails appeared as if about to fly from the bolt ropes, as the ship heeled over to the gale. numerous other bergs appeared ahead, and as she rushed onwards, it seemed impossible that she could avoid them. no sooner was one weathered than another appeared in her course. the yards were braced sharp up. she dashed by a huge berg, her masts, as she heeled over, almost touching its sides. now an opening appeared between two large ice mountains. the only way to escape was by passing between them. the ship dashed into the passage, now she glided onward in comparatively smooth water. the bergs were moving. nearer and nearer they drew to each other. in a short time they might meet and crush the hapless vessel into a thousand fragments. to escape by the way she had entered the passage was impossible. the wind came aft. the yards were squared, more sail was set, faster and faster she flew onwards, yet fast as she went, it seemed as if the masses of ice would catch her ere she could escape them in their deadly embrace. every man and boy was at his station, ready to clew up and haul down directly the ship should be free, and again exposed to the fury of the gale. no one could tell but that other bergs might be ahead, or in what direction it might be necessary to steer. archy, as he held on to a rope he had been ordered to tend, looked up at the vast ice-cliffs with horror in his eyes, expecting every moment to see them falling over upon the ship. he glanced aft, and saw the captain standing calm and undismayed, ready to issue whatever orders might be necessary. the channel seemed interminable, for, fast as the vessel glided on, still those terrible cliffs frowned down upon her. at length the open water appeared ahead, with fewer bergs than had before been seen floating on it. the ship glided out into the heaving ocean; and as she heeled over, archy thought the masts would go over the side; but sail (though not without difficulty) was rapidly shortened, and the masts stood firm. onwards, as before, she flew in her course; several other bergs were weathered, till at length all present dangers were passed, and she was now hove-to to await the termination of the storm. in a few hours the gale ceased, and once more she proceeded on her course. a calm succeeded the storm. the ship floated on the smooth water. it was the sabbath-day; the captain as usual had summoned the crew to prayers, the greater number went willingly, for they were well aware of the imminent danger they had escaped, and were glad to express their gratitude to him who had preserved them. max inkster, with a few others, made excuses for staying away. "what, lad, are you going to hear the old man preach?" he asked, with a sneer, as he saw archy making his way aft. "for my part, i think we have too much of that sort of thing aboard here. i have made up my mind to cut and run from the ship if i could find a few brave fellows to accompany me. we should have more liberty and a larger allowance of grog, with less psalm-singing, on board other vessels i know of, and reach home sooner again into the bargain. but don't you go and tell others what i say; i only ask you, if we go, will you join us?" "i'll think about it, max," answered archy, "but i promised old andrew that i would attend prayers." "much good may your prayers do you," sneered max. "you are the fellow who sneaked off from his dying mother, and now you talk of praying." "i did, i did," groaned archy, "and i feel how wicked i was to do so." as all the other men had by this time collected in the cabin, archy could stay no longer, and hurried off, the words last spoken by max ringing in his ears. he thought of them all the time the captain was offering up prayer, and returning thanks to god for having mercifully preserved him and his crew from the danger to which they had been exposed, and humbly petitioning for protection for the future. when the service was over, as archy was leaving the cabin, captain irvine called him back. the old captain had been ill for some days. archy was struck with his peculiarly grave and solemn manner. he kindly took the young boy's hand. "i have a few words to say to you, lad," he said. "i knew your father; he was a god-fearing man, and i believe he is in heaven. your mother, too, is a christian woman, and she, when she leaves this world, will join him there. now lad, i have to ask you what is your hope? there is but one way to go there, remember that. have you sought that way?" archy hung down his head. "i know i was very wicked to leave my mother as i did," he answered, "and i could not help thinking the other day, when the iceberg was about to come down upon us, where i should go to." "ah, lad, it's a great thing to see your sin, but god wants you to do more than that. you must acknowledge it to him and seek his way for blotting it out. do you know that way, laddie, which only a god of infinite love and mercy could have devised for saving weak fallen man from the consequences of sin? have you sought the saviour? sorrow will not wash away sin. the blood of the saviour, which he shed when he suffered instead of man on calvary, can alone do it. only those who seek him and trust in him can benefit by that blood. have you earnestly sought him, laddie? i am sure if you do seek him, desiring to turn away from your sins, that you will find him." archy could only repeat, "i am very sorry i ran away from mother and hid myself aboard the ship, and i thought when we were so near being destroyed the other day, what would become of me." archy exactly described his state, and the captain knew he spoke truly. there are too many like him, who only think of their sins at the approach of danger. "ah, laddie! i should be thankful if you could honestly tell me that you mourn for your sins, because you have grievously offended our loving father in heaven, and that you have sought forgiveness from him, through the all-cleansing blood of his dear son, shed for you on calvary," said captain irvine. "do you ever pray?" "not since i came aboard here," answered archy. "and i am afraid not for some time before, either," observed the captain. "for if you had prayed that god's holy spirit would guide and direct you, and keep you out of temptation, you would not have ran away from home as you did. now, laddie, what i want you to understand is, that you are weak and helpless in yourself, that you can neither walk aright nor do any good thing by yourself; but that if you seek the aid of the holy spirit you will walk aright, you will be able to withstand temptation, and to do god's will. if you do not pray and seek his aid, you cannot expect to find it; yet if you do seek it, you will assuredly find it, for he hath said, `ask and it shall be given you, seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you.'" archy listened attentively to what the captain said, and tried to understand it, but the danger which had alarmed his conscience had passed away, and when he went forward and mixed again with his careless shipmates, he forgot much that had been said. still, when he turned into his bunk, he did try to pray; but he dared not bravely kneel down in the sight of others lest they should laugh at him, and he had been so long unaccustomed to offer up prayer, that he could not even think of what words to say. captain irvine, however, did not forget him, and day after day he called him into the cabin, or spoke to him on deck. he gave him a bible also, and marked many passages in it, which archy promised to read. the captain had also a library of books on board, which were lent to the men, and two or three of these he put into archy's hands as likely to be useful to him. old andrew also frequently took an opportunity of speaking to him, but his work occupied most of the day, and when he went below he was generally too sleepy to sit long over a book. max and others also did their utmost to interrupt him, and he made but little progress either in reading the bible or any other of the books which had been lent him. still, in some respects, he was trying to follow the good advice which the captain had given him. weak, however, are all our efforts when we trust to our own strength. archy did not seek assistance from the only source which can give it, and, consequently, his good resolutions were soon scattered to the wind. chapter four. archy wishing to be present when a whale is struck, against orders goes off in one of the boats.--attack a whale and her calf, but lose both, and the boat's bows are stove against a floe.--the crew escape by landing on it, and dragging the boat after them. preparations made to wait for the arrival of the ship in search of them. the ship had for some time been off the western shore of the bay, and several whales had been taken--every one was actively engaged, for when the operation of flensing was not going on, the boats were generally away in chase of their prey. archy had hitherto always remained on board. he had long wished, however, to be present at one of the exciting scenes he had only witnessed from a distance. how to manage it was the difficulty. he knew that it would be of no use asking leave from the captain, or any of the boat-steerers, for idlers were not allowed in the boats. he had thought that he should at once engage in all the adventures described by max, and was one day expressing his disappointment in his presence. "they will come time enough," observed max. "but if you have a fancy to see some sport, and may be to get tossed in the air, or drowned, or have to spend a night on a floe, and be well nigh frozen, as i have more than once, i'll give you a chance. you know that i am your friend, or i would not do it. now, the next time a fall is called, do you tumble into my boat; i'll rail away if old andrew sees you, but pretend you have hurt your leg and lie still, and depend upon it he will be in too great a hurry to shove off to put you on board again, and as the captain did not punish you for hiding away, he will not say much to you on that account." archy knew very well that he ought to have suspected max's advice, but he was so eager to see a whale struck, that he forgot all other considerations. hoping therefore that he might soon have the opportunity he desired, he turned into his bunk with his clothes on, ready to slip into the boat at a moment's notice. the ship was standing some distance off the land, and though the sea was generally open, here and there masses of ice were to be seen floating about from enormous icebergs down to small pieces of a few feet in diameter. archy hoped that before long the boats would be lowered to go in chase of a whale. he tried to keep awake, but sleep soon overpowered him. he was aroused by hearing the sound of stamping overhead, and the looked for cry of "a fall, a fall." he sprang on deck, and without waiting to see whether he was observed, slipped into old andrew's boat, in which max pulled one of the oars, and throwing himself down in the bottom, remained perfectly still. the rest of the crew followed. old andrew was the last, having been detained longer than usual. the boat shoved off, and only then max pretended to have discovered him. andrew, on seeing the lad, was about to put back, but at that moment the spout of another whale was observed at no great distance. the crew, bending to their oars, pulled towards it; and andrew, in the excitement of the moment, forgot all about archy. the boat dashed on. a sucking whale was seen playing near the old one. "we shall have her boys, we shall have her," shouted andrew. the whale discerned the approach of her foes, and diving down with her calf, disappeared. "give way lads, give way," cried andrew, "she will not desert the young one." he was right, though had the old whale been alone, she would soon have been miles away. the boat continued in the direction the whale had been seen to take, and in a short time the small animal again came to the surface to breathe. the boat was soon up to the animal, when its faithful mother rose also to afford it protection. the boat dashed up to it, and andrew, going forward, plunged his unerring harpoon deep into its side. no sooner did the monster feel the wound than away she darted, towing the boat, the young whale keeping up with her. the crew pulled with might and main, hoping to get up alongside again in order to fix another harpoon, and to pierce her with their lances. they had nearly succeeded, when up went her tail in the air, and down she dived into the depths of ocean, her calf following her example. immediately the whale line was allowed to run out; and, as the end was approached, another was fastened on. that too had nearly been drawn out, when the crew, lifting up their oars, made a signal for assistance from their companions, but they were already too far off to be seen, indeed the other boats were engaged with the whale first attacked. "hold on," shouted andrew. "though she might not come up by herself, the young one will, and she will follow." he was right; for at the moment that the bow of the boat seemed about to be drawn under water, and the knife was lifted to cut the line, it slackened, and the young whale came to the surface some way ahead, followed immediately afterwards by its mother. remaining stationary a short time to breathe, during which a portion of the line was hauled in, the monster again began to make her way along the surface. "rare fun!" exclaimed archy, who was sitting near max. "i would not have missed this on any account." "we shall not be merry long if that bank of clouds to the north brings a gale with it," growled out max. archy looked around; the sea, hitherto calm, was already ruffled with waves, and an icy breeze swept over the surface. still no whaler, with a fish fast, would have thought of giving up the pursuit. already the monster, wearied by its exertions, was slackening its speed; the crew began to haul in the line, the first was got in. they were already in the hopes of again wounding the animal mortally before she could once more sound, when inspired with a mother's instinct to do her utmost for the preservation of her young one, she again darted forward. a large floe appeared ahead, out of which arose several hummocks. the whale made rapid way towards it. the crew pulled with might and main, still hoping to reach her before she could dive below the ice. in vain were all their efforts. still she went on. she reached the edge of the floe. it was possible she might turn or make her way along it, rather than venture with her young one below its surface, where they might be unable to find an opening for breathing. again she stopped; as andrew had expected. the crew continued to haul in the line, when once more she moved on, and it was necessary to secure it round the bollard. "she is ours," cried andrew; "she will not venture under the ice." the crew bent to their oars, hoping in another instant to be up with her, when, with a sudden start, she dashed forward. with great presence of mind andrew cut the line, just in time to prevent the boat from being dragged under the floe, but not sufficiently soon to save her bows from being stove. the water came rushing in through the fearful rent that had been made. the crew leaped out on the ice, old andrew seizing archy, who, bewildered at the occurrence, had sat still. already the boat was half full of water, and not without great difficulty she was hauled up on the ice, against which the sea was beating violently, and several articles were washed out of her. archy had instinctively clutched a bucket by his side, to which he held when he was dragged out. it contained a tinder-box and powder flask. there the whole party stood on the exposed floe by the side of their shattered boat. they looked around. neither the ship nor the boats were to be seen, while the thick mist, which came driving over the ocean, concealed even some of the nearest icebergs from view. two or three of the men loudly expressed their anxiety. max's countenance exhibited the alarm he felt. old andrew alone preserved his usual equanimity. "my lads," he said, "i'll allow we are in bad case, but don't let us give way to despair. we must do our best to repair the boat; and if the ship does not come to look for us, we must set out to look for her." the injuries, however, that the boat had received were very severe, and it was evident that no means they had at their disposal were sufficient to repair her. even a piece of canvas would have been of value, but they had no canvas and no nails. the sea, too, which had rapidly got up, now dashed furiously against the sides of the floe, threatening to sweep over it, and break it to pieces beneath their feet. andrew looked around, and observing a large hummock at some distance, urged his companions to drag the boat towards it. "yonder ice hill will afford us some shelter," he said. "and if we make a signal from the top, it will be more readily seen than one down on the level." the men exerting all their strength dragged the boat along, archy helping, till they reached the hummock, she was then turned bottom uppermost under its lee. an axe having been saved, one of the oars was cut into lengths, which served to prop her up and afford them some shelter from the freezing wind. two oars were also lashed together to serve as a flagstaff, and all the handkerchiefs that could be mustered were joined to form a flag. a hole, after much labour, was dug with the axe in the top of the hummock, and the flagstaff was planted, but the furious wind threatened every moment to blow it down again. the gale was increasing, and already they felt almost perished, but their great want was food. they had come away without breakfast, and no provisions had been put in the boat. even should they be able to resist the gale, and should the floe continue together, they ran a fearful risk of perishing of hunger. the snow falling heavily formed a bank round the boat, and assisted to keep out the wind,--here they all collected, crouching down as close together as possible, for the sake of obtaining warmth from each other. "if we had but a fire we might do pretty well till the ship comes to take us off," observed max. "we have got some wood, at all events, and when that's gone we must burn the boat and form a roof of snow over our heads instead, after esquimaux fashion." no sooner was the proposal made than the remaining oars, boat-stretchers, and every piece of wood that could be found was cut up. archy produced the tinder-box from the bucket, and in a short time a fire was blazing up, which served to warm their chilled limbs, and slightly to raise their spirits. few of them, however, were disposed to talk much. chapter five. andrew scollay, a religious old man, encourages his shipmates in their fearful position, without food, fire, or shelter.--archy distinguishes between his false and real friend.--he takes a run over the ice with andrew, when a sail is seen, and at last a boat approaches. hour after hour passed by, and still there was no abatement of the storm. loud noises meantime were heard around, denoting the breaking up of the floe on which they floated, and they could not tell how soon the portion on which they had taken refuge might be rent from the main body and floated away. often did archy wish that he had remained on board, and not exposed himself to the fearful danger in which he was placed. at length old andrew spoke to him. "are you happy, boy?" he asked. "but you need not tell me--i know you are not. i am sorry to find you placed in this fearful position, but it was through your own fault--you chose to come against orders. it is bad for us, but then we came because it was our duty." "i am sure i am very sorry i did come," answered archy. "but i didn't think this would happen." "people never know what will happen when they do what is wrong," said andrew. "satan tempts them to sin, and then leaves them to take the consequences. lads, i speak to you all as i speak to this boy. are you prepared to meet your god?" "why do you say that?" said max, in a husky voice. "because i think, before many hours are over our heads, the summons will come," said andrew, solemnly. "any moment the ice may break up, and the sea may wash over us, or we may sit here till we die of cold and hunger." "you are croaking," said max. "our captain is not the man to desert us." "i am speaking the solemn truth," said andrew. "the captain will do his best to search for us, but the gale will have driven the ship miles away by this time, and before she can get up to us we may be dead. i don't speak thus to frighten you, lads, but because i wish to see your souls saved. you may say that you are such sinners that there is no hope of that. i wish you did know that you are sinners. you heard the captain read to you the other day the account of the thief on the cross. he knew that he was a sinner, but he found the saviour even at the last moment of his life. he trusted to jesus, who saved him; and he had the assurance from the lips of that loving one, that he was saved. jesus will say to you what he said to the thief on the cross, if you will even now turn to him: `now is the day of grace, now is the day of salvation.' oh, lads, i pray you to throw yourselves on his mercy, to trust to him. his blood cleanseth from all sin." the seamen listened attentively to what andrew said: they had often heard similar words from the lips of the captain, but they were in safety then on board their stout ship, and they had allowed them to pass away unheeded. now, although they still hoped to escape, they could not help acknowledging that they were in a fearfully perilous position. still no one replied. what was passing in their minds andrew could not tell. he continued, addressing them in the same strain for some time. again and again he told them of the saviour's love, and how earnestly he desired them to come to him and be saved. archy, however, had drunk in every word andrew had said. "but would jesus pardon me, who has so grievously offended him?" he asked at last--"me, who have so often been told of his loving kindness and mercy?" "yes, lad, that he will," said andrew, taking archy's hand, "he has promised it, and his word is sure. he has sent us this blessed message:--`the blood of jesus christ cleanseth from all sin.' he does not say from some sins, or from only slight sins, but from all sins." "oh, then, i'll try and give him my heart," exclaimed archy. "i'll trust to him." "yes, do that, archy; but give him your heart now--trust to him now," said andrew, earnestly. "we will pray, lad, that the holy spirit will help you, for he alone can carry out the work in your heart;" and the pious old man, kneeling down on the ice, lifted up his voice in prayer; and surely that prayer was not uttered in vain. still, although the rest of the party made no response to his exhortations, he persevered; and from the loud crashing roar of the ice, as the broken fragments were dashed together, it seemed too likely that the day of grace for all would ere long be past. hour after hour went by, and yet the portion of the floe on which they had taken refuge kept together. the storm continued to rage, and the snow still fell heavily. piece after piece of the boat had been cut away its place being supplied with a wall and roof of snow, which the seamen gradually built up. they were beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, and they could scarcely get sufficient warmth from the small fire they were able to maintain to keep themselves from being frozen. it was near mid-summer. had it been the winter they could not thus have existed many hours. every now and then one of the party ran to the summit of the hillock in the hopes of seeing the ship. still the falling snow shut out all but the nearest objects from view, and here and there alone a tall iceberg could be seen rising dimly amid the foaming seas. "no hope, no hope," was the mournful cry of one after the other, as they returned to the hut. "don't say there's no hope," observed old andrew. "god can send us help, though we can't help ourselves. oh, lads, i again say, and it may be for the last time, put your trust in him. i don't tell you that he will send us relief. it may be his will that our bodies should perish on the spot where we are sitting; but i do tell you, that he offers to rescue your souls, and will certainly, if you put your trust in him, not allow them to perish." archy sat close to old andrew, listening attentively to what he said, he had now learned to distinguish between his real and false friend. how earnestly he wished that he had not been led astray by the evil counsel of the latter. the rest of the party sat silent, their countenances exhibiting the despair which had taken possession of their hearts. their fuel was well nigh exhausted, and suffering from hunger they knew that they could not hold out long against the cold. andrew proposed that they should let the fire out for a time, and warm themselves by exercise. "we will then light it again, and it will enable us to lie down and rest without fear of being frozen," he observed. to this wise advice the men would not agree. "if die we must, we will keep warm while we can," growled out max. "then, archy, you and i will try and keep our blood flowing by using our limbs," said andrew. "see, the snow has ceased falling, and there's less wind than there was." this was said after they had spent many hours on the ice. how many they could scarcely tell, for no sun appeared to mark the progress of the day. andrew, taking his young companion's hand, rose, and together they went to the top of the hummock, and gazed around for a minute, though they could now see much further than before. no sail appeared to cheer their sight. they quickly descended, and andrew, with the activity of a young man, ran backwards and forwards under the lee of the hummock. archy felt the benefit of the exercise; but though his hunger had increased, his blood circulating freely, made him feel better able to endure the cold than before. when at length they returned to the hut, they found the remaining pieces of wood burning, and that in a short time they would be left without any fire. "if you had followed my advice it would have been better for us all," observed andrew. the men made no reply; they all appeared to have fallen into a state of stupor, and to have become indifferent to their fate. andrew and archy sat down to rest, and to enjoy the warmth of the fire, anxiously watching the last few pieces of wood as they were gradually consumed. the embers which they scraped together afforded them heat for some time longer--then, by degrees, those died out. "it is our duty to hold out while we can, boy," said andrew, when the last spark of the fire was extinguished. "come and take another run." archy felt very weak and faint from want of food, still he endeavoured to exert himself. again they visited the top of the hummock, but still no sail was to be seen. the sea tumbled and foamed, and the surrounding masses of ice ground and crashed against each other, and the floe on which they were appeared to have decreased in size, while huge blocks, thrown up by the waves, rested on its weather side. even andrew was unable to run backwards and forwards as fast as before, and again they sought shelter within the hut. no questions were asked them; indeed most of their companions appeared to be asleep. andrew in vain tried to arouse them. archy felt that he, too, should like to lie down and go to sleep; but from doing this andrew used every effort to prevent him, and in a short time proposed that they should take another ran to the top of the hummock. with difficulty archy followed him. for some time the old man stood looking round in every direction, then his eyes rested on a particular spot to the northward, and archy saw him raise his hands as if in prayer. "lad," he said suddenly, "look between those two icebergs. what do you see?" archy gazed with beating heart. "a sail! a sail!" he exclaimed. "yes--of that there's no doubt," said andrew, calmly, "and may god direct her course towards us. she is at present standing this way; but should a whale be seen, she may steer in a different direction." they anxiously watched the approaching ship for some minutes. "we will tell our companions," said andrew--"the news will rouse them if they are not too far gone." archy forgetting his hunger, and no longer feeling his weakness, rushed back to the hut, shouting, "a sail! a sail!" max, and two of the other men, started as the sound reached their ears, but before they had gained their feet they again sank down on the ice. after making several efforts, they were at length able to walk, having in the meantime aroused their companions, who, sitting up, looked around with bewildered glances, as if not comprehending the news they heard. archy again ran back, max and the rest, with tottering steps, trying to follow him. they succeeded at length, and as they saw the ship, almost frantic with joy, they shook each other's hands, and shouted and danced like mad people, their sufferings, their fears of death, were in a moment forgotten, and so probably also were any good resolutions they might have formed. how different was their behaviour to that of andrew. archy remarked it. the ship came on with a strong breeze, threading her way amid the masses of ice in her course. she had got within a couple of miles. still, unless the eyes of those on board were directed in their direction, the flag flying from the hummock might not be seen. she came nearer and nearer. "she will not pass us now," cried max. "we will pray to god that she may not," said andrew; but at that moment the vessel was seen to haul her wind, and to stand to the westward. a loud groan of bitter disappointment was uttered by max and the other men. "god's will be done," said andrew. "see, mates, she has hove-to, she is lowering her boat. they are after a fish." with what eagerness did the eyes of the starving seamen watch the ship. it was impossible to say in what direction she might next steer. they no longer felt cold or hunger. "see, see, what is that?" cried one of the men, as a dark object was discovered darting out from behind the nearest iceberg. directly afterwards a boat was seen fast to a whale, and following in its wake. the whale approached the floe, but while still at some distance its flukes were seen to rise in the air, and down it shot into the ocean. although those on the ice knew that they were too far off to be heard, they shouted again and again, their voices sounding strangely hollow in each other's ears. the first line had apparently been run out from the boat; a second had been bent on; that, too, came to an end. they could see the four oars lifted up as a signal for assistance from the ship. once more the boat approached them at a rapid rate, dragged on by the whale. it was evident she was in great distress, and that her crew dreaded the fate they themselves had suffered. suddenly she stopped--the line had been cut. would they turn away? no, the crew bend to their oars--the boat-steerer stands up and waves. they are seen--help will come to them. again the cheer. "let us thank god, for he has sent yonder boat to our assistance," said andrew. chapter six. rescued!--on board the "laplander" whaler, which is nearly full, and expects soon to return home.--max inkster tries to undermine archy's good resolutions, but the latter remembers that "a friend in need is a friend indeed."--sail for home.--a tempting channel appearing, it is entered, but the ship is nipped, and the "laplander" is abandoned.-- escape to the floe with only a few clothes and provisions, when a plan is formed for reaching the coast of greenland. the boat had some distance to pull before a spot could be found where she could safely approach the ice on the lee side of the floe. max and the two other men, regardless of their almost dead companions in the hut, were hurrying down towards her, when andrew called them back. "shame on you," he exclaimed. "would you leave the poor fellows to perish for the sake of sooner putting food into your own mouths? come, help them along, they want it more than we do." the men thus summoned, returned and assisted andrew and archy, who were dragging their nearly insensible shipmates over the ice. at length they reached the edge, and were cordially welcomed by the crew of the boat, who made all speed to return to their ship the "laplander." she was almost full, they said, and they hoped soon to return home. the rescued men, on being lifted on board, were at once put under the doctor's care,--for even andrew and archy, who had hitherto held out so bravely, felt all their strength leave them directly they reached the boat. they, however, in a couple of days were sufficiently recovered to go on deck and mix with the crew. archy found the "laplander" a very different vessel to the "kate." the captain was a bold brave seaman, but he was nothing else. there were no sunday services, no prayer-meetings, no lending library of religious books, but there was much swearing and ungodliness among the crew. max, who quickly forgot the fearful danger in which he had been placed, and his providential preservation, did his utmost to laugh archy out of his good resolutions. "i wonder a lad of spirit like you can listen to the long sermons of old andrew," he said to him one day while andrew was out of hearing. "i never could stand those preaching fellows." "but andrew kept his courage up, and did his best to preserve my life, while you and the rest gave way to despair," answered archy. "you cannot say that he is not a brave man, though he does preach long sermons." "yes, he is brave, i'll allow," said max. "then tell me, what do you think makes him brave?" asked archy. "he is naturally brave, i suppose," replied max. "now, i think that it is because he trusts in god, and believes that god will take care of him," said archy firmly. "and he knows that if he should lose his life that he will go to heaven. that's my opinion of the matter." "your opinion, indeed," exclaimed max scornfully. "i should like to know what business a fellow like you has to form an opinion," and max turned away, unable further to answer the boy, whom he had hitherto so easily led. he took every opportunity after this of annoying archy, and incited his godless companions to do the same. archy often wished that he was on board the "kate" again, and anxiously looked out in the hopes of falling in with her. the captain had been much put out by the loss of the whale and two lines when they had been rescued, and seemed to associate them in some way with the circumstance. a few days afterwards the watch below were aroused with the welcome cry of "a fall! a fall!" a whale was fast. the remaining boats pulled away, and in a few hours the captain's good humour was restored by having the whale alongside. all hands were now in high spirits. "one fish more, and hurrah for old england," was the cry. several days passed away without any further success. in vain andrew and archy looked out for the "kate." the season was advancing, still the captain of the "laplander," anxious to get a full ship, cruised backwards and forwards in the hopes of killing one fish more. at length that object was attained, but one of the boats was knocked to pieces, and two of her crew drowned. the huge monster was secured alongside with all haste, the blubber was got on board, and the instant the carcase was cut adrift, the crew giving three shouts of joy at being full, sail was made, and the ship stood to the southward. the ice, as she proceeded, gathered thickly around her. boldly, however, she pushed on through the passages which appeared between the floes. now she was threading a narrow lane of water, now sailing across an open lake, but still on every side appeared those threatening fields of ice, which might at any moment enclose her in their deadly embrace. the captain, or one of the mates, was constantly in the crow's-nest, looking out for the most open passages ahead, through which the ship might be steered. they had sailed on for some distance, when the ice on either side was seen to be moving. a tempting channel, however, appeared before them. the "laplander" sailed into it. she had scarcely entered when the opposite floes began to approach each other. still the breeze was strong and fair, and the captain hoped that he might be able to push through into an open space beyond before they could close. nearer and nearer they came to each other, till the broad passage assumed the appearance of a narrow canal. it was at length seen that escape was impossible. the sails were furled, the ship was secured to the floe on one side, and an attempt was made to cut a dock in which she might remain while the inevitable concussion took place. almost before the ice-saws could be got out and set to work, a loud crashing roaring sound was heard. the floes meeting with terrific force, vast masses rose up in the air, huge fragments being thrown upon each other, till in one instant a ridge, reaching almost to the height of the ship's tops, was formed. the seamen, not waiting for the captain's orders, seized their bags and bedding, and whatever they could lay hands on, and leaped out on the ice. "follow me, archy," cried andrew, seizing a bag of biscuits, and throwing a couple of blankets over his shoulder. "in another minute the ship may be crushed to fragments." archy lowered himself down with andrew on to the ice, and with the rest of the crew they hurried away from the ship. scarcely had they left her when the floes closed in, and vast masses of ice were seen rising up around her, the rending and crashing sound of her stout timbers telling them too plainly of her fate. not till they had got some distance did the fugitives venture to stop and watch what was going forward. the masts were seen to totter, and large fragments of wreck were thrown on either side over the surface. the captain, as he saw the destruction of his vessel, wrung his hands with despair, while dismay was depicted on the countenances of his crew. so sudden had been the nip, that except the clothes on their backs and the bedding they carried under their arms, nothing had been saved. as yet too, the danger of approaching the wreck was too great to allow of the attempt being made, for the ice, pressing closer and closer, continued to throw up vast slabs, beneath which any one going near the spot might in an instant have been crushed. suddenly the tall masts fell with a crash, and the whole upper part of the ship was cast in fragments on to the ice. for several minutes the seamen stood aghast, till the floes having accomplished their work, remained at rest. andrew was the first to speak. "lads," he said, "i have seen this sort of thing occur before, and i and all with me reached home in safety, so may we now if we exert ourselves; may be the boats have escaped, and the provisions and stores may have been thrown up on the ice. i for one am ready to go back to the wreck and see what has been saved." several of the men agreed to accompany andrew, and they made their way among the masses of ice which strewed the surface. their search was in part satisfactory. two of the boats had escaped injury, while their chests and a large portion of the provisions and stores which had been on the upper deck, were found scattered about. the officers, arousing themselves, now followed the example which andrew had set. while one party were employed in collecting provisions, another cut the sails from the yards, which had been thrown on the ice, and erected tents in which they might shelter themselves from the piercing wind. others chopped up wood, and fires were lighted. some time was thus occupied, and at length an encampment was formed, with all the stores and provisions which had been collected piled up around, and the weary seamen were able to rest from their labours. a consultation was now held as to the means to be taken for preserving their lives. the boats could only carry a portion of their number, even should the ice again open and allow them to escape. as far as could be seen, it had closed in on every side, and probably they would have to drag them many long leagues before the open water could be gained. the land, by the captain's calculation, was upwards of fifty miles away, but the danish settlements, where they could obtain assistance, were much further off. at the same time, it was possible that they might find another vessel fast in the ice nearer at hand, which might afford them shelter. one thing only was certain, that they must lose no time in making preparations for their journey. unhappily, the captain, disheartened by the destruction of his ship, was incapable of exerting himself. although a good seaman, he was destitute of that higher courage which a confidence in god's superintending care can alone give. he sat in his tent, with his head resting on his hands, for many hours, gazing toward the wreck, without issuing any orders. the officers differed from each other as to what was best to be done, while many of the crew exhibited a mutinous disposition, and assembled altogether in a tent which they had erected for themselves. collecting a quantity of the smaller fragments of the wreck, they made up a large fire within, around which they sat, cooking some of the provisions which they had appropriated from the common store. archy, from the time of leaving the ship, had kept close to andrew, and assisted him in whatever work he was engaged on. while, however, he was collecting wood at a short distance from the camp, max came up to him. "well, archy," he said, "i see old andrew intends to make you work for him; that's his reason for keeping you by his side. now, boy, if i were you i would not be led by the nose. come and join us. i'll own i had a hand in getting you into this scrape, and i wish to help you out of it. i and some of the other men have formed a plan to make our escape, and it's my opinion that those who remain here will lose their lives. that can't be helped, you see, for it's impossible that all should be saved, and as i am your friend i don't wish to leave you behind. come along now, we have got a roaring fire inside there, and the fellows will let you join them if i ask them." max pointed to the tent of the mutineers. "i promised to stay by andrew," said archy. "unless he goes i can't join you." "i'll see about asking him by-and-bye," said max. "what do you propose doing, then?" asked archy. "making off with the boats," answered max. "it's the only chance we have of saving our lives, and we shall be sure to reach one of the danish places on the coast." "what, you would not desert old andrew?" exclaimed archy. "oh, of course not," answered max, in a tone which made archy suspect him, especially when he added, "mark me, my lad, if you let old andrew or any of the rest know of what i have been saying to you, there are some among us who would not scruple a moment to knock you on the head. remember my words. i ask you again, will you come with us?" "no," answered archy firmly. "i promised to stick by andrew, and i am not going to desert him." "then take the consequences," exclaimed max angrily, "and remember, hold your tongue, or it will be the worse for you." archy saw him return to the tent; but the men who crowded round the fire seemed very unwilling to allow him a place among them, and archy suspected that had he listened to max he should have had very little chance of getting near it either. on rejoining andrew, archy refrained from mentioning what max had said, as there were several other persons within hearing, and, indeed, not till some time afterwards did he find his friend alone. andrew, with some of the better disposed men, and a few of the officers, had taken up their quarters in a tent, and were now collected round a fire in the centre of it, though a much smaller one than that formed by the men. andrew made room for archy by his side. while they were discussing their supper, they agreed that they would form a number of sledges with runners for the boats, and placing the provisions and tents, with guns and ammunition on them, and such other stores as they might require, set off without further delay for the land. no one seemed to suspect the treachery meditated by max and his party. the carpenter's chest had fortunately been saved, and while one party assisted him in collecting wood and forming the sledges and runners, others were engaged in doing up the provisions and stores in packages of a size suitable for being carried on the sledges. the mutineers even assisted, and were especially busy in fitting runners to the boats. some progress had been made in the work, when night coming on compelled them to desist from their labours, and take shelter in their respective tents. archy, as he lay down to sleep, began to think that in spite of the threats of max he ought to have told andrew what he had said. "to-morrow morning will be time enough," he thought, and he was soon asleep. chapter seven. mutiny! most of the crew carrying the greater part of the provisions, set off without the others.--proposals for pursuit, but not carried out, and at last the remainder commence their journey across the ice, meeting with great difficulties.--the captain becomes ill, but is cheered by andrew.--he at length dies, after andrew has placed before him the truth, which he accepts.--he is buried in a snow tomb. archy was awakened by hearing one of the officers, who had gone out of the tent, exclaim, "why, what have become of the boats?" the rest of the inmates of the tents were quickly on foot. they looked around. far away in the distance two dark spots could be seen on the ice. andrew and several others ran to the tent of the mutineers--it was empty. the fire had burnt a hole in the ice and disappeared. had it not been for those objects far off they might have supposed that the sleepers had gone in with it and been drowned. the provisions were next examined-- the packages prepared for travelling had greatly diminished. several, indignant at being thus deserted, proposed setting off in pursuit of the fugitives. "they have fire-arms with them, and you will not get them to come back, lads," said the captain, who had come out of his tent. in spite of his warnings, and the advice of andrew, who urged that it was better to let them go, a number of men, and two of the officers, started away, vowing that they would bring back the mutineers, and punish them for their treachery. at first, the party thus deserted seemed inclined to give way to despair, and archy more than ever regretted that he had not warned his friends of the intended treachery. "come along, lads, to the wreck," exclaimed andrew. "perhaps we may find another boat, which we may be able to repair, and some more provisions to replace those carried off." thus appealed to, the carpenter, with several men, set off with andrew to the wreck, archy accompanying his friend. after climbing over a number of huge masses of ice, they made their way to the opposite floe, which was now firmly united to the one it had struck. here they found a quantity of the wreck scattered about, as well as several casks of meat and biscuits, and wedged between two slabs, the smallest boat, which had hung at the stern. the carpenter, on examining her, expressed his hopes that by fastening canvas round her, he could make her float sufficiently to enable them to pass from one floe to another, should they meet any open channels in their course. this discovery raised their spirits. the party immediately hastened back to their companions with the news. it was agreed that they should at once move across to the floe, with the tents and provisions, and forming a new encampment, go on with the work of preparing the sledges. frequently as they went backwards and forwards, they looked out for the return of the party who had gone in pursuit of the mutineers. the latter had got far out of sight before they could have been overtaken. what had become of the pursuers no one could say. some supposed that the two parties had united and gone on together, while others fancied that they had fought, and that those who had been defeated had been left alone on the ice, while the victors had pushed on with the boats. the whole day was occupied in moving to the new encampment, and it was nearly dark before their tents were erected and other preparations made for passing the night. the wind had latterly increased greatly, and clouds had been collecting to the north. scarcely had they got under shelter when the snow began to fall heavily, and the sharp wind swept across the icy plain with terrific force. "archy, we may be thankful that we are not with those poor fellows who deserted us," observed andrew as they sat together round the fire in their tent. "it will be a mercy if any of them escape even if they reached the open water before nightfall, and it's my opinion that they will not have done that." "they deserve their fate, whatever it may be," growled out one of the men. "ah, friend, we all deserve far more than we receive," said andrew. "if god was to treat us according to our merits, the best of us could only look for punishment. let us pray that he will have mercy on them as well as on us. oh, mates, i wish you could all understand the great love which god has for us poor sinners. we exposed ourselves of our own free choice to the danger and hardship we have to endure, but he in his mercy offers us free salvation and eternal happiness for our souls. he gave jesus christ to suffer instead of us, and it's our own fault if we do not accept his precious gift. all he asks us to do is to trust to his love, and believe that jesus died for us and that his blood washes away all our sins." several of andrew's companions listened with deep earnestness to his words, and on that bleak floe, and amid those arctic snows, believed to the salvation of their souls. all night long the wind swept by them, the snow fell faster and faster, but they heeded not the tempest. a bright light had burst upon them, and they could look forward with hope to the future, trusting to that god of love and mercy whom they had hitherto only known as a stern and severe judge. when morning broke all hands set to work to clear away the snow, which had covered up the boat and everything left outside the tents. the wind, however, had ceased, and they were able to go on with their labours, and by the evening the sledges were completed and the boat prepared and placed on runners. they were then loaded, that the party might be ready to start the following morning on their journey. twice during the day, andrew with several of the other men had gone over to the old encampment to ascertain if any of those who had deserted them had come back. they cast their eyes in vain over the wide snow-covered plain,--not a trace of a human being could be seen. it was too probable that all had perished. more than half the ship's company had thus been lost. the night was passed in comparative comfort. they had well-formed tents, abundance of bedding, and ample fires. all knew that in future the case would be very different. the sledges were chiefly loaded with provisions. they were obliged to reduce their tents to the smallest possible size, and they could carry but a limited supply of fuel. there were five sledges in all, each drawn by four men, while six men were harnessed to the boat, in which the old captain, who was unable to walk, was placed. andrew joined the latter party, and archy, on account of his youth, was excused from dragging a sledge,--he, however, carried his blankets and some provisions on his back, each man being also loaded in the same way. the snow having partially melted under the still hot rays of the sun, had again frozen, and had filled up all inequalities in the ice. this enabled the party to drag the sledges along during the first day without difficulty. they had, however, to make frequent circuits to avoid the hummocks, which in some places were very numerous. they calculated by nightfall that they had advanced nearly twelve miles on their journey towards the coast. the uneven appearance of the ice beyond them, interspersed in many places with huge icebergs, warned them that in future they could not hope to advance so rapidly. hitherto they had not suffered much from cold, but that night, as they lay in their tents with the small fires which their limited supply of fuel allowed them to keep up, they were nearly frozen. andrew several times remembering the advantage he had before gained from taking exercise, got up and ran about to warm himself. those who followed his example awoke refreshed and fit for work, whereas those who had remained quiet all the night, found their limbs stiff and their feet and hands frozen, and it was not till after, with the help of their companions, they had moved about and undergone great pain, that they were able to proceed. some, indeed, had suffered so much, that they entreated to be left to die rather than undergo the hardships they would have to endure. andrew urged them to arouse themselves. "it is our duty, lads, to straggle on as long as we can. god may think fit to try us, but let us trust in him and he may find a way for us at last to escape, though we are too blind to see it," he observed. his exhortations produced a good effect, and once more they proceeded on their journey. the old captain had suffered the most, and it seemed very probable that he would be unable to hold out many days longer. andrew seeing his condition, frequently spoke to him, and though hitherto he had turned scornfully away, he now willingly listened to the words the faithful christian uttered. "oh!" he exclaimed at length, "i wish that i had heard you before. it is too late now, i have been a terrible sinner, god can never pardon so bad a man as i am." "oh, sir!" exclaimed andrew, "jesus christ came into the world to save sinners. he saved the thief on the cross, he saved the jailor at philippi. the blood of jesus christ cleanseth from all sin. he says, `though your sins be as scarlet they shall be as white as snow, though they be red like crimson they shall be as wool.'" this was said while they were stopping to take their mid-day meal. the old captain raised himself up and grasped andrew's hand. "do you really speak the truth to me?" he exclaimed. "i repeat what god says, sir, and he cannot lie," answered andrew. "believe in the lord jesus christ and thou shalt be saved." "i do, i do," cried the old man. "but oh! what would i now give had i known this in my youth. what years of wickedness and misery it would have saved me." "ah, sir! there are thousands upon thousands who may say that," replied andrew. "archy, you hear the captain's words. don't forget them, boy. if god in his mercy allows you to return home in safety, repeat them to your young companions, and urge them to `seek the lord while he may be found.' you may thus render them a service for which they will have cause to thank you through eternity." "i will try," said archy humbly, "but it is difficult to speak to others." "pray for the aid of god's holy spirit, and he will enable you to do it," said andrew. "i will try," repeated archy, for he had discovered his own weakness. through that discovery alone can strength be obtained. the shipwrecked party again pushed on, the party keeping ahead. some of the men had begun to complain that the boat detained them. they supposed that the ice was attached throughout to the mainland, and believed that they could do without her. the captain tried to persuade them that they were mistaken, but they had lost their respect for him, and declared that they knew better. andrew thought the captain was right, and entreated them to listen to his advice. their replies showed that they were bent on pushing on. the worthy carpenter, james foubister by name, also a shetlander, sided with andrew, and promised not to desert the old captain. their example influenced most of the other men attached to the boat, who agreed, should the rest of the party do as they proposed, to remain with them. by exerting themselves to the utmost they overtook the sledge parties soon after they had encamped. andrew again spoke earnestly to his companions, pointing out to them the danger they would ran by separating, and he hoped at length that they had abandoned their design. the next day they went on as before. the cold was increasing, and except when they were in active exercise, they felt it severely. the old captain especially, from being unable to move, suffered greatly, and was rapidly sinking. andrew, whenever the party stopped, acted the part of a true christian, and was by his side, endeavouring to console and cheer him with the blessed promises of the gospel. what other comfort could he have afforded? the old man felt its unspeakable value, and after his voice had lost the power of utterance, holding andrew's hand, he signed to him to stoop down and speak them in his ear, and so he died,--with a peaceful expression in his countenance, which told of the sure and certain hope he had gone to realise. andrew and the carpenter proposed carrying on the captain's body to bury it on shore, but the rest objected, as causing them unnecessary labour. a snow tomb was therefore built, in which the old man's body was placed, and there they left him, out on that wild frozen ocean, where many of england's bravest sons rest from their toils. happy are those who have died as he died, trusting in the lord. the men were too much engrossed with their own sufferings to mourn his loss, but few failed, when the next morning they started on their journey, to cast a glance at the tomb. "poor old man, he is better off than we are," was the expression uttered by most of them. the fatigue of dragging the sledges over the rough ice was now so great, that some of the men purposed leaving their tents and the remainder of their fuel behind, and the officers had much difficulty in making them see the folly of such a proceeding. as they advanced, not only large hummocks, but vast icebergs became numerous, among which they were frequently enveloped, and many a circuit had to be made to avoid them. the day after the captain's death it began to snow heavily. the sledges were as usual ahead, still andrew and his party managed to proceed with the boat. the snow-storm increasing in density, they at length lost sight of their companions. for some time they followed up their tracks, but these were gradually obliterated by the falling snow. still they went on, till they found themselves at the base of an iceberg, but not a trace was visible to show whether the party ahead had made their way round by the north or south end. as any delay would have increased the difficulty of overtaking them, they pushed on, taking a southerly direction. having doubled the berg, they saw a clear space before them, but though the snow had ceased, the sledge parties were nowhere visible. the captain's rifle had been saved. andrew fired it in the hopes that the signal might be heard, but no reply came to their listening ears. once more they went on, but their progress was slow and tedious. chapter eight. proceeding on against many difficulties.--archy and his companions at last discover land ahead, and camp in a snow-hut.--at daybreak, seeing no traces of the mutineers, they push on, and arrive at the edge of the floe. cross a channel and getting on an opposite floe, build a snow-hut; but the water rising, leave it, and build another, which also is washed away. build a third, and are awoke by a bear.--two men frost bitten are left behind. as the sun was about to set, a shout escaped archy's lips. "land, land!" he cried out. all gazed eagerly in the direction to which he pointed. there appeared a range of snowy mountains far higher than any icebergs. they were clear and well defined, and andrew and foubister declared that they could not be, as some of the rest supposed, a bank of clouds. they remained visible till the sun sunk beneath the horizon. the discovery somewhat cheered their spirits, but still many days must elapse before they could reach the shore, and even when there, no inhabitants might be found to assist them, or food to enable them to exist during the coming winter. their present condition indeed was very trying. the tents were on the sledges, and they had only sufficient fuel in the boat to keep a fire alight for one night; while their provisions, with the utmost economy, would last them but a fortnight or three weeks at the furthest. "if the cold goes on increasing, we shall be frozen to death before the morning," exclaimed several of the men. "not so, mates," said andrew. "i have seen the natives build a snow-hut in the course of an hour, and have been as warm as i could wish within it during the hardest frost. they call it an igloo, and they fashion it much after the way the seals make their houses, so that it is well suited to the climate. we may depend on that, as god himself taught the seals. now turn to and clear a space down to the ice, while the carpenter and i saw out some blocks of snow." his companions followed andrew's directions; and while foubister sawed out the blocks, which were about three feet long, and half as wide, he placed them in a circle on the space which had been cleared. he then put on another tier, gradually sloping inwards till a dome was formed, and lastly the keystone of the arch was dropped into its place. archy, who was helping andrew, remained with him inside, and were thus completely walled in. the carpenter, with his saw, then cut a hole to serve as a doorway, on the lee side of the hut. "we have yet got to form a bed and fire-places. hand in more blocks, mates," said andrew. with these he and archy quickly built up a raised place on either side of the hut, with a circular one in the centre. some of the provisions, with a portion of the fuel, and all the bedding and blankets, were then brought inside, when andrew stopped up the doorway with some blocks of snow, which he had retained for the purpose. "now, mates," he said, "you will soon see that we can be warm enough, but we must keep up as small a fire as can be made to burn. look here now; this log will last us all night if we chop it into chips, and just put on three or four at a time." andrew's plan was found to answer perfectly. the fire was sufficient to melt the snow in a saucepan, and to enable them to enjoy some hot tea, and the hut soon became so warm that they were glad to throw off their great coats. their only regret was that andrew had not thought before of building a snow-hut. "better late than never. it will not be the last by many that we shall have to build," he answered. they were all so comfortable that andrew had great difficulty in rousing them in the morning to encounter the biting wind blowing across the floe. having enjoyed a warm breakfast, and put on their outer clothing, they cut their way out of their burrow, and once more proceeded eastward. they did not fail to look out for their companions, but not a moving object was to be discerned in any direction across the wide ice-field. after travelling all day, they were convinced that they saw the land ahead, though it appeared no nearer than before. "may be it will not appear nearer to-morrow or next day," said andrew. "but that must not disappoint us. it will be nearer notwithstanding. that we know for a certainty, and if we persevere we shall reach it at last." as they advanced, several cracks and broad fissures were found in the ice, and in one place there was a wide pool or lake only thinly covered over, to avoid which they had to make a circuit. "we are not far off the open water, mates," said andrew, "and we may be thankful that we have the boat, though i fear our poor shipmates will be in a sad plight." making their way onwards, the ice being tolerably smooth, they arrived sooner than andrew had expected at the edge of the floe. the channel which divided it from the opposite floe was upwards of a couple of miles wide, a long distance to traverse in their battered boat. the wind had gone down, and the sea was tolerably calm, it was therefore important to cross while it remained so. andrew, however, was very unwilling to cross without waiting for their missing shipmates. "just think, mates, how we should feel if we had been with the sledges had they crossed and left us to our fate on the floe?" "but they deserted us, and we may lose our lives if we wait for them," argued the other men. at last andrew persuaded them to remain, while he and archy set off to climb to the top of a small iceberg, a little way to the north, from whence they hoped to obtain a view over a considerable portion of the floe. they lost no time in starting, but the distance was much greater than they had expected. "it seems to me as if the iceberg were moving away from us," exclaimed archy. "we have been walking on for the last half hour, and appear no nearer." "the berg is a good deal larger than i had fancied," answered andrew. "but never fear, we shall get up to it at last, and if we can manage to climb to the top, we shall have a wider view over the plain, and a better chance of seeing the poor fellows. it goes to my heart to leave them to perish, and yet perish they must if they do not soon reach the mainland. we must forget that they intended to desert us, and even if they did, it is our duty to return good for evil, so come along archy." the iceberg was at length gained. then came the difficulty of climbing to the top. after walking nearly round it, they found a portion melted and broken by the summer sun which afforded them footing. with the aid of a boat-hook, and a coil of rope which andrew had brought, they at last reached one of the highest points. hence they could see the edge of the floe extending for a considerable way to the north, while their eyes ranged over a wide extent of level ice, but all was one white waste. not the smallest dark spot could be seen upon it. "i am afraid, archy, we must give them up," sighed andrew. "we should risk the loss of our own lives if we were longer to wait for them." descending the iceberg, andrew and archy made their way back to the boat. the boat was at once launched, and though she leaked slightly, one hand bailing could keep her free. they all therefore, embarked, and towing the runners, they made their way across to the floe. as they found themselves once more gliding smoothly over the water, their spirits rose, and some were anxious to try and make their way south in the boat. andrew and the carpenter, however, strongly objected to doing this. "the ice may close upon us, and we may run short of provisions long before we can reach the danish settlements," he observed. "let us get hold of the land first." it was nearly dark by the time they reached the edge of the opposite ice, and having unloaded their boat, they hauled her up, and proceeded on to a hummock at a little distance. here, without loss of time, they build an igloo in which to shelter themselves for the night. the first part passed quietly away, but about midnight archy was awoke by the sound of the crashing of ice, and a loud dashing of waves. he aroused his companions, they listened for a few seconds. "the sea is breaking up the ice close to us," exclaimed andrew. "put on your clothes, lads, or we may be drowned in our den." in another minute the whole party made their way out of the hut, carrying their bedding under their arms. the sea was already close up to the stern of the boat. fortunately she had been placed on the runners. they had just time to seize her, and drag her along, before the ice, on which she had been resting, gave way. on they went as fast as they could drag the boat, but even then it seemed doubtful whether they could escape from the fast following sea. their hut and the hummock, near which it had been built, quickly disappeared. the wind blew with fearful violence; the ice beneath their feet rose and fell as they passed over it. whenever they halted, the crashing ice behind them warned them to push on again. at last a berg in the floe appeared ahead, they made their way towards it, hoping that they might obtain shelter under its lee till the gale had ceased. the men were so fatigued that they would have thrown themselves down under shelter of the boat to rest had not andrew persuaded them to build another igloo. here they once more sought shelter, hoping to remain undisturbed for the remainder of the night. andrew and foubister, however, agreed to keep watch and watch, and archy begged to take his turn. "no, no," said andrew, "you were the means of saving our lives. you want sleep more than we do." two hours passed away, when, as andrew listened, he heard again the same terrific sound which had before awakened them. once more all were aroused, and hastening out as before, they found the sea still encroaching on them. complaining bitterly of their hard fate, the men dragged on their boat, still the sea pursued them. scarcely had they got a hundred yards from the berg beneath which they had taken shelter, when it crashed away through the broken ice. no one now felt inclined to stop. the raging sea tore up the ice behind them, the vast slabs crashing together with a terrific sound, urging them to greater speed. on they went till day dawned, when they found themselves near a low iceberg. they now declared that they could go no further, and andrew and foubister agreed, that even should the ice overtake them, they might find refuge on the slope of the berg, up which they could without difficulty haul the boat. having placed her, as they hoped, in safety, they built another snow-hut, where they proposed remaining till the storm had ceased. as they had now become expert architects, they were not long in constructing the igloo, and all thankfully crept in to recruit their strength. even andrew felt that he could not have held out much longer. the crashing sounds of the breaking ice had ceased, and no longer fearing having again to take to flight, the whole party fell asleep. they had not closed the doorway, as was their custom at night, on account of the heat which was soon generated in so confined a space. archy was the first to awake, as he did so he heard a scraping sound, and directly afterwards he caught sight of the white snout of a huge animal poked in at the opening. a few smouldering chips alone remained of the fire in the centre of the hut. his first impulse was to seize one and throw it at the intruder, shouting out to his companions at the same time. they quickly sprung to their feet. the carpenter seized an axe. "a bear, a bear," he cried out, as he made a blow at the nose of the animal, who, uttering fierce growls, quickly beat a retreat. they all rushed out, when the bear was seen at a short distance sitting on his haunches examining its wounded nose. andrew hurried to the boat. happily the bear had not attacked their provisions. the rifle was loaded, his only fear was that the bear would make off before he could get near enough to wound it mortally. the creature was, however, evidently meditating an attack. it advanced, he fired, and it rolled over on the snow. his companions uttered a shout of joy, as they had no longer any fear of suffering for want of food for some time to come. the bear was cut up, and returning to their hut, they were soon employed in cooking steaks over their rekindled fire. "i suspect those fellows never venture far from land," observed andrew; "so we may now feel pretty sure, mates, that we shall be able to reach it without having another channel to cross." the whole party were, however, too much knocked up to make another move during that day, and even andrew and foubister, who were most anxious to proceed on their journey, consented to remain till the following morning. the day and night were passed between sleeping and eating, for as soon as the men woke up, they relighted their fire and cooked more bear's steaks, in spite of andrew's warnings that they would soon exhaust all their fuel. "never fear, old man," was the answer, "we shall get enough when we reach the shore, and let us enjoy ourselves while we can. the natives manage to live, why should not we?" "the natives know how to catch the seal and the walrus, and unless we can prove ourselves as good hunters as they are, we may chance to starve," answered andrew. his warnings, however, had no effect, and when the next morning they came to examine the contents of the boat, they found they had only sufficient fuel to last them another night. once more they were on their journey. the carcase of the bear added considerably to their load, the ice too was rough and broken, and they made but slow progress. the land was seen clearly ahead, but after toiling all day it seemed almost as far off as when they started. the days too were becoming shorter and shorter, while the cold rapidly increased, and once more they were compelled to encamp on the open floe. that night the remainder of their fuel was consumed. two of the men had been complaining during the day of pains in their feet, and when they pulled off their boots, to their dismay they discovered that they were perfectly black. in vain their companions rubbed them to restore the circulation. their groans were piteous to hear, and when the morning came they were utterly unable to rise. andrew proposed to place them in the boat, and to drag them along to the shore. when, however, morning came, the ice ahead appeared even rougher than that which they had passed over on the previous day, and in spite of his desire to preserve their lives, it was found that with their diminished strength this would be impossible. it was therefore agreed that the poor fellows should be left in the hut, and that should any esquimaux be met with, they should be sent with their sledges and dogs to their relief. with sad hearts the rest of the party closed the hut, which they felt would too probably prove the tomb of their companions. chapter nine. archy has a mask to protect his eyes from snow-blindness, from which all the rest suffer.--he leads them by a string, when an esquimaux is discovered searching for seals, who builds an igloo, and melting some snow, bathes the blind men's eyes, and provides for them. four human beings with heavy packs on their backs were making their toilsome way over the snow-covered surface of the frozen sea. one by one their companions had dropped. they had reached the wished for shore, but lofty ice-cliffs rose before them on which they had found it hopeless to seek for shelter of subsistence, and again they were attempting to make their way to the southward. first the boat which they had dragged over so many leagues had been consumed for fuel, and then the sledge was piece by piece burned to give them warmth in their snow-hut during the night. archy had held out bravely; andrew had wonderfully been supported, ever with confidence seeking for aid from above, he felt that his own life and that of his companions depended on his exertions. foubister and david saunders, one of the crew of the "kate," encouraged by him had hitherto kept up their spirits, yet as they looked ahead and saw the icy plain stretched out before them they might well have given way to despair. they had just set out from the snow-hut which had sheltered them during the night, and in which the last chip of the sledge had been consumed. as the embers of their fire died out, foubister, brave and determined man as he was, had exclaimed, "why need we go further? it will only be to perish in a few hours of cold, as the rest have done." "because it is our duty to trust to god and struggle to the last," answered andrew. "he may send us help when we least expect it. let us go on while life and strength remain." kneeling down, andrew offered up an earnest prayer for protection, and the whole party then strapping on their packs, with renewed strength set forward on their journey. archy would probably have sunk under the hardships he was enduring had not his old friend supported and cheered him throughout. his other companions were also constant in their kindness. they gave him a larger supply of food than they took themselves, and chafed his feet and dried his socks at the end of each day's journey. they had also made him a mask to protect his face, of a piece of canvas lined with woollen stuff, having breathing places in it for the nostrils and mouth, and two holes as small as possible for the eyes. he was surprised to find when he put it on how well he could see through those small holes. neither he nor his friends were aware at the time of their importance. they had started before daylight, for the sky was clear and the moon and stars afforded them ample light to see their way. the sun at length rose above the horizon, and cast his brilliant rays over the sheet of snow. all the three men had, on the previous day, complained of a peculiar smarting of the eyes, but little did they think at the time of what it portended. as they proceeded the smarting sensation increased, till at length david saunders began to stumble, and exclaimed that all was dark. his words struck dismay into the hearts of his companions, for both andrew and foubister had for some time found a difficulty in seeing objects before them, and in a short time the latter cried out that he too was blind. it would have been certain death to stop, so, although andrew himself was suffering intense pain, he urged his companions to proceed, hoping still that they might discover some esquimaux' huts on the shore, or find other means of preserving their lives. "and how do your eyes feel, archy?" asked andrew, in a voice which showed his anxiety. "i have no pain, and can see as well as ever," answered archy. "thank god," replied andrew. "you must then be our guide, for i too have lost my sight." archy on hearing this felt ready to burst into tears. "oh! what can i do? how can i lead you?" he exclaimed. "trust in god and go straight on, lad. here, take this line and we will hold on to it," he added uncoiling a short length of rope which he carried at his side, and he put the end into archy's hands. he and foubister and saunders then took hold of it, following each other in line. "now move on, archy," said andrew, "and keep a bright look out ahead, as well as on the right hand and on the left. if you see anything like smoke or little round hillocks near the shore, we may be certain that natives are there, or may be you will catch sight of the masts of a ship in the horizon, no fear of her getting away from us, for she will be fast frozen in." thus cheered by the confiding faith of old andrew and his dauntless courage, the party proceeded onwards over the ice-field, archy's eyes alone, protected by his mask, escaping the snow-blindness. every now and then, with anxious voices, one or the other would cry out, "do you see anything ahead, archy, any sign of esquimauxs on the shore,--any vessel in the distance?" "no, i only see tall ice-cliffs on the left, and icebergs rising up here and there out of the frozen sea," he answered. several times on hearing this saunders declared it was useless to go on, and even foubister once proposed building a snow-hut as well as their blindness would allow them, and then lying down within it to die. "what! and let the poor lad who has still got his eyesight perish with us?" exclaimed andrew. "shame on you, mate. i did not think to hear such words come from your lips. no, no, while we have life its our duty to go on, and if its god's will that we should die, let us die doing our duty. if he pleases he can send us help and restore our eyesight, and he has shown us pretty clearly that we must lean on him and him alone." thus rebuked, the honest carpenter did not allow another repining word to escape him. there was but little wind, and the air felt warm and pleasant. reaching a small iceberg they all sat down, placed by archy on a ledge under its shelter to rest. he unpacked their wallets, and helped them to their food. by andrew's direction, also with the carpenter's axe, he chopped off a thin layer of ice from the berg. from this, when held up in the direct rays of the sun, water dropped into their saucepan sufficiently fast to quench the thirst from which they had before been suffering. they were not aware that they might greatly have relieved the pain in their eyes by bathing them with the cold water. revived by their meal they again proceeded as before, yet what could they expect at the end of their day's journey? could they hope to live through the night in an ill-built snow-hut without fire, might it not too probably become their tomb? mile after mile was passed over, and still came the same answer from archy to their constant inquiries. night was approaching,--andrew urged them to push on rather than stop, as long as they had strength to move. "if you wish, i will go on," said archy, "or, i think, with your help i could build a snow-hut and we could keep warm enough inside it without a fire, i hope." "no, no, on, on," said andrew. "we will stop in time to build a hut before dark." so on again they went. suddenly andrew felt the rope by which he was led slacken, when archy cried out, "stop, i see something dark moving ahead." "what is it, what is it, boy?" exclaimed the three men together. "it seems to me like a seal," answered archy. "but no--i don't think a seal would move in that way,--hurrah! it is a man,--he has risen to his feet,--he sees us,--he is coming this way." archy hurried on, leading his companions. the stranger advanced towards them. when he was still at some distance he stopped and seemed to be examining them, doubtful of their character. archy raised his hands and beckoning, the stranger once more drew near. from his dress and skins and harpoon in his hand and a coil of line and spears hung to his shoulders, archy guessed that he was an esquimaux engaged in searching for seals. he was accompanied by two dogs, who rushed forward barking, but retreated when called by their master. the native having apparently satisfied himself that the approaching party could do him no harm, came up to them, and looked with an inquiring glance at their eyes. he at once seemed to understand that they had been struck with snow-blindness, and he made signs to archy that he could cure them. archy inquired where he lived, when he pointed to the south-east, and beckoning to him, led the way onwards. in a short time they reached a large seal which the hunter had apparently just killed; he pointed to it, and signified that they were welcome to eat some of its flesh. archy intimated that they were weary rather than hungry. the esquimaux appeared quickly to make up his mind what was best to be done. clearing a space in the snow he called archy to assist him, and at once began to build an igloo. he was greatly delighted when archy produced the carpenter's saw, and apparently well accustomed to its use, he set to work to shape out the required blocks. in a short time a hut was completed, into which he dragged a considerable portion of the seal. from his capacious pocket he took a shallow bowl, in which he placed some moss wicks, and filled it with seal oil, produced by his chewing the blubber. a light was quickly struck, and the much valued lamp soon shed a genial warmth through the snow-formed habitation. a large lump of blubber hung over the lamp, continued to feed it as the oil supplied by the first process was exhausted. he now melted some snow in the seamen's saucepan, and explained to archy that if his blind friends would bathe their eyes in the water their sight would be restored. they followed his advice, and at length the pain from which they were suffering gradually subsided. the esquimaux seemed greatly surprised at their preferring their own dried food to the raw blubber on which he and his dogs regaled themselves. yielding, however, to their prejudices, he heated some steaks over the lamp, of which he hospitably pressed archy to partake. hunger induced him to follow his new friend's advice, and finding the steaks far more palatable than he expected, he persuaded the rest of the party to join in the repast. "i don't know what it may look like," observed david saunders, gulping down a huge lump. "but its not such bad eating after all, and i am much obliged to you, friend esquimaux, for your kindness." "friends," said andrew, before they lay down to rest on their snow couches, "let us thank god for his mercy in sending this kind native to our help. oh! 'tis a blessed thing to know that he will never desert those who trust in him." the esquimaux seemed fully to understand what they were about, and knelt down with them. though they did not understand each other's language, yet their hearts were lifted up together to the same merciful being, the god alike of the dark-skinned esquimaux and the civilised englishman. chapter ten. the esquimaux leaves, and does not return.--all are able to see, and proceed.--find bears before them, and at the same time the masts of a ship are discovered.--push on, and at last assistance arriving, the bears are killed, and captain irvine takes archy on board the "kate," the rest following.--adventures of the "kate"--shut up in the ice--short provisions.--captain dies.--ice opens, when sail is set, and the crew, enduring much suffering, the "kate" arrives off unst, an island of shetland.--archy, now truly repentant, writes to his mother, and when all on board have recovered, starts for home.--his arrival and reception. when archy awoke he was somewhat alarmed on finding that the hunter and his dogs had left the hut. the lamp was still burning, and a large piece of seal's flesh lay on the floor. archy hoped, therefore, that the esquimaux's intentions were friendly, and that he did not purpose to desert them altogether. andrew, when he awoke, expressed his opinion that the hunter would certainly return. his and his companions' eyes were still so painful, that having the means of procuring water they resolved to wait in the hut till their sight was restored, and then to try and make their way to the village of their new friend. that their confidence in his honesty was not misplaced, was proved by his return in the afternoon, when he and his dogs arrived, dragging another seal after them on a small sleigh, which he had probably before left at a distance. he now intimated that his people at the village were in want of food, and that after eating and resting, he must go away to them; but he signified that he would soon again return; and as a proof of his good intentions, left them a large portion of the first seal that he had killed. long before dawn the next morning the hunter set off. that day, though one of suffering, was passed in thankfulness by the shipwrecked seamen. their lives had been preserved, food had been supplied to them, and they might now hope, even if they could not reach the danish settlements, to pass the winter in safety in the camp of the friendly natives. two days passed by, and the hunter did not return. the eyes of the three men were free from pain, and when they awoke after the third night of their sojourn in the hut, they could see clearly. archy, with unwearied diligence, had tended to all their wants, and he had frequently gone out to look for the expected return of the hunter, whenever they had expressed anxiety on the subject. at length they agreed that if he did not appear that evening, to set out without waiting for him longer, as their supply of blubber was nearly exhausted, and without it they could not keep their lamp burning. the morning came; still the hunter did not appear. packing up, therefore, the lamp with its wicks, and every particle of blubber they could scrape together, they again set out. they soon found it necessary, however, to tie some spare comforters round their heads, to shade their eyes from the glare of the sun, the pricking sensation, the prelude to snow-blindness, again quickly returning. after travelling for some hours, they looked out anxiously for the huts of the esquimaux they expected to see. the traces of their friend's sledge and footsteps had been entirely obliterated by a fall of snow, so that they had not the benefit of them as a guide; still they went on. frequently icebergs rose up in their course, and at length these became so numerous that they were completely bewildered among them. after a time they emerged again into a more open space, when archy, whose quick eyes were ever on the alert, cried out that he saw three objects moving some way ahead. "they are bears, i do believe," he exclaimed, "and they seem as if they were digging into the snow with their snouts." after going on a little further the rest agreed that he was right. andrew got his rifle ready. "if we attempt to run the creatures will follow--it's their nature to do so. we must try and kill one of them, and frighten the others away. show a bold front, friends, and we may yet escape their claws." while andrew had been speaking archy had cast his eyes westward. "look, look," he exclaimed. "i see the masts of a ship rising up against the yellow sky, near where the sun has just gone down." forgetting for the moment about the bears, the whole party turned their eyes in the direction archy pointed. "you are right, boy--praise heaven for it," said andrew. "though my eyes are weak i see the masts clearly. she must have been caught in the floe before she could make her way into harbour for shelter. we may reach her this night, and we will try to give the bears the go-by without interfering with them." the thought of a friendly greeting from countrymen, and a warm cabin and wholesome food, after all their toils, raised the spirits of the weary seamen. they once more pushed forward, making a circuit to avoid the savage animals, and then directed their course towards the ship. the long twilight enabled them to keep the masts in sight for a considerable time, and they were then able to steer by a star, which shone forth just above the ship. they did not fail, however, very frequently, to turn their heads over their shoulders to ascertain whether they were pursued. "if the bears track us, we must turn round and face them boldly," said andrew. "ever meet satan, and all spiritual foes in the same way, lad, and they will flee from you," added the old man, putting his hand on archy's shoulder. on and on they went, often stumbling over inequalities in the ice, which the increased darkness prevented them from perceiving. still they struggled forward, hope urging them on. although the ship could no longer be seen, they felt confident that she was before them, and that they must, if they persevered, reach her at last. the cold was intense, but, weary as they were, they dared not sit down lest their limbs might become benumbed, and might refuse to carry them forward. they knew, too, that the savage bears might be following in their track with stealthy steps, and might at any moment be close upon them. hours seemed to pass away. it was impossible to calculate time. their guiding star shone brightly from the sky; still as yet their straining eyes could not make out the looked for ship. "we cannot now be far off from her," observed andrew, "for we have steered too straight a course to pass by her. archy, you have the sharpest eyes among us, can't you make her out, lad?" "yes, yes, i see her," he suddenly exclaimed; "but her deck seems to be housed in, and snow covers the roof, and i took it to be a low iceberg. now i can make out the masts and rigging rising above it--she cannot be more than a mile away." "cheer up, friends, we will soon reach her then," cried andrew. "if we were to give a hearty shout, those on board would hear us." "i hope they may, and send us help," exclaimed saunders, "for here come the bears, and they will be upon us in another minute." on hearing this andrew unslung his rifle, and turning round, observed a large white animal, scarcely to be distinguished from the snow, not forty paces off, stealing towards them. to fly towards the ship, close as they were to her, would have invited the bears to pursue at a faster speed. facing their foes, they halted, as they proposed--the bears stopped also, sitting down on their haunches to watch their proceedings. "archy, run on, and shout as you go--the watch on deck may hear you, and assistance may be sent to us in case we fail to beat off the bears." archy ran on as he was directed. at length he got the ship clearly in sight, but still she seemed a long, long way off. he stopped, however, and shouted with all his might. no reply came, but he heard behind him a cry, and then a shot fired. he knew that it must be from andrew's gun. once more he pushed forward, though his legs were ready to sink beneath him. just then the moon arose bright and full. he had stopped to give another shout, when, looking back to see if his friends were coming, he discovered, to his dismay, a bear stealing towards him. he remembered andrew's caution, not to fly, and bravely facing the animal, he clapped his hands together, shouting even louder than before, in the hopes of frightening it away. at that instant a hail came from the ship--he hailed in return. the bear stopped, apparently astonished at the strange sounds which met its ears. directly afterwards another hail was heard, and turning his head for an instant, he caught sight of a party of men coming towards him from the ship. the bear seemed unwilling to encounter so many foes, and began slowly to retreat. in another minute archy was surrounded by a number of men, shouting to him in well-known tones. "my friends out there want your help," said archy, not stopping to explain who he was. they all had arms in their hands--while some stopped to fire at the retreating bear, others run on in the direction indicated. some of the bullets took effect, and the bear was seen to drop on the snow. while most of them dashed forward towards the wounded bear, one of them remained by archy. "where do you come from, lad--who are you?" he asked. archy, with a bounding heart, recognised the voice. it was that of captain irvine. "i am archy hughson, sir, and andrew scollay, and david saunders, and foubister, the carpenter of a ship which took us on board, are out there--i hope the bears have not hurt them." "i trust not," said the captain; "but come along, laddie, to the ship-- tell me more as you go. you seem scarcely able to stand." archy was, indeed, gasping for breath, and well nigh dropping from fatigue and excitement. the kind captain supporting him, they made their way toward the ship; but archy, though he tried to speak, had lost all power of utterance. one of the other men came quickly to their assistance, and archy was lifted on board, and placed in the captain's cabin, under the care of dr sinclair. in a short time the rest of the party arrived, bringing andrew and foubister unhurt, though well nigh exhausted; but poor saunders had been severely wounded by one of the bears, two of which had, however, been killed. andrew, on being carried below, soon somewhat recovered. his first act was to kneel down, when, lifting up his hands, he returned thanks to that all powerful and merciful god who had preserved him and his companions. "shipmates," he said, as he observed the look of astonishment with which some of those who stood around regarded him. "had you gone through the dangers we have encountered, and been preserved from them to reach the ship again, you would feel that it was not your own arm, or your own strength had saved you, but he, who not only takes care of the bodies of us sinful and ungrateful creatures, but is willing and ready to save our immortal souls alive." archy remained for some days in a state of unconsciousness, but under the care of dr sinclair he gradually recovered. the captain treated him with the greatest kindness. "i have heard all about you, archy," he said, "and i don't speak to you now to blame you for your conduct in leaving home. i'll leave it to your own conscience to do so. god, in his mercy, has led you through severe trials and hardships, and has mercifully preserved your life, that you may, i trust, henceforth devote it to his service, and not, as heretofore, to that of satan. ever remember, archy, that we `cannot serve two masters'--we must be either christ's loving subjects, and obey his laws, or we must be satan's slaves, and do his will--he is a hard, and oftentimes a very cunning task-master. most of his slaves, while following their own devices and inclinations, and, as they may fancy, doing no great harm, are in reality carrying out his objects. he blinds their eyes, and they are thus easily led captive by his emissaries, just as you were led away, as i have since discovered, by that unhappy man, max inkster. god's ways are inscrutable. he has been allowed to perish, i fear, in his sins, while your life has been preserved. then, again i say, my boy, `pray without ceasing,' that god's holy spirit may strengthen and support you to walk in his ways, and to obey his holy laws." archy assured the captain that such was his wish, and that, feeling his own weakness, he would ever seek for strength from above. "you will need it now, and throughout life," said captain irvine, solemnly. "to god alone can we look for sure help, in time of need, in all our temporal difficulties, much more then in our spiritual trials. i would that all on board the ship knew this--it would sustain them in the many dangers and the hardships they must be called on to endure. we have now been well nigh a month shut up in the ice, and must expect to remain nearly eight months longer. we had provisions only at the usual rate of consumption for three months, and therefore from the day the ship was frozen up, i was compelled to place the crew on short allowance. our fuel, too, will be exhausted long before the ice breaks up. when that time comes, should the weather prove tempestuous, the ship will be exposed to fearful danger from the huge masses of ice tossed about by the waves, or from being driven against the icebergs which may appear in her course. with the crew weakened as ours will of necessity be by that time, how little able shall we be of ourselves to contend against the perils which will surround us. i tell you this, archy, that you may be induced more completely to trust to the protection of that god who can alone enable us to escape them." archy at length recovered his strength. some time had passed before he discovered that the captain, and andrew, and one or two other persons, had given up to him a portion of their own scanty allowance of food. when he found this out, he begged that he might not have a larger share than the rest. "you, a growing lad, want it more than we do," said andrew. "and i, for one, feel that if it had not been for you we should have been left to die on the ice far away from this. the crew also said that you enabled them to kill one of the two bears they got the night of our return." the want of sufficient food at length began to tell on the frames of the hardy seamen. parties constantly went out hunting in the hopes of killing seals or bears, but notwithstanding all their skill in capturing the mighty whale, they were unable to catch the wary seals at their blow-holes in the ice, although they succeeded, after a long chase, in obtaining two more bears, who had been tempted by hunger to approach the ship. they were disappointed in receiving no visits from the esquimaux. andrew feared truly that the friendly native who had come to their rescue, had himself, on his return, fallen a victim to the savage animals who had followed them when making their way to the ship. the occurrences on board the "kate" during that long winter cannot be detailed at length. that dreaded disease, the scurvy, produced by salt provisions and want of vegetable diet, broke out among the crew; more than half were laid up by it, and unable to quit their beds; the good captain himself was also taken ill--he had been long suffering from a disease caught when the ship was first entrapped by the ice, and when it was expected that she would be crushed to pieces, as the "laplander" had been. archy had now the satisfaction of repaying his kindness, by watching over him, as a dutiful son would tend a father. he scarcely ever left his side. much of the time was spent in reading the bible, the dying captain's consolation and joy. again and again he urged on archy the advice he had before given. archy did not vow, as some might have done, that he would follow it, but as he knelt by the captain's bedside, he earnestly prayed that he might have grace to do so. the captain, feeling that his hours were numbered, desired to bid farewell to his crew. it was a sad sight to see the once hardy strong men pass in and out of the cabin--to observe the tottering steps and the pale thin cheeks of most of them. the captain had a word of exhortation and advice for each, and many felt the solemn importance of his words. the good captain was the first to die, and the doctor feared that ere long several others would sink under the disease from which they suffered. a deep gloom settled on most of the crew, but there was light and brightness in old andrew's cabin, which he endeavoured to shed abroad. that light came from within. it arose from his firm faith in god's loving mercy and protecting providence. "do not despair, mates," he said, over and over again. "god has thought fit to take our good captain, who has changed this cold bleak scene for one of brightness and glory in that better land aloft there, where there is room for each one of us too, if we will consent to become the subjects of the being who rules there; but he may not think fit as yet to call us there, though we are his subjects here below. if he does not want us, he will find the means of carrying our ship in safety home." month after month passed by; though suffering from hunger, and intense cold from want of fuel, the crew held out. the ice began to move much earlier in the year than had been expected. a strong gale sprung up from the northward--huge masses of ice rose and fell around the ship-- now as they crashed away, an open channel appeared ahead. sail was set, though not without difficulty, as few were able to go aloft. the water, too, as the ship began to move, rushed in through many a leak, and the pumps were set to work. now it seemed as if she was again about to be imprisoned--then once more the ice broke away, and she continued her course. but of her whole crew, scarcely six were fitted for work. many were sick in bed, unable to move; others could just crawl to the pumps, and work them with their feeble arms. the brave doctor, who had retained his strength, exerted himself to the utmost--now standing at the helm, now assisting in making sail, now taking a turn at the pumps, in addition to his duties among the sick. archy, who had also retained his strength, felt no little satisfaction on finding that he was of as much use as his older shipmates. at length the ship was free; but alas, many of the poor fellows who had hitherto held out, sank quickly under the fatal disease from which they had long been suffering. one by one they sank, till ten had died besides the captain. the voyage home was almost as trying as their detention in the ice. scarcely a drop of water remained, their stock of provisions was well nigh exhausted, every particle of fuel had been consumed, while their numbers were daily diminishing, their strength decreasing, and the water gaining on the pumps. still they struggled, like brave men, to the last. "surely we cannot be far off the land?" said andrew, one morning to archy. "i'll go aloft and have a look out," answered archy; and he made his way to the mast-head. his heart bounded as he caught sight, in the far distance, of blue hills rising out of the tossing waters. the welcome cry he uttered brought on deck all who had strength sufficient to crawl out of their berths. the ship was steered in the direction towards which archy pointed, the breeze was favourable, and in a short time the well-known headlands and points of unst, the most northern isle of shetland, appeared in sight. before evening the anchor was dropped in one of the deep voes which run up far inland all round the coast. the inhabitants of the village, on its shores, gazed with astonishment at the battered vessel, and the way in which the sails, which the crew had not strength to furl, fluttered from the yards. in a short time a number of boats, with friendly visitors, were on board, and the news was sent to lerwick that the long missing "kate" had returned. archy sent a few lines to his mother; he signed his note, "from your repentant son," but he trembled lest she to whom it was addressed might no longer be alive to receive it. a portion of the crew, able to bear the journey were the next day sent on overland; the brave surgeon, however, refused to quit the sick and dying. "i will stay and help you, sir," said old andrew. "god has preserved my strength, and it is my duty to employ it in tending to my suffering fellow creatures; and though there are many at home ready to welcome me, the welcome will come more warmly to my heart when i feel that i have not left undone what i ought to have done." "and may i likewise stay?" said archy. "what andrew thinks is right is my duty also." not till the sick had recovered sufficiently to be taken on shore did andrew and archy set out on their journey to the south. as they were starting a letter was put into archy's hands. he eagerly read it. it was from his mother. although his transgression had caused her unspeakable sorrow, she had never ceased to pray that god would protect him amid the dangers he would encounter, and that his heart might be changed and a new spirit put within him. "you are welcome back, my boy. god alone can forgive sin, and if you have sought forgiveness in his appointed way, sure i am that it has not been refused." this letter cheered archy on his homeward journey, and when at length he found himself in his mother's arms, and maggie hanging round his neck, he wondered how he could have been so hard-hearted as to quit them; and he promised that he would henceforth remain at home to assist and support them. he felt, indeed, that he could never make amends for the suffering and anxiety he had caused his mother, to which he acknowledged that the hardships he had endured were in comparison nothing. archy had learned many important lessons, and above all, the great truth, that he who rules the world is a god of justice, and also of unbounded love and mercy; and although, in his justice, he allows the obstinate and perverse to perish in their sins, he will hear the prayers and abundantly bless all who humbly come to him seeking for forgiveness and protection. the story of antony grace by george manville fenn illustrations by gordon browne published by d. appleton and company, new york. this edition dated . the story of antony grace, by george manville fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ the story of antony grace, by george manville fenn. chapter one. the man in possession. mr rowle came the day after the funeral, walking straight in, and, nodding to cook, who opened the door, hung up his shabby hat in the hall. then, to my surprise, he took it down again, and after gazing into it as mr blakeford used to do in his when he came over to our church, he turned it round, made an offer as if about to put it on wrong way first, reconsidered the matter, put it on in the regular way, and as it seemed to me drew his sword. but it was not his sword, only a very long clay pipe which he had been carrying up his left sleeve, with the bowl in his hand. then, thrusting the said hand into his tail-pocket, he brought out a little roll of tobacco, upon which was printed, as i afterwards saw, a small woodcut, and the conundrum, "when is a door not a door?" "ho!" said cook; "i suppose you're the--" "that's just what i am, my dear," said the stranger, interrupting her; "and my name's rowle. introduced by mr blakeford; and just fetch me a light." "which you'd best fetch this gentleman a light, master antony," said cook; "for i ain't going to bemean myself." as she spoke she made a sort of whirlwind in the hall, and whisked herself out of the place, slamming the door at the end quite loudly. "waxey!" said mr rowle, looking hard at me, and shutting one eye in a peculiar way. "got a light, young un?" "yes," i said, feeling sorry that cook should have been so rude to the visitor; and as i hurried into the study to get a match out of the little bronze stand, and lit the curled-up wax taper that my father used to seal his particular letters, i found that mr rowle had followed me, tucking little bits of tobacco in the pipe-bowl as he came. he then proceeded to look about, stooped down and punched the big leather-covered chair, uttered a grunt, took the taper, lit his pipe, and began to smoke. "now then, squire," he said, "suppose you and i have a look round." there was such a calm at-homeness about him that the thought struck me that he must somehow belong to the place now; and i gazed at him with a feeling akin to awe. he was a little man in a loose coat, and his face put me greatly in mind of the cover of a new spelling-book. he was dressed in black, and his tail-coat had an enormously high collar, which seemed to act as a screen to the back of his half-bald head when he sat down, as he did frequently, to try the different chairs or sofas. it never struck me that the coat might have been made for another man, but that he had had it shaped to come down to the tips of his fingers, and so keep him warm. when he had taken off his hat i had noticed that his hair lay in streaks across the top of his head, and the idea occurred to me that his name might be jacob, because he was in other respects so smooth. i followed mr rowle as he proceeded to have what he called "a look round," and this consisted in going from room to room, in every one of which he kept his hat on, and stood smoking as he gradually turned his eyes on everything it contained, ending with a grunt as of satisfaction at what he saw. every room was taken in turn, even to the kitchen, where our entry caused a sudden cessation of the conversation round the tea-table, and the servants turned away their heads with a look of contempt. "that'll do," said mr rowle quietly; then, "mary, my dear, you can bring me my tea in the study." no one answered, and as we went back i remember thinking that if mr rowle was to be the new master at cedar hill he would soon send our old servants away. he walked back, smoking all the time, and seated himself in my father's chair, staring hard at me the while. "shut the door, young un," he said at last, and when i had obeyed, "sit down, and make your miserable life happy." my face began to work, and i had to battle hard to keep back the tears, as for a few minutes i could not speak, but sat there feeling sure mr rowle must think me sulky and strange; and it troubled me, for the old man seemed disposed to be kind. "poor boy!" he said all at once, and his voice seemed to me to come out of a cloud of smoke; "so you've lost both your father and your mother?" "yes, sir!" i said piteously. "hah! so have i," said mr rowle, and he went on smoking. i was thinking as i tried to stare at him through the smoke, that this must have been a very long time ago, when he quite startled me by seeming to read my thoughts, as he said suddenly: "yes; that's a long time ago." "yes, sir; i thought it must be," i ventured to say; and then there was a long silence, during which i sat there wanting to go away, but not daring to stir, lest mr rowle should think me rude, and still he smoked on. "i say, young un," he exclaimed, making me start out of a reverie, in which i was thinking how vexed mamma would have been to see mr rowle smoking in all the bedrooms, "s'pose you'd just come here to stop, which room should you sleep in?" "the blue room's the biggest and the best, sir," i said, "but i like the little pink room the most." "hah! then the pink room it must be," he said, sending out such a long puff of smoke that i wondered how his mouth could have held it all. "i say, young un, ain't it time mary brought up my tea?" "it's past tea-time ever so much," i said, "and her name's jane." he took hold of an old brass key hanging at the end of a thin steel chain, and dragged out a very big old silver watch, looked at it, shook it, and held it to his ear, and then lowered it down once more into its particular pocket. "then mary--jane won't bring it," said mr rowle. as he spoke the door opened, and jane, our housemaid, exclaimed sharply, "now, master antony, i want you;" and i rose and followed her into the dining-room, where my solitary tea was spread out for me. i stood gazing at it when she left me in a miserable dejected way, for i felt as if i could not eat, and as if the tea when i poured it out would be bitter and salt as my tears; and then i began to think about mr rowle, and stole to the door, opened it, and stood listening to the laughing and talking in the kitchen. "i wonder whether they will take mr rowle his tea," i thought; and i leaned against the door, listening still, but there was no sign of any preparation. the strong smoke crept out into the hall, and in imagination i could see the little yellow man sitting back and smoking in the chair always used by my father. at last i summoned up my courage and went to the study door, opened it, and asked mr rowle if he would come and have some tea. "i will that!" he said with alacrity; "i never despise my beer, but a cup o' tea's my reglar drink." he followed me into the dining-room, and we sat down, i feeling very awkward, especially as mr rowle leaned across, lifted the pot, and gave me his peculiar wink. "silver?" he said. "yes, sir; and the coffee-pot and basin and jug too," i replied. "hah! yes." it was very awkward, for there was only one teacup and saucer, and i did not like to ring for another; so i filled that and passed it to mr rowle, who sat smoking all the while. "thankye!" he said, nodding, and he was about to pour it into the saucer when he stopped short. "hallo!" he said, "where's your'n?" "i--i have not got another cup," i stammered. "worse disasters at sea!" he said. "never mind; look ye here, i'll have the saucer and you have the cup," and pouring out the tea, he passed me back the cup, and the meal went on. for the first time since his arrival mr rowle laid down his pipe, and after hewing off a great piece of bread, he proceeded to cut it up in little cubes, all six sides of which he buttered before he ate them, while i contented myself with a modest slice or two, for my appetite was gone. it was a doleful meal, but he seemed to enjoy it, and after partaking of five or six saucerfuls he nodded at me again, took up and refilled his pipe, and then walked back to the study, where he sat smoking till ten o'clock, when he went up to bed. i'm afraid that i was a very ignorant boy. perhaps not so in the ordinary sense of the word ignorant, for i had been fairly educated, and besides being pretty forward with my latin, i could have written a letter or carried on a decent conversation in french; but, living in a secluded part of the country, i was very ignorant about the matters of ordinary every-day life, and i found it hard to understand how it was that mr blakeford, the lawyer, should be allowed to do just as he pleased in our old house. the terrible misfortunes that had come, one after the other, had seemed to stun me and take away my breath. one day we seemed to be all so happy together, and i was sitting reading to my invalid mother in the pleasant old room opening on to the lawn. and the next day i was holding my throbbing head in my bedroom, after crying till it ached as if about to split, while i tried again and again to believe that it was all some dreadful dream, that my father had been carried home dead, killed in an instant by a fall from his horse, and that my mother lay beside him in the darkened room, silent too in death, for the shock had been too great for her delicate frame. all that followed seemed to me dreamlike and strange--the darkened house and the rustling sounds of the black dresses that were made for the servants; my own new black things and stiff black hat; the terrible stillness of the place, and the awe with which i used to gaze at the closed room upstairs; and lastly that dreadful darkest day when i was the companion of mr blakeford and an old uncle in the mourning coach which followed the hearse with its nodding plumes to the grave. i wanted to be alone and sit and think, but those about me seemed to consider that it was their duty to try and comfort and cheer me in my affliction, when all they did was to worry me and make me more wretched than before. it troubled me, too, terribly, that people should think me callous and indifferent to my loss, when all the time my heart was throbbing, and i felt a sensation of desolation and misery that i tried my best to conceal. i remember going on tiptoe towards the dining-room on the day of the funeral, dreading lest my new boots should make a noise, when, as i reached the mat at the door, i stopped short, for my uncle was saying roughly-- "don't seem to trouble _him_ much." "no, of course not," mr blakeford replied. "what can you expect? i dare say he's thinking more of his new black clothes." i had to clench my hands and bite my lips to keep from bursting out into a passionate fit of weeping, and i stood there for some minutes, unable to move, as i heard all that was said. "well, it's no business of mine," said my uncle. "it was his own money." "yes," said mr blakeford, with a sigh. "i was his legal adviser, but he would not be advised." "never would," said my uncle. "all he thought of was catching butterflies and drying weeds in blotting-paper." "but he was a good man," said mr blakeford. "bah! good? what, to plunge into speculation and ruin himself?" "we are none of us perfect," said mr blakeford. "who wants to be?" said my uncle. "well, i wash my hands of the whole affair. you know where i am if you want me. he was never like a brother to me. i will do as you said." "yes," said mr blakeford, "of course. you may trust me, mr grace." "i don't trust anybody," said my uncle, just as one of the servants, coming along the passage, said kindly-- "why don't you go in, master tony?" there was a sudden movement of a chair, and i saw mr blakeford come forward and look at me curiously as i entered in a shamefaced way. then he exchanged glances with my uncle, and my heart sank as i felt that they both suspected me of having been listening on the mat. it was only at nights when i was alone in my own room that i could cry as a half heart-broken boy of eleven can cry in the desolation of his heart. my uncle had gone away the day after the funeral, telling me shortly that i must be a man now, and mind what mr blakeford said; and mr blakeford had looked at me in his peculiar way, tightening his thin lips, and smiling strangely, but saying nothing. i knew that some arrangements had been made about my future, but though i was the person most concerned, every one seemed to consider that i was only a boy, and no explanation was vouchsafed. so it was, then, that i rambled about the house and grounds almost alone, growing more and more thoughtful and wretched as the change oppressed me like a weight of lead. as the days went on, though, and the first passionate feelings of grief gave way to a strange sense of despair, i began to take notice of what was passing around me. it seemed as if the servants in their new black dresses looked upon the change as a holiday. they had frequent visitors; there seemed to be always a kind of lunch in progress, and as i sat alone of an evening i could often hear laughter from the kitchen; and at last, unable to bear the solitude, i used to go into the study and sit down and stare at mr rowle. it was not cheerful, even there, for mr rowle used to sit and stare at me. we rarely spoke. still, it was company, and the old man did sometimes give me a nod, and say, in allusion to a burst of mirth from the kitchen-- "they're keeping the game alive, young un?" chapter two. mr rowle and i become friends. as i have said, in the days that followed, i used, when feeling very lonely, to go and sit and stare at mr rowle and he at me. few words were spoken, but quite a friendship sprang up between us, and by degrees i learned what his position really was--that of man in possession, placed there by mr blakeford. mr rowle was not an active busy man, but somehow he had a way with him that seemed to take charge of everything in the house. i verily believe that in a few moments he made a mental inventory of the contents of the room, and he quite offended jane one morning by ringing the blue-room bell. i was with him at the time, and after the ring had been twice repeated, jane came bouncing upstairs, and, quite ignoring the presence of mr rowle, addressed herself sharply to me. "i'm surprised at you, master antony, ringing the bells like that, knowing how busy i am. whatever do you want?" "it was me as rung, jane, my dear," said mr rowle. "what's gone of those two little chayney candlesticks off this table?" "i've took 'em down to clean, master antony, if you must know," said jane, addressing me spitefully. "you don't suppose as i've took them away?" she looked at me angrily, while i felt as if i had been accusing her unjustly. "oh no, my dear, of course not!" said mr rowle. "you're too highly respectable a girl to do such a thing; but where i was once there was a housemaid as stole a little bronze pen-tray out of the study, and she was found out about it, and given into custody of the police, and got three months." jane looked fiercely at him and whisked out of the room. "please, mr rowle," i said, "the little pen-tray that mamma gave poor papa has--has--" i could say no more, for the recollection of that birthday present, towards which i had subscribed some of my pocket-money, caused such a choking sensation that i was ready to break down once more, and i had to strive hard to keep it back. "gone out of the study, young un? oh no, not it. you fancy as it has." "i'm sure it has gone, sir," i said eagerly. "i was looking for it yesterday." "ah, well, you'll see when we get downstairs," said mr rowle, and he went on from room to room, always sending a few puffs of smoke into each, till we went downstairs, meeting jane on the way, looking very hot and indignant as she carried up the little china candlesticks, and sure enough, to my great surprise, on entering the study, there was the pen-tray in its familiar place. "there; what did i tell you?" said mr rowle, laughing. "it was underneath some papers, or p'raps jane took it down to give it a rub or two." "that must have been it, sir," i said; and i went out to have a walk round the garden. but somehow everything looked so different: the grass had not been cut for days, the beds were rapidly growing weedy, and the flowers and fruit looked so different, or seemed to look so different, that i was glad to go back into the house, where i found another stranger, a little dapper, red-faced man, who nodded to me familiarly, and then resumed a conversation with mr rowle. "my clerk will be here directly," i heard him say, "and we'll soon run over the inventory." "the sooner the better, i say, mr jevins, sir," said mr rowle, "and then we shall know what we're at." "you don't mean--" began the newcomer. "no, sir, i don't, because i've had too sharp a hye on 'em; but there's one young lady here as wouldn't take nothing out of her reach, and if i was mr blakeford i'd make a clean sweep out, and the sooner the better." the little man drew a silver pencil-case out of his pocket, slid out a pen, and then, taking a little ink-bottle from another pocket, he took out the cork and balanced it on the top of a china figure; then, securing the ink-bottle to one of the buttons of his coat by a little loop, he pulled out a long pocket-book, drew from it an elastic band with a snap, opened it, and fastened the leaves back with the band, just as a tall, gaunt, elderly man came in with a pen behind one ear, a pencil behind the other, making him look in profile like some peculiar kind of horned snail. i watched their acts with boyish interest as they proceeded methodically to set down the contents of room after room, punching the chairs, turning up the settees, feeling the curtains, and tapping the mirrors, till at the end of the second day, all being done, they closed their books with a snap, nodded to me, and after a short chat with mr rowle took their departure. "sale's on toosday week," said that gentleman as i looked at him inquiringly. "what's going to be done o' you?" "done with me?" i said. "yes; where are you going to be?" "i'm going to stop here," i said. "that can't be, anyhow, young un. haven't you got any friends?" "yes," i said; "there's dick wilmot, but he's at school." "i say, young un, what a precious innocent you are! haven't you never been away at school?" "no, sir." "where have you been, then?" "here at home with papa and mamma." "lor', what a shame, to be sure! why, you don't seem to know nothin'." "indeed i do," i said indignantly. "i can read, and write, and cipher, and i know a little botany, and latin, and french, and papa was teaching me the violin." "what, the fiddle? well, that may be some use to you; but as for t'others, bah! i never found the want of any on 'em. how old are you?" "just turned eleven, sir." "'leven, and bless your 'art, young un, you're about as innocent as a baby." "if you please, sir, i'm very sorry." "sorry? so am i. why, up in london i've seen boys of 'leven as was reglar old men, and know'd a'most everything. lookye here, young un, don't you know as your poor guv'nor died ever so much in debt through some bank breaking?" "i heard poor papa say that the bank had shut its doors." "that's right," said mr rowle, nodding. "well, young un; and don't you know what that means for you?" "no, sir," i said. "phew?" replied, mr rowle, whistling; "well, p'raps it's kindest to tell you, after all. why, look here, young un, this place, with every stick in it, is going to be sold up--plate, linen, furniture, chayney, glass, and the house and all, and you'll have to go to some of your friends, unless mr blakeford's got his plans made for you." "please, sir, i don't think i've got any friends to go to," i said; "i thought i was going to stay at home--at least, i hoped so," i added despondently. "it's a rum go," muttered mr rowle, as he raised his hat with one hand and re-arranged his hair with the stem of his pipe. "ah, well, i s'pose i've no call to be putting things into your head, only i should like to see you not quite so innocent, and better able to look after yourself." mr rowle and i had many such conversations during the interval before the sale, in all of which he was so much troubled by what he called my innocence, that i began to look upon my ignorance of the world as something approaching a crime. i saw no more of mr blakeford or my uncle, and the days glided slowly by till just before the sale, when the servants came upon me one evening in the dining-room, to announce that they were going, and to say "good-bye." "going?" i said; "what, all?" "yes," said cook sharply, and i think there was a twinkle of moisture in her eyes; "yes, master antony, we're all going, and we've come to say good-bye." i believe that cook would have taken me in her arms and hugged me in good motherly fashion, but for the third person. as it was, she shook hands very warmly and looked tenderly at me for a moment--not more--for her soul seemed to be aroused within her at the presence of mr rowle, at whom she darted the most furious of glances, an example followed by the other two maids; and then we were alone. "bless 'em!" said mr rowle, taking his pipe for a moment from his lips, and then going on smoking. chapter three. mr blakeford shows his teeth. the morning of the sale arrived, and still no one took any notice of me. i had stood by in a melancholy fashion, and seen little tickets pasted or tied upon the various articles of furniture; the stair rods done up in bundles and the carpets in rolls. the chimney ornaments seemed to be holding a meeting in a corner of the sideboard recess, presided over by a bronze neptune; and apparently deceived by the reflection of the sunshine, the steel fender had settled itself calmly on a table before the tall pier-glass as if it were a fire; the pictures looked down in the most melancholy way from the walls at the doleful chaos of furniture, all except one of her majesty the queen, and that seemed to follow me in a sorrowful, pitying fashion that made me gaze up at it again and again. wearied with wandering from room to room--all dust and confusion now--i turned to go upstairs. as i did so i passed the study, whose door was wide open, with mr rowle in the easy-chair smoking away, his hat on, and the wretchedness of the place with its piled-up bundles of books seeming to have no effect upon him whatever. upstairs matters appeared even worse, though it struck me that the rooms were not so dusty. after the "view" on the previous day the auctioneer's men had arranged the things so that they would be handy for taking downstairs, and the grotesque positions they were now in suggested endless ideas. pairs of sheets and blankets hung from pegs like so many culprits; towel-horses stood upon their heads, while chairs did acrobatic tricks, one at the bottom sustaining four or five piled up in a state of equilibrium; the tooth-brush trays all seemed to have been frightened into taking refuge in the ewers; while the bedsteads and toilet-tables appeared to think the place so dirty and untidy that they were holding up their trailing garments to keep them from being soiled. on the previous day i had taken refuge in my favourite haunt, the summer-house, till the strangers had gone, and now, hearing the auctioneer's men below, i was hurriedly taking a farewell glance round before once more making my retreat. i had heard footsteps on the stairs, and supposed it to be one of the owners of the carpet-caps and aprons that lay tucked in a corner, when suddenly passing out of one of the bedrooms into the passage i came face to face with mr blakeford. "oh! you're there, are you?" he said, in quite an ill-used tone, as if he had been hunting for me for days. "why, where have you been hiding yourself?" "please, sir, i've been here all the time." "it's false, sir. how dare you tell me such a lie! i was hunting for you all day yesterday and you were not here. i supposed you had run away." "if you please, sir," i said, "i was in the summer-house--indeed!" "then how dare you tell me, sir, that you were here! now look here, master antony grace; don't you try to trifle with me, for i'm not the man to be played with. you've been allowed to grow up in sloth, ignorance, and idleness; and now that out of pure charity i am going to take you into my office, you had better try to make yourself of some use, unless you want to be turned adrift and starved;" and he bent down and shook his finger in my face. "come to your office, sir?" i cried, wondering. "come to my office, sir, yes," he snarled. "what else were you going to do? did you think you were going to spend your life sticking pins through butterflies and running about picking buttercups and daisies, as you did with your defrauding scoundrel of a father?" "how dare you say that!" i cried, as a fierce burst of passion swept over me at hearing him speak thus of my poor dead father. i have some recollection of rushing at him with clenched fists, and being caught roughly by a strong hand, of being shaken, my ears sharply boxed, and of being then thrown panting, sobbing, and half heart-broken upon the floor, as mr blakeford stood over me. "that's your temper, is it, you young dog?" he cried; "but i'll soon tame that down. what, am i to lose thousands of pounds by your cheating scoundrel of a father, and then, when to save his wretched brat from starvation i have arranged to give him a home, i am to have him turn and rend me? but i'll soon cure all that, my fine fellow. you've got the wrong man to deal with, and it was quite time your career of spoiled child was over." he turned and left the room, and after crouching there sobbing for a few minutes, i got up in a stunned, hopeless way, brushed the dust off my clothes, and as i turned i caught a glimpse of my hot red face and wet eyes in the glass. i was hastily removing the traces of the childish tears when i smelt the pungent odour of tobacco, and my first impulse was to run away and hide; but there was no way of escape, and i had to turn round and face mr rowle, who stood smoking in the doorway. "what's he been leathering you for?" he said, without removing his pipe. "i--i struck him!" i panted out, trembling with shame and indignation. "you? you hit lawyer blakeford?" he said, with a broad grin overspreading his face. "come, i like that. i didn't think there was so much stuff in you." "he--he--said false things about my poor dead father," i faltered. "and you tried to punch his head for it, young 'un; and serve him right, that's what i say. never mind: cheer up, young un; you'll grow a man some day, see if you don't. but, i say, look here, where are you going to stay? the house'll be full of people directly." "i'm--i'm to go to mr blakeford--to his office, he says." "whee-ew!" whistled mr rowle. "that's it, is it? your guv'nor owed him money, eh, and he's going to take it out of you? i say, young un, you're in for it." "am i, sir?" i said, in a dull, despairing way, for i understood by his words that my future was not to be a very pleasant one, but just then i heard mr blakeford's voice below, and mr rowle gave me a friendly nod and turned away, while i stood listening, expecting to be called. i can recall those feelings that came over me to this day--shame, mortification, wounded pride, misery, and despair. what was to become of me? how could i ever live with a man who spoke so cruelly of one who had always been so firm and yet so gentle with me? no mother, no father, no one to say one kind and encouraging word to me but that poor rough man in possession, towards whom in those hours of misery my young heart went out with all its passion of childlike affection. i was half stunned. had i been so idle and spoiled a boy? i did not know, only that i had been very happy--that every lesson had been a pleasure, and those summer-day entomological and botanical rambles with my father times of joy and delight. it was all a puzzle, too, about my father and mr blakeford and their money matters, and of course i was too young to comprehend the legal instruments which empowered the solicitor to take possession of everything of which my father died possessed. the entry of one of the porters made me creep hurriedly away, and going downstairs, i found room after room filling with the people coming to the sale, with the result that i crept into the garden and down the old laurel walk to the little summer-house at the bottom, where i shut myself in to lean my head against my arm and try to check the miserable tears that would come. it was very weak and girlish, but i was only eleven, and during the past few days there had been so much to give me pain. i was heartily ashamed of my weakness, feeling all the time a kind of instinct that i ought to be more manly, and trying hard to become so, though now i can smile at the thought of the little, slight boy of eleven battling with his natural emotions, and striving to school them to his will. it was very quiet and lonely down there, and in a few minutes i felt calmer and better, seating myself and wondering whether i ought not to go up and look for mr blakeford, as i watched the robin--an old friend of mine--hopping about amongst the twigs. perhaps it was a foolish idea. but it seemed to me then as if that bird, as it gazed at me with its large round eyes, could feel for my sorrow, and i felt a kind of envy of the little thing's freedom from pain and care. while i sat there thinking in my despondent way, the low humming of voices up at the house came to me, and now and then i could hear steps on the gravel paths, but that leading up to the summer-house was of short turf, so that i was suddenly surprised by hearing a fresh young voice exclaim: "oh, look here, mamma! what a nice summer-house!" "yes, my dear," said some one, in cold, harsh tones. "the graces knew pretty well how to take care of themselves. i haven't patience with such ways." i jumped up angrily to go away, but i was too late, for the door opened suddenly, and i was face to face with a young girl of about my own age, and a tall thin lady, with a careworn, ill-used expression of countenance; and as she seemed to know who i was, she caught the girl's arm and gave her a snatch, exclaiming: "come away, hetty; it's young grace." the girl took her eyes unwillingly from mine, and as she accompanied the lady away, she turned round once, and i fancied i read in her looks sorrow for my position, and a desire to come and lay her little hand in mine. i sat all through that dreary day alone, and getting faint and hungry-- though my memories of my encounter with mr blakeford kept me from thinking much about the latter, and it must have been nearly five o'clock when the door once more opened, and mr rowle stood there, holding a bundle tied up in a red handkerchief in one hand; his pipe in the other. "why, here you are then, young 'un," he said. "i thought old blakeford had carried you off. lookye here! you're just right. i'm going to have a bit of wittles down here in peace, and you'll join in." as he unfastened the bundle handkerchief and displayed a pork pie and a small loaf, he took a couple of table-knives from his tail-pocket. "borrowed," he said, holding them up. "they're a part of lot hundred and forty-seven. stop a moment, let's make sure." one hand dived into the breast-pocket of his old coat to bring out a dirty catalogue, leaf after leaf of which he turned over, and then, running a dirty thumb down one page he read out: "lot hundred and forty-seven: sixteen black--no, that ain't it. here it is, young 'un. lot hundred and fifty-seven: two dozen and seven ivory balance-handle knives. them's them, and they won't be none the worse for my using on 'em." mr rowle's intentions were most friendly, but i could hardly eat a mouthful, and i was sitting watching him making heavy onslaughts upon the loaf when i heard mr blakeford's voice calling me, and i started up, feeling as if i must run away. "what are you up to?" said mr rowle, with his mouth full. "let me go," i cried excitedly. "let me run somewhere." "gammon! why, what for? you go out like a man and meet him, and if he gives it to you again, why, there, if i was you i'd take it like a man, that i would." i hesitated for a moment, and then took my rough friend's advice by going out into the garden, where i found mr blakeford with a black bag in his hand. "take that," he said harshly, and threw the bag towards me. i was taken by surprise, caught at and dropped the bag, which burst open, and a number of papers tied with red tape fell out. "bah! you clumsy oaf," he exclaimed angrily. "there, pick them up." i hastily stooped, gathered them together, and tremblingly replaced the packets in the bag, and as soon as it was closed followed my new master towards the gate, through which he passed to where a man was holding a thin pony attached to a shabby four-wheeled chaise. "jump up behind," he said; and i climbed into the back seat, while he took the reins, got into the front, and fumbled in one pocket. "here, catch!" he cried to the man, as he gave the reins a shake. the pony started off, and we had not gone a dozen yards before something hard hit me in the back, and turning sharply, i saw one of the big old-fashioned penny-pieces fall into the road, while the man who had thrown it after us was making a derisive gesture at mr blakeford, by which i concluded that he was dissatisfied with the amount that had been given him. "sold badly, very badly," mr blakeford kept muttering, and at every word he gave the reins a jerk which made the pony throw up its head; and so he kept on muttering during our four-miles ride into the town, when he drove into a little yard where a rough-looking man was waiting, threw him the reins, and then turned to me. "jump down, and bring that bag." i jumped down, and as i did so leaped aside, for a large dog rushed out to the full extent of his chain and stood baying at me, till mr blakeford gave him a kick, and he disappeared into a kennel that had once been green. i followed the lawyer through a side door and into a blank-looking office cut in two by a wooden partition topped with little rails, over which hung old and new posting-bills, many of which papered the wall, so that look which way i would my eye rested on, "to be sold by auction," "estate," or "property," in big black letters. on one side of the partition were a high double desk and a couple of tall stools; on the other some cocoa-nut matting, a table covered with papers, a number of shelves on which stood black-japanned boxes, each of which had upon it somebody's name or only initials in white letters, with perhaps the word "exors." after them; while on the chimney-piece were a letter-weigher, two or three large ink-bottles, and a bundle of quill pens. it was growing dusk, and mr blakeford struck a match and lit a gas-jet over the fireplace, just in front of a yellow-looking almanack; and now i could see that the place was one litter of papers, parchments, and dust, save at the end, which was occupied by a bookcase full of great volumes all bound in leather about the colour of mr rowle's skin. "sit down there," he said shortly, and he pointed to one of the tall stools by the great desk; and as i climbed upon it he picked up the bag i had placed upon the desk, threw it upon the table, and walked out of the place. "like a man--take it like a man," i said to myself as i recalled mr rowle's words; and, pressing my teeth tightly and clenching my fists, i sat there fighting down the depressing feelings that came upon me in a flood, and wondering what i should have to do. my musings were interrupted by the loud entry at the end of about half an hour of a cross-looking servant-girl, who banged a small tray containing a mug and a plate of bread and butter down before me. "there's your tea," she said roughly; "and look here, i'm not going to wait on you. bring the mug to the kitchen when you've done, and you'll have to fetch it in future." i looked up at her very wistfully as she scowled at me, but i did not speak. "sulky, eh?" she said. "you'll soon get that taken out of you here, i can tell you." with these words she whisked herself out of the office, the swing-door creaked dismally and banged behind her, and i was left to enjoy my meal. at first i felt that i could not touch it, but i was faint and hungry, and after a few mouthfuls a boy's young healthy appetite asserted itself, and i drank all the mean thin tea and finished the bread and butter. then i remembered that i was to take the things back to the kitchen. where was the kitchen, and dare i leave that stool without mr blakeford's orders? i felt that i dare not, and therefore sat there patiently gazing about the room, my eyes resting longest on those bills which told of sales of furniture, as i wondered whether those who had belonged to the furniture had died and left a son alone in the world, as i seemed to be just then. there was a clock, i found, in one corner--an old dutch clock--that ticked away in a very silent, reserved fashion, giving further every hour a curious running-down noise, as if it were about to strike; but though i watched it patiently as the minute-hand passed on, it never fulfilled the expectations given, but confined itself to its soft subdued _tick, tick, tick, tick_, hour after hour. seven, eight, nine, ten had been marked off by that clock, and still i sat there, waiting, and wondering whether i was to sleep there as well as to have my meals; and then i heard a door bang, the sound of a footstep, and with a great tin candlestick in his hand mr blakeford entered the room. chapter four. i become a lawyer's clerk. "this way!" he said abruptly, and there was a curious look in his face that i could not understand. "here, hold this," he cried, thrusting the candlestick into my hand; and i held it trembling as he crossed unsteadily to the gas-jet, turned it down, and then strode out of the office. "there!" he said, opening a door, "up there; and get down in good time. you'll have to clean the boots and things." "up there" was up a flight of steps which led into a low sloping-ceiled chamber that had been evidently meant for a lumber-room, but had now been fitted up with an old stump bedstead with a coloured counterpane, a little corner washstand with a cracked jug, a strip of carpet, and a three-legged painted chest of drawers, which had gone down at one corner, and left a corresponding leg slightly raised in the air. the place was cold and miserable, chilling to a degree, but it was clean; and as i looked round i was surprised by seeing on a chair a heap of my clothes and a brush and comb. i had just finished looking round when i heard a noise below. "you antony!" shouted mr blakeford; "mind you put that candle out safely, and look sharp into bed." i obeyed by hastily undressing and putting out the candle to get quickly into bed. it was not to lie down, but, after once more battling with my weakness, to offer up the simple prayers i had been taught, and then, still upon my knees, but with my head drooping on to the pillow, falling fast asleep. i awoke terribly depressed at daybreak, to listen to some noisy fowls close by, and then i could hear that the rain was pattering heavily down. ought i to get up then, or should i lie a little longer? i could not tell, but i recollected mr blakeford's words, and as i did so the same wretched despondent feeling came over me as i thought of my helplessness, and trembled, feeling sure i should give offence. there are few people who thoroughly realise the sufferings of a tenderly nurtured, sensitive boy when first called upon to battle with the world amongst unsympathising strangers. he is only a boy in their eyes, and they fail to give him credit for the same feelings as themselves, when too often he is far more finely strung, and suffers acutely from every unkind word and look. the very act of going from home is distressing enough, but when it is supplemented by his finding himself forced to make his first _essays_ in some uncongenial task to which his hands and the brain that should guide are totally unaccustomed, a feeling of despair often takes possession of his young spirit, and is accompanied by a hopeless despondency that is long before it wears away. i had had painful afflictions enough during the past weeks, so that i was anything but well prepared for my new life. besides, i had been badly fed, and the natural sinking caused by the want of proper food terribly augmented my sense of misery. the rain pattered down on the slates and skylight, while the water ran along the gutter and gurgled strangely in a pipe close to the corner where my bed was placed, as i lay wondering what i had better do. the office was below me, with its silent clock, but perhaps i should not be doing right, i thought, if i got up and went down to see the time. perhaps, too, the place might be locked up. i lay thinking in this undecided way till all my doubts were set aside, for there was a loud continuous ringing just outside my door, one which was kept up as if some angry person were sawing away at the wire with the full intention of dragging it down. it agonised me as i jumped out of bed and began hastily to dress, for i felt as if it must be to rouse me up, and as if i had inadvertently been guilty of some lapse. the bell stopped ringing as suddenly as it had begun, and with a feeling of relief i continued dressing, but only to start nervously as i heard mr blakeford's voice at the foot of the stairs shouting my name. "do you hear that bell, sir?" he cried. "yes, sir." "then make haste down; don't be all the morning dressing." then there was the loud banging of a door, and i hastily finished, and went down cautiously, found the office door at the end of the dim passage, and was just going in when the sharp voice of the servant arrested me. "here, you--what's your name?" she said harshly. "antony, ma'am." "ho! then, mister antony, missus says you're to make yourself useful. they've pretty well worked the flesh off my bones since i've been here, so you must just help to put a little on." i looked at her in amazement, and she certainly was not at all prepossessing, being a tall raw-boned woman of some three or four and twenty, in a hastily-put-on cotton dress, her hair rough and untidy, and displaying a general aspect of having spent as little time as possible upon her toilet. "now, then, don't stand staring like that!" she said. "come along here, and fill this scuttle." she led the way into the kitchen and pointed to a large coalscuttle, which i had to take and fill for her, after which she seemed to hesitate as to whether she should place the broom she held in my hands; but, probably under the impression that it would save her no trouble, she altered her mind, and went and fetched a large pair of dirty wellington boots, which she threw down upon the floor. "there, go into that shed and clean them and your own too, and mind you do 'em well," she cried. "he's a reg'lar wunner about his boots." my experience in boot-cleaning consisted in having seen the groom at home occasionally polish a pair, so i was no adept: but hastily setting to, i worked hard at the task, and succeeded indifferently well with the big wellingtons before bestowing the same pains upon my own shoes. i need hardly say that i was not very quick over my task, and so it happened that when i returned to the kitchen the fire was brightly burning, the kettle boiling, and my new friend, or enemy, seated at her breakfast. "there, you can put 'em down," she said, with her mouth full of bread and butter. "and now you'd best go and wait in the orfice till he comes. you're too much of a gent, i s'pose, to have meals with me?" "i'm sure i don't know," i said, rather piteously. "don't you? well, then, i do. you're to have your victuals in the orfice, and i s'pose they'll send some out to you when they're done, seeing as you're took here out o' charity." i felt a red spot burn in each cheek at these words, but i said nothing, only went sadly to the office, which looked terribly dim and gloomy in the morning light. the dust lay thick upon bill and parchment, and the drab books with their red patches upon their backs i could see by this light were old, discoloured, and worn. judging from the appearance of the place, in spite of the ink marks and well-stained blotting-paper, there was not much work carried on there, though, of course, i could not judge that then. all that struck me was that the place looked most melancholy, and that a gloomy yew-tree that half shaded one window was heavily laden with drops of rain. seeing my mug and plate upon the big desk, i remembered the words of the servant, and hastened to take them to the kitchen, where i was received with a scowl, and hastened to retreat back to the office. i had been standing there about an hour, and had just noticed that the clock pointed to half-past eight, when i heard a light step behind me, and, turning round, there stood the girl i had seen in the garden at home. her bright, fresh young face was the first pleasant thing upon which my eyes had rested since i came the night before, and as we stood gazing at each other it seemed to me that i could read sympathy and welcome in her frank smile. "good-morning," she said quietly, and held out her hand, which i was in the act of taking, when a wiry sharp voice cried loudly-- "hetty! hetty! where are you?" "here, mamma," cried my visitor. "then you've no business there," cried the same voice; and the owner--to wit, the lady i had seen in the garden--came in. "go back to the parlour directly, miss; and mind this, you are never to come in here at all." the girl looked eagerly at me again, nodded, and tripped away, leaving a hopeful feeling behind that i could not explain. "so you are young grace," said the lady, whom i presumed to be mrs blakeford, and i gazed wonderingly at her pained wrinkled face and weak-looking, wandering eyes. "mind this: you are to keep in the office. i won't have you in my rooms; and mr blakeford says you are not to be in the kitchen on account of the neighbours' remarks. i'm sure i don't know why we study people who never study us; and i'm pinched enough for money now, without having you thrown on to my housekeeping." "now then, what are you doing there?" cried mr blakeford harshly, as he entered in his slippers. "go and make the tea; what do you want to begin chattering to that boy for about our private affairs?" mrs blakeford muttered something about being always wrong, and turned to go. "always wrong? of course you are, when you will come meddling with what don't concern you. now then," he cried, turning sharply round to me, "what are you staring at? get a cloth and rub down that desk and table. can't you see how dusty they are?" "yes, sir," i said, for it was very evident. "then why don't you go and do it, blockhead?" i started to perform the task in great alarm; but i had no duster, and dared not ask him. fortunately he was called away just then to his breakfast; but he seemed to me to be there still, gazing at me with his keen dark eyes, while his tightly closed thin lips seemed as if they were about to be drawn aside to bite. as soon as i was alone i stole into the kitchen to ask for a duster. "don't bother me; can't you see i'm making toast?" was my greeting. i could see she was making toast, and my attention was further called to it by the sharp ringing of a bell. "ah, ring away," said the woman, going on with her task. "you may ring the bell down, and then i shan't come till the toast's done, do now then!" "please, mary, is the--" i turned upon hearing the pleasant little voice again, which stopped short as i looked round, and our eyes met once more. "no, miss hetty, my dear, the toast ain't done," said the woman more softly; "and you may tell your ma that if she is in a hurry she must wait till her hurry's over." "don't be cross, mary," said the child; and tripping across the kitchen, she ran up to where the woman was kneeling before the fender, kissed her cheek, and tripped out again. "they may thank her for it, that they may," grumbled mary, as if speaking to the fire, "for if it wasn't for her i wouldn't stop a day longer in their nasty, disagreeable old house. there!" the toast was by this time done, and mary was scraping away at a burnt spot, when the bell began to ring more violently than before, with the result that, instead of running off with the toast, mary deliberately placed it upon the fender and went across to one of the dresser drawers, out of which she took a clean duster. "ring away!" she grumbled. "there's a duster for you, boy. and look here; you must be hungry. stop a minute and i'll cut you a slice. ah, ring away! you don't frighten me." to my horror, she coolly spread thickly a slice of bread, cut it, and handed it to me before buttering the toast with which she at last crawled out of the kitchen, while i literally fled to the office, laid the bread and butter on the desk, and stopped to listen. at the end of half an hour the bell rang again, and soon after mary came sulkily into the office with a mug of half-cold weak tea and some lumps, not slices, of bread and butter. these she thrust before me, and i was sadly making my breakfast when mr blakeford entered the place. "come, make haste!" he said sharply; and as i glanced up at him i read in his face that for some reason or another he had taken a great dislike to me. i could not tell then, nor did i know for long afterwards, why this was; but it grew more evident hour by hour that he hated the sight of my anxious young face, and that my sojourn with him was to be far from pleasant. he took his seat at the table while i tried to finish my breakfast, but his coming had completely taken away my appetite, and at the end of a few minutes i hastened to take the mug and plate to the kitchen, and then returned to the office. "now, sir," mr blakeford began, "just look here. your father owed me a large sum of money when he died, and i have taken you on here quite out of compassion. do you hear?" "yes, sir," i faltered. "well, you've got to learn to be of use to me as soon as you can. you can write, i suppose?" "yes, sir--not very well," i faltered. "of course you can't. no boy brought up as you have been, without going to a school, could be expected to write a decent hand. but look here, you'll have to try and write well; so take that paper to the desk and copy it out in a neat round hand." i took the paper with trembling hands, climbed to the desk, spread the sheet of foolscap ready upon a big piece of blotting-paper, and took up one of the pens before me. those were the days before steel nibs had become common, and the pen i took was a quill split up and spoiled. i took another and another, but they were all the same; and then, glancing at the inkstand, i found that it was dry. i hardly dared to do it, but he glanced up at me to see if i had begun, and i ventured to say that there was neither pen nor ink. "of course not, blockhead. get down and fetch some off the chimney-piece." i gladly obeyed; and then, resuming my seat, with the words on the paper dancing before my eyes, made my first essay as mr blakeford's clerk. the writing before me was not very distinct, but i managed to decipher it pretty well, getting a little puzzled as to the meaning of "ads." and "exors.," with various other legal contractions, but after the first line or two going steadily on, for, bad as my education had been, i was able to write a boy's neat round hand, consequent upon often copying out lists for my father, or names to label the collections we made. i had been writing about half an hour, working away diligently enough, when i heard the chair on the other side of the partition scroop, and mr blakeford came up behind me. i fully expected a severe scolding or a blow when he took up my sheet of foolscap and scanned it over, but he threw it down before me again with a grunt. soon afterwards he rose and went out, leaving me busy over my task, writing till i grew giddy and my head began to ache. about the middle of the day mary came in with some bread and meat; and about six o'clock there was another mug of thin tea and some pieces of bread and butter. then the night came on, the gas was lighted, and i finished my first day in what seemed to be, and really was, as i look back upon it now, little better than a prison. the days crept slowly by as i took my place each morning at the desk, finding always something fresh to copy in a neat round hand, and at this i patiently toiled on, with my old griefs growing more dull as a little hope began to arise that i might soon see little hetty to speak to again; but though from time to time i heard the voice and the sound of a piano upon which some one was industriously practising, she never came near the office. mr blakeford seemed as brutal to everyone in the house as he was to me. the only person who did not seem afraid of him was mary, and upon her his angry scoldings had no effect whatever. to me she was harsh and uncouth as on my first arrival, but, seeing that the amount given me for my meals was disgracefully small, after the first week she did take care that i had a sufficiency of food, although it only took one form. i remember upon one occasion, having to go to the kitchen door, and finding her muttering angrily to herself, while upon seeing me she exclaimed: "they've been going on about too much butter being used again. come here!" i went closer to her, and she hurried into the larder, and came out with a roll of fresh butter and a new loaf, cutting off a thick piece and plastering it excessively with butter. "there!" she exclaimed, "you go back into the office, and don't you show your face here again until you've eaten up every scrap of that. i'll teach 'em to grumble about the butter." from that day forward mary was always cutting me great slices of new bread and thickly spreading them with butter. "there," she used to say ungraciously, "i don't like boys, but they shan't half-starve you while i'm here." i was so moved by her unexpected kindness--for it really was done out of goodness of heart--that, having become somewhat hardened to being a confederate in this unlawful acquisition of provender, on one occasion i threw my arms round her neck and kissed her. "why, you impudent young scamp, what d'yer mean?" she exclaimed, in astonishment. "please, mary," i said, "i didn't mean to be impudent; it was because you were so good to me." "good? stuff!" she said roughly, "i'm not good. there, get along with you, and don't you do that again." i certainly should have run a good chance of being half-starved but for mary and another friend. one day when i opened my desk, i found just inside it a plate with an appetising piece of pudding therein, and concluded that it was mary's doing; but i could not be sure, for her benevolence always took the form of thick slices of bread and butter. the next day there was a piece of cake; another day some apples; another, a couple of tartlets; and at last i determined to hide and see who was the donor of these presents, so welcome to a growing boy. i had made up my mind at last that they came from hetty, and i was right; for going inside the large paper cupboard one day, instead of going out to fetch the newspaper according to custom, this being one of my new duties, i saw the office door gently open and hetty's little head peering cautiously in. then, satisfied that no one was near, she ran lightly to the big desk; i heard it shut down hastily, and then there was a quiet rustling noise, the office door closed and she was gone. this went on regularly, and at last one day it occurred to me that i should like to make her a present in return. i had a few shillings, the remains of my pocket-money, and i turned over in my own mind what i should give her. cakes or sweets i voted too trifling, a doll too childish. what should i buy then? suddenly i recollected that there were in a window in the little town some pretty silver brooches formed like a knot of twisted ribbon, and one of these i determined to buy. it took three out of my five shillings; but it looked very pretty in its little box, reposing on pink cottonwool; and having secured it, i returned to my copying at the desk, to think out how i could make my gift. nothing was more simple. i wrapped up the little box neatly in a quarter-sheet of foolscap, sealed it with the office wax, and directed it in my best hand to "miss hetty blakeford. from one who is very grateful." i felt very conscious and excited as i finished and laid it in the bottom of the desk, just where the presents were always placed for me, and to my great delight, when i looked again there was a plate of tart which the poor child had saved from her own dinner, and the packet was gone. chapter five. mr blakeford suffers, and i catch the echo. my life at mr blakeford's knew but little change. it was one regular monotonous occupation--copy, copy, copy, from morning till night; and but for stolen bits of reading i believe i should have gone melancholy mad. i had no companions of my own age, no older friends to whom i could confide my troubles or ask for advice. mr blakeford was always stern and repellent; mrs blakeford, on the rare occasions when i encountered her, ill-used, and ready to say something about my being an extra expense. only at rare intervals did i see little hetty, and then it would be in the street, when i had been sent to the post, to fetch stamps, or on some such errand. then i had a smile and a pleasant look to think about till our next encounter. a year glided by in this fashion, during which time, in spite of his constant complaints, i must have grown very useful to mr blakeford, for my handwriting was clear and firm, and i copied a great many documents in the course of the month. he was as brutal to me as ever, and never lost an opportunity of abusing me for my being an incumbrance, or saying something which sent me miserable to my room. my tender point, and he knew it well enough, was an allusion to my father's debt to him; and afterwards, when i went up wretched and low-spirited to bed, i used to make a vow that some day or another i would save enough money to pay him all my father owed, and so free his memory from what the lawyer always told me was a disgrace. quite eighteen months had elapsed, when it became evident to me that mr blakeford was in some trouble with one of his clients. this latter, a tall florid-looking farmer, had, as i learned from what i heard of their conversation, borrowed money from my employer upon some security, with the understanding that payment was not to be enforced so long as the heavy interest was provided for. mr blakeford's business seemed to consist a great deal in money-lending, and every now and then my old acquaintance, mr rowle, came to the office for instructions, and found time for a friendly chat. upon this occasion i noticed that mr blakeford was very anxious about the coming of some one to the office, and he spent a good deal of time in watching from one of the windows. he was sternly examining a piece of copying that i had just finished, when there came three heavy knocks with a stick upon the outer door of the office. mr blakeford turned yellow, and, catching me by the arm, whispered-- "it's mr wooster. antony, say i'm not at home. say i've gone out. quick." he pushed me towards the door, and i went to open it just as there were three more heavy knocks, and on drawing back the fastening, there stood mr wooster, the stout, tall, farmer-looking man, scowling and angry. "where's mr blakeford?" he cried, catching me fiercely by the collar, and shaking a stout ash stick he carried. "please, sir--" i began. "it's a lie!" he roared; "he's not out. didn't he tell you to say he was out?" "yes, sir," i faltered, and he strode straight in; and as i followed, i saw him catch mr blakeford by the throat and pin him in his chair. "fetch the constable, antony," cried mr blakeford. "quick!" "stop where you are, you young dog," roared the farmer, "or i'll kill you. now, you scoundrel, what do you mean by seizing my goods, by putting your rascally man in possession after promising me in this office that you would never put me to any inconvenience?" "if you have any complaint to make against me, mr wooster, employ your solicitor," cried mr blakeford hoarsely. "hang your solicitor and the whole crew, you scoundrelly serpent!" roared the farmer. "you've ruined me, as you ruined that poor boy's father, and a score more before him." "antony--a constable--help!" cried mr blakeford, for he was yellow and green with fear. "if antony grace stirs, i'll crush him like i would a snail," cried the farmer. "and now look here, you crawling snake; i trusted you because i didn't believe any one could deliberately ruin another for the sake of a few pounds." "mr wooster, if you dare to strike me," cried the miserable coward, "i shall proceed against you for assault." "so you may," cried the farmer, with a bitter laugh; "and as you've got every penny i had, much good may it do you. look here, blakeford; if i knew that i should be transported for life to botany bay for what i'm going to do, i'd do it now." as he spoke, he spat in his hand, took a fresh grip of the ash stick, and, in spite or mr blakeford's cries for help and mercy, he thrashed him till the stick broke in pieces; and then, taking him by the collar with both hands, he shook him till he was tired, and ended by throwing him back in his chair. "there!" cried the farmer; "now do your worst, you cheating scoundrel. i'm satisfied; go and satisfy yourself, and much good may the money you have stolen from the poor, the fatherless, and the widow do you." as he said this he strode out of the office and banged the door. i was half stunned with fear and horror, and i remember how thankful i felt that i had seen mrs blakeford go out with hetty half an hour before. while the thrashing was going on mary had opened the door and looked in, but as if it were no business of hers, she had gone out again, and i was left the sole spectator. "are you much hurt, sir?" i said in trembling tones as soon as we were alone. "yes," he whispered hoarsely, and showing his teeth, "a good deal." "shall i get you something, sir?" "yes," he said, panting less hoarsely, "fetch that leather case out of the passage." i ran and fetched the heavy leather-covered box he meant, and placed it beside him, watching him anxiously, to see if he were better. "now, fasten both the doors," he whispered, laying his hand upon his breast to keep down the panting as he drew his breath more easily, and wiped the perspiration from his face. i obeyed him, and then returned to his side. "now unfasten that case, antony," he said in quite a faint whisper; and going down on one knee i unbuckled a thick strap that was round it, and was about to raise the lid, but it was locked. "that will do," he said, suddenly changing his tone as he seized me by the jacket collar with one hand, the strap with the other. "you young villain!" he hissed; "you dog! didn't i tell you to say i was out, and you let that bully in? i'll give you such a lesson as you will never forget." i was half stupefied as he raised the thick strap, and then brought it heavily down in blow after blow, cutting me all over the body, across the face, hands, legs, anywhere, and causing the most intense pain. i writhed and twined and screamed out under the first few blows in my agony; then a feeling of blind passion came over me, and i caught at and struggled with him for the possession of the strap, but in vain; for he kept me at bay with one hand and continued to beat me cruelly till i fell and then, placing one foot upon my chest, he beat me again till his arm fell in weariness to his side. "i'll teach you to mind me another time," he panted, as he gloated over me in his pitiful revenge for the beating he had himself received. "i'll give you something to remember this day by;" and, as i rose, he once more began to strike me; but this time i caught at the strap and held it with hands and teeth, twisting it round me and holding on while he strove to drag it away. my resistance seemed to half madden him as i still held on. "let go, you dog!" he roared, "let go!" but i held on the more tightly; when, beside himself with rage, as a loud knocking came now at the inner door, he caught up a heavy office ruler from the table and struck me so cruel a blow across the head that i staggered backwards, and should have fallen to the floor if the door had not been dashed in and mary caught me up. chapter six. under mary's mask. "you great coward!" she cried in a rage, as, sick, faint, and heavy, and seeing everything now as in a dream, i was lifted in her stout arms. "leave this room, woman!" i heard him say. "yes, and your house too, you wretch?" she retorted; and then i heard no more till i seemed to wake in a heavy, dull, throbbing fashion in the kitchen, where some one seemed to be wetting my head with water smelling very strongly of pickles. the place looked as if it was early morning, and the walls, with the dresser, plates, and tureens, and the bright tin dish-covers, seemed to be going round and round, but not regularly, for it was as if they went up and down in a wavy billowy way, and all the time i seemed to feel terribly sick. "oh, if i was a man!" i heard mary mutter; and then more softly, "there, don't you cry, miss hetty; he ain't killed. it's left off bleeding now. you go to your mar's work-basket and get me a strip of rag. you ain't got any sticking-plaister, have you?" "i've got some black court-plaister, mary." "that'll do, chucky; go and get it. poor boy, he has had a beating!" she muttered as i heard hetty's steps crossing the kitchen floor. "i'm--i'm better now, mary," i said faintly; and i tried to rise. "no, you ain't better, neither; and you'll just lie quite still till your head's done," said mary, in her rough ungracious way. "you needn't be afraid about him; he's gone to bed and sent for the doctor, because he pretends he's so bad, and mr emmett the constable is upstairs with him, about going to the magistrates and taking up mr wooster for beating him; but he didn't say nothing about taking his self up for beating you, a great ugly coward! oh! here you are, are you?" "here's some clean soft linen and the court-plaister," i heard hetty say with a sob. "where's your mar?" said mary. "upstairs in papa's room." "ho?" ejaculated mary, "and i hope she'll stay there. there, don't you begin a-crying again. hold his hair back while i put this bit on. there, it's not going to bleed any more, and you needn't get shuddering like that at the sight of a little blood. that's the way. poor boy, it was enough to knock down a hox. never mind the wet hair; it's only vinegar and water. that's the way; we'll soon strap it up. i don't want to hurt your feelings, miss hetty, but your par's a brute." "oh, mary! i won't stop in the kitchen if you say such things," cried hetty, stamping her little foot. "then you'd better go back into the parlour, my dear, for i shall say what i like in my own kitchen; so there now." "it's very cruel and unkind of you, mary." "and it's very cruel and unkind of your par to keep this poor boy half-starved in that orfis." "he did not, mary. i'm sure papa would not do such a thing." "and that's why you go without half your dinner, and then take and put it in antony's desk." "mary!" "ah, you may mary as long as you like, but i've seen you do it." "hush! pray don't, mary; he'll hear you." "not he, my dear. poor boy! he's dropped off asleep, and the best thing too. you're asleep, aren't you?" i tried to answer "no," but the faint deathly feeling came over me again as strongly as ever, and all seemed dark and silent once more. it was getting dark when i awoke; for, from fainting, i must have lapsed into a heavy sleep, the result of exhaustion and the shock. my head ached, and i was very stiff and in great pain as i tried to raise myself from the pillow which propped me up in the great windsor chair. mary was seated opposite to me, crooning some ditty in a low voice as she sat sewing, the needle clicking against her thimble as she thrust it through the work. the fire was burning brightly, the tea-things on the table, the pot on the hob, and some buttered toast upon the fender. as i was gazing at her, and noticing the play of the flames over her red and rugged countenance, she suddenly raised her eyes, gazed full at me, and the harsh repulsive look passed away as she showed a set of white teeth in a pleasant smile, and rose and came to me, bending down and laying her hand upon my burning forehead. "you won't want no doctor," she said; and to my utter astonishment she bent lower, kissed me, and then softly patted my cheek. "poor boy," she said, "it was a shame!" i gazed up piteously and wildly, i believe, in her face, for it was so strange. she had always been so rough and harsh towards me, and her frequent donations of bread and butter seemed to have been given to me more out of spite to her employers than out of kindness to me; but now it was plain enough that under her rugged crust she possessed a true woman's nature, and the ill-treatment i had received had completely made her my friend. "i've been waiting all this time for you to wake and have tea," she said, placing the pot and the toast on the table. "now then, see if you can't sit up and have some." "i couldn't drink any, thank you," i said faintly. "such stuff and nonsense! it's quite fresh, and i've put in some extra as miss hetty give me. come now, sit up and try, there's a dear." i tried to sit up, but the pain was so great that i sank back, having hard work not to cry out; and seeing this, with a tenderness for which i should not have given her credit, she gently raised me and backed the pillows up, so as to support me; and then, finding that this was not sufficient, she ran out of the kitchen, to return in a few minutes, doubling up what i knew was her best shawl, which she now formed into a cushion. "there, now we shall do," she said cheerily; and, pouring out a cup of tea, she tasted and added milk till it was to her liking, and then held it to my lips. it was like nectar, and i gave her a grateful look for that which seemed to impart new life to my bruised body. "now, you've got to eat some toast," she said, and i stared at her in wonder, for it seemed to be a new mary upon whom i gazed. "i couldn't eat a bit," i said helplessly. "but you must," she said imperatively. "now look here, you have had hardly anything since breakfast, and if you don't eat, you can't get well." i took the toast she held to me, and managed to eat it. that done, i had another cup of tea, and the sickly faint feeling i had had every time i moved seemed less overpowering; and at last i lay back there, listening helplessly to mary as she chatted to me and washed up the tea-things. "don't you trouble about them; they won't come in my kitchen. he's ill in bed, or pretending to be, and the doctor says he ain't to move for a week. i hope he mayn't for a month--a brute! i never see such a cowardly trick. i wish my william had him. he's going to have the law of mr wooster, so mr emmett the constable told me; and him and the doctor'll make out a nice case between 'em, i know. pah! i hate lawyers and doctors. so you make yourself comfortable. i'll be your doctor, and if they ain't pretty civil to me, i'll be your lawyer, too, and go to the madgistrits, see if i don't. if i was you i wouldn't stay with 'em a minnit after i got well. i shan't; i'm sick of 'em." "i wish i could go, mary," i said, "but i don't want to go now you've been so kind." "kind! stuff! it's only my way. there ain't a better-tempered girl nowheres than i am; only when you come to live in a house where the master's a snarling, biting, growling hound, and the missus is a fault-finding, scolding, murmuring himidge, it's enough to put out a hartchangel. but i say, if i was you, and could write such a lovely hand, i should send and tell my father and mother. oh, i am sorry, dear--i forgot about your poor father and mother. but i would write and tell somebody." mary's allusion to my lovely handwriting was consequent upon my having copied a letter for her to one mr william revitts, who was a policeman in london. she had asked me to copy it for her, and direct it "proper," because her hands were so dirty when she wrote that she was afraid he might not be able to read it. all the same, mary's hands seemed to have been perfectly clean, though the probabilities were that the said mr william revitts, "mi one dere willim," would certainly not have been able to read the letter. in fact, i broke down over the very beginning by mistaking "one" for the number, and had to be corrected, mary having meant to say _own_. her allusion to my parents touched a tender chord, and my face worked as i recalled the happy times gone by. "i have nobody to write to," i said at last--"only my uncle." "then i'd write and tell him, that i would." "i am not quite sure where he lives," i said. "i never saw him till-- till he came to the funeral." "but haven't you got nobody belonging to you--no friends at all?" "i think not," i said helplessly. "no one who would help me." "well, you are a one," said mary, pausing in the act of wiping out the tea-tray after half filling it and pouring the dirty water off at one corner. "why, i've got no end o' people belonging to me; and if that brute upstairs--as i wish he may ache bad for a week!--was to raise his hand against me, my william would be down and serve him worse than mr wooster did, i can tell him--a wretch!" "is that mr william revitts," i asked, "the policeman?" "yes; but he wouldn't come down here as a policeman, but as a gentleman, and he'd soon teach mr blakeford what he ought to--yes! what is it?" this was in answer to a shrill call for mary in mrs blakeford's voice, and that lady came in immediately after, to mary's great disgust. "you must get hot water ready directly, mary," she began in an ill-used way. "i'm sure _i_ don't know what i shall do. he's very bad indeed." "oh, there's lots of hot water," said mary shortly. "biler's full, and kettle's full, and i'll put on the great black saucepan and light the copper if you like." as she spoke mary seized the big poker, and began stoking and hammering away at the fire in a most vicious manner, as if determined to vent her spleen upon mr blakeford's coals. "your poor master's dreadfully bad," said mrs blakeford again, and she kept on looking at me in a way that seemed quite to indicate that i alone was to blame. "oh, yes, mum, i dessay he is, and so's other people too, and wuss. i dessay he'll get better again if he don't die." mrs blakeford stared at mary in a half-terrified way, and backed to the door. "you ring the bell when you want it, and i'll bring you a can of water upstairs," continued mary ungraciously. "and couldn't you help me a little in attending upon your master, mary?" "no, i couldn't, mum," she said shortly, "for i'm the worst nuss as ever was; and besides, i've got my kitchen work to do; and if you wants a nuss, there's mrs jumfreys over the way would be glad to come, i dessay, only i ain't going to have her here in my kitchen." mrs blakeford hastily backed out of the kitchen and retreated upstairs, while mary's rough mask dropped off as soon as she had gone. "i wasn't going to tell her as i nussed an invalid lady two years 'fore i came here," she said, smiling. "besides, i didn't want to have nothing to do with him, for fear i should be tempted to give him his lotion 'stead of his physic, he aggravates me so. lotions is pison, you know--outward happlication only." that night i had a bed made up down in the kitchen, and passed a weary, feverish time; but towards morning a pleasant feeling of drowsiness came over me. i fell asleep to dream that i was at home once more, and all was bright and sunshiny as i sat half asleep in the summer-house, when my mother came and laid her hand upon my forehead, and i opened my eyes to find it was mary, ready to ask me whether i was better; and though the sweet, bright dream had gone, there was something very tender in the eyes that looked in mine. chapter seven. dreams of the great magnet. i was very stiff and sore, and there was a peculiar giddiness ready to assail me as soon as i moved, so mary, in her double capacity of doctor and nurse, decided that i was not to attempt to walk about that day. the consequence was that she made no scruple about dragging a little couch out of the parlour into the kitchen, and after i was dressed, making me lie down near the fire. "if they don't like it about the sofy, they must do the other thing," she said, laughing. "i say, do you know what time it is?" "no," i replied. "half-past ten, and i've been waiting breakfast till you woke. you _have_ had a sleep. i wouldn't wake you, for i thought it would do you good." "i am better, a great deal," i said. "yes; so you are. he ain't, or pretends he ain't. miss hetty's been catching it." "has she?" "yes; for wanting to know about you. missus told her you were a wicked young wretch, and had half killed your master, and she was never to mention your name again." i was decidedly better, and in the course of the afternoon i got up and found that the various objects had ceased to waltz around. i made my way up to my bedroom, and for the first time had a look at myself in the glass, where i found that a sore feeling upon my face was caused by a couple of black marks which crossed each other at a sharp angle, and that high up above my temple, and just where the hair would cover it, there was a patch of black court-plaister, which was placed across and across in strips to cover a long and painful cut. the days glided by; the weals on my face changed colour and began to fade, while the cut on my head grew less painful. i was thrown a good deal with mary, for no work had been set me in the office, and mr blakeford kept his bed, being regularly attended by the doctor. i found--mary being my informant--that there was to be quite a serious case made of it, and mrs blakeford had told her that i was to be an important witness to the assault. a fortnight had passed; and as i sat alone day after day in the office thinking of a plan that had suggested itself to my mind, but fearing to put it into execution, i had two visitors who completely altered my career in life. the first came one morning as i was writing a letter to my uncle--a letter destined never to reach him--in the shape of the big farmer, mr wooster, who rapped sharply at the office door, and gazed sternly at me as i opened it and stood in the little passage. "where's blakeford?" he said sharply. "ill in bed, sir," i said. "it's a lie, you young rascal," he cried, catching me by the collar. "here, how old are you?" "thirteen, sir." "and you can tell lies like that, eh? and without blushing?" "it is not a lie, sir," i said stoutly. "mr blakeford hasn't been down since--since--" "i thrashed him, eh?" he said, laughing. "it was a good thrashing too, eh, youngster? but, hallo! what's the matter with your head?" "a cut, sir." "what! did you tumble down?" "no, sir. it was done the day you--you beat mr blakeford." "how?" i was silent. "he--he didn't dare to do it, did he?" i was still silent. "look here, youngster, tell me the truth and i'll give you a shilling." "i never told a lie yet, sir," i said stoutly, "and i don't want your shilling." he looked at me intently for a few moments, and then held out his hand. "shake hands," he said. i placed mine in his, and he squeezed it so that he hurt me, but i did not flinch. "i believe you, my lad. you don't look like a lying sort, and i wish you were out of this. now, tell me, did he make that cut on your head?" i nodded. "what with?" "that ruler." "humph! and what for?" "because i let you in on that day." "hang him!" he cried, striding up and down the office, for he had walked straight in, "he's a bigger scoundrel than i thought him. now, look here, my man, there's going to be an action, or a trial, or something, against me, and you'll be the principal witness. now, what are you going to do?" "going to do, sir?" "yes," he said impatiently; "you'll have to appear before the magistrates, and you'll be asked all about my thrashing your master. what are you going to say?" "i shall tell them the truth, sir." "no, you won't, my boy. you'll say what mr blakeford tells you to say." "i shall tell the truth, sir," i said stoutly. "look here, my lad, if you tell the truth, that's all i want; if you don't, you'll ruin me." "i'm sure i shall tell the truth, sir," i said, colouring up and speaking earnestly. "you'll tell the magistrates, then, that i snatched up the poker and beat mr blakeford with that, eh?" "no, sir, it was your walking-stick." "was it anything like that?" he said, holding out the one he carried. "yes, sir, just like it. here are the pieces, sir," i said; and i took them out of my desk, where i had placed them. "you're a brave boy," he cried, rubbing his hands; "so they are. now look here, my boy: mr blakeford says i assaulted him with the poker. just you button those pieces of stick up in your socket--no, give them to me; i'll take them. now; when the day comes, and i ask you to tell the truth about it, you speak out honestly, or, better still, go and hide yourself and never come near the court at all. there's half-a-crown for you. what, you won't take it! well, just as you like. good-bye!" he shook hands with me again, and nodding in a friendly way, left the office. he had not been, gone more than an hour when there was another knock at the door, and on opening it, i admitted mr rowle, who smiled at me as he took off his hat and smoothed his thin streaky hair across his bald head. "well, young un," he said, "why, you're growing quite a man. but what's the matter with your forehead?" i told him, and he gave a low, long whistle. "i say, young un," he said, "i dare say it ain't no business of mine, but if i was you, i should look after another place. perhaps, though, he wouldn't let you go." "mr blakeford often says, mr rowle, that he wishes i was out of his sight." "gammon!" said my visitor; "don't you believe him. you do as you like; but if i was a boy like you, i wouldn't stay here." i looked up at him guiltily, and he stared hard at me, as if reading my thoughts. "why, what's wrong?" he said; "you look as red as a turkey cock!" "please, mr rowle--but you won't tell mr blakeford?" "tell mr blakeford? not i." "i mean to go up to london, and try and find my uncle." "try and find him? what, don't you know where he lives?" "no, sir." "humph! london's a big place, you know." "yes, sir, but i dare say i could find him." "what is he--a gentleman?" "yes, sir, i think so." "so don't i, my boy, or he'd never have left you in charge of old pouncewax. but lookye here now; out with it! what do you mean to do-- give notice to leave, or are you going to cut?" "cut what, sir?" "cut what! why, cut away--run up to london." i hesitated for a few moments and hung my head; then, looking up in my old friend's face, as he thrust his hand into his cuff--and i expected to see him draw his pipe--i felt that i had nothing to fear from him, and i spoke out. "please, mr rowle, i'm so unhappy here, that i was going to run away." he caught me by the collar so sharply that i thought he was going to punish me; but it was only touring down his other hand with a sharp clap upon my shoulder. "i'm glad of it, young un. run away, then, before he crushes all the hope and spirit out of you." "then you don't think it would be very wrong, sir?" "i think it would be very right, young un; and i hope if you find your uncle, he won't send you back. if he wants to, don't come: but run away again. look here; you'll want a friend in london. go and see my brother." "your brother, sir?" "yes, my brother jabez. you'll know him as soon as you see him; he's just like me. how old do you think i am?" "i should think you're fifty, sir." "fifty-eight, young un; and so's jabez. there, you go and put his name and address down. fifty-eight he is, and i'm fifty-eight, so there's a pair of us. now, then, write away: mr jabez rowle, ruddle and lister." "mr jabez rowle," i said, writing it carefully down, "good. now ruddle and lister." "ruddle and lister." "commercial printers." "com-mer-cial prin-ters." "short street, fetter lane." "fetter lane." "and now let's look." i handed him the scrap of paper. "why, it's lovely. copper-plate's nothing to it, young un. there, you go up and see him, and tell him you've come up to london to make your fortune, and he'll help you, i went up to london to make mine, young un." "and did you make it, sir?" i said eagerly. he looked down at his shabby clothes, smoothed his hair, and then, with a curious smile upon his face-- "no, young un, i didn't make it. i made something else instead." "did you, sir?" "yes, young un--a mess of it. look here, i might have got on, but i learned to drink like a fish. don't you. mind this: drink means going downwards into the mud; leaving it alone means climbing up to the top of the tree. bless your young heart, whatever you do, don't drink." "no, sir," i said, "i will not;" but i did not appreciate his advice. "there, you stick to that paper. and now, how much money have you got?" "money, sir?" "yes, money. london's a hundred miles away, and you can't walk." "i think i could, sir." "well, try it; and ride when you're tired. how much have you got?" i took out my little blue silk purse, and counted in sixpences half-a-crown. he looked at me for some few moments, and then stood thinking, as if trying to make up his mind about something. "i'll do it," he muttered. "look here, young un, you and i are old friends, ain't we?" "oh, yes!" i said eagerly. "then i will do it," he said, and untying his neckerchief, he, to my great surprise, began to unroll it, to show me the two ends that were hidden in the folds. "for a rainy day," he said, "and this is a rainy day for you. look here, young un; this is my purse. here's two half-sovs tied up in these two corners--that's one for you, and one for me." "oh, no, sir," i said, "i'd rather not take it!" and i shrank away, for he seemed so poor and shabby, that the idea troubled me. "i don't care whether you'd rather or not," he said, untying one corner with his teeth. "you take it, and some day when you've made your fortune, you give it me back--if so be as you find i haven't succeeded to my estate." "do you expect to come in for an estate some day, sir?" i said eagerly. "bless your young innocence, yes. a piece of old mother earth, my boy, six foot long, and two foot wide. just enough to bury me in." i understood him now, and a pang shot through me at the idea of another one who had been kind to me dying. he saw my look and nodded sadly. "yes, my lad, perhaps i shall be dead and gone long before then." "oh, sir, don't; it's so dreadful!" i said. "no, no, my boy," he said quietly; and he patted my shoulder, as he pressed the half-sovereign into my hand. "not so dreadful as you think. it sounds very awful to you youngsters, with the world before you, and all hope and brightness; but some day, please god you live long enough, you'll begin to grow very tired, and then it will seem to you more like going to take a long rest. but there, there, we won't talk like that. here, give me that money back?" i handed it to him, thinking that he had repented of what he had done, and he hastily rolled the other half-sovereign up, and re-tied his handkerchief. "here," he said, "stop a minute, and don't shut the door. i shall soon be back." he hurried out, and in five minutes was back again to gaze at me smiling. "stop a moment," he said, "i must get sixpence out of another pocket. i had to buy an ounce o' 'bacco so as to get change. now, here you are-- hold out your hand." i held it out unwillingly, and he counted eight shillings and four sixpences into it. "that's ten," he said; "it's better for you so. now you put some in one pocket and some in another, and tie some up just the same as i have, and put a couple of shillings anywhere else you can; and mind and never show your money, and never tell anybody how much you've got. and mind this, too, when anybody asks you to give him something to drink, take him to the pump. that's all. stop. don't lose that address. gov'nor's not down, i s'pose?" "no, sir," i said. "all right then, i shan't stay. good-bye, young un. when are you going?" "i'm not quite sure yet, sir." "no? well, perhaps i shan't see you again. jabez rowle, mind you. tell him all about yourself, mind, and--good-bye." he trotted off, but came back directly, holding out his hand. "god bless you, young un," he said huskily. "good-bye." before i could speak again, the door closed sharply, and i was alone. chapter eight. i take a bold step. my head was in a whirl as soon as mr rowle had gone, and i sat at my desk thinking over my project, for i had felt for days past that i could not stay where i was--that i would sooner die; and night after night i had lain awake thinking of the, to me, terrible step i proposed to take. my life at mr blakeford's had been such a scene of misery and torture, that i should have gone long enough before, had i dared. now that i had grown older, and a little more confident, i had gradually nurtured the idea as my only hope, and the events of the past weeks had pretty well ripened my scheme. as i sat there, i laid my arms on the big desk, and my head down upon them, trembling at my daring, as the idea took a far more positive shape than ever; and now a feeling of reluctance to leave had come upon me. mary had been so kind; and then there was little hetty, who had silently shown me so many tokens of her girlish goodwill. i felt as i sat there, with the money and address in my pocket, that i must go now; and to act as a spur to my intentions, the words of mr wooster came trooping across my memory. would mr blakeford want me to go to the magistrates and say what was not true? in imagination, i saw his threatening dark face before me, and his thin lips just parting to display his white teeth in that doglike smile of his, and i shuddered, as i felt how i feared him. it would be horrible to be threatened till i promised to say what he wished, and to lie to the magistrates with mr wooster's threatening face watching me the while. but he would not ask me to tell a lie, i thought, and i could not run away. mary would never forgive me, and hetty would think that i really did cause her father to be so beaten. no: i felt i could not go, and that somehow i must get away from the house, go straight to mr rowle's lodgings, and give him back the money, which i had received upon such a false pretence. it was all over. i felt the idea of freeing myself from my wretched slavery was one that could never be carried out, and i must wait patiently and bear my miserable lot. _crack_! i leaped up as if i had been shot, to see mr blakeford, in dressing-gown and slippers, his hair cut short, and looking very pale, standing in the office, the ruler in his hand, with which he had just struck the table and made me start. "asleep?" he said sharply. "no, sir," i said, trembling as i looked at him over the partition. "no, sir, i was not asleep." "it's a lie, sir, you were asleep. come here." i descended from the stool, and opening the partition door, went slowly into his part of the office, and stood by the table, his dark eyes seeming to pierce me through and through. "been worked so hard since i was ill, eh?" he said sneeringly. "no, sir, i--" "hold your tongue. what's the matter with your head?" "my head, sir?" i stammered. "yes, that half-healed cut. oh, i remember, you fell down didn't you?" "fell down, sir! no, i--" "you fell down--pitched down--i remember, while climbing." "no, sir, i--" "look here, you dog," he hissed between his teeth; "you fell down, do you hear? and cut your head when climbing. do you understand?" "no, sir, i--" "once more, antony grace, listen to me. if anyone asks you how you came by that cut, mind--you fell down when climbing--you fell down when climbing. if you forget that--" he did not finish, but seemed to hold me with his eye as he played with the ruler and made it go up and down. "look here, my boy, you are my clerk, and you are to do exactly as i tell you. now, listen to me. the day after to-morrow there is to be a case of assault brought before the magistrates, and you will be sworn as a witness. you let mr wooster in--curse him!--and you saw him come up to my table where i was sitting, and make a demand for money." "please, sir, i did not hear him ask for money." "you did, sir," he thundered; "and you saw him strike me with his stick." "yes, sir, i saw him strike you," i cried hastily. "oh, you did see that, did you?" he said in sneering tones. "yes, sir." "did you see the stick break?" "yes, sir," i said eagerly. "oh, come; i'm glad you can remember that. then he caught up the poker and beat me with it heavily across the body, till the poker was bent right round; and at last, when i was quite stunned and senseless, and with the blood streaming from my lips, he left me half dead and went away." there was a pause here, during which i could not take my eyes from his. "you saw all that, didn't you?" "no, sir," i said, "he did not take the poker." "what?" "he did not take the poker, sir." "oh! and he did not beat me with it till it was bent?" "no, sir." "go and fetch that poker," he said quietly; and i went trembling, and picked it up, to find it quite bent. "there, you see?" he said. "yes, sir, it is bent." "of course it is, antony. you don't remember that he struck me with it, eh?" "no, sir," i said, trembling. "ah, i shall have to refresh your memory, my boy. you remember, of course, about the blood?" "no, sir." "what's that on the floor?" i looked down at the place to which he pointed with the bent poker, and there were some dark stains where i had fallen. then, raising my eyes to his again, i looked at him imploringly. "i shall soon refresh your memory, antony," he said, laughing silently, and looking at me so that i shivered again. "you will find, on sitting down and thinking a little, that you recollect perfectly well how mr wooster beat me cruelly with the poker, till it was bent like this, and left me bleeding terribly on the office floor. there, hold your tongue. you'll recollect it all. sit down and try and remember it, there's a good boy. i'm better now, but i can't talk much. let me see, antony, what time do you go to bed?" "nine o'clock, sir," i faltered. "exactly. well, don't go to sleep, my boy. i'll come up to you after you are in bed, and see if you remember it any better. go back to your desk." i crept back, watching him the while, as he stood balancing the poker in his hand, and smiling at me in a way that made my blood turn cold. then, throwing the poker back with a crash into the grate, he went out as silently as he had come, and i sat there thinking for quite two hours. at the end of that time, i took a sheet of paper, and wrote upon it as well as my wet trembling hands would let me-- "my dear mary,-- "please don't think me a very ungrateful boy, but i cannot, and i dare not, stay here any longer. when you read this i shall be gone, never to come back any more. please tell miss hetty i shall never forget her kindness, and i shall never forget yours. "i remain, your affectionate friend,-- "antony grace. "p.s.--some day, perhaps, we shall meet somewhere. i am very unhappy, and i cannot write any more. mr blakeford frightens me." this letter i doubled and sealed up in the old fashion, and kept in my pocket, meaning to post it, and at last, when i went into the kitchen to tea, i was half afraid to meet mary. she noticed my pale face, and i told her the truth, that i had a bad headache, making it an excuse for going up to bed at eight o'clock, feeling as if the greatest event in my life were about to take place, and shaking like a leaf. i felt that i had an hour to spare, and spent part of the time in making a bundle of my best clothes and linen. i tied up in a handkerchief, too, some thick slices of bread and butter, and some bread and meat that i had found that afternoon in my desk. then, as the night grew darker, i sat thinking and asking myself, after placing my bundles ready, whether i should go at once, or wait till i heard mr blakeford coming. i had just decided to go at once, feeling that i dare not face mr blakeford again, when i heard his voice downstairs, and started up, trembling in every limb. "where's that boy?" "gone to bed," said mary surlily. then i heard a door shut directly after, and breathed more freely. i felt that i must go at once, and stood in the middle of the room, shivering with nervous excitement, as i thought of the madness of the step i was about to undertake. a dozen times over i felt that i dare not go, till the recollection of mr blakeford's dark threatening face and sneering smile gave me strength, and made me call up the picture of myself before the magistrates telling all i knew about the assault, of course not saying anything about the poker, or my employer's injuries; and then i began to think about meeting him afterwards. "he'll half kill me," i thought; and stopping at this, i nerved myself for what i had to do, and putting on my cap, went to the door and listened. i had spent so much time in indecision that the church clock was striking ten, and i started as i thought of mr blakeford being already upon the stairs. from where i stood i could have seen the light shining out of the kitchen where mary sat at work; but it was not there, and i knew that she must have gone up to bed. it now flashed upon me that this was why mr blakeford had been waiting--he did not want mary to interfere; and a cold chill came over me as i felt that he meant to beat me till i consented to say what he wished. there was no time to lose, so, darting back, i caught up my two bundles, crept to the door, descended the stairs on tiptoe, and felt my heart beat violently at every creak the woodwork of the wretched steps gave. twice over a noise in the house made me turn to run back, but as there was silence once more, i crept down, and at last reached the mat in front of the office door. at the end of the passage was the parlour, where i knew mr blakeford would be sitting, and as i looked towards it in the darkness, i could see a faint glimmer of light beneath the door, and then heard mr blakeford cough slightly and move his chair. turning hastily, i felt for the handle of the office door, which was half glass, with a black muslin blind over it, and moving the handle, i found the door locked. the key was in, though, and turning it, there was a sharp crack as the bolt shot back, and then as i unclosed this door, i heard that of the parlour open, and a light shone down the passage. "he's coming?" i said in despair; and for a moment, my heart failed me, so great an influence over me had this man obtained, and i stood as if nailed to the floor. the next moment, though, with my heart beating so painfully that it was as if i was being suffocated, i glided into the office and closed the door, holding it shut, without daring to let the handle turn and the catch slip back. if he came into the office, i was lost, and in imagination, i saw myself with my cap on, and my bundles under my arm, standing trembling and detected before him. trembling, indeed, as the light came nearer, and i saw him dimly through the black blind approaching the office door. he was coming into the office, and all was over! closer, closer he came, till he was opposite the door, when he stopped short, as if listening. his face was not a yard from mine, and as i gazed at him through the blind, with starting eyes, seeing his evil-looking countenance lit up by the chamber candlestick he carried, and the grim smile upon his lips, i felt that he must hear me breathe. i was paralysed, for it seemed to me that his eyes were gazing straight into mine--fascinating me as it were, where i stood. he was only listening, though, and instead of coming straight into the office, he turned off sharp to the left, and began to ascend the stairs leading to my bedroom. there was not a moment to lose, but i was as if in a nightmare, and could not stir, till, wrenching myself away, i darted across the office to the outer door, slipped the bolts, and turned the key with frantic haste, just as his steps sounded overhead, and i heard him calling me by name. the door stuck, and i could not get it open, and all the time i could hear him coming. he ran across the room, every footstep seeming to come down upon my head like lead. he was descending the stairs, and still that door stuck fast at the top. in a despairing moment, i looked behind me to see the light shining in at the glass door as he descended, and then my hand glided to the top of the door, and i found that i had not quite shot back the bolt. the next moment it was free, the door open, and i was through; but, feeling that he would catch me in the yard, i tore out the key, thrust it into the hole with trembling fingers, and as he dashed open the inner door i closed the one where i stood, and locked it from the outside. i had somehow held on to my bundles, and was about to run across the yard to the pump in the corner, place one foot upon the spout, and by this means reach the top of the wall, when i stopped, paralysed once more by the fierce barking of the dog. to my horror i found that he was loose, for his hoarse growling came from quite another part of the yard to that where his kennel was fixed; and i stood outside the door, between two enemies, as a faint streak of light shot out through the keyhole, playing strangely upon the bright handle of the key.--"are you there, antony? come back this moment, sir. unlock this door." i did not answer, but stood fast, as the handle was tried and shaken again and again. "you scoundrel! come back, or it will be worse for you. leo, leo, leo!" the dog answered the indistinctly heard voice with a sharp burst of barking; and as the sound came nearer, i seemed to see the animal's heavy bull-head, and his sharp teeth about to be fixed in my throat. the perspiration dripped from me, and in my horror i heard mr blakeford exclaim-- "you are there, you scoundrel, i know. i heard you lock the door. come in directly, or i'll half kill you." my hoarse breathing was the only sound i heard. then, directly after, there were hasty steps crossing the office, and i knew he had gone round to reach the front. there was not a moment to lose, and i was about to risk the dog's attack, sooner than face mr blakeford, when a thought struck me. i had the little bundle loosely tied up in a handkerchief, and in it the bread and meat. this might quiet the dog; and with a courage i did not know i possessed, i hastily tore it open, and taking a couple of steps into the yard, called out, in a loud quick voice, "here, leo, leo!" throwing the bread and meat towards where i believed the dog to be. there was a rush, a snarling whine, and the dog was close to me for the moment. the next, as i heard him in the darkness seize the meat, i was across the yard, with one foot on the pump, and as i raised myself the front door was flung open, and i heard mr blakeford rush out. chapter nine. on the road to london. as mr blakeford ran down to the garden gate, i reached the top of the wall, from whence i should have dropped down, but that he was already outside, and would, i felt sure, have heard me. if i had then run away, it seemed to me that it would be the easiest of tasks for him to pursue me, and hunt me down. if i stayed where i was, i felt that he would see me against the sky, and i knew he would pass close by me directly to reach the yard doors, when, half in despair, i threw myself flat down, and lay as close as i could, embracing the wall, and holding my bundle in my teeth. i heard him pass beneath the wall directly, and enter the yard by the gate, which he closed after him, before running up to the office door and unlocking it, allowing a stream of light to issue forth just across where the dog was peaceably eating my provender. "curse him, he has gone!" i heard mr blakeford mutter, and my blood ran cold, as he made a hasty tour of the place. "i'll have him back if it costs me five hundred pounds," he snarled. "antony, antony! come here, my boy, and i'll forgive you." he stopped, listening, but of course i did not move; and then, in an access of rage, he turned upon the dog. "you beast, what are you eating there?" he roared. "why didn't you seize him? take that!" there was a dull thud as of a heavy kick, a yelp, a whine, a snarl, and then a dull worrying noise, as if the dog had flown at his master, who uttered a loud cry of pain, followed by one for help; but i waited to hear no more, for, trembling in every limb, i had grasped my bundle and dropped from the wall, when with the noise growing faint behind me i ran with all my might in the direction of the london road. hearing steps, though, coming towards me directly after, i stopped short, and ran into a garden, cowering down amongst the shrubs, for i felt certain that whoever it was in front would be in mr blakeford's pay, and i waited some time after he had passed before continuing my flight. i ran on that night till there was a hot feeling of blood in my throat, and then i staggered up to, and leaned panting upon, a hedge by the roadside, listening for the sounds of pursuit. a dog barking in the distance sounded to me like leo, and i felt sure that mr blakeford was in hot chase; then i stumbled slowly on, but not for any great distance, my pace soon degenerating into a walk, till i regained my breath, when i ran on again for a time, but at a steady trot now, for i had not since heard the barking of the dog. still i did not feel safe, knowing that at any moment mr blakeford might overtake me in his pony-chaise, when, unless i could escape by running off across country, i should be ignominiously dragged back. at last, after several attempts to keep up my running, i was compelled to be content with a steady fast walk, and thus i trudged on hour after hour, till rowford town, where i had spent so many wretched hours, was a long way behind. i had passed through two villages, but so far i had not met another soul since leaving rowford, nor heard the sound of wheels. it was a very solitary road, leading through a pretty woodland tract of the country, and often, as i toiled on, i came to dark overshadowed parts, passing through woods, and i paused, not caring to go on. but there was a real tangible danger in the rear which drove me onwards, and, daring the imaginary dangers, i pushed on with beating heart, thinking of robbers, poachers, and highway men, as i tried to rejoice that there were no dangerous wild beasts in england. at last, i could go no farther, but sank down perfectly exhausted upon a heap of stones that had been placed there for mending the road; and, in spite of my fears of pursuit, nature would have her way, and i fell fast asleep. the sun was shining full upon me when i awoke, stiff and sore, wondering for a moment where i was; and when at last i recalled all the past, i sprang up in dread, and started off at once, feeling that i had been slothfully wasting my opportunity, and that now i might at any moment be overtaken. as i hurried on, i looked down at my feet, to find that my boots and trousers were thickly covered with dust; but there was no one to see me, and i kept on, awaking fully to the fact that i was faint and hungry. these sensations reminded me of the contents of the little handkerchief, and i wistfully thought of the bread and butter that i might have saved. then i stopped short, for the recollection of one bundle reminded me of the other, and it was gone. where was it? i had it when i sank down upon that stone-heap, and i must have come away and left it behind. in my faint, hungry state, this discovery was terribly depressing, for the bundle contained my good suit of mourning, besides my linen and a few trifles, my only valuables in this world. "i must have them back," i thought; and i started off to retrace my steps at a run, knowing that i had come at least a couple of miles. it was dreadfully disheartening, but i persevered, gazing straight before me, lest i should run into danger. it seemed as if that stone-heap would never come into sight, but at last i saw it lying grey in the distant sunshine, and forgetting my hunger, i ran on till i reached the spot, and began to look round. i had expected to see the bundle lying beside the stone-heap, as soon as i came in sight, but there were no traces of it; and though i searched round, and in the long grass at the side, there was no bundle. yes; i was certain that i had it when i sank down, and therefore somebody must have taken it while i slept, for no one had passed me on the road. i could have sat down and cried with vexation, but i had pretty well outgrown that weakness; and after a final glance round i was about to go on again, when something a hundred yards nearer the town took my attention, and, running up to it, i saw a pair of worn-out boots lying on the grass by the roadside. they seemed to be nothing to me, and, sick at heart, i turned back and continued my journey, longing now for the sight of some village, where i could buy a little milk and a few slices of bread. the sun was growing hot, and licking up the dew beside the dusty road, but it was a glorious morning, and in spite of my loss there was a feeling of hopefulness in my heart at being free from the slavery i had endured at mr blakeford's. i thought of it all, and wondered what mary would say, what hetty would think, and whether mr blakeford would try to fetch me back. as i thought on, i recovered the ground i had lost, and reached a pretty part of the road, where it dipped down in a hollow as it passed through a wood. it was very delicious and shady, and the birds were singing as they used to sing from the woods around my old home; and so sweet and full of pleasant memories were these sounds, that for the moment i forgot my hunger, and stood by a gate leading into the woods and listened. my reverie was broken by the sound of wheels coming up behind me, and taking alarm on the instant, i climbed over the gate and hid myself, crouching down amongst the thick bracken that showed its silvery green fronds around. i made sure it was mr blakeford in pursuit, and, once secure of my hiding-place, i rose up gently, so that i could peer in between the trees and over the high bank to the sloping road, down which, just as i had pictured, the four-wheeled chaise was coming at a smart trot, with mr blakeford driving, and somebody beside him. my first impulse was to turn round and dash wildly through the wood; but i partly restrained myself, partly felt too much in dread, and crouched there, watching through the bracken till, as the chaise came nearer, i saw that a common, dusty, tramp-looking boy was seated beside mr blakeford, and the next moment i saw that he had my bundle upon his knee. for a moment i thought i might be deceived; but no, there was no doubt about it. there was my bundle, sure enough, and that boy must have taken it from me as i lay asleep, and then met and told mr blakeford where he had seen me. i was pretty nearly right, but not quite, as it afterwards proved. but meanwhile the chaise had passed on, mr blakeford urging the pony to a pretty good speed, and gazing sharply to right and left as he went along. i had hardly dared to breathe as he passed, but crouched lower and lower, fancying that a robin hopping about on the twigs near seemed ready to betray me: and not until the chaise had gone by some ten minutes or so did i dare to sit up and think about my future movements. the recollection of the dusty, wretched look of the lad who held my bundle set me brushing my boots and trousers with some fronds of fern, and feeling then somewhat less disreputable-looking, i ventured at last to creep back into the road and look to right and left. i was terribly undecided as to what i ought to do. go back i would not, and to go forward seemed like rushing straight into danger. to right or left was nothing but tangled wood, wherein i should soon lose myself, and therefore nothing was left for me to do but go straight on, and this i did in fear and trembling, keeping a sharp look-out in front, and meaning to take to the woods and fields should mr blakeford's chaise again appear in sight. for quite an hour i journeyed on, and then the roofs of cottages and a church tower appeared, making me at one moment press eagerly forward, the next shrink back for fear mr blakeford should be there. but at last hunger prevailed, and making a bold rush, i walked right on, and seeing no sign of danger, i went into the village shop and bought a little loaf and some wonderfully strong-smelling cheese. "did you see a gentleman go by here in a chaise?" i ventured to say. "what, with a boy in it?" said the woman who served me. i nodded. "yes, he went by ever so long ago. you'll have to look sharp if you want to catch them. the gentleman was asking after you." i felt that i turned pale and red by turns, as i walked out into the road, wondering what it would be best to do, when, to my great delight i saw that there was a side lane off to the left, just a little way through the village, and hurrying on, i found that it was quite a byway off the main road. where it led to i did not know, only that there was a finger-post with the words "to charlock bridge" upon it, and turning down i walked quite a couple of miles before, completely worn out, i sat down beside a little brook that rippled across the clean-washed stones of the road, and made the most delicious meal i ever ate in my life. bread and cheese and spring water under the shade of a high hedge, in which a robin sat--it looked to me like the one i had seen in the wood-- and darted down and picked up the crumbs i threw it from time to time. as my hunger began to be appeased, and i had thoroughly slaked my burning thirst, by using my closed hand for a scoop, i began to throw crumbs into the bubbling brook, to see them float down for some distance, and then be snapped up by the silvery little fishes with which the stream seemed to swarm. all the while, though, my head had been constantly turning from side to side, in search of danger, and at last just as i was about to continue my journey, hoping to gain the london road once more, i saw the danger i sought, in the shape of the boy with my bundle running across the fields, as if he had come from the high road, and was trying to get into the lane below me to cut me off. i looked sharply behind me, expecting to see the chaise of mr blakeford, but it was not in sight; so, stooping down, i waded quickly through the brook, kept under the shelter of the hedge, and ran on steadily, so as not to be out of breath. the water filled my boots, but it only felt pleasantly cool, and, as i thought, made me better able to run, while, as i raised my head from time to time, i could catch sight of the boy with the bundle running hard across field after field, and losing so much time in getting through hedges or over gates that i felt that i should be past the spot where he would enter the lane before he could reach it. to my surprise, though, i found that the lane curved sharply round to the right, giving him less distance to run, so that when i tried hard to get by him, having given up all idea of hiding, i found that he had jumped over into the lane before i came up. then to my horror, as i turned a sharp corner, i came straight upon him, he being evidently quite as much surprised as i at the suddenness of our encounter--the winding of the lane and the height of the hedges having kept us out of sight the one of the other, until the very last moment, when we came face to face, both dusty, hot, weary, and excited as two lads could be, and for the moment neither of us moved. i don't know how it was that i did not try to run off by the fields in another direction, but it seems to me now that i was stirred by the same savage instincts as an ostrich, who, seeing any hunter riding as if to cut him off, immediately forgets that there is plenty of room behind, and gallops across his pursuer's track, instead of right away. as i ran panting up, the lad stopped short, and my eyes falling upon my bundle, a new set of thoughts came flashing across my mind, making me forget my pursuer in the high road. as for the lad, he stood staring at me in a shifty way, and it soon became evident that he gave me as much credit for chasing him as i did him for chasing me. he was the first to speak, and calling up the low cunning of his nature, he advanced a step or two, saying: "i say, you'd better hook it; that, gent's a-looking for you." "you give me my bundle," i said, making a snatch at it, and getting hold with one hand, to which i soon joined the other. "'taint your bundle," he said fiercely. "let go, or i'll soon let you know. let go, will yer?" he shook at it savagely, and dragged me here and there, for he was the bigger and stronger; but i held on with all my might. i was horribly frightened of him, for he was a coarse, ruffianly-looking fellow; but inside that bundle was my little all, and i determined not to give it up without a struggle. "here, you wait till i get my knife out," he roared. "it's my bundle, yer young thief!" "it is not," i panted: "you stole it from me while i lay asleep." "yer lie! take that!" _that_ was a heavy blow on my chin which cut my lip, and seemed to loosen my teeth, causing me intense pain; but though for a moment i staggered back, the blow had just the opposite effect to that intended by the boy. a few moments before, i was so horribly afraid of him, that i felt that i must give up; now the pain seemed to have driven all the fear out of me, for, springing at him with clenched fists, i struck out wildly, and with all my might; the bundle went down in the dust, and, after a minutes scuffle, and a shower of blows, there, to my intense astonishment, lay the boy too, grovelling and twisting about, rubbing his eyes with his fists, and howling dismally. "you let me alone; i never did nothing to you," he whined. "you did; you stole my bundle," i cried, in the heat of my triumph. "no, i didn't. i on'y picked it up. i didn't know it was yourn." "you knew i was by it," i said. "yes; but i thought perhaps it weren't yourn," he howled. "now look here," i said, "you give me what you took out of it." "i didn't take nothing out of it," he whined. "i was only going to, when that gent came along on the shay, and asked me where you was." "you've got my best shoes on," i said. "take them off." he pulled them off, having half spoiled them by cutting the fronts, to let his feet go in. "where's that gentleman now?" i said. "i don't know," he whined. "he said if i didn't show him where you was, he'd hand me over to the police; and i cut off across the fields, when we was walking the pony up a hill." "you're a nice blackguard," i said, cooling down fast now, as the fear of mr blakeford came back. i was wondering, too, how to get rid of my conquest, when, just as i stooped to pick up the shoes, he shrank away, uttering a cowardly howl, as if i had aimed a blow at him; and, starting up, he ran back along the lane shoeless, and seemed making for the high road. "he'll tell mr blakeford," i thought; and catching up the bundle, i hurried on in the opposite direction, till, finding the brook again cross the road, i hastily stooped down and washed my bleeding knuckles, before starting off once more, getting rid of the marks of the struggle a fast as i could, and looking back from time to time, in momentary expectation of seeing mr blakeford's head above the hedge. chapter ten. along the towing-path. i felt in better spirits now. my rest and breakfast, and my encounter with the boy, had given me more confidence in myself. then, too, i had recovered my bundle, replacing in it my shoes, and, after carefully wrapping them up, the remains of my bread and cheese. hour after hour i walked on, always taking the turnings that led to the right, in the belief that sooner or later they would bring me to the london road, which, however, they never did; and at last, in the afternoon, i sat down under a tree and made a second delicious meal. i passed, during the rest of that day's journey, through a couple more villages, at the latter of which i obtained a large mug of milk for a penny; and at last, footsore and worn out, i found myself at nightfall far away in a pleasant pastoral country, where haymaking seemed to be carried on a good deal, from the stacks i passed. there were hills behind me, and hills again straight before me, the part where i was being very level. "what am i to do?" i asked myself, for i could go no farther, and a feeling of desolation began to make my heart sink. "i must sleep somewhere--but where?" the answer came in the shape of a haystack, one side of which was being cut away, and soon after, i was seated on the sweet-scented, soft stuff, feasting away once more, to drop at last, almost unconsciously, into a sweet sleep, from which i started up to find it quite dark, and that i was growing cold. there was plenty of loose straw close by, as if threshing had been going on, and taking my bundle for a pillow, and nestling beneath the straw which i drew over the hay, i was soon fast asleep once more, only to wake up rested and refreshed as the birds were singing cheerily upon another sunshiny morning. my toilet consisted in getting rid of the bits of straw and hay, after which i started to walk on once more, following a winding lane, which brought me out at a wooden bridge, crossing a river, down by whose pebbly side i finished my toilet, and rose refreshed and decent-looking, for my bundle contained my brush and comb. there was a little public-house on the other side of the stream, with cows in a field hard by, and directing my steps there, after stopping on the bridge for a few minutes to gaze at the fish glancing in the sunshine, i found i could buy some bread and milk, the privilege being given me of sitting down on a bench and watching the sparkling river as i made my breakfast. with every mouthful came hope and confidence. i felt as if i really was free, and that all i now had to do was to trudge steadily on to london. how long it would take me i did not know--perhaps a month. but it did not matter; i could continue to be very sparing of my money, so as to make it last. it was a red-armed, apple-faced woman who gave me the mug, and she stared at me curiously, frightening me so much, lest she should ask me questions, that i hastily finished my milk, and, picking up the bread, said "good-morning," and walked along by the side of the river, there being here a towing-path, upon which i soon encountered a couple of horses, the foremost of which was ridden by a boy with a whip, while they dragged a long rope which kept plashing down into the river, and then, being drawn taut, showered down pearly drops of water, which seemed to be smoothed out by a long, low, narrow barge, painted yellow and red, at the end of which was a man smoking, with his eyes half shut, as he leaned upon the tiller gear. they were going against the stream, and their progress was slow, as i sat down and watched them go out of sight round the bend of the river. "i wonder where this river runs to, and where i should go, if i walked all along this path?" i said to myself, and then like a flash, the idea came, right or wrong, i could not tell, that it must go on and on to london. it was full of hope, that thought; so full that i leaped up, and trudged on so steadily, that at the end of an hour i again saw a couple of horses in front, drawing another barge, with the rope plashing in and out of the river; but this barge was going on in the same direction as i was, and as i drew nearer i began to envy the boy riding so idly on the foremost horse, and wished it were my fate to change places with him, for one of my feet was very sore. it pained me a good deal; but, all the same, there was a joyous feeling of freedom to cheer me on, and i limped forward, thinking how i had nothing to fear now, no dreary copying to do, and then stand shivering, expecting blows, if i had omitted a word, or forgotten to cross some _t_. all was bright and beautiful, with the glancing river, the glorious green meadows, and the gliding barge going so easily with the stream. there was a stolid-looking man holding the tiller of the barge, staring dreamily before him, and smoking, looking as motionless, and smoking nearly as much, as the chimney of the cabin beside him. the barge itself was covered with great tarred cloths of a dingy black, but the woodwork about the cabin was ornamented with yellow and scarlet diamonds and ovals carved in the sides. the man took not the slightest notice of me as i limped on, gazing at him and the gliding barge, but smoked away steadily, and i went on, getting nearer and nearer to the horses, thinking as i did so of how pleasant it would be to lie down on that black tarpaulin, and glide along upon the shiny river without a care; and it seemed to me then, ill-used and weary as i was, that the life of a bargeman would be perfect happiness and bliss. as i drew near the boy, who was sitting sidewise on the foremost horse, with a shallow round-bottomed zinc bucket hanging from the collar on the other side, i found that he was watching me as he whistled some doleful minor ditty, pausing every now and then to crack his whip and utter a loud "jeet!" this was evidently a command to the horses, one of which gave its head a toss up and the other a toss down, but paid no further heed, both continuing their steady way along the tow-path, while the boy went on with his whistling. i gradually drew up closer and closer, as the whistling kept on, to find that about every minute, as if calculated exactly, but of course from mere habit, there was the crack of the whip, the loud "jeet?" and the nod up and nod down of the two horses. i trudged up close alongside the boy now, being anxious to learn where the river really did run, but not liking at first to show my ignorance, so we went on for some time in silence. he was a rough, common-looking lad, with fair curly hair, and the skin of his face all in scaly patches where it had been blistered by the sun, and i took him to be about my own age. he was dressed in a loose jacket and a pair of cord trousers, both of which were several sizes too large for him, but the jacket-sleeves had been cut off above the elbow, and the trousers were rolled up above his knees, showing his bare legs and clean white feet. his coarse shirt was clean, what could be seen of it, but the tops of the trousers were drawn up by strings over his shoulders, so that they took the place of vest. altogether, even to his old, muddy, torn felt hat, through which showed tufts of his curly hair, he was ragged to a degree; but he seemed as happy as the day was long and as healthy as could be, as he whistled away, stared at me, and uttered another loud "_jeet_!" going a little further this time, and making it "jeet, sammy--jeet, tommair-y!" the horses this time tightened the rope a little, but only for a few moments, when it fell back into the water with a plash, the barge glided on, the horses' hoofs crushed the sandy gravel, and the rope whisked and rustled as it brushed along the thick growth of sedge by the water-side. "woss the matter with yer foot, matey?" said the boy at last, breaking the ice as he gave his whip another crack, and then caught and examined the thong. "sore with walking," i said; and then there was another pause, during which he kept on whistling the minor air over and over again, while i waited for another opening. "why don't you take off your shoes, matey?" he said. "they allus makes my feet sore. i don't like shoes. jeet, tommair-y! jeet, sam-mair-y?" this was a new light, and i thought, perhaps, i should be easier, for one shoe was constantly scraping the tendon at the back of my heel. so sitting down on the grass, i untied and slipped off my shoes, my socks following, to be thrust into my pocket, and i limped on, setting my feet delicately on the gravel, which hurt them, till i changed on to the short soft turf beside the path. the barge had passed me, but i soon overtook it, and then reached the boy, who watched me complacently as i trudged on, certainly feeling easier. "one on 'ems a-bleeding," said my new friend then. "shoes allus hurts. jeet!" "yes, when you walk far," i said, the conversation beginning to warm now. "walked far, matey?" "yes, ever so far. have you come far?" "_pistol_," i thought he said. "where?" i asked. "bristol. jeet, sammy!" _crack_! "all along by the river?" "we don't call it the river, we call it the canal here. it's river farther up towards london." "are you going to london?" i said. "yes. are you?" "yes," i said; and my heart was at rest, for i knew now that which i wanted to find out without asking. this river did go right to london, and i must be on the upper part of the thames. we went on for some little time in silence, and then my new friend began: "why don't you go and paddle yer feet in the water a bit?" it was a good suggestion, and the shallow sparkling water looked very delicious and cool. "tie your shoestrings together and hing 'em on to tommy's collar. you can hing yer bundle, too, if yer li-ak." i hesitated for a moment. one boy had already appropriated my bundle, but he had not the frank honest look of the one on the horse, and besides, i did not like to seem suspicious. so, tying the shoestrings together, i hung them on the tall hame of the collar, and the bundle beside them, before going quickly over the gravel down to the shallow water. "turn up yer trousers!" shouted the boy; and i obeyed his good advice, ending by walking along the shallow water close behind the tow-rope, the soft sand feeling delicious to my feet as the cool water laved and eased the smarting wound. at last i walked out with my feet rested, and the blood-stain washed away, to run forward and join my companion, who looked at me in a very stolid manner. "hev a ride?" he said at last. "may i?" "fey-ther!" "hel-lo-a!" came slowly from the barge. "may this chap hev a ri-ad?" "ay-er!" the boy slipped down off the horse with the greatest ease, and stuck his whip into a link of the trace. "now, then," he said, "lay holt o' his collar, and i'll give yer a leg up." i obeyed him, and seizing my leg, he nearly shot me right over the horse, but by hanging tightly on to the collar i managed to save myself, and shuffled round into the proper position for riding sidewise, feeling the motion of the horse, in spite of a certain amount of boniness of spine, delightfully easy and restful. "they're all right," the boy said, as i glanced at my bundle. "they won't fall off. are yer comf'able?" "yes, capital," i said, and we journeyed on, my luck seeming almost too good to be believed. we went on talking away, now and then passing another barge, when the ropes were passed one over the other boat, and the journey continued. soon afterwards i made my first acquaintance with a lock, and got down off the horse to stand by the barge and gaze in wonderment at the process. as it glided softly into the space between walls, a pair of great doors were shut behind it, and i and my new companion helped to turn handles, with the result that i saw the water foam and rush out, and the barge slowly sink down to a lower level, when a couple of great doors were swung open at the other end. there was a certain amount of pushing and thrusting, and the barge glided out into the river ten feet lower than it was before. then the rope was once more made fast, the horses tugged, and we went on again, but not far before a shrill voice shouted "jack!" and my companion stood still till the barge came abreast of him, being steered close in, when i saw a woman lean over the side and hold out a basket, which the boy caught, and then ran after me once more, where i was mounted on the first horse. "my dinner," he said eagerly. "got yourn?" "yes," i said, colouring up as i pulled the remains of my bread and cheese out of my pocket, there being a large piece of the latter. "steak pudden to-day," said my companion, hanging his basket on to the collar by my knee, and revealing a basin half full of savoury-odoured beef-steak pudding, which was maddening to me in my hungry state. "i say, what a whacking great piece of cheese! i like cheese," said my companion; "let's go halves." pride kept me back for a moment, and then i said-- "i'll give you threepence if you'll give me half your dinner." "i don't want your threepence," he said scornfully. "you shall have half if you give me half your new bread and cheese. ourn's allus stale. look, here's some cold apple puff too." so there was, and delicious it looked, sufficiently so to make my mouth water. "got a knife, matey?" "yes," i said, "but--" "i say, i tell you what," said my would-be host. "have you really got threepence?" "yes," i said, and was about to say more, when mr rowle's words occurred to me and i was silent. "then we'll have half a pint o' cider at the next lock, and twopen'orth o' apples, shall us?" "yes," i said, delighted at the prospect; and the result was that we two hearty boys soon finished pudding, puff, and the last scrap of the bread and cheese, after which my new friend shouted, "mother!" the boat was steered in close, and the shrill-voiced woman took the basket back. "is your name jack?" i said, as i descended, and we trudged on together slowly beside the horses, each of which was now furnished with a tin bucket hung from the top of its head, and containing some beans and chaff. "yes; what's yourn?" "antony." "ho!" there was silence after this, for we came up to another lock, close by which was a little public-house, where jack was sent to get a stone bottle filled with beer, and up to whose door he summoned me, and we partook of our half-pint of cider, jack proving most honourable as to his ideas of half. then the beer having been passed on board, jack's mother and father taking not the slightest notice of me, the barge was passed through the lock, and jack beckoned and waved his hand. "you give me the twopence, and i'll buy," he said. "if we ask mother burke for twopen'orth all at once she won't give us more than she would for a penny. stop a moment," he said, "you only give me a penny, and we'll keep t'other for to-morrow." i handed a penny to him, and we went into the lock cottage, in whose lattice window were displayed two bottles of ginger-beer, a couple of glasses of sugar-sticks, and a pile of apples. our penny in that out-of-the-way place bought us a dozen good apples, and these we munched behind the horses as we trudged on slowly, mile after mile. i did not feel tired now, and we boys found so much to talk about that the time went rapidly by. jack's father and mother did not trouble themselves about my being there, but towards six o'clock handed the boy out his tea in a bottle, whose neck stuck out of the basket that had held his dinner, and in which were some half a dozen slices of bread and butter. "'tain't full," said jack, holding the bottle up to the light; "she might ha' filled it. there is more brem-butter. never mind, i'll fill it up with water. you won't mind?" "no," i said; but as a lock was then coming in sight, and a decent-looking village, an idea occurred to me. "let's buy a pen'orth of milk and put to it," i said. jack's eyes sparkled, and hanging the basket _pro tem._ on the hames, he cracked his whip, and we proceeded a little more quickly towards the lock, where i bought a twopenny loaf and some milk for our tea. i say _ours_, for jack literally shared his with me. "where are you going to sleep?" said jack to me at last, as the evening mists were beginning to rise on the meadows. "i don't know," i said rather dolefully, for the idea had not occurred to me before. "come and bunk along o' me." "where?" i asked. "under the tarpaulin in front o' the barge," he said; "i allus sleeps there now, cos father says my legs gets in the way in the cabin." "but would your father mind?" "not he. he'll go ashore as soon as we make fast for the night and lets the horses loose to feed. he wouldn't mind." and so it turned out, for the barge was made fast to a couple of stout posts in a wider part of the canal, close to a lock where there was a public-house. the horses were turned out to graze on the thick grass beside the tow-path, and after a little hesitation i took my bundle and shoes and crept in beneath a tarpaulin raised up in the middle to make quite a tent, which jack had contrived in the fore port of the barge. "ain't it jolly and snug?" he cried. "ye-es," i replied. "on'y it won't do to stop in when the sun gets on it, 'cos it's so hot and sticky. i like it. feyther can't kick you here." this was a revelation. i had been thinking jack's life must be one of perfect bliss. "does your father kick you, then?" "not now. he used to when he came home after being to the public, when he was cross; but he didn't mean nothing. feyther's werry fond o' me. i wouldn't go back to sleep in the cabin now for no money." jack's conversation suddenly stopped, and i knew by his hard breathing that he was asleep: but i lay awake for some time, peering out through a little hole left by the tarpaulin folds at the stars, thinking of mr blakeford and his pursuit; of what mary would say when she read my letter; and from time to time i changed the position of my bundle, to try and turn it into a comfortable pillow; but, try how i would, it seemed as if the heel of one or other of my shoes insisted upon getting under my ear, and i dropped asleep at last, dreaming that they were walking all over my head. chapter eleven. my vagabond life comes to an end. somehow or other that idea about my boots being in antagonism to me seemed to pervade the whole of my slumbers till morning, when one of them, i fancied, had turned terribly vicious, and was kicking me hard in the side. i could not move, and the kicking seemed to go on, till a more vigorous blow than before roused me to consciousness; but still for a few moments i could not make out where i was, only that it was very dark and stuffy, and that. i felt stiff and sore. just then a gruff voice awoke my mind as well as my body, and i found that some one was administering heavy pokes through the tarpaulin with what seemed to be a piece of wood. "all right, feyther," cried jack just then; and as we scrambled out from beneath the tent i found it was grey dawn, that a heavy mist hung over the river, and that jack's father had been poking at the tarpaulin with the end of a hitcher, the long iron-shod pole used in navigating the barge. "going to lie abed all day?" he growled. "git them horses to." "come along, matey; never mind your boots," cried jack, and he leaped ashore. i did not like leaving my bundle behind, but i felt bound to help, and following jack's example, i helped him to catch the horses, which were soon attached to the tow-line thrown ashore by the bargeman, who cast loose the mooring ropes, and with the stars still twinkling above our heads we were once more on our way, jack walking beside the horse and i barefooted beside him. my feet did not pain me now, but i felt that to replace my boots would be to chafe them again, so i contented myself with letting them ride, while for the present i made my way afoot. my proceedings as we went along seemed to greatly interest jack, who stared hard as he saw me stoop down and wash my face and hands at a convenient place in the river, for a shake and a rub of his curly head seemed to constitute the whole of his toilet. my hair i smoothed as i walked by his side, while he looked contemptuously at my little pocket-comb. "that wouldn't go through my hair," he said at last. then in the same breath, "old woman's up." i turned to see how he knew it, expecting his mother to be on the little deck: but the only thing visible besides jack's father was a little curl of smoke from the iron chimney in front of the rudder. "that means brakfass," said jack, grinning; "don't you want yourn?" i said i did, and asked how soon we should get to a lock where i could buy some bread and milk. "don't you waste your money on bread and milk," said my companion, "there'll be lots o' brakfass for both on us. you wait till we get farther on and we can get some apples and a bottle of ginger-beer." it seemed so fair an arrangement that when the shrill voice summoned jack to fetch his breakfast i shared it with him, and so i did his dinner and tea, while we afterwards regaled ourselves with fruit, and sweets, and cider, or ginger-beer. this went on day after day, for though the pace was slow i found that i could not have got on faster. besides which, i had endless rides, jack's proceedings with me never once seeming to awaken either interest or excitement on the part of his parents. in fact, jack's father seemed to occupy the whole of his time in leaning upon the tiller and smoking, with the very rare exceptions that he might occasionally make use of the hitcher in rounding some corner. as for the passing of other barges, the men upon them seemed to do the greater part of the necessary work in lifting tow-ropes. at the locks, too, he would stolidly stare at jack and me as we turned the handles with the lock-keeper, and then perhaps grunt approval. jack's mother appeared to spend all her time in cooking and other domestic arrangements, for she never showed herself on deck except to announce the readiness of a meal by a shrill shout for her boy, rarely speaking a word to him at such times as he took his food from her hands. life on the river seemed to breed taciturnity, and though we boys generally had something to say, for the most part we jogged on silently with the horses, who hung their heads and kept on their course as if half asleep. to me it was a dreamy time of constant journeying by the shining river; for at last we passed through a lock into the isis, and then continued our way on and on through locks innumerable till we passed out again into what i suppose must have been the grand junction or regent's canal--to this day i am not sure which. the hundred miles or so i was to have walked to london must have been more than doubled by the turnings and doublings of the river; but i was never tired, and jack never wearied of my society. there was always something to see in the ever-changing scenery, and sometimes, if we came to a stoppage early in the evening, jack brought out a rough line and a willow wand, and we fished for perch by some rushing weir. i could have been content to go on for ever leading such a free, enjoyable life, like some young gipsy, so peaceable and happy seemed my existence as compared to that with mr blakeford; but at last, after a very long, slow journey, we began to near the metropolis, the goal of my wanderings, and one evening the pleasant communings of jack and myself were suddenly brought to an end. we had been making slow progress along the canal as it wound now amongst houses and large buildings. the pleasant fields were far behind, and the water was no longer bright. it seemed, too, as if we had left the sun behind, while the tow-path had long grown so hard and rough that i was glad to get my boots out of the bundle in which they were tied up and wear them once again. "here, you sir," jack's father shouted to me from the barge, "you must sheer off now." it was said in a rough, peremptory fashion that was startling: but he took no further notice of me, only went on smoking, and i went back to jack, who was now seated on the horse just as at our first meeting. "feyther say you must go now?" "yes," i said dolefully. "then you'd better cut off. i say, feyther!" "hullo!" "lash the tiller, and go and get his bundle and chuck it ashore." the great rough fellow methodically did as he was told--fastening the rudder, going slowly forward, and fishing out my bundle from under the tarpaulin, and turning to me: "ketch!" he shouted, and he threw the bundle from the barge to the shore, where i caught it, and he slowly plodded back, after giving me a friendly nod. i took my bundle under my arm and rejoined jack, who was whistling his minor air, and then we boys looked at each other dolefully. "aintcher going?" said jack at last. "yes," i said, "i'm going directly." then, quickly pulling out a little penknife i had in my pocket, i held it to jack. "will you have that, jack?" i said. his eyes sparkled as he took it, but he did not speak. "do you think i might give your father something for letting me come up along with you?" i said. jack stared in a dull, stolid way for a moment, the idea being so novel to him. then his face lit up and he checked the horses. "hold on, fey-ther," he shouted; and as if it was quite right to obey his son's words, the great fellow steered the long barge so that it came close in. "there's a beer-shop," said jack, pointing to a place close by the towing-path, all glorious with blue and gold announcements of barclay, perkins and co.'s entire. "you go and get a pot o' porter--it's threepence ha'penny, mind--and give it the old man; we'll wait." i ran up to the door of the public-house and asked the man in shirt-sleeves and white apron for a pot of porter, which he drew in the bright pewter vessel, and i paid for it with one of my sixpences, received my change, and then had to make solemn assurance that i would bring back the pot before i was allowed to take it down to the canal-side, where jack and his father were waiting. the latter's face was as stolid as ever as i went up to him; but there was a little extra opening of his eyes as he saw the foaming liquid in the bright pewter and stretched out his hand. "beer ain't good for boys," he said gruffly; and then, blowing off the froth, he put the vessel to his lips, and slowly poured it all down, without stopping, to the very last drop; after which he uttered a heavy sigh of either pleasure or regret, and brought his eyes to bear on me. "feyther likes a drop o' beer," said jack. "ketch!" said "father," and he threw the empty pot to me, which luckily i caught, and stood watching him as he went to the tiller. "go on!" jack gave me a nod, cracked his whip, and the horses drew the slack rope along the cindery tow-path till it was tight. jack's father paused in the act of refilling his pipe and gave me another nod, and jack's mother's head came above the hatchway to stare at me as the barge moved, and i stood watching it with my bundle under my arm and the bright pewter vessel in my hand. my reverie was interrupted by a shout from the public-house door, and i took the pot back, to return once more to the towing-path, sick at heart and despondent, as i thought of the pleasant days of my short vagabond career. it was like parting with very good friends, and i sat down at last upon a log, one of a pile of timber, full of regrets; for these rough people had in their way been very kind to me, and i thought that perhaps i should never see them any more. chapter twelve. my first night in town. i did not sit thinking long, for i felt that i must be up and doing. the long barge had crept silently away and was out of sight, but i felt that after my dismissal i ought not to follow it; so i crossed a bridge over the canal and went on and on between rows of houses and along streets busy with vehicles coming and going, and plenty of people. for the first half-hour i felt that everybody knew me and was staring at the boy who had run away from mr blakeford's office; but by degrees that idea passed off and gave place to another, namely, that i was all alone in this great city, and that it seemed very solitary and strange. for above an hour i walked on, with the streets growing thicker and the noise and bustle more confusing. i had at last reached a busy thoroughfare; gas was burning, and the shops looked showy and attractive. the one, however, that took my attention was a coffee-shop in a side street, with a great teapot in the window, and a framed card on which i read the list of prices, and found that a half-pint cup of coffee would be one penny, and a loaf and butter twopence. my money was getting scarce, but i was tired and hungry, and after staring at that card for a long time i thought i would venture to go in, and walked right up to the door. i dared, however, go no farther, but walked straight on, turned, and came back, and so on several times, without being able to make up my mind; but at last, as i was still hovering about the place, i caught sight of a policeman advancing in the distance, and, fully assured that it must be mary's friend, mr revitts, in search of me, i walked breathlessly into the coffee-house and sat down at the nearest table. there were several men and lads seated about, but they were all, to my great relief, reading papers or periodicals, and i was recovering my equanimity somewhat, when it was upset by a bustling maid, who came as i thought fiercely up to me with a sharp "what's for you?" "a cup of coffee, if you please," i stammered out. "and roll and butter?" "yes, please," i said, somewhat taken aback that she should, as i felt, have divined my thoughts; and then, in an incredibly short space of time, a large cup of steaming coffee and a roll and pat of butter were placed on the table. after timidly glancing round to find that it was no novel thing for any one to enter a coffee-house and partake of the fare before me, i proceeded to make my meal, wishing all the while that jack had been there to share it, and wondering where he was, till at last the coffee was all drunk, the roll and butter eaten, and after paying what was due i stole off once more into the streets. i went on and on in a motiveless way, staring at the wonders ever unfolding before me, till, utterly wearied out, the thought struck me that i must find a resting-place somewhere, for there were no haystacks here, there was no friendly tarpaulin to share with jack, and, look where i would, nothing that seemed likely to suggest a bed. i had wandered on through wide, well-lighted streets, and through narrow, poverty-stricken places, till i was in a busy, noisy row, along the pavement of which were broad barrows with flaming lamps, and laden with fish, greengrocery, and fruit. there was noise enough to confuse anyone used to london; to me it was absolutely deafening. i had seen by a clock a short time before that it was nearly ten, and my legs ached so that i could scarcely stand; and yet, in the midst of the busy throng of people hurrying here and there, i alone seemed to be without friend or home. i had been wandering about in a purposeless way for a long time, trying to see some one who would win my confidence enough to make me ask where i could obtain a night's lodging, when i suddenly became aware that a big lad with a long narrow face and little eyes seemed to be watching me, and i saw what seemed to me so marked a resemblance to the young scoundrel who had stolen my bundle, that i instinctively grasped it more tightly and hurried away. on glancing back, i found that the boy was following, and this alarmed me so that i hastened back into the big street, walked along some distance, then turned and ran as hard as i could up one street and down another, till at last i was obliged to stop and listen to make sure whether i was pursued. to my horror i heard advancing steps, and i had just time to shrink back into a doorway before, by the dim light of the gas, i saw the lad i sought to avoid run by, and as soon as his heavy boots had ceased to echo, i crept out and ran in the other direction, till, completely worn out, i sat down upon a doorstep in a deserted street, and at last dropped off fast asleep. i was startled into wakefulness by a strange glare shining in my face, and, looking up, there was a round glowing eye of light seeming to search me through and through. for a few moments i could do nothing but stare helplessly and then started nervously as a gruff voice exclaimed--"here; what's in that bundle?" "my clothes and clean shirt, sir," i faltered. "let's look." my hands shook so that i was some time before i could get the handkerchief undone; but in the meantime i had been able to make out that the speaker was a policeman, and in my confusion at being awakened out of a deep sleep, i associated his coming with instructions from mr blakeford. at last, though, i laid my bundle open on the step, and my questioner seemed satisfied. "tie it up," he said, and i hastened to obey. "now, then, young fellow," he continued, "how is it you are sitting here asleep? why don't you go home?" "please, sir, i came up from the country to-day, and i ran away from a boy who wanted to steal my bundle, and then i sat down and fell asleep." "that's a likely story," he said, making the light of the lantern play upon my face. "where were you going?" "i don't know, sir. yes i do--to mr rowle." "and where's mr rowle's?" "it's--it's--stop a minute, sir. i've got the address written down. it's at a great printing-office." as i spoke i felt in my pockets one after the other for the address of mr rowle's brother, but to my dismay i found that it was gone, and, search how i would, there was no sign of it in either pocket. at last i looked up full in the policeman's face, to exclaim pitifully--"please, sir, it's gone." "is it now?" he said in a bantering, sneering tone. "that's a wonder, that is: specially if it warn't never there. look here, young fellow, what have you come to london for?" "please, sir, i've come to seek my fortune." "oh, you have, have you? now look here, which are you, a young innocent from the country, or an artful one? you may just as well speak out, for i'm sure to find out all about it." "indeed i've come up from the country, sir, to try and get a place, for i was so unhappy down there." "then you've run away from your father and mother, eh?" "no, sir; they are both dead." "well, then, you've run away from home, eh?" "no, sir," i said sadly; "i haven't any home." "well, what's got to be done? you can't stop here all night." "can't i, sir?" "can't you, sir? why, what a young gooseberry it is! have you been to london before?" "no, sir." "when did you come up?" "only this evening, sir." "and don't you know that if i leave you here some one'll have your bundle, and perhaps you too, before morning?" "i was so tired, sir, i fell asleep." "come along o' me. the best thing i can do for you's to lock you up till morning." "thank you, sir." he burst out into a roar of laughter as he turned off the light of his bull's-eye. "come along, youngster," he said, "it's all right, i see. why, you are as green as a gooseberry." "am i, sir?" i said piteously, for i felt very sorry that i was so green, as he called it, but i was too much confused to thoroughly understand what he meant. "greener, ever so much. why, if you'd gone down covent garden to sleep amongst the baskets you'd have got swept up for cabbage leaves." "covent garden market, sir? is that close here?" i said. "as if you didn't know," he replied, returning to his doubting vein. "i've heard my papa speak of it," i said, eager to convince him that i was speaking the truth. "he said the finest of all the fruit in the country went there, and that the flowers in the central--central--" "avenue?" suggested the constable. "yes, central avenue--were always worth a visit." "that's so. and that's what your papa said, eh?" "yes, sir, i have heard him say so more than once." "then don't you think, young fellow, as it looks very suspicious for a young gent as talks about his _papa_ to be found sleeping on a doorstep?" "yes, sir, i suppose it does," i said, "but i have no friends now." "well, you'd better come along o' me, and tell your tale to the inspector. i'm not going to leave you here. he'll soon get to know the rights of it. you've run away, that's what you've done." "yes, sir," i said; "i did run away, but--" "never mind the buts, youngster. you'll have to be sent back to your sorrowing friends, my absconding young sloper." "no, no, no?" i cried wildly, as he took hold of my cuff. "don't send me back, pray don't send me back." "none o' that 'ere now," he said, giving me a rough shake. "you just come along quietly." "oh, i will, sir, indeed i will!" i cried, "but don't, pray don't send me back." "why not? how do you know but it won't be best for yer? you come along o' me sharp, and we'll soon physic your constitution into a right state." the agony of dread that seized me at that moment was more than i could bear. in imagination i saw myself dragged back to mr blakeford, and saw the smile of triumph on his black-looking face, as he had me again in his power, and, boy as i was then, and full of young life and hopefulness, i believe that i would gladly have jumped into the river sooner than have had to trust to his tender mercies again. in my horror, then, i flung myself on my knees before the policeman, and clasped his leg as i appealed wildly to him to let me go. "if you sent me back, sir," i cried piteously, "he'd kill me." "and then we should kill him," he said, laughing. "not as that would be much comfort to you. here, get up." "you don't know what i suffered, sir, after poor papa and mamma died. he used me so cruelly, and he beat me, too, dreadfully. and now, after i have run away, if he gets me back he will be more cruel than before." "well, i s'pose he wouldn't make it very pleasant for you, youngster. there, come: get up, and you shall tell the inspector, too, all about it." "no, no, no," i cried wildly, as in spite of his efforts to get me up i still clung to his leg. "come, none of that, you know. i shall have to carry you. get up." he seized me more roughly, and dragged me to my feet, when with a hoarse cry of dread, i made a dash to escape, freed my arm and ran for freedom once again, as if it were for my life. chapter thirteen. p.c. revitts. in my blind fear of capture i did not study which way i went, but doubling down the first turning i came to, i ran on, and then along the next, to stop short directly afterwards, being sharply caught by the constable from whom i had fled, and who now held me fast. "ah! you thought it, did you?" he said coolly, while, panting and breathless, i feebly struggled to get away. "but it won't do, my lad. you've got to come along o' me." "and then i shall be sent back," i cried, as i tried to wrestle myself free. "i've never done any harm, sir; and he'll half kill me. you don't know him. pray let me go." "i know you to be a reglar young coward," he said roughly. "why, when i was your age, i shouldn't have begun snivelling like this. now, then, look here. you ain't come to london only to see your mr hot roll, or whatever you call him. is there any one else you know as i can take you to? i don't want to lock you up." "no, sir, nobody," i faltered. "yes, there is--there's mr revitts." "mr who?" "mr revitts, sir," i said excitedly. "he's a policeman, like you." "ah, that's something like a respectable reference!" he said. "what division?" "what did you say, sir?" "i said what division?" "please, sir, i don't know what you mean." "do you know p.c. revitts, vv division?" "no, sir," i said, with my heart sinking. "it's mr william revitts i know." "which his name is william," he muttered. then, aloud, "here, come along." "no, no, sir," i cried in alarm. "don't send me back." "come along, i tell yer." "what's up?" said a gruff voice; and a second policeman joined us. "don't quite know yet," said the first man; and then he said something in a low voice to the other, with the result that, without another word, i was hurried up and down street after street till i felt ready to drop. suddenly my guide turned into a great blank-looking building and spoke to another policeman, and soon, after a little shouting, a tall, burly-looking constable in his buttoned-up greatcoat came slowly towards us in the whitewashed room. "here's a lad been absconding," said my guide, "and he says he'll give you for a reference." "eh! me?" said the newcomer, making me start as he stared hard in my face. "who are you, boy. i don't know you." "antony grace, please, sir," i faltered. "and who's antony grace?" "there, i thought it was a do," said the first constable roughly. "what d'yer mean by gammoning me in this way? come along." "no, sir, please. pray give me time," i cried. "don't send me back. please, mr revitts, i have run away from mr blakeford, and if i am sent back to rowford he'll kill me. i know he will." "'old 'ard, smith," said the big constable. "look here, boy. what did you say? where did you come from?" "rowford, sir. pray don't send me back." "and what's the name of the chap as you're afraid on?" "mr blakeford, sir." "i'm blest!" "what did you say, sir?" "i said i'm blest, boy." "then you do know him?" said the first constable. "i don't quite know as i do, yet," was the reply. "well, look here, i want to get back. you take charge of him. i found him on a doorstep in great coram street. there's his bundle. if he don't give a good account of himself, have it entered and lock him up." "all right," said the other, after a few moments' hesitation. "then i'm off," said the first man; and he left me in charge of the big constable, who stood staring down at me so fiercely, as i thought, that i looked to right and left for a way of escape. "none o' that, sir," he said sharply, in the words and way of the other, whose heavy footsteps were now echoing down the passage. "lookye here, if you try to run away, i've only got to shout, and hundreds of thousands of pleecemen will start round about to stop yer." as he spoke he pushed me into a windsor arm-chair, where i sat as if in a cage, while he held up one finger to shake in my face. "as the clerkenwell magistrate said t'other day, the law's a great network, and spreads wide. you're new in the net o' the law, young fellow, and you can't get out. just look here, we knows a deal in the law and police, and i can find out in two twos whether you are telling me the truth or doing the artful." "please, sir--" "hold your tongue, sir! you can make your defence when your time comes; and mind this, it's my dooty to tell you that what you says now may be used in evidence again you." thus silenced, i stood gazing up in his big-whiskered face, that seemed to loom over me, in the gaslight, and wondered why there should be so much form and ceremony over taking my word. "now look here," he said pulling out a notebook and pencil, like the auctioneer's, only smaller, and seeming as if he were going to take an inventory of my small person. "now, look here," he repeated, moistening the point of his pencil, "you told joe smith you knowed me, and i never set eyes on you afore." "please, sir," i said hastily, "i told him i know mr revitts, who's in the police." "yes, and you said you had run away from rowford and a mr blake-- blake--what's his name?" "blakeford, sir," i said despondently, for it seemed that this was not my mr revitts. "blakeford. that's right; and he ill-used you?" "yes, sir." "he's a little fair man, ain't he, with blue eyes?" and he rustled the leaves of his notebook as if about to take down my answer. "no, sir," i cried eagerly; "he's tall and dark, and has short hair, and very white teeth." "ho! tall, is he?" said the constable, making believe to write, and then holding out his pencil at me. "he's a nice, kind, amiable man, ain't he, as wouldn't say an unkind word to a dorg?" "oh no, sir," i said, shuddering; "that's not my mr blakeford." "ho! now, then, once more. there's a servant lives there at that house, and her name's jane--ain't it?" "no, sir, mary." "and she's got red hair and freckles, and she--she's very little and--" "no, no," i cried excitedly, for after my heart had seemed to sink terribly low, it now leaped at his words. "that isn't mary, and you are saying all this to try me, sir. you--you are mr william revitts, i know you are;" and i caught him eagerly by the arm. "which i don't deny it, boy," he said, still looking at me suspiciously, and removing my hand. "revitts is my name. p.c. revitts, vv ; and i ain't ashamed of it. but only to think of it. how did you know of me, though?" "i wrote mary's letters for her, sir." "whew! that's how it was she had so improved in her writing. and so you've been living in the same house along a her?" "yes, sir," i said, "and she was so good and kind." "when she wasn't in a tantrum, eh?" "yes, sir, when she wasn't in a--" "tantrum, that's it, boy. we should ha' been spliced afore now if it hadn't been for her tantrums. but only to think o' your being picked up in the street like this. and what am i to do now? you've absconded, you have; you know you've absconded in the eyes of the law." "write to mary, please, sir, and ask her if it wasn't enough to make me run away." "abscond, my lad, abscond," said the constable. "yes, sir," i said, with a shiver, "abscond." "you didn't--you didn't," he said in a half hesitating way, as he felt and pinched my bundle, and then ran his hand down by my jacket-pocket. "you didn't--these are all your own things in this, are they?" "oh yes, sir!" i said. "because some boys when they absconds, makes mistakes, and takes what isn't theirs." "do they, sir?" "yes, my lad, and i'm puzzled about you. you see, it's my duty to treat you like a runaway 'prentice, and i'm uneasy in my mind about what to do. you see, you did run away." "oh yes, sir, i did run away. i was obliged to. mr blakeford wanted me to tell lies." "well, that seems to come easy enough to most people," he said. "but i am telling the truth, sir," i said. "write down to rowford, and ask mary if i'm not telling the truth." "truth! oh, i know that, my boy," he said kindly. "here, give's your hand. come along." "but you won't send me back, sir?" "send you back? not i, boy. he's a blackguard, that blakeford. i know him, and i only wish he'd do something, and i had him to take up for it. mary's told me all about him, and if ever we meets, even if it's five pounds or a month, i'll punch his head: that's what i'll do for him. do yer hear?" "yes, sir," i said. "now, what's to be done with you?" i shook my head and looked at him helplessly. he stood looking at me for a few moments and then went into another room, where there was a policeman sitting at a desk, like a clerk, with a big book before him. i could see him through the other doorway, and they talked for a few minutes; and then mr revitts came back, and stood staring at me. "p'r'aps i'm a fool," he muttered. "p'r'aps i ain't. anyhow, i'll do it. look here, youngster, i'm going to trust you, though as you've absconded i ought to take you before a magistrate or the inspector, but i won't, as you're a friend of my mary." "thank you, sir," i said. "and if you turn out badly, why, woe betide you." "please, sir, i won't turn out badly if i can help it; but mr blakeford said i was good for nothing." "mr blakeford be blowed! i wouldn't ask him for a character for a dorg; and as for mary, she don't want his character, and he may keep it. i'll take her without. i wouldn't speak to any one like this, youngster; but you know that gal's got a temper, though she's that good at heart that--that--" "she'd nurse you so tenderly if you were ill," i said enthusiastically, "that you wouldn't wish to be better." he held out his hand and gave mine a long and solemn shake. "thankye, youngster," he said, "thankye for that. you and i will be good friends, i see. i _will_ trust your word, hang me if i don't. here, come along." "are you--are you going to take me up, sir?" i faltered, with a shiver of apprehension. "i'm a-going to give you the door-key where i lodges, my lad. i'm on night duty, and shan't be home till quarter-past six, so you may have my bed and welcome. now, look here," he said, "don't you go and let anybody fool you. i'm going to show you the end of a long street, and you'll go right to the top, then turn to the right along the road till you come to the fourth turning, and on the right-hand side, number twenty-seven, is where i lodges. here's the key. you puts it in the lock, turns it, shuts the door after you, and then goes gently upstairs to the second-pair back." "second-pair back, sir?" i said dubiously. "well there, then, to the back room atop of the house, and there you may sleep till i come. now then, this way out." it was a change that i could not have believed in, and i accompanied the constable wonderingly as he led me out of the police-station and through several dark-looking streets, till he stopped short before a long dim vista, where straight before me two lines of gaslights stretched right away till they seemed to end in a bright point. "now, then," he said, "you can't make any mistake there." "no, sir." "off you go then to the top, and then you'll find yourself in a big road." "yes, sir." "turn to the right, and then count four streets on the right-hand side. do you understand?" "yes, sir." "go down that street about halfway, till you see a gaslight shining on a door with number twenty-seven upon it. twenty-seven caroline street. now, do you understand? straight up to the top, and then it's right, right, right, all the way." "i understand, sir." "good luck to you then, be off; here's my sergeant." i should have stopped to thank him, but he hurried me away; and half forgetting my weariness, i went along the street, found at last the road at the end, followed it as directed, and then in the street of little houses found one where the light from the lamp shone as my guide had said. i paused with the key in my hand, half fearing to use it, but summoning up my courage, i found the door opened easily and closed quietly, when i stood in a narrow passage with the stairs before me, and following them to the top, i hesitated, hardly knowing back from front. a deep heavy breathing from one room, however, convinced me that that could not be the back, so i tried the other door, to find it yield, and there was just light enough from the window to enable me to find the bed, on which i threw myself half dressed, and slept soundly till morning, when i opened my eyes to find mr revitts taking off his stiff uniform coat. "look here, youngster," he said, throwing himself upon the bed, "i dessay you're tired, so don't you get up. have another nap, and then call me at ten, and we'll have some breakfast. how--how--" he said, yawning. "what did you say, sir?" "how--mary look?" "very well indeed, sir. she has looked much better lately, and--" i stopped short, for a long-drawn breath from where mr revitts had thrown himself upon the bed told me plainly enough that he was asleep. i was too wakeful now to follow his example, and raising myself softly upon my elbow, i had a good look at my new friend, to see that he did not look so big and burly without his greatcoat, but all the same he was a stoutly built, fine-looking man, with a bluff, honest expression of countenance. i stayed there for some minutes, thinking about him, and then about mary, and mr blakeford, and hetty, and i wondered how the lawyer had got on before the magistrates without me. then, rising as quietly as i could, i washed and finished dressing myself before sitting down to wait patiently for my host's awakening. the first hour passed very tediously, for there was nothing to see from the window but chimney-pots, and though it was early i began to feel that i had not breakfasted, and three hours or so was a long time to wait. the room was clean, but shabbily furnished, and as i glanced round offered little in the way of recreation, till my eyes lit on a set of hanging shelves with a few books thereon, and going on tiptoe across the room, i began to read their backs, considering which i should choose. there was the "farmer of inglewood forest," close by the "old english baron," with the "children of the abbey," and "robinson crusoe." side by side with them was a gilt-edged prayer-book, upon opening which i found that it was the property of "mr william revitts, a present from his effectinat friend mary bloxam." on the opposite leaf was the following verse:-- "when this yu see, remember me, and bare me in yure mind; and don't forget old ingerland, and the lass yu lef behind." the bible on the shelf was from the same source. besides these were several books in shabby covers--bogatsky's "golden treasury," the "pilgrim's progress," and the "young man's best companion." i stood looking at them for a few minutes, and then reached down poor old "robinson crusoe," bore it to the window, and for the fourth time in my life began its perusal. in a very short time my past troubles, my precarious future, and my present hunger were all forgotten, and i was far away from the attic in north london, watching the proceedings of robinson in that wonderful island, having skipped over a good many of the early adventures for the sake of getting as soon as possible into that far-away home of mystery and romance. the strengthening of his house, the coming of the savages, the intensely interesting occurrences of the story, so enchained me, that i read on and on till i was suddenly startled by the voice of mr revitts exclaiming: "hallo, you! i say, what's o'clock?" chapter fourteen. breakfast with the law, and what followed. i let the book fall in a shamefaced way as my host took a great, ugly old silver watch from beneath his pillow, looked at it, shook it, looked at it again, and then exclaimed: "it's either 'levin o'clock or else she's been up to her larks. hush!" he held up his hand, for just then a clock began to strike, and we both counted eleven. "then she was right for once in a way. why didn't you call me at ten?" "i forgot, sir. i was reading," i faltered; for i felt i had been guilty of a great breach of trust. "and you haven't had no breakfast," he said, dressing himself quickly, and then plunging his face into the basin of water, to splash and blow loudly, before having a most vigorous rub with the towel. "why, you must be as hungry as a hunter," he continued, as he halted in what was apparently his morning costume of flannel shirt and trousers. "we'll very soon have it ready, though. shove the cloth on, youngster; the cups and saucers are in that cupboard, that's right, look alive." i hastened to do what he wished, and in a few minutes had spread the table after the fashion observed by mary at mr blakeford's, while mr revitts took a couple of rashers of bacon out of a piece of newspaper on the top of the bookshelf, and some bread and a preserve jar containing butter out of a box under the table. next he poured some coffee out of a canister into the pot, and having inserted his feet into slippers, he prepared to go out of the room. "bedroom, with use of the kitchen, for a single gentleman," he said, winking one eye. "that's me. back in five minutes, youngster." it must have been ten minutes before he returned, with the coffee-pot in one hand and the two rashers of hot sputtering bacon in the other, when in the most friendly spirit he drew a chair to the table, and saying, "help yourself, youngster," placed one rasher upon my plate and took the other upon his own. "i say, only to think of my mate coming upon you fast asleep in london," he said, tearing me off a piece of bread. "why, if he'd been looking for you, he couldn't ha' done it. don't be afraid o' the sugar. there ain't no milk." i was very hungry, and i gladly began my breakfast, since it was offered in so sociable a spirit. "let's see. how did you say mary looked?" "very well indeed, sir," i replied. "send me--come, tuck in, my lad, you're welcome--send me any message?" "she did not know i was coming, sir." "no, of course not. so you've come to london to seek your fortune, eh?" "yes, sir." "where are you going to look for it first?" he said, grinning. "i don't know, sir," i said, rather despondently. "more don't i. pour me out another cup o' coffee, my lad, while i cut some more bread and scrape. only to think o' my mate meeting you! and so mary looks well, does she?" "yes, sir." "and ain't very comfortable, eh?" "oh no, sir! it's a very uncomfortable place." "ah, i shall have to find her a place after all! she might just as well have said _yes_ last time, instead of going into a tantrum. i say, come; you ain't half eating. i shall write and tell her i've seen you." if i was half eating before, i was eating nothing now, for his words suggested discovery, and my being given up to mr blakeford: when, seeing my dismay, my host laughed at me. "there, get on with your toke, youngster. if i tell mary where you are, you don't suppose she'll go and tell old blakeford?" "oh no, sir! she wouldn't do that," i said, taking heart again, and resuming my breakfast. "and i say, youngster, suppose you don't say _sir_ to me any more. i'm only a policeman, you know. i say, you were a bit scared last night, weren't you?" "yes, sir--yes, i mean, i was very much afraid." "ah, that's the majesty of the law, that is! do you know, i've only got to go into a crowd, and just give my head a nod, and they disperse directly. the police have wonderful power in london." "have they, sir?" "wonderful, my lad. we can do anything we like, so long as it's men. hundreds of 'em 'll give way before a half-dozen of us. it's only when we've got to deal with the women that we get beat; and that ain't no shame, is it?" "no, sir," i said, though i had not the faintest notion why. "you're quite right," he said; "it ain't no shame. what! have you done?" "yes, sir--yes, i mean." "won't you have that other cup of coffee?" "no, thank you." "then i will," he said, suiting the action to the word. "well, now then, youngster, what are you going to do, eh?" "i'm going to try and find mr rowle's brother, sir, at a great printing-office," i said, searching my pockets, and at last finding the address given me. "perhaps he'll help me to find a situation." "ah, p'r'aps so. they do have boys in printing-offices. now, if you were a bit bigger you might have joined the police, and got to be a sergeant some day. it's a bad job, but it can't be helped. you must grow." "i am growing fast, sir," i replied. "ah, i s'pose so. well, now lookye here. you go and see mr rowle, and hear what he says, and then come back to me." "come back here?" i said, hesitating. "unless you've got somewhere better to go, my lad. there, don't you mind coming. you're an old friend o' my mary, and so you're an old friend o' mine. so, for a week, or a fortnight, or a month, if you like to bunk down along o' me till you can get settled, why, you're welcome; and if a man can say a better word than that, why, tell him how." "i--i should be very, very grateful if you would give me a night or two's lodging, sir," i said, "and--and i've got six shillings yet." "then don't you spend more than you can help, youngster. do you know what's the cheapest dinner you can get?" "no, sir--no, i mean." "penny loaf and a pen'orth o' cheese. you come back here and have tea along o' me. i don't go on duty till night. there, no shuffling," he said, grinning. "if you don't come back i'll write and tell old blakeford." i could see that he did not mean it, and soon after i left my bundle there, and started off to try if i could find mr rowle's brother at the great printing-office in short street, fetter lane. chapter fifteen. "boys wanted." i went over the address in my own mind to make sure, and also repeated the directions given me by mr revitts, so as to make no mistake in going into the city. then i thought over again mr rowle's remarks about his brother, his name, jabez, his age, and his being exactly like himself. that would, i thought, make it easy for me to recognise him; and in this spirit i walked on through the busy streets, feeling a good deal confused at being pushed and hustled about so much, while twice i was nearly run over in crossing the roads. at last, after asking, by mr revitts' advice, my way of different policemen when i was at fault, i found myself soon after two in short street, fetter lane, facing a pile of buildings from the base of which came the hiss and pant of steam, with the whirr, clang, and roar of machinery; while on the doorpost was a bright zinc plate with the legend "ruddle and lister, general printers;" and above that, written on a card in a large legible hand, and tacked against the woodwork, the words "boys wanted." this announcement seemed to take away my breath, and i hesitated for a few minutes before i dared approach the place; but i went up at last, and then, seeing a severe-looking man in a glass box reading a newspaper, i shrank back and walked on a little way, forgetting all about mr jabez rowle in my anxiety to try and obtain a situation by whose means i could earn my living. at last, in a fit of desperation, i went up to the glass case, and the man reading the newspaper let it fall upon his knees and opened a little window. "now then, what is it?" he said in a gruff voice. "if you please, sir, there's a notice about boys wanted--" "down that passage, upstairs, first floor," said the man gruffly, and banged down the window. i was a little taken aback, but i pushed a swing-door, and went with a beating heart along the passage, on one side of which were rooms fitted up something like mr blakeford's office, and on the other side a great open floor stacked with reams of paper, and with laths all over the ceiling, upon which boys with curious pieces of wood, something like long wooden crutches, were hanging up sheets of paper to dry, while at broad tables by the windows i could see women busily folding more sheets of paper, as if making books. it was but a casual glance i had as i passed on, and then went by a room with the door half open and the floor carpeted inside. there was a pleasant, musical voice speaking, and then there was a burst of laughter, all of which seemed out of keeping in that dingy place, full of the throb of machinery, and the odour of oil and steam. at the end of the passage was the staircase, and going up, i was nearly knocked over by a tall, fat-headed boy, who blundered roughly against me, and then turned round to cry indignantly-- "now, stoopid, where are yer a-coming to?" "can you tell me, please, where i am to ask about boys being wanted?" i said mildly. "oh, find out! there ain't no boys wanted here." "not wanted here!" i faltered, with my hopes terribly dashed, for i had been building castles high in the air. "no; be off!" he said roughly, when a new character appeared on the scene in the shape of a business-looking man in a white apron, carrying down an iron frame, and having one hand at liberty, he made use of it to give the big lad a cuff on the ear. "you make haste and fetch up those galleys, jem smith;" and the boy went on down three stairs at a time. "what do you want, my man?" he continued, turning to me. "i saw there were boys wanted, sir, and i was going upstairs." "when that young scoundrel told you a lie. there, go on, and in at that swing-door; the overseer's office is at the end." i thanked him, and went on, pausing before a door blackened by dirty hands, and listened for a moment before going in. the hum of machinery sounded distant here, and all within seemed very still, save a faint clicking noise, till suddenly i heard a loud clap-clapping, as if a flat piece of wood were being banged down and then struck with a mallet; and directly after came a hammering, as if some one was driving a wooden peg. there were footsteps below, and i dared not hesitate longer; so, pushing the door, it yielded, and i found myself in a great room, where some forty men in aprons and shirt-sleeves were busy at what at the first glance seemed to be desks full of little compartments, from which they were picking something as they stood, but i was too much confused to notice more than that they took not the slightest notice of me, as i stopped short, wondering where the overseer's room would be. at one corner i could see an old man at a desk, with a boy standing beside him, both of them shut up in a glass case, as if they were curiosities; in another corner there was a second glass case, in which a fierce-looking man with a shiny bald head and glittering spectacles was gesticulating angrily to one of the men in white aprons, and pointing to a long, narrow slip of paper. i waited for a moment, and then turned to the man nearest to me. "can you tell me, please, which is the overseer's office?" i said, cap in hand. "folio forty-seven--who's got folio forty-seven?" he said aloud. "here!" cried a voice close by. "make even.--get out; don't bother me." i shrank away, confused and perplexed, and a dark, curly-haired man on the other side turned upon me a pair of deeply set stern eyes, as he rattled some little square pieces of lead into something he held in his hand. "what is it, boy?" he said in a deep, low voice. "can you direct me to the overseer's office, sir?" "that's it, boy, where that gentleman in spectacles is talking." "wigging old morgan," said another man, laughing. "ah!" said the first speaker, "that's the place, boy;" and he turned his eyes upon a slip of paper in front of his desk. i said, "thank you!" and went on along the passage between two rows of the frame desks to where the fierce-looking bald man was still gesticulating, and as i drew near i could hear what he said. "i've spoken till i'm tired of speaking; your slips are as foul as a ditch. confound you, sir, you're a perfect disgrace to the whole chapel. do you think your employers keep readers to do nothing else but correct your confounded mistakes? read your stick, sir--read your stick!" "very sorry," grumbled the man, "but it was two o'clock this morning, and i was tired as a dog." "don't talk to me, sir; i don't care if it was two o'clock, or twelve o'clock, or twenty-four o'clock. i say that slip's a disgrace to you; and for two pins, sir--for two pins i'd have it framed and stuck up for the men to see. be off and correct it.--now, then, what do you want?" this was to me, and i was terribly awe-stricken at the fierce aspect of the speaker, whose forehead was now of a lively pink. "if you please, sir, i saw that you wanted boys, and--" "no; i don't want boys," he raved. "i'm sick of the young monkeys; but i'm obliged to have them." "i am sorry, sir--" i faltered. "oh yes; of course. here, stop! where are you going?" "please, sir, you said you didn't want any boys." "you're very sharp, ain't you? now hold your tongue, and then answer what i ask and no more. what are you--a machine boy or reader?" "if you please, sir, i--i don't know--i thought--i want--" "confound you; hold your tongue!" he roared. "where did you work last?" "at--at mr blakeford's," i faltered, feeling bound to speak the truth. "blakeford's! blakeford's!--i know no blakeford's. at machine?" "no, sir! i wrote all day." "wrote? what, wasn't it a printing-office?" "no, sir." "how dare you come wasting my time like this, you insolent young scoundrel! be off! get out with you! i never knew such insolence in my life." i shrank away, trembling, and began to retreat down the avenue, this time with the men's faces towards me, ready to gaze in my red and guilty countenance, for i felt as if i had been guilty of some insult to the majesty of the printing-office. to my great relief, though, the men were too busy to notice me; but i heard one say to another, "old brimstone's hot this morning." then i passed on, and saw the dark man looking at me silently from beneath his overhanging brows; and the next moment, heartsick and choking with the effects of this rebuff, the swing-door was thrown open by the fat-headed boy coming in, and as i passed out, unaccustomed to its spring, the boy contrived that it would strike me full in the back, just as if the overseer had given me a rude push to drive me away. i descended the stairs with the spirit for the moment crushed out of me; and with my eyes dim with disappointment, i was passing along the passage, when, as i came to the open door of the carpeted room, a man's voice exclaimed-- "no, no, miss carr, you really shall not. we'll send it on by one of the boys." "oh, nonsense, mr lister; i can carry it." "yes, yes; of course you can, but i shall not let you. here, boy, come here." i entered the room nervously, to find myself in presence of a handsome, well-dressed man, another who was stout and elderly, and two young ladies, while upon the table lay a parcel of books, probably the subject of the remark. "hallo! what boy are you?" said the younger man. "oh! one of the new ones, i suppose." "no, sir," i said, with voice trembling and my face working, for i was unnerved by the treatment i had just received and the dashing of my hopes; "i came to be engaged, but--but the gentleman upstairs turned me away." "why?" said the elder man sharply. "because i had not been in the printing-office, sir." "oh, of course!" he said, nodding. "of course. we want lads accustomed to the trade, my man." "you should teach him the trade, mr ruddle," said one of the young ladies quickly, and i darted a look of gratitude at her. "too busy, miss carr," he said, smiling at her. "we don't keep a printer's school." "i'll teach him," whispered the young man eagerly, though i heard him; "i'll teach him anything, if you'll promise not to be so cruel." "what a bargain!" she replied, laughing; and she turned away. "i don't think we need keep you, my lad," said the young man bitterly. "indeed!" said the other young lady; "why, i thought he was to carry our parcel of books?" "but he is a strange boy, my dear young ladies," said the elder man; "i'll ring for one from the office." "no; don't, pray!" said the lady addressed as miss carr quickly. "i don't think we will carry the parcel. you will carry it for us, will you not?" "oh, yes, indeed i will!" i cried eagerly; and i stepped forward, for there was something very winning in the speakers voice. "stop a moment, my man," said the elder gentleman rather sternly, while the younger stood biting his lips; "where do your father and mother live?" those words made something rise in my throat, and i looked wildly at him, but could not speak. he did not see my face, for he had taken up a pen and drawn a memorandum slip towards him. "well; why don't you speak?" he said sharply, and as he raised his eyes i tried, but could not get out a word, only pointed mutely to the shabby band of crape upon my cap. "ah!" there was a deep sigh close by me, and i saw that the young lady addressed as miss carr was deadly pale, and for the first time i noticed that she was in deep mourning. "my dear miss carr!" whispered the young man earnestly. "don't speak to me for a minute," she said in the same tone; and then i saw her face working and lip quivering as she gazed wistfully at me. "poor lad!" said the elder man abruptly. then, "your friends, my boy, your relatives?" "i have none, sir," i said huskily, "only an uncle, and i don't know for certain where he lives." "but you don't mean that you are alone in the world?" said the young man quickly, and he glanced at the lady as he spoke. "yes, sir," i said quietly, for i had now recovered myself, "i am quite alone, and i want to get a situation to earn my living." the elder gentleman turned upon me and seemed to look me through and through. "now, look here, young fellow," he said, "you are either a very unfortunate boy or a designing young impostor." "mr ruddle!" exclaimed miss carr indignantly; and i saw the young man's eyes glitter as he gazed at her sweet, sad face, twenty times more attractive now than when she was speaking lightly a minute before. "i don't want to be harsh, my dear, but here we are obliged to be firm and business-like. now, boy, answer me; have you been to a good school?" "no, sir," i said, speaking sharply now, for his use of the word "impostor" stung me; "i was educated at home." "humph! where do you come from?" "rowford, sir." "town on a tall hill?" "no, sir," i said in surprise; "rowford is quite in a hole; but we lived four miles from rowford, sir, on the cawleigh road." "then you know leydon wood." "oh yes, sir! that's where papa used to take me to collect specimens." "humph! don't say _papa_, my boy. boys who go into the world to get their living don't speak of their papas. john lister!" "wait a minute, ruddle," said the younger man, whose back was towards us; and i saw that he was leaning over miss carr and holding her hand. "if you wish it," he whispered softly, "it shall be done." "i do wish it," she said with an earnest look in her large eyes as she gazed kindly at me; and the young man turned round, flushed and excited. i was shrinking away towards the door, pained and troubled, for i felt that i had no business there, when mr lister motioned me to stop, and said something to the elder gentleman. he in turn screwed up his face, and gave the younger a comical look. "your father would not have done so, john lister," he said. "what am i to say, miss carr?" for answer the young lady rose and went and laid her hands in one of his. "if you please, mr ruddle," she said in a low musical voice, "it will be a kindly act." "god bless you, my dear," he said tenderly. "i believe if i were with you long you'd make me as much your slave as you have john lister." "then you will?" "yes, my dear, yes, if it is really as he says." she darted an intelligent look at me, and then hastily pulled down her crape veil as mr lister followed her to her chair. "come here, my lad," said mr ruddle, in quiet business-like tones. "we want boys here, but boys used to the printing trade, for it does not answer our purpose to teach them; we have no time. but as you seem a sharp, respectable boy, and pretty well educated, you might, perhaps, be willing to try." "oh, if you'll try me, i'll strive so hard to learn, sir!" i cried excitedly. "i hope you will, my boy," he said drily, "but don't profess too much; and mind this, you are not coming here as a young gentleman, but as a reading-boy--to work." "yes, sir. i want to work," i said earnestly. "that's well. now, look here. i want to know a little more about you. if, as you say, you came from near rowford, you can tell me the names of some of the principal people there?" "yes, sir; there's doctor heston, and the reverend james wyatt, and mr elton." "exactly," he said gruffly; and he opened a large book and turned over a number of pages. "humph! here it is," he said to himself, and he seemed to check off the names. "now, look here, my man. what is the name of the principal solicitor at rowford?" "mr blakeford, sir," i said with a shiver, lest he should want to write to him about me. "oh, you know him?" he said sharply. "yes, sir. he managed papa's--my father's--affairs," i said, correcting myself. "then i'm sorry for your poor father's affairs," he said, tightening his lips. "that will do, my lad. you can come to work here. be honest and industrious, and you'll get on. never mind about having been a gentleman, but learn to be a true man. go and wait outside." i tried to speak. i wanted to catch his hands in mine. i wanted to fling my arms round miss carr, and kiss and bless her for her goodness. i was so weak and sentimental a boy then. but i had to fight it all down, and satisfy myself by casting a grateful glance at her as i went out to wait. i was no listener, but i heard every word that passed as the ladies rose to go. "are you satisfied, my dear?" said mr ruddle. "god bless you?" she said; and i saw her raise her veil and kiss him. "god bless you, my dear!" he said softly. "so this little affair has regularly settled it all, eh? and you are to be john's wife. well, well, well, my dear, i'm glad of it, very glad of it. john, my boy, i would my old partner were alive to see your choice; and as for you, my child, you've won a good man, and i hope your sister will be as fortunate." "i hope i shall, mr ruddle," said the other lady softly. "if i were not sixty, and you nineteen, my dear, i'd propose for you myself," he went on laughingly. "but come, come, i can't have you giddy girls coming to our works to settle your affairs. there, be off with you, and you dine with us on tuesday next. the old lady says you are to come early. i'm afraid john lister here won't be able to leave the office till twelve o'clock; but we can do without him, eh?" "don't you mind what he says, miriam," said mr lister. "but stop, here's the parcel. i'll send it on." "no, no. please let that youth carry it for us," said miss carr. "anything you wish," he whispered earnestly; and the next moment he was at the door. "you'll carry this parcel for these ladies," he said; "and to-morrow morning be here at ten o'clock, and we'll find you something to do." "yes, sir. thank you, sir," i said eagerly; and taking the parcel, i followed the ladies into holborn, and then along oxford street to a substantial row of houses near cavendish square, where the one i looked upon as my friend paused at a large door and held out her hand to me. "i shall hope to hear from mr lister that you have got on well at the office," she said in her sweet musical voice. "recollect that you are my _protege_, and i hope you will do me credit. i shall not forget to ask about you. you will try, will you not?" "oh yes," i said hoarsely, "so hard--so very hard!" "i believe you will," she said, taking the parcel from my hand; "and now good-bye." the next moment i was standing alone upon the pavement, feeling as if a cloudiness had come over the day, while, as i looked down into my hand, it was to see there a bright new sovereign. chapter sixteen. plans for the future. i went straight back to mr revitts, and only when nearly there did i remember that i had not thought to ask about mr rowle. but i felt it did not matter now, for i had obtained a situation, and he could not be annoyed to find that i was coming to the same establishment. mr revitts was enjoying himself when i reached his room; that is to say, he was sitting in his dingy old red-flannel shirt and his blue uniform trousers, with his sleeves rolled well up above the elbow, reading the police news in a daily paper and smoking a short black pipe, with the wreaths of smoke floating out of the open window. "here you are then, my lad," he said, "just in time. you and i will go out and have a bit o' something at the cookshop. did you find your friend?" "no, sir--no mr revitts," i said, correcting myself, "i forgot to ask for him." he let his paper fall in his lap and stared hard at me. "now, look here, my lad," he said, expelling a large cloud of smoke, "i don't want you to commit yourself, and it's my dooty to tell you that whatever you say will be--no, no, nonsense. come, speak out. what are you laughing at? what have you been doing?" hereupon i told him my adventure, my eyes sparkling with delight. "and a whole sovereign into the bargain!" he cried as i finished. "let's look at it." i handed him the bright new golden coin, and he span it up in the air, caught it dexterously, and bit it. then he tried it three or four times on the table, as a shopman would a piece of money on a counter, and ended by making believe to thrust it into his pocket. "it's a good one," he said, "and i think i shall stick to it for your board and lodging last night and this morning. what do you say?" "i think you ought to be paid, sir," i said eagerly, "for you were very good to me." he stared hard at me for a few moments, and then thrust the sovereign back in my hand. "i've seen a good many boys in my time," he said, "but i'm blessed if ever i run again one like you. why, you've got plenty of pluck, or else you wouldn't have run away; but of all the simple--well, i won't say simple, but green--of the green chaps i ever did come across you are about the greenest." i flushed up far from that tint at his words, for there was the old complaint again about my greenness. "please, mr revitts, i'm very sorry i'm so green," i said, looking at him wistfully; "perhaps it's because i've always lived in the country." he stared harder at me. "come here," he said sharply, and going to the window, he placed me between his knees, laid a great hand upon each of my shoulders grasping them firmly, and gazed straight into my eyes. "look here, youngster," he said angrily, "is it r or f? are you trying to humbug me? because, if so, it won't do: i'm too old." "humbug you, sir?" i said wonderingly. "i don't know what you mean." "that you don't," he said, dropping his fierce way and sinking back smiling. "'struth, what a boy you are!" i gazed at him in a troubled way, for i felt hurt. "i'm very sorry, mr revitts," i said, "and i hope you don't think i would do anything to deceive you," for that "r or f" puzzled me. "deceive me? not you, my boy. why, you couldn't deceive a sparrer or a hoyster. why, you're as transparent as a pane of glass. i can see right through you and out on the other side." "i'm afraid i am very stupid, sir," i said sadly. "i'll try to learn to be more clever. i don't know much, only about books, and natural history, and botany, but i'll try very hard not--not to be so--so-- green." "why, bless your young heart, where have you been all your life? you're either as cunning as--no, you ain't, you really are as innocent as a lamb." "i've always been at home with papa and mamma, sir." "sir, be hanged! my name's william revitts; and if you and me's going to be good friends, my boy, you'll drop that sir-ing and mistering, and call me plain bill." "should you like it, sir, if i did?" i asked anxiously. "no, _sir_, i shouldn't. yes, i should. now then, is it to be friends or enemies?" "oh, friends, please," i said, holding out my hand. "then there's mine, young antony," he cried seizing it in his great, fingers. "and mind, i'm bill, or old bill, whichever you like." "i'm sure--bill, i should be glad to be the best of friends," i said, "for i have none." "oh, come now, you said that polly was very good to you." "what, mary? oh yes!" "well, then, that's one. but, i say, you know you mustn't be so precious innocent." "mustn't i, sir?" "what!" he cried, bringing his hand down crash on the table. "mustn't i, bill?" "that's better. no: that you mustn't. i seem to look upon you as quite an old friend since you lived so long with my polly. but, i say, your education has been horribly neglected. you're quite a baby to the boys up here at your age." "but papa was so anxious that i should learn everything," i said, as i thought of mr ruddle's words, "and we had lessons every day." "hah! yes; but you can't learn everything out o' books," he continued, looking at me curiously. "you never went away to school, then?" "no. i was going in a month or two." "hah! and it was put off. well, we can't help it now, only you mustn't be so jolly easy-going. everybody here will glory in taking you in." "do you mean cheating me?" "that's just what i do mean. why, some chaps would have nailed that sov like a shot, and you'd never have seen it again. you see, i'm in the police, and we couldn't stoop to such a thing, but i know lots o' men as would say as a sov was no use to a boy like you, and think as they ought to take care of it for you." "well, wouldn't that be right, mr revitts?" i said. "no, it wouldn't, young greenhorn," he cried sharply, "because they'd take care of it their way." "greenhorn?" i said eagerly. "oh, that's what you mean by my being green! you mean ignorant and unripe in the world's ways." "that's just what i do mean," he cried, slapping me on the shoulder. "brayvo! that's the result of my first lesson," he continued admiringly. "why, i'm blessed if i don't think that if i had you here six months, and took pains, i could make a man of you." "oh, i wish you would," i cried excitedly. "i do so want to be a true, good man--one such as papa used to speak of--one who could carve his way to a noble and honourable career, and grow to be loved and venerated and held in high esteem by the world at large. oh, i would try so hard--i'd work night and day, and feel at last, that i had not tried in vain." "he-ar! he-ar! brayvo, brayvo, youngster! well done our side! that's your style!" he cried, clapping his hands and stamping his feet as i stopped short, flushed and excited with the ideas that had come thronging to my brain, and then gazed at him in a shamefaced and bashful manner. "that's your sort, my boy, i like that. i say, did your father teach you that sorter thing." "yes. mr rev--yes, bill." "i say, your par, as you called him, wasn't a fool." "my papa," i said proudly, "i mean my dear father, was the best and kindest of men." "that i'll lay sixpence he was. why, i was feeling quite out of heart about you, and thinking you such a hinnocent young goose that i shouldn't know how to help you. why, lookye here, i've been kicking about in the world ever since i was ten, and been in the police six years, and i couldn't make a speech like that." "couldn't you, sir--mr--i mean bill?" "no, that i couldn't. why, i tell you what. you and i'll stick together and i don't know what we mightn't make of you at last--p'r'aps lord mayor o' london. or, look here, after a few years we might get you in the police." "in the police?" i faltered. "to be sure, and you being such a scholard and writing such a hand--i know it, you know. lookye here," he continued, pulling out a pocket-book, from one of the wallets in which he drew a note i had written for mary, "i say, you writing such a hand, and being well up in your spelling, you'd rise like a air balloon, and get to be sergeant, and inspector, and perhaps superintendent, and wear a sword! you mark my words, youngster; you've got a future before you." "do you think so?" "i just do. i like you, young antony, hang me if i don't; and if you stick to me i'll teach you all i know." "will you?" i said eagerly. "well, all i can. just hand me that paper o' tobacco. thankye. i'll have just one more pipe, and then we'll go to dinner." he filled and lit his pipe, and went on talking. "first and foremost, don't you get trying to smoke." "no, i will not," i said. "that's right. it's all very well for men, a little of it; but i don't like to see boys at it, as too many tries just now. i often sees 'em on my beat, and i never feel so jolly happy as when i come across one looking white after it about the gills, and so sick he can't hold his head straight up. but, as i was a-saying, you stick to me and i'll teach you all i can, and i know two or three things," he continued, closing one eye and opening it again. "you must, sir." "yes; there's some clever chaps i have to deal with sometimes--roughs and thieves and the like; but they have to get up very early in the morning to take me in." "do they, sir--bill?" i said wonderingly. "there, now you're getting innocent again," he said sharply. "you don't mean to tell me as you don't understand that?" "oh yes, i do: you mean that they would have to get up very early to master you--say at daybreak." "what a young innocent you are," he cried, laughing; and then seeing my pained look, he slapped me on the shoulder again. "it's all right, my boy. you can't help it; and you'll soon learn all these things. i know a lot, but so do you--a sight o' things i don't. why, i'll be bound to say you could write a long letter without making a single mistake in the spelling." "yes, i think i could," i said innocently. "both papa and mamma took great pains with me over that." "look at that, now!" he said. "why, i couldn't write two lines in my pocket-book without putting down something as the sergeant would chaff." "chaff?" i said, "cut-up stuff for horses?" "yes: that's it," he said, grinning. "stuff as they cut up. there, you'll soon know what chaff is, my lad. but, you know, all the same, and speaking quite fair, i do maintain as spelling ain't square." "not square?" "i mean fair and square and above-board. them as invented spelling couldn't have been very clever, or they'd have made everything spelt as it sounded. why, it only seems natural to spell doctor's stuff f-i-z-z-i-k, and here you have to stick in _p's_, and _h's_, and _y's_, and _s's_, and _c's_, as ain't wanted at all." "it is puzzling, certainly," i said. "puzzling? puzzling ain't nothing to it. i can write a fair round hand, and spell fast enough my way. our sergeant says there isn't a man on our station as can write such a nice looking report; but when it comes to the spelling--there, i won't tell you what he said about that!" "but you could soon improve your spelling." "think so?" he said eagerly. "oh no, i don't fancy we could." "i am sure you could," i said. "the best way is to do dictation." "dictation? what, ordering about?" "oh no; not that sort of dictation. i mean for me to read to you from a book and you write it down, and then i mark all the misspelt words, and you write them down and learn them." "look at that now!" he exclaimed. "to be sure, that's the way. now, you know, i bought a spelling-book, that didn't seem to do no good; so i bought a pocket dictionary, and that was such a job to go through, so full of breakneck words as no one never heard of before, that i give that up. why, you ain't innocent after all. would you mind trying me?" "mind! no," i cried; "we could use either a slate or paper." "so we could, and do it with either a pencil or a pen. i say, come: fair and square, i'll teach you all i know if you'll teach me all you know." "that's agreed," i said. "done for you," he cried, shaking hands. "and now my pipe's out, and we'll go and have dinner. wait till i roll down my sleeves and get on my stock. why, you and i will be as jolly as can be here. it's rather a long way to go to your work, but you must get up a bit earlier. two miles night and morning won't kill you; and i've been thinking what we'll do. you've got your sovereign. we'll go to a place i know, and buy one o' them little iron fold-up bedsteads and a mattress and pillow and blanket, and stand it there. it's breaking into your sov, but then you'll have the bit o' furniture, which will be your property, so the money won't be wasted. what do you say?" i was delighted, and said so. "well, then, lookye here," he continued, as he took great pains with his hair and whiskers before the glass, and then put on and buttoned up his uniform coat, to stand before me a frank, manly fellow of about thirty, "you're my company this week, and after that you shall put so much of your salary into the stock to pay for living, and we shall both be free and independent, and what's left you can shove in the bank." "in the bank?" "yes, savings-bank. i don't mind telling you as an old friend i've got forty-four pun ten there." "mary has thirty-seven pounds in a savings-bank," i said. "now there's for you!" he said. "yes, she told me so; but perhaps i oughtn't to have told you." "well," he said seriously, "i s'pose you oughtn't, because it was told you in confidence, but i'm glad you did. she never told me." "did you ever tell her how much you had saved?" "no, that i didn't, only as i was saving, so it's all fair. look here, youngster--i mean antony," he said, after standing staring in the glass for a few minutes, "i tell you what it is, you coming up has about brought matters to a head." "has it, bill?" "yes, it hayve, my boy. do you know, i don't for the life of me know why we two have been waiting; do you?" "no," i said shaking my head. "no, nor more don't mary, i'll bet a sixpence. we got engaged to one another, and then we said as it wouldn't be sensible, to get married at once, as we might both see some one we liked better, don't you see?" "yes," i said, feeling puzzled all the same, "it was very prudent." "i could have got married lots o' times since, but i've never seen a girl as i liked so well, and i s'pose mary hasn't seen a chap, for she keeps on writing." "oh yes; and she thinks a deal of you. she's very proud of you." "is she, though?" he said, with a satisfied smile, and giving his head a shake in his stock. "well, then, i tell you what: i'll write and ask mary to say the day, and then meet her at the station. we'll take a little bigger place, and she'll come up and make us both comfortable. what do you say to that?" i clapped my hands, and he stood smiling in an exceedingly simple way, and looking like a very big overgrown boy, for a few moments, before turning himself round to me. "see that," he said, in a quiet business-like way. "i was laughing at you for being soft and green just now, and i'm blessed if i don't feel as if i was ten times worse. come along, company, it's ever so late, and my report says hot mutton chop, a cup of tea, and some bread and butter." that evening, after a hearty meal, for which revitts insisted upon paying, there was just time to make the purchases he proposed, which almost melted the whole of my sovereign, and then it was time for him to go on duty. "they've cost a deal," he said thoughtfully, "but then you've still got the money, only in another shape. now, you get back home and take in the things when they come, and then sit and read a bit, and afterwards go to bed. i wouldn't go out, if i was you." we parted, and i followed out his directions, being shrewd enough to see that he thought me hardly fit to be trusted alone. the next morning i woke to find it was half-past six, and that revitts had come home and was preparing for bed. he looked tired out, and was very black and dirty, having been, he said, at a fire; but he was not too much fatigued to give me a friendly bit or two of advice as to getting my breakfast and going down to the office. "have a good breakfast before you start, my boy, and get some bread and cheese for your lunch--that's twopence. when you come back you'll find the tea-things out, and you can make dinner and tea too." in good time i started, leaving revitts sleeping off his night's fatigue, and about ten minutes to ten i was at the door of the great printing-office, flushed with exercise and dread, but eager all the same to make a beginning. i hesitated as to whether i should go in at once or wait till it struck ten, but i thought that perhaps i might be some time before i saw mr ruddle, so i walked straight in, and the man reading the paper in his gloss case looked up at me in a very ill-used way as i stopped at his window. "you again?" he said gruffly. "well, what is it?" "if you please, i've come to work," i said. "work? why, it's ten o'clock. why weren't you here at eight?" "mr ruddle said ten o'clock, sir, and i want to see him." "oh!" he said gruffly, as if he were the gatekeeper of an earthly paradise. "well, i s'pose you must pass in. go on." i went on into the passage, feeling as if the doorkeeper was the most important personage there, and as if the proprietors must make a practice of asking permission to go into their own place. i went, then, nervously down the passage till i came to the door of the room where i had seen messrs. ruddle and lister. it was ajar, and there were loud voices talking, and though i knocked they went on. "stern firmness is one thing, grimstone," i heard mr ruddle saying, "and bullying another." "but you don't consider, sir, that i bully the men, do you?" said another voice which was quite familiar to me. "you may call it what you like, grimstone. there, i'm busy now." there was a sharp step, and the door was flung wide open and closed, when my friend the overseer, who had been so rough to me on the previous day, came out and pretty nearly knocked me down. chapter seventeen. my first literary efforts. i make another friend. the overseer and i stood in the dim light gazing at one another for a few moments, during which i seemed to read in his sharp, harsh face an air of resentment at my presence. "hallo!" he said, in an angry voice, and evidently rejoicing at having encountered some one upon whom he could vent a little of the anger seething within him. "what, are you here again, you young vagabond? didn't i tell you yesterday to go about your business? be off with you, or i'll send for a policeman. how dare you! what do you mean?" "but please, sir," i remonstrated. "will you be off?" he roared; and i felt that i was about to be driven from the place, when the proprietor's door was sharply opened and mr lister appeared. "confound it all, grimstone," he cried, "what's the matter now? look here, sir; i will not have this bullying and noise in the place." "your father never spoke to me like that, mr john, when he was alive." "my father put up with a great deal from you, grimstone, because you were an old and faithful servant of the firm; but that is no reason why i, his son, should submit to what is sometimes bordering on insolence." "insolence, mr john?" "yes, grimstone, insolence." "what _is_ the matter?" said mr ruddle, coming out. "mr john says i'm insolent, mr ruddle," said the overseer angrily; "was i ever insolent to you, sir, or his father?" "well, if you want the truth, grimstone, you often were very insolent, only we put up with it for old acquaintance' sake. but what's the matter now?" "i was just speaking to this young vagabond, who persists in hanging about the place, sir, when mr john came out and attacked me, sir." "don't call names, grimstone," said mr lister hotly. "this young vagabond, as you call him, is a fresh boy whom mr ruddle has taken on, and whom i desire you to treat kindly." "why didn't he speak, then," said the overseer angrily; "how was i to know that he was engaged? in mr lister senior's time the engaging of boys for the office was left to the overseer." he stalked off, evidently in high dudgeon, leaving the masters gazing at one another. "he grows insufferable," said mr lister angrily. "one would think the place belonged to him." "yes, he is rough," said mr ruddle; "but he's a good overseer, john, and a faithful old servant. he was with us when we first began. well, my boy, you've come then; now go upstairs to the composing-room, and ask mr grimstone to give you a job; he'll be a bit cross, i dare say, but you must not mind that." "no; sir; i'll try not." "that's right," he said, giving me a friendly nod, and i hurried upstairs and walked right through the composing-room to mr grimstone's glass case. he saw me coming, but, though i tapped softly at the door several times, he refused to take any notice of me for some minutes, during which i had to stand uncomfortably aware of the fact that i had given terrible offence to this man in authority, by allowing myself to be engaged downstairs after he had bade me go. he was busy, pen in hand, looking over some long, narrow pieces of paper, and kept on turning them over and over, making his spectacles flash as he changed his position, and directing the top of his very shiny bald head at me, till at last he raised it, gave a start, and turned as if astonished at seeing me there; but it was poor pantomime and badly done. "well, what is it?" he said. "if you please, sir, mr lister sent me up to ask you to give me a job." "me give you a job," he said, in a menacing tone; "why, i thought you would be hanger-on down below, and not come up into the office, where you'd get your nice white hands dirtied. what job can i give you? what can you do? what do you know? here, smith, take this boy, and give him a page of pie to dis." the big, fat-headed boy came up from a distant part of the room, scowled at me, and led me to one of the desk-like frames, upon which were four large open trays full of compartments of various sizes. "here you are!" he said, "lay holt;" and he thrust a little heavy square paper packet into my hands. "it's burjoyce,"--so it sounded to me; "look alive, and then come for another." he went away, leaving me balancing the heavy packet in my hand. it was about the size and thickness of a small book, but what next to do with it, or how i was to do it, i, did not know. of course i know now that it was the petty, contemptible revenge of a little-minded man to set me, a totally uninstructed novice, to do that which an old practised compositor will shelve if he can, as an uncongenial task. to "dis a page of burjoyce pie" was, in fact, to distribute--that is, place in its proper compartments, or in the case-- every large and small letter, space and point, of a quantity of _bourgeois_, or ordinary newspaper type, that had been accidentally mixed, or "pied" as it is technically termed. the distribution of an ordinary page or column of type is comparatively easy, for the skilled workman reads it off word by word, and drops the letters dexterously in the compartment assigned; but in "pie" the letters and spaces are all jumbled, and the task is troublesome and slow. there was i, then, with about as easy a task as if i had been suddenly handed the various parts of a watch, and told to put them together; and i felt helpless and ashamed, not daring to interrupt any of the busy men intent upon their work at the various frames. an hour must have elapsed before i felt that i dare venture to go towards mr grimstone's glass case, and i was about desperately to tell him that i was ignorant and helpless, and quite unfit to do what he had set me, when the dark, stern-eyed man i had seen on the previous day came round by where i stood. he gazed at me curiously, and gave me a nod, and was passing on, when i desperately exclaimed: "if you please, sir--" "eh? what, is it, my boy?" he said. "i was told, sir, to dis this pie," i said, fearful that i was making some absurd blunder about the word _pie_. "well, why don't you do it? get the sponge off the stone and give it a good soaking in a galley." "i'm very sorry, sir," i said, encouraged by his quiet, kind way, "but i don't know how." "haven't you been in a printing-office before?" "no, sir." "and never distributed type?" "no, sir." "how absurd! who set you to do it?" "mr grimstone, sir." "but does he know that you have never handled type?" "yes, sir." "ass?" he muttered. "here, come along with me, my man. no; better not, perhaps. leave that packet alone, my boy. there, lay it down. stand here and try and learn the case." "learn the case, sir?" i said, with my heart sinking within me at being given another impossible task. "yes, it's very easy; only wants time," he said kindly; "here, pick up one of these pieces of type," he continued, dexterously taking up a little thin bit of black metal, "like this, and turn it in your fingers, and see what letter is stamped on the end, and then put it back in the same compartment of the case." "is that tray the case, sir?" "yes, quite right, go on. you can come and ask me anything you don't know." i darted a grateful look at him, and eagerly began my task, though in fear and trembling, lest mr grimstone should come and find fault because i had not "dis'd the pie." few people, i think, realise the sufferings of a sensitive boy at school, or at his first launching into life, when set to some task beyond his perception or powers. the dread of being considered stupid; the fear of the task-masters, the strangeness, the uncongenial surroundings, all combine to make up a state of mental torture that produces illness; and yet it is often ridiculed, and the sufferer treated with cruelty for non-performance of that which, simple to the initiated, is to him in his ignorance an utter impossibility. it was with a sense of relief i cannot describe that i began to lift the metal types one by one, looked at them, and put them back; and i was not long in finding out that, while the capital letters in the upper of the two trays before me ran nearly regularly a, b, c, d, and so on, and beneath them the figures , , , , etc, the lower case was a perfect puzzle. the compartments were not like those above, all small squares, and the same size, but some were very large, and some very small; some were long, and some were square; but i found that they were made upon a regular plan. for instance, there was one very large compartment nearly in the middle at the top of the lower tray, that was evidently six times as big as the small compartments; while below and beside it were many more that were four times as big as the small ones; others being only twice as big. i naturally examined the large compartment first, and found it full of little thin slips of metal nearly an inch long, at the end of each of which, and beautifully formed, was the letter _e_. there was no doubt about it, and it was evident that there were more _e's_ than anything else. then under it i found the compartment full of _h's_, and away to the left, _n's_ and _m's_; _t's_, _d's_, _u's_, _o's_, _a's_, and _r's_ were in other large compartments, and it gradually dawned upon my mind that these letters were placed where they would be handiest for use, and that there was the largest number of those that would be most frequently required. my surmise was quite right, and with this idea as the key, i soon found out that little-used _x_ and _z_ were in very small numbers, in the most out-of-the-way parts of the tray, just as were the double letters _ae_ and _oe_, etc. one compartment close under my hand, and very full, puzzled me the most, for the pieces of metal therein were short, and had no letters on the end; and at last, after trying in vain to understand their meaning, i determined to ask the dark man next time he passed, and went on trying to master my task with the strange clicking noise made by the men going on all round. i hardly dared glance about, but in the casual glimpses i stole, i began to understand now that the men about me were picking up, letter by letter, the types, to form words, and arranging them in little curiously shaped tools they held in their hands. i had been busily learning my letters for about half an hour, when the big, fat-headed boy came up to me. "now then!" he said, in a bullying tone that was a very good imitation of the overseer's, "done that page?" "no!" i said. "you ain't?" "no; i did not know how." "oh, you'll catch it, just, when mr grimstone knows. you ain't coming here to do just as you like; and i tell you what it is--" "well, what is it, boy?" said a quiet, stern voice, and my heart, gave a joyful thump as i saw the dark man come up. "please, he ain't dis'd this here pie." "no; he did not know how. i set him to learn the case." "but mr grimstone said he was to--" "jem smith, do you know you are a fool?" said the dark man quietly. "i dessay i am, mr hallett, but mr grimstone said as this boy was to--" "and if you don't go about your business i shall box your ears." "no, you--" he did not finish his sentence, for there was something in the deep-set dark eyes which had such an effect upon him that he sneaked off, and i turned to my protector. "would you please tell me why these little things have no letters on their ends, sir?" i said. "because they are spaces, my boy. don't you remember in reading a book there is a little distance between every word?" "yes, sir," i said eagerly; "and after a full stop there's a bigger space." "to be sure!" he said, smiling, and his pale face looked less stern and severe. "look: these little things, as you call them, but as we call them, thick spaces, go between every word, and these square ones after a full stop. how are you getting on?" "i know that's _e_, sir." "yes; go on." "and that's _h_, and that _o_, and _u_--_m_--_a_--_r_--_i_--_s_--_o_--_n_--_t_," i said, touching the boxes in turn. "good, very good," he said, "and what is that?" "that, sir?--_d_." "no, it is _p_. and that?" "oh, that is _b_." "no, it is _q_. now you know the meaning of mind your _p's_ and _q's_. you must learn the difference, and try to recollect this; all the letters, you see, are reversed, like a seal." "like the motto on papa's seal. yes, i see, sir," i said eagerly. "that's right, my boy," he said looking at me curiously. "go on, i am too busy to stay." "now! what's all this?" said mr grimstone, bustling up with jem smith. "please, sir," said the latter, "i telled him as he was to--" "i found the boy unable to do what was set him, mr grimstone," said my protector quietly, "and told him to go on with learning his case. the boy has never been in an office before." "that was for me to know, mr hallett," cried the overseer, growing red in the face. "what the devil do you mean by--" "interfering, mr grimstone? i did it because i was sure you were too good a manager to wish time to be wasted in this large office. and--i must ask you, please when you speak to me, to omit these coarse expressions." "of all the insolence--" "insolent or not, sir," said the dark man sternly, "have the goodness to remember that i always treat you with respect, and i expect the same from you. excuse me, but a quarrel between us will not improve your position with the men." mr grimstone looked at him furiously; and turning redder in the face than ever, seemed about to burst into a tirade of angry language, but my protector met his look in a way that quelled him, and turning upon the fat-headed boy, who was looking on open-mouthed, the overseer gave him a sounding box on the ear. "what are you standing gaping there for, you lazy young scoundrel?" he roared; "go and wash those galleys, and do them well." then, striding off, he went into his glass case, while jem smith, in a compartment at the end of an avenue of cases, began to brush some long lengths of type, and whenever i glanced at him, he shook his fist, as he showed his inflamed eyes red with crying and his face blackened by contact with his dirty hands. my protector, mr hallett, had left me at once, and i saw no more of him for some time, as i worked away, sorry at having been the innocent means of getting him into a quarrel. at last, just as i was very intent in puzzling out the difference between _p's_ and _q's_ i started, for the great lubberly boy came up close behind me. "i'll give you a warming when you goes out to dinner, see if i don't," he whispered; but he shuffled off directly, as mr hallett came towards me, saw that i was busy, and after giving me a friendly nod, went back, leaving his calm, strangely stern face so impressed upon me, that i kept finding myself thinking of him, his eyes seeming to stare at me from out of every box. but still i worked on, feeling each moment more and more sure of my way, and at last in a fit of enterprise i set to work and managed to find the letters forming my own name, and laid them side by side. i felt no little nervous dread as dinner-time approached, for jem smith's warming was in waiting; but as one o'clock struck, mr hallett came up to me while the other men were hurrying off, and said kindly: "did that boy threaten you?" "he--he said something, sir," i replied, hesitating. "i thought so. he's gone now, so don't go out to dinner, my man. i can give you a little of mine. i'll speak to him before you go to-night." chapter eighteen. my friend jem smith makes me ambitious. i was receiving my first lessons in the fact that there is as much good-will as ill-will in the world--in other words, that there really is, as has been so poetically expressed, a silver lining to every cloud; and i gladly availed myself of mr hallett's kind offer, following him to his frame, as they called the skeleton desks that supported the cases, and there sitting down close by him to partake of some bread and meat which he brought out carefully wrapped in a clean white napkin. "don't be afraid, my boy," he said, "make a good meal; and i should advise you, for the present, to bring your dinner with you and eat it here. better than going into the streets." he then ate his own dinner quickly, and without taking the slightest notice of me beyond seeing once that i had a sufficiency of the bread and meat, but took out an oblong memorandum-book, and began busily drawing and making some calculation. as he worked at this, i sat and had a good look at him, and could see that his large, massive head was covered with crisp dark hair that was already slightly sprinkled with grey. from time to time he raised his eyes from his book to look up, as if diving into the distance, or trying to catch some idea that was wandering away from him, and at such moments his deeply set eyes had a curiously intense look about them, while his forehead was deeply marked with thoughtful lines. i don't think he was more than thirty, but he looked, so to speak, vigorously old, or, rather, worn like some piece of steel that has been used hard, but has grown sharper and more elastic by that use. he was a tall, well-made man, but thin and spare, giving the idea of one who was ascetic in his habits and devoting himself to some particular end. he did not speak to me again, and i was not sorry, for there was that in his face and ways that rather repelled than attracted, and i somehow felt that if he, in his quiet, firm way, were angry with me, i should be more alarmed than by the noisy bullying of mr grimstone, the overseer. two o'clock was signalled by the coming back of the compositors, who resumed their white aprons and rolled up their sleeves, when the sharp clicking noise went on as before. mr hallett, at the first entrance of one of his fellow-workmen, had shut his book with a snap, and thrust it into his breast, rolled up the napkin, and then, turning to me with a nod,-- "two o'clock, my boy," he said. "get on with your work." as he spoke he resumed his own, and i went back to my case. i had hardly been there ten seconds, and was diligently making sure which was the compartment containing the letter _u_, which had a terribly strong resemblance to the letter _n_, when mr grimstone suddenly pounced on me from round the end of the case. i say pounced, for it was so wonderfully like a cat coming upon a mouse. he seemed surprised and disappointed at finding me there, though i did not comprehend his looks then, and after staring hard for a moment or two, he went away. the hours glided away, and i was so interested in what i was doing, that i hardly noticed the lapse of time, while, long before the afternoon was past, the work the men were engaged upon seemed so attractive that i felt impelled to imitate them by trying to pick up the letters forming various words, and then replacing them in the different boxes. the first time it was rather difficult, but the second time i got on pretty well, and i was just beginning for the third time, when mr hallett came round my way and caught me in the act. i felt very guilty, but he seemed to approve, and walked away, to return directly with a little sliding steel thing, such as the men were using. "here's a stick, my boy; try and place the letters, nick uppermost, in that." i took the stick, as he called it, and found that as fast as i placed a letter in, it seemed to do its best to jump out again; then one letter got upon another, or two or three appeared to quarrel and join in a regular squabble, so that their awkwardness and utter refusal to lie quietly side by side at last put me in a profuse perspiration. i was busily fumbling about when mr grimstone, whose voice i had often heard scolding different men, came round, saw what i was doing, and snatched the composing-stick away. "tchah! what waste of time! come along here," he cried angrily, and i followed him to his glass office, where he sat down upon a worn stool. "now then," he said, sharply, "i've decided to give you a trial." i remember thinking that he was very stupid to assume that he had full authority, when i knew that he had not, but, of course, i was silent. "and now mind this, sir: i am overseer here, and what i say i will have done, i have done. you hear?" "yes, sir," i said. "and now we understand one another." saying this, he bounced down from his stool again, and led me to the end of the large room and through a door into a dirty place with a great leaden sink, water, and brushes, and a pot containing some liquid. jem smith was there, having just brought in a long narrow tray containing a column of type. "here, smith, show this boy how to wash a galley; and see that he does it well." jem smith grinned at me as soon as we were left alone, and i saw plainly enough that he meant to have some compensation for the box on the ear he had received; but i tried hard to contain myself, and meant to submit patiently to anything that might follow. "here, ketch hold o' that galley," he said sharply, "and look here, young man, don't you get trying to play the sneak here, and begin getting old hallett to take your part. he's only a sneak, and everybody here hates him 'cause he won't take his beer. you keep away from him, or it'll be the worse for you. i've only got to tell the other boys, and they'll make it so warm for you as you'll wish as you'd never come here. now, then, why don't you ketch hold o' that galley?" "i don't know what a galley is," i said sturdily. "don't know what a galley is," he said, imitating my way of speaking; "you're a pretty sort of fellow to come and get work at a printing-office. there, ketch holt, stoopid: that's the galley; put it here, and you needn't be so precious frightened of getting your fingers black. there's the brush, dip it, and fetch all that ink off." i took the brush, dipped it in the liquor in the pot, and on brushing the surface of the type found that the strong solution easily brought off all the black ink; and i ended as instructed, by thoroughly rinsing the type and placing it to drain. this done, i had to wash several more galleys, with the result that i was made tolerably black; and to make matters worse, my companion brought in a black roller of some soft material, and dabbed it against my cheek. i plucked up my spirit and felt ready to strike out, but somehow i kept my anger down, and after washing the roller in turn, i was allowed to dry my hands and clean my face, which jem smith persuaded me to do with the strong solution of potash, making it tingle smartly; and, but for the rapid application of pure water, i believe the skin would have been made sore. this seemed to afford the young ruffian intense delight, and taking up the brush, he dipped it in the potash and tried to brush my hair. i retreated from him as far as i could, but he got between me and the door, and with the malignant pleasure felt by some boys in persecuting those who are weaker than themselves, he caught me by the collar. "just you call out, that's all," he said, "and i'll half kill you. hold still, you little sneak. you make so much noise as'll reach outside, and i'll jump on you." we were close beside the lead sink and the pot of solution-lye, as the printers call it; and now a new idea seemed to come into the spiteful young wretch's mind, for, throwing down the brush, he seized hold of me with both hands, and as we struggled, being much the stronger, he got behind me, thrust his knee violently into my back, and brought me down kneeling before the great earthen pot. and now for the first time i saw what he intended to do, namely, to thrust my face and head into the black caustic solution, and, in spite of my resistance, he got it down lower and lower. i might have shrieked out for help, and i might have cried for mercy; but, moved partly by his threats, partly by shame, i refrained, and made use of all my strength to escape, but in vain; strive as i would, he forced me down lower and lower, and then by one quick effort placed a hand on the back of my head and thrust it right into the filthy water. fortunately for me it was but a momentary affair, and the next instant he allowed me to struggle up and run blindly to the sink, where, perhaps, a little alarmed by his success, he filled a bowl with clean water, leaving the tap running, as i strove to sluice off the blinding, tingling fluid. i was in the midst of this, and with soaked necktie and collar, kept on bathing my face and hair, when i heard mr grimstone's voice at the door, and hastily thrust my fingers into my ears to clear them. "what's he doing?" "washing hisself, sir." "washing himself?" "yes, sir; he said it was such a nasty dirty job to brush galleys that he must have a good clean." "where's the towel?" i said blindly, for my eyes smarted so that i dare not open them, and they grew so painful that i hurried once more to the sink and bathed them with clear water before pressing my hair as dry as i could, and then using my handkerchief to wipe my face. i now opened my eyes, and saw that there was a very dirty jack-towel on a roller behind the door, to which i hastily ran. "look here, sir," said mr grimstone, as i hastily rubbed away at my head; "we can't have these goings-on here. what have you been doing?" "i think he's been using the lye, sir," cried the young hypocrite. "i told him it was only for the type." "it isn't true, sir," i cried indignantly; when a compositor came up to the door, and mr grimstone was called away. the moment he was gone, smith darted at me, and thrust his doubled fist hard against my face. "you say a word agen me," he said, "and i'll half kill yer. i'll smash yer, that i will, so look out." he went out of the place, leaving me hot and indignant, rubbing away at my tingling head, which i at length got pretty dry and combed before a scrap of glass stuck by four tacks in a corner; and when i had finished it was in time to see the men just returning from their tea and resuming their work. not being told to do anything else, i went back to the case, and continued to learn the boxes, not much the worse for my adventure, only feeling uncomfortably wet about the neck. at last the clock pointed to eight, and, following the example of the rest, i hurried out of the great office, eager to get back to mr revitts before he went on duty, for i wanted to ask him a question. i got up to the street in pentonville just as he was coming out of the house, and in answer to his "halloa! here you are, then," i caught hold of his arm. "bill!" i exclaimed, panting with excitement, "can you teach me how to fight?" chapter nineteen. william revitts on lessons. sometime passed before william revitts replied in full to my question. he had, of course, asked me what i meant, and i had explained to him the treatment i had received, but his duties and mine kept us a great deal apart. one night, however, when he had returned to day-duty, he was seated in his shirt-sleeves talking to me, and said all of a sudden: "yes, i could teach you how to fight, antony." "and will you?" i said eagerly. "give me my 'bacco and pipe off the chimney-piece." i handed them to him, and waited patiently while he filled and lighted his pipe, and then all at once, along with a puff of smoke, he exclaimed: "no, i sha'n't. fighting's all blackguardism, as i know as well as most men. i've had the taking up of some of the beauties as go in for it, and beauties they are. i don't say as if i was you i wouldn't give that master jem smith an awful crack for himself if he meddled with me again; but i should do it when i was in a passion, and when he'd hurt me. you'll hit as hard again then, and serve him right. now let's have a turn at spelling." we did "have a turn at spelling," and i dictated while revitts wrote, varying the task with bits of advice to me--absurd enough, some of them, while others were as shrewd and full of common-sense. by that time i had rapidly begun to fish up odds and ends of experience, such as stood me in good stead, and, in spite of what was really little better than contemptible persecution on the overseer's part, i was making some little way at the printing-office. i shall not soon forget the feeling of pride with which on the first friday night i heard my name called out by a business-like clerk with a book, after he had summoned everyone in the room, and received from him a little paper-bag containing my wages. "you haven't been full time, grace," he said, entering the sum paid in a book; "but the firm said i was to pay you for the week, as you were a beginner." as soon as i thought i was unobserved, i counted out seven shillings, a sum that showed that i was a little favoured, for honestly i believe that i was not worth that amount to my employers. hardly had i made sure of my good fortune than i had a visit from jem smith, who came up grinning. "now, then," he said, "old grim's gone for the night, and you've got to come down and pay your footing." i stared at him in my ignorance, but, fully under the impression that something unpleasant was meant, i resolutely determined to stay where i was, and i was saved from further persecution by mr hallett coming up, which was the signal for jem smith to sneak off. i asked hallett what was meant, and he explained to me that it was a custom for working men on entering a new place to pay for some beer for their fellow-workmen. "but don't you pay a penny to the young wolves," he said, and i determined that i would not. i was well on in the second week, and during the intervening days i had been set to every dirty and objectionable task mr grimstone could invent for me, but i did them patiently and well. i had seen nothing of my employers, and but little of mr hallett, who seemed too busy to take much notice of me; but he somehow had a knack of turning up in emergencies, just when i required help and counsel, showing that he kept an eye upon me for my good. i noticed as i sat beneath a frame eating my dinner in the composing-room that he always employed a good deal of his time in drawing or calculating, and i found, too, that he was no great favourite with his fellow-workmen, who nicknamed him the steam-engine, because he worked so rapidly and did so much. it was very plain, too, that the overseer hated him, giving him the most difficult and unpleasant tasks, but they were always willingly done by mr hallett, who was too good a workman to be spared. i had just completed the washing of some very dirty type one day, and, according to orders, made my way up to mr grimstone's glass case, very dirty and grubby-looking, no doubt, when i stared with surprise on seeing there before me a little cleanly-shaven man who, except in clothes, was the exact counterpart of mr rowle. somehow or other i had been so occupied, and my mind so intent upon the task given me, that i had thought no more about asking to see him; and now, here he was, mr rowle's twin brother, in angry altercation with the overseer, while jem smith stood in the door. the latter had been let off a good many dirty, tasks of late, and i had succeeded to them, but the promotion he had received did not seem to have been attended with success. "now look hero, grimstone," the little man was saying, "you needn't bark at me, for i don't care a pinch of snuff for all your snarls. i asked you to send me up the best boy you had, to read, and you sent me your worst." "mr rowle, it is false, sir." "and i say it is true, and that you did it all out of your crass obstinacy and determination to be as disagreeable as you can to everybody in the place." "i sent you up one of my best boys, mr rowle." "and i say you sent me your very worst--as thick-headed, stupid a dunce as ever entered the place. look here," he continued, flourishing a sheet of manuscript in one hand, a long slip of printed paper in the other. "he can't read that plain piece of writing, and as to the print, why, he's little better." "no such thing, sir," said mr grimstone, fuming. "don't tell me `no such thing,'" said the little man fiercely. "why, the biggest fool in the office would do better. here, boy," he cried to me, as i stood there with my hands as black as dirty type could make them; "come here." i went up to him. "he's no good," said mr grimstone sharply. "he has only just come." "don't talk to me, sir," cried mr rowle angrily. "you can't pick out a decent boy, so i must do it myself. here, boy, read that out aloud." i took the piece of paper with trembling hands, doubting my own power to read the lines of crabbed writing, and feeling that even if i could read it i should give dire offence to the overseer by so doing; but i could not help myself, and raising the piece of manuscript written closely on a sheet of ruled foolscap, i saw that it was just such a legal document as i had often copied at mr blakeford's. in fact, something of the old feeling of dread that i used to experience when receiving such a paper from him made a huskiness come in my throat, but clearing my voice, i began: "`and the aforesaid deponent also saith that in such a case it would be necessary for the said lessor, his heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, to make over and deliver, whenever and wheresoever the aforesaid lessee, his heirs, executors, administrators or assigns should desire him so to do--" "stop!" said the little man tightening his lips and taking a pinch of snuff. "you did not read that exactly as it's written there." "no, sir," i said, "`executors, administrators, and assigns,' were all contracted." "there!" he exclaimed, turning to the overseer triumphantly, "what did i say? here's the first boy i meet, fresh from the lye-tub, and he reads it straight off without a blunder, and better than you could have read it yourself. here, boy, read that." he took a letter from his pocket, written in a terribly puzzling hand, and placed it before me. i took it, hesitated for a moment, and then began: "`my dear sir,--i have given the most careful consideration to your proposal, and i am quite willing to--to--to--to--' if you please, sir, i'm very sorry," i stammered, "but i can't make out that word." "no, boy, nor i neither. i don't believe the writer can. there, go and wash those dirty hands," he continued, snatching the letter from me. "no: stop!" cried mr grimstone wrathfully; "i want that boy here." "then you may take your great clever noodle, jem smith," said the little man. "mr rowle, i will not have my rules and regulations broken in this way, sir." "hang you and your rules," said the little man. "have a pinch? no? then let it alone." "i cannot and will not spare that boy," cried mr grimstone, motioning away the snuff-box. for answer the little man tightened his lips, snapped-to the lid of his snuff-box, hastily took a pinch, snapped his fingers in the overseer's face, and taking me by the shoulder, marched me before him towards the door, and past mr hallett's frame. "here, get your jacket, my lad," said the little man. "you can wash your hands upstairs." mr hallett nodded to me and looked, as i thought, pleased as i passed him, and preceding my new taskmaster, i went up to the next floor, where he led me to a glass case, exactly like that occupied by mr grimstone and the reader in his room, the sides being similarly decorated with slips of paper hanging from nails. he showed me where to wash, and, this done, i was soon by his side, reading steadily on to him various pieces of manuscript, while, spectacles on nose, he pored over and made corrections on the margins of the printed slips of paper that were constantly being brought to him by a youth who printed them from the column galleys at a small hand-press. i got on pretty well, for my home training had made manuscript easy to me. in fact, i had often copied pieces for my father, containing letters from various naturalist friends, while my sojourn at mr blakeford's had made anything of a legal character perfectly clear. that night, when it was time to go, and i had had no greater unpleasantness to contend with than several severe fits of sneezing brought on when the little man used his snuff-box, i timidly asked him if i was wanted the next day, for as yet no opportunity had served for making known my knowledge of his brother. "wanted!" he cried; "why, i had serious thoughts of locking you up, boy, so as to make sure of you to-morrow. wanted! yes: i've got you, and i mean to keep you; and if grimstone says another word--but only let him. look here: you are very stupid yet, but you'll soon improve; and mind this, come with clean hands and face to-morrow, and clean apron." "yes, sir," i said, and then i hesitated. "well, what is it?" "please, sir, you are mr jabez rowle, are you not?" "yes, and what then?" he said shortly. "only, sir, that mr peter rowle, who is a friend of mine, said i might mention his name to you." "oh, he did, did he? well, he need not have taken the trouble. there, be off, and mind you are here in good time." this was damping, especially as mr jabez rowle took snuff viciously, and stood staring before him, tapping his box, and muttering angrily, in which state i left him, and made the best of my way home. i was in good time next morning, but, all the same, there sat mr jabez rowle in his glass case waiting for me, and as i entered and said "good-morning, sir," he just nodded shortly and pointed with the penholder in his hand to a piece of paper. "go on?" he said; and, taking it up, i began to read. "not quite so fast, and say _par_ when you come to a fresh paragraph." i read on, making a good many blunders in my anxiety to be right, but, i presume, getting on very well, for mr rowle found but little fault, as he seemed to dart his pen down at every error in the slip proofs before him--turned letters, _p's_ where _q's_ should be, and _b's_ for _d's_; _c's_ were often in the place of _e's_; and then there were omissions, repetitions, absence of spaces or points, a score of different little omissions on the compositor's part; and, besides all these, the busy pen made marks and signs that were cabalistic to me. this had gone on about a couple of days, and i was reading away to him what i believed was a prayer in a chancery-bill, when mr jabez suddenly laid down his pen, took out his snuff-box, and said, looking me full in the face, "how's peter?" "i beg your pardon, sir?" "i say, how's peter?" "how's peter, sir?" "don't pretend to be stupid, boy, when you're as sharp as a needle," he cried, tapping the desk angrily with his snuff-box. "didn't you say you knew my brother peter?" "oh yes, sir! he was very kind to me, but i haven't seen him for some weeks. he was quite well then." "humph! look old?" "he looks very much like you, sir." "then he does look old. we're very fond of one another, boy, but we; always quarrel; so we never meet. `and your petitioner furthermore sayeth--'" "i beg your pardon, sir." "`and your petitioner furthermore sayeth'--get on, boy: go on." i dashed at the manuscript again, for he had resumed his work, and read on to the end, for he made no further inquiries about his brother. i soon grew quite accustomed to reading, and found that mr jabez rowle meant what he said about keeping to me, for i was regularly installed as reading-boy, and, as i have said, i was delighted with the change. i often met jem smith, and, from his looks, it was evident that he bore me no good will, and, to be frank, i felt rather revengeful for his treatment. one day, during the dinner hour, i went down into the lower part before the men came back, and, after getting some slips which mr rowle had told me to have ready for him, my enemy pounced upon me, coming in at the door just as i was about to leave. "now i've got yer, then," he cried, with a malicious grin, and, rushing at me, i had only time to evade the first onslaught by running round the frames, when a hot chase ensued, ending in my being brought to bay, and receiving blow after blow from my stronger antagonist. i did all i could to defend myself, till, closing with me, he held me tight with one arm, and struck me so cruelly in the face, that it roused me to greater efforts, and, after a short wrestle, i was free. it was but a moment's respite before he dashed at me again, and, in my rage and desperation, i struck out at him so fiercely that my fist caught him full between the eyes, making him stagger and catch at the first object he could to save himself, and the result was that he pulled over a full case of small type. there was a crash, i uttered a cry, and some twenty pounds of type were scattered in confusion all over the floor. before i had recovered from my horror, the door was thrown open, and mr grimstone came hurrying in. "what's this--what's this?" he cried. "please, sir, grace was playing larks with one of the cases, and he let it fall." "then mr grace shall soon find out what it is to destroy the property of the firm in this wanton way," he cried. "indeed, sir--" i began. "not a word, sir--not a word!" he cried. "smith, go about your work. you, grace, pick up every bit of that pie at once." "but please, sir, i did not knock it down, and mr rowle is waiting for me." "pick it up, sir." "but mr rowle--" "pick it up, sir." i was so hot and excited that i was about to declare angrily that i would not, when i caught mr hallett's eyes gazing fixedly at me, and without a word, but feeling half-choked with anger and indignation, i fetched a galley and began to pick up the fallen type. i had not been engaged in my uncongenial task many minutes before mr jabez rowle came down to see where i was, and i noticed that there was quite a triumphant look in mr grimstone's eyes as he said i must stay and pick up all the type, the matter being compromised on the understanding that as soon as the metal was picked up i was to resume my reading upstairs, and, by mr grimstone's orders, stay in every dinner-time and get to the office an hour sooner every morning till i had set up and distributed the whole of the pie. how i dwelt on the injustice of that task! it was one which seemed to give mr grimstone great satisfaction, for it took my inexperienced fingers many weeks, and i had to toil very hard. but all the same, it was no waste of time, for it gave me dexterity in handling type such as i should not otherwise have had. i had suffered a great deal from anxiety lest some morning mr blakeford should step into the office and claim me; for, unpleasant as were my dealings with mr grimstone, jem smith, and through the latter with several of the other boys, i thoroughly enjoyed my present existence. revitts was very kind, and, in spite of his sharp abruptness, i did not dislike quaint old mr jabez rowle, who seemed never to be happy unless he was correcting proofs. my dread arose from the thought that revitts might in some communication to mary be the cause of her naming my whereabouts to the lawyer. then i was afraid that mr ruddle might write down and make inquiries. lastly, that mr jabez rowle might mention me in writing to his brother. but i grew more reassured as it became evident that mr ruddle had not written, while mr jabez rowle said one day, just in the middle of some corrections: "ah, i'm very fond of peter, so i never write to him." then, too, i found that mr revitts never wrote to mary without, in a half-bashful way, showing me the letter. "lookye here," he would say, "we said we'd help one another, lad. some o' these days you'll want to write such a letter as this here, and so you may as well see how it's done. then you can just shove your pen through where the spellin' ain't quite square, and i'll write it out again. i don't know as it's quite right to let her get thinking as i'm such a tip-topper at spellin', but she came the same game with me over the writing, making me think as she'd improved wonderful, when it was you; so it's six o' one and half-a-dozen o' t'other. what do you say?" "i don't think mary meant to deceive you, bill," i said. "poor girl, she had to work very hard, and her hands were not used to holding a pen. i don't suppose she ever thought of saying who wrote for her. there's nothing to be ashamed of in trying to improve your spelling." "no, there ain't, is there, lad?" "nothing at all. mr hallett says we go on learning all our lives." "hah! i suppose we do. what would you do then?" "i should tell mary i helped you." "so i will--so i will," he said, in his quiet simple way; for as sure as the subject _mary_ was in question, all william revitts' sharp police-constable ways dropped off, and he was as simple and smiling as a child. "give my love to her, bill," i said. he looked heavily and steadily at me for a few moments, and then in a very stupid way he began: "i say, youngster, do you think mary is fond of you?" "i'm sure she is--very," i said. he fidgeted in his chair, and then continued: "and you like her?" "very, very, very much. she was horribly cross at first, but towards the last nobody could have been kinder." "i say, how old are you?" "between thirteen and fourteen," i said. "ah, to be sure; of course, lad, so you are," he said, brightening up and shaking hands. "yes, i'll give your love to her. i say, boy, it won't be long first," he continued, rubbing his hands. "won't it?" i said, easily divining what he meant. "no, not long now, for we've been engaged a precious long while." chapter twenty. the wayzegoose. long before the fallen type was sorted i had heard rumours of the annual holiday and dinner of the _employes_ of the firm; and on a delicious autumn morning i found myself in a great covered van, one of three conveying the large party down to epping forest. according to old custom, the members of the firm did a great deal to encourage the affair, supplying a large proportion of the funds required, and presiding at the dinner at an inn in the forest. boy-like, i was very eager to go, and looked forward to joining in a projected game at cricket; but, somehow, when we reached the inn, after a drive made noisy by a good deal of absurd mirth, the result of several calls at public-houses on the way to give the horses hay and water, the pleasure seemed to be taken a good deal out of the affair, and the presence of mr grimstone did not tend to make me feel upon the highest pinnacle of enjoyment. somehow or another the boys seemed to look upon me as a sort of butt, and, headed by jem smith, they had played several practical jokes upon me already, so that at last i was standing wistfully looking on instead of playing cricket, and wishing i was alone, when a handsome waggonette was driven by, and to my surprise i saw in it mr ruddle, mr lister, his partner, and the two young ladies whom i had met on my first day in short street. as i started forward and took off my cap, miss carr saw me, and smiled and nodded: and then as i stood gazing after the departing carriage, a change seemed to have come over the day, and i began to wonder whether i should see them again, and, if so, whether they would speak to me, when a hand was laid upon my shoulder, and turning round, there stood mr hallett. "well, my solitary little philosopher," he said, in a quiet, half-cynical way, "what are you doing? not playing with the boys at cricket, and not drinking more beer than is good for you, according to the immemorial custom of a british workman taking a holiday?" "no," i said, "i was looking after that carriage." "carriage? oh, that! well, what was there in it to take your attention?" "mr ruddle and mr lister were in it, with miss carr and her sister." "what, in that?" he said. "are you sure?" "yes, sir, quite sure. miss carr nodded to me." "nodded? to you, grace?" "oh yes, mr hallett, it was through miss carr that i was engaged;" and i told him how it happened. "and so you are not going to play cricket?" he said dreamily, as he stood gazing wistfully in the direction taken by the waggonette. "no, thank you," i replied sadly. "i'd rather not." "well, i'm going for a ramble in the forest. dinner will not be ready for two hours. will you come?" "oh yes, sir." "come along then, grace, and well throw away the work for one day, and enjoy the country." i had never seen him look so bright and pleasant before. the stern, cold, distant air was gone, and his eyes were bright and eager. he seemed to unbend, and it was delightful to find him take so much interest in me as he did. "well," he exclaimed, as we turned right into the wood by the first narrow foot-path, "and how are you getting on with the pie?" "very slowly, sir," i said sadly. "never mind, my boy; patience, and you will do it all; and it will not hurt you." "but it was so unjust, sir. it was smith who upset it." "ah! and he said it was you?" "yes, sir; and it was a lie." "i thought as much; a young rascal! but never mind, grace. i would rather be the lad who manfully bears an injustice like a hero, than be the big successful blackguard who escapes his punishment by a contemptible lie." "so would i, sir," i said, swallowing down something which seemed to rise in my throat as i gazed in his bright, intelligent face. "bah! it was a pitiful bit of triumph for the young idiot; but never mind, my lad: work at it and finish it like a man, and it will be a piece of self-denial that you may be proud of to the end of your days." we walked on for some distance in silence, he evidently thoroughly enjoying the beauty of the forest as we rambled on, knee-deep in ferns and heather, and i feeling that the old days were coming back, such as i used to love when wandering with my father through one of our woods, botanising or collecting bird and insect. almost involuntarily as mr hallett took off his soft felt hat to let the breeze blow on his broad white forehead, i began, as of old, to pick a specimen here and there, till, after being in a musing fit for some time, he suddenly noticed what i was doing, and became interested. "what have you got there?" he said, pointing to a plant i had just picked. "oh, that's a twayblade," i replied, "one of the orchis family." "indeed," he said, looking at me curiously, "and what is this?" "oh, a very common plant--dog's mercury." "and this, grace?" he continued, pointing to another, with its bulbous roots in the water. "water hemlock, sir." "why, antony grace, you are quite a young botanist," he said, smiling and showing his white teeth, while i gazed up at him wonderingly, he seemed so changed. "i only know a little that papa--i mean my father, taught me." "he used to take you for walks, then, my boy?" "oh, such delicious walks, sir." "and you learned a good deal? look! what a great toadstool! don't handle it, my boy, some of these things are very poisonous." "this is not, sir," i said eagerly; "this is _boletus edulis_, and very good eating." "indeed; and pray what does _boletus edulis_ mean?" "the eatable _boletus_, sir. there is a family of fungi called the _boleti_, sir, and you can easily tell them, because they are all full of pores, or little holes, underneath, while the ordinary agarics have gills like this." i picked up one with a brilliant scarlet top as i spoke, and showed him the white gills beneath. "and has that a name?" he said. "oh yes; that is a very poisonous and rather rare specimen: it is _russula emetica_." "why, grace," he said, laying his hand on my shoulder, "you and i must come for country walks together. you must take me for a pupil. good heavens?" he muttered, "how one does live to find out one's ignorance." his whole manner from that moment was changed towards me. he seemed to throw off his mask of cold reserve, and laughed and chatted; ran up banks to get rare ferns, and climbed a tree to look at a late wood-pigeon's nest, so that the time flew by till, on referring to his watch, he found that we should have enough to do to get back to the dinner. "i would rather stay in the forest," he said. "so would i, sir," i replied rather dolefully. "but no," he continued, "the firm are very kind, and we should be wanting in respect if we stayed away. come along; you sit beside me, and we'll slip off afterwards and have another run." we hurried back just in time for the dinner, but i did not get a place by mr hallett; and as soon as this was over speech-making began. it did not interest me, for my eyes were fixed upon a kind of gallery above the heads of the people at the upper table, in which i could see miss carr and her sister had taken their places, apparently to listen to the speeches made by mr ruddle and mr lister in turn. they seemed, however, to pay little attention to them after the first, and as i sat watching them, and wishing miss carr could see me, to my disappointment i saw them rise to go, just as, after a good deal of whispering between mr grimstone, mr jabez rowle, and mr hallett, the latter, evidently unwillingly, rose to propose the health of the firm. at the first sound of his voice i saw miss carr pause and stay her sister, and as he went on, she paid more and more attention, leaning over the rail to catch every word, while he, quite unconscious of the presence of such listeners, warmed to his task, and in well-chosen vigorous language, spoke in praise of the firm, and, at the same time, urged his fellow-workmen to give them in the future their best support as earnestly as they would promise it upon this present day. he grew eager and excited as he spoke, and carried his eloquent speech on to such a climax that he sat down amidst a perfect tempest of cheering, both mr ruddle and mr lister leaving their seats afterwards to go and quietly shake hands with him, mr grimstone all the while apparently seeing in him a rival, for he scowled ominously, and mr jabez rowle completely emptied his box of snuff. my eyes, though, were principally fixed upon the ladies in the little gallery, and i was near enough to see that miss carr's lips were parted, and her eyes looked eager and strange as she leaned forward more and more, till the speech was at an end. the next time i looked, she was gone. soon after i felt some one pull my arm, and starting round, there stood mr hallett, and hurriedly following him out of the hot, noisy room, we made our way once more into the forest. as we rambled on, delighted with the delicious coolness and the sweet scents of the woodlands, mr hallett asked me a few questions about myself, soon learning my little history, while my respect for him had increased as i found out more and more how different he was from the ordinary workmen at the office. he was evidently a scholar, and seemed to have a great depth of knowledge in mechanical contrivances. "we must know more of one another, grace," he said; "i am glad we have been together to-day. what do you do on sundays?" i explained that when mr revitts was off duty we went for a walk. "and pray who is mr revitts?" he said. i explained that he was a policeman, and had been very kind to me since i had lodged with him in town. "i am quite alone in london, you see, mr hallett," i said in an old-fashioned way at which i now can smile. he nodded, and seemed thoughtful for a few minutes. "mine is not a very cheerful home, grace," he said at length; "but if you will come and spend a sunday--say sunday week--with us, i shall be glad to see you. will you come?" "i should be so glad," i cried, and then i stopped short. "what is it?" he said. "mr revitts will be off duty that day, sir; and he would be so disappointed if i were not at home. he has been so very kind to me." mr hallett looked amused. "do you mind, sir?" i said. "no, grace. you are quite right," he quietly said. "always be faithful to your friends. you shall come next sunday instead," he added, as we turned into a beautiful little glade that looked bright and golden with the setting sun. "never throw a trusted friend over for the sake of one you believe to be--" he stopped short, for we had come suddenly upon two ladies, one of whom was miss carr. chapter twenty one. in the forest. miss carr started slightly on seeing my companion, and it seemed to me that she coloured for the moment, but she recovered her composure on the instant, responded to mr hallett's salute with a quiet bend of the head, and turned at once to me, talking in a sweet grave way, as if there were no one else present, though mr hallett stood close by me, hat in hand. "antony," she said, laying; her hand upon my shoulder, "i am very glad to see you again. mr ruddle tells me that you are striving very hard, and that you have already made a step upwards. mind, though i do not see you, i always hear how you progress, and, now that you have begun so well, i have no fear for your future. are you happy and comfortable where you are?" "oh yes, ma'am," i said, flushing red with pride and pleasure, as i gazed in her face; "and--and i have made such good friends." "indeed!" she said quickly. "i hope you are careful." "oh yes, ma'am; mr revitts is very good to me, and mr hallett, here." miss carr turned her face to him for the moment, and once more there was a slight flush upon her cheeks; then she seemed very pale. "i am glad to hear it," she said, in a firm, distinct tone; "and i hope your friend mr hallett will remember your unprotected position, and advise you for your good." mr hallett was about to speak, but she had turned from him, and now laid her other hand upon my shoulder. "good-bye, antony," she said; "you know where i live; come to me if ever you should require help. and mind this, i shall expect you to fight hard and rise. it is no disgrace to be a common workman,"--she glanced hastily, and as if in apology, towards mr hallett, as she spoke--"my dead father was but a workman, but he rose to a higher position in life, and i think those who fight the battle well and are self-made, are quite as worthy of honour and respect as those who are born to wealth. good-bye." i could not speak, but i stood there gazing in her bright animated face, and listened to the sweet grave voice, whose every word seemed to fix itself in my mind. i was only recalled from my dreamy state by those words "good-bye," and the sight of the soft white hand that she held out. it was from no sentimental feeling of politeness that i acted as i did, for i felt moved to my very soul, and the same feelings came over me that had animated me in the past days in my pleasant old home. i loved miss carr--loved her with the same sweet wholesome love that, a boy feels towards a tender mother, and my eyes felt suffused, and things looked dim, as with quite a natural effort i took the hand extended to me, kissed it, and held it for a moment against my cheek. then it seemed to glide from my hold, there was a faint rustle of silken garments over the heath and grass, and mr hallett and i were alone. i turned to speak to him, to find that he was still standing, hat in hand, gazing down the path by which the sisters had gone; then it seemed to me that he drew a long breath as he stood looking at me apparently, but evidently recalling that which was past. "oh, mr hallett!" i cried enthusiastically, and with all the impulsiveness of a boy; "isn't she beautiful?" "as beautiful as true, grace," he said softly, and his manner seemed reverent and strange. "she was so kind to me--spoke so kindly for me when i first came to the office," i cried. "yes, my boy," he said in the same low, soft voice; "you are very fortunate--you have found a true friend." "and i will try," i cried. "she shall find that i have remembered what she told me." "come and sit down here, my boy," he said, throwing himself upon a patch of heath and fern. "let's forget the smell of oil and steam and printing-ink for a time. come and tell me all about your meeting with miss carr." i was eager to tell him, and i had a willing listener, and as i sat there at his feet i told him of the interview at the office, and all about how mr lister seemed so attentive to miss carr: what he had said, and how he seemed to love her. in my ignorance i dwelt at length upon even mr ruddle's words of congratulation, talking rapidly and well in my enthusiasm--blind and ignorant that i was--for i could not read then why the lines in stephen hallett's face grew deeper and more marked, nor yet why his eyelids should droop down, and then his head, till it rested upon one hand, while the other plucked slowly at the strands of grass and scraps of heath. once or twice i thought he was asleep, but if i stopped he spoke to me softly, asking some questions till i had done, when he startled me again with inquiries about myself and my old life, gradually winning from me all i had to tell. the sun had set, and the soft evening shadows were descending as we still sat there drinking in the moist fresh air of the forest, till, as if rousing himself from a dream, mr hallett rose hastily, and i too sprang to my feet. "come, grace," he said, with an effort to be cheerful, "we must get back to the inn, or we shall be left behind. one minute, though; let us walk along here." i looked at him wonderingly as he strode hastily to where we had met the ladies, and i saw that he had removed his hat as he stood gazing slowly around. it might have been from the heat, but i do not think so now; and he was just turning away, when i saw him stoop hastily and snatch from among the ferns a grey kid glove. "why, that must be miss carr's," i said eagerly. "yes," he replied softly; "it is miss carr's." he stood holding it pressed in his hand; and his brow was knit, and he stood gazing straight before him, struggling with himself before saying, as he doubled the glove: "you must take it back, my boy. you will see her again; perhaps i never shall." i looked at him curiously as i took the glove, for he seemed so strange, but the next moment his dreamy manner was cast aside, as he clapped me on the shoulder. "come, grace," he said; "no, i will not call you grace," he added, laughing; "it sounds as if you were a girl, and you are rather too girlish, my boy; i will call you antony in future." "yes, do, please, mr hallett," i said; though i flushed a little at being called girlish. "come along, then. our pleasant day has nearly come to an end." "yes," i said with a sign; "pleasant days do so soon come to an end." "to be sure they do," he cried; "but never mind, my boy; others will come." "yes," i sighed; "and miserable ones, too, full of grimstone, and jem smith, and pie, and mistakes." "of course," he cried; "bitters, all of them, to make life the sweeter. why, antony--no, tony's better--why, tony, if you could be always revelling in good things, such a day as this would not have seemed so delightful as it has." "and it has been delightful!" i cried, as we walked on, my friend resting his hand almost affectionately upon my shoulder. "yes," he said softly; "a day to be marked with a white stone--a tombstone over the grave of one's brightest hopes," he added, very, very softly; but i caught the import of his words, and i turned to him quite a troubled look, when there was a sound of cheering some distance away. "come, tony," he said cheerfully, "there are our men hurrahing. we must join them now." "do you know what time we were to start back, sir?" i said. "eight o'clock," he replied, taking out an old-fashioned gold watch, and then starting. "why, tony, my lad, it's past nine. come along, let's run." we started off, and ran at a steady trot till we reached the inn, to find that the cheering had been when the vans set out. "yes, they was a-cheerin' away like fun," said our informant, a rather beery-looking public-house hanger-on. "what, are you two left behind?" "yes," said mr hallett, shortly. "how long have they been gone?" "more'n quarter of 'n 'our," said the man; "and i say, they just was on--all of 'em. the driver o' the last one couldn't hardly hold his reins." "what time did messrs. ruddle and lister go?" "who?" said the man. "the gentlemen with the waggonette." "what, with them two gals? oh! more'n 'n 'our ago. they wasn't on." "how can we get back to town?" "walk," said the man; "'less you like to take a fly." "it is very tiresome, tony," said mr hallett. "are you a good walker?" "pretty well," i said. "how far is it?" "twelve or thirteen miles. shall we try it?" "oh yes," i said. "it's a beautiful night, and we shall see plenty of moths." "come along, then, my boy," he cried; and away we went. our long rest since dinner had made me better able to manage the task; and i noticed that mr hallett did all he could to lighten the way by talking, and he could talk well. as, then, we trudged along the wide, firm road, he told me a little about himself and his home; and so it was that i learned that he had an invalid mother and a sister, who were dependent upon him; that his early life had been in the country, where his father had been a surgeon, and that on his father's death he had been compelled to come to london. "to seek your fortune, mr hallett?" i asked. "well, yes, if you like to call it so, tony," he said, laughing. "ah, my boy, let me give you advice that i am only too loth to take myself-- don't degenerate into a dreamer." "a dreamer, mr hallett?" "yes, boy; one whose mind is set on what people call making a fortune-- that miserable style of enthusiast, who ignores the present in his search for something that he may never find, and which, even if he does, he may never enjoy. tony, my boy, don't heed what people say about this being a miserable world and a vale of tears; it is a very beautiful and a very glorious world with heights and mountains bright in the sunshine of truth. we all have to wander down into the valley sometimes, but there are other times when we are in the sunshine on the heights. when we are there, let's take it and enjoy it, and not sit down and grumble, and strive to climb to another mountain, close by, that seems higher and brighter than the one we are on. take what fate sends you, my dear boy, and take it patiently. use your strength to bear it, and--there, let's come back out of the imaginary into the rear--go on setting up your pied type, and enjoy the pleasure after of having won a victory, or, in the present case, stride out manfully. every step takes us nearer to london; and when we have got there, and have slept off our fatigue, we can laugh at our adventure. why, we must be halfway there now. but how you limp!" "i'm afraid it's my boot rubs my foot, sir," i said, wincing. "tut, tut!" he exclaimed. "this won't do. sit down and have a rest, and let's think, tony." "oh, i can go on yet, sir," i said hastily. "no, no; sit down, my boy, sit down," he said; and i sat down upon a bank. "i can't carry you, tony," he said kindly. "i could manage you for a couple of miles or so; i don't think i could get you right up home. we are unlucky to-night, and--there is something turning up." "on ahead, tony. yonder is a roadside inn, with a couple of hay-carts. come along, my lad, and well see if one of them cannot be turned into a chariot to convey us to london town." i limped on beside him to where the hay-carts were standing by a water-trough at the roadside, the horses tossing their nose-bags so as to get at the oats at the bottom, and the carters just coming out of the public-house. "can you give us a lift on to london?" said mr hallett. "this boy has turned lame." "what'll you stand?" said the man heavily. "a couple of pints," said mr hallett. "all right; up you get," said the man. "you must lie atop o' the hay. i only goes to whitechapel, you know." "that will do," said mr hallett. and together we climbed up, and lay down, twelve or fifteen feet above the road, on the top of the sweet-scented trusses of hay; the carter cracked his whip, and away we went jolting over the road, with the stars above us, and my couch seeming delicious to my weary limbs, as the scent seemed to bring up my sleeping place by the hay-rick, when i ran away from rowford and my slavery at mr blakeford's house. "that's one of the peculiarities of the true-born briton, tony," said mr hallett, after a pause. "what is, sir?" "the love and reverence for beer. if i had offered that man sixpence or a shilling to give us a ride, he would have laughed me to scorn. two pints of beer, you see, carry us right to town, and another pint would have acted like a return ticket to bring us back." "to bring us back?" i said in drowsy accents; and, trusting to my companion to save me from a fall, i dropped into a heavy dreamless sleep, from which i was aroused by mr hallett, who shook my arm and told me that we were once more in town. chapter twenty two. william revitts is angry. mr hallett saw me right to the door of my lodgings before he left me, shaking hands warmly as he said "good-night," and altered it to "good-morning." i was thoroughly awake now, and somewhat refreshed as i ascended the stairs very gently, having risen now to the honour of a latchkey. it was revitts' turn for day-duty, and i was unwilling to disturb him, so i had slipped off my boots, and cautiously turning the handle of the door, i entered, to find, to my surprise, a light burning, and mr revitts buttoned up in his uniform and with his heavy hat upon his head. "oh, here you are, then," he cried roughly. "what, not in bed!" i said. "in bed? how was i going to bed? i was just orf to the station to send word round as you was missing, and to make inquiries where the vans went from." "oh, mr revitts! oh, bill, i am sorry!" i cried. "don't you bill me, young man," he cried. "now, lookye here. was it an accident to the van as made you late?" "no," i said; "it was--" "there!" he cried, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table. "i won't hear another word. i won't listen to you. those vans was doo back at ten thirty--say eleven, and it's now two forty-five." "yes, bill, but--" "don't bill me," he cried; and, running to the corner of the room, he caught up a black silver-topped cane, with shabby silk tassels. "look here," he said; "for the last hour or two i've been thinking whether, as your best friend, i oughtn't to give you a good wilting down, only you're such a man now that i can't stoop to hit the feller as i've made my friend." "but will you listen to me, bill?" i cried angrily. "no, i won't," he said, throwing down the cane. "you've been up to your larks, you have, and i tell you what it is, i won't have larks." "i haven't," i cried. "you have, sir, so don't deny it. what am i to say to my mary when she comes up, if she finds you going wrong? i won't have larks, so there's an end of it, d'ye hear? there, you needn't look sulky, and you won't go and lodge somewhere else. you'll stay here and i won't have no larks. i know what it means; i've seen boys begin with stopping out o' nights, and i know what sort o' chickens they turn out. stopping out late o' nights an' larks means going to the bad; and you ain't going to the bad if i know it." "i couldn't help it, bill; i've been along with mr hallett." "then i'll punch mr hallett's head," he cried in a rage, as he stamped up and down the room, till some one rapped at the ceiling of the floor below. "no, i won't. i'll pay him a visit in full uniform with my bracelet on, that's what i'll do with him." "don't be so foolish, bill," i cried, as in imagination i saw mr revitts stalking along amongst the frames at the office, as if about to take mr hallett into custody. "foolish?" he cried. "and look here, once for all, don't you bill me. as for that hallett, he's a bad 'un, that's what he is, and i'll let him know--carrying on larks with a youngster like you." "mr hallett's a gentleman," i said indignantly. "oh, is he?" said revitts excitedly; "then i'd rather be a pore police-constable. why, i never so much as took you inside a public to have half-a-pint o' beer, i was so particular over your morals; and your precious gentleman takes you to dozens, and keeps you out till two forty-five. why, you make the whole room smell o' beer." "i don't, bill," i cried; "it's that hay. look here, it's sticking to my clothes." "then, what ha' yer been sleeping under haystacks for, when here was your own bed waiting for you? that's the way. that's the first step to being a rogue and a vagabond. do you know, young fellow, as i could have taken you and locked you up, and had you afore the magistrates next morning, if i'd found you lying under haystacks?" "what a dear old stupid you are, bill," i cried, half angry, half amused; for he had talked so fast and been in such a rage, that i could not get a chance to explain. "am i?" he cried, just as if i had added fresh fuel to the flame. "if i am--i'm honest, so now then. that's more than your mr hallett can say. but i haven't done with him yet." "why don't you be quiet, bill?" i said. "quiet, when you get out on larks?" "you won't let me speak." "let you speak! no, i won't. here have i been worried to death about you, thinking all the chaps had got on, and that the van was upset, and all the time it was your games." "we went strolling about the forest, bill," i said, as i removed my stockings and bathed my sore feet, "and had to walk ever so much of the way home, and that's what made me so late." he snatched up my boots from where i had set them, and found that they were covered with dust. "but you said you'd been sleeping in the hay," he said stubbornly. "yes; on the top of a hay-cart, coming up to whitechapel, and i went to sleep." revitts began rubbing his ear in a puzzled way; and then, as if seized by a bright idea, he took out his notebook and pencil. "now look here," he said, making believe to take down my words and shaking his pencil at me in a magisterial way. "why should you have to walk nearly all the way home, because you went for a stroll in the woods with that there hallett?" this last with a contemptuous emphasis on the name of my companion. "why, i told you, bill. when we got back to the inn the last van had gone." "there; now, you're shuffling," he said. "you never said a word about the van being gone." "didn't i, bill? well, i meant to say so. mr hallett thought it would be much nicer to go for a walk in the woods than to sit in that hot room where the men were drinking and smoking, so we did, only we stopped too long." revitts shut his pocket-book with a snap, scratched his head with the end of his pencil, wetted the point between his lips, and had another scratch; then pushed the pencil into the loop at the side, replaced the book in his breast, and buttoned it up tight, as he stood staring hard at me. then he coughed behind his hand, rubbed his ear again, unbuttoned his coat, buttoned it up tightly, cleared his throat again, and then said: "well, it was circumstantial evidence, cert'nly." "it's too bad, bill," i said, in an injured tone; "you had no business to doubt me." "more i hadn't, old lad," he replied in a deprecating way. "but you know, ant'ny, i had been a-sitting here wait-wait-waiting and thinking all sorts o' things." "why didn't you go to bed?" "i'd been thinking, old lad, that being a holiday, you might be hungry, and look here." he opened the little cupboard and took out a raised pork pie and a bottle of pale ale. "i'd got the cloth laid and the knives and forks out ready, but i got in such a wax about one o'clock that i snatched 'em all off and cleared 'em away." "and why did you get in a wax, bill?" i said. "you ought to have known me better." "so i ought, old lad," he said penitently; "but i got thinking you'd chucked me over, and was out on larks with that there hallett; and it ain't nice to be chucked over for a chap like that, specially when you seem to belong to me. you'll shake hands, won't you, tony?" "of course i will." "and i won't doubt you another time; let's have the pie, after all." we did; and in a dozen ways the good fellow strove to show me his sorrow for his past doubts, picking me out the best bits of the pie, foaming up my glass with the ale, and when i expressed my fears of not being awake in time for the office, he promised to call me; and though he never owned to it, i have good reason for believing that he sat up writing out corrections in an old dictation lesson, calling me in excellent time, and having the breakfast all ready upon the table. chapter twenty three. mr hallett at home. punctual to the appointed time, i rang the topmost of four bells on the doorpost of one of the old-fashioned red-brick houses in great ormond street, and a few minutes after it was opened by mr hallett, whose face lit up as he offered me his hand. "that's right, antony!" he exclaimed; "now we'll go upstairs and see the ladies, and then you and i will have a walk till dinner-time." i followed him up the well-worn, uncarpeted stairs to the second floor, where he introduced me to his mother, a stern, pale, careworn-looking woman in a widow's cap, half sitting, half reclining in a large easy-chair. "how do you do?" she said, wearily, as she gazed at me through her half-closed eyes. "you are stephen's friend. i am glad to see you; but you are very young," she added in an ill-used tone. "not a very serious failing, mother dear," said mr hallett cheerfully. "no," said mrs hallett, "no. i am sorry we have not a better place to receive him in." "tut--tut, dear," said mr hallett. "antony grace comes to see us, not our rooms or our furniture." i had already glanced round the large, old-fashioned room, which was shabbily furnished, but scrupulously clean, while everything was in good taste, and i hastened to say something about how glad i was to come. "yes," said mrs hallett wearily; "it is very polite and nice of you to say so, but it is not the home i expected for my old age." "my mother is--" "you always used to call me _mamma_, stephen," said mrs hallett, with the tears in her eyes. "did i love you any more tenderly then, dear?" he said, bending over her and kissing her wrinkled forehead with reverent affection, and then placing his lips upon her hand. "no, stephen, no," she cried, bursting into a fit of sobbing; "but--but we might cling to some of our old respectability, even if you will persist in being a workman and lowering our family by wearing aprons like a common man." "there, there, dear, don't fret," he said cheerfully. "you are in pain this morning. i am going for a walk with antony grace, and we'll bring you back a bunch of flowers." "no, no, don't--pray don't, stephen," said mrs hallett querulously; "you cannot afford it, and it only puts me in mind of happier days, when we had our own garden, and i was so fond of my conservatory. you remember the camellias?" "yes, yes, dear," he said, passing his arm round her; "and some day you shall have your conservatory again." "never, stephen--never, while you are so obstinate." "come, come, dear," he said, kissing her again; "let me put your pillow a little more easy, and we won't talk of the past; it cannot interest antony grace. where has linny hidden herself?" "i suppose she is seeing after the cooking," said mrs hallett querulously. "we have no servants now, mr grace." "no, antony," said mr hallett, laughing; and i could not help contrasting the man i saw before me--so bright, airy, and tender in his ways--with the stern, rather grim-looking workman of the office. "no servants; i clean my own boots and help with the cooking, too. it is inconvenient, for my dear mother here is a great invalid." "helpless for seventeen years, mr grace," said the poor woman, looking at me piteously. "we used to have a carriage, but we have none now. stephen is very kind to me, only he will be so thoughtless; and he is so wanting in ambition, clever as he is." "there, dear, we won't talk about that now," said mr hallett. "come antony; my sister will not show herself, so we'll find her blooming in flour, or carving potato rings, or handling a truncheon bigger than that of your friend mr revitts as she makes the paste. oh, here she is!" a door opened as he spoke, and i quite started as a bright, pretty girl entered, and came forward smiling pleasantly to shake hands. she seemed to bring sunshine into the room, and, damped as i was by mrs hallett's reception and the prospect of a dull, cheerless day, the coming of miss hallett seemed quite to change the state of affairs. "i am very glad to see you," she said, showing her little white teeth. "stephen has so often talked about you, and said he would bring you home." "ah, me, yes, home!" sighed mrs hallett, glancing round the shabby apartment. not that it seemed shabby any longer to me, for linny, in her tight, well-fitting, plain holland dress, white collar and cuffs, and with her long golden-brown, naturally curling hair, seemed to me to radiate brightness all around. for she certainly was very pretty, and her large, well-shaded eyes seemed to flash with animation as she spoke. "antony grace and i are going for a walk, linny, and we shall come back hungry as hunters. don't make any mistake in the cooking." she nodded and laughed, and her fair curls glistened in the light, while mrs hallett sighed again; and it struck me that she was about to say something in disparagement of the dinner, but she did not speak. "come along then, antony," said mr hallett; and, after kissing the invalid, he led the way down stairs, and we strolled off towards regent's park. as we left the house, the shadow seemed to come down again over mr hallett's face, and from that time i noticed that he seemed to lead a double life--one in which he was bright and merry, almost playful, before his mother and sister; the other, a life of stern, fixed purpose, in which his soul was bent upon some pursuit. he shook off his gloom, though, directly, and we had a good walk, during which he strove hard to make himself a pleasant companion, chatted to me of myself, hoped that i made use of my spare time, and read or studied in some way, promising to help me with my latin if i would go on. "it wants an effort, antony," he said; "especially after a hard day's work at the office." "yes," i said, with a sigh; "i do feel tired of reading when i get back." "never mind," he said; "make an effort and do something. it is only the first start. you'll soon grow interested in what you are doing; and recollect this, my boy, learning is a treasure that no one can take away." "yes, my father used to say so, mr hallett," i said thoughtfully, as i glanced sidewise at my companion's face as we lay on the turf close by the water. "what an imitation of the country this is, antony!" he said, with a sigh. "i love the country. i could live there always." "yes, i don't like london, mr hallett," i said; "but--but do you study anything in your spare hours?" he turned round upon me sharply, and his eyes seemed to look me through and through. "did my mother say anything to you?" he exclaimed. "oh no! of course not--you were not alone. yes, antony, i do study something--a great deal--in my spare hours." "oh yes, of course. i know you do, mr hallett," i cried. "i've seen you take out your pocket-book and draw and make calculations." he looked at me again in a curious, suspicious way that set me wondering, and then, jumping up: "come, antony," he cried, with a forced laugh, "it is time we were off. linny will be wanting to go to church, and we shall be punished if we are late for dinner." he chatted merrily all the way back, and i had no opportunity of asking him what he studied. dinner was waiting, and a very pleasant simple meal it was, only that mrs hallett would sprinkle everything with tears. i noticed that really, as well as metaphorically, she dropped a few into her glass of beer, a few more into the gravy, of which she had the best share, soaked her bread with others, and still had a few left to drop into her portion of red-currant and raspberry tart. nothing was nice, poor woman--nothing was comfortable; and while linny took her complaints with a pettish indifference, mr hallett left his place from time to time, to attend to her at her little table in front of her easy-chair, waiting upon her with the tenderness of a woman, smoothing back her hair, and more than once kissing her on the forehead before resuming his place. "no, stephen," she said, several times; "i have no appetite--nothing tempts me now." he bent over and whispered to her, evidently in a tender, endearing way, but her tears only flowed the faster, and she shook her head despondently. "cheese, stephen?" she said in her peevish way, towards the end of the repast. "you know my digestion is such that it will not bear cheese. at least," she said, "you would have known it if you had had ambition enough to follow your father's profession." "ah! i ought to have known better, dear," he said, smiling pleasantly; "but doctors starve in london, mother. there are too many as it is." "yes, of course, of course," said the poor woman tearfully; "my advice is worthless, i suppose." "no, no, dear, it is not," said mr hallett, getting up and laying his hand upon that of the invalid. "come, let me take your plate. we'll have the things away directly, and i'll read to you till tea-time, if antony won't mind." "is linny going out this afternoon?" said mrs hallett querulously. "yes, mamma, and i shall be late," said linny, colouring, apparently with vexation, as she glanced at me, making me feel guilty, and the cause of her disappointment. "we won't keep you, linny," exclaimed hallett; "go and get ready. antony, you will not mind, will you? my sister likes to go to church of an afternoon; it is nicer for her than the evening." "oh no, i won't mind," i said eagerly. "all right, then; be off, linny. antony and i will soon clear away the pie--eh, antony?" i laughed and coloured at this _double entendre_, which mrs hallett did not comprehend, for as linny with a grateful look hurried out of the room, the invalid exclaimed fretfully: "i wish you would say _tart_, stephen, my son. if you will persist in working as a mechanic, and wasting your time in fruitless schemes--" "hush, mother!" said mr hallett, with an uneasy glance at me. "yes, my son; but i cannot bear you to forget all our old genteel ways. we may be poor, but we can still be respectable." "yes, yes; of course, dear," said mr hallett nastily, as he saw that his mother was about to shed tears. "come, antony, let's be waiters." i jumped up to assist him, just as linny, looking very rosy and pretty in her bonnet and jacket, hurried out of a side room, and kissing her mother, and nodding to us, hastened downstairs. "ah?" said mrs hallett, with another sigh, "we ought not to be reduced to that." "to what, dear?" said mr hallett, as he busily removed the dinner things. "letting that young and innocent girl go about the streets alone without a protector, offering herself as a prey to every designing wretch who casts his eyes upon her fresh, fair face." "my dear mother," said mr hallett, laughing, "london is not quite such a sink of iniquity as you suppose, and you have tutored linny too well for there to be any occasion for fear. there, come, lean back and rest till we have done, and then i will read you one of your favourites." mrs hallett allowed herself to be gently pressed back in her seat, and lay there still complaining that a son of hers should have to stoop, and also ask his visitor to stoop, to such a degrading toil. "oh, antony doesn't mind, dear," he said cheerfully. "we do worse things than this at the office--eh, antony?" "that we do, mr hallett," i cried, laughing. "yes," said mrs hallett, "at the office. ah, well, i suppose it is of no use to complain." she complained all the same, at everything, while mr hallett bore it with a most patient manner that set me wondering. he was never once irritable, but took every murmur in a quiet, resigned way, evidently excusing it on the score of his mother's sufferings. then he got out a book to read to her, but it would not do. then another and another one, supposed to be her favourite authors; but nothing would do but dodd's "thoughts in prison," and the reading of this cheerful volume went on till linny came back, as i noticed, looking hot and flushed, as if she had been hurrying; and she glanced, as i thought, suspiciously at me, her brother not raising his eyes from his reading. then followed tea, and a walk with mr hallett, and after that supper, when he walked part of the way home with me. "good-night, antony," he said. "i hope you have not found your visit too gloomy an one to care to come again." "will you ask me again?" i said eagerly. "to be sure. my poor mother is a little fretful, as you saw; but she has been an invalid now these seventeen years, and she misses some of the comforts of the past. good-night, my boy." "good-night, mr hallett;" and we parted--he to walk slowly away, bent of head and serious, and i to begin thinking of his unwearying patience and devotion to his invalid mother: after which i recalled a great deal about linny hallett, and how pretty and petulant she seemed, wondering at the same time that neither mother nor brother took any notice of her flushed and excited look as she came in from church. "hullo! got back, then?" said mr revitts, rather grumpily, as i entered the room. "had a pleasant day?" "oh yes, bill, very!" i exclaimed. "oh yes! it's all very fine, though, and it'll be all hallett soon. but you have got back in decent time. well, i'm tired, and i'm off to bed." an example i followed directly after. chapter twenty four. linny's secret. my visit to great ormond street was the first of many. in a short time the office labours with mr jabez rowle were merely the mechanical rounds of the day; and, like stephen hallett, i seemed to live only for the evening, when i took my latin exercises and translations to him, he coming down from the attic, where he worked at some project of his own, concerning which poor murmuring mrs hallett and her daughter were forbidden to speak, and then returning, after making the corrections. i felt a good deal of curiosity about that attic, but mr hallett had told me to wait, and i waited patiently, having, young as i was, learned to school myself to some extent, and devoted myself to my studies, one thought being always before my mind, namely, that i had to pay mr blakeford all my father's debt, for that i meant to do. i had grown so much at home now at the halletts', that, finding the door open one evening, i walked straight in, knocked twice, and, receiving no answer, tried the door, which yielded to my touch, swung open, and i surprised linny writing a letter, which, with a flaming face, she shuffled under the blotting-paper, and held up a warning finger, for mrs hallett was fast asleep. "where's mr hallett?" i said. "in bluebeard's chamber," cried linny playfully; "i'll go and tell him you are here." i nodded, thinking how pretty she looked with her flushed cheeks, and she went softly to the door, but only to come back quickly. "antony, dear," she whispered, laying her hand on my shoulder, "you like me, don't you?" "of course i do," i replied. "did you see what i was doing?" she continued, busily readjusting my neckerchief, and then looking me full in the face. "yes; you were writing a letter." she nodded. "don't tell stephen," she whispered. "i was not going to." "he would want to know who i was writing to, and ask me such a lot of questions. you won't tell him, will you?" "no," i said, "not unless he asks me, and then i must." "oh, he won't ask you," she said merrily; "no fear. now i'll go and tell him." i sat down, wondering why she should want to keep things from her brother, and then watched mrs hallett, and lastly began thinking about the room upstairs--old bluebeard's chamber, as linny playfully called it--and tried to puzzle out what stephen hallett was making. that it was something to improve his position i was sure, and i had often thought of what hard work it must be, with so little time at his disposal, and mrs hallett so dead set against what she openly declared to be a folly, and miserable waste of money. my musings were brought to an end by the reappearance of linny, who came down holding her pretty little white hand to me. "there, sir," she said, "you may kiss my hand; and mind, you and i have a secret between us, and you are not to tell." i kissed her hand, and she nodded playfully. "now, sir, bluebeard's chamber is open to you, and you may go up." "go? upstairs?" "yes, sir," she said, stroking her pretty curls; "the ogre said you were to go up." "are you--sure?" i said. "sure? of course. there, go along, or you'll wake mamma." i went softly upstairs, with my heart beating with excitement, turning my head, though, as i closed the door, and seeing linny drawing her letter hastily from under the blotting-paper. it was before the shabby door of a sloping-roofed back attic that i paused for a moment to knock, stephen hallett's clear, calm voice uttering a loud "come in," and i entered to find him seated before a large old deal kitchen table, upon which were strewed various tools, pieces of iron and brass, old clock-wheels, and spindles. at one end was fitted a vice, and at the other end what seemed to be the model of some machine--or rather, a long, flat set of clock-works, upon which hallett was evidently engaged. "well, antony," he said, looking up at me in a weary, disappointed way; "glad to see you, my boy." "why, you are busy," i exclaimed, looking with all a boy's curiosity at the model, or whatever it was before me. "yes," he said, "i generally am. well," he added, after a pause, as he seemed to derive rest and amusement from my curiosity, "what do you think of my sweetheart?" "your sweetheart?" "yes, my sweetheart, of which poor mother is so jealous. there she is." "i--i don't understand you," i said. "well, the object of my worship--the thing on which i lavish so much time, thought, and money." "is--is that it?" i said. "that's it," he replied, enjoying my puzzled looks. "what do you think of it?" i was silent for a few moments, gazing intently at the piece of mechanism before i said: "i don't know." "look here, antony," he said, rising and sweeping away some files and pieces of brass before seating himself upon the edge of the table: "do you know why we are friends?" "no, but you have been very kind to me." "have i?" he said. "well, i have enjoyed it if i have. antony, you are a gentleman's son." i nodded. "and you know the meaning of the word honour?" "i hope so." "you do, antony; and it has given me great pleasure to find that, without assuming any fine airs, you have settled down steadily to your work amongst rough boys and ignorant prejudiced men without losing any of the teachings of your early life." i looked at him, wondering what he was about to say. "now look here, antony, my boy," he continued; "i am going to put implicit faith in your honour, merely warning you that if you talk about what you have seen here you may do me a very serious injury. you understand?" "oh yes, mr hallett," i cried; "you may depend upon me." "i do, antony," he said; "so let's have no more of that formal `mr' let it be plain `yes' and `no;' and now, mind this, i am going to open out before you my secret. henceforth it will be our secret. is it to be so?" "yes--oh yes!" i exclaimed, flushing with pride that a man to whom i had looked up should have so much confidence in me. "that's settled, then," he said, shaking hands with me. "and now, antony, once more, what do you think of my model?" i had a good look at the contrivance as it stood upon the table, while hallett watched me curiously, and with no little interest. "it's a puzzle," i said at last. "do you give it up?" "no; not yet," i said, leaning my elbows on the table. "wheels, a brass table, a roller. why, it looks something like a mangle." i looked at him, and he nodded. "but you wouldn't try to make a mangle," i said. "it might do to grind things in. may i move it?" "no; it is out of gear. well, do you give it up?" he rose as he spoke, and opened the attic window to let in the pleasant, cool night air, and then leaned against the sloping ceiling gazing back at me. "i know what it would do for," i said eagerly, as the idea came to me like a flash. "what?" "why, it is--it is," i cried, clapping my hands, as he leaned towards me; "it's a printing machine." "you're right, antony," he said; "quite right. it is the model of a printing machine." "yes," i said, with all a boy's excitement; "and it's to do quickly what the men do now so slowly in the presses, sheet by sheet." "yes, and in the present machines," he said. "have you noticed how the machines work?" "oh, yes!" i said; "often. the type runs backwards and forwards, and the paper is laid on by boys and is drawn round the big roller and comes out printed." "exactly," he said. "well, antony, you have seen the men working at the presses?" "yes." "it is hard work, and they print about two hundred or two hundred and fifty sheets an hour, do they not?" "yes; i believe so." "and the great clumsy machines print six or seven hundred an hour. some a thousand." "and will your machine do more?" i asked. "antony," he cried, catching my arm in his--and his face lit up as we stood by that attic window--"if my machine succeeds it will be the greatest invention of the age. look, boy; do you see what i mean to do?" "n-no," i said; "not yet." "no; of course not," he cried. "it has been the work of years to think it out, and you cannot grasp it yet. it has grown month by month, my boy, till it has assumed so great a magnitude that i shrink at times, half crushed by my own offspring. there seems to be too much--that i attempt to climb too high--and when i give up almost in despair it lures me on--beckons me in my dreams, and points to the success that might be achieved." i looked at him wonderingly; he seemed to be so transformed. "i began with quite a small idea, antony," he continued. "i will show you. my idea was this. you see now, my boy, that with the present machine the type is laid on a table, and it goes backwards and forwards under a great iron cylinder or roller, grinding continually, and being worn out." "yes, i know; the type gets thick and blurred in its fine upstrokes." "exactly," he said, smiling. "well, antony, i tried to invent a simple process of making a mould or seal, when the type was ready, and then--" "making a solid block of fresh type in the big mould. i know," i cried. "right, my boy, right," he cried; "and i have done it!" "but does it want a machine like that?" "oh no," he replied: "that grew out of the idea. i was not satisfied then with my solid block of type, which might be used and then melted down again. it struck me, antony, that it would be better if i made that solid block curved, so as to fit on a big cylinder, and let it go round instead of the paper. i could then print twice as many." "ye-yes," i said, "but i hardly see it." "i will show you presently, my boy," he replied. "well, i worked at that idea till i felt satisfied that i could carry it out, when a greater idea came." he paused and wiped his forehead, gazing now, though, out at the starry night, and speaking in a low earnest voice. "it seemed to me then, antony, that i ought to do away with the simple, clumsy plan of making men or boys supply or lay-on paper, sheet by sheets as the machine was at work." "what could you do?" i said. "ah, that was the question. i was thinking it over, when going through saint paul's churchyard i saw in one of the draper's shops a basket of rolls of ribbon, and the thing was done." "how?" i asked. "by having the paper in a long roll, a thousand yards upon a reel, to be cut off sheet by sheet as it is printed between the cylinders." "but could you get paper made so long?" "to be sure," he said; "the paper-mills make it in long strips that are cut up in sheets as they are finished. in my machine they would be cut up only when printed. now, what do you say?" "it's like trying to read greek the first time, mr hallett," i said. "my head feels all in a muddle." "out of which the light will come in time, my boy. but suppose i could make such a machine, antony, what would you say then?" "it would be grand!" i exclaimed. "it would make a revolution in printing," he cried enthusiastically. "well, will you help me, antony?" he said, with a smile. "help you! may i?" "of course. i shall be glad; only, remember, it is our secret." "you may trust me," i said. "but it must be patented." "to be sure. all in good time." "it will make your fortune." "i hope so," he said dreamily, "for others' sake more than mine." "yes," i cried; "and then you could have a nice place and a carriage for mrs hallett, and it would make her so much happier." "yes," he said, with a sigh. "and you could be a gentleman again." he started, and a curious look came over his face; but it passed away directly, and i saw him shake his head before turning to me with a smile. "antony," he said quietly, "suppose we build the machine, the castles in the air will build themselves. i tell you what; you shall work sometimes and help me to plan; but, as a rule, while i file and grind you shall read some latin or german author, and you and i can improve ourselves as we go." "agreed!" i cried, and then the rest of the night was spent--a very short night, by the way--in examining the various parts of the little model, hallett seeming to give himself fresh ideas for improvements as he explained the reason for each wheel and spindle, and told me of the difficulties he had to contend with for want of proper tools and the engineer's skill. "i want a lathe, antony," he said; "and a good lathe costs many pounds, so i have to botch and patch, and buy clock-wheels and file them down. it takes me a whole evening sometimes wandering about clerkenwell or the new cut hunting for what i want." "but i can often help you in that way," i said, "and i will." we went down soon after to a late supper, hallett jealously locking up his attic before we descended. mrs hallett had gone to bed and linny was reading, and jumped up as if startled at our entrance. hallett spoke to her as we sat down to supper, and i noticed that he seemed to be cold and stern towards her, while linny was excited and pettish, seeming to resent her brother's ways, and talked to me in a light, pleasant, bantering manner about bluebeard's secret chamber. i noticed, too, that she always avoided her brother's eye, and when we parted that night hallett seemed a good deal troubled, though he did not tell me why. chapter twenty five. seven-and-a-half and a bonus. it was the common talk at the office that mr lister was going to be married soon to the rich miss carr; and one day, when i was busily reading to mr jabez rowle--who, snuff-box before him, kept drawing in his breath, hissing viciously, and sometimes smacking his lips as he dug his pen into some blunder in the slips before him--mr grimstone came bustling in, with his spectacles shining as much as his bald head, his scanty hair standing straight up, and, what was very rarely the case, a smile upon his face. "well, rowle," he said, rubbing his hands, "how is it this morning?" "foul--foul foul," said mr jabez, with a dab at a stop he had missed before. "those fellows of yours make more literals every day." "i'm always telling them of it, rowle, always," said mr grimstone, nodding his head sharply. "how does this boy get on?" "fairly--fairly," said mr rowle, screwing himself round upon his stool, and gazing full in the overseers face. "now, then, grimstone, what is it?--what's on the cards?" "oh, nothing--nothing. i only looked in. give me a pinch!" mr rowle handed his little brown box, and mr grimstone refreshed himself with a pinch before handing back the snuff to mr rowle, who also took a pinch loudly, and with a defiant flourish, while i took up a slip and a pen, and began to practise reading and correcting, a thing mr rowle always encouraged. grimstone had evidently come in for a gossip, business being rather slack, following a good deal of night-work and the finish of an important order; and after another pinch and an allusion to the political topic of the day, they seemed to forget my presence and went on talking. "when's the happy day to be?" said mr grimstone. "what, lister's? oh, i don't know: soon, i suppose. seen her?" "yes, twice," said mr grimstone, giving his lips a smack; "beautiful!" "so i hear," said mr jabez rowle; "plenty of money too, i suppose." " , pounds, and more to come. i never had such luck." "i never wanted it," said mr jabez rowle with a growl. "i don't know why a man should want to tie himself up to a woman." "not with , pounds and more to come, eh?" said mr grimstone waggishly. "might have tempted me twenty years ago," growled mr jabez; "it wouldn't now." "s'pose not. you're too warm, rowle--much too warm. i say, though," he continued, lowering his voice, but quite ignoring me, "is a certain person safe?" "a certain person?" "yes, you know. suppose, for instance, he quietly asked you to let him have pounds for a few months at seven-and-a-half and a bonus, would you, always considering that he soon touches , pounds and more to come, would you let him have it?" mr jabez took a pinch of snuff furiously, shut the box with a loud snap, and, evidently completely thrown of his guard, exclaimed: "hang him for a fool! curse me if ever i do so again." "what do you mean?" said mr grimstone, milling up, "do you mean to say i'm a fool?" "no, no: he is, to go and blab." "blab?" "yes, to let it out to you." "i say! what do you mean?" said mr grimstone again. "mean? why, you as good as said he told you i had let him have pounds at seven-and-a-half and a bonus. lent on the strength of his going to marry a woman with , pounds and more to come." "i didn't." "you did." "whew!" whistled mr grimstone, snatching the snuff-box out of mr jabez rowle's hand, taking a vigorous pinch, and scattering so much of the fine brown dust in the air that i should have had a violent fit of sneezing if i had not become hardened to its effects. the two stared at one another for a minute, and mr jabez now snatched the box back and took a hearty pinch, some of which went on to his shirt-front--and some upon his sleeve. "why, you don't mean to say that he has borrowed pounds of you?" said mr grimstone, in a whisper. "but i do mean to say it," replied mr jabez. "how came he to tell you? i never told a soul." "he didn't tell me," said mr grimstone thoughtfully. "then who did?" "no one." "then how came you to know?" said mr jabez, passing his box. "why, you don't mean to say he has been to you for five hundred?" mr grimstone nodded. "and offered you seven-and-a-half, and a bonus of thirty pounds?" mr grimstone nodded again, and this time it was mr jabez rowle's turn to whistle. "he wanted it done quietly, and i, after a bit, agreed to do it. but though we ain't friends over business matters, jabez rowle, i know you to be a man of strong common-sense and integrity, and i thought you would give me a good bit of advice. but this seems to alter the case. would you lend it?" "humph! two five hundreds are not much out of fifty thousand," said mr jabez; "but what does he want the money for? 'tain't for the business." "no," said mr grimstone, "because he said he didn't want mr ruddle to know. i say, what would you do? i shouldn't like to offend lister." "do? well, i've lent the money," said mr jabez, taking a savage pinch. "and would you do the same if you were me?" replied mr grimstone. "it's a lot of money; years of savings, you know, and--" he made some kind of gesticulation, and i fancy he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at me. "look here, grace," said mr rowle, "go downstairs and ask mr ruddle to send me up mr hendry's letter about his book." i got down off my stool, and left them together in the glass case, going straight down to the office, where, in place of mr ruddle, i round mr lister, and told him my business. "i don't know where it is," he replied. "i leave it till mr ruddle comes in. but look here, grace, i wanted you. miss carr was asking how you got on. take this note there--you know where she lives--and give it to her herself. but before you go up there take this note to norfolk street, strand. no answer." he took four written slips of stamped blue paper from his pocket, and i saw him write across them, blot them hastily, and refold and place them in a letter, which he carefully sealed. after which, i noticed that he tore off and destroyed the piece of blotting-paper that he had used. i thought no more of it then, but it came up in connection with matters that afterwards occurred. i hurried upstairs, and told mr jabez rowle that mr lister wanted me to go out, mr grimstone being still in close conference with him in the glass case. "where are you going, boy?" said the latter. "to miss carr's with a note, sir," i said; and the two old men exchanged glances of intelligence. "all right, grace," said mr jabez, nodding; "we're not busy. you can go." i hurried away, thinking no more of them or their conversation; but i was obliged to go into the composing-room below, to hurry up to mr hallett's frame, where, stern-looking and half-repellent, he was rapidly setting a piece of manuscript. "i'm going to miss carr's," i whispered, while my face glowed with pleasure. "indeed!" he said, starting; and my bright face might have been reflected in his, such a change passed over his speaking countenance. "i've to take a note from mr lister and to wait for an answer," i said; and i felt startled at the rapid change as he heard these last words. "are you ill?" i cried anxiously. "no--no," he said hastily, and his voice sounded hard and harsh. "go away now, i am very much pressed for time." i left him, wondering, for i could not read him then, and bounding down the stairs, i was soon in fleet street, and soon after in norfolk street, strand. i quickly found the number and the door, with a large brass plate thereon bearing the name "brandsheim," and in small letters in the corner "ground floor." a boy clerk answered my knock, and i was told to sit down in an outer office while the clerk went in with the note and to see if mr brandsheim was at home. mr brandsheim was at home, and was ushered into his presence, to find him a dark, yellow-looking man with a wrinkled face and very keen eyes. he quite startled me for the moment, for, though not in personal appearance in the slightest degree resembling mr blakeford, there was a something about him that suggested that worthy and his ways. he was dressed in the first style of fashion, a little exaggerated. he might have been a slave of the great plutus himself, for round his neck and lashing his chest was a thick gold chain; diamond rings were on the fingers of each hand; a great opal and diamond pin was in his black satin stock; at his wrists were jewelled sleeve-links that glistened and sparkled when he moved. there was nothing sordid about him, for he sat in an easy-chair at a polished secretary; there was a turkey carpet beneath his feet, and the furniture of the room was massive and good; but, all the same, i had no sooner entered the place than i began to think of mr blakeford and mr wooster, and i involuntarily wondered whether this man could be in any way connected with my late employer, and whether i had unconsciously walked into a trap. as my eyes wandered about the room in search of tin boxes containing different people's affairs, of dusty parchments and sale bills, i felt better; for they were all absent. in their place were large oil pictures against the walls, hung, and leaning back, resting on the floor. on a sideboard was a row of little stoppered bottles with labels hanging from their necks in a jaunty fashion, and in the bottles were richly tinted liquids--topaz, ruby, purple, and gold. they might have been medicines, but they looked like wines, and i felt sure they were, as i saw piled upon the floor some dozens of cigar-boxes. mr brandsheim might have been a picture dealer, a wine merchant, or an importer of cigars, for in those days i had yet to learn that he was a bill-discounter who contrived that his clients should have so much in cash for an acceptance, and the rest in old masters, whitechapel havanas, and hambro-spanish wines. mr brandsheim's words somewhat reassured me, as he nodded pleasantly to me and smiled. "sit down, my man," he said; "sit down, and i'll soon be ready for you. let me see--let me see." he busied himself behind his secretary, rustling papers and making notes, and now and then looking at me and tapping his teeth with a heavy gold pencil-case, while i furtively watched him and wondered how he managed to make his jet black hair so shiny, and why it was he spoke as if he had been poking cottonwool up his nose, till it suddenly occurred to me that he must be a german. "ah!" he said, at last; "let me see--let me see--let me see--see--see. mr lister quite well?" "yes, sir; quite well, thank you." "that's right. let me see--let me--how's business?" "oh! we've been very busy, sir. the men have often had to stop up all night to get things finished." "have they really, though?" he said, nodding and smiling; "and did you stay up, too?" "no, sir; i read for mr jabez rowle, and he said he wouldn't sit up all night and upset himself for anybody." "mr jabez rowle is quite right, my lad." "he said, sir, his work was so particular that after he had been correcting for twelve hours his eyes and mind were exhausted, and he could not do his work properly." "mr jabez rowle is a man of business, my lad, evidently. and mr lister, is he pretty busy?" "i think he comes to the office every day." "have a glass of wine, my lad," he said, getting up and taking a decanter, glass, and a dish of biscuits from a cellaret. "no. good sherry won't hurt you. take some biscuits, then." i took some of the sweet biscuits, and mr brandsheim nodded approval. "i won't keep you long," he said; "but i must compare these papers. you are not going anywhere else, i suppose?" "yes, sir; i am going up to westmouth street, cavendish square." "indeed! hah! that's a good walk for you; or, no, i suppose mr lister told you to take a cab?" "no, sir," i said colouring; "i am going to walk." "oh, absurd! too far. lawrence," he cried, after touching a bell, and the boy clerk appeared, "have a cab to the door in ten minutes." "yes, sir." "that will pay for the cab, my lad," continued mr brandsheim, slipping a couple of shillings into my hand. "i must keep you waiting a little while. let me see--let me see--you didn't go to the races, i suppose?" "oh no, sir." "mr ruddle and mr lister did, eh?" "mr lister did, sir, i believe. mr ruddle never goes, i think." "doesn't he, though? how strange! i always go. let me see--five hundred and sixty-six is--is--so mr lister's going to be married, eh?" "yes, sir, i believe so." "that's right. everybody should marry when the time comes. you will some day. i hope the lady's young and rich." "she's beautiful, sir," i said, with animation, feeling sorry, though, the next moment, for i did not like the idea of this man being so interested in her. "is she, though?" he said insidiously. "but you've not seen her." "oh yes, sir, more than once." "have you, though? well, you are favoured. let me see," he continued, consulting a little thick book which he took from a drawer. "seven hundred and fifty and two hundred and--er--er--oh, to be sure, yes; i think i heard who it was to be. beautiful miss wilson, the doctor's daughter. let's see, she's very poor, though." i did not want to say more, but he seemed to lead me on, and get answers from me in an insidious way that i could not combat; and in spite of myself i said: "no, sir, it is miss carr; and she is very rich." "you don't say so!" he exclaimed, staring at me in surprise. "you don't mean the carrs of westmouth street?" "yes, sir." "well, i am surprised," he exclaimed. "lister's a lucky dog. why, i see, you dog!" he said, in a bantering way, "you carry the love-letters backwards and forwards." "oh no, sir, i--" "hush, hush, hush! not a word. i won't listen to you. don't betray your master's secrets, my lad. you're a confidential messenger, and must clap a seal upon your lips." "but, sir, i--" "no, no. how much?" he said, with mock severity. "don't speak, don't interrupt me; i'm reckoning up. let me see--let me see--ha! that's it exactly. there we are," he continued, fastening down a note and handing it to me. "run along, my young mercury, and if i were you i should make cabby drive me to oxford street for a shilling, and save the other. that's the way to grow rich. off you go. take care of this." he thrust a letter into my hands, and almost pushed me out of the room, so that i had not time to speak; and before i had quite recovered from my confusion, i was in the cab, and heard the boy clerk say: "put him down at oxford circus." then the wheels began to rattle, and the door to jangle, and i sit feeling angry with myself for saying so much about mr lister and miss carr, as i recalled william revitts' advice, often given, to "let other people talk while you make notes." the thought of where i was going soon drove my interview with mr brandsheim out of my head, and getting out of the cab at the circus, i made the best of my way to the great imposing house in westmouth street, rang, and asked to see miss carr. the man-servant looked at me rather dubiously, and asked my name. then, bidding me sit down in the great sombre-looking hall, he went up the heavy staircase, and came back to bid me follow him. i noticed as i went upstairs that the place was heavily but handsomely furnished. there were pictures on the walls of staircase and landing, and the stone steps were covered with a rich thick carpet. the wealthy look of the place, however, did not seem to abash me, for the atmosphere of refinement in which i found myself recalled old days; and the thoughts of the past seemed strengthened, as i was ushered into a prettily furnished little drawing-room, all bright with flowers, water-colour drawings, and books, from a table strewn with which latter miss carr arose to welcome me. and again the feeling was strengthened at her first words: "ah, antony!" for the printing-office, mr revitts' shabby room, hallett's attic, my own downfall, were forgotten, and, bright and eager, i half ran to meet her, and caught her extended hand. her sad face brightened as she saw the eager pleasure in my eyes, and retaining my hand, she led me to a couch and seated herself by my side. "then you had not forgotten me?" she said. "forgotten you?" i cried reproachfully, "i have been so longing to see you again." "then why did you not come?" "come!" i said, with the recollection of my present state flashing back; and my heart sank as i replied, "i did not dare; i am so different now. but i have a note for you, miss carr." i took mr lister's note from my pocket, and gave it to her, noticing at the time that she took it and laid it quietly down, in place of opening it eagerly. "i shall always be glad to see you, antony, that is, so long as you prove to me that you have not been unworthy of my recommendation." "i will always try," i cried eagerly. "i feel sure you will," she said. "mr ruddle tells me you are rising fast." i coloured with pleasure, and then reddened more deeply as i saw that she noticed me, and smiled. "but now, come, tell me of yourself--what you do and how you get on;" and by degrees, almost without questioning, i told her all my proceedings. for somehow, it seemed the highest delight to me to be once more in the society of a refined lady. her looks, her touch, the very scent emanating from her dress and the flowers, seemed so to bring back the old days that i felt as if i were once more at home, chatting away to my mother. and so the time slipped by till i imperceptibly found myself telling miss carr all about my old pursuits--our life at homeland my favourite books, she being a willing listener, when, suddenly, a clear, silvery-toned clock began to strike and dissolved the spell. the old drawing-room, the lawn beyond the french window, the scent of the flowers, seemed to pass away to give place to the great printing-office and my daily work, and with a choking sensation in my throat, i remembered what i was--the messenger who had forgotten his errand, and i started to my feet. "why, antony!" exclaimed miss carr, "what is it?" "i had forgotten," i said piteously; "i brought you a note; mr lister will be angry if i do not take back the answer." the aspect of miss carr's face seemed to change from a look of anxious wonder to one of sternness. there was a slight contraction of the handsome brow, and her voice was a little changed as she said quietly-- "sit down again, antony; both you and i have much to say yet." "but--the letter, ma'am?" i faltered. "the letter can wait," she replied. then, smiling brightly as she took my hand once more, "you cannot take back the answer till i write it; and come, i am alone to-day; my sister is away upon a visit; you shall stay to lunch and dinner with me, and we'll read and talk till we are tired." "oh!" i ejaculated. "do you not wish to stay?" she said smiling. i could not speak, for the old childish weakness that i had of late nearly mastered was almost conqueror again. it did get the better of my voice, but i involuntarily raised her soft white hand to my lips, and held it there for a few moments; while her eyes, even as they smiled upon me, seemed half-suffused with tears. "i will write to mr lister presently," she said at last, "and tell him i detained you here. that will, i am sure, be quite sufficient; so, antony, you are my visitor for the rest of the day. and now tell me more about yourself." i could not speak just then, but sat thinking, miss carr watching me the while; but we were soon chatting away pleasantly till the servant came and announced lunch. chapter twenty six. sunshine. as we went down into the handsome dining-room i seemed to be in a dream, in the midst of which i heard miss carr's voice telling the servant he need not wait; and as the door closed she laid her hand upon my shoulder and led me to the front of a large picture of a very beautiful woman, standing with her arm resting upon the shoulder of a grey-haired massive-looking man, not handsome, but with a countenance full of intelligence and force. we stood silently before them for few moments, and then miss carr spoke: "can you tell who those are, antony?" she said. "your papa and mamma," i said, looking from the picture to her face. "my dear father and mother, antony," she said, in a low, sweet voice; and her lips moved afterwards while she stood gazing up at them, as if saying something to herself. i remember feeling well satisfied that i had on my best clothes that morning. i had reluctantly taken to them, but my others had grown so bad that i had been obliged. then, too, there was a feeling of gratification that my hands were clean, and not stained and marked with ink. i remember feeling that as i took up the snowy table-napkin. all the rest was so dreamy and strange, only that i felt quite at home, and troubled by no sense of awkwardness. moreover, miss carr's behaviour towards me, as she intently watched my every action, became more and more warm, till it seemed to me as if i were in the society of some very dear sister; and a couple of hours later i felt as if we had known each other all our lives. upstairs once more she played to me, and smiled with pleasure as i picked out my favourite old pieces from the various operas; and at last she swung herself round upon the music-stool, and rose to draw my arm through hers, walking me thoughtfully up and down the room. "what should you like to be, antony?" she said half-playfully, "a soldier?" "there's something very grand about being a soldier," i said thoughtfully, "when he fights to save his country; but no, i'm afraid i should be a coward." "a sailor, then?" "no, miss carr," i said, shaking my head. "i should either like to be a barrister or a doctor. i think i should like to be a doctor. no, i should like to be an engineer, and help mr hallett with his--" i stopped short and coloured, for i felt that i had nearly betrayed my friend. "well?" she said in a strange, hesitating way, "mr hallett's what?" "please don't think me ungrateful, miss carr," i said, "but i cannot tell you. mr hallett trusted to me the secret of what he is making, and i cannot say more. yes, i may say that he is busy over a great invention." i fancied she drew her breath as if it caught and gave her pain, but her face was like marble as she went on. "antony, you are quite right," she said; "and if i had ever had any doubts about your being a gentleman's son, these words would have removed it. so you would like to be an engineer?" "yes," i said, "very much." she continued walking up and down the room, and then went on: "you lodge, you say, with a mr revitts, a policeman. is he respectable and nice?" "he's the dearest, best old fellow in the world?" i said with animation. "old?" "no, no," i said, laughing. "i meant good and kind by old." "oh," she said, laughing. "but tell me, antony; is he particular with you?" "oh yes; he quite watches me, to make sure what i do, and where i go." "would you like to go to different and better lodgings?" "oh no," i said. "he is going to be married soon to mary, who was so good to me at mr blakeford's, and they would be so disappointed if i left." "he watches over you, you say?" "yes, miss carr. he was very angry that night when i stopped out late with mr hallett, when we had to walk part of the way back." "and--and this mr hallett, is--is he a proper companion for such a boy as you?" "mr hallett is a gentleman, although he is now only a common workman," i said proudly. "but a youth like you would be easily deceived." "oh no!" i cried; "don't think that, miss carr. i would not give up mr hallett for anything. you don't know him," i said almost indignantly. "why, when his father died, he, poor fellow, had to leave college, and give up all his prospects to gain a living anyhow, to keep his poor sick mother and his sister." "he has a sister?" "yes: so very pretty: linny hallett. i go there, and read latin and german with mr hallett, while he works at his--his great invention. oh, miss carr, if you could see him, so good and tender to his invalid complaining mother, you would say i ought to be only too proud of my friend!" she was pressing my hand as she hastened her steps up and down the room. then, loosing my hand suddenly, she walked quickly to the window, and threw it open, to stand there for a few minutes gazing out. "the room was too warm, antony," she said in a quiet, composed way; and her pleasant smile was back upon her face as she returned to me. "why, we were quite racing up and down the room. so you read german, do you? come, you shall read a bit of goethe to me." "i'm afraid--" "that you are not perfect, antony?" she said, laughing in a bright, eager way. "neither am i. we will both try and improve ourselves. have you well mastered the old, crabby characters?" "oh yes," i said, laughing. "my mother taught me them when i was very young." "why, antony," she cried, snatching the book from my hands at the end of half an hour; "you ought to be my master. but come, it is nearly dinner-time, and we must dress." "dress?" i said, falling down from the seventh heaven to the level of caroline street, pentonville, and bouncing back to the second floor. "well," she said, smiling; "you would like to wash your hands." the rest of that evening was still more dreamlike than the day. i dined with miss carr, and afterwards she encouraged me to go on talking about myself, and present and past life. i amused her greatly about revitts, and his efforts to improve his spelling; and she smiled and looked pained in turn, as i talked of mary and my life at mr blakeford's. "i should like to know mary," she said, laughing; "mary must be a rough gem." "but she is so good at heart!" i cried earnestly, for i felt pained at the light way in which she spoke of poor mary. "i am sure she is, antony," said miss carr, looking at me very earnestly; and then i began to talk of mr hallett, and how kind and firm he had been. to my surprise, she stopped me, her voice sounding almost harsh as she said quietly: "you are learning through a rough school, antony, and are fast losing your homelike ways, and childlike--well--innocence; but you are still very impressionable, and ready to take people for what they seem. antony, my boy, you will make many enemies as well as friends. count me always among the latter, and as your friend i now say to you, do not be too ready to make friendships with men. i should rather see you with a good companion of your own age." "yes, miss carr," i said; "but if you knew mr hallett--" she held up her hand, and i stopped, for she seemed to turn pale and to look angry. "antony," she said, as the tea was brought in, "you will soon have to go, now, and i have not written the answer to the letter you brought." "no, miss carr," i said; and i could have added, "neither have you read it." "it is too late, of course, for you to take an answer back, so i shall send one by post. do not be alarmed," she said, smiling, as she divined my thoughts; "no one will be angry with you for staying here. it was my wish." "and your wish would be law with mr lister," i thought. "i shall expect you to write to me," she continued, "and set down any books you require. do not be afraid to ask for them. i will either lend or buy them for you." she was pouring out the tea as she spoke, and i took the cup from her hand, watching her thoughtfully the while, for she seemed to have grown strange and quiet during the last few hours; and it set me wondering whether she would ever be so kind to me again. in fact, i thought i must have done something to offend her. that thought was chased away after tea, when we both rose, and she held out her hands to me with a very sweet smile, which told me the time had arrived when i must go. "and now, antony, you must come and see me again, often. good-bye." i could not speak, but stood clinging to her hands for a few minutes. "don't think me foolish," i said, at last; "but it has seemed so strange--you have been so kind--i don't know why--i have not deserved it." "antony," she said, laying one hand upon my shoulder, and speaking very softly and slowly, "neither do i know why, only that your simple little story seemed to go home to my heart. i thought then, as i think now, that when i lost both those who were near and dear to me, my sister and i might have been left penniless, to go out and struggle in the world as you have had to do. once more, good-bye. only strive on worthily, and you shall always find that i am your friend." the next minute i was in the street, dull, depressed, and yet elated and joyful, while i ran over again the bright, sunshiny hours that had been so unexpectedly passed, as i hastened northward to join revitts, for it was one of his home nights. chapter twenty seven. linny is out late. i noticed that there was growing trouble at the halletts', and more than once, when i went up, i found linny in tears, which, however, she hastily concealed. this was the case on the night following my visit to miss carr, whose words, "that i need be under no uneasiness," were verified. the fact that i had been sent out by mr lister was sufficient for mr jabez rowle; and when, during the next day, i encountered mr lister himself, he nodded to me in quite a friendly way, and said, "how are you?" mrs hallett was asleep, and i went upstairs softly, tapped at hallett's room door, and went in, to find him deeply immersed in his task, over which he was bending with knitted brows, and evidently in doubt. "ah, antony," he said, "here we are, as busy as usual. how did you get on last night?" "with revitts?" "yes; was it not your lesson-night?" "yes," i said; "but i thought perhaps you meant at miss carr's!" he dropped the file with which he had been at work and stared at me. "where did you say?" he exclaimed. "mr lister sent me with a note to miss carr, and she kept me there all day." he drew in his breath with a hiss, caught up the file and went on working, while i chattered on, little thinking of the pain i was causing the poor fellow, as i rapturously praised miss carr and her home, and told him by degrees how i had spent the day. i was too intent on my narration to pay much heed to hallett's face, though in fact i hardly saw it, he kept it so bent over his task, neither did i notice his silence; but at last, when it was ten o'clock, and i rose to go, he rose too, and i saw that he was rather paler than usual. "are you ill, hallett?" i said anxiously. "how white you look." "ill? oh no, antony. i have been sitting too much over my model. you and i must have another run or two into the country, and put roses in our cheeks." he looked at me with a smile, but there was a weary, haggard look in his eyes that troubled me. "come, you must have a scrap of supper before you go," he said; and in spite of my protest he led me into the sitting-room, where mrs hallett was seated by the shaded lamp reading, and the supper-cloth was laid half across the table. "yes," she said, looking up, as she let fall her book; "it's time you came, stephen. it's very, very, very cruel of you to leave me alone so long." "my dear mother," he said tenderly, "i did not know you were by yourself. where is linny?" he said anxiously. "oh, i don't know," replied mrs hallett querulously. "you are always either out or upstairs with your playthings." "for heaven's sake, mother, be just," hallett exclaimed, with a burst of energy, such as i had not seen in him before. "don't goad me at a time like this. where, i say, where is linny?" "goad you, stephen! no, i don't goad you," whimpered the poor woman. "i cannot help myself; say what you will to me. you neglect me, and linny is always running out." "has linny gone out now, mother?" exclaimed hallett. "yes, yes, and i am left all alone--a poor helpless invalid." "where has linny gone, mother?" "i don't know, stephen. she said there was something to fetch. how can i tell?" and she burst into tears. "mother, dear mother," cried hallett, bending over her and kissing her, "pray, pray don't think me unkind; i am working for you, and linny too." "but if you would only be more ambitious, stephen--if you would only try your poor father's profession." "i cannot--you know i cannot, dear," he said appealingly. "no, no, no," sobbed the poor woman; "always some low mechanic's pursuit. oh dear, oh dear! if it would only please god to take me, and let me be at rest!" "mother, dear mother," whispered hallett, "be reasonable. pray, dear, be reasonable, and bear with what does seem like neglect; for i am indeed working for you, and striving to make you a happier and better home. believe this of me, and bear with me, especially now, when i have two troubles to meet that almost drive me mad. linny, dear: think of linny." "shall i go now, mr hallett?" i said, for the scene was terrible to me, and i felt hot with indignation at one whom i looked upon as the most unreasonable of women. "no, antony; stay, i may want you," he said sternly. "now, mother," he continued, "about linny. she must not be allowed to go out at night like this." "no, my son," said mrs hallett piteously; "and if you had taken my advice the poor child would not have been degraded to such menial tasks." "mother," said hallett, with more sternness than i had yet heard him use in speaking to her, "it is not the mere going out shopping that is likely to degrade your child. the time has come when i must insist upon knowing the meaning of these frequent absences on linny's part. has she gone out to-night on some necessary errand?" "i--i don't know, stephen; she said she must go." "tell me, mother--i beg, i insist," he exclaimed, "what you are keeping from me." "nothing, nothing, stephen," sobbed the poor woman. "you'll kill me with your un kindness before you've done." "do you mean to tell me that you do not know where linny has gone, mother?" "yes, yes, stephen; i do not know." "has--has she gone to meet anyone?" "i don't know, stephen; i think so." "who is it, mother?" exclaimed hallett. "i don't know, stephen; indeed i don't know. oh, this is very, very cruel of you!" "mother," said hallett, "is this just and kind to me, to keep such a secret from my knowledge? oh, shame, shame! you let that weak, foolish child keep appointments with a stranger, and without my knowledge-- without my knowing it, who stand to her in the place of a father. it must be stopped at once." "let me go, hallett, please," i whispered. "yes; go, antony; it is better that you should not be here when linny comes back. good-night--good-night." i hurried downstairs, and let myself out, feeling miserable with the trouble i had seen, and i was just crossing queen square when i saw linny coming in the opposite direction. she caught sight of me on the instant and spoke. "where did you leave stephen?" she said hastily; and i saw that she was flushed and panting with haste. "with mrs hallett," i said. "was he scolding because i was out?" "yes." she gave her head a hasty toss and turned away, looking prettier than ever, i thought, but i fancied, as we stood beneath a lamp, that she turned pale. before she had gone half-a-dozen steps i was by her side. "well? what is it?" she said; and now i saw that she was in tears. "nothing," i replied; "only that i am going to see you safe home." "you foolish boy," she retorted. "as if i could not take care of myself." "your brother does not like you to be out alone at night," i said quietly; "and i shall walk with you to the door." "such nonsense, antony! ah, well, just as you like;" and she burst into a mocking laugh. i knew this was to hide from me the fact that she was in tears; and i walked beside her in silence till we had nearly reached the door, when we both started, for a dark figure suddenly came up to us. "oh, steve, how you frightened me!" exclaimed linny with a forced laugh. "did i?" he said calmly; and then he held out his hand to me and pressed mine. he did not speak, but that pressure of his hand meant thanks, i thought, for what i had done; and once more i set myself to reach caroline street, thinking very seriously about linny hallett, of her mother's weakness and constant complaints, and of the way in which stephen hallett seemed to devote himself to them both. chapter twenty eight. we complete the model. matters did not improve at great ormond street as the months rolled on. there was evidently a serious estrangement between linny and stephen hallett; and in my frequent visits i saw that she was as wilful as she was pettish, and that she was setting her brother at defiance. mrs hallett was more piteous and complaining than ever, and her son grew haggard and worn with care. once or twice, when linny went out, hallett had insisted upon going with her, when she had snatched off her hat and jacket, exclaiming: "it does not matter; i can go when you are away. i am not a child, stephen, to be treated in such a way as this." he stood looking down at her, more in sorrow than in anger, and beckoning me to follow, he went up to his attic and turned to his model, but sat down thinking, with his head upon his hand. "can i do anything to help you, hallett?" i said anxiously; and he roused himself directly, and smiled in my face. "no, antony," he said, "nothing. i could only ask you to follow her, and be a spy upon her actions, and that would degrade us both. poor child! i cannot win her confidence. it is my misfortune, not my fault. i am no ladies' man, antony," he continued bitterly. "here, let us try the model. i meant to have finished to-night; let us see how my mistress behaves." he often used to speak in a laughing way of the model as his mistress, after mrs hallett telling him one day that it was the only thing he loved. it was then about nine o'clock, and putting aside reading for that evening, i helped him to fit together the various parts. the framework had been set up and taken down and altered a score of times, for, as may be supposed in such a contrivance as this, with all its complications, it was impossible to make every part at first in its right proportions. in fact, i found out that for quite a couple of years past hallett had been slowly and painfully toiling on, altering, re-making, and re-modelling his plans. it was always the same. no sooner had he by patient enterprise nearly finished, as he thought, than he would find out that some trifle spoiled the unity of the whole machine, and he had had to begin nearly all over again. "there, antony," he said, on the night in question, as he laid down the last wheel, one that he had had specially made for the purpose, "i have got to the end of my thinking to-night. i have looked at the model in every direction; i have tried it from every point of view, and if it is not a success now, and will not work, i shall throw it aside and try no more. what are you smiling at, boy?" "only at you," i said, laughing outright, for we were now, when at his house, on the most familiar terms. "and why?" he said, half amused, half annoyed. "i was thinking of what you so often say to me when i am discouraged and can't get on." "what do you mean?" "`never say die!'" i replied, laughing. "i know you'll try again, and again, till you get the thing right and make it go." "should you?" he said, looking at me curiously. "of course i would," i cried, with my cheeks flushing. "i never would give up with a puzzle at home, and this is only a big puzzle. it seems, too, as if we always get a little bit nearer to success." "yes," he said, nipping his lips together; "that's what makes it so enticing. it seems to lure me on and on, like a will-o'-the-wisp in a marsh. you're right, antony, my lad; never say die! i must and will succeed." "hurray!" i cried, pretending to throw up my cap. "success to hallett's great invention! patent, of course?" "yes," he said, with a sigh; "but where is the money to come from for the patent?" "suppose we finish it first," i said, laughing. "right, my young wisepate," he cried; "but, good heavens! it's eleven o'clock. come, sir, pack off home to your lodging." "why, i thought we were to set the model going to-night?" i said, in a disappointed tone. "yes, i did mean it," he said, fitting a couple of cog-wheels one into the other. "but it is too late now." "let's try for another hour," i said eagerly. "no, no, my boy. i don't like you to be out so late. mr revitts will be annoyed." "he's away on duty," i said. "just another hour, and then you can walk part of the way home with me." "well, just an hour," he said, with his pale face flushing with pleasure; and we set to at once, he fitting together, while i polished and oiled wheels and spindles, and handed them and the various screws to him to fit in their places. the model was as intricate as a clock, and there were endless little difficulties to combat; but there was something so fascinating in the task as the bright brass wheels were placed in order, and it begat such an intense longing to see it in motion, executing in miniature the great desire of hallett's life, that we forgot all about time, and kept steadily on till there were only a few screws to insert and nuts to tighten, and the task would be done. hallett looked up at me as he re-trimmed the lamp by which we worked, and i across the table at him, laughing at his puzzled face, for we had unconsciously been at work over three hours, and it was past two. "this is dreadful, antony," he exclaimed, with a comical look of chagrin on his face. "i seem fated to lead you into all sorts of dissipation. what are we to do? i cannot let you go home so late as this. you must lie down here." "i'm not a bit sleepy," i said, "but i am hungry." "then you shall have some supper," he said dreamily, and with his eyes fixed upon his model, forgetting me the next moment, as with his dexterous fingers he tried the action of one or other of the wheels. "it's a pity to leave it now," i cried. "yes, yes," he said with a sigh; "it is a pity: but it must be left. i dare--" he ceased talking, becoming completely abstracted in his task of screwing on a nut, and without speaking i helped and watched and helped until quite an hour and a half more had glided by, when with a look of triumph he stood erect, for the task was done. "she's finished, antony," he cried, and in the elate eager face before me i seemed to see some one quite different to the stern, quiet compositor i met daily at the great printing-office by fetter lane. i was as delighted as he, and together we stood gazing down at the bright, beautiful bit of mechanism--the fruit of years of toil and endless thought; but as i gazed at it a strange dull feeling of anxiety came over me, and i glanced timorously at hallett, for the thought flashed across my mind: "what will he say now if it fails?" i literally trembled with dread as this thought forced its way home, and with a choking sensation at my throat i watched his eager, elated face each moment becoming more joyous and full of pride; and the more i witnessed his pleasure, the more i feared lest his hopes should be dashed. "why, it's daybreak, antony," he said, drawing up the blind. "my poor boy, what a thoughtless wretch i am. it is cruel to you. come and lie down directly." "no," i said eagerly, "i want to see the model going." "and so do i, antony," he cried passionately; "but now the time has come, my boy, i dare not try. i feel a horrible dread of failure, and i must cover it over with a cloth, and leave it till i feel more calm." he took up the large black cloth with which he had been in the habit of covering it from the dust, and stood gazing down at the bright brass model which had begun to glisten in the soft pure morning light now stealing in from amidst the london chimney-pots, while a couple of sparrows seated upon the parapet set up a cheery chirp. i felt that i dared not speak, but as if i should have liked to lead him away from the infatuation of his life. somehow i knew that it would break down, and the anguish he must feel would be something i could not bear to see; and yet, combined with this, i shared his longing to see the model at work--the beautiful little piece of mechanism that was to produce a revolution in printing--turning easily, smoothly, and well. as i gazed at his eager, anxious face, the pale light in the sky changed to a soft warm flush; bright flecks of orange and gold sent their reflections into the dingy garret, and seemed to illumine hallett's countenance, as with straining eyes and parted lips he stood there cloth in hand. "antony," he said, in a low hoarse voice, "i am a coward. i feel like a gambler who risks his all upon a stake, and dare not look upon the numbers--upon the newly cast dice. no, no, i dare not try it now; let it rest till to-night." as he spoke he covered it carefully with the black cloth, but only to snatch it away, apostrophising it the while. "no, no," he cried; "it is like covering you with a pall and saying you are dead, when, you, the birth of my brains, are ready to leap into new life--new life indeed--the life of that which has had no existence before. antony, boy," he said exultingly, "what time could be more fitting than the birth of a new day for my invention to see the light? throw open the window and let in the glow of sunshine and sweet fresh air. it is unsullied yet, and it will give us strength for our--for our--" he hesitated, and his exulting tone changed to one of calm resignation. it was as if he had felt the shadow of failure coming on, and he said softly: "our triumph, antony; or, god help me, fortitude to bear our failure!" i had opened the window, and the soft, refreshing morning air floated into the room, seeming to bring with it a suggestion of the scents of the sweet, pure country; and now, in the midst of the silence, broken only by the chirping of the sparrows, and the distant rattle of the wheels of some market-cart, i saw hallett's countenance grow stern as he placed a little reel of thin paper, narrow as a ribbon, upon a spindle, and then, motioning to me to go to the handle which was to set the model in motion, he stood there with set teeth, and i turned. there was a clicking, humming noise, the whirring of wheels, and the rattle of the little cogs; the ribbon of paper began to run off its spool, and pass round a tiny cylinder; and at that moment the little model seemed illumined by a brilliant ray of sunshine, which darted in at the open window. then the light seemed to be glorifying hallett's face, and i was about to utter a cheer, when i felt a jar, and a shock from the fingers that held the handle run right up my arm. there was a sharp, grating noise, a tiny, piercing shriek as of tortured metal; and in place of the busy glistening, whirring wheels an utter stillness. a cloud crossed the rising sun, and with a bitter sigh hallett stooped down and picked up the black cloth, which he softly and reverently drew over the wreck of his work, as i stood with dilated eyes looking at him aghast. "poor model," he said softly, "dead so soon!" and with a sad, weary air of resignation as he smiled at me: "it was a very short life, antony. let us go down, my boy. you must be wearied out." i followed him on to the landing without a word, and after he had locked up the attic he led the way softly to the sitting-room, where he lit a fire and we had some breakfast, for it was too late to think of bed. shortly afterwards we walked down together to the office, and i saw him no more till the day's work was done. chapter twenty nine. another wakeful night. stephen hallett was in too much trouble to speak to me about the model that evening. mrs hallett was in tears, and full of repinings, and linny was out, it seemed, when her brother had returned. i soon found that he did not wish me to stay, and being tired out, i made the best of my way back to caroline street, and went to bed to sleep heavily, dreaming that hallett and i were working away at the model, but as fast as ever we got it nearly to perfection, mr blakeford came and stood by to throw in the pieces of the stick with which he had been beaten by mr wooster, and every time he did so the little model was broken. then the whole scene of the flogging seemed to take the place of hallett's attic, and i saw mr blakeford sit down in a chair, panting, bloody, and exhausted, and he kept on saying in a low hoarse voice, "antony, lad, water!" it was very terrible to see him sitting there by the light of the office gas, for though i wanted to help him, the power was not there, and, strive how i would, i could not get to his side, or fetch what he asked for. "antony, lad, water!" his voice sounded like a groan, and i knew he must be very bad; but still i could not help him, and the bitter moan with which he appealed to me seemed to cut me to the heart. "antony, lad, water!" there it was again, and i started up to find myself in bed, with a candle burning in the room, and revitts, with his hat on the floor, his coat torn open, and his face besmeared with the blood flowing from a cut in the forehead, was seated close beside his bed, evidently half fainting. "antony, lad, water?" he moaned; and leaping out of bed and hurrying on some clothes, i tried to give him what help i could, but in a strangely confused way; for i was, as it were, in a dream, consequent upon the deep sleep succeeding a night without my usual rest. i held a glass of water to his lips, however, from which he drank with avidity. and then, awakening more to the state in which he was, and realising that it was not a dream, i set to work and sponged and bound up the cut with a handkerchief, to find, however, to my horror, that there was another terrible cut on the back of his head, which was also bleeding profusely. my next idea was to go for a doctor, but i reflected that i ought to first bind up the other wound, and this i did, leaving him in the chair, with his chest and head lying over on the bed, looking so white that a chill of horror shot through me, for i fancied that he was dying. i knew there was a doctor's two streets off, and i ran to where the red bull's-eye in the lamp shone out like a danger signal; rang the night-bell; heard a window above me open, and, after explaining my business and what was the matter, the medical man promised to come. i ran back to find that revitts had not moved, but that my attempts to bandage his wounds had proved to be ineffectual. i did what more i could, though, and then sat horror-stricken and silent, holding the poor fellow's hand, speaking to him at intervals, but eliciting nothing but a moan. it seemed as if the doctor would never come, and i was about to rouse up some of the people in the house when i heard the bell, and ran to admit him. he looked curiously at me as i stood there, candle in hand, and as i closed the door he said gruffly: "a drunken fall, i suppose?" "oh no, sir," i said hastily. "mr revitts never drinks." "humph?" he ejaculated; and i led him up to where revitts sat. "policeman, eh?" said the doctor; "this is a job for the surgeon to the division, my man. mustn't leave him to bleed to death, though." he slipped off his coat, and, exerting his strength, lifted poor revitts on to the bed, after which he removed my bandages and made an examination. "hold the candle nearer, boy, nearer still. that's right. you won't singe his hair. if you do it won't matter, for i must clip it off short. humph! some one has given him a pretty topper with a thick stick, and he must have fallen with his head on the edge of a step. terrible cuts?" "but will they kill him, sir?" i faltered, feeling quite sick at the sight of the wounds. "we won't let them, my man. come, hold up, you mustn't, let that turn you faint." "i--i won't, sir," i said. "that's right, my man. nothing like a little will and determination. we men must leave fainting to the girls. that's right; basin and sponge and towel. we'll soon put him straight. now that case out of my pocket. that's well. hold the candle nearer. no snuffers? well, use your fingers. dirty trick, but handy--fingery, i ought to say." he kept on talking--half-playfully, while with his bright scissors he clipped the hair away close from revitts' forehead, and then, cutting up some plaister in strips, he rapidly bandaged the cuts, after bringing the edges of the wounds together with a few stitches from a needle and some silk. "poor fellow! he has got a sad knocking about," the doctor said kindly, for now the annoyance at being called out of bed was over he was deeply interested in his case. "i wonder some of his fellow-constables did not take him to the hospital. where did you find him?" i told him how i was astonished by finding revitts at my bedside. "ah yes, i see," he said. "hurt and half-insensible, and nature intervenes. education says, take him to the hospital; instinct bids him, animal-like, creep to his hole to die." "to die, sir?" i cried, catching his hand. "die? no: nonsense, boy. i was only speaking metaphorically. don't you see?" "yes, sir," i said. "no, you don't, you young humbug," he retorted sharply. "you don't know what a metaphor is." "yes, sir, it's a figure of speech in which one idea is used instead of another." "hallo!" he said; "why, how do you get your living?" "i'm a reading-boy at a printer's, sir." "oh! are you? i should have thought you were reading-boy to a professor of language. well, we mustn't forget our patient. give me a glass, boy." "will a teacup do, sir?" "oh yes, and a teaspoon. that's right," he said; and, emptying a little phial into the cup, he proceeded to give poor revitts some of the stimulus it contained. "there," he said, "he's coming round, poor fellow; but i daresay he'll be a bit shaky in the head. he mustn't get up; and you must give notice at his station as soon as it's light, or to the first policeman you see." "but you don't think he'll die, sir?" "die, my man? no. a great stout fellow like that is not likely to die from a crack or two on the head." i drew a long breath of relief, and soon after the doctor left, bidding me not be alarmed if i found his patient slightly delirious. it was no pleasant task, sitting there alone, watching by my poor friend, and many times over i felt so alarmed at his condition that i rose to go and rouse up some of the people of the house; but whenever i reached the door the doctor's reassuring words came back, and, feeling that he must know what was right, i sat by the bedside, holding revitts' hand till towards morning, when he began to move uneasily and to mutter and throw about his arms, ending by seeming to wake from a troubled sleep. "where am i?" he said sharply. "here at home, in bed," i said. "who's that?" "it is i, bill, don't you know me?" "yes, yes, i know you!" he said. "oh, my head, my head!" "what was it? how was it done?" i said. there was a pause, and then, in a weary way: "i don't know--i can't recollect. everything's going round. yes, i know: i heard a little girl call out for help, and i saw a fellow dragging her towards an open door, and i went at him." "yes, bill. well?" "that's all. i don't know anything else. oh, my head, my head!" "but did he hit you?" i asked. "yes, i think so, and i went down," he groaned; "and i don't know any-- any more, but i should know that fellow out of a thousand, and--" he began muttering to himself, and as i bent over him i fancied i made out the word "staff," but all else was unintelligible, and the poor fellow sank into a heavy sleep which seemed likely to last. soon after seven i got the landlady to come and sit with him while i ran to the police-station, and told the inspector on duty about revitts' state. "there," he exclaimed to another officer, "i told you so. he's too steady a fellow to have gone wrong. all right, my man, i'll send on the surgeon, and we'll see what's to be done. you don't know how it was?" i told him all i knew, and then ran on to hallett's to ask him to get me excused at the office. i found him looking very pale, but linny was not visible; and then i told him about revitts' state. "it's very strange," he exclaimed. "linny came home in trouble last night. she said some man had insulted her, and when she called for help a policeman ran up; and she left them struggling together while she made her escape and came home." "then it must have been revitts who helped her," i said; and i then told him that i wanted to stay with the poor fellow. "i'll arrange all that for you, antony," he said quietly; and i made the best of my way back to caroline street, to find that poor revitts had not moved, only kept on muttering where he had been laid by the doctor; and i took the watcher's place, made tea for him, and spoke to him again and again, but without result. the police surgeon came soon after with the inspector i had seen, asked me a few questions as he examined the injuries, and then i saw him tighten his lips. "hadn't he better be taken to the infirmary, sir?" the inspector asked. "no," was the reply; "he must not be moved." then, turning to me: "you had better get some one to come and nurse him, my lad," he said; "mother, sister, or somebody. i'll call in again in the evening." i knew from this that the poor fellow must be seriously hurt, and had i wanted confirmation, i had it in the delirious mutterings that now came from his lips. i sat by him in great trouble, wondering what i should do, when the doctor i had fetched called in, who, on learning that the divisional surgeon had been, nodded his satisfaction and turned to go. "please tell me, sir," i said, "is he very, very bad?" "well, bad enough, my lad; you see, he has got concussion of the brain, and i daresay he will be ill for some time, but i do not anticipate anything serious. he must have a nurse." as soon as he had gone i sat and thought for a few minutes what i ought to do. miss carr was very kind and generous. if i asked her she would pay for a nurse; but no, i would not ask her without first consulting hallett. he would help me in my difficulty, i felt sure, especially as it was probable that linny was the girl poor revitts had protected. but hallett would not be back till evening, and then perhaps he would--no, he would be sure to come in. i sat thinking, and the landlady came up, full of bewailings about her injured lodger, and in her homely way promised to come and wait on him from time to time. then a bright thought occurred to me. i would write and tell mary that revitts was hurt, for i felt that she ought to know, and hastily taking pen and paper, i wrote her word that my friend was very ill, and asked her to tell me the address of some of his relations, that i might send them word. i did not forget to add a postscript, urging her to secrecy as to my whereabouts, for my dread of mr blakeford was as great as ever. seizing my opportunity when revitts was more quiet, i slipped out and posted the letter, running back panting to find that a lady had come--so the landlady said--during my absence, and, rushing upstairs i stood staring with amazement on finding linny in the room taking off her jacket and hat. "you here, linny?" i exclaimed. "yes," she said quietly. "why not?" "was it you, then, that poor revitts helped last night?" "yes," she said, with a shiver, and she turned white. "yes, poor fellow. it was very brave of him, and i have come to help him in return." "but does--does stephen know?" "how can he," she said meekly, "when he is at the office?" "but i am sure he would not approve of your coming," i said stoutly. "i can't help that," she replied quietly. "he will think it his duty to find fault, and i think it mine to come and help to nurse this poor fellow who was hurt in serving me." "but your mother--mrs hallett?" "i have arranged for some one to go in and wait upon her till i go back," said linny quietly. "now, what had i better do?" i could think of nothing better than to suggest some beef-tea, and she snatched at the notion, running out to fetch the material; and soon after having it simmering by the fire, while she tidied the room in a way only possible to a woman; and as she busied herself in a quiet, quick fashion, i could not help noticing how pale and subdued she seemed. it was very evident that her nerves had had a severe shock on the previous night, and as i gazed at the pretty, soft little face and figure, bending themselves so earnestly to the task in hand, i could hardly believe it was the same giddy, coquettish girl who caused her brother so much concern. the day wore slowly by, and in spite of my efforts and real anxiety, i could not keep awake, but caught myself dozing off sometimes to start up, feeling horribly guilty, and ready to excuse myself to linny on the plea that i had had hardly any sleep for two nights. "the more need for me to come, antony," she said quietly, and bidding me lie down for an hour or two, she took out her work and, seated herself by the sick man's pillow. she woke me up at last to have a sort of tea-dinner with her, after i had seen that revitts remained perfectly insensible, and then the evening wore on, the surgeon came and nodded his satisfaction at finding a nurse there, said that the patient was going on all right, but must have time, and took his leave. at half-past eight, just as i had anticipated, hallett arrived, and started with surprise on seeing his sister. "you here?" he said, with an angry look upon his brow. "yes, stephen," she said quietly; "i have come to help nurse him." "it was an ill-advised step," he said sternly. "you did not know that this was the man who protected you." "i felt so sure of it that i came to see," she replied. "don't be angry with me, stephen," she whispered. "i owned to you last night that i was in fault, and meant to do better." "yes, and refused to answer my questions," he replied. "you do not tell me whom you went to see." "is it not enough that i have promised you i'll go no more?" she replied with quivering lips. "yes, yes, my child," he said tenderly, as he took her in his arms and laid his cheek against her forehead. "it is enough, and i will not press you. dear linny, indeed i strive for your good." "i know that, stephen," she cried with a wild burst of tears, and, flinging her arms round his neck, she kissed him again and again. "my own brave, good brother," she said; "and i've been so ungrateful and selfish! oh, stephen, i'm a beast--a wretch!" she sobbed. "hush, hush, little one," he said; and then, starting, he held her at arm's length and gazed full in her eyes. "why, linny," he exclaimed, as a light seemed to have flashed across his mind, "it was that man--you went to meet--who insulted you." she turned away her face, and hung her head, shivering as he spoke, and weeping bitterly. "it was," he cried; "you do not deny it. the villain!" "please, please don't, stephen," she sobbed in a low, piteous voice. "linny!" he cried hoarsely; and his face looked terrible. "if i knew who it was, i believe i should kill him?" "stephen," she wailed, "pray--pray! we are not alone." "there is only antony here," he said, "and he is like a brother." then, making an effort over himself, he strained the little panting figure to his breast, and kissed her tenderly. "it is all past, my darling," he said to her softly, and he smoothed her hair with his hand, as if she had been his child. "i'll say no more, dear, for you have promised me." "yes; and i will keep my word, stephen." he kissed her again, and loosed her, to stand with brows knit with trouble. "i do not like your coming here, linny," he cried at last. "why not, dear?" she said, laying her hands upon his shoulder. "it is an earnest of my promise. he came to me when i was in trouble." "yes," he said; "you are right," and after looking at the patient he sat down and talked to us in a low tone. "is it not nearly time for you to go back, linny?" hallett said at last. "back!" she said; "i am going to sit up with antony; the poor fellow must not be left. the doctor said so." hallett took a turn up and down the room, and then stopped. "you have had no sleep for two nights, antony," he said. "lie down. i will sit up with my sister, and watch by poor revitts' side." i protested, but it was in vain; and at last i lay down in my clothes to watch the faces of brother and sister by the shaded lamp, till my eyes involuntarily closed, and i opened them again to see the two faces in the same positions, but without the lamp, for there was the morning light. chapter thirty. revitts' nurse arrives. hallett left quite early, to see that mrs hallett was properly attended to, and he moreover undertook to speak to either mr ruddle or mr lister about my absence, as, joined to my desire to stay with poor revitts, hallett wished me to bear his sister company. our patient was on the whole very quiet, but at times he moved his head to and fro and talked loudly, much being unintelligible, but i saw linny's countenance change several times as she heard him threaten the man he looked upon as an enemy. "can i do anything for you?" said linny to him on one occasion, as he tried to raise himself upon his arm and stared at her wildly. "'taint as if i'd got my staff out to him, you know," he said in a whisper. "he's a coward, that's what he is, and i shall know him again, and if i do come acrost him--ah!" linny shrank away, with her eyes looking wild and strange, so that i thought she was frightened by his words, and i interposed and put my arm under the poor fellow's head. "lie down, bill," i said. "does your head hurt you?" "i don't mind about my head," he muttered, "but such a coward; treat a little bit of a girl like that. where's my notebook? here, it's time i went. where's that boy?" he cried angrily; "i know what london is. i won't have him stop out of a night." he sank back exhausted, and as i turned from him to speak to linny, i saw that she was in tears. "he frightens you," i said; "but you needn't be afraid." "oh no! i'm not," she cried; "it's only because i'm low and nervous. i shall be better soon." the surgeon came twice that day, and said the case was serious, but that there was no cause for alarm. "he gives no clue, i suppose, to who struck him, my boy?" he said. "no, sir," i replied; "he talks about some man, and says he would know him again." "the police are trying hard to find out how it was. if they could find the girl it would be easy." i was just going to say, "here she is, sir!" when i happened to glance at linny, who was pale as ashes, and stood holding up her hand to me to be silent. this confused me so that i hardly understood what the surgeon said, only that he wanted a stronger and more mature person to attend to revitts; but when i told him that the landlady came up to help he was satisfied, and left, saying that he should come in again. he was no sooner gone than linny caught me by the arm. "oh, what an escape!" she cried; "antony, you know how wilful and cruel i have been to poor steve?" "yes," i said, nodding my head. "and you know how i have promised him that i will always do as he wishes?" "yes, i know that too," i said; "and i hope you will." "i will--indeed i will, antony," she wailed; "but please promise me, pray promise me, that no one shall ever know besides us that it was i whom mr revitts here--a--protected." "but the wretch of a fellow who behaved so badly to you, and beat poor revitts like this, ought to be punished." "no, no--no, no?" she cried excitedly; "let it all pass now, antony-- dear antony, for my sake." "i like you, linny," i said; "but i like dear old revitts, too. he has been the best of friends to me, and i don't see why a friend of yours should escape after serving him like this." "he--he is not a friend of mine now," she said, half hysterically; "but, dear antony, i could not bear for him to be punished. it was in a fit of passion. i had made him angry first. please, please don't say any more--i cannot bear it!" she sank down on the hearth-rug, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly, while i felt, boy-like, powerless to say anything to comfort her, till i exclaimed: "well, i won't tell or say anything i know, linny, if you will keep your word to stephen." "i will--indeed i will, dear antony," she cried, starting up and catching both my hands. "i was very, very foolish, but i know better now, and it--it--it is all past." she said those last words in such a piteous, despairing way, looking so heart-broken, that my sympathies were now all on her side, and i promised her again that i would not tell revitts or the police that she was the girl who had been in question. i repented of my promise later on, but at my time of life it was not likely that i should know how ready a woman who loves is to forgive the lapses of him who has won her heart, and of course i could not foresee the complications that would arise. the surgeon came again, as he had promised, and after the examination of the patient, ordered some ice to be obtained to apply to his head, and directly he had gone i started off to fetch it, thinking as i did so that hallett would soon be with us. i was not long in getting a lump of bright, cold, clear ice, and on hurrying back, i heard voices in the room, when, to my surprise and delight, there stood mary, but looking anything but pleased. she had thrown a large bundle on the floor, her large paisley shawl across the foot of the bed, her umbrella on the table, and a basket crammed full of something or another was on a chair. as for mary herself, she was standing, very red in the face, her arms akimbo, her bonnet awry, and a fierce angry look in her eyes, before poor linny, who was shrinking away from her, evidently in no little alarm. "oh, antony?" she cried, "i'm so glad you've come! who is this woman?" "who's this woman, indeed!" cried mary, now boiling over in her wrath; "`this woman' indeed! perhaps you'll tell her that i'm a poor deceived, foolish, trusting creature, who left her place at a moment's notice to come and nuss him, and then find as i ain't wanted, and that he's already got his fine doll of a madam to wait on him." "oh, mary!" i cried; "you dear foolish old thing!" "yes, of course, that's what i said i was, master antony, and even you turn agen me. but i might have known that such a fellow as william revitts would have half-a-dozen fine madams ready to marry him." this was accompanied by pantings, and snorts, and little stamps of the foot, and a general look about poor mary as if she were going to pull off her bonnet, jump upon it, and tear down her hair. "oh, you foolish old thing!" i cried, flying at her and literally hugging her in my delight at seeing her so soon, in the midst of my trouble. "be quiet, master antony," she cried wrathfully, but throwing one arm round me as she spoke, in reply to my embrace. "but i won't stand it, that i won't." "but, my good woman," faltered linny. "don't you `good woman' me, slut!" cried mary furiously. "i was going to give up and let you nurse him and till him, for aught i cared, but i won't now. he's engaged to me these four years, and he's mine, and this is my place and room, and out you go, and the sooner the better; and--as for b--b--b--bill--do take your hand from before my mouth, master antony! you're a boy and don't understand things. now, then, madam, you pack!" "mary, be quiet!" i cried; "this is mr hallett's sister, who kindly came to help nurse poor bill till you could come. bill does not know her; he never saw her before, but once." "only once?" said mary suspiciously. "no, and then only for a minute. how could you be so foolish?" "because--because--because--" said mary, bursting out into a passion of sobbing, "because my heart was half broke about my boy, and i only stopped to pack up a bundle and came--and then--when i found that pretty darling here, i--i--oh, my dear--my dear--my dear!" she cried, flinging herself on her knees at linny's feet, clutching her dress, and burying her wet face in the folds; "please--please--please forgive me, and don't take no notice of my mad, foolish words. i've--i've--i've got such a temper! it's a curse to me--and i was nearly distracted. some day, p'r'aps, you'll feel as bad and jealous as i did. please--please forgive me!" "oh, yes, yes, yes!" cried linny, whose tears now began to flow, and who, kneeling down in turn, drew poor mary's face to her breast, and the two remained thus, while i went and looked out of the window. "please--pray--forgive me!" sobbed mary. "oh yes, yes, i do, indeed!" whispered linny. "antony is right; i never saw mr revitts but once, and i believe he is a very good man, and loves you dearly." "that he is, and that he does," cried mary, raising her red face, and throwing back her hair. "though i don't know why he should care for such a crooked-tempered, rough-tongued thing as i am." i thought i could understand why, as i saw mary's lit-up face, with her bonnet fallen back, and in spite of her distress looking quite as handsome as she was warm-hearted. "but you do forgive me, dear?" she faltered, kissing linny's hands again and again. "forgive you?" cried linny, kissing her ruddy cheek, "of course i do; you couldn't help making the mistake." and, as if feeling that she was the cause of the trouble, linny gave her such a look of tender sympathy that poor mary was obliged to crouch down quite low on the floor again, and hug herself tight, and rock to and fro. immediately after, though, she was hastily wiping her eyes on the silken strings of her bonnet, which she tore off and sent flying to the other end of the room before dashing at me and giving me a hug, and then going down on her knees by revitts' pillow, and laying her cheek against his bandaged forehead. "my poor old boy," she whispered softly, "as if i could stay a minute from him!" the next moment she was up, and giving a great gulp, as if to swallow down the emotion caused by revitts' appearance, she forced a smile upon her face, completely transforming it, and quickly but quietly dashed at her basket. "i hadn't time to do much, my dears," she said to linny and me collectively: "but i thought a pair o' soles and a chicken must be right for the poor boy. now, if you'll only tell me where he keeps his pepper and salt, and the frying-pan and saucepans, i can get on. my sakes, poor boy, what a muddle he did live in, to be sure!" we had to stop mary in her culinary preparations by assuring her that the doctor had ordered only beef-tea. "then he may have chicken-broth, my dears," she said; "i'm an old nuss, you know, though i wouldn't attend to mr blakeford--eh, master antony?--for fear i should give him his lotion for outward application inside. but i can nuss, and not a step do i stir from this floor till i've made my poor old bill well. oh, if i only knew who done it!" she cried, with a flash of fierce rage; and as she glanced at linny, the latter shrank away guiltily. mary read her action wrongly, and plumped herself once more at the poor girl's feet. "don't you mind me, my dear!" she cried kissing her hands and her dress. "i'm a stupid, rough, jealous thing, and i was all on fire then, but i'm not now, and i humbly ask your pardon; as i says, god bless you, for coming to help my poor dear boy!" there was another burst of sobbing here, and another embrace, when mary jumped up again, all smiles, to apply a little fresh ice to the patient's head, and gently coo over him, as if he were a baby. after which, and having satisfied herself that the chicken-broth was progressing favourably, poor mary felt it her duty to plump at linny's feet again, but she jumped up in confusion, as she heard the stairs crack as if some one were coming, and then she looked inquiringly at me, as the door softly opened and hallett came in. "mr hallett," i said, "this is my dear old mary, mr revitts' friend, and she's come up to nurse him. mary, this is miss hallett's brother." "which i'm glad to see him," said mary, making a bob, and then growing redder in the face as she glanced at linny, as if afraid that her late ebullition would be exposed. "and i'm very glad to see you, mary," said hallett, smiling and holding out his hand, which mary took after interposing her clean pocket handkerchief, on the score that she had been cooking. "antony often talked to me about you." "have he, though?" said mary, darting a gratified look at me. "often, of your great kindness to him. your coming has helped us out of a great difficulty." "and your dear sister's coming's put my heart at rest, for i didn't know, sir, what gin-drinking wretches might be neglecting my poor boy." "and how is the patient?" said hallett, going to the bedside. "the doctor says he is going on all right," i replied. "is he a good doctor?" said mary sharply. "he is certain to be an eminent man," said hallett quietly; and his words partially pacified mary. "because if he ain't," said mary, "money shan't stand in the way of his having the best in london." "mary," said hallett, in his quiet telling way, and with a look that made poor mary his firm friend, "a good surgeon will tell you that he can do much, but that the recovery of a patient principally depends upon the nurse. i see that mr revitts is safe in that respect, and i shall be only too glad to hear of his getting well." mary seemed to have a ball rising in her throat, for she could not speak, and this time she forgot to place her pocket handkerchief over her hand, as she caught that of the visitor and kissed it. "you can be quite at rest, antony," hallett said then. "mr ruddle said he was sorry to hear about your friend, and he should leave it to your good sense to come back to work as soon as you could. mr lister is away--ill." i fancied that he knit his brows as he spoke, but it may have been fancy. then, turning to linny, he said: "i am glad you are set at liberty, linny. our mother is very unwell, shall we go now?" linny nodded her assent, and put on her hat and jacket; but before they went mary found it necessary to go down on her knees again, and in a whisper to ask linny's pardon; all of which hallett took as an expression of gratitude, and shook hands warmly as he left. i went with him down to the door to say good-night, and as we parted i asked him not to think i was neglecting him, now he was in such trouble with his model. "i do not, my dear boy; and i never shall think ill of you for being faithful to your friends. good-night; the model is buried for the present. when you can come again, we'll try once more to bring it back to life." i stood watching them as they went together beneath the street lamps, and i was glad to see linny clinging trustingly to her brother's arm. "poor linny!" i thought to myself. "she's very fond of somebody who behaves badly to her. i wonder who it can be." chapter thirty one. how mary broke down. few as the minutes of my absence had been, mary had done a good deal towards tidying up the room, and as i entered i could see her bonnet and shawl hanging lovingly up against the wall, side by side with poor bill's hat and greatcoat, just as if they had newly entered into the holy state of matrimony. there was beginning to be an appetising odour of chicken in the room, the bundle was tucked out of sight, the chairs in order, and it was plain to see that a clever housewife had been at work. "oh my, how you have growed, my dear!" whispered mary ecstatically. "i never did see a boy improve so. and only to think of your running away from old blakeford and finding out." she ran here to the bed to see if her sweetheart was all right, and then turned to me with open arms. "give us a kiss, dear," she cried, and in a moment i was hugged tight in her arms and kissed and fondled again and again. "i _am_ glad to see you, you can't tell how glad," she cried softly, "and it was good of you to write. no sooner did i get your letter, than i ups and tells mrs blakeford as i was going away directly, because my friend in london was ill." "but you did not say i wrote, mary?" i cried in agony. "do you think i was such a silly, my dear? no, i'd got the letter safe in here," she said, thrusting her hand inside her dress. "well, as i was saying--stop a moment--let me look at the broth." she raised the lid, shut it again, had another look at revitts, and then went on: "who should come in but old blakeford, and he said gruffly that they couldn't snare me, and, `can't spare me!' i says; `well, you just must, for i'm going.' "`then we shan't pay you your wages,' says old blakeford. `then i will make you,' says i, `so now then. i'm not going to have people die for want of help, to please you.' "`who is it then as is dying?' says mrs blakeford. "`it's my sweetheart, mum, if you must know,' i says. "`then all i can say is, that it's very indelicate of you, a young unmarried woman, to go up and nurse a single man.' "`no more indelicate, mum,' i says, `than for you to want me to nuss mr blakeford when he was ill.' "`but you didn't do it,' she says. "`no, mum,' i says, `but you wanted me to, and what's more, if the whole world and his wife come to me and told me it wasn't right for me to go, i should go; so now then.' "`but when will you come back then, mary?' says mrs blakeford. "`not at all, mum,' i says, `for after going and nursing a single man as is dying for aught i know, i shan't be fit company for the folks in this house. i'm going now directly, mum, and i shall leave my box and send for it and my wages too.'" here mary had another look at the patient and the cooking. "i wasn't long getting off, i can tell you, and glad enough i was to get away. i'd ha' left long enough ago, only i didn't want to make any more changes till the big one, and there was only one as i minded leaving." "and that was little hetty," i said, as i understood her big change to mean her marriage. "yes, my dear, you're right--little hetty; and she came and sobbed and cried ever so, with her dear arms round my neck, till i told her that perhaps i might see you, and asked her if i might take you her love; and she sent it to you, and said she always wore your brooch." "and is she quite well?" i said, with sparkling eyes. "yes, and grows the neatest, prettiest, best girl that ever was. and now, my dear, i'm come to nuss my pore william till he's well, and then--" "yes, mary?" for she had paused. "i shall get a place somewhere in london; for i shan't go back." then, after another look at the patient, she came back to me. "could you drink a cup o' tea, dear?" she said. "yes, mary, and you must want something." "well, my dear, i do begin to feel a bit faint, for i hadn't only just begun my breakfast when your letter came, and i haven't had nothing since." the result was that the kettle was soon made to boil, and mary seemed quite delighted to be pouring out for me and making the toast. "lor', my dear, now it do seem like old times!" she cried. "only you've grown to look so handsome and well, mary," i said. "do i, my dear? well, i am glad. not as i care myself, but some people might. but, lor', i never looked well down at old blakeford's. my! what a row there was because you run away--" "was there?" i said with a shudder, half pleasure, half delight. "warn't there?" said mary, who kept running to the bedside at the slightest movement. "bless your 'art, old blakeford was nearly mad, and miss hetty 'most cried her eyes out, till i told her you'd be happier away, and then she cried 'em out more than ever, for fear her par should catch you. he was out days and days, until his leg got so bad he was really obliged to go to bed. the dog bit him, you know, the night you run away. then there was the upset before the magistrates, and that mr wooster somehow managed to get the day, because master--i mean old blakeford--hadn't got the right witness. and that made master--i mean old blakeford--worse. and now i don't think i've any more to tell you, only you ain't half eating your toast. my sakes! it do put me in mind of old times, for it was precious dull when you was gone." "were you cross with me for running away, mary?" "i was then, for not telling me, but i soon got to think it was quite right." "i hope it was, mary," i said; "but did you ever see old mr rowle?" "what, that yellow little man? oh, often; he used to come and talk to me about you, and when i said you was very ungrateful for running away, he used to stick up for you. he didn't come very often, though," continued mary, correcting herself, "because he couldn't smoke in my kitchen, else i believe he'd have come every night to talk about you." a slight moan from poor revitts took mary to the bedside, and very soon after she insisted upon my lying down and going to sleep a bit, and when i awoke the next morning, mary was looking as fresh and wakeful as ever. i don't know to this day how mary managed, for she never seemed to close an eye, but to be always watching over her "pore boy." when i talked about her going to bed, she only laughed, and said that "a good nuss never wanted no sleep." "and now, my dear, you've been kep' away from your work," she said; "so, as soon as you've had your breakfast, you be off. i can manage till you come back. i don't hold with neglecting nothing." she would not hear of opposition, so i left her the field, and went down to the office, where i saw mr hallett looking very pale and stern, and soon after i was at my old work, reading to mr jabez rowle, who seemed very glad to see me back, complimenting me on my reading, by saying i was not quite so stupid as my substitute had been. when i returned to caroline street, i found mary in consultation with the landlady, who then descended, and, to my great delight, revitts was, if anything, better. mary was very glad to see me back, and began to unfold her plans, to wit, that she had found that the front room was to let furnished, and she had taken it of mrs keswick, the landlady; for my use. "it will be better for all of us, my dear," she said, "so just you hold your tongue." i sat up late with mary that night, and the next, and the next, talking about the past and the future, and still she seemed to get no sleep; but she always laughed about it, and declared that she went to sleep with one eye at a time. be that as it may, a more patient, untiring nurse man never had, and right through poor revitts' weary state of delirium she was always by his pillow, always smiling and cheerful through the worst crisis, till, one night, when i returned to be met by her on the stairs; and, finger on lips, she led me into the front room, to fall on my neck, and silently sob as if her heart would break. "oh, mary, mary!" i said, "he's worse; and i thought he seemed so much stronger this morning." "no, no, dear," she sobbed, "he's better. he opened his eyes this afternoon and knowed me, and said: `ah, mary, old gal, is that you?'" poor woman! the pent-up suffering that had been longing to burst forth, and which had all been hidden behind her mask of smiles, had come pouring out, and for the next half-hour mary sobbed and wept in a quiet way till i was in despair. then, to my surprise, she got up in a business-like manner, wiped her eyes, and smiled once more. "there!" she exclaimed, "i'm better now." chapter thirty two. coming off. with revitts better there was no occasion for me to stop in of an evening, and as soon as i could i went on to the halletts', where i was warmly welcomed by the whole family. mrs hallett had a string of troubles to tell me, and interspersed with them i had narratives of how different matters used to be. linny was very affectionate and kind, but i could see that she looked pale and troubled. her pretty face lighted up though, whenever her brother spoke, and i noted the air of satisfaction in hallett's face as he realised how his sister was keeping to her promise. "well, antony," he said cheerily, as soon as mrs hallett had retired, which was always before nine, linny going away to attend upon her. "what do you say: shall we go and look at the model?" "yes," i said eagerly; "i've been longing to have another turn at it." "you are not wearied out then?" "wearied out?" i cried, laughing; "no, and i never shall be till i see it a success." he sighed, but there was a smile upon his lip at the same time; and leading the way upstairs, we were soon busy over the model. i saw at a glance that it had remained untouched, covered with the black cloth, ever since that unfortunate morning, so that i did not need his confirming words as he spoke: "i thought i would leave it till you came." that night and many more were taken up in separating and repairing the broken parts of the little piece of mechanism, and then came the difficult task--how to contrive so that it should not again break down. the days flew by and became weeks, and the weeks months, but still the problem was not solved. experiment after experiment was tried without effect, and it seemed as if hallett's clever brain could only bring the work up to a certain point. then it required the powers of a second brain to carry it on to perfection. meanwhile revitts had gradually recovered, and more than once related to mary and me how, on that unfortunate night, he had been attracted by a slight scuffle and a woman's cry; that he had run up, and the woman had clung to him, which so enraged the man that he had struck him with the heavy stick that he carried, and that was all. "should you know the woman again?" i asked, feeling very guilty as the possessor of linny's secret. "no," he said. "she was only a little thing, quite a girl, and she had her veil down; but i should know the man, and if ever i do get hold of him, if i don't give him a wunner my name ain't revitts." he was still too ill to resume his duties, but he used to go out for a walk every day, leaning on mary's arm, mary herself now taking to the room that had been engaged ostensibly for me. "it's a-coming off, antony," said revitts to me one night, when i had returned from the office in high glee; for i had received a note from miss carr, saying that she wished to see me the next day, she having just returned to town with her sister from a long round of visits, following a tour on the continent. "coming off?" i said, looking from him to mary and back. "don't you take any notice or his nonsense," cried mary, running her arm up to the elbow in one of revitts' stockings. "'tain't nonsense," said revitts, rubbing his hands softly; "it's a-coming off soon as ever i'm quite well." "'tain't," said mary tartly. "i'm going to take another place as soon as ever you're fit to leave." "yes, my dear, so you are," said revitts, smiling at me in a soft, smooth, sheepish way; "a place as you won't never leave no more." "it's all stuff, master antony, and i'm not," cried mary. "tantrums won't save you from it now, my dear," said revitts, shaking his head and pointing to the wall. "i says to myself as soon as ever i began to be able to think again, and see that there shawl and bonnet a-hanging so comfortable-like up again my greatcoat and hat--i says to myself, i says, she's hung up her bonnet now and give in, and it can be mrs william revitts as soon as ever i like." "it's all stuff and nonsense, i tell you. don't listen to him, master antony." "that ain't a real tantrum," said revitts, rubbing his hands; "she's give in--she's give in." "i declare i wouldn't have come a-nigh you, bill, if i'd knowed you'd go on like that before master antony," cried mary, who was perfectly scarlet. "master antony's a gentleman," said revitts, "and he bears witness that you've give in; and, tantrums or no tantrums," he cried, bringing his hand down upon the table with a bang, "you don't go away no more. look at that!" he took a blue official envelope from his pocket and opened it, took out a letter, and smoothed it upon his knee. "that's dictation, that is, antony. that's what that is," he cried, holding up his chin, and giving his head an official roll, as if to settle it in a stock that he was not wearing. "why, where did you get that letter?" cried mary. "brought me this afternoon while you was out shopping," said revitts triumphantly. "look here, antony, that ain't directed to p.c. revitts, that ain't;" and he handed me the envelope, which i read aloud: "`to sergeant revitts, vv division, caroline street, pentonville.'" "`sergeant revitts!'" he said, rising and buttoning up his coat, but pausing to reach down his stiff, shiny stock and buckle it on. "`sergeant revitts,' if you please; and if," he said, walking up and down the room excitedly, "it ain't inspector revitts some day, and after that sooperintendent and a sword, my name ain't bill." "hurrah!" i cried; "i am glad;" and then i caught his arm, for, poor fellow, he was very weak yet, and needed the chair mary placed for him to sit down. "and you so ill and weak still, and talking about such stuff," she cried hastily. "i'm getting round fast enough," said revitts; "it was only the `sergeant' took my breath away a bit; that's all. it's all right, antony. it's a-coming off, ain't it, mary, my dear?" "i am glad, bill. but they couldn't have made a better man a sergeant if they'd tried," said mary evasively. "i said it was a-coming off," said revitts, "ain't it?" he leaned forward, and looked at mary; she, with the stocking on one arm, and the long darning-needle in her hand, held it as if to keep him off. i saw mary's scarlet face gradually raised till her eyes met his, and then a soft, foolish-looking smile began to dawn upon one corner of her lips, pass over to the other, and gradually make them open to show her white teeth, before running right up, and half-closing her eyes. the same kind of smile, but much larger, appeared on revitts' face; and there they sat, smiling at one another, till i took up my cap and went out--even my exit being unnoticed--for another good servant was veritably lost to society. mary's "tantrums" were at an end. chapter thirty three. i have another lesson in love. i felt rather nervous about asking for leave, but summoning up courage the next day, i knocked at the principal's door, and mr ruddle's voice bade me come in. "well, grace," he said, nodding to me pleasantly, "i wanted to see you." i looked at him wonderingly. "only to say how glad i was to hear such a good account of you from mr rowle." "thank you, sir." "but mr grimstone doesn't give you much praise," he continued, with rather a droll look in his eyes; "so i'm afraid you are a very ordinary sort of boy after all. well, what do you want?" "i had a note from miss carr, sir, saying she would like to see me to-day. can i be spared?" "oh yes, certainly--certainly," said the old gentleman. "and look here, my man, you've made a good friend in that lady. try and deserve it-- deserve it." "i will try, sir," i said. "that's right," he said; "and try hard.--well, grimstone, what is it?" the overseer looked from me to his principal and back again, before rustling some papers in his hand in an ill-used way. "it's very hard on me, sir, that more attention isn't paid to the business. here are you and me toiling and moiling all day long to keep the customers right, and mr john at races and steeplechases, and lord knows what--anything but the business!" "you're always grumbling, grimstone," said mr ruddle testily. "here, let me see.--you needn't wait, grace, you can go." i thanked him and hurried off, leaving the two immersed in some business matters, and thinking of nothing else now but my visit. there was a warm welcome for me at westmouth street, and miss carr's eyes looked bright and satisfied, i thought; but i could not help seeing that she was paler and thinner than when i saw her last. "well, antony," she said, after seating me beside her; "it seems an age since we met. what have you been doing?" i told her--busy at the office, and also about mr revitts. "yes," she said thoughtfully. "i was in the neighbourhood of rowford last month, and i--" "you were down there?" i said eagerly. "yes, antony, and i had a long chat with the old clergyman there, when he visited my friends. he knew your father and mother." "oh yes," i said, as a flood of recollections came back. "and he asked me very kindly about you, saying he thought mr blakeford had behaved very badly to mr grace." "i mean to pay mr blakeford every penny my dear father owed him," i said, flushing, and getting up from the couch. "he shall not dare to speak ill of the dead." miss carr looked at me curiously, and i thought her manner was more tender to me as she took my hand and once more drew me to her side. "about this mr revitts, antony," she said; "i think the time has come now when you should have different lodgings." "oh, miss carr!" i exclaimed, "he has been so kind to me, such a good friend; and now poor mary has come up, and they are going to be married, and mary would be terribly disappointed if i went to lodge anywhere else. he's sergeant revitts now: he has been promoted." "if mr and mrs revitts set up a home of their own, that would be different," she said thoughtfully. "but in your new position, antony, you ought to be better provided for than while you were at the office." "in my new position?" i said, hesitating. "yes," she said, smiling; and as i gazed in her face i thought what a happy man mr lister must be. "you said you would like to be an engineer, when i saw you last." "oh yes," i said, "and then i could help mr hallett with his model." there was a little spot of colour in each of her cheeks as i spoke, and a slight knitting of her brows; but she went on: "i have consulted mr ruddle, who has spoken to the proprietors of a large engineering firm, and they have engaged to take you as a pupil." "oh, miss carr!" i cried. "but understand, antony, that it is not merely sitting in an office and handling pen and drawing instruments: as i understand, the pupils have to learn to use lathe and tool, so as to thoroughly understand their profession. shall you mind that?" "mind it?" i said. "do you think i mind dirtying my hands? why, my father had a regular workshop, where we used to make and mend. besides, if i learn all that, i can help mr hallett." "antony," she said, in a weary, half-annoyed way, "don't talk to me of mr hallett. my dear boy, you must not be a hero-worshipper." "i don't know what a hero-worshipper is," i said, feeling hurt; "but mr hallett has been so good to me that it would be ungrateful if i did not love and respect him." the two little spots of colour came in her cheeks again, and there was a strange twitching of her brows. "kinder to you than mr revitts?" she said softly. "oh, he's not like william revitts," i said eagerly. "i can't quite explain it; he's so different. i like revitts, but i always seem to have to teach him. mr hallett teaches me, miss carr. i think he will be a great man." "you foolish boy!" she cried, in a nervous, excited way. "there, then: it is settled. you will go and see mr girtley, at his office in great george street, westminster, and you may hid adieu to the printing-office, and make your first start towards being a professional man as soon as ever you like." "i--i can never be grateful enough to you, miss carr," i said, in a trembling voice. "oh yes, my dear boy, you can. work on and succeed, and you will more than repay me." "then i shall soon be out of debt," i said joyfully. "i hope so, antony," she said sadly; "but don't be too sanguine.--yes?" "mr lister, ma'am," said the servant who had entered. "he would be glad if you would see him for a few minutes." "did--did you tell him i was not alone?" said miss carr, whose face seemed to have turned cold and stern. "no, ma'am, i only took his message." "show mr lister up," she said, in a quiet dignified way; and, as the footman left the room--"go in there, antony, and wait until mr lister has gone. he will not stay long." she pointed to the folding-doors that opened into a larger drawing-room, followed me, and pointing to a table covered with books, returned, leaving the door ajar. the various illustrated books were no little attraction, but the thought of becoming an engineer, and perhaps being of service to mr hallett, kept me from looking at them, and the next moment i heard the little drawing-room door open, and mr lister's voice, every word being perfectly audible. "ah, my dear miriam!" he exclaimed; "why, my dear girl, you look quite pale." i felt very guilty, and as if i were listening purposely to the words passing in the next room; so, taking up a book, i tried to read it, but in spite of my efforts every word came plain and clear, and i heard all. "i have been a little unwell," said miss carr quietly. "my poor girl!" he said tenderly. "ah, you have been away too much! miriam, dear, i want you to listen to me to-day. when am i to make you my prisoner, and keep you from these errant ways?" there was no reply, and a dead silence seemed to fall. "why, miriam, darling," said mr lister, in a tender voice, "you are more unwell than i thought for; why not have advice?" "no, no," she said hastily. "i am quite well, indeed, john." "then why are you so cold and strange and distant? have i offended you, darling?" "oh no, john; indeed, no." "i could not visit you more frequently, miriam. i could not join you abroad, for, as you know, my circumstances are only moderate, and i have to keep very, very close to the business. ruddle does not spare me much. are you annoyed because you think i slight you?" "oh no, no, john--indeed no." "yes, that is it," he cried; "you think i ought to have come down when you were staying at rowford." "can you not believe me, john," she said coldly, "when i tell you that there are no grounds for such a charge? you ought to know me better now." "i do know you better, my own, my beautiful darling," he cried passionately; "but you drive me nearly mad. we have been engaged now so many weary months, and yet i seem to occupy no warmer position in your heart than when i first met you. it is dreadful!" i heard him get up and walk about the room, while she sat perfectly silent. "you rebuff me," he cried angrily. "you are cold and distant; my every advance is met by some chilly look. good heavens! miriam, are we engaged to be man and wife, or not?" "you are unjust, john, in your anger," said miss carr in her low, sweet voice. "i do not rebuff you, and i am never intentionally cold. indeed, i try to meet you as the man who is to be my husband." "and lover?" he said, with an almost imperceptible sneer. "as my husband," she said quietly; "a holier, greater title far than that of lover. we are not girl and boy, john lister, and i do not think that you would love and respect me the more for acting like some weak, silly school-girl, who does not know her own mind." "she would at least be warmer in her love." "but not nearly so lasting," said miss carr, in a low, almost pathetic voice. "i look upon our engagement as so sacred a thing that i think we ought not to hurry on our marriage as you wish. besides, was it not understood that we should wait awhile?" "yes; that was when some tattling fool told you about my losses over that race, and i suppose made out that i was in a hurry to win the heiress, so as to make ducks and drakes of her money." "you hurt me," she said softly; "no one ever hinted at such a degrading idea." "just when a fellow had gone into the thing for once in a way. of course i was unlucky, and a good job too. if i had won i might have been tempted to try again. now i have done with racing and betting and the rest of it for ever." "i had not thought of that affair, john, when i spoke as i did. i promised you i would forget it, and i had forgotten it, believe me." "oh yes, of course," he said bitterly. "i am speaking frankly and openly to you, john," continued miss carr gently; "and i want you to think as i do, that, in taking so grave a step as that which joins two people together for life, it should be taken only as one makes a step from which there is no recall." "miriam!" he exclaimed, and he seemed to stop short in front of her, "i am a hot, impetuous fellow, and i love you passionately, as you know, and have known since the day when first we met. have i ever given up the pursuit?" "no," she said, half-laughingly. "you did not let me rest, nor did our friends, until we were engaged." "of course not. there, come now, you look more like your own dear self. i want to ask you a question." "yes, john. what is it?" he cleared his voice and hesitated, but only to speak out firmly at last. "do you think--have you ever thought me such a cur that i wanted you for the sake of your money?" "john, this is the second time that you have brought up my fortune to-day. there is no need to answer such a question." "but i beg--i desire--i insist upon knowing," he cried passionately. "you have your answer in the fact that you are standing before me talking as you are. if i believed for an instant that you had such sordid thoughts, our engagement would be at an end. i would sooner give you the money than be your wife." "of course, yes: of course, my own dear, noble girl!" he cried excitedly. "then why all this waiting--why keep me at arm's length? come now, darling, let us settle it at once." "no, john," she said calmly. "i cannot yet consent." "your old excuse," he cried, striding up and down the room. "i never held out hopes to you that it would be soon," she replied; and i felt that she must be looking at him wistfully. "but why--why all this waiting, dear?" he said, evidently struggling with his anger, and striving to speak calmly. "i have told you again and again, dear john, my sole reason." "and what is that?" he said bitterly; "it must have been so trifling that i forget it." "you do not forget it, indeed," she said tenderly. "i ask you to wait, because i wish, when i marry you, to be sure that i am offering you a true and loving wife." "oh, if that's all," he said laughingly, "i'm satisfied as you are; and on my soul, miriam, i wish you had not a penny, so that all ideas of self-interest might be set aside!" "they are set aside, dear john," she said calmly. "well then, love, let there be an end to this miserable waiting and disappointment. if i did not know thoroughly your sweet disposition, and that you are so far above all silly coquettish ways, i should say that you were trifling with me, to make me more eager for the day." "you know me better." "i do, my darling," he said in a low impassioned voice, which i heard quite plainly, though i had gone to the window and was looking out into the street. "then let us settle it at once. i am in your hands, miriam, as i have been from the day i first set eyes upon you. at present i am wretched--miserable--my whole thoughts are of you, and i feel at times half-mad--that i cannot wait. do you wish to torture me?" "no." "then be my dear honoured wife in a week's time--a fortnight? what, still shaking your head? well, then, there: i am the most patient of lovers--in a month from to-day?" "no, no, i cannot," she said; and in place of being so calm she spoke now passionately. "you must wait, dear john, you must wait." "then there is something," he cried, in a low, angry voice. "some wretch has been maligning me." "indeed no." "you have been told that i am wasteful and a spendthrift?" "i should not have listened to any such charge." "then that i am weak, and untrustworthy, and gay?" "i should have told anyone who hinted such a thing that it was a lie." "then," he cried hoarsely, "there is some one else; you have seen some one you like better!" "john! mr lister! you hurt my wrist." "you do not answer me," he cried, his voice growing more hoarse and intense, while i stood there with my heart palpitating, feeling as if i ought to run to miss carr's help. "i will not answer such a question," she said angrily; "but i will tell you this: that i have looked upon myself as your betrothed wife; do not make me think upon our engagement with regret." "forgive me, miriam, pray forgive me," he said in a low, pleading voice. "it is my wretched temper that has got the better of me. say you forgive me, miriam, or i shall be ready to make an end of myself. there, there, don't take away this little hand." "leave me now, i beg of you," she said in a low, pained voice. "yes, directly, sweet," he whispered; "but let there be an end of this, my darling. say--in a month's time--you will be my wife, and then i shall know i am forgiven." "i forgive you your cruel, passionate words, john," she said, in such a tone that i began once more to look out of the window, wondering whether mrs john lister would be as kind to me as miss carr. "and, in a month to-day, you will make me a happy man?" "i cannot promise that," she said after a pause. "yes, yes, you can, dearest--my own love!" he cried; and i felt now as if i should like to open the window and step out on the balcony. "no, i cannot promise that, john," she repeated. "you must--we must wait." "then it is as i say," he cried, evidently springing up from her feet, and stamping up and down the room. "you are a cruel, cold, heartless girl, and i'll come begging and pleading no more. our engagement holds good," he said bitterly; "and you shall name the day yourself, and we shall be a happy pair, unless i have blown out my brains before we're wed." i heard the little drawing-room door close loudly, descending steps, and then the front door shut almost with a bang, and from where i stood i saw mr lister, looking very handsome and well dressed, with a bouquet in his button-hole, stride hastily down the street, cutting at imaginary obstacles with his cane, and as he turned the corner i heard from the next room a low moan, and miss carr's voice, saying: "god help and teach me! i am a wretched woman! how shall i act?" chapter thirty four. i take the news to my friends. "wretched!" i thought, "in the midst of wealth, and loved by that passionate, handsome man." then i recalled how i had often heard of lovers' quarrels, and supposed that this was one that would soon be made up. i felt very uncomfortable, and wondered what i ought to do. there was a deep silence in the next room that became painful, and i wondered whether miss carr had gone; but directly after i heard such a low bitter sobbing that it went to my heart, and, unable to bear it longer, i went to the door, looked in, and saw her half-lying on the couch, with her face buried in the pillow, weeping bitterly. i hesitated for a moment, and then went in unheard over the soft thick carpet, and kneeling down, i took the inert hand hanging down, and kissed it. in a moment she stood up with pale and angry face, flinging me off as if i had stung her. "oh, antony, my boy; is it you?" she cried; and flinging her arms round me, she let her head fall upon my shoulder, and went passionately and long, while i tried to utter some feeble platitude to soothe her. the storm passed off suddenly, and she wiped her swollen eyes. "i had forgotten that you were there, antony," she said. "i have had a great trouble." she spoke with her face averted, and she was trying now to remove the traces of her tears. "you could not hear what was said?" she asked. "yes, miss carr. i did not wish to, but i heard every word." "oh!" she turned her wild eyes upon me, and her pale face flushed crimson as she rose to leave the room, hurrying away and leaving me wondering whether i ought to go. i had just concluded that i ought, and, taking up a sheet of paper, i had written a few lines saying how very sorry i was that i had been an unwilling listener, when she came back with her hair re-arranged, and looking pale and calm. "were you writing to me, antony?" she said. "yes, miss carr." "let me see." she read that which i had written, and smiled sadly. then, tearing up the note, she took my hand and led me once more to the couch. "i am sorry that you heard what passed, antony," she said; "but since i have known you, i have gradually grown to look upon you as a friend as well as a _protege_; you have told me your little history, and every time i have seen you, you have shown me the fruit of the teachings of those to whom you were very dear. i feel quite happy in knowing that you, as the son of a gentleman, antony, will hold all that you have heard quite sacred." "if you will only believe in and trust me," i cried. "i do believe in and trust you, antony," she said warmly. "now i am going to ask you to leave me, and come again to-morrow, after you have been to the engineer's office. i am not well, and i should be glad to be alone." i rose, and as she held out her hand i took it and kissed it reverently--so reverently, that she drew me to her, and touched my forehead with her lips. "go now, antony," she said, "and i think it will be better that you should not return to the printing-office. i will arrange with mr ruddle about that. a letter from me will be sufficient. and look here, antony: you will come here to me every saturday, and sunday too, if you like. you need stand upon no ceremony--tut come. you will not be sorry to leave the office?" "oh no," i said; "but i shall regret leaving mr hallett." i thought it was fancy then, as i seemed to see a spasm shoot through her. she said no more to me, but pressed something into my hand, and i went downstairs. i felt very proud as i made my way along the streets, wondering what was in the packet miss carr had given me, and longing for an opportunity to open it. the park seemed the most suitable place, and, making my way there, i lay down on the soft turf in a secluded place, opened the packet, and found in it a letter and a purse containing two five-pound notes. the letter was dated the night before, and it was very brief: "my dear antony,-- "i have thought that you may need several things in commencing your new life, and as i wish you to appear as a gentleman's son who means to work earnestly, i should provide serviceable clothes. i leave the rest to your common-sense and discretion. "yours affectionately,-- "miriam carr." "my dear antony," "yours affectionately," i repeated to myself; and as i lay there, after safely placing the note and purse in my pockets, i wished earnestly that the dead could know and thank one who had so evidently my welfare at heart. mary soon knew of my good fortune, but did not seem at all surprised. "no, my dear, it's nothing more than natural," she said, as i partook of tea with her; and in her affection for me she tried very hard to make me bilious with the amount of butter in which she soaked my toast. "you being a gentleman's son, and having had a par and a mar, it was no more than one might expect, for gentlefolks to take notice of you. that miss carr's a real lady, and i shouldn't wonder if she was to leave you no end of money when she died." "oh, mary!" i cried, "just as if i wanted miss carr to die and leave me her money. i mean to earn some for myself, and when i get rich, you and revitts shall come and live with me." "that we will," said mary. "i'll be your cook, master antony, and bill shall be--shall be--" "bailiff and steward." "or else gardener," she said. "so you're going to buy some new clothes, are you?" "yes, mary; i must go well dressed to the engineer's." "then i should buy two more suits," said mary eagerly. "have a good dark blue for sundays, with gilt buttons, and for every day have invisible green." i shook my head. "no, i must have black still, mary, and grey," i said. "i wouldn't dear; i'd have blue, and as for invisible green, you wouldn't know as it wasn't black." however, mary came to my way of thinking, and my choice of new things was in no wise _outre_. i seemed to be plunged into a perfect atmosphere of love just then, for i left revitts smiling foolishly at mary, whose face reflected the lover as perfectly as a mirror, and went on to hallett's, where i unconsciously found myself mixed up with another trouble of the kind. i have grown wiser since, but in those days it was a puzzle to me why people could not be friends and fond of one another without plunging into such heart-breaking passionate ways, to their own discomfort and that of all whom they knew. i was rather later than usual at the halletts', and on going upstairs, full of my good news, i found that mrs hallett was in bed, and linny with her brother. i ran up, tapped, and went in according to my custom, and then drew back for it was evident that something was wrong, but hallett called me to stay. "we have no secrets from you, antony," he said excitedly. "you know what has taken place from the first, and you are as much linny's friend as mine." "then if he is," cried linny, stamping her little foot, "i'll appeal to him." "why, linny," i said, "what is the matter?" "matter!" she cried, sobbing passionately, "have i not given up to him in all he wished? have not i obeyed him and been more like a prisoner here than his sister? and now he is not satisfied." "i am satisfied, my child," he said kindly. "but go on: what have i done?" "done?" cried linny; "wounded me where you knew my heart was sore; looked upon my every act with suspicion." "no, my child," he said quietly, as he watched the pretty, wilful little thing more in grief than anger. "you know how happy we have been, these last few weeks, since you have had confidence in me, and listened to my words." "happy?" she cried piteously, and with her hand upon her heart. "yes," he said; "happy till this letter came to-day--a letter that has swept all your promises to the winds, and sown dissension between us. once more, will you show me the letter?" "once more," cried linny passionately, "no! you assume too much. even if you were my father, you could do no more." "i stand to you, my dear child, in the place of your dead father. your honour is as dear to me as it would have been to him." "my honour!" echoed linny. "stephen, you degrade me, by talking in this way before a comparative stranger." "antony grace is not a comparative stranger," said hallett quietly. "if he were your own brother he could not have acted better to us both. i speak out before him, because i look to antony, boy though he be, to help me to watch over you and protect you, since you are so weak." "to act as your spy?" "no," he said sadly, "we will not degrade ourselves by acting as spies, but you force it upon me, linny, to take stern measures. you refuse to show me this letter?" "i do. i would die first!" cried linny. "my poor child," he said sadly, "there is no need. i can read it in your transparent little face. you thought, i believe, in the first hot sting of your wrong that night, that you had plucked this foolish love from your breast; and so long as he remained silent you were at rest. but now he writes to you and says--" "hush, stephen! you shall not before antony grace." "why not?" he cried. "he says in this letter that he has been wretched ever since; that he begs your pardon for the past; that upon your forgiveness depends his future; and he implores you, by all you hold sacred, to grant him an interview, that he may be forgiven." "stephen!" cried linny, but he went mercilessly on. "and the foolish, trusting little heart, unused to the wiles of this world, leaped at the words, forgave him on the instant, and a brother's words, her own promises, the vows of amendment, all are forgotten," he said angrily, as his face now grew white and his hands clenched, "and all for the sake of a man who is an utter scoundrel!" "how dare you!" cried linny, and the hot passionate blood flashed to her little cheeks. her eyes flamed, her teeth were set, and, in an access of rage, she struck her brother across the lips with the back of her hand. "how dare you call him a scoundrel?" she cried. "because," said hallett--while i stood by, unutterably shocked by the scene, which was the more intense from the low voices in which brother and sister spoke, they being in unison on the point that mrs hallett should not hear their quarrel--"because," said hallett, "his conduct is that of a villain. while professing love for you, he insults you. he tells you you are more dear to him than life, and he skulks like a thief and does not show his face. if he loved you--" "love! what do you know of love?" cried linny passionately. "you--you cold-blooded groveller, without soul to worship anything greater than that!" as she spoke, she stood with her head thrown back, looking the picture of scorn and rage, as she contemptuously pointed at poor hallett's model; while he, weak, nervous, and overwrought--stung almost to madness, caught her sharply by the shoulder, and in her fear she sank on her knees at his feet. "my god!" chapter thirty five. i build a castle in the air. if ever words were uttered with a wild intensity of fervour, it was that awful appeal; and, in the interval that followed, i felt my heart beat painfully, while hallett, with the great drops standing on his knotted brow, clutched the little shoulder, so that linny flinched from him. "i cold-blooded--i know naught of love?" he whispered hoarsely; "when, for a year past, my life has been one long-drawn agony! i know naught of love, who have had to crush down every thought, every aspiration, lest i should be a traitor to the man whose bread i eat! love? girl, my life has been a torture to me, knowing, as i did, that i was a groveller, as you say, and that i must grovel on, not daring to look up to one so far above me, that--heaven help me, what am i saying?" he cried, looking from one to the other. "linny, for our dead father's sake--for the sake of that poor, pain-wrung sufferer below, let there be no more of this. trust me, child. believe in me. i know so much of what you must suffer, that if he, whoever he be, prove only true and worthy of you, he shall be welcome here. but why raise this barrier between us? see, i am not angry now. it is all past. you roused that within me that i could not quell, but i am calm again, and, as your brother, i implore you, tell me who is this man?" "i--i cannot," said linny, shaking her head. "you cannot?" "no," she said firmly; "i gave my promise." "that you would not tell me--your own brother? your mother then?" "no, not now," she said, shaking her head. "after a time i will." without another word she turned and ran from the room, leaving hallett gazing vacantly before him, as if suffering from some shock. i went up to him at last. "can i help you, hallett?" i said; and he turned and gazed at me as if he had not understood my words. "antony," he said at length, "a time back i should have thought it folly to make a friend and confidant of such a boy as you; but i have no man friend: i have shut myself up with those two below there, and when i have not been with them my hours have been spent here--here," he said, pointing mockingly at the model, "with my love, and a strange, coquettish jade she is--is she not? but somehow, my boy, we two have drifted together, and we are friends, badly coupled as we may seem. you have heard what linny said. poor child, she must be saved at any cost, though i hardly know what course to pursue. there," he said wearily, "let it rest for to-night; sometimes, in the thickest wilderness of our lives, a little path opens out where least expected, and something may offer itself even here." "i am very, very sorry, hallett," i said. "i know it, my boy, i know it," he said hurriedly; "but forget what you heard me say to-night. i was betrayed into speaking as i did by a fit of passion. forget it, antony, forget it." i did not answer, and he turned to me. "i meant to have had a good work at the model to-night, but that little scene stopped it. now about yourself. you are getting a sad truant from the office." he said it in a hesitating manner, and turned his face away directly after, but only to dart round in surprise at my next words. "i am not coming back to the office any more--but don't think me ungrateful." "not coming back?" "no, hallett; miss carr sent for me--she has been away--and i am to go at once as a pupil to an engineer." he turned his back to me, and i ran to his side: "oh, hallett," i cried piteously; "don't be angry with me. i told her i was sorry to go, because you were such a good friend." "you told her that, antony?" "indeed, indeed i did; but i thought in being an engineer i might be some day such a help to you, and that it was for the best; and now you are vexed and think me ungrateful." he was silent for a few moments, and then he turned to me and took my hands, speaking in a low, husky voice: "you must not heed me to-night, antony," he said. "you saw how upset and strange i was. this affair of linny's, and her letter, trouble me more than i care to own. no, no, my dear boy, i am not vexed with you, and i do not for a moment think you ungrateful." "you do not!" i cried joyfully. "no, no, of course not. i rejoice to find that you have so good and powerful a friend in--miss carr. she must be--a truly good--woman." "she's everything that's good and beautiful and kind," i cried, bursting into raptures about her. "i'm to have books and to go there every week, and she trusts to me to try and succeed well in my new life. oh, hallett, you can't think how i love her." he laid his hand on my shoulder and gazed with a strange light in his eyes upon my eager face. "that's right," he said. "yes--love her, and never give her cause to blush for her kindness to you, my boy." he sat listening to me eagerly as i went on telling him her words, describing her home, everything i could think of, but the one subject tabooed, and of that i gave no hint, while he, poor fellow, sat drinking in what was to him a poisoned draught, and i unwittingly kept on adding to his pain. "i'm only afraid of one thing," i said with all a boy's outspoken frankness. "and what is that, antony?" "i'm afraid that when she is married to mr lister--" his hand seemed to press my shoulder more tightly. "yes," he said in a whisper, "she is to be married to mr lister." "yes, i knew that the first day i came to the office." "it is the common talk there," he said with knitted brows. "and what is your fear, antony?" "that when she is married to mr lister she will forget all about me." "you wrong her, boy," he said almost fiercely; and i stared at his strange display of excitement, for i had not the key then to his thoughts, and went on blindly again and again tearing open his throbbing wound. "you wrong her," he said. "antony, miss carr is a woman to have won whose esteem is to have won a priceless gem, and he who goes farther, and wins her love, can look but for one greater happiness--that of heaven." he was soaring far beyond my reach, grovelling young mole that i was, and i said in an uneasy way that must have sounded terribly commonplace and selfish: "you don't think she will forget me, then?" "no," he said sternly. "there is that in her face which seems to say that she is one who never forgets--never forgives. she is no common woman, antony; be worthy of her trust, and think of her name in your prayers before you sleep." i gazed at him curiously, he seemed so strange; and, noticing my uneasy looks, he said in a cheerful voice: "there, we will not talk so seriously any more. you see how i trust you, antony, in return for your confidence in me. now let's talk of pleasant things. an engineer, eh?" "yes," i said, delighted at the change in his conversation. "i am glad of it--heartily glad of it," he said with kindling eyes. "linny is right; i do love and idolise my model, and you shall share her love, antony. together we will make her the queen of models, and if in time, perhaps years hence, i do perfect her--nay, if we perfect her--there, you see," he said playfully, "i have no petty jealousies--you will then be engineer enough to make the drawings and calculations for the machines that are to grow from the model. is it a bargain, antony?" "that it is," i cried, holding out my hand, which he firmly clasped; and that night i went back to revitts' walking upon air, with my head in a whirl with the fancied noise of the machinery made by hallett and grace, while, out of my share of the proceeds, i was going down to rowford to pay mr blakeford all my father's debt; and then--being quite a man grown--i meant to tell him he was a cowardly, despicable scoundrel, for behaving to me as he did when i was a boy. chapter thirty six. mr jabez rowle's money matters. something like the same sensation came over me when i made my way to great george street, westminster, as i had felt on the morning when i presented myself at the great printing-office. but my nervousness soon passed away on being received by mr girtley, a short, broad-shouldered man, with a big head covered with crisp, curly grey hair. "ah," he said, speaking in a great hurry, "you're antony grace, our new pupil, are you?" "yes, sir." "miss carr's young friend. knew carr: clever, wealthy man." "indeed, sir?" "yes, only had one fault--died twenty years too soon. been a millionaire and a modest man combined. _rara avis_, eh? ha, ha, ha! tom!" "yes, father." the answer came from an inner office, and a good-looking youth, wonderfully like mr girtley, came out with a pencil across his mouth, a pen behind his ear, a scale in one hand, and a pair of compasses in the other. "this is antony grace; you take charge of him and show him about. take it coolly. _festina lente_, you know. i say, antony grace, what does _rara avis_ mean?" "a rare or strange bird, sir." "good lad. and _festina lente_?" "hasten slowly, sir." "good lad. you're all right with your latin, then. i wasn't when i began. had to learn it after i was twenty. well, i'm busy, tom; you understand; he'll be a bit nervous and strange, so don't worry him. let him take in spoonfuls first. he'll learn to drink big draughts later on." "i'm very busy over those syphon plans, father." "ah, the new syphon. yes, that must be done. well, i'll set browning to do them." "i'd--i'd much rather finish them myself," said the youth. "of course you would. well, then, i'll give you a fortnight's extension; then you can finish them and have plenty of time for antony grace as well. take him round the works, and then you can go down the river for a run. and, by-the-way, tom, go in one of the new boats, and tip the engineer. have a good look at those fresh oscillating cylinders, and see whether you think they beat ours. i'm off. you were quite punctual, antony grace, or you wouldn't have seen me. always keep your appointments exactly. good-morning; glad to see you. hope you'll get on and like the business. work hard at it, and mind this--steady application wins. bring him home to dinner to-night, tom. eh? yes." "mr williamson to see you, sir," said a clerk. "my compliments to mr williamson, and he must make another appointment. he is an hour after the time he named, and i am engaged for the rest of the day. lesson in punctuality, antony grace," he said, nodding. "i'm off." the door closed after his retreating figure, and tom and i stood staring, probably thinking the same thing, whether we should like one another. the result of the scrutiny was satisfactory to me, for there was something very pleasant in the young fellow's frank open countenance, and i longed to meet with a companion nearly my own age. "well," he said quietly, "suppose we have a look round. i shan't work any more at my plans this morning. this is my place," he continued, taking me into the inner office, where a great broad mahogany desk was covered with papers. "you'll have that one; it was bailey's; he was father's pupil; he's gone out to india on the great central." i said, "has he?" but i had no idea whether the great central was a ship or a great engine. "there are my plans for a self-acting syphon. those parts coloured red are where the vacuum valves will come in, and, of course, this lower part takes the place of a steam-pump." "does it?" i said, laughing. "but i don't understand it a bit." "no, of course not," he said, laughing too. "well, you'll soon learn. you'll like father, and we'll like you if you'll work well. bailey and he did not get on at all." "didn't bailey work well?" i said, as a vision of the idle apprentice came before my eyes. "father used to say he was like an engine with a bad stoker. he was either racing, or there was no steam un. he'd work furiously for two days, and then he'd idle for a week." "mr girtley is fond of work, then?" "father says everyone was meant to work, and life's too short for all we have to do. but he likes play, too. we have a cricket-field at home, and a billiard-table, and bowls--all sorts of games. father plays at all of them when he's at home and isn't gardening. he calls it oiling his machinery and slackening his bands. come along, i'll show you the factory, and our workshop, where you and i will have to work, making models, and then we'll oil our machinery." "shall we have to make models?" i cried eagerly. "you will, of course. i'm going to be a lawyer. father thinks the man who is a good engineer is sure to have to invent, and if so, he ought to be able to take the tools out of his men's hands, and show them how they should be used. shall you like that? it makes your hands black." "oh, i shan't mind that," i said, laughing. "i shall like it." we went over the office, and then, taking our caps, he showed me the way over westminster bridge to the great works in lambeth, where steam was puffing and panting, wheels whirring, and iron and steel were shrieking as they were being tortured into shape. it was a confusing place, and, after passing the timekeeper's box at the entrance, we seemed to plunge into a kind of pandemonium, where fires glared, and white-hot masses of metal were being dragged out and beaten till they sent sparks of brilliant fire flying in all directions. from there we ascended to a floor where wheels were whirring and great machines were at work, with men tending them, and pouring oil in the wounds made by mighty steam-worked chisels, or bored in pieces of black iron. in one place, shavings of iron were curling off before a plane like so much soft wood; and on touching them i found them rigid, and hot with the friction necessary to tear them away. next we were in a higher shop, where lathes were at work, and iron, steel, and brass were being turned like so much ivory. out of this great floor was a smaller workshop, whose walls were covered with tools; and on shelves around were dozens of strange models, which took my attention strongly as i thought of hallett's patient work, and longed to begin at something on the spot. here, too, there were lathes, vices, and all the necessary paraphernalia for the constructing engineers, and i left the place unwillingly to join young girtley in his run down the river, where, the right steamer being chosen, we had our ride; the oscillating engines were examined, and we were back and down at dulwich in good time for dinner and a look round the spacious grounds afterwards. i returned to caroline street full of my day's adventures, and ready to tell mary of my progress towards prosperity, but, to my disappointment, she seemed in nowise dazzled. it was quite a matter of course to her, only a question of time before i should be a great engineer, and in that faith she was a strong believer. time glided on, and the half-work, half-play system, upon which i had commenced business at great george street had in the course of a month settled into regular hours, but the work did not trouble me, for i led so pleasant a life with tom girtley, and found his father so eager and willing a teacher, that i quite enjoyed the toil. there was the one idea, too, always before my mind that some day i should be able to help hallett, whom i joined nearly every night, to pore over and try to scheme something new for the machine. i could see that matters were in anything but a happy state at the halletts'--mrs hallett being more complaining and querulous than ever, and, it seemed to me, rather disposed to side with linny in her rebellion against her brother's authority. for they were not at one: linny was pale, excitable, and troubled: hallett, loving, kind, and firm. but from hints he let drop, i found that linny was as obstinate as ever, and that she was still carrying on a correspondence with her unknown admirer. one night, after leaving great george street, i made my way to hallett's, but he was out, and linny assured me that he would not be back for hours. she evidently wanted me to go, and the reason was plain--she was busy writing a letter; and as i went away, wondering where to go, i bethought me of mr jabez rowle, who lodged in the neighbourhood, and as it would be his time for being home, i determined to go and see him. i easily found his lodgings, at a little grocer's shop in a bystreet, where he had the first floor, the front window being turned into quite a garden with flowers, and some scarlet-runners twining up strings on either side. i heard the familiar snap of his snuff-box as i tapped at the door, and in reply to his "come in," i entered, to find the old gentleman taking his leisure by poring over a long slip, and, pen in hand, darting in corrections with a grunt of satisfaction. "ah, young grace," he cried, "you here! i thought you were lost. glad to see you, boy. here, sit down--no, stand up; catch hold of that bit of manuscript, and read it to me--only a dozen sides." and to my great astonishment i found myself reading away to him in the old style for quite half-an-hour before he reached the bottom of the slip proofs and laid his pen down with a satisfied grunt and took a pinch of snuff. "quite a treat, grace--quite a treat," he cried. "sit down. i haven't had a bit of copy read to me like that since you left. boy i've got's a fool, and i could knock his head against the wall. shake hands. how are you?" i replied that i was quite well, and could see that he was. "no, i'm not," he said tartly. "much bothered. money matters?" and he took another pinch of snuff. "so you've called to ask me to say a word for you to come back to the office, eh? well, i'm glad, boy--i'm glad! take it as settled. you can come back to-morrow morning! i will have you, or i'll know the reason why." i stared at him aghast. "oh no, mr rowle," i said, "i only came to see you. i thought i should like to. i'm getting on so well." "are you, though? engineering, eh? well, i'm sorry for it. no, no: i'm glad of it, my lad. i hope you will get on. but i liked you for a reading-boy. you were the only chap i ever had who could stand by me when i took snuff without sneezing all over the slips, and that's a great thing. have a pinch?" he said, offering me his box. "no, no: of course not, i forgot. glad you came to see me, grace--very glad. here, mrs jennings," he cried, going to the door, and shouting down the stairs; "i've got a young friend here: bring up some sugar-candy and biscuits and cinnamon; anything nice you've got." "i really don't want anything, mr jabez," i said. "oh, yes, you do, boy. ho, hi! mrs jennings, bring up some figs." he toddled back to his chair, but was up again directly, to shout down the staircase: "bring up some almonds and raisins, and candied peel, mrs jennings." "lor' bless the man, do you want the whole shop?" shouted a sharp voice. "no, i don't," said mr jabez grumpily, as he toddled back. "i was an out-and-outer for candied peel when i was a boy," he said, rubbing his hands. "those dried apples, too, that look as if they had been sat upon by old women, grace. ah, i spent a lot of pennies on them when i was a boy." a red-faced woman here made her appearance with a plateful of the sweets that mr jabez had named, and she rather scowled at me, and banged the plate down hard enough almost to break it as she whisked out of the room again and slammed the door. "now, grace, fall to, as they say in copy about feasts. see that woman?" "yes, mr jabez." "she's a tartar, she is. i live here because that woman acts as a lighthouse to me." "a lighthouse, sir? because she has got such a red face?" "get out! no, you young joker. a warning, a beacon, a bell-buoy, a light-ship, to warn me off the rocks and shoals of matrimony. i should have married, grace, years ago, if i hadn't seen what a life a woman can lead a man. she has nearly made her husband a lunatic." "indeed, mr jabez?" "well, say imbecile. peg away, my boy," he continued, laughing; "these figs are beautiful. peel's good, too." so it seemed, for mr jabez was feasting away with great gusto, and eating two of everything to my one. "yes, sir, i should have been married and a poor man, instead of comparatively rich--at least, was. money matters are rather awkward just now." "i'm very sorry to hear it, mr jabez," i said. "i'm sorry to feel it," said mr jabez, with a fig in one hand and a piece of candied peel in the other. "come, you don't eat. by jingo, there's grimstone," he cried, as a step was heard upon the stairs; and in his excitement and dread of being seen engaged in eating sweets, he stuffed a fig into one breeches-pocket, some peel into the other, and snatched up his snuff-box, while i felt terribly discomposed at the idea of meeting my old tyrant. "is it mr grimstone?" i faltered. "yes, but you don't eat. take another fig," cried mr jabez, as, without knocking, mr grimstone entered the room. "hallo," he said, without taking off his hat, "what the deuce are you doing here?" "i've come to see mr jabez, mr grimstone," i replied. "oh, have you? so have i. how long are you going to stop?" "oh, hours yet," said mr jabez. "sit down, grim. he doesn't matter; speak out. he doesn't belong to the shop now. well: what news?" "bad!" said mr grimstone, throwing himself into a chair. "here, boy, take my hat." i took it quite obediently, and resumed my seat, while mr grimstone wiped his bald head with a bright orange handkerchief. "you don't say so?" said mr jabez uneasily. "yes, i do," said mr grimstone, taking the box out of the reader's hand and helping himself to a pinch; "i said it quite plain." "it's a bad job." "have you just found that out?" snarled the overseer. "pretty pair of fools we've been. look here, send that boy away." "no, no; no, no. sit still, grace. eat some more figs, boy. i'll call mrs jennings when you've eaten them. there, go on, grim. antony grace isn't a chatterer." "just as you like," said grimstone. "well, if he doesn't get married to that gal right off, and bank her money, the game's up, and your pounds and my pounds are gone to the deuce." "is it pounds, grimstone?" "yes, curse him! he got round me with all sorts of promises." "of bonus, grim, eh?" "yes, i suppose so," growled the overseer. "that bill-discounter chap, brandysheim, or brandyman or something's, cornering him. he was at the office to-day, and there was a regular shine." "was ruddle there?" "no, but i hear that brandysheim threatened to come down on him if he wasn't paid." "and what then?" "what then?" growled grimstone, with a show of his teeth; "why, lister's smashed up--bankrupt, and you and i may sit and stare at each other for a pair of fools." "but it won't hurt ruddle." "no, only bother him. if lister's bankrupt, he's partner no longer, and ruddle will have to find out what share he has in the business." "yes, that's what i thought," said mr jabez dolefully. "and we shan't get a penny!" "not even interest," said mr jabez. "not even interest," echoed grimstone. "not even bonus," said mr jabez. "not even bonus," echoed grimstone again. "what's he done with his money, that's what i want to know?" said mr jabez. "wine--women--horse-racing--foolery! he's been carrying on like mad, and what i suspect is this--miss carr begins to smell a rat, and i shouldn't be a bit surprised if the wedding didn't come off." mr jabez stared dolefully at mr grimstone, and the overseer kept on taking pinches of snuff till the box was empty; and, after searching round with finger and thumb, threw the box impatiently down. "well, i don't see that we can do anything," said mr jabez at last, "except wait." "no," said grimstone, "unless we can see the lady, and make her consent to pay us our , pounds." "and interest," said mr jabez. "and bonus," said grimstone, "down on the nail." "which we can't do," said mr jabez, shaking his head. "of course we can't," said grimstone. "all i wish is that i hadn't let you persuade me into lending him the money--the savings of a whole life." "oh, i like that!" said mr jabez, catching up a pen, and making a mark as if he were correcting grimstone. "like it or not, i don't care," said grimstone, "there it is. here! boy, my hat." "going?" said mr jabez. "going! of course i'm going. think i'm going to stop in this dog-hole, smelling of red-herrings and oil?" "won't you take something? try a fig." mr grimstone snatched his hat from my hands, gazed at me as if he would have liked to set me to pick up pie, and bounced out of the room. "i don't know which is most unpleasant, grace," said the old man, "grimstone or his news. well, he's gone. of course, you won't talk about what you've heard. it's a very bad job, though, for me--very-- very. hi! mrs jennings," he cried at the top of the stairs, "half an ounce of best scotch and rappee." he tapped with his box on the handrail as he spoke, and having had it replenished, he came back to sit and take pinches, becoming so abstracted and ill at ease, that i rose to go when he was a quarter through the half-ounce. "going, grace?" he said. "ah, i'm bad company to-night, but come again. let me see, though," he said, fumbling at some letters in his breast-pocket, "i've got a letter here from that bad boy, peter. just the same as usual. tut--tut--oh, here it is. `remember me to that boy,'--ah, blunder i call it boy--`antony grace. tell him i shall come to see him if ever i get two london.' there's a fellow for you," said mr jabez, "spells `to' like the figure . but he always did want a deal of correcting, did peter. good-night, good-night." and i went my way, sadly troubled at heart about miss carr and mr lister, and wondering whether she would, after all, refuse to be his wife. chapter thirty seven. an angry parting. i had four days to wait before going to westmouth street to receive my usual welcome--at least, not my usual welcome, for though she seemed to grow more sad and pale, miss carr's reception of me increased each time in warmth, till at last, had i been a younger brother she could not have been more kind. i was a good deal troubled at heart about what i knew, and puzzled myself as to my duties in the case. ought i to take mr hallett into my confidence, and ask his advice, or ought i to tell miss carr herself? it was hard to settle, and i have often thought since of how strangely i was brought at so young an age into the consideration of the weighty matters of life of those with whom i was in contact. it seemed to me that my patroness ought to know what people said about mr lister, and that if it were true she ought not to marry him. certainly, at the interview at which i was an unwilling listener, there had appeared to be no probability of the wedding taking place soon, but all the same, miss carr had seemed to me terribly cut up, consequent upon the parting with mr lister. i was so strange and quiet that afternoon that miss carr noticed it, and had just asked me what was the matter when the servant brought up a card and i saw her change colour. "show him up, edward," she said quietly; and though i did not see the card i felt sure from her manner that i knew who had come, and i looked up at miss carr, expecting to be told to go into the next room, but to my surprise she did not speak, and the next moment mr lister came in. "ah, miriam!" he exclaimed; "how well--you here, grace?" "yes, sir," i said, feeling very much in the way, as i stood where i had risen. "sit down, antony," said miss carr quietly; and as i obeyed i saw an angry flush cross mr lister's countenance. "will you give me a few minutes in the next room, miriam dear?" he said in a low voice. "in my last answer to your letters, john," she replied, "i begged that you would not come to see me for a month or two. why are you here now?" "why am i here now?" he said in a low, deep voice. "can you ask me? because i want to speak to you--particularly--come in the next room." i could not help looking hard at him as he spoke, and thinking about what i had heard concerning his affairs, and as i thought that he was to marry miss carr to pay off his debts, a strong feeling of resentment against him made me almost determine to utter some word of warning. "he is so handsome, and has such a way with him," i thought, "that she will do just as he wishes her;" but as the thoughts were in my mind, i was surprised and pleased by finding miss carr take quite a firm standing. "you can have nothing more to say to me, john, than has been said already. i have told you that at least six months must elapse before i can consent to what you ask." "will you come into the next room, or send away that boy?" he said in a low voice, but one which showed that he was fast losing his temper. "no," she said firmly; "and after my last letter i think it cruel of you to press me." "i cannot help whether it is cruel or not," he said, growing white with anger at her opposition, "and you are forcing me to speak before this boy." "i leave that to your common-sense, john," she said calmly, and with no little dignity in her manner. "i don't know that i wish to hide anything from antony grace. he knows of our engagement." "are you mad, miriam?" he cried, unable to contain himself, and indirectly venting his spleen upon me. "you pick up a poor boy out of the gutter, and you take him and make him your bosom friend and confidant." miss carr caught my hand in hers, as i started, stung to the quick and mortified by his words. "shame, john lister!" she said, with a look that should have brought him to his senses. "shame! how can you speak like that in antony grace's presence, and to me?" "because you make me desperate," he cried angrily. "i can bear it no longer. i will not be trifled with. for months now you have treated me as a child. once more, will you send away this boy, or come with me into another room?" "mr lister," she said, rising, "you are angry and excited. you are saying words now which you will afterwards grieve over, as much as i snail regret to have heard them spoken." "i can't help that," he exclaimed. "day after day i have come to you, begging you to listen to me, but i have always been put off, until now i have grown desperate." "desperate?" she said wonderingly. "yes, desperate. i do not wish to speak before this boy, but you force me to it." "what is there in our engagement that i should be ashamed to let the whole world hear?" she said proudly. "why, if i listened to you, it would be published to every one who would hear." mr lister took a few strides up and down the room. "will you hear me, miriam?" he cried, making an ineffectual effort to command his temper. "john lister," she replied, "i have given you your answer, come to me in six months' time." "am i to take that as final?" he said hoarsely. "yes. how can i reply otherwise to your violence?" "violence! it is enough to drive a man mad! but, once more, miriam, give me your verbal answer to the note i sent you this morning. yes or no. pause before you answer, for you do not know how much depends upon it. you have made me desperate. don't leave me to repent of what i have done." "john, dear john!" she said softly, "i am alone in the world, with none to guide me, and i have prayed for help that i might give a right answer to your request." "yes," he said, with his lip curling, "and it is--" "it is for both our sakes, john," she said softly; "i could not in justice to us both say yes, now; it must be _no_!" he did not speak, but stood glaring at her for a few moments. then, looking very white, and drawing in his breath with a long, low hiss, he turned upon his heel and left the room. for a few minutes miss carr sat gazing at the door through which he had passed, and then, turning and seeing my hot, flushed face, she seemed to recall mr lister's words about me, and she took my hand, sitting very quietly for a time. "when people are angry, antony," she said quietly, "they say things they do not intend or mean. you must forgive mr lister his words about you--for my sake." "i will do what you wish," i said, and then i began wondering whether i ought to tell miss carr what i knew about mr lister's affairs, for it seemed to me that the words i had heard must be true, and that this was the explanation of his great anxiety to fix the day. a dozen times over the words were on my lips, but i felt that it would seem as if i took advantage of my position, and were trying to blacken mr lister to gain her favour. more likely, i thought, it would make her bitter and angry against me, and, reflecting that she had determinedly insisted that he should wait six months for her answer, i remained silent. miss carr strove very hard to make me forget the unpleasantry of the early part of my visit, but she was at times very quiet and subdued, and i believe we both looked upon it as a relief when the time came for my departure. chapter thirty eight. a wedding trip. "you're getting such a fine gent now. ant'ny," said revitts to me one morning; "but, if so be as you wouldn't mind, mary and me's made up our minds to have a bit of a trip out, a kind of s'rimp tea, just by way of celebrating my being made sergeant, and getting well again." "why, my dear old bill," i cried, "why should i mind your having a trip? where are you going?" "well, you see, it's a toss up, ant'ny; gravesend's best for s'rimps, but hampton court's the nicer sorter place for a day, and mary ain't never been." "then go to hampton court," i said. "hampton court it is, mary," he said. "that settles it." "and i hope you'll both enjoy yourselves." "what, won't you come?" said revitts blankly. "come! what--with you?" i said. "why, of course, ant'ny. you don't suppose we should care about going alone. won't you come?" "you didn't ask me." "oh, come now; that i did!" he exclaimed. "that you did not," i said stoutly. "did he, mary?" "he meant to, master antony," said mary, looking up with a very red face, and one hand apparently in a grey boxing-glove, though it was only one of revitts' worsted stockings, in need of another darn. "well, i'll ask you now, then," exclaimed revitts. "will you come along with us?" "when?" "sat'day next, being your half-holiday." "yes," i said, "but i must write and tell miss carr i'm not coming till sunday." "that's settled, then," said revitts, holding out his big hand for me to shake; and i could not help noticing how thin and soft it was; but he was fast recovering his strength, and was again on duty. we walked down from pentonville together, and as we went along, he introduced the subject of his accident for the first time for some weeks. "you wouldn't think as i'm a-trying hard to conjure out who it was fetched me that crack on the head, antony?" "no," i said; "i thought you had forgotten all about it." "not i," he said, shaking his head. "what, me, a sergeant, just promoted, and let a case like that go by without conjuring it out! why, it couldn't be done! i should feel as if i was a disgrace to the force. that's speaking 'ficially," he said. "now, speaking as a man, i've got this here to say, that i shan't rest comfortable till i've put something on that there fellows wrists." "and shall you know him again?" i asked. "know him! out o' ten thousand--out o' ten millions o' men. i only wish i knew the gal. it would be such a clue." "it's no use to be revengeful, bill," i said. "let it go. it brought mary up to town." "yes, it did, didn't it?" he said, with the sheepish, soft look coming over his face for a moment. but it was gone directly, and he was the officer once more. "'taint revengeful," he said; "it's dooty. we can't let outrageous outrages like that take place in the main streets. no, antony: i feel as if my reputation's at stake, to find out who did that, and i shan't rest till i do." we parted then, and the rest of the week passed swiftly away. i told hallett that i was going to spend the afternoon out on the saturday, so that most likely i should go to miss carr's on the sunday, and he was not to expect me for my usual walk with him, one which had grown into a custom; and being thus clear, i went off in the morning to westminster, it being understood that i was to meet revitts and mary at the white horse cellar. piccadilly, and go down to hampton court at midday by the omnibus. punctual to my time, i went across the park and up saint james's street and saw revitts and mary, long before i reached them, by the show they made. mary was in white book muslin, with a long blade silk scarf, and a bonnet that i could not pretend to describe, save that over it she carried a blue parasol shot with red; and revitts was in black frock-coat, buff waistcoat, and white trousers, with a tremendous show of collar standing bolt out of a sky-blue watered-silk stock, while his hat shone as if it was a repetition of the patent leather of his shoes. i instinctively felt that something was the matter as i drew near them, and, but for my genuine love and respect for them both, i believe i should have run away. i rebuked my cowardly shame directly after, though, and went up and shook hands. there was not a vestige of tantrums left in mary's countenance, for it had softened itself into that dreadful smile--the same that was playing upon revitts' face, as he kept looking at her in a satisfied, half-imbecile way, before giving me a nudge with his elbow, covering his mouth with his hand, and exclaiming in a loud whisper,-- "we've been and done it, ant'ny! pouf!" this last was a peculiar laugh in which he indulged, while mary cast down her eyes. "done it!--done what? what does he mean, mary?" mary grew scarlet, and became puzzled over the button of one of her white kid gloves. "here, what do you mean, bill?" i said. "done it. pouf!" he exclaimed, with another laugh from behind his hand. "done it--married." "married?" i echoed. "yes. pouf! mrs sergeant revitts. white sergeant. pouf!" "oh, mary," i said, "and not to tell me!" "it was all his doing, master antony," pleaded mary. "he would have me, and the more i wanted to go back to service, the more he made me get married. and now i hope he's happy." there was no mistaking william revitts' happiness as he helped his wife on to the outside of the omnibus, behind the coachman--he sitting one side of mary, and i next him; but try as i would, i could not feel as happy. i felt vexed and mortified; for, somehow, it seemed as if it was printed in large letters upon the backs of my companions--"married this morning," and this announcement seemed reflected upon me. i wouldn't have cared if they could have sat still and talked rationally; but this they did not do, for every now and then they turned to look in each other's faces, with the same weak, half-imbecile smile,--after which mary would cast down her eyes and look conscious, while revitts turned round and smiled at me, finishing off with a nudge in my side. at times, too, he had spasmodic fits of silent laughter--silent, except that they commenced with a loud chuckle, which he summarily stifled and took into custody by clapping his great hand over his mouth. there were intervals of relief, though; for when, from his coign of vantage, poor bill saw one of his fraternity on ahead--revealed to him, perhaps, by a ray of sunshine flashing from the shiny top of his hat--for, of course, this was long before the days of helmets--the weak, amiable look was chased off his face by the official mask, and, as a sergeant, though of a different division, revitts felt himself bound to stare very hard at the police-constable, and frown severely. at first i thought it was foolish pride on my part, that i was being spoiled by miss carr, and that i was extra sensitive about my friends; but i was not long in awakening to the fact that they were the objects of ridicule to all upon the omnibus. the first thing i noticed was, that the conductor and driver exchanged a wink and a grin, which were repeated several times between piccadilly and kensington, to the great amusement of several of the passengers. then began a little mild chaff, sprinkled by the driver, who started with-- "i say, joey, when are _you_ going to be married?" "married? oh, i dunno. i've tried it on sev'ral times, but the parsons is all too busy." the innocent fit was on revitts just then, and he favoured mary and me with a left and right nudge. "do adone, william," whispered mrs sergeant; and he grinned hugely. "shall you take a public, joey, when you do it?" said the driver, leaning back for another shot. "lor', no; it won't run to a public, old man," was the reply. "we was thinking of the green and tater line, with a cellar under, and best wallsend one and six." i could feel that this was all meant for the newly wedded couple, and sat with flaming cheeks. "see that there wedding in pickydilly, last week, bill?" revitts pricked up his ears, and was about to speak, but the driver turned half round, and shouted-- "what, where they'd got straw laid down, and the knocker tied up in a white kid glove?" "no-o-o!" shouted the conductor. "that wasn't it. i mean clost ter' arfmoon street, when they was just going off." "oh, ah, yes; i remember now." "see the old buffer shy the shoe outer the front winder?" "no-o-o!" "he did, and it 'it one o' the post-boys slap in the eye. old boy had been having too much champagne." "did it though?" "yes. i say, bill." "hal-low!" "it's the right card to have champagne on your wedding morning, ain't it?" "ah! some people stands it quite lib'ral like, if they're nobs; them as ain't, draws it old and mild." i had another nudge from revitts just then, and sat feeling as if i should like to jump down and run away. "drop o' smith's cool out o' the cellar wouldn't be amiss, joey, would it?" "no, old man. i wish we could fall across a wedding-party." a passenger or two were picked up, and we went on in peace for a little while: but the chaffing was commenced again, and kept up to such an extent that i longed for the journey to be at an end. "'member jack jones?" said the driver. "ah! what about him?" said the conductor. "he went and got married last year." "did he?" "yes." "who did he marry?" "that there mrs simmons as kep' the `queen's arms' at tunnum green." "ah!" "nice job he made of it." "did he?" "yes; he thought she was a widder." "well, warn't she?" "no; she turned out a big-a-mee; and one day her fust husban' comes back from 'stralia, and kicks jack jones out, and takes his place; and when jack 'peals against it, mrs simmons says it was all a mistake." "that was warm for jack, wasn't it?" "hot, i say." "well," said the conductor; "when i makes up my mind again, and the parsons ain't so busy, i shall have the missus cross-examined." "what for, joey?" "so as to see as she ain't a big-a-mee." revitts, who was drinking all this in, looked very serious here, as if the conversation was tending towards official matters. perhaps it occurred to him that he had not cross-examined mary before he was married; but he began to smile again soon after, for the conductor took a very battered old copper key-bugle from a basket on the roof, and, after a few preliminary toots, began to rattle off "the wedding-day." the driver shook the reins, the four horses broke into a canter, and as we swept past the green hedgerows and market-gardens, with here and there a pretty villa, i began to enjoy the ride, longing all the same, though, for revitts and mary to begin to talk, instead of smiling at each other in such a horribly happy way, and indulging in what was meant for a secret squeeze of the hand, but which was, however, generally seen by half the passengers. the air coming to an end, and the bugle being duly drained, wiped, and returned to its basket, the driver turned his head again: "nice toon that, joey." "like it?" "ah, i was going to say `hangcore,' on'y we're so clost to richmond. what was it--`weddin' day'?" "that's right, old man." "ah! thought it was." revitts sent his elbows into mary and me again, and had a silent laugh under one glove, but pricked up his ears directly, as the conductor shouted again: "ain't that bob binnies?" "what, him on the orf side?" said the driver, pointing with his whip. "yes." "well, what of him?" "what of him? why, he's the chap as got married, and had such a large family." "did he, though?" said the driver seriously. "ten children in five years, bill." "lor'! with only five-and-twenty shillings a week. how did he manage?" revitts looked very serious here, and sat listening for the answer. "kep' him precious poor; but, stop a moment, i ain't quite right. it was five children in ten years." revitts made another serious assault on my ribs, and i saw mary give herself a hitch; and whisper again to her lord. there was a general laugh at this stale old joke, which, like many more well-worn ones, however, seemed to take better than the keenest wit, and just then the omnibus drew up in front of an inn to change horses. the driver unbuckled and threw down his reins, previous to descending to join the conductor, who was already off his perch. several of the passengers got down, and after bidding mary and me keep our places, revitts prepared to descend, rather more slowly though, for his wedding garments were not commodious. "don't drink anything, william dear," whispered mary. "not drink anything to-day?" he said, laughing. "oh, come, that won't do!" he jumped off the step, and i saw him join the driver and conductor, who laughed and nodded, and, directly after, each man had a foaming pint of ale, which they held before putting to their lips, till revitts came round to our side with a waiter bearing two glasses of wine and another pint of ale, the driver and conductor following. "oh, i don't want anything," said mary, rather sharply. "it's only sherry wine, my dear," said revitts magnificently; and, as if to avoid remark, mary stooped down and took the glasses, one being for me, revitts taking his shiny pewter measure of ale. "here is long life and happiness to you, mum, and both on you," said the driver, nodding in the most friendly way. "aforesaid," exclaimed the conductor, "and a bit o' chaff on'y meant as fun. long life and a merry one to both on you. shaver, same to you." i was the "shaver," and the healths being drunk in solemn silence, and i accommodated with a tumbler, and some water to my sherry, the driver mounted again, the conductor took out his key-bugle, the streets of pretty richmond echoed to an old-fashioned air, and the four fresh but very dilapidated old screws that did the journey to hampton court and back to richmond were shaken into a scrambling canter, so that in due time we reached the royal village, the chaff having been damped at richmond with the ale, and ceasing afterwards to fly. i've learned that a return omnibus left the "toy" at seven o'clock, and then started for our peregrination of the palace and grounds. but somehow that pint or ale seemed to have completely changed poor revitts. the late injury to his head had made him so weak there, that the ale acted upon him in the strangest manner. he was excited and irritable, and seemed to be brooding over the remarks he had heard upon the omnibus. the gardens, of course, took our attention first, and there being few people about, and those of a holiday class, the gay costume of my companions ceased to excite notice, and i began to enjoy our trip. there were the great smooth gravel walks, the closely shaven lawns, the quaintly clipped shrubs, and old-fashioned flower beds to admire. the fountain in the centre made so much spray in the pleasant breeze that from one point of view there was a miniature rainbow, and when we walked down to the iron railings, and gazed at the long avenue of the home park, with its bright canal-like lake between, mary was enraptured. "oh, do look, dear!" she exclaimed; "isn't it 'evingly, william?" "yes," he said stolidly, as he took hold of the railing with his white kid glove; "but what i say is this: every man who enters into the state of wedlock ought fust to make sure as the woman he marries ain't a big-a-mee." here he unbuttoned his waistcoat, under the impression that it was his uniform coat, so as to get out his notebook, and then, awakening to his mistake, hastily buttoned it again. "haven't got a pencil and a bit o' paper, have you, ant'ny?" he said. "what are you talking about, william?" exclaimed mary. "don't be so foolish. now, take us and show us the oranges master antony," she said. this was on the strength of my having invested in a guidebook, though both my companions seemed to place themselves in my hands, and looked up to me as being crammed with a vast amount of knowledge about cardinal wolsey, henry the eighth, and those who had made the palace their home. so i took them to see the orangery, which revitts, who seemed quite out of temper, looked down upon with contempt. "bah!" he exclaimed; "call them oranges! why, i could go and buy twice as good in grey's inn lane for three a penny. that there woman, ant'ny, what was her name?" "what woman?" "her as committed big-a-mee?" "oh, do adone with such stuff, william dear. now, master antony, what's next?" "i know," said revitts oracularly, "mrs simmons. i say she ought to have been examined before a police magistrate, and after proper adjournments, and the case regularly made up by the sergeant who had it in charge, she ought to have been committed for trial." "oh, william dear, do adone," cried mary, clinging to his arm. "cent. crim. court--" "william!" "old bailey--" "william dear!" "before a jury of her fellow-countrymen, or,--i say, ant'ny ain't that wrong?" "what?" i said, laughing. "oh, it ain't a thing to laugh at, my lad. it's serious," he said, taking off his hat and rubbing his head, exhaling, as he did so, a strong smell of hair-oil. "what is serious?" i said. "why, that," replied revitts, "i ain't sure, in a case like that, it oughtn't to be a jury of matrons." "oh do, pray, hurry him along, master antony," cried mary piteously. "whatever is the matter with you to-day, william?" "i'm married," he said severely. "and you don't wish you weren't. william, don't say so, please," exclaimed mary pitifully. "i don't know," said revitts stolidly. "go on, ant'ny." he went on, himself, towards the vinery, mary following with me, and looking at me helplessly, as if asking what she should do. the sight of the great bunches of grapes in such enormous numbers seemed to change the course of william revitts' thoughts, and we went on pretty comfortably for a time, mary's spirits rising, and her tongue going more freely, but there were no more weak, amiable smiles. at last we entered the palace, and on seeing a light dragoon on duty, revitts pulled himself together, looked severe, and marched by him, as if belonging to a kindred force; but he stopped to ask questions on the grand staircase, respecting the painted ceilings. "are them angels, ant'ny?" he said. "i suppose so," i replied. "then i don't believe it," he said angrily. "why, if such evidence was given at clerkenwell, everybody in the police-court would go into fits, and the reporters would say in the papers, `loud laughter, which was promptly repressed'! or, `loud laughter, in which the magistrate joined.'" "whatever does he mean, master antony? i don't know what's come to him to-day," whispered mary. "why, that there," said revitts contemptuously. "just fancy a witness coming and swearing as the angels in heaven played big fiddles, and things like the conductor blew coming down. the painter must have been a fool." he was better pleased with the arms and armour, stopping to carefully examine a fine old mace. "yes, that would give a fellow a awful wunner, ant'ny," he said; "but it would be heavy, and all them pikes and things ain't necessary. a good truncheon properly handled can't be beat." old furniture, tapestry, and the like had their share of attention, but revitts hurried me on when i stopped before some of the pictures, shaking his head and nudging me. "i wonder at you, ant'ny," he whispered. his face was scarlet, and he had not recovered his composure when we reached another room, where a series of portraits made me refer to my guide. "ladies of charles the second's court," i said, "painted by sir peter lely." "then he ought to have been ashamed of himself," said revitts sharply; and drawing mary's arm through his, he hurried me off, evidently highly disapproving of the style of bodice then in vogue. chapter thirty nine. william revitts is eccentric. the dinner we had at the inn was not a success. the waiters evidently settled that we were a wedding-party, and charged accordingly. mary tried hard to keep revitts from taking any more to drink; but he said it was necessary on a day like that, and ordered wine accordingly. he drank slowly, and never once showed the slightest trace of intoxication; but the wine also produced a strange irritability, which made him angry, even to being fierce at times; and over and over again i saw the tears in poor mary's eyes. ever and again that bigamy case--real or imaginary--of which he had heard as we came down kept cropping up, and the more mary tried to turn the conversation, the more eager he became to discuss it. the wedding-day, his wife, my remarks, all were forgotten or set aside, so that he might explain to us, with a vast amount of minutiae, how he would have got up such a case, beginning with the preliminary inquiries and ending with the culprit's sentence. we had it over the dinner, with the waiters in the room; we had it in _culs-de-sac_ in the maze; and we had it over again in bushy park, as we sat under the shade of a great chestnut; after which revitts lay down, seeming to drop asleep, and mary said to me, piteously: "i do believe, dear, as he's took it into his head that i've committed big-a-mee?" the words were uttered in a whisper, but they seemed to galvanise revitts, who started up into a sitting posture, and exclaimed sharply: "i don't know as you ain't. i never cross-examined you before we was married. but look here, mary revitts, it's my dooty to tell you as what you say now will be took down, and may be used as evidence against you." after which oracular delivery he lay down and went off fast asleep, leaving mary to weep in silence, and wish we had never come away from home. i could not help joining her in the wish, though i did not say so, but did all i could to comfort her, as mr peter rowle's moral aphorisms about drink kept coming to my mind. not that poor revitts had, in the slightest degree, exceeded; and we joined in saying that it was all due to over-excitement consequent upon his illness. "if i could only get him home again, poor boy, i wouldn't, care," said mary; and we then comforted ourselves with the hope that he would be better when he awoke, and that then we would go to one of the many places offering, have a quiet cup of tea, which would be sure to do him good, and then go back home, quietly, inside the omnibus. revitts woke in about an hour, evidently much refreshed and better, but still he seemed strange. the tea, however, appeared to do him good, and in due time we mounted to our seats outside the omnibus, for he stubbornly refused to go within. he did not say much on the return journey, but the bigamy case was evidently running in his head, from what he said; and once, in a whisper, poor mary, who was half broken-hearted, confided to me now, sitting on her other side, that she felt sure poor william was regretting that they had been married. "and i did so want to wait," she said: "but he wouldn't any longer." "are you two whispering about that there case?" he cried sharply. "no, william dear," said mary. "do you feel better?" "better?" he said irritably. "there isn't anything the matter with me." he turned away from her, and sat watching the side of the road, muttering every now and then to himself in a half-angry way, while poor mary, in place of going into a tantrum, got hold of my hand between both hers, and held it very hard pressed against the front of her dress, where she was protected by a rigid piece of bone or steel. every now and then, poor woman, she gave the hand a convulsive pressure, and a great sob in the act of escaping would feel like a throb against my arm. so silent and self-contained did revitts grow at last, that poor mary began to pour forth in a whisper the burden of her trouble, while i sat wondering, and thinking what a curious thing this love must be, that could so completely transform people, and yet give them so much pain. "it wasn't my doing, master antony dear," whispered mary; "for i said it would be so much better for me to go back to service for a few years, and i always thought as hasty marriages meant misery. but william was so masterful, he said it was no use his getting on and improving his spelling, and getting his promotion, if he was always to live a weary, dreary bachelor--them was his very words, master antony; and now, above all times, was the one for us to get married." "he's tired, mary," i said; "that's all." "that's all? ah, my dear! it's a very great all. he's tired of me, that's what he is; and i shall never forgive my self for being so rash." "but you have been engaged several years, haven't you, mary?" "yes, my dear; but years ain't long when you're busy and always hard at work. i dessay they're a long time to gentlefolks as has to wait, but it never seemed long to me, and i've done a very rash thing; but i didn't think the punishment was coming quite so soon." "oh, nonsense, mary; bill will be all right again soon," i said, as i could see, by the light of a gas-lamp we passed, that the poor disappointed woman had been crying till she had soaked and spoiled her showy bonnet-strings. "no, my dear, i don't think so; i feel as if it was all a punishment upon me, and that i ought to have waited till he was quite well and strong." it was of no avail to try and comfort, so i contented myself with sitting still and pressing poor mary's rough honest hand, while the horses rattled merrily along, and we gradually neared the great city. i was obliged to own that if this was a specimen of a wedding-day, it was anything but a joyous and festive time; and it seemed to me that the day that had begun so unsatisfactorily was to be kept in character to the end. for, before reaching hammersmith, one of the horses shied and fell, and those at the pole went right upon it before the omnibus could be stopped, with the consequence that the vehicle was nearly upset, and a general shriek arose. no harm, however, was done, and in a quarter of an hour we were once more under weigh, but mary said, with a sigh and a rub of the back of my hand against the buttons of her dress, that it was a warning of worse things to come; and though very sorry for her, i could not help longing for our journey's end. "just you come over here, ant'ny," said revitts suddenly; and i had to change places and sit between him and his wife, of whom he seemed not to take the slightest notice. "are you better, bill?" i said. "better?" he said sharply; "what do you mean by better? i'm all right." "that's well," i said. "of course it is. now look here, ant'ny, i've been thinking a good deal about that there big-a-mee as we come along, and i'll just tell you what i should have done." i heard mary give a gulp; but i thought it better not to try and thwart him, so prepared to listen. "you see, ant'ny," he said, in a very didactic manner, "when a fellow is in the force, and is always taking up people and getting up cases, and attending at the police-courts, and old bailey sessions and coroners' inquests, he picks up a deal of valuable information." "of course, bill." "he do; it stands to reason that he do. well, then, i ought to know just two or three things." "say two or three thousand, bill." "well," he said, giving his head an official roll, as if settling it in his great stock, "we won't say that. let's put it at 'undreds--two or three 'undreds. now, if i'd had such a case as that big-a-mee in hand, i should have begun at the beginning.--where are we now?" he said, after a pause, during which he had taken off his hat, and rubbed his head in a puzzled way. "you were talking about the case," i said, "and beginning at the beginning." "don't you try to be funny, young fellow," he said severely. "i said, where are we now?" "just passing hyde park corner, bill." "yes, of course," he said. "well, look here, my lad, there's no doubt about one thing: women, take 'em all together, are--no, i won't say a bad lot, but they're weak--awful weak. i've seen a deal on 'em at the police-courts." "i suppose so," i said, as i heard mary give a low sigh. "they're not what they should be, ant'ny, by a long chalk, and the way they'll tell lies and deceive and cheat 's about awful, that it is." "some women are bad, i daresay," i said, in a qualifying tone. "some?" he said, with a short, dry laugh; "it's some as is good. most women's bad." "that's a nice wholesale sort of a charge," said a passenger behind him, in rather a huffy tone. "you mind your own business," said revitts sharply. "i wasn't talking to you;" and he spoke in such a fierce way that the man coloured, while mary leaned forward, and looked imploringly at me, as much as to say, "pray, pray, don't let him quarrel." "i say it, and i ought to know," said revitts dictatorially, "that women's a bad lot, and after hearing of that case this morning, i say as every woman afore she gets married ought to go through a reg'lar cross-examination, and produce sittifikits of character, and witnesses to show where she's been, and what she's been a-doing of for say the last seven years. if that was made law, we shouldn't have poor fellows taken in and delooded, and then find out afterwards as it's a case of big-a-mee, like we heerd of this morning. why, as i was a-saying, ant'ny, if i'd had that case in hand--eh? oh, ah, yes, so it is. i'll get down first. i didn't think we was so near." for poor bill's plans about the bigamy case were brought to an end by the stopping of the omnibus in piccadilly, and i gave a sigh of relief as we drew up in the bright, busy thoroughfare, after a look at the dark sea of shining lights that lay spread to the right over the green park and westminster. carriages were passing, the pavement was thronged, and it being a fine night, all looked very bright and cheery after what had been rather a dull ride. revitts got down, and i was about to follow, offering my hand to poor, sad mary, when just as my back was turned, revitts called out to me: "ant'ny, ant'ny, look after my wife!" and as i turned sharply, i just caught sight of him turning the corner of the street, and he was gone. chapter forty. hallett's news. i was so staggered by this strange behaviour that i did not think of pursuit. moreover, i was in the act of helping poor mary to the ladder placed for her to descend, while she, poor thing, gave vent to a cutting sigh, and clung tightly to my hand. as we stood together on the pavement, our eyes met, and there was something so piteous in the poor woman's face, that it roused me to action, and catching her hand, i drew it through my arm. "he has gone to get a glass of ale, mary," i said cheerfully. "let's see if we can see him." "no," she said huskily; "he has gone: he has left me for good, master antony, and i'm a miserable, wretched woman." "oh, nonsense," i cried. "come along. we shall find him." "no," she said, in a decisive way; "he has gone. he's been regretting it ever since this morning." "don't, pray; don't cry, mary," i whispered in alarm, for i was afraid of a scene in the streets. "no, my dear; don't you be afraid of that," she said, with a sigh. "i'll try and bear it till we get home; but i won't promise for any longer." "don't you be foolish, mary," i said sharply. "he has not left you. he's too fond of you. let's see if he is in the bar." mary sighed; but she allowed herself to be led where i pleased, and for the next half-hour we stood peering about in every likely place for the truant husband, but in vain; and at last, feeling that it was useless to search longer, i reluctantly turned to poor, patient, silent mary, wondering greatly that she had not burst out into a "tantrum," and said that we had better go home. "go where?" she said dolefully. "home," i replied, "to your lodgings." "my lodgings, master antony," she wailed. "i have no lodgings. i'm a poor, helpless, forsaken woman!" "oh, what nonsense, mary," i cried, hurrying her along; "don't be so foolish!"--for i was in mortal terror of a violent burst of tears. "come along, do. here!" i shouted; "cab!"--and i sighed with relief as i got her inside, and gave the man directions to take us to caroline street, pentonville. but even in the cab mary held up, striving hard, poor woman, to master her emotion--her pride, no doubt, helping her to preserve her calmness till she got to the happy home. "i dare say we shall find him upstairs," i said, after giving the cabman a shilling more than his fare; but though there was a light burning, and the landlady had spread the table, to make the place look welcome to the newly wedded pair, there was no sign of revitts, and we neither of us, in our shame, dared to ask if he had been back. on the contrary, we gladly got to the rooms--revitts' one having now expanded to three--and once there, mary gasped out: "master antony dear, shut and lock the door--quick--quick!" i hastily did as she bade me, and as i turned, it was to see poor mary tear off her bonnet and scarf, throw herself on the little couch, cover her face with her hands, and lie there crying and sobbing in a very passion of grief, misery, and shame. it was no noisy outburst: it was too deep for that; but the poor woman had to relieve herself of the day's disappointment and agony, and there she lay, beating down and stifling every hysterical cry that fought for exit, while her breast heaved with the terrible emotion. i was too young then to realise the full extent of the shame and abasement the poor woman must have felt, but all the same i sympathised with her deeply, and in my weak, boyish way did all i could to console her, but in vain. for quite an hour the outburst continued, till at last, quite in despair, i cried out: "oh mary, mary! what can i do to comfort you?" she jumped up into a sitting position, then; threw back her dishevelled hair; wiped her eyes, and looked, in spite of her red and swollen lids, more herself. "oh, my own dear boy," she cried, "what a wicked, selfish wretch i am!" and, catching me in her arms, she kissed me very tenderly. "there," she said with a piteous smile; "it's all over now, master antony, and i won't cry another drop. you're a dear, good, affectionate boy--that you are, and i'll never forget it, and you're as hungry as a hundred hunters, i know." in spite of my protestations, she hastened to make that balm for all sorrows--a cup of tea. "but i don't want it, mary," i protested, "and i'm not hungry." "then i do, and i am," she said, smiling. "you won't mind having a cup with me, i know, master antony dear. just like old times." "well, i will try," i said, "and i dare say revitts will be back by then." mary glanced at the little dutch clock in the corner, and saw that it pointed to eleven; then, shaking her head, she said sadly: "no, i don't think he'll come back." "but you don't think he has run away, mary?" "i don't know what to think, my dear," she said; "i only hope that he won't come to any harm, poor boy. it's his poor head, and that's why he turned so strange." "yes," i said joyfully, as i saw that at last she had taken the common-sense view of the case, "that's it, depend upon it, mary; and if he does not come soon, we'll give notice to the police, and they'll find him out." "no, my dear, don't do that," she said piteously; "it would be like shaming the poor boy; for if his mates got to know that he had run away like on his wedding-day, he'd never hear the last of it." i was obliged to agree in the truth of this remark, and i began to realise then, in spite of poor mary's rough exterior and ignorance, what a depth of patient endurance and thoughtfulness there was in the nature of a woman. her first outburst of uncontrollable grief past, she was ready to sit down and patiently bear her load of sorrow, waiting for what more trouble might come; for i am fully convinced that the poor woman looked forward to no pleasure in her married life. in spite of her belief that her husband's strange conduct was in some way due to his late accident, she felt convinced that he was regretting his marriage, and, if that were so now, she had no hope of winning him to a better state. we were both weary, and when the tea had been finished, mary carefully washed up the things, saw that there was a sufficiency of water, and kept it nearly on the boil. then she reset the tea-things in the tidiest way, ready for revitts if he should like a cup when he came home, and, on second thoughts, put out another cup and saucer. "it will be more sociable like, master antony," she said, by way of excuse; "for, of course, i don't want no more, though i do bless them chinese as invented tea, which is a blessing to our seck." these preparations made, and a glance round the sitting-room having been given, mary uttered a deep sigh, took up her work-basket, placed it on her knees, thrust her hand into a black stocking, and began to darn. i sat talking to her in a low voice for some time, feeling sincerely sorry for her, and wondering what could have become of revitts, but at last, in spite of my honest sympathy, i began to nod, and the various objects in the room grew indistinct. "hadn't you better go to bed, my dear?" said a voice near me; and i started into wakefulness, and found mary standing near me, with the black stocking-covered hand resting on one shoulder, while with the other she brushed my hair off my forehead. "bed? no!" i exclaimed, shaking myself. "i couldn't help feeling sleepy, mary; but i shan't go to bed." "but it's close upon twelve o'clock, dear, and you must be tired out." "never mind, mary; to-morrow's sunday," i said, with a yawn; and i went on once more talking to her about the engineer's office, and how i got on with young girtley and his father, till my voice trailed off, and through a mist i could see mary with that black stocking upon her hand poking about it with a great needle. then the black stocking seemed to swell and swell to a mountain's size, till it was like one huge mass, which mary kept attacking and stabbing with a long, bright steel lance, but without avail, for it still grew, and grew, and grew, till it seemed about to overwhelm me, and in my horror i was trying vainly to cry to her to stab it again, when i started up into wakefulness, for there was the faint tinkle of a bell. mary, too, had leaped to her feet, and was clinging to me. "once!" she whispered. there was another tinkle, very softly given. "twice!" whispered mary. then another very faint ring. "three?" whispered mary; "it's jones." "it's revitts come home!" i said joyfully. "no," she said, still clinging to me. "he has the latchkey." "lost it," i said. "let me run down and let him in." "no, no. wait a moment," said mary faintly. "i can't bear it yet. there's something wrong with my poor boy." "there isn't," i cried impatiently. "there is," she said hoarsely; "and they've come to bring the news." she clung to me spasmodically, but loosed me directly after, as she said quietly: "i can bear it now." i ran down softly, and opened the door to admit the wandering husband; but to my astonishment, in place of revitts, there stood stephen hallett. "hallett!" i exclaimed. "yes," he said. "i saw a light in the rooms. is revitts there?" "no," i said. "not yet." "on duty?" "no; he was married to-day." "yes, yes," he said, in a strange tone of voice. "i remember now. who is upstairs?" "mrs revitts--mary." "let us go up," he said; "i'll step up quietly." i was the more confused and muddled for having just awakened from a deep sleep, and somehow, all this seemed to be part of the dream connected with the great black mass that had threatened to fall upon me. i should not have been the least surprised if i had suddenly awakened and found myself alone, when, after closing the door, i led hallett upstairs to the little front room where mary was standing with dilated eyes, staring hard at the door. "you, mr hallett?" she exclaimed, as he half staggered in, and then, staring round, seemed to reel, and caught my hand as i helped him to a seat. "tell me," gasped mary, catching at his hand; "is it very bad?" he nodded. "give me--water," he panted. "i am--exhausted." mary rushed to the little cupboard for a glass, and the brandy that had been kept on revitts behalf, and hastily pouring some into a glass with water, she held it to him, and he drained it at a draught. "now, tell me," she exclaimed. "where is he--what is it--have you seen him?" "no," he cried hoarsely, as he clenched his fist and held it before him! "no, or i should have struck him dead." "mr hallett!" she cried, starting. then, in a piteous voice, "oh, tell me, please--what has he done? he is my husband, my own dear boy! pray, pray, tell me--he was half-mad. oh, what have--what have i done!" "is she mad?" cried hallett angrily. "where is her husband--where is revitts?" "we don't know," i said hastily. "we are waiting for him." "i want him directly," he said hoarsely. "i could not go to a stranger." "what is the matter, hallett?" i cried. "pray, speak out. what can i do?" "nothing," he said hoarsely. "yes; tell him to come--no, bring him to me. do you hear?" "yes," i faltered. "at any hour--whenever he comes," said hallett, speaking now angrily, as he recovered under the stimulus of the brandy. "then there is something terribly wrong," i said. "wrong? yes. my god!" he muttered, "that i should have to tell it-- linny has gone?" chapter forty one. the bridegroom's return. "oh, hallett!" i cried, catching his hand, as the poor fellow sat blankly gazing before him in his mute despair. "it is a mistake; she could not be so wicked." "wicked!" he said with a curious laugh. "was it wicked, after all her promises--my forgiveness--my gentle, loving words? i was a fool. i believed that she was weaning herself from it all, and trying to forget. a woman would have read her at a glance; but i, a poor, mad dreamer, always away, or buried in that attic, saw nothing, only that she was very quiet, and thin, and sad." "did she tell you that she would go, hallett?" i asked, hardly knowing what i said. "no, antony," i replied, in a dreary tone. "did you have any quarrel?" "no; not lately. she was most affectionate--poor child! and her heart must have been sore with the thought or what she was about to do. only this evening, before i went up into the attic to dream over my invention, she crept to my side, put her little arms round my neck, and kissed me, as she used when she was a tiny child, and said how sorry she was that she had given me so much pain. antony, lad," he cried passionately, "i went up to my task to-night a happy man, thinking that one heavy load was taken off my shoulders, and that the future was going to be brighter for us both. for, antony, in my cold, dreamy way, i love her very dearly, and so i have ever since she was a little wilful child." he sat gazing at me with such a piteous expression in his face that his words went to my heart, and i heard mary give quite a gulp. "but, hallett," i said, "you are not sure; she may have gone to some friend's. she may have come back by this time." "come back?" he said fiercely. "no; she has not come back. not yet. some day she will return, poor strayed lamb!" he added, gazing straight before him, his voice softening and his arms extending, as if he pictured the whole scene and was about to take her to his heart. "but are you sure that she has really gone?" i cried. "sure? read that." i took the crumpled paper with trembling fingers, and saw at a glance that he was right. in ill-written, hardly decipherable words, the poor girl told her brother that she could bear it no longer, but that she had fled with the man who possessed her heart. i stared blankly at poor hallett, as he took the note from my hand, read it once more through, crushed it in his hand with a fierce look, and thrust it back in his pocket. "is it--is it your poor dear sister who has gone?" said mary excitedly. "yes," he cried, with his passion mastering him once more; and his hands opened and shut, as if eager to seize some one by the throat--"yes; some villain has led her away. but let me stand face to face with him, and then--" he paused in his low, painful utterance, gazing from me to mary, who stood with her hand upon his arm. "and i thought my trouble the biggest in the world," she sobbed; "but you've done right, sir, to come for my william. he'll find them if they're anywhere on the face of this earth, and they shall be found. poor dear! and her with her pretty girlish gentle face as i was so jealous of. i'm only a silly foolish woman, sir," she cried, with the tears falling fast, "but i may be of some good. if i'm along with my william when he finds 'em, she may listen to me and come back, when she wouldn't mind him, and i'll follow it out to the end." "you're--you're a good woman," said hallett hoarsely, "and may god bless you. but your husband--where is your husband? we must lose no time." "master antony?" cried mary, and then, as if awakening once more to her position, and speaking in tones of bitterness--"oh, what has come to my william? he must be found!" "send him on to me," said hallett. "i'll go back now. antony, will you come?" "why, there's your poor mother, too," cried mary, "and all alone! i can help her, at all events!" as mary spoke, she hurried to get her work-a-day bonnet and shawl, while hallett stood gazing at her in a dazed and helpless way. "your pore sister did come and help my pore boy when he was bad, and-- oh!" mary uttered a fierce, angry cry. bonnet and shawl fell from her hands, her jaw dropped, her ruddy face grew mottled with patches of white, and her eyes dilated. her whole aspect was that of one about to have a fit, and i took a step towards her. she motioned me fiercely back, and tore at her throat, as if she were suffocating. "i see it now!" she cried hoarsely, "i see it now! oh, the wretch, the wretch! only let me find him again!" "mary!" i cried, "what is it?" "i see it all now!" she cried again. "then i was right. she come--she come here, and poisoned him with her soft looks and ways, and he's left me--to go away with her to-night!" mary made a clutch at vacancy; and then, tottering, would have fallen, had not hallett been close at hand to catch her and help her to the couch, where the poor woman lay perfectly insensible, having fainted for probably the first time in her life. "what does she mean?" cried hallett, as he made, with me, ineffectual efforts to restore her. "she was angry and jealous the night she came and found linny here attending on revitts," i cried in a bewildered way, hardly knowing what i said. "and now she thinks, because he has left her to-night, that he has gone away with linny." "poor fool?" he said sadly. "revitts was very strange to-day," i said, "and--and--and, hallett--oh, forgive me," i said, "i've kept something from you." "what!" he cried, catching me so fiercely by the arm that he caused me acute pain. "don't tell me that i have been deceived, too, in you!" "no, hallett, i haven't deceived you," i said. "i kept something back that i ought to have told you." "you kept something back!" he cried. "speak--speak at once, antony, or--or--speak, boy; i'm not master of myself!" "linny begged me so hard not to tell you, and i consented, on condition that she would mind what you said." "then--then you knew that she was carrying on with this man," he cried savagely, neither of us seeing that mary had come to, and was watching us with distended eyes. "no, no, hallett," i cried. "i did not--indeed, i did not; i only knew it was he who so beat poor revitts." "who was he--what's his name?" cried mary, seizing my other arm, and shaking it. "i don't know; i never knew," i cried, faring badly between them. "linny begged me, on her knees, not to tell that it was her friend who beat revitts when he interfered, and when she promised me she would always obey you, hallett, i said i would keep her secret." "then linny was the girl poor revitts saved," said hallett hoarsely. "yes!" cried mary. "the villain! he likes her pretty face. i was right; and i've been a fool to faint and go on. but that's over now," she cried savagely. "i'll wait here till he does come back; for i'm his lawful wife; and when he does come--oh!" mary uttered that "oh!" through her closed teeth, and all the revenge that was in her nature seemed to come to the surface, while hallett walked up and down the room. "you have no idea, antony, who he is?" "no, on my word, hallett," i cried; "i never knew. pray forgive me! i thought it was for the best." "yes, yes, lad," he said; "you did it from kindness. it has made no difference. i could not have borne it for you to deceive me, antony," he said, with a sweet, sad smile lighting his face as i caught his hand. "come, let us go. mary, my good soul, you are labouring under a mistake. good-night!" "no, you don't!" cried mary, setting her back against the door. "you don't go till he comes back. he'll come and bring your sister here. and you may take her home. i'll talk to him. what?" she cried triumphantly; "what did i say?" she turned, and threw open the door; for just then a heavy step was heard below, and, as if expecting some strange scene, hallett and i stood watching, as step after step creaked beneath a heavy weight, till whoever was coming reached the landing and staggered into the room. "you--" mary's sentence was never finished; for her husband's look, as he strode in with linny in his arms, seemed to crush her. "i couldn't get him, too, but i marked him," he said, panting, "and i've stopped his little game." "linny!" cried hallett to the half-insensible girl, who seemed to glide from revitts' arms, and sink in a heap at his feet, while i stood gazing in utter amazement at the turn things had taken. "mary, my lass! a drop of something--anything--i'm about done." mary's teeth gritted together, and she darted a vindictive look at her husband; but she obeyed him, fetching out a bottle of gin and a glass, which he filled and drained before speaking. "not so strong as i was," he cried excitedly. "glad you're here, sir. i ketched sight of him with her from the 'bus as we come in. i'd a known him from a thousand--him as give it me, you know. `look arter mary,' i says to master antony here, and i was after him like a shot, hanging on to the hansom cab he'd got her in, and i never left 'em till it stopped down at richmond, at a willa by the water-side." "richmond?" said hallett blankly. "richmond, as i'd been through twice that very day. when the cab stops--i'd made the man right with half-a-crown, and--telling him i was in the police--my gentleman gets out, and i had him like a shot. i might have got help a dozen times, but i wanted to tackle him myself, as i allus swore i would," cried revitts savagely; "but he was too much for me again. i'm stronger than him, but he's got tricks, and he put me on my back after a good tussle--just look at my noo things!--and afore i could get up again, he was off, running like a coward as he is. but i brought her back, not knowing till i had her under the gas-lamp as it was master ant'ny's friend and your sister, and she'd told me who she was, and asked me in a curious crying way to take her back to master ant'ny, as she said was the only one who'd help her now." "you--you brought her home in the cab?" cried mary hoarsely. "yes, my lass, and it's cost me half-a-sov altogether; but i've spoilt his game, whoever he is. poor little lass, she's been about mad ever since i got into the cab, a-clinging to me." "yes," hissed mary. "and crying and sobbing, and i couldn't comfort her, not a bit." "no!" said mary softly, through her teeth. "it was rather rough on you, mary, my gal," said revitts; "but you would marry a police-officer, and dooty must be done." mary was about to speak; but he held up his hand, for linny seemed to be coming to, and hallett was kneeling on the floor by her side. "mary--bill," i whispered; for the right thing to do seemed to be suggested to me then. "let us go and leave them." "right you are, master ant'ny, and always was," said bill hoarsely; and, passing his arm round mary's waist, he drew her into the other room, by which time the scales seemed to have fallen from poor mary's eyes, for the first thing she did, as soon as we were in the room, was to plump down on her knees, clasp those of her husband, lay her cheek against them, and cry, ready to break her heart. probably the excitement of his adventure had had a good effect upon revitts; for the strange fit of petulance and obstinacy had passed away, and he was all eagerness and smiles. "why, what a gal you are, polly!" he exclaimed. "don't cry, my lass; i was obliged to go off. pleecemen ain't their own masters." "oh, bill dear," sobbed mary, "and i've been thinking sich things." "of course you have, polly," he said; "and i've been wishing myself at home, but i knew ant'ny would take care of you. poor little lass! i've had a nice job, i can tell you. i say, ant'ny, is she quite right in her head?" "oh yes," i said. "well, she don't look it then, poor little woman. one minute she was begging and praying me to take her home, the next she was scolding me for interfering. then she'd be quiet for a few minutes, and then she'd want to jump out of the cab; and it's my belief that if i'd let her go, she'd have throwed herself into the river." "poor soul?" murmured mary. "then she'd take a fit of not wanting to go home, saying that she daren't never go there any more, and that i wasn't to take her home, but to you, ant'ny; and that sorter thing's been going on all the time, till she seemed to be quite worn out, and i was so puzzled as to what to do, that i thought i would bring her on here, and let mary do what she thought best." "did you think that, bill?" said mary eagerly. "of course i did. i don't understand women-folk, and i hate having jobs that puts 'em in my care. `mary'll settle it all right,' i says, `and know what's best to be done.'" "antony," said a voice at the door just then, and i went out to find hallett looking very pale, and linny lying insensible upon the couch. "oh, hallett!" i exclaimed. "shall mary come?" "yes--directly," he said hoarsely; and there was something very strange about his manner. "shut the door, boy," he continued. "look here, antony; this note was inside the neck of her dress, as i opened it to give her air. you need not read it; but look at it. tell me whether you have ever seen the handwriting before." i took the letter from him, and looked at the bold, free, rather peculiar hand, which i recognised on the instant. "oh yes!" i exclaimed, "often." "whose writing is it?" he said, pressing his hand upon his breast to keep down the emotion that seemed ready to choke him. "don't speak rashly, antony; make sure before you give an answer." "but i am sure," i exclaimed, without a moment's hesitation. "i have often seen it--it is mr lister's writing. what does it mean?" "mean?" cried hallett, in a low, deep voice, as if speaking to some one across the room, for he was not looking at me. "my god, what does it not mean, but that john lister is a villain!" chapter forty two. a question of law. stephen hallett's model was still at rest; for, poor fellow, he had now a fresh trouble upon his hands. the excitement had been too much for linny, and he got her home to find her delirious; a severe attack of brain fever came on, and her life was, for many days, hanging by a thread. i was there every evening, to find that mary had installed herself head nurse, and whenever hallett spoke to her, she was always ready with the one reply: "didn't she come and tend my pore bill?" this went on for a time, but hallett insisted, and mary proving obdurate, he talked to revitts about remuneration. "oh, never mind about that," said the bluff fellow. "she says she's got plenty of time on her hands, and we've both saved a bit, and as long as she gets what i want, and is at home when i come, it don't interfere with me; and bless your heart, mr hallett, what would life be if one on us wouldn't do a good turn to another?" "yes, but i cannot feel satisfied to let your good wife work for me for nothing." "ah," said bill sagely. "that's the worst of eddication, it makes a man so uppish. no offence, mr hallett, sir, but you being a highly eddicated man--" "tut--tut! nonsense!" said hallett, smiling. "oh, but you are, you know," said revitts. "ant'ny says you are, and it's wonderful what a power o' stuff that there young chap's got in his head. i come the top-sawyer over him when he first come up to london; but, lor' bless you! i give in to everything out o' the ornerary in no time. it's on'y nat'ral that eddication should make a man uppish. i've felt a deal more so since ant'ny's given me a lift in spellin'. i always was a good writer, but my spellin', mr hallett, sir! ha--ha--ha!" he cried, bursting out in a guffaw; "i know now when i looks back at some of my old books, it was a rum 'un. them big words was just like so many forty-barred gates to my getting promoted." "i suppose so," said hallett; "but about payment for your wife's services?" "why, you do pay me," said revitts sturdily. "she gets braxfuses, and dinners, and teas--no end." "yes, but that counts for nothing." "oh, don't it," said revitts, laughing. "you ask ant'ny about that, and how him and me used to dodge to make the money run to good meals. look here, mr hallett, sir, i'm only a humble sort of a chap, but you've always been kindly to me, and i hope it ain't no disrespect to you to call you a friend." "i'm only too glad to call you `friend,' revitts," said hallett, holding out his hand, which the other gripped like a vice, "and i thank antony grace for making me known to two such good hearted people as you and your worthy wife." "thanky, sir, for mary--thanky," exclaimed revitts, nodding his head. "she's a good one, and no mistake; and as for her bit of temper, antony," he said, speaking as if he were very much moved, as he turned to me, "that bit of rough is like ballast to her, and keeps her down; for, if it wasn't for her tantrums, i believe she'd have been an angel long ago, and then--what should i have done? lor' bless you both, they call us pleecemen lobsters, raw lobsters, to distinguish us from the soldiers, and because we're dark blue and so hard; but i'm soft enough inside, and that woman knows it, too. well, sir, about this remooneration--as you call it. look here, she won't take no money, so i'll tell you what you do by-and-by when she's nursed miss linny back to health--as she will, you mark my words if she don't--better than any doctor. it's a treat, to be ill under her. lord's truth!" cried the great fellow, smiling and looking as silly as a fat boy, "the way she'd wash my face and neck, and go in an' out o' my ears with the sponge and towel without hurting, was 'eavenly." hallett could not forbear a smile, and i roared. "ah, you may grin, ant'ny my lad, but you'll see, some day when you're on your back, she's the best nuss that ever lived. there!" "she is, indeed, revitts," cried hallett, "and--heaven bless her! my poor mother has not been so well for months as she has been since your wife has tended her." "there, ant'ny, hear that!" cried revitts. "she's a woman to be proud on--that she is." "that she is, bill," i echoed, clapping the dear old fellow on the shoulder. "well, as i was saying," he exclaimed, "just you give her a noo gownd, something bright and with some colour in it, and if so be as she isn't at home when i get back, p'r'aps you wouldn't mind my coming in for a snack here, for if i don't get my corn reglar i'm nowhere." "my dear fellow, i shall never be able to thank you enough," cried hallett. "oh, that's all right among friends, ain't it, ant'ny? he knows me better, and mary, too, than you do, so let's drop all that, sir; and now i want to talk serious to you about this here affair. i feel, sir, as a sergeant of police, that i oughtn't to rest till i've brought that chap to justice." i saw hallett start and change colour. then, getting up, he began to walk up and down the room, ending by coming and laying his hand upon revitts' shoulder. "revitts," he said, "that man has done you a very serious injury." "never mind about that, mr hallett, sir; i dare say i shall put that square. i was thinking about you." "yes, and he has done me a deadly injury," said hallett, in a low, dreamy voice; "but i cannot retaliate. you will think me strange and weak perhaps; but i cannot take any steps toward punishing this man." revitts looked disappointed. "i'd been hoping, sir," he said, "that you'd got to know who i was, and could give me a hint or two, so that i could put my ban upon him. you know who it is, sir?" hallett looked at him searchingly, and a deep frown came upon his forehead. "yes," he said, "i know who it is; but for many reasons i cannot stir in the matter. besides, what could i do? he has committed no punishable offence against me." "no, that's true," said revitts quickly; "but he has against me. assaulting the police is 'most as bad as high-treason, and if you'll give me his name, sir, or put me in the way of getting a hand on him, i'll give him a twelvemonths' imprisonment." hallett shook his head. "no, revitts," he said, "i look upon him as my most deadly enemy, and some day i may take the scoundrel by the throat, but i cannot help you here." "now, that's where you're wrong, sir, if you'll 'scuse me. a man mustn't take the law into his own hands. you think better of it, sir. you can't punish, though he richly deserves it, but i can; and if ever i get a chance, i will." revitts soon after rose to go, mary having announced her intention of sitting up all night with linny, and hallett and i were left alone. "no, antony," he said, looking me in the face, just as if i had spoken to him on the subject. "my hands are tied: john lister must go free. i can do nothing." "he deserves flogging!" i exclaimed, "and i feel that i ought to tell miss carr." he started, and half turned away. "have you told miss carr, antony?" "no," i said, "i can't be so mean; but she ought to know, for she believes him to be very true and honourable. i wish some one would tell her. can't you?" "i? tell miss carr? antony, are you mad?" he cried, with a show of excitement that i could not understand. "no, i could not tell her. what would she think of me?" "yes, she is so high-minded and good," i replied, "that she would think anybody a miserable talebearer who told her what a scoundrel mr lister is. i don't think she would believe it, either." "no," he said softly, "she could not believe such a thing of the man she loves." "do you know," i said, innocently enough, "i don't think she does love mr lister very much." his eyes flashed as he looked at me; but he made no reply, and only sat gazing before him in a wistful, saddened way that i did not comprehend then as i went on chatting to him. "no, i shall not tell her--i couldn't," i said. "it would be too mean, and yet it would be horrible for her to marry such a man as that. have you seen him, since, hallett?" "seen him?--since? no, antony, i have not been to the office since that night. i could never go there again." i looked at him anxiously, for his ways and looks were very strange; but i attributed everything to anxiety on linny's behalf, and we very soon changed the topic; and after hearing the last account about linny, i rose to go, hallett coming downstairs, and out into the starlit street, walking a few hundred yards with me towards my lodgings, before finally taking his leave, and going thoughtfully away. chapter forty three. a scene. i have often thought since upon the magnanimity of hallett's character. loving miss carr, as he did, with a passionate, hopeless love, he knew her to be engaged to john lister, and feeling bound in honour to be just to the man he served, he crushed down his passion, and hid it in his breast. hopeless he knew it was, from his position; but, however hopeless, it must have been agony to him to hear of his rival's success. how much greater, then, must his sufferings have been when he found that the man to whom the woman he adored had promised to give her hand was a scoundrel of the basest kind! he loved her so well that her future happiness must have been his constant thought, and now he learned that she was bound to the man who cared so little for the treasure of her love that he was ready to engage in any intrigue; while the very fact that the object chosen for this cruel intrigue was hallett's own sister must have been maddening. he must have felt fettered by his position, for he could not accuse john lister to the woman he loved. he felt that he was too full of self-interest, and besides, how could he speak words that would inflict such a sorrow upon the peaceful life of miriam carr? no: he felt bound in honour to be silent, and, crushing down his love and his honest indignation against john lister, he sought employment elsewhere, and spent his leisure in keeping watch over his home. he took one step, though, that i did not know of till long afterwards; he wrote to john lister, telling him that his perfidy was known, and uttering so fierce a warning against him if he pursued linny, or even wrote to her again, that the careful watch and ward kept over the house in great ormond street proved to be unnecessary, for the sensual tiger, foiled in his spring, had slunk away. on the day after my talk with hallett, and revitts' visit to the house, i made my way after office-hours to miss carr's, to find my welcome warmer than ever; for she flushed with pleasure, and sat for some time talking to me of her sister, who had written to her from abroad. "now, antony," she exclaimed, "you and i will dine together, and after that you shall be my escort to a concert at saint james's hall." "a concert!" i exclaimed eagerly. "yes; i was about to send the tickets away, but you have come in most opportunely." i was delighted; for i had never heard any of our best singers, and we chatted through dinner of the music we were to hear, after which i was left in the drawing-room, to amuse myself, while miss carr went up to dress. i took up a book, and began to read; but the thoughts of linny hallett and mr lister kept coming into my head, and i asked myself whether i ought not to tell miss carr. no; i felt that i could not, and then i began wondering whether the engagement that had been extended might not after all come to nothing, as i hoped it would. it was horrible to me now, that john lister should be allowed to keep up ties with my patroness, knowing what i did of his character; and yet i felt could not, i dared not, tell. at last, in the midst of my contending thoughts, some of which were for telling, some against, i forced myself into reading the book i had taken up, striving so hard to obtain the mastery over self that i succeeded--so well that i did not hear a cab stop, nor the quick step of him who had occupied so large a share of my thoughts. "ah, grace," said john lister cavalierly, as he entered the room unannounced, completely taking me by surprise as i started up from the book. "you here again! well, how's engineering? like it as well as printing, eh? why, you are growing quite the gentleman, you lucky dog! i suppose we must shake hands now." i felt as if all the blood in my body had rushed to my face, and a strange sensation of rage half choked me as i drew back. "why, what's the matter with you, boy?" he exclaimed. "hold out your hand." "i'll not," i exclaimed indignantly; "how dare you ask me!" "dare i ask you--puppy!" he exclaimed, with an insolent laugh. "why, what do you mean?" "how dare you come here?" i cried, my indignation getting the mastery of me. "dare i come here!" he exclaimed, frowning. "why, you insolent young upstart, what do you mean?" "i mean that you ought to be ashamed to show your face here again after your behaviour to mr hallett's sister." "hush!" as he uttered that word he caught me by the throat, thrust his face close to mine, and i saw that he was deadly pale. "you dog!" he whispered; "if you dare to utter another word, i'll--" he did not finish, but gave me a vindictive look that was full of threatenings of ill. but unfortunately for him, he had hurt me severely as he caught me by the throat, and the pain, instead of cowing me, filled me full of rage. with one quick wrest i was free, and turning upon him fiercely, i exclaimed: "i will speak in spite of what you say. you are a coward, and treacherous, and no gentleman!" "silence, dog!" he cried, in a hoarse whisper. "have you dared to tell miss carr lies about me?" "i'm not a tell-tale," i cried scornfully, "and i'm not afraid of you, mr lister. i would not tell miss carr, but i dare tell you that you are a coward and a scoundrel!" he raised his fist, and i believe that he would have struck me, but just then his hand fell to his side, and his lips seemed to turn blue as he stared straight over my shoulder, and turning hastily, i saw miriam carr standing white and stern in the doorway, dressed ready for the concert. "ah, miriam," he exclaimed, recovering himself; and he forced a smile to his lips; "grace and i were engaged in a dispute." she did not answer him, but turned to me. "antony," she said sternly, "repeat those words you just said." "no, no; mere nonsense," exclaimed john lister playfully. "it was nothing--nothing at all." "repeat those words, antony grace," cried miss carr, without seeming to heed him: and she came towards where i stood, while i felt as if i would gladly have sunk through the floor. for a few moments i hesitated, then a feeling of strength seemed to come to me, and i looked up at her firmly as i said: "don't ask me, miss carr! i cannot tell." "antony!" she exclaimed. "my dear miriam--" began john lister; but she turned from him. "antony," she cried imperiously, and her handsome eyes flashed as she stamped her foot; "i insist upon knowing the meaning of those words." i was silent. "it was nothing, my dear miriam," exclaimed john lister. then in a low voice to me, "go: i'll cover your retreat." go, and run off like a coward? no; that i felt i could not do, and i looked indignantly at him. "if you value my friendship, antony," cried miss carr, "tell me, i insist, what you meant by that accusation of mr lister." "i do--i do value your friendship, miss carr," i cried passionately, "but don't, pray don't ask me. i cannot--i will not tell." "i command you to tell me," she cried: and to my young eyes she looked queen-like in her beauty, as she seemed to compel me to obey. mature thought tells me that she must indeed have seemed even majestic in her bearing, for john lister looked pale and haggard, and i saw him again and again moisten his dry lips and essay to speak. "i cannot tell you," i said; "miss carr, pray do not ask me!" i cried piteously. "tell me this instant, or leave my house, ungrateful boy!" she exclaimed passionately; and, casting an imploring look at her, i saw that she was pointing towards the door. i would have given the world to have obeyed her; but there seemed to be something so cowardly, so mean and despicable, in standing there and accusing john lister before the face of his affianced wife, that, with a piteous look, i slowly turned towards the door. it was terrible to me to be driven away like that, and i felt my heart swell with bitterness; but i could not speak, and as i once more looked in her pitiless eyes, she was still pointing at the door. the handle was already in my hand, and, giddy and despairing, i should have gone, had not miriam carr's clear voice rang out loudly: "stop!" then, as i turned: "come here, antony!" and the pointing finger was there no longer, but two extended hands, which i ran across the room and seized, struggling hard to keep back the emotion that was striving for exit, for i was but a boy. "my dear miriam--" began john lister once more. "mr lister," she said, and her voice was very low and stern, as she placed one arm round my waist and laid her right hand upon my shoulder, "will you have the goodness to leave my house?" "my dear miriam, pray be reasonable!" he exclaimed. "that foolish boy has got some crotchet into his head. it is all a silly blunder, which i can explain in a few words. i assure you it is all a mistake." "if it is a mistake, mr lister, you have nothing to mind; i now wish to be alone." "but, miriam, dearest miriam, grant me a few minutes' conversation. i assure you i can set myself right in your eyes." "if it is all a mistake, mr lister, why did you threaten antony grace, if he dared to tell me the words i heard?" "because i was angry with him for making such a blunder, and i feared that it would upset you. let me speak to you alone. miriam, dear miriam, you force me to speak to you like this before antony grace. i tell you," he cried, desperately trying to catch her hand, "i swear to you--what he said is a tissue of lies." "and i tell you," she cried scornfully, "that antony grace never told an untruth in his life. mr lister, i am a woman, and unprotected. i ask you now to leave my house." "i cannot leave you with that boy, and no opportunity for defending myself. i must have a counsellor." "you shall have one, john lister," she said in a low, dull voice. "i will be your counsellor when he accuses you." "heaven bless you?" he exclaimed excitedly. "your loving heart will take my part." "my womanly duty, john lister, and my plighted faith will join to defend you from this grave charge." "let me stay and plead my own cause, dearest miriam," he cried, stretching out his hands and fixing his eyes upon hers; but her look was cold, stern, and pitiless, and for answer she pointed to the door. he made another appeal, but she seemed to be absolute, to master him, and at last, trembling, white with passion and disappointment, he turned and left the room, shrinking from that stern, pointing finger, and half-staggering down the stairs. i heard him hurry across the hall, and the door closed so loudly that the house seemed to be filled with echoes, while his steps were perfectly audible as he strode along the street. chapter forty four. i am forgiven. "oh, miss carr," i cried at last, as i broke the painful silence, "what have i done?" she did not answer for some moments. then, leading me to the couch, she threw off her opera-cloak, and sat looking at me for a few moments before passing her hand across my forehead to brush aside the hair, and kissing me on the brow. "what have you done, antony? shown me that i was not mistaken in you when i thought you all that was honest and true." i could not speak; only sat gazing at her face as she fought hard to conquer her agitation. "ring the bell, antony," she said at last. "you must bear with me to-night, and not be disappointed. do not let james enter the room, but meet him on the landing, and say that i shall not want the carriage." i hastened to obey her, and then i returned, to stand before her, anxious and sick at heart; but she pointed to the seat at her side. "antony," she said, after some time had elapsed, "why did you not tell me this--this piteous story at once? was i not worthy of your confidence?" "yes, yes," i said; "but how could i tell you? i dared not." "dared not?" "i felt that it would be so cowardly and mean to tell tales of mr lister, and i hoped that you might find out yourself that he was not so good a man as you thought." she drew a long, deep breath. "but you might have caused me the deepest misery, antony," she said. "but what could i do?" i cried passionately. "i wanted to tell you, and then i felt that i could not; and i talked to mr hallett about it, and he said, too, that i could not speak." "you must tell me now, antony," she said, as she turned away her face. "tell me all." i drew a breath full of relief, and proceeded to tell her all, referring to linny's first adventure and revitts' injuries, and going on to all i knew of linny's elopement, to the end. "but, antony," she exclaimed, as i finished, and she now turned her face towards mine, "can this be true? is it certain that it was mr lister?" "yes," i said; "certain. his letters to poor linny show all that; and she talks about him in her delirium, poor girl!" "i cannot believe it of him," she said; "and yet--how long is it since your friend was hurt?" i told her the very night, from my pocket-book. "his hands were injured from a struggle, he told me, with some drunken man," she said half to herself. then aloud, "antony, did you see either of these letters?" "yes; mr hallett asked me to look at them, to see if i knew the handwriting as well as he; and, besides, in one of her intervals of reason, poor linny clung to her brother, and begged him never to let mr lister see her again." "did she say why?" asked miss carr hoarsely. "yes; she said he had such power over her that she was afraid of him." a half-hysterical sob seemed to rise to miss carr's lips, but her face was very stern and unchanged. then, rising quickly, as if a sudden thought occurred to her, she crossed the room to a little japanese cabinet, and took out a short, thick cord, as it seemed to me; but, as she placed it in my hands, i saw that it was a short hair watch-guard, finished with gilded swivel and cross. she placed it in my hands without a word, looking at me intently the while, as if questioning me with her eyes. "that is linny hallett's chain," i said. "she made that guard herself, of her own hair. how did it come here?" "mr lister dropped it, i suppose," she said, with a look of scorn flashing from her eyes. "it was found by one of my servants in the hall after he was gone, and brought to me. i had forgotten it, antony, until now." there was again a deep silence in the room, but at last she broke it with an eager question. "tell me about this linny hallett," she said. "you have often told me that she is pretty. is she good?" "oh yes, i am sure she is," i said; "but she is weak and wilful, and she must have loved mr lister very much to turn as she has from so true a brother as mr hallett." "and--mr hallett--is he a good brother to her?" "good brother!" i exclaimed, my admiration for my friend carrying me away; "he is all that is noble and patient and good. poor hallett! he is more like a father to linny than a brother, and then his patience with his poor mother! oh, miss carr, i wish you knew him, too!" she darted an inquiring look at me and then turned away her head, speaking no more, but listening intently as i told her of poor hallett's patience under misfortune, relating the story again of his noble sacrifice of self to keep those who were dear to him; of the anxiety linny caused him, and of his tenderness of the unreasonable invalid he made his care. then, being thus set a-going, i talked, too, of the model, and our labours, and again of my ambition to get to be an engineer in order to help him, little thinking how i had turned myself into a special pleader to the advancement of my poor friend's cause. at last, half-ashamed of my earnestness, i looked inquiringly in my companion's face, to find that she was listening intently, and she looked up at me as i ceased. "and this mr--mr hallett," she said softly, "is still a workman in messrs. ruddle and lister's employ?" "oh _no_! miss carr," i exclaimed; "he told me he could never enter the place again, and that he dared not trust himself to meet mr lister face to face. he has not been there since, and he never will go there now." miss carr seemed to breathe more freely as i said these words, and then there was another interval of silence. "is mr hallett poor?" she asked then. "oh yes, very poor," i said. "he has been obliged to stop his work over his invention sometimes, because the money has to go to buy wine and little choice things for poor mrs hallett. she is always repining and talking of the days when she had her conservatory and carriage, and, worst of all, she blames poor hallett so for his want of ambition. yes, miss carr," i said, repeating myself to willing ears, "and he is one of the truest and best of men. he was not always a workman, you know." "indeed!" she said; and i saw that she bent her head lower as she listened. "no," i said enthusiastically, as i, in my heart, set up stephen hallett as the model i meant to imitate. "his father was a surgeon in warwickshire, and mr hallett was at college--at oxford, where he was working to take honours." miss carr's lips parted as she still sat with her head bent. "he told me all about it one evening. he was sent for home one day to find his father dying; and, a week later, poor mr hallett found himself with all his father's affairs upon his hands, and that he had died heavily in debt." miss carr's head was slowly raised, and i felt proud then to see how i had interested her. "then," i continued, "he had to try what he could do. he could not go back to college; for it took everything, even the furniture, to pay off his father's debts, and then, one day, miss carr, he had to sit down and think how he was to keep his widowed mother, and his sister, and himself." miss carr was now sitting with her head resting upon her hand, her elbow upon her knee, listening intently to all i said. "mr hallett and his father had some type and a little press in one of the rooms, with which they used to print poems and little pamphlets, and mr hallett had learnt enough about printing to make him, when he had taken his mother and sister up to london, try and get employment in an office. and he did; and he says he used to be horribly afraid of being found out and treated as an impostor; but by working with all his might he used to manage to keep up with the slow, lazy ones, and then, by degrees, he passed them; and now--oh, you should see him!--he can set up type much faster than the quickest man who ever came into the office." "and does he keep his mother and sister now?" she said dreamily. "oh yes," i said; "mrs hallett has been an invalid ever since mr stephen hallett's father died." miss carr had sunk back in the corner of the couch, closing her eyelids, and i thought i saw a couple of tears stealing down her cheeks; but directly after she covered her face with her hands, remaining silent like that for quite half-an-hour--a silence that i respected to the end. at last she rose quietly, and held out her hand. "antony," she said softly, "i am not well to-night. forgive me if i have disappointed you. another time we must make up for this." "oh, miss carr," i said, "you have been so grieved." "yes, greatly grieved, antony, in many ways--not least that i spoke to you so harshly as i did." "but you are not angry with me?" i said. "you forgive me for not speaking out." "forgive you?" she said softly--"forgive you, my boy?--yes. but go now; i do not feel myself. good-night, antony, my dear boy; go." to my surprise, she took me tenderly in her arms and kissed me, leading me afterwards to the door, and laying her cheek against my forehead before she let me out. "come to me to-morrow, antony; come again to dinner; perhaps the next day i may be leaving town." chapter forty five. hallett's new landlord. a year slipped rapidly away, full of changes for some people, no doubt; but to me it was very uneventful. i worked away at my profession steadily, liking it better every day, and for nothing more strongly than that it gave me knowledge that i felt would be of advantage to stephen hallett, with whom i grew more intimate than ever. the home at great ormond street seemed now less sombre and desolate; for since her serious illness, from which poor linny had been literally nursed back into life by mary and hallett, the girl was completely changed. as she began to mend, i used to find a great deal of time to go and sit with her; for her return to strength was very slow, and the poor worn face would light up and the great staring eyes brighten whenever i went into the room with some little offering or another that i thought would please her. sometimes it would be flowers, or fruit, or any little delicacy that i thought she would fancy; but the greatest pleasure i could give her was to take some fresh book, and sit and read. she used to lie upon a couch near the window, where she could look out upon the sky, and when i was not there i suppose she would lie like that, thinking, for hours, without speaking a word. mary had grown to be quite an institution at the place, and the two invalids at last took up so much of her time, that a scheme was one day proposed by me, consequent upon an announcement made to me by hallett. "we shall be obliged to leave," he said. "the tenants of this house are going away." "but it will be terrible work, hallett," i said. "how will linny and mrs hallett bear the change?" "i hope patiently and well," he said quietly, and the subject dropped; but an idea had occurred to me which i hastened to put in force. my first step was to write to miss carr, whom i had not seen for many, many months, as, directly after the meeting with mr lister she had gone on the continent with her newly-married sister, whose husband had an official appointment at marseilles, and had resided with her ever since. i was grievously disappointed at having to part with so good a friend; but she promised to write to me every week, and gave me the strictest injunctions to send to her for advice or help whenever i should find myself in need. i had no hesitation whatever, then, in asking her in my weekly letter for help to carry out my plan, and that was to find revitts and mary the money to buy the lease of the house in great ormond street, so that mary would be better able to attend to her friends, and, while acting as their landlady, supply me with better rooms as well. i broached the subject to revitts and his wife that very evening, and the former nodded. "how much would it take, ant'ny?" he said. "the lease would be a hundred pounds," i said. "then the rent is eighty." "that's a deal of money, my dear," said mary; "and then there's the rates." "yes," i said; "but then look here, mary; i should like a sitting-room as well as a bedroom now, and i could pay you twenty-five or thirty pounds a year for that. i know mr hallett pays twenty-six for what he has, and you could, as you often said you would like to, let another floor; for it is a large house. i think you would live rent-free." "there," cried revitts, giving the table a slap. "what do you think of that, polly?" "think of what?" she said tartly; for the seriousness of the subject unsettled her. "what he says. d'ye hear his business-like way of reckoning it up: so much for this here, and so much for that there? he couldn't have talked like that when he come up to london first, as green as a bit o' grass. that's my teaching, that is. i knew i could sharpen him up." "don't be so conceited, bill," she exclaimed. "but a large house means lots of furniture, master antony. no, i don't think it would do. we haven't enough." "but i've written to miss carr, to ask her to let me have the money for you." revitts got up out of his chair, where he was partaking of tea and bread and butter in a rather wholesale style, pulled himself together, buttoned up his coat, took a couple of official strides to where i sat, and, taking my hand, began shaking it up and down for some moments. then he gave mary three or four wags of the head and nods, and went back to his tea, unbuttoning the while. "that's very nice and kind of you, master antony," she said; "but that money would be only borrowed, and it would have to be paid back again, and sit upon us like lumps of lead till it was--" "oh, nonsense, mary, i don't believe miss carr would ever want it back-- i think she'll give me the money. and besides, i mean to furnish my own rooms, so that will be two less." "hark at that now!" said revitts, giving his head a wag. "i don't want to seem conceited, but i should like to improve my room, and have a place for my books, and be able to bring a friend home to have tea or supper with me when i liked." "that's quite right," said revitts approvingly; "but we should want close upon two hundred pounds, master ant'ny, you know." "yes, you ought to have two hundred and fifty pounds." mary shook her head, and seemed to tighten up her face, buttering the bread she had before her the while. "here, i say, come, polly, i know we should have to begin saving," said revitts, in tones of remonstrance; "but don't begin to-night. stick a little more butter on that there bread." mary complied, the meal went on, and i left them at last to talk the matter over, thoroughly upset by my proposals. they opposed them for some days to come; but when, at last, i received a kind letter from miss carr, bidding me tell mary how glad she was to hear of her plans, and that they were to be sure and include a comfortable bed and sitting-room for me, the day was carried, especially as the letter contained a cheque for pounds; though they would not take all this, the steady, hoarding couple being able to produce between them enough to pay in full for the lease, which was duly assigned and placed in revitts' hands by tom girtley, who was progressing fast with the firm of solicitors to whom he had been articled. the first intimation that hallett received of the change was from revitts himself, who called one day on his way home to announce with suppressed glee that he was the new landlord, and to ask if there was anything that mr hallett would like done. hallett stared in astonishment, and then turned sharply to me-- "this is your doing, antony," he said. i pleaded guilty. "well, what could be better?" i said; "i'm going to have two rooms, and mary will be always at hand to attend upon us, and you will not have to turn out." "but the money?" he said, looking at me searchingly. "revitts and his wife have been saving people," i replied, "and they had their savings to invest. i don't think they could have done better." hallett did not seem satisfied, but he was too much of a gentleman to push his questions home, and the matter dropped. the old tenant of the house moved out at once; mary had a charwoman at work for a general clean up, and ended by dismissing her for smelling of gin, and doing the cleaning herself; and before a fortnight was over the change had been made, and i was able to congratulate myself on a capital arrangement. "you think it is now," i said, "hallett, don't you?" "i do now, antony," he said, "for more reasons than one." "what do you mean?" i said; for he looked very peculiar and stern. "i have seen that man hanging about here once or twice." "mr lister?" he nodded. "oh, but surely that is all over. he would never dare." "he hates me, i am sure, antony," he replied, "and would do anything to injure me; and, besides, such a man as that would not lightly give up his plans." "but linny dislikes him now, i am sure," i said. "i am not," he replied sadly; and no more was said. chapter forty six. linny awakes. but those words "i am not," made no little impression on me, and a day or two later, when i had taken linny in some flowers, i was thinking very deeply about them, and perhaps my thoughts may have influenced the mind of the poor girl, for she suddenly laid her thin white hand upon my arm and said: "antony, do you ever see mr lister now?" "no," i said; "i have never seen him since the day of that scene with miss carr." "tell me about it--all about it," she said sharply. i stared at her aghast, and tried to excuse myself, but her eyes looked at me so imploringly that i felt compelled, and related all that i had heard and seen. she lay with her eyes half-closed during my recital, and when it was ended the poor, weak, wasted girl took one of my hands between both of hers, and held it to her breast, caressing it silently the while. "oh, linny, dear," i said, "what have i done! i ought not to have told you all this. you are going to be worse. let me call stephen!" "no, no, no," she wailed. "hush, hush! you must not wake poor mamma?" "let me call up mary." "no, no," she sobbed; "sit still--sit still, antony dear; you have always been to me like a brother, and you have known all. i have no girl friends of my own age, but i can talk to you." "no; let's talk of something else," i said earnestly. "you must not think about the past." "i must think about it, or i shall die," she said, adding pathetically, "no, no, don't get up. i shall be better now. there, you see, i have left off crying." she seemed to make an effort over herself, and in a few minutes she looked up at me smiling, but her poor face was so wasted and thin that her smile frightened me, and i was again about to call for help. "no, no," she said; "i am better now. antony dear, i could not get well, but felt as if i was wasting away because i could not see him. oh, antony, i did love him so, and i felt obliged to obey him in all he wished. but it was because i thought him so fond and true. i have felt all these long months that he loved me very dearly, and that if i could only see him--if i could only lay my head upon his arm, and go to rest, i should wake up well. i always thought that he loved me very dearly, and that some day he would come and say i was to be his wife. stephen thought i hated him for his cruel ways, but i did not, i could not. i do not even hate him now. i am only sorry." "but you don't want to see him again, linny?" i said. "no, no: not now," she replied with a shudder. "i know now that he never loved me. i never understood it all before, antony. i pray god i may never see his face again." there was something very impressive in her words, and, closing her eyes, she lay back there so still that i thought she was asleep, but the moment i tried to withdraw my hand she clung to it the more tightly, and looked up at me and smiled. "antony," she said suddenly; and there seemed to be a new light in her eyes as she opened them wildly, "i am going to get well now. i could not before, for thinking about the past." "i hope and pray that you will," i said, with a strange sensation of fear creeping through me. "i shall," she said quickly. "i can feel it now. last week i thought that i was going to die. now talk to me about miss carr. is she very beautiful?" "yes," i said eagerly, "very beautiful." "more handsome than i used to be?" she said, laughing. "oh, she's very different to you, linny," i said, flushing. "she is tall and noble-looking, and dark, while you are little and fair. one could not compare you two together." "it was no wonder, then, that mr lister should love her." "oh no," i said. "any man who saw her would be sure to love her." she sighed softly. "is she--is she a good woman?" "good?" i cried enthusiastically; "there could not be a better woman." "and--and--" she faltered, moistening her dry lips, "do you think she will marry mr lister?" "i am sure she will not," i said indignantly. "but she loved him." "no," i said thoughtfully; "i don't think she did much." "but he loved her." "ye-es, i suppose so," i said; "but he could not have loved her much, or he would not have behaved as he did." there was a pause then, during which linny lay playing with my hand. "antony," she cried suddenly, "miss carr will forgive him some day." "forgive him!" i said. "yes, she is so good a woman that i dare say she will forgive him, but everything is over between them now." "i am very glad," she said dreamily, "for i should be sorry if anything else took place." "what! should you be jealous, linny?" "no," she said decidedly, "only very, very sorry for her. oh! antony," she said, bursting into passionate tears, "i was very ignorant and very blind." "linny, linny, my child, what is the matter?" cried hallett, entering the room, and flying with all a woman's solicitude to the couch, to take the light wasted form in his arms. "heaven help me, she's worse. the doctor, antony, quick!" "no, no, no," cried linny, throwing her arms round her brother's neck; "i am better, steve, better now. it is only sorrow that i have been so blind." "so blind, my darling?" "yes, yes," she sobbed excitedly, pressing her brother's dark hair from his forehead, and covering his face with her kisses, "that i was so blind, and weak, and young. i did not know who loved me, and who did not; but it's all over now, steve dear. dear brother, it's all over now." "my darling," he whispered, "let me send for help!" "no, no," she cried, "what for? i am better--so much better, stephen. that is all taken off my mind, and i have nothing to do now but love you, love you all, and get well." poor little thing! she lay there clasped in her brother's strong arms, sobbing hysterically, but it was as if every tear she shed washed away from her stricken mind a portion of the canker that had been consuming her day by day. it was more than i could bear, and if it had not been that i was called upon to speak to and comfort poor, weak mrs hallett, who had been awakened by linny's passionate sobs, i should have run out of the room and away from the house; but somehow i had grown to be part and parcel of that family, and the weak invalid seemed to love me like her own son. at last, to my inexpressible relief, i saw linny calm gradually down and sink to sleep in her brother's arms, like some weary, suffering child. hallett did not move, but sat there fearing to disturb her, and as the evening wore on, his eyes sought mine inquiringly again and again, to direct my attention to her look: and as i watched her in that soft evening glow--a mellow light which told of a lovely evening in the country lanes--a soft, gentle calm seemed to have come upon the wasted face, its old hard angularity had gone, and with it that wistful air of suffering and constant pain, her breathing was faint, but it was soft and regular as that of a sleeping child, and at last there was a restful smile of content upon her lips, such as had not been there for years. "what had you been saying to her, antony?" whispered hallett sternly, as i sat there by his side. "she asked me questions about lister and miss carr," i said, "and i think that she woke up for the first time to know what a rascal he is." hallett looked anxiously at his sister before he spoke again, but she was evidently plunged in a deep sleep. "you are very young, antony, but you are getting schooled in nature's secrets earlier than many are. do you think that is over now?" "i am sure of it," i said. "thank god!" he said fervently, "for i was in daily dread." "she would never--there," i said excitedly; "she prayed herself that she might never see his face again." "but they say women are very forgiving, antony," he said with a tinge of bitterness; and then, with his brow furrowing but a cynical smile upon his lip, he said, "we shall hear next that miss carr has forgiven him, and that they are married." "for shame!" i exclaimed indignantly. "you do not know miss carr, or you would not speak like that." he half closed his eyes after glancing at where his mother lay back in her easy-chair, asleep once more, for so she passed the greater part of her time. "no," he said softly, "i do not know her, antony." i don't know what possessed me to say what i did, but it seemed as if i was influenced to speak. "i wish you did know her and love her, hallett, for she is so--" he started as if he had been stung. "are you mad?" he exclaimed angrily. "no," i said quietly, "but i think she likes you." "how could she?" "i have talked so much about you, and she has seemed so interested in all you do." "you foolish fellow," he said, with his face resuming its old calm. "you are too young yet to thoroughly understand such matters. when you grow older, you will learn why it was that i could not play, as you seemed to wish, so mean a part as to become john lister's accuser. it would have been contemptible in the extreme." "i could not help feeling that miss carr ought to know, hallett." "yes, my lad, but you shrank from telling her yourself." he was silent for a minute. "ah, antony," he said, "fate seems to have ordained that i am always to wear the workman's coat; but i console myself with the idea that a man may be a poor artisan and still at heart a gentleman." "of course!" "my father was a thoroughly honourable man, who left us poor solely from misfortune. the legacy he left to me, antony, was the care of my dear mother and linny." he looked down tenderly on the sleeping girl, and softly stroked her hair; the touch, light as it was, waking her, to smile in his face with a look very different from that worn by her countenance the day before. chapter forty seven. miss carr hears the truth. i was surprised one morning by my weekly letter from miss carr containing the welcome news that she was coming back; in fact, that she was following the letter, and it expressed a wish that i should meet her at the terminus and see her home. it was with no small feeling of pride that i found myself chosen for this duty, and quite an hour before it was possible for the train to come in, i was waiting at the station. soon after i saw the carriage drive up, and at last, after looking endless times at the clock, i saw the train come gliding in, and the next minute i was hurrying along the platform, looking eagerly at each carriage in turn, when i found myself brushing by john lister, who started and scowled at me as i passed. just then i caught sight of miss carr, looking from one of the carriages, and handing a bundle of wraps to her maid. i ran eagerly up, but only to find myself rudely thrust aside by john lister, who, in his excitement, studied nothing so that he could reach her first. "at last," he whispered passionately. "let me be the first to welcome you back." flushed and angry, my fists involuntarily clenched, and i felt ready to strike him as i started forward once again. i had my recompense, though, directly, for i saw miss carr draw down her veil, and; completely ignoring the extended hands, she beckoned to me, and, summoning up as much importance as i could, i said sharply: "will you have the goodness to stand aside?" he was so taken aback by the determined refusal of miss carr to renew their acquaintance that he stood back involuntarily, recovering himself though, directly, and approaching once more; but he was too late: miss carr had taken my arm, and i led her to the carriage, the footman, who had seen her, taking the wraps and a case or two from the maid, whom he ushered to a cab, which was then being loaded with luggage, as i sprang in beside my patroness, and gave the word to the coachman, "home!" i was too young not to feel excited by the importance of my position, and as the horses started and the carriage moved forward, think now that i must have been more than human if i had not darted a look of triumph at john lister, as he stood there just beneath one of the swinging lamps, his brow furrowed and a furious look of disappointment and malice upon his face. i heard miss carr draw her breath as if with pain, but the next moment her hands were in mine. "my dear antony," she exclaimed, "i am very glad to get back. why, my dear boy, what a difference one year has made in you." "has it?" i said, laughing. "oh, yes! why, antony, you will soon be growing into a man." "i hope so, miss carr; but i don't think you look well." "no?" "you look thin and careworn." "marseilles is a very hot place, antony," she said evasively, "and does not suit english people. of course, you are my property this evening, antony. you have no engagement?" "no," i said, smiling. "i should have gone to spend the evening with mr hallett if i had been alone." her hand gave a slight twitch as i said these words, and her voice sounded a little hoarse as she continued: "you must come and dine with me, antony, and we will have a long, long chat. it seems like old times to be with you again." i was delighted to have her back, and chatted on in the most unreserved way, until we reached miss carr's house, where the door flew open as the carriage stopped. i jumped down, and was in the act of holding out my right hand and the carriage-door open with the left, when i started with surprise; for a swift hansom cab had brought john lister there before us, and he stood on the other side, holding out his hand. "i must speak to you, miriam!" he exclaimed in a low voice, when, seeing her shrink back in alarm, and with an unmistakable look of horror in her face, boy as i was, i felt some sense of manhood flush to my cheek, and, feeling no fear of him for the moment, i placed my hand upon his chest, and thrust him with all my might away. "stand back, sir!" i cried, "or i call the police." ere he could recover from his astonishment, miss carr had lightly touched my hand, stepped out, and hurried in, while i, with my heart beating fast at my temerity, slowly closed the brougham-door, and stood facing john lister. "you insolent dog?" he cried threateningly; and i thought he was about to strike me, but at that moment, as i stood before him with my teeth set, i would hardly have run in to save my life. "how dare you insult miss carr!" i exclaimed. "insult! oh, this is too much!" he muttered. then, half-raising his hand, he let it fall once more, turned upon his heel, and strode away. the coachman seemed disposed to speak, but the field being now my own, i walked--very pompously, i'm afraid--into the hall, miss carr coming out of the dining-room as soon as the front door was closed, to catch my hand in hers, and look eagerly in my flushed face. "you have grown brave too, antony," she whispered, as she led me upstairs. "thank you, thank you; i did not know that i could look for a protector in you." i had calmed down by the time miss carr had dressed; and then followed one of those, to me, delightful evenings. we dined together; she chatted of her life in southern france, and at last, over our tea in the drawing-room, as she was sitting back in her lounge-chair, with her face in the shade, she said, in what was meant to be a perfectly calm voice: "well, antony, you have not said a word to me about your friends." i did not answer directly, for i felt a strange hesitation in so doing; and a similar emotion must have been in my companion's breast, for she sat there for some minutes in silence, till i said: "linny hallett seems to have quite recovered now, and is bright and happy again, though very much changed." miss carr did not speak. "mrs hallett is precisely the same. i do not think she has altered in the least since i have known her." miss carr seemed to turn her face more away from me, or else it was the shadow, and now, instead of speaking of stephen hallett, something seemed to prompt me to turn off, and talk of revitts and mary, and of how admirably the arrangement had answered of their taking the house in great ormond street. there seemed to be a slight impatient movement as i prattled on--i can call it nothing else. it was not from a spirit of mischief, but all the time i seemed to feel that she must want to know about stephen hallett, and somehow i could not mention his name. "it is quite droll, miss carr," i said. "mrs hallett says that it is such an admirable arrangement, having a police-constable on the premises, and that she has never before felt so safe since she has been in london." "you have not spoken to me yet of your friend--mr hallett." i started, for it did not sound like miss carr's voice, and when i looked up i could not see her face. "no; not yet," i said. "he is toiling on still as patiently and enduringly as ever." "and the invention, antony?" "the invention," i said bitterly, "lags behind. it is impossible to get on." "is--is it all waste of time, then?" "waste? no," i said. "the invention is one that would carry all before it; but, poor fellow, he is tied and fettered at every turn. he has nearly got it to perfection, but, after months of constant toil, some wretched part breaks down, and the whole thing has to be done again." "but is it likely to succeed?" "likely?" i said: "it must succeed; but it never can until it has been made and tried. it should be carefully constructed at some large engineering establishment like ours." "yes," she said, evidently listening intently. "but how can it be? poor hallett earns about two pounds a week, and the demands upon his pocket, through his mother's and sister's illness, have been terrible. he is heavily in debt now to the doctors." "why do you not help your friend, then, antony?" she said in tones of reproach. "because he will not let me," i replied quietly. "he is too proud." miss carr was silent. "what amount would it take," she said at last, in a strange tone, "to perfect the machine?" "amount?" i said eagerly; "an awful deal. it is impossible to say how much. why, the patent would cost nearly a hundred. poor fellow! i wish sometimes he would give it up." "why?" she exclaimed softly. "because," i said, "it is breaking his heart." "is--is he so constant in his attentions to it?" "oh yes, miss carr. whenever he can spare a minute, he is working or dreaming over it; he calls it his love--his mistress, in a half-mocking sort of spirit. poor fellow, it is a sad life." there was again a deep silence in the room. "antony," she said again, "why do you not help your friend?" "i do," i said eagerly. "i have worked at it all night with him sometimes, and spent all my pocket-money upon it--though he doesn't know it. he thinks i have turned some of the wheels and spindles myself, but i set some of our best workmen to do it, and cut me the cogs and ratchets." "and paid for them yourself?" "yes, miss carr. i could not have made them well enough." "but why not help him more substantially, antony? with the money that is required?" "i help him?" i said. she did not answer for a few moments, for a struggle was going on within her breast, but she spoke at last. her pride and feminine shrinking had given way before the love that she had been striving these many months to crush, but which was sweeping all before it now. "antony," she said softly, "i can trust to you, i know; and i feel that whatever i help you in will be for the best. you shall help your friend mr hallett. my purse shall be open to you, and you shall find the means to enable him to carry his project to success." "oh, miss carr!" i cried; and in my new delight i caught and kissed her hand. she laid one upon my shoulder, but her head was averted still, and then she motioned me to resume my seat. "does that satisfy you, antony?" she said. "yes--no," i cried, getting up and walking up and down the room. "he would not take the money; he would be a great deal too proud." "would not take the money, antony? why?" "because he would know that it came from you." "and knowing that the money came from me, antony, would he not take it?" "no, i am sure he would not." "why?" "because--because--miss carr, should you be angry with me if i told you the truth?" she paused again, some minutes, before she replied softly, but in so strange a tone: "no, antony. how could i?" "because, miss carr, i am sure he loves you: and he would think it lowered him in your eyes." she turned upon me a look that seemed hot with anger, but the next moment she had turned her face away, and i could see that her bosom was heaving with suppressed emotion. a great struggle was evidently going on within her breast, and it was some time before she could master it. at last, however, she turned to me a face that was deadly pale, and there was something very stern in her looks as she said to me: "antony, we have been separated for a year, but can you speak to me with the same boyish truth and candour as of old, in the spirit taught you, my dear boy, by the father and mother you have lost?" "oh yes, miss carr," i said frankly, as i laid my hand in hers, and looked in her beautiful eyes. "yes, antony, you can," she said softly. "tell me, then, has mr hallett ever dared to say such a thing as--as that to you?" "never, miss carr." "has--has my name been made the subject of conversation amongst your friends?" "never, miss carr." "or been coupled with his?" "oh! no, no," i cried, "never. mr hallett has rarely mentioned your name." "then how can you--how can you dare to make such an assertion as you did?" "i don't know," i replied thoughtfully. "i could not tell you how it is, but i am sure he does love you as much as i do, miss carr." "i believe you do, antony," she said, bending forward and kissing my forehead. "but, you foolish boy, drive that other notion from your head, and if you do love me, antony--and i would have you love me, my boy, as dearly as you loved her who has gone--never speak to your dearest friend of our words to-night." "oh, you may trust me for that," i said proudly. "i do trust you, antony, and i see now that your ideas are right about the money. still, i should like you to help your friend." "so should i," i said; and i sat thinking dreamily over the matter, being intensely desirous of helping hallett, till it was time to go, when an idea occurred to me which i proposed to miss carr, one which she gladly accepted, joining eagerly in what was, perhaps, a deception, but one most truly and kindly meant. chapter forty eight. an invitation. "hallo, young grace," said mr jabez rowle, as i was shown up one evening into his room, to find him, snuff-box on the table and pen in hand, reading away at his paper, and, as i entered, smiling with satisfaction as he pounced upon a literal error, and marked it in the margin. "how are you?" i said i was quite well, and he pointed to several pen marks at the side of the column. "there's reading," he said contemptuously. "i'm ashamed of these daily papers, that i am. well, how are wheels and lathes and steam-engines, eh? bah! what a contemptible young sneak you were to leave so good a business for oil and steam and steel-filings. i give you up now. glad to see you, though; sit down. have a pinch or snuff?" "no, thanks," i said, smiling. "humph! how you grow, you young dog; why, you'll soon be a man. better have a pinch; capital bit of snuff." i shook my head, and he went on, smiling grimly at me the while. "no business to have left me, grace. i should have made a man of you. well, how are you getting on?" "capitally," i said. "don't believe it. better have stopped with me. heard from peter?" "no," i said eagerly. "have you?" "yes. just the same as usual. down at rowford still, smoking himself to death. hah! capital pinch of snuff this," he added, regaling himself again. "sent his love to you, and said i was to tell you--tell you-- where the dickens did i put that letter?" he continued, pulling a bundle of dip-proofs out of his breast-pocket, and hunting them over--"said i was to tell you--ah, here it is--to tell you--ah--`tell young grace i shall come up to town and see him some day, and i'll give you a look up too.' bah! don't want him: won't have him. we should be sure to quarrel. he'd come here, and sit and smoke all day--where's my--oh, here it is." he took a couple of pinches of snuff in a queer, excited way, and snapped his fingers loudly. "i shall be very, very glad to see him when he does come," i said warmly. "ah, yes, of course you will. he's got some papers or something, he says, for you." "has he?" "so he says. hang peter! i don't like him, somehow." there was a comical look of chagrin in the old man's face as he spoke; but it was mingled with a dry, humorous air that refused to be concealed, and i seemed to feel in my heart that if the brothers met, mr jabez would be thoroughly cordial. "well, i'm glad you did condescend to call, young engine-driver," he said at last; "as it happens, i'm not busy to-night. you won't take a pinch of snuff?" i shook my head. "what will you have, then? have some almonds and raisins? figs? some oranges? well, some sweetstuff? they've got some capital cocoa-nut candy downstairs! no? well, have some candied peel?" "no, thank you, mr jabez," i said, laughing. "why, what a baby you do think me." "well, so you are," he growled. "you don't want me to ask you to have beer, or grog, or cigars, do you?" "oh no!" i said, laughing. "good job, too, because you wouldn't catch me giving them to you. well, how's your policeman?" "quite well." "ever see hallett now?" "every day nearly." "humph! decent fellow, hallett; sorry he left us. cleanest proofs i ever had. that man always read his stick, grace. you always read yours?" "but you forget i am not a printer now, mr jabez." "no, i don't, stupid. can't you see i was speaking in metaphors? always read your stick, boy, through life. when you've done a thing, go over it again to see if it's right; and then, at the end, you'll find your proof-sheets of life are not half so foul. tell hallett, when you see him again, to give me a look up. i rather liked him." "why, you never seemed to like him, mr jabez," i said. "well, what of that, boy? can't a man like anybody without always going about and grinning?" he took another pinch of snuff, and then nodded and tapped his box. "how's mr grimstone?" i said, smiling. "oh, hard as a nut, and as awkward. gives me a deal of trouble." "and is jem smith with you still?" "with me? no; but he's in a house close by, the great stupid lout! he's got whiskers now, and grown more thick-headed than ever. grimstone had a sharp illness, though, over that affair." "what affair?" i asked. "why, when the partnership was broken up--you know?" "no," i said, wonderingly. "why, you must have heard. when john lister was bankrupt. he was dead in with the money-lenders, and he had to give up, you know." "what! was he ruined?" "ruined? yes, a gambling fool; and if mr ruddle hadn't been pretty firm, the rascal would have ruined him too--pulled the house down." "this is news," i said. "yes, and bad news, too," said the old fellow. "five hundred pounds of my savings went--lent money--for him to make ducks and drakes!" "oh, mr jabez," i said: "i am very sorry." "don't deserve it," he said, taking another pinch; "served me right for being such a fool. i don't mind now; i never cry over spilt milk, but it nearly broke poor old grim's heart. five hundred of his went, too, and it was very nearly being more." "i remember something about it," i said. "you were speaking on the subject once before me." "ah, so we were. well, it was a warning to me, grace. temptation, you know." "temptation?" "yes, to get bonus and high interest. playing usurer, my boy. serve us both right. don't you ever be led on to lending money on usury." "i'm not likely ever to have any to lend," i said, laughing. "i don't know that," he said, making another reference to his snuff-box. "peter said in one of his letters that he thought there was some money that ought to come to you." "i'm afraid not," i said, laughing. "i've a long debt to pay yet." "you!--you in debt, you young rascal!" he exclaimed angrily. "i always said i would some day pay off my father's debts, mr jabez," i said; and then my words brought up such a flood of sad recollections, that i was about to eagerly change the subject, when mr jabez leaned over to me and took my hand. "good lad," he said, shaking it up and down. "good lad. i like that. i don't believe you ever will pay them, you know; but i like the sound of it all the same." he kept on shaking my hand some time, and only left it to take another pinch of snuff. "and has mr lister quite gone from the firm?" "oh, yes, quite, my lad. he was up to his eyes in debt, and when he didn't marry that girl, and get her money to pay himself off clear, he went smash at once. lucky escape for her. i'm afraid he was a bad one." "and what is he doing now?" "what, lister? set up a rival shop on borrowed money; doing all he can to cut down his old partner, but he'll do no good. can't get on. hasn't got a man on the premises who can read." "indeed!" i said. "not a soul, grace. why, you wouldn't believe it, my lad," he continued, tapping me in the shirt-front with his snuff-box, "but i had one of their chancery-bills in the other day--big quarto, you know, pica type--and there were two turned _n's_ for _u's_ in the second page." "never?" i said, to humour him. "fact, sir, fact," he said, taking another pinch of snuff and snapping his fingers triumphantly. "why, i'd hardly forgive that in a daily paper where there's a rush on, and it's got up in the night; but in a thing like a chancery-bill it's inexcusable. well, now about yourself, grace. i'm glad you are getting on, boy. never mind what i said; it's better than being a reader, and growing into a snuffy cantankerous old scarecrow like me. read your stick well, my boy, and i hope--no, i'm sure you'll get on. but i say, what will you have to eat?" "i'm not hungry, mr jabez," i said; "and, look here, i haven't delivered my message to you." "message? to me?" "yes, sir. miss carr wished me to ask you if you would come and dine with her to-morrow." "me? dine with miss carr--carr--carr? why, that's the girl lister was to have married." "yes--miss carr," i said. "but me dine with her! why, she hasn't fallen in love with me now, has she?" "oh no," i said, laughing. "she wants to see you on business." "see me on business? why, grace," he said excitedly, "i was to be paid my five hundred out of her money, and wasn't paid. is she repenting, and going to give it to me?" "no," i said; "i don't think it's that." "no, of course not," he said thoughtfully. "couldn't take it if were. what does she want, then? do you know?" i nodded. "what is it, then?" "i am in miss carr's confidence," i said; "and i do not feel at liberty to speak about the matter till after you have seen her." "let me see," said the old man; "she's very pretty, isn't she?" "beautiful?" i exclaimed enthusiastically. "humph! then i don't think i shall go, grace." "not go? why not?" "these handsome women can wheedle a man out of anything. i've lost five hundred over lister, and i don't want to be wheedled out of any more." "you needn't be afraid, mr jabez," i said, laughing. "think not?" "i'm sure not. miss carr wants to advance some money to help some one." "well, then, let her do it." "she cannot well do it herself, and she asked me if i knew anyone, and i named you." "hang your impudence, then," he said, taking snuff fiercely. "you know i was fool enough to advance money to lister, so you recommend me as an easy one to do it again." "no, no, mr jabez; you don't understand me," i said, laughing. "miss carr wishes to find the money, but she wants it to seem as if it came through you." "oh!" here he refreshed himself with his snuff, looking at me suspiciously the while. "look here, young grace," he said; "i'm not fond of doing things in the dark; so, as we are old friends, suppose you make a clean breast of what all this means. you know, i suppose?" "yes, i know everything," i replied. "well, then, out with it." "that i cannot do without being guilty of a breach of confidence, mr rowle," i replied. "if you will come up to miss carr's to-morrow evening at half-past six, you may be sure of a warm welcome, and i shall be there to meet you." "phee-ew!" he whistled, "how fine we have got to be, grace. do we dine late every day, sir?" "no; nonsense," i said, laughing. "miss carr is very kind to me, though: and she wished me to be there to meet you." "well, but, grace, you know," said the old man, "i'm such a queer, rough sort of a fellow. i'm not used to that sort of thing. i've read about it often enough; but i suppose--oh, you know, i couldn't come?" "i shall tell miss carr you will," i said, rising; and after a few more words, the old man promised, and i went away. chapter forty nine. mr jabez undertakes a commission. mr jabez was got up wonderfully for his visit to miss carr. his white waistcoat might have been carved in marble, and his white cravat was the stiffest ever made; but there was a good deal of the natural gentleman in the old man, and he took miss carr down to dinner with all the ceremony of the old school. everything was expressly arranged to be very simple, and in a very few minutes mr jabez was quite at his ease, while after a glass of sherry the old man became pleasantly chatty, and full of anecdote, but always treating his hostess with the most chivalrous respect, making a point of rising to open the door for her when she quitted the room, and we were supposed to be left to our wine. "hah, grace," he said, coming back to the table, and taking a long pinch of snuff; "now i feel a man again. i'll just have three more pinches, and then we'll go upstairs to that angel. good heavens!" "what is the matter?" i said, as, instead of sitting down, he began to walk up and down the dining-room, taking pinch after pinch of snuff. "good heavens!" he exclaimed again. "is anything the matter, mr jabez?" i exclaimed. "good heavens! i say, good heavens!" he repeated. "what do you mean?" i said. "good heavens! only to think of it, grace!" another pinch of snuff. "only to think, my lad, that he might have had that woman--that lady! a girl as beautiful in her mind as she is in her face. why, grace, my boy, i'm an old snuffy bachelor because my opportunity never came, but if i could have married such a woman as that--hah! some men are born to be fools!" "and you think mr lister was a fool?" "fool, sir? he was ten thousand times worse. but there! the sun don't shine on me every day, my boy! we'll go upstairs at once, and let it shine upon me again." i never liked mr jabez one-half so well before. it was delightful to me, who quite worshipped miss carr, to see the old man's genuine admiration. he seemed quite transformed, and looked younger. in fact, no sooner were we upstairs, where miss carr was sitting with the urn singing on the tea-table, than he relieved me of a difficulty by opening the question of business himself. "my dear young lady," he said, as he sat down, and began rubbing one thin little leg, "i know you'll excuse me for speaking so familiarly, but,"--he smiled--"i'm over sixty, and i should think you are not more than twenty-five." miss carr smiled, and he went on. "our young friend grace here tells me that you would like me to perform a little commission for you. i only wish to say that you may command me in any way, and to the best of my ability the work shall be done." "thank you, mr rowle," said our hostess. "antony grace said he felt sure i could not have a more suitable and trustworthy agent." "i thank antony grace," said the old man, bowing to me ceremoniously, and taking out his snuff-box, which he hastily replaced. "the fact is," said miss carr, hesitating, and her voice trembled and her face flushed slightly as she spoke, "i--oh, i will be plain," she said, as if determined to cast off all false shame; "mr rowle, i trust to you not to put a false construction on this act of mine. i am rich-- i am my own mistress, and i will do as i please, whatever the world may say." "you are rich, you are your own mistress, and you have a right to do as you please, my dear young lady, whatever the world may say," assented mr jabez, tapping the lid of his snuff-box, which seemed as if it would not keep out of his hand. "the fact is, mr rowle," continued miss carr, "there is a gentleman--a friend of antony grace here, who is struggling to perfect a new invention--a great invention." mr jabez bowed, gazing at her animated countenance with open admiration the while. "to perfect this invention, money is wanted." "exactly," said mr jabez, tapping his box softly. "money is always useful." "i wish this gentleman to have that money--as much as is necessary." "you are rich; you are your own mistress; you have a right to do as you please, my dear young lady, whatever the world may say," said mr jabez, harping upon her words once more. "it is easily settled. give it him." "no," said miss carr, speaking with animation, "it is not easy. you forget what i say. this inventor is a gentleman." "and would be too proud to take the money?" said mr jabez quickly. "yes," said miss carr. "he would not stoop to be under such an obligation. he would feel insulted--that he was lowering himself. i wish to help him," she said excitedly. "i would do anything to help him; but my hands are tied." "humph!" ejaculated mr jabez softly; "and you want me to help you?" "yes, oh yes! and you will?" cried miss carr. "of course i will, my dear young lady," said the old man; "but this requires thought. would you excuse me if i took just one little pinch?" "oh, my dear mr rowle," cried miss carr, "pray do not use ceremony here. i asked you to come to me as a friend. pray consider that you are one." "hah!" sighed mr jabez. "now i can get on. well, my dear young lady, surely we can find a way. in the first place, who is the gentleman?" miss carr looked at me. "mr hallett," i said, coming to her help. "what? our mr hallett?" said mr jabez. "yes, mr rowle." "hum! well, i'm not surprised," he said. "he certainly always did seem to be a gentleman, and i was very sorry that he left our place. so he is working on a great invention, eh? well, he is just the man who would. then, the first thing is, how is it to be done?" "antony grace thinks, mr rowle, that as you have the reputation of being a wealthy man--" "wealthy! why i lost five hundred pounds slap the other day by--dear me! bless my soul! oh, tut--tut--tut! what an ass i am!" he muttered, taking refuge in a tremendous pinch of snuff, half of which powdered his white waistcoat and cravat. "i am very sorry to hear that," said miss carr quietly. "oh, it was nothing. pray go on, my dear young lady." "antony grace thought that you might seek him out, and get into his confidence a little, and at last, after a show of interest in his work, ask him to let you become a sharer in the affair, on condition of your finding the necessary funds." "of your money?" said the old man, with a slight show of suspicion. "of course, mr rowle. then, if he would consent, which he might do, thinking that he was favouring you, the matter would be settled." "to be sure. of course," said mr jabez thoughtfully. "and how far would you go, my dear young lady--forty or fifty pounds?" "as far as was necessary, mr rowle. as many hundreds as he required." mr jabez tapped his box, and sat thinking, gazing wonderingly and full of admiration at the animated countenance before him, as he softly bowed his head up and down. "and you will do this for me, mr rowle?" she said. "if you will trust me, miss carr, i will be your steward in this matter," he said quietly. "and keep my secret? he must not know." "i will be as silent as the grave, my dear, and i thank you for placing so much confidence in me." a few preliminaries and the thing was settled. then, after tea, miss carr sang to the old man a couple of old-fashioned ballads, and he left soon after, i walking home with him, after arranging that i was to take him to great ormond street the following evening, as if after a casual meeting and a desire to see hallett again. the rest was to be left to chance. the old man was very quiet and thoughtful, but i noticed that our leave-taking was a great deal warmer than it had ever been before, and i went back to my lodgings hopeful and eager, feeling that the sun was about to shine at last upon poor hallett's venture, respecting which i, with him, would not own now that there could be such a thing as failure. chapter fifty. mr rowle begins his task. poor mrs hallett was, no doubt, a great sufferer; and as i grow older and knew her better, the annoyance i used to feel at her unreasonable ways dropped aside to make room for pity. one thing always struck me, and that was, that though she was constantly murmuring about stephen's wasting time over his schemes, and the wretched way in which he was constantly plodding on, instead of ambitiously trying to rise to some profession, it was dangerous for anyone else to speak of such a thing. at the appointed time i called upon mr jabez, and he accompanied me to great ormond street, looking brighter and younger than i had ever seen him look before. his snuff-box was in constant use, and he on the way, after vainly trying to stand treat, as he called it, by stopping at the various grocers' windows, and wanting to buy me a box of candied fruits or french plums, went on tatting about miss carr. "antony grace," he exclaimed; "that fellow will wake up some day." "what fellow?" "lister. the fool! the idiot! the ass! why, an earthly heaven was open to him, and he turned his back upon it. there's a life of repentance for him." "i can't understand it," i said. "humph! no," he continued; and he kept glancing at me curiously, as if eager to say something--to ask me some question; but he refrained. "i'm glad you liked miss carr," i said at last. "liked her, boy?" he exclaimed enthusiastically; and he stopped in the centre of the pavement. "there, i suppose i'm growing into an old fool, but that's no business of anybody. that young lady, sir, can command jabez rowle from this moment. here, come along; the people are looking at you." i thought they were looking at mr jabez, but i said nothing, only kept step with him, as he thrust his arm through mine and hurried me on. "of course, what i say to you is in confidence, antony grace," he continued. "of course," i replied warmly; "and let me beg of you, mr rowle, to be very careful. pray don't let hallett have any suspicion of how your interest has come about; and, above all, he must not think that i have talked to you about his model." "hold your tongue, tomtit," he exclaimed merrily, "trying to teach a croaking old raven, getting on towards a hundred. you leave it to me. but look here, boy, i'm not blind. this is all in confidence, of course. i can see as far into a mill-stone as most, people. have hallett and miss--bah, what am i saying?" he muttered, checking himself suddenly. "it's all in confidence, and i shall be as close as an oyster. i've got my part by heart, and you shall see what you shall see." he gave my arm a tight nip, and soon after we reached the door, which i opened with my latchkey, and took him into my rooms, with which the old man seemed much pleased. "why, you reckless young hypocrite, this is the way you live, is it? books, eh? and what are these wheels for?" he continued, picking up a couple from the chimney-piece. "the model," i said quietly. "now, what shall we do? ask hallett to come down here, or go up?" "send up word that you have an old friend with you, and ask if you may bring him up." i took the hint, and mary came back in a few minutes to say that mr hallett would be only too glad to see us. we went up, and i saw at once that hallett had come down from the attic. mrs hallett was asleep, and linny, looking very pale and thin, but still restful and better, was in an easy-chair with a book. "ah, hallett, how do?" said the old gentleman, in his abrupt way. "your servant, ma'am," he added, with a profound bow. hallett looked stern and displeased, and his greeting was cold. "my sister, mr rowle," he said. "she has been ill." "so i see," he replied. "i hope you are getting better, my dear child. you must take plenty of fresh air. i came to see my young friend, antony grace here, and he suggested that as we were under the same roof, i should come and see you. sorry you ever left us, mr hallett." hallett bowed. "ah," he continued, taking the chair coldly offered, "lots of changes since. i suppose you know the partnership's dissolved?" "yes, i had heard so," replied hallett, glancing uneasily at linny. "i stick on with the senior branch," the old man continued, as his eyes wandered about the room, for he was evidently at a loss, and i did not know how to help him, so crossed over to sit down by and talk to linny. but fate favoured us, for in his hurried descent hallett had brought with him a portion of the mechanism of the model. "hullo!" exclaimed mr jabez sharply; "what have you got there? have you, too, turned engineer?" "oh, no," said hallett, who was annoyed. "i--that is--it is a portion of a little contrivance of mine." "oho!" exclaimed mr jabez, "i've found you out, have i, master hallett! why, you were always making sketches of machinery at the office." "how do you know that?" said hallett sharply, while my heart sank, for i felt that our attempt would be a failure. "old grim told me. that young scoundrel, jem smith, used to carry him scraps of paper upon which you had been drawing." hallett's brow grew more cloudy, but he brightened up directly, saying frankly: "well, yes, mr rowle, i am engaged upon a little invention." "that's right," said the old man warmly; "that's right; i wish i had begun something of the kind when i was young. it takes the mind away from the daily mill-horse work. but somehow, hallett, i never could drag my mind away from it, but used to amuse myself reading proofs at home. grace," he continued, turning to me, "why don't you take to something? you being an engineer, now, you ought to do something, say, in our line. there's plenty of chances there. i know one man," he said, taking up his thin leg and nursing it, "who has been trying for years to perfect a machine." "oh, mr jabez," i thought, "you have spoiled all!" for hallett darted a quick glance at me. "the idea occurred to him," continued mr jabez, tapping his snuff-box thoughtfully, as if it contained the machine, "that he could make a contrivance that would do away with the necessity for setting type." "indeed?" said hallett, who drew a long breath of relief. "yes, sir," said mr jabez; "his idea was to get the type set up in long pipes above a keyboard, like a piano, and every time a key was touched with the finger, it pushed out a letter, which ran down an inclined plane to an opening, where a tiny hammer gave it a tap and drove it along a channel in which the letters formed one long line, which was afterwards made into pages and justified." "and did it answer?" said hallett eagerly. "no," said the old man, taking a pinch of snuff, as linny and i now listened to him attentively. "the idea was clever, but it was too crude. he set up his stick full, antony grace, and neglected to read it afterwards. he failed at first." "but you said it was a good idea, mr jabez," i exclaimed. "a capital idea," said the old man, "but it was full of faults." "faults?" said hallett dreamily. "yes, sir," said the old man, growing animated. "for instance, he would only have been able to set one kind of type--one size. he couldn't use italic. he wanted a clever, sensible woman or man to work the keys, another to make the type up into lines. and he was obliged to have a boy to work the little hammer, or beater, to drive the letters along. then the type would get stuck if the letters were not sent down exactly to the time; for two would meet in a lane, and then there was no end of confusion, and, after all, the type had to be distributed, and afterwards set up in sticks to fill the machine." "exactly," said hallett, with animation, for the ice was broken. "i had thought of something similar." "but you did not do it." "no; oh no! composition always seemed to me to require the mind of man--the brain to guide it. it seemed to me that invention should be applied to something of a more mechanical nature." "exactly," said mr jabez. "you couldn't make a machine to read and correct proofs, or revise a slip." "of course not," said hallett. "of course not," said mr jabez. "but, mind you, i'm not one of those idiots who rise up in arms against machinery, and i don't say but what our friend might not have gone on and greatly improved his machine. for instance, he might have contrived another, to do away with the distribution and re-setting up of the type." "yes," said hallett thoughtfully; "it might have been recast and replaced by mechanism." "and always have new type," said mr jabez eagerly. "to be sure: a capital idea; but i don't know, hallett, i don't know. they say you can buy gold too dearly. in the same way, you can make a time-saving process too expensive." "certainly," said hallett thoughtfully; and i was glad to see now that he was pleased to meet the old man. "it seems to me," said mr jabez, passing his snuff-box, which hallett received, and, to humour his visitor, partook of a pinch, "that an inventor ought to devote his attention to making machinery for doing away with a great deal more of our labouring mechanical work, and not the careful processes that require thought." "printing, for instance?" "ye-es," said mr jabez; "but that ground has been pretty well taken up. we have some good machines now, that do a lot of work by steam. why, when i was a boy we used to have the clumsiest old presses possible to conceive. i don't think they had been much improved since the days of caxton." "and yet there is great room for improvement," cried hallett, with animation. "mr rowle, we saw very little of each other beyond business encounters, but i believe, sir, that i may place trust in your word?" "thank you, mr hallett, i hope so. i'm sure i always placed confidence in yours. i am proud to say, miss hallett, that if your brother promised me a slip by a certain time, my mind was always easy, for i knew it would be done." "oh, nonsense, nonsense," said hallett, smiling. "look here, mr rowle, i feel that you will not betray my confidence, and i ask you as a favour to keep private what you see here to-night." "what i see here?" said mr jabez, looking around with an assumed look of puzzle, while i felt the colour coming in my face as i thought of the part i was playing. "i mean what i am about to show you, mr rowle," said hallett, smiling. "trust me? oh yes, of course, yes--of course," said the old man warmly; "here is my hand." "thank you," said hallett, taking it. "linny, my dear, you will not mind being left alone?" "oh no," she said, smiling; and lighting another lamp, hallett led the way up to the attic, mr jabez finding an opportunity to give me a solemn wink before we stood by hallett's bench. "i have spent so much thought and labour over this model," said hallett, "that, you must not be surprised at the jealousy with which i watch it." "oh no," said mr jabez, who proceeded, snuff-box in hand, to examine carefully every point in the invention. "well," said hallett, at last, "do you think it will answer?" in place of replying, mr jabez went all over it again, his interest growing fast, and being, i was glad to see, evidently sincere. "i tell you what," he exclaimed at last, taking a tremendous pinch of snuff, "that thing would be splendid if you got it right." "you like it, then?" said hallett. "like it? i think it's grand. why, man, it would make quite a revolution in the news business. you must get on--get it perfect." mr hallett shook his head. "it takes time and money," he said sadly. "it is slow work." "yes, but--hang it all, sir! you should get help. with such an important thing in hand you should work on." "i do not know yet that it would answer," said hallett sadly. "but it must answer, sir," said the old man sharply. "if that machine did not answer, it would not be the fault or the principle, but of some blunder in the mechanism." "do you think so?" cried hallett, whose eyes lighted up with pleasure. "no, sir: i am sure so," said the old man. "the principle is as grand as it is simple; and what i like in the invention is this--you have taken up a part of the trade where it is all hand-labour--all mechanical. you are not trying to do away with brainpower." "i am very glad you like my idea, mr rowle," said hallett, proceeding to cover his model, which, when set in motion, ran easily and well. "i am delighted with it," said mr jabez, poking him in the chest with his snuff-box. "now, then, go ahead, and have the thing made on a workable scale." "but i have not perfected it yet," replied hallett. "never mind; perfect it as you go on. you are sure to find some weak spots. if i were you, sir, i should set a good firm of engineers to work on that at once." hallett smiled sadly. "you are proposing impossibilities, mr rowle. this has been one of my great troubles, sir: how i was to carry on my project when i had completed my model. during the past few days i have been thinking of trying to sell the idea for what it is worth." "what i and let some fellow without half an ounce of brains in his skull reap all the profit? don't you do anything of the kind. there's a fortune in that contrivance, mr hallett. sir, it is a great invention." "what would you do, then?" said hallett, smiling. "do, sir? i'd--i'd--" mr jabez paused, and took a pinch of snuff. "do, sir, i'd--i'd--i'll tell you what i'd do. i'd take a partner who had money." hallett shook his head sadly. "who would advance money to such a dreamer as i am?" he said sadly. "lots of people, as soon as they saw money in it." hallett shook his head. "you take a very sanguine view of the matter, mr rowle." "not half so sanguine as you, sir. why, you must have spent years of labour, and a great deal of money, over that model." "i have," said hallett sadly. "then don't call me sanguine," cried mr jabez, flying to his snuff-box again. "i ask, here, hallett, how much would it take to produce that thing, patent it, and the rest of it?" "i cannot say," replied hallett quietly, and with the same sad smile upon his face. "it is one of those things which keen on crying, `more! more!' i dare say it would require pounds or pounds to produce the first machine, and then i have no doubt more would have to be spent in perfecting it." "yes, i dare say," said mr jabez coolly, as he uncovered and once more began to examine the model; "i tell you what, hallett, i think i know your man." "what, a capitalist?" "no, sir; a man with a selfish desire to share in the child of your brains." "indeed!" "yes; he hasn't much money, but i'll be bound to say that he would find enough to carry out your plans for, say, one-third of the profits." "mr rowle, are you serious?" said hallett earnestly. "i never joke about business matters, mr hallett. as i said before, sir, that's a great invention; and if you'll let me, i'll find the money for carrying it on, conditionally that i take one-third of the profits the invention makes." "you will! mr rowle!" cried hallett incredulously. "i will, sir; and there's my hand upon it." "but do you understand the magnitude of the affair, sir?" cried hallett, whose face flushed and eyes glittered with excitement. "quite so," replied the old gentleman, diving again into his snuff-box. "the first thing is, sir, to draw out a proper document between us--we can do that without the lawyers. then proper drawings must be made, with description, and the thing must be patented." "but that will take nearly a hundred pounds!" cried hallett, panting; while i sat there hugging myself with delight. "you can have my cheque for a hundred pounds, mr hallett, as soon as we have settled the preliminaries; and i bind myself to go on finding the necessary cash for construction as you go on. and now, sir, it's pretty well my bed-time, and i want to be off. do nothing rashly. this day week i'll come here again for your answer, which i hope will be _yes_; for i think it will be a good stroke of business for both of us. now good-night. antony grace, will you show me the way down to the door?" they shook hands, and i saw the old gentleman to the street. "there, my boy, wasn't that done well?" he chuckled. "but look here, antony grace," he added seriously; "i'd have done it without miss carr, that i would, for i believe in that machine. good-night, boy, i'll come on next week and--hang it, look at that fellow who just passed. he's as like john lister as two peas." the old man went off, and i returned to my room, where i found hallett waiting for me in a state of intense excitement. "antony," he exclaimed, "it is too good to be true. it is fortune at last--success. good heavens! it makes me turn giddy. mother--linny," he cried, in a low passionate wail, "at last there is sunshine breaking through the clouds." "i pray heaven there may be, hallett," i exclaimed; "but i have something to say to you." "what is it?" he cried. "has the old man repented?" "oh, no; you may be sure of him, hallett. he is delighted at the opportunity, and thinks it will lead to fortune." "what do you mean, then?" "john lister is hanging about this street." "why? how? what makes you say that?" "i saw him pass the door, just now." his brow darkened, and involuntarily he uttered his sister's name. "no," i said; "i don't believe it of her. he is only trying to meet with her once more. i am sure linny does not know it." "you are right, antony; she cannot know it. we can trust her now. let us go and sit upstairs." as we entered the room, linny raised her eyes from the book which she was reading, and her calm ingenuous look was sufficient to disarm suspicion; but, all the same, hallett and i both felt that the wolf was prowling about the fold, and that it behoved us to see that he had no further chance of carrying off our lamb. chapter fifty one. mr lister is moved on. we had good reason to know that john lister was hovering about the place, for i saw him several times, and found that in hallett's absence and mine he had called and endeavoured to see linny; but she had always refused, and on mary being warned, he received such a rebuff that he did not call again. still, however, he hung about, making the poor girl's life wretched, for at last she dared not go to the window for fear of being seen. both hallett and i wondered whether his pertinacity would make any impression. while we were in a state of doubt, it fell to my lot one evening to become linny's escort to a distant part of london, and we were on our way back, when suddenly i felt her hand tighten upon my arm. "quick, antony," she whispered, "he is there!" "he is there?" i said wonderingly, for i did not comprehend her; but the next moment i caught sight of lister coming towards us, and evidently fixing her with his eyes. there was a meaning smile upon his lip, and, apparently intending to ignore me, he was about to speak, when, with a gesture of horror, she shrank from him, turned her head aside, and begged me to hurry home. "we'll go home," i said; "but we will not hurry;" and i turned and met lister's contemptuous stare, as he followed us at a little distance till we had reached the house. i was annoyed and distressed about this pertinacious pursuit, and i had just made up my mind to consult hallett on the best way to put a stop to it, when an idea occurred to me. "it is very evident," i thought, "that lister does not know who lives here;" and i laughed to myself as i quietly determined to put my plan in force. that evening, while hallett was busy in his attic, slaving away with redoubled energy at his model, giving it what he looked upon as the final touches before proceeding with the patent, i went down as soon as i heard revitts come in, his broad face expanding with pleasure as i followed him below to his own particular sanctuary, where, while he was enjoying his after-tea pipe, i opened my business. "revitts," i said, "i'm going to take you into my confidence, and ask you to keep faith." "which you may be sure i shall do, master antony, if so be i can." "well, you can, bill," i replied; and i proceeded to tell him how linny was annoyed. "that's very unpleasant," he said thoughtfully; "but is it by that same chap?" "yes." "that'll do," he said, drawing a long breath; "and lookye here, antony, my young friend, i'm sergeant, and have to set an example now to them as is under--them, i mean--no, i don't--i mean those as--who--are under me--that's right! one's obliged to be particler now. use of the truncheon forbidden, except when obliged; but if i do meet, that fellow annoying miss linny, i shall be obliged to give him a topper--a hangel couldn't help it." "no, no, bill--no, mr sergeant," i began. "stow that, antony, no larks. bill, please, as afore." "well, then, bill, that is one of the things you must not do. all i want is for you to let him see that you live here, and that miss hallett is under your protection. he won't face you, and as soon as he finds that you are here he will keep away." "but he must be taken for his assault on the police, antony." "no, no: let him go on in his own way. if you take him, there will be a great deal of inquiry and exposure that would be most painful to all my friends. we should have to go into the witness-box and be cross-examined, and it would be extremely painful to me, both on my own behalf and that of others." "you wouldn't like it, antony?" he said. "no, indeed i should not," i replied. "that's enough, dear lad," he exclaimed, giving the table a rap with his fist. "that's settled; but i may give him a word or two of a sort, eh? just show him i know him, and move him on pretty sharp?" "as much of that as you like," i said; "i leave it in your hands. what i ask of you is, as an officer, to see that we are not pestered by that man." "it's as good as done, ant'ny," he exclaimed, stuffing some more tobacco in his pipe. "it's better than done, my dear," said mary decisively. "when my william says a thing's as good as done, you may make yourself comfortable about it." revitts said no more about it in the future, only once when he met me at the door, chuckling to himself, and shaking his head. "what are you laughing at?" i asked. "only about him," he replied. "i just run again him at the corner, and said about six words to him." "well?" "that's all," said revitts, chuckling. "he showed me the back seams of his coat directly; but i followed him up and moved him on. i don't think he'll show himself much more about here, my lad." revitts was right. lister did not hang about our neighbourhood so much after that interview; but it had the effect of sending him back to annoy miss carr; so that, day by day, his actions formed a problem that it became very difficult to solve, and we little knew then how malignantly he was fighting against hallett, whose love he must have suspected. time glided on. mr jabez used to come regularly to ormond street. the model and its progress seemed to give a fresh interest to the old man's life, and, in addition, he took a remarkable liking to linny. mrs hallett, too, showed a fancy for him, after a few tearful words of opposition to the way in which he encouraged hallett in his folly. "folly, ma'am? it's no such thing. he'll be a great man yet, and a benefactor to his kind. spread of knowledge, you know." "i don't understand you, mr rowle," said the poor woman plaintively; "but you may be right. all i know is, that it takes up a great deal of his time." "couldn't be better spent, my dear madam. do you know what it means?" "no," said mrs hallett, "only neglect of his poor suffering mother." "patience, my dear madam, patience," said mr jabez. "i'll tell you what it means. pleasant changes for you; seaside; a nice invalid-carriage; silk attire for little miss linny here, and servants to wait upon you. bless my soul, ma'am!" he cried flourishing his snuff-box, and taking a liberal pinch, "you ought to be proud of your son." "i am, mr rowle," she said, plaintively; "but if you would kindly oblige me by not taking so much snuff. it makes--makes me sneeze." "my dear madam," exclaimed the little man, closing his box with a snap, "i beg your pardon. bad habit--very bad habit, really." linny burst out into a merry, bird-like laugh that made me start with pleasure. it was so fresh and bright, and it was so long since anything but a faint smile had been seen upon her face, that it was like a pleasant augury of happier days to come. the old man turned round and smiled and nodded at her, evidently enjoying it too; and when, some ten minutes after, he was going up with me to hallett's attic, he stopped on the landing and tapped my arm with his snuff-box. "grace," he said, "i am waking up more and more to the fact that i have been an old fool!" "indeed! why?" "because i've shut myself up all my life, and grown selfish and crusted. i don't think i'm such a very bad sort of fellow when you get through the bark." "i'm sure you are not, mr rowle," i said. "humph! thankye, grace. well, you always did seem to like me." "but what do you mean about being an--" "old fool? there, say it if you like. i mean about women--young girls--ladies, you know. they're very nice." "yes, that they are," i cried eagerly. "yah! stuff! how do you know--a boy like you? no, no--i mean yes, of course, so they are. i've been thinking, you know, what might have been, if i'd met with such a lady as that miss carr, or our pretty little bird there, thirty or forty years ago. hah! i should have been a different man. but i never did, my boy, i never did." he took a pinch of snuff very thoughtfully here. "it's too late now, grace, too late now. you can't make winter into summer; and it's getting to the winter with me now. that's a very nice little thing downstairs. has she--has she any--any--" "lover, mr rowle?" "yes." "not now," i said. "there was one, but it ended unhappily. he was a blackguard," i said warmly. "was he, though?" he said eagerly. "that's right, grace, i like to see you have some spirit. poor little lassie! no father, either." "mr hallett is more like a father to her than a brother," i replied, as i thought it would be better not to mention john lister's name. "father--father--" said the old man dreamily. "how curious it must be to feel that one is the father of anything; that it is your own, and that it loves you. now, do you know, grace, i never thought of that before." "you have always been such a business man, mr rowle," i said. "yes--yes, grinding on every day, without a thought of anything but other people's mistakes, and none about my own. you like little miss linny there--downstairs?" "oh yes," i cried; "she always seems to have been like a sister ever since i knew her." "hum! hah! yes! like a sister," he said thoughtfully. "well, she's a very nice little girl, grace, and i like her; but you need not tell her so." "oh no, of course not, mr rowle," i said, laughing. "shall we go upstairs?" "yes, my boy, directly. "but look here, grace," he continued, fumbling in his pocket, and bringing out a newspaper slip. "hum! hah! oh, here it is. read that." he pointed to an advertisement of an elderly couple without children, wishing to adopt a young girl; and i read it, and then looked at him wonderingly. "i suppose that sort of thing is done sometimes, eh?" he said. "i don't know, mr rowle," i replied. "hum! no, of course you don't," he said thoughtfully, after another pinch. "come along upstairs, my boy, and let's look at the machine." chapter fifty two. mr jabez has a spasm. there had been some little dispute about the drawing up of the terms between hallett and mr rowle. the former would not listen to the old gentleman's proposition that it should be settled by a letter between them, saying that it ought to be a proper legal document, for both their sakes; and the knot was solved, as they did not wish to consult a solicitor, by my proposing to bring tom girtley home with me some evening, when the legal training he was undergoing might prove sufficient for the purpose. it was settled to be so, and a few evenings later, i called in lincoln's inn fields, at the offices where tom was now engaged, and he accompanied me to great ormond street. mary had had her instructions to have a "high tea" ready for us, and her ideas of delicacies took the form of hot baked potatoes and cold lobsters; and upon these, with shouts of laughter, we made an attack, for it was wonderful in those days what the youthful digestive organs would conquer without fail. tom girtley had several times been to my apartments, but i had never introduced him to the halletts, for there had been too much trouble in connection with linny's illness for their rooms to be attractive to a casual visitor. but now times were altered; hallett looked brighter, linny was nearly her own merry pretty self again, and mrs hallett, perhaps, a little less weak and despondent, which is not saying much. tom girtley had altered very much since we had become friends, having started ahead of me, and a year had changed him from a boy into quite a man, at whose hirsute appendages i used to look with perhaps just a trace of envy. there was something very frank and manly about him, and he had all a boy's love of a bit of fun; but at the same time, he was full of shrewdness and common-sense, the former being rubbed daily by his profession into a keener edge. all in good time mr jabez arrived, according to what was fast growing into a regular custom, and he favoured tom girtley with a short nod and a very searching look. then together we went upstairs, where i saw mr jabez frown as our legal visitor was introduced to mrs hallett and linny, the latter blushing slightly at tom's admiring gaze. the old man uttered a sigh of relief then as linny rose and helped mrs hallett to leave the room during the transaction of the business, and i noted that he was very snappish and abrupt while the arrangement went on. it was very simple, and soon done, tom girtley drawing up first on foolscap a draft of the arrangement, which was agreed to on both sides, and then transferred to a couple of stamped papers, signed and witnessed, one being kept by each party to the transaction. all this was done in so satisfactory a manner to mr jabez that he became somewhat less abrupt to my companion, and even went so far as to say that he had never seen a legal document which pleased him so well. "not so many heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, young gentleman," he said gruffly. "you lawyers have made a lot of money out of those parties in your time. now, don't you think we might ask the ladies to step back?" this was done, and we had a very pleasant evening, tom girtley winning golden opinions for his merry ways, even bringing a smile to mrs hallett's pale face; and at last, when it was time to go, hallett exclaimed: "of course, we shall see you again, mr girtley?" "may i come?" he said eagerly. "if you can find any pleasure in our rather dull home," replied hallett. "good--" he was going to say, "gracious," but he refrained, and looked in a puzzled and amused way at mr jabez, who had kicked out one leg under the table, and his foot had come in contact with his host. "spasm!" said mr jabez abruptly; and when tom girtley went down with me the old man remained. "well, tom, what do you think of my friends the halletts?" i said, as we went down to the door. "i'm delighted with them," he cried. "i like hallett; and as for his sister--i say, tony, are you making play there?" "making play?" "there, don't be so innocent, man alive! are you in love with her?" "what nonsense! no." "then i am," he said. "i wouldn't have poached on your preserves, but it's all over with me now. alas, poor me! so soon, and i am barely twenty. good-night, old boy, and thanks for a pleasant evening." "don't be in such a hurry," i exclaimed. "i'm going a little way with you." he was in high spirits, and we were just crossing the street, when we came suddenly upon john lister--so suddenly, that tom observed my start. "who's that?" he said quickly. "one of our black clouds," i said bitterly. "black clouds?" he said, in a puzzled tone. "and yours, too," i said, "if you talk like you did just now." "i like solving knotty points," he said; "but you must give me a clue." "not to-night, tom," i said. "say good-night now. some other time." "all right, my mysterious youth," he cried, laughing; and after shaking hands, i hurried back, to find mr jabez standing at the door. "oh, here you are," he said. "i am just waiting to say good-night. i say, grace, is that fellow square?" "i believe him to be a thorough scoundrel," i said angrily. "he seems quite taken with little linny there." "i know that," i said bitterly. "and yet you brought him here, sir." "i? brought him here?" i exclaimed. "it was going on before i knew them." "what! that boy--that parchment slip?" he exclaimed. "no, no," i said hastily. "i meant john lister." as the words were leaving my lips, he of whom i spoke passed by on the other side, and turned his face to look up at the second floor, the light from a gas-lamp making his countenance perfectly clear. "oh!" said mr jabez softly; and, after standing watching the retiring figure, he too went his way. chapter fifty three. my visitor. two years of hard work rapidly passed away, during which, i suppose, i made rapid progress in my profession, and also had the satisfaction of seeing hallett's machine grow towards perfection. it had progressed slowly, in spite of the energy brought to bear, for hallett toiled at it patiently and well; but the work was for the most part out of his hands now. i had introduced him to mr girtley, who at once took a great deal of interest in the scheme, but who rather damped us at first by pointing out weaknesses, not of principle, but of construction, and at once proposed that before the great machine itself was attempted, a working model, four times the size of that laboriously constructed by hallett, should be made. "it means time and expense, mr hallett," he said, "but over new things we must be slow and sure. for instance, there will be great stress upon certain parts--here--here--and here. i can say to you now that these parts must be greatly strengthened, and i could make certain calculations, but we can only learn by experience what is to be done." there was so much good sense in this, that hallett at once agreed, and mr jabez of course nodded approval; and though it took a long time, the trial of the little machine fully bore out mr girtley's prophecies; so that great modifications had to be made. "yes," said mr girtley, after the trial, "it is discouraging, certainly; but is it not better than having a breakdown just when your hopes are highest?" "yes, but new moulds can be made, and you will go on at once," said hallett eagerly. "yes, the moulds shall be made, and we will go on at once." "mr girtley thought me very impatient, antony," said hallett, as we walked steadily back from great george street, where the little machine had been set up; "but there are bounds to every one's patience, and i feel sometimes as if the idol i have been trying to set up will not be finished in my time." "nonsense?" i cried cheerily, "i guarantee it shall be. i'm to have a lot of superintending to do, hallett, and i'll leave no stone unturned to get it on." "thank you, antony," he said, "do your best. i grieve for poor mr jabez more than for myself. two hundred and fifty pounds of his money gone, and he has nothing yet before him in return but an unsubstantial shadow." miss carr had been a good deal away from england during this time, visiting her sister, who twice over returned with her to stay at westmouth street. i had, however, kept her fully informed about the progress made by hallett. in fact, she knew my innermost life, and as much of the halletts' as i knew myself. those were pleasant days, though, when she was at home, much of my time being spent with her; and though i found that lister had made several attempts to see her, and had written continually, he had never been successful. i learned, too, that mr ruddle had interfered in concert with some distant relatives of miss carr, and they had pretty well coerced lister into more reasonable behaviour. he evidently, however, lived in the hope of yet resuming his old relationship with miss carr, little dreaming how well acquainted she was with his character, for, in no tale-bearing spirit, but in accordance with her wish, that she should know everything in connection with my daily life, i had told her of lister's continued underhanded pursuit of linny, news which i afterwards found had come to her almost in company with imploring letters, full of love, passion and repentance. when i look back upon that portion of my life, it all seems now like a dream of pleasure, that glided away as if by magic. i had no troubles-- no cares of my own, save such as i felt by a kind of reflex action. i was young, active, and full of eagerness. hallett's enterprise seemed to be almost my own, and i looked forward to its success as eagerly as he did himself. the house at great ormond street was a far less solemn place now than it used to be, and many and bright were the evenings we spent together. hallett seemed less sad and self-contained, as he saw his mother take a little interest in the group that used to form about her chair. for mr jabez appeared to have become quite a new man, and there were not many evenings that he did not spend at the halletts'. "business, you see, grace," he used to say, with a dry chuckle. "i must be on the spot to talk over the machine with hallett;" but somehow very little used to be said about business: for very often after the first introduction by the old man, there used to be a snug rubber at whist, in which he and mrs hallett would be partners against linny and tom girtley. for tom used to come a great, deal in those days to see me. he used to tell me, with a laughing light in his eye, that he was sure i must be very dull there of an evening, and that it was quite out of kindness to me. but, somehow or another, i suppose through my neglect, and the interest i took in hallett's work, he used to be driven upstairs, where his bright, hearty ways made him always welcome. for after what looked like dead opposition at first, tom quite won mr jabez over to his side; and, save and excepting a few squabbles now and then, which mrs hallett took seriously, and which afforded linny intense amusement, mr jabez and tom became the best of friends. "i don't think he's such a very bad sort of fellow, as boys go, grace," mr jabez said; "but look here, my boy, do you see how the land lies?" "what do you mean, mr rowle?" i said laughing; "that tom and linny seem to be getting very fond of one another?" "yes," he said, tapping me on the breast-bone with his snuff-box. "i spoke to hallett about it last night, and he said he was not sorry." "of course not. i am sure he likes tom," i said thoughtfully, as i saw how great an alteration had come about at the house, for linny used to sing about the place now like a bird, and mary watched over her like a dragon. in fact, mary was a wonderful institution at great ormond street, and even mrs hallett was afraid of her, in so much that mary's practical ways seemed quite to silence her murmurings, and make her take a more cheerful view of life. "but look here, grace," said mr jabez, "don't you be a young fool. you don't want to grow into an old bachelor like i am." "i don't know that i do," i said. "then about linny: does it suit your book for that big child to be coming here and cutting the ground from under your feet?" "cutting the ground from under my feet?" i said merrily. "why, what do you mean, mr jabez?" "i mean, don't you be a young noodle, and play with your opportunities. linny's a very nice little girl, and i shouldn't be a bit surprised if some day she had a few--perhaps a good many hundreds of her own. i tell you what it is, grace, my boy, i shouldn't be a bit displeased if you were to play your cards right, and make a match of it with that little girl." "and i hope, mr rowle, you would not be a bit displeased if i did not do anything of the sort?" "h'm-m! no! i don't know that i should, boy. but, hang it all, you are not. you have not any one else in your eye. you are not thinking about miss carr, are you, you puppy?" i burst out into a hearty fit of laughter. "no, mr rowle," i said merrily. "i never think about such matters, and between ourselves," i said with much severity, "i am surprised to find a quiet elderly gentleman like you taking to match-making." "get out, you young dog!" he cried. "there, just as you like, only i thought i'd see how you felt about it, that's all." mr rowle's words set me thinking, and i could not help seeing that though there was no love-making, or anything out of the ordinary way in their every-day intercourse, linny's old sorrow had been completely swept away, and she evidently looked upon tom as a very great friend. i was in my own room one evening reporting progress to hallett, who had just come in from the office where he still worked as an ordinary journeyman. mr jabez was upstairs with tom girtley, and a quiet rubber of whist was in progress, when mary came up into the room to announce that there was some one downstairs who wanted to see me. "who is it, mary?" i said. mary glanced at hallett, who saw the look and rose to go. "don't you run away, hallett," i cried. "i've no one to see me whom you need not know." i stopped there, for the thought flashed across my mind that it might be some one from miss carr, or perhaps it might be something to do with john lister. he saw my hesitation, and said quietly: "i shall be upstairs if you want me, antony. i think i will go now." he left the room. "well, mary, who's the mysterious stranger?" i said. "oh, master antony," she cried excitedly, "whoever do you think it is? i hope it don't mean trouble. some one from the country." "not blakeford?" i exclaimed, with all my budding manhood seeming to be frozen down on the instant, and my boyish dread ready to return. "no, my dear, not old blakeford," she said; "but that other old mr rowle." "old mr rowle!" i cried excitedly, as, like a flash, all my former intercourse with him darted back--the day when he came and took possession of our dear home; our meals together; the bit of dinner in the summer-house; and his kindly help with money and advice when i was about to run away. why, i felt that it was to him that i owed all my success in life, and my heart smote me as i thought of my ingratitude, and how i seemed to have forgotten him since i had become so prosperous and well-to-do. "yes," said mary, "old mr rowle. he's standing at the door, my dear; he said he was so shabby he wouldn't come in." thank god, i was only a boy still, and full of youthful freshness and enthusiasm! i forgot all my dandyism and dress, everything, in the excitement of seeing the old man again; and almost before mary had done speaking, i was bounding down the stairs to rush through the big hall and catch hold of the little old man standing on the steps. he seemed to have shrunk; or was it that i had sprung up from the little boy into a young man? i could not tell then. i did not want to tell then; all i knew was that the childish tears were making my eyes dim, that there was a hot choking sensation in my throat, and that i dragged the old man in. we had a struggle over every mat, where he would stop to rub his shoes. i could not speak, only keep on shaking both his hands; and i seemed to keep on shaking them till i had him thrust down by the fire in the easy-chair. "why, young 'un," he said at last, "how you have grown!" "why, mr rowle," i said, as soon as i could speak, "i am--i am glad to see you." "are you--are you, young 'un?" he said, getting up out of his chair, picking his hat off the floor, where he had set it down, and putting it on again, while in a dreamy way he ran his eye all over the room, making a mental inventory of the furniture, just as i remembered him to have done of old. he seemed to be very little, and yellow, and withered, and he was very shabbily dressed, too; but i realised the fact that he was not much altered, as he fixed his eyes once more on me, and repeated: "why, young 'un, how you have grow'd!" "have i, mr rowle?" i said, laughing through my weak tears; for his coming seemed to have brought back so much of the past. "wonderful!" he said. "i shouldn't have know'd you, that i shouldn't. why, you've grow'd into quite a fine gentleman, that you have, and you used to be about as high as sixpen'orth o' ha'pence." "i was a little fellow," i said, laughing. "but you'd got a 'awful lot o' stuff in you, young 'un," he said. "but, i say, are you--are you really glad to see me, young 'un--i mean, mr grace?" "glad to see you?" i cried. "i can't tell you how glad. but sit down. here, give me your hat." "gently, young 'un, there's something in it. pr'aps i'd better keep it on." "no, no," i cried, catching it from his hands, and forcing him back into the easy-chair. "gently, young 'un," he said, thrusting one hand up the cuff of his long brown coat, which, with its high collar, almost seemed to be the same as the one in which i saw him first--"gently, young 'un," he said; "you've broke my pipe." i burst out laughing, and, weak as it may sound, the tears came to my eyes again, as i saw him draw from up his sleeve a long clay pipe broken in three, and once more the old scenes in the deserted rifled house came back. "never mind the pipe, mr rowle," i cried. "you shall have a dozen if you like, twice as long as that. but you must be hungry and tired. i am glad to see you." "thankye, young 'un," he said, smiling; and the old man's lip quivered a little as he shook my hand. "i didn't expect it of you, but i thought i'd come and see if you'd forgotten me." i ran to the bell, and mary came up directly, and smiled and nodded at my visitor. "mary," i said, "let's have some supper directly--a bit of something hot. and, i say, bring up that long pipe of revitts'--the churchwarden, you know. i've got some tobacco." "i've got a bit of tobacco," said mr rowle, "and--you've taken my hat away--there's something in it. thankye. i thought, maybe, they might come in useful. they're quite fresh." as he spoke he took out a great yellow silk handkerchief, and from underneath that, fitting pretty tightly in the hat, a damp-looking paper parcel, that proved to contain a couple of pounds of pork sausages, which mary bore away, and returned directly with a kettle of hot water and a long churchwarden clay pipe, which mr rowle proceeded to fill from my tobacco-jar, lit, sat bolt-upright in his chair, and began to smoke. all the intervening years seemed to have slipped away as i saw the old man sitting there, a wonderfully exact counterpart of mr jabez in shabby clothes; and, as his eyes once more wandered round the place, i half expected to see him get up and go all over the house, smoking in each room, and mentally making his inventory of the goods under his charge. i went to a little cellaret, got out the glasses, spirit-stand, and sugar, and mixed the old man a steaming tumbler, which he took, nodded, and sipped with great satisfaction. then, puffing contentedly away at his pipe, he said: "not all your own, is it?" and his eyes swept over the furniture. "yes, to be sure," i said, laughing at his question, for i took a good deal of pride in my rooms, which were really well furnished. "you've grow'd quite a swell, young 'un," he said at last; and then stopped smoking suddenly. "i ain't no right here," he said. "i hope you don't mind the pipe." "i'm going to have a cigar with you presently," i said, laughing, "only we'll have some supper first." "only fancy," he said; "just a bit of a slip as you was when you made up your mind to cut, and now grow'd up. i should have liked to have seen what come between. you are glad to see me, then?" "glad? of course," i cried; and then mary came bustling in to lay the cloth. "she's altered, too," said the old man, who went on smoking away placidly. "got crummier; and she don't speak so sharp. think o' you two living in the same house." "mary's my landlady," i said. "but this is a surprise." "ah! yes," he said; "i've often thought i'd come up and see jabez, and look you up same time. i had a bit of a job to find you, for jabez wasn't at home." "mr jabez is here," i said. "yes; they said he'd come to see you, and they wouldn't give me the address at first. i'd lost it, or forgotten it, but here i am." "i'll go up and tell him you are here," i cried; and before my visitor could say a word, i had run upstairs and completely upset all mr jabez rowle's calculations, which might or might not have ended in his gaining the odd trick, and was soon taking him downstairs on the plea or important business. "anything the matter, grace?" he said--"anything wrong with hallett?" "no," i said; "he's in his bedroom. come in here." if i had expected to startle or surprise mr jabez, i should have been disappointed, for, upon entering my room, where his brother was composedly smoking the long clay pipe, with his yellow silk handkerchief spread over his knees, he only said: "hallo, peter, you here?" and went and sat down on the other side of the fire. "how do, jabez?" said my old friend, without taking his pipe out of his mouth; and then there was silence, which i did not care to break, but sat down, too, and looked on. "come up to-day, peter?" said mr jabez. "yes." "when are you going back?" "don't know." "oh!" then there was a pause. "stick to your pipe still," said mr jabez, taking a loud pinch of snuff. "yes; never could manage snuff." "oh!" here there was another pause, broken once more by mr jabez. "where are you going to stay?" "long o' you." "oh!" a great many puffs of smoke followed here, and several pinches of snuff, as the two old men sat on either side of the fire and stared hard at each other, their likeness being now wonderful, as far as their heads were concerned. "hard up?" said mr jabez at last. "no. want to borrow a sov?" "no," said mr jabez shortly; and there was again a silence. "i'll have a drop of gin and water, grace," said mr jabez, after a very long and awkward pause for me. i mixed it for him with alacrity. "you two friendly?" said mr peter at last, making a strenuous effort to thrust one finger into the bowl of his pipe without removing the waxed end from his lips, but finding it impossible, without apparently swallowing a goodly portion, from the length of the stem. "friendly? of course we are. can't you see?" replied mr jabez snappishly. "no! how should i know? like him to know anything about your affairs?" said mr peter, turning to me. "oh yes," i said. "mr jabez rowle is a very great friend of mine." "right!" said that individual, giving his head a nod. "i didn't come up on purpose to see you, jabez," said mr peter. "who said you did?" snapped mr jabez. "what did you come for? about what you said?" "yes." there was another awkward pause, fortunately broken by mary, who entered with a tray odorous with hot rump-steak and onions: and as soon as he smelt it, mr peter stood his pipe up in the corner of the fireplace, and softly rubbed his hands. his brother made no scruple about joining the meal, and as the brothers rose, mr jabez held out his hand with-- "well, how are you, peter?" "tidy," said mr peter, and they shook hands as if they were cross with each other, and then they each made a hearty meal. "got a latchkey, jabez?" said mr peter, as, after supper, we all drew up round the fire and the visitor from rowford refilled and lit his pipe, causing mr jabez to draw off from him as far as was possible. "yes," he said shortly. "that's right," said mr peter; "don't want to go to bed, do you, young 'un?" "oh, no," i said; "i'm too glad to see you again." the old man's eyes twinkled, as he looked at me fixedly. "been a good boy, jabez?" he said at last. "who?--me?" "no, no; young 'un here." "oh, yes. can't you see?" "thought he would be, or i shouldn't have sent him." "humph!" i wanted to talk, but i found that it would be of no use now, so i contented myself with studying the brothers, and, just then, tom girtley came in. "won't disturb you," he said quickly; "just off. good-night, mr rowle, good-night, tony." "who's he?" said mr peter, as the door closed. "a friend of mine--a young solicitor." "any good?--trust him?" said mr peter quickly. "yes, he is very clever in his profession," i said wonderingly. "call him back, then," said mr peter. "i've got something for him to hear." chapter fifty four. peter rowle's bargain. i was just in time to call tom girtley back as he reached the corner of the street, and he came up into my room, wondering, for the hour was getting late; but he took a chair quietly, and waited for what mr peter had to say. "well, it ain't much," said the latter; "but it may mean a good deal. s'pose, sir, you just cast your eye over them there?" he took a packet of papers, tied with red tape, and docketed, out of his pocket, and passed them over to tom girtley, who immediately opened them in a very business-like way, and proceeded rapidly to mentally summarise their contents. this took him some little time, during which we all sat very still, mr peter giving me a very knowing look or two in the interval. "these are very important documents, sir," said tom girtley quietly. "i must, of course, warn you that i am only a young member of my profession, and wanting in experience; but, as far as i can judge, these are the private memoranda and certain deeds and documents of mr edward grace, of--" "my father!" i exclaimed excitedly. "how did you get these papers, mr rowle?" "bought 'em," said the old gentleman quietly. "you bought them?" "to be sure i did. old blakeford thought he'd taken possession of all your father's papers, my boy, after his death, but he didn't." "how did you get them, then?" said mr jabez sharply. "bought 'em, i tell you. it was like this: old blakeford put me in possession at the house of a man who had borrowed money of him, and he was going to sell him up--you know his ways, young 'un--i mean mr grace. well, i went there one night, and very wild the poor fellow was, and he went straight to a bureau, that i seemed to have seen before, and began to go over his papers, tying up some and burning others, and going on and calling old blakeford names all the while. `ah,' he says, all at once, `i bought this writing-table and drawers at grace's sale, when blakeford sold the furniture. look here,' he said, `this lot of papers was in one of the back drawers. they belonged to old grace, i suppose,' and he was about to pitch them into the fire with his own letters and things, of which there was quite a heap. "`don't do that,' i says; `they may be of value.' "`not they,' he says; `if they'd been worth anything old blakeford wouldn't have left them. they aren't worth tuppence!' "`i'll give you tuppence for them,' i says. "`pay up,' he says, and i handed him the twopence, and took the papers. i've read 'em, and think they're worth the money." "worth the money!" cried tom girtley; "why, they may be worth ten thousand pounds; but i can say nothing till i have gone into the case; and i daresay it would be necessary to make mr blakeford supply some of the connecting links." "which he won't do," said mr peter quietly. "unless he's obliged," said tom girtley. "there are means of making even a solicitor speak, mr rowle," he continued. "will you take these papers?" "no," said mr peter; "give 'em to mr grace there. they were his father's. blakeford's pitched me over, because i got old and useless, so i shan't try to screen him in the least." tom girtley folded and tied up the papers, and handed them to me but i refused to take them. "keep them and study them," i said; "perhaps they will not prove to be so valuable when you have given them a fresh perusal." he nodded and placed the packet in his breast-pocket, all three then rising to go, for it was past twelve, and as tom girtley and i stood at the door, we saw the two old men go down the street, arm-in-arm, till they passed by the lamp-post and disappeared. then, after a hearty good-night, tom girtley took his departure, and i went up to bed, to lie for hours thinking about my life with mr blakeford, and wondering whether he had defrauded me over the question of my father's property. i had always felt that i was in his debt, and meant some day to repay him all he said that my father owed; in fact, miss carr had been so liberal to me in the way of pocket-money, that i had forty pounds saved up for that purpose; but now this came like a revelation, and there was a delightful feeling of triumph in the idea that i might perhaps bring a thorough scoundrel to book. then all at once i began to think about hetty--pretty, gentle little hetty, who had been so kind to me when i was a miserable unhappy boy, and the hours when i saw her seemed like gleams of light, amongst so much darkness. what would hetty be like after all these years, i wondered; and then i began to blame myself for not asking mr rowle more about her, and at last, with the memory of the bright affectionate child filling my thoughts, i dropped off to sleep, to dream once more about mr blakeford, and that i was on the road, with him in full chase. it was quite a treat to get out of bed and away from the nightmare-like dreams of the past, and after a sharp walk and breakfast, i made my way round by mr jabez rowle's lodgings, to have a few words with mr peter, before going to lambeth. i found the old man alone, smoking a long pipe with his hat on, and his brother gone. his face lit up as he saw me, and after a little conversation about the past-- "when are you going back to rowford?" i said. "want to get rid of me?" he replied. "no, no, of course not." "don't know that i'm going back at all," he said. "jabez and i haven't seen much of each other lately. think i shall stay." "did--have--did you ever see much of miss blakeford?" i said, feeling conscious as i spoke that i was growing hot. "often," said the old man, looking at me intently. "she often asked about you." "about me?" i said. "yes: how you got on, and whether you were coming back." "what is she like now?" i said. "of course she is not a little girl now." "little girl? no: i should think not. grow'd into an angel, that's what she is." i could not ask any more, but promising to go in and see him in the evening, i hurried off to the works, thinking that i should very much like to see hetty blakeford again, and wondering whether she would see much change in me. in another hour rowford was forgotten, and i was deep in the preparations for hallett's machine, which was rapidly approaching completion; while a fortnight later i was dining with miss carr, and bearing her the news of the successful point to which hallett had climbed, making her flush with pleasure, as i told her that the machine was to be set up at mr ruddle's place of business, and be tried there. "send me word the day and hour of the trial, antony," she said, in a low voice. "will you come?" i said eagerly. "no, antony, no," she said softly. "i could not come, but i shall pray for a triumphant success." she spoke warmly, for she seemed off her guard, and then hurriedly changed the conversation. chapter fifty five. the day of triumph. the day of trial came at last; and after a sleepless night, i was trying to make a good breakfast before going down to mr ruddle's with the inventor. i believe i felt as nervous and excited as hallett himself; for mr ruddle had spoken to me the night before about some unpleasant suspicions that he had. "i don't like to accuse any body, grace," he said; "but i'm afraid a certain person who shall be nameless has been setting some of the ignorant, drunken loafers of the trade against the machine." that was all then, but it was enough to make me uneasy, though i did not believe in the possibility of any trade outrage in the middle of london. hallett looked very pale, but i never saw him seem more manly, thoughtful, and handsome, as he stood there in his mother's room, holding her hands. "i shall come back, dear," he said, kissing her tenderly, "telling you of my success. no, no, don't shake your head. good-bye, dear, wish me success. good-bye, linny, darling! ah! mr girtley, you here?" "to be sure," cried tom girtley; "i've come to wish you success. linny and i are going to throw old shoes after you. mind! a champagne supper if you succeed. tony and i will find the champagne. hallo! here's papa rowle." there was no mistaking that step, without the sound of the old man taking snuff, and he entered directly after; got up in grand style, and with a flower in his button-hole. he had a bunch of flowers, too, for mrs hallett, and a kiss for linny; and then, shaking hands all round, he began to rub his hands. "it's a winner, hallett--a winner!" he exclaimed. "come along, girtley, you'll make one. we want some big boys to cry `hooray!'" "i'll come, then," said tom merrily; and directly after we went off, trying to look delighted, but all feeling exceedingly nervous and strange. hallett and girtley went on in front, and mr jabez took my arm, holding me a little back. "i'm glad girtley's coming, grace," he said; "he's a big, strong fellow, and we may want him." "why?" i said excitedly. "i don't know for certain, my boy, but i'm afraid there's mischief brewing. i can't swear to it, but i believe that devil, john lister, has been stirring up the scoundreldom of the trade, with stuff about the machine taking the bread out of their mouths, and if the trial passes off without a hitch, i shall be surprised." "mr ruddle hinted something of the kind, last night," i said. "yes, but don't let hallett know, poor fellow! he's weak and ill enough already. he might break down. ruddle had men watching the place all last night, so as to guard against any malicious attempts." "but do you think they would dare to injure the machine?" i exclaimed. "fools will do anything if they are set to do it," said the old man, sententiously. "if lister is at the bottom of any such attempts he deserves to be shot," i cried indignantly. "and his carcase given to the crows," said the old man. "but i say, antony grace, my boy, is miss carr likely to come to see the trial?" "no," i replied; "she asked me to let her know the time, but she said she could not come." "humph! i should have liked her to see it," he said. "but come along; don't let's lag behind; and mind this, my ideas may only be suspicions, and worth nothing at all." there was a group or two of men hanging about the rival office, bearing lister's name, at the end of the street, as we went up to the great building, and as i passed the timekeeper's box i could not help thinking of the day when, a shivering, nervous boy, i had gone up only to meet with a rebuff; while now one of the first persons to come bustling up, looking very much older, but as pugnacious and important as ever, was mr grimstone, who was quite obsequious as he shook hands first with me, and then with hallett. "very, very proud, gentlemen," he exclaimed, "very proud indeed. great changes since you used to honour us with your assistance." "yes, mr grimstone," i said, laughing as i wondered how i could ever have trembled before him, "and time hasn't stood still." "no, indeed, but we wear well, mr jabez rowle and i, sir. ha-ha-ha! yes, old standards, sir, both of us, and we stand by the old establishment. we don't want to go away inventing great machines." "oh, grimstone! the men are still there with the machine?" said mr ruddle, coming up. "no, sir, not now. they went off when i came, but i've put the new watchman on." "confound it all, grimstone! you've never put a stranger there?" exclaimed mr ruddle furiously. "but i have, sir," said the overseer importantly. "here he is, sir. bramah lock," and he held out a bright new key. "oh, i see," said mr ruddle, laughing. "here's mr girtley, senior." the great engineer came up, nodded to his son and me, shook hands with hallett, and then we all went to the room where the machine had been set up, glistening, bright, and new, with the shaft and bands of the regular engine gear passing through above it. the first thing noticed was that the window was open; and annoyed that the mist of a damp morning should be admitted, i hurriedly closed it, thinking then no more of the matter. it wanted quite an hour to the time appointed, and the interval was employed in superintending the alteration of a few bolts and nuts, which mr girtley wanted tightened, and as i watched the great engineer, a man whose name was now an authority throughout europe, and who was constantly refusing contracts, pull off his coat, take a spanner, and help his men, i began to realise that it was his personal attention to small matters and his watchful supervision that had raised him to his present position. "nice hands!" he said, laughing, as he held them out all over blacklead and oil. "wise lad, you were, tom, to leave it, and take to your parchment and pounce." there was a covert sneer in his words, which tom seemed to take, for he said quickly: "perhaps, father, i may help you as much with my brain as i used to help you with my hands." "yes, yes, of course, my boy, and we must have lawyers. well, grace, how do you feel about it now?" "i think i'd ease that nut a little, sir," i said, pointing to one part of the machine. "why?" he said sharply. "i fancy that there will be so much stress upon that wheel that it will be better to give it as much freedom as we can, and, perhaps i am wrong, sir, but it strikes me--" i glanced at hallett, and felt the blood flush to my face, for i felt that what i was about to say must sound very cruel to him. "go on, antony," he said kindly; but i saw that he was very pale. "it strikes you?" said mr girtley. "that this is the weak part of the contrivance. here falls the stress; and, when it is running at full speed, i feel sure that the slight structure of this portion will tell against the machine doing good work, and it may result in its breaking down." "go on," said mr girtley bluntly; for i had stopped, feeling uncomfortable at the dead silence that had fallen upon the group. "it is not a question of efficiency," i said, "but one of detail, of substantiality and durability. at first sight it seems as if it would make the machine cumbersome, but i feel sure that if we made that shaft and its wheel four times the thickness--that is to say, excessively massive, we should get a firm, solid regularity in the working, a fourth of the vibration, and be able to dispense with this awkward fly-wheel. my dear hallett," i exclaimed hurriedly, as i saw how his pallor had increased, "pray forgive me. i was quite led away by my thoughts. these are but suggestions. i daresay i was wrong." "wrong!" exclaimed mr girtley, catching my hand in his, and giving it a grip that made me wince. "every word you have said, my boy, is worth gold. tom, i'd have given ten thousand pounds to have heard you speak like that." "but then, you see, i could not, father," said his son good-humouredly. "antony grace here is a born engineer, and you'll have to make him a partner one of these days." i hardly heard their words, for my anxiety about hallett. i seemed to have been trampling upon his hopes, and as if i had been wanting in forethought after having the superintendence of the manufacture for so long. "i ought to have suggested these alterations before," i faltered. "how could you?" said mr girtley gruffly. "you only saw the failing just now. i can see it, of course, when you point it out. we only climb by our falls, grace. locomotives were only got to their present perfection after no end of failures. well, mr hallett, what do you say?" "antony grace is quite right," he replied. "that is undoubtedly a failing spot, and where, if driven at high speed, the machine would break down. i have had no training as an engineer, and have had to work blindfold, and in the midst of difficulties." "mr hallett," said the great engineer, "i have had training as an engineer--a long and arduous training--and i tell you that if you had had twice as much experience as i, you would not have succeeded with your contrivance the very first time. i threw myself into this affair as soon as i saw it, for i felt that it was one of those machines that make their mark in history; and now that we are going to try it, even if it does not come up to our expectations, i say, don't be discouraged, for i tell you it must and will succeed. i'm not a proud man, as a rule, but i am proud of my reputation, and if money is wanted to bring your great invention to perfection, the cash shall be forthcoming, even if we have to borrow." "hear, hear!" cried mr jabez, and a slight flush appeared in hallett's pale face. "i'm very sorry i spoke, hallett," i whispered to him, as i took his hand. "what, for giving me such great help?" he said, smiling. "you foolish fellow, antony, i am not a spoilt child, that i cannot bear to listen to my mistakes." our conversation was broken off here; for just then a couple of gentlemen arrived, and these were followed by others, till the room was quite full. for invitations had been sent out to some of the principal printers and newspaper proprietors to come and see the testing of the new machine. hallett, as the patentee, had to throw off his reserve, and come, as it were, out of his shell to answer questions, and point out the various peculiarities and advantages of his machine, all of which i noticed were received with a good deal of reserve; and there was a shrug of the shoulders here, a raising of the eyebrows there, while one coarse-minded fellow said brutally: "plaything, gentlemen, plaything. such a machine cannot possibly answer. the whole principle is wrong, and it must break own." i was so annoyed at this bitter judgment, delivered by one who had not even a superficial knowledge of its properties, that i said quickly, and foolishly, i grant: "that is what brainless people said of the steam-engine." "o!" he said sharply, "is it, boy? well, you must know: you are so old and wise. well, come, gentlemen, i have no time to waste. when is your plaything to be set going, mr ruddle?" "now," said hallett quietly, as he silenced me with a look, just as, like the foolish enthusiastic boy i was, some hot passionate retort was about to escape my lips. mr girtley nodded, and he gave a glance round the machine. then he looked up at the shaft that was revolving above our heads, and took hold of the great leather band that was to connect it with our machine, and i noticed that everyone but hallett and myself drew back. i was so angry and excited that if i had known that the whole machine was about to fly to pieces, i don't think i should have stirred. then, biting my lips, as i heard a derisive laugh from the solon who had annoyed me, i saw mr girtley give the band that peculiar twitch born of long custom, when an undulation ran up the stout leather, it fitted itself, as it were, over both wheels; there was a rapid whirring noise, and the next instant the great heavy mass of machinery seemed as it were to breathe as it throbbed and panted, and its great cylinders revolved. there was the glistening of the polished iron and brass, the twinkling of the well-oiled portions, the huge roll of paper began to turn, and i saw its virgin whiteness stamped directly after with thousands of lines of language. my doubts of success died away, and a hearty cheer broke forth from the assembled party; and then, as i felt a fervent wish that miss carr had been present to see our triumph, there was a horrible grinding, sickening crash; broken wheels flew here and there; bar and crank were bent in horrible distortion; there was an instantaneous stoppage of everything but the great fly-wheel, which, as if in derision, went spinning on, and there lay poor hallett stunned and bleeding upon the floor. "foul play--foul play!" roared mr girtley, in a voice of thunder, in the midst of the ominous silence. "i was too late to stop the machine. some scoundrel had placed a great pin underneath, and i saw it fall. here, look! here!" he roared, as he stamped with rage; and he pointed to a round bent bar of iron, such as is used to screw down a paper press. "there it is. it was placed on that ledge, so that it might fall with the jar. mr ruddle, this is some of your men's work, and, blast them! they deserve to be hanged." chapter fifty six. john lister's triumph. as mr girtley roared those words a sudden thought flashed through my mind, and i ran to the window, threw it open, and, as i did so, there beneath me, reaching down to the low roof of a building below, was a ladder, showing plainly enough the road by which the enemy had crept in. from where i stood i looked out upon the backs of a score of buildings; printing-offices, warehouses, and the like, and at the window of one of these buildings i saw a couple of men, one of whom i felt certain was some one i had seen before, but where, i could not tell. i was back and beside poor hallett directly, giving both mr girtley and tom a look which sent them to the window, to see that there was no doubt how the misfortune had occurred; but i was too much taken up with hallett's condition to say more then. "is he much hurt?" cried first one and then another. "looks like a judgment on him," said the heavy, broad-faced man with whom i had had my short, verbal encounter. "why?" said tom girtley sharply. "inventing gimcrack things like that," said the fellow in a tone of contempt, "to try and take the bread out of honest men's mouths." "good heavens! man, leave the room!" cried mr girtley in a rage. "go and take off your clothes; they've been made by machinery! go and grub up roots with your dirty fingers! don't dig them with a spade--it's a machine! go and exist, and grovel like a toad or a slug, or any other noisome creature; you are not fit for the society of men!" the brute was about to reply, but there was such a shout of laughter at mr girtley's denunciation and its truthfulness, that he hurried out of the place, just as hallett sat up and stared round. "no," he said, "not much hurt; i'm better now. a piece of iron struck me on the head. it is a mere nothing. stunned me, i suppose." he rose as he spoke, and there was a silence no one cared to break, as he looked at the wreck of his machine. "another failure, mr rowle," he said sadly; and he took the old man's hand, as if he were the one who needed all the sympathy. "i am very, very sorry--for your sake. i cannot say more now." "one word, mr hallett," said the great engineer. "do you know that this is all through malice?" "malice? no." "some scoundrel has been here and thrust in this bar of iron. gentlemen," he said, looking round, "this is an unfortunate affair; but i speak to you as leading members of the printing business, and i tell you that mr hallett's invention here means success, and a revolution in the trade,--this is a case of wanton destruction, the act of some contemptible scoundrel. you have seen the ruin here of something built up by immense labour, but i pledge you my word--my reputation--that before six months are past another and a better machine shall be running before you--perfect." there was a faint cheer, and quite a little crowd gathered round the wreck while mr girtley turned to speak to hallett. "thank you," said the latter, smiling; "you will excuse me now; i feel rather faint and giddy, and i will get off home." "i'll go with you, hallett," i cried. "no, no: i shall be all right," he said, with a sad smile. "i'll take a cab at the corner on the strength of my success. come to me after you leave." "i would rather go with you," i said. "no, no, i want you to represent me here," he whispered. "stay, antony; it will seem less as if i deserted the ruin like a rat, and i am not man enough to command myself now." "but you are not fit to go alone," i said earnestly. "yes, i am," he replied; "the sick feeling has gone off. it was nothing to mind. i am not much hurt." i should have pressed him, but he was so much in earnest that i drew back, and after a formal leave-taking he left the room, and descended the stairs, while a burst of angry remarks followed his departure. "ruddle," said one grey-haired old gentleman, "i think, for your credit's sake, you ought to have in a detective to try and trace out the offender." "i mean to," said mr ruddle firmly, and he glanced at grimstone, who seemed to shrink away, and looked thin and old. "for my part," said another, "i believe fully in the invention and i congratulate the man of genius who--halloa! what's wrong?" a burst of yells and hooting arose from the street below, and with one consent we hurried to the windows, to see poor hallett standing at bay in a corner, hemmed in by about a hundred men and boys, evidently the off-scourings of the district, who, amidst a storm of cries of "who robbed the poor man of his bread?"--"who tries to stifle work?" and a babel of similar utterances, were pelting the poor fellow with filth, waste-paper full of printing-ink, mud, and indescribable refuse, evidently prepared for the occasion. heading the party, and the most demonstrative of all, was a fat ruffian, in inky apron and shirt-sleeves, whom i recognised as what should have been the manhood of my old enemy, jem smith, while in the same glance i saw, standing aloof upon a doorstep, a spectator of the degrading scene, no less a person than john lister, fashionably dressed, and in strange contrast to the pallid, mud-bespattered man who stood there panting and too weak to repel assault. what i have said here was seen in a moment, as i cried out, "tom girtley, quick!" rushed to the door, and down the stairs. it took me very little time to reach the street, but it was long enough to bring my blood to fever-heat, as, closely followed by tom, i rushed past john lister, and fought my way through the yelling mob of ruffianly men and boys. before i could reach hallett, though, i caught sight of a carriage farther up the street, and just then the noise and yelling ceased as if by magic, while my efforts to reach hallett's side became less arduous. i, too, stopped short as i reached the inner edge of the ring which surrounded my friend, for there, richly dressed, and in strange opposition to the scene, was miriam carr, her veil thrown back, her handsome face white, and her large eyes flashing as she threw herself before hallett. "cowards! wretches!" i heard her cry; and then, "oh, help i help!" for as, regardless of his state, she caught at hallett, he reeled and seemed about to fall! then i was at his side. "don't touch me!" he gasped, recovering himself and recoiling from the vision that seemed to have come between him and his persecutors. "miss carr, for heaven's sake!--away from here!" for answer she caught his hand in hers, and drew his befouled arm through her own. "come," she said, as her eyes flashed with anger; "lean on me. they will not dare to treat a woman ill." "antony," cried hallett hoarsely. "miss carr--take her away!" "lean on me," she cried proudly. "antony, beat a way for us through these curs." i took hallett's other arm, and as we stepped forward, jem smith uttered a loud "yah!" but it seemed as if it was broken before it left his lips, and he went staggering back from a tremendous blow right in the teeth, delivered by tom girtley. then there was an interlude, for some one else forced his way to the front. "miss carr! great heavens! what is all this?" he cried. "give me your hand. this is no place for you. what does this outrage mean? quick! let me help you. this is horrible." "stand back, sir!" "you are excited," he cried. "you don't know me. i see now; there is your carriage. stand away, you ruffians. how thankful i am that i was near! take this man away. is he drunk?" as he spoke, john lister, with a look of supreme disgust, pushed poor fainting hallett back, and tried to draw miss carr out of the crowd. "coward! villain! this is your work!" she cried in a low, strange voice; and as he tried to draw her away, she sharply thrust him from her. the crowd uttered a cry of excitement as they witnessed the act; and, stung almost to madness with rage and mortification, lister turned upon me. but i again found a good man at my back, for, boiling with rage, tom girtley struck at him fiercely and kept him off, while in the midst of the noise, pushing, and hustling of the crowd, a confusion that seemed to me now as unreal as some dream, we got hallett along towards the carriage, he, poor fellow, seeming ready to sink at every step, while the true-hearted woman at his side clung to him and passed one arm round him to help him. the coachman now saw that his mistress seemed to be in need of help, and he shortened the distance by forcing his horses onward through the gathering crowd. but the danger was past, for those who now thronged out from the buildings on either side were workpeople attracted by the noise, and they rapidly outnumbered john lister's gang of scoundrels, got together by his lieutenant, jem smith, for the mortification of the man he hated, while his triumph had been that the woman they loved had come to his rival's help, glorified him, as it were, by her presence, and rained down scorn and contempt upon his own wretched head. as i said before, it seems now like some terrible dream, in which i found myself in miss carr's carriage, with her sister looking ghastly with fear beside me, and hallett in the back seat, nearly unconscious, beside miss carr. "tell the coachman to stop at the nearest doctor's, antony," she said; and i lowered the glass and told tom girtley, who had mounted to the driver's side. "no, no," said hallett, faintly, for her words seemed to bring him to. "for pity's sake. to my own home. why have you done this?" she did not speak, but i saw her take his hand, and her eyes fix themselves, as it were, upon his, while a great sob laboured from her breast. "mr grace," faltered miss carr's sister, "this is very dreadful;" and i saw her frightened eyes wander from the mud-besmeared object opposite her to her sister's injured attire, and the sullied linings of the carriage. "antony," said miss carr then, "do what is for the best." for answer, i lowered the window again and uttered to tom girtley the one word, "home." fortunately, revitts was on night duty, and ready to come as the carriage stopped at the door, where we had to lift the poor fellow out, and carry him to his bed, perfectly insensible now from the effects of the blow. i was rather surprised to find the carriage gone when i descended, but my suspense was of short duration, for it soon came back with a neighbouring doctor, whom miss carr had fetched. mary was at hand to show him up, while i ran down to the carriage-door, where miss carr grasped my hand for a moment, her face now looking flushed and strange. "come to me to-night, antony," she said in a low voice--"come and tell me all." she sank back in the carriage then, as if to hide herself from view, while in obedience to her mute signal, i bade the coachman drive her and her sister home. chapter fifty seven. i find i have a temper. i went to miss carr's nearly every evening now, to report progress; for her instructions to me, after a consultation between mr jabez, mr ruddle, mr girtley, and myself, were that neither expense nor time was to be spared in perfecting the machine. we had gone carefully into the reasons for the breakdown, and were compelled reluctantly to own that sooner or later the mechanism would have failed; for besides the part i named, we found several weak points in the construction--faults that only a superhuman intelligence could have guarded against. the malignant act had only hastened the catastrophe. it was a cruel trick, and though we could not bring it home, we had not a doubt that the dastardly act was committed by jem smith, who was the instrument of john lister. a little examination showed how easily the back premises could be entered by anyone coming along behind from lister's, and there was some talk of prosecution, but hallett was ill, and it was abandoned. for the blow he had received from a piece of the machinery had produced serious injury to the head, and day after day i had very bad news to convey to miss carr. the poor fellow seemed to have broken down utterly, and kept his bed. he used to try to appear cheerful; but it was evident that he took the matter bitterly to heart, and at times gave up all hope of ever perfecting the machine. it was pitiful to see his remorseful looks when mr jabez came to see him of an evening; mr peter, who always accompanied his brother, stopping in my room to smoke a long pipe i kept on purpose for him, whether i was at home or no, and from time to time he had consultations with tom girtley, who kept putting off a communication that he said he had to make till he had his task done. i used to notice that he and mr peter had a great deal to say to each other, but i was too much taken up with my troubles about hallett and the machine to pay much heed; for sometimes the idea forced itself upon me that my poor friend would never live to realise his hopes. time glided on, and i used to sit with him in an evening, and tell him how we had progressed during the day; but it made no impression whatever; he used only to lie and dream, never referring once to miss carr's behaviour on that wretched day; in fact, i used to fancy sometimes that he was in such a state from his injury that he had not thoroughly realised what did occur. it was indeed a dreary time; for poor mrs hallett, when, led by a sense of duty, i used to go and sit with her, always had a reproachful look for me, and, no matter what i said, she always seemed to make the worst of matters. but for linny and tom girtley, the place would have been gloomy indeed, but the latter was always bright and cheerful, and linny entirely changed. there was no open love-making, but a quiet feeling of respect seemed to have sprung up between them, and i hardly knew what was going on, only when it was brought to my attention by mr jabez, or revitts, or mary. "i should have thought as you wouldn't have liked that there friend of yourn cutting you out in the way he do, ant'ny," said revitts, one day; "i don't want to make mischief, but this here is my--our--house," he added by way of correction, "and i don't think as a young man as is a friend of yourn ought to come down my stairs with his arm round a certain young lady's waist." "go along, do, with your stuff and nonsense, william," exclaimed mary sharply. "what do you know about such things?" "lots," said bill, grinning with delight, and then becoming preternaturally serious; "i felt it to be my dooty to tell ant'ny, and i have." "you don't know nothing about it," said mary, tittering; "he don't know what we know, do he, master antony?" "i don't know what you mean, mary," i replied. "oh do, of course not, master antony; but i shouldn't like a certain young lady down at rowford to hear you say so." "phew!" whistled revitts, and feeling very boyish and conscious, i made my retreat, for i was bound for westmouth street, and had stopped to have ten minutes' chat downstairs with my old friends on the way. i found miss carr looking very thin and anxious, and she listened eagerly to my account of howl was progressing at the works. "mr girtley tells me that you are doing wonders, antony," she said, in a curious, hesitating way, for we both seemed to be fencing, and as if we disliked to talk of the subject nearest to our hearts. she was the first to cast off the foolish reserve though, and to ask after hallett's health. "the doctors don't seem to help him a bit," i said sadly. "poor fellow! he thinks so much about the failure of his hopes, and it is heart-breaking to see him. he toiled for it so long. oh, miss carr, if i only knew for certain that it was john lister who caused the breakdown, i should almost feel as if i could kill him." "kill him with your contempt, antony," she said sternly; and then, as we went on talking about hallett's illness, she became very much agitated, and i saw that she was in tears, which she hastily repressed as her sister entered the room. the next evening when i went, i found her alone, for her sister had gone to stay a few days with some friends. my news was worse than ever, and there was no fencing the question that night, as she turned very pale when i gave my report. "but the invention, antony," she exclaimed excitedly; "tell me how it is going on." "we are working at it as fast as possible," i replied; "it takes a long time, but that is unavoidable." "if you love stephen hallett," she said suddenly, and she looked full in my face, "get his invention finished and perfect. let it succeed, and you will have done more for him than any doctor. work, antony, work. i ask you for--for--pray, pray strive on." "i will--i am striving," i said, "with all my might. it was a cruel blow for him though, just as success was in his grasp." "mr lister is here, ma'am," said the servant, entering the room. "i have forbidden mr lister my house," said miss carr sternly. "yes, ma'am, but he forced his way in, and--" before the man could finish his sentence, john lister was in the room, looking flushed and excited, and he almost thrust the servant out and closed the door. as he caught sight of me his face turned white with rage, but he controlled himself, and turned to where miss carr was standing, looking very beautiful in her anger. i had started up, and stepped between them, but she motioned me back to my seat, while he joined his hands in a piteous way, and said in a low voice: "i could not help it. i was obliged to come. pray, pray, miriam, hear me now." "mr lister!" she said, with a look of contempt that should have driven him away--"mr lister! and once more here?" "miriam," he exclaimed, "you drive me to distraction. do you think that such a love as mine is to be crushed?" "love!" she said, looking: at him contemptuously. "yes; love," he cried. "i'll prove to you my love by saying that now-- even now, knowing what i do, i will forgive the past, and will try to save you from disgrace." "mr lister, you force me to listen to you," she replied, "for i will not degrade you by ringing for the servants and having you removed. pray say what you mean. hush, antony, let him speak. perhaps after he has said all he wishes, he may leave me in peace." "leave you in peace--you will not degrade me!" he cried, stung to madness and despair by her looks and words. "look here, miriam carr, you compel me to speak as i do before this wretched boy." "hush, antony, be silent," she cried, as i started up, stung in my turn by his contemptuous tone. "yes: sit down, spaniel, lap-dog--miserable cur!" he cried; and i felt my teeth grit together with such a sensation of rage a as i had never known before. "and now, as for you--you blind, foolish woman," he continued, as i awakened to the fact that he had been drinking heavily, "since fair means will not succeed, foul means shall." "say what you wish to say, mr lister," she replied coldly, "for i warn you that this is the last time you shall speak to me. if you force yourself into my presence again, my servants shall hand you over to the police." "what!" he cried, with a forced laugh, "me?--hand me over to the police? you--you think i have been drinking, but you are wrong." no one had hinted at such a thing, but he felt it, and went on. "i came to tell you to-night, that i will ignore the past, that i will overlook your disgraceful intimacy with this low, contemptible compositor, the blackguardly friend of this boy--the man who has obtained a hold upon you, and who, with his companions, is draining your purse--i say i will overlook all this, and, ignoring the past, take you for my wife, if you will promise to give up this wretched crew." there was no answer, but i sat there feeling as if i must fling myself at him, young and slight as i was, in her defence, but she stood there like a statue, fixing him with her eyes, while he went on raving. his face was flushed, and there was a hot, fiery look in his eyes, while his lips were white and parched. "you shall not go on like this," he continued. "you are my betrothed wife, and i will not stand by and see your name dragged in the mire by these wretched adventurers. even now your name has become a by-word and a shame, the talk in every pot-house where low-class printers meet, and it is to save you from this that i would still take you to be my wife." still she did not speak, and a look from her restrained me, when i would have done something to protect her from his insults, every one of which seemed to sting me to the heart. "i know i am to blame," he said passionately, "for letting you take and warm that young viper into life; but i could not tell. it shall end, though, now. i have written to your brother-in-law, and he will help to drag you from amongst this swindling crew." "have you said all you wish to say, mr lister?" she replied coldly. "no," he cried, stung into a fresh burst by her words; "no, i have not. no, i tell you," he cried, taking a step forward, as if believing in his drunken fit that she was shrinking from him, and being conquered by his importunities; "no, i tell you--no: and i never shall give up till you consent to be my wife. do you take me for a drivelling boy, to be put off like this, miriam?" he cried, catching at her hand, but she drew it back. "do you wish to save your name from disgrace?" she did not answer, while he approached closer. "you don't speak," he said hoarsely. "do you know what they say about you and this fellow hallett?" still she made no reply. "they say," he hissed, and thrusting out his face, he whispered something to her, when, in an instant, i saw her countenance change, and her white hand struck him full across the lips. uttering an oath, he caught her tightly by the arms, but i could bear no more. with my whole strength called up i leaped at him, and seized him by the throat, believing in my power of turning him forcibly from the room. the events of the next few moments seem now as if seen through a mist, for in the brief struggle that ensued i was easily mastered by the powerful man whom i had engaged. i have some indistinct memory of our swaying here and there, and then of having a heavy fall. my next recollection is of feeling sick and drowsy, and seeing miss carr and one of the servants bending over me and bathing my face. for some few minutes i could not understand what it all meant but by degrees the feeling of sickness passed away, and i looked hastily round the room. miss carr, who was deadly pale, told the maid to fetch some brandy, and as soon as we were alone, she knelt by me, and held one of my hands to her lips. "are you much hurt, antony?" she said tenderly. "i did not send for the doctor. that wretched man has made sufficient scandal as it is." "hurt? no--not much," i said rather faintly. "where is he?" "gone," she said; and then she uttered a sigh of relief, as i sat up and placed one hand to my head, feeling confused, and as if i had gone back some years, and that this was not miss carr but mary, and that this was mr blakeford's again. the confusion soon passed off, though, and after i had drunk the spirit that was brought me, i felt less giddy and strange. miss carr sat watching me, looking very pale, but i could realise now that she was terribly agitated. before an hour had passed i felt ready to talk to her, and beg her to take some steps for her protection. "if i had only been a strong man," i exclaimed passionately. "oh, miss carr, pray, pray do something," i cried again; "this is horrible. i cannot bear to see you insulted by that wretch." "i have decided to do something, antony," she said in a low voice; and a faint colour came into her pale cheeks. "he will not be able to force his way to me again." "i don't know," i said. "he is a madman. i am sure he had been drinking to-night." "no one but a madman would have behaved as he did, antony," she said. "but be at rest about me. i have, after a bitter struggle with myself, decided what to do." "but you will not go away?" i said. she shook her head. "no; my path lies here," she said quietly. "antony, i want your help to-morrow." "yes: what shall i do?" i asked. "will you ask miss hallett to come here to me--will you bring her?" "bring linny hallett here?" i exclaimed in surprise. "yes: bring her here," she said softly; and there was a peculiar tone in her voice as she spoke. "and now about yourself. do you feel well enough to go home? shall one of the servants see you safely back?" "oh no," i said; "i am better now. i shall take a cab. but i do not feel comfortable to leave you alone." "you need not fear," she said quietly. "the house will be closed as soon as you leave. to-morrow i shall take steps for my protection." i left her soon after, thinking about her request, and as far as i could make out she intended to keep linny with her, feeling that lister would not dare to face her again, when the woman he had sought to injure had been made her companion. still i did not feel satisfied, and the only consoling thing was to be found in lister's own words, that he had sent for miss carr's relative; and, in the hope that he might soon arrive, i reached home and went up at once to see hallett, who looked very ill, but smiled sadly, as i sat down by his side. "better," he said; "i think i'm better, but i don't know, antony: sometimes i feel as if it would be happier if i could be altogether at rest." "oh, hallett!" i cried. "yes, you are right," he said. "what would become of them? i must get better, antony, better, but sometimes--sometimes--" "don't speak to him any more," whispered mary; "he is so weak that his poor head wanders." "but, mary, the doctor; does he say there is any danger?" "no, no, my dear. he is to sleep all he can. there, go down now. i'm going to sit up to-night." i went down, leaving mary to her weary vigil; for my head ached terribly, and i was very giddy. linny was in the sitting-room, and she uttered an exclamation. "why, how bad you look, antony!" she cried. "do i?" i said with a laugh; "i had a bit of a fall, and it has shaken me. but, linny dear, i have a message for you." "for me, antony?" she said, turning white. "yes; miss carr bade me ask you to come with me to her house to-morrow." "i go to her house!" faltered linny. "yes, dear, you will--will you not? i am sure it is important." "but i could not leave poor steve." "it need not take long," i said; "you will go and see what she wants?" linny looked at me in silence for a few moments, and there was something very dreamy in her face. "if you think it right that i should go, antony," she said at last, "i will. shall i speak to stephen first?" "no," i said. "hear first what she has to say." she promised, and i went down to my own room, glad to lay my aching head upon the pillow; where i soon fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming of my encounter with john lister, and feeling again the heavy blow as we fell, and my head struck the broad, flat fender with a sickening crash, that seemed to be repeated again and again. chapter fifty eight. this crisis. by my advice, then, linny said nothing to hallett about where she was going, and as i had stayed at home from the works on purpose, we started in pretty good time for westmouth street, my companion's flushed cheeks making her look extremely bright and pretty. she was terribly nervous though, and when we neared the door i feared that she would not muster up courage enough to enter. "i feel as if i dare not meet her, antony," she faltered. "what nonsense!" i said, smiling. "why, she is gentleness and tenderness itself. come, be a woman." "it is not that," she whispered. "there is so much more behind. take me back, antony. why does she want to see me?" "i don't know," i replied; "but you may be sure that it is for some good purpose." "do--do you think she will be angry with me--about--about, you know whom i mean? do you think it is to reproach me?" "i am sure it is not, linny. come, come, make an effort. i don't know, but i feel sure it is to try and help poor hallett." "do you think so?" she faltered, "or is this only to persuade me to go on? oh, antony, you cannot think how my heart beats with dread. i am afraid of this miss carr, and feel as if i ought to hate her." "come along, you foolish girl," i said; and, yielding to me, i led her up to the door, when we were admitted, and at once ushered into the drawing-room. i did not at first see miss carr, but the door had hardly closed before i heard the rustle of her dress, and the next moment linny was folded in her arms, and returning the embrace. i stood for a moment listening to linny's passionate sobs, and then stole softly away, going down into the dining-room to stand gazing out of the window, but seeing nothing of the passers-by, only in imagination the scene upstairs, and wondering why miss carr had sent for linny. i was kept in doubt for quite an hour, and then the servant came and asked me to step upstairs, where, to my surprise, i found miss carr dressed for going out. she held out her hand to me as i entered, and pressed mine. "don't speak to me, antony," she whispered, in a broken voice. "i am going home with linny hallett." "you--going home--with--" the rest died on my lips as i saw her draw down her veil to hide her convulsed face, and then, without a word, she rang the bell, the door was opened for us, and, feeling like one in a dream, i walked in silence by their side to the house in great ormond street, where, as i placed my latchkey in the door, it was snatched open, and mary, with her face red with weeping, stood there. "oh, miss linny! oh, master antony!" she sobbed, "i'm so glad you've come. the doctor sent me out of the room, and i've been waiting for you." "is my brother worse?" sobbed linny hysterically. "yes, yes, my dear, i'm--i'm afraid so;" and as she spoke, a hand clutched mine, and i heard miss carr moan: "god help me! am i too late?" linny was already half up the first flight, when miss carr whispered to me in agonised tones: "take me to him, antony, quick. this is no time for pride and shame." with my heart beating painfully, i led her upstairs, and, as we reached the first floor, we met the doctor coming down. i felt miss carr's hand pressing mine convulsively, and i spoke, my voice sounding hoarse and strange. "is he worse, doctor?" "i'm afraid he cannot last many hours longer," he said. "i have done all i can, but i have a patient a few streets off whom i must see, and i will return in a short time. he must not be left." "shall i go in and try to prepare him for your coming?" i whispered to miss carr, as we stood outside his door. "no, no!" she cried. "take me to him at once, or i cannot bear it. don't speak to me, antony. don't let anybody speak to me; but you must not leave me for a moment." linny was at the door, standing with the handle in her hand, but she drew back as we approached, and then ran sobbing into the next room, where mrs hallett was sitting helpless and alone. i obeyed miss carr, leading her quickly inside, and closing the door, where she stood for a moment with one hand pressing her breast; then she hastily tore off bonnet and veil, gazing at the pale face and great dreamy eyes fixed wistfully upon the window. the noise of our entry, slight as it was, seemed to rouse him, for he turned his gaze heavily from the light towards where we stood, and i saw that he held in his thin wasted hand a little grey kid glove, the glove we had found in epping forest that happy day when we met the sisters in our wait. but that was forgotten in the change i saw come over the poor fellow's face. it seemed to light up; the dull dreamy eyes dilated; a look of dread, of wonder, or joy seemed to come into them, and then he seemed to make an effort, and stared wildly round the room, but only to gaze at miss carr again as she stood with her hands half raised in a beseeching way, till, with a wild cry, his head seemed to fall back and he lay without motion. i heard steps outside, but i darted to the door, and stopped linny and mary from entering, hardly knowing what i did, as miss carr took a step or two forward, and threw herself upon her knees by the bed, dinging to his hands, placing one arm beneath the helpless head, and sobbing and moaning passionately. "i have killed him--i have killed him! and i came that he might live. stephen, my love, my hero, speak to me--speak to me! god of heaven, spare him to me, or let me die?" i was one moment about to summon help, the next prepared to defend the door against all comers, and again the next ready to stop my ears and flee from the room. but she had bidden me stay, and not leave her, and i felt it a painful duty to be her companion at such a time. so there i stayed, throwing myself in a chair by the door, my head bent down, seeming to see all, to identify every act, but with my face buried in my hands, though hearing every impassioned word. "no," i heard him say softly; "no: such words as those would have brought me from the grave. but why--why did you come?" "i could bear it no longer," she moaned. "i have fought against it till my life has been one long agony. i have felt that my place was here--at your side--that my words, my prayers would make you live; and yet i have stayed away, letting my pride--my fear of the world--dictate, when my heart told me that you loved me and were almost dying for my sake." "loved you!" he whispered faintly; "loved you--miriam, i dare not say how much!" his voice was the merest whisper, and in my dread i started up, and approached them, fearing the worst; but there was such a smile of peace and restfulness upon his lips as miss carr bent over him, that i dared not interrupt them, the feeling being upon me that if he was to die it would be better so. there was a long silence then, one which he broke at last. "why did you come?" he said. the words seemed to electrify her, and she raised her head to gaze on his face. "why did i come?" she whispered; "because they told me you were dying, and i could bear it no longer. i came to tell you of my love, of the love i have fought against so long, but only to make it grow. to tell you, my poor brave hero, that the world is nothing to us, and that we must be estranged no more. stephen, i love you with all my soul, and you must live--live to call me wife--live to protect me, for i want your help and your brave right hand to be my defence. this is unwomanly-- shameless, if you will--but do you think i have not known your love for me, and the true brave fight that you have made? has not my heart shared your every hope, and sorrowed with you when you have failed? and, poor weak fool that i have been, have i not stood aloof, saying that you should come to me, and yet worshipped you--reverenced you the more for your honour and your pride? but that is all past now. it is not too late. live for me, stephen, my own brave martyr, and let the past be one long sad dream: for i love you, i love you, god only knows how well!" she hid her burning, agitated face in his breast, and his two thin hands tremblingly and slowly rose to clasp her head; and there the white fingers lay motionless in the rich, dark hair. there was again a pause, which he was the first to break, and his voice was still but a whisper, as he muttered something that i did not hear, though i gathered it from her smothered reply. "oh, no, no: let there be an end to that!" she sobbed. "money? fortune? why should that keep us apart, when it might help you in your gallant fight? let me be your help and stay. stephen--stephen!" she wailed piteously, "have i not asked you--i, a woman--to make me your wife?" "yes," he said softly, and i heard him sigh; "but it cannot be--it cannot be." "what?" she cried passionately, as she half-started from him, but clung to him still; "now that i have conquered my wretched, miserable pride, will you raise up another barrier between us?" "oh, hush, hush!" he whispered; "you are opening to me the gates of a worldly heaven, but i dare not enter in." "then i have done nothing," she wailed, as she seemed to crouch there now in shame and confusion by his bed. "stephen, you humble me in the dust; my shameless declaration--my appeal--do i not ask you to take me-- pray you to make me your wife? oh, what am i saying?" she cried passionately; "it is too late--too late!" "no," he panted; and his words seemed to come each with a greater effort, "not--too late--your words--have--given--me life. miriam-- come--hold me in your arms, and i shall stay. a little while ago i felt that all was past, but now, strength seems to come--we must wait--i shall conquer yet--give me strength to fight--to strive--wait for me, darling--i'll win you yet, and--god of heaven! hear her prayer--and let me--ah--" "quick, miss carr, he has fainted," i whispered, as his head sank back. "let me give him this." his face was so ghastly that i thought he had passed away; but, without waiting to pour it out in a glass, i hastily trickled some of the strong stimulant medicine he was taking between his lips, and as miss carr, with agonised face, knelt beside him, holding his hand, there was a quiver in his eyelids, and a faint pressure of the hand that held his. the signs were slight, but they told us that he had but fainted, and when, at last, he re-opened his eyes, they rested upon miss carr with such a look of rest and joy, that it was impossible to extinguish the hope that he might yet recover. he was too weak to speak, for the interview had been so powerful a shock to his system, that it was quite possible for the change we saw in his face to be but the precursor of one greater, so that it was with a sense of relief that i heard the doctor's step once more upon the stairs, and mary's knock at the door. i offered miss carr my hand to take her into the next room, and as if waking out of a dream, she hastily rose and smoothed back her hair, but only to bend down over the sufferer, and whisper a few words, to which he replied with a yearning look that seemed to bring a sensation of choking to my throat. the doctor passed us on his way in, and i led miss carr into the front room, where linny was sobbing on the couch, and mrs hallett was sitting back, very white and thin, in her chair. as we entered linny started up, and in response to miss carr's extended hands, threw her arms round her neck, and kissed her passionately. "dear sister!" i heard miss carr murmur; and then she turned from linny, who left her and glanced at me. "mrs hallett," i said simply, "this is miss carr." i hardly knew what i said, for miriam was so changed. there was a look of tenderness in her eyes, and a sweet smile just dawning upon her lip as she advanced towards the invalid's chair, and bent down to kiss her; but with a passionate look of jealousy and dislike, hallett's mother shrank from her. "don't touch me!" she cried. "i knew that you were here, but i could not leave my chair to curse you. murderess, you have killed him! you are the woman who has blasted my poor boy's life!" a piteous look of horror came into miss carr's face, and she sank upon her knees by the great cushioned chair. "oh, no, no!" she said piteously. "do not accuse me. you do not--you cannot know." "know!" cried mrs hallett, whiter than ever with the feeling of dislike and passion that animated her; "do i not know how you have robbed me of my poor dying boy's love; how you have come between us, and filled his head with foolish notions to invent--to make money--for you?" "oh, mrs hallett, for shame!--for shame!" i exclaimed indignantly. "silence, boy!" she cried, looking at me vindictively. "do you think i do not know all because i sit helpless here? you, too, have helped to encourage him in his madness, when he might have been a professional man by now. i know all, little as you think it, even how you, and this woman, too, fought against me. that child might have been the wife of a good man now, only that he was this wretched creature's lover." "mother," cried linny passionately, "are you mad? how dare you say such things!" "that's well," she cried. "you turn against me now. my boy is dying: you have killed him amongst you, and the same grave will hold us both." "mrs hallett," said miss carr, in her low, sweet voice; and the flush of pride that had come for a few moments into her face faded out, leaving nothing but resignation there, as she crouched there upon her knees by the invalid's chair, "you do not know me, or you would not speak to me like this. don't turn from me," she said, taking one of the poor weak woman's trembling hands. "out of my sight, wretch!" she cried. "your handsome face fascinated him; your pride has killed him! and you have come to triumph in your work." "no, no, no," sobbed miss carr in a broken voice, "do not condemn me unheard; i have come to tell him how i love him. mother, dear mother," she cried, "be pitiful to me, and join your prayers to mine that he may live." poor weak suffering mrs hallett's face changed; her lips quivered, her menacing hands trembled, and with a low moaning wail she bent down, clasping miriam to her breast, sobbing aloud as she rocked herself to and fro, while miriam clung to her, caressing the thin worn face, and drawing herself closer and closer in a tight embrace. how long this lasted i cannot tell, but it was interrupted by the entrance of the doctor, who came in very softly. "he is in a very critical state," he said in answer to the inquiring eyes of all. "hush, my good woman, you must try and be firm," he said parenthetically to mary, who was trying hard to smother her sobs in her apron. "a nurse ought to have no feelings--i mean no sympathies. as i said," he continued, "our patient is in a very critical state, but he has now sunk into a very restful sleep. there is an access of strength in the pulse that, however, may only be due to excitement, but your visit, ma'am," he continued to miss carr, "seems to have wrought a change--mind," he added hastily, "i don't say for the better, but there is a decided change. i will come in again in a couple of hours or so; in the meantime, let some one sit by his bed ready to give him the stimulant the instant he wakes, but sleep may now mean life." the doctor went softly away, and as he closed the door, miss carr knelt down once more by mrs hallett's chair, holding up her face, and the poor invalid hung back for a moment, and then kissed her passionately. "god forgive me!" she wailed. "i did not indeed know you, but you have robbed me of my poor boy's love." "no, no," whispered miss carr softly. "no, no, dear mother, we will love you more and more." miriam carr's place was by the sick man's pillow all that afternoon and evening, and right through the weary night. i had been to westmouth street to say that she might not return, and at her wish had brought back from harley street one of the most eminent men in the profession, who held a consultation with hallett's doctor. the great man endorsed all that had been done, and sent joy into every breast as he said that the crisis was past, but that on no account was the patient to be roused. and all that night he slept, and on and on till about eight o'clock the next morning, miss carr never once leaving his side, or ceasing to watch with sleepless eyes for the slightest change. i had gone softly into the room the next morning, just as he uttered a low sigh and opened his eyes. "ah, antony," he said in a low whisper, "i have had such a happy, happy dream! i dreamed that--oh, god, i thank thee--it was true!" for just then there was a slight movement by his pillow, and the next moment his poor weary head was resting upon miriam's breast. chapter fifty nine. my inheritance. "oh, master antony, ain't she a' angel!" exclaimed mary. this was one day during stephen hallett's convalescence, for from the hour of miriam carr's visit, he had steadily begun to mend. he showed no disposition, however, to take advantage of his position, and i was not a spectator of his further interviews with miss carr. she looked brighter and happier than i had seen her look for a long time, and by degrees i learned that with his returning strength hallett had determined upon achieving success before he would ask her to be his wife. he asked her, so she told me, if he had not her to thank for the assistance he had received, and she had confessed to the little deception, begging him to let her help him in the future; but this he had refused. "no," he said; "let me be worthy of you, miriam. i shall be happier if i try," and she gave way, after exacting a promise from him that if he really needed her assistance he would speak. hallett seemed rapidly to regain his strength now, and appeared to be living a new life as he devoted himself heart and soul to the perfection of his invention. i believe that i honestly worked as hard, but, in spite of all our efforts, nine months passed away, and still the work was not complete. it was a pleasant time, though, and i could not help noticing the change that had come over miriam carr. her sister's husband had given up his appointment, and was now in town, residing with his young wife in westmouth street, where, about once a fortnight, there was a meeting, when hallett would take linny, and tom girtley, mr ruddle, and several of our friends would assemble. i look back upon it as a very happy time. the old sordid feeling of my wretched early life seemed to have dropped away, now that i was winning my way in the world; and hallett had told me that i was to share in his success, even as i had shared his labours. there was no love-making in the ordinary sense of the word, but when miriam carr and hallett met, there would be one long earnest look, a pressure of the hand; and then--they waited. it was his wish, and she reverenced his noble pride. one evening we were very few at westmouth street; only linny, tom girtley, mr jabez, hallett, and myself, when i found that there was a surprise for me. tea was over, and i was just about to propose some music, when tom girtley took a black bag from under one of the settees, and opening it, drew out a packet of papers. what was going to happen? i asked myself. was it a marriage settlement, or some deed of gift, or an arrangement by which hallett was to be forced to take what was needful to complete his work? neither. for at the first words uttered by tom girtley, i realised that it was something to do with the half-forgotten papers brought up by mr peter rowle. "miss carr wished me to enter into the business matters here, grace," he said; "and i should have talked to you more about it, only we thought it better to elucidate everything first, and to make perfectly sure." "but--" i began. "wait a moment," he said, in regular legal form. "this has been a very intricate affair, and i was obliged to tread very cautiously, so as not to alarm the enemy. before i had been at work a fortnight, i found that i needed the help of more experienced brains, so i consulted my principals." "and ran up a long bill?" i said, laughing. "yes, a very long one," he said, "which miss carr, your friend and patroness, has paid." "oh, miss carr!" i exclaimed. "listen, antony," she said, looking at me with a proud and loving look. "being sure, then, of our pay," said tom girtley, laughing, "we went to work with the greatest of zeal, making another long bill, and for result--after completely disentangling everything--after finding out, without his knowing it, that the enemy was well worth powder and shot-- in short, after making the ground perfectly safe under our feet, i have the pleasure of announcing to you, my dear fellow, that not only is there a sum of five hundred pounds a year belonging to you in your lawful right--" "five hundred!" i ejaculated. "but the same amount, with interest and compound interest, due to you for the past eight or nine years, and which that scoundrel blakeford will be obliged to refund." "oh!" i exclaimed, as i realised my position. "the rascal plundered your poor father of goodness knows how much, but of that we can get no trace. this five hundred pounds a-year, though, and the accumulation, is as certainly yours as if you had inherited it at once, and no judge in england can gainsay it. let me be the first to--" "no!" exclaimed miss carr, rising; "let me, antony, my dear boy, be the first to congratulate you, not so much because of the amount, as that it will give you a feeling of independence, and take away that sense of obligation to pay your father's debts." she took my hands in hers, and kissed me, and then, feeling giddy with surprise, i turned away for a moment, but only to falter out something in a disconnected way. "peter's delighted," cried mr jabez; and he took a tremendous pinch of snuff, "i shall be turning out somebody's long-lost child myself before long, only we are twins, and i shall have to share it." "i am very, very glad, antony," said hallett, shaking hands. "and now, if you like, grace," continued tom girtley, "we will set to work to-morrow to make that scoundrel blakeford disgorge; and before a fortnight is passed, if he doesn't mind, he will be cooling his heels in prison, for i have undeniable proofs of his illegal practices. at the very least he will be struck off the rolls. it is utter professional ruin." i did not speak, for the scene seemed to change to that wretched office once more, and i saw the black, forbidding, threatening face gazing down into mine. i heard the harsh, bitter voice reviling my poor dead father, and a shudder ran through me. the next moment, though, i was dwelling on the soft sweet face of hetty, and as i recalled the child's many gentle, loving acts, there was a strange choking sensation at my breast, and i walked into the little drawing-room to be alone. "antony, dear," said a soft, sweet voice, "you seem quite overcome." "i shall be better directly," i said. "but, dear miss carr, this must be stopped. you all meant so kindly by me, but if proceedings have begun they must not go on." "they have commenced, antony, by my wishes," she said in a low voice, as she took my hand. "antony, my dear boy, you have always seemed to me like a younger brother whom it was my duty to protect, and i have felt quite a bitter hatred against this man for the wrongs he did you." "not wrongs," i said. "it was through him i came to know you and hallett." "yes, but he has wronged you cruelly." "miss carr," i said--"let me call you sister." "always," she whispered, as she laid her hand upon my shoulder. "this would be ruin and disgrace to mr blakeford?" "which he richly deserves," she said warmly. "and it would be ruin and disgrace--" "yes," she said, for i had stopped--"ruin and disgrace--" "to his poor child?" "hetty?" "yes: to the tender-hearted little girl whose bright face is the only sunny spot in that time of sorrow. i don't know," i said passionately, "i may be wrong. i may see her now, and the fancy be driven away, but i feel as if i love little hetty blakeford with all my heart." there was silence in the little drawing-room, where all was in shadow, while in the larger well-lighted room the others talked in a low voice, and as i glanced there once, and saw linny hallett gazing up in tom girtley's face, i wondered whether hetty blakeford would ever look as tenderly in mine. it was a passing fancy, and i was brought back to the present by feeling miss carr's warm lips brush my cheek. "we will wait and see, antony," she said gravely. "miss blakeford's feelings must be spared." chapter sixty. at last. the work of two years was complete, and i stood by hallett as he watched the trial of the machine where it was set up at our great factory; and though we tried hard to find weak points, we were compelled to declare that it was as near perfection as human hands could make it. hallett was very pale and quiet; he displayed no excitement, no joy; and i felt rather disappointed at his apathy. "well," said mr jabez, aside to me, "if i didn't know that the poor fellow was ill, i should have said that he didn't care _that_! whether the thing succeeded or not." _that_! was the snap of the fingers which followed the taking of a pinch of snuff. but he was ill. poor fellow! he never seemed to have recovered from the shock his system had received during his late illness; and, though he had rallied and seemed strong and well, there had been times when he would turn ghastly white, and startle me by his looks. i mentioned it more than once to miss carr, who begged him to see a physician; but he said it was nothing, and with a smile he used to tell her that the perfection of the machine and a change would completely restore him to health. this we both believed;--and i can honestly say that i strove with all my might to inspire the workmen with the spirit in which i toiled. and now the new machine was finished. all that remained was to have it removed to mr ruddle's place for a public inspection of its merits. there had been something so depressing in the fate of the lost machine that i strenuously advised that the trial should be made where the present one now stood, but hallett was averse to it. "no, antony," he said quietly; "i am neither vindictive nor spiteful, and doubtless that man feels that he has good cause for hating me. men of his stamp always blame others for their own failings. i am, i say, neither vindictive nor spiteful, but, feeling as i do, that he was the cause of our last breakdown, i am determined that the scene of our last failure shall also be the scene of our triumph." this silenced opposition, and the workpeople were soon at work, taking down and re-setting up hallett's masterpiece at the old place. for my part, i was regularly worn out. i had worked very hard, and felt as if i was so deeply interested in the success that i must make it this time a foregone conclusion. hallett's health worried me a great, deal too, and in addition to this, i was in more trouble than i can very well express about my affair with mr blakeford. my objections to the proceedings had come too late. as tom girtley said, it was quite within our province to withdraw, and leave him in possession of his ill-gotten gains, but the attack upon his character as a solicitor was one which he was bound to disprove--in other words, he could not afford to let it drop. "and what is he doing?" i asked. "riding the high horse," said tom. "tony, my boy, i think you are wrong." "if linny's father were alive, and he had injured you, tom, would you seize the first opportunity to ruin him?" "am i to answer that question as solicitor to client, or between friends?" "as you like, only let's have the truth." tom girtley rubbed one of his ears, and a dry comical look came into his countenance. "well, tony, old fellow--" he began. "oh, come," i cried, "that form of address is not legal, so it is between friends." "just as you like," he said, laughing. "well, tony, old fellow, under the circumstances, i should put the screw on, especially if i knew him to be a scoundrel. first and foremost, i should have his consent to our marriage; secondly, i should inspect his money affairs, and if they were in a satisfactory state, i should make the sneak disgorge." "but you would not ruin him, and blast his character, for his child's sake?" "no, of course not." "then, suppose the young lady did not care for you?" "then i should fire at the old man hotter and stronger, so us to ease my wounded feelings." "no, you wouldn't, tom," i said; "so don't humbug." "you're a rum fellow, tony," he retorted, "and 'pon my word it's precious disappointing. here's old peter rowle been hoarding this up for his `dear boy,' as the smoky old cockolorum calls you, and old jabez in a high state of delight too. then miss carr has spent no end over it, and thought she had secured you your rights, and now you kick us all over." "i can't help it, tom," i said. "i feel as if i should be a brute if i went on." "i say, tony," he said, after a pause, "how long is it since you have seen the young lady?" "nine years." "what do you say to a run down to rowford?" "run down?" i said eagerly. "no, i could not. i am too busy over the preparations for the trial." "nonsense, man. you told me only yesterday that you had done all your part, and that you meant to take a rest. i should like a run in the country." "at miss carr's expense," i said spitefully, "and charge it in her bill of costs as out of pocket." "oh, that settles it," he cried, jumping up and stamping about the room, roaring with laughter. "you must go for a run. why, my dear boy, your liver's out of order, or you, antony grace, the amiable, would never have made a speech like that. look here, tony, you have overdone it, and nothing will do you good but a week's walking-tour." "nonsense! impossible!" i cried. "then you'll break down like the governor did once. ever since, he says that a man must oil his wheels and slacken his bands. now you've got to oil your wheels and slacken your bands for a week. when shall we start?" "i tell you it's impossible," i said testily. "i tell you that, so far from its being impossible, if you don't give in with a good grace--that isn't meant for a pun--i'll go and frighten miss carr, and see the governor, and tell him how bad you are." "rubbish, tom," i cried. "why, you couldn't go and leave linny hallett for a week," i added. "sneering, too," he said, with a mock assumption of concern. "my dear tony, this is getting serious. you are worse, far worse, than i thought for." "don't talk stuff," i cried petulantly. the result of it all was, that as he was pulling the string in the direction that pleased me, i began to yield, and a proposition he made carried the day. "look here, tony," he cried, as if in a fit of inspiration. "a walking-tour is the thing! you told me all about your tramp up when you ran away from blakeford's. let's go and tramp it all down again, over the very road." his words seemed to strike an electric chord, and i grasped eagerly at the plan. the result was, that after arranging with hallett to keep an eye on the preparations, and after winning from him a declaration that he would not think i was forsaking him at a critical time, and also after receiving endorsement and persuasion from miss carr, i found myself one bright summer morning at paddington, lightly equipped for the start, and together tom girtley and i strode along by the side of the dirty canal. how familiar it all seemed again, as we walked on! there was the public-house where i had obtained the pot of beer for jack's father, when i had to part, from them at the end of my journey up; and there, too, directly after, was just such a boy in charge of a couple of bony horses, one of which had a shallow tin bucket hanging from the collar-hames, as they tugged at a long rope which kept splashing the water, and drew on londonward one of the narrow red and yellow-painted canal-boats, covered in with just such a tarpaulin as that under which jack and i had slept. resting on the tiller was just such another heavy, red-faced, dreamy man, staring straight before him as he sucked at a short black pipe, while forming herself into a living kit-cat picture was the woman who appeared to be his wife, her lower portions being down the square hatch that led into the cabin where the fire burned, whose smoke escaped through a little funnel. i seemed to have dropped back into the boy again, and half wondered that i was not tired and footsore, and longing for a ride on one of the bony horses. and so it was all through our journey down. every lock seemed familiar, and at more than one lock-house there were the same green apples and cakes and glasses of sticky sweets, side by side with two or three string-tied bottles of ginger-beer. two or three times over i found myself getting low-spirited as i dwelt upon my journey up, and thought of what a poor, miserable little fellow i was; but tom was always in the highest of spirits, and they proved at last to be infectious. we had pretty well reached the spot at last where i had first struck the river, when we stopped to see a canal-boat pass through the lock, the one where i had stared with wonder to see the great boat sink down some eight or nine feet to a lower level. the boat, which was a very showily painted one, evidently quite new, was deeply laden, and in one place a part of a glistening black tarpaulin trailed in the water. as the boat's progress was checked, and the lock-keeper came out, the short, thick-set man who had been at the tiller shouted something, and a round-faced girl of about twenty, with a bright-coloured cotton handkerchief pinned over her shoulders, came up the hatch, and took the man's place, while he douched forward to alter the tarpaulin where it trailed. he was quite a young man, and i noticed that his hair was fair, short, and crisp about his full neck, as he bent down, pipe in mouth, while a something in the way in which he shouted to the boy in charge of the horses settled my doubts. "jack!" i shouted. he rose up very slowly, took the pipe out of his mouth, and spat in the water; then, gradually turning himself in my direction, he stared hard at me and said: "hello!" "don't you know me again, jack?" he stared hard at me for some moments, took his pipe out of his mouth again, spat once more in the water, said surlily, "no!" and bent down slowly to his work. "don't you remember my going up to london with you nine years ago this summer?" he assumed the perpendicular at once, stared, scowled, took his pipe out of his mouth with his left hand, and then, as a great smile gradually dawned all over his brown face, he gave one leg a smart slap with a great palm, and seemed to shake himself from his shoulders to his heels, which i found was his way of having a hearty laugh. "why, so it is!" he cried, in a sort of good-humoured growl. "missus, lash that there tiller and come ashore. here's that there young chap." to tom's great amusement, jack came ashore at the lock, and was followed by his round-faced partner, for whom he showed his affection by giving her a tremendous slap on the shoulder, to which she responded by driving her elbow into his side, and saying, "adone, jack. don't be a fool!" and ending by staring at us hard. "i didn't know yer agen," growled jack. "lor' ain't you growed!" "why, so have you, jack," i exclaimed, shaking hands with him; and then with the lady, for he joined our hands together, taking up hers and placing it in mine, as if he were performing a marriage ceremony. "well, i s'pose i have," he said in his slow, cumbersome way. "this here's my missus. we was only married larst week. this here's our boat. she was born aboard one on 'em." "i'm glad to see you again, jack," i said, as the recollection of our journey up recurred to me, strengthened by our meeting. "so am i," he growled. "lor'! i do wish my old man was here, too: he often talked about you." "about me, jack?" "ah! 'member that pot o' beer you stood for him when you was going away--uppards--you know?" "yes; i remember." "so do he. he says it was the sweetest drop he ever had in his life; and he never goes by that 'ere house without drinking your health." "jack often talks about you," said "my missus." "i should think i do!" growled jack. "i say, missus, what's in the pot?" "biled rabbit, inguns, and bit o' bacon," was the prompt reply. "stop an' have a bit o' dinner with us, then. i've got plenty o' beer." i was about to say no, as i glanced at tom; but his eyes were full of glee, and he kept nodding his head, so i said _yes_. the result was that the barge was taken through the lock, and half-a-mile lower down drawn close in beneath some shady trees, where we partook of jack's hospitality--his merry-hearted, girlish wife, when she was not staring at us, striving hard to make the dinner prepared for two enough for four. i dare say it was very plebeian taste, but tom and i declared honestly that we thoroughly enjoyed the dinner partaken of under the trees upon the grass; and i said i never knew how good dutch cheese and new crusty country loaf, washed down by beer from a stone bottle, were before. we parted soon after, jack and i exchanging rings; for when i gave him a plain gold gipsy ring for his handkerchief, he insisted upon my taking the home-made silver one he wore; while his wife was made happy with a gaily coloured silk handkerchief which i used to wear at night. the last i saw of them was jack standing up waving his red cap over his head, and "my missus" the gaily coloured handkerchief. after that they passed on down stream, and tom and i went our way. i could not have been a very good walker in my early days, for my companion and i soon got over the ground between the river and rowford, even though i stopped again and again--to show where i had had my fight; where i had hidden from blakeford when the pony-chaise went by; and, as if it had never been moved, there by the road was a heap of stones where i had slept and had my bundle stolen. it was one bright summer's evening that we entered rowford, which seemed to have shrunk and its houses to have grown dumpy since the days when i used to go out to post letters for mr blakeford. "there's his house, tom," i said; and i felt my pulses accelerate their beat, as i saw the gates, and the wall over which i had climbed, and found myself wondering whether the same dog was in there still. we were too tired with our long walk to take much notice, and made straight for the inn, where, after a hearty meal, we were glad to go early to bed. tom was sleeping soundly when i woke the next morning, and finding it was not yet seven, i dressed and went out for a walk, to have a good look round the old place, and truth to tell, to walk by mr blakeford's house, thinking i might perhaps see hetty. we had made no plans. i was to come down to rowford, and the next day but one i was due in london, for our walk had taken some time--though a few hours by rail would suffice to take us back. it was one of those delicious fresh mornings when, body and mind at rest, all nature seems beautiful, and one feels it a joy only to exist. i was going along the main street on the opposite side of the way, when i saw a tall slight figure in deep mourning come out of mr blakeford's gateway, and go on towards the end of the town. i followed with my heart beating strangely. i had not seen her face, but i seemed to feel that it was hetty, and following her slowly right out of the town, and along the main road for a time till she struck up a side lane, i kept on wondering what she would be like, and whether she would know me; and if she did--what then? perhaps after all it was not hetty. it might be some friend; and as i thought this, a strange pang of disappointment shot through me, and i seemed to have some faint dawning realisation of what stephen hallett's feelings must have been at many a bitter time. is this love? i asked myself as i walked on, drinking in the deliciously sweet morning scents, and listening to the songs of the birds and the hum of the insects in the bright june sunshine. i could not answer the question: all i knew was that i was in an agony to see that face, to be out of my state of misery and doubt; but though a dozen times over i was on the point of walking on fast and then turning back so as to meet her, i had not the courage. for quite half-an-hour this went on, she being about a hundred yards in advance. we were now in rather a secluded lane, and i was beginning to fear that she intended to cut across the fields, and return by the lower road, when, all at once, she faced round and began to retrace her steps. i saw her hesitate a moment as she became aware that she had been followed, but she came straight on, and as she drew near my doubts were set at rest. it was unmistakably hetty, but grown sweeter looking and more beautiful, and my heart began to throb wildly as the distance between us grew short. she did not know me--that was evident; and yet there was a look of doubt and hesitation in her face, while after a moment's wonder as to how i should address her, i saw her countenance change, and troubled no more about etiquette, but, carried away by my feelings, i exclaimed: "hetty! dear hetty!" and clasped her hands in mine. chapter sixty one. my meeting with my enemy. these things are a mystery. no doubt we two, parting as we did, boy and girl, ought to have met formally as strangers, perhaps have been re-introduced, and i ought to have made my approaches _en regle_, but all i knew then was that the bright, affectionate little girl who had been so kind to me had grown into a beautiful woman, whom i felt that i dearly loved; and as for hetty, as she looked up in my face in a quiet, trusting way, she calmly told me that she had always felt that i should come back some day, and that though she hardly recognised me at first, she was not a bit surprised. terribly prosaic and unromantic all this, no doubt; but all young people are not driven mad by persecution, and do not tie their affections up in knots and tangles which can never perhaps be untied. all i know is that i remember thinking that when adam awoke and found eve by his side in paradise, he could not have felt half so happy as i did then; and that, walking slowly back with hetty's little hand resting upon my arm, and held in its place by one twice as large, i thought paradise might have been a very pleasant kind of place, but that this present-day world would do for me. we said very little, much as we wanted to say, but walked on, treading as it were upon air, till, as if in a moment, we were back at the town, when she said with a quiver in her voice: "i must leave you now. papa will be waiting for me to pour out his coffee. he will not touch it unless i do." "you are in mourning for mrs blakeford," i said, and my eyes fell upon the little shabby silver brooch i had given her all those years ago. "yes, and papa has not been the same since she died. he has very bad health now, and is sadly changed. he is in some great trouble, too, but i don't know what." i did; and i walked on thoughtfully by her side till we reached the gate, where we stopped, and she laid her hand in mine. but the next moment my mind was made up, and, drawing her arm through mine, and trying with a look to infuse some of my assurance, i walked with her into the house, and into the apparently strangely dwarfed sitting-room. "who's that?" cried a peevish voice. "i want my coffee, hetty. it's very late. has the post come in? who's that, i say, who's that?" i stared in astonishment at the little withered yellow man with grizzly hair and sunken eyes, and asked myself--is this the mr blakeford who used to make me shudder and shrink with dread? i could not believe it, as i stood there five feet ten in my stockings, and broad-shouldered, while he, always below the middle height, had terribly shrunk away. "who is it, i say, hetty? who have you brought home?" he cried again in a querulous voice. "it is i, mr blakeford," i said--"antony grace; and i have come to see if we cannot make friends." he sank back in his chair, his jaw dropped, and his eyes dilated with dread; but as i approached with extended hand, he recovered somewhat, and held out his own as he struggled to his feet. "how--how do you do?" he faltered; "i've been ill--very ill. my wife died. hetty, my dear, quick, mr grace will have breakfast with us. no, no, don't ring; fetch a cup yourself, my dear--fetch it yourself." hetty looked at him wonderingly, but she obeyed; and as the door closed upon her, blakeford exclaimed, in quick trembling tones: "she doesn't know--she knows nothing. don't tell her. for god's sake don't tell her. don't say you have." "i have told her nothing, mr blakeford," i replied. "don't tell her, then. bless her, i could not bear for her to know. i won't fight, mr grace, i won't fight. i'm a broken man. i'll make restitution, i will indeed; but for god's sake don't tell my child." "then he is not all bad," i thought, "for he does love her, and would be ashamed if she knew that he had been such a consummate villain." and as i thought that, i recalled her brave defence of him years ago, and then wondered at the change as she entered the room. i breakfasted with them, the old man--for, though not old in years, he was as much broken as one long past seventy--watching me eagerly, his hands trembling each time terribly as he raised his cup, while hetty's every action, her tender solicitude for her father's wants, and the way in which she must have ignored every ill word that she had heard to his injury, filled me with delight. he must have read my every word and look, for i have no doubt i was transparent enough, and then he must have read those of hetty, simple, unconscious and sweet, for it did not seem to occur to her that any of the ordinary coquetries of the sex were needed; and at last, when i roused myself to the fact that tom girtley must be waiting breakfast, it was nearly eleven, and i rose to go. "you are not going, mr grace," said hetty's father anxiously. "don't go yet." "i must, sir," i said, "but i will soon be back." "soon be back?" he said nervously. "yes, sir. and that business of ours. that settlement." "yes, yes," he said, with lips quivering, "it shall all be done. but don't talk about it now, not before hetty here." "i think hetty, mr blakeford, will help the settlement most easily for us both, will you not, dear?" i said, and i drew her to my side. "there, mr blakeford," i said, holding out my hand once more, "are we to be good friends?" he tried to answer me, but no words came, and he sank back, quivering with nervous trepidation in his chair. he was better, though, in a few minutes, and when i left him he clung to my hand, his last words being: "i will make all right, i will give you no trouble now." tom girtley laughed at me when i rejoined him and told him where i had been. "this is a pretty way of doing business!" he exclaimed. "you play fast and loose with your solicitor, and end by coming down and compromising the case with the defendant. really, mr grace, this is most reprehensible, and i shall wash my hands of the whole affair." "glad of it," said i, laughing. "a solicitor should always have clean hands." we chatted on merrily as we walked, for we had started to go as far as my old home, where, as i pointed out to him the scene of many a happy hour, a feeling of sadness more painful than i had experienced for years seemed to oppress me, and it was not until i had once more left the old home far behind that i was able to shake it off. when we returned to the hotel it was to find mr blakeford waiting for us, and to the utter surprise of both, we were soon put in possession of all that was necessary to give me that which was my own by right, but which he saw plainly enough that his child would share. "i don't like to turn prophet, tony," said my companion, "but i should say that our friend blakeford is putting his affairs in order on account of a full belief that a summons is about to issue that he is soon to meet. well, i congratulate you," he said, "and i don't wonder now why it was that i did not find we were rivals." this was after we had spent one evening at blakeford's; and in the morning, after a tender leave-taking, we were on our way back to london. my presence was needed, for the test of the machine would take place next day, and i found hallett had been taken so ill that all prospect of his attending the public trial had been swept away. "it does not matter," he said to me quietly, when i was sitting with him, propped up in an easy-chair, beside mrs hallett. "it is better as it is, antony, my dear boy. i shall not be there for the miserable scamps to pelt when the poor old idol breaks down again." "breaks down!" i cried exultingly; "i was there last night till after twelve, and there will be no tampering this time, for a policeman is on the watch, and mr jabez and mr peter were going to take turn and turn in the room all night, the one with a box full of snuff, and the other with a couple of ounces of tobacco, and the longest clay pipe i could get." "`there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip,'" he said, looking at me with a piteous smile upon his wasted face. "antony, lad, inventors do not often reap much from the crops they sow, but there is the unselfish pleasure of helping others. if i do not prosper from my work others may. god bless you, lad! i believe i have a trusty friend in you, and one who will be true to my poor mother here and linny." "why, my dear hallett," i exclaimed, "what a doleful tone to take on this, the day of success. come, come, come, you want a dose of good news. i'm off now, and the fastest cab shall luring me back the moment the verdict is pronounced." "`there's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip,'" he said again softly; and there was a strange and meaning smile upon his face. "out upon you, raven!" i cried merrily. "in two hours i'll be here with such news as shall bring the colour back in those white cheeks; and to-morrow you shall come down into the country with me. i shall ask for another fortnight, and you shall wander with me in the green fields, and we'll idle and rest, for when the work is done there should surely be some play." he smiled and nodded. "yes," he said, "some rest." i hurried away at the last, leaving linny with him, and a more easy cheerful look upon his countenance, and soon after i was at mr ruddle's, to find all ready, our friends collected, and the invited people coming fast. "`_festina lente_' is a good motto, grace," said old mr girtley, taking me by the button. "a little more patience, and we should have had this right last time, though or course we could not guard against the accident. ah, tom," he continued, "how's parchment? i'd rather have seen you the schemer of this machine, my boy, than the winner of the most tangled legal case." "rather hard that, tony, when i have just won you five hundred a year and a wife, eh?" said tom, laughing; and then my attention was taken up in a dozen ways. there were the brothers rowle to talk to; mr grimstone to shake my hand; mr ruddle to chat with about the success of the machine, and about lister, concerning whom he made a significant motion, turning his hand into a drinking-vessel, and shaking his head. then there was a hitch. everything was declared in readiness, when it was found that the shaft that ran through the building was ceasing to revolve. it came like a black cloud over the proceedings, but it was only the stoker's neglect. half an hour after, the steam was well up once more, and, with the room crowded, mr girtley, just as on the last occasion, gave the long leathern band a twitch; shaft was connected with shaft; a touch from a long lever tightened the driving-wheel and its fellow portion; there was a whirring, clanking noise, the spinning of wheels, the revolving of cylinders; ink-rollers ran round; the great reel of paper began to give its fair surface to the kiss of the type; the speed was increased, faster--faster--faster, and those who had shrunk back at first, as if expecting an accident, grew excited and drew in, while the ponderous machine, working as easily as a watch, turned off perfected newspaper sheets at a rate that seemed astounding. there was no hesitation now; there were no doubting looks, but a hearty cheer arose, one that was taken up again on the staircase, and ran from room to room, till the girls, busy folding down below, joined their shrill voices merrily in the cry. "success, tony!" cried tom, catching my hand. "and hallett not here!" i cried. the next minute i seized one of the printed newspapers that came from the machine, doubled it hastily, and dashed downstairs. there was a hansom cab waiting, and as i gave my breathless order, "great ormond street," the horse started, and panting with excitement, i thought i had never gone so slowly before. "i shall be within three hours, though," i said to myself, as i glanced at my watch. "that want of steam spoiled me for keeping my word." "faster!" i shouted, as i thrust up the trap; "another half-crown if you are quick!" the horse sprang forward, and i carefully redoubled my precious paper, holding the apron of the cab-door open, my latchkey in my hand, and being ready to spring out as the vehicle stopped at the door--not quite though, for the doctor's brougham was in the way. no need for the latchkey, for the door was open, and, dashing along the hall, i sprang up the stairs, flight after flight, from landing to landing, and rushed breathlessly into the room, waving the paper over my head. "victory, victory!" i shouted. "hur--" the paper dropped from my hands, as my eyes lighted upon the group gathered round a mattress laid upon the floor, on which was stretched my poor friend, supported by miriam carr, upon whose arm his head was lying. doctor, linny, mary, revitts, all were there, watching him in silence, while the poor stricken mother was bending forward like some sculptured figure to represent despair. "hallett! stephen?" i cried, "my news." my words seemed to choke me as i fell upon my knees at his side; but i saw that he recognised me, and tried to raise his hand, which fell back upon the mattress. then, making a supreme effort, he slightly turned his head to gaze upon the face bending over him, till a pair of quivering lips were pressed upon his brow. there was a smile upon his countenance, and he spoke, but so low that the whisper did not reach our ears, and then the smile seemed to grow fixed and hard, and a silence that was awful in its intensity fell upon that group. i did not catch those words, but she told me afterwards what they were. "at last! now let me sleep." fallen when victory was won. chapter sixty two. miss carr has another offer. "antony," said miss carr to me one day, "you are very young yet to think of marriage." "but it is not to be yet for quite a year." "i am glad of it," she said, laying her hand on mine; and as i took it and held it, looking up with a feeling akin to awe in her dark, far-off-looking eyes, i could not help thinking how thin it was, and how different to the soft, white hand that used to take mine years ago. "we both think it will be wiser," i said, talking to her as if she were an elder sister, though of late there had grown up in me a feeling that she looked upon me as if i were her son. "marriage must be a happy state, antony, when both love, and have trust the one in the other." i looked at her, feeling in pain, for i dared not speak, knowing that she must be thinking of poor hallett; and as i looked i could not help noticing how the silver hairs were beginning to make their presence known, and how much she had changed. "you think it strange that i should talk like this, do you not?" i could not answer. "yes, i see you do," she said, smiling. "antony, i have had another offer of marriage." "_you_ have!" i exclaimed. "from whom? who has asked you?" i felt almost indignant at the idea; and my indignation became hot rage as she went on. "john lister has asked me again to be his wife." "the scoundrel! the villain!" i exclaimed. "hush, antony," she said quietly, as she laid her thin white fingers upon my lips. "he says that he has bitterly repented the past; that he is a changed man, and he begs me not to blight the whole of his life." "you? blight his life!" i exclaimed hotly. "he has blighted yours." she did not speak for a few moments, and then she startled me by her words. "he is coming here to-day to ask for my answer from my lips. he begged that i would not write, but that i would see him, and let him learn his fate from me." "but you surely will not see him?" i exclaimed. "i have told him that i will. he will be here, antony, almost directly." i was for the moment stunned, and could do nothing but gaze helplessly in miss carr's face, for the question kept asking itself, "will she accept him?" and it seemed to me like an insult to the dead. she returned my gaze with a quiet look, full of mournfulness, and as the minutes flew on, i felt a kind of irritation growing upon me, and that i should be bitterly hurt if she should be weak enough to accept john lister. "she will consider it a duty, perhaps," i thought; "and that she does it to save him, now that he has repented and become a better man." my ponderings were brought to an end by the servant bringing in a card, and i rose to go, but she laid her hand upon my arm. "going, antony?" she said. "yes," i replied angrily, and i pointed to the card. "sit down, antony," she said, smiling; "i wish you to be present." "no, no, i would rather not," i exclaimed. "i beg that you will stay, antony," she said, in a tone of appeal that i could not have disobeyed, and i petulantly threw myself back in a chair, as the door opened, and john lister was announced. he came forward eagerly, with extended hands, as miss carr rose, but changed colour and bowed stiffly as he saw me. recovering himself, however, he took miss carr's extended hand, raised it to his lips, and then drew back as if waiting for me to go. "i felt," he said, to put an end to our awkward silence, "that you would grant me this private interview, miriam." he emphasised the word "private," and i once more half rose, for my position was most painful, and the hot anger and indignation in my breast more than i could bear. "sit still, antony," said miss carr quietly; "mr lister has nothing to say to me that you do not already know." "but you will grant me a private interview, miriam," said lister appealingly. "mr lister," said miss carr, after pointing to a chair, which her visitor refused to take, remaining standing, as if resenting my presence, "you wrote and begged me to see you, to let you speak instead of writing. i have granted that which you wished." "yes," he said bitterly, "but i did not ask for an interview in presence of a third party, and that third person _mr_ antony grace." there was something so petty in his emphasis of the title of courtesy _mr_, that i once more rose. "miss carr," i said, "i am sure it will be more pleasant for all. let me beg of you to excuse me now," and as i spoke i moved towards the door. "i wish you to stay," she said quietly; and as i resumed my seat and angrily took up a book, "mr lister, antony grace is my very dear friend and adviser. will you kindly say what you wish in his presence?" "in his presence?" exclaimed lister, with the colour coming into his cheeks. "in his presence," replied miss carr. "am i to understand, miriam," he said imploringly, "that you intend to go by mr grace's advice?" "no, mr lister; i shall answer you from the promptings of my own heart." "then for heaven's sake, miriam," he cried passionately, "be reasonable with me. think of the years of torture, misery, probation, and atonement through which i have passed. come into the next room, i implore you, if mr grace has not the good feeling and gentlemanly tact to go." he began his speech well, but it seemed as if, for the life of him, he could not refrain from being petty, and he finished by being contemptible in his spite against one whom he evidently looked upon as being the cause of his disappointment. "i wish for antony grace to stay," said miss carr quietly; "mr lister, you have resumed your addresses to me, and have asked me by letter to forgive you, and let you plead your cause; and more, you tell me that you bitterly repent the past." "miriam," he cried, "why do you humiliate me before this man?" "john lister," she continued, "i am but repeating your words, and it is no humiliation for one who repents of the wrong and cruelty of his ways to make open confession, either by his own lips or by the lips of others. you do repent the ill you did to me, and to him who is--dead?" "oh yes, yes!" he cried passionately; "believe me, dear miriam, that i do. but i cannot plead my cause now before a third party." "the third _party_, as you term him, john lister, has been and is to me as a dear brother; but i grant that it would be cruel to expect you to speak as we are. i will, then, be your counsellor." "no," he exclaimed, holding out his hands imploringly, "you are my judge." "heaven is your judge," she said solemnly; and as she spoke i saw a change come over john lister's face. it was a mingling of awe, disappointment, and anger, for he read his sentence in her tones--"heaven is your judge," she repeated, "but i will not keep you in suspense." he joined his hands as he turned his back to me, but i could not help seeing his imploring act in the glass. "john lister, i have pleaded your cause ever since i received your first letter three months ago. you have asked my forgiveness for the past." "yes, yes," he whispered, gazing at her as if hanging on her lips for his life. "and i forgive you--sincerely forgive you--as i pray heaven to forgive the trespasses i have committed." "god bless you!" he whispered; "miriam, you are an angel of goodness." "you ask me now to resume our old relations; to receive you as of old-- in other words, john lister, to become your wife." "yes, yes," he whispered hoarsely, as he bent before her, and in his eagerness now, he seemed to forget my presence, for he bent down upon one knee and took and kissed the hem of her dress. "miriam, i have been a coward and a villain to you, but i repent--indeed i repent. for years i have been seeking to make atonement. have mercy on me and save me, for it is in your power to make me a better man." she stood there, gazing sadly down upon him; and if ever woman wore a saint-like expression on this earth, it was miriam carr as she stood before me then. she, too, seemed to ignore my presence, and her voice was very sweet and low as she replied: "take my forgiveness, john lister, and with it my prayers shall be joined to yours that yours may be a better and a happier life." "and you will grant my prayer, miriam? you will be my wife?" he whispered, as i sat back there with an intense feeling of misery, almost jealousy, coming over me. i felt a terrible sense of dread, too, for i could not believe in the sincerity of john lister's repentance, and in imagination i saw the woman whom i loved and reverenced torn down from the pedestal whereon she stood in my heart, to become ordinary, weak, and poor. "you ask me to forget the past and to be your wife, john lister," she said, and the tones of her sweet low voice thrilled me as she spoke, "i have heard you patiently, and i tell you now that had you been true to me, i would have been your patient, loving, faithful wife unto the end. i would have crushed down the strange yearnings that sought to grow within my heart, for i told myself that you loved me dearly, and that i would love you in return." "yes, yes," he whispered, cowering lower before her; "you were all that is good and true, and i was base; but, miriam, i have repented so bitterly of my sin." "when i found that you did not love me, john lister, but that it was only a passing fancy fed by the thought of my wealth--" "oh, no, no, no! i was not mercenary," he cried. "is your repentance no more sincere than that?" she said sadly; "i know but too well, john lister, that you loved my fortune better than you loved me." "oh, miriam!" he exclaimed appealingly. "hear my answer!" she said, speaking as if she had not caught his last words. "yes," he cried, striving to catch her hand, but without success. "it is life or death to me. i cannot live without your love." "john lister," she said, and every tone of her sweet pure voice seemed to ring through the stillness of that room as i realised more and more the treasure he had cast away. "you are a young man yet, and you may live to learn what the love of a woman really is. once given, it is beyond recall. the tender plant i would have given, you crushed beneath your heel. that love, as it sprang up again, i gave to stephen hallett, who holds it still." he started from her with a look of awe upon his face, as she crossed her hands upon her breast and stood looking upward: "for he is not dead, but sleeping; and i--i am waiting for the time when i may join him, where the weary are at rest." she ceased speaking, and john lister slowly rose from his knee, white with disappointment and rage, for he had anticipated an easy conquest. he looked at her, as she was standing with her eyes closed, and a rapt expression of patient sorrow upon her beautiful face. then, turning to me with a furiously vindictive look upon his face, he clenched his fists. "this is your doing," he hissed; "but my day will come, antony grace, and then we'll see." he rushed from the room, choking with impotent fury, and nearly running against hetty, who was coming in. i was frightened, for there was a strange look in miriam carr's face, and i caught her hands in mine. "send for help, hetty," i cried excitedly; "she is ill." "no, no," miss carr answered, unclosing her eyes; "i often feel like that. hetty, dear, help me to my room; i shall be better there." i hastened to hold the door open as miriam carr went towards it, leaning on hetty's arm, and as they reached me miss carr turned, placed her arms round my neck, and kissed me tenderly as a mother might her son. then, as i stood there gazing through a veil of tears at which i felt no shame, the words that i had heard her utter seemed to weigh me down with a burden of sorrow that seemed greater than i could bear. i felt as if a dark cloud was coming down upon my life, and that dark cloud came, for before a year had passed away, hetty and i--by her father's dying wish, young wife and young husband--stood together looking down upon the newly planted flowers close beside poor hallett's grave. it was soft and green, but the flowers and turf looked fresh, as the simple white cross looked new with its deeply cut letters, clear, but dim to our eyes as we read the two words-- "miriam carr." the end. none