dick o' the fens; a tale of the great eastern swamp, by george manville fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ a number of the actors in this tale speak in a broad lincolnshire fenland dialect, which may make it a little hard for some readers. some of the more unusual words are annotated in square brackets. the squire sees the gradually encroaching bog and marsh in his land, and realises that with drainage he could reclaim this as good farm land. on the other hand some of the locals would rather see the fen remain, along with their various occupations, and the wonderful and fragile wet-land natural history. when digging begins there are a number of nasty incidents--torching of houses, malicious woundings of horses and cows, gunshot wounds to humans, and even murders. a constable is called in, and takes a dislike to dick, the squire's son, and to his friend tom. he tries to pin the blame on them. at times even dick's father is inclined to think that way, too. but eventually the culprit is found. there are the tense moments typical of this author, and you will perhaps learn a lot about fenland natural history. a good read, and better still to listen to it. nh ________________________________________________________________________ dick o' the fens; a tale of the great eastern swamp, by george manville fenn. chapter one. in the fen. dick winthorpe--christened richard by order of his father at the hall-- sat on the top of the big post by the wheelwright's door. it was not a comfortable seat, and he could only keep his place by twisting his legs round and holding on; but as there was a spice of difficulty in the task, dick chose it, and sat there opposite tom tallington--christened thomas at the wish of his mother, farmer tallington's wife, of grimsey, the fen island under the old dyke. tom tallington was seated upon one side of a rough punt, turned up to keep the rain from filling it, and as he was not obliged to hold on with his legs he kept swinging them to and fro. it was not a pleasant place for either of the lads, for in front of them was a ring of fire where, upon the ground, burned and crackled and fumed a quantity of short wood, which was replenished from time to time by mark hickathrift, the wheelwright, and his lad jacob. at the first glance it seemed as if the wheelwright was amusing himself by making a round bonfire of scraps, whose blue reek rose in the country air, and was driven every now and then by the wind over the boys, who coughed and sneezed and grumbled, but did not attempt to move, for there was, to them, an interesting feat about to be performed by the wheelwright--to wit, the fitting of the red-hot roughly-made iron tire in the wood fire upon the still more roughly-made wheel, which had been fitted with a few new spokes and a fresh felloe, while farmer tallington's heavy tumbril-cart stood close by, like a cripple supported on a crutch, waiting for its iron-shod circular limb. "come, i say, mark, stick it on," cried dick winthorpe; "we want to go." "'tarn't hot enough, my lad," said the great burly wheelwright, rolling his shirt sleeves a little higher up his brown arms. "yes, it is," said tom tallington. "you can see it all red. why don't you put it on cold, instead of burning the wood?" "'cause he can't make one fit, and has to burn it on," said dick. the wheelwright chuckled and put on some more wood, which crackled and roared as the wind came with a rush off the great fen, making the scattered patches of dry reeds bend and whisper and rustle, and rise and fall, looking in the distance of the grey, black, solemn expanse like the waves of the sea on a breezy day. "oh! i say, isn't it choky!" cried tom. "thou shouldstna sit that side then," said the wheelwright. "hoy, dave!" shouted dick winthorpe. "hi, there: chip, chip, chip!" he cried, trying to pat his leg with one hand, the consequence being that he overbalanced himself and dropped off the post, but only to stay down and caress a little black-and-white dog, which trotted up wagging its stump of a tail, and then beginning to growl and snarl, twitching its ears, as another dog appeared on the scene--a long, lank, rough-haired, steely-grey fellow, with a pointed nose, which, with his lean flanks, gave him the aspect of an animal of a vain disposition, who had tried to look like a greyhound, and failed. this dog trotted out of the wheelwright's workshop, with his coat full of shavings and sawdust, and lay down a short distance from the fire, while the little black-and-white fellow rushed at him, leaped up, and laid hold of his ear. "ha, ha! look at old grip!" cried tom tallington, kicking his heels together as the big dog gave his ears a shake, and lay down with his head between his paws, blinking at the fire, while his little assailant uttered a snarl, which seemed to mean "oh you coward!" and trotted away to meet a tall rugged-looking man, who came slouching up, with long strides, his head bent, his shoulders up, a long heavy gun over his shoulder, and a bundle of wild-fowl in his left hand, the birds banging against his leather legging as he walked, and covering it with feathers. he was a curious, furtive-looking man, with quick, small eyes, a smooth brown face, and crisp, grizzly hair, surmounted by a roughly-made cap of fox-skin. he came straight up to the fire on the windy side, nodded and scowled at the wheelwright as the latter gave him a friendly smile, and then turned slowly to the two boys, when his visage relaxed a little, and there was the dawning of a smile for each. "what have you got, dave?" cried dick, laying hold of the bunch of birds, and turning them over, so as to examine their heads and feet; and, without waiting for an answer, he went on--"three curlews, two pie-wipes, and a--and a--i say, tom, what's this?" tom tallington looked eagerly at the straight-billed, long-legged, black-and-white bird, but shook his head, while chip, the dog, who had seated himself with his nose close to the bunch, uttered one short sharp bark. "i say, dave, what's this bird?" said dick. the man did not turn his head, but stood staring at the fire, and said, in a husky voice, what sounded like "scatcher!" "oh!" said dick; and there was a pause, during which the fire roared, and the smoke flew over the wheelwright's long, low house at the edge of the fen. "i say," cried dick, "you don't set oyster-catchers in the 'coy." "yow don't know what you're talking about," growled the man addressed. "why, of course he didn't," cried tom tallington, a stoutly-built lad of sixteen or seventeen, very much like his companion dick, only a little fairer and plumper in the face. "they ain't swimmers." "no, of course, not," said dick. "kill 'em all at one shot, dave?" the man made no answer, but his little dog uttered another short bark as if in assent. "wish i'd been there," said dick, and the dog barked once more, after which the new-comer seemed to go off like a piece of machinery, for he made a sound like the word "kitch," threw the bunch of birds to the wheelwright, who caught them, and dropped them in through the open window of the workshop on to his bench, while dave jerked his gun off his shoulder, and let the butt fall between his feet. just then the wheelwright roared out, with one hand to his cheek: "sair--_rah_! ale. here you, jake, go and fetch it." the short thickset lad of nineteen, who now came from behind the house with a fagot of wood, threw it down, and went in, to come back in a few moments with a large brown jug, at the top of which was some froth, which the wind blew off as the vessel was handed to the wheelwright. "she's about ready now," said the latter. "you may as well lend a hand, dave." as he spoke, he held out the jug to the donor of the birds, who only nodded, and said, as if he had gone off again, "drink;" and propping the gun up against the crippled cart, he took off his rough jacket and hung it over the muzzle. in kindly obedience to the uttered command, the big wheelwright raised the brown vessel, and took a long draught, while dave, after hanging up his jacket, stood and looked on, deeply interested apparently, watching the action of the drinker's throat as the ale went down. jacob, the wheelwright's 'prentice, looked at the ale-jug with one eye and went on placing a piece of wood here and another there to keep up the blaze, while dick went and leaned up against the cart by the gun. then the jug was passed, after a deep sigh, to dave, who also took a long draught, which made jacob sigh as he turned to go for some more wood, when he was checked by a hollow growl from dave, which came out of the pot. but jacob knew what it meant, and stopped, waiting patiently till dave took the brown jug from his lips, and passed it to the apprentice, letting off the words now: "finish it." jacob was a most obedient apprentice, so he proceeded to "finish it," while the wheelwright and dave went to the workshop, and as he was raising the vessel high tom tallington stooped, picked up a chip of wood from a heap, gave dick a sharp look, and pitched it with so good an aim that it hit the jug, and before the drinker could lower it, tom had hopped back against the cart, striking against the gun, and nearly knocking it down. "i see yow, masr' dick," said jacob, grinning; "but yow don't get none. ale arn't good for boys." "get out!" cried dick; "why, you're only a boy yourself. 'prentice, 'prentice!" "not good for boys," said jacob again as he finished the last drop perseveringly, so that there should be none left; and then went indoors with the jug. "dick--i say," whispered tom as, after slipping one band into the big open pocket of the hanging coat, he drew out a well scraped and polished cow-horn with a cork in the thin end. chip, the dog, who was watching, uttered a remonstrant bark, but the boys paid no heed, being too intent upon the plan that now occurred to one, and was flashed instantaneously to the other. "yes, do," whispered dick. "how much is there in it?" "don't know; can't see." "never mind, pitch it in and let's go, only don't run." "it would be too bad," said tom, laughing. "never mind--we'll buy him some more powder. in with it." "no," said tom, hesitating, though the trick was his suggestion. dick snatched the powder-horn from his companion, gave a hasty glance at the workshop, from which came the clink of pincers, and pitched the horn right into the middle of the blaze. chip gave a sharp bark, and dashed after it, but stopped short, growling as he felt the heat, and then went on barking furiously, while the two boys walked off toward the rough road as fast as they could, soon to be beyond the reach of the wheelwright's explosion of anger, for they regretted not being able to stop and see the blow-up. "what's your chip barking at?" said the wheelwright, as the two men walked out, armed with great iron pincers, the wheelwright holding a pair in each hand. "what is it, chip?" the dog kept on barking furiously, and making little charges at the fire. "there's summat there," said dave in a low harsh voice. "where's they boys?" "yonder they go," said the wheelwright. "then there's summat wrong," said dave, taking off his fox-skin cap and scratching his head. an idea occurred to him, and he ran to his coat. "hah!" he ejaculated in a voice that sounded like a saw cutting wood and coming upon a nail; "keep back, chip! here, chip, boy; chip! they've throwed in my powder-horn." "eh!" cried the wheelwright. pop! went the horn with a feeble report, consequent upon there being only about a couple of charges of powder left; but it was enough to scatter the embers in all directions, and for a few moments all stood staring at the smoking wood in the midst of which lay the great iron tire, rapidly turning black. dave was the first to recover himself. "come on," he shouted, and, pincers in hand, he seized the heated ring, the wheelwright followed suit, the apprentice joined, and lifting the glowing iron it was soon being hammered into its place round the smoking wheel, the soft metal bending and yielding, and burning its way till, amidst the blinding smoke, it was well home and cooling and shrinking, this part of the business being rapidly concluded by means of buckets of water brought by jacob, and passed along the edge of the wheel. "i say, tom, it wasn't half a bang," said dick as the two lads ran towards home with the wind whistling by their ears. "no," was the panted-out reply; "but i say, what will old dave say?" "i don't care what he says. i shall give him a shilling to buy some more powder, and he can soon make himself another horn." chapter two. the great fen drain. "yes, it's all right, master winthorpe," said farmer tallington; "but what will the folks say?" "say! what have they got to do with it?" cried squire winthorpe. "you boys don't make so much noise. i can't hear myself speak." "do you hear, tom, howd thy row, or i'll send thee home," said the farmer; "recollect where you be." "yes, father," said, the lad. "it wasn't tom; it was me," said dick quietly. "then hold your tongue, sir," cried the squire. "now look here, master tallington. if a big drain is cut right through the low fen, it will carry off all the water; and where now there's nothing but peat, we can get acres and acres of good dry land that will graze beasts or grow corn." "yes, that's fine enough, squire," said tom's father; "but what will the fen-men say?" "i don't care what they say," cried the squire hotly. "there are about fifty of us, and we're going to do it. will you join?" "hum!" said tom tallington's father, taking his long clay-pipe from his lips and scratching his head with the end. "what about the money?" "you'll have to be answerable for a hundred pounds, and it means your own farm worth twice as much, and perhaps a score of acres of good land for yourself." "but it can't be good land, squire. there be twenty foot right down o' black peat, and nowt under that but clay." "i tell you that when the water's out of it, james tallington, all that will be good valuable land. now, then, will you join the adventurers?" "look here, squire, we've known each other twenty year, and i ask thee as a man, will it be all right?" "and i tell you, man, that i'm putting all i've got into it. if it were not right, i wouldn't ask you to join." "nay, that you wouldn't, squire," said farmer tallington, taking a good draught from his ale. "i'm saaving a few pounds for that young dog, and i believe in you. i'll be two hundred, and that means--" "twice as much land," said the squire, holding out his hand. "spoken like a man, master tallington; and if the draining fails, which it can't do, i'll pay you two hundred myself." "nay, thou weant," said farmer tallington stoutly. "nay, squire, i'll tak' my risk of it, and if it turns out bad, tom will have to tak' his chance like his father before him. i had no two hundred or five hundred pounds to start me." "nor i," said the squire. "may we talk now, father?" said dick. "yes, if you like." "then," cried dick, "i wish you wouldn't do it. why, it'll spoil all the fishing and the 'coy, and we shall get no ice for our pattens, and there'll be no water for the punt, and no wild swans or geese or duck, and no peat to cut or reeds to slash. oh, i say, father, don't drain the fen." "why, you ignorant young cub," cried the squire, "do you suppose you are always to be running over the ice in pattens, and fishing and shooting?" "well, no, not always," said dick, "but--" "but--get out with your buts, sir. won't it be better to have solid land about us instead of marsh, and beef and mutton instead of birds, and wheat instead of fish?" "no, i don't think so, father." "well, then, sir, i do," said the squire. "i suppose you wouldn't like the ague driven away?" "i don't mind, father," said dick laughing. "i never get it." "no, but others do, and pains in their joints, and rheumatics. i say, tallington, when they get as old as we are, eh?" "yes, they'll find out the difference, squire; but do you know, that's how all the fen-men'll talk." "let 'em," said the squire; "we've got leave from the king's magistrates to do it; and as for the fen-men, because they want to live like frogs all their lives, is that any reason why honest men shouldn't live like honest men should. there, fill up your pipe again; and as for the fen-men, i'll talk to them." there was a bonny fire in the great open fireplace, for winter was fast coming on, and the wind that had been rushing across the fen-land and making the reeds rustle, now howled round the great ivy-clad chimney of the hall, and made the flame and smoke eddy in the wide opening, and threaten every now and then to rush out into the low-ceiled homely room, whose well-polished oak furniture reflected the light. the two lads sat listening to the talk of their elders, and after a time took up the work that had been lying beside them--to wit, some netting; but before dick had formed many meshes he stopped to replenish the fire, taking some awkward-looking pieces of split root which were as red as mahogany, and placing them upon the top, where they began to blaze with a brilliant light which told tales of how they were the roots of turpentine-filled pines, which had been growing in the ancient forest that existed before the fen; and then taking from a basket half a dozen dark thick squares of dried peat and placing them round the flaming embers to keep up the heat. "i say, tom," said dick in a low voice, "i don't think i should care to live here if the fen was drained." "no," replied tom in the same tone, "it would be a miserable place." "now, tom, lad, home!" said the farmer, getting up. "good-night, squire!" "nay, i won't say good-night yet," cried the squire. "hats and sticks, dick, and we'll walk part of the way home with them." as they left the glowing room with its cosy fire, and opened the hall door to gaze out upon the night, the wind swept over the house and plunged into the clump of pines, which nourished and waved upon the toft, as if it would root them up. the house was built upon a rounded knoll by the side of the embanked winding river, which ran sluggishly along the edge of the fen; and as the party looked out over the garden and across the fen upon that november night, they seemed to be ashore in the midst of a sea of desolation, which spread beneath the night sky away and away into the gloom. from the sea, four miles distant, came a low angry roar, which seemed to rouse the wind to shout and shriek back defiance, as it plunged into the pines again, and shook and worried them till it passed on with an angry hiss. "high-tide, and a big sea yonder," said the squire. "river must be full up. hope she won't come over and wash us away." "wesh me away, you mean," said farmer tallington. "you're all right up on the toft. 'member the big flood, squire?" "ay, fifteen years ago, tallington, when i came down to you in hickathrift's duck-punt, and we fetched you and tom's mother out of the top window." "ay, but it weer a bad time, and it's a good job we don't hev such floods o' watter now." "ay 'tis," said the squire. "my word, but the sea must bite to-night. dick here wanted to be a sailor. better be a farmer a night like this, eh, tallington?" "deal better at home," was the reply, as the door was closed behind them, shutting out the warmth and light; and the little party went down a path leading through the clump of firs which formed a landmark for miles in the great level fen, and then down the slope on the far side, and on to the rough road which ran past farmer tallington's little homestead. the two elder friends went on first, and the lads, who had been together at lincoln grammar-school, hung behind. to some people a walk of two miles through the fen in the stormy darkness of the wintry night would have seemed fraught with danger, the more so that it was along no high-road, but merely a rugged track made by the horses and tumbrils in use at the toft and at tallington's fen farm, grimsey, a track often quite impassable after heavy rains. there was neither hedge nor ditch to act as guide, no hard white or drab road; nothing but old usage and instinctive habit kept those who traversed the way from going off it to right or left into the oozy fen with its black soft peat, amber-coloured bog water, and patches of bog-moss, green in summer, creamy white and pink in winter; while here and there amongst the harder portions, where heath and broom and furze, whose roots were matted with green and grey coral moss, found congenial soil, were long holes full of deep clear water--some a few yards across, others long zigzag channels like water-filled cracks in the earth, and others forming lanes and ponds and lakes that were of sizes varying from a quarter of a mile to two or three in circumference. woe betide the stranger who attempted the journey in the dark, the track once missed there was death threatening him on every hand; while his cries for help would have been unheard as he struggled in the deep black mire, or swam for life in the clear water to find no hold at the side but the whispering reeds, from which, with splashings and whistling of wings, the wild-fowl would rise up, to speed quacking and shrieking away. but no thoughts of danger troubled the lads as they trudged on slowly and moodily, the deep murmur of their elders' voices being heard from the darkness far ahead. "wonder what old dave said about his powder-flask?" said tom, suddenly breaking the silence. "don't know and don't care," said dick gruffly. there was a pause. "i should like to have been there and heard old hicky," said tom, again breaking the silence. "yah! he'd only laugh," said dick. "he likes a bit of fun as well as we do." "i should have liked to see the fire fly about." "so should i, if he'd thought it was jacob, and given him what he calls a blob," said dick; "but it wasn't half a bang." "well, i wish now we hadn't done it," said tom. "why?" "because dave will be so savage. next time we go over to his place he'll send us back, and then there'll be no more fun at the duck 'coy, and no netting and shooting." "oh, i say, tom, what a fellow you are! now is dave gittan the man to look sour at anybody who takes him half a pound of powder? why, he'll smile till his mouth's open and his eyes shut, and take us anywhere." "well, half a pound of powder will make a difference," said tom thoughtfully. "i'll take him a pound," said dick magnificently. "how are you going to get it?" "how am i going to get it!" said dick. "why, let sam farles bring it from spalding; and i tell you what, i won't give him the pound. i'll give him half a pound, and you shall give him the other." "ah!" cried tom eagerly; "and i tell you what, dick--you know that old lead?" "what! that they dug up when they made the new cow-house?" "yes, give him a lump of that, and we'll help him melt it down some night, and cast bullets and slugs." "seems so nasty. father said it was part of an old lead coffin that one of the monks was buried in." "well, what does that matter? it was hundreds of years ago. dave wouldn't know." "and if he did he wouldn't mind," said dick. "all right! we'll take him the lead to-morrow." "but you haven't got the powder." "no, but hicky goes to ealand to-morrow, and he can take the money to the carrier, and we can tell dave we've sent for it, and he knows he can believe us, and that'll be all right." there was another pause, during which the wind shrieked, and far overhead there came a confused gabbling noise, accompanied by the whistling of wings, a strange eerie sound in the darkness that would have startled a stranger. but the boys only stood still and listened. "there they go, a regular flight!" said dick. "if dave hears them won't he wish he'd got plenty of powder and lead!" "think the old monks'll mind?" said tom. "what! that flock of wild-geese going over?" "no-o-o! our taking the lead." "oh! i say, tom, you are a chap," cried his companion. "i know you believe in ghosts." "no, i don't," said tom stoutly; "but i shouldn't like to live in your old place all the same." "what! because it's part of the old monastery?" "yes. the old fellows were all killed when the danes came up the river in their boats and burned the place." "well, father and i aren't danes, and we didn't kill them. what stuff!" "no, but it's not nice all the same to live in a place where lots of people were murdered." "tchah! who cares! i don't. it's a capital old place, and you never dig anywhere without finding something." "yes," said tom solemnly, "something that isn't always nice." "well, you do sometimes," said dick, "but not often. but i wouldn't leave the old place for thousands of pounds. why, where would you get another like it with its old walls, and vaults, and cellars, and thick walls, and the monks' fish-ponds, and all right up on a high toft with the river on one side, and the fen for miles on the other. look at the fish." "yes; it's all capital," said tom. "i like it ever so; but it is precious monky." "well, so are you! who cares about its being monky! the old monks were jolly old chaps, i know." "how do you know? sh! what's that?" "fox. listen." there was a rush, a splash, a loud cackling noise, and then silence save for the wind. "he's got him," cried tom. "i wish we had hicky's grip here; he'd make him scuffle and run." "think it was a fox?" said tom. "sure of it; and it was one of those old mallards he has got. come on. why shouldn't the fox have duck for supper as well as other people?" "ah, why not?" said tom. "but how do you know the monks were jolly old chaps?" "how do i know! why, weren't they fond of fishing, and didn't they make my ponds? i say, let's have a try for the big pike to-morrow. i saw him fly right out of the water day before yesterday, when it rained. oh, i say, it is a shame!" "what's a shame?" said tom. "why, to do all this draining. what's the good of it?" "to make dry fields." "but i don't want any more dry fields. here have i been thinking for years how nice it would be, when we'd done school to have all the run of the fen, and do what we liked, netting, and fishing and shooting, and helping dave at the 'coy, and john warren among the rabbits." "and getting a hare sometimes with hicky's grip," put in, tom. "yes; and now all the place is going to be spoiled. i say, are we going right home with you?" "i suppose so," said tom. "there's the light. old boggy'll hear us directly. i thought so. here he comes." there was a deep angry bark at a distance, and this sounded nearer, and was followed by the rustling of feet, ending in a joyous whining and panting as a great sheep-dog raced up to the boys, and began to leap and fawn upon them, but only to stop suddenly, stand sniffing the air in the direction of the old priory, and utter an uneasy whine. "hey, boy! what's the matter?" said tom. "he smells that fox," said dick triumphantly. "i say, i wish we'd had him with us. there! he's got wind of him. i wish it wasn't so dark, and we'd go back and have a run." "have a run! have a swim, you mean," said tom. "why, that was in one of the wettest places between here and your house. i say, how plainly you can hear the sea!" "of course you can, when the wind blows off it," said dick, as he listened for a moment to the dull low rushing sound. "your mother has put two candles in the window." "she always does when father's out. she's afraid he might get lost in the bog." "so did my mother once; but it made father cross, and he said, next time he went out she was to tie a bit of thread to his arm, and hold the end, and then he would be sure to get home all right. why, there's a jack-o'-lantern on the road." "that isn't a jacky-lantern," replied tom, looking steadfastly first at the two lights shining out in the distance, and then at a dim kind of star which seemed to be jerking up and down. "tell you it is," said dick shortly. "tell you it isn't," cried tom. "jacky-lanterns are never lame. they never hop up and down like that, but seem to glide here and there like a honey-bee. it's our joe come to meet us with the horn lantern. it's his game leg makes it go up and down." "dick!" came from ahead. "yes, father," shouted the lad; and they ran on to where the squire and farmer tallington were awaiting them. "we'll say `good-night' now," said the squire. "here, dick, farmer's joe is coming on with the lantern. shall we let him light us home?" "why, we should have to see him home afterwards, father," said dick merrily. "right, my lad! good-night, tallington! you are in for your two hundred, mind." "yes, and may it bring good luck to us!" said the fanner. "good-night to both of you!" "good-night!" dick supplemented his "good-night" with a pat on the head of the great sheep-dog, which stood staring along the track, and snuffing the wind; and then he and his father started homeward. "i shall come over directly after breakfast, dick," shouted tom. "all right!" replied dick as he looked back, to see that the lantern had now become stationary, and then it once more began to dance up and down, while the two lights shone out like tiny stars a few hundred yards away. "they've got the best of it, dick," said the squire. "why, we were nearly there. let's make haste or your mother will be uneasy. phew! the wind's getting high!" chapter three. a stormy night. it was a tremendous blast which came sweeping over the sea, and quite checked the progress of the travellers for the moment, but they pressed on, seeming to go right through the squall, and trudging along sturdily towards home. "i begin to wish someone had put a light in the window for us, dick," said the squire at the end of a few minutes' walking. "it's getting terribly dark." dick said, "yes," and thought of the thread, but he made no allusion to it, only laughed to himself and tramped on. "by the way, how uneasy that dog seemed!" said the squire as they trudged on with heads bent, for they were facing the blast now. "yes, father; we passed a fox." "passed a fox! why, you couldn't see a fox a dark night like this." "no, but i could smell him, father, and we heard him catch a duck." "ah! i see. and did the dog scent out the fox?" "yes, i think so, and that made him whine." "come along, my lad. let's get on as fast as we can. it's growing blacker, and i'm afraid we shall have some rain." no rain fell, but the sky was completely clouded over and the darkness seemed to grow more and more intense. the wind kept increasing in violence and then dying out, as if it came in huge waves which swept over them and had a great interval between, while as the rush and roar of the gusts passed there came the deep hoarse murmur of the distant sea. "dick," said the squire suddenly, "you are so young that you can hardly feel with me, but i want someone to talk to now, and i may as well tell you that i am going to risk a great deal of money over the draining of the fen." "are you, father?" "yes, my lad, and i have been feeling a natural shrinking from the risk. to-night sweeps all that away, for in spite of having lived here so many years as i have, i never before felt how needful it all was." "do you think so, father?" "indeed i do, my lad, for anything more risky than our walk to-night i hardly know. what's that?" the squire stopped short and grasped his son's arm, as, after a furious gust of wind, the distant murmur of the sea seemed to have been overborne by something different--a confused lapping, trickling, and rushing noise that seemed to come from all parts at once. "i don't know, father," said dick, who was slightly startled by his father's manner. "shall we go on?" "yes," said the squire hoarsely. "let's get home quick." they started on again, walking fast, but at the end of a minute dick uttered a cry. "we're off the road, father. water!" as he spoke he was ankle-deep, and in taking a step to catch his son's arm, squire winthorpe felt the water splash up around him. "can you see the lights at the priory, dick?" he said sharply. "no, father." "we can't be off the path," said the squire. "is it boggy and soft under you?" "no, father--hard; but i'm in the water." "it's hard here too," said the squire, trying the ground with his feet; "and yet we must be off the road. stand fast, my boy; don't move." "are you going away, father?" said dick. "no, only a few yards, boy. i want to see where we got off the track, whether it's to the right or left." "it's so dark," said dick, "i can hardly see my hand. mind how you go, father; there are some deep bog-holes about here." "then you stand fast, my boy." "hadn't you better stand fast too, father?" "and both perish in the wet and cold, my boy! no. i'll soon find the road. it must be close by." not a tree or post to guide him, nothing but the thick darkness on all sides, as squire winthorpe cautiously moved one foot before the other, keeping one upon solid ground while he searched about with the other, and as he moved _splash_--_splish_--_splash_, the water flew, striking cold to his legs, and sending a chill of dread to his very heart. "it's very strange," he cried; "but don't be frightened, dick. we shall be all right directly." "i'm not frightened, father," replied the boy. "i'm puzzled." "and so am i, my lad, for i did not know we could find such solid bottom off the road. ah!" "what's the matter, father?" "i told you not to move, sir," roared the squire, for he had heard a slight splash on his right. "i couldn't help it, father; my foot seemed to slip, and--why, here's the road!" "there?" cried the squire eagerly. "yes, father, and my foot's slipped down into a big rut." "are you sure, boy?" "sure! yes, father, it _is_ the road. i say, what does it mean?" the answer was a quick splashing sound, as squire winthorpe hurried to his son's side and gripped his arm, to stand there for a few moments listening and thinking as he realised the meaning of the strange rushing, plashing noise that came from all round. "i know," cried dick suddenly; "the sea-bank's broke, and we're going to have a flood." "yes," said the squire hoarsely; "the bank has gone, my boy." "hadn't we better push on, father, before it gets any deeper?" "stop a moment, dick," said the squire, "and let me try to think. home's safe, because the priory's on the toft; but there's tallington and his wife and boy. we must try and help them." "come on, then, father!" cried dick excitedly. "no, dick, that will not do; we shall only be shutting ourselves up too and frightening your mother to death. we must get home and then on to hickathrift's. he has a big punt there." "yes, father, but it hasn't been mended. i saw it this afternoon." "then he has wood, and we must make a raft. come on. here: your hand." for a few minutes there was nothing heard but the rushing of the wind and the _splash, splash_ of the water, as they pressed on, the squire cautiously trying to keep one foot by the rut which had guided his son, and, when it became intangible, seeking for some other means to keep them from straying from the submerged road in the darkness, and going off to right or left into the bog. it was a terrible walk, for they had a full mile to go; and to the squire's horror, he found that it was not only against the wind but also against the sharply running water, which was flowing in from the sea and growing deeper inch by inch. as if to comfort each other father and son kept on making cheery remarks apropos of their rough journey. now it was dick, who declared that the water felt warmer than the air; now it was the squire, who laughingly said that he should believe now in blind men being able to find their way by the touch. "for i'm feeling my way along here famously, dick." "yes, father, only it seems such a long way--ugh!" "what is it, boy?" "one foot went down deep. yes, i know where we are." "yes, close home, my boy," cried the squire. "no, no; half a mile away by the sharp turn, father; and i nearly went right down. we must keep more this way." the squire drew his breath hard, for he knew his son was right, as the road proved when they turned almost at right angles and plashed on through the water. half a mile farther to go and the current rushing on! it had been only over their ankles, now it was above their knees, and both knew that at this rate it would be waist-deep, if not deeper, before they could reach the high ground at home. "it is very horrible, dick, my lad," cried the squire at last as they kept on, with the water steadily and surely growing deeper. "oh, i don't mind, father! we shall get on so far before it's over our heads that we shall be able to swim the rest of the way. you can swim, father?" "i used to, my lad; perhaps i have not forgotten how. but i am thinking of the people about. i wonder whether hickathrift has found it out." "i dare say he's in bed, father," said dick. "that's what i fear, my boy; and then there's john warren." "he'll get up the sand-hills, father." "if he knows in time, my boy; but dave gittan has no place to flee to." "he has his little boat, father; and chip would warn him if he has gone to bed. i know what he'd do then." "what, my lad?" "pole himself along to john warren and fetch him off, and come on to the toft." "mind, take care, we're going wrong," cried the squire excitedly, as he slipped and went in right up to his waist, but dick clung to his hand, threw himself back, and with a heavy splash the squire managed to regain the hard road off whose edge he had slipped. "we must go slower, father," said dick coolly. "you pull me back if i go wrong this way and i'll pull you. i say, isn't it getting dark!" the squire made no answer, but feeling that their case was growing desperate, and if they did not progress more rapidly they would be in such deep water before they could reach the priory that it would be impossible to keep the track, and they would be swept away, he pushed on, with the result that in a few minutes dick had a narrow escape, slipping right in and coming up panting, to be dragged back, and stand still quite confused by his total immersion. "we must get on, dick, my boy," said his father; "the water's growing terribly deep, and it presses against us like a torrent. forward!" they recommenced their journey, wading on slowly over what seemed to be an interminable distance; but no sign of the dark village or of the island-farm in the fen appeared, and at last the water deepened so that a chilly feeling of despair began slowly to unnerve the squire and set him thinking that theirs was a hopeless case. "be ready, dick," he whispered, as, after a tremendous puff of wind which stopped them for the moment, he once more pressed on. "ready, father?" panted dick. "what for?" "we may have to swim directly. if it gets much deeper we cannot force our way." "oh, we shall do it!" cried the boy; "we must be close there now." "i fear not," said the squire to himself. "hold on, boy!" he cried aloud. "what is it?" "water's--up to my--chest," panted dick; "and it comes so fast here-- it's--it's too strong for me." "dick!" cried the squire in agony. "i must swim, father," cried dick. "and be swept away!" cried the squire hoarsely. "heaven help me! what shall i do?" he had gripped his son tightly in his agony, and they stood together for a few moments, nearly swept off their feet by the swirling current, when a bright idea flashed across the squire's mind. "quick, dick! don't speak. climb on my back." "but, father--" "do as i bid you," roared the squire, stooping a little, and bending down he made of one hand a stirrup for his son's foot, who, the next moment, was well up on his back. "that's better, boy," panted the squire. "you are safe, and your weight steadies me. i can get on now; it can't be far." as he spoke a light suddenly flashed up a couple of hundred yards ahead, and gleamed strangely over the water like a blood-red stain. then it died out, but flashed up again and increased till there was a ruddy path of light before them, and behind the glow stood up the trees, the long, low priory and the out-buildings, while figures could be seen moving here and there. "i know," cried dick. "i see, father. they've lit a bonfire to show us which way to go. ahoy!" "ahoy!" came back in a stentorian shout, and something was thrown upon the fire which dulled it for the moment, but only for it to flash up in a tremendous blaze, with the sparks and flames of fire rushing towards them. "ahoy!" came the shout again. "ahoy!" answered dick. "that will do, my boy," panted the squire. "the water's getting horribly deep, but i can manage now, for i can tell which way to go." "little more to the left, father," cried dick. "right, boy!" "no, no, father," shrieked dick; "left!" "i meant you are right, my lad," said the squire, moving on, with the water growing deeper still, while the stentorian voice kept uttering cheering shouts to them, which they answered till they were only about fifty yards away, when it became plain that someone was coming to meet them, splash, splash, through the water, with a pole in his hand. the figure, though only head and half his body were visible above the plashing water, looked large, and for a few moments in his confusion dick was puzzled; but he realised who it was at last, and cried: "why, it's old hicky!" he was right; and just in the veriest time of need the great blacksmith reached the fainting squire, and grasping his arm breasted the water with him; and in another minute they were ascending the slope, with the water shallowing, till they reached a blazing fire, where mrs winthorpe clasped husband and son to her breast! "all right, wife!" cried the squire. "glad you are here, hickathrift! all your people too?" "yes, squire, all safe here; but we're uneasy like about dave o' the 'coy and john warren." "but they've got the boat," cried dick. "yes; i hope they're safe," said the squire. "hickathrift, my lad, that was a brave thought of yours to light that fire. it saved our lives." "nay, squire," said the big fellow; "it was no thowt o' mine--it was thy missus put it into my yead." the squire gave his wife a look as she stood there in the midst of a group of shivering farm-servants, and then turned to the wheelwright. "the boat," he said--"did you come in the boat?" "ay, squire. she leaks a deal, but i thrust an owd pillow in the hole. but i nigh upon lost her. my grip woke me howling, for we were abed. i jumped out and ran down, thinking it was the foxes after the chickens, and walked right into the water. i knowed what it meant, and got over to the saw-pit, and just caught hold of the boat in the dark as it was floating away. then i got my leaping-pole and run her under the window, and made my missus give me a pillow to stop the leak 'fore i could bale her out. then jacob come, and we got the missus down and poled her along here, but was nearly swept by." "you're a good fellow, hickathrift," cried the squire. "wife, get out some hollands; we're perished. have a glass, my man; and then we must go in the punt to grimsey and get the tallingtons out. we're all right here, but grimsey farm will soon be flooded to the bed-room windows. light a lanthorn, some one, and put in a spare candle. you'll go with me, hickathrift?" "ay, squire, to the end of the world, if thou bids me; but i tell ye--" he stopped short. "well, what, man? here, drink!" "efter yow, squire," said the big fellow sturdily. "i tell ye that no mortal man, nor no two men, couldn't take that punt across to grimsey in the dark to-night. we should be swept no one knows wheer, and do no good to them as wants the help." "but we can't leave them to drown, man!" cried the squire. "no; we can't do that, and we wean't," cried hickathrift. "they'll get right on the roof if the bed-rooms gets full; and while we're waiting for day we'll have the punt hauled up. jacob'll howd the light, and i'll see if i can't mend the hole. you've got a hammer and some nails in the big barn?" "yes," said the squire; "yes, you are right, my man--you are right. come, dick: dry clothes." there was nothing else to be done; and as the bonfire was kept blazing the punt was hauled up, and in the midst of the howling wind and the rush of the water dick stood looking on, his heart full as he thought of tom tallington asking his help away there in the darkness; while tap, tap, tap went the wheelwright's hammer, after his saw had rasped off a thin piece of board. "that'll do it," he cried at last; and the punt was placed ready for launching when the day showed. meanwhile the squire gave orders for the fire to be kept well alight; and fagots of wood and straw trusses were piled on, with the odds and ends of broken farming implements and worn-out wooden shedding that had been the accumulation of years. the result was that the flames rose high over the wild weird scene, gilding the wind-tossed pines and staining the flood for far, while there was so much excitement in thus sitting up and keeping the fire blazing that it would have been real enjoyment to dick had he not been in a constant state of fret and anxiety about his friends. for, living as he did in that island of good elevated land in the great wild fen where inhabitants were scarce, everybody was looked upon as an intimate friend, and half the lad's time was spent at the bottom of the slope beyond the ruinous walls of the old priory, watching the water to see how much higher it had risen, and to gaze out afar and watch for the coming of boat or punt. in truth, though, there was only one vessel likely to come, and that was the flat-bottomed punt belonging to dave, who worked the duck-decoy far out in the fen. the people on the sea-bank had a boat; but they were five miles away at least, and would not venture on such a night. "what should i do?" thought dick as he walked down to the edge of the water again and again. "if tom is drowned, and dave, and john warren, they may drain the fen as soon as they like, for the place will not be the same." the night wore on; and mrs winthorpe made the people in turn partake of a meal, half supper, half breakfast, and, beyond obeying his father's orders regarding dry clothes, dick could go no further. he revolted against food, and, feeling heartsick and enraged against the wheelwright for eating a tremendous meal, he once more ran down to the water's edge, to find his father watching a stick or two he had thrust in. "tide has turned, dick," he said quietly; "the water will not rise any higher." "and will it all run off now, father?" the squire shook his head. "some will," he replied; "but the fen will be a regular lake till the sea-bank has been mended. it must have been rough and the tide very high to beat that down." "will it come in again, then?" asked dick. "perhaps: perhaps not. it's a lucky thing that i had no stock down at the corner field by the fish-stews. if they had not been up here in the home close, every head must have been drowned." "do you think the fish-ponds are covered, father?" "five or six feet deep, my boy." "then the fish will get out." "very likely dick; but we've something more important to think about than fish. hark! what's that?" and he listened. "ahoy!" roared hickathrift from just behind them. "hear that, squire?" "yes, my lad, i heard a cry from off the water." just then came another faint hail from a distance. "that's dave," said hickathrift, smiling all over his broad face; "any one could tell his hail: it's something between a wild-goose cry and the squeak of a cart-wheel that wants some grease." the hailing brought out everybody from the house, mrs winthorpe's first inquiry being whether it was the tallingtons. "pitch on a bit more straw, dick," cried the squire; and the lad seized a fork and tossed a quantity on the fire, while the wheelwright stirred up the embers with a pole, the result being that the flames roared up tremendously, sending out a golden shower of sparks which were swept away before the wind, fortunately in the opposite direction to the house, towards which the squire darted one uneasy glance. "ahoy!" shouted the wheelwright, and there was a fresh response which sounded weird and strange, coming as it did from out of the black wall of darkness seen beyond the ring of ruddy light which gleamed upon the water. "they'll get here easily now," said the squire from the very edge of the flood, as he tossed out a piece of wood, and saw that it was floated steadily away. "the current is slack." he could not avoid shuddering as he thought of the way in which it had pressed upon him as he waded toward the island with dick upon his back; but the memory passed away directly as a fresh hail came from off the water; and as the group looked out anxiously and listened for the splash of the pole, they at last saw the fire-light shining upon a figure which gradually came gliding out of the darkness. at first it seemed strange, and almost ghastly; but in a few more moments those who watched could see that it was dave o' the 'coy in his fox-skin cap standing up in his little white punt and thrusting it along by means of a long pole, while a man sat in the stern. "yon's john warren along wi' him," cried hickathrift. "i thowt they'd be all right. come on, lads, clost in here," he shouted; and without making any reply, the strange-looking man in the bows of the boat pulled her along till the prow struck upon the flooded grass, and he threw a rope to the wheelwright. "got your gun, dave?" cried dick eagerly. the man turned his head slowly to the speaker, laid the pole across the boat, which was aground a dozen feet from the dry land, stooped, picked up his long gun, and uttered a harsh-- "kitch!" as he spoke he threw the gun to the wheelwright, who caught it and passed it to dick, while the second man handed dave another gun, which was sent ashore in the same way. then, taking up the pole, dave placed it a little way before him, and leaped ashore as actively as a boy, while the second man now advanced to the front, caught the pole as it was thrown back, and in turn cleared the water and landed upon the dry ground. "glad to see you safe, dave," said the squire, holding out his hand. "glad to see you, too, john warren. you are heartily welcome." the two men took the squire's hand in a limp, shrinking manner; and instead of giving it a hearty grip, lifted it up once, looking at it all the time as if it were something curious, and then let it fall, and shuffled aside, giving a furtive kind of nod to every one in turn who offered a congratulation. they were the actions of men who led a solitary life among the birds and four-footed animals of the great wild fen, and to be made the heroes of an escape seemed to be irksome. just then there was a diversion which took off people's attention, and seemed to place them more at ease. a sharp quick yelp came from the boat, followed by a bark, and, plainly seen in the fire-light, a couple of dogs placed their paws on the edge of the little vessel, raised their heads to the full stretch of their necks, and with cocked-up ears seemed to ask, "what's to be done with us?" "hi! chip, chip! snig, snig! come, boys," shouted dick, patting his leg; and the dogs barked loudly, but did not stir. "come on, you cowards!" cried dick. "you won't get any wetter than i did." "here!" said dave; and chip leaped over and swam ashore, gave himself a shake, and then performed a joy dance about dick's legs. this time there was a dismal howl from the punt, where the second dog was waiting for permission to land. "come on!" said the second man, a frowning, thoughtful-looking fellow of about fifty, the lower part of whose face was hidden by a thick beard--a great rarity a hundred years ago--and the other dog leaped into the water with a tremendous splash, swam ashore, rushed at chip, and there was a general worry, half angry, half playful, for a few moments before the pair settled down close to the fire, as if enjoying its warmth. "this is a terrible misfortune, dave," said the squire. "ay; the water's out, mester," said the man in a low husky way. "how did you escape?" "escape?" said dave, taking off his fox-skin cap and rubbing his head. "seed the watter coming, and poonted ower to the warren," said the second man, thrusting something in his mouth which he took out of a brass box, and then handing the latter to dave, who helped himself to a piece of dark-brown clayey-looking stuff which seemed like a thick paste made of brown flour and treacle. "i wish you men would break yourselves of this habit," said the squire. "you'll be worse for it some day." "keeps out the cold and ager, mester," said the second man, thrusting the box back in his pocket. "then you've been waiting at the warren?" "ay, mester. me an' him waited till we see the fire, and thowt the house hed kitched, and then we come." "it was very good of you, my lads," said the squire warmly. "there, get in, and the mistress will give you some bread and cheese and ale." "arn't hungry," growled the second man. "can'st ta yeat, dave, man?" "ah!" growled dave, and he slouched round, looking at the ground, and turned to go. "gimme mai goon," he added. "the guns are all right, dave," cried dick. "i've got 'em. i say, john warren, will the rabbits be all drowned?" "drowned, young mester! nay, not they. plenty o' room for em up in the runs where the watter won't come." "but the foxes, and hares, and things?" cried dick. "them as has got wings is flied awayer," growled the second man; "them as has got paddles is swimmed; and them as can't find the dry patches is gone down." after this oracular utterance john o' the warren, who took his popular name from the rabbit homes, to the exclusion of his proper surname of searby, tramped heavily after his companion to the priory kitchen, where they both worried a certain amount of bread and cheese, and muttered to one another over some ale, save when dick spoke to them and told them of his anxieties, when each man gave him a cheery smile. "don't yow fret, lad," said dave. "bahds is all reight. they wean't hoort. wait till watter goos down a bit and you an' me'll have rare sport." "ay, and rabbuds is all reight too, young mester," added john warren. "they knows the gainest way to get up stairs. they're all happed up warm in their roons, ready to come out as soon as the watter goos down." "but how did it happen?" "happen, lad!" said the two men in a breath. "yes; what caused the flood?" "oh, i d'n'know," growled dave slowly. "happen sea-bank broke to show folk as fen warn't niver meant to be drained, eh, john warren?" "ay, that's it, lad. folk talks o' draaning fen, and such blather. can't be done." "i say, john, i don't want the fen drained," whispered dick. "good lad!" growled john warren; and then dave shook his head at the ale-mug, sighed, and drank. "but don't let father hear what you say, because he won't like it." "nay, i sha'n't say nowt," said dave. "nay, nor me neither, only natur's natur, and floods is floods," added john warren; and he too shook his head at the ale-mug, and drank. "now, then," cried the squire, coming quickly to the door, "hickathrift and i are going in the big punt to see if we can help the tallingtons; the stream isn't so strong now. are you men going to try to help us?" "get farmer tallington out?" said dave. "ay, we are coming." "let me come too, father," cried dick. "no, my lad, i'm afraid i--" "don't say that, father; let me go." "no no, dick," cried mrs winthorpe, entering the kitchen, for she had been upon the alert. "you have run risks enough to-night." "yes; stay and take care of the women, dick," said his father. dick gave an angry stamp on the floor. "mother wants me to grow up a coward," he cried. "oh, mother, it's too bad!" "but, dick, my boy," faltered the poor woman. "let the boy come, wife," said the squire quietly; "i'll take care of him." "yes, and i'll take care of father," cried dick, rushing at his mother to give her a sounding kiss, and with a sigh she gave way, and followed the party down to the water's edge. chapter four. a journey by punt. there was still a furious current running on the far side of the toft, as, well provided with lanterns, the two punts pushed off. on the side where the two last comers landed it had seemed sluggish, for an eddy had helped them in; but as soon as they were all well out beyond the pines the stream caught them, the wind helped it, and their task was not to get towards grimsey, but to retard their vessels, and mind that they were not capsized by running upon a pollard willow, whose thin bare boughs rose up out of the water now and then, like the horrent hair of some marine monster which had come in with the flood from the sea. "we've done wrong, hickathrift," said the squire after they had been borne along by the current for some distance; "and i don't understand all this. i thought that when the tide had turned, the water would have flowed back again through the gap it must have broken, instead of still sweeping on." "ay," said the great wheelwright, who was standing in the bows with his long leaping-pole in his hand; "i do puzzle, squire. i've been looking out for a light to show where grimsey lies, for here, in the dark, it's watter, watter, watter, and i can't see the big poplar by tallington's. hi! dave, where's grimsey, thinks ta?" he shouted. "nay, i don't know." "can you make it out, john warren?" "nay, lad, i'm 'bout bet." "then, squire, if they can't say, i can't. what shall we do?" "we must wait for daylight," said the squire, after peering into the darkness ahead for some time. "we shall be swept far past it if we go on. can you hold the punt with your pole?" "nay, no more'n you could a bull with a bit o' tar band, mester. we mun keep a sharp look-out for the next tree, and lay hold of the branches and stop there. d'ye hear, lads?" "aye, what is it?" came from the other boat. "look out for the next tree, and hing on till daylight." dave uttered a grunt, and they floated on and on for nearly a quarter of an hour before dick uttered a loud "look out!" "i see her, my lad," cried hickathrift; and he tried to give the boat a good thrust by means of his pole; but though he touched bottom it was soft peat, and his pole went down, and the next moment they were crashing through the top of a willow, with the boat tilting up on one side and threatening to fill; but just as the water began to pour in, there was a whishing and crackling noise as it passed over the obstacle and swung clear, with hickathrift holding on to a branch with all his might. "look out! can you tek howd, lad?" came from the other boat, which came gliding out of the darkness, just clear of the tree. as it came on, dick caught the pole dave held out to him and checked the progress of the little punt; but he had miscalculated his strength as opposed to the force of the current, and after a jerk, which seemed to be tearing his arms out of their sockets, he was being dragged out of the boat, and half over, when his father seized him round the hips. "can you hold on, dick?" cried the squire. "a--a little while," panted the lad. "get howd o' the pole, mester," shouted warren from the other boat. "i can't, man, without loosing the boy. we shall have to let you go." "let go, then," growled dave; "we can find our way somehow." "nay," shouted hickathrift. "howd hard a minute till i've made fast here. i'm coming." as he spoke he was busy holding on to the elastic willow branch with one hand, while with the other he drew the rope out of the boat's head, and, with a good deal of labour, managed to pass it round the bough and make it fast. "there, she's all right," he cried, stepping aft carefully, the boat swaying beneath his huge weight. "now, squire, i mun lean ower thee to get howd o' the pole. eh! but it's a long way to reach, and--" "mind, man, mind!" cried the squire, "or we shall fill with water; we're within an inch now." "nay, we sha'n't go down," cried hickathrift, straining right over the squire and dick, and sinking the stern of the boat so far that his face kept touching the water, and he had to wrench his head round to speak. "there, i've got howd o' the pole, and one leg hooked under the thwart. let go, mester dick; and you haul him aboard, squire, and get to the other end." it needed cautious movement, for the boat was now so low that the water rushed over; but by exerting his strength the squire dragged dick away, and together they relieved the stern of the pressure and crept forward. "now dave, lad, haul alongside, and make your rope fast to the ring-bolt," cried hickathrift; and this was done, the punt swung behind, and the great saxon-like fellow sat up laughing. "is it all safe?" cried the squire. "ay, mester, so long as that bough don't part; but i've got my owd ear full o' watter, and it's a-roonning down my neck. but say, mester, it's a rum un." "what is, my lad?" "why, it wur ony yesday i wur saying to my jacob as we'd get the poont mended, and come out here with the handbills and brattle [lop] all the willows anywhere nigh, so as to hev a lot to throost down about our plaace to grow. now, if we'd done that there'd ha' been no branch to lay hold on here, and we might ha' gone on to spalding afore we'd stopped. eh, but howding on theer made me keb." [keb: pant for breath.] "are you hurt, dick?" said the squire. "n-no, i don't think i'm hurt, father," replied dick, hesitatingly; "only i feel--" "well, speak, my lad; don't keep anything back." "oh, no, i won't keep anything back, father!" said dick, laughing; "but i felt as if i'd been one of those poor fellows in the tower that they used to put on the rack--all stretchy like." "mak' you grow, mester dick," said hickathrift, "mak' you grow into a great long chap like me--six foot four." "i hope not," said the squire, laughing. "draw the line this side of the six feet, dick. there: the stiffness will soon pass off." they sat talking for a time, but words soon grew few and far between. the two fen-men swinging in their boat behind had recourse to the brass box again, each partaking of a rolled-up quid of opium, and afterwards crouched there in a half drowsy state, careless of their peril, while the squire and his companions passed their time listening to the rush of the water and the creaking of the willow bough as it rubbed against the side of the boat, and wondered, as from time to time the wheelwright examined the rope and made it more secure, whether the branch would give way at its intersection with the trunk. the darkness seemed as if it would never pass, whilst the cold now became painful; and as he heard dick's teeth begin to chatter, the wheelwright exclaimed: "look here, young mester, i ain't hot, but there's a lot o' warmth comes out o' me. you come and sit close up, and you come t'other side, squire. it'll waarm him." this was done, and with good effect, for the lad's teeth ceased their castanet-like action as he sat waiting for the daylight. no word was spoken by the men in the little punt, and those uttered in the other grew fewer, as its occupants sat listening to the various sounds that came from a distance. for the flood had sent the non-swimming birds wheeling round in the darkness, and every now and then the whistling of wings was quite startling. the ducks of all kinds were in a high state of excitement, and passed over in nights or settled down in the water with a tremendous outcry, while ever and again a peculiar clanging from high overhead gave warning that the wild-geese were on the move, either fleeing or attracted by some strange instinct to the watery waste. but morning seemed as if it would never come, and it was not until hours upon hours had passed that there was a cessation of the high wind, and a faint line of light just over the water, seaward, proclaimed that the dawn could not be far away. "can you see where we are?" said the squire, as it began to grow lighter. "ay, it's plain enough now, mester," was the reply; "and yonder's grimsey." "i can see tom," said dick just then; "and there's farmer tallington, and all the rest, right on the top of the roof." in a few minutes more all was plain enough, and the reason apparent why the people at tallington had not shown a light in the course of the night or done anything else to indicate their position, for it was evident that they had been driven from below stairs to the floor above, and from thence to the roof, where they must have sat out the evening hours, perhaps doubtful of how long the place would last before it was swept away. so intent had the squire and dick been in watching for the dawn, that the gradual cessation of the flowing water had passed unnoticed; but it was plain now that the surface of the wide expanse out of which the toft rose, with the old priory buildings a couple of miles away, was now unruffled by the wind, and that the current had ceased to flow. but for this the party of rescue in the two punts would not have been able to reach the inundated farm, for it was only here and there that a firm place could be found for the poles, which generally sank deeply in the peat covered by the water to an average depth of about eight feet. in the course of half an hour the boats were close up to the reed thatch of the great farm-house, a rope made fast to the chimney-stack, and mrs tallington, the farmer, tom, a couple of maids and three men were transferred to the boats, all stiff and helpless with the cold. "i don't mind now," said tom, shivering as he spoke. "a boat isn't much of a thing, but it will float, and all last night it seemed as if the old house was going to be swept away." "are these your horses?" said dick, pointing to a group of dejected-looking animals standing knee-deep in company with some cattle, about a quarter of a mile away. "yes, and our cows," replied tom, shivering. "oh, i say, don't talk; i'm so cold and hungry!" all this time hickathrift was diligently using the pole in the larger boat, and dave leading the way in the other, both being well laden now, and progressing fairly fast toward the toft, which stood up like an island of refuge in the midst of the vast lake, dotted here and there with the tops of trees. at times the poles touched a good firm tuft of heath or a patch of gravel, and the boat received a good thrust forward; at other times, when the bottom was soft, hickathrift struck the water with it right and left as he stood up in the prow, using it as a kind of paddle. before they were half-way on their journey the sun came out from a cloud, just at the edge of the inundation; and with it and the prospect of warmth and food at the priory, everybody's spirits began to rise. "might have been worse, neighbour," shouted the squire. "you sold all your sheep last week." "ay," said the farmer from dave's punt; "and we might all have been drowned. it's a sore piece of business; but it shows a man what his neighbours are, and i won't murmur, only say as you do, it might have been worse." "and thank god for sparing all our lives!" said the squire, taking off his hat. "amen!" said farmer tallington, and for a time there was nothing heard but a sob from mrs tallington and the splashing of the poles. but two boys could not keep silence long with the sun shining and the place around wearing so novel a guise; and dick soon burst out with: "look, tom; look at the teal!" he pointed to a flock forming quite a patch upon the water some hundreds of yards away. "ay," said the squire; "it's good for the wild-fowl, but bad for us. the sooner the place is drained now, neighbour, the better, eh?" "ay, squire, you're right; but how are we to get rid of all this watter?" "ah, we must see," said the squire; and dave and john warren exchanged glances and shook their heads. "the sooner the draining works are commenced the better." "toft fen wean't niver be drained, mester," said dave in a low voice, as he rested his pole in the punt and stood there looking as if he believed himself to be a prophet. "oh, you think so, do you, dave?" said the squire quietly. "i daresay hundreds of years ago, before the sea-wall was made, some men said that no farming could be done in the fen, but the sea has been kept out for all these years." "ay, but it's come through at last in its natural way, mester," said john warren. "yes, john," said the squire: "but we men who think how to live, make nature work for us, and don't work for nature. so we're going to turn the sea off the land again, and drain the fresh water off as well, so as to turn this wild waste into fertile land. do you hear, dick?" "yes, father, i hear," said the lad; and he looked at dave and john warren, in whose boat he was, and read incredulity there; and as he gazed over the inundated fen, and thought of fishing, and shooting, and boating there, he felt himself thoroughly on the fen-men's side, while, feeling ashamed of this, he bent over the boat side, scooped up some water in his hand and drank, but only to exclaim, "ugh!" "ah! what does it taste like, dick?" said the squire. "half salt, father." "then it is the sea broke in," said the squire. "ahoy! all right!" he shouted, standing up and waving his cap. "shout, dick, and let your mother see you're here. come, cheer up, mrs tallington; there's a warm welcome for you yonder from the wife; the water will soon go down, and we're going to try and protect ourselves from such mischief coming again." the squire was right; there was a warm welcome waiting for the homeless neighbours, to whom, after a good, snug, and hearty breakfast, everything looked very different from what it had seemed during the long dark stormy watches of the night. [wall, in fen-lands, the artificial bank or ridge of clay raised to keep back river, drain, or sea.] chapter five. the roman bank. it was like standing on a very long low narrow island, with the peculiarity that one side was sea, the other inland lake. the sun shone brilliantly, and the punt in which the squire, farmer tallington, dave, warren, hickathrift, and the two lads had come was lying on the inner side of the sandy ridge covered with thin, wiry, harsh grass. this ridge formed the island upon which they stood, in company with some sheep and cattle which had instinctively made their way to the high ground as the water rose. the tide was down now; a great deal of the water had drained away, and the party were standing by a great breach in the bank through which at high-tide during the storm the sea had made its way. "i can't quite understand how it could have broken through here," said the squire; "but i suppose it was quite a small crack at first, and the water soon washed it bigger." there was a great channel at their feet, cut clean through the embankment; and though the party were standing amongst the sand, they could see that the bank which protected the fen from the sea, and ran up alongside of the river, running inland, was formed of thick clay, matted with the long roots of the grass. "who was it made this great bank, father?" said dick. "your old friends you read about at school, they say, the romans, first; but of course it has been added to since. well, neighbour, we can do no good by ourselves. we must call together the adventurers, and it can soon be mended and made stronger than it was at first. let's go back. unless we have a gale, no more water will come through this. it's years since i've been here. if one had taken a look round one would have seen the weak spot." they re-entered the punt, and hickathrift poled them back, being relieved in turn by dave and warren, by whose solitary cottage they paused--a mere hut upon a sandy patch, standing like an island out of the watery waste, and here he elected to stay with the rabbits which frisked about and showed their cottony tuft tails as they darted down into their holes. "how about your cottage, dave?" said the squire, shading his eyes as he looked across the flooded fen. "wet," said dave laconically. "yes, there are four feet of water yonder, i should say. you will have to stop at the toft for the present." "not i, mester," said the rough fellow. "i don't mind a drop o' watter." "not to wade through, perhaps, my man; but you can't sleep there." "sleep in my boat," said dave laconically. "won't be the first time." "do as you please," said the squire quietly; and he turned to talk to farmer tallington. "i say, dave," whispered dick, "you're just like an old goose." "eh?" said the man with his eyes flashing. "i mean being able to sleep on the water floating," said dick, laughing, and the angry look died out. it was plain enough that the water had sunk a good deal already, but the farmers had to face the fact that it would be weeks before the fen was in its old state, and that if the breach in the sea-wall were not soon repaired, they might at any time be afflicted with a similar peril. but notice was sent to those interested, while the farmers here and there who held the patches of raised land round the borders of the fen obeyed the summons, and for about a month there was busy work going on at the sea-wall with spade and basket, clay being brought from pits beneath the sand upon the sea-shore, carried up to the breach, and trampled down, till at last, without further mishap, the gap in the embankment was filled up strongly, and the place declared to be safe. of those who toiled hard none showed so well in the front as dave o' the 'coy, and john warren, and the squire was not stinted in his praise one day toward the end of the task. "wuck hard, mester!" said dave. "enough to mak' a man wuck. john warren here don't want all his rabbits weshed away; and how am i to manage my 'coy if it's all under watter." "ah, how indeed!" said the squire, and he went away; but dick stayed behind with tom tallington, and sat upon the top of the embankment, laughing, till the rough fen-man stood resting on his spade. "now then, what are yow gimbling [grinning] at, young mester?" he said. "at yow, dave," said dick, imitating his broad speech. "then it arn't manners, lad. thowt you'd been to school up to town yonder to larn manners both on you?" "so we did, dave, and a lot more things," cried dick. "how to know when anyone's gammoning." "gammoning, lad?" said dave uneasily. "yes, gammoning. you don't want the flood done away with." "not want the flood done away wi'!" "no; and you don't want the fen drained and turned into fields." "do yow?" said dave fiercely, and he took a step nearer to the lad. "no, of course not," cried dick. "it would spoil all the fun." "hah!" ejaculated dave, as his yellow face puckered up with a dry smile, and in a furtive way which fitted with his fox-skin cap he turned and gave john warren a peculiar look. "when may we come over to the 'coy, dave?" "when you like, lads. soon as the watter's down low enough for us to work it." "it's sinking fast, dave," said tom. "it's all gone from our garden now, and the rooms are getting dry." "ay, but my pipes are covered still, and it'll be a good month, my lads, 'fore we can do any good. but i might ha' took you both out in the punt for a bit o' shooting if you hadn't played that game on me, and spoiled my horn and wasted all my powder." "ah, it was too bad, dave; but there are a couple of fine large horns at home i've saved for you, and we've bought you a pound of powder." "nay, i sha'n't believe it till i see 'em," said dave. "i did mean to hev asked you lads to come netting, but i can't ask them as plays tricks." "netting! what, the ruffs?" "ay, i weer thinking about heving a try for 'em. but i shall give it up." "dave, you promised me a year ago that you'd take us with you some time, and you never have," cried dick. "nay, did i though?" "yes; didn't he, tom?" "nay, yow needn't ask him; he'll be sewer to say yes," said dave, grinning. "look here," cried dick, "i'm not going to argue with you, dave. are you going to take us?" "some day, lad, when the watter's down, if my live birds aren't all drownded and my stales [stuffed decoys] spoiled." "oh, they won't be!" cried dick. "when will you go?" "when the watter's down, my lad." "it's low enough now. there are plenty of places where you can spread your nets." "ay, but plenty of places don't suit me, my lad. you wait a bit and we'll see. get john warren to tek you ferreting." "yes, that will do," cried tom. "when are you going, john?" the man addressed shook his head. "rabbuds don't want no killing off. plenty on 'em drownded." "why," cried dick, "it was only the other day you said that none were hurt by the flood." "did i, mester dick? ah, yow mustn't tek no notice o' what i say." "but we shall take notice of what you say," cried tom. "i don't believe he has any ferrets left." "ay, bud i hev. theer i'll tek you, lads. why don't thou tek 'em wi' you, dave, man? let un see the netting." dave smiled in a curious way, and then his eyes twinkled as he looked from one to the other. "well, you wait a week, lads, and then i'll fetch you." "to see the netting?" "ay. in another week there'll be a deal more dry land, and the ruffs and reeves'll be ower in flocks, i dessay. if they aren't, we'll try for something else." "hooray!" cried dick; and that evening there was nothing talked of but the projected trip. chapter six. the departing flood. the water sank slowly and steadily, leaving dry patches here and there all over the fen; but the lake-like parts far exceeded the dry land, and two or three fields still contained so much water that the squire set men to work to cut a drain to carry it away. "kill two birds with one stone, dick," he said. "it will be useful by and by." at the time dick did not understand what his father meant; but it was soon evident when all hands were hard at work cutting down through the peat to make the dyke. for, instead of digging in the ordinary way, the men carefully cut down through what was not earth, but thick well-compressed black peat, each piece, about ten inches square and three or four thick, to be carefully laid up like so much open brickwork to drain and dry. good store for the next winter's fuel, for it was peat of fine quality stored up by nature ages before, and not the soft brown mossy stuff found in many places, stuff that burns rapidly away and gives out hardly any heat. this peat about the toft was coal's young relative, and burned slowly into a beautiful creamy ash, giving out a glow of warmth that was wanted there when the wind blew from the northern sea. the two lads watched the process with interest--not that it was anything new, for they had seen it done a hundred times; but they had nothing else to do that morning, having tired themselves of gazing at the flocks of birds which passed over to the feeding grounds laid bare by the sinking water. it had been interesting to watch them, but dave had not kept his word about the netting; the decoy had not been worked; and gunning was reserved for those of elder growth. so that morning, though the great lakes and canals among the reeds were dotted with birds, the lads were patiently watching the cutting of the little drain. six men were busy, and making steady progress, for the peat cut easily, the sharp-edged tools going through it like knives, while the leader of the gang busied himself from time to time by thrusting down a sharp-pointed iron rod, which always came in contact with sand and gravel a few feet down. "no roots, my lad?" said the squire, coming up. "no, mester," said the labourer. "i don't think--well, now, only think of that!" he was thrusting down the iron rod as he spoke, and the point stuck into something that was not sand or gravel, while upon its being thrust down again with more force it stuck fast, and required a heavy jerk to drag it out. "that seems to be a good one," said the squire, as the lads watched the process with interest. "shall we hev it out, mester?" "have it out! oh, yes!" said the squire; and a couple of hours were spent widening the drain at that part, so as to give the men room to work round what was the root of an old tree, just as it had been growing in the far-distant ages, before the peat began to rise over it to nine or ten feet in thickness. it was a long job, and after the great stump had been laid bare, axes had to be used to divide some of the outlying roots before it was finally dragged out by the whole force that could be collected by the hole, and finally lay upon the side. "just like the others, dick. there must have been a tremendous fire here at one time." "and burned the whole forest down?" "burned the whole of the trees down to the stumps, my lad, and then the peat gradually formed over the roots, and they've lain there till we come and dig them out for firewood." "and they haven't rotted, father, although they have been under the peat and water all this time." "no, my boy; the peat is a preservative. nothing seems to decay under the peat. why, you ought to have known that by now." "i suppose i ought," said dick rather dolefully, for he was beginning to wake up to the fact of what an enormous deal there was in the world that he did not know. as he spoke, he picked up some of the red chips of the pine-root which had been sent flying by the strokes of the axe, to find that they were full of resin, smelling strongly of turpentine. "yes, it's full of it," said the squire; "that's one reason why the wood has kept without rotting. here you two boys may as well do something for your bread and butter." dick said something to himself answering to nineteenth-century bother! and awaited his father's orders. "you can drag that root up to the yard. get a rope round it and haul. humph, no! it will be too heavy for you alone. leave it." "yes, father," said dick with a sigh of relief, for it was more pleasant to stand watching the men cutting the peat and the birds flying over, or to idle about the place, than to be dragging along a great sodden mass of pine-root. "stop!" cried the squire. "i don't want the men to leave their work. go and fetch the ass, and harness him to it. you three donkeys can drag it up between you." the boys laughed. "i'm going up the river bank. get it done before i get back." "yes, father," cried dick. "come along, tom." the task was now undertaken with alacrity, for there was somehow a suggestion to both of the lads of something in the nature of fun, in connection with getting the ass to drag that great root. the companions ran along by the boggy field toward the farm buildings on the toft, to seek out the old grey donkey, who was at that moment contemplatively munching some hay in a corner of the big yard, in whose stone walls, were traces of carving and pillar with groin and arch. now some people once started the idea that a donkey is a very stupid animal; and, like many more such theories, that one has been handed down to posterity, and believed in as a natural history fact, while donkey or ass has become a term of reproach for those not blessed with too much brain. winthorpe's donkey was by no means a stupid beast, and being thoroughly imbued with the idea that it was a slave's duty to do as little work as he possibly could for those who held him in bonds, he made a point of getting out of the way whenever he scented work upon the wind. he was a grey old gentleman, whose years were looked upon as tremendous; and as he stood in the corner of the yard munching hay, he now and then scratched his head against an elaborately carved stone bracket in the wall which took the form of a grotesque face. then his jaws stopped, and it was evident that he scented something, for he raised his head slightly. then he swung one great ear round, and then brought up the other with a sharp swing till they were both cocked forward and he listened attentively. a minute before, and he was a very statue of a donkey, but after a few moments' attentive listening he suddenly became full of action, and setting up his tail he trotted round the yard over the rotten peat and ling that had been cut and tossed in, to be well trampled before mixing with straw and ploughing into the ground. he changed his pace to a gallop, and then, still growing more excited, he made straight for the rough gate so as to escape. but the gate was fastened, though not so securely but that it entered into a donkey's brain that he might undo that fastening, as he had often undone it before, and then deliberately walked off into the fen, where succulent thistles grew. this time, however, in spite of the earnest way in which he applied his teeth, he could not get that fastening undone; and, after striking at it viciously with his unshod hoof, he reared up, as if to leap over, but contented himself with resting his fore-legs on the rough top rail, and looking over at the free land he could not reach; and he was in this attitude when the two lads came up. "hullo, solomon!" cried dick. "poor old fellow, then! did you know we'd come for you?" the donkey uttered a discordant bray which sounded like the blowing badly of a trumpet of defiance, and backing away, he trotted to the far end of the yard, and thrust his head into a corner. "where's the harness?" said tom. "in the stone barn," was the reply; and together the lads fetched the rough harness of old leather and rope, with an extra piece for fastening about the root. "i say, dick, he won't kick that root to pieces like he did the little tumbril," said tom, who for convenience had placed the collar over his own head. "nor yet knock one side off like he did with the sled," replied dick with a very vivid recollection of one of solomon's feats. "now, then, open the gate and let's pop the harness on. stop a minute till i get a stick." "get a thick one," said tom. "pooh! he don't mind a thick stick; he rather likes it. hicky says it loosens his skin and makes him feel comfortable. here, this will do. must have a long one because of his heels." "oh, i say, dick, look at the old rascal; he's laughing at us!" it really seemed as if this were the case, for as the lads entered the yard solomon lowered his head still more in its corner, and looked at them between his legs, baring his gums the while and showing his white teeth. "ah, i'll make him laugh--_gimble_, as old dave calls it--if he gives us any of his nonsense! now, you, sir, come out of that corner. give me the collar, tom." as dick relieved his friend of the collar, and held it ready to put over the donkey's head, though they were at least a dozen yards away, solomon began to kick, throwing out his heels with tremendous force and then stamping with his fore-feet. "isn't he a pretty creature, tom? he grows worse. father won't sell him, because, he says, he's an old friend. he has always been my enemy." "you always whacked him so," cried tom. "no, i didn't; i never touched him till he began it. of course i wanted to ride him and make him pull the sled, and you know how he ran after me and bit me on the back." "yes, i know that somebody must have ill-used him first." "i tell you they didn't. he's always been petted and spoiled. why, that day when he kicked me and sent me flying into the straw i'd gone to give him some carrots." "but didn't you tickle him or something?" "no, i tell you. a nasty ungrateful brute! i've given him apples and turnips and bread; one christmas i gave him a lump of cake; but no matter what you do, the worse he is. he's a natural savage, father says; and it isn't safe to go near him without a stick." "well, you've told me all that a dozen times," said tom maliciously. "it's only an excuse for ill-using the poor thing." "say that again and i'll hit you," cried dick. "no, you won't. here, give me the harness again and i'll put it on, only keep back with that stick. that's what makes him vicious." "how clever we are!" cried dick, handing back the collar. "there: go and try." "ah, i'll show you!" said tom, taking the collar with its hames and traces attached, and going up toward the donkey, while dick stood back, laughing. "take care, tom; mind he don't bite!" "he can't bite with his hind-legs, can he?" replied tom. "i'll mind. now, then, old fellow, turn round; i won't hurt you." solomon raised his tail to a horizontal position and held it out stiffly. "don't be a stupid," cried tom; "i want your head, not your tail." dick burst into a roar of laughter, but tom was not going to be beaten. "you leave off laughing," he said, "and go farther back with that stick. that's right. now, then, old boy, come on; turn round then." _whack_! poor tom went backwards and came down a couple of yards away in a sitting position, with the collar in his lap and an astonished look in his countenance. "oh, i am sorry, tom!" cried dick, running up. "you, solomon, i'll half kill you. are you hurt, tom?" "i don't know yet," said the lad, struggling up. "where did he kick you?" cried dick, full of sympathy now for his friend. "he didn't kick me at all," said tom dolefully. "i was holding the collar right out and he kicked that, but it hit me bang in the front and hurt ever so." "let me take the harness; i'll get it on him." "no, i won't," cried tom viciously. "i will do it now. here, give me that stick." "why, i thought you said i ill-used him!" "and i'll ill-use him too," said tom savagely, "if he doesn't come and have on his collar. now, then, you, sir, come here," cried tom sharply. by this time the donkey had trotted to another corner of the yard, where he stood with his heels presented to his pursuers, and as first one and then the other made a dash at his head he slewed himself round and kicked out fiercely. "this is a nice game," cried dick at last, when they were both getting hot with the exercise of hunting the animal from corner to corner, and then leaping backward or sidewise to avoid his heels, "now, just you tell me this, who could help walloping such a brute? hold still will you!" but solomon--a name, by the way, which was given him originally from its resemblance to "solemn-un," the latter having been applied to him by hickathrift--refused to hold still. in fact he grew more energetic and playful every minute, cantering round the yard and dodging his pursuers in a way which would have done credit to a well-bred pony, and the chances of getting the collar on or bit into his mouth grew more and more remote. "i tell you what let's do," cried dick at last; "i'm not going to run myself off my legs to please him. i've got it!" "i wish you'd got the donkey," grumbled tom. "i don't see any fun in hunting him and nearly getting kicked over the wall." "well, don't be in a hurry," said dick; "i know how to manage him. here, catch hold of this harness. i know." "you know!" grumbled tom, whose side was sore from the donkey's kick upon the collar. "what are you going to do?" "you shall see," cried dick, busying himself with the wagon rope he had brought, and making a loop at one end, and then putting the other through it, so as to produce an easily running noose. "what are you going to do with that?" asked tom. "hold your noise," whispered dick; "he's such an artful old wretch i don't know that he wouldn't understand us. i'm going to make you drive him round by me, and then i'm going to throw this over his head and catch him." "i don't believe you can," cried tom. "well, you'll see. there, that'll do. i'm ready; take the stick and make a rush at him. that will drive him round near me, and then we'll try." tom laid down the harness, took the stick and made the rush at solomon. the latter kicked out his heels and cantered round by dick, who threw his noose, but failed to lasso the donkey, who took refuge in another corner. "never mind," cried dick, gathering up the rope, "i shall do it next time. now, then--i'm ready. drive him back again." tom made another rush at the obstinate animal, which cantered off again, working considerably harder than it would if it had submitted patiently to being bitted. this time he gave dick a better chance, and the boy threw the rope so well that it seemed as if it must go over the creature's head. but solomon was too sharp. he shied at the rope and tossed his head aside; but though he avoided the noose and escaped it so far, as he plunged he stepped right into it, tightened it round his fore-legs, and the next instant fell over at one end of the rope, kicking and plunging as he lay upon his side, while at the other end of the rope there lay dick upon his chest. for he had been jerked off his feet, but held on to the rope in spite of the donkey's struggles. "i've got him, tom; come and lay hold," panted dick as the donkey made a desperate plunge, got upon his legs, and then fell down again upon the loose ling and straw, kicking out as if galloping. this gave dick time to rise, and, seeing his opportunity, he ran to the gate and passed the slack rope round, drew it tight, and shouted to tom to come and hold on. just as tom caught hold of the rope the donkey rose again and made a plunge or two, but only to fall once more, slacking the rope to such an extent that the boys were able to haul in a couple of yards more and hold on, stretching solomon's legs out and drawing them so tightly that he uttered a piteous cry like the beginning of a bray chopped off short. "do you give in, then?" cried dick. the donkey raised his head slightly and let it fall again, gazing wildly at his captors, one of whom rushed round, avoided a feeble kick, and sat down upon the helpless animal's head. "now," cried dick, "we've got him, tom; and i've a good mind to play the drum on his old ribs till he begins to sing!" "don't hit him when he's down," said tom. "it isn't english." "i wasn't going to hit him," said dick. "he's a prisoner and has given in. bring me the bit." solomon opened his mouth to utter a bray; but dick put the stick between his teeth, and he only uttered a loud sigh. "ah! now you're sorry for being such a brute, are you?" cried dick. "come along, tom." "i'm coming, only the things have got all mixed," was the reply. "give 'em to me," cried dick. "that's it. now, then, you sit on his neck, tom, and then i'll get up. and look here, you, sir," he added to the donkey, "you come any more of your games, and i'll knock your head off!" solomon's flanks heaved, but he lay quite still, and did not resent tom's rather rough treatment as he bestrode his neck and sat down. on the contrary, he half-raised his head at his master's command, suffered the bit to be thrust between his teeth and the head-stall to be buckled on, after which tom leaped up. "take the rope from about his legs now, tom," cried dick. "suppose he kicks!" "he won't kick now," cried dick. "he'd better! here, you hold the rein and i'll take it off." "no, i'll do it," said tom sturdily; and going cautiously to work he unknotted the rope and drew it away, the donkey lying quite motionless. "now, then, sol, get up!" cried tom. the donkey drew his legs together, leaped to his feet, shook himself till his ears seemed to rattle, and uttered a sound like a groan. "he is beaten now," said dick. "come and put on the pad and well go. that's right; buckle it on." tom obeyed, and the rough scrappy harness was fixed in its place, while solomon twitched his ears and rolled them round as if trying to pick up news in any direction. "he won't kick now, will he?" said tom. "not unless he feels a fly on his back, and then he'll try to kick it off." "why, he couldn't kick a fly off his back if he tried," said tom. "no, but he'd try all the same. look out!--there he goes!" tom leaped aside, for the donkey kicked out fiercely for a few moments. "why, there are no flies now!" said tom. "must be. look out!--he's going to kick again!" the donkey's heels flew out, and tom made a feint of punching his companion's head. "how clever we are!" he cried. "just as if i didn't see you tickling him to make him kick!" "tickle him!" said dick laughing. "why, i wasn't tickling him when he kicked up in the corner there. but come along or we shall never get that log up to the yard, and father won't like it. now, sol! open the gate, tom." tom opened the gate, and with dick holding the rein the donkey walked along by his side as meekly as if he had never kicked or shown his teeth with the intention of biting in his life. the rope was doubled up and thrown over his back; and when they had gone a few yards dick, without pausing, made a bit of a jump and struggled on to the animal's back, getting himself right aft, as a sailor would say, so that it seemed as if at any moment he might slip off behind. but solomon made no objection; he just twitched and wagged his tail for a moment or two, and then put it away out of sight. for the donkey chained, or rather harnessed, became an obedient slave--a very different creature from the donkey free. when they reached the dyke where the men were standing delving out the peat, it was to find a group of three fresh arrivals in the persons of hickathrift the wheelwright, dave, and john warren, and all in earnest converse upon some subject. "yow may say what yow like," cried dave, "but fen-land's fen-land, and meant for the wild birds." "and rabbuds," put in john warren. "ay, lad, and rabbuds," assented dave; "and it weer nivver meant to grow corn and grass. yow can't do it, and yow'll nivver make fen-land fields. it's agen natur." "so it is to ride in a cart or on a sled, lad," said hickathrift good-humouredly; "but i make 'em, and folk rides in 'em and carries things to market." "ay, but that's different," said dave. "fen-land's fen-land; and you can't dree-ern that." "you can't dree-ern that," said john warren, nodding his head in assent. "well, they'll drain these fields, at all events," said hickathrift. "yow can't say they weant do that." "i say fen-land's fen-land," reiterated dave, taking off his fox-skin cap and rubbing his ear viciously; "and it can't be dree-ernt." "ah! you two are scarred about your 'coy and your rabbud-warren," cried hickathrift good-humouredly. "i wish they'd dree-ern the whole place and have roads all over it, so as to want carts and wains." "nay, they nivver will," said dave sourly. "tek to makkin' boats and punts, mun. them's best." "hullo, dave!" cried dick; "how about the ruffs and reeves? you said you'd take me to the netting." "well, haven't i come for you, lad?" said dave quietly. "have you? oh, tom, and we've got this old stump to draw away! i can't go now, dave." "there's plenty o' time, lad. i'm not going back yet hicky's got to put a bit o' plank in my boat 'fore i go back." "come on, tom, and let's get it done," cried dick. "here, give us the rope." he took the rope, fastened it to one of the roots, and then joined the traces together, and tied the rope about them. after this the donkey was turned so that his head was toward the sharp slope, leading to the priory on the toft, and a start was made. that is to say, the donkey tightened the traces, stuck his hoofs into the ground, tugged for a minute without moving the stump, and then gave up. "why, mester dick, yow'll have to get root on a sled or she weant move." "oh, we'll do it directly!" cried dick. "here, tom, you give a good shove behind. now, then, pull up!" tom thrust with all his might, while dick dragged at the donkey's head-stall, and once more, after offering a few objections, solomon tightened the traces and rope, and tugged with all his might, but the root did not move. "yow weant move her like that, i tell you, lad," said hickathrift. "won't i!" cried dick angrily; "but i just will. you tom, you didn't half push." "shall i give her a throost?" said the wheelwright, smiling. that smile annoyed dick, who read in it contempt, when it was only prompted by good temper. "we can do it, thank you," cried dick. "now, tom, boy, give it a heave. pull up, solomon." tom heaved, but solomon refused to "pull up;" and after his late disappointments, and his discovery that the root was heavier than he, it took a great deal of coaxing to get him to stir. at last, though, just as hickathrift was coming up good-temperedly to lend his aid, it seemed as if the donkey anticipated a tremendous blow from the long staff the wheelwright carried, for he made a plunge, dick took tightly hold of the rein and gave it a drag, and tom sat down on the great root, to follow hickathrift's example and roar with laughter, in which the men who were delving peat joined, while dave and john warren, men who took life in a very solemn manner, actually smiled. for solomon's sudden plunge, joined to dick's drag at the head-stall, showed that it was quite time a new fit out of harness was provided, inasmuch as the old leather gave way in two or three places, and the donkey, with nothing on but his collar, was off full gallop, feeling himself a slave no longer, while dick, after staggering backwards for a yard or two, came down heavily in a sitting position, and in a very wet place. "yes, it's all very well to laugh," said dick, getting up and looking ruefully at the broken bridle and bit which he held in his hand; "but see how cross father will be." "and look where old solomon has gone!" cried tom. "i say, how are we to catch him? ha! ha! ha! only look!" everyone but dick joined in the laugh, for solomon was rejoicing in his liberty, and galloping away toward the fen, shaking his head, and kicking out his heels; while every now and then he stretched out his neck, grinned, and bit at the wind, for there was nothing else to bite. "nice job we shall have!" grumbled dick. "oh, i say, tom, we are in a mess." "oh, there's nowt the matter, mester dick!" said hickathrift good-temperedly, as he picked up the broken harness and examined it. "why, i could mend all this in less than an hour with some wax-ends and a brad-awl." "yes, but will you, hicky?" "of course i will, my lad. theer, don't look that how. go and catch the solemn-un, and me, and dave, and john warren'll get the root up to the yard for you." "will you, hicky?" cried the boys joyfully. "oh, you are a good old fellow! come on, tom, and let's catch solomon." the harness was thrust aside by the wheelwright, ready to take home, and then at a word the two fen-men came forward, and together they rolled the awkwardly-shaped root over and over toward the farm; while, once satisfied that the pine-root was on its way, dick gave his companion a slap on the shoulder, and moistened his hand to get a better grip of his stick. "get a stick, tom," he said. "i don't want to drum old solomon's ribs; but i'm just in the humour to give it him if he plays any of his tricks." that was just what the donkey seemed determined upon. he had been shut up for a fortnight in the yard, and hardly knew how to contain himself, as he bounded along in a way he never attempted when he was not free. there were spots which he knew of where succulent thistles and water plants grew, and after a long course of dry food he meant to enjoy a feast. the boys shouted as they ran, and tried to get ahead; but the more they shouted the more solomon kicked up his heels and ran, performing a series of capers that suggested youth instead of extreme old age. "we shall never get him," cried tom as he panted along. "we must catch him," cried dick, making a furious rush to head off the frolicsome animal, which seemed as if he thoroughly enjoyed teasing his pursuers. dick was successful in turning the donkey, but not homeward, and he stopped short unwillingly as he saw the course taken. "i say, dick, isn't it soft out there?" "soft! yes. mind how you go!" this advice would have been thrown away upon solomon, though, had he comprehended it, the effect might have been beneficial. for, whatever knowledge the donkey might have possessed about the flood, he did not realise the fact that since he last tickled his palate with the spinous thistle--an herb which probably assumed to his throat the flavour that pepper does to ours--there had been a considerable depth of water over the fen, and that it was very soft. the result was, that while the lads stopped short, and then began to pick their way from tussock to tussock, and heather patch to patch, solomon blundered on, made a splash here, a bit of a wallow there, and then a bound, which took him in half-way up his back; and as he plunged and struck out with fore-legs and heels, he churned up the soft bog and made it softer, so that he sank in and in, till only his spine was visible with, at the end, his long neck and great grey head, upon which the ears were cocked out forward, while an expression of the most intense astonishment shone out of his eyes. "oh, tom, what shall we do?" _he-haw_--_he-yaw_--_he-yaw_! solomon burst out into the most dismal bray ever heard--a long-drawn misery-haunted appeal for help, which was prolonged in the most astounding way till it seemed to be a shrill cry. "i don't know," responded tom, wiping the tears out of his eyes. "oh, come, i say," said dick, "it isn't anything to laugh at!" "i know it isn't," cried tom; "but i can't help it. i feel as if i must laugh, and--ha! ha! ha!" he burst into a tremendous peal, in which his companion joined, for anything more comic than the aspect of the "solemn-un" up to his neck in the bog it would be hard to conceive. "here, this won't do," cried dick at last, as he too stood wiping his eyes. "poor old sol, we mustn't let you drown. come on, tom, and let's help him out." how dick expected that he was going to help the donkey out he did not say; but he began to pick his way from tuft to tuft, avoiding the soft places, till he was within twenty feet of the nearly submerged animal, and then he had to stop or share his fate. "i say, tom, i can't get any farther," he cried. "what shall we do?" "i don't know." "what a fellow you are!" was the angry reply. "you never do know. old sol will be drowned if we don't look sharp. the bog is twenty feet deep here." "can't he swim out?" "can't you swim out!" cried dick. "what's the good of talking like that? you couldn't swim if you were up to the neck in sand." "but he isn't up to his neck in sand." "but he's up to his neck in bog, and it's all the same." "ahoy! what's matter?" came from a couple of hundred yards away; and the lads turned, to see that it was hickathrift shouting, he and the others having just succeeded in taking up the root to its destination. "ahoy! bring the rope," shouted dick. "he-haw--haw--haw--haw!" shouted the solemn one dismally, as if to emphasise his young master's order. "why, how came he in there?" cried hickathrift, trotting up with the rope, but picking his way carefully, for the peat shook beneath his feet. "he went in himself," cried dick. "oh, do get him out before he sinks! make a noose, and let's throw it over his head." "we shall pull his head right off if we do," said hickathrift, but busily making the noose the while. "oh, no, i don't believe you would!" cried tom. "he has got an awfully strong neck." "it won't hurt him," said dave, who came up slowly with the rest. "well, there's no getting it under him," said the wheelwright; "he'd kick us to pieces if we tried." "i'll try," said dick eagerly. "nay, i weant let you," said hickathrift. "i'll go my sen." "it weant bear thee, neighbour," said john warren warningly. "eh? wean't it? well, i can but try, mun. let's see." the good-natured wheelwright went cautiously towards where dick was standing waiting for the rope; but at the third step he was up to his middle and had to scramble out and back as fast as he could. "i'm too heavy," he said; "but i'll try again. all right, i'm coming soon!" he added as the donkey uttered another dismal bray. but his efforts were vain. each time he tried he sank in, and at last, giving up to what was forced upon him as an impossibility, he coiled up the rope to throw. "thou mun heave it over his head, my lad. don't go no nigher to him; it isn't safe." he threw the rope, and dick caught the end and recoiled it preparatory to making a start over the moss. "nay, nay, stop!" shouted hickathrift. "i must go and try if i can't put it round him, hicky," cried dick. "come back, thou'lt drownd thysen," shouted dave excitedly. "no, i won't," said dick; and picking his steps with the greatest care, he succeeded in stepping within ten yards of the donkey, which made a desperate struggle now to get out and reach him, but without success; all he did was to change his position, his hind-quarters going down lower, while his fore-legs struck out into the daylight once or twice in his hard fight for liberty. "now, my lad, heave the rope over his head, and we'll haul him out," cried hickathrift. but dick paid no heed. he saw in imagination the poor animal strangled by the noose; and with the idea that he could somehow get alongside, he struck out to the left, but had to give up, for the bog was more fluid there. on the other side it was even worse, and dick was about to turn and shout to the men to try if they could not get the punt up alongside, when a fresh struggle from solomon plainly showed him that the animal must be rescued at once or all would be over. dick made one more trial to get nearer, in spite of the cries and adjurations of those upon the firmer ground; but it was useless, and struggling to a tuft of dry reed, he balanced himself there and gathered up the rope, so as to try and throw the loop over the donkey's head. as he held it ready there was another miserable bray, and the lad hesitated. "it means killing him," he muttered. "poor old solomon! i never liked him, but we've had so many runs together." his hand dropped to his side with the rope, and he tottered, for the reed tuft seemed to be sinking. solomon brayed again and fought desperately to free himself, but sank lower. "heave, dick, heave!" shouted tom. "throw it over, my lad! throw it over, or thou'lt be too late!" cried the wheelwright; but dick did not move. his eyes were fixed upon the donkey's head, but his thoughts were far back in the past, in sunny days when he had been riding by the edge of the fen to the town, or down to the firm sand by the sea, where solomon always managed to throw him and then gallop off. then there were the wintry times, when the donkey's hoofs used to patter so loudly over the frozen ground, while now-- perhaps it was very childish, for dick was a strongly built lad of sixteen, and had his memory served him truly it would have reminded him of that terrible kick in the leg which lamed him for a month--of the black-and-yellow bruise upon his arm made by the vicious animal's jaws one day when he bit fiercely--of that day when he was pitched over solomon's head into the black bog ditch, and had to swim out--of a dozen mishaps and injuries received from the obstinate beast. but dick thought of none of these, only of the pleasant days he had had with the animal he had known ever since he could run; and, whether it were childish or not, the tears rose and dimmed his eyes as he stood there gazing at what seemed to be the animal's dying struggles, and thinking that it would be kinder to let him drown than to strangle him, as he felt sure they would. "why don't you throw, dick?" cried tom again in an excited yell that was half drowned by solomon's discordant bray, though it was growing more feeble as the struggles were certainly more weak. all at once dick started and his eyes grew more clear. it was not at the warning shout of the wheelwright, nor the yell uttered by the other men, but at the action of the sufferer in the bog. for, feeling himself surely and certainly sinking lower, the donkey made one more tremendous effort, extricating his fore-legs and beating the fluid peat with them till it grew thinner, and with neck outstretched and mouth open it sank more and more back, till head and legs only could be seen. dick did it unconsciously. his eyes were fixed upon the struggling beast, but his ears were deaf to the shouts behind him. all he heard was the dismal bray enfeebled to a groan so full of despair that the lad threw the rope, and in throwing lost his balance, fell, and the next moment was struggling in the mire. he tried to rise, but it was impossible, and as he fought and struggled for a few moments it was to find that the bog was growing thinner and that the patches about him, which looked firm, were beginning to sink. was he too going to drown? he asked himself, and something of the sensation he had felt on the night of the flood came over him. then he felt a snatch, and a voice like thunder brought him to himself. "howd tight, lad!" the next moment dick felt himself gliding over the soft bog, and directly after dave had hold of one of his hands and drew him to a place of safety before running back to the rope. "all together, lads! haul!" there was a shout and a tremendous splashing, and dick winthorpe struggled to his feet, wiping the black fluid bog from his eyes, to see solomon hauled right out, slowly at first, then faster and faster, till he was literally run over the slippery surface to where there was firm ground. "i got it over his head, then?" said dick huskily. "ay, lad, and over his legs too," cried hickathrift, as he bent down and loosened the noose. "eh, bud it's tight. that's it!" he dragged the rope off, and the donkey lay perfectly motionless for a few moments, but not with his eyes closed, for he seemed to be glowering round. "is he dying, hicky?" said dick. "nay, lad; yow can't kill an ass so easy. seems aw reight. there!" the last word was uttered as the donkey suddenly struggled up, gave himself a tremendous shake, till his ears rattled again as the bog water flew; and then stretching out his neck as if he were about to bray, he bared his teeth and made a fierce run at the wheelwright. but hickathrift struck at him with the rope, and to avoid that, solomon worked round, made a bite at dick, which took effect on his wet coat, tearing a piece right out. then he swerved round like lightning and threw out his heels at tom, tossed up his head, and then cantered off, braying as he went, as if nothing had been the matter, and making straight for the yard. "well, of all the ungrateful brutes!" cried tom. "ay, we might just as well hev let him get smothered," said the wheelwright, joining in the laughter of the others. "didn't hurt you, did he, mester dick?" "no, hicky. only tore my coat," replied dick, turning reluctantly up to the house, for he was wet and now felt cold. "i say, dick, what about the netting?" cried tom. the lad looked piteously at dave and his companion of the rabbit warren--two inseparable friends--and felt that his chance of seeing the ruffs and reeves captured was very small. "are you going--to-day, dave?" he faltered. "nay, lad," said dave dryly, "yow've had enough o' the bog for one day. go and dry thysen. i'll coom and fetch thee to-morrow." so the lads went up to the house, the men returned to their draining, and the wheelwright walked slowly away with dave and john warren. "let's run, dick," said tom, who was carrying the rope; "then you won't catch cold." "oh, i sha'n't hurt," said dick, running all the same; and in passing the yard they closed the gate, for solomon was safe inside; but as they reached the house, where mrs winthorpe stood staring aghast at her son's plight, solomon burst forth with another dismal, loud complaining: "_he-haw_!" chapter seven. the fen-man's wages. dave did not keep his promise the next day, nor the next; but dick winthorpe had his attention taken up by other matters, for a party of men arrived and stopped with their leaders at the toft, where they were refreshed with ale and bread and cheese, previous to continuing their journey down to the seaside. the squire and farmer tallington accompanied them down to their quarters, which were to be at a disused farm-house close to the mouth of the little river; and incidentally dick learned that this was the first party of labourers who were to cut the new lode or drain from near the river mouth right across the fen; that there was to be a lock with gates at the river end, to let the drain-water out at low tide, and that the banks of the drain were to be raised so as to protect the land at the sides from being flooded. fen people from far and wide collected to see the gang, and to watch the surveyors, who, with measuring chain and staves and instruments, busied themselves marking out the direction in which the men were to cut; and these fen people shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, while more than once, when squire winthorpe addressed one or the other, dick noticed that they were always surly, and that some turned away without making any answer. "never mind, dick," said the squire laughing. "some day when we've given them smiling pastures and corn-fields, instead of water and bog and ague, they will be ashamed of themselves." "but--" "well, but what, sir?" said the squire as the lad hesitated. "i was only going to say, father, isn't it a pity to spoil the fen?" the squire did not answer for a few moments, but stood frowning. the severe look passed off directly though, and he smiled. "dick," he said gravely, "all those years at a good school, to come back as full of ignorance and prejudice as the fen-men! shame!" he walked away, leaving dick with his companion tom tallington. "i say," said the latter, "you caught it." "well, i can't help it," said dick, who felt irritated and ashamed. "it does seem a pity to spoil all the beautiful pools and fishing places, and instead of having beds of reeds full of birds, for there to be nothing but fields and a great ugly drain. why, the flowers, and butterflies, and nesting places will all be swept away. what do we care for fields of corn!" "my father cares for them, and he says it will be the making of this part of the country." "unmaking, he means," said dick; and they went on to watch the proceedings of the strange men who had come--big, strong, good-tempered-looking fellows, armed with sharp cutting spades, and for whose use the lads found that a brig had come into the little river, and was landing barrows, planks, and baskets, with a variety of other articles to be used in the making of the drain. "i'm afraid we shall have some trouble over this business, tallington," said the squire as they went back. "well, we sha'n't be the only sufferers," said the farmer good-humouredly. "i suppose all we who have adventured our few pounds will be in the people's black books. but we must go on--we can't stop now." the next day tom came over, and the lads went down towards the far-stretching fen, now once more losing a great deal of the water of the flood. they passed the solemn one apparently none the worse for his bath, for he trotted away from the gate to thrust his head in the favourite corner by the old corbel in the wall, and look back at them, as if as ready to kick as ever. "poor old solomon!" said dick laughing, "i should have been sorry if he had been lost." "oh, never mind him," cried tom; "is old dave coming over to fetch us? why, dick, look!" "i can't see anything," said dick. "because you're not looking the right way. there! now he's behind that bed of reeds a mile away." "i see!" cried dick. "why, it is dave, and he's coming." the lads ran down to the edge of the fen, and made their way to the end of a long, open, river-like stretch of water, which was now perfectly clear, so that everything could be clearly distinguished at the bottom; and before long, as they walked to and fro, they caught sight of a little shoal of small fish, and soon after of a young pike, with his protruding lower jaw, waiting for his opportunity to make a dash at some unfortunate rudd, whose orange fins and faintly-gilded sides made him a delectable-looking morsel for his olive-green and gold excellency the tyrant of the river. "he's coming here, isn't he?" said tom, gazing out anxiously over the reedy waste. "yes; i can see his old fox-skin cap. he's coming safe enough." "oh, dick!" cried his companion. "well! what?" "the powder. you've never given him the powder, and he'll be as gruff as can be. has he had the horn?" "had two," said dick, watching the approaching punt, which was still half a mile away, and being poled steadily in and out of the winding water-lane, now hidden by the dry rustling reeds which stood covered with strands of filmy conferva or fen scum. "but he hasn't had the powder we promised him." "no," said dick loftily; "not yet." "why, you haven't brought it, dick!" "haven't brought it, indeed! why, what's this, then?" he drew a bottle from his pocket, took out the cork, and poured a little of its contents into his hand--dry, black grains, like so much sable sand, and then poured it back and corked it tightly. "you are a good fellow, dick; but i haven't paid my share." "i don't want your share," said dick loftily. "father gave me half-a-crown the other day." "i wish my father gave me half-crowns sometimes," sighed tom; "but he isn't so rich as yours." "there, don't bother about money!" cried dick. "let's think about the birds. hooray! here he comes! hi, dave!" sound travels easily over water, and the decoy-man must have heard the hail, but he paid no heed, only kept on poling his punt along, thrusting down the long ash sapling, which the fen-men used as punt-pole, staff, and leaping-pole in turn; and then as the boat glided on, standing erect in her bows like some statue. "now, what a dried-up old yellow mummy he is!" cried dick. "he can see us, but he's pretending he can't, on purpose to tease us. look at that! he needn't have gone behind that great reed patch. it's to make us think he is going down to your place." "let's run down and meet him," said tom eagerly. "no, no; stop where you are. if he sees us go down there he'll double back directly and come here. he's just like an old fox. i know. come along!" dick started up and ran in the same direction as dave had taken with the punt before he disappeared behind the reed-bed. tom followed, and they raced on along the edge till a clump of alders was reached. "pst! tom, round here," whispered dick; and leading the way he doubled back, following the long low bed of swamp-loving wood, and keeping in its shelter till they were once more opposite to the spot where dave should have landed. there, still hid among the trees, dick stooped down in a thick bed of dry reeds, pretty close to the water, and in full view of the rough winding canal leading far and wide. "let's hide for a few minutes," said dick chuckling. "you'll see he'll come here after all." the lad had a good idea of dave's ways, for before they had been watching many minutes there was the splashing of the pole heard in the water, and the rustling of the reeds, but nothing was visible, and tom began to be of opinion that his companion had been wrong, when all at once the reeds began to sway and crackle right before them, and before tom recovered from his surprise the punt shot right out of the middle of the long low wall of dried growth, and in answer to a vigorous thrust or two from the pole, glided across to within a dozen yards of where the lads crouched. "come on, tom!" said dick, and they stepped out at once so suddenly that the decoy-man, in spite of his self-control, started. a curious smile puckered his face directly and he stood staring at them. "why, you have been a long time, dave," cried dick. "long, boy?" "yes, long. you asked us to come over and see the netting." "ay, so i did, boy; but there soon wean't be no netting." "then come on and let's see it while there is some," cried dick. "when we used to be home from school you always said we were too young. you can't say that now." "ay, bud i can," said the man with a dry chuckle. "then don't," said dick. "you've brought your gun there!" he cried joyfully. "ay, i've brote my gun," said dave; "but i hevven't any powder." "yes, you have, dave," cried dick, tugging the wine-bottle from his pocket. "here's some." "eh? is that powder or drink?" said the man, taking the bottle and giving it a shake. "it arn't full, though." "no, it isn't full," said dick in a disappointed tone; "but there's a whole pound, and it's the best." "ah, well, i daresay it'll do," said dave slowly. "load the gun, then, and let's have a shot at the snipes as we go," said tom. "nay, she wean't go off till she has had a new flint in. i'm going to knap one when i get back." "jump in, then," cried dick. "i'm going to pole her across." "nay, i don't think it's any use to-day." "why, dave, this is just the sort of day you said was a good one for netting." "did i, lad?" "yes; didn't he, tom? and what's that wisp of birds going over the water, yonder?" "quick, in wi' ye, lads!" cried the decoy-man, with his whole manner changed. "the right sort. look, lads, another wisp! see how low they fly. they mean feeding." the boys leaped into the punt, and dick was about to seize the pole, but dave stopped him. "nay, lad, let me send her across. save time." "then may i have a shot at the first heron i see?" "nay, nay; don't let's scar' the birds, lad. it's netting to-day. we'll shute another time when they wean't come near the net." dick gave way, and dave took the pole, to send the light punt skimming over the water, and in and out among the reed-beds through which, puzzling as they would have been to a stranger, he thrust the vessel rapidly. they were full of devious channels, and dave seemed to prefer these, for even when there was a broad open piece of water in front he avoided it, to take his way through some zigzag lane with the reeds brushing the boat on either side, and often opening for himself a way where there was none. the man worked hard, but it seemed to have no effect upon him; and when the lads were not watching him and his energetic action, there was always something to take up their attention. now a heron would rise out of one of the watery lanes, gaunt, grey, and with his long legs stretched out behind to look like a tail as his great flap wings beat the air and carried him slowly away. then with a loud splash and cackling, up would spring a knot of ducks, their wings whirring as they rapidly beat the air in a flight wonderful for such a heavy bird. again a little farther and first one and then another snipe would dart away in zigzag flight, uttering their strange _scape, scape_. and all tempting to a lad who sat there within touch of a long heavy-looking gun, which had been cleaned and polished till every part was worn. but he had been told that it was not charged and that the flint-lock was in a failing condition; and besides, dick felt that it would be dishonourable to touch the gun now that it was almost trusted to his care. in spite of dave's ability and knowledge of the short cuts to the part of the fen where he lived, it took him nearly three-quarters of an hour to punt across, where the lads landed upon what was really an island in the fen, though one side ran pretty close up to some fairly dry land full of narrow water-lanes and pools, all favourite breeding ground for the wild-fowl. the boys leaped out while dave fastened the punt to an old willow trunk, and, quite at home in the place, went on first to a rough-looking house nearly hidden among alders and willows, all of which showed traces of the flood having been right up, submerging everything to a depth of three to four feet. "hullo, chip! chip! chip!" cried tom, and the decoy-man's little sharp-looking dog came bounding to them, to leap up, and fawn and whine, full of delight at seeing human faces again. there was the twittering and piping of birds, and the scuffling, scratching noise made by animals in a cage, as they reached the roughly-fenced yard, more than garden, about dave's cottage, the boys eager to inspect the birds, the ferrets, the eel-spear leaning against the reed thatch, and the brown nets hung over poles, stretching from post to post, as if to dry. "why, it's months sin' you've been to see me," said dave. "well, whose fault's that?" said dick sharply. "i say, dave, these nets are new." "ay, every one of 'em. made 'em all this summer." "didn't you get lots of things spoiled when the flood came?" cried tom. "n-no, lad, no. nearly had my birds drownded, but i got 'em atop of the thack yonder." "but hasn't your cottage been dreadfully wet?" asked dick, who was poking his finger in a cage full of ferrets. "i say, what are john warren's ferrets doing here?" "doin' nothing, and waiting to be took out, that's all, lad." "but wasn't your place horribly wet?" "what care i for a drop o' watter?" said dave contemptuously. "look here, dick, at the decoys," cried tom running to a large wicker cage in which were four of the curious long-legged birds known as ruffs and reeves. "was six," said dave. "i lost two." "how?" "fightin', lad. i niver see such bonds to fight. gamecocks is babies to 'em. i'm going to try a new improved way of ketching of 'em by challenging the wild ones to fight." "never mind about them," said dick eagerly; "are you going to start now?" "ah! you're so precious eager to begin, lad," said dave; "but when you've been sitting out there on the boat for about a couple of hours you'll be glad to get back." "oh, no, we sha'n't!" cried dick. "now, then, let's start." "ay, but we've got to get ready first." "well, that's soon done. shall i carry the birds down to the boat?" "nay; we wean't take them to-day. i've sin more pie-wipes than ruffs, so let's try for them." he went round to the back of the hovel and took from the roof a cage which the lads had not yet seen, containing seven green plovers, and this was carried to the boat, where the frightened birds ran to and fro, thrusting their necks between the wicker bars in a vain attempt to escape. this done, a bundle of net, some long stout cord, and poles were carefully placed in the stern, after which dave went into his cottage to bring out a mysterious-looking basket, which was also placed in the stern of the boat. "that's about all," said the man, after a moment's thought; and unfastening the punt after the boys were in, he pushed off, but only to turn back directly and secure the boat again. "why, what now, dave?" cried dick. "aren't you going?" "going, lad! yes; but i thowt if we caught no bohds you might like me to shute one or two." "well, we've got the gun and plenty of powder." "ay, lad; but i've lost my last flint, and i've got to knap one." the boys followed him ashore, leaving the plovers fluttering in the cage, and dave went inside his cottage, and returned directly with a hammer and a piece of flint, which he turned over two or three times so as to get the stone in the right position, as, taught by long experience, he struck a sharp blow. now dave, the duck-decoy-man of the fens, knew nothing about lines of fracture or bulbs of percussion as taught by mineralogists, but he knew exactly where to hit that piece of flint so as to cause a nice sharp-edged flake to fly off, and he knew how and where to hit that flake so as to chip it into a neat oblong, ready for his gun, those present being ignorant of the fact that they were watching workmanship such as was in vogue among the men who lived and hunted in england in the far-distant ages of which we have no history but what they have left us in these works. dave gittan chipped away at the flint just as the ancient hunters toiled to make the arrow-heads with which they shot the animals which supplied them with food and clothing, the flint-knives with which they skinned and cut up the beasts, and the round sharp-edged scrapers with which they removed the fat and adhering flesh as they dressed and tanned the skins to make them fit to wear. dave chipped one gun-flint very accurately, failed to make a second, but was triumphant with the third attempt, and fitting it exactly in the lock of his piece with a piece of leather at top and bottom, he loaded the gun with a great deal of ceremony, measuring the powder with a tiny cup which fitted over the top of his powder-horn, and his shot with the same vessel, so many times filled. these rammed down in place with some rough paper on the top, and the ramrod measured to see whether it stood out the right distance from the barrel, the pan was primed and closed, and the gun carefully laid ready for use. "there," cried dave in an ill-used tone, "i don't know why i'm tekkin' all this trouble for such a pair o' young shacks as you; but come along." "it's because he likes us, dick," said tom merrily. "nay, that i don't," cried dave. "i hate the lot of you. not one of you'll be satisfied till you've spoiled all my fen-land, and made it a place where nivver a bird will come." "why, i wouldn't have it touched if i could help it--st! dave, what bird's that?" said dick. "curlew," replied dave in a low voice, whose tones were imitated by the lads as the boat was softly punted along. "see them, boys!" he nodded in the direction they were going, towards where a number of birds were flying about over some patches of land which stood just over the level of the water. now they looked dark against the sky, now they displayed feathers of the purest white, for their flight with their blunted wings was a clumsy flapping very different to the quiver and skim of a couple of wild ducks which came by directly after and dropped into the water a quarter of a mile ahead. "you come and see me next spring, my lads, and i'll show you where there's more pie-wipes' eggs than ever you found before in your lives." "but you'll take us one day to the 'coy, dave?" said dick. "nay, i don't think i can," said dave. "but it's my father's 'coy," said dick. "ay, i know all about that," said the man harshly; "but it wean't be much good to him if he dree-erns the fen." dave's voice was growing loud and excited, but he dropped it directly and thrust away without making the slightest splash with his iron-shod pole. as they came near one bed of reeds several coots began to paddle away, jerking their bald heads as they went, while a couple of moor-hens, which as likely as not were both cocks, swam as fast as their long thin unwebbed toes would allow them, twitching their black-barred white tails in unison with the jerking of their scarlet-fronted little heads, and then taking flight upon their rounded wings, dragging their long thin toes along the top of the water, and shrieking with fear, till they dropped into the sheltering cover ahead. snipes flew up from time to time, and more curlews and green plovers were seen, offering plenty of opportunities for the use of the gun, as the punt progressed till a long low spit of heathery gravel, about forty feet in length and five wide, was reached, with a patch of reeds across the water about a couple of hundred yards away. "is this the place?" cried dick excitedly; and upon being answered in the affirmative--"now, then, what shall we do first?" "sit still, and i'll tell you, lads," was the stern reply, as dave, now all eagerness, secured the boat and landed his net and poles. "don't tread on her, my lads," he said. "now help me spread her out." he showed them how to proceed, and the net, about a dozen yards in length, was spread along the narrow spit of land, which was only about a foot wider than the net, at whose two ends was fixed a pole as spreader, to which lines were attached. the net spread, the side nearest to the water was fastened down with pegs, so adjusted as to act as hinges upon which the apparatus would turn, while as soon as this was done dave called for the mysterious-looking basket. this being produced from the punt and opened was found to contain about a dozen stuffed peewits, which, though rough in their feathers, were very fair imitations of the real things. these were stuck along the edge of the net outside and at either end. "now for the 'coys," cried dave, and tom brought the cage of unfortunate peewits, who had a painful duty to perform, that of helping to lead their free brethren into the trap that was being laid for them. each of these decoy-birds was quickly and cleverly tethered to a peg along the edge of the net upon the narrow strip of clear land, a string being attached to one leg so long as to give them enough freedom to flutter a little among the stuffed birds, which seemed to be feeding. "there!" cried dave, when all was ready; and at a short distance nothing was visible but the group of birds fluttering or quiescent, for the net was wonderfully like the ground in colour. "there, she's ready now, my lads, so come along." he bade dick thrust the punt along to the bed of reeds; and as the lad deftly handled the pole, dave let out the line, which was so attached to the ends of the poles that a vigorous pull would drag the net right over. it was quite a couple of hundred yards to the reeds, through which the punt was pushed till it and its occupants were hidden, when, having thrust down the pole as an anchor to steady the little vessel, the line was drawn tight so as to try whether it would act, and then kept just so tense as to be invisible beneath the water, and secured to the edge of the punt. "that ought to bring them, lads," said dave, with his eyes twinkling beneath his fox-skin cap, after beating a few reeds aside so that they could have a good view of where the unfortunate peewits fluttered at the pegs. "but suppose they don't come?" said tom. "i know if i was a piewipe i wouldn't be cheated by a few dummies and some pegged-down birds." "but then you are not a piewipe, only a goose," said dick. "hist!" whispered dave, and placing his fingers to his mouth he sent out over the grey water so exact an imitation of the green plover's cry that dick looked at him in wonder, for this was something entirely new. _pee-eugh, pee-eugh, pee-eugh_! and the querulous cry was answered from a distance by a solitary lapwing, which came flapping along in a great hurry, sailed round and round, and finally dropped upon the little narrow island and began to run about. "you won't pull for him, will you, dave?" whispered dick. dave shook his head, and the boys watched as from time to time the man uttered the low mournful cry. "wonder what that chap thinks of the stuffed ones?" whispered dick. "why don't the live ones tell him it isn't safe?" said tom. "don't know; perhaps they're like old tom tallington," said dick: "whenever they get into a mess they like to get some one else in it too." "you say that again and i'll hit you," whispered tom, holding up his fist menacingly. "hist!" came from dave, who uttered the imitation of the peewit's whistle again, and a couple more of the flap-winged birds came slowly over the grey-looking water, which to anyone else, with its patches of drab dry weeds and bared patches of black bog, would have seemed to be a terrible scene of desolation, whereas it was a place of enchantment to the boys. "they come precious slowly," said dick at last. "i thought that there would have been quite a crowd of birds, like you see them sometimes. look at the old bald-heads, tom." he pointed to a party of about half a dozen coots which came slowly out of the reeds and then sailed on again as if suspicious of all being not quite right. then there was another little flock of ducks streaming over the fen in the distance, and their cries came faintly as they dashed into the water, as if returning home after a long absence. "there goes a her'n," whispered tom, who was not very good at seeing birds and worse at telling what they were. "'tisn't," cried dick; "it's only a grey crow." "if you two go on chattering like that we shall get no birds," said dave sharply. "what a pair o' ruck-a-toongues you are; just like two owd women!" "well, but the birds are so long coming," said dick; "i'm getting the cramp. i say, dave, are there any butterbumps [bitterns] close here?" "plenty; only they wean't show theirsens. hah!" they had been waiting a couple of hours, and the peewit's cry had been uttered from time to time, but only a straggler or two had landed upon the strip of land. dick had been eager to capture these, but dave shook his head. it wasn't worth while to set the net and peg out decoys and stales, he said, to catch two pie-wipes that weren't enough for a man's dinner. so they crouched there in the punt, waiting and growing more cold and cramped, fidgeting and changing their positions, and making waves seem to rise from under the boat to go whispering among the reeds. every now and then tom uttered a sigh and dick an impatient grunt, while at these movements dave smiled but made no other sign, merely watching patiently. his eyes glittered, and their lids passed over them rapidly from time to time; otherwise he was as motionless as if carved out of old brown boxwood, an idea suggested by the colour of his skin. "i say," said dick at last, as there were tokens in the distance of the day coming to an end with mist and fine rain, "i am getting so hungry! got anything to eat, dave?" "when we've done, lads." "but haven't we done? no birds will come to-day." dave did not answer, only smiled very faintly; and it seemed as if the lad was right, for the sky and water grew more grey, and though the stuffed birds appeared to be diligently feeding, and those which were tethered hopped about and fluttered their wings, while the two free ones ran here and there, flew away and returned, as if exceedingly mystified at the state of affairs on that long, narrow strip of land, dave's calls seemed to be as vain as the snares he had made. "i wonder whether these birds break their shins in running over the meshes of the net!" said dick after a long yawn. "oh, i say, dave, there's no fun in this; let's go!" "hist! pee-eugh, pee-eugh!" whistled dave loudly, and then in quite a low tone that sounded distant, and this he kept up incessantly and with a strange ventriloquial effect. the boys were all excitement now, for they grasped at once the cause of their companion's rapid change of manner. for there in the distance, coming down with the wind in scattered flight and as if labouring heavily to keep themselves up, appeared a flock of lapwings pretty well a hundred strong. "hooray! at last, tom!" cried dick. "will they come and settle on the net, dave?" "not a bird of 'em if thou keeps up that ruck," whispered the man excitedly. the next minute he was imitating the cry of the peewit, and it was answered from the distance by the birds coming along, while the two stragglers which had been hanging about so long now rose up, circled round, and settled again. "look at them!" whispered dick. "lie low, tom; they're coming." both lads were on the tiptoe of expectation, but it seemed as if they were to be disappointed, for the flock came on slowly, uttering its querulous cries, and circled round as if to pass over, but they were evidently still attracted by the decoy-birds, and hesitated and flew to and fro. "oh, if they don't light now!" said dick to himself. "they're going," he sighed half aloud, and then he seized tom's arm in his excitement, and gripped it so hard that the boy nearly cried out, and would have done so but for the state of eagerness he too was in. for after farther signs of hesitation and doubt, all of which were in favour of the flock going right away, one of them seemed to give a regular tumble over in the air, as if it were shot, and alighted. another followed, and another, and another, till, to the intense excitement of the occupants of the boat among the reeds, the long, low spit of gravel, almost level with the water, became alive with birds running here and there. it was on dick's lips to cry, "now, dave, pull!" but he could not speak, only watch the thin, keen, yellow man, whose eye glittered beneath his rough hairy cap as he slowly tightened the line, drawing it up till it was above the surface of the water, which began to ripple and play about it in long waves running off in different directions. there was so great a length that it was impossible to draw it tight without moving the spreader poles; and as the lads both thought of what the consequences would be if the line broke, the movement at the ends of the long net spread the alarm. there was a curious effect caused by the spreading of the wings of the birds, and the whole island seemed to be slowly rising in the air; but at that moment the water hissed from the punt right away to where the flock was taking flight, and as the line tightened, a long filmy wave seemed to curve over towards them. by one rapid practice-learned drag, the net was snatched over and fell on to the water, while a great flock of green plovers took flight in alarm and went flapping over reed-bed and mere. "oh, what a pity!" cried dick, jumping up in the boat and stamping his foot with rage. "and so near, too!" cried tom. "sit down, lads," roared dave, who was dragging the pole out of the ground, and the next moment he was thrusting the light boat along over the intervening space, and the more readily that the bottom there was only three or four feet below the surface, and for the most part firm. "why, have you caught some?" cried dick. the answer was given in front, for it was evident that the net had entangled several of the unfortunate birds, which were flapping the water and struggling vainly to get through the meshes, but drowning themselves in the effort. the scene increased in excitement as the boat neared, for the birds renewed their struggles to escape, and the decoys tethered on the island to their pegs leaped and fluttered. in an incredibly short time the skilful puntsman had his boat alongside the net, and then began the final struggle. it was a vain one, for one by one the plovers were dragged from beneath and thrust into a large basket, till the net lay half-sunk beneath the surface, and the feeble flapping of a wing or two was all that could be heard. the boat was dripping with water and specked with wet feathers, and a solitary straggler of the plover flock flew to and fro screaming as if reproaching the murderers of its companions; otherwise all was still as dave stood up and grinned, and showed his yellow teeth. "there!" he cried triumphantly; "yow didn't expect such a treat as that!" "treat!" said dick, looking at his wet hands and picking some feathers from his vest, for he and tom after the first minute had plunged excitedly into the bird slaughter and dragged many a luckless bird out of the net. "ay, lad, treat!--why, there's nigh upon fourscore, i know." dick's features had a peculiar look of disgust upon them and his brow wrinkled up. "seems so precious cruel," he said. dave, who was rapidly freeing his decoy-birds and transferring them to the cage, stood up with a fluttering plover in one hand. "cruel!" he cried. "yes, and treacherous," replied dick. "deal more cruel for me to be found starved to death in my place some day," said dave. "pie-wipes eats the beedles and wains, don't they? well, we eats the pie-wipes, or sells 'em, and buys flour and bacon. get out wi' ye! cruel! yow don't like piewipe pie!" "i did, and roast piewipe too," cried dick; "but i don't think i shall ever eat any again." "hark at him!" cried dave, going on rapidly with his task and packing up his stuffed birds neatly in their basket, drawing out his pegs, and then rolling up and wringing the wet net before placing it in the punt, and winding in the dripping line which he drew through the water from the reed-bed. "hark at him, young tom tallington!"--and he uttered now a peculiarly ugly harsh laugh--"young squire ar'n't going to eat any more bacon, 'cause it's cruel to kill the pigs; nor no eels, because they has to be caught; and he wean't catch no more jacks, nor eel-pouts, nor yet eat any rabbud-pie! ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!" "look here, dave!" cried dick passionately, "if you laugh at me i'll shy something at you! no, i won't," he shouted, seizing the cage; "i'll drown all your decoys!" "ay, do!" said dave, beginning to use the pole. "you're such a particular young gentleman! only, wouldn't it be cruel?" "ha--ha--ha!" laughed tom. "do you want me to punch your head, tom?" roared dick, turning scarlet. "nay, lads, don't spyle a nice bit o' sport by quarrelling," said dave, sending the boat rapidly homeward. "i wean't laugh at you no more, mester dick. i like you for it, lad. it do seem cruel; and sometimes when i weer younger, and a bud looked up at me with its pretty eyes, as much as to say, `don't kill me!' i would let it go." "ah!" ejaculated dick with a sigh of relief. "but what did that bud do, lad? if it was a piewipe, go and kill hundreds o' worms, and snails, and young frogs; if it was a heron, spear fish and pick the wriggling young eels out of the mud. no, lad, it wean't do; buds is the cruellest things there is, pretty as they are-- all except them as only eats seeds. everything 'most is cruel; but if they wasn't the world would get so full that everything would starve. we've got say fourscore pie-wipes--not for fun, but for wittles--and what's fourscore when there's thousands upon thousands all about?" "why, dave, you're a philosopher!" said dick, who felt relieved. "yes," said dave complacently, but with a very foggy idea of the meaning of the word; "it's being out so much upon the water. now, there's a nice couple o' ducks swimming just the other side o' them reeds, as a lad might hit just as they rose from the water when we come round the corner; and i'd say hev a shot at 'em, mester dick--on'y, if i did, it would hurt your feelings." dick was silent for a moment or two as he tried to keep down his human nature. then he spoke out: "i beg your pardon, dave, after what you did for us. may i take up the gun?" "ay. steady, lad!--keep her head over the stem, and i'll turn the boat round and send you along gently. now you lie down on your chesty and rest the barr'l on the net, for she's too heavy for you to handle. then wait till the ducks rise, and let go at 'em." there was another interval full of excitement; the punt was sent quietly toward the end of the reed-bed; and in obedience to his instructions dick knelt ready to fire--tom watching him enviously, and wishing it were his turn. nearer, nearer, with the punt allowed to go on now by the force of the last thrust given to it, till the last patch of reed was cleared; and there, not twenty yards away, swam a fine shieldrake and four ducks. as the punt glided into sight there was a splashing and whirring of wings, a great outcry, and away went the birds. "now, lad!" cried dave; and the gun was fired with a deafening report. but no feathers flew--no unfortunate duck or drake dropped, broken-winged, into the water. the only living being injured was dick, who sat up rubbing his shoulder softly. "i say," he said, "how that gun kicks!" "yes," said dave dryly, "i put a big charge in her, my lad; but it was a pity to waste it." "i couldn't help missing," said dick. "they were so quick." "nay, you wouldn't try to hit 'em, lad, because you thought you'd hot 'em," said dave, chuckling; and tom laughed, while dick sat and nursed the gun in silence, till the punt was poled ashore and its contents landed. "now," said dave, "i've got a rabbud-pie as i made mysen. come and hev a bit, lads; and then you shall take home a dozen pie-wipes apiece. it'll be moonlight, and i'll soon punt you across." that pie, in spite of the rough surroundings, was delicious; and dick forgot to pity the poor rabbits, and he did not refuse to take his dozen lapwings home for a welcome addition to the next day's dinner. "you see, tom," he whispered, "i think i was a little too particular. good-night, dave, and thank you!" he shouted. "good-night, lads--good-night!" came off the water. then there was a splash of the pole, and dave disappeared in the moonlit mist which silvered the reeds, while the boys trudged the rest of their way home. chapter eight. the drain progresses. the number of workers increased at the sea-bank, quite a colony growing up, and dick paid several visits to the place with his father to see how busily the men were delving, while others built up what was termed a _gowt_--a flood-gate arrangement for keeping out the sea at high water, and opening it at low, so as to give egress to the drain-water collected from the fen-land. both lads were eager enough to be there to witness the progress of the works at first; but after going again and again, they voted the whole thing to be uninteresting, and no more worth seeing than the digging of one of the ditches on the farms at home. and certainly there was no more difference than in the fact that the ditches at home were five or six feet wide, while the one the adventurers were having cut through the fen-land would be forty feet, and proportionately deep. so the big drain progressed foot by foot, creeping on as it were from the sea-shore, an innocent-looking channel that seemed valueless, but which would, when finished, rid the land of its stagnant water, and turn the boggy, peaty soil of the fen into rich pasture and corn-land, whereas its finest produce now was wild-fowl and a harvest of reeds. "we're getting on, neighbour," said the squire to farmer tallington one evening. "ay, but it's slow work," said tom's father. "it'll be years before that lode is cooten." "yes, it will be years before it is finished," said the squire, "certainly." "then, what's the good of us putting our money in it, eh? it'll do us no good, and be robbing our boys." "then why don't you leave off, father?" said tom stoutly. "dick winthorpe and i don't want the fen to be drained, and we don't want to be robbed. do we, dick?" the two elders laughed heartily, and the squire was silent for a few minutes before he began to speak. "the drain's right, neighbour," he said gravely. "perhaps you and i will reap no great benefit from it; though, if we live, we shall; but instead of leaving to our boys, when they take up our work, neighbour, either because we are called away to our rest or because we have grown old, these farms with so much good land and so much watery bog, we shall leave them acre upon acre of good solid land, that has been useless to us, but which will bear them crops and feed their beasts." "yes," said farmer tallington, "there's something in that, but--" "come, neighbour, look ahead. every foot that drain comes into the fen it will lower the level, and we shall see--and before long--our farm land grow, and the water sink." "ye-es; but it's so like working for other people!" "well," said the squire laughing, "what have you been doing in that half acre of close beside your house?" "that! oh, only planted it with pear-trees so as to make a bit of an orchard!" "are you going to pick a crop of pears next year, neighbour?" "next year! bah! they'll be ten years before they come well into bearing." [this was the case with the old-fashioned grafting.] "so will the acres laid bare by the draining," said the squire smiling, "and i hope we shall live to see our boys eating the bread made from corn grown on that patch of water and reeds, along with the pears from your trees." "that's a clincher," said the farmer. "you've coot the ground from under me, neighbour, and i wean't grudge the money any more." "i wish father wouldn't say _coot_ and _wean't_!" whispered tom, whose school teaching made some of the homely expressions and bits of dialect of the fen-land jar. "why not? what does it matter?" said dick, who was busy twisting the long hairs from a sorrel nag's tail into a fishing-line. "sounds so broad. remember how the doctor switched bob robinson for saying he'd been _agate_ early." "yes, i recollect," said dick, tying a knot to keep the hairs from untwisting; "and father said he ought to have been ashamed of himself, for _agate_ was good old saxon, and so were all the words our people use down here in the fen. i say, what are they talking about now?" "well, for my part," said the squire rather hotly, in reply to some communication his visitor had made, "so long as i feel that i'm doing what is right, no threats shall ever stop me from going forward." "but they seem to think it arn't right," said the farmer. "those in the fen say it will ruin them." "ruin! nonsense!" cried the squire. "they'll have plenty of good land to grow potatoes, and oats, instead of water, which produces them a precarious living from wild-fowl and fish, and ruins no end of them with rheumatism and fever." "yes, but--" "but what, man? the fen-men who don't cultivate the soil are very few compared to those who do, and the case is this. the fen-land is growing about here, and good land being swallowed up by the water. five acres of my farm, which used to be firm and dry, have in my time become water-logged and useless. now, are the few to give way to the many, or the many to give way to the few?" "well, squire, the few think we ought to give way to them." "then we will not," said the squire hotly; "and if they don't know what's for their good, they must be taught. you know how they will stick to old things and refuse to see how they can be improved." "ay, it's their nature, i suppose. all i want is peace and quietness." "and you'll have it. let them threaten. the law is on our side. they will not dare." "i don't know," said farmer tallington, scratching his head as they walked out into the home close. "you see, squire, it wean't be open enemies we shall have to fear--" "the winthorpes never feared their enemies since they settled in these parts in the days of king alfred," said dick grandly. "hear, hear, dick!" cried his father, laughing. "no more did the tallingtons," said tom, plucking up, so as not to be behindhand. "nay, tom, my lad," said the farmer, "tallingtons was never fighting men. well, squire, i thought i'd warn you." "of course, of course, neighbour. but look here, whoever sent you that cowardly bit of scribble thought that because you lived out here in this lonely place you would be easily frightened. look here," he continued, taking a scrap of dirty paper out of his old pocket-book; "that bit of rubbish was stuck on one of the tines of a hay-fork, and the shaft driven into the ground in front of my door. i said nothing about it to you, but you see i've been threatened too." he handed the paper to farmer tallington, who read it slowly and passed it back. "same man writ both, i should say." "so should i--a rascal!" said the squire. "here, dick, don't say a word to your mother; it may alarm her." "no, father, i sha'n't say anything; but--" "but what? speak out." "may i read it--and tom?" he added, for he saw his companion's eager looks. "well, yes, you've heard what we've been talking about--what neighbour tallington came over for." "yes, father," said dick, taking the piece of paper, and feeling very serious, since he knew that it contained a threat. but as soon as he grasped its contents--looking at them as a well-educated lad for his days, fresh from the big town grammar-school--he slapped his thigh with one hand, and burst into a roar of laughter, while his father looked on with a grim smile. "what is it, dick?" cried tom eagerly. "here's a game!" cried dick. "just look!" there was not much on the paper, and that was written in a clumsy printing-letter fashion, beneath a rough sketch, and with another to finish. "why, here's a hollow turnip and two sticks!" cried dick aloud; "and-- and what is it, tom?" `stope the dyke or yow hev dighe' "stop the dyke or you'll have to dig," said tom eagerly. "you'll have to dig! does he mean dig the ditch?" "no!" roared dick; "that's the way he spells die, and that long square thing's meant for a coffin." "yes, dick, and that's the spirit in which to take such a cowardly threat--laugh at it," said the squire, replacing the letter in his pocket-book. "i only wish i knew who sent it. who's this coming?" "why, it's dave!" cried tom eagerly, as the man came slowly along one of the winding lanes of water in his punt. "oh, yes, i remember!" said the squire; "he was here yesterday and said he would come and fetch you, dick, if you liked to go, over to the decoy." "and you never said a word about it, father! here, come along, tom." the latter glanced at his father, but read consent in his eyes, and the two lads dashed off together. "seems to be letting him idle a deal," said farmer tallington thoughtfully. "not it," said the squire. "they're both very young and growing. let them enjoy themselves and grow strong and hearty. they've had a long turn at school, and all this will do them good." "ay, it'll mak 'em grow strong and lusty if it does nowt else," said the farmer. "and as to the big drain," said the squire; "we're farmers, neighbour, even if i do work my land as much for pleasure as for profit." "ay, but what's that to do with it?" "this," said the squire, smiling; "a man who puts his hand to the plough should not look back." "that's true," said farmer tallington; "but when he gets a letter to say some one's going to kill him, and draws coffins on the paper, it's enough to mak' him look back." "it's all stuff, neighbour! treat it as i do--with contempt." "ah! you see you're a gentleman, squire, and a bit of a scholar, and i'm only a plain man." "a good neighbour and a true englishman, tallington; and i'm glad my son has so good and frank a companion as your boy. there, take my advice: treat all this opposition with contempt." "theer's my hand, squire," said farmer tallington. "you nivver gave me a bad bit of advice yet, and i'll stick to what you say--but on one condition." "what's that?" said the squire, smiling. "you'll let me grumble now and then." long before farmer tallington had parted from the squire at the beginning of the rough track which led from the priory to grimsey, dick and tom were down by the water's edge waiting for dave, who came up with a dry-looking smile upon his face--a smile which looked as if it were the withered remains of a last year's laugh. "how are you, dave?" cried dick. "we only just knew you were coming. are there plenty of ducks?" "mebbe. few like," said dave in the slow way of a man who seldom speaks. "_wuph_! _wuph_!" came from the boat. "what! chip, boy! how are you?" cried dick, patting the dog, which seemed to go half mad with delight at having someone to make a fuss over him, and then rushed to tom to collect a few more friendly pats and words. "shall we get in, dave?" cried tom. "get in, lad! why, what for?" "now, dave, don't go on like that," cried dick impatiently. "let's get on, there's a good fellow. i do want to see you work the decoy." "oh, you don't care for that! 'sides, i want to go to hickathrift's to see his dunky pigs." "nonsense! what do you want to see the dunks for?" "thinking o' keeping a pig o' my own out thar, lads. it's rayther lonesome at times; and," he added quite seriously, "a pig would be company." the boys looked at one another and smothered a laugh for fear of giving offence. "what, with a place like a jolly island all to yourself, where you live like a robinson crusoe and can keep tame magpies and anything you like, and your boat, and your dog, and eel-spear?" "and nets," put in tom. "and fishing-lines," said dick. "and gun," said tom. "ay, lads," said dave gravely; "seems aw reight to you, but it be lonesome sometimes when the bootherboomps get running out o' the reeds in the dark evenings and then go sailing high up and round and round." "oh, i should like that!" said dick. "nay, lad, yow wouldn't. it would scar yow. then o' soft warm nights sometimes the frogs begins, and they go on crying and piping all round you for hours." "pooh!" said tom; "who'd mind a few frogs?" "and then o' still nights theer's the will o' the wipses going about and dancing over the holes in the bog." "i say, dave, what is a will o' the wisp really like?" "what! heven't you niver seen one, lad?" said dave, as he seated himself on the edge of the boat. "no; you see we've always been away at school. i can remember one of our men--diggles it was--pointing out one on a dark night when i was quite young, and i saw some kind of light, and i was such a little fellow then that i ran in--frightened." "ay, they do frecken folk," said dave, putting a piece of brown gum in his mouth; "only you must be careful which way you run or you may go right into the bog and be smothered, and that's what the wills like." "like! why, they're only lights," said tom. "they'm seem to you like lights, but they be kind o' spirits," said dave solemnly; "and they wants you to be spirits, too, and come and play with 'em, i s'pose." "but, dave, never mind the will o' the wisps. come on to the 'coy." "nay, it's no use to go there; the nets that goes over the pipes has been charmed [gnawed] by the rats." "yes, i know," cried dick, laughing; "and you've put all new ones. i heard you tell father so, and he paid you ever so much money. he's only playing with us, tom." dave laughed like a watchman's rattle, whose wooden spring had grown very weak. "look here, dave, now no nonsense! want some more powder?" "nay, i don't want no poother," said dave. "do you want some lead to melt down? i'll give you a big lump." "nay, i don't want no poother, and i don't want no lead," said dave in an ill-used tone. "i can buy what i want." "he does want it, dick." "nay, i don't, lad; and things a man do want nobody asks him to hev." "why, what do you want, dave?" "oh, nowt! i don't want nowt. but there is times when a man's a bit ill out there in the fen, and he gets thinking as a drop o' sperrits 'd do him good. but i d'n know." "all right, dave! i won't forget," said dick. "jump in, tom." "nay, what's the good?" said dave. "all right, tom! he's going to take us to the 'coy." tom followed his companion into the boat, the dog leaped in after them, whining with pleasure; and shaking his head and talking to himself, dave followed, seized the pole, giving a grunt at dick, who wanted to preside over the locomotion, and then, with a tremendous thrust, he sent the punt surging through the water. "nay, i'll pole," he said. "get us over sooner, and we can begin work." dick exchanged glances with his companion, and they sat playing with the dog and watching the birds that rose from the reeds or swept by in little flocks in the distance, till, after about half an hour's poling, dave ran the boat into a narrow lane among the uncut reeds, after a warning to be quite still, which the lads observed and the dog understood, going forward and crouching down in front of his master, with his eyes glittering and ears quivering with the intense way in which he was listening. the way through the reeds was long, and in spite of the stealthy way in which the boat was propelled, several birds were startled, and flew up quacking loudly, and went away. at last, though, they emerged from the dry growth into a little open pool, and crossing this, landed by a low house thatched with reeds and hidden in a thick grove of alders. "now, lads," said dave in a whisper, "not a word. stay here while i go and look. i wean't be long." he secured the boat to a stump of wood, and landed, leaving the lads seated in the punt, and gazing about them. but there was very little to see, for, save in the direction of the patch of reeds through which they had passed, there was a low dense growth of alders and willows running up to the height of twelve or fifteen feet; and it was beyond this that the sport was to be had. they had not very long to wait before dave returned, with chip the piper at his heels--not that the dog had any musical gifts, but that he was clever in doing certain duties in connection with a pipe, as will be seen, and to perform these adequately utter silence was required. dave seemed quite transformed. his yellow face, instead of being dull and heavy, was full of anxious lines, his eyes twinkled, his mouth twitched and worked, and his brown wiry hands were fidgeting about his chin. as he came up he held a finger in the air to command silence, and with stooping body and quick alert way he paused till he was close to the boys, and then whispered: "you couldn't hev come better, lads; there's a boat load of 'em in the pond." "what sort?" whispered dick excitedly. "all sorts, lad: widgeons, teal, mallards, and some pochards. only mind, if you say a word aloud, or let that theer dog bark, we sha'n't get a duck." dick clapped his hand over his mouth, as if to ensure silence, and tom compressed his lips. "come along, then, boys, and i'll set yow wheer yow can look through a hole in one o' the screens and see all the fun." "but can't we help, dave?" asked tom. "help, lad! no, not till the ducks are in the net. then you may. now, not a word, and come on." dave led the way to the little house, where he filled his pockets with barley and oats mixed, out of a rough box, and as he did so he pointed to one corner which had been gnawed. "been charming of it," he whispered. "eats! now come, quiet-like;" and he stepped out and into a narrow path leading through the dense alder wood, and in and out over patches of soft earth which quivered and felt like sponges beneath their feet. dave glanced back at them sharply two or three times when a rustling sound was made, and signed to them to be careful. then once he stopped in a wider opening and tossed up a feather or two, as if to make sure of the way the wind blew. apparently satisfied, he bent towards the two lads and whispered: "i'm going to the second pipe. come quiet. not a word, and when i mak' room for you, peep through the screen for a minute, and then come away." the boys nodded, and followed in silence through a part of the alder wood which was not quite so dense, for here and there patches of tall reeds had grown out of a watery bed, and now stood up seven or eight feet high and dry and brown. then all at once dave stopped and looked back at them with a sly kind of grin upon his face, as he pointed down to a strong net stretched loosely over some half hoops of ash, whose ends were stuck down tightly in the soft ground so as to form a tunnel about two feet wide. this was over the soft earth, upon which lay the end of the net, tied round with a piece of cord. a few yards farther on, however, this first net was joined to another, and the tunnel of network was arched over a narrow ditch full of water, and this ditch gradually increased in width as the man led on, and ran in a curve, along whose outer or convex side they were proceeding. before long, as the bent-over willows spanned the ditch or "pipe," as it was called, the net ceased to come down quite to the ground, its place being occupied by screens made of reeds and stakes, and all so placed that there was room to go round them. the boys now noted that the dog was following close behind in a way as furtive as his master, and apparently quite as much interested as he in what was to take place. the water ditch increased in width rapidly now till the net tunnel became six feet, twelve feet, twenty feet, and, close to the mouth, twenty-four feet wide, while the light ash-poles, bent over and tied in the middle, were quite twelve feet above the water. they were now near the mouth of the curved ditch, whose narrow portion bent round quite out of sight among the trees, while at a signal from dave they went to a broad reed screen in front, and gazed through an opening, to see stretching out before them, calm and smooth beneath the soft grey wintry sky, a large pool of about a couple of acres in extent, surrounded by closely growing trees similar to those through which they had passed, while at stated intervals were openings similar to that by which they stood, in all five in number, making a rough star whose arms or points were ditches or pipes some five-and-twenty feet wide, and curving off, to end, as above told, sixty or seventy yards from the mouth, only two feet wide, and covered right along with net. all this was well-known to them before, and they hardly gave it a second glance. what took their attention were some half dozen flocks of water-fowl seated calmly on the smooth surface of the pool and a couple of herons standing in the shallow water on the other side, one so hitched up that he seemed to have no neck, the other at his full height, and with bill poised ready to dart down at some unfortunate fish. here and there a moor-hen or two swam quietly about flicking its black-barred white tail. there were some coots by a bed of reeds, and a couple of divers, one of which disappeared from time to time in the most business-like manner, and came up at the end of a long line of bubbles many yards away. nearest to them was a large flock of quite a hundred ordinary wild ducks, for the most part asleep, while the others sat motionless upon the water or swam idly about, all waiting patiently in the secluded pool, which seemed to them a sanctuary, for nightfall, when slugs and snails would be out and other things in motion, ready to supply them with a banquet on some of their far-off feeding grounds. the drakes were already distinct enough from the sober-feathered ducks, but the former were not in their spring plumage, when they would put on their brightest colours and their heads glisten in green and gold. away to the left were a number of flat-looking squatty-shaped pochards with their brown heads and soft grey backs, while to the right were plenty of widgeons and another little flock of teal, those pretty miniature ducks, with here and there a rarer specimen, among which were pintails, drakes with the centre feathers of the tail produced like those of a parroquet. the lads could have stopped for an hour gazing at the manners and customs of the wild-fowl dotting the lake in happy unconsciousness of the enemies so near; but, just as dick had fixed his eyes upon a solitary group of about a couple of dozen ducks nearly across the pond, he felt a tug behind him, and turning, there was dave signing to him to come away. dave made the lads follow him till he could place them in among the trees with a tuft of reeds before them, which proved sufficient screen and yet gave them a view of part of the pool, and the entrance to the pipe upon whose bank they had been standing. "now, look here, bairns," he whispered; "if you move or says a word, there'll be no ducks." the lads nodded and crouched in their places, while dave disappeared behind them, but appeared again close to the screen of reed which hid him from the birds in the pool. matters were so exciting now as the watchers looked on that dick relieved his feelings by pinching tom's leg, and then holding up his fist, as if in promise of what was to follow if he made a sound. meanwhile, with chip close at his heels, dave went to the farthest screen and peered through the opening, and after satisfying himself they saw him thrust one hand into his pocket and make a sign to chip, while almost simultaneously he scattered a handful of the oats and barley right over the water, the grain falling through the meshes of the outspread net. just then chip, in the most quiet matter-of-fact way, made his appearance on the fore-shore of the pool, and, without barking or taking notice of the ducks, trotted slowly along toward the entrance to the pipe, leaped over a low piece of wood, and disappeared from sight to join his master behind the screen, when the dog was rewarded for what he had done with a piece of cheese. the coming of the dog, however, had created quite a commotion upon the lake, for the knot of two dozen ducks on the other side no sooner caught sight of him than, uttering a prodigious quacking, they came swimming and half flying as rapidly as they could toward the mouth of the pipe, to begin feeding upon the oats scattered upon the water. "look at the decoy-ducks," whispered dick, and then he watched in silence, for these two dozen were regularly fed wild-fowl which had become so far half tame that, knowing the appearance of the dog to be associated with corn and other seeds at the mouth of the pipe, they came at once. this was too much for the strangers, which followed them, mingled with them, and began to feed as well. dave was at this time behind the second screen waiting for chip, who showed himself for a moment or two at the edge of the long water ditch, trotted on towards the second screen, leaped over a low wood bar at the end, and joined his master, to receive a second piece of cheese. that white dog was a wonder to the wild ducks, which left off eating directly and began to swim slowly and cautiously up the netted tunnel to try and find out what he was doing. had chip stopped and looked at them, and barked, they would all have taken flight, but the dog was too well taught. he was a piper of the highest quality, and knew his business, which was to show himself for a short time and then trot on to the next screen and leap over and disappear just as if he were engaged in some mysterious business of his own. this was too much for the ducks, which cackled and bobbed their heads up and down and swam on, moved by an intense curiosity to find out what was chip's particular game. but chip's proceedings were stale to the decoy-ducks, who had seen him so often that they cared nothing, but stopped behind to partake of the food, while quite a hundred followed their leaders up the pipe in happy ignorance of the meaning of a net. what was more, the decoy-ducks often found food at the mouths of the pipes when their wild relatives were off feeding, and hence they troubled themselves no more. all that was impressed upon their small brains was that the appearance of chip meant food, and they stayed behind to feed. chip was invisible eating a piece of cheese. then he appeared again higher up, trotted on, leaped over the low wood bar, and joined his master for more cheese. and so it went on, dave going higher and higher from screen to screen, and the dog slowly following and alternately appearing to and disappearing from the sight of the ducks, which never of course caught sight of dave, who was too well hidden behind the screens. at last they were lured on and on so far by the dog that they were where the ditch began to bend round more sharply and the pipe was narrowing. this was the time for a fresh proceeding. dave had gone on right up to the farthest screen, and suddenly dived into a narrow path through the trees which led him, quite concealed from view, round and back to the first screen. he passed the boys, making them a sign to be silent, and then went right round that first screen just as chip was appearing far up by the side of the pipe--and the flock of ducks were following--and quickly now showed himself at the mouth of the trap. the ducks saw him instantly, and there was a slight commotion as he took off and held up his hat; but there was no attempt at flight, the birds merely swam on rapidly farther toward the end and disappeared round the curve. dave went quickly on past a screen or two and showed himself again, the curve of the pipe bringing him once more into view. he held up his hat and the ducks swam on, out of sight once more. this was continued again and again, till the ducks were driven by degrees from where the ditch and its arching of net decreased from eight feet wide to six feet, to four feet, to two feet, and the flock was huddled together, and safe in the trap that had been prepared for them. all at once, while the two lads were watching all these proceedings, dave came into sight for a moment and waved his hand for them to come, but signed to them at the same time to be quiet. it was as well that he did, for otherwise they would have uttered a shout of triumph. "we've got 'em, lads," he said, with his yellow face puckered up with satisfaction; "but don't make a noise. i like to keep the 'coy quiet. come along!" "is there any fear of their getting away now, dave?" whispered dick as he followed. "yes, to market," said dave grimly. as they neared the end of the pipe there was a loud cackling and fluttering heard, and the ducks were disposed to make a rush back, but the sight of the man sent them all onward once more to the end of the pipe, where they were driven to leave the water for the dry land, over which the net was spread for the last few yards, forming a gigantic purse or stocking. and now a tremendous fluttering and excitement ensued, for as, in obedience to their leader's sign, the lads stopped once more, dave stepped forward rapidly, detached the final portion of the net which formed the bag or purse from the bent-over ash stick, and twisted it together and tied it round, with the result that the birds were all shut up in the long purse and at his mercy. just then chip performed a kind of triumphal dance, and leaped up at dick and again at tom before becoming quiescent, and looking up at all in turn, giving his little stumpy tail a few wags, while his whole aspect seemed to say: "didn't we do that well?" "that's a fine take, my lads," said dave in congratulatory tones. "yes," said dick, looking down at the frightened birds scuffling over each other; "but--" "nay! don't, man, say that!" cried dave. "i know, my lad. but wild duck's good to yeat; and they've got to be killed and go to market. yow wanted to see me ketch the duck, and theer they are. going to help me kill 'em?" "no!" cried dick in a voice full of disgust. but he helped carry the capture to the boat after the slaying was at an end and the empty short net replaced, ready distended at the end of the tunnel or pipe. "there we are!" said dave. "ready for another flock?" "and are you going to try for another in one of the pipes over the other side?" "nay, not to-day, my lad," was the reply. "the 'coy-ducks wean't be hungry and come for their food, so we'll wait for another time." "don't the 'coy-ducks ever go right away, dave?" asked tom, as the boat was being quietly poled back. "sometimes; but not often, and if they do some others taks their places, and stops. they get fed reg'lar, and that's what a duck likes. good uns to eat, ducks. they mak' nests and bring off broods of young ones, and keep to the pool year after year, and seem to know me a bit; but if chip here went barking among 'em, or i was to go shooting, they'd soon be driven away." "but do they know that they are leading the wild ducks into the pipe?" said dick eagerly. "_not_ they. ducks can't think like you and me. they come to be fed, and the others follow 'em, and then get thinking about chip and follow him." "does chip know?" said tom. "ask him," said dave, laughing in his grim, silent way. "i think he doos, but he never said so. hello!" they were passing the edge of a great bed of reeds, and rounding a corner, when they came in sight of three or four teal, and no sooner did the birds catch sight of them than they began to scurry along the water preparatory to taking flight, but all at once there was a rush and a splash, and the party in the boat saw a huge fish half throw itself out of the water, fall back, and disappear. "he caught him," said dave grimly. "you see, lad, other things 'sides me ketches the ducks." "a great pike!" cried dick, standing up to try and catch sight of the tyrant of the waters. "ay! one as likes duck for dinner. he'll eat him without picking his feathers off." "wasn't it a very big one, dave?" cried tom. "ay, lad, a thirty-pounder like enew," said dave, working his pole. "dave, shall you know this place again?" cried dick. "should i know my own hand!" "then let's come over and try for that fellow to-morrow or next day." "right, lad! i'll come. we'll set some liggers, and i dessay we can get hold of him. if we can't theer's plenty more." "to-morrow, dave?" "nay, i shall be getting off my ducks. two hundred wants some seeing to." "next day, then?" "say saturday, my lads. that'll give me time to get a few baits." so saturday was appointed for the day with the pike, and the ducks and the boys were duly landed, the latter to go homeward with four couples each, and dick with strict orders to ask the squire whether he wanted any more, before they were sent off in hickathrift's car to the town. chapter nine. dick is called early. it was friday night. dick had been over with the squire and two or three gentlemen interested in the great drain, to see how it progressed; and the lad had found the young engineer in charge of the works ready to ask him plenty of questions, such as one who had a keen love of the natural objects of the country would be likely to put. the result was that squire winthorpe invited him over to the old priory to come and make a fishing, shooting, or collecting trip whenever he liked. "you are very hospitable, mr winthorpe," he said. "oh, nonsense! shame if we who bring you people down from london to do us good here in the fens, could not be a little civil." this was after the inspection was over, the young engineer at liberty, and he was walking part of the way back with dick. "well, i must frankly say, mr--ought i to say squire winthorpe?" "no, no, mr marston," was the laughing reply, "i am only a plain farmer. it is the fashion down here to call a man with a few acres of his own a squire. i'm squire, you see, of a lot of bog." "which we shall make good land, mr winthorpe," said the engineer. "but i was going to say it will be a treat to come over from my lonely lodgings to some one who will make me welcome, for i must say the common people here are rather ill-disposed." "only snarling," said the squire. "they daren't bite. they don't like any alterations made. take no notice of their surly ways. the soreness will soon wear off. cruel thing to do, mr marston, turn a piece of swamp into a wholesome field!" they both laughed, and soon after parted. "i rather like that young fellow, dick," said the squire. "knows a deal about antiquities. little too old for a companion for you, but people who collect butterflies and nettles and flowers generally mix regardless of age." "do you think the people about will interfere with the works, father?" said dick, as they trudged along homeward. "no, i don't, dick," said the squire. "i should like to catch them at it." dick went to bed that night very tired, and dropped asleep directly, thinking of dave and the expedition to set trimmers, or "liggers" as they called them, and he was soon in imagination afloat upon the lanes and pools of water among the reeds, with dave softly thrusting down his pole in search of hard places, where the point would not sink in. then he dreamed that he had baited hook after hook, attached the line to a blown-out bladder, and sent it sailing away to attract the notice of some sharking pike lurking at the edge of one of the beds of reeds. then he dreamed that the sun was in his eyes as it went down in a rich glow far away over the wide expanse of water and rustling dried reed, where the starlings roosted and came and went in well-marshalled clouds, all moving as if carefully drilled to keep at an exact distance one from the other, ready to wheel and turn or swoop up or down with the greatest exactness in the world. that dreamy imagination passed away, and he became conscious that he was having his morning call, as he termed it, and for which he always prepared when going to bed by pulling up the blind and drawing aside the white curtains, so that the sun who called him should shine right in upon his face. for the sun called dick winthorpe when he shone, and as the lad lay upon his side with his face toward the window the sun seemed to be doing his morning duty so well that dick yawned, stretched, and lay with his eyes closed while the glow of red light flooded his room. "only seem to have just lain down," he grumbled, keeping his eyes more tightly shut than ever. "bother! i wish i wasn't so drowsy when it's time to get up!" at last he opened his eyes, to stare hard at the light, and then with a cry full of excitement, he threw off the clothes and leaped out of bed, to rush to the window. "oh!" he ejaculated; and darting back to the bed-side he hurried on his trousers, opened his door, and the next moment his bare feet padded over the polished oak floor as he made for his father's room and thumped at the door. "father, quick!--father!" "hallo! any one ill?" cried the squire, for thieves and burglars were known only by repute out there in the fen. "tallington's farm's in a blaze!" cried dick, hoarsely. he heard a thump on the floor, a hasty ejaculation from his mother, and then ran back to his own room to finish dressing, gazing out of his window the while, to see that the bright glow about grimsey was increasing, and that a golden cloud seemed to be slowly rising up through the still air. "now, dick!" shouted his father, "run down and rouse up the people at the cottages." dick ran out, and down past the old priory ruins, to where a cluster of cottages, half-way to hickathrift's, were occupied by the people who worked upon the farm; and, distant as the fire was, he could yet see the ruddy glow upon the water before him. half-way there, he heard a shout: "who's there!" it was in a big bluff voice, which dick recognised at once. "that you, hicky? fire! fire!" "ay, my lad, i was coming to rouse up the folk. you go that end, i'll do this. hey! fire! fire!" he battered cottage door after cottage door, dick following his example, with the result that in their alarm the people came hurrying out like bees whose hive has been disturbed by a heavy blow. there was no need to ask questions. every man, while the women began to wail and cry, started for the tallingtons' farm; but they were brought up by a shout from the squire. "what are you going to do, men?" he cried. "the fire!"--"help!"--"water!"--rose in a confused babble. "back, every one of you, and get a bucket!" cried the squire. "you, hickathrift, run into the wood-house and bring an axe." "aw, reight, squire!" cried the wheelwright, and in another minute every man was off at a trot following dick's father, and all armed with a weapon likely to be of service against the enemy which was rapidly conquering the prosperous little farm at grimsey. two miles form a long distance in a case of emergency, and before the party were half-way there they began to grow breathless, and there was a disposition evinced to drop into a walk. one or two of those in advance checked their rate, others followed, and for the next two or three hundred yards the rescuers kept to a foot-pace, breathing heavily the while, and speaking in snatches. "which is it, dick--the house or the great stack?" "i can't see, father," panted the lad; "sometimes it seems one, sometimes both." "stacks, squire, i think," cried hickathrift. "i don't think house is afire yet, but it must catch the thack before long." the faint sound of a dog barking at a distance now reached their ears, but it was evidently not from the direction of the farm, and the squire's thoughts were put into words by dick, who, as he looked on now between his father and the wheelwright, exclaimed in a hoarse voice: "why, father, don't they know that the place is on fire?" "nay, that they don't," cried the wheelwright excitedly. "they're all asleep." "let's run faster," cried dick. "no. we have a long way to go yet," cried the squire, "and if we run faster we shall be too much exhausted to help." "but, father--oh, it is so dreadful!" cried dick, as in imagination he pictured horror after horror. "can you run, dick--faster?" "yes, father, yes." "i can't," panted hickathrift; "i've growed too heavy." "run on, then, and shout and batter the door. we'll get up as quickly as we can." "ay, roon, master dick, roon!" cried the wheelwright. "fire's ketched the thack." dick doubled his fists, drew a long breath, and made a rush, which took him fifty yards in advance. then he trotted on at the same pace as the others; rushed again; and so on at intervals, getting well ahead of the rest. but never, in the many times he had been to and fro, had he so thoroughly realised how rough and awkward was the track, and how long it took to get to grimsey farm. as he ran on, it was with the fire glowing more brightly in his face, and the various objects growing more distinct, while there was something awful in the terrible silence that seemed to prevail, in the midst of which a great body of fire steadily rose, in company with a cloud of smoke, which was spangled with tiny flakes that seemed to be of gold. tree, shed, barn, and chimney-stack, too, seemed to have been turned to the brilliant metal; but to the lad's great relief he saw that the wheelwright was wrong, the "thack" had not caught, and so far the house was safe, though the burning stacks were so near that at any moment the roof of the reed-thatched house might begin to blaze. at last there was a sound--one that might have been going on before, but kept by the distance from reaching dick's ear--a cock crowed loudly, and there was a loud cackling from the barn where the fowls roosted. then came the lowing of a cow; but all was perfectly still at the house, and it seemed astounding that no one should have been alarmed. only another hundred yards or so and the farm would be reached. dick had settled down to a much slower speed. there was a sensation as if the fire that shone in his face had made his breath scorching, so that it burned his chest, while his feet were being weighted with lead. "tom!" he tried to shout as he drew near; but his voice was a hoarse whisper, and it seemed to be drowned by the steady beat of the feet behind upon the road. "tom!" he cried again, but with no better result, as he staggered on by the wide drain which ran right up to the farm buildings from the big pool in the fen where the reeds were cut. and now that full drain and the pool gleamed golden, as if they too were turned to fire, as dick pushed by, realising that the hay-stack, the great seed-stack, and the little stack of oats were blazing together, not furiously, but with the flame rising up in a steady silent manner which was awful. there was a rough piece of stone in the way, against which dick caught his foot and nearly fell; but he saved himself, stooped, and picked up the stone; and as he panted up to the long low red-brick farm, he hurled it through a window on his left, and then fell up against, more than stopped at, the door, against which he beat and kicked with all his might. the crashing in of the leaded pane casement had, however, acted like the key which had unlocked the silent farmstead. tom tallington rushed to the window. "who's--" he would probably have said "that," but he turned his sentence into the cry of "fire! fire!" the alarm spread in an instant. farmer tallington's window was thrown open; and as he realised all, he dashed back, and then the rest of the party came panting up, and hickathrift cried, "stand clear, mester dick!" he threw himself against the door, to burst it open, just as the farmer came down, half carrying his wife wrapped in a blanket, and tom ran out, to dart down to the end of the long low building where a second tenement formed the sleeping-place of the two men and a big lad who worked upon the farm. they were already aroused, and came out hurrying on their clothes, while the squire and hickathrift got out the women, who, with mrs tallington, were hurried into a cart-shed. "why, neighbour, you'd have been burned in your bed!" cried the squire. "now, lads, all of you form line." "she's caught now!" shouted hickathrift, who had been round to the back. "then we must put it out," said the squire, as he busily ranged his men, and those of farmer tallington, so that they reached from the nearest point of the big drain to the corner of the farm, and in a double line, so that full buckets of water could be passed along one and returned empty along the other. "hickathrift, you go and dip." "ay, ay, squire!" roared the great fellow, and he rushed down to the water's edge like a bull, while the squire went to the other end. "neighbour," cried farmer tallington excitedly, "you'll go on, wean't you? i must get in and bring out a few writings and things i'd like to save." "here, tom, let's you and me get out the clothes and things." "yes, and the small bits of furniture, boys," cried the squire. "now, my lads, ready!" there was a general shout from the men, who fell into their places with the promptitude that always follows when they have a good leader. "get all you can out in case," shouted the squire; "but we're going to save the house." "hurrah!" shouted the men as they heard this bold assertion, which the squire supplemented by saying between his teeth, "please god!" "bring up that ladder," cried the squire--"two of them." these were planted against the end of the house, and none too soon, for the corner nearest the burning stacks was beginning to blaze furiously, and the fire steadily running up, while a peculiar popping and crackling began to be heard as the flames attacked the abundant ivy which mounted quite to the chimney-stack. "ho! ho! ho! ho!" came now from the front of the cart-shed in a regular bellowing cry. "what is it, wench--what is it?" cried farmer tallington, as he hurried out of the burning house, laden with valuables, which he handed to his quiet business-like wife. "my best sunday frock! oh, my best sunday frock!" sobbed the red-faced servant lass. "yes, and oh my stacks! and oh my farm!" cried her master, as he ran back into the house after a glance at the squire, who, in the midst of a loud cheering, stood right up with one foot on the ladder, one on the thatched roof, and sent the first bucket of water, with a good spreading movement, as far as he could throw it, and handed back the bucket. the flames hissed and danced, and there was a rush of steam all along the ridge, but the water seemed to be licked up directly. another was dashed on and the bucket passed back, and another, and another; but the effect produced was so little that, after distributing about a dozen which the wheelwright sent along the line, making the men work eagerly, as he plunged the buckets into the drain and brought them dripping out, the squire shouted, "hold hard!" and descended to change the position of the long ladder he was on by dragging out the foot till it was at such an angle that the implement now lay flat upon the thatch, so that anyone could walk right up to the chimney-stack. "now, then!" cried the squire, mounting once more. "we want another flood just now, my lads, but as there isn't one we must make it." "it arn't safe," muttered one of the men. "see theer, lad!" the others needed no telling, as the speaker, who had followed the squire on to the roof so as to be within reach, now felt the flames scorch him, though what he had alluded to was the top of the ladder which was beginning to burn where it lay on the burning thatch, and crackling and blazing out furiously. _whizz-hizz_ rose from the water as the first bucket was thrown with such effect that the ladder ceased to burn, and, undismayed by the smoke and flame that floated towards him, the latter in separated patches with a strange fluttering noise, the squire scattered the water from his advantageous position, and with good effect, though that part of the house was now burning fast, the fire having eaten its way through the thatch into the room below. meanwhile, as the burning stacks made the whole place light as day, dick and tom rushed in and out of the house, bringing everything of value upon which they could lay their hands, to pass their salvage to mrs tallington and the women, who stored them in a heap where they seemed safe from the flames. "look at that, tom!" cried dick, as he paused for a few moments to get breath, and watch his father where he stood high up on the burning roof, like some hero battling with a fiery dragon. "yes, i see," said tom in an ill-used tone. "isn't it grand?" cried dick. "i wish i was up there. don't it make one proud of one's father?" "i don't see any more to be proud of in your father than in mine," said tom stoutly. "your father wouldn't dare to go into that burning house like mine does. see there!" this was as farmer tallington rushed into the house again. dick turned sharply upon his companion. "there isn't time to have it out now, tom," he said in a whisper; "but i mean to punch your head for this, you ungrateful beggar. afraid to go into the house! why, i'm not afraid to do that. come on!" he ran into the house and tom followed, for them both to come out again bearing the old eight-day clock. "its easy, that's what it is," said dick. "hooray, father!" he shouted, "you'll win!" it did not seem as if the squire would win, for though he was gradually being successful in extinguishing the burning thatch, the great waves of fire which came floating from the blazing stacks licked up the moisture and compelled him from time to time to retreat. fortunately, however, the supply of water was ample, and, thanks to the way in which hickathrift dipped the buckets and encouraged the men as he passed them along, the thatch became so saturated that by the time quite a stack had been made of the indoor valuables there seemed to be a chance to leave the steaming roof and attack the burning stacks. this was done, the ladder being left ready in case of the thatch catching fire again; and soon the squire was standing as close as he could get to the nearest stack, and sending in the contents of the buckets. there was no hope of saving this, but every bucket of water promised to keep down the great flashes of fire which floated off and licked at the farm-house roof as they passed slowly on. it was a glorious sight. everything glowed in the golden light, and a fiery snowstorm seemed to be sweeping over the farm buildings, as the excited people worked, each dash of water producing a cloud of steam over which roared up, as it were, a discharge of fireworks. for some time no impression whatever appeared to be made, but no one thought of leaving his position; the squire and those nearest to him were black and covered with perspiration, their faces shining in the brilliant light, and the leader was still emptying the buckets of water, when farmer tallington ran up to him. "let me give you a rest now," he cried. "nay, neighbour, i'll go on." the friendly altercation seemed to be about to result in a struggle for the bucket, when dick, who had been in one of the back rooms, came running out of the house shouting:-- "the stable--the stable is on fire!" this caused a rush in the direction of the long low-thatched building on the other side of the house, one of a range about a yard. there was no false alarm, for the thatch was blazing so furiously, that at a glance the lookers-on saw that the stable and the cart lodge adjoining were doomed. "did any one get out the horses?" roared farmer tallington. there was no answer, and the farmer rushed on up to the burning building through tiny patches of fire where the dry mouldering straw was set alight by the falling flakes. the squire followed him, and, seeing them enter the dark doorway, dick and tom followed. it was a long low building with room for a dozen horses; but only two were there, standing right at the end, where they were haltered to the rough mangers, and snorted and whinnied with fear. each man ran to the head of a horse, and cut the halters, lit by the glow that came through a great hole burned in the thatched roof, from which flakes of fire kept falling, while the smoke curled round and up the walls and beneath the roof in a silent threatening way. it was easy enough to unloose the trembling beasts; but that was all that could be done, for the horses shivered and snorted, and refused to stir. both shouted and dragged at the halters; but the poor beasts seemed to be paralysed with fear; and as the moments glided by, the hole in the roof was being eaten out larger and larger, the great flakes of burning thatch falling faster, and a pile of blazing rafter and straw beginning to cut off retreat from the burning place. "it's of no use," cried farmer tallington, after trying coaxing, main force, and then blows. "the roof will be down directly. run, boys, run!" "you are coming too, father?" cried tom. "yes, and you, father?" cried dick. "yes, my lads; out with you!" "try once more, father," said dick. "the poor old horses!" "yes, but run!" cried the squire. "i must run too. off!" there was a rush made through the burning mass fallen from the roof; and, scorched and half-blind, they reached the door half-blocked by the anxious men. "safe!" cried the farmer. "here: where's squire?" as the words left his mouth there was a fierce snorting and trampling, and those at the door had only just time to draw back, as the two horses dashed frantically out, and then tore off at full gallop across the yard. "winthorpe!" cried farmer tallington. "this way!" "father!" cried dick in an agonised voice, following the farmer into the burning building; but only to be literally carried out by his companion, as they were driven back by a tremendous gush of burning thatch and wood which roared out of the great doorway consequent upon a mass of the roof falling in. as soon as he could recover himself, dick turned to rush in again; but he was checked by hickathrift. "stand back, bairn! art mad?" he cried. "not that way." dick staggered away, and nearly fell from the tremendous thrust given to him by the big wheelwright, and as he regained his equilibrium, it was to see hickathrift with something flashing in his hand, making for the other end of the stable, which was as yet untouched. a few blows from the axe he carried made the rough mud wall collapse, and, without a moment's hesitation hickathrift forced his way through the hole he had broken, and from which a great volume of smoke began to curl. dick would have followed; but tom clung to his arm, and before he could get free, during what seemed to be a terribly long period of suspense, the wheelwright appeared again, and staggered out, bearing the insensible body of the squire. for a few minutes there was a terrible silence, and hickathrift tottered from the man he had left where he had dragged him on the ground. for the wheelwright was blinded and half strangled by the smoke, and reeled like a drunken man. he recovered though, directly, and seized a bucket of water from one of the men. with this he liberally dashed the squire's face, as dick knelt beside him in speechless agony, and grasped his hand. for a few minutes there was no sign. then the prostrate man uttered a low sigh, and opened his eyes. "dick!" he said, as he struggled up. "yes, father. are you much hurt?" "no, only--nearly--suffocated, my boy; but--but--oh, i remember! the horses?" "they're safe, neighbour," cried farmer tallington, taking his hand. "mind the knife!" cried the squire. "i remember now. i was obliged to be very brutal to them to make them stir." he looked down at the small blade of the pocket-knife he held, closed it with a snap, and then stared about him at the people in a vacant confused way. several of the men, led by hickathrift, began to carry pails of water to the burning stable, and this building being so low, they were not long in extinguishing the flames. hardly had they succeeded in this before the shrieks of the women gathered together in a low shed drew their attention to the fact that the roof of the house was once more blazing, and this seemed to rouse the squire again to action, for, in spite of hickathrift wanting to take his place, he insisted upon re-climbing the ladder when the buckets of water were once more passed along till all further danger had ceased, and the farm-house escaped with one room seriously damaged and one side of the thatched roof burned away. the men still plied the buckets on the burning stacks, but only with the idea of keeping the flames within bounds, for there was nothing else to be done. one rick was completely destroyed; the others were fiery cores, which glowed in the darkness, and at every puff of wind sent up a cloud of glittering, golden sparks, whose course had to be watched lest a fresh fire should be started. and now the excitement and confusion died out as the fire sank lower. the women returned to the house, and the men, under the farmer's direction, carried back the household treasures, while mrs tallington, with the common sense of an old-fashioned farmer's wife, spread a good breakfast in the kitchen for the refreshment of all. it was a desolate scene at daybreak upon which all gazed. the half-burned roof of the farm-house, the three smoking heaps where the three stacks had stood, and the stable roofless and blackened, while the place all about the house was muddy with the water and trampling. "yes," said farmer tallington ruefully, "it'll tak' some time to set all this straight; but i've got my house safe, so mustn't complain." "yes; might have been worse," said the squire quietly. "ay, neighbour, i began to think at one time," said farmer tallington, "that it was going to be very much worse, and that i was going to have to bear sad news across to the toft; but we're spared that, squire, and i'm truly thankful. feel better?" "better! oh yes, i am not hurt!" just then dick asked a question: "i say, mr tallington, wasn't it strange that you didn't know of the fire till i came?" "i suppose we were all too soundly asleep, my lad. lucky you saw it, or we might have been burned to death." "but how did the place catch fire?" "ah!" said farmer tallington, "that's just what i should like to know.-- were you out there last night, tom?" he added after a pause. "no, father, i wasn't near the stacks yesterday." "had you been round there at all?" said the squire. "no, not for a day or two, neighbour. it's a puzzler." "it is very strange!" said the squire thoughtfully; and he and farmer tallington looked hard at each other. "you have had no quarrel with your men?" "quarrel! no. got as good labourers as a man could wish for. so have you." "yes, i have," said the squire; "but those stacks could not catch fire by accident. has anybody threatened you?" "no," replied the farmer thoughtfully. "no! say, neighbour--no, they wouldn't do that." the wheelwright had come up, and stood listening to what was said. "what do you mean?" said the squire. "oh! nothing. 'tisn't fair to think such things." "never mind! speak out, man, speak out!" "well, i was wondering whether some one had done this, just as a hint that we were giving offence by joining in the drain business." "no, no!" cried the squire indignantly. "people may grumble and be dissatisfied; but, thank heaven, we haven't any one in these parts bad enough to do such a thing as that, eh, hickathrift?" "i dunno 'bout bad enew," said the big wheelwright; "but strikes me farmer tallington's right. that stack couldn't set itself afire, and get bont up wi'out some one striking a light!" "no, no!" said the squire. "i will not think such a thing of any neighbour for twenty miles round. now, mr tallington, come over to my place and have a comfortable meal; mrs tallington will come too." "nay, we'll stop and try to put things right." "shall i lend you a couple of men?" "nay, we'll wuck it oot oursens, and thank you all hearty for what you've done. if your farm gets alight, neighbour, we'll come over as you have to us." "may the demand never arise!" said the squire to himself, as he and his party trudged away, all looking as blackened and disreputable a set as ever walked homeward on an early winter's morn. dick had made a good meal, and removed the black from his face after deciding that it would not be worth while to go to bed, when, as he went down the yard and caught sight of solomon, he stopped to stare at the cunning animal, who seemed to be working about his ears like semaphores. "i've a good mind to make him take me for a long ride!" said dick to himself. "no, i haven't. somehow a lad doesn't care for riding a donkey when he gets as old as i am." he walked away, feeling stiff, chilly, and uncomfortable from the effects of his previous night's work, while his eyes smarted and ached. "i'll go over and see how old tom's getting on," he said as he looked across the cheerless fen in the direction of grimsey, where a faint line of smoke rose up toward the sky. "wonder who did it!" _plash_! _plash_! _plash_! _plash_! he turned sharply, to see, about a hundred yards away, the figure of gaunt, grim-looking dave standing up in his punt, and poling himself along by the dry rustling reeds, a grey-drab looking object in a grey-drab landscape. then, like a flash, came to the lad's memory the engagement made to go liggering that day, and he wondered why it was that he did not feel more eager to have a day's fishing for the pike. _pee-wit_! _pee-wit_! came from off the water in a low plaintive whistle, which dick answered, and in a minute or two the decoy-man poled his boat ashore, smiling in his tight, dry way. "now, then, young mester," he said, "i've got a straange nice lot o' bait and plenty o' hooks and band, and it's about as good a day for fishing as yow could have. wheer's young tom o' grimsey?" "at home, of course!" said dick in a snappish way, which he wondered at himself. "at home, o' course?" said dave quietly as he stood up in the boat resting upon the pole. "why, he were to be here, ready." "how could he be ready after last night?" said dick sharply. dave took off his fox-skin cap after letting his pole fall into the hollow of his arm, and scratched his head before uttering a low cachinnatory laugh that was not pleasant to the ear. "yow seem straange and popped [put out of temper] this morning, young mester. young tom o' grimsey and you been hewing a bit of a fight?" "fight! no, dave; the fire!" "eh?" said the man, staring. "the fire! don't you know that grimsey was nearly all burned down last night?" dave loosened his hold of his pole, which fell into the water with a splash. "grimsey! bont down!" he exclaimed, and his lower jaw dropped and showed his yellow teeth, but only to recover himself directly and pick up the pole. "yah!" he snarled; "what's the good o' saying such a word as that? he's a hidin' behind them reeds. now, then, lad, days is short! coom out! i can see you!" he looked in the direction of a patch of reeds and alders as he spoke, and helped himself to a pill of opium from his box. "tom tallington isn't there, dave!" cried dick. "i tell you there was a bad fire at grimsey last night!" "nay, lad, you don't mean it!" cried dave, impressed now by the boy's earnestness. "there was! look! you can see the smoke rising now." dave looked as the lad pointed, and then said softly: "hey! bud theer is the roke [smoke or vapour] sewer enough!" "didn't you see it last night?" "nay, lad; i fished till i couldn't see, for the baits, and then went home and fitted the hooks on to the bands and see to the blethers, and then i happed mysen oop and went to sleep." "and heard and saw nothing of the fire?" "nay, i see nowt, lad. two mile to my plaace from here and two mile from here to grimsey, mak's four mile. nay, i heered nowt!" "of course you wouldn't, dave! the light shone in at my window and woke me up, and we were all there working with buckets to put it out!" "wucking wi' boockets!" said dave slowly as he stared in the direction of tallington's farm. "hey, but i wish i'd been theer!" "i wish you had, dave!" "did she blaaze much, mun?" "blaze! why, everything was lit up, and the smoke and sparks flew in clouds!" "did it, though?" said dave thoughtfully. "now, look here, lad," he continued, taking out his tobacco-box; "some on 'em says a man shouldn't tak' his bit o' opium, and that he should smoke 'bacco. i say it's wrong. if i smoked 'bacco some night i should set my plaace afire, 'stead o' just rolling up a bit o' stoof and clapping it in my mooth." "i don't know what you mean, dave," cried dick. "then i'll tell'ee, lad. some un got smoking his pipe in one of they stables, and set it afire." "no, no; some one must have set fire to the stacks." "nay!" cried dave, staring in the lad's face with his jaw dropped. "yes; that was it, and father thinks it was." "not one o' the men, lad; nay, not one o' the men!" cried dave. "no, but some one who doesn't like the drain made, and that it was done out of spite." dave whisked up his pole and struck with it at the water, sending it flying in all directions, and then made a stab with it as if to strike some one in the chest and drive him under water. "nay, nay, nay," he cried, "no one would do owt o' the soort, lad. nay, nay, nay." "ah, well, i don't know!" cried dick. "all i know is that the stacks were burnt." "weer they, lad?" "yes, and the stables." dave made a clucking noise with his tongue. "and the house had a narrow escape." "hey, bud it's straange; and will tallington hev to flit [move, change residence] then?" "no; the house is right all but one room." "eh, bud i'm straange and glad o' that, lad. well, we can't goo liggering to-day, lad. it wouldn't be neighbourly." "no, i shouldn't care to go to-day, dave, and without tom. what are you going to do?" "throost the punt along as far as i can, and when i've gotten to the end o' the watter tie her oop to the pole, and walk over to see the plaace." "i'll come with you, dave." "hey, do, lad, and you can tell me all about it as we go. jump in." dick wanted no second invitation, and the decoy-man sent the punt along rapidly, and by following one of the lanes of water pursued a devious course toward grimsey, whose blackened ruins now began to come into sight. dick talked away about the events of the night, but dave became more and more silent as they landed and approached the farm where people were moving about busily. "nay," he said at last, "it weer some one smoking. nobody would hev set fire to the plaace. why, they might hev been all bont in their beds." tom tallington saw them coming and ran out. "why, dave," he cried, "i'd forgotten all about the fishing, but we can't go now." "nay, we couldn't go now," said the man severely. "'twouldn't be neighbourly." tom played the part of showman, and took them round the place, which looked very muddy and desolate by day. "i say, dick, do you know how your father made the horses come out?" he said, as they approached the barn, which had been turned into a stable. "hit 'em, i suppose, the stupid, cowardly brutes!" "no; hitting them wouldn't have made them move. he pricked them with the point of his knife." "did he, though?" said dave, who manifested all the interest of one who had not been present. at last he took his departure. "soon as you like, lads," he said; "soon as it's a fine day. i'll save the baits, and get some frogs too. big pike like frogs. theer's another girt one lies off a reed patch i know on. i shall be ashore every day till you're ready." he nodded to them, and pushed off. "you won't go without us, dave?" said dick, as the boat glided away. "nay, not i," was the reply; and the boys watched him till he poled in among the thin dry winter reeds, through which he seemed to pass in a shadowy way, and then disappear. chapter ten. a trimmering expedition. a stormy time ensued, lasting about a fortnight, during which the draining business was hindered; but, upon the whole, the progress made was steady, for a number of men were now employed, and the fen people, who visited the outfall now and then, began to realise what kind of dyke it was that would run across the great swamp. at last one evening, as the lads had wandered down to hickathrift's, and were talking to the great bluff wheelwright as he worked away with his axe at roughly shaping the shaft of a sledge, dave came silently up, followed by the little decoy-dog; and the first knowledge of his presence was given by an attack made upon hickathrift's big lurcher, which, after showing its teeth angrily, settled down, and seemed to look scornfully at the little animal, before closing its eyes as if to go to sleep. "hallo, dave!" cried the lads together; "want us?" "nay, i don't want you, my lads." "well, then, we want you," cried tom. "eh?" "to take us out after the pike, as you promised." "nay, it would be too cold, and you wouldn't like it." "how do you know, dave?" cried dick. "come, when shall we start?" "well," said dave, looking about him as if in search of a good piece of wood which might prove useful, "i dunno. you lads do as you likes; but if i wanted to go, i sud say as the weather was nicely sattled, and start to-morrow morning." the hour was settled, as well as the weather, and after obtaining the requisite permission the lads were punctual to their time, and found dave waiting in his punt, upon whose thwart he was seated gravely tying a hook on to a stout piece of twisted horse-hair. "got everything ready, dave?" cried dick. "ay, lad; all ready." "so are we. look, dave," cried dick, swinging up the big basket he carried, "pork-pie, bread and cheese, and a lump of bacon, and--" dave's face twitched as he listened, but he did not speak, only waited; till, after waiting awhile to whet the man's anxiety, dick added: "and a big bottle of beer." "oh, i don't want no beer!" grumbled dave. "watter's good enough for me." "let's leave it behind, tom," said dick archly. "it will only be heavy in the boat." "nay, put it in," said the man with a dry look. "mebbe the fish would like a drop. mak' 'em bite." the boys laughed, and stepped into the punt, which was soon gliding over the dark waters that lay in pools and winding lane-like canals, dave, in his fox-skin cap, standing up in front and handling the pole, the boys carefully examining the contents of the boat. "what's in that bucket, dave?" "never mind; you let it alone," said dave gruffly; and dick dropped the net he was raising from the pail. "well, let's look at the basket, dave." "nay; i wean't hev my hooks and lines tangled up just after i've laid 'em ready. yow two wait and see when we get acrost to wheer the pike lays." "oh, very well!" said dick in a disappointed tone. "i would have shown you what we've got in our basket." "i know what you've got yow telled me," retorted dave. "i don't want to look at vittles; i want to taste 'em." there was a pause, while dave worked steadily away with his pole. "i shall be glad when the summer comes again," said tom. "so shall i," cried dick. "theer, i towd you so," cried dave. "i knowed you'd find it ower cowd. let's go back." "go on with you!" cried dick; "who said it was cold? i want the summer, because of the sunshine, and the reeds and rushes turning green again, and the birds." "there's plenty o' birds," said dave. "yes, but i mean singing birds, and nesting, and flowers, and the warmth." "theer, i towd you so. you are cowd," cried dave. "when i'm cold i'm going to use the pole," said dick. "i say isn't it deep here, dave?" "ay, theer's some deep holes hereabouts," said the man, trying in vain to reach the bottom with his long pole. "they wean't dree-ern they in a hurry, mester dick." "good job too, dave! we don't want our fishing spoiled. now, then, how much further are you going?" "strite across to wheer we saw that big pike rise, my lad." "shall we catch him, dave?" "mebbe yes; mebbe no, my lad. if he wants his dinner, and we sets it down by his door stoop, he'll tek it. if he's hed his dinner he wean't touch it." "then let's make haste and get there before dinnertime," cried tom. "pole away, dave." "nay, we've got to go quiet-like, my lad. we don't want to scare the fish, and send 'em to the bottom to lie sulky. nice wisp o' duck yon." he nodded to a long string of wild-fowl flying low over the melancholy-looking water, and they were watched till they disappeared. "caught any more in the 'coy, dave?" asked dick. "few, lad, few. not enew to tek' to market. me and john warren sent 'em wi' the rabbits." "ah! he promised us a day with the ferrets. let's stir him up, tom. now, dave, do let's begin." the man shook his head and smiled as if he were enjoying the tantalising process he put the boys through, and kept on poling till they were quite a couple of miles from the toft, when he suddenly laid down his long pole, and seated himself in the boat by the big basket. "now," he said, "if you want to see you shall see;" and he began to take out carefully so many short fishing-lines, the hook in each case being carefully stuck in between the osiers so as not to catch. to every one of these lines was attached a bladder, save and except four, which were bound to as many black and compressed pieces of cork, which looked as if they had been washed ashore after doing duty as buoys to some fishermen's nets. "theer we are: ten of 'em," said dave smiling as if he were anticipating the pleasure he would feel in getting some monster tyrant pike upon the hook. "you, young tom tallington, pass me that theer boocket." tom lifted the bucket, which stood at the side, covered over with some old pieces of netting, and placed it between dave's knees in the spot from which he removed the basket. "now you can both hev a look," he said with a sly glance from one to the other. "hey, little boys, then; hey, little boys: back yow go!" this was to a couple of frogs, which had been in the water the bucket contained, but had climbed up the side, to try and get through the meshes of the net, but only to force their heads through and hold on with their claws. dave poked one of the frogs with his finger, but the little reptile swelled itself out, and took hold more tightly of the net. "here, let go, will you!" cried dick, taking the frog between his fingers gently enough; but the little creature clung more tightly, and began to squeal loudly, till it was dislodged and dropped into the pail, the other being shaken free, and falling with a splash beside his fellow, when there was a tremendous commotion in the pail; for, beside a couple more frogs, there were about a dozen small fishes scurrying about in the water. "theer," cried dave, looking up; "what do you say to them for bait, eh?" "why, they're gudgeons, dave!" cried dick. "ay, lad, gudgeons." "where did you get them?" asked tom. "there are no gudgeons in the fen waters." "not as i iver see," said dave with his quiet laugh. "i went right across to ealand, and then walked four mile with my net and that boocket to brader's mill on little norley stream and ketched 'em theer, and carried 'em all the way back to the boat--four mile. for, i says, i should like they boys to ketch a big pike or two, and gudgeons is best baits i know." "better than roach and rudd, dave?" "ay, or perch, or tench, or anything. carp's a good bait; but you can't always ketch carps." "you are a good chap, dave!" cried tom. "ay, that i am, lads. i say, though, talk 'bout ketching; hev the squire and farmer tallington ketched the chap as sat fire to grimsey stables?" "nobody set fire to grimsey stables," said tom. "it was to the stacks." "nay, lad, i knows better than that," cried dave, shaking his head. "why, didn't i see with my own eyes as roof weer all bont off the top o' stable, and doors gone." "yes; but the stable caught fire from the stacks," said dick. "yah! how could it? why, it's reight the other side o' the house." "well, couldn't the sparks and flames of fire float over and set light to the thatch?" cried dick. "set fire to the thack!" said dave. "ah, well, i warn't theer! but hev they ketched him?" "no, and not likely to. there, never mind tallington's stacks; let's try for the pike." "ay, lads, we will," said dave, and, plunging his hand into the bucket, he took out a transparent gudgeon, whose soft backbone was faintly visible against the light; then carefully passing the hook through its tough upper lip, he dropped it over the side of the boat into the water directly. "theer, lads," he said; "now over with that blether." dick seized the line, and as the gudgeon swam off he dropped the bladder over the side, and it was slowly towed away. "i wish fishing wasn't so precious cruel," said tom, as he watched the bladder dance upon the surface, while the punt was slowly thrust away from the neighbourhood of the reed-bed, where the big pike was supposed to lie. "'tisn't cruel," said dick. "'tis. how should you like to be that gudgeon with a hook in your mouth, or the pike when he's caught?" "sarve him right for killing all the little fishes," growled dave, punting gently along. "why did you come fishing?" said dick sharply. "'cause i like it," said tom frankly; "but it's cruel all the same. oh, look! look!" they were about fifty yards from where the line with its buoy had been put over the side, and as tom had casually looked back he had seen the bladder give a bob, and then begin to skim along the surface. "well, i can see," said dick, "it's the gudgeon swimming fast." "nay," said dave, ceasing to pull; "something's got it. i shouldn't wonder if it's the big pike." the lads breathlessly watched the bladder go skimming along. every now and then it gave a bob or two, and then on it went farther and farther from them toward a patch of reeds all broken down and shattered by the wind and lying by itself quite a hundred yards from where the bait had been dropped in. "is it the big pike, dave?" said dick eagerly. "dunno," was the laconic reply. "mebbe 'tis, mebbe 'tisn't." "you'll give it time, dave," cried tom excitedly, forgetting all his previous qualms. "ay, we'll give him time," said dave with his face tightened so that the ruddy portion of his lips had disappeared, and his mouth was represented by what seemed to be a scar extending right across the lower portion of his countenance. "who's going to hook him out?" "i will," cried dick quickly. "no, you shall have first go, tom." "may i?" cried the lad, flushing. "yes; go on. where's the big hook, dave?" "why, s'pose i forgot it," said dave slowly. "you haven't," said dick. "there's the stick," and he picked up a short staff. "ay, lad, bud there be no hook." "now, none of your old games, dave," cried dick; "just as if we didn't know! come, out with it! you've got it in your pocket." dave chuckled, and produced a hook made by bending round a piece of thin iron rod and sharpening the point. this hook he inserted in the staff and handed to dick, who immediately passed it to tom, the latter standing up ready to hook the line when the time should come. but that was not yet, for the floating bladder was more than a hundred yards away, and still skimming along. "be a long time making up his mind to swallow it," said dave, slowly and softly reducing the distance between them and the buoy, and then pausing while they were still fifty yards away. "he has stopped now," said dick in a hoarse whisper as the bladder gleamed quite white a few yards away from the reeds, and gently rose and fell in the ripple caused by the wind. "why, he's gone!" said tom in a disappointed tone. _bob_ went the bladder as if to contradict him, giving one sharp movement, and then remaining still once more. "nay, he hasn't gone," said dave. "give him a bit more time. we'll set another while we're waiting." as he spoke he laid the pole across the head of the punt, and quickly baiting another of his hooks, dropped it over the boat side away from the direction in which they had to go; and after checking it once or twice till the bait took the right course, he let it go. meanwhile, the lads were impatiently watching the bladder, which now remained perfectly still; and in imagination they saw a monstrous pike swallowing the unfortunate gudgeon which bore the hook. "theer!" said dave, rising and taking up his pole. "he've hed plenty time now. get the basket ready, young squire dick. think it'll hold him?" "if it won't we'll curl him round, dave," said the lad, laughing. "now tom, don't miss." the boat approached slowly, and tom was awkwardly placed; but dave was prepared for this, and after giving the little vessel a sharp impulse he thrust down the pole to the bottom, and checked the head, so that the stern swung round and gave tom a fair chance, which he stood ready to seize as the boat drew nearer. they were soon only about ten yards away, and the bladder remained so motionless that the lads' hearts sank with disappointment, for it seemed as if the bait had been left. "look out, lad!" said dave, however, for his quick eyes had detected what was about to happen, and he gave the boat a tremendous thrust just as the bladder glided rapidly away. tom bent down and made a dart with his hook, and so earnestly that he would have gone overboard had not dick caught him in the nick of time. "missed him," he cried. "here, this awayer," cried dave. "you was a chap!" and he held up his pole with the line over it. for when tom missed, his opportunity came, the boat gliding so near that he dropped the pole down over the line, and a tremendous disturbance of the water began. tom rushed forward, leaned over the side, and deftly hooked the line which ran through to the bladder as dave drew away his pole. "it's a monster! oh dick!" cried tom, as he drew the bladder in. "now, then, catch hold of the line as i draw it in." "yah! why yow make as much on it as if it weer one o' they long studggins, or a big porpus pig," growled dave, laughing, as dick secured the line. "haul him in." "i say! 'tisn't a very big one, tom; but he's strong," said dick, pulling the captive to the side, for his companion to gaff and lift into the boat. "why, it's a perch!" a perch it was--a fine one with ruddy fins and boldly-barred sides, and, though fine for his kind, less than three pounds in weight. "i thowt that was what he was," said dave, laughing, "when i sin him skim that theer blether along. pop him in the basket, lads, and let's get all the rest of the liggers out, or we shall make a poor time of it." he plied the pole vigorously and soon stopped to let the boat glide towards an opening in the reeds, where a long water-way ran in. here another buoyed bait was left, and then they went on to lay another and another, the old decoy-man, with the knowledge bought by very long experience, selecting choice spots till the whole set were disposed of in the course of an hour, over a space far exceeding a mile. "we shall never recollect where they were all set, dave," said dick at last, as he stood up looking back along the side of one of the big pools to which they had made their way through what resembled a little river running among the reeds and joining two great pools together. "you wouldn't," grumbled the man; "but p'raps i may. now let's go reight back, and see if theer's any on, or--don't you think, lads, it's 'bout time to try and ketch me?" dick stared. "he means he wants you to try if he'd take a corner of the pie, dick, if you offered it to him as a bait," cried tom laughing, while dave's yellow visage developed into something like a grin. "ay, that's it, lad--i feel as if i could coot a loaf in two, and eat half wi'out winking. nay, wait and i'll throost the boat up to yon trees. hey, look at that!" he shaded his eyes, and gazed at a large flock of birds flying as closely together, apparently, as starlings, and hundreds upon hundreds in number. they were flying swiftly at a good height, when all at once, as if by a signal, they changed their direction, and, with the accuracy of drilling, darted down in a great bird stream straight for the earth, disappearing behind a low patch of willows. "golden plovers!" cried dick, excitedly. "oh, dave, if you were there with a gun!" "ay, lad, and i'm here wi' a pole," said dave. "niver mind, i may get a few perhaps wi' my net. now, then, never mind the pie-wipes; let's wipe that theer pie." he rapidly thrust the boat along till it was close to the side of the mere, where he anchored it with his pole and then leaned over and washed his hands, which he dried upon a piece of rag. "are your hands fishy, tom?" said dick. "no--i washed them." "well, then, cut some bread." the next minute the pie was falling to pieces, the bread undergoing a change, and the ale sinking rapidly in the stone bottle. after which the basket was found to contain a certain number of apples, which were converted into support for the active human beings in the boat, with the result that the basket was tapped upside down on the edge to get rid of a few crumbs before the empty pie-dish and stone bottle were replaced, and the whole tucked away so as to leave all clear. "now, lads, i think we ought to do some wuck," cried dave, seizing the pole. "i thought so," he added; "i knowed there'd be something here." "eh!" cried tom. "don't you see?" said dick. "there, that bladder's fifty yards from where it was laid down." "hundered," said dave, plying his pole. "'fraid it's another peerch." dave was wrong, for as they approached the bladder it went off with a swift dart, and there was a swirl in the water which indicated that a big fish must be on. a good ten minutes' chase ensued before dick was able to hook the line. "i've got him," he cried: "a monster!" it certainly was a large pike of probably ten or twelve pounds, but in spite of its struggles it was drawn close in, with dave smiling tightly the while, and ending with a broad grin, for as, in the midst of the intense excitement connected with their capture, tom took the line and dick leaned forward to gaff the pike, there was a struggle, a splash, the fish leaped right out of the water, and was gone. "hey, but why didn't thou whip the hook into him?" cried dave. "i was trying to," said dick ruefully; "but just as i touched his side he wagged his tail and went off!" "niver mind, lad," cried dave. "let's look at the line. ah, i thowt as much! hook's broke." "any chance of catching him if we threw in again?" said tom. "nay, he isn't worth trying for. mebbe he'd bite; mebbe he wouldn't. he's gone the gainest [nearest] way to his hole. let's try the next." the buoy attached to this was not in the place where it had been left, and for a few minutes the lads looked round in a puzzled way, till, with a grim smile, dave thrust the boat close up to a reed patch, when, just as the punt began to rustle against the long crisp water-grass, a splashing was heard inside somewhere, and after parting the growth with his pole dave stood aside for his companions to see that the bladder attached to the line had been drawn in for some little distance, and then caught in the midst of a dense tangle, beyond which a good-sized fish was tugging to get away. it needed some effort to force the boat to where the fish was churning up the water; but at last this was effected, and this time, by leaning forward and holding tom's hand as a stay, dick managed to gaff the captive and lift it into the boat. "a beauty!" said tom, as they gazed at the bronze, green-spotted sides of the ferocious fish, whose fang-armed jaws closed with a snap upon the handle of the gaff, from which a strong shake was needed to detach it. "yes, but not a quarter as big as the one which got away." "nay," growled dave, "there weren't much differ, lads." whatever its size, the pike, a fish of several pounds weight, was placed alongside of the perch, upon which, by hazard or natural ferocity, it at once fastened its peculiarly hooked back-teeth, making it almost impossible to loosen its hold when once its jaws were closed; but the discussion which followed upon this was interrupted by the sight of the next bladder sailing away into the broadest part of the pool which they now entered. "there's a big one howd o' that bait, my lads," said dave, "and he'll give us a race. shall we leave him?" "leave him! no," cried the lads together. "ah, you heven't got to pole!" said dave thoughtfully, as he gazed at the bladder skimming along a couple of hundred yards away. "then let me do the poling," cried dick eagerly, "i'm not tired." "nay," said dave quietly, "neither you nor me can't do no poling theer. watter's nigh upon twenty foot deep, and a soft bottom. pole's no use theer." "what shall we do then?" "i weer thinking, lad," said dave, following the direction taken by the bladder. "he's a makkin for yon way through the reeds into next pool." "then let's go there and stop him, dave," cried dick. "ay, lad, we will. round here by the side. longest way's sometimes gainest way." dick looked blank upon seeing the boat's head turned right away from the fish that was caught. dave saw it, and handed him the pole. "give her a few throosts, lad," he said. dick seized the pole and thrust it down into the water lower and lower till his hands touched the surface. he tried again and again, but there was no bottom within reach, and the lad handed back the pole. "why, you knew it was too deep here!" he cried. "ay, i knowed, lad," said dave, taking the pole; "but yow wouldn't hev been saddisfied wi'out trying yoursen." he proceeded to row the punt now for a few yards, till, apparently knowing by experience where he could find bottom, he thrust down the pole again, gave a few vigorous pushes, and was soon in shallow water. it was a bit of a race for the river-like opening, but dave sent the punt along pretty merrily now, while the bladder came slowly along from the other direction till it was only about fifty yards away, when there was a series of bobs and then one big one, the bladder which gleamed whitely on the grey water going down out of sight. dave ceased poling, and all watched the surface for the return of the bladder, as whale-fishers wait for the rising of the great mammal that has thrown his flukes upward and dived down toward the bottom of the sea; but they watched in vain. a minute, two minutes, five minutes, then quite a quarter of an hour, but no sign of the submerged buoy. "yow two look over the sides," said dave. "i'll run her right over where the blether was took down." dave sent the punt along slowly, and the lads peered down into the dark water, but could see no bladder. "she'll come up somewheers," said dave at last, sweeping the surface with his keen eyes, and then smiling in his hard, dry, uncomfortable way, as he looked right back over the way by which they had come, and nodding his head, "there she is!" he said. sure enough there lay the bladder on the surface forty yards behind them perfectly motionless. "yow take howd o' this one, young tom tallington," said dave; and the lad prepared to hook the line as the punt was carefully urged forward. "take care, tom!" whispered dick excitedly. "now, now! oh, what a fellow you are!" tom did not dash in the hook when his companion bade him, but all the same he managed to do it at the right time, catching the line just below the bladder, and then stooping to seize it with his hand ready for the struggle which was to ensue. both boys were flushed with excitement, and paid no heed to the grim smile upon their companion's face--a smile which expanded into a grin as the line came in without the slightest resistance, and the lads looked at each other with blank dismay. "clap the line in the basket, mester dick," said dave; "he's took the bait and gone." "why, what a big one he must have been!" cried tom. "ah, he would be a big one!" said dave with a chuckle, as he urged the punt rapidly on; "them as gets away mostlings is." "didn't you feel him a bit, tom?" asked dick. "no, he had gone before i touched the line," was the reply. it was very disappointing; but there were the other trimmers to be examined, and though it would have puzzled a stranger, dave went back with unerring accuracy to the next one that had been laid down. this did not seem to have moved; and as it was drawn in, the bait was swimming strongly and well. "let him go, dick," said tom. "well, i was going to, wasn't i?" was the reply. "there you are, old chap, only got a hole in your gristly lip." he dropped the gudgeon into the water, and it lay motionless for a moment or two, and then darted downward as the punt glided on. another trimmer, and another, and another, was taken up as it was reached, all these with the baits untouched, and the disappointed look grew upon the boys' faces. "i thought we should get one on every hook," said tom. "ar'n't we going to catch any more?" "why, you've got two," said dave. "well, what are two, dave?" cried dick. "more'n i've got many a day," said the man. "i often think i'd like a pike to stuff and bake; but lots o' times i come and i never get one. there's one for you yonder." "is there--where?" cried tom. dave nodded in the direction of the little bay they were approaching, and it was plain to see that the bladder had been drawn close in to the boggy shore. "oh, he's gone!" cried tom. "i don't believe there's one on." tom was wrong, for upon the spot being reached the bladder suddenly became, as it were, animated, and went sailing along bobbing about on the surface, then plunging down out of sight, to come up yards away. "there's a niste one on theer, lads," said dave. "yow be ready with the hook, mester dick, and yow kneel down ready to ketch the line, young tom tallington." it was quite a long chase; the bladder bobbing and dancing away till dave forced the punt pretty near, and by a back stroke dick caught the line, drew it near enough for tom to seize, when there was a tremendous splash and plunge, and tom fell backwards. "gone!" cried dick in a passion of angry disappointment. "gone!" said tom dolefully, "and i'd nearly got him over the side!" "ay, that's the way they gooes sometimes," said dave, sending on the boat. "put the band in the basket, lads. better luck next time." "why, the line's broken!" cried dick, handing it to its owner. "sawed off agen his teeth," said dave, after a glance. "theer, put 'em away, lad. he's theer waiting to be ketched again some day. theer's another yonder. nay, he hesn't moved." this one was taken up, and then others, till only two remained, one of which was set where the great pike had been seen which took down the duck. one had not been touched, but had had the bait seized and gnawed into a miserable state; another bait was bitten right off cleanly close to the head; while another had been taken off the hook; and one bait had probably been swallowed, and the line bitten in two. "we are having bad luck," cried dick dolefully. "i thought we should get a basket full." "i didn't," said dave. "nivver did but once. here, we'll tak' yon last one up first, and come back along here and tak' up the big one, and go thruff yon reed-bed home." "big one!" said tom. "you don't think he's on, do you?" cried dick. "hey, lad, how do i know! mebbe he is." "then let's go at once," cried dick excitedly. "nay, nay, we'll try yon one first," said dave, for both the remaining trimmers were in sight, and though not where they had been laid down, they seemed to be no farther off than a lively bait and the wind might have taken them. "theer, lads, yow'll hev to be saddisfied wi' what yow've got. no more to-day." "oh, very well!" said dick; "but i wish we'd got something more to eat." "there's one on," said tom excitedly, as they neared the most remote of the two trimmers. "how do you know?" "saw it bob." "yah! it doan't move." dick glanced at dave, whose face was inscrutable, and then the bladder seemed to be motionless, and as if tom's "bob" was all imagination. once more it seemed to move slightly, but it was nothing more than the bait would cause. "in wi' it, lads," cried dave. "you, young tom. i wean't stop. ketch it as we go by." tom reached over and thrust in the hook, just catching the line as the trimmer seemed to be gliding away. "something on," he shouted, as he got hold of the line with his hands, and threw down the hook into the boat. for there was a strong sturdy strain upon the cord; and but for the progress of the boat being checked, either the line would have been broken, or tom would have had to let go. "why, you've got hold of a stump!" cried dick. "what shall we do, dave--cat the line?" "howd on, lads, steady! ah, that's moved him!" for just then, in place of the steady strain, there were a series of short sharp snatches. "eel, eel!" cried dick; and at the end of a few minutes' exciting play, a huge eel was drawn over the side of the boat, tied up in quite a knot, into which it had thrown itself just at the last. "coot the band close to his neb," [mouth or beak] said dave, and this being done, and the line saved from tangling, the captive untwisted itself, and began to explore the bottom of the boat, a fine thick fellow nearly thirty inches long, and the possibility was that it might escape over the stern, till dave put a stop to the prospect by catching it quickly, and before it could glide out of his hand, throwing it into the basket, where the pike resented its coming by an angry flapping of the tail. "that's better," said dick, placing the trimmer in the other basket. "i say, dave, would a fellow like that bite?" "nigh tak' your finger off: they're as strong as strong. say, lads, shall we go home now, or try the other ligger?" "oh, let's get the last!" cried dick; "there may be something on it." dave nodded, and poled steadily over to where the last trimmer lay off the reedy point, and perfectly motionless, till they were within ten yards, when there was a heavy swirl on the water, and the bladder dived under, reappeared a couple of dozen yards away, and went off rapidly along beside the reed-bed. "is that another perch?" cried tom, as dave began to ply his pole rapidly, and the boat was urged on in pursuit. "nay, that's no perch," cried dave, who for the first time looked interested. "it's a pike, and a good one." "think it's that monster that took down the duck?" cried dick. "nay, lad, i d'know," said the decoy-man; "all i say is that it be a girt lungeing pike o' some kind." dave plied his pole, and the boys, in their excitement, turned each a hand into an oar, and swept it through the water as the pursuit was kept up, for the bladder went sailing away, then stopped, and as soon as the punt drew near was off again. sometimes it kept to the surface, but now and then, when in places where dave's pole would not touch the bottom, no sooner did the punt glide up, than there was an eddying swirl, and the bladder was taken down out of sight. once or twice dick made a dash at it with the hook, but each time to miss, and they were led a pretty dance. "he's a girt big un, lads, a very girt big un," said dave, as he rested for a moment or two with the end of the pole in the water, waiting for the bladder to reappear, and then rowed the punt softly in the direction in which it was gliding. "says, shall a give 'em up?" "no, no," cried dick. "here, lend me the pole. i'll soon catch him." dave smiled, but did not give up the pole. "nay, lad, i'll ketch up to un. wait a bit; fish'll be tired 'fore dave gittans." the pursuit continued in the most exasperating way, and to an onlooker it would have been exceedingly absurd, since it seemed as if the man and his companions were off oh the great mere with its open spaces of water and islands of reeds, and lanes through them like so many little crooked canals, in pursuit of a white pig's-bladder tied round the middle to make it double. there it would lie till the boat neared, and then off it went with a skim that took it twenty, thirty, or forty yards. next time the boat neared, instead of the skim it would begin to dance as if in mockery, bobbing down whenever dick reached over with his hook, and always keeping out of his reach, just as if a mocking spirit directed all its movements and delighted in tantalising them. again, after a long run over the deep water, it would be quite still, and the punt would be sent forward so cautiously that the capture seemed to be a moral certainty; but so sure as dick crept to the extreme end of the punt and reached out, there was a tremor for an instant visible on the water and the bladder disappeared. "he must be a monster!" cried dick, whose face was scarlet. "oh, dave, do go more quietly this time!" "let me try!" cried tom, making a snatch at the hook. "no! i'll have him," said dick. "i wouldn't miss this chance for the world!" "ay, i'll goo up quiet-like," said dave, pausing to give himself an opium pill before resuming his task. "yow be quicker this time, lad--a bold dash and you'll get him!" the double-looking bladder seemed now to be quite divided in two, for the string had grown tighter in being drawn through the water, and as it lay quite still, about forty yards from them, it looked a task that a child might have done, to go up to it softly and hook the string. "now!" said dave as he propelled the boat stern foremost by working the pole behind as a fish does its tail. "oh! do get it this time, dick!" panted tom as he knelt in the boat. "one quick dash, mester dick, and you hev it!" dick did not answer, but lay prone upon his chest well out over the stern of the boat, holding on with one hand, the hook stretched out over the water, ready, his heart beating and his eyes glittering with excitement. as the punt glided on dick's face was reflected in the dark amber-tinted water--for there was not a ripple made--but he saw nothing of the glassy surface; his eyes were riveted upon the gleaming white bladder, into which the string had cut so deeply. another moment or two and he would be within striking distance, but a glance at his hook showed that, perhaps from looseness in its socket, the point was turned too much away. he had barely time to turn it, as the moment arrived to strike, and strike he did, just as the bladder was plunging down. a yell came from behind him from dave! a groan from tom! dick rose up in the boat with a feeling of misery and disappointment, such as he had never before experienced, for he was perfectly conscious of what he had done. the bladder had been snatched under so quickly, that when he struck, instead of the hook going beneath and catching the string, the point had entered the bladder. he had even felt the check, and knew that he had torn a hole in the side. "hey, but yow've done it now, mester dick!" said dave, laying the pole across the boat and sitting down. "i couldn't help it, dave. i did try so hard!" pleaded the lad. "and you wouldn't let me try--obstinate!" grumbled tom. "deal better you'd have done it, wouldn't you!" cried dick in an exasperated tone. "done it better than that!" cried tom hotly. "nay, yow wouldn't, lad," said dave coolly. "it's a girt big un, and he's too sharp for us. well, it's getting on and we may as well go home. he's gone! blether wean't come to the top no more!" "but will he take a bait again, dave?" said dick; "i mean, if we come another time." "will yow want any dinner to-morrow, lad?" said dave, laughing. "ay, he'll tek a bait again, sure enough, and we'll hev him some day! theer, it's getting late; look at the starnels sattling down on the reeds!" he pointed to the great clouds of birds curving round in the distance as he stooped and picked up the pole, ready to send the punt homewards, for the evening was closing in, and it would be dark before they reached the shore. "what's that?" cried tom suddenly, as he swept the surface of the water, and he pointed to a faint white speck about twenty yards away. "hey? why, it is!" cried dave. "tek the hook again, mester dick, lad; there's a little wind left yet in th' blether, and it's coom oop!" "let me!" cried tom. "shall i do it, lad?" said dave. "no, let me try this once!" cried dick. "or, no; you try, tom!" tom snatched at the staff of the hook, but offered it back to his companion. "no, dick," he said; "you missed, and you've a right to try again!" "no, you try!" said dick hurriedly, as he thrust his hands in his pockets to be out of temptation. "nay, let mester dick hev one more try!" cried dave; and the lad took the staff, went through all his former manoeuvres, struck more deeply with the staff, and this time, as he felt a check, he twisted the hook round and round in the string, and felt as if it would be jerked out of his hand. "twist un again, mun! get well twissen!" cried dave; and as the lad obeyed, the punt, already in motion, was for a short distance literally drawn by the strong fish in its desperate efforts to escape. "let me come this time, young tom tallington!" cried dave. "no, no; i'll help!" cried tom. "but i shouldn't like you to lose this un, lads. theer, go on and charnsh it. you get well howd o' the band while young squire untwisses the hook. he's 'bout bet out now and wean't mak' much of a fight!" tom obeyed, and dick, who was trembling with excitement, set the hook at liberty. meanwhile the fish was struggling furiously at the end of some fifteen feet of stout line; but the fight had been going on some time now, and at the end of a few minutes, as dave manoeuvred the punt so as to ease the strain on the line, tom found that he could draw the captive slowly to the surface. "tak' care, mester dick, throost hook reight in his gills, and in wi' un at onced." dick did not reply, but stood ready, and it was well that he did so, for as tom drew the fish right up, such a savage, great, teeth-armed pair of jaws came gaping at him out of the water, that he started and stumbled back, dragging the hook from its hold. but before he could utter a cry of dismay there was a tremendous sputter and splash, for dick had been in time, and, as the fish-hook was breaking out, had securely caught the pike with the gaff. the next moment, all ablaze in the evening light with green, and gold, and silver, and cream, the monster was flopping on the floor of the punt, trying frantically to leap out, and snapping with its jaws in a way that would have been decidedly unpleasant for any hand that was near. the monster's career was at an end, though. a heavy blow on the head stunned it, and a couple more put it beyond feeling, while the occupants of the boat stood gazing down at their prize, as grand a pike as is often seen, for it was nearly four feet long, and well-fed and thick. "look at his teeth!" cried tom excitedly; "why, there's great fangs full half an inch long." "yes, and sharp as knives!" cried dick. "ay, he've hed nice games in his time here, lads!" said dave, grinning with pleasure. "i'm straange and glad you've caught him. many's the time i've sin him chase the fish and tak' down the water-rats. one day he hed howd of a big duck. he got it by its legs as i was going along, and the poor thing quacked and tried to fly, but down it went d'reckly. big pike like this un'll yeat owt." "and if he got hold of them with these hooked teeth, dave, they wouldn't get away." "nay, lad, that they wouldn't. he'd take a pike half as big as hissen, if he got the charnsh." "well, he won't kill any more," cried dick triumphantly. "oh, tom, if we had lost him after all!" "i'd reyther hev lost a whole tak' o' duck, lads," said dave, shaking each of his companions' hands warmly. "there'll be straange games among all the fishes and birds here, because he's ketched. look at him! theer's a pike, and they're a trying to dree-ern all the watter off from the fens and turn 'em into fields. hey, lads, it'll be a straange bad time for us when it's done." "but do you think it will take off all the water, and spoil the fen, dave?" said tom. "nay, lad, i don't," said dave with sudden emphasis. "it's agen nature, and it wean't be done. hey and we must be getting back." he plunged the pole into the water as he spoke, and it seemed to grow blacker and blacker, as they talked pike over their capture, till the shore was reached, and the prize borne to hickathrift's workshop, where a pair of big rough scales showed that within a few ounces the pike weighed just what dave guessed, to wit two stone and a half old lincolnshire weight of fourteen pounds to the stone, or thirty-five pounds. chapter eleven. mr. marston's narrow escape. the wintry weather passed away with its storms and continuous rains and floods, which hindered the progress of the great lode or drain, and then came the spring sunshine, with the lads waking up to the fact that here and there the arums were thrusting up their glossy-green spathes, that the celandines were out like yellow stars, and that the rustling reeds left uncut had been snapped off and beaten down, and had rotted in the water, and that from among them the young shoots of the fresh crop were beginning to peep. bold brisk winds swept over the fen and raised foamy waves in the meres, and the nights were clear and cold, though there had been little frost that year, never enough to well coat the lakes and pools with ice, so that the pattens could be cleaned from their rust and sharpened at hickathrift's grindstone ready for the lads at the old priory and grimsey to skate in and out for miles. but, in spite of the cold, there was a feeling of spring in the air. the great grey-backed crows were getting scarce, and the short-eared owls, which, a couple of months before, could be flushed from the tufts in the fen, to fly off looking like chubby hawks, were gone, and the flights of ducks and peewits had broken up. the golden plovers were gone; but the green peewits were busy nesting, or rather laying eggs without nests--pear-shaped eggs, small at one end, large at the other, thickly blotched and splashed with dark green, and over which the birds watched, ready to fall as if with broken wing before the intruder, and try to lure him away. many a tramp over the sodden ground did the lads have with dave, who generally waited for their coming, leaping-pole in hand, and then took them to the peewits' haunts to gather a basketful of their eggs. "i don't know how you do it, dave," said dick. "we go and hunt for hours, and only get a few pie-wipes' eggs; you always get a basketful." "it's a man's natur," said dave. "well, show us how you know," said dick, shouldering his leaping-pole, and pretending to hit his companion's head. "nay, lad, theer's no showing a thing like that," said dave mysteriously. "it comes to a man." "gammon!" cried dick. "it's a dodge you've learned." dave chuckled and tramped on beside the lads, having enough to do to avoid sinking in. "she's reyther juicy this spring, eh? they heven't dree-ernt her yet," said dave with a malicious grin. "see there, now, young tom tallington," he cried, stepping past the lad, and, picking up a couple of eggs in spite of the wailing of their owners, as they came napping close by, the cock bird in his glossy-green spring feathers, and a long pendent tuft hanging down from the back of his head. "how stupid!" cried tom. "i didn't see them." "nay, you wouldn't," said dave, stepping across dick, who was on his left; "and yow, young squire dick, didn't see they two." "yes, i did, dave, i did," cried dick. "i was just going to pick them up." "pick' em up then," cried dave quietly; "where are they then?" dick looked sharply round him; but there was not an egg to be seen, and he realised that dave had cheated him, and drawn him into a declaration that was not true. he was very silent under the laughter of his companions, and felt it all the more. they went on, the lads sometimes finding an egg or two, but nearly all falling to dave, who, as if by unerring instinct, went straight to the spots where the nests lay, and secured the spoil. now and then a heron flew up, one with a small eel twining about its bill; and more than once a hare went bounding off from its form among the dry last year's grass. "we want hickathrift's dog here," cried dick. "what for, lad? what for?" said dave, laughing. "to catch the hares." "nay, yow want no dog," said dave. "easy enough to catch hares." "easy! how?" cried tom. "go up to 'em and catch 'em," said dave coolly. "ha, ha, ha!" laughed dick, and his companion joined in. "i should like to see you catch a hare, dave." "shouldst ta, lad? very well, wait a bit." they tramped on, with dave picking up an egg here, a couple there, in a way that was most exasperating to the boys, whose luck was very bad. "i never saw such eyes," said tom. "i can't see the eggs like he can." dave chuckled as if he had a rattlesnake in his throat, and they went on for a while till dick stopped suddenly, and pointed to the side of one of the fen ponds. "that isn't a heron," he said. "no. one o' them long-legged ones--a crane," said dave. "getting straange and scarce now. used to be lots of 'em breed here when my grandfather was a boy. nay, nay, don't scar' him," he cried, checking dick, who was about to wave his hands. "niver disturb the birds wi'out you want 'em to eat or sell. now, then: yonder's a hare." "where?" cried tom. "i can't see it." "over yonder among that dry grass." "there isn't," said dick. "i can't see any hare." "like me to go and catch him, young tom?" "here, i'll soon see if there's a hare," cried dick; but dave caught him by the shoulder with a grip of iron, and thrust the pole he carried into the soft bog. "i didn't say i was going to run a hare down," he said. "theer's a hare yonder in her form. shall i go and catch her?" "yes," said dick, grinning. "shall i say, `sh!'" "nay, if thou'rt going to play tricks, lad, i shall howd my hand. i thowt yow wanted to see me ketch a hare." "go on, then," said dick, laughing; "we won't move." dave chuckled, swung his basket behind him as if hung by a strip of cow-hide over his shoulder, and walked quietly on, in and out among the tufts of heather and moss, for some five-and-twenty yards. "he's laughing at us," said dick. "no, he isn't. i've heard hickathrift say he can catch hares," replied tom. "look!" for just then they saw dave go straight up to a tuft of dry grass, stoop down and pick up a hare by its ears, and place it on his left arm. the boys ran up excitedly. "why, dave, i didn't think you could do it!" cried dick. "dessay not," replied the decoy-man, uttering his unpleasant laugh. "theer, she's a beauty, isn't she?" the hare struggled for a moment or two, and then crouched down in the man's arm, with its heart throbbing and great eyes staring round at its captors. "kill it, dave, kill it," cried tom. "kill it! what for? pretty creatur'," said dave, stroking the hare's brown speckled fur, and laying its long black-tipped sensitive ears smoothly down over its back. "to take home." "nay, who kills hares at the end of march, lad? hares is mad in march." "is that why it let you catch it, dave?" "mebbe, lad, mebbe, mester dick. theer, hev you done stroking her?" "no. why?" "going to let her run?" "wait a bit," cried dick. "tek her by the ears, lad, and putt thy hand beneath her. that's the ways." dick took the hare in his arms, and the trembling beast submitted without a struggle. "how did you know it was there?" said tom. "how did i know she was theer! why, she had her ears cocked-up listening, plain enough to see. theer, let her go now. she's got a wife somewheers about." "_she's_ got a wife! why don't you say _he_?" cried dick. "now, tom, i'm going to let him go; but he won't run, he's a sick one. you'll see. anyone could catch a hare like this." he carefully placed the hare upon the ground, holding tightly by its ears. "there," he cried; "i told you so! look how stupid and--oh!" the hare made one great leap, and then hardly seemed to touch the ground again with its muscular hind-legs; but went off at a tremendous rate, bounding over heath and tuft, till it disappeared in the distance. "there's a sleepy sick one for you, mester dick!" cried dave. "now, then, goo and ketch her, lad." "well, i never!" cried dick. "i say, dave, how do you manage it? could you catch another?" "ay, lad, many as i like." "and rabbits too?" "nay, i don't say that. i hev ketched rabbuds that ways, but not often. rabbud always makes for his hole." as he spoke he walked back to where he had left his pole standing in the bog earth, and they trudged on again to where a lane of water impeded their further progress. "too wide for you, lads?" said dave. "no," replied dick, "if it's good bottom." "good bottom a little higher up here," said dave, bearing off to the left. "now, then, over you go!" dick, pole in hand, took a run without the slightest hesitation, for dave's word was law. he said there was good bottom to the lane of water, and he was sure to know, for he had the knowledge of his father and grandfather joined to his own. if it had been bad bottom dick's feat would have been impossible, for his pole would have gone down perhaps to its full length in the soft bog; as it was, the end of the pole rested upon gravel in about three feet of water, and the lad went over easily and describing a curve through the air. "look out!" shouted tom, following suit, and landing easily upon the other side; while dave took off his basket of plovers' eggs by slipping the hide band over his head, then, hanging it to the end of his pole, he held it over the water to the boys, who reached across and took it together on their poles, landing it safely without breaking an egg. the next minute, with the ease of one long practised in such leaps, dave flew over and resumed his load. several more long lanes of water were cleared in this way, dave leading the boys a good round, and taking them at last to his house, pretty well laden with eggs, where he set before them a loaf and butter, and lit a fire. "theer, you can boil your eggs," he said, "and mak' a meal. mebbe you're hungry now." there was no maybe in the matter, judging from the number of slices of bread and butter and hard-boiled plovers' eggs the lads consumed. over the meal the question of the draining was discussed sympathetically. "no fish," said dick. "no decoy," said tom. "no plovers' eggs," said dave. "no rabbiting," said dick. "no eeling," said tom. "no nothing," said dave. "hey bud it'll be a sad job when it's done. but it arn't done yet, lads, eh?" "no, it isn't done yet," said dick. "i say, where's john warren? i haven't seen him for months." "i hev," said dave. "he's a breaking his heart, lads, about big drain. comes over to see me and smoke his pipe. it'll 'bout kill him if his rabbud-warren is took awaya. bud dree-ern ar'n't done yet, lads, eh?" squire winthorpe was of a different opinion that night when dick reached home after seeing tom well on his way. "they're going on famously now," he said to mrs winthorpe, who was repairing the damage in one of dick's garments. "and was the meeting satisfied?" "yes, quite," said the squire. "we had a big meeting with the gentlemen from london who are interested in the business, and they praised young mr marston, the engineer, wonderfully fine young fellow too." dick pricked up his ears. "i thought mr marston was coming to see us a deal, father!" he said. "he's been away during the bad weather when the men couldn't work--up in town making plans and things. he's coming over to-night." "and do the people about seem as dissatisfied as ever about the work?" said mrs winthorpe. "i don't hear much about it," said the squire. "they'll soon settle down to it when they find how things are improved. well, dick, plenty of sport to-day?" "dave got plenty of pie-wipes' eggs, father. i didn't find many." "got enough to give mr marston a few?" "oh, yes, plenty for that! what time's he coming?" "about eight, i should think. he's coming along the river bank after his men have done." "and going back, father?" "oh no! he'll sleep here to-night." the squire went out to have his customary look round the farmstead before settling down for the night, and dick followed him. the thrushes were piping; sounds of ducks feeding out in the fen came off the water, and here and there a great shadowy-looking bird could be seen flapping its way over the desolate waste, but everywhere there was the feeling of returning spring in the air, and the light was lingering well in the west, making the planet in the east look pale and wan. everything seemed to be all right. there was a loud muttering among the fowls at roost. solomon laid back his ears and twitched the skin of his back as if he meant to kick when dick went near the lean-to shed supported on posts, thatched with reeds and built up against an old stone wall in which there were the remains of a groined arch. everything about the toft was at peace, and down toward the wheelwright's the labourers' cottages were so still that it was evident that some of the people had gone to bed. the squire went on down the gravel slope, past the clump of firs, and by the old ivied wall which marked the boundary of the ancient priory, when, after crossing a field or two, they came to the raised bank which kept the sluggish river within bounds. "looks cold and muddy, father," said dick. "yes, not tempting for a bathe, dick; but some day i hope to see a river nearly as big as that draining our great fen." "but don't you think it will be a pity, father?" "yes, for idle boys who want to pass their lives fishing, and for men like dave and john warren. depend upon it, dick, it's the duty of every man to try and improve what he sees about." "but natural things look so beautiful, father!" "in moderation, boy. don't see any sign of mr marston yet, do you?" "no, father," replied dick after taking a long look over the desolate level where the river wound between its raised banks toward the sea. "can't very well miss his way," said the squire, half to himself. "unless he came through the fen," said dick. "oh, he wouldn't do that! he'd come along by the river wall, my boy; it's longer, but better walking." the squire walked back toward the house, turning off so as to approach it by the back, where his men were digging for a great rain-water tank to be made. the men had not progressed far, for their way was through stones and cement, which showed how, at one time, there must have been either a boundary-wall or a building there; and as they stood by the opening the latter was proved to be the case, for dick stooped down and picked up a piece of ancient roofing lead. "yes, dick, this must have been a fine old place at one time," said the squire. "let's get back. be a bit of a frost to-night, i think." "i hope not, father." "and i hope it will, my boy! i like to get the cold now, not when the young trees are budding and blossoming." they went in, to find the ample supper spread upon its snowy cloth and the empty jug standing ready for the ale to be drawn to flank the pinky ham, yellow butter, and well-browned young fowl. "no, wife, no! can't see any sign of him yet," said the squire. "dick, get me my pipe. i'll have just one while we're waiting. hope he has not taken the wrong road!" "do you think he has?" said mrs winthorpe anxiously. "it would be very dangerous for him now it is growing dark." "no, no; nonsense!" said the squire, filling his pipe from the stone tobacco-jar dick had taken from the high chimney-piece of the cosy, low, oak-panelled room. it was a curious receptacle, having been originally a corbel from the bottom of a groin of the old building, and represented an evil-looking grotesque head. this the squire had had hollowed out and fitted with a leaden lid. "think we ought to go and meet him, father?" said dick, after watching the supper-table with the longing eyes of a young boy, and then taking them away to stare at his mother's glistening needle and the soft grey clouds from his father's pipe. "no, dick, we don't know which way to go. if we knew we would. perhaps he will not come at all, and i'm too tired to go far to-night." dick bent down and stroked tibb, the great black cat, which began to purr. "put on a few more turves, dick, and a bit or two of wood," said his mother. "mr marston may be cold." dick laid a few pieces of the resinous pine-root from the fen upon the fire, and built up round it several black squares of well-dried peat where the rest glowed and fell away in a delicate creamy ash. then the fir-wood began to blaze, and he returned to his seat. "'tatoes is done!" said a voice at the door, and the red-armed maid stood waiting for orders to bring them in. "put them in a dish, sarah, and keep them in the oven with the door open. when mr marston comes you can put them in the best wooden bowl, and cover them with a clean napkin before you bring them in," said mrs winthorpe. "oh, i say, mother, i am so hungry! mayn't i have one baked potato?" "surely you can wait, my boy, till our visitor comes," said mrs winthorpe quietly. dick stared across at the maid as she was closing the door, and a look of intelligence passed between them, one which asked a question and answered it; and dick knew that if he went into the great kitchen there would be a mealy potato ready for him by the big open fireplace, with butter _ad libitum_, and pepper and salt. dick sat stroking the cat for a few minutes and then rose, to go to the long low casement bay-window, draw aside the curtain, and look out over the black fen. "can't see him," he said with a sigh; and then, as no notice was taken of his remark, he went slowly out and across the square stone-paved hall to the kitchen, where, just as he expected, a great potato was waiting for him by the peat-fire, and hot plate, butter, pepper, and salt were ready. "oh, i say, sarah, you are a good one!" cried dick. "i thought you'd come, mester dick," said the maid; and then, with a start, "gracious! what's that?" "sea-bird," said dick shortly, and then he dropped the knife and ran back to the parlour, for another cry came from off the fen. "hear that, father!" cried dick. "hear it! yes, my lad. quick! get your cap. my staff, mother," he added. "poor fellow's got in, p'r'aps." the squire hurried out after dick, who had taken the lead, and as they passed out of the great stone porch the lad uttered a hail, which was answered evidently from about a couple of hundred yards away. "he has been coming across the fen path," said the squire. "ahoy! don't stir till we come." "shall we want the lantern, father?" cried dick. "no, no, my lad; we can see. seems darker first coming out of the light." a fresh cry came from off the fen, and it was so unmistakably the word "help!" that the squire and his son increased their pace. "ahoy, there!" cried a big gruff voice. "hickathrift?" "ay, mester! hear that! some un's in trouble over yonder." the wheelwright's big figure loomed up out of the darkness and joined them as they hurried on. "yes, i heard it. i think it must be mr marston missed his way." "what! the young gent at the dreeaning! hey, bud he'd no call to be out theer." "where are you?" shouted dick, who was ahead now and hurrying along the track that struck off to the big reed-beds and then away over the fen to the sea-bank. "here! help!" came faintly. "tak' care, mester dick!" cried hickathrift as he and the squire followed. "why, he is reight off the path!" "i'll take care!" shouted dick. "come on! all right; it isn't very soft here!" long usage had made him so familiar with the place that he was able to leave the track in the darkness and pick his way to where, guided by the voice, he found their expected visitor, not, as he expected, up to his middle in the soft peat, but lying prone. "why, mr marston, you're all right!" cried dick. "you wouldn't have hurt if you had come across here." "help!" came faintly from the prostrate traveller, and dick caught his arm, but only to elicit a groan. "well, he is a coward!" thought dick. "here, father! hicky!" "rather soft, my boy!" said the squire. "ay, not meant for men o' our weight, mester," said the wheelwright; and they had to flounder in the soft bog a little before they reached the spot where dick stood holding the young man's cold hand. "he has fainted with fright, father," said dick, who felt amused at anyone being so alarmed out there in the darkness. "let me tackle him, mester," said the wheelwright. "no; each take a hand, my lad," said the squire, "and then let's move together for the path as quickly as possible." "reight!" cried hickathrift, laconically; and, stooping down, they each took a hand, and half ran half waded through the black boggy mud, till they reached the path from which the young man had strayed. "poor chap! he were a bit scar'd to find himself in bog." "pity he ventured that way," said the squire. "here, mr marston, you're all right now," said dick. "can you get up and walk?" there was no answer, but the young man tried to struggle up, and would have sunk down again had not the squire caught him round the waist. "poor lad! he's bet out. not used to our parts," said hickathrift. "here, howd hard, sir. help me get him o' my back like a sack, and i'll run him up to the house i' no time." it seemed the best plan; and as the young man uttered a low moan he was half lifted on to hickathrift's broad back, and carried toward the house. "run on, dick, and tell your mother to mix a good glass of hollands and water," said the squire. dick obeyed, and the steaming glass of hot spirits was ready as the wheelwright bore in his load, and the young man was placed in a chair before the glowing kitchen fire. "my arm!" he said faintly. "you wrenched his arm, hicky," said dick, "when you dragged him out." "very sorry, mester dick." "ugh!" cried the lad, who had laid his hand tenderly on their visitor's shoulder. "what is it?" cried mrs winthorpe. "blood. he has been hurt," said dick. "shot! here," said the young man in a whisper; and then his head sank down sidewise, and he fainted dead away. mr marston's faintly-uttered words sent a thrill through all present, but no time was wasted. people who live in out-of-the-way places, far from medical help, learn to be self-reliant, and as soon as squire winthorpe realised what was wrong he gave orders for the injured man to be carried to the couch in the dining parlour, where his wet jacket was taken off by the simple process of ripping up the back seam. "now, mother, the scissors," said the squire, "and have some bandages ready. you, dick, if it's too much for you, go away. if it isn't: stop. you may want to bind up a wound some day." dick felt a peculiar sensation of giddy sickness, but he tried to master it, and stood looking on as the shirt sleeve was cut open, and the young man's white arm laid bare to the shoulder, displaying an ugly wound in the fleshy part. "why, it's gone right through, mother," whispered the squire, shaking his head as he applied sponge and cold water to the bleeding wounds. "and doctor says there's veins and artrys, mester," said hickathrift, huskily. "one's bad and t'other's worse. which is it, mester?" "i hope and believe there is no artery touched," said the squire; "but we must run no risk. hickathrift, my man, the doctor must be fetched. go and send one of the men." "nay, squire, i'll go mysen," replied the big wheelwright. "did'st see his goon, mester dick?" "no, i saw no gun." "strange pity a man can't carry a gun like a chrishtun," said the wheelwright, "and not go shutin hissen that way." the wheelwright went off, and the squire busied himself binding up the wounds, padding and tightening, and proving beyond doubt that no artery had been touched, for the blood was soon nearly staunched, while, just as he was finishing, and mrs winthorpe was drawing the sleeve on one side so as to secure a bandage with some stitches, something rolled on to the floor, and dick picked it up. "what's that, dick--money?" "no, father; leaden bullet." "ha! that's it; nice thing to go through a man's arm," said the squire as he examined the roughly-cast ragged piece of lead. "we must look for his gun to-morrow. what did he expect to get with a bullet at a time like this? eh? what were you trying to shoot, marston?" said the squire, as he found that the young man's eyes were open and staring at him. "i--trying to shoot!" "yes; of course you didn't mean to bring yourself down," said the squire, smiling; "but what in the world, man, were you trying to shoot with bullets out here?" the young engineer did not reply, but looked round from one to the other, and gave mrs winthorpe a grateful smile. "do you recollect where you left your gun?" said dick eagerly, for the thought of the rust and mischief that would result from a night in the bog troubled him. "left my gun!" he said. "never mind now, mr marston," said the squire kindly. "your things are wet, and we'll get you to bed. it's a nasty wound, but it will soon get right again. i'm not a doctor, but i know the bone is not broken." "i did not understand you at first," said the young engineer then. "you think i have been carrying a gun, and shot myself?" "yes, but never mind now," said mrs winthorpe, kindly. "i don't think you ought to talk." "no," was the reply; "i will not say much; but i think mr winthorpe ought to know. some one shot me as i was coming across the fen." "what!" cried dick. "shot you!" said the squire. "yes. it was quite dark, and i was carefully picking my way, when there was a puff of smoke from a bed of reeds, a loud report, and i seemed to feel a tremendous blow; and i remember no more till i came to, feeling sick and faint, and managed to crawl along till i saw the lights of the farm here, and cried for help." "great heavens!" cried the squire. "didn't you see any one?" cried mrs winthorpe. "no, nothing but the smoke from the reeds. i feel rather faint now--if you will let me rest." with the help of dick and his father the young engineer was assisted to his bed, where he seemed to drop at once into a heavy sleep; and, satisfied that there was nothing to fear for some time, the squire returned to the parlour looking very serious, while dick watched him intently to see what he would say. "this is very dreadful, my dear," whispered mrs winthorpe at last. "have we some strange robber in the fen?" "don't know," said the squire shortly. "perhaps some one has a spite against him." "how dreadful!" said mrs winthorpe. "one of his men perhaps." "or a robber," cried dick excitedly. "why, father, we might get dave and john warren and hicky and some more, and hunt him down." "robbers rob," said the squire laconically. "of course, my dear," said mrs winthorpe; "and it would be dreadful to think of. why, we could never go to our beds in peace." "but mr marston's watch and money are all right, my dear. depend upon it he has offended one of the rough drain diggers, and it is an act of revenge." "but the man ought to be punished." "of course, my dear, and we'll have the constables over from town, and he shall be found. it won't be very hard to do." "why not, father?" "because many of the men have no guns." "but they might borrow, father?" "the easier to find out then," said the squire. "well, one must eat whether a man's shot or no. history does not say that everybody went without his supper because king charles's head was cut off. mother, draw the ale. dick, tell sarah to bring in those hot potatoes. i'm hungry, and i've got to sit up all night." there proved to be no real need, for the squire's patient slept soundly, and there was nothing to disturb the silence at the toft. but morning found the squire still watching, with mrs winthorpe busy with her needle in the dining parlour, and dick lying down on the hearth-rug, and sleeping soundly by the glowing fire. for about four o'clock, after strenuously refusing to go to bed, he had thought he would lie down and rest for a bit, with the result that he was in an instant fast asleep, and breathing heavily. by breakfast-time farmer tallington had heard the news, and was over with tom, each ready to listen to the squire's and dick's account; and before nine o'clock dave and john warren, who had come over to hickathrift's, to find him from home, came on to the toft to talk with dick and tom, and stare and gape. "why, theer heven't been such a thing happen since the big fight wi' the smugglers and the king's men," said dave. to which john warren assented, and said it was "amaazin'." "and who do you think it weer?" said dave, as he stood scratching his ear; and upon being told the squire's opinion, he shook his head, and said there was no knowing. "it's a bad thing, mester dick, bringing straangers into a plaace. yow nivver know what characters they've got. why, i do believe--it's a turruble thing to say--that some of they lads at work at big dree-ern hevven't got no characters at all." "here be hickathrift a-coming wi' doctor," said john warren. and sure enough there was the doctor on his old cob coming along the fen road, with hickathrift striding by his side, the man of powder and draught having been from home with a patient miles away when hickathrift reached the town, and not returning till five o'clock. "he'll do right enough, squire," said the doctor. "young man like he is soon mends a hole in his flesh. you did quite right; but i suppose the bandaging was young dick's doing, for of all the clumsy bungling i ever saw it was about the worst." dick gave his eye a peculiar twist in the direction of his father, who was giving him a droll look, and then they both laughed. "very delicately done, doctor," said the squire. "there, dick, as he has put it on your shoulders you may as well bear it." "ah, let him!" said the doctor. "now, what are you going to do?" he said aloud; "catch the scoundrel who shot mr marston, and get him transported for life?" "that's what ought to be done to him," said john warren solemnly, as he looked straight away over the fen. "ay," said dave. "how do we know but what it may be our turn or hickathrift's next? it's a straange, bad thing." "i must talk it over with mr marston," said the squire, "when he gets better, and then we shall see." chapter twelve. the patient's friends. mr marston declared that he had not the most remote idea of having given any of his men offence, and then looked very serious about the question of bringing over the constables from the town to investigate the matter. "it may have been an accident, mr winthorpe," he said; "and if so, i should be sorry to get any poor fellow into trouble." "yes, but it may not have been an accident," said the doctor. this was in the evening, the doctor having ridden over again to see how his patient was getting on. "heaven forbid, sir," said marston warmly, "that i should suspect any man of such a cowardly cruel deed! impossible, sir! i cannot recall having done any man wrong since i have been here. my lads like me." "how do you know that?" said the squire dryly. "men somehow are not _very_ fond of the master who is over them, and makes them fairly earn their wages." "well, sir, i don't know how to prove it," said marston, who was lying on a dimity-covered couch, "but--" "hallo!" cried the squire, leaping up and going to the window, as a loud and excited buzzing arose, mingled with the trampling of feet, which sounded plainly in the clear cold spring evening. "anything wrong?" said the doctor. "why, here's a crowd of a hundred fellows armed with sticks!" cried the squire. "i believe they've got the rascal who fired the shot." "no!" said the doctor. "father! mr marston!" cried dick, rushing up stairs and into the visitor's bed-room; "here are all the drain-men--hundreds of them--mr marston's men." "not hundreds, young fellow," said marston smiling, "only one, if they are all here. what do they want? have they caught anyone?" "no, sir. they want to see you. i told them you were too bad; but they say they will see you." "i'll go and speak to them and see what they want," said the squire. "is it anything about paying their wages?" "oh dear, no!" said marston. "they have been paid as usual. shall i go down to them, doctor?" "if you do i'll throw up your case," cried the doctor fiercely. "bless my soul, no! do you think i want you in a state of high fever. stop where you are, sir. stop where you are." "i'll go," said the squire, "before they pull the house down." for the men were getting clamorous, and shouting loudly for mr marston. the squire descended, and dick with him, to find the front garden of the old farm-house full of great swarthy black-bearded fellows, everyone armed with a cudgel or a pick-axe handle, some having only the parts of broken shovels. "well, my lads, what is it?" said the squire, facing them. a tremendous yell broke out, every man seeming to speak at once, and nothing could be understood. "hullo, hickathrift! you're there, are you?" said the squire. "what do they want?" "well, you see, squire," began the wheelwright; but his voice was drowned by another furious yell. "don't all speak at once!" cried dick, who had planted himself upon a rough block of stone that had been dug out of the ruins and placed in the front of the house. there was something so droll to the great band of workmen in a mere stripling shouting to them in so commanding a way, that they all burst into a hearty laugh. "here, let hicky speak!" cried dick. "yes!--ay!--ah!--let big hickathrift speak!" was shouted out. "keep quiet, then," said the wheelwright, "or how can i! you see, squire," he continued, "the lads came along by my place, and they said some one had put it about that one of them had fired a shot at the young engyneer, and they're all popped about it, and want to see mr marston and tell him it isn't true." "you can't see mr marston, my lads," said the squire. here there was a fierce yell. "the doctor says it would do him harm," continued the squire, "and you don't want to do that." "nay, nay, we wean't do that," shouted one of the men. "but i may tell you that mr marston says that he does not believe there's a man among you who would do him any harm." "hooray!" shouted one of the men, and this was followed by a roar. "we wouldn't hurt the ganger, and we're going to pay out him as did." there was a tremendous yell at this, and the men nourished their weapons in a way that looked serious for the culprit if he should be discovered. "ay, but yow've got to find out first who it was," said hickathrift. "yes, and we're going to find out too," cried one rough-looking fellow standing forward. "how do we know as it warn't you?" "me!" cried hickathrift, staring blankly. "ay, yow," roared the great rough-looking fellow, a man not far short of the wheelwright's size. "we've heered all on you a going on and pecking about the dree-ern being made. we know yow all hates our being here, so how do we know it warn't yow?" the man's fierce address was received with an angry outburst by the men, who had come out on purpose to inflict punishment upon some one, and in their excitement, one object failing, they were ready to snatch at another. it was perhaps an insensate trick; but there was so much of the frank manly british boy in dick winthorpe that he forgot everything in the fact that big hickathrift, the man he had known from a child--the great bluff fellow who had carried him in his arms and hundreds of times made him welcome in that wonderland, his workshop, where he was always ready to leave off lucrative work to fashion him eel-spear or leaping-pole, or to satisfy any other whim that was on the surface--that this old friend was being menaced by a great savage of a stranger nearly as big as himself, and backed by a roaring excited crowd who seemed ready for any outrage. dick did not hesitate a moment, but with eyes flashing, teeth clenched, and fists doubled, he leaped down from the stone, rushed into the midst of the crowd, closing round the wheelwright, and darting between the great fellow and the man who had raised a pick-handle to strike, seized hold of the stout piece of ash and tried to drag it away. "you great coward!" he roared--"a hundred to one!" it was as if the whole gang had been turned to stone, their self-constituted leader being the most rigid of the crowd, and he stared at dick winthorpe as a giant might stare at the pigmy who tried to snatch his weapon away. but the silence and inert state lasted only a few seconds, before the black-bearded fellow's angry face began to pucker up, his eyes half closed, and, bending down, he burst into a hearty roar of laughter. "see this, lads!" he cried. "see this! don't hurt me, mester! say, lads, i never felt so scared in my life." the leader's laugh was contagious, and the crowd took it up in chorus; but the more they laughed, the more angry grew dick. he could not see the ridiculous side of the matter; for, small as was his body in comparison with that of the man he had assailed, his spirit had swollen out as big as that of anyone present. "i don't care," he cried; "i'll say it again--you're a set of great cowards; and as for you," he cried to the fellow whose weapon he had tried to wrest away, "you're the biggest of the lot." "well done, young un--so he is!" cried the nearest man. "hooray for young ganger!" the men were ready to fight or cheer, and as ready to change their mood as crowds always are. they answered the call with a stentorian roar; and if dick winthorpe had imitated richard the second just then, and called upon the crowd to accept him as their leader, they would have followed him to the attempt of any mad prank he could have designed. "thank ye, mester dick!" said hickathrift, placing his great hand upon the lad's shoulder, as the squire forced his way to their side. "i always knowed we was mates; but we're bigger mates now than ever we was before." "ay, and so 'm _i_," said the big drain delver. "shake hands, young un. you're english, you are. so 'm i. he's english, lads; that's what he is!" he roared as he seized dick's hand and pumped it up and down. "so 'm i." "hooray!" shouted the crowd; and, seeing how the mood of all was changed, the squire refrained from speaking till the cheering was dying out, when, making signs to the men to hear him, he was about to utter a few words of a peacemaking character, but there was another burst of cheering, which was taken up again and again, the men waving their caps and flourishing their cudgels, and pressing nearer to the house. for the moment dick was puzzled, but he realised what it all meant directly, for, looking in the same direction as the men, it was to see that the young engineer had disregarded the doctor's orders, and was standing at the open window, with his face very pale and his arm in a sling. he waved his uninjured arm to command silence, and this being obtained, his voice rang out firm and clear. "my lads," he cried, "i know why you've come, and i thank you; but these people here are my very good friends, and as for the squire's son and the wheelwright there, they saved my life last night." "hooray!" roared the leader of the gang frantically; and as his companions cheered, he caught hold of hickathrift's hand, and shook it as earnestly as if they were sworn brothers. "as to my wound," continued the engineer, "i believe it was an accident; so now i ask you to go back home quietly, and good-night!" "well said, sir; good-night to you!" roared the leader as the window was closed. "good-night to everybody! come on, lads! good-night, young un! we're good mates, eh?" "yes," said dick, shortly. "then shake hands again. we don't bear no malice, do us? see, lads. we're mates. i wean't laugh at you. you're a good un, that's what you are, and you'll grow into a man." the great fellow gave dick's hand another shake that was very vigorous, but by no means pleasant; and then, after three roaring cheers, the whole party went off, striking up a chorus that went rolling over the fen and kept on dying out and rising again as the great sturdy fellows tramped away. "i'm not an inhospitable man, doctor," said the squire, as the former shook hands to go, after giving orders for his patient to be kept quiet, and assuring the squire that the young fellow would be none the worse for the adventures of the night--"i'm not an inhospitable man, but one has to think twice before asking a hundred such to have a mug of ale. i should have liked to do it, and it was on my lips, but the barrel would have said no, i'm sure. good-night!" "now, sir," said the squire as soon as he was alone with his son, "what have you got to say for yourself?" "say, father!" replied dick, staring. "yes, sir. don't you think you did about as mad and absurd a thing as the man who put his head into the lion's jaws?" "i--i didn't know, father," replied dick, who, after the exultation caused by the cheering, felt quite crestfallen. "no, of course you did not, but it was a very reckless thing to do, and--er--don't--well, i hope you will never have cause to do it again." dick went away, feeling as if his comb had been cut, and of course he did not hear his father's words that night when he went to bed. "really, mother, i don't know whether i felt proud of the boy or vexed when he faced that great human ox." "i do," said mrs winthorpe smiling, but with the tears in her eyes--"proud." "yes, i think i did," said the squire. "good-night!" "don't you think some one ought to sit up with mr marston?" "no: he is sleeping like a top; and after our bad time with him yesternight, i mean to have some sleep." five minutes after, the squire's nose proclaimed that it was the hour of rest, and dick heard it as he stole from his bed-room, to see how the wounded man was; and this act he repeated at about hourly intervals all through the night, for he could not sleep soundly, his mind was so busy with trouble about the injury to their visitor's arm, and the wonder which kept working in his brain. who was it fired that shot? the doctor was right; the wounded man's arm soon began to mend; but naturally there was a period when he was unable to attend to his duties, and that period was a pleasant one for dick winthorpe, inasmuch as it was the commencement of a long friendship. john marston was for going back to his lodgings near the outfall or _gowt_ as it was termed; but the squire and mrs winthorpe would not hear of it, and to the boys' great delight, he stayed. he was an invalid, but the right kind of invalid to make a pleasant companion, for he loved the open air, and was never happier than when he was out with the boys and dave or john warren, somewhere in the fen. "it's all gammon to call him ill, and for the doctor to keep coming," said tom tallington. "oh, he is ill!" said dick; "but you see he's only ill in one arm." dick had only to propose a run out, and john marston immediately seemed to forget that he was a man, became a boy for the time being, and entered into the spirit of their pursuits. one day it was pike-fishing, with dave to punt them about here and there among the pools. at another time ordinary tackle would be rigged up, and dave would take them to some dark hole where fish were known to swarm, and for hours the decoy-man would sit and watch patiently while the three companions pulled up the various denizens of the mere. one bright april morning dave was seen coming out of the mist, looking gigantic as he stood up in his boat; and his visit was hailed with delight, for the trio had been wondering how they should pass that day. "morning, dave!" said marston as the fen-man landed slowly from his boat, and handed dick a basket of fresh ducks' eggs. "morn', mester! tak them up to the missus, mester dick. they be all noo-laid uns. straange thick haar this morn," he continued, wiping the condensed mist from his eyelashes. "re'glar sea-haar." [sea-fog--mist from the german ocean.] "take those eggs up to mother, tom," said dick imperatively. "sha'n't. i know! you want to be off without me." "hallo, young fellow!" said the squire cheerily. "what have you got there--eggs?" "yes, mester, fresh uns for the missus." "i'm going in, and i'll take them," said the squire, thus disposing of the difficulty about a messenger. "there's a canister of powder for you, dave, when you want some more." "thanky kindly, mester. i'll come and get it when i'm up at house." the squire nodded and went on, but turned back to ask when mr marston was going over to the works, and upon hearing that it was in the afternoon, he said he would accompany him. "and how's your lame arm, mester?" said dave as soon as the squire had gone. "getting better fast, dave, my man." "and with two holes in it, mester?" "yes, with two holes in it." "but are they both getting better?" "why, you've been told a dozen times over that they are!" cried dick. "nay, mester dick, i know'd as one hole was getting reight, but mester marston here nivver said as both weer. i'm straange and glad. heered aught yet 'bout him as did it?" "no, my man, and don't want to." "hark at that, mester dick! why, if any one had shot at me, and hot me as they did him, i'd have found him out somehow afore now. mebbe i shall find this out mysen." "why, you're not trying, dave." "not trying, lad! nay, but i am, and i shall find him yet some day. look here, boys. if you want to find out anything like that, you mustn't go splashing about among the reeds, or tug-slugging through the bog-holes, or he hears you coming, and goos and hides. you must sit down among the bushes, and wait and wait quiet, like a man does when he wants to get the ducks, and by-and-by him as did it comes along. dessay i shall catch him one of these days, and if i do, and i've got my pole with me, i'll throost him under water and half-drownd him." "never mind about all that, dave. what are you going to do to-day?" cried dick. "me, lad! oh, nowt! i've brote a few eggs for the missus, and i shall tak' that can o' powder back wi' me, and then set down and go on makkin soom new coy-nets." "that's his gammon, mr marston," cried dick. "nay, nay, mester, it's solemn truth." "'tisn't; it's gammon. isn't it, tom?" "every bit of it. he's come on purpose to ask us to go out with him." "nay, nay, nay, lads," said dave in an ill-used tone. "i did think o' asking if mester marston here would like to try for some eels up in the long shallows by popley watter, for they be theer as thick as herrin', bubblin' up and slithering in the mud." "let's go, then, mr marston. eel-spearing," cried dick. "but i could not use an eel-spear," said the young engineer, smiling. "but tom and i could do the spearing, and you could put the eels in the basket." "when you caught them," said marston, laughing. "oh, we should be sure to catch some! shouldn't we, dave?" "ay, theer's plenty of 'em, mester." "let's go, then," cried dick excitedly; "and if we get a whole lot, we'll take them over to your men, mr marston. come on!" "nay, but yow weant," said dave, with a dry chuckle. "why not?" "mester hickathrift has got the stong-gad to mend. one of the tines is off, and it wants a noo ash pole." "here, stop a moment," said marston, laughingly interrupting a groan of disgust uttered by the boys; "what, pray, is a stong-gad?" "ha--ha--ha!" laughed tom. "don't know what a stong-gad is!" "hold your tongue, stupid!" cried dick indignantly, taking the part of his father's guest. "you don't know everything. what's a dumpy leveller? there, you don't know, and mr marston does." "but what is a stong-gad?" said marston. "eel-spear," said dick. "how long would it take hicky to mend it?" "'bout two hours--mebbe only one. i could mak' a new pole while he forged the tine." "come along, then. hicky will leave anything to do it for me." "nay, he's gone to market," said dave. "yes; i saw him pass our house," said tom. "what a shame!" cried dick. "here, i say, what's that basket for in the punt?" he added eagerly. "why, he's got a net, too, and some poles," cried tom. "yah! he meant to do something." "why, of course he did," cried dick, running down to the boat. "now, then, dave, what's it to be?" "oh, nowt, mester dick! i thought to put a net in, and a pole or two, and ask if you'd care to go and get a few fish, but mester marston's too fine a gentleman to care for ought o' the sort." "oh, no, i'm not!" said marston. "i should enjoy it, boys, above all things." "there, dave, now then! what is it--a drag-net?" "nay, mester dick, on'y a bit of a new." "but where are you going?" "i thowt o' the strip 'tween long patch and bootherboomp's roostens." "here, stop a moment," cried the engineer. "i've heard that name before. who was mr bootherboomp?" "hi--hi--hi! hecker--hecker--hecker. heigh!" that does not express the sounds uttered by dave, for they were more like an accident in a wooden clock, when the wheels run down and finish with a jerk which breaks the cogs. but that was dave's way of laughing, and it ended with a horrible distortion of his features. "i say: don't, dave. what an old nut-cracker you are! you laugh like the old watchman's rattle in the garret. be quiet, tom!" "but mr bootherboomp!" roared tom, bursting into a second fit of laughter. "it's butterbump, mr marston. it's what they call those tall brown birds something like herons. what do you call them in london?" said dick. "oh, bitterns!" "yes, that's it. come on!" "nay," said dave; "i don't think you gentlemen would care for such poor sport. on'y a few fish'." "you never mind about that! jump in, mr marston. who's going to pole?" "nay, i'll pole," said dave. "if yow mean to go we may as well get theer i' good time; but i don't think it's worth the trouble." "get out! it's rare good fun, mr marston; sometimes we get lots of fish." "i'm all expectation," said marston as dave smiled the tight smile, which made his mouth look like a healed-up cut; and, taking the pole, began to send the punt over the clear dark water. "shall we find any of those curious fish my men caught in the river the other day?" "what curious fish were they?" asked dick. "well, to me they seemed as if so many young eels had grown ashamed of being so long and thin, and they had been feeding themselves up and squeezing themselves short, so as to look as like tench as possible." "oh, i know what you mean!" cried tom. "eel-pouts! they're just about half-way between eels and tench." "nay, yow wean't catch them here," said dave oracularly. "they lives in muddy watter in rivers. our watter here's clean and clear." it was a bright pleasant journey over the mere, in and out of the lanes of water to pool after pool, till dave suddenly halted at a canal-like spot, where the water ran in between two great beds of tender-growing reeds, which waved and undulated in the soft breeze. here he thrust down his pole and steadied the punt, while he shook out his light net with its even meshes, securing one end to a pole and then letting the leaden sinkers carry it to the bottom before thrusting the punt over to the other side of the natural canal, to which he made fast the second end of the net in a similar way, so that the water was sealed with a light fence of network, whose lower edge was close to the black ooze of the bottom, held there by the leaden sinkers of the foot line, the top line being kept to the surface by a series of tightly-bound little bundles of dry rushes. "theer," said dave as soon as he had done, his proceedings having been carefully watched; "that un do!" "will the fish go into that net?" said marston. "nay, not unless we mak 'em, mester," said dave, smiling. "will they, mester dick?" "not they," cried dick. "wait a minute, mr marston; you'll see." dave took his pole and, leaving the net behind, coasted along by the shore of the little island formed by the canal or strait, which ran in, zigzagging about like a vein in a piece of marble; and after about a quarter of an hour's hard work he forced the punt round to the other side of the island, and abreast of a similar opening to that which they had left, in fact the other end of the natural canal or lane, here about twelve or fourteen feet broad. "oh, i see!" said the engineer. "you mean to go in here, and drive the fish to the net at the other end." "that's the way, mr marston," said tom tallington. "wait a bit, and you'll see such a haul." "perhaps of an empty net, mr marston," said dick with a grin. "perhaps there are none here." "you set astarn, mester," said dave. "i'll put her along, and you tak' one side, mester dick; and you t'other, young tom tallington." the boys had already taken up two long light poles that lay in the boat, and standing up as dave sent the boat along slowly and making a great deal of disturbance with his pole, they beat and splashed and stabbed the water on both sides of the boat, so as to scare any fish which might happen to be there, and send them flying along the lane toward the net. this was a comparatively easy task, for the coming of the boat was sufficient as a rule to startle the timid fish, which in turn scared those in front, the beating with the poles at either side sending forward any which might be disposed to slip back. there was more labour than excitement in the task; but the course along the lane of water was not entirely uneventful, for a moor-hen was startled from her nest in a half-liquid patch of bog, above which rose quite a tuft of coarse herbage; and farther on, just as dick thrust in his pole to give it a good wriggle and splash, there was a tremendous swirl, and a huge pike literally shot out of the water, describing an arc, and after rising fully four feet from the surface dropped head-first among the tangled water-weeds and reedy growth, through which it could be seen to wriggle and force its way farther and farther, the waving reeds and bubbling water between showing the direction in which it had gone. "hooray, dave! a forty-pounder!" cried dick. "push the punt in and we can easily catch him." "not you," said dave stolidly; "he'll get through that faster than we could." "but, look, look! i can see where he is." "nay, he'll go all through theer and get deeper and deeper, and it's more wattery farther on. he'll go right through theer, and come out the other side." "but he was such a big one, dave--wasn't he, mr marston?--quite forty pounds!" "nay, not half, lad," said dave stolidly, as he thrust the boat on. "beat away. we'll come and set a bait for him some day. that's the way to catch him." dick uttered an angry ejaculation as he looked back towards where he could still see the water plants waving; and in his vexation he raised his pole, and went on with the splashing so vigorously, and, as legal folks say, with so much _malice prepense_, that he sent the water flying over dave as he stood up in the bows of the punt. tom chuckled and followed suit, sending another shower over the puntsman. then dick began again, the amber water flying and sparkling in the sunshine; but dave took no notice till the splashing became too pronounced, when he stopped short, gave his head a shake, and turned slowly round. "want to turn back and give up?" he said slowly. dick knew the man too well to continue, and in penitent tones exclaimed: "no, no, go on, dave, we won't splash any more." "because if there's any more of it--" "i won't splash any more, dave," cried dick, laughing, "it was tom." "oh, what a shame!" "so you did splash. didn't he, mr marston?" "i don't want to hear no more about it, mester dick. i know," growled dave. "i only says, is it to be fishing or games?" "fishing, dave. it's all right; go on, tom; splash away gently." "because if--" "no, no, go on, dave. there, we won't send any more over you." dave uttered a grunt, and forced the boat along once more, while marston sat in the stern an amused spectator of the boys' antics. everything now went on orderly enough, till they had proceeded a long way on, in and out, for a quarter of a mile, when at a word from dave the splashing and stabbing of the water grew more vigorous, the punt being now pretty close to the net, the irregular row of bundles of rushes showing plainly. and now dave executed a fresh evolution, changing the position of the punt, for instead of its approaching end on, he turned it abreast, so that it pretty well touched the reedy sides of the canal, and with the poles now being plied on one side, the boat was made to approach more slowly. "now, mester, you'd better stand up," said dave. "yes, mr marston, stand up," cried dick. "look!" marston rose to his feet, and as he looked toward the entrance where the net was spread there was a wave-like swell upon the surface, which might have been caused by the movement of the boat or by fish. there was no doubt about its being caused by fish, for all at once, close by the row of rush bundles, there was a splash. then, as they approached, another and another. "they're feeling the net," cried dick excitedly. "ay, keep it oop, lads, or they'll come back," cried dave, making the water swirl with his pole, which he worked about vigorously. even as he spoke there came another splash, and this time the sun flashed upon the glittering sides of the fish which darted out and fell over the other side of the top line of the net. "there goes one," shouted tom. "ay, and theer goes another," said dave with a chuckle as he forced the boat along slowly. and now, as marston watched, he saw that the irregular line of rush bundles which stretched across the mouth of the canal was changing its shape, and he needed no telling that the regular semicircular form it assumed was caused by the pressure of a shoal of fish seeking to escape into the open mere, but of course checked by the fragile wall of net. "there must be a lot, tom," cried dick excitedly. "look, mr marston! there goes another. oh, dave, we shall lose them all!" this was consequent upon another good-sized fish flying out of the water, falling heavily upon one of the rush floats, and then darting away. "nay, we sha'n't lose 'em all," said dave coolly. "some on 'em's safe to go. now, then, splash away. reach over your end, young tom tallington, or some on 'em 'll go round that way." tom changed his place a little, to stand now on what had been the front of their advance, and thrusting in his pole he splashed and beat the narrow space between him and the dense boggy side, where the sphagnum came down into the water. dick followed suit at the other end, and dave swept his pole sidewise as if he were mowing weeds below the surface. "oh!" cried dick, as he overbalanced himself, and nearly went in from the stern. he would have gone headlong had not mr marston made a bound, and caught him as he vainly strove to recover his balance. the effort was well timed, and saved him, but of course the consequences of jumping about in a boat are well-known. the punt gave such a lurch that dave almost went out, while, as for tom, he was literally jerked up as from a spring-board, and, dropping his pole, he seemed to be taking a voluntary dive, describing a semicircle, and going down head-first, not into the narrow slit between him and the boggy shore, but right into the semi-fluid mass of sphagnum, water, and ooze, where he disappeared to his knees. tom's dive sent the boat, as he impelled it with his feet, a couple of yards away; and for a moment or two those who were in it seemed half paralysed, till a roar of laughter from dick, who did not realise the danger, roused dave to action. for the dense mass, while fluid enough to allow tom to dive in, was not sufficiently loose to let him rise; and there he stuck, head downwards, and with his legs kicking furiously. "now if we was to leave him," said dave sententiously, "he wouldn't never be no more trouble to his father; but i suppose we must pull him out." "pull him out, man? quick, use your pole!" "ay, i'm going to, mester," said dave coolly. "theer we are," he continued, as he sent the end of the punt back to where poor tom's legs went on performing a series of kicks which were sometimes like those made by a swimming frog, and at others as if he were trying to walk upside down along an imaginary flight of aerial stairs. the time seemed long, but probably it was not half a minute from the time tom dived into the bog till the young engineer seized him by the legs and dragged him into the boat, to sit upon the bottom, gasping, spitting, and rubbing the ooze from his eyes. but it was a good two minutes before he was sufficiently recovered to look round angrily, and in a highly-pitched quavering voice exclaimed: "look here: who was it did that?" "nobody," roared dick. "oh, i say, tom, what a game! are your feet wet?" tom turned upon him savagely, but everyone in the boat was laughing, and his countenance relaxed, and he rose up and leaned over the side of the boat to wash his face, which a splash or two relieved from the pieces of bog and dead vegetation which adhered. "i don't mind," he said. "only you wouldn't have found it a game if you'd been there." "let's get back quickly," said mr marston, "or the boy will catch cold." "oh, it won't hurt me!" cried tom. "let's catch the fish first. they never get cold." "yes: let's haul the net out first," said dick. "tom won't mind a ducking." "ay, we're going to hev out the net," said dave. "splash away, my lad. that'll keep away the cold." poor tom's feet had not been wet, but as he stood up with the water trickling from him, a couple of streams soon made their way down the legs of his trousers into his boots. this was, however, soon forgotten in the excitement of the hauling. for, after a fresh amount of splashing, though dave declared the fish had all come back, the punt was run pretty close up to one side, the lines and pole taken on board, and the punt thrust toward the other side. before they reached it the bobbing of the rush floats and the semicircular shape of the top line showed plainly enough that there were a good many fish there; and when dave had secured the lines at the other end, removed the poles, and by ingenious manipulation drawn on the bottom line so as to raise the cord, it was not long before the net began to assume the shape of a huge bag, and one that was pretty heavy. every now and then a swirl in the water and a splash showed where some large fish was trying to escape, while sometimes one did leap out and get away. then the surface would be necked with silvery arrows as swarms of small-fry appeared flashing into sight and disappearing, these little bits of excitement growing less frequent as the small fish found their way over the top of the net, or discovered that the meshes were wide enough to allow them to pass through. "how is it, dave, that all the little fish like to keep to the top of the water, and the big ones out of sight down at the bottom?" said dick. dave chuckled, or rather made a noise something like a bray. "s'pose you was a fish, young mester, wouldn't you, if you was a little one, keep nigh the top if you found going down to the bottom among the big uns meant being swallowed up?" "oh, of course!" cried dick. "i forgot that they eat one another. look, mr marston, that was a pike." he pointed excitedly to a large fish which rose to the surface, just showing its dark olive-green back as it curved over and disappeared again, making the water eddy. "they do not seem to have all gone, dave," said mr marston. "nay, theer's a few on 'em left, mester," replied dave. "now, my lads, all together. that's the way." the lines were drawn, and the weight of the great bag of meshes proved that after all a good fair haul had been made, the net being drawn close to the boat and the bag seeming to shrink in size till there was a mass of struggling, splashing fish alongside, apparently enough to far more than fill a bushel basket. "what are you going to do?" asked mr marston, who was as excited now as the boys, while dave worked away stolidly, as if it was all one of the most commonplace matters for him. "haul the net into the boat," cried tom. "nay, my net would break," said dave. "there's a lot of owd rushes and roots, and rotten weeds in it." "i don't believe there are, dave," said dick. "it's all solid fish." "nay, lad, but net'll break. let's hev out some of the big uns first." "look! there's a fine one," cried dick, making a dash at a large fish which rose out of the writhing mass, but it glided through his hands. "howd hard!" said dave. "you lads go th'other side o' the punt or we shall capsize. let me and the london gentleman get them in." "oh!" groaned tom. "no, i've only one hand to work with," said marston, who saw the reasonableness of the old fen-man's remark, for the side of the boat had gone down very low once or twice, and the effect of dragging a portion of the laden net on board might have been sufficient to admit the water. "i'll give way, and act as ballast." "no, no!" cried dick. "you help, mr marston." but the young engineer remained steadfast to his proposal, and seated himself on the other side. "better let me lade out a few o' the big uns, mester dick," said dave, "while you lads hold on." the boys hardly approved of the proposal, but they gave way; and each taking a good grip of the wet net, they separated toward the head and stern, while dave stayed in the middle, and taking off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves close to the shoulder, and then plunging his arms in among the swarm of fish he brought out a good-sized pike of six or seven pounds. this was thrown into the basket, to flap furiously and nearly leap out, renewing its efforts as another of its kind was thrown in to keep it company. "is there a very big one, dave?" cried dick. "nay; nought very big," was the reply. "draw her up, my lads. that's reight." as dave spoke he kept on plunging his hands into the splashing and struggling mass of fish, and sometimes brought out one, sometimes missed. but he kept on vigorously till, feeling satisfied that the net would bear the rest, he drew the loaded line well over into the boat, and, giving the boys a hint to tighten the line, he plunged in his arms once more, got well hold, and the next minute, by a dexterous lift, raised the bag, so that its contents came pouring over the edge of the punt in a silvery, glittering cataract of fish, leaping, gliding, and flapping all over the bottom about his feet. then a few fish, which were hanging by their gills, their heads being thrust through the meshes, were shaken out, the net bundled up together and thrown into the fore part of the boat, and the little party came together to gloat over their capture. "theer, lads," said dave, coolly resuming his jacket, "you can pitch 'em all into the baskets, all the sizable ones, and put all the little ones back into the watter. i'll throost the punt back, so as young tom tallington can get some dry clothes." these latter were the last things in tom's mind, for just then, as dave resumed the pole, and began sending the boat quickly through the water, the boy was trying to grasp an eel, which had found the meshes one size too small for his well-fed body, and was now in regular serpentine fashion trying to discover a retreat into which he could plunge, and so escape the inevitable frying-pan or pot. irrespective of the fact that a large eel can bite sharply, it is, as everyone knows, one of the most awkward things to hold, for the moment a good grip of its slimy body is made, the result seems to be that it helps the elongated fish to go forward or slip back. and this tom found as he grasped the eel again and again, only for it to make a few muscular contortions and escape. then dick tried, with no better effect, the pursuit lasting till the active fish made its way in among the meshes of the net, when its capture became easy, and it was swept into the great basket, to set the pike flapping and leaping once more. then the sorting commenced, all the small fish being thrown back to increase in size, while the rest of the slimy captives went into the basket. there was no larger pike than the one first taken out of the net by dave, but plenty of small ones, all extremely dark in colour, as if affected by living in the amber-tinted water, and nearly all these were thrown back, in company with dozens of silvery roach and orange-finned, brightly gilded rudd, all thicker and broader than their relatives the roach. many scores of fish were thrown overboard, some to turn up and float for a few minutes before they recovered their breath, as tom called it, but for the most part they dived down at once, uninjured by what they had gone through, while their largeness fortunate friends were tossed into the basket--gilded side-striped perch, with now and then a fat-looking, small-eyed, small-scaled tench, brightly brazen at the sides, and looking as if cast in a soft kind of bronze. then there were a couple of large-scaled brilliantly golden carp; but the majority of the fish were good-sized, broad, dingy-looking bream, whose slimy emanations made the bottom of the punt literally ask for a cleansing when the basket was nearly filled. by that time the party were well on their way to the toft, and as they neared the shore, it was to find the squire waiting to speak to the engineer, while john warren was close behind with his dog, ready to join dave, in whose company he went off after the latter had been up to the house and had a good feast of bread and cheese and ale. that evening the squire and mr marston went over to the works to see how matters were progressing, to find all satisfactory, and the night passed quietly enough; but at breakfast the next morning, when some of the best of the tench appeared fried in butter, a messenger came over to see the engineer on his way to the town for the doctor, to announce that hez bargle, the big delver, who had been leader of the party who came over so fiercely about the attack upon mr marston, had been found that morning lying in the rough hovel where he slept alone, nearly dead. the man was sharply examined by the engineer, a fresh messenger in the shape of hickathrift being found to carry on the demand for the doctor. but there was very little to learn. bargle had not come up to his work, and the foreman of the next gang went to see why his fellow-ganger had not joined him, and found him lying on the floor of the peat-built hut quite insensible, with the marks of savage blows about the head, as if he had been suddenly attacked and beaten with a club, for there was no sign of any struggle. mr marston went over at once with the squire, dick obtaining permission to accompany them; and upon their arrival it was to find all the work at a stand-still, the men being grouped about with their sleeves rolled-up, and smoking, and staring silently at the rough peat hovel where their fellow-worker lay. the engineer entered the shelter--it did not deserve the title of cottage--and the squire and dick followed, to find the man nearly insensible, and quite unable to give any account of how the affair had happened. the men were questioned, but knew nothing beyond the fact that they had parted from him as usual to go to their own quarters, bargle being the only one who lodged alone. there had been no quarrel as far as mr marston could make out, everyone he spoke to declaring that the work had gone on the previous day in the smoothest way possible; and at last there seemed to be nothing to do but wait until the great, rough fellow could give an account of the case for himself. the doctor came at last, and formed his opinion. "he is such a great, strong fellow that unless he was attacked by two or three together, i should say someone came upon him as he lay asleep and stunned him with a blow on the head." "the result of some quarrel or offence given to one of the men under him, i'm afraid," said the engineer with a look of intense vexation in his eyes. "these men are very brutal sometimes to their fellows, especially when they are placed in authority. will he be long before he is better?" "no," replied the doctor. "the blows would have killed an ordinary man, but he has a skull like an ox. he'll be at work again in a fortnight if he'll behave sensibly, and carry out my instructions." a couple of days later bargle was sitting up smoking, when the engineer entered the reed-thatched hut, in company with dick. "hallo, youngster!" growled the great fellow, with a smile slowly spreading over his rugged face, and growing into a grin, which accorded ill with his bandaged head; "shak' hands!" dick obeyed heartily enough, the great fellow retaining the lad's hand in his, and slowly pumping it up and down. "we're mates, that's what we two are," he growled. "you ar'n't half a bad un, you ar'n't. ah, mester, how are you? arm better?" "mending fast, my lad; and how are you?" "tidy, mester, tidy! going to handle a spade again to-morrow." "nonsense, man! you're too weak yet." "weak! who says so? i don't, and the doctor had better not." "never mind that. i want you to tell me how all this happened." "he ar'n't half a bad un, mester," said the injured man, ignoring the remark, as he held on to the boy's hand. "we're mates, that's what we are. see him stand up again me that day? it were fine." "yes; but you must tell me how this occurred. i want to take some steps about it." "hey! and you needn't take no steps again it, mester. i shall lay hold on him some day, and when i do--hah!" he stretched out a huge fist in a menacing way that promised ill to his assailant. "but do you know who it was?" said the engineer. "it warn't him," growled bargle, smiling at dick. "he wouldn't come and hit a man when he's asleep. would you, mate?" "i wouldn't be such a coward," cried dick. "theer! hear that, mester! i knowed he wouldn't. he'd hev come up to me and hit me a doubler right in the chest fair and square, and said, `now, then, come on!'" "then someone did strike you when you were asleep, bargle, eh?" "dunno, mester; i s'pose so. looks like it, don't it?" "yes, my man, very much so. then you were woke out of your sleep by a blow, eh?" "weer i? i don't know." "tell me who have you had a quarrel with lately?" "quarrel?" "well, row, then." "wi' him," said the big fellow, pointing at dick. "oh, but he would not have come to you in the night!" "who said he would, mester?" growled bargle menacingly. "not he. he'd come up square and give a man a doubler in the chest and--" "yes, yes," said the engineer impatiently; "but i want to know who it was made this attack upon you--this cowardly attack. you say it was while you slept." "yes, i s'pose so; but don't you trouble about that, mester. i'm big enough to fight my bit. i shall drop on to him one of these days, and when i do--why, he'll find it okkard." mr marston questioned and cross-questioned the man, but there was no more to be got from him. he s'posed some un come in at that theer door and give it him; but he was so much taken up with dick's visit that he could hardly think of self, and when they came away mr marston had learned comparatively nothing, the big fellow shouting after dick: "i've got a tush for you, lad, when i get down to the dreern again--one i digged out, and you shall hev it." dick said, "thank you," for the promised "tush," and walked away. "i don't like it," said mr marston. "someone shooting at me; someone striking down this man. i'm afraid it's due to ill-will towards me, dick. but," he added, laughing, "i will not suspect you, as bargle lets you off." chapter thirteen. the shakes. the time glided on. bargle grew better; mr marston's wound healed; and these troubles were forgotten in the busy season which the fine weather brought. for the great drain progressed rapidly in the bright spring and early summer-time. there were stoppages when heavy rains fell; but on the whole nature seemed to be of opinion that the fen had lain uncultivated for long enough, and that it was time there was a change. the old people scattered here and there about the edge shook their heads, especially when they came over to hickathrift's, and said it would all be swept away one of these fine nights--_it_ being the new river stretching week by week farther into the morass; but the flood did not seem to have that effect when it did come. on the contrary, short as was the distance which the great drain had penetrated, its effect was wonderful, for it carried off water in a few days which would otherwise have stayed for weeks. dick said it was a good job that mr marston had been shot. asked why by his crony tom, he replied that it had made them such good friends, and it was nice to have a chap who knew such a lot over at the toft. for the intimacy had grown; and whenever work was done, reports written out and sent off, and no duties raised their little reproving heads to say, "you are neglecting us!" the engineer made his way to the toft, ready to join the two boys on some expedition--egg-collecting, fishing, fowling, or hunting for some of the botanical treasures of the bog. "i wish he wouldn't be so fond of moss and weeds!" said tom. "it seems so stupid to make a collection of things like that, and to dry them. why, you could go to one of our haystacks any day and pull out a better lot than he has got." dick said nothing, for he thought those summer evenings delightful. he and tom, too, had been ready enough to laugh at their new friend whenever he displayed ignorance of some term common to the district; but now this laughter was lost in admiration as they found how he could point out objects in their various excursions which they had never seen before, book-lore having prepared him to find treasures in the neighbourhood of the toft of whose existence its occupants knew naught. "don't you find it very dull out there, mr marston," said mrs winthorpe one day, "always watching your men cut--cut--cut--through that wet black bog?" "dull, madam!" he said, smiling; "why, it is one continual time of excitement. i watch every spadeful that is taken out, expecting to come upon some relic of the past, historical or natural. by the way, dick, did that man bargle ever give you the big tusk he said he had found?" "no, he has never said any more about it, and i don't like to ask." "then i will. perhaps it is the tooth of some strange beast which used to roam these parts hundreds of years ago." "i say, marston," said the squire, "you'd like to see your great band of ruffians at work excavating here, eh?" "mr winthorpe," said the young man, "i'd give anything to be allowed to search the ruins." "yes, and turn my place upside down, and disturb the home of the poor old monks who used to live here! no, no; i'm not going to have my place ragged to pieces. but when we do dig down, we come upon some curious old stones." "like your tobacco-jar?" the engineer said, pointing to the old carven corbel. the squire nodded. "you've got plenty of digging to do, my lad," he said, laughing. "finish that, and then perhaps i may let you have a turn my way. who's going over to see john warren?" "ah, i wish you would go," said mrs winthorpe, "and take the poor fellow over some things i have ready, in a basket!" "i'll go," said dick. "hicky will take us in his punt. there'll be plenty of time, and it's moonlight at nine." "i'll go with you, dick," said marston. "what's the matter with the man?" "our own particular complaint, which the people don't want you to kill, my lad," said the squire. "marsh fever--ague. years to come when it's swept away by the drainage, the people will talk of it as one of the good things destroyed by our work. they are rare ones to grumble, and stick to their old notions." "but the people seem to be getting used to us now." "oh yes! we shall live it down." dick sat and listened, but said nothing. still he could not help recalling how one old labourer's wife had shaken her head and spit upon the ground as his father went by, and wondered in his mind whether this was some form of curse. "tak' you over to the warren, my lad?" said hickathrift, as they reached the wheelwright's shed, where the big fellow was just taking down a hoe to go gardening. "why, of course i will. straange niced evening, mr marston! come along. i'll put on my coat though, for the mist'll be thick to-night." hickathrift took his coat from behind the door, led the way to the place where his punt was floating, fastened to an old willow-stump; and as soon as his visitors were aboard he began to unfasten the rope. "like to tak' a goon, sir, or a fishing-pole?" "no: i think we'll be content with what we can see to-night." hickathrift nodded, and dick thought the engineer very stupid, for a gun had a peculiar fascination for him; but he said nothing, only seated himself, and trailed his hand in the dark water as the lusty wheelwright sent the punt surging along. "why, hickathrift," cried mr marston, "i thought our friend dave a wonder at managing a punt; but you beat him. what muscles you have!" "muscles, mester? ay, they be tidy; but i'm nowt to dave. i can shove stronger, but he'd ding [beat] me at it. he's cunning like. always at it, you see. straange and badly though." "what, dave is?" cried dick. "ay, lad; he's got the shakes, same as john warren. they two lay out together one night after a couple o' wild swans they seen, and it give 'em both ager." it was a glorious evening, without a breath of air stirring, and the broad mere glistened and glowed with the wonderful reflection from the sky. the great patches of reeds waved, and every now and then the weird cry of the moor-hen came over the water. here and there perfect clouds of gnats were dancing with their peculiar flight; swallows were still busy darting about, and now and then a leather-winged bat fluttered over them seeking its insect food. "what a lovely place this looks in a summer evening!" said mr marston thoughtfully. "ay, mester, and i suppose you are going to spoil it all with your big drain," said the wheelwright, and he ceased poling for a few moments, as the punt entered a natural canal through a reed-bed. "spoil it, my man! no. only change its aspect. it will be as beautiful in its way when corn is growing upon it, and far more useful." "ay, bud that's what our people don't think. look, mester dick!" dick was already looking at a shoal of fish ahead flying out of the water, falling back, and rising again, somewhat after the fashion of flying-fish in the red sea. "know what that means?" said the wheelwright. "perch," said dick, shortly. "a big chap too, and he has got one," he added excitedly, as a large fish rose, made a tremendous splash, and then seemed to be working its way among the bending reeds. "might have got him perhaps if we had had a line." mr marston made no reply, for he was watching the slow heavy flap-flap of a heron as it rose from before them with something indistinctly seen in its beak. "what has it got?" he said. dick turned sharply, and made out that there seemed to be a round knob about the great bird's bill, giving it the appearance of having thrust it through a turnip or a ball. "why, it's an eel," he cried, "twisting itself into a knot. yes: look!" the evening light gleamed upon the glistening skin of the fish, as it suddenly untwisted itself, and writhed into another form. then the heron changed its direction, and nothing but the great, grey beating pinions of the bird were visible, the long legs outstretched like a tail, the bent back neck, and projecting beak being merged in the body as it flew straight away. hickathrift worked hard at the pole, and soon after rounding one great bed of reeds they came in sight of the rough gravelly patch with a somewhat rounded outline, which formed the warren, and upon which was the hut inhabited by john o' the warren, out of whose name "o'-the" was generally dropped. the moment they came in sight there was a loud burst of barking, and snig, john warren's little rabbit-dog, came tearing down to the shore, with the effect of rendering visible scores of rabbits, until then unseen; for the dog's barking sent them scurrying off to their holes, each displaying its clear, white, downy tuft of a tail, which showed clearly in the evening light. the dog's bark was at first an angry challenge, but as he came nearer his tone changed to a whine of welcome; and as soon as he reached the water's edge he began to perform a series of the most absurd antics, springing round, dancing upon his hind-legs, and leaping up at each in turn, as the visitors to the sandy island landed, and began to walk up to the sick man's hut. there were no rabbits visible now, but the ground was honey-combed with their holes, many of which were quite close to the home of their tyrant master, who lived as a sort of king among them, and slew as many as he thought fit. john warren's home was not an attractive one, being merely a hut built up of bricks of peat cut from the fen, furnished with a small window, a narrow door, and thickly thatched with reeds. he heard them coming, and, as they approached, came and stood at the door, looking yellow, hollow of cheek, and shivering visibly. "here, john warren, we've brought you a basket!" cried dick. "how are you? i say, don't you want the doctor?" "yah! what should i do with a doctor?" growled the man, scowling at all in turn. "to do you good," said dick, laughing good-humouredly. "he couldn't tell me nothing i dunno. i've got the ager." "well, aren't you going to ask us in?" "nay, lad. what do you want?" "that basket," said dick briskly. "here, how is dave?" "badly! got the ager!" "but is he no better?" "don't i tell you he's got the ager!" growled the man; and without more ado he took the basket from the extended hand, opened the lid, and turned it upside down, so that its contents rolled upon the sand, and displayed the kind-heartedness of mrs winthorpe. dick glanced at marston and laughed. "theer's your basket," growled john warren. "want any rabbuds?" "no; they're out of season, john!" cried dick. "you don't want us here, then?" "nay; what should i want you here for?" growled the man. "can't you see i've got the ager?" "yes, i see!" cried dick; "but you needn't be so precious cross. good-night!" john warren stared at dick, and then at his two companions, and, turning upon his heel, walked back into the hut, while snig, his dog, seated himself beside the contents of the basket, and kept a self-constituted guard over them, from which he could not be coaxed. "might have showed us something about the warren," said dick in an ill-used tone; "but never mind, there isn't much to see." he turned to go back to the boat. "i say, hicky," he said; "let's go and see dave. you won't mind poling?" "he says i won't mind poling, mester marston," said hickathrift with a chuckle. "here, come along." john warren had disappeared into the cottage, but as they walked away some of the rabbits came to the mouths of their holes and watched their departure, while snig, who could not leave his master's property, uttered a valedictory bark from time to time. "i say, mr marston," cried dick, pausing, "isn't he a little beauty, to have such a master! look at him watching that food, and not touching it. wait a minute!" dick ran back to the dog and stooped down to open a cloth, when the faithful guard began to snarl at him and show his teeth. "why, you ungrateful beggar!" cried dick; "i was going to give you a bit of the chicken. lie down, sir!" but snig would not lie down. he only barked the more furiously. "do you want me to kick you?" cried dick. snig evidently did, for not only did he bark, but he began to make charges at the visitor's legs so fiercely that dick deemed it prudent to stand still for a few moments. "now, then," he said, as the dog seemed to grow more calm; "just see if you can't understand plain english!" the dog looked up at him and uttered a low whine, accompanying it by a wag of the tail. "that's better!" cried dick. "i'm going to pull you off a leg of that chicken for yourself. do you understand?" snig gave a short, friendly bark. "ah, now you're a sensible dog," said dick, stooping down to pick up the cloth in which the chicken was wrapped; but snig made such a furious onslaught upon him that the boy started back, half in alarm, half in anger, and turned away. "won't he let you touch it, mester dick?" chuckled hickathrift. "no; and he may go without," said dick. "come along!" they returned to the boat, snig giving them a friendly bark or two as they got on board; and directly after, with lusty thrusts, the wheelwright sent the punt along in the direction of dave's home. the evening was still beautiful, but here and there little patches of mist hung over the water, and the rich glow in the west was fast fading out. "i say, mr marston," said dick, "you'll stay at our place to-night?" "no; i must go home, thank you," was the reply. "but it will be so late!" "can't help that, dick. i want to be out early with the men. they came upon a great tree trunk this afternoon, and i want to examine it when it is dug out. is that decoy dave's place?" "that's it, and there's chip!" cried dick, as the boat neared the shore. "you see how different he'll be!" dick was right in calling attention to the dog's welcome, for chip's bark was one of delight from the very first, and dashing down to the water, he rushed in and began swimming rapidly to meet them. "why, chip, old doggie!" cried dick, as, snorting and panting with the water he splashed into his nostrils, the dog came aside, and after being lifted into the boat gave himself a shake, and then thrust his nose into every hand in turn. "this is something like a dog, mr marston!" continued dick. "yes; but he would behave just the same as the other," said the engineer. "here's dave," said dick. "hoy, dave!" the decoy-man came slowly down toward the shore to meet them, and waved his hand in answer to dick's call. "oh, i am sorry!" cried the latter. "i wish i'd brought him something too. i daresay he's as bad as john warren." dave's appearance proved the truth of dick's assertion. the decoy-man never looked healthy, but now he seemed ghastly of aspect and exceedingly weak, as he leaned upon the tall staff he held in his hand. "we've come to see how you are, dave," cried dick as the boat bumped up against the boggy edge of the landing-place. "that's kindly, mester dick. servant, mester. how do, neighbour?" dave's head went up and down as if he had a hinge at the back; and as the party landed, he too shivered and looked exceedingly feverish and ill. "why, dave, my man, you ought to see a doctor!" said mr marston, kindly. "nay, sir, no good to do ought but bear it. soon be gone. only a shivering fit." "well, i'm trying to doctor you," said the engineer, laughing. "once we get the fen drained, ague will begin to die out." "think so, mester?" "i am sure so." "hear that, neighbour?" said dave, looking at hickathrift. "think o' the fen wi'out the shakes." "we can't stop, dave," cried dick; "because we've got to get home, for mr marston to walk over to the sea-bank to-night; but i'll come over and see you to-morrow and bring you something. what would you like?" "what you heven't got, mester dick," said the fen-man, showing his yellow teeth. "bit of opium or a drop o' lodolum. nay, i don't want you to send me owt. neighbour hick'thrift here'll get me some when he goes over to market." hickathrift nodded, and after a little more conversation the party returned toward the boat. "straange and thick to-night, mester dick," said dave. "be thicker soon. yow couldn't pole the boat across wi'out losing your way." "couldn't i?" cried dick. "oh, yes, i could! good-night! i want you to show mr marston some sport with the ducks some day." "ay; you bring him over, mester dick, and we'll hev' a good turn at the 'coy. good-night!" they pushed off, and before they were fifty yards from the shore the boat seemed to enter a bank of mist, so thick that the wheelwright, as he poled, was almost invisible from where mr marston and dick were seated. "i say, hicky, turn back and let's go along the edge of the fog," cried dick. "nay, it's driftin' ower us," replied the wheelwright. "best keep on and go reight through." "go on, then," cried dick. "feel how cold and damp it is." "feel it, dick? yes; and right in my wounded arm." "does it hurt much?" "no; only aches. why, how dense it is!" "can you find your way?" "dunno, mester. best keep straight on, i think. dessay it'll soon pass over." but it did not soon pass over; and as the wheelwright pushed on it seemed to be into a denser mist than ever. for a long time they were going over perfectly clear water; but soon the rustling of reeds against the prow of the boat told that they must be going wrong, and hickathrift bore off to the right till the reeds warned him to bear to the left. and so it went on, with the night falling, and the thick mist seeming to shut them in, and so confusing him that at last the wheelwright said: "best wait a bit, mester dick. i dunno which way i'm going, and it's like being blind." "here, let me have the pole!" cried dick. and going to the front of the boat, the wheelwright good-humouredly gave way for him, with the result that the lad vigorously propelled the craft for the space of about ten minutes, ending by driving it right into a reed-bed and stopping short. "oh, i say, here's a muddle!" he cried. "you can't see where you are going in the least." "shall i try?" said mr marston. "yes, do, please," cried dick, eager to get out of his difficulty. "take the pole." "no, thank you," was the laughing reply. "i cannot handle a pole, and as to finding my way through this fog i could as soon fly." _bang_! a heavy dull report of a gun from close by, and hickathrift started aside and nearly went overboard, but recovered himself, and sat down panting. "here! hi! mind where you're shooting!" cried dick. "who's that?" he stared in the direction from which the sound had come, but nothing but mist was visible, and no answer came. "do you hear? who's that?" shouted dick with both his hands to his mouth. no answer came, and hickathrift now shouted. still no reply. his great sonorous voice seemed to return upon him, as if he were enveloped in a tremendous tent of wet flannel; and though he shouted again and again it was without result. "why, what's the matter with your hand, man?" cried mr marston, as the wheelwright took his cotton kerchief from his neck, and began to bind it round his bleeding palm. "nowt much, sir," said the man smiling. "why, hickathrift, were you hit?" "s'pose i weer, sir. something came with a whuzz and knocked my hand aside." "oh!" ejaculated dick; while mr marston sat with his heart beating, since in spite of his efforts to be cool he could not help recalling the evening when he was shot, and he glanced round, expecting to see a flash and hear another report. dick seized the pole which he had laid down, and, thrusting it down, forced the punt back from the reeds, and then, as soon as they were in open water, began to toil as hard as he could for a few minutes till the wheelwright relieved him. declaring his injury to be a trifle, he in turn worked hard with the pole till, after running into the reeds several times, and more than once striking against patches of bog and rush, they must have got at least a mile from where the shot was fired, by accident or purposely, when the great fellow sat down very suddenly in the bottom of the boat. as he seated himself he laid the pole across, and then without warning fell back fainting dead away. a few minutes, however, only elapsed before he sat up again and looked round. "bit sick," he said. "that's all. heven't felt like that since one o' squire's horses kicked me and broke my ribs. better now." "my poor fellow, your hand must be badly hurt!" said mr marston; while dick looked wildly on, scared by what was taking place. "nay, it's nowt much, mester," said the great fellow rather huskily, "and we'd best wait till the mist goes. it's no use to pole. we may be going farther away, like as not." dick said nothing, but stood listening, fancying he heard the splash of a pole in water; but there was no sound save the throbbing of his own heart to break the silence, and he quite started as mr marston spoke. "how long is this mist likely to last?" "mebbe an hour, mebbe a week," was the unsatisfactory reply. "bud when the moon rises theer may come a breeze, and then it'll go directly." hickathrift rested his chin upon his uninjured hand, and dick sat down in silence, for by one consent, and influenced by the feeling that some stealthy foe might be near at hand keen-eyed enough to see them through the fog, or at all events cunning enough to trace them by sound, they sat and waited for the rising of the moon. the time seemed to be drawn out to a terrible extent before there was a perceptible lightening on their left; and as soon as he saw that, though the mist was as thick as ever, hickathrift rose and began to work with the pole, for he knew his bearings now by the position of the rising moon, and working away, in half an hour the little party emerged from the mist as suddenly as they had dived in, but they were far wide of their destination, and quite another hour elapsed before they reached the old willow-stump, where the wheelwright made fast his boat, and assuring his companions that there was nothing much wrong he went to his cottage, while mr marston gladly accompanied dick to the toft, feeling after the shock they had had that even if it had not been so late, a walk down to the sea-beach that night would neither be pleasant nor one to undertake. dick was boiling over with impatience, and told his father the news the moment they entered the room where supper was waiting. "a shot from close by!" cried the squire, excitedly. "yes, mr winthorpe," said the engineer; "and i'm afraid, greatly afraid, it was meant for me." chapter fourteen. hicky's opinions. "nay, lads, i don't say as it weer the will-o'-the-wisps, only as it might have been." "now, hicky," cried dick, "who ever heard of a will-o'-the-wisp with a gun?" "can't say as ever i did," said the wheelwright; "but i don't see why not." "what stuff! do you hear what he says, tom? he says it may have been one of the will-o'-the-wisps that shot and broke his finger." "a will-o'-the-wisp with a gun!" cried tom. "ha! ha! ha!" "why shouldn't a will hev a goon as well as a lanthorn?" said hickathrift, stolidly. "why, where would he get his powder and shot?" said dick. "same place as he gets his candle for his lanthorn." "oh, but what nonsense! the will-o'-the-wisp is a light that moves about," cried dick. "it is not anybody." "i don't know so much about that," said the wheelwright, lifting up his bandaged hand. "all i know is that something shot at me, and broke my finger just the same as something shot at mester marston. they don't like it, lads. mark my words, they don't like it." "who don't like what?" said tom. "will-o'-the-wisps don't like people cootting big drains acrost the fen, my lads. they don't mind you fishing or going after the eels with the stong-gad; but they don't like the draining, and you see if it don't come to harm!" "nonsense!" cried dick. "but i say, hicky, you are so quiet about it all, did you see who it was shot at you?" the big wheelwright looked cautiously round, as if in fear of being overheard, and then said in a husky whisper: "ay, lads, i seen him." "what was he like, hicky?" said tom, who suffered a peculiar kind of thrill as the wheelwright spoke. "somethin' between a big cloud, shape of a man, and a flash of lightning with a bit o' thunder." "get out!" roared dick. "why, he's laughing at us, tom." "nay, lads, i'm not laughing. it's just what i seemed to see, and it 'most knocked me over." "it's very queer," said dick thoughtfully. "but i say, hicky, what did the doctor say to your hand? will it soon get well?" "didn't go to the doctor, lad." "why, what did you do then?" "went to old mikey dodbrooke, the bone-setter." "what did you go to him for?" "because it's his trade. he knows how to mend bones better than any doctor." "father says he's an old sham, and doesn't understand anything about it," said dick. "you ought to have gone to the doctor, or had him, same as mr marston did." "tchah!" ejaculated hickathrift. "why, he had no bones broken. doctors don't understand bone-setting." "who says so?" "the bone-setter." "well, is it getting better, hicky?" "oh yes! it ar'n't very bad. going down to the drain?" "yes. mr marston's found a curious great piece of wood, and the men are digging it out." "don't stop late, my lads," said the wheelwright, anxiously. "i wouldn't be coming back after dark when the will-o'-the-wisps is out." "i don't believe all that stuff, hicky," said dick. "father says--" "eh! what does he say?" cried the wheelwright, excitedly. "that he thinks it's one of mr marston's men who has a spite against him, and that when there was that shot the other night, it was meant for the engineer." "hah! yes! maybe," said the wheelwright, drawing a long breath and looking relieved. "but i wouldn't stop late, my lads." "we shall stop just as long as we like, sha'n't we, tom?" "yes." "then i shall come and meet you, my lads. i sha'n't be happy till i see you back safe." "i say, hicky, you've got a gun, haven't you?" said tom. "eh! a goon!" cried the wheelwright, starting. "yes; you've got one?" "an old one. she's roosty, and put awaya. i heven't hed her out for years." "clean it up, and bring it, hicky," said dick. "we may get a shot at something. i say, you'd lend me that gun if i wanted it, wouldn't you?" "nay, nay; thou'rt not big enew to handle a goon, lad. wait a bit for that." "come along, tom!" cried dick. "and i say, hicky, bring the forge-bellows with you, so as we can blow out the will's light if he comes after us." "haw--haw--haw--haw!" rang out like the bray of a donkey with a bad cold; and jacob, hickathrift's lad, threw back his head, and roared till his master gave him a sounding slap on the back, and made him close his mouth with a snap, look serious, and go on with his work. "jacob laughs just like our old solemn-un, sometimes," said dick merrily. "come along!" the morning was hot, but there was a fine brisk breeze from off the sea, and the lads trudged on, talking of the progress of the drain, and the way in which people grumbled. "father says that if he had known he wouldn't have joined the adventure," said tom. "and my father says, the more opposition there is, the more he shall go on, for if people don't know what's good for them they've got to be taught. there's a beauty!" dick went off in chase of a swallow-tail butterfly--one of the beautiful insects whose home was in the fens; but after letting him come very close two or three times, the brightly-marked creature fluttered off over the treacherous bog, a place of danger for followers, of safety for the insect. "that's the way they always serve you," said dick. "well, you don't want it." "no, i don't want it. yes i do. mr marston said he should like a few more to put in his case. i say, they are getting on with the drain," dick continued, as he shaded his eyes and gazed at where, a mile away, the engineer's men were wheeling peat up planks, and forming a long embankment on either side of the cutting through the fen. "can you see mr marston from here?" "why, of course not! come along! i say, tom, you didn't think what old hicky said was true, did you?" "n-n-no. of course not." "why, you did. ha--ha--ha! that's what father and mr marston call superstition. i shall tell mr marston that you believe in will-o'-the-wisps." "well, so do you. who can help believing in them, when you see them going along over the fen on the soft dark nights!" "oh, i believe in the lights," said dick, "but that's all i don't believe they shot mr marston and old hicky; that's all stuff!" "well, somebody shot them, and my father says it ought to be found out and stopped." "so does mine; but how are you going to find it out? he thinks sometimes it's one and sometimes another; and if we wait long enough, my gentleman is sure to be caught." "ah, but is it a man?" "why, you don't think it's a woman, do you?" "no, of course not; but mightn't it be something--i mean one of the-- well, you know what i mean." "yes, i know what you mean," cried dick--"a ghost--a big tall white ghost, who goes out every night shooting, and has a will-o'-the-wisp on each side with a lantern to show him a light." "ah, it's all very well for you to laugh now out in the sunshine; but if it was quite dark you wouldn't talk like that." "oh yes, i should!" "i don't believe it," said tom; "and i'll be bound you were awfully frightened when hicky was shot. come, tell the truth now--weren't you?" "there goes a big hawk, tom. look!" cried dick, suddenly becoming interested in a broad-winged bird skimming along just over the surface of the fen; and this bird sufficed to change the conversation, which was getting unpleasant for dick, till they came to the place where the men were hard at work on the huge ditch, the boggy earth from which, piled up as it was, serving to consolidate the sides and keep them from flooding the fen when the drain was full, and the high-tide prevented the water from coming out by the flood-gates at the end. mr marston welcomed the lads warmly. "i've got a surprise for you," he said. "what is it--anything good?" cried dick. "that depends on taste, my boy. come and see." he led the way along the black ridge of juicy peat, to where, in an oblique cutting running out from the main drain, a dozen men were at work, with their sharp spades cutting out great square bricks of peat, and clearing away the accumulations of hundreds of years from the sides of what at first appeared to be an enormous trunk of a tree, but which, upon closer inspection, drew forth from dick a loud ejaculation. "why, it's an old boat!" cried tom. "that it is, my lad." "but how did it come there?" cried dick, gazing wonderingly at the black timber of the ancient craft. "who can tell, dick? perhaps it floated out of the river at some time when there was a flood, and it was too big to move back again, and the people in the days when it was used did not care to dig a canal from here to the river." "half a mile," said dick. "no, no. not more than a quarter." "but it doesn't look like a fishing-boat," said dick. "no, my lad. as far as i can make out, it is the remains of an old war galley." "then it must have belonged to the danes." "danes or saxons, dick." "but the wood's sound," cried tom. "it can't be so old as that." "why not, tom? your people dig out pine-roots, don't they, perfectly sound, and full of turpentine? this is pine wood, and full of turpentine too." "but it's such a while since the danes and saxons were here, mr marston," said tom. "a mere yesterday, my lad, compared to the time when the country about here was a great pine and birch forest, before this peat began to form." "before the peat began to form!" "to be sure! pine and birch don't grow in peaty swamps, but in sandy ground with plenty of gravel. look all about you at the scores of great pine-roots my men have dug out. they are all pine, and there must have been quite a large forest here once." "and was that farther back?" "perhaps thousands of years before the danes first landed. the peat preserves the wood, tom. bog is not rotten mud, but the decayed masses that have grown in the watery expanse. well, dick, what do you think of it?" "i wish we could get it home to our place to keep as a curiosity?" "but it would want a shed over it, my lad, for the rain, wind, and sun would soon make an end of it." "then, what are you going to do?" "get it out and up that slope they are cutting, along some planks if we can, and then fill up the trench." the lads inspected the curious-looking old hull, whose aspect seemed to bring up recollections of the history of early england, when fierce-looking men, half sailors, half warriors, came over from the norland in boats like this, propelled by great oars, and carrying a short thick mast and one sail. all the upper portions had rotted away, but enough of the hull remained to show pretty well what its shape must have been, and that it had had a curiously-projecting place that must have curved out like the neck of a bird, the whole vessel having borne a rough resemblance to an elongated duck or swan. the boys were, however, by no means so enthusiastic as the engineer; and as a great figure came looming up behind them, dick was ready enough to welcome the incident of the man's reminder about the disturbance at the toft. "we're mates, we are," cried the great fellow, holding out his broad hairy hand to take dick's in his grasp, and shake it steadily up and down. "i heven't forgot, i heven't forgot." "are you all right again, bargle?" said dick, trying in vain to extricate his hand. "yeees. knock o' the yead don't hot me. see here." he slowly drew out of his pocket a great piece of dark-yellow ivory, evidently the point, and about a foot in length, of the tusk of some animal, probably an elephant. "theer's what i promised you, lad. that's a tush, that is. what yer think o' that?" dick did not seem to know what to think of it, but he expressed his gratitude as well as he could, and had to shake hands again and again with the great fellow, who seemed to take intense delight in smiling at dick and shaking his head at him. how long this scene would have lasted it is impossible to say; but at last, as it was growing irksome, there came a shout from the end of the drain. "they've found something else," said mr marston; and the lads needed no telling to hasten their steps, for the finding of _something_ buried in the peat could not fail to prove interesting; but in this case the discovery was startling to the strongest nerves. as they neared the end of the drain where the men were slowly delving out the peat, and a section of the bog was before them showing about twelve feet of, the wet black soil, mr marston stepped eagerly forward, and the group of men who were standing together opened out to let him and his companions pass through. dick shuddered at the object before him: the figure of a man clothed apparently in some kind of leather garb, and partly uncovered from the position it had occupied in the peat. "some un been murdered and berrid," growled bargle, who was close behind. "no, my man," said mr marston, taking a spade and cutting down some more of the turf, so as to lay bare the figure from the middle of the thigh to the feet. "lemme come," growled bargle, striding forward and almost snatching the sharp spade from his leader's hand. "don't hurt it," cried mr marston, giving way. "nay, no fear o' hotting him," growled bargle, grinning, and, bending to his work, he deftly cut away the black peat till the figure stood before them upright in the bog as if fitted exactly in the face of the section like some brownish-black fossil of a human being. it was the figure of a man in a leather garb, and wearing a kind of gaiters bound to the legs by strips of hide which went across and across from the instep to far above the knee. there was a leathern girdle about the waist, and one hand was slightly raised, as if it had held a staff or spear, but no remains of these were to be seen. probably the head had once been covered, but it was bare now, and a quantity of long shaggy hair still clung to the dark-brown skin, the face being half covered by a beard; and, in spite of the brown-black leathery aspect of the face, and the contracted skin, it did not seem half so horrible as might have been supposed. "why, boys," said mr marston after a long examination, "this might be the body of someone who lived as long back as the date when that old galley was in use." "so long back as that!" cried dick, looking curiously at the strange figure, whose head was fully six feet below the surface of the bog. "got a-walking across in the dark, and sinked in," said bargle gruffly. that might or might not have been the case. at any rate there was the body of a man in a wonderful state of preservation, kept from decay by the action of the peat; and, judging from the clothing, the body must have been in its position there for many hundred years. "what's got to be done now?" said bargle. "we want to get on." mr marston gave prompt orders, which resulted in a shallow grave being dug in the peat about fifty yards from where the drain was being cut, and in this the strange figure was carefully laid, ready for exhumation by any naturalist who should wish to investigate farther; and after this was done, and a careful search made for remains of weapons or coins, the cutting of the drain progressed; till, after an enjoyable day with the engineer, the boys said good-bye, and tried to escape without having to shake hands with bargle. but this was not to be. the big fellow waylaid them, smiling and holding out his hand to dick for a farewell grip, and a declaration that they were mates. about half-way back, and just as it was growing toward sundown, they were met by hickathrift, who came up smiling, and looking like a bargle carefully smoothed down. "thought i'd see you safe back," said hickathrift so seriously that a feeling of nervousness which had not before existed made the boys glance round and look suspiciously at a reed-bed on one side and a patch of alders on the other. "what are you talking like that for?" cried dick angrily; "just as if we couldn't walk along here and be quite safe! what is there to mind?" the wheelwright shook his head and looked round uneasily, as if he too felt the influence of coming danger; but no puff of smoke came from clump of bushes or patch of reeds; no sharp report rose from the alders that fringed part of the walk, and they reached the wheelwright's cottage without adventure. here hickathrift began to smile in a peculiar way, and, having only one hand at liberty, he made use of it to grip dick by the arm, and use him as if he were an instrument or tool for entrapping tom, with the result that he packed them both into his cottage, and into the presence of his wife, who was also smiling, as she stood behind a cleanly-scrubbed table, upon which was spread a tempting-looking supper. "here, hicky, don't! what do you mean?" cried dick, whom the great fellow's grip punished. "wittles," said the wheelwright, indulging in a broad grin. "oh, nonsense! we're off home. tom tallington's going to have supper with me." "nay, he's going to hev his supper here along o' uz," said hickathrift. "didn't i say, missus, i'd bring 'em home?" "yes, mester dick," cried mrs hickathrift; "and thank ye kindly, do stop." "oh, but we must get back!" cried dick, who shrank from partaking of the wheelwright's kindly hospitality. "theer, i towd you so," cried mrs hickathrift to her husband, and speaking in an ill-used tone. "they're used to table-cloths, and squire's wife's got silver spoons." "nay, nay, never mind the cloths and spoons, mester dick; stop and have a bite." "but, hicky--" "nay, now," cried the wheelwright interrupting; "don't thee say thou'rt not hungry." "i wasn't going to," said dick, laughing, "because i am horribly hungry. aren't you, tom?" tom showed his teeth. it was meant for a smile, but bore a wonderful resemblance to a declaration of war against the food upon the table. "don't be proud, then, lad. stop. why, you nivver knew me say i wouldn't when i've been at your place." that appeal removed the last objection, and the boys took off their caps, sat down with the wheelwright, and mrs hickathrift, according to the custom, waited upon them. it is unnecessary to state what there was for supper, and how many times dick and tom had their plates replenished with--never mind what--and--it does not signify. suffice it to say that for the space of half an hour the wheelwright's wife was exceedingly busy; and when at the end of an hour the trio rose from the table, and hickathrift filled his pipe, both of his visitors seemed as if they had gone through a process of taming. for though a boy--a hearty boy in his teens--living say anywhere, can, as a rule, eat, in the exception of boys of the old fen-land, where the eastern breezes blow right off the german ocean, they were troubled with an appetite which was startling, and might have been condemned but for the fact that it resulted in their growing into magnificent specimens of humanity, six feet high not being considered particularly tall. it was quite late when the boys reached the toft, to find the squire standing outside smoking his pipe and waiting for them. "where have you been, lads?" he said; and on being told, he uttered a good-humoured grunt, and laying his hand upon tom's shoulder, "here," he said, "you'd better stop with dick to-night. they won't be uneasy at home?" "no, sir," said tom naively; "i told father perhaps i should stay." "oh, you did, eh!" said the squire. "well, you're welcome. if you don't want any supper, you'd better be off to bed." both lads declared that they did not want any supper, but mrs winthorpe had made certain preparations for them which they could not resist, and something very like a second meal was eaten before they retired for the night. as a rule, when one boy has a visitor for bed-fellow, it is some time before there is peace in that room. set aside unruly demonstrations whose effects are broken pillowcase strings, ruptured bolsters, and loose feathers about the carpet, if nothing worse has happened in the way of broken jugs and basins, there is always something else to say at the end of the long conversation upon the past day's occurrences or the morrow's plans. but in this instance it was doubtful whether dick fell asleep in the act of getting into bed, or whether tom was nodding as he undressed; suffice it that the moment their heads touched pillows they were fast asleep, and the big beetle which flew in at the open window and circled about the room had it all to himself. now he ground his head against the ceiling, then he rasped his wings against the wall, then he buzzed in one corner, burred in another, and banged himself up against the white dimity curtains, till, seeing what appeared to be a gleam of light in the looking-glass, he swept by the open window, out of which he could easily have passed, and struck himself so heavily against the mirror that he fell on the floor with a pat, and probably a dint in his steely blue armour. then came a huge moth, and almost simultaneously a bat, to whirr round and round over the bed and along the ceiling, while from off the dark waters of the fen came from time to time strange splashings and uncouth cries, which would have startled a wakeful stranger to these parts. now and then a peculiar moan would be heard, then what sounded like a dismal, distant roaring, followed by the cackling of ducks, and plaintive whistlings of ox-birds, oyster-catchers, and sandpipers, all of which seemed to be very busy hunting food in the soft stillness of the dewy night. but neither splash nor cry awakened the sleepers, who were, like barney o'reardon, after keeping awake for a week; when they went to sleep they paid "attintion to it," and the night wore on till it must have been one o'clock. the bat and the moth had managed to find their way out of the open window at last, and perhaps out of malice had told another bat and another moth that it was a delightful place in there. at all events another couple were careering about, the moth noisily brushing its wings against wall and ceiling, the bat silently on its fine soft leather wings, but uttering a fine squeak now and then, so thin, and sharp, and shrill that, compared to other squeaks, it was as the point of a fine needle is to that of a tenpenny nail. the beetle had got over the stunning blow it had received, to some extent, and had carefully folded up and put away its gauzy wings beneath their hard horny cases, deeming that he would be better off and safer if he walked for the rest of the night, and after a good deal of awkward progression he came to the side of the bed. it was a hot night, and some of the clothes had been kicked off, so that the counterpane on tom's side touched the floor. in contact with this piece of drapery the beetle came, and began to crawl up, taking his time pretty well, and finally reaching the bed. here he turned to the left and progressed slowly till he reached the pillow, which he climbed, and in a few more moments found himself in front of a cavern in a forest--a curiously designed cavern, with a cosy hole in connection with certain labyrinths. this hole seemed just of a size to suit the beetle's purpose, and he proceeded to enter for the purpose of snuggling up and taking a good long nap to ease the dull aching he probably felt in his bruised head. but, soundly as tom tallington slept, the scriggly legs of a beetle were rather too much when they began to work in his ear, and he started up and brushed the creature away, the investigating insect falling on the floor with a sharp rap. tom sat listening to the sounds which came through the window and heard the splashing of water in the distance, and the pipings and quackings of the wild-fowl; but as he leaned forward intently and looked through the open window at the starry sky, there were other noises he heard which made him think of sundry occasions at home when he had been awakened by similar sounds. after a few moments he lay down again, but started up directly, got out of bed, and went to the window to listen. the next minute he was back at the bed-side. "dick," he whispered, shaking him; "dick!" "what is it?" "there's something wrong with the horses." "nonsense!" "there is, i tell you. sit up and listen." "oh, i say, what a nuisance you are! i was having such a dream!" dick sat up and listened, and certainly a sound came from the yard. he jumped out of bed and went with tom to the open window, but all was perfectly still round the house, and he was about to return to bed when a dim shadowy-looking creature flew silently across the yard. dick uttered a peculiar squeak which was so exactly like that of a mouse that the bird curved round in its flight, came rapidly up toward the window, and hovered there with extended claws, and its great eyes staring from its full round face. the next moment it was flying silently away, but another shrill squeak brought it back to hover before them, staring in wonder, till, apparently divining that it was being imposed upon, it swooped away. "what a big owl!" said tom in a whisper. "there! hear that?" dick did hear _that_! a low whinnying noise, and the blow given by a horse's hoof, as if it had stamped impatiently while in pain. directly after there was a mournful lowing from the direction of the cow-house, followed by an angry bellow. "that's old billy," said dick. "what's the matter with the things! it's a hot night, and some kind of flies are worrying them. here, let's get to bed." he was moving in the direction of the bed; but just then there was another louder whinnying from the lodge where the cart-horses were kept, and a series of angry stamps, followed by a bellow from the bull. "there is something wrong with the beasts," said dick. "i'll call father. no, i won't. perhaps it's nothing. let's go down and see." "but we should have to dress." "no; only slip on our trousers and boots. you'll go with me, won't you?" "yes, i'll go," said tom; "but i don't want to." "what! after waking me up to listen!" "oh, i'll go!" said tom, following his companion's lead and beginning to dress. "tell you what," said dick; "we'll get out of the window and drop down." "and how are we to get back?" "short ladder," said dick laconically. "come along. ready?" "yes, i'm ready." the boys moved to the window, and, setting the example, dick placed one leg out, and was seated astride the sill, when the bed-room door was suddenly thrown open, and the squire appeared. "now, then! what does this mean?" he cried angrily. "we heard something wrong with the beasts, father, and we were going to see," cried dick. "heard something wrong with the beasts, indeed! yes, and i heard something wrong with them. now, then, both of you jump into bed, and if i hear another sound, i'll--" the squire stopped short, for there was a piteous whinny from the stable again. "there, father! and old billy's got something the matter with him too," cried dick eagerly, the bull endorsing his statement with a melancholy bellow. "why, there is something wrong, then, my boys!" said the squire, angry now with himself for suspecting them of playing some prank. "here, let's go down." he led the way directly, and lit a lantern in the kitchen before throwing back the bolts and going out, armed with a big stick, the boys following close behind, and feeling somewhat awe-stricken at the strangeness of the proceedings. "hullo, my lads, what is it then?" cried the squire, entering the rough stable, where three horses were fastened up, and all half lying in the straw. one of them turned to him with a piteous whinny, and then the great soft eyes of all three of the patient beasts were turned toward them, the light gleaming upon their eyes strangely. "why, what's this?" cried the squire, holding down the lantern, whose light fell upon the hocks of the poor beasts. "oh, it's too cruel! what savage has done this!" as he held down the light the boys hardly realised what had happened. all they could make out was that the light gleamed horribly on the horses' hind-legs, and dick exclaimed: "why, they must have been kicking, father, terribly!" "kicking, my boy!" groaned the squire. "i wish they had kicked the monster to death who has done this." "done this! has anybody done this?" faltered dick, while tom turned quite white. "yes; don't you understand?" "no, father," cried dick, looking at him vacantly. "the poor beasts have been houghed--hamstrung by some cruel wretch. here, quick!" he hurried across to the lodge where a favourite cow and the bull were tethered, and as he saw that these poor beasts had been treated in the same barbarous way-- "did you hear or see anyone, dick?" he cried, turning sharply on his son. "no, father. i was asleep till tom woke me, and told me that the beasts were uneasy." "it is too cruel, too cruel," groaned the squire huskily. "what is to happen next? here, go and call up the men. you, tom tallington, go and rouse up hickathrift. we may be in time to catch the wretches who have done this. quick, boys! quick! and if i do--" he did not finish his sentence; but as the boys ran off he walked into the house, to return with his gun, and thus armed he made a hasty survey of the place. by the time he had done, dick was back with the men, and soon after, hickathrift came panting up, with tom; but though a hot search was carried on for hours, nothing more was found, and by breakfast-time five reports had rung out on the bright morning air, as squire winthorpe loaded his old flint-lock gun with a leaden bullet five times, and put the poor helpless suffering brutes out of their misery. "three good useful horses, and the best-bred bull and cow in the marsh, squire," said farmer tallington, who had come over as soon as he heard the news. "any idea who it could be?" "no," said the squire; "thank goodness, no. i don't want to find out the wretch's name, tallington, for i'm a hot-tempered, passionate man." "it's the drain, neighbour, the drain," said the farmer, shaking his head. "let's be content with the money we've lost, and try to put a stop to proceedings before we suffer more and worse. there's them about as hev sworn the drain sha'n't be made, and it's the same hands that fired my stacks and those shots, neighbour." "i daresay it is, farmer," said the squire sternly; "but do you know what it says in the book about the man who puts his hand to the plough?" "ay, i think i know what you mean." "and so do you, dick?" said the squire. "yes, father." "well, my boy, i've put my hand to the plough to do a good, honest, sensible work, and, knowing as i do, that it's a man's duty to go on with it, i shall stand fast, come what may." "and not leave me in the lurch, mr winthorpe?" said a voice. "no, marston, not if they hamstring me in turn," cried the squire, holding out his hand to the young engineer, who had hurried over. "i suppose i shall get a bullet in me one of these days; but never mind, we've begun the drain. and do you hear, all of you?" he shouted; "spread it about that the fen will be drained, and that if they killed me, and a hundred more who took my place, it would still be done." chapter fifteen. the man of suspicion. there was a good deal of inquiry made about the houghing of squire winthorpe's horses, and there was a great deal of excitement before the poor beasts were skinned, for their hides to go to town to the tanyard and their carcasses were carted away. people came from miles in all directions, including all the men who were at work for mr marston--every one to stand and stare at the poor dead beasts and say nothing. small farmers, fen-men, people from the town, folk from the shore where the cockle-beds lay, and the fisher-people who were supposed to live upon very little fish and a great deal of smuggling. even dave and john warren punted themselves over, both looking yellow and thin, and so weak that they could hardly manage their poles; and they too stared, the former frowning at the bull and shaking his head at the horses, but wiping away a weak tear as he stood by the cow. "many's the drop of good fresh milk the missus has given me from her, mester dick," he said with a sigh; "and now theer's no cow, no milk, no nothing for a poor sick man. hey, bud the ager's a sad thing when you hev it bad as this." there was a visit from a couple of magistrates, who asked a great many questions, and left behind them a squinting constable, who took very bad snuff, and annoyed dick by looking at him suspiciously, as if he believed him to be the cause of all the mischief. this man stopped in the village at a cottage next to hickathrift's, from which place he made little journeys in all directions, evidently full of the belief that he was going to discover the people who did all this mischief in the neighbourhood. this constable's name was thorpeley, and he did a great deal of business with a brass box and a short black clay-pipe, in which he smoked short black tobacco. "i don't know," said dick one day as he stood with his arms folded, leaning upon solomon, talking to tom tallington and staring at thorpeley the constable, who was leaning against a post smoking and staring with one eye at the fen, while with the other he watched the group of three in the toft farm-yard. "well, i'm sure i don't," said tom. "he never goes over to the town to buy any." "and hicky says nobody fetches any for him, but he always seems to have plenty though he hasn't any luggage or box or anything." "no; i saw him come," said tom. "he only had a small bundle in a red handkerchief!" "and he keeps on smoking from morning till night." "and watching you!" "yes. he's always watching me," cried dick in an aggrieved tone. "stand still, will you? yes, you'd better! you kick, and i'll kick you!" this was to solomon, who had hitched up his back in an arch, laid down his ears, thrust his head between his fore-legs and his tail between his hind, giving himself the aspect of being about to reach under and bite the tip of the said tail. but that was not the case, and dick knew by experience that all this was preparatory to a display of kicking. solomon may have understood plain english or he may not. this is a matter which cannot be decided. at all events he slowly raised his head and twisted his tail in a peculiar manner, stretched out his neck, and cocking his ears he sighed loudly a sigh like the fag-end of a long bray, all of which seemed to point to the fact that he felt himself to be a slave in leathern chains, gagged with a rusty bit, and at the mercy of his master. "flies tease him," said tom apologetically. "poor old sol!" "don't touch him!" cried dick, "or he'll kick you." "poor old sol!" said tom again, and this time he approached the donkey's head. "don't touch him, i tell you! he'll bite if you do! he's in a nasty temper because i would put on his bridle, and i was obliged to persuade him to be quiet with a pitchfork handle." "what a shame!" said tom. "shame, eh! just you look here," cried dick, and down one of his coarse worsted stockings, he displayed a great bruise on his white leg. "he did that three days ago, and he tried to do it again this morning, only i was too quick for him." "haugh! haugh-h-haugh!" sighed solomon in a most dismal tone. "says he's sorry for it!" cried tom, grinning. "oh, very well then, i'm sorry i hit him with the pitchfork handle. i say, tom, i gave him such a whop!" "where did you hit him?" "where i could. you can't pick your place when you try to hit solomon. you must look sharp or you'll get it first." "but he wouldn't be so disagreeable if you were kind to him," said tom. "poor old sol, then!" there was a sharp twist of the donkey's neck, and, quick as lightning, the fierce little animal made a grab at tom. fortunately he missed his shoulder, but he got tightly hold of the sleeve of his coat, and held on till dick gave him a furious kick, when he let go. "kick him again, dick!" cried tom, who looked very pale. "ugh! the treacherous beast!" "it's his nature," said dick coolly, as he resumed his position and leaned over the donkey's back. "he always was so from a foal! father's always kind to dumb beasts, and feeds them well, and nurses them when they're ill; but he often gives solomon a crack. i say, look at old thorpeley; he's watching you now." "he isn't; he's looking all round. i say, dick, you can't tell where he is looking. i wonder what makes any one squint like that!" "had one of his eyes knocked out and put in again upside down," said dick. "get out!" cried tom. "haugh, haugh, haugh, haugh, haugh, haugh!" cried solomon. "there, he's laughing at you. i say, dick, do you think he really does watch us?" "sure of it. he thinks i houghed the poor horses. i know he does, and he expects to find out that i did it by following me about." "how do you know he suspects you?" "because he is always asking questions about our window being open that night, and about how i found out there was something the matter with the poor beasts. i say, tom, i hate that fellow." "so do i," said tom in tones which indicated his loyalty to his friend. "let's serve him out!" "oh, but you mustn't! a constable is sworn in." "what difference does that make?" "i don't know, but he is; and he has a little staff in his pocket with a brass crown upon it, and he says, `in the king's name!'" "well, let him if he likes. the king in london can't know what we do down here in the fen. i say, let's serve him out!" "no," said dick, "it might get father into trouble. i say, i know what i'll do if you like." "what, take him out in a boat and upset it?" "no, lend him solomon to ride!" as he spoke dick looked at tom and tom looked at dick before they both burst into a hearty fit of laughter. "here, let's get away. he's coming!" dick turned to go, but solomon objected. possibly he understood what had been said. at all events he stood fast, and refused to move till, in obedience to a call from his friend, tom took hold of the bridle and dragged, while dick made a sudden rush behind, as if to deliver a tremendous kick. solomon sighed and consented to move, and, evidently considering himself mastered, he became amiable, made a playful attempt to bite, and then started off at a canter. "jump on, tom!" cried dick. the lad wanted no second invitation, but scuffled on to the donkey's back as it went on, and the trio trotted along for about a hundred yards. "where shall we go?" cried tom. "straight on. let's see how mr marston's getting along. here, you ride on to the alders' corner and tie up sol, and then go on." "i say: here's the constable coming." dick looked back and frowned. "there, i told you so!" he cried. "it doesn't matter what i do, that man watches me." "he's only going for a walk." "going for a walk!" cried dick fiercely; "he's following me. you'll see he'll keep to me all the time. i should like to serve him out." tom was going to say something else, but his words were jerked out at random, and the next died away, for, as if he approved of the smell of the salt-sea air, solomon suddenly whisked his tail, uttered a squeak, and after a bound went off at a tremendous gallop, stretching out like a greyhound, and showing what speed he possessed whenever he liked to put it forth. the sudden spring he made produced such comical effects that dick winthorpe stopped short in the rough track along the edge of the fen, to laugh. for tom tallington had been seated carelessly on the donkey's back right behind, and turned half round to talk to his companion. the consequence was that he was jerked up in the air, and came down again as if bound to slip off. but tom and dick had practised the art of riding almost ever since they could run alone, and in their early lessons one had ridden astride the top bar of a gate hundreds of times, while the other swung it open and then threw it back, the great feat being to give the gate a tremendous bang against the post, so as to nearly shake the rider from his seat. the jerk was unpleasant, at times even painful; but it taught the lads to hold on with their legs, and made them better able to display their prowess in other mounts which were tested from time to time. they were not particular as to what they turned into a steed. sometimes it was farmer tallington's hips, the brindled cow, when she was fetched from the end of the home close to be milked. this would have been one of the calmest of rides, and afforded plenty of room for both boys to ride knight-templar fashion, after old sam had helped them on, but it was not a ride much sought for, because hips was not a mollusc. quite the contrary: she was a vertebrate animal, very vertebrate indeed, and a ride on her back represented a journey upon the edge of a brobdingnagian blunt saw, set up along a kind of broad lattice covered with a skin. there was a favourite old sow at the toft which was often put in requisition, but she only carried one. still it was a comfortable seat, only in the early days of the boys' life that pig's back was wont to tickle; and then too she had a very bad habit. of course these rides were not had in the sty, nor yet in the farm-yard, but out along by the edge of the fen, and the enjoyment was nearly perfect till it was brought to an end, always in the same way, as soon as a nice convenient shallow pool was encountered, for here lady winthorpe, as she was called, always lay down for a comfortable wallow, when it was no use to wait for another ride, for the seat became too wet. tallington's ram was splendid when he could be caught, which was not often; but upon the rare occasions when he did fall captive to the boys' prowess, he had rather a trying time, considering how big he was, and how thin his legs. but his back was beautiful. the wool formed a magnificent cushion, and a couple of locks could be grasped for security by the rider, while the attendant, who waited his turn drove with a branch of furze or heather. a pole across a stone wall was another splendid aid to horsemanship, see-saw fashion, or turned into a steed for one, by wedging the thick end into a hole and riding the thin end, spring fashion; while, as the years rolled by and the boys were back from school, an occasional mount was had upon saxon, tallington's old grey horse, falsely said to be nearly two hundred. but if he was not, he looked it. of course it was pleasant to be seated on high upon his back, but the ride was not exhilarating, for whether he was bound for the ploughed fields, or to harrow, or to fetch home a load, it seemed to make no difference to saxon, who always seemed to be examining the ground before him with his big dull eyes before he lifted a foot to set it down in advance. he was a cautious beast, and this may have arisen from his having been often bogged. these rides were, then, not much sought after, and when solomon was placed at dick's disposal he was voted by far the best, and the donkey was not long in finding that his young master had learned how to ride; as, with his long head he debated how he might best rid himself of such incubi as dick and his friend. all this is explanatory of the reason why tom tallington did not slip off at solomon's first bout, but kept on when he came down by hooking himself, as it were, with his leg and gripping a piece of the donkey's skin with his hand. by these means he regained his perpendicular, but only for a moment, solomon having at command a perfect battery of ruses for ridding himself of a rider. no sooner was tom upright than the donkey gave the whole of his skin and muscles a wrench sidewise, which felt as if the seat was being dragged away. the consequence was that tom nearly went off to the right. he was too good an assman, though, and by a dexterous gymnastic feat he dragged himself once more upright, when solemn-un's back suddenly grew round and began to treat tom as if he were a ball. now he was jerked up; now he was jerked forward; now he was jerked back--bob--bob--bob--bob--till he nearly went off over the tail. there was another bout of kicking, and away went tom again forward till he was a long way on toward the donkey's neck, but only to shuffle himself back to the normal seat upon the animal, after which, in token of defeat, solomon went on out of sight at a rapid canter, leaving dick laughing till he had to wipe his eyes. "he will be so sore and so cross!" cried dick, as he walked swiftly on; when, involuntarily turning his head, he saw that the constable was following him. "the idiot!" cried the lad angrily. "well, he shall have a run for it." setting his teeth and doubling his fists, he bent his head, and started off running as hard as he could go, with the result that as he was going somewhat after the fashion of a hare making use of his eyes to watch his pursuer, and not looking ahead, he suddenly went round a curve, right into hickathrift's chest, and was caught and held by the big wheelwright. "why, mester dick, what now?" "don't stop me, hicky. i was running because that stupid constable fellow is after me." "hey, and what should make you run away from constable, lad?" said hickathrift severely. "you've done nowt to be 'shamed on?" "no, of course not!" cried dick, shaking himself free. "did you meet tom tallington?" "ay, iver so far-off, trying to stop old solomon, and he wouldn't stay." dick nodded and glanced at him; and then, as he ran on again, the lad ground his teeth. "it's a shame!" he cried. "why, old hicky thinks now that there's something wrong. i'll serve that old stupid out for all this; see if i don't!" he ran on, getting very hot, and beginning now to abuse tom tallington for going so far before he tied up; and at last saw the donkey browsing by the side of a tree, while tom was well on along the track to the drain, walking as fast as he could go. solomon pointed one ear at dick, as he came up, but took no further notice, being engaged in picking nutriment out of some scraps of as unlikely looking vegetation as could be found in the fen. perhaps it was the thistly food he ate which had an effect upon his temper and made him the awkward creature he had grown. "my turn now," cried dick, unfastening the rein, which was tightly tied with string to the stout stem of an alder. solomon had cocked one ear at his master as he came up. the animal now laid both ears down and began to back so rapidly along the road, keeping the reins at their full stretch, that it was impossible to mount him, and it was evident that a long battle was beginning, in which the ass might win. dick, however, found an ally in the shape of grip, hickathrift's lurcher, who had been evidently off on some expedition upon his own account, and was now hastening to overtake his master. solomon's attention was taken up by dick, and he did not perceive grip coming up at full speed till, with a rush, the dog made a bound at him, and sent him towards dick, who was dragging at the reins. grip seemed to enjoy the donkey's astonishment as it backed from him and then wheeled sharply round to deliver a goodly kick; but before this could be planted satisfactorily, dick had mounted and began tugging at the reins and drumming with his heels in a way there was no resisting, so solomon went off at a gallop and grip followed his master. at the end of a mile tom had been passed, and dick drew up by the first scrubby willow he reached, to tie up the donkey and leave it for his friend; but a glance back showed him the constable returning toward the toft, so the boy stood leaning over solomon's back, waiting. "i don't want to ride," he said to himself. "tom can have the donkey, and i'll walk." "why didn't you go on?" cried tom, as he came up with a very red face. "don't want to be alone," replied dick lazily, as he gazed away over the wide-stretching fen-land with the moist air quivering in the glorious sunshine. "i say, tom, what a shame it seems!" "what seems a shame?" "corn-fields and pastures and orchards are all very well, but the old fen does look so lovely now!" "yes, it does," said tom; "and father's horribly sorry he joined in the draining scheme. he says it's going to cost heaps of money, and then be no good. but come along." "where?" said dick. "i don't know. where we're going." "we're not going anywhere, are we?" "well, you are a fellow! come galloping off here into the fen, and then say you don't know where we're going!" "i did it to get away from that thorpeley. what shall we do?" "pst! look there! what's that?" "snake!" "no; it's an adder. look!" "'tisn't," said dick; "it's a snake. adders aren't so long as that. no, no; don't throw at it. let's see what it's going to do." the reptile was crossing the track from a tuft of alders, and seemed to be about three feet long and unusually thick, while, as it reached the dense heath and rushes, interspersed with grey coral moss on that side, it disappeared for a few moments, and they thought it had gone; but directly after it reappeared, gliding over a rounded tuft of bog-moss, and continued its way. "why, it's going to that pool!" cried dick. "to drink," said tom. "no wonder. oh, i am hot and thirsty! here, i could knock him over with a stone easily." "let him alone," said dick, who had become interested in the snake's movements. "how would you like to be knocked over with a stone?" "i'm not a snake," said tom, grinning. "look!" cried dick, as the reptile reached the edge of one of the many deep fen pools, whose amber-coloured water was so clear that the vegetation at the bottom could be seen plainly, and, lit up by the sunshine, seemed to be of a deep-golden hue across which every now and then some armoured beetle or tiny fish darted. to the surprise of both, instead of the snake beginning to drink, it went right into the water, and, swimming easily and well, somewhat after the fashion of an eel, sent the water rippling and gleaming toward the sides. "look!" cried tom. "oh, what a bait for a pike!" for just then one of these fishes about a foot long rose slowly from where it had lain concealed at the side, and so clear was the water that they could make out its every movement. "pooh! a pike could not swallow a snake," said dick, as the reptile swam on, and the pike slowly followed as if in doubt. "oh, yes, he could!" said tom, "a bit at a time." "nonsense! don't make a noise; let's watch. the snake's a yard long, and the pike only a foot. i say, can't the snake swim!" it could unmistakably, and as easily as if it were quite at home, gliding along over the surface and sending the water rippling away in rings, while the little pike followed its movements a few inches from the top so quietly that the movements of its fins could hardly be made out. "now he'll have him!" said tom, as the snake reached the far side of the pool, raised its head, darted out its tongue, and then turned and swam back toward the middle, glistening in the sun and seeming to enjoy its bath. but tom was wrong; the pike followed closely, evidently watching its strange visitor, but making no effort to seize it, and at last, quite out of patience, the lads made a dash forward. the result was a swirl in the water, and the fish had gone to some lurking-place among the water plants, while the snake made a dive, and they traced its course right to the bottom, where it lay perfectly still. they sat down to wait till it came up, but after a time, during which tom had lamented sorely that he had not killed the snake, which seemed comfortable enough in its prolonged dive, they both grew tired, and returned to where solomon stood making good use of his time and browsing upon everything which seemed to him good to eat. "here, let's go and see how they're getting on with the drain," said dick. "but we're always going to see how they're getting on with the drain," grumbled tom. "never mind! mr marston may have had something else dug up." "i don't want to see any more old boats; and as for that other thing-- ugh!" "never mind! come along! perhaps they've found something else." "don't believe it. are you going to ride?" "no; you can ride," said dick. "i'll walk." the heat of the day seemed to make the boys silent as they walked and rode in turn, gazing longingly the while over the spreading pools glistening in the sunshine, with the dragon-flies glancing here and there upon their gauzy wings which rustled and thrilled as they darted and turned in their wonderful flight, chasing their unfortunate winged prey. every now and then a beautiful swallow-tail butterfly, plentiful once in these regions, flitted by, inviting pursuit where pursuit was impossible; while from the waving beds of giant grass which rose from the water and now began to show their empurpled heads, came the chattering of the reed-birds, as if in answer to the chirping of the crickets in the crisp dark heath. "look at the bulrushes, tom!" said dick lazily. and he nodded in the direction of a patch of the tall, brown, poker-like flowers and leaves of the reed-mace. "oh, yes, look at them!" said tom sourly. "what a shame it is that we weren't born with wings! everything grows where you can't get at it. if there's a good nest, it's surrounded by water." "like an island," assented dick. "the best butterflies are where you can't get them without you go in a boat." "you can't catch butterflies out of a boat," said dick contemptuously. "you could, if you poled it along fast enough. here, you jump on now. what a hot back old solomon has got!" "i daresay he thinks you've got horribly hot legs," said dick, laughing. "here, come along quick!" "what for?" "can't you see!" cried dick, starting off in the direction of where the men were at work; "there's something the matter." certainly something did seem to be wrong, for the men were hurrying along the black embankment of the great drain in the direction of the sea; and as the boys reached the spot where the digging had been going on, the explanation was plain. the last time they were there, the men were at work in the bottom of the oozy dike, where a little water lay, soaked out of the sides; but now, right away to the flood-gates, there was a glistening lane of water, the open ditch resembling a long canal in which a barge could have been sailed. "there isn't anything the matter," said tom. "they've let the water in to try how it goes." but when at last they reached the sea end, it was to find mr marston very busy with his men closing the great gates to keep out the tide, which had risen high and threatened to flood a good deal of low-lying ground. for probably by carelessness the sluice-gate down by the sea had been left open, and the tide had come up and drowned the works. the two lads stood looking on for some time, until the gates were closed, and then, as the men sauntered away to their lodgings, mr marston joined them. "what did you fill the dike for, mr marston?" said dick. "yes: wasn't it to try how it would go?" "no," said the young engineer. "i did not want it filled. the gates were left open." "and what are you going to do now?" "wait till the tide's down, so that we can open them and let the water run off." "you can't do anything till then?" "we could begin digging farther on," said mr marston; "but as the tide will soon be going down i shall wait. it is a great nuisance, but i suppose i must have some accidents." the lads stayed with him all the afternoon, waiting till the tide had turned, and getting a good insight at last into how the drain would act. it was very simple, for as soon as the tide was low enough the water ran rapidly from the drain; and that evening the gates were closed tightly to keep out the next rise, the great dike being quite empty. the engineer walked back with the boys, for there was no riding. they had left solomon tethered where he could get a good feed of grass and tender shoots; but upon reaching the spot when they were ready to return there was the tethering line gnawed completely through, and the donkey was out of sight. "not taken away?" said mr marston. "no: he has gone home," said dick. "that rope wasn't thick enough to hold him. i thought he would get away." "then why not have asked me for a thicker rope, dick?" "what's the good! if i had tied him there with a thicker rope, he'd have bitten through the bridle. he wanted to go back home, and when he does, he will go somehow." "he seems a wonderful beast," said mr marston, smiling. "i don't know about being wonderful. he's a rum one, and as cunning as a fox. why, he'll unfasten any gate to get into a field, and he'll get out too. he unhooks the doors and lifts the gates off the hinges, and one day he was shut up in the big barn, and what do you think he did?" "i know," said tom; "jumped out of the window." "yes, that he did," said dick. "he climbed up the straw till he got to the window, and then squeezed himself through." that evening, after tea, the squire was seated in the orchard where the stone table had been built up under the big gnarled apple-tree, and the engineer was talking to him earnestly as dick came up from going part of the way home with his companion. "shall i go away, father?" asked the lad, as he saw how serious his father looked. "no, my boy, no. you are getting old enough now to think seriously; and this draining business will be more for you than for myself--better for your children than for you. mr marston has some more ugly news about the work." "ugly news, father?" "yes, dick," said mr marston; "that was no accident this afternoon, but a wilful attempt made by some miserably prejudiced person to destroy our work." "but it did no harm, mr marston." "no, my boy; but the ignorant person who thrust open that gate hoped it would. if it had been a high-tide and a storm, instead of stopping our work for a few hours he might have stopped it for a few weeks." "and who do you think it was?" asked dick. "someone who hates the idea of the drain being made. i have seen the constable, mr winthorpe," continued marston. "well, and what does he say?" "that he thinks he knows who is at the bottom of all these attacks." "and whom does he suspect?" cried dick excitedly. "he will not say," replied the engineer. "he only wants time, and then he is going to lay his hand upon the offender." "or offenders," said the squire drily. "yes, of course," said the engineer; "but the mischief is doubtless started by one brain; those who carry it out are only the tools." mr marston had come with the intention of staying for the night at the toft; and after a ramble round the old orchard and garden, and some talk of a fishing expedition into the wilder parts of the fen "some day when he was not so busy," supper was eaten, and in due time dick went to bed, to stand at his window listening to the sounds which floated off the mere, and at last to throw himself upon his bed feeling hot and feverish with his thoughts. "i wish tom was here to talk to," he said to himself. "but if i did talk to him about it he'd only laugh. that constable thinks i'm at the bottom of it all, and that i set the people to do these things, and he's trying to make mr marston believe it, and it's too bad!" he turned over upon one side, but it was no more comfortable than the other; so he tried his back, but the bed, stuffed as it was with the softest feathers from the geese grown at the farm, felt hard and thorny; there was a singing and humming noise made by the gnats, and the animals about the place were so uneasy that they suggested the idea of something wrong once more. then at last a drowsy sensation full of restfulness began to come over the weary lad, and he was fast dropping off to sleep, when--_cock-a-doodle-doo_! a shrill and sonorous challenge came from one of the lodges, which made dick start and throw one leg out of bed, sit up, and throw himself down again. "ugh! you stupid!" he cried angrily. "i don't believe i've been asleep yet." he seized his pillow, gave it a few savage punches, and lay down again, but only to find himself more wakeful than ever, with the unpleasant feeling that he was suspected of fighting against his father's plans; and after turning the matter over and over, and asking himself whether he should go straight to his father in the morning and tell him, or whether he should make mr marston his confidant, he came to the conclusion that he should not like to, for it might make them suspicious, and think that he really was concerned in the case. then he resolved to tell hickathrift and ask his advice, or dave, or john warren. lastly, he resolved to tell his mother; and as he thought of how she would take his hand and listen to him attentively, and give him the best of counsel, he asked himself why he had not thought of her before. but he grew more hot and uncomfortable, thinking till his troubled brain seemed to get everything in a knot, and he had just come to the conclusion that he would say nothing to anybody, for the constable's suspicions were not worth notice, when there was a sharp rap on the floor as if something had fallen, and he lay listening with every sense on the strain. he had not long to wait, for from beneath his window came a low familiar whistle. "why, it's tom!" he thought, starting up in bed; and as he was in the act of gliding out, a second thought troubled him--tom there in the middle of the night! and if the squire heard him he would believe they were engaged in some scheme. "tom!" he whispered, as he leaned out of the open window. "yes. may i come up?" "no, don't. what do you want? why have you come over?" "nobody knows i've come. i got out of the bed-room window and ran across." "what for?" "i can't tell you down here, dick; i must come up." he ran away softly over the grass, and came back in a few minutes with one of the short ladders, of whose whereabouts he knew as well as dick, and planting it against the window-sill, he ran up and thrust in his head. "i say, dick," he whispered, "i couldn't sleep to-night, and i went to the window and looked out." "so did i. well, what of that? here, be quick and go, or father will hear you, and we shall get into trouble." "there's going to be something done to-night." "what! the horses again, or a fire?" "i don't know, only i'm sure i saw two men creep along on their hands and knees down to the water." "pigs," said dick, contemptuously. "they weren't. think i can't tell a man from a pig!" "not in the dark." "i tell you they were men." "pigs!" "men! and they went down to the water." "to drink, stupid! they were pigs! they look just like men crawling in the dark!" "pigs don't get in punts and pole themselves along the mere!" "you didn't see two men get in a punt and pole themselves along!" "no, but i heard them quite plain." "well, and suppose you did, what then?" "i don't know. only i couldn't sleep, and i was obliged to come over to you." "and wake me out of a beautiful sleep! what was that you threw in?" "stone!" "then now go back, and don't come here in the night to get me into trouble! what's the good of going and dreaming such stuff and then coming along the dark road to tell me? what's that?" tom was going to say _lightning_ as a brilliant flash made their faces quite plain for a moment, but before he could give the word utterance there was a heavy dull report as of a cannon, which seemed to run over the surface of the mere, and murmur among the reeds and trees. "why, it's out at sea," said tom in a whisper. "it can't be a wreck!" "i know!" cried dick excitedly. "smugglers and a king's ship!" just then a window was heard being opened, and the squire's voice speaking to mrs winthorpe. "i don't know," he said; "sounded like a gun. that you, marston?" he cried aloud as another window was thrown open. "yes. did you hear a report?" "yes. like a gun out at sea." "i heard a slight noise a little while ago, and i was listening when i saw a flash and heard the report. mr winthorpe, i'm afraid there's something wrong again." "no, no, man!" "i'm afraid i must say, yes, sir. that sound was not off the sea, but much nearer the house. who's that?" "hallo! who's on that ladder?" cried the squire, turning sharply round at the engineer's query. "tom tallington?" "yes, sir," faltered tom. "what are you doing here, sir? is dick there?" "yes, father." "what's the meaning of this, sir?" "we saw a flash, father, and heard a report!" "where?" cried mr marston. "i think it must have been close to the outfall of the big drain, father." "there! you hear," said mr marston in a low voice. "there is something wrong!" "stop a moment," said the squire sternly. "you, tom tallington, why are you there?" "tell him, tom," said dick in a low voice. "speak out, sir," cried the squire. "what are you whispering there, dick?" "i was asking him to tell you, father," faltered dick; for their being caught like this a second time, and the feeling that he was suspected, troubled the lad sorely at that moment. "once more, then, my lad," said the squire. "why are you here?" "i came to tell dick, sir, that i had seen two men come from the town way past our place, and that i heard them get into a boat and go away across the mere." "you saw that?" "yes, sir." "well, what of it? why did you come and tell dick that?" "because i thought there was something wrong, sir." "you hear?" said mr marston again. "yes, i hear," muttered the squire, "but i don't like it. these boys know more than they care to say." the squire's window was heard to shut, and his heavy footstep sounded loudly on the floor in the silence of the night, while the two lads stood listening. "what shall we do, dick?" "i'm going to dress," was the reply; and the speaker began to hurry on his things. "you had better go home." "no," said tom sturdily; "if i've got you into a hobble i'll stand by you. but i didn't mean any harm." five minutes later all were standing down in the great stone porch, the squire with a stout staff and mr marston similarly armed. the squire looked very hard at the two lads, but he did not speak. still there was something in his glance, dimly seen though it was in the star-light, which made dick wince. it was as if something had risen up between father and son; and, rightly or wrongly the lad felt that his father was looking upon him with doubt. at the end of a few moments dick mastered his awkwardness, and spoke to his father as the latter came down from saying a few parting words to mrs winthorpe. "shall i come with you, father--i mean, shall we?" "if you like," said the squire coldly. "come, marston." dick made a movement to speak to the latter, but he was staring straight out across the fen in the direction of the draining works, and fretting with impatience at the delay. the next minute a start was made, and the boys were left behind. "mr marston might have said come," said tom in a low sulky voice. "they both think we've been at some mischief," said dick sadly. "then don't let's go with them. i should have liked to go though." "and so we will," cried dick angrily. "we'll go and show them that we're not afraid to face anybody. i wish people wouldn't be so suspicious." "so do i," cried tom. "but i say, dick, it does look suspicious when you're found getting into anybody's house in the middle of the night with a ladder." "well, i suppose it does," replied dick thoughtfully. "why, my father would have shot at anybody he saw climbing in. i say, are we going?" "yes, come along," cried dick; and the two lads started off at a rapid pace, following in the tracks of the squire and the engineer, whose voices could be heard in a low murmur now some way ahead. the night was glorious, and the stars were reflected in the face of the mere, whose black smooth waters seemed to form an inverted curve to complete the arch of spangled glory overhead. from far and near came the many sounds peculiar to the wild fen, while every now and then there was a solitary splash, or perhaps a loud flapping and beating of the water following closely upon the whistling and whirring of wings. the lads had an hour's walk before them, and if they wished to keep up with those in front, an arduous and sharp walk, for it soon became evident that they were hurrying on at a great rate. "we shall have to run directly," said dick, after they had been going on for about twenty minutes. "hist! what did mr marston say?" "that he must have been mad to stop away from his lodgings to-night," whispered tom, who had been a little in advance on the narrow path. "here, what's that?" "somebody on the mere," cried dick excitedly. "hi! ho!" "hi! ho!" came from out of the darkness where the splashing of water had been heard, accompanied by the peculiar sliding sound made by drawing a pole over the edge of a boat. "that you, dave?" "yes, mester dick. hear a noise?" "yes. did you?" "something like thunder, and it wakkened me. i think it weer a fireball." these words were shouted as the man forced the punt along rapidly, till it was abreast of the rough road track which ran along by the edge of the mere. "wheer are you going?" cried dave as soon as he came close up. "down to the drain-works," said tom. "think it fell theer?" asked dave. "yes: there was a flash of light went up." "hey, bud i'll come wi' you," said dave earnestly. "i'd best land here, for i can't get much farther." for thereabouts the track went wide of the edge of the mere, and dave was just landing, talking volubly the while, as the squire and mr marston pressed on, leaving them behind, when there came another hail off the water. "why, it's john warren!" cried tom. "what's matter?" "we dunno, lad," shouted back dave. "fireball come down, i think." "that all?" said the rabbit-catcher. "any mischief? don't see no fire." "nay, bud we don't know," replied dave. "squire and engineer chap's on ahead, and we're going to see. coming?" "nay, i'm going back to bed again. busy day wi' me to-morrow. i thowt someone was killed." there was a faint glimpse of the man and his boat seen for a moment, and the water flashed in the rays of the stars as he turned; then his voice was heard muttering, and the splash of his pole came more faintly, while dave secured and stepped out of the boat, to burst out suddenly in his grating unmusical laugh. "he, he, he! his, hec, hac! seems straange and disappointed, lads. talks as if he wanted someone killed. now, then, come on." by this time the squire and mr marston were a long way ahead, and tom proposed a run to overtake them. "ay, run, lads. keep up a trot. dessay i shall be clost behind." "come along!" cried dick; and they started off along the track, with dave increasing his stride and seeming to skim without effort over the ground, his long wiry legs and great strength enabling him to keep up with the boys, who, whenever they looked back, found him close behind. "you needn't mind about me, lads," he said with a chuckle; "i sha'n't be far." they were rapidly gaining upon those in front; knowing this fact from the murmur of their voices as they kept up an animated discussion, when, all at once, it seemed as if the squire had begun to talk much more rapidly, and that mr marston was replying to him at a terrible rate, their voices becoming blurred and confused, as it were, when dick realised what it meant. "there's a party of the drain-men coming. let's run!" dick was right, and five minutes after, he and his companions had joined a group gathered round mr marston, while bargle, the big labourer, was talking. "ay, mester, we _all_ tumbled out, and went away down to the gaats as soon as we'd tumbled out, and they're all knocked down and the water in." "knocked down!" cried the squire. "ay," cried another of the men, "far as we could see; one's smashed to bits, and brickwork's all ploughed up." "come along!" said the engineer. "two of you run on first and get lanthorns." the big labourer and another went off back with a heavy trot, and the party were advancing again when a heavy step was heard behind. "who's that?" said tom. "me, lad, me," came back in the thick hearty voice of the wheelwright. "what's amiss?" they told him. "i was straange and fast asleep," he said, "and didn't hear nowt; but my missus wakkened me, and i come on." "ay, bud it wakkened me, neighbour," said dave, who was busy administering to himself a pill. "i've slep' badly since i had that last touch of ager, and i thowt some un was broosting in the wall, and as soon as i jumped up and looked out, the plaace seemed alive, for all the birds in the fen were flying round and round, and you could hear their wings whistling as they flew away. i was scarred." half an hour later they were picking their way along the embankment at the side of the great drain, now once more filled with salt water, while when they reached the mouth, where a peculiar dank saline odour was perceptible, the two men who had been flitting before them with lanthorns like a couple of will-o'-the-wisps, went cautiously down the crumbling bank, followed by the engineer, and the mischief done was at once plain to see. apparently a powerful blast of powder had been placed in the hollow of the stone-work, where the mechanism for opening and closing the great sluice-gates was fixed, and the result of the explosion was a huge chasm in the stone, and one of the gates blown right off, leaving the way for the water free. a dead silence fell upon the group as the engineer took one of the lanthorns and carefully examined the damage, the squire holding the other light, and peering forward in the darkness till the engineer climbed back to his side. "they've managed it well," he said bitterly. "well!" cried the squire angrily. "i'm not a harsh man, but i'd give a hundred pounds down to see the wretch who did this lying dead in the ruins." "ay, mester," said hickathrift in a low hoarse voice; "it be a shaame. will it spoil the dreern, and stop all the work?" "ay," said dave, as he stood leaning upon his pole, which he had brought over his shoulder; "will it stop dreern?" the two lads leaned forward to hear the answer, and there was a peculiar solemnity in the scene out there in the wild place in the darkness, merely illumined by the two lanthorns. "stop the drain!" exclaimed the squire hoarsely, and in a voice full of rage. "no, my men," said the engineer coolly. "it will make a job for the carpenters and the masons; but if the madman, or the man with the brains of a mischievous monkey, thinks he is going to stop our great enterprise by such an act as this, he is greatly mistaken. you, bargle, be here to meet me at daylight with a double gang. get the piles up here at once, and if we work hard we can have the piles in and an embankment up before the next tide. a few days' hindrance, mr winthorpe, that's all." the men broke into a cheer, in which dave and hickathrift joined; and as nothing more could be done, the little crowd separated, the men going slowly back to their huts, while the squire and marston made for the track so as to return, talking earnestly the while. "you talked as if the thing were a trifle," said the squire angrily. "it will cost us hundreds!" "yes, but it might cost us thousands if we let the scoundrels know how big a breach they have made in our works, and they would renew the attack at once." "hah, there's something in that!" said the squire, drawing his breath in angrily through his teeth. "if i only knew who was at the bottom of it! marston, it must be the work of a gang among your men." "think so?" said the engineer quietly. "i do." "but why should my men do such a dastardly act?" "to make the job last longer." "nonsense, my dear sir! we have work before us that will last us for years, for this drain is only the first of many." "then who is it--who can it be?" "i think i've got an insight to-night," said marston. "tom tallington saw a couple of men coming along the road and creep to the edge of the mere." "true! i had forgotten that," said the squire sharply. "and that shows us that our enemies belong to a party somewhere at a distance, and that we should be wasting time in searching here. hallo! who's this?" the exclamation was caused by the appearance of a dark figure coming towards them from the direction of the toft. "why, it's thorpeley, the constable!" said dick in a whisper to his companion. "oh, it's you!" said the squire gruffly. "pity you weren't down here sooner." "has it been an explosion, sir?" said the constable in a smooth unctuous voice. "yes," said the squire abruptly, and he walked on with the engineer. "ah, i was going on to see!" said the constable; "but as you're all going back, i'll go back too." no one spoke, but all walked on in silence, for the man's coming seemed to have damped the conversation; but the opportunity for making himself heard and showing his importance was not to be ignored. "they're very clever," he said in a high voice, so that the squire and mr marston, who were in front, could hear; "but i've got my hye upon them." "why didn't you ketch 'em, then, 'fore they did this here?" said dave with a little laugh. "ay, why didst thou not stop this?" growled hickathrift. "because the thing was not quite ripe. i shall tak' 'em yet red-handed, and then--" he paused and rubbed his hands. "what then?" asked dave. "transportation or hanging--one of them," said the constable with a chuckle. "ay, but you heven't found 'em yet," said dave, shaking his head. "nay, bud i can put my hand on 'em pretty well when i like." "wheer are they, then?" said hickathrift excitedly. "ay, wheer are they?" said the constable. "going about stealthily of a night, creeping behind hedges, and carrying messages one to the other. i know! they think no one suspects them, and that they're going to be passed over, but i'm set here to find them out, and i've nearly got things ready." "look here, my man," said the engineer, stopping short; "can you say for certain who's at the bottom of this mischief?" "mebbe i can, sir." "then who was it?" "nay," said the constable with a little laugh; "if theer's going to be any credit for takkin of 'em, i mean to hev it, and not give it over to someone else." "pish!" ejaculated the squire angrily; "come along! the man knows nothing." "mebbe not," said the constable with a sneer. "mebbe if people treated people proper, and asked them to their house, and gave 'em a lodging and a bit of food, things might hev been found out sooner; but some people thinks they know best." the squire understood the hint, but he scorned to notice it, and went on talking sternly to the engineer; but thorpeley was not to be put down like that, for he continued: "mebbe theer's people in it--old people and young people--as wouldn't like to be exposed, but who hev got to be exposed, and--" "look here," said dick boldly, "if my father won't speak, i will. do you mean to say you believe tom tallington and i know anything about these cowardly tricks?" "nay, i'm not going to show my hand," said the man. "wait a bit, and you'll see." "no; you speak out now," cried dick. "i won't be suspected by any man. do you mean to say tom tallington and i know?" "nay, i shall na speak till proper time comes. i know what i know, and i know what i've seen, and when time comes mebbe i shall speak, and not before." "he don't know anything," cried tom, laughing. "he's a regular sham." "nay, i don't know as boys steals out o' windows at nights, and goes creeping along in the dark, and playing their games as other people gets the credit on. i don't know nothing. oh, no!" "why, you cowardly--" dick did not finish his speech, for at that moment hickathrift stretched out one of his great arms, and his big hand closed with a mighty grip on the constable's shoulder, making the man utter a sharp ejaculation. "that'll do," he growled. "yow shoot thee neb. man as says owt again mester dick here's saying things agen me." "what do you mean?" cried the constable. "are you going to resist the law?" "nay, not i," said hickathrift. "i am a good subject o' the king's. god bless him! but if yow says owt more again mester dick, i'll take thee by the scruff and pitch thee right out yonder into the bog." "ay," snarled dave, spitting in his hands and giving his staff a twist; "and i'll howd him down till he says he's sorry." how the constable was to beg dick's pardon when held down under the black ooze and water of the mere was not very evident; but the threat had a good effect, for the man stared from one of the speakers to the other, and held his peace till they reached the toft. the explosion proved to have done more mischief than was at first supposed, and necessitated the taking down of all one side of the gowt and the making of a new sluice door. it was all plain enough, as the engineer had surmised upon the first inspection: a heavy charge of powder had been lowered down by the miscreants who were fighting against the project, and they had probably used a long fuse sufficient to enable them to get far enough away before the explosion. what followed was, however, quite enough to daunt the most determined foe, for in place of disheartening the engineer, the mishap seemed to spur him on to renewed exertions. he was on the spot by daybreak, and before long a strong dam was made across, to prevent the entrance of the sea-water; the drain was emptied, and while one gang was engaged in taking down the ruined side of the gowt, the rest of the men went on with the delving, as if nothing had happened, and the dike increased. dick and tom were down at the works directly after breakfast, but mr marston took very little notice of them, and it seemed to dick that the engineer shared the squire's doubts. the consequence was, that, being a very natural boy, who, save when at school, had led rather a solitary life, finding companionship in tom tallington and the grown-up denizens of the fen, dick, who was by no means a model, turned sulky, and shrank within his metaphorical shell. "i sha'n't go begging him to talk to me if he doesn't like," he said to tom; "and if my father likes to believe i would do such things i shall go." "go where?" said tom, looking at him wonderingly. "i don't know--anywhere. i say, let's find an island and build a hut, and go there whenever we like." "but where?--out in the sea somewhere?" "no, no, i mean such a place as dave's and john warren's. you and i could retreat there whenever we liked." tom stared, and did not seem to grasp the idea for a few minutes; then his eyes brightened. "why, dick," he cried, "that would be glorious! we could catch and shoot birds, and have our own fire, and no one could get to us." "without a boat," said dick slowly. "i'd forgotten that," said tom thoughtfully. "how could we get there, then?" "we'd borrow hicky's punt till we had built one for ourselves." "but could we build one?" "of course we could, or make one of skins, or a raft of reeds. there are lots of ways." "but what will your father say?" "i don't know," said dick dolefully; "he thinks i'm fighting against him, so i suppose he'll be glad i've gone." "but how about your mother?" dick paused a few moments before answering. "i should tell her as a secret, and she'd help me, and lend me things we should want. i don't care to be at home now, with everybody looking at one as if there was something wrong." "i don't think my father would let me go," said tom thoughtfully, "and i'm sure my mother wouldn't; and i say, dick, isn't it all nonsense?" "i don't think it's nonsense," said dick, who was taking a very morbid view of matters, consequent upon a mistaken notion of his father's ideas and thoughts at that time, and matters were not improved by a conversation which ensued in the course of the next day. dick was in the garden with tom, paying court to the gooseberry trees, for though fruit by no means abounded there, the garden always supplied a fair amount of the commoner kinds, consequent upon the shelter afforded from the north and bitter easterly sea-winds by the old buildings which intervened. "here, i want to talk to you two," said the squire; and he led the way into the house, where mrs winthorpe was seated at work, and, probably by a preconcerted arrangement, to dick's great disgust she rose and left the room. "now," said the squire, "i don't like for there to be anything between us, dick; and as for you, tom tallington, i should be sorry to think anything about you but that you were a frank, straightforward companion for my son." "i'm sure, sir--" blundered out tom. "wait a minute, my lad. i have not done. now, i'm going to ask you a plain question, both of you, and i want a frank, manly answer. but before i ask it, i'm going to say a few words." he drew his tobacco-jar towards him, and took down his pipe, carefully filled it, and laid it down again. "now, look here," he said. "i'm a great believer in keeping faith and being true to one another, and looking down with contempt upon a tale-bearer, or one who betrays a secret. do you understand?" "yes, sir," said tom, for dick felt that he could not speak. "you mean, sir, that you don't like a sneak." "that's it," said the squire; "but i should have liked to hear you say that, dick. however, that is what i mean. there are times, though, when lads have been led into connections where things are done of which they are heartily ashamed. they have joined in them from the idea that it was a good bit of fun, or that there was some injustice being perpetrated, and they have, as they think, joined the weaker side. but i want you both to see that in such cases as we have had lately it would be weak and criminal to keep silence from the mistaken notion that it would be cowardly to speak, and betraying friends." dick's face was scarlet, and his bosom swelled with emotion as he felt choked with indignation at his father suspecting him, while he changed countenance the more as he saw his father watching him keenly. in fact the more innocent dick strove to look the worse he succeeded, and the squire seemed troubled as he went on. "now, my lads, as you are well aware, there are some cowardly outrages being perpetrated from time to time; and i want you to answer me at once--do you either of you know anything whatever about the persons who have done these things?" "no," said tom at once; and the squire turned to dick. "now, my boy," he said, "why don't you speak?" dick felt as if he would choke, and with his morbid feeling increasing, he said in a husky voice: "no, father, i do not know anything either." "on your honour, dick?" said his father, gazing at him searchingly. "on my honour, father." "that will do," said the squire in a short decisive tone. "i must own that i thought you two knew something of the matter. i suspected you before that meddling, chattering idiot shared my ideas. but now there's an end to it, and i shall go to work to find out who is fighting against us, since i am sure that you two boys are quite innocent. that will do." "father doesn't believe me," said dick bitterly as soon as they were alone. "nonsense!" cried tom. "why, he said he did." "yes, but i could see it in his eyes that he did not i know his looks so well, and it does seem so hard." as if to endorse dick's fancy, the squire passed them an hour afterwards in the garden and there was a heavy frown upon his countenance as he glanced for a moment at his son, who was, of course, perfectly ignorant of the fact that his father was so intent upon the troubles connected with the drain, and the heavy loss which would ensue if the scheme failed, that he did not even realise the presence of his boy. it was enough, though, for dick; and he turned to his companion. "there," he said, "what did i tell you? father doesn't believe me. but i know what i'll do." "what will you do--run away from home?" said tom. "like a coward, and make him feel sure that i knew all this and told a lie. no, i won't. i'll just show him." "show him what?" "that i'm innocent." "yes, that's all very well; but how are you going to do it?" "find out the people and let him see." "yes, but how?" cried tom eagerly, as he knocked an apple off one of the trees and tried to take a bite, but it was so hard and green that he jerked it away. "i don't know yet; but someone does all these cowardly things, and i mean to find it out before i've done." "oh, i am disappointed!" said tom dolefully. "disappointed! why? won't you help me?" "yes, i will. but i thought we were going to find an island of our own somewhere out in the mere, where no one ever goes, and have no end of fun." "and so we will," said dick eagerly. "we could keep it secret, and there would be the sort of place to be and watch." "what, out there?" "to be sure! whoever does all this mischief comes in a boat, i'm sure of that, and he wouldn't suspect us of watching, and so we could catch him." tom screwed up his face in doubt, but the idea of starting a sort of home out there in the middle of the wild fen-land had its fascinations, and the plan was discussed for long enough before they parted that day. chapter sixteen. another trip. the two lads had left the grammar-school in the county town about a year before in consequence of a terrible outbreak of fever; and, mrs winthorpe declaring against their going back, they had been kept at home. but though several plans had been proposed of sending them for another year's education somewhere, the time had glided by, the business of the draining had cropped up, and as the lads proved useful at times, the school business kept on being deferred, to the delight of both, the elongated holiday growing greatly to their taste. even though they were backward from a more modern point of view, they were not losing much, for they were acquiring knowledge which would be useful to them in their future careers, and in addition growing bone and muscle such as would make them strong men. hence it was that the time glided pleasantly on, with the two lads finding plenty of opportunities for the various amusements which gratified them when not occupied in some way about the farms. it was a few days after the conversation with the squire that tom proposed a turn after the fish in hickathrift's boat. "we could pole ourselves without dave; and let's ask mr marston to come. it's a long time since he has had a holiday." dick's brow was overcast, and he wore generally the aspect of a boy who had partaken of baking pears for a week, but his face cleared at this, and he eagerly joined in the plan. "we'll get hicky to lend us his boat, and pole down as far as we can, and then run across to mr marston." their preparations did not take long, and though they were made before they knew whether they could have the punt, they did not anticipate any objections, and they were right. hickathrift was busy sawing, but he looked up with a broad grin, and leaving his work went down with them to the water side. "course i'll lend it to you, lads," he said. "wish i could come wi' you." "do, then, hicky. it's a long time since we've had a fish." "nay; don't ask me," was the reply. "i wean't leave the work. ay, bud it's nice to be a boy," he added, with a smile. "couldn't you do your work afterward?" cried tom. "nay, nay, don't tempt a poor weak fellow," he cried. "i'm going to do that bit o' sawing 'fore i leave it. now, theer, in wi' you!" the boys made another appeal to the great fellow to come; but he was staunch. still he uttered a sigh of relief as he gave the punt a tremendous thrust from the bank into deep water, where it went rustling by the willow boughs and over the wild growth where the pink-blossomed persicaria sent up its pretty heads. "if we had pressed hicky a little more, i believe he would have come," said dick. "no, he wouldn't. he never will when he says he won't." just at that moment hickathrift was muttering to himself on the bank, as he watched the boat. "straange thing," he said, "that a girt big man like i am should allus feel like a boy. i wanted to go wi' they two straange and badly. i will go next time." taking it in turns, the boys sent the punt quickly over the amber water, the exercise in the bright sunshine chasing the clouds from dick's countenance, so that before they reached their intended landing-place on the edge of the mere, as near as they could go to the spot where mr marston's men were at work, he was once more his old self, laughing, reckoning on the fish they would catch with the trimmers that lay ready, and forgetting for the time all about the plots to injure the drain and its projectors. there was a low patch of alders at the spot where they intended to land, and dick was just about to run the punt close in, when he suddenly ceased poling and stood motionless staring before him. "what's the matter?" cried tom. there was no answer, in fact none was needed, for at that moment tom's eyes fell upon the object which had arrested his companion's action, to wit, the flabby, unpleasant-looking face of thorpeley, the constable, that individual being seated by the low bushes smoking his pipe in a position where he must have been watching the lads ever since they started. dick's teeth gave forth a peculiar gritting sound, and then, thrusting down the pole, he ran in the punt, leaped on to the quivering shore with the rope, fastened it to a bush, and signed to tom to follow. the man said nothing, but there was a curiously aggravating leering grin upon his countenance as he sat taking in every movement on the part of the boys, who walked away rapidly with the full knowledge that they were followed. "don't look back, tom," said dick between his teeth. "oh, how i should have liked to give him a topper with the pole!" "i wish old dave was here to pitch him in the water," growled tom. "did you ever see anything so aggravating? he's following us. i can hear his boots. don't take any notice. let's go on fast as if he wasn't there." "i don't know that i can," grumbled tom. "i feel alloverish like." "feel how?" "as if i couldn't do as i liked. my head wants to turn round and look at him, my tongue wants to call him names, and my toes itch, and my fists want to feel as if it would be like punching a sack of corn to hit him in the nose." "come along!" cried dick, who was too angry to laugh at his companion's remarks. "let's make haste to mr marston." as they reached the works the first man they encountered was big bargle, who stuck his spade into the soft peat and came slowly up the embankment, to stand wiping his fist on his side, before opening it and holding it out, smiling broadly the while. he shook hands with both lads, and then went back to his work smiling; and as they walked on they could hear him say confidentially to all around him: "we're mates, we are, lads; we're mates." the engineer was coming towards them; and as they met, dick unfolded his plan, but before he had half-finished his words trailed off, and he stopped short. for the severe countenance before him checked his utterance. "no," said mr marston, shortly. "i am too busy. good day!" he went on to speak to his men, and dick looked at tom with a dismal expression of countenance which spoke volumes. "come along back!" he said. tom obeyed without a word, and glancing neither to the right nor left, the two boys walked heavily back over the dry surface of the quaking bog, so as to reach their boat. before they had travelled half-way they met thorpeley, who leered at them in a sinister way, and, as they passed on, turned and followed at a distance. "look here, dick," whispered tom, "let's give him something to think about. come along!" tom started running as if in a great state of excitement, and dick followed involuntarily, while after a momentary hesitation the constable also began to run. "i say, don't go that way," said dick, as his companion struck off to the left. "bog's soft there." "i know: come along! keep on the tufts." dick understood tom's low chuckling laugh, which was just like that of a cuckoo in a bush, and divining that the object was to reach the boat by a detour, he did not slacken his speed. long familiarity with the worst parts of the fen enabled the lads to pick their way exactly, and they went on bounding from tuft to tuft, finding fairly firm ground for their feet as if by instinct, though very often they were going gingerly over patches of bog which undulated and sprang beneath their tread, while now and then they only saved themselves from going through the dry coat of moss by making a tremendous leap. they had pretty well half a mile to run to reach the boat by the alder bush, and the constable soon began to go heavily; but he was so satisfied that the boys had some sinister design in view, and were trying to throw him off their scent, that he put forth all his energies, and as dick glanced back once, it was to see him, hat in hand, toiling along in the hot sun right in their wake. "you'd better not go round there, tom," said dick as they approached a patch of rushes. "it's very soft." "i don't care if i go in; do you?" was the reply. "no, i don't mind," said dick sadly. "i don't seem to mind anything now." "come along then," cried tom; "and as we get round let's both look back and then try to keep out of sight--pretend, you know." they reached the patch of tall rushes and reeds, which was high enough to hide them, and giving a frightened look back at their pursuer, plunged out of sight. "oh, i say, isn't it soft?" cried dick. "never mind: some people like it soft," said tom. "follow me." he had arranged his plan so deftly that while keeping the patch of reeds between them and their pursuer, tom managed, with no little risk of going through, to reach a second patch of the marsh growth, behind which he dodged, and threw himself down, dick following closely; and they were well hidden and lay panting as the constable came round the first patch, glanced round, and then made for a third patch still more to the left, and beyond which was quite a copse of scrubby firs. "ho--ho--ho!" laughed tom in a low voice, as he nearly choked with mirth, for all at once there was a splash, a shout, a strange wallowing noise, and as the lads parted and peered through the rushes they could see that the constable was down and floundering in the bog. "oh, tom," cried dick, struggling up, "he'll be smothered!" "sit down; he won't. it'll be a lesson to him." "but suppose--" "no, don't suppose anything. he'll get out right enough." the constable had a hard struggle for a few minutes, and doubtless would have got out sooner if he had worked a little more with his brains; but finally he crawled to firmer ground, just as a scuffle began between dick and tom, the former being determined to go to his enemy's help, the latter clinging to him with all his might to keep him back. "now, come along down to the boat. we can get nearly there before he sees us," whispered tom. "but do you think he will get back safe?" "of course he will. he won't try to run any more." dick took a long look at the constable to see that he was really out of danger, and feeling satisfied at last that there was nothing to mind, he followed tom once more, the two managing so well that after losing sight of them altogether for some time, their inquisitive pursuer had the mortification of seeing them enter the punt and push off, leaving him to make a long and tedious circuit, crawling part of the way, and when he stood erect, wanting as he was in the boys' experience, making very slow progress to the regular track. as soon as the excitement was over, and the boat reached once more, dick's gloomy feelings came back, and but for his companion's efforts he would have relapsed into a mournfully depressed condition, which would have done little towards making their trip agreeable. tom, however, worked hard, and using the pole with vigour he drove the punt along, till dick roused up from a fit of musing on his father's severe looks and mr marston's distant manner, to find that they were close to dave's home. "why have you come here?" he cried. "to see how he is," replied tom; and, thrusting down his pole, he soon had the punt ashore. "why, he isn't at home!" said dick. his words proved correct, for the punt was missing, and unless it lay on the other side of an alder patch or was drawn out to be repaired, the master must have it far away somewhere on the mere. it need not be supposed that the two lads were troubled with more curiosity than is the property of most boys of their age, because they landed and looked round, ending by going up to the fen-man's hut and entering. it was not a particularly cleanly place, but everything there, dealing as it did with dave's pursuits, had its attraction, from the gun hanging upon a couple of wooden pegs to the nets and lines above the rough bed-place, with its sheep-skins and dingy-looking blanket. "i should like to take the gun and have a turn by ourselves," said dick, gazing at the long rusty piece longingly. but it remained untouched, and, returning to the boat, the boys pushed off and made for the more remote portion of the fen, passing from one open lake to another as they followed the long meandering lanes of water, in and out among reed-beds and alder patches, islands of bog-plants, islets of sedge, and others where the gravel and sand enabled the purple heather and lavender ling to blow profusely, in company with here and there a little gorgeous orange-yellow furze. the hours went by, and the sun was declining fast as they neared at length a spot which had attracted them for some time past. it was either a little promontory or an isthmus, where the ground was strong enough for fir-trees to flourish, and this promised dry ground, wood, and a good site for a little hut if they set one up. dick brightened at the sight, for there was a cheering notion in his mind that he was going to find rest, peace, and happiness here in a little home of his own making, to which he could retire from the world to fish, shoot, and eat the fruits he would be able to gather in the season. in short, dick winthorpe, being in a marsh, was suffering from a sharp fit of goose, such as attacks many boys who, because matters do not go exactly as they like at home, consider that they are ill-used, and long for what they call their freedom--a freedom which is really slavery, inasmuch as they make themselves the bond-servants of their silly fancies, and it takes some time to win them back. the clump of firs here, which they had before seen at a distance, surpassed their expectations, for it was a good-sized island, far from the shore, and promised fishing, fowling, and security from interruption, for it was not likely that any one would venture there. but the evening was rapidly coming on, and the punt's head was turned homewards, the distance they had come proving startling, as they began now to feel that they were very hungry, and that they had hours of work before them before they could reach the toft. "not many fish to land," said dick rather dismally. "why, you wouldn't fish!" replied tom. "never mind, we've found the island. shall we build a place?" dick's reply was in the affirmative, and for the next two hours they debated on the subject of what they should take over, and how soon, and so passed the time away till after dark, when, being still quite a mile from home, there came the sharp report of a gun, and then they fancied that they heard a cry. "why, who can be shooting now?" said dick in an awe-stricken whisper. "is anything wrong?" "i don't know. look! look!" tom whispered these words, and pointed in the opposite direction, to a lambent light which seemed to be moving slowly over the marshy edge of the mere. the light was in a portion of the shore where the mere narrowed; and the two lads let the boat drift as they sat and watched, each thinking of the place in the light of experience. "why, tom, that can't be a boat," whispered dick. "boat! no, it's land there." "land! it's soft bog that nobody could walk on!" "then it couldn't be a boat. why, it's a will-o'-the-wisp." "yes," said dick, after a sceptical pause, during which he watched the lambent light as it played about in a slow fantastic way, just as if it were a softly-glowing lantern carried by a short-winged moth, which used it to inspect the flowering plants as it sought for a meal. "let's go over and look at it." "no, no! no, no!" whispered tom excitedly. "why not? are you afraid?" "no, not a bit; but i don't want to go. i'm tired and hungry. i don't believe you want to go either." "yes, i do," said dick eagerly. "i feel as if i wanted to go, but my body didn't." "ha, ha, ha!" laughed tom, but very softly, as he kept his eyes fixed on the distant light. "that's a nice way of backing out of it. why, you're as much afraid as i am, only i'm honest and you're not." "yes, i am," whispered dick. "i'm as honest as you are, and i'll show you that i am. there, i should feel afraid to go by myself." "will you go if i go with you?" before dick could answer there was a long, low, piteous cry from the other direction, that from whence they had heard the shot. "i say, what's that?" whispered tom in an awe-stricken tone. "i don't know. it sounds very queer. there it is again." "is it a bird?" whispered tom. "no. i never heard a bird cry like that." "what is it then--a fox trapped?" "nobody would trap the foxes, and it can't be a rabbit, because that would be a squeal." the cry came again over the dark water of the mere, and sounded so strange and weird that dick shivered. "it's something queer," said tom huskily. "take the pole and let's get away. don't make a noise." "but--" "no, no; don't stop. we don't know what it is. perhaps it's one of those things hicky talks about that he has heard sometimes." "father says it's all nonsense, and there are no such things in the fens." "he'd better say there are no will-o'-the-wisps to lead people astray," whispered tom. "he doesn't say that. he says there are jack-o'-lanterns, but they don't lead people astray--people go astray to try and catch them." "hist! there it is again!" said tom, gripping his companion's arm, as the long piteous cry came faintly over the water. "it is something horrible!" "it isn't," said dick. "it's someone in distress." "people in distress never cry out like that." "why, tom, it's that thorpeley stuck in the mud somewhere; and it's our doing." "it's his own if he is stuck there. but i don't believe it is. why, it's two miles nearer home than where we left him." "then it's somebody else in trouble," said dick excitedly. "it isn't. let's go home." tom was, as a rule, no coward; but he was faint and tired, and the very fact of being seated out on the dark waters with the gloom so thick that they could see but a short distance, and with an unnatural-looking light on one side and a strange marrow-thrilling cry coming on the other, was enough to startle stouter-hearted lads than he, and he held more tightly to his companion as dick seized the pole. "let's get back home," he said again. "you said i was afraid to go to the will o' the wisp," said dick stoutly. "you're afraid to go now and see what it is makes that noise." "well, i can't help it," said tom appealingly; "but if you go i shall go with you. there, listen! isn't it horrible!" he spoke as the cry came again faintly but piteous in the extreme. dick drove the pole down into the soft bottom of the mere and sent the punt surging through the water, determined now to go straight to the spot whence the cry seemed to come; and, guided by the sound, he toiled away for about ten minutes before giving way to tom, who worked hard to reach the place. for, once the two lads had taken action, they seemed to forget their nervous dread, while what was more encouraging to them to proceed was the fact that as they reduced the distance the cries gradually seemed to be more human, and were evidently those of some person in peril or great distress. it was a weird strange journey over the water now, the excitement lent by their mission seeming to change the aspect of all around. the reeds whispered, the patches of growth looked black, and every now and then they disturbed some water-fowl, whose hurried flight seemed suddenly to have become mysterious and awe-inspiring, as if it were a creature of the darkness which had been watching their coming and had risen to hover round. but there was the cry again and again, sometimes faint and distant, sometimes sounding as if close at hand, and, as is often the case, apparently varying in position to right or left as it was borne by the soft night wind. "we cannot go any farther," cried dick at last as he drove the boat in amongst the broad belt of reeds which fringed the edge of the mere. "yes, we can. there's a way here," cried tom excitedly, pointing through the gloom to his left where there was an opening. "coming!" he yelled as the cry rose once more. dick backed the boat out, with the reeds whistling and rustling strangely, and the next minute he had it right in the gloomy opening, which proved to be quite a little bay, where, at the end of a few good thrusts of the pole, the prow of the punt bumped up against the quivering moss. the two boys got out cautiously; the pole was driven down into the peat, and the boat made fast; and then they paused and listened for the next cry. everything now was perfectly silent, not so much as the whisper of a reed or the whir of the wing of a nightbird fell upon their ears; and at last, in an awe-stricken whisper, tom said: "hicky is right. it was something strange from out of the marsh. let's get away." dick was stouter-hearted than his companion, and lifting his voice he shouted, and then stood silent. "help! help!" came faintly in reply. "there!" cried dick turning sharply. "it's a man." "think so?" "why, of course! come along! here, i can see where we are now." "yes, i think i know where we are," whispered tom. "but is it safe to go after it?" "you mean after _him_," said dick. "yes, it's pretty firm here--yes, it's all right. we're amongst heath and bilberry as soon as we get by this bit of bog. hoy! shout again," he cried as he plodded on cautiously, with his feet sometimes sinking in the bog, sometimes finding it pretty firm. but there was no answer; and though as far as was possible dick walked in the direction of the sound, the guidance was of the most unsatisfactory nature, and at the end of a minute or two they listened again. "it must be that thorpeley regularly bogged," said dick at last, and a curious shiver ran through him. "i hope he hasn't sunk in." "he couldn't," said tom. "i know this part. it's all firm ground between the water and the track to the sea." "i can't quite make out where we are," said dick, staring about him. "i can. there's the big alder clump, and beyond it there's the river wall." [mud embankment.] "so it is. yes, i know now. why, it is all firm about here, and nobody could be bogged unless he got into a hole. ahoy!" he shouted once more, but there was no answer; and when he raised his voice again it was only for the sound to seem to come back, just as if they were shut up in some large room. "he must be hereabout," said dick. "shall we find our way back to the boat?" said tom in a doubting tone. "i don't know, but if we don't we could walk home in half an hour. come along. ahoy!" still no answer; and in spite of his companion's suggestions and strange doubts dick kept on hunting about in the darkness among the patches of alders and the heath that here grew freely. for, save in places, the ground was sandy and firm, and, dark as it was, they had no difficulty in making out the watery spots by their faint gleam or the different character of the growth. they shouted in turns and together, listening, going in different directions, and all to no purpose. not a sound could they get in reply; and at last, with a curious feeling of horror stealing over him, compounded of equal parts of superstition and dread lest the person whose cry they had heard had sunk in the mire of some hole, dick reluctantly gave way to tom's suggestion that they should go back to the boat. "i knew it was something queer," whispered tom. "if we had gone on, we should have been led into some dangerous hole and lost." "don't believe it," said dick, as they trudged slowly back, utterly worn-out and hoarse with shouting. "you're such a doubting fellow!" grumbled tom. "if it had been anybody in distress we should have found him." "perhaps," said dick sadly. "it's so dark, though, that we might have passed him over." "nonsense!" cried tom; "we were sure to find him. there wasn't anybody. it was a marsh cry, and--oh!" tom uttered a yell and went headlong down, with the effect of so startling his companion that he ran a few steps before he could recover his nerve, when he returned to extend his hand to tom, who rose trembling, while dick stood staring aghast at the dark figure lying extended among the heath, and over which his friend had stumbled. "why, tom, it's thorpeley!" cried dick, as he went down on one knee and peered into the upturned face. "mr thorpeley, mr thorpeley!" he cried; "what's the matter?" there was no reply. "it must have been him," whispered dick. "he had lost his way." "then let him find it again," grumbled tom, "instead of watching us." "but perhaps there is something the matter. mr thorpeley, mr thorpeley!" dick laid his hand upon the man's shoulder and shook him, but there was no response. "is he dead?" said tom in an awe-stricken whisper. "dead!" cried dick, leaping up and shrinking away at the suggestion. "no, he can't be. he's quite warm," he added, going down on his knee again to shake the recumbent man, who now uttered a low groan. "what shall we do, dick?" said tom huskily. "i hate him, but we can't leave him here." "well," said dick, "i'm not very fond of him, but it would be like leaving anybody to die to go away now. we must carry him down to the boat." "come on then, quick!" dick placed his hands beneath the constable's arms and locked his fingers across his breast, while tom turned his back as he got between the man's legs, stooped in turn, and proceeded to lift them as if they were the handles of a wheel-barrow. "ready?" "yes." "then both together." the two lads lifted the constable, staggered along a few yards, and set him down again. "oh, i say!" groaned tom. "isn't he heavy?" "come and try this end," retorted dick. "he's an awful weight. we must go a few yards at a time, and we shall do it yet. now then." "stop a minute," said tom, who had picked up a handful of moss, and was rubbing one hand. "i--it's warm and sticky, and--oh, dick, he's bleeding." dick lowered the insensible man down again, and, shuddering with horror, stepped to his companion's side. then kneeling down he tried to examine the spot pointed out by tom, to find out as well as was possible in the dim light that the constable was bleeding freely from one leg. "dick, what shall we do?" cried tom piteously. "why, what would anybody do if he had cut his finger?" cried dick manfully, as he undid his neckcloth and doubled it afresh. "i don't know," cried tom, who was sadly scared. "you don't know! suppose you had cut your finger, wouldn't you tie it up?" "yes, i suppose so," faltered tom, whom the situation had completely unnerved. "take off his neckerchief while i tie this on," said dick, whom the emergency had rendered more helpful. "how can he have hurt himself like this?" as he spoke he busied himself in tightly bandaging the man's leg, and added to the bandage the cotton cloth that tom handed to him. "i think that has stopped it," said dick. "now then, we must carry him down." "but we shall sink into the bog with him," faltered tom. "no, we sha'n't if we are careful. now, then, are you ready?" "i don't like to try and lift him now," said tom. "it's so horrible. the man's bleeding to death." "more shame for you to stand still and not try to help him," said dick hotly. "here, you come and carry this end." tom hastened to obey, heedless of the fact that the task would be the harder; and setting to with a will, the lads carried their load a few yards before setting it down again to rest. this time, in spite of tom's appeal not to be left alone, dick went on for a bit so as to explore and make sure of the best way to get back to the boat, and not without avail, for he was able, in spite of the darkness, to pick out the firmest ground, his knowledge of the growth of the fen and its choice of soil helping him. but it was a long and painful task. the lads were faint and terribly hungry. they had been working hard for several hours propelling the punt, and the load they were carrying would not have been an easy one for a couple of stout men. still, by means of that wonderful aid to success, perseverance, they at last got past bog and water-pool, patch of sphagnum, bed of reed, and slimy hollow, where the cotton rushes nourished, and reached the belt of waving reeds which separated them from the water. it was not done without tremendous effort and a constant succession of rests; but they stood there at last bathed in perspiration, and waiting for a few minutes before lifting the sufferer into the boat. up to this time they had been so busy and excited that they had not paused to ask the question: how was it that the man had been wounded? but as they lifted him carefully into the boat, tom being in and dick ashore, they both burst out with the query, as if moved by the same spring. "i know," said dick, as the truth seemed to flash upon him. "some one must have shot him." tom had taken up the pole and was just about to force the boat along when this announcement seemed to paralyse him, and he stood there thinking of what had taken place before. "why, dick," he whispered, "isn't it very horrible?" "don't talk," cried his companion, entering the boat; "let's get home." the pole plashed in the water, which rippled against the bows, and once more they glided over the surface, just as the injured man uttered a low groan. "we sha'n't be very long," said dick, kneeling down and carefully feeling whether the kerchiefs he had bound round the leg were fulfilling their purpose. "are you in much pain?" "pain!" groaned the man. "hah! give me some water." there was no vessel of any kind in the punt, and dick had to scoop up some water in the hollow of his hand, and pour it between the injured man's lips, with the result that he became sufficiently refreshed to sit up a little and begin muttering. dick now took the pole, and it was tom's turn to try and administer a little comfort in the shape of words as to the time that would elapse before they could reach the toft; but the only result was to produce an angry snarl from their patient. "how does he seem?" dick asked, as tom went to his relief. "better not ask him." "why not?" "perhaps he'll bite you. he nearly did me. i say, how much farther is it?" "take another quarter of an hour. oh, i shall be glad, tom! work hard." tom looked in his companion's face, and uttered a low laugh, as he toiled away at the poling, and that laugh seemed to say more than a dozen long speeches. then there was nothing heard for some time but the regular plash and ripple of the water, as it was disturbed by pole and punt, while the darkness seemed to increase. at the same time, though, the hopes of the two lads rose high, for, standing as it were alone in the midst of the black darkness, there was a soft yellow light. at first it was so dull and lambent that it suggested thoughts of the will-o'-the-wisp. but this was no dancing flame, being a steady glow in one fixed spot, and tom expressed his companion's thoughts exactly as he exclaimed: "there's hicky's old horn lanthorn!" a few minutes more and the big bluff voice of the wheelwright was heard in a loud hail. this was answered, and the sounds roused the wounded man. "nearly there?" he said hoarsely. "very close now," replied dick; and snatching the pole from tom he drove it down vigorously, making a tremendous spurt to reach the patch of old pollard willows by the landing-place, on one of whose old posts the lanthorn had been hung, and beyond which could now be seen the light in the hickathrifts' cot. "why, i was a-coming swimming after you, lads," shouted hickathrift. "you scarred me. squire's been down twiced to see if you'd got back, and the missus is in a fine way." "don't talk, hicky," shouted back dick. "is jacob there?" "ay, lad. why?" "you'll want help. look here, send for the doctor." "doctor, lad?" "yes; i know. let jacob go and tell my father, and he'll send down the old cob. thorpeley's hurt badly." they heard a low whistle, then the wheelwright's orders given sharply to his apprentice, followed by the dull _thud, thud_ of his boots as he ran off; and directly after the punt glided in and its bow was seized by the big strong hand upon which the soft glowing light of the horn lanthorn shone. "hey, but what's the matter with the man?" cried hickathrift. "we've been wondering why he didn't come back." "i don't know, only we heard a shot," said dick excitedly; "and then we heard someone calling for help, and found him lying ashore." "let me get a good howd on him," said the wheelwright; and with one foot in the boat he passed his great arm under the constable and lifted him out as tenderly as if he had been a child. but, gentle as was the wheelwright's act, it roused the injured man, who seemed to be driven into a fit of fury by the pain he suffered, and he burst into a torrent of bad language against hickathrift and the two boys, which he kept up till he had been carried into his lodging and laid upon his bed. "hey, lads," said the wheelwright with a low chuckle, as he walked down with the boys to where the lanthorn still hung upon the willow-stump, the care of the constable having been left to the women; "he don't seem to hev lost his tongue." "but he's very bad, isn't he?" said dick anxiously. "i should say no," replied hickathrift. "man who's very badly don't call people." "but his leg?" "ay, that's badly. i give the hankycher a good tighten up, and that hot him, so that he had to howd his tongue." "that made him hold his tongue, hicky?" "ay, lad. i med him feel that if he didn't shoot his neb, i'd pull tighter, and so he quieted down. now, tell us all about it." "give us some bread and butter first, hicky; we're nearly starved." "hey, lads," cried the wheelwright. "here, coom in to missus and--" hickathrift's speech was cut short by the coming of the squire, who hurried up. "here, boys," he cried; "what's all this?" dick told all he knew, and the squire drew a long breath and turned by the light of the lanthorn to gaze first in the lads' faces, and then to speak to the wheelwright. "this is bad, hickathrift," he said hoarsely. as he spoke he gazed searchingly at the great workman. "ay, squire; it is a straange awkard thing." mr winthorpe gazed in his great frank face again; and then, with his lips compressed, he went to the bed-side of the injured man. "bad business," said hickathrift; "but lads mustn't starve because a constable's shot. coom along. here, missus, let's hev bit o'--nay, she's gone to see the neighbours, and hev a bit o' ruckatongue." [a gossip.] that did not much matter, for hickathrift knew the ways of his own house; and in a very short time had placed a loaf and a piece of cold bacon before the hungry boys. this they attacked furiously, for now that they were relieved of the responsibility of the injured man, their hunger had asserted itself. but they had not partaken of many mouthfuls before they heard the squire's voice outside, in hurried conversation with hickathrift. "yes, i sent him off directly on the cob," the squire said; "but it must be some hours before the doctor can get here." "think he's very badly, squire?" came next, in hickathrift's deep bass. "no, not very bad as to his wound, my lad; but this is a terrible business." "ay, mester, it is trubble. straange thing to hev first one man shot and then another. say, squire, hope it wean't be our turn next." "go on eating, tom," whispered dick, setting the example, and cutting a slice for his companion, while tom hacked the bread. "i'm hard at work," said tom thickly. "i shall eat as much as ever i can, and make mother give hicky a piece o' chine." "so will i," said dick; "and a couple o' chickens." the hungry lad had taken a piece of pink-fleshed bacon upon his fork, and was about to transfer it to his mouth, when he stopped short with his lips apart and eyes staring, while tom let fall his knife and thrust his chair back over the stone floor. they had been eating and listening to the conversation outside, till it reached its climax in the following words: "what, man? you don't know what he says." "what he says!" chuckled the wheelwright. "ay, i heerd what he said; a whole heap o' bad words till i checked him, and let him feel he'd best howd his tongue." "but you know what he says about who shot at him?" "nay, but if he says as it were me, i'll go and pitch him into the watter." "you did not hear, then?" cried the squire, huskily. "hickathrift, he says it was done by those boys!" "what!" roared the wheelwright. "it's a lie, father!" shouted dick, recovering himself and running out. "here, ask tom." "why, of course it's a lie," cried tom. "but that man says--" cried the squire. "yah!" shouted hickathrift angrily, "they never shot him; they heven't got no goon." chapter seventeen. under clouds. thorpeley was not badly hurt, so the doctor said when he came; but, as usual, he added, "if it had been an inch or two more to the right an important vessel would have been divided, and he would have bled to death." but if the constable was not badly wounded, though the injury caused by a bullet passing through his leg was an ugly one, the reputations of dick winthorpe and tom tallington had received such ugly wounds that their fathers found it difficult to get them cured. for thorpeley stuck to his first story, that he suspected the two boys to be engaged in some nefarious trick, and he had watched them from the time they borrowed the wheelwright's punt. he went on to describe how he had offended them by keeping his eye upon their movements, and told how they had tried to smother him by leading him into a dangerous morass, while just at dusk, as he was watching their boat, he saw them start towards him, and evidently believing that they were unseen from where they had tied their punt, they had deliberately taken aim at him and shot him. the squire questioned him very sharply, but he adhered to everything. he swore that he saw them thrust the punt away, and go into the misty darkness; and then when they had heard his cries, they came back and landed, evidently repentant and frightened, and then helped him down to the boat. "but," said the squire, "it might have been two other people in a punt who shot at you." "two others!" shouted the man; "it weer they, and i heered 'em laughing and bragging about it as i lay theer in the bottom o' the boat nearly in a swownd, bud i could hear what they said." this charge was so serious that, as a matter of course, there was a magisterial inquiry, which was repeated as soon as the constable was sufficiently well to limp into the justice-room in the little town where he had been removed as soon as the doctor gave permission, the neighbourhood of the toft and hickathrift having grown uncomfortably warm. at that last examination the magistrates shook their heads, and, after hearing a great deal of speaking, decided that thorpeley must have been deceived in the darkness, and the charge was dismissed. in those days the law had two qualities in an out-of-the-way place that have pretty well died out now. these qualities were laxity and severity--the disposition to go to extremes; and in this case some idea of the way in which the work of petty sessions was carried on will be grasped when it is told that after the examination the chairman of the bench of magistrates, an old landholder of the neighbourhood, shook hands with the squire, and then less freely with farmer tallington. "look here, you two," he said; "we've let off these two young scamps; but you had better send them to sea, or at all events away from here." "i don't understand you, sir," said the squire hotly. "i can't help that," was the gruff reply. "you take my advice. send 'em away before there's more mischief done. i sha'n't let 'em off next time." hickathrift, who had watched all the proceedings, heard these words; and as the two lads trudged home beside him, with the squire and farmer tallington in front, he told them all that had been said. dick said nothing, but tom fired up and exclaimed angrily, while the wheelwright kept on talking quietly to the former. "niver yow mind, lad; we don't think you shot at him. it's some o' they lads t'other side o' the fen. they comes acrost and waits their chance, and then goes back, and nobody's none the wiser. niver you mind what owd magistrit said. magistrit indeed! why, i'd mak' a better magistrit out of owd solomon any day o' the week." it was kindly spoken; but if there is a difficult thing to do it is to "never mind" when the heart is sore through some accusation that rankles from its injustice. "yes, tom," said dick, when they were about half-way home; "they'd better send us away." he looked longingly across the fen with its gleaming waters, waving reeds, and many-tinted flowers; and as he gazed in the bright afternoon sunshine it seemed as if it had never looked so beautiful before. to an agricultural-minded man it was a watery waste; but to a boy who had passed his life there, and found it the home of bird, insect, fish, and flower, and an ever-changing scene of pleasure, it was all that could be called attractive and bright. "i'm ready to go," said tom sturdily; "only i don't know which to do." "which to do!" cried dick, with his face growing red, and his eyes flashing. "why, what do you mean?" "whether to go for a soldier or a sailor." "haw! haw!" hickathrift's was a curious laugh. at a distance it might have been taken for a hail; but a fine heron standing heel-deep in the shallow water took it to be a cry to scare him, so spreading his great flap wings, and stooping so as to get a spring, he flew slowly off with outstretched legs, while the squire and farmer tallington looked back to see if they had been called. "what are you laughing at?" said tom angrily. "yow, lad, yow. why, you arn't big enew to carry a goon; and as for sailing, do you think a ship's like a punt, and shoved along wi' a pole!" "never mind," grumbled tom. "i'm not going to stop here and be suspected for nothing." "nay, nay, don't you lads talk nonsense." "it's no nonsense, hicky," said dick bitterly. "i've made up my mind to go." "nay, nay, i tell thee. thou wean't goo, lads." "indeed but we will," cried dick energetically. "what, goo?" "yes." "height awayer?" "yes, right away." "then what's to become of me?" cried the wheelwright excitedly. "become of you! why, what's it got to do with you?" cried tom surlily. "do wi' me! why, iverything. what's the good o' my punt? what's the good o' me laying up a couple o' good ash-poles for you, and putting a bit o' wood up chimney to season, so as to hev it ready for new soles for your pattens [skates] next winter. good, indeed! what call hev you to talk that clat?" "you're a good old chap, hicky," said dick, smiling up at the big fellow; "but you can't understand what i feel over this." "hey, bud i can," cried the wheelwright quickly; "you feel just the same as i did when farmer tallington--tom's father here--said i'd sent him in his bill after he'd sattled it; and as i did when my missus said i'd took half a guinea outer money-box to spend i' town. i know, lads. yes, i know." "well, i suppose it is something like that, hicky," said dick sadly. "ay, joost the same; bud i didn't tell farmer tallington as i should go for a soldier, and i didn't turn on my wife and tell her i should go to sea." dick was silent the rest of the way home, but he shook hands very solemnly with tom, and tom pressed his hand hard as they parted at the farm. then dick went on beside the wheelwright, while the squire walked swiftly ahead, evidently thinking deeply. there was a meaning in that grip of the hand which hickathrift did not understand; but he kept on talking cheerily to the lad till they were close up to the toft, when, just as the squire turned in and stopped for dick to join him, the wheelwright shook hands with the lad. "good day, mester dick!" he said aloud; and then in a whisper: "don't you go away, lad, for if you do they'll be sure to say it was yow as fired the shot." chapter eighteen. preparations for flight. the squire was very quiet over the evening meal, but he looked across at dick very sternly two or three times, and the lad did not meet his eye. for certain plans which he had been concerting with tom wore so strange an aspect in his eyes that he felt quite guilty, and the old frank light in his face seemed to have died out as he bent down over his supper, and listened to his father's answers to his mother about the proceedings of the past day. bed-time at last, and for the first time since he had returned dick was alone with his mother, the squire having gone to take his customary look round the house. "good-night, mother!" said dick in a low sombre manner, very different to his usual way. mrs winthorpe did not answer for a moment or two, but gazed full at her son. "and so the magistrate thought you guilty, dick?" she said. "yes, mother," he flashed out, "and--" "ah!" exclaimed mrs winthorpe, flinging her arms about his neck. "that's my boy who spoke out then. dick, if you had spoken out like that to your father and everyone they would not have suspected you for a moment. there, good-night! it will all come right at last." dick said "good-night" to his father, who gave him a short nod, and then the lad went slowly up to his room, to sit on the edge of the bed and think of the possibility of building a hut out there in the island they had found in the fen, and then of how it would be if he and tom did so, and went there to live; and when he had debated it well, he asked himself what would be the use, and confessed that it would be all nonsense, and that he had been thinking like a child. "no," he said; "i'm no baby now. all this has made a man of me, and tom tallington is right; we must go and begin life somewhere else--where the world will not be so hard." "he will not be here for an hour yet," he thought; so he employed himself very busily in putting together the few things he meant to take on his journey into that little-known place beyond the fen, where there were big towns, and people different to themselves; and as dick packed his bundle he tried to keep back a weak tear or two which would gather as if to drop on the lavender-scented linen, that reminded him of her who had that night called him her boy. but there was a stubborn feeling upon him which made him viciously knot together the handkerchief ends of his bundle, and then go and stand at the window and watch and listen for the coming of tom. for he had made up his mind to go with tom if he came, without him if he failed, for he told himself the world elsewhere would not be so hard. one hour--two hours passed. he heard them strike on the old eight-day clock below. but no tom. could he have repented and made up his mind not to keep faith, or was there some reason? never mind, he would go alone and fight the world, and some day people would be sorry for having suspected him as they did now. he laughed bitterly, and stepped to the open window bundle in hand. he had but to swing himself out and drop to the ground, and trudge away into that romantic land--the unknown. yes, he would go. "good-bye, dear mother; father, good-bye!" he whispered softly; and the next moment one foot was over the window-sill, and he was about to drop, when a miserably absurd sound rose on the midnight air, a sound which made him dart back into his room like some guilty creature, as there rang out the strange cry: "he--haw, he--haw!" as dismal a bray as solomon had ever uttered in his life; and for no reason whatever, as it seemed, dick winthorpe went back and sat upon his bed thinking of the wheelwright's words: that if he went away people would declare he fired the shot. "i can't help it," cried dick at last, after an hour's bitter struggle there in the darkness of the night; and once more he ran to the window, meaning to drop out, when, as if he saw what was about to take place, solomon roused the echoes about the old buildings with another dismal bray. "who can run away with a donkey crying out at him like that!" said dick to himself; and in spite of his misery, he once more seated himself upon the bed-side and laughed. it was more a hysterical than a natural laugh; but it relieved dick winthorpe's feelings, and just then the clock struck two. dick sat on the bed-side and thought. he was not afraid to go--far from it. a reckless spirit of determination had come over him, and he was ready to do anything, dare anything; but all the same the wheelwright's words troubled him, and he could not master the feeling that it would be painful for the constant repetition to come to his mother's knowledge, till even she began to think that there must be some truth in the matter, and he would not be there to defend himself. that was a painful thought, one which made dick winthorpe rise and go and seat himself on the window-sill and gaze out over the fen. from where he was seated his eyes ranged over the portion where the drain was being cut; and as he looked, it seemed to him that all his troubles had dated from the commencement of the venture by his father, and those who had joined in the experiment. then he thought of the evening when mr marston had been brought in wounded, and the other cases which had evidently been the work of those opposed to the draining--the fire at tallington's, the houghing of the horses, the shots fired, the blowing up of the sluice-gate. "and they think i did it all," he said to himself with a bitter laugh; "a boy like me!" then he began considering as to who possibly could be the culprit, and thought and thought till his head ached, and he rose sadly and replaced the articles in his bundle in the drawer. "i can't go," he said softly. "i'll face it out like a man, and they may say what they like." he stood looking at his bed, with its white pillow just showing in the faint light which came through the open window, but it did not tempt him to undress. "i can't sleep," he said; "and perhaps, if i lie down, i may not hear tom coming, if he comes. why is one so miserable? what have i done?" there was no mental answer to his question, and he once more went softly across the room, and sat in the window-sill to gaze out across the fen. how long he had been watching he could not tell, for his brain felt dazed, and he was in a half-dreamy state, when all of a sudden he grew wakeful and alert, for right away out over the mere he saw a faint gleam of light which flashed upon the water and then expired. for a moment he thought that it might have been the reflection of a star, but it flashed out again, and then was gone. the marsh lights always had a strange fascination for him, and this appearance completely changed the current of his thoughts. a few moments before and they were dull and sluggish, now they were all excitement; and he sat there longing for the next appearance when, as of old, he expected to see the faint light go dancing along, as a moth dances over the moist herbage, disappearing from time to time. he strained his eyes, but there was no light, and he was beginning to think that it was fancy, when he heard a faint rustling apparently outside his door; and as he listened, he felt that someone must be going down stairs. then there was complete silence for a few minutes, and he was ready to think that both the light and the sound were fancy, when all doubts were set at rest, for the door below opened and someone passed out. it was still very dark, in spite of a faint sign of dawn in the north-east; but the watcher had no difficulty in making out the figure which passed silently along in the shadow of the house, and close beneath him, to be that of his father. what did it mean? dick asked himself as he sat there holding his breath, while he watched intently, and saw his father steal from place to place in the most secretive manner, taking advantage of bush, wall, and outbuilding, and every now and then pausing as if gazing out across the fen. "i know," thought dick, as a flash of comprehension came across his brain. "he saw that light, and he is watching too." the thought was quite exciting. the reaction as depressing, for directly after he very naturally said to himself: "my father would not get out of bed to watch a will-o'-the-wisp." but suppose it was not a will-o'-the-wisp, but a light! he sat thinking and trying to trace which way his father had gone; and as far as he could make out, he had gone right down to the nearest spot to the water, where, about a hundred yards away, there was fair landing, by one of the many clumps of alder. dick had just come to the conclusion that he ought not to watch his father, who was angry enough with him as it was, and who would be more suspicious still if he again caught him at the window dressed, and he was about to close it, after wondering whether anyone would be on the water with a light--dave, for instance--and if so, what form of fowling or netting it would be, when there was a low hiss--such a sound as is made by a snake--just beneath his window. "dick!" "hallo!" "couldn't come before. ready?" "no," said dick shortly, for the plan to run away seemed now to belong to some project of the past. "i couldn't come before," whispered tom. "i was all ready, but father did not go to bed for ever so long; and when at last i thought it was all right, and was ready to start, i heard him go down and open the back-door." "and go out?" whispered dick. "yes. how did you know?" "i didn't know, but my father has done just the same." "oh!" "did yours come back?" "no," said tom; "and i daren't start for ever so long. but i've come now, so let's start off quick." "which way did your father go?" "i don't know, but we're wasting time." "did he take the boat?" "how should i know? i didn't see him go. i only heard. come, are you ready?" "no," said dick hoarsely, and not prepared to tell his companion that he had repented. "how can we go now with them both somewhere about? they would be sure to catch us and bring us back." it was a subterfuge, and dick's face turned scarlet, as he knew by the burning sensation. the next instant he had felt so ashamed of his paltry excuse that he blurted out: "i sha'n't go. i'm sorry i said i would. it's cowardly, but i don't mean to go--there!" the hot tears of vexation and misery stood in his eyes as he made this confession, and rose up prepared to resent his companion's reproaches with angry words; but he was disarmed, for tom whispered hastily: "oh, dick, i am so glad! i wouldn't show the white feather and play sneak, but i didn't want to go. it seemed too bad to mother and father. but you mean it?" "yes, i mean it!" said dick, with a load off his breast. "i felt that it would be like running away because we were afraid to face a charge." "hooray!" cried tom in a whisper. "i say, dick, don't think me a coward, but i am so glad! i say, shall i go back now?" "no; stop a bit," whispered dick, with his heart beating, and a strange suspicion making its way into his breast. for in an incoherent vague manner he found himself thinking of farmer tallington stealing out of his house in the middle of the night. he had a boat, as most of the fen farmers had, for gunning, fishing, and cutting reeds. what was he doing on the water at night? for it must have been he with a light. then a terrible suspicion flashed across him, and the vague ideas began to shape themselves and grow solid. suppose it was farmer tallington who had been guilty of-- dick made a strong effort at this point to master his wandering imagination, and forced himself to think only of what he really knew to be the fact, namely, that farmer tallington was out somewhere, and that the squire was out too. "my father must have come to meet yours, dick," whispered tom at that point. "i know they suspect there's something wrong, and they have gone down to watch the drain, or to meet mr marston." "yes," said dick, in a tone which did not carry conviction with it. "that must be it." "what shall we do? go back to bed?" "ye-es, we had better," said dick thoughtfully. "i say, tom, we have done quite right. we couldn't have gone away." "hist! did you hear that?" for answer dick strained out of the window. he had heard that--a sudden splashing in the water, a shout--and the next moment there was a flash which cut the darkness apparently a couple of hundred yards away, and then came a dull report, and silence. the boys remained listening for some moments, but they could not hear a sound. the signs of the coming morning were growing plainer; there was a faint twittering in some bushes at a distance, followed by the sharp metallic _chink chink_ of a blackbird; and then all at once, loud and clear from the farm-yard, rang out the morning challenge of a cock. then once more all was still. there was no footstep, no splash of pole in the water. for a few minutes neither spoke, but listened intently with every nerve upon the strain; and then with a catching of the breath as he realised what had gone before, and that he had seen his father steal carefully down in the direction of the mere, dick sprang from the window and gripped his companion by the arm. "tom," he gasped, "quick! come on! some one else has been--" he would have said _shot_, but his voice failed, and with a cold chill of horror stealing over him he remained for a few moments as if paralysed. then, with tom tallington close behind, he ran swiftly down towards the mere. chapter nineteen. the new horror. they did not know exactly where to go, for the guidance afforded by a sound is very deceptive, but there had been the splash of water, so that the shot must have been from somewhere at the foot of the toft, down where the meadow land gave place to rough marsh, bog, and reedy water. dick listened as he ran; but there was no splash now--no sound of footstep. as the lads advanced the dawning light increased, and a startled bird flew out from the bushes, another from a tuft of dry grass; and once more there was the _chink_--_chink_ of a blackbird. the day was awakening, and dick winthorpe asked himself what the dawn was to show. it was still dark enough to necessitate care, and over the mere as they neared it a low mist hung, completely screening its waters as they vainly attempted to pierce the gloom. plash, plash through the boggy parts of the mere fringe, for dick had not paused to follow any track, stumbling among tufts of grass and marsh growth, they hurried on with eager eyes, longing to shout, but afraid, for there was a growing horror upon both the lads of having to be shortly in presence of some terrible scene. they neither of them spoke, but mutually clung together for support, though all the time there was a strange repugnance in dick's breast as he now began to realise the strength of the suspicion he entertained. but if they dared not shout, there was some one near at hand ready to utter a lusty cry, which startled them as it rang out of the gloom from away down by the labourers' cottages and the wheelwright's. "ahoy! hillo!" rang out. "hillo, hicky!" yelled tom. "here!" "where away, lads?" came back; and then there was the dull low beat of feet, and they heard the wheelwright shout to his apprentice to follow him. the two little parties joined directly, to stand in the mist all panting and excited, the wheelwright half-dressed, and his bare head rough from contact with the pillow. "hey, lads," he cried, "was that you two shouting?" dick tried to speak, but he could not frame a word. "no; we heard it from somewhere down here," panted tom. "i heered it too," cried jacob, "and wackened the mester." "ay, that's a true word," cried hickathrift. "what does it mean?" "hicky," panted dick in piteous tones, "i don't know--i'm afraid i--my father's out here somewhere." "hey! the squire?" cried hickathrift with a curious stare at first one and then the other. "yow don't think--" he paused, and dick replied in a whisper: "yes, hicky, i do." "here, let's search about; it's getting light fast. now, then," cried the wheelwright, "yow go that way, jacob; i'll go this; and you two lads--" "no, no," said dick. "it must be somewhere close by here, near the water. let's keep together, please." "aw reight!" muttered the wheelwright; and following dick they went as close to the water's edge as they could go, and crept along, with the bushes and trees growing more plain to view, and the sky showing one dull orange fleck as the advance guard of the coming glory of the morn. they went along for a couple of hundred yards in one direction, but there was nothing to be seen; then a couple of hundred yards in the other direction, but there was nothing visible there. and as the light grew stronger they sought about them, seeing clearly now that the ghastly figure dick dreaded to find was nowhere as far as they could make out inshore. "hillo!" shouted hickathrift again and again; "squire!" there was no reply, and the chill of horror increased as the feeling that they were searching in vain out and in pressed itself upon all, and they knew that the man they sought must be in the water. "here, howd hard," cried hickathrift. "what a moodle head i am! you, jacob, run back and let loose owd grip." the apprentice ran back as hard as he could, and the group remained in silence till they saw him disappear behind the shed. then there was a loud burst of barking. hickathrift whistled, and the great long-legged lurcher came bounding over the rough boggy land, to leap at his master and then stand panting, open-mouthed, eager, and ready to dart anywhere his owner bade. "here, grip, lad, find him, then--find him, boy!" the dog uttered one low, growling bark, and then bounded off, hurrying here and there in the wildest way, while the boys watched intently. "will he find him, hicky?" said dick huskily. "ay, or anyone else," said the wheelwright, who alternately watched the dog, and swept the surface of the mere wherever the mist allowed. "there! look at that!" he cried, as, after a minute, the dog settled down to a steady hunt, with his nose close to the ground, and rapidly followed the track lately taken by someone who had passed. "but perhaps he is following our steps!" said dick excitedly. "nay, not he. theer, what did i tell you?" cried hickathrift as the dog suddenly stopped by the water, opposite to a thick bed of reeds a dozen yards or so from the bank. dick turned pale; the wheelwright ran down to the edge of the mere; and as the dog stood by the water barking loudly, hickathrift waded in without hesitation, the boys following, with grip swimming and snorting at their side, and taking up the chase again as soon as he reached the reeds. it was only a matter of minutes now before the dog had rushed on before them, disappeared in the long growth, and then they heard him barking furiously. "let me go first, mester dick," said hickathrift hoarsely. "nay, don't, lad." there was a kindly tone of sympathy in the great fellow's voice, but dick did not give way. he splashed on through the reeds, his position having placed him in advance of his companions, and parting the tall growth he uttered a cry of pain. the others joined him directly, and stood for a moment gazing down at where, standing on the very edge of the mere, dick was holding up his father's head from where he lay insensible among the reeds, his face white and drawn, his eyes nearly closed, and his hands clenched and stretched out before him. hickathrift said not a word, but, as in similar cases before, he raised the inanimate form, hung it over his shoulder, and waded back to firm ground. "hey, mester dick," he said huskily, as he hurried towards his cottage, "i nivver thowt to hev seen a sight like this." "no, no," cried dick; "not there." "yes, i'll tak' him home to my place," whispered hickathrift. "you'd scare your mother to dead. here, jacob, lad, don't stop to knock or ask questions, but go and tak' squire's cob, and ride him hard to town for doctor." "tell my father as you go by, jacob," cried tom excitedly; and as the apprentice dashed off, tom's eyes met those of dick. "don't look so wild and strange, dick, old chap," whispered the lad kindly; and he laid a hand upon dick's shoulder, but the boy shrank from him with a shudder which the other could not comprehend. hickathrift shouted to his wife, who had risen and dressed in his absence, and in a short time the squire was lying upon a mattress with hickathrift eagerly searching for the injury which had laid him low; but when he found it, the wound seemed so small and trifling that he looked wondering up at dick. "that couldn't have done it," he said in a whisper. the wheelwright was wrong. that tiny blue wound in the strong man's chest had been sufficient to lay him there helpless, and so near death that a feeling of awe fell upon those who watched and waited, and tried to revive the victim of this last outrage. it was a terrible feeling of helplessness that which pervaded the place. there was nothing to do save bathe the wounded man's brow and moisten his lips with a little of the smuggled spirit with which most of the coast cottages were provided in those distant days. there was no blood to staunch, nothing to excite, nothing to do but wait, wait for the doctor's coming. before very long farmer tallington arrived, and as he encountered dick's eyes fixed upon him he turned very pale, and directly after, when he bent over the squire's couch and took his hand, the lad saw that he trembled violently. "it's straange and horrible--it's straange and horrible," he said: "only yesterday he was like i am: as strong and well as a man can be; while now--hickathrift, my lad, do you think he'll die?" the wheelwright shook his head--he could not trust himself to speak; and dick stood with a sensation of rage gathering in his breast, which made him feel ready to spring at farmer tallington's throat, and accuse him of being his father's murderer. "the hypocrite--the cowardly hypocrite!" he said to himself; "but we know now, and he shall be punished." the boy's anger was fast growing so ungovernable that he was about to fly out and denounce his school-fellow's father, but just then a hasty step was heard outside, and a familiar voice exclaimed: "where is my husband?" the next minute mrs winthorpe was in the room, wild-eyed and pale, but perfectly collected in her manner and acts. "how long will it be before the doctor can get here?" she said hoarsely, as she passed her arm under the injured man's neck, and pressed her lips to his white brow. "hickathrift's lad went off at a hard gallop," said farmer tallington in a voice full of sympathy. "please god, mrs winthorpe, we'll save him yet." dick uttered a hoarse cry and staggered out of the room, for the man's hypocrisy maddened him, and he knew that if he stayed he should speak out and say all he knew. as he reached the little garden there was a step behind him, a hand was laid upon his shoulder, another grasped his arm. "i can't talk and say things, dicky," said tom in a low half-choking voice; "but i want to comfort you. don't break down, old fellow. the doctor will save his life." this from the son of the man whom he believed to have shot his father! and the rage dick felt against the one seemed to be ready to fall upon the other. but as his eyes met those of his old school-fellow and companion full of sorrowful sympathy, dick could only grasp tom's hands, feeling that he was a true friend, and in no wise answerable for his father's sins. "ay, that's right," said a low, rough voice. "nowt like sticking together and helping each other in trouble. bud don't you fret, mester dick. squire's a fine stark man, and the missus has happed him up waarm, and you see the doctor will set him right." "thank you, hicky," said dick, calming down; and then he stood thinking and asking himself how he could denounce the father of his old friend and companion as the man who, for some hidden reason of his own, was the plotter and executor of all these outrages. at one moment he felt that he could not do this. at another there was the blank suffering face of his father before his eyes, seeming to ask him to revenge his injuries and to bring a scoundrel to justice. for a time dick was quite determined; but directly after there came before him the face of poor, kind-hearted mrs tallington, who had always treated him with the greatest hospitality, while, as he seemed to look at her eyes pleading upon her husband's behalf, tom took his hand and wrung it. "i'm going to stick by you, dick," he said; "and you and i are going to find out who did this, and when we do we'll show him what it is to shoot at people, and burn people's homesteads, and hough their beasts." dick gazed at him wildly. tom going to help him run his own father down and condemn him by giving evidence when it was all found out! impossible! those words of his old companion completely disarmed him for the moment, and to finish his discomfiture, just then farmer tallington came out of the cottage looking whiter and more haggard than before. he came to where the wheelwright was standing, and spoke huskily. "i can't bear it," he said. "it is too horrible. might hev been me, and what would my poor lass do? hickathrift, mun, the villain who does all this must be found out." "ay, farmer, but how?" "i don't know how," said the farmer, gazing from one to the other. "i on'y know it must be done. if i'd gone on this morning i might have found out something, but i went back." dick gazed at him searchingly, but the farmer did not meet his eyes. "i've been straange and fidgety ever since my fire," continued the farmer; "and it's med me get out o' bed o' nights and look round for fear of another. i was out o' bed towards morning last night, and as i looked i could see yonder on the mere what seemed to be a lanthorn." "you saw that?" said dick involuntarily. "ay, lad, i saw that," said the farmer, rubbing his hands together softly; "and first of all i thowt it was a will-o'-the-wisp, but it didn't go about like one o' they, and as it went out directly and came again, i thought it was some one wi' a light." "what, out on the watter?" said hickathrift. "yes, my lad; out on the watter," said the farmer; "and that med me say to mysen: what's any one doing wi' a light out on the watter at this time? and i could on'y think as they wanted it to set fire to some one's plaace, and i couldn't stop abed and think that. so i got up, and went down to the shore, got into my owd punt, and loosed her, and went out torst wheer i'd seen the light." "and did you see it, mester?" said hickathrift. "nay, my lad. i went on and on as quietly as i could go, and round the reed-bed, but all was as quiet as could be." "didn't you see the poont?" said the wheelwright. "what punt?" said tom sharply. hickathrift looked confused. "poont o' him as hed the light, i meant," he said hurriedly. "nay, not a sign of it," said farmer tallington; "and at last i turned back and poled gently home, keeping a sharp look-out and listening all the way, but i niver see nowt nor heered nowt. but if i'd kept out on the waiter i should p'raps have seen and saved my poor owd neighbour." "you might, mebbe," said the wheelwright thoughtfully; while, after gazing in the faces of the two men and trying to read the truth, dick turned away with his suspicions somewhat blunted, to go to his mother's side, and watch with her till the sound of hoofs on the rough track told that the messenger had returned. chapter twenty. the doctor's dictum. dick leaped up and came to the window as soon as he heard the beating of the horse's hoofs; and to his great joy, as the mounted man turned the corner he saw that it was the doctor, whom he ran down to meet. "hah, my lad! here is a bad business!" exclaimed the doctor as he dismounted. "well, come, they cannot say this was your doing. you wouldn't shoot your own father, eh?" "oh, pray, come up, sir, and don't talk," cried dick excitedly. "poor father is dying!" "oh, no," said the doctor; "we must not let him die." "but be quick, sir! you are so long!" cried dick. "don't be impatient, my lad," said the doctor smiling. "we folks have to be calm and quiet in all we do. now show me the way." dick led him to the room, the doctor beckoning hickathrift to follow; and as soon as he reached the injured man's side he quietly sent mrs winthorpe and dick to wait in the next room, retaining the great wheelwright to help him move his patient. the time seemed interminable, and as mother and son sat waiting, every word spoken in the next room sounded like a moan from the injured man. mrs winthorpe's face appeared to be that of a woman ten years older, and her agony was supreme; but like a true wife and tender mother--ah, how little we think of what a mother's patience and self-denial are when we are young!--she devoted her whole energies to administering comfort to her sorely-tried son. a dozen times over dick felt that he could not keep the secret that troubled him--that he must tell his mother his suspicions and ask her advice; but so sure as he made up his mind to speak, the fear that he might be wrong troubled him, and he forebore. then began the whole struggle again, and at last he was nearer than ever to confiding his horrible belief in their neighbour's treachery, when the doctor suddenly appeared. dick rose from where he had been kneeling by his mother's side, and she started from her seat to grasp the doctor's hand. she did not speak, but her eyes asked the one great question of her heart, and then, as the doctor's hard sour face softened and he smiled, mrs winthorpe uttered a piteous sigh and clasped her hands together in thankfulness to heaven. "then he is not very bad, doctor?" cried dick joyfully. "yes, my boy, he is very bad indeed, and dangerously wounded," replied the doctor; "but, please god, i think i can pull him through." "tell me--tell me!" faltered mrs winthorpe piteously. "it is a painful thing to tell a lady," said the doctor kindly; "but i will explain. mrs winthorpe, he has a terrible wound. the bullet has passed obliquely through his chest; it was just within the skin at the back, and i have successfully extracted it. as far as i can tell there is no important organ injured, but at present i am not quite sure. still i think i may say he is in no immediate danger." mrs winthorpe could not trust herself to speak, but she looked her thanks and glided toward the other room. "do not speak to him and do not let him speak," whispered the doctor. "everything depends upon keeping him perfectly still, so that nature may not be interrupted in doing her portion of the work." mrs winthorpe bowed her head in acquiescence, and with a promise that he would return later in the day the doctor departed. dick found, a short time after, that the news had been carried to the works at the drain, where mr marston was busy; and no sooner did that gentleman hear of the state of affairs than he hurried over to offer his sympathy to mrs winthorpe and dick. "i little thought that your father was to be a victim," he said to the latter as soon as they were alone. "i have been trying my hand to fix the guilt upon somebody, but so far i have failed. come, dick, you and i have not been very good friends lately, and i must confess that i have been disposed to think you knew something about these outrages." "yes, i knew you suspected me, mr marston." "not suspected you, but that you knew something about them; but i beg your pardon: i am sorry i ever thought such things; and i am sure you will forgive me, for indeed i do not think you know anything of the kind now." dick quite started as he gazed in mr marston's face, so strangely that the engineer wondered, and then felt chilled once more and stood without speaking. mr marston took a step up and down for a few moments and then turned to dick again. "look here, my lad," he said. "i don't like for there to be anything between us. i want to be friends with you, for i like you, richard winthorpe; but you keep on making yourself appear so guilty that you repel me. speak to me, dick, and say out downright, like a man, that you know nothing about this last affair." dick looked at him wildly, but remained silent. "come!" said mr marston sternly, and he fixed the lad with his eye; "there has been a dastardly outrage committed and your father nearly murdered. tell me plainly whether you know whose hand fired the shot." no answer. "dick, my good lad, i tell you once more that i do not suspect you--only that you know who was the guilty party." still no answer. "it is your duty to speak, boy," cried mr marston angrily. "you are not afraid to speak out?" "i--i don't know," said dick. "then you confess that you do know who fired at your father?" "i did not confess," said dick slowly. "i cannot say. i only think i know." "then who was it?" no answer. "dick, i command you to speak," cried mr marston, catching his arm and holding him tightly. "i don't know," said dick. "you do know, cried mr marston angrily, and i will have an answer. no man's life is safe, and these proceedings must be stopped." for answer dick wrested himself free. "i don't know for certain," he said determinedly, "and i'm not going to say who it is i suspect, when i may be wrong." "but if the person suspected is innocent, he can very well prove it. ah, here is tom tallington! come, tom, my lad, you can help me here with your old companion." "no," cried dick angrily, "don't ask him." "i shall ask him," said mr marston firmly. "look here, tom; our friend dick here either knows or suspects who it was that fired that shot; and if he knows that, he can tell who fired the other shots, and perhaps did all the other mischief." "do you know, dick?" cried tom excitedly. "i don't know for certain, i only suspect," said dick sadly. "and i want him to speak out, my lad, while he persists in trying to hide it." "he won't," said tom. "he thinks it is being a bit of a coward to tell tales; but he knows it is right to tell, don't you, dick?" "no," said the latter sternly. "you do, now," said tom. "come, i say, let's know who it was. here, shall i call father?" "no, no," cried dick excitedly, "and i won't say a word. i cannot. it is impossible." "you are a strange lad, dick winthorpe," said the engineer, looking at them curiously. "oh, but he will speak, mr marston! i can get him to," cried tom. "come, dick, say who it was." dick stared at him wildly, for there was something so horrible to him in this boy trying now to make him state what would result in his father's imprisonment and death, that tom seemed for the moment in his eyes quite an unnatural young monster at whose presence he was ready to shudder. "how can you be so obstinate!" cried tom. "you shall tell. who was it?" dick turned from him in horror, and would have hurried away, but mr marston caught his arm. "stop a moment, dick winthorpe," he said. "i must have a few words with you before we part. it is plain enough that all these outrages are directed against the persons who are connected with the drainage scheme, and that their lives are in danger. now i am one of these persons, and to gratify the petty revenge of a set of ignorant prejudiced people who cannot see the good of the work upon which we are engaged, i decline to have myself made a target. i ask you, then, who this was. will you speak?" dick shook his head. "well, then, i am afraid you will be forced to speak. i consider it to be my duty to have these outrages investigated, and to do this i shall write up to town. the man or men who will be sent down will be of a different class to the unfortunate constable who was watching here. now, come, why not speak?" "mr marston!" cried dick hoarsely. "yes! ah, that is better! now, come, dick; we began by being friends. let us be greater friends than ever, as we shall be, i am sure." "no, no," cried dick passionately. "i want to be good friends, but i cannot speak to you. i don't know anything for certain, i only suspect." "then whom do you suspect?" "yes; who is it?" cried tom angrily. "hold your tongue!" said dick so fiercely that tom shrank away. "i say you shall speak out," retorted the lad, recovering himself. "for your father's sake speak out, my lad," said mr marston. dick shook his head and turned away, to go back into the wheelwright's cottage, where, suffering from a pain and anguish of mind to which he had before been a stranger, he sought refuge at his mother's side, and shared her toil of watching his father as he lay there between life and death. chapter twenty one. trouble grows. the next fortnight was passed in a state of misery, which made dick winthorpe feel as if he had ceased to be a boy, and had suddenly become a grown-up man. he wanted to do what was right. he wished for the man who had shot his father in this cowardly way to be brought to justice; but he was not sure that farmer tallington was the guilty man, and he shrank from denouncing the parent of his companion from childhood, and his father's old friend. mr marston came over again and tried him sorely. but the more dick winthorpe thought, the more he grew determined that he would not speak unless he felt quite sure. it was one day at the end of the fortnight that mr marston tried him again, and dick told him that his father would soon be able to speak for himself, and till then he would not say a word. mr marston left him angrily, feeling bitterly annoyed with the lad, but, in spite of himself, admiring his firmness. dick stood in the road gazing after him sadly, and was about to retrace his steps to the old house, to which his father had been carefully borne, when, happening to glance in the direction of the track leading to the town, he caught sight of tom coming along slowly. dick turned sullenly away, but tom ran before him. "stop a minute," he cried; "let you and me have a talk. i don't want to be bad friends, dick." "neither do i," said the latter sadly. "but you keep trying to be." "no, i do not. you try to make me angry with you every time we meet." "that's not true. i want to have you do your duty and tell all you know. father says you ought, as you know who it was." "have you told your father, then?" "yes, i told him to-day, and he said you ought to do your duty and speak." "your father said that?" "yes: and why don't you--like a man." dick's brow grew all corrugated as if black care were sitting upon the roof of his head and squeezing the skin down into wrinkles. "come, speak out, and don't be such a miserable coward. father says you don't speak because you are afraid that whoever did it may shoot you." dick's brow grew more puckered than ever. "now, then, let you and me go over and see mr marston and tell him everything at once." dick looked at the speaker with a feeling of anger against him for his obstinate perseverance that was almost vicious. "now, are you coming?" "no, i am not." "then i've done with you," cried tom angrily. "father says that a lad who knows who attacked his parent in that way, and will not speak out, is a coward and a cur, and that's what you are, dick winthorpe." "tom tallington," cried dick, with his eyes flashing, "you are a fool." "say that again," said tom menacingly. "you are a fool and an idiot, and not worth speaking to again." _whack_! that is the nearest way of spelling the back-handed blow which tom tallington delivered in his old school-fellow's face, while the straightforward blow which was the result of dick winthorpe's fist darting out to the full stretch of his arm sounded like an echo; and the next moment tom was lying upon the ground. there was no cowardice in tom tallington's nature. springing up he made at dick, and the former friends were directly after engaged in delivering furious blows, whose result must have been rather serious for both; but before they had had time to do much mischief, each of the lads was gripped on the shoulder by a giant hand, and they were forced apart, and held beyond striking distance quivering with rage, and each seeing nothing but the adversary at whom he longed to get. "hey, lads, and i thowt you two was such friends!" cried the herald of peace, who had sung truce in so forcible and convincing a way. "let go, hicky! he struck me." "yes; let me get at him," cried tom. "he knocked me down." "and i'll do it again a dozen times," panted dick. "let go, hicky, i tell you!" "nay, nay, nay, lads, i wean't let go, and you sha'n't neither of you fight any more. i'm ashamed of you, mester dick, with your poor father lying theer 'most dead, and the missus a-nigh wherritted to death wi' trouble." "but he struck me," panted dick. "and i'll do it again," cried tom. "if you do, young tom tallington, i'll just pick you up by the scruff and the breeches and pitch you into the mere, to get out as you may; so now then." tom uttered a low growl which was more like that of a dog than a human being; and after an ineffectual attempt to get at dick, he dragged himself away to kneel down at the first clear pool to bathe his bleeding nose. "theer, now, i'll let you go," said hickathrift, "and i'm straange and glad i was i' time to stop you. think o' you two mates falling out and fighting like a couple o' dogs! why, i should as soon hev expected to see me and my missus fight. mester dick, i'm 'bout 'shamed o' yow." "i'm ashamed of myself, hicky, and i feel as if i was never going to be happy again," cried dick. "nay, nay, lad, don't talk like that," said the big wheelwright. "why, doctor says he's sewer that he can bring squire reight again, and what more do you want?" "to see the man punished who shot him, hicky," cried dick passionately. "ay, i'd like to see that, or hev the punishing of him," said hickathrift, stretching out a great fist. "it's one o' they big shacks [idle scoundrels, from irish _shaughraun_] yonder up at the dree-ern. i'm going to find him out yet, and when i do--theer, go and wesh thy faace." dick was going sadly away when a word from hickathrift arrested him; and turning, it was to see that the big fellow was looking at him reproachfully, and holding out a hand for him to grasp. "ay, that's better, lad," said the wheelwright smiling. "good-bye, lad, and don't feight again!" the result of this encounter was that dick found himself without a companion, and he went day by day bitterly about thinking how hard it was that he should be suspected and ill-treated for trying to spare tom the agony of having his father denounced and dragged off to jail. constables came and made investigations in the loose way of the time; but they discovered nothing, and after a while they departed to do duty elsewhere; but only to come back at the end of a week to re-investigate the state of affairs, for a large low building occupied by about twenty of the drainers was, one windy night, set on fire, and its drowsy occupants had a narrow escape from death. but there was no discovery made, the constables setting it down to accident, saying that the men must have been smoking; and once more the fen was left to its own resources. mr winthorpe grew rapidly better after the first fortnight, and dick watched his convalescence with no little anxiety, for he expected to hear him accuse farmer tallington of being his attempted murderer. but dick had no cause for fear. the squire told mr marston that he had seen a light on the mere, and dreading that it might mean an attempt to burn down some barn, he had gone out to watch, and he had just made out the shape of a punt on the water when he saw a flash, felt the shock, and fell helpless and insensible among the reeds. this was as near an account as he could give of the affair, for the injury seemed to have confused him, and he knew little of what had taken place before, nothing of what had since occurred. "but your life has been spared, mr winthorpe," said marston; "and some day i hope we shall know that your assailant and mine has received his due." "ay," said the squire; "we must find him out, for fear he should spoil our plans, for we are not beaten yet." "beaten! no, squire," said the engineer; "we are getting on faster than ever, and the success of the project is assured." chapter twenty two. after a space. the time rolled on. the drain-making progressed, and for a while there was no further trouble. mr winthorpe improved in health, but always seemed to avoid any allusion to the outrage; and after the constables had been a few times and found out nothing, and the magistrates of the neighbourhood had held consultation, the trouble once more dropped. dick winthorpe always lived in apprehension of being examined, and pressed to tell all he knew, but his father never said a word, to his great relief, and the matter died out. "i can't take any steps about it," dick said to himself, "if my father doesn't;" and there were times when he longed to speak, others when he wished that he could forget everything about the past. "yow two med it up yet?" hickathrift used to ask every time he saw dick; but the answer was always the same--"no." "ah, well, you will some day, my lad. it arn't good for boys to make quarrels last." there was no more warm friendship with mr marston, who, whenever he came over to the toft, was studiously polite to dick, treating him as if he were not one whose friendship was worth cultivating, to the lad's great disgust, though he was too proud to show it; and the result was that dick's life at the toft grew very lonely, and he was driven to seek the companionship of john warren and his rabbits, and of dave with his boat, gun, and fishing-tackle. then all at once there was a change. the outrages, which had ceased for a time, broke out again furiously; and all through the winter there were fires here and there, the very fact of a person, whether farmer or labourer, seeming to favour the making of the drain, being enough to make him receive an unwelcome visit from the party or parties who opposed the scheme. so bad did matters grow that at last people armed and prepared themselves for the struggle which was daily growing more desperate; and at the same time a feeling of suspicion increased so strongly that throughout the fen every man looked upon his neighbour as an enemy. but still the drain grew steadily in spite of the fact that mr marston had been shot at twice again, and never went anywhere now without a brace of pistols in his pocket. one bright wintry morning john warren came in with a long tale of woe, and his arm in a sling. it was the old story. he had been out with his gun to try and get a wild-goose which he had marked down, when, just in the dusk, about half-past four, he was suddenly startled by a shot, and received the contents of a gun in his arm. "but you'd got a gun," said hickathrift, who was listening with dick, while tom tallington, who had business at the wheelwright's that morning, stood hearing all. "why didst na let him hev it again?" "what's the use o' shuting at a sperrit?" grumbled john warren. "'sides, i couldn't see him." "tchah! it warn't a sperrit," said hickathrift contemptuously. "well, i don't know so much about that," grumbled john warren. "if it weern't a sperrit what was to mak my little dog, snig, creep down in the bottom of the boat and howl? yow mark my words: it's sperrits, that's what it is; and it's because o' that theer dreern; but they needn't shute at me, for i don't want dreern made." "going over to town to see the doctor, john?" said dick. "nay, lad, not i. it's only a hole in my arm. there arn't nowt the matter wi' me. i've tied it oop wi' some wet 'bacco, and it'll all grow oop again, same as a cooten finger do." "but someone ought to see it." "well, someun has sin it. i showed it to owd dave, and he said it weer all right. tchah! what's the good o' doctors? did they cure my ager?" "well, go up and ask mother to give you some clean linen rag for it." "ay," said the rabbit-trapper with a grim smile, "i'll do that." so john warren went to the toft, obtained the clean linen rag, but refused to have his wound dressed, and went off again; while the squire knit his brow when he returned soon after, and, taking dick with him, poled across in the punt to see dave and make him promise to keep a sharp look-out. a week passed away, and the frost had come in so keenly that the ice promised to bear, and consequent upon this dick was at the wheelwright's one evening superintending the finishing up of his pattens, as they called their skates. hickathrift had ground the blades until they were perfectly sharp at the edges, and had made a new pair of ashen soles for them, into which he had just finished fitting the steel. "there, mester dick," said the bluff fellow with a grin; "that's a pair o' pattens as you ought 'most to fly in. going out in the morning?" "yes, hicky, i shall go directly after breakfast." "ay, she'll bear splendid to-morrow, and the ice is as hard and black as it can be. hello, who's this? haw-haw! i thowt you'd want yours done," he added, as he heard steps coming over the frozen ground, and the jingle of skates knocking together. "it's young tom tallington, mester dick. come, you two ought to mak friends now, and go and hev a good skate to-morrow." "i'm never going to be friends with tom tallington again," said dick sternly; but he sighed as he said it. just then tom rushed into the workshop. "here," he cried, "dick winthorpe, come along. i've been to the house." "what do you want?" said dick coldly. "what do i want! why, they don't know!" cried tom. "look here!" he caught dick by the collar, dragged him to the door, and pointed. "fire!" he cried. "hey!" cried the wheelwright. "fire! so it is. but there's no house or stack out theer." "only old dave's. father said he thought it must be his place. come on, dick." "but how are we to get there?" cried dick, forgetting the feud in the excitement. "how are we to get there! why, skate." "will it be strong enough, hicky?" "mebbe for you, lads; but it wouldn't bear me, and i couldn't get along the boat nor yet a sled." tom had already seated himself, and was putting on his skates, while dick immediately began to follow suit, with the result that in five minutes both were ready and all past troubles forgotten. the memory of the terrible night when his father was shot did come for a moment to dick, but the trouble had grown dull, and the excitement of dave's place being on fire carried everything before it. "poor owd dave!" said hickathrift, as he gazed over the mere at the glow in the black frosty night. "he's got off so far. mebbe it'll be my turn next. come back and tell me, lads." "yes, yes," they shouted, as they walked clumsily to the ice edge, dick first, and as he glided on there was an ominous ringing crack which seemed to run right out with a continuous splitting noise. "will it bear, hicky?" "ay, she'll bear you, lad, only keep well out, and away from the reeds." tom dashed on, and as the wheelwright stood with the group of labourers, who were just beginning to comprehend the new alarm, the two lads went off stroke for stroke over the ringing ice, which cracked now and again but did not yield, save to undulate beneath them, as they kept gathering speed and glided away. far ahead there was the ruddy glow, showing like a golden patch upon the dark sky, which overhead was almost black, and glittering with the brilliant stars. the ice gleamed, little puffs of white powder rose at every stroke of the skates, and on and on they went, gathering speed till they were gliding over the ringing metallic surface like arrows from a bow, while as soon as the first timidity had passed away they began to feel their feet, and in a few minutes were skating nearly as well as when the ice broke up last. the feud was forgotten, and it had lasted long enough. with a buoyant feeling of excitement, and a sensation of joy increased by the brisk beat of the freezing wind upon their cheeks, the two lads joined hands in a firm grip, kept time together, and sped on as lincoln and cambridge boys alone can speed over the ice. not that they are more clever with their legs than the boys of other counties; but from the fact that skating has always been a favourite pastime with them, and that when others were longing for a bit of bearing ice, and getting it sometimes in a crowded place, the marsh and fen lads had miles of clear bright surface, over which they could career as a swallow flies. away and away over the open ice, unmarked before by skate-iron and looking black as hardened unpolished steel, stroke for stroke, stroke for stroke, the wind whistling by them, and the ominous cracking forgotten as they dashed on past reed-bed and bog-clump, keeping to the open water where they had so often been by punt. "his reed-stack must be on fire," panted dick as they dashed on. "ay, and his peat-stack and cottage too," shouted tom so as to be heard above the ringing of their skates. "oh, dick, if i only knew who it was did these things i think i could kill him!" dick was silent for a minute, for his companion's words jarred upon him. "how much farther is it?" he said at last. "good mile and a half," said tom; "but it's fine going. i say, look at the golden smoke. it must be at dave's, eh?" "yes, it's there, sure enough. oh, tom, suppose some one were to burn down the duck 'coy!" "it wouldn't burn so as to do much harm. look, there goes a flock of plovers." they could just catch the gleam of the wings in the dark night, as the great flock, evidently startled by the strange glare, swept by. "i say!" cried dick, as they dashed on as rapidly as the birds themselves. "what is it?" "suppose poor dave--" "oh, don't think things like that!" cried tom with a shudder. "he'd be clever enough to get out. come along. look at the sparks." what tom called sparks were glowing flakes of fire which floated on, glittering against the black sky, and so furiously was the fire burning that it seemed as if something far more than the hut and stacks of the decoy-man must be ablaze. and now they had to curve off some distance to the right, for they came upon an embayment of the mere, so well sheltered from the icy blast that to have persevered in skating over the very thin ice must have meant serious accident to one, probably to both. for a long time past the ice had been blushing, as it were, with the warm glow from the sky; but now, as they drew nearer and passed a little copse of willows, they glided full into the view of the burning hut and stacks, and found that a bed of dry reeds was burning too. at this point of their journey the cold black ice was lit up, and as they advanced it seemed as if they were about to skim over red-hot glowing steel. "now, then," cried dick excitedly, "a rush--as fast as we can go!" but they could get on at no greater speed, and rather slackened than increased as they drew near to the fire; while a feeling of thankfulness came over both as all at once they were aware of the fact that a tall thin figure was standing apparently with its back to them staring at the glowing fire, against which it stood out like a black silhouette. "dave, ho!" shouted dick. the figure turned slowly, and one hand was raised as if to shade the eyes. "dave, ho!" shouted tom. "ay, ay!" shouted back the man; and the next minute the boys glided up to the firm earth and leaped ashore, as their old fishing and trapping friend came slowly to meet them. "how was it, dave?" cried dick. "was it an accident?" cried tom. "accident! just such an accident as folks hev as shoves a burning candle in a corn stack. just you two slither out yonder straight away, and see if you can see anyone." "but there can't be anyone," said dick, looking in the direction indicated. "ice wouldn't bear, and they couldn't come in a punt." "nay, they coom i' pattens," said dave sharply. "i joost caught a blink of 'em as they went off, and i let 'em hev the whole charge o' my goon." "a bullet?" said tom huskily. "nay, lad; swan-shot. i'd been out after the wild-geese at the end of the bit o' reed-bed here, when i see a light wheer there couldn't be no light, and i roon back and see what they'd done, and let fly at 'em." "and hit them, dave?" said dick. "nay, lad, i can't say. i fired and i heered a squeal. ice wouldn't bear for me to go and see." "come along, tom," cried dick; and they skated away once more, to curve here and there in all directions, till a hail from the island took them back. "can't you find 'em?" "no." "then they must have got away; but they've took some swan-shot wi' 'em, whoever they be." "but, dave, were there two?" "don't know, lad. i only see one, and fired sharp. look ye here," he continued, pointing to the glowing remains of his hut, "i nivver made no dreerns. they might have left me alone. now they'll come back some day and pay me back for that shot. all comes o' your father makkin dreerns, mester dick, just as if we weren't reight before." "it's very, very sad, dave." "ay, bairn, and i feel sadly. theer's a whole pound o' powder gone, and if i'd happened to be happed up i' my bed instead of out after they geese, i should hev gone wi' it, or been bont to dead. why did they want to go meddling wi' me?" "they've been meddling with every one, dave," said tom. "'cept you two," grumbled dave. "theer was my sheepskin coat and a pair o' leggin's and my new boots." "were the nets there, dave?" asked dick. "course they weer. look, dessay that's them burning now. all my shot too melted down, and my tatoes, and everything i have." "where was the dog?" "over at john warren's. wasn't well. nice sort o' neighbour he is to stop away!" "but he couldn't come, dave," said tom in remonstrant tones. "the ice wouldn't bear anyone but us boys." "why, i'd ha' swimmed to him," growled dave, "if his place had been afire." "no you wouldn't, dave. you couldn't when it's frozen. i say, couldn't we put anything out?" "nay, lads. it must bon right away, and then there'll be a clear place to build again." "but," cried dick, "a bucket or two, and we could do a good deal." "boocket's bont," said dave sadly, "and everything else. they might hev left me alone, for i hates the dreerns." the trio stood watching the fire, which was rapidly going down now for want of something to burn; but as they stood near, their faces scorched, while the cold wind drawn by the rising heat cut by their ears and threatened to stiffen their backs. the reeds and young trees which had been burning were now smoking feebly, and the only place which made any show was the peat-stack, which glowed warmly and kept crumbling down in cream-coloured ash. but when a fire begins to sink it ceases to be exciting, and as the two lads stood there upon their skates, with their faces burning, the tightness of their straps stopped the circulation, and their feet grew cold. "i say, dave," said dick just then, "what's to be done?" "build 'em up again. i builded this, and i can build another, lad." "yes, but i mean about you. what's to be done? the ice won't bear you, and you've got no shelter." the rough fellow shook his head. "nay, but it wean't rain, and i can sit close to the fire and keep mysen warm." "but you ought to have some cover." "ay, i ought to hev some cover, and i'll get my punt ashore, and turn her up, and sit under her." "and no wraps! look here, i shall be warm enough skating back. i'll lend you my coat." "nay, nay, lad," said dave, with his eyes twinkling, and his face looking less grim. "keep on thy coat, lad, i wean't hev it. thankye, though, all the same, and thou shalt hev a good bit o' sport for that, mester dick. but, theer, you two had best go back." "but we don't like leaving you," said tom. "thankye, lads, thankye. bud nivver yow mind about me. look at the times i've wetched all night in my poont for the wild-geese, and wi'out a fire, eh? yow both get back home. wouldn't bear me to walk wi' ye to sleep in one of the barns at the toft, would it?" "i don't think it would, dave." "nay, it wouldn't, lad; and i don't want to get wet, so off with you." the boys hesitated; but dave was determined. "here, give me a hand wi' my poont," he said; and going to where it was moored, he took hold of the boat, drew it close in, and then, he on one side, the two lads on the other, they ran it right up ashore, and close to the glowing peat-stack, where, with a good deal of laughter at their clumsiness in skates ashore, the punt was turned over, and dave propped one side up with a couple of short pieces of wood. "theer," he said. "looks like setting a trap to ketch a big bird. i'm the big bird, and i shall be warm enew faacing the fire. when it goes out i can tak' away the sticks and let the poont down and go to sleep. come and see me again, lads, and bring me a moothful o' something. mebbe the ice'll bear to-morrow." "we'll come, dave, never fear," said dick, taking out his knife as he reached the ice, and cleaning the mud off his skates, for the ground was soft near the fire, though hard as iron everywhere else. "i don't fear, lads," said dave smiling, and letting off his watchman-rattle laugh. "it's a bad job, but not so bad as farmer tallington's stables burning, or squire's beasts heving theer legs cooten. i'll soon get oop another house when i've been and seen neighbour hickathrift for some wood. now, then, off you go, and see who's best man over the ice." "one moment, dave," cried dick, checking himself in the act of starting. "it was easy enough to come here with the fire to guide us, but we must know which way to go back." "ay, to be sure, lad," cried dave eagerly. "you mak' straight for yon star and yow'll be right. that star's reight over the toft. now, then--off!" there was a momentary hesitation, and then the boys struck the ice almost at the same time. there was a ringing hissing sound, mingled with a peculiar splitting as if the ice were parting from where they started across the mere to the toft, and then they were going at a rapidly increasing speed straight for home. chapter twenty three. the question. there are many pleasures in life, and plenty of people to sing the praises of the sport most to their taste; but it is doubtful whether there is any manly pursuit which gives so much satisfaction to an adept in the art as skating. i don't mean skating upon the ornamental water of a park, elbowed here, run against there, crowded into a narrow limit, and abortively trying to cut figures upon a few square feet of dirty, trampled ice, full of holes, dotted with stones thrown on by mischievous urchins to try whether it will bear, and being so much unlike ice that it is hardly to be distinguished from the trampled banks; but skating over miles of clear black crystal, on open water, with the stars twinkling above like diamonds, the air perfectly still around, but roaring far on high, as jack frost and his satellites go hurrying on to mow down vegetation and fetter streams; when there is so much vitality in the air you breathe that fatigue is hardly felt, and when, though the glass registers so many degrees of frost, your pulses beat, your cheeks glow, and a faint dew upon your forehead beneath your cap tells you that you are thoroughly warm. how the blood dances through the veins! how the eyes sparkle! how tense is every nerve! how strong each muscle! the ice looks like steel. your skates are steel, and your legs feel the same as stroke, _whish_! stroke, _whish_! stroke! stroke! stroke! stroke! away you go, gathering power, velocity, confidence, delight, at the unwonted exercise, till you feel as if you could go on for ever, and begin wishing that the whole world was ice, and human beings had been born with skates to their toes instead of nails. some such feelings as these pervaded the breasts of dick winthorpe and tom tallington as they glided along homeward on that night. every now and then there was a sharp report, and a hissing splitting sound. then another and another, for the ice was really too thin to bear them properly, and it undulated beneath their weight like the soft swell of the atlantic in a calm. "sha'n't go through, shall we?" said tom, as there was a crack as loud as a pistol-shot. "we should if we stopped," said dick. "keep on and we shall be on fresh ice before it breaks." and so it seemed. crack! crack! crack! but at every report and its following splitting the lads redoubled their exertions, and skimmed at a tremendous rate over the treacherous surface. at times it was quite startling; but they were growing so inured to the peril that they laughed loudly--a joyous hearty laugh--which rang out to the music made by their skates. they were in the highest of glee, for though they did not revert to it in words, each boy kept thinking of the past quarrel, and rejoicing at its end, while he looked forward to days of enjoyment in companionship such as had gone before. the star--one of those in the great bear--did them good stead, for it was easy to follow; and saving that they were always within an ace of going through, they skimmed on in safety. from time to time they glanced back to see the glare of the fire dying out to such an extent that when they were well in sight of the light at the landing-place which they felt convinced hickathrift was showing, the last sign had died out, and just then a loud crack made them forget it. "don't seem to be freezing so hard, does it?" said tom. "oh, yes, i think so; only we must be going over ice we cracked before. now, then, let's put on all the speed we can, and go right in to where the light is with a rush." tom answered to his companion's call by taking stroke for stroke, and away they went quicker than ever. the ice bent and swayed and cracked, and literally hissed as they sped on, with the white powder flying as it was struck off. the metallic ring sounded louder, and the splitting more intense; but still they passed on in safety till they were within one hundred yards of where the wheelwright was waiting, when there was a sharp report as loud as that of a gun, a crack, and there were no skaters on the surface, only a quantity of broken ice in so much black water, and directly after a loud yell rose from the shore. "now, jacob, out with it!" came in stentorian tones; and then there was a cracking sound, a great deal of splashing, and the punt was partly slid along the ice, partly used to break it up, by the two men who waded by its side, and finally got it right upon the ice and thrust along till it was close to the place where the lads had broken in. "now, then, where are you?" shouted hickathrift as he peered around. "here we are, all right, only so precious cold!" cried dick. "it isn't very deep here; only up to your chest." "it's up to my chin," cried tom with a shiver, "and i'm holding on by the ice." hickathrift did not hesitate, but waded towards him, breaking opposing sheets of ice with a thump of his fist, and at last, with some little difficulty, all got ashore. "theer, both of you, run for it to the toft and get to bed. the missus knows what to do better than i can tell her. nivver mind your pattens." if they had stopped to get them off it would have been a terribly long job with their rapidly-numbing hands, so they did not pause, but scuffled over the ground in the best way they could to the house, where hot beds and a peculiar decoction mrs winthorpe prepared had a double property, for it sent them into a perspiration and off to sleep, one of the labourers bearing the news to grimsey that the heir to the house of tallington would not return that night, consequent upon having become "straange and wet." the next morning the boys came down to breakfast none the worse for their wetting, to find that mr marston was already there looking very serious. he had been told of the burning-out of poor dave, and he had other news of his own, that three of the cottages had been fired during the past night. "and the peculiar part of the business is," said mr marston, "that big bargle saw the person who fired the last of the houses." the engineer looked at dick as he spoke. "why didn't he catch him then?" said dick sharply, for mr marston's look annoyed him; "he is big enough." "don't speak pertly, dick!" said his father sternly. "it was because he is so big that he did not catch him, richard winthorpe," said the engineer coldly. "the ice bore the person who fired the places, because he was skating." "skating!" cried dick, flushing up. "yes, skating!" said mr marston. "bargle says that the man hobbled over the ground in his skates, but as soon as he reached the ice he went off like a bird. the ice cracked and splintered, but it seemed to bear him, and in less than a minute he was out of sight, but bargle could hear him for a long time." "well, it wasn't me, mr marston," said tom, laughing. "i was skating along with dick, but it was neither of us. we went to another fire." "breakfast is getting cold," said mrs winthorpe, who looked troubled, for the squire was frowning, and dick turning pale and red by turns. "look here," said the squire suddenly; "i cannot, and i will not, have unpleasantness of this kind in my house. i must speak plainly, marston. you suspect my boy of firing your men's huts last night?" "i am very sorry, mr winthorpe, and i do it unwillingly, but appearances are very much against him." "they are," said the squire gravely. "i like dick; i always did like dick," said the engineer; "and it seems to me horrible to have to suspect such a lad as he is; but put yourself in my place, mr winthorpe. can you be surprised?" "i am not surprised, mr marston," said mrs winthorpe, rising and going to her son's side. "dick was out last night skating with tom here over the thin ice, and of course it must have been a very light person to cross last night in skates; but you are mistaken. my boy would not commit such a cowardly crime." the moment before, dick, who was half-stunned by the accusation, and ready to give up in despair, leaped to his feet and flung his arms about his mother's waist. his eyes flashed and the colour flushed right up into his brows as he kissed her passionately again and again. "you are right," said the squire. "but speak out, dick. you did not do this dastardly thing?" "no, father," said dick, meeting his eyes boldly. "i couldn't." "there, marston," said the squire; "and i will not insult tom tallington by accusing him." "oh, no, father! we were together all the time." "but i say," cried tom, "old dave said it was a chap in skates who set fire to his place, and he couldn't follow him over the ice." "yes; i'd forgotten," cried dick, "and he shot at him." "then i am wrong once more, dick," said mr marston. "i beg your pardon. will you forgive me?" "of course i will, mr marston," said dick huskily, as he took the extended hand; "but i don't think you ought to be so ready to think ill of me." "and i say the same, mr marston," said mrs winthorpe. "my boy is wilful, and he may have been a bit mischievous, but he could not be guilty of such cowardly tricks as these." "no," said tom, with his mouth full of pork-pie; "of course he could not. dick isn't a coward!" "i humbly apologise, mrs winthorpe," said marston, smiling, "and you must forgive me. a man who has been shot at has his temper spoiled." "say no more, marston, my lad," said the squire warmly; "we all forgive you, and--breakfast waits." the subject was hurriedly changed, dick being after all able to make a good meal, during which he thought of the past, and of how glad he was to be friends with tom tallington again; and then, as he had his second help of pie to tom's third, it seemed to him that the same person must be guilty of all these outrages, and if so it could not by any possibility be farmer tallington, for he never skated, and even if he could, he weighed at least sixteen stone, and the ice had broken under the weight of tom's seven or eight. "we shall find him yet, marston; never fear," said the squire; "and when we do--well, i shall be sorry for the man." "why?" said mrs winthorpe. "because," said the squire gravely, "i have been so near death myself that--there, this is not a pleasant subject to talk about. we will wait." chapter twenty four. preparing for action. hickathrift shook his head; mrs hickathrift screwed up her lips, shut her eyes, and shuddered; and the former doubled up his hard fist and shook it in the air, as if he were going to hit nothing, as he gave out his opinion--this being also the opinion of all the labouring people near. "ay, yow may laugh, mester dick, but they'll nivver find out nowt. it's sperrits, that's what it is--sperrits of the owd fen, them as makes the ager, and sends will-o'-the-wisps to lead folkses into the bog. they don't like the drain being med, and they shutes and bons, and does all they can to stop it." "you're a great goose, hicky," said dick sharply. "who ever heard of a ghost--" "i didn't say ghost, my lad. i said sperrits!" "well, they're all the same." "nay, nay, ghosts is ghosts, and sperrits is sperrits." "well, then, who ever heard of a spirit going out skating with a lantern, or poling about with a punt, or shooting people, or blowing up sluice-gates, or cutting beasts' legs, or setting fire to their houses? did you?" "i nivver did till now, mester dick." "it's all nonsense about spirits; isn't it, tom?" "of course it is," was the reply. "we're going to catch the spirit some day, and we'll bring him here." "ay, do," said hickathrift, nodding his head softly. "well, i'm glad you two hev made it up." "never mind about that. has dave been over?" "ay, lad. soon as the ice went away and he could get his punt along he come to me and asked me to get him some wood sawn out; and we done it already. ice is gone and to-morrow i'm going to pole across and help him knock up a frame, and he'll do the rest hissen." the damage was far more severe at the drainage works; but even here the traces of the fire soon disappeared, and fresh huts were run up nearer to where the men were at work. one thing, however, was noticeable, and that was the action of the squire, the engineer, and farmer tallington--the engineer, after hanging away for a time, becoming again more friendly, though dick never seemed at ease in his presence now. these three leaders on the north side of the fen held a meeting with dwellers on the west and south, and after long consultation the results were seen in a quiet way which must have been rather startling to wrong-doer? and those who were secretly fighting to maintain the fen undrained. tom was the first to begin talking about these precautions as he and dick started to go down to the drain one morning early in spring, after a long spell of bitter miserable weather, succeeded by a continuance of fierce squalls off the sea. "i say," he said, "father's got such a splendid new pair of pistols." "has he? so has my father," said dick staring. "are yours mounted with brass and with brass pans?" "yes, and got lions' heads on the handles just at the end." "ours are just the same," said dick. "i say, tom, it won't be very pleasant for the spirits if they come now. hullo, what does hicky want?" the big wheelwright was signalling to them to come, and they turned in to his work-shed. "thowt you lads 'd like to see," he said. "what d'yer think o' them?" he pointed to a couple of muskets lying on the bench. "are these yours?" said tom. "yes and no, lads. they're for me and jacob, and we've got orders to be ready at any time to join in and help run down them as does all the mischief; but it's a sorry business, lads. powther and shot's no use. yow can't get shut of sperrits that ways. good goons, aren't they?" the pieces were inspected and the boys soon afterwards started. "i don't see much use in our going down here," said tom, "for if there is anything stupid it's the cutting of a drain. it's all alike, just the same as the first bit they cut." "only we don't have to go so far to see the men at work. i suppose one of these days we shall have mr marston setting up huts for the men about the toft. hist! look out! what's that?" "whittrick!" said tom, running in pursuit of the little animal which crossed their path. "there must be rabbits about here." "yes. do you know what they call whittricks down south?" "no." "stoats." "how stupid!" said tom after a vain chase after the snaky-looking little creature. "they must be very silly people down south. do they call them stoats in london?" "haven't got any in london--only rats." the engineer greeted the lads warmly and went up to the temporary hut he occupied to fetch his gun, when, in the corner of the room dick saw something which made him glance at tom. "yes," said the engineer, who saw the glance; "we're going to show your fen-men, master dick, that we do not mean to be trifled with. i've got muskets; and as the law does not help us, we shall help ourselves. so if anyone intends to come shooting us, blowing up our works, or setting fire to our huts, he had better look out for bullets." "but you wouldn't shoot anyone, mr marston?" said tom. "indeed but we would, or any two, sir. it's a case of self-defence. there, dick, don't look at me as if i were a bloodthirsty savage. i have got all these muskets down and shown my men how to use them, and i am letting it be known that we are prepared." "seems rather horrible," said dick. "more horrible for your father to be shot, dick, and for people to be burned in their beds, eh!" "ever so much," cried tom. "you shoot 'em all, mr marston." "precaution is better than cure, tom," said the engineer smiling. "now that we are prepared, you will see that we shall not be interfered with, and my arming the men will save bloodshed instead of causing it." "think so, sir?" "i am sure of it, my lad. besides, if i had not done something, my men would not have stayed. even bargle said it was getting too warm. he said he was not afraid, but he would not stay. so here we are ready for the worst: self-defence, my lads. and now let's go and get a few ducks for dinner. they are pretty plentiful, and my men like them as well as i." the result was a long walk round the edge of the fen and the bringing back of a fairly miscellaneous bag of wild-fowl, the engineer having become a skilful gunner during his stay in the wild coast land. mr marston was right; the preparations made by him and all the farmers round who had an interest in the draining of the fen had the effect of putting a stop to the outrages. the work went on as the weeks glided by, and spring passed, and summer came to beautify the wild expanse of bog and water. there had been storm and flood, but people had slept in peace, and the troubles of the past were beginning to be forgotten. there were plenty of fishing and fowling expeditions, visits to the decoy with good results, and journeys to john warren's home for the hunting out of rabbits; but life was beginning seriously for the two lads, who found occupation with mr marston and began to acquire the rudiments of knowledge necessary for learning to be draining engineers. sometimes they were making drawings, sometimes overlooking, and at others studying works under their teacher's guidance. but it was a pleasant time, for marston readily broke off work to join them in some expedition. one day, as they were poling along, tom gave dick a queer look, and nodded in the direction of a fir-crowned gravelly island lying about a mile away. "when's the robinson crusoe business going to begin, dick?" he said. dick laughed, but it was not a merry laugh, for the memory was a painful one, and mingled with recollections of times when everyone was suspicious of him, or seemed to be; and he was fast relapsing into an unhappy morbid state. "what was the robinson crusoe business?" said marston; and on being told, he laughingly proposed going on. "let's have a look at the place, boys," he said. "why shouldn't we have a summer-house out here to come and stay at sometimes, shooting, fishing, or collecting. we cannot always work." the pole was vigorously plied, and at the end of half an hour they had landed, to find the place just as they remembered it to have been the year before. there were the bushes, the heath, and heather in the gravelly soil, and the fir-trees flourishing. "a capital place!" said the engineer. "i tell you what, boys, we'll bring big bargle over, and a couple of men; the wheelwright shall cut us some posts, rafters, and a door, and we'll make a great hut, and--" he stopped short at that point and stared, as they all stood in the depths of the little fir-wood, with the water and reed-beds hidden from sight. for there, just before them, as if raised by magic, was the very building mr marston had described, and upon examination they found it very dry and warm, with a bed of heath in one corner. "some sportsman has forestalled us," said the engineer. "one of the farmers, i suppose, from the other side of the fen." they came away, with the lads sharing the same feeling of disappointment, for the little island was robbed of all its romance. it was no longer uninhabited, and the temptation to have a hut there was gone. "plenty more such places, boys," said mr marston, "so never mind. we'll hunt one out and make much of it before my drain turns all this waste into fertile fields. now let's get back, for i have a lot to chat over with the wheelwright." the next morning hickathrift was beaming, and he came up to the toft to catch dick, who was feeding solomon and avoiding his friendly kicks, while he waited for tom to go over with him to the works. "say, mester dick, on'y think of it! leave that owd ass alone, lad, and listen to me." "what is it, hicky?" "why, lad, i'm a man full o'--what do you call that when a chap wants to get on in the world?" "ambition, hicky." "that's it, mester dick. i'm full on it, bud i've nivver hed a chance. you see i've had to mend gates, and owd carts, and put up fences. i did nearly get the job to build a new barn, bud i lost it, and all my life's been jobs." "and what now?" said dick warmly. "what now, lad! why, mester marston's set me to mak three sets o' small watter gates for sides o' the dreern, and i'm to hev money in advance for the wood and iron work, and my fortune's about made." "hooray, hicky! i am glad," cried dick; and tom, coming up, was initiated into the great new step in advance, and added his congratulations. "why, you're carpenter and joiner to the works now, hicky!" said dick, laughing. "ay, lad, that's it, and i don't fear for nowt." it was less than a fortnight after, that dick lay asleep one night and dreaming of being in a boat on the mere, or one of its many additional pools, when he started into wakefulness with the impression that the house was coming down. "eh? what is it?" he cried, as there was a heavy thumping on the wall close to his bed's head. "get up--fire!" came in muffled tones; and bounding out of bed he saw that there was a lurid light on the water, evidently reflected from something burning pretty near at hand, while there was the distant hum of voices, mingled with shrieks and the barking of a dog. dick began hurriedly dressing, and threw open the window, to find that the dog was grip, who was out in the yard barking frantically, as if to alarm the house. "what is it, father? where?" cried dick. "don't know; not here. labourers' cottages, i think," replied the squire, who was still dressing. then, as a burst of flame seemed to rush up skyward, and a cloud of brilliant sparks floated away, he added, "dick, my lad, it is poor hickathrift's turn now." he was quite right, for as they ran the few hundred yards which separated them from the burning place, it was to find that the poor fellow's house, work-shed, stock of wood, peat-stack, and out-buildings were in a blaze; even his punt, which had been brought up for its annual repair and pitching, blazing furiously. hickathrift, jacob, mrs hickathrift, and the farm people were all at work with buckets, which they handed along from the dipping place by the old willows; but at the first glance the squire saw that it was in vain, and that the fire had taken such hold that nothing could be saved. both he and dick, however, joined in the efforts, saying nothing but working with all their might, the squire taking jacob's place and dipping the water, while the apprentice and dick helped to pass the full buckets along and the empty back, for they were not enough to form a double line. for about a quarter of an hour this was kept up, the wheelwright throwing the water where he thought it would do most good; but the flames only roared the louder, and, fanned by a pleasant breeze, fluttered and sent up sparks of orange and gold, till a cask of pitch got well alight, and then the smoke arose in one dense cloud. it was a glorious sight in spite of its horror, for the wood in the shed and the pile without burned brilliantly, lighting up the mere, gilding the reeds, and spreading a glow around that was at times dazzling. "pass it along quick! pass it along!" jacob kept saying, probably to incite people to work harder; but it was not necessary, for everyone was doing his or her best, when, just as they were toiling their hardest, the wheelwright took a bucket of water, hurled it as far as he could, and then dashed on the empty vessel and turned away. "no good," he said bitterly, as he wiped his face. "fire joost spits at me when i throw in the watter. it must bon down, squire, eh?" "yes, my man, nothing could save the place now." "and all my same [lard] in a jar--ten pounds good," murmured mrs hickathrift. "ay, moother, and my sunday clothes," said the wheelwright with a bitter laugh. "and my best frock." "ay, and my tools, and a bit o' mooney i'd saved, and all my stoof. eh, but i'm about ruined, moother, and just when i was going to get on and do the bit o' work for the dreern folk." the fire seemed to leap up suddenly with a great flash as if to enlighten the great fellow's understanding, but he did not grasp the situation for a few moments, till his wife, as she bemoaned the loss of a paste-board and a flour-tub, suddenly exclaimed: "it's them sperrits of the fen as has done it all." "ay, so it be!" roared hickathrift. "ay! hey, bud if i could git one of 'em joost now by scruff of his neck and the seat of his breeches, i'd--i'd--i'd roast him." "then it was no accident, hickathrift?" "yes, squire," said the man bitterly; "same sort o' axden as bont farmer tallington's stable and shed. hah, here he is!" he added, as the farmer came panting up with tom. "come to waarm theesen, farmer? it's my turn now." "my lad! my lad!" panted the farmer, "i am sorry." "thanky, farmer; but fine words butter no parsneps. theer, bairn," he cried, putting his arm round his wife's waist; "don't cry that away. we aren't owd folks, and i'm going to begin again. be a good dry plaace after fire's done, and theer'll be some niced bits left for yow to heat the oven when fire's out." "and no oven, no roof, no fireside." "hush! hush! bairn!" said the big fellow thickly. "don't i tell thee i'm going to begin again! what say, mester dick? nay, nay, lad, nay." "what did dick say?" said the squire sharply. "hush, hicky!" whispered dick quickly. "nay, lad, i wean't hoosh! said, squire, as he's got thretty shillings saved up, and he'd give it to me to start wi'." "and so he shall, my man, and other neighbours will help you too. i'll make dick's thirty shillings a hundred guineas." "well, i can't do that, hickathrift," said farmer tallington; "but if ever you want to borrow twenty guineas come to me; and there's my horse and sled to lead wood wheniver you like, and a willing hand or two to help." hickathrift turned sharply to say something; but he could only utter a great gulp, and, turning away, he went a few yards, and leaned his head upon his arm against a willow tree, and in the bright glow of the burning building, whose gilded smoke rose up like some vast plume, they could see his shoulders heave, while his wife turned to the squire, and in a simple, homely fashion, kissed his hand. the squire turned to stop dick, but it was too late, for the lad had reached the wheelwright and laid his hand upon his shoulder. "hicky," he said softly; "be a man!" "ay, lad, i will," said the great fellow, starting up with his eyes wet with tears. "it isn't the bont plaace made me soft like that, but what's been said." he had hardly spoken before there was a peculiar noise heard in the distance, as if a drove of cattle had escaped and were coming along the hard road of the fen; but it soon explained itself, for there were shouts and cries, and five minutes later mr marston and his men, nearly a hundred strong, came running up, ready to assist, and then utter the fiercest of denunciations against those who had done this thing. then there was an ominous silence, as all stood and watched the burning building till there was nothing but a heap of smouldering wood, which was scattered and the last sparks quenched. chapter twenty five. the troubles culminate. the fire at the wheelwright's lasted people nearly a month for gossip, but hickathrift would not believe it was the work of spirits now. then came the news of a fresh outrage. the horses employed in bringing stones for certain piers to water-gates were shot dead one night. next, a fresh attempt was made to blow up the sluice, but failed. last of all, the man who was put on to watch was shot dead, and his body found in the drain. after this there was a pause, and the work was carried on with sullen watchfulness and bitter hate. the denunciations against the workers of the evil were fierce and long. but in spite of all, the drain progressed slowly and steadily. the engineer was carrying his advances right into the stronghold of the fen-men, who bore it all in silence, but struck sharply again and again. "i wonder who is to get the next taste!" said tom tallington one day as he and dick were talking. "no one," said dick; "so don't talk about it. the people are getting used to the draining, and father thinks they'll all settle down quietly now." "how long is it since that poor fellow was shot?" "don't talk about it, i tell you," said dick angrily. "three months." "no." "nearly." dick was right; nearly three months had gone by since the poor fellow set to keep watch by mr marston had been shot dead, and this culmination of the horrors of the opposition had apparently startled his murderers from making farther attempts. "i tell you what it is," said tom, "the man who fired that shot and did all the other mischief has left the country. he dare not stay any longer for fear of being caught." "then it was no one over our side of the fen," said dick thoughtfully. "perhaps you are right. well, i'm going to have a good long day in the bog to-morrow. it's wonderfully dry now, and i mean to have a good wander. what time shall you be ready?" "can't go," said tom. "i've promised to ride with father over to the town." "what a pity! well, never mind; we'll go again the next day and have a good long day then." "will mr marston go with us?" "no. i asked him, and he said he should be too busy at present, but he would go in a fortnight's time. he said he should not want either of us for a week, so we can go twice if we like." tom smiled as if, in spite of his many wanderings, the idea of a ramble in the fen would be agreeable. "shall you fish?" he said. "n-no, i don't think i shall. i mean to have a long wander through the flats away west of the fir island." "you can't," said tom; "it's too boggy." "not it. only got to pick your way. do you think i don't know what i'm about?" "better take old solomon with you, and ride him till he sinks in, and then you can walk along his back into a safe place." "then i'd better take another donkey too, and get him to lie down when i come to another soft place." "ah, i would!" said tom. "i shall," said dick. "will you come?" "do you mean by that to say that i am a donkey?" cried tom half angrily. "yes, when you talk such stupid nonsense. just as if i couldn't get through any bog out here in the fen. anyone would think i was a child." "well, don't get lost," said tom; "but i must go now." the boys parted, with the promise that tom was to come over from grimsey to breakfast the next morning but one, well provided with lunch; that in the interim dick was to arrange with hickathrift about his punt, and that then they were to have a thoroughly good long exploring day, right into some of the mysterious parts of the fen, dick's first journey being so much scouting ready for the following day's advance. as soon as dick was left alone he strolled down to the wheelwright's, having certain plans of his own to exploit. "well, hicky, nearly got all right?" he said. "nay, nay, lad, and sha'n't be for a twelvemonth," replied the great bluff fellow, staring at his newly-erected cottage. "taks a deal o' doing to get that streight. how is it you're not over at the works?" "not wanted for a bit. i say, hicky, may i have the punt to-morrow?" "sewerly, mester dick, sewerly. i'll set jacob to clear her oot a bit for you. going fishing?" "well--no," said dick, hesitating. "i was--er--thinking of doing a little shooting." "what at fend o' june! nay, nay, theer's no shooting now." "not regular shooting, but i thought i might get something curious, perhaps, right away yonder." "ay, ay, perhaps so." "might see a big pike basking, and shoot that." "like enough, my lad, like enough. squire going to lend you a goon?" dick shook his head, but the wheelwright was busy taking a shaving off a piece of wood, so did not see it, and repeated his question. "no, hicky, i want you to lend me one of those new ones." "what, as squire and mr marston left for me and jacob! nay, nay, lad, that wean't do." "oh, yes, it will, hicky. i'll take great care of it, and clean it when i've done. lend me the gun, there's a good fellow." "nay, nay. that would never do, my lad. couldn't do it." "why not, hicky?" "not mine. what would squire say?" "he wouldn't know, hicky. i shouldn't tell him." "bud i should, lad. suppose thou wast to shoot thee sen, or blow off a leg or a hand? nay, nay. yow can hev the boat, bud don't come to me for a gun." hickathrift was inexorable, and what was more, he watched his applicant narrowly, to make sure that dick did not corrupt jacob. his visitor noticed it, and charged him with the fact. "ay," he said, laughing, "that's a true word. i know what jacob is. he'd do anything for sixpence." "i hope he wouldn't set fire to the house for that," said dick angrily. hickathrift started as if stung, and stared at his visitor. "nay," he said, recovering himself, "our jacob nivver did that. he were fast asleep that night, and his bed were afire when i wackened him. don't say such a word as that." "i didn't mean it, hicky; but do lend me the gun." "nay, my, lad, i wean't. there's the poont and welcome, but no gun." dick knew the wheelwright too well to persevere; and in his heart he could not help admiring the man's stern sense of honesty; so making up his mind to be content with some fishing and a good wander in the untrodden parts of the fen, he asked hickathrift to get him some baits with his cast-net. "ay, i'll soon get them for you, my lad," said hickathrift. "get a boocket, jacob, lad." the next minute he was getting the newly-made circular net with its pipe-leads from where it hung over the rafters of his shed, and striding down to a suitable shallow where a shoal of small fish could be seen, he ranged the net upon his arm, holding the cord tightly, and, giving himself a spin round, threw the net so that it spread out flat, with the pipe-leads flying out centrifugally, and covering a good deal of space, the leads driving the fish into the centre. when it was drawn a couple of dozen young roach and rudd were made captives, and transferred to the bucket of water jacob brought. "fetch that little bit o' net and a piece o' band, lad," said the wheelwright; and as soon as jacob reappeared, hickathrift bound the fine net over the top of the pail, and lowered it by the cord into a deep cold pool close by the punt. "theer they'll be all ready and lively for you in the morning, and you'll hev better sport than you would wi' a gun." opinions are various, and dick's were very different to the wheelwright's; but he accepted his rebuff with as good a grace as he could, and went home. the next morning was delicious. one of those lovely summer-times when the sky is blue, and the earth is just in its most beautiful robe of green. "going on the mere, dick?" said his father. "well, don't get drowned or bogged." "dick will take care," said mrs winthorpe, who was busy cutting provender. "tom tallington going with you?" said the squire. "no, father; i'm going alone." "i wish you could have come with me, hicky!" said dick, as, laden with his basket of fishing-tackle and provender, he took his place in the punt. "ay, and i wish so too," said the wheelwright, smiling, as he drew up and uncovered the pail of bait to set it in the boat. "bud too busy. theer you are! now, go along, and don't stop tempting a man who ought to be at work. be off!" to secure himself against further temptation he gave the punt a push which sent it several yards away; so, picking up the pole, dick thrust it down and soon left the toft behind, while the water glistened, the marsh-marigolds glowed, and the reeds looked quite purple in places, so dark was their green. dick poled himself along, watching the water-fowl and the rising herons disturbed in their fishing, while here and there he could see plenty of small fish playing about the surface of the mere; but he was not in an angling humour, and though the tempting baits played about in the bucket he did not select any to hook and set trimmers for the pike that were lurking here and there. at last, though, he began to grow tired of poling, for the sun was hot; and, thinking it would be better to wait for tom before he tried to explore the wild part of the fen, he thrust the punt along, to select a place and try for a pike. this drew his attention to the baits, where one of the little roach had turned up nearly dead, a sure sign that the water required changing, so, setting down the pole, he took up the bucket, and, lowering it slowly over the side, he held one edge level with the water, so that the fresh could pour in and the stale and warm be displaced. trifles act as large levers sometimes. in this case for one, a few drops of water from the dripping pole made the bottom of the punt slippery; and as dick leaned over the side his foot gave way, the weight of the bucket overbalanced him, and he had to seize the side of the punt to save himself. this he did, but as he leaned over, nearly touching the water, it was to gaze at the bucket descending rapidly, and the fish escaping, for he had let go. "what a nuisance!" he cried, as he saw the great vessel seem to turn of a deeper golden hue as it descended and then disappeared, becoming invisible in the dark water, while the punt drifted away before he could take up the pole to thrust it back. there was nothing to guide him, and the poling was difficult, for the water was here very deep, and though he tried several times to find the spot where the bucket had gone down, it was without success. "why, if i did find it," he muttered, "i shouldn't be able to get it up without a hook." this ended the prospect of fishing, and as he stood there idly dipping down the pole he hesitated as to what he should do, ending by beginning to go vigorously in the direction of dave gittan's newly-built-up hut. "i'll make him take me out shooting," he said; "and we'll go all over that rough part of the fen." there were very few traces of the past winter's fire visible at dave's home as dick approached, ran his punt on to the soft bog-moss, and landed, securing his rope to a tree, and there were no signs of dave. he shouted, but there was no reply, and it seemed evident that the dog was away as well. a walk across to dave's own special landing-place put it beyond doubt, for the boat was absent. "what a bother!" muttered dick, walking back toward the hut, a stronger and better place than the one which had been burned. "perhaps he has gone to see john warren!" dick hesitated as to whether he should follow, and as he hesitated he reached the door of the hut and peeped in, to make sure that the dog was not there asleep. the place was vacant, and as untidy already as the old hut. in one corner there was a heap of feathers plucked from the wild-geese he had shot; in another a few skins, two being those of foxes, the cunning animals making the fen, where hunters never came, their sanctuary. there were traces, too, of dave's last meal. but it was at none of these that dick looked so earnestly, but at the 'coy-man's old well-rubbed gun hanging in a pair of slings cut from some old boot, and tempting the lad as, under the circumstances, a gun would tempt. hickathrift had refused to lend him one, badly as he wanted it; and here by accident was the very thing he wanted staring at him almost as if asking him to take it. and dave! where was he? dave might be anywhere, and not return perhaps for days. his comings and goings were very erratic, and dick tried to think that if the man were there he would have lent him the gun. but it was a failure. "he wouldn't have lent it to me," said dick sadly; and he turned to go. but as he glanced round, there was the old powder-horn upon a roughly-made shelf, and beside it, the leathern bag in which dave kept his shot, with a little shell loose therein which he used for a measure. it was tempting. there was the gun; there lay the ammunition. he could take the gun, use it, and bring it back, and give dave twice as much powder and shot as he had fired away. he could even clean the gun if he liked; but he would not do that, but bring it back boldly, and own to having taken it dave would not be very cross, and if he were it did not matter. he would take the gun. no, he would not. it was like stealing the man's piece. no, it was not--only borrowing, and dave would be the gainer. still he hesitated, thinking of his father, of hickathrift's refusal, of its being a mean action to come and take a man's property in his absence; and in this spirit dick flung out of the hut and walked straight down to the boat, seeing nothing but that gun tempting him as it were, and asking him to seize the opportunity and enjoy a day's shooting untrammelled by anyone. "it wouldn't do," he said with a sigh as he got slowly into the boat and stooped to untie the rope, when, perhaps, the position sent the blood rushing to his head. at any rate his wilful thoughts mastered him, and in a spirit of reckless indifference to the consequences he leaped ashore, ran up to the hut, dashed in, caught up the powder-horn and shot-bag, thrust them into his pockets, and seizing the gun, he took it from its leather slings, his hands trembling, and a sensation upon him that dave was looking in at the door. "what an idiot i was!" he cried, with a feeling of bravado now upon the increase. "dave won't mind, and i want to shoot all by myself." he glanced round uneasily enough as he made for the punt, where he laid the gun carefully down, and, seizing his pole, soon sent the vessel to some distance from the hut, every stroke seeming to make him breathe more freely, while a keen sensation of joy pervaded him as he glanced from time to time at the old flint-lock piece, and longed to be where there would be a chance to shoot. the day was hot as ever, but the heat was forgotten as the punt was sent rapidly along in the direction of the fir-clump island, for it was out there that the wilder part of the fen commenced, and the hope that he would there find the birds more tame consequent upon the absence of molestation made the laborious toil of poling seem light. but all the same a couple of hours' hard work had been given to the task, and dick was still far from his goal, when it occurred to him that a little of the bread and butter cut in slices, and with a good thick piece of ham between each pair, would not be amiss. he laid the pole across the boat, then, and for a quarter of an hour devoted himself to the task of food conversion for bodily support. this done, there was the gun lying there. it was not likely that he would have a chance at anything; but he thought it would be as well to be prepared, and in this spirit, with hands trembling from eagerness, he raised the piece and began the task of loading, so much powder, and so much paper to ram down upon it. but he had no paper. it was forgotten, and dick paused. necessity is the mother of invention. dick took out his pocket-handkerchief and his knife, and in a few minutes the cotton square was cut up, a piece rammed in as a wad, and a measure of shot poured on the top. another piece of handkerchief succeeded, going down the barrel with that peculiar _whish whash_ sound, to be thumped hard with the ramrod at the bottom till the rod was ready to leap out of the barrel again. then there was the pan to open and prove full of powder, and all ready for the first great wild bird he should see, or perhaps a hare or a fox, as soon as he should land. for it was thought no sin to shoot the foxes there in that wild corner of england, where hounds had never been laid on, and the only chance of hunting would have been in boats. foxes lived and bred there year after year, and died without ever hearing the music of the huntsman's horn. dick laid the gun down with a sigh, and took up the pole, which he used for nearly an hour before, with the fir island well to his left, he ran the punt into a narrow cove among the reeds which spread before him, and, taking the piece, stepped out upon what was a new land. it must have been with something of the feelings of the old navigators who touched at some far western isle, that dick winthorpe landed from his boat, and secured it by knotting together some long rushes and tying the punt rope to them. for here he was in a place where the foot of man could have rarely if ever trod, and, revelling in his freedom and the beauty of the scene around, he shouldered the piece. he would have acted more wisely if he had filled his pockets with provender from the basket; but he wanted those pockets for the powder and shot, and without intending to go very far from the punt he started, meaning to go in a straight line for some trees he could see at a great distance off, hoping to find something in the shape of game before he had gone far. it is very easy to make a straight line on a map, but a difficult feat to go direct from one spot to another in a bog. dick did not find it out, for he knew it of old, and so troubled himself very little as he plodded on under the hot afternoon sun, now on firm ground, now making some wide deviation so as to avoid a pool of black water. then there were treacherous morass-like pieces of dark mire thinly covered with a scum-like growth, here green, there bleached in the june sunshine. it was always hot walking, and made the worse by the way in which, in spite of all his care, his feet sank in the soft soil. at times he plashed along, having to leap from place to place, and then when the way seemed so bad that he felt that he must return, it suddenly became better and lured him on. he panted and perspired, and struggled on, with the gun always ready; but saving a moor-hen or two upon one or other of the pools, and a coot sailing proudly along at the edge of a reed-bed with her little dingy family, he saw nothing worthy of a shot. once there was a rustle among the reeds, but whatever made it was gone before he could see what it was. once a great heron rose from a shallow place, offering himself as a mark; but it took dick some time to get a good view of the grey bird, and when at last he brought the sight of the gun to bear upon it, the heron refused to remain still, and the muzzle of the piece described two or three peculiar circles. when at last it was brought steadily to bear upon the mark it was about a hundred yards away, and the trigger was not pulled. how long dick had tramped and struggled on through mire and water and over treacherous ground he did not know, but he did not get one chance; and at last, when he stopped short with a horrible sinking sensation in his inner boy, the only things which presented themselves as being ready to be shot were some beautiful swallow-tailed butterflies, while, save that the sun was right before him and going down, the lad had not the slightest idea of where he was. but he could not stand still, for he was on a soft spot, so he struggled on to where the ground looked more dry, and fortunately for him it proved to be so, and he stood looking round and thinking of going back. "i wish i had brought something to eat," he said, gazing wistfully in the direction in which he believed the punt lay. but it was in vain to wish, so he determined to retrace his steps, fighting against the thought that it would be a difficult task, for to all intents and purposes he had lost all idea of the direction in which he had come. it was very hot, though, and the gun was very heavy. he was weary too with poling the boat and walking, and but for the romance of the expedition he would have declared himself fagged out. as it was, he thought he would have ten minutes' rest before starting back, so picking out a good dry firm place, he laid the gun down, and then, seeing how comfortable the gun seemed, he lay at full length upon his back on the soft heather and gazed straight up at the blue sky. then his eyes wandered to a cloud of flies, long gnat-like creatures, which were beginning to dance over the reeds, and he lay watching them till he thought he would get up and be on the move. then he thought, as it was so refreshing to be still, he would wait another five minutes. so he waited another five minutes, and then he did not get up, but lay, not looking at the cloud of gnats which were dancing now just over his face as if the tip of his nose were the point from which they streamed upward in the shape of a plume, for dick winthorpe was fast asleep. how long it was dick did not know, only that it was a great nuisance that that bull would keep on making such a tremendous noise, bellowing and roaring round and round his bed till it annoyed him so much that he started up wide awake and stared. it was very dark, not a star to be seen; but the bull was bellowing away in the most peculiar manner, seeming as if he were now high up in the air, and now with his muzzle close to the ground practising ventriloquism. "where am i?" said dick aloud; and then, as the peculiar bellowing noise came apparently nearer, "why, it's the butterbump!" dick was right, it was the butterbump, as the fen people called the great brown bittern, which passed its days in the thickest parts of the bog, and during the darkness rose on high, to circle round and over the unfortunate frogs that were to form its supper, and utter its peculiar bellowing roar. dick had never heard it so closely before, and he was half startled by the weird cry. the fen, that had been so silent in the hot june sun, now seemed to be alive with peculiar whisperings and pipings. the frogs were whistling here, a low soft plaintive whistle, and croaking there, while from all around came splashings and quackings and strange cries that were startling in the extreme to one just awakened from the depths of sleep to find himself alone in the darkness, and puzzled by the question: how am i to get back? no; return was impossible--quite impossible, and the knowledge was forced upon him more and more that he had to make up his mind to pass the night where he was, for to stir meant to go plunge into some bog, perhaps one so deep that his escape with life might be doubtful. "how stupid i was!" mused dick. "how hungry i am!" he said aloud. "what a tiresome job!" he looked around, to see darkness closing him in, not a star visible; but the fen all alive with the sounds, which seemed to increase, for a bittern was answering the one overhead, and another at a greater distance forming himself into a second echo. "i wonder how long it is since i lay down!" thought dick. it might have been four hours--it might have been six or eight. he could not tell, only that he was there, and that his mother would be in a horrible state of dread. this impressed him so strongly that he was about to start off in a vain effort to find the boat, but his better sense prevailed, and he remained where he was, wondering whether it would be possible to pass the night like that, and, in spite of himself, feeling no little dread of the weird sounds which seemed to come nearer and nearer. then the feeling of dread increased, for, though he could see nothing, certain noises he heard suggested themselves as being caused by strange creatures--dwellers in the fen--coming nearer to watch him, and among them he fancied that there were huge eels fresh from the black slime, crawling out of the water, and winding themselves like serpents in and out among the rough grass and heath to get at him and fix their strong jaws upon his legs. then little four-footed, sharp-teethed creatures appeared to be creeping about in companies, rushing here and there, while whittricks and rats were waiting till he dropped asleep to leap upon him and bite him, tearing out little pieces of his flesh. his imagination was so active that his face grew wet with horror, till, making an effort over himself, he started right up and angrily stamped his foot. "i didn't think i was such a coward," he said half aloud; and then, "i hope poor mother will not be very much alarmed, and i wish tom tallington was here!" the wish was so selfishly comic that he laughed and felt better, for now a new idea came to him. it was very dark, but the nights were at their shortest now, and it would be daybreak before three--at least so light that he might venture to try and regain the boat. he stood for a while listening to the noises in the fen; the whispering and chattering, piping and croaking, with the loud splashings and rustlings among the reeds, mingled with the quacking of ducks and the scuttering of the drakes, while every now and then the bittern uttered his hoarse wild roar. then, growing weary, he sat down again, and after a time he must have dropped asleep, for he rose feeling quite startled, and stood staring as a peculiarly soft lambent light shone here and there before him. it was apparently about fifty yards away, and looked like nothing which he had ever seen, for when he had noticed this light before it had always been much farther away. he knew it was the marsh light, but somehow it seemed more weird and strange now than ever, and as if all the tales he had heard of it were true. for there it was coming and going and gliding up and down, as if inviting him to follow it, while, as he seemed to feel that this was an invitation, he shuddered and his brow grew cold and dank, for he believed that to follow such a light would be to go direct to his death. all the old legendary stories crowded into his mind as that light came and went, and seemed to play here and there for what must have been half an hour, when it disappeared. but as it passed away he saw another away to his left, and he was watching this intently when he noticed that far beyond there was a faint light visible; and feeling that this was the first sign of the dawn, he turned to gaze at the will-o'-the-wisp again, and watched it, shuddering as it seemed to approach, growing bolder as it glided away. "but that was not dawn--that," he said, "that faint light!" it was growing stronger and it was nearer, and more like the rising of the sun, or like--yes, it must be fire again. dick's heart leaped, and the chilly feeling of nervous dread and the coldness of the temperature passed away, to give place to a sense of excitement which made his blood dance in his veins and his cheeks flush. he was not mistaken--he had had too much experience of late. it was fire, and he asked himself whose turn it was now, and why, after the long lapse from outrage, there should be another such a scene as that. it was impossible to tell where the fire was, but it was a big conflagration evidently, for it was lighting up the sky far more than when he first observed it, but whether it was in the direction of his home or toward the far end of the fen he could not tell. he thought once that he might be mistaken, and that it was the forerunner of the rising moon; but he was convinced directly that it was fire he saw from the way in which it rose and fell and flickered softly in the sky. he must have been watching the glow for quite a couple of hours, and it was evidently paling, and he was hopefully looking for another light-- that of day, when it seemed to him that he could hear the splashing of water and the rustling of reeds. the sounds ceased and began again more loudly, and at last they seemed to be coming nearer, but passing him by--somewhere about a hundred yards away. the sounds ceased--began again--ceased--then sounded more loudly; and at last, with palpitating heart, dick began to move in the direction of the noise, for he realised that either there was open water or a canal-like passage across the bog, which someone was passing through in a boat. dick paused again to listen, but there could be no mistake, the sounds were too familiar, and with voice husky with excitement he put his hand to his mouth and uttered a loud hail. chapter twenty six. a startling scene. to dick winthorpe's great surprise there was no answer to his cry, and raising his voice again he shouted: "who's that? help!" his voice sounded wild and strange to him out there in that waste, closed in as he was by the darkness, and as he listened he could not repress a shudder, for everything now had become so silent that it was terrible. away to his left there was the faint glow of light--very faint now--but everywhere else darkness, and all around him now a dead silence. his cry had seemed to alarm every moving creature in the fen, and it had crouched down, or dived, or in some way hidden itself, so that there was neither rustle of body passing through the reeds, splash of foot in the mire, nor beat of pinion in the air. he looked around him half in awe for the strange lights which he had seen gliding here and there like moths of lambent fire, but they too had disappeared, and startling as had been the noise he had heard, the silence seemed now so terrible that he turned cold. "what a coward i am!" he said to himself at last. "what is there to be afraid about?" he shouted again, and felt more uneasy, for as his voice died away all seemed more silent than ever, and he drew in a long hissing breath as he gazed vainly in the direction from which the splashing had seemed to come. for quite half an hour all was perfectly still, but he did not move, partly from an intense desire to be certain, partly, it must be confessed, from a feeling of dread which oppressed him. then there was a rustle and a splash from somewhere behind him, such a noise as a bird might make. directly after there came from a distance the scuttering noise made by a duck dabbling its bill in the ooze, and this was followed by a low _quawk_ uttered by some nocturnal bird, perhaps by one of the butterbumps whose hoarse booming cry had come so strangely in the earlier part of the night. as if these were signals to indicate to the animal life of the fen that all was right, sound after sound arose such as he had heard before; but there was one so different that it filled dick winthorpe's ears, and as he listened he seemed to see a man in a punt, who had been crouching down among the reeds, rising up softly, and silently lowering a pole into the water to thrust the boat onward from where it had lain. even if it had been light the reeds and undergrowth would have hindered him from seeing anything, and in that darkness the impossibility was emphasised the more strongly; but all the same the faint splash, the light rubbing of wood against wood as the pole seemed to touch the side of the boat, the soft dripping of water, and the silky brushing rustle of the boat among the reeds and withes, joined in painting a mental picture upon the listener's brain till it seemed to dick that he was seeing with his ears this man in his boat escaping furtively so as not to be heard. dick was about to shout again, but he felt that if he did there would be no answer, and his heart began to beat strangely. it was not fear now, but from a sudden excitement consequent upon a line of thought which suggested itself. "why did not this man answer to his cry--this man who was so furtively stealing away? was it from fear of him?" undoubtedly fear of being seen and known. dick absolutely panted now with excitement. all feeling of dread passed away, taking with it the chilly sensation of cold and damp. he listened. should he shout again and order him to stop? no; he knew that would be of no use, for, as if to make all more sure, there, as dick listened, each and every nerve on the strain, was the increasing rapidity of the thrusts made with the pole, as the man evidently thought he was getting more and more out of hearing. "who is it?" thought dick, as he realised that by his accident he had discovered what had been hidden from all who had patiently watched. it was all plain enough to him now; and as he listened to the sounds dying away and growing lost among the splashings and rustlings made by the birds, which were recovering their confidence, the excitement quite took away the lad's breath. for there it all was. this wretch--some fen-man from the other side-- miles away--had stolen across in the darkness, wending his way along the mere channels and over the pools, to commit another dastardly outrage, firing another cottage or stack, and then stolen back, his evil work done. whose house had been burned? it must be the huts of the drain-makers. dick felt sure of that. he did not know why, but there was the proof lately painted in the sky. and this base wretch, who could it be? he asked himself. oh, if he could but have seen! would this be the same man who had been guilty of all these crimes? thought dick, as he listened and found that the sounds had died out; and now far away there was a soft faint opalescent light telling him of the coming morn, and sending a thrill of joy through his breast. for there would be light and warmth, and the power to find the boat once more, and with it food. better still, if he could get to his boat he might follow the wretch who was escaping, and know who it was. dick felt directly that it was impossible, for the man would be beyond pursuit long before he could find his boat; and after listening again he began to creep cautiously back to where he had lain down and slept and left dave gittan's gun. the dawn was spreading, and it showed the watcher which was the east, and hence taught him that the fire must have been somewhere in the direction of the toft, for the glare in the sky was certainly north of where he now stood. the dawn spread faster, and the reeds and alders about him began to be visible; and--yes, there was the gun, all cold to the touch and wet with dew. "not much shooting," thought dick as he mentally planned getting back to the boat, and hurrying across to dave's hut to replace the piece and suffer a good scolding. "never mind; i'll give him a pound of powder. what's that?" splashing--the rustling of reeds--voices. there was no concealment here, and besides the sounds came in a contrary direction to that taken by the fleeing man. "hoi!" shouted dick loudly. "hoi! hallo!" came back; and then a well-known voice cried: "is that you, dick?" "yes, father. here! ahoy!" there was more splashing, more talking, and dick's heart leaped as he felt that his father had come in search of him, and that he would have an easier task than he had expected in finding his boat. as the sounds approached the light increased, and dick had no difficulty in going to meet them, picking his way carefully through the bog till he found himself close to a broad channel of reedy water, and here he had to pause. "where are you?" came from about a hundred yards away. and as he shouted to guide the search party he soon saw through the dim light a crowded punt propelled by two polers, and that there was another behind. the next minute the foremost punt was within reach, and dick stepped from a clump of rushes on board. "got anything to eat?" cried dick, obeying his dominant instinct, and his voice sounded wolfish and strange. "to eat!--no, sir," cried his father sternly. "what are you doing here?" "i lost myself, father, and went to sleep--woke up in the darkness, and couldn't stir. morning, hicky!" "wheer's my poont?" said the wheelwright. "close round here somewhere," said dick. "go on and we shall find it. but where was the fire?" the squire drew a hissing breath between his teeth as if in pain, and yet as if in relief; for it seemed to him that once more he was suspecting wrongfully, and that if his son had been mixed up with the past night's outrage he would never have spoken so frankly. "the fire, boy!" he said hoarsely; "at the toft. the place is nearly burned down." "oh!" ejaculated dick; and there was so much genuine pain and agony in his voice that the squire grasped his son's hand. "never mind, dick; we'll build it up again." "ay, squire, we will," cried hickathrift; "and afore long." "and what is better, my boy, we saw the wretch who stole off the mere last night and fired the big reed-stack." "yes, father," cried dick excitedly. "and i heard him come stealing by here." "you did, dick?" "yes, father--not an hour ago." "marston!" cried the squire, hailing the other boat. "yes." "we're right. he came by here an hour ago. dick heard him." "you did, dick?" cried mr marston. "yes, but it was all in the dark, and i couldn't see who it was." "that does not matter, my lad," said the squire. "we know him now, and we only want to run him down." "know him, father?" "yes, boy. it was dave gittan." "nonsense!" dick burst into a laugh. "why, father, his place was burned too!" "yes, boy, to throw us off the scent--the scoundrel! but we shall have him now." dick sat down in the punt like one astounded, while hickathrift poled along the channel till he came to open water, where, just as the sun rose above the horizon, they caught sight of the tied-up boat. "we're too many in this," said hickathrift, making for the other punt. "you pole this here, and i'll tak' mine. will you come, squire?" "yes," said dick's father; and the change being made, the three boats were now propelled over the sunlit water, where, as the lad gladly applied himself to the food he had left behind, he learned something of what had taken place during the night. hickathrift was his informant, for the squire was very stern and silent, and mr marston was in one of the other boats, which were manned by drain-men and farm-labourers, and had for leaders farmer tallington and the engineer, while many were armed with muskets. "is tom there?" said dick in a whisper. "ay, lad, he's theer," said the big wheelwright, "along o' mr marston." and then in answer to questions he related that mr marston had been over at the toft, and stopped up watching with the squire for dick's return, dropping asleep at last, and then awakening suddenly to hear a strange noise among the fowls. the squire went out, followed by mr marston, and the truth was before them. "the big stack was afire!" whispered hickathrift, "and burning so as they knew it would be impossible to put it out, and just as they realised the terrible state of affairs there was the sound of a shot, and then of another and another from somewhere down among the cottages, and directly after the beating of feet, and a party of the labourers hurried up, startled from their beds. "`your turn now, squire,' i says to him," whispered the wheelwright. "`ay,' he says, `my turn now. who fired that shot?' "`oh! some un here,' i says. `we thought we seed him as did it going off in the poont, but it was so dark we couldn't be sure.' "squire didn't ask no more, for there was too much to do getting out your moother, lad, and trying to save the furnitur, 'sides throwing watter on the fire. "bud, theer, it warn't no use. plaace burned like a bit o' paaper, and we could do nowt bud save the best o' the things." "did you save the clock?" asked dick. "ay, lad, i carried it out mysen, just as mr marston come oop wi' a lot of his lads, and farmer tallington come from t'other way; and we saved all we could, and got out the beasts and horses, but t'owd plaace is bont out." "and where is mother?" "all reight along o' my missus, bless her; and when we see we could do no more, squire began about who done it." "yes: go on." "well, theer's nowt much to say, lad, only that soon as squire knowd who it weer he--" "but how did he know who it was?" cried dick. "some un towd him." "yes, but who told?" "him as fired his goon at him when he see'd him by the light o' the fire poling along in his poont." "and who was that?" "nay, lad, i'm not going to tell thee. some un as thowt he desarved a shot for setting fire to folks's houses and shooting honest men. some folk don't stop to think. if they've got goons in their hands, and sees varmen running away, they oops wi' the goon and shutes, and that's what some un did. thou'lt know who it weer one day." "and he told my father?" "it weer our jacob towd squire. he sin his faace quite plain, and that it weer dave." "now, marston, where for next?" shouted the squire, after taking a long look round over the open water, now illumined by the sun. "try that island yonder," was the reply. "there's a hut among the low fir-trees, and i fancy it is his making." the boats were turned in the suggested direction, and dick felt a curious sensation of nervous dread stealing over him as he thought of seeing that hut not long before, and of how likely it was that mr marston was right. a strange sense of shock and horror came over dick as he now seemed to realise, for the first time, that he was one of a party engaged in hunting down dave gittan, the man who had always been to him as a friend, the companion of endless excursions over the mere; and his heart sank within him as he glanced round in search of an opportunity to land and get away from the horrible pursuit. but there was no escape, for he knew that the pursuers would not turn backward, and he glanced helplessly at where he could see tom tallington's face in the farther of the other boats, and responded to his wave of the hand. there was a stern relentless look in every face he saw, and he thought of how his father and mr marston had been shot, how first one and then another had been nearly burned in his bed, while their property was destroyed, and he felt the justice of the severe looks. but all the same there was a lingering liking for dave, and he felt disposed to stand up in his defence and say it was impossible that he could have done these things, though all the time, as he ran over the matters in his mind, he began to recall various suspicious incidents, and to think that, perhaps, they were right. one thing buoyed him up though, and that was the thought that they were not going straight to the decoy-man's hut, and perhaps through this delay he might escape. it was a vain hope, one which was swept away directly after, for hickathrift whispered: "we went straight to his plaace to try and ketch him, but he slipped away in his poont, and dodged us about in the dark, till mester marston held out that he was makking for the far part of the fen, and we followed him theer, but lost all sound on him, and then you know, mester dick, we fun you." with a stern effort to be firm dick watched the progress of the punt toward the island that was to have been his abode when he felt huffed at home, and wondered whether dave were there now. "he isn't there," thought dick; and he turned to telegraph a look at tom tallington, who he felt sure would be as anxious as himself about dave's escape. "do you want tom tallington?" said his father, who, though apparently paying no attention, had noted every exchange of glances. "yes, father; there is more room here," said dick boldly. the squire made a sign to hickathrift, who ceased poling, and the other two boats came up on either side. "come in here, tom," said dick eagerly. tom obeyed with alacrity and stepped on board, while in short decisive tones the squire spoke: "we will divide now, and approach on three sides. you, marston, and you, tallington, get well over so as to command a view all round, for this man must not escape." "escape! no!" said farmer tallington fiercely. "if he is there, i don't think he will escape," said mr marston sternly. "hah!" ejaculated the squire; "that is one reason why i waited for you both to come up. now, gentlemen, and you, my good fellows, listen. there must be no violence." "no violence, eh!" said farmer tallington. "didn't he bon my place?" "and shoot me?" said mr marston sternly. "yes, and his is evidently the hand which has committed a score of outrages, but all the same we must act as if we were the officers of the law: seize, bind, and hand him over to justice unhurt." there was a low murmur from the drain-men in mr marston's boat. "yes, and that is why i speak," said the squire firmly. "i am leader here, and i insist upon this man being taken uninjured. let the law deal with him. it is not our duty to punish him for the crimes." there was another low murmur here, but the squire paid no heed and went on: "in the first place, not a shot is to be fired." "not if he shutes at us?" cried farmer tallington. "no: not even if he fires at any of us. if he should draw trigger, rush in and seize him before he has time to reload, and then, with no more violence than is necessary, let him be bound." "well," said farmer tallington, "perhaps you're reight neighbour; and as long as he is punished i don't know as i mind much how it's done." "then we all understand each other, and you, my men, i shall hold you answerable for any injury this man receives." "what! mayn't us knock him down, squire?" grumbled the big wheelwright. "of course you may, hickathrift. stun him if you like; he will be the easier to bind." "hey, that's better, lads," cried the wheelwright, brightening up. "squire's talking sense now." "but he'll shoot his sen oop in yon hut, squire, and fire at us and bring us down." "there will only be time for one shot, mr tallington," said marston quietly, "and we can fetch him out before he has a chance to reload. mr winthorpe is right." "oh well, i wean't stick out," said the farmer rather sulkily; "but dave's a rare good shot and one of us will hev to go home flat on his back before we get up to yon wood." "he will not dare to fire," said the squire firmly. "i do not agree with you, mr winthorpe," said marston. "the man is desperate, and he will do anything now to escape." "and if he can't," cried farmer tallington, "he'll die like a rat in a corner, biting, so look out. he's got that long gun of his loaded and ready for the first man who goes up to yon hut, and that man arn't me." "i will go up first," said the squire quietly; "and he will not dare to fire." "bud he hev dared to fire, mester," said the wheelwright. "yes, at those who did not see him lurking in some hiding-place, but he will not dare to fire now." "he can't fire, father," cried dick excitedly. "why?" "because i have his gun here in the boat." "what?" cried the squire; and the matter was explained. there was no further hesitation. the boats divided as if going to the attack upon some fort, and after giving the others time to get well on either side of the island, the squire gave hickathrift orders to go on, and the punt glided swiftly toward the shore. "you two boys lie down in the bottom of the boat," said the squire. "oh, father!" exclaimed dick, as tom slowly obeyed. "what is it, dick?" "it seems so cowardly." "it is more cowardly to risk life unnecessarily for the sake of bravado," said his father; and then, reading the look upon his son's face, the squire continued with a sad smile: "i am captain of this little expedition, dick, and the captain must lead." dick never felt half so much inclined to disobey his father before, as he slowly took his place in the bottom of the punt, while hickathrift sent it forward so quickly that it was the first to touch the gravelly shore. when the squire sprang out hickathrift followed him, after driving down the pole and securing the boat. "i say, tom," said dick. "i say, dick," replied tom. "do you think he would be very cross if we went after them? i do want to see." tom shook his head, and, landing, sat down on the edge of the boat, dick following and seating himself beside his companion, to watch his father steadily approach the hut, of which not so much as a glimpse could be obtained, so closely was it hidden among the trees. by this time the squire was half-way to the fir-wood, and dick could bear it no longer. "how could i meet mother," he cried angrily, "if i let him go alone like that?" "but he can't be shot," said tom. "no, but he may be hurt," retorted dick; and he ran eagerly after his father. "and so may my father be hurt," said tom as soon as he was left alone; and he looked in the direction by which farmer tallington must approach the wood, but no one was visible there, and he ran rapidly after his companion and rejoined him just as he was following his father into the wood. the morning sun shone brilliantly without, but as soon as they were in the wood they seemed to have entered upon a dusky twilight, cut here and there by brilliant shafts and bands which struck the ground in places and made broad patches of golden hue. no word was spoken, and in the dim wood with the rustling increasing, the scene in some way suggested to dick the fen during the night when he was listening to the passing of the punt--evidently dave's--and he fell a-wondering whether the decoy-man was now far away on the other side of the mere. "that you, squire?" shouted farmer tallington from the trees beyond the hut, which now appeared before them, sombre and gloomy, half hidden by the growth. "yes, we are here," was the reply. "he's in here some'ere's, for his poont's ashore." "where are you?" came from the other side, and, guided by the voices, marston soon came up, with his men. the squire gave a short sharp order, and the two parties separated, so as to surround the little hut. tom whispered to dick what he was already thinking. "why, dick, old dave's as cunning as a rat, and could slip through there easy." the moment the place was surrounded the squire gave a sharp glance back at his son, stepped forward, stooped down, and entered the low hut. hickathrift was close behind him, and the next moment he, too, had disappeared. "is he there, mr winthorpe?" cried marston excitedly; and he, too, stepped forward and entered the hut. "why, what's it all mean?" said farmer tallington impatiently; and he, too, stepped up to the low doorway and entered. "they're tying his hands and feet, tom," whispered dick excitedly; and unable to control himself he ran up to the door, followed by his schoolmate, but as he did so it was to encounter the squire coming out with a peculiarly solemn look upon his countenance. "isn't he there, father?" cried dick wonderingly. "yes, boy--no," said the squire solemnly, as the others came slowly out. "he managed to crawl here to die." chapter twenty seven. last words. it was a solemn party that returned to the toft that day: three boats, with the last propelled by hickathrift, towing another behind. that last punt was dave gittan's, and in it, later on, the man was taken to his last resting-place. at the inquiry it was found that dave had been mortally wounded by a bullet; and in this state he had managed to force his boat to his hut, and when pursued, to his lurking-place in the farther part of the fen, to lie down and die. who fired the shot which took his life? no one could say. five bullets were sent winging to stop his career on the night of his last insane act, when pretty well everything which would burn upon the toft was destroyed; but whose was the hand which pulled the trigger, and whose the eye which took the aim, was not divulged. dave had well kept his secret, and struggled hard to stay the advance of progress, but fought in vain, and with his fall almost the last opposition to the making of the great drain died out. there were old fen-men who murmured and declared that the place was being destroyed, but for the most part they lived to see that great drain and others made, and the wild morass become dry land upon which the plough turned up the black soil and the harrow smoothed, and great waving crops of corn took the place of those of reed. meadows, too, spread out around the toft, and farmer tallington's home at grimsey-- meads upon which pastured fine cattle; while in that part of the wide fen-land ague nearly died away. it was one evening twenty years later that a couple of stalwart well-dressed men, engineers engaged upon the cutting of another lode or drain many miles to the north, strolled down from the toft farm to have a chat with the great grey-haired wheelwright, who carried on a large business now that a village had sprung up in the fen. his delight was extreme to see the visitors, and they had hard work to extricate their ringers from his grip. "think of you two coming to see me now! it caps owt." "why, of course we've come to see you, hicky," said the taller of the two. "how well you look!" "well! hearty, mester dick, bless you! and the missus too. hearty as the squire and his lady, bless 'em. but your father looks sadly, mester tom, sir. he don't wear as i should like to see un. he's wankle." [sickly.] "rheumatism, hicky; that's all. he'll be better soon. i say, what's that--a summer-house?" said tom, pointing. "that, mester tom! why, you know?" "why, it's the old punt!" cried dick. "ay, it's the owd poont, mester dick. what games yow did hev in her too, eh?" "yes, hicky," said dick with a sigh. "ah! those were happy days." "they weer, lad; they weer. owd poont got dry and cracked, and of no use bud to go on the dreern, and who wanted to go on a dreern as had been used to the mere?" "no one, of course," said dick, gazing across the fields and meadows where he had once propelled the punt. "ay, no one, o' course, so jacob sawed her i' two one day, and we set her oop theer i' the garden for a summer-hoose, and jacob painted her green. i say, mester dick, ony think," added hickathrift, laughing violently. "think what? don't laugh like that, hicky, or you'll shake your head off." "nay, not i, my lad; but it do mak' me laugh." "what does?" "jacob's married!" "no!" "he is, mester dick, and theer's a babby." "never!" said dick, laughing, to humour the great fellow, who wiped his eyes and became quite solemn now. "yes, that he hes, mester dick, and you'd nivver guess what he's ca'd him." "jacob, of course." "nay, mester dick; he's ca'd him dave." dick and tom went down to the wheelwright's again next day to chat over old times--fishing, shooting, the netting at the decoy, and the like; and heard how john warren had lately died, a venerable old man, who confessed at last how he had helped dave gittan in some of the outrages when the drain was made, because he hated it, and said it would ruin honest men. but it was not to see john warren's nor dave gittan's grave that hickathrift led the young men to the one bit of waste land left, and there pointed to a wooden tablet nailed against a willow tree. "the squire give me leave, mester dick, and jacob and me buried him theer when he died. jacob painted his name on it, rather rough, but the best he could, and we'd hev put his age on it, as well as the date, if we'd ha' known." "how old was he, do you think, hicky?" said dick. "don't know, sir, but straange and old." "but why did you take so much interest in him? you never liked the donkey." "nay, bud you did, lad, and that was enough for me." "poor old solomon!" said dick, smiling at the recollections the rough tablet evoked; "how he could kick!" "and so you and young tom--i beg pardon, sir," said hicky, "mester tallington--are going to help mester marston wi the big dreerning out in cambridgeshire, eh?" "yes, hicky, ours is a busy life now; but we're beginning to find people more sensible about such matters. mr marston was laughing over it the other day, and saying that all the romance had gone out of our profession now there was no chance of getting shot." "weer he, now?" said hickathrift wonderingly. "think of a man liking to be shot at!" "oh, he does not like to be shot at, hicky! by the way, though, who was it shot dave gittan? come, now, you know." "owd dave gittan's been buried twenty year, mester dick, so let him rest." "rest! of course; but come--you do know?" "yes, mester dick," said the wheelwright stolidly. "i do know, but i sweered as i'd nivver tell, and i'll keep my word." "ah, well, i will not press you, hicky! it was a sad time." "ay, my lads, a sad time when a man maks war like that again his brothers wi' fire and sword, leastwise wi' goon. that theer fen was like a battlefield in them days, while now it's as pleasant a place to look upon as a man need wish to see." "a lovely landscape, hicky," said dick, gazing across the verdant plain. "ay, lad, and once all bog and watter, and hardly a tree from end to end." "a great change, hicky, showing what man can do." "ay, a great change, mester dick, but somehow theer are times when i get longing for the black watter and the wild birds, and all as it used to be." "yes, hicky," said dick almost sadly as he saw in memory's mirror the days of his boyhood; "but this is a world of change, man; we must look forward and not back." "ay, mester, dick, 'cause all's for the best." "yes, hicky, keep to that--all's for the best! come, tom; it's time we said good-bye to the old fen!" the end. the quest of the silver fleece _a novel_ w.e.b. du bois a.c. mcclurg & co. _contents_ the quest of the silver fleece _note from the author_ _one_: dreams _two_: the school _three_: miss mary taylor _four_: town _five_: zora _six_: cotton _seven_: the place of dreams _eight_: mr. harry cresswell _nine_: the planting _ten_: mr. taylor calls _eleven_: the flowering of the fleece _twelve_: the promise _thirteen_: mrs. grey gives a dinner _fourteen_: love _fifteen_: revelation _sixteen_: the great refusal _seventeen_: the rape of the fleece _eighteen_: the cotton corner _nineteen_: the dying of elspeth _twenty_: the weaving of the silver fleece _twenty-one_: the marriage morning _twenty-two_: miss caroline wynn _twenty-three_: the training of zora _twenty-four_: the education of alwyn _twenty-five_: the campaign _twenty-six_: congressman cresswell _twenty-seven_: the vision of zora _twenty-eight_: the annunciation _twenty-nine_: a master of fate _thirty_: the return of zora _thirty-one_: a parting of ways _thirty-two_: zora's way _thirty-three_: the buying of the swamp _thirty-four_: the return of alwyn _thirty-five_: the cotton mill _thirty-six_: the land _thirty-seven_: the mob _thirty-eight_: atonement the quest of the silver fleece to one whose name may not be written but to whose tireless faith the shaping of these cruder thoughts to forms more fitly perfect is doubtless due, this finished work is herewith dedicated _note_ he who would tell a tale must look toward three ideals: to tell it well, to tell it beautifully, and to tell the truth. the first is the gift of god, the second is the vision of genius, but the third is the reward of honesty. in _the quest of the silver fleece_ there is little, i ween, divine or ingenious; but, at least, i have been honest. in no fact or picture have i consciously set down aught the counterpart of which i have not seen or known; and whatever the finished picture may lack of completeness, this lack is due now to the story-teller, now to the artist, but never to the herald of the truth. new york city _august , _ the author _one_ dreams night fell. the red waters of the swamp grew sinister and sullen. the tall pines lost their slimness and stood in wide blurred blotches all across the way, and a great shadowy bird arose, wheeled and melted, murmuring, into the black-green sky. the boy wearily dropped his heavy bundle and stood still, listening as the voice of crickets split the shadows and made the silence audible. a tear wandered down his brown cheek. they were at supper now, he whispered--the father and old mother, away back yonder beyond the night. they were far away; they would never be as near as once they had been, for he had stepped into the world. and the cat and old billy--ah, but the world was a lonely thing, so wide and tall and empty! and so bare, so bitter bare! somehow he had never dreamed of the world as lonely before; he had fared forth to beckoning hands and luring, and to the eager hum of human voices, as of some great, swelling music. yet now he was alone; the empty night was closing all about him here in a strange land, and he was afraid. the bundle with his earthly treasure had hung heavy and heavier on his shoulder; his little horde of money was tightly wadded in his sock, and the school lay hidden somewhere far away in the shadows. he wondered how far it was; he looked and harkened, starting at his own heartbeats, and fearing more and more the long dark fingers of the night. then of a sudden up from the darkness came music. it was human music, but of a wildness and a weirdness that startled the boy as it fluttered and danced across the dull red waters of the swamp. he hesitated, then impelled by some strange power, left the highway and slipped into the forest of the swamp, shrinking, yet following the song hungrily and half forgetting his fear. a harsher, shriller note struck in as of many and ruder voices; but above it flew the first sweet music, birdlike, abandoned, and the boy crept closer. the cabin crouched ragged and black at the edge of black waters. an old chimney leaned drunkenly against it, raging with fire and smoke, while through the chinks winked red gleams of warmth and wild cheer. with a revel of shouting and noise, the music suddenly ceased. hoarse staccato cries and peals of laughter shook the old hut, and as the boy stood there peering through the black trees, abruptly the door flew open and a flood of light illumined the wood. amid this mighty halo, as on clouds of flame, a girl was dancing. she was black, and lithe, and tall, and willowy. her garments twined and flew around the delicate moulding of her dark, young, half-naked limbs. a heavy mass of hair clung motionless to her wide forehead. her arms twirled and flickered, and body and soul seemed quivering and whirring in the poetry of her motion. as she danced she sang. he heard her voice as before, fluttering like a bird's in the full sweetness of her utter music. it was no tune nor melody, it was just formless, boundless music. the boy forgot himself and all the world besides. all his darkness was sudden light; dazzled he crept forward, bewildered, fascinated, until with one last wild whirl the elf-girl paused. the crimson light fell full upon the warm and velvet bronze of her face--her midnight eyes were aglow, her full purple lips apart, her half hid bosom panting, and all the music dead. involuntarily the boy gave a gasping cry and awoke to swamp and night and fire, while a white face, drawn, red-eyed, peered outward from some hidden throng within the cabin. "who's that?" a harsh voice cried. "where?" "who is it?" and pale crowding faces blurred the light. the boy wheeled blindly and fled in terror stumbling through the swamp, hearing strange sounds and feeling stealthy creeping hands and arms and whispering voices. on he toiled in mad haste, struggling toward the road and losing it until finally beneath the shadows of a mighty oak he sank exhausted. there he lay a while trembling and at last drifted into dreamless sleep. it was morning when he awoke and threw a startled glance upward to the twisted branches of the oak that bent above, sifting down sunshine on his brown face and close curled hair. slowly he remembered the loneliness, the fear and wild running through the dark. he laughed in the bold courage of day and stretched himself. then suddenly he bethought him again of that vision of the night--the waving arms and flying limbs of the girl, and her great black eyes looking into the night and calling him. he could hear her now, and hear that wondrous savage music. had it been real? had he dreamed? or had it been some witch-vision of the night, come to tempt and lure him to his undoing? where was that black and flaming cabin? where was the girl--the soul that had called him? _she_ must have been real; she had to live and dance and sing; he must again look into the mystery of her great eyes. and he sat up in sudden determination, and, lo! gazed straight into the very eyes of his dreaming. she sat not four feet from him, leaning against the great tree, her eyes now languorously abstracted, now alert and quizzical with mischief. she seemed but half-clothed, and her warm, dark flesh peeped furtively through the rent gown; her thick, crisp hair was frowsy and rumpled, and the long curves of her bare young arms gleamed in the morning sunshine, glowing with vigor and life. a little mocking smile came and sat upon her lips. "what you run for?" she asked, with dancing mischief in her eyes. "because--" he hesitated, and his cheeks grew hot. "i knows," she said, with impish glee, laughing low music. "why?" he challenged, sturdily. "you was a-feared." he bridled. "well, i reckon you'd be a-feared if you was caught out in the black dark all alone." "pooh!" she scoffed and hugged her knees. "pooh! i've stayed out all alone heaps o' nights." he looked at her with a curious awe. "i don't believe you," he asserted; but she tossed her head and her eyes grew scornful. "who's a-feared of the dark? i love night." her eyes grew soft. he watched her silently, till, waking from her daydream, she abruptly asked: "where you from?" "georgia." "where's that?" he looked at her in surprise, but she seemed matter-of-fact. "it's away over yonder," he answered. "behind where the sun comes up?" "oh, no!" "then it ain't so far," she declared. "i knows where the sun rises, and i knows where it sets." she looked up at its gleaming splendor glinting through the leaves, and, noting its height, announced abruptly: "i'se hungry." "so'm i," answered the boy, fumbling at his bundle; and then, timidly: "will you eat with me?" "yes," she said, and watched him with eager eyes. untying the strips of cloth, he opened his box, and disclosed chicken and biscuits, ham and corn-bread. she clapped her hands in glee. "is there any water near?" he asked. without a word, she bounded up and flitted off like a brown bird, gleaming dull-golden in the sun, glancing in and out among the trees, till she paused above a tiny black pool, and then came tripping and swaying back with hands held cupwise and dripping with cool water. "drink," she cried. obediently he bent over the little hands that seemed so soft and thin. he took a deep draught; and then to drain the last drop, his hands touched hers and the shock of flesh first meeting flesh startled them both, while the water rained through. a moment their eyes looked deep into each other's--a timid, startled gleam in hers; a wonder in his. then she said dreamily: "we'se known us all our lives, and--before, ain't we?" he hesitated. "ye--es--i reckon," he slowly returned. and then, brightening, he asked gayly: "and we'll be friends always, won't we?" "yes," she said at last, slowly and solemnly, and another brief moment they stood still. then the mischief danced in her eyes, and a song bubbled on her lips. she hopped to the tree. "come--eat!" she cried. and they nestled together amid the big black roots of the oak, laughing and talking while they ate. "what's over there?" he asked pointing northward. "cresswell's big house." "and yonder to the west?" "the school." he started joyfully. "the school! what school?" "old miss' school." "miss smith's school?" "yes." the tone was disdainful. "why, that's where i'm going. i was a-feared it was a long way off; i must have passed it in the night." "i hate it!" cried the girl, her lips tense. "but i'll be so near," he explained. "and why do you hate it?" "yes--you'll be near," she admitted; "that'll be nice; but--" she glanced westward, and the fierce look faded. soft joy crept to her face again, and she sat once more dreaming. "yon way's nicest," she said. "why, what's there?" "the swamp," she said mysteriously. "and what's beyond the swamp?" she crouched beside him and whispered in eager, tense tones: "dreams!" he looked at her, puzzled. "dreams?" vaguely--"dreams? why, dreams ain't--nothing." "oh, yes they is!" she insisted, her eyes flaming in misty radiance as she sat staring beyond the shadows of the swamp. "yes they is! there ain't nothing but dreams--that is, nothing much. "and over yonder behind the swamps is great fields full of dreams, piled high and burning; and right amongst them the sun, when he's tired o' night, whispers and drops red things, 'cept when devils make 'em black." the boy stared at her; he knew not whether to jeer or wonder. "how you know?" he asked at last, skeptically. "promise you won't tell?" "yes," he answered. she cuddled into a little heap, nursing her knees, and answered slowly. "i goes there sometimes. i creeps in 'mongst the dreams; they hangs there like big flowers, dripping dew and sugar and blood--red, red blood. and there's little fairies there that hop about and sing, and devils--great, ugly devils that grabs at you and roasts and eats you if they gits you; but they don't git me. some devils is big and white, like ha'nts; some is long and shiny, like creepy, slippery snakes; and some is little and broad and black, and they yells--" the boy was listening in incredulous curiosity, half minded to laugh, half minded to edge away from the black-red radiance of yonder dusky swamp. he glanced furtively backward, and his heart gave a great bound. "some is little and broad and black, and they yells--" chanted the girl. and as she chanted, deep, harsh tones came booming through the forest: "_zo-ra! zo-ra!_ o--o--oh, zora!" he saw far behind him, toward the shadows of the swamp, an old woman--short, broad, black and wrinkled, with fangs and pendulous lips and red, wicked eyes. his heart bounded in sudden fear; he wheeled toward the girl, and caught only the uncertain flash of her garments--the wood was silent, and he was alone. he arose, startled, quickly gathered his bundle, and looked around him. the sun was strong and high, the morning fresh and vigorous. stamping one foot angrily, he strode jauntily out of the wood toward the big road. but ever and anon he glanced curiously back. had he seen a haunt? or was the elf-girl real? and then he thought of her words: "we'se known us all our lives." _two_ the school day was breaking above the white buildings of the negro school and throwing long, low lines of gold in at miss sarah smith's front window. she lay in the stupor of her last morning nap, after a night of harrowing worry. then, even as she partially awoke, she lay still with closed eyes, feeling the shadow of some great burden, yet daring not to rouse herself and recall its exact form; slowly again she drifted toward unconsciousness. "_bang! bang! bang!_" hard knuckles were beating upon the door below. she heard drowsily, and dreamed that it was the nailing up of all her doors; but she did not care much, and but feebly warded the blows away, for she was very tired. "_bang! bang! bang!_" persisted the hard knuckles. she started up, and her eye fell upon a letter lying on her bureau. back she sank with a sigh, and lay staring at the ceiling--a gaunt, flat, sad-eyed creature, with wisps of gray hair half-covering her baldness, and a face furrowed with care and gathering years. it was thirty years ago this day, she recalled, since she first came to this broad land of shade and shine in alabama to teach black folks. it had been a hard beginning with suspicion and squalor around; with poverty within and without the first white walls of the new school home. yet somehow the struggle then with all its helplessness and disappointment had not seemed so bitter as today: then failure meant but little, now it seemed to mean everything; then it meant disappointment to a score of ragged urchins, now it meant two hundred boys and girls, the spirits of a thousand gone before and the hopes of thousands to come. in her imagination the significance of these half dozen gleaming buildings perched aloft seemed portentous--big with the destiny not simply of a county and a state, but of a race--a nation--a world. it was god's own cause, and yet-- "_bang! bang! bang!_" again went the hard knuckles down there at the front. miss smith slowly arose, shivering a bit and wondering who could possibly be rapping at that time in the morning. she sniffed the chilling air and was sure she caught some lingering perfume from mrs. vanderpool's gown. she had brought this rich and rare-apparelled lady up here yesterday, because it was more private, and here she had poured forth her needs. she had talked long and in deadly earnest. she had not spoken of the endowment for which she had hoped so desperately during a quarter of a century--no, only for the five thousand dollars to buy the long needed new land. it was so little--so little beside what this woman squandered-- the insistent knocking was repeated louder than before. "sakes alive," cried miss smith, throwing a shawl about her and leaning out the window. "who is it, and what do you want?" "please, ma'am. i've come to school," answered a tall black boy with a bundle. "well, why don't you go to the office?" then she saw his face and hesitated. she felt again the old motherly instinct to be the first to welcome the new pupil; a luxury which, in later years, the endless push of details had denied her. "wait!" she cried shortly, and began to dress. a new boy, she mused. yes, every day they straggled in; every day came the call for more, more--this great, growing thirst to know--to do--to be. and yet that woman had sat right here, aloof, imperturbable, listening only courteously. when miss smith finished, she had paused and, flicking her glove,-- "my dear miss smith," she said softly, with a tone that just escaped a drawl--"my dear miss smith, your work is interesting and your faith--marvellous; but, frankly, i cannot make myself believe in it. you are trying to treat these funny little monkeys just as you would your own children--or even mine. it's quite heroic, of course, but it's sheer madness, and i do not feel i ought to encourage it. i would not mind a thousand or so to train a good cook for the cresswells, or a clean and faithful maid for myself--for helene has faults--or indeed deft and tractable laboring-folk for any one; but i'm quite through trying to turn natural servants into masters of me and mine. i--hope i'm not too blunt; i hope i make myself clear. you know, statistics show--" "drat statistics!" miss smith had flashed impatiently. "these are folks." mrs. vanderpool smiled indulgently. "to be sure," she murmured, "but what sort of folks?" "god's sort." "oh, well--" but miss smith had the bit in her teeth and could not have stopped. she was paying high for the privilege of talking, but it had to be said. "god's sort, mrs. vanderpool--not the sort that think of the world as arranged for their exclusive benefit and comfort." "well, i do want to count--" miss smith bent forward--not a beautiful pose, but earnest. "i want you to count, and i want to count, too; but i don't want us to be the only ones that count. i want to live in a world where every soul counts--white, black, and yellow--all. _that's_ what i'm teaching these children here--to count, and not to be like dumb, driven cattle. if you don't believe in this, of course you cannot help us." "your spirit is admirable, miss smith," she had said very softly; "i only wish i could feel as you do. good-afternoon," and she had rustled gently down the narrow stairs, leaving an all but imperceptible suggestion of perfume. miss smith could smell it yet as she went down this morning. the breakfast bell jangled. "five thousand dollars," she kept repeating to herself, greeting the teachers absently--"five thousand dollars." and then on the porch she was suddenly aware of the awaiting boy. she eyed him critically: black, fifteen, country-bred, strong, clear-eyed. "well?" she asked in that brusque manner wherewith her natural timidity was wont to mask her kindness. "well, sir?" "i've come to school." "humph--we can't teach boys for nothing." the boy straightened. "i can pay my way," he returned. "you mean you can pay what we ask?" "why, yes. ain't that all?" "no. the rest is gathered from the crumbs of dives' table." then he saw the twinkle in her eyes. she laid her hand gently upon his shoulder. "if you don't hurry you'll be late to breakfast," she said with an air of confidence. "see those boys over there? follow them, and at noon come to the office--wait! what's your name?" "blessed alwyn," he answered, and the passing teachers smiled. _three_ miss mary taylor miss mary taylor did not take a college course for the purpose of teaching negroes. not that she objected to negroes as human beings--quite the contrary. in the debate between the senior societies her defence of the fifteenth amendment had been not only a notable bit of reasoning, but delivered with real enthusiasm. nevertheless, when the end of the summer came and the only opening facing her was the teaching of children at miss smith's experiment in the alabama swamps, it must be frankly confessed that miss taylor was disappointed. her dream had been a post-graduate course at bryn mawr; but that was out of the question until money was earned. she had pictured herself earning this by teaching one or two of her "specialties" in some private school near new york or boston, or even in a western college. the south she had not thought of seriously; and yet, knowing of its delightful hospitality and mild climate, she was not averse to charleston or new orleans. but from the offer that came to teach negroes--country negroes, and little ones at that--she shrank, and, indeed, probably would have refused it out of hand had it not been for her queer brother, john. john taylor, who had supported her through college, was interested in cotton. having certain schemes in mind, he had been struck by the fact that the smith school was in the midst of the alabama cotton-belt. "better go," he had counselled, sententiously. "might learn something useful down there." she had been not a little dismayed by the outlook, and had protested against his blunt insistence. "but, john, there's no society--just elementary work--" john had met this objection with, "humph!" as he left for his office. next day he had returned to the subject. "been looking up tooms county. find some cresswells there--big plantations--rated at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. some others, too; big cotton county." "you ought to know, john, if i teach negroes i'll scarcely see much of people in my own class." "nonsense! butt in. show off. give 'em your greek--and study cotton. at any rate, i say go." and so, howsoever reluctantly, she had gone. the trial was all she had anticipated, and possibly a bit more. she was a pretty young woman of twenty-three, fair and rather daintily moulded. in favorable surroundings, she would have been an aristocrat and an epicure. here she was teaching dirty children, and the smell of confused odors and bodily perspiration was to her at times unbearable. then there was the fact of their color: it was a fact so insistent, so fatal she almost said at times, that she could not escape it. theoretically she had always treated it with disdainful ease. "what's the mere color of a human soul's skin," she had cried to a wellesley audience and the audience had applauded with enthusiasm. but here in alabama, brought closely and intimately in touch with these dark skinned children, their color struck her at first with a sort of terror--it seemed ominous and forbidding. she found herself shrinking away and gripping herself lest they should perceive. she could not help but think that in most other things they were as different from her as in color. she groped for new ways to teach colored brains and marshal colored thoughts and the result was puzzling both to teacher and student. with the other teachers she had little commerce. they were in no sense her sort of folk. miss smith represented the older new england of her parents--honest, inscrutable, determined, with a conscience which she worshipped, and utterly unselfish. she appealed to miss taylor's ruddier and daintier vision but dimly and distantly as some memory of the past. the other teachers were indistinct personalities, always very busy and very tired, and talking "school-room" with their meals. miss taylor was soon starving for human companionship, for the lighter touches of life and some of its warmth and laughter. she wanted a glance of the new books and periodicals and talk of great philanthropies and reforms. she felt out of the world, shut in and mentally anæmic; great as the "negro problem" might be as a world problem, it looked sordid and small at close range. so for the hundredth time she was thinking today, as she walked alone up the lane back of the barn, and then slowly down through the bottoms. she paused a moment and nodded to the two boys at work in a young cotton field. "cotton!" she paused. she remembered with what interest she had always read of this little thread of the world. she had almost forgotten that it was here within touch and sight. for a moment something of the vision of cotton was mirrored in her mind. the glimmering sea of delicate leaves whispered and murmured before her, stretching away to the northward. she remembered that beyond this little world it stretched on and on--how far she did not know--but on and on in a great trembling sea, and the foam of its mighty waters would one time flood the ends of the earth. she glimpsed all this with parted lips, and then sighed impatiently. there might be a bit of poetry here and there, but most of this place was such desperate prose. she glanced absently at the boys. one was bles alwyn, a tall black lad. (bles, she mused,--now who would think of naming a boy "blessed," save these incomprehensible creatures!) her regard shifted to the green stalks and leaves again, and she started to move away. then her new england conscience stepped in. she ought not to pass these students without a word of encouragement or instruction. "cotton is a wonderful thing, is it not, boys?" she said rather primly. the boys touched their hats and murmured something indistinctly. miss taylor did not know much about cotton, but at least one more remark seemed called for. "how long before the stalks will be ready to cut?" she asked carelessly. the farther boy coughed and bles raised his eyes and looked at her; then after a pause he answered slowly. (oh! these people were so slow--now a new england boy would have answered and asked a half-dozen questions in the time.) "i--i don't know," he faltered. "don't know! well, of all things!" inwardly commented miss taylor--"literally born in cotton, and--oh, well," as much as to ask, "what's the use?" she turned again to go. "what is planted over there?" she asked, although she really didn't care. "goobers," answered the smaller boy. "goobers?" uncomprehendingly. "peanuts," bles specified. "oh!" murmured miss taylor. "i see there are none on the vines yet. i suppose, though, it's too early for them." then came the explosion. the smaller boy just snorted with irrepressible laughter and bolted across the fields. and bles--was miss taylor deceived?--or was he chuckling? she reddened, drew herself up, and then, dropping her primness, rippled with laughter. "what is the matter, bles?" she asked. he looked at her with twinkling eyes. "well, you see, miss taylor, it's like this: farming don't seem to be your specialty." the word was often on miss taylor's lips, and she recognized it. despite herself she smiled again. "of course, it isn't--i don't know anything about farming. but what did i say so funny?" bles was now laughing outright. "why, miss taylor! i declare! goobers don't grow on the tops of vines, but underground on the roots--like yams." "is that so?" "yes, and we--we don't pick cotton stalks except for kindling." "i must have been thinking of hemp. but tell me more about cotton." his eyes lighted, for cotton was to him a very real and beautiful thing, and a life-long companion, yet not one whose friendship had been coarsened and killed by heavy toil. he leaned against his hoe and talked half dreamily--where had he learned so well that dream-talk? "we turn up the earth and sow it soon after christmas. then pretty soon there comes a sort of greenness on the black land and it swells and grows and, and--shivers. then stalks shoot up with three or four leaves. that's the way it is now, see? after that we chop out the weak stalks, and the strong ones grow tall and dark, till i think it must be like the ocean--all green and billowy; then come little flecks here and there and the sea is all filled with flowers--flowers like little bells, blue and purple and white." "ah! that must be beautiful," sighed miss taylor, wistfully, sinking to the ground and clasping her hands about her knees. "yes, ma'am. but it's prettiest when the bolls come and swell and burst, and the cotton covers the field like foam, all misty--" she bent wondering over the pale plants. the poetry of the thing began to sing within her, awakening her unpoetic imagination, and she murmured: "the golden fleece--it's the silver fleece!" he harkened. "what's that?" he asked. "have you never heard of the golden fleece, bles?" "no, ma'am," he said eagerly; then glancing up toward the cresswell fields, he saw two white men watching them. he grasped his hoe and started briskly to work. "some time you'll tell me, please, won't you?" she glanced at her watch in surprise and arose hastily. "yes, with pleasure," she said moving away--at first very fast, and then more and more slowly up the lane, with a puzzled look on her face. she began to realize that in this pleasant little chat the fact of the boy's color had quite escaped her; and what especially puzzled her was that this had not happened before. she had been here four months, and yet every moment up to now she seemed to have been vividly, almost painfully conscious, that she was a white woman talking to black folk. now, for one little half-hour she had been a woman talking to a boy--no, not even that: she had been talking--just talking; there were no persons in the conversation, just things--one thing: cotton. she started thinking of cotton--but at once she pulled herself back to the other aspect. always before she had been veiled from these folk: who had put the veil there? had she herself hung it before her soul, or had they hidden timidly behind its other side? or was it simply a brute fact, regardless of both of them? the longer she thought, the more bewildered she grew. there seemed no analogy that she knew. here was a unique thing, and she climbed to her bedroom and stared at the stars. _four_ town john taylor had written to his sister. he wanted information, very definite information, about tooms county cotton; about its stores, its people--especially its people. he propounded a dozen questions, sharp, searching questions, and he wanted the answers tomorrow. impossible! thought miss taylor. he had calculated on her getting this letter yesterday, forgetting that their mail was fetched once a day from the town, four miles away. then, too, she did not know all these matters and knew no one who did. did john think she had nothing else to do? and sighing at the thought of to-morrow's drudgery, she determined to consult miss smith in the morning. miss smith suggested a drive to town--bles could take her in the top-buggy after school--and she could consult some of the merchants and business men. she could then write her letter and mail it there; it would be but a day or so late getting to new york. "of course," said miss smith drily, slowly folding her napkin, "of course, the only people here are the cresswells." "oh, yes," said miss taylor invitingly. there was an allurement about this all-pervasive name; it held her by a growing fascination and she was anxious for the older woman to amplify. miss smith, however, remained provokingly silent, so miss taylor essayed further. "what sort of people are the cresswells?" she asked. "the old man's a fool; the young one a rascal; the girl a ninny," was miss smith's succinct and acid classification of the county's first family; adding, as she rose, "but they own us body and soul." she hurried out of the dining-room without further remark. miss smith was more patient with black folk than with white. the sun was hanging just above the tallest trees of the swamp when miss taylor, weary with the day's work, climbed into the buggy beside bles. they wheeled comfortably down the road, leaving the sombre swamp, with its black-green, to the right, and heading toward the golden-green of waving cotton fields. miss taylor lay back, listlessly, and drank the soft warm air of the languorous spring. she thought of the golden sheen of the cotton, and the cold march winds of new england; of her brother who apparently noted nothing of leaves and winds and seasons; and of the mighty cresswells whom miss smith so evidently disliked. suddenly she became aware of her long silence and the silence of the boy. "bles," she began didactically, "where are you from?" he glanced across at her and answered shortly: "georgia, ma'am," and was silent. the girl tried again. "georgia is a large state,"--tentatively. "yes, ma'am." "are you going back there when you finish?" "i don't know." "i think you ought to--and work for your people." "yes, ma'am." she stopped, puzzled, and looked about. the old horse jogged lazily on, and bles switched him unavailingly. somehow she had missed the way today. the veil hung thick, sombre, impenetrable. well, she had done her duty, and slowly she nestled back and watched the far-off green and golden radiance of the cotton. "bles," she said impulsively, "shall i tell you of the golden fleece?" he glanced at her again. "yes'm, please," he said. she settled herself almost luxuriously, and began the story of jason and the argonauts. the boy remained silent. and when she had finished, he still sat silent, elbow on knee, absently flicking the jogging horse and staring ahead at the horizon. she looked at him doubtfully with some disappointment that his hearing had apparently shared so little of the joy of her telling; and, too, there was mingled a vague sense of having lowered herself to too familiar fellowship with this--this boy. she straightened herself instinctively and thought of some remark that would restore proper relations. she had not found it before he said, slowly: "all yon is jason's." "what?" she asked, puzzled. he pointed with one sweep of his long arm to the quivering mass of green-gold foliage that swept from swamp to horizon. "all yon golden fleece is jason's now," he repeated. "i thought it was--cresswell's," she said. "that's what i mean." she suddenly understood that the story had sunk deeply. "i am glad to hear you say that," she said methodically, "for jason was a brave adventurer--" "i thought he was a thief." "oh, well--those were other times." "the cresswells are thieves now." miss taylor answered sharply. "bles, i am ashamed to hear you talk so of your neighbors simply because they are white." but bles continued. "this is the black sea," he said, pointing to the dull cabins that crouched here and there upon the earth, with the dark twinkling of their black folk darting out to see the strangers ride by. despite herself miss taylor caught the allegory and half whispered, "lo! the king himself!" as a black man almost rose from the tangled earth at their side. he was tall and thin and sombre-hued, with a carven face and thick gray hair. "your servant, mistress," he said, with a sweeping bow as he strode toward the swamp. miss taylor stopped him, for he looked interesting, and might answer some of her brother's questions. he turned back and stood regarding her with sorrowful eyes and ugly mouth. "do you live about here?" she asked. "i'se lived here a hundred years," he answered. she did not believe it; he might be seventy, eighty, or even ninety--indeed, there was about him that indefinable sense of age--some shadow of endless living; but a hundred seemed absurd. "you know the people pretty well, then?" "i knows dem all. i knows most of 'em better dan dey knows demselves. i knows a heap of tings in dis world and in de next." "this is a great cotton country?" "dey don't raise no cotton now to what dey used to when old gen'rel cresswell fust come from carolina; den it was a bale and a half to the acre on stalks dat looked like young brushwood. dat was cotton." "you know the cresswells, then?" "know dem? i knowed dem afore dey was born." "they are--wealthy people?" "dey rolls in money and dey'se quality, too. no shoddy upstarts dem, but born to purple, lady, born to purple. old gen'ral cresswell had niggers and acres no end back dere in carolina. he brung a part of dem here and here his son, de father of dis colonel cresswell, was born. de son--i knowed him well--he had a tousand niggers and ten tousand acres afore de war." "were they kind to their slaves?" "oh, yaas, yaas, ma'am, dey was careful of de're niggers and wouldn't let de drivers whip 'em much." "and these cresswells today?" "oh, dey're quality--high-blooded folks--dey'se lost some land and niggers, but, lordy, nuttin' can buy de cresswells, dey naturally owns de world." "are they honest and kind?" "oh, yaas, ma'am--dey'se good white folks." "good white folk?" "oh, yaas, ma'am--course you knows white folks will be white folks--white folks will be white folks. your servant, ma'am." and the swamp swallowed him. the boy's eyes followed him as he whipped up the horse. "he's going to elspeth's," he said. "who is he?" "we just call him old pappy--he's a preacher, and some folks say a conjure man, too." "and who is elspeth?" "she lives in the swamp--she's a kind of witch, i reckon, like--like--" "like medea?" "yes--only--i don't know--" and he grew thoughtful. the road turned now and far away to the eastward rose the first straggling cabins of the town. creeping toward them down the road rolled a dark squat figure. it grew and spread slowly on the horizon until it became a fat old black woman, hooded and aproned, with great round hips and massive bosom. her face was heavy and homely until she looked up and lifted the drooping cheeks, and then kindly old eyes beamed on the young teacher, as she curtsied and cried: "good-evening, honey! good-evening! you sure is pretty dis evening." "why, aunt rachel, how are you?" there was genuine pleasure in the girl's tone. "just tolerable, honey, bless de lord! rumatiz is kind o' bad and aunt rachel ain't so young as she use ter be." "and what brings you to town afoot this time of day?" the face fell again to dull care and the old eyes crept away. she fumbled with her cane. "it's de boys again, honey," she returned solemnly; "dey'se good boys, dey is good to de're old mammy, but dey'se high strung and dey gits fighting and drinking and--and--last saturday night dey got took up again. i'se been to jedge grey--i use to tote him on my knee, honey--i'se been to him to plead him not to let 'em go on de gang, 'cause you see, honey," and she stroked the girl's sleeve as if pleading with her, too, "you see it done ruins boys to put 'em on de gang." miss taylor tried hard to think of something comforting to say, but words seemed inadequate to cheer the old soul; but after a few moments they rode on, leaving the kind face again beaming and dimpling. and now the country town of toomsville lifted itself above the cotton and corn, fringed with dirty straggling cabins of black folk. the road swung past the iron watering trough, turned sharply and, after passing two or three pert cottages and a stately house, old and faded, opened into the wide square. here pulsed the very life and being of the land. yonder great bales of cotton, yellow-white in its soiled sacking, piled in lofty, dusty mountains, lay listening for the train that, twice a day, ran out to the greater world. round about, tied to the well-gnawed hitching rails, were rows of mules--mules with back cloths; mules with saddles; mules hitched to long wagons, buggies, and rickety gigs; mules munching golden ears of corn, and mules drooping their heads in sorrowful memory of better days. beyond the cotton warehouse smoked the chimneys of the seed-mill and the cotton-gin; a red livery-stable faced them and all about three sides of the square ran stores; big stores and small wide-windowed, narrow stores. some had old steps above the worn clay side-walks, and some were flush with the ground. all had a general sense of dilapidation--save one, the largest and most imposing, a three-story brick. this was caldwell's "emporium"; and here bles stopped and miss taylor entered. mr. caldwell himself hurried forward; and the whole store, clerks and customers, stood at attention, for miss taylor was yet new to the county. she bought a few trifles and then approached her main business. "my brother wants some information about the county, mr. caldwell, and i am only a teacher, and do not know much about conditions here." "ah! where do you teach?" asked mr. caldwell. he was certain he knew the teachers of all the white schools in the county. miss taylor told him. he stiffened slightly but perceptibly, like a man clicking the buckles of his ready armor, and two townswomen who listened gradually turned their backs, but remained near. "yes--yes," he said, with uncomfortable haste. "any--er--information--of course--" miss taylor got out her notes. "the leading land-owners," she began, sorting the notes searchingly, "i should like to know something about them." "well, colonel cresswell is, of course, our greatest landlord--a high-bred gentleman of the old school. he and his son--a worthy successor to the name--hold some fifty thousand acres. they may be considered representative types. then, mr. maxwell has ten thousand acres and mr. tolliver a thousand." miss taylor wrote rapidly. "and cotton?" she asked. "we raise considerable cotton, but not nearly what we ought to; nigger labor is too worthless." "oh! the negroes are not, then, very efficient?" "efficient!" snorted mr. caldwell; at last she had broached a phase of the problem upon which he could dilate with fervor. "they're the lowest-down, ornriest--begging your pardon--good-for-nothing loafers you ever heard of. why, we just have to carry them and care for them like children. look yonder," he pointed across the square to the court-house. it was an old square brick-and-stucco building, sombre and stilted and very dirty. out of it filed a stream of men--some black and shackled; some white and swaggering and liberal with tobacco-juice; some white and shaven and stiff. "court's just out," pursued mr. caldwell, "and them niggers have just been sent to the gang--young ones, too; educated but good for nothing. they're all that way." miss taylor looked up a little puzzled, and became aware of a battery of eyes and ears. everybody seemed craning and listening, and she felt a sudden embarrassment and a sense of half-veiled hostility in the air. with one or two further perfunctory questions, and a hasty expression of thanks, she escaped into the air. the whole square seemed loafing and lolling--the white world perched on stoops and chairs, in doorways and windows; the black world filtering down from doorways to side-walk and curb. the hot, dusty quadrangle stretched in dreary deadness toward the temple of the town, as if doing obeisance to the court-house. down the courthouse steps the sheriff, with winchester on shoulder, was bringing the last prisoner--a curly-headed boy with golden face and big brown frightened eyes. "it's one of dunn's boys," said bles. "he's drunk again, and they say he's been stealing. i expect he was hungry." and they wheeled out of the square. miss taylor was tired, and the hastily scribbled letter which she dropped into the post in passing was not as clearly expressed as she could wish. a great-voiced giant, brown and bearded, drove past them, roaring a hymn. he greeted bles with a comprehensive wave of the hand. "i guess tylor has been paid off," said bles, but miss taylor was too disgusted to answer. further on they overtook a tall young yellow boy walking awkwardly beside a handsome, bold-faced girl. two white men came riding by. one leered at the girl, and she laughed back, while the yellow boy strode sullenly ahead. as the two white riders approached the buggy one said to the other: "who's that nigger with?" "one of them nigger teachers." "well, they'll stop this damn riding around or they'll hear something," and they rode slowly by. miss taylor felt rather than heard their words, and she was uncomfortable. the sun fell fast; the long shadows of the swamp swept soft coolness on the red road. then afar in front a curled cloud of white dust arose and out of it came the sound of galloping horses. "who's this?" asked miss taylor. "the cresswells, i think; they usually ride to town about this time." but already miss taylor had descried the brown and tawny sides of the speeding horses. "good gracious!" she thought. "the cresswells!" and with it came a sudden desire not to meet them--just then. she glanced toward the swamp. the sun was sifting blood-red lances through the trees. a little wagon-road entered the wood and disappeared. miss taylor saw it. "let's see the sunset in the swamp," she said suddenly. on came the galloping horses. bles looked up in surprise, then silently turned into the swamp. the horses flew by, their hoof-beats dying in the distance. a dark green silence lay about them lit by mighty crimson glories beyond. miss taylor leaned back and watched it dreamily till a sense of oppression grew on her. the sun was sinking fast. "where does this road come out?" she asked at last. "it doesn't come out." "where does it go?" "it goes to elspeth's." "why, we must turn back immediately. i thought--" but bles was already turning. they were approaching the main road again when there came a fluttering as of a great bird beating its wings amid the forest. then a girl, lithe, dark brown, and tall, leaped lightly into the path with greetings on her lips for bles. at the sight of the lady she drew suddenly back and stood motionless regarding miss taylor, searching her with wide black liquid eyes. miss taylor was a little startled. "good--good-evening," she said, straightening herself. the girl was still silent and the horse stopped. one tense moment pulsed through all the swamp. then the girl, still motionless--still looking miss taylor through and through--said with slow deliberateness: "i hates you." the teacher in miss taylor strove to rebuke this unconventional greeting but the woman in her spoke first and asked almost before she knew it-- "why?" _five_ zora zora, child of the swamp, was a heathen hoyden of twelve wayward, untrained years. slight, straight, strong, full-blooded, she had dreamed her life away in wilful wandering through her dark and sombre kingdom until she was one with it in all its moods; mischievous, secretive, brooding; full of great and awful visions, steeped body and soul in wood-lore. her home was out of doors, the cabin of elspeth her port of call for talking and eating. she had not known, she had scarcely seen, a child of her own age until bles alwyn had fled from her dancing in the night, and she had searched and found him sleeping in the misty morning light. it was to her a strange new thing to see a fellow of like years with herself, and she gripped him to her soul in wild interest and new curiosity. yet this childish friendship was so new and incomprehensible a thing to her that she did not know how to express it. at first she pounced upon him in mirthful, almost impish glee, teasing and mocking and half scaring him, despite his fifteen years of young manhood. "yes, they is devils down yonder behind the swamp," she would whisper, warningly, when, after the first meeting, he had crept back again and again, half fascinated, half amused to greet her; "i'se seen 'em, i'se heard 'em, 'cause my mammy is a witch." the boy would sit and watch her wonderingly as she lay curled along the low branch of the mighty oak, clinging with little curved limbs and flying fingers. possessed by the spirit of her vision, she would chant, low-voiced, tremulous, mischievous: "one night a devil come to me on blue fire out of a big red flower that grows in the south swamp; he was tall and big and strong as anything, and when he spoke the trees shook and the stars fell. even mammy was afeared; and it takes a lot to make mammy afeared, 'cause she's a witch and can conjure. he said, 'i'll come when you die--i'll come when you die, and take the conjure off you,' and then he went away on a big fire." "shucks!" the boy would say, trying to express scornful disbelief when, in truth, he was awed and doubtful. always he would glance involuntarily back along the path behind him. then her low birdlike laughter would rise and ring through the trees. so passed a year, and there came the time when her wayward teasing and the almost painful thrill of her tale-telling nettled him and drove him away. for long months he did not meet her, until one day he saw her deep eyes fixed longingly upon him from a thicket in the swamp. he went and greeted her. but she said no word, sitting nested among the greenwood with passionate, proud silence, until he had sued long for peace; then in sudden new friendship she had taken his hand and led him through the swamp, showing him all the beauty of her swamp-world--great shadowy oaks and limpid pools, lone, naked trees and sweet flowers; the whispering and flitting of wild things, and the winging of furtive birds. she had dropped the impish mischief of her way, and up from beneath it rose a wistful, visionary tenderness; a mighty half-confessed, half-concealed, striving for unknown things. he seemed to have found a new friend. and today, after he had taken miss taylor home and supped, he came out in the twilight under the new moon and whistled the tremulous note that always brought her. "why did you speak so to miss taylor?" he asked, reproachfully. she considered the matter a moment. "you don't understand," she said. "you can't never understand. i can see right through people. you can't. you never had a witch for a mammy--did you?" "no." "well, then, you see i have to take care of you and see things for you." "zora," he said thoughtfully, "you must learn to read." "what for?" "so that you can read books and know lots of things." "don't white folks make books?" "yes--most of the books." "pooh! i knows more than they do now--a heap more." "in some ways you do; but they know things that give them power and wealth and make them rule." "no, no. they don't really rule; they just thinks they rule. they just got things--heavy, dead things. we black folks is got the _spirit_. we'se lighter and cunninger; we fly right through them; we go and come again just as we wants to. black folks is wonderful." he did not understand what she meant; but he knew what he wanted and he tried again. "even if white folks don't know everything they know different things from us, and we ought to know what they know." this appealed to her somewhat. "i don't believe they know much," she concluded; "but i'll learn to read and just see." "it will be hard work," he warned. but he had come prepared for acquiescence. he took a primer from his pocket and, lighting a match, showed her the alphabet. "learn those," he said. "what for?" she asked, looking at the letters disdainfully. "because that's the way," he said, as the light flared and went out. "i don't believe it," she disputed, disappearing in the wood and returning with a pine-knot. they lighted it and its smoky flame threw wavering shadows about. she turned the leaves till she came to a picture which she studied intently. "is this about this?" she asked, pointing alternately to reading and picture. "yes. and if you learn--" "read it," she commanded. he read the page. "again," she said, making him point out each word. then she read it after him, accurately, with more perfect expression. he stared at her. she took the book, and with a nod was gone. it was saturday and dark. she never asked bles to her home--to that mysterious black cabin in mid-swamp. he thought her ashamed of it, and delicately refrained from going. so tonight she slipped away, stopped and listened till she heard his footsteps on the pike, and then flew homeward. presently the old black cabin loomed before her with its wide flapping door. the old woman was bending over the fire, stirring some savory mess, and a yellow girl with a white baby on one arm was placing dishes on a rickety wooden table when zora suddenly and noiselessly entered the door. "come, is you? i 'lowed victuals would fetch you," grumbled the hag. but zora deigned no answer. she walked placidly to the table, where she took up a handful of cold corn-bread and meat, and then went over and curled up by the fire. elspeth and the girl talked and laughed coarsely, and the night wore on. by and by loud laughter and tramping came from the road--a sound of numerous footsteps. zora listened, leapt to her feet and started to the door. the old crone threw an epithet after her; but she flashed through the lighted doorway and was gone, followed by the oath and shouts from the approaching men. in the hut night fled with wild song and revel, and day dawned again. out from some fastness of the wood crept zora. she stopped and bathed in a pool, and combed her close-clung hair, then entered silently to breakfast. thus began in the dark swamp that primal battle with the word. she hated it and despised it, but her pride was in arms and her one great life friendship in the balance. she fought her way with a dogged persistence that brought word after word of praise and interest from bles. then, once well begun, her busy, eager mind flew with a rapidity that startled; the stories especially she devoured--tales of strange things and countries and men gripped her imagination and clung to her memory. "didn't i tell you there was lots to learn?" he asked once. "i knew it all," she retorted; "every bit. i'se thought it all before; only the little things is different--and i like the little, strange things." spring ripened to summer. she was reading well and writing some. "zora," he announced one morning under their forest oak, "you must go to school." she eyed him, surprised. "why?" "you've found some things worth knowing in this world, haven't you, zora?" "yes," she admitted. "but there are more--many, many more--worlds on worlds of things--you have not dreamed of." she stared at him, open-eyed, and a wonder crept upon her face battling with the old assurance. then she looked down at her bare brown feet and torn gown. "i've got a little money, zora," he said quickly. but she lifted her head. "i'll earn mine," she said. "how?" he asked doubtfully. "i'll pick cotton." "can you?" "course i can." "it's hard work." she hesitated. "i don't like to work," she mused. "you see, mammy's pappy was a king's son, and kings don't work. i don't work; mostly i dreams. but i can work, and i will--for the wonder things--and for you." so the summer yellowed and silvered into fall. all the vacation days bles worked on the farm, and zora read and dreamed and studied in the wood, until the land lay white with harvest. then, without warning, she appeared in the cotton-field beside bles, and picked. it was hot, sore work. the sun blazed; her bent and untrained back pained, and the soft little hands bled. but no complaint passed her lips; her hands never wavered, and her eyes met his steadily and gravely. she bade him good-night, cheerily, and then stole away to the wood, crouching beneath the great oak, and biting back the groans that trembled on her lips. often, she fell supperless to sleep, with two great tears creeping down her tired cheeks. when school-time came there was not yet money enough, for cotton-picking was not far advanced. yet zora would take no money from bles, and worked earnestly away. meantime there occurred to the boy the momentous question of clothes. had zora thought of them? he feared not. she knew little of clothes and cared less. so one day in town he dropped into caldwell's "emporium" and glanced hesitantly at certain ready-made dresses. one caught his eye. it came from the great easterly mills in new england and was red--a vivid red. the glowing warmth of this cloth of cotton caught the eye of bles, and he bought the gown for a dollar and a half. he carried it to zora in the wood, and unrolled it before her eyes that danced with glad tears. of course, it was long and wide; but he fetched needle and thread and scissors, too. it was a full month after school had begun when they, together back in the swamp, shadowed by the foliage, began to fashion the wonderful garment. at the same time she laid ten dollars of her first hard-earned money in his hands. "you can finish the first year with this money," bles assured her, delighted, "and then next year you must come in to board; because, you see, when you're educated you won't want to live in the swamp." "i wants to live here always." "but not at elspeth's." "no-o--not there, not there." and a troubled questioning trembled in her eyes, but brought no answering thought in his, for he was busy with his plans. "then, you see, zora, if you stay here you'll need a new house, and you'll want to learn how to make it beautiful." "yes, a beautiful, great castle here in the swamp," she dreamed; "but," and her face fell, "i can't get money enough to board in; and i don't want to board in--i wants to be free." he looked at her, curled down so earnestly at her puzzling task, and a pity for the more than motherless child swept over him. he bent over her, nervously, eagerly, and she laid down her sewing and sat silent and passive with dark, burning eyes. "zora," he said, "i want you to do all this--for me." "i will, if you wants me to," she said quietly, but with something in her voice that made him look half startled into her beautiful eyes and feel a queer flushing in his face. he stretched his hand out and taking hers held it lightly till she quivered and drew away, bending again over her sewing. then a nameless exaltation rose within his heart. "zora," he whispered, "i've got a plan." "what is it?" she asked, still with bowed head. "listen, till i tell you of the golden fleece." then she too heard the story of jason. breathless she listened, dropping her sewing and leaning forward, eager-eyed. then her face clouded. "do you s'pose mammy's the witch?" she asked dubiously. "no; she wouldn't give her own flesh and blood to help the thieving jason." she looked at him searchingly. "yes, she would, too," affirmed the girl, and then she paused, still intently watching him. she was troubled, and again a question eagerly hovered on her lips. but he continued: "then we must escape her," he said gayly. "see! yonder lies the silver fleece spread across the brown back of the world; let's get a bit of it, and hide it here in the swamp, and comb it, and tend it, and make it the beautifullest bit of all. then we can sell it, and send you to school." she sat silently bent forward, turning the picture in her mind. suddenly forgetting her trouble, she bubbled with laughter, and leaping up clapped her hands. "and i knows just the place!" she cried eagerly, looking at him with a flash of the old teasing mischief--"down in the heart of the swamp--where dreams and devils lives." * * * * * up at the school-house miss taylor was musing. she had been invited to spend the summer with mrs. grey at lake george, and such a summer!--silken clothes and dainty food, motoring and golf, well-groomed men and elegant women. she would not have put it in just that way, but the vision came very close to spelling heaven to her mind. not that she would come to it vacant-minded, but rather as a trained woman, starved for companionship and wanting something of the beauty and ease of life. she sat dreaming of it here with rows of dark faces before her, and the singsong wail of a little black reader with his head aslant and his patched kneepants. the day was warm and languorous, and the last pale mist of the silver fleece peeped in at the windows. she tried to follow the third-reader lesson with her finger, but persistently off she went, dreaming, to some exquisite little parlor with its green and gold, the clink of dainty china and hum of low voices, and the blue lake in the window; she would glance up, the door would open softly and-- just here she did glance up, and all the school glanced with her. the drone of the reader hushed. the door opened softly, and upon the threshold stood zora. her small feet and slender ankles were black and bare; her dark, round, and broad-browed head and strangely beautiful face were poised almost defiantly, crowned with a misty mass of waveless hair, and lit by the velvet radiance of two wonderful eyes. and hanging from shoulder to ankle, in formless, clinging folds, blazed the scarlet gown. _six_ cotton the cry of the naked was sweeping the world. from the peasant toiling in russia, the lady lolling in london, the chieftain burning in africa, and the esquimaux freezing in alaska; from long lines of hungry men, from patient sad-eyed women, from old folk and creeping children went up the cry, "clothes, clothes!" far away the wide black land that belts the south, where miss smith worked and miss taylor drudged and bles and zora dreamed, the dense black land sensed the cry and heard the bound of answering life within the vast dark breast. all that dark earth heaved in mighty travail with the bursting bolls of the cotton while black attendant earth spirits swarmed above, sweating and crooning to its birth pains. after the miracle of the bursting bolls, when the land was brightest with the piled mist of the fleece, and when the cry of the naked was loudest in the mouths of men, a sudden cloud of workers swarmed between the cotton and the naked, spinning and weaving and sewing and carrying the fleece and mining and minting and bringing the silver till the song of service filled the world and the poetry of toil was in the souls of the laborers. yet ever and always there were tense silent white-faced men moving in that swarm who felt no poetry and heard no song, and one of these was john taylor. he was tall, thin, cold, and tireless and he moved among the watchers of this world of trade. in the rich wall street offices of grey and easterly, brokers, mr. taylor, as chief and confidential clerk surveyed the world's nakedness and the supply of cotton to clothe it. the object of his watching was frankly stated to himself and to his world. he purposed going into business neither for his own health nor for the healing or clothing of the peoples but to apply his knowledge of the world's nakedness and of black men's toil in such a way as to bring himself wealth. in this he was but following the teaching of his highest ideal, lately deceased, mr. job grey. mr. grey had so successfully manipulated the cotton market that while black men who made the cotton starved in alabama and white men who bought it froze in siberia, he himself sat-- _"high on a throne of royal state that far outshone the wealth of ormuz or of ind._" notwithstanding this he died eventually, leaving the burden of his wealth to his bewildered wife, and his business to the astute mr. easterly; not simply to mr. easterly, but in a sense to his spiritual heir, john taylor. to be sure mr. taylor had but a modest salary and no financial interest in the business, but he had knowledge and business daring--effrontery even--and the determination was fixed in his mind to be a millionaire at no distant date. some cautious fliers on the market gave him enough surplus to send his sister mary through the high school of his country home in new hampshire, and afterward through wellesley college; although just why a woman should want to go through college was inexplicable to john taylor, and he was still uncertain as to the wisdom of his charity. when she had an offer to teach in the south, john taylor hurried her off for two reasons: he was profoundly interested in the cotton-belt, and there she might be of service to him; and secondly, he had spent all the money on her that he intended to at present, and he wanted her to go to work. as an investment he did not consider mary a success. her letters intimated very strongly her intention not to return to miss smith's school; but they also brought information--disjointed and incomplete, to be sure--which mightily interested mr. taylor and sent him to atlases, encyclopædias, and census-reports. when he went to that little lunch with old mrs. grey he was not sure that he wanted his sister to leave the cotton-belt just yet. after lunch he was sure that he did not want her to leave. the rich mrs. grey was at the crisis of her fortunes. she was an elderly lady, in those uncertain years beyond fifty, and had been left suddenly with more millions than she could easily count. personally she was inclined to spend her money in bettering the world right off, in such ways as might from time to time seem attractive. this course, to her husband's former partner and present executor, mr. edward easterly, was not only foolish but wicked, and, incidentally, distinctly unprofitable to him. he had expressed himself strongly to mrs. grey last night at dinner and had reinforced his argument by a pointed letter written this morning. to john taylor mrs. grey's disposal of the income was unbelievable blasphemy against the memory of a mighty man. he did not put this in words to mrs. grey--he was only head clerk in her late husband's office--but he became watchful and thoughtful. he ate his soup in silence when she descanted on various benevolent schemes. "now, what do you know," she asked finally, "about negroes--about educating them?" mr. taylor over his fish was about to deny all knowledge of any sort on the subject, but all at once he recollected his sister, and a sudden gleam of light radiated his mental gloom. "have a sister who is--er--devoting herself to teaching them," he said. "is that so!" cried mrs. grey, joyfully. "where is she?" "in tooms county, alabama--in--" mr. taylor consulted a remote mental pocket--"in miss sara smith's school." "why, how fortunate! i'm so glad i mentioned the matter. you see, miss smith is a sister of a friend of ours, congressman smith of new jersey, and she has just written to me for help; a very touching letter, too, about the poor blacks. my father set great store by blacks and was a leading abolitionist before he died." mr. taylor was thinking fast. yes, the name of congressman peter smith was quite familiar. mr. easterly, as chairman of the republican state committee of new jersey, had been compelled to discipline mr. smith pretty severely for certain socialistic votes in the house, and consequently his future career was uncertain. it was important that such a man should not have too much to do with mrs. grey's philanthropies--at least, in his present position. "should like to have you meet and talk with my sister, mrs. grey; she's a wellesley graduate," said taylor, finally. mrs. grey was delighted. it was a combination which she felt she needed. here was a college-girl who could direct her philanthropies and her etiquette during the summer. forthwith mary taylor received an intimation from her brother that vast interests depended on her summer vacation. thus it had happened that miss taylor came to lake george for her vacation after the first year at the smith school, and she and miss smith had silently agreed as she left that it would be better for her not to return. but the gods of lower broadway thought otherwise. not that mary taylor did not believe in miss smith's work, she was too honest not to believe in education; but she was sure that this was not her work, and she had not as yet perfected in her own mind any theory of the world into which black folk fitted. she was rather taken back, therefore, to be regarded as an expert on the problem. first her brother attacked her, not simply on cotton, but, to her great surprise, on negro education; and after listening to her halting uncertain remarks, he suggested to her certain matters which it would be better for her to believe when mrs. grey talked to her. "interested in darkies, you see," he concluded, "and looks to you to tell things. better go easy and suggest a waiting-game before she goes in heavy." "but miss smith needs money--" the new england conscience prompted. john taylor cut in sharply: "we all need money, and i know people who need mrs. grey's more than miss smith does at present." miss taylor found the lake george colony charming. it was not ultra-fashionable, but it had wealth and leisure and some breeding. especially was this true of a circumscribed, rather exclusive, set which centred around the vanderpools of new york and boston. they, or rather mr. vanderpool's connections, were of old dutch new york stock; his father it was who had built the lake george cottage. mrs. vanderpool was a wells of boston, and endured lake george now and then during the summer for her husband's sake, although she regarded it all as rather a joke. this summer promised to be unusually lonesome for her, and she was meditating a retreat to the massachusetts north shore when she chanced to meet mary taylor, at a miscellaneous dinner, and found her interesting. she discovered that this young woman knew things, that she could talk books, and that she was rather pretty. to be sure she knew no people, but mrs. vanderpool knew enough to even things. "by the bye, i met some charming alabama people last winter, in montgomery--the cresswells; do you know them?" she asked one day, as they were lounging in wicker chairs on the vanderpool porch. then she answered the query herself: "no, of course you could not. it is too bad that your work deprives you of the society of people of your class. now my ideal is a set of negro schools where the white teachers _could_ know the cresswells." "why, yes--" faltered miss taylor; "but--wouldn't that be difficult?" "why should it be?" "i mean, would the cresswells approve of educating negroes?" "oh, 'educating'! the word conceals so much. now, i take it the cresswells would object to instructing them in french and in dinner etiquette and tea-gowns, and so, in fact, would i; but teach them how to handle a hoe and to sew and cook. i have reason to know that people like the cresswells would be delighted." "and with the teachers of it?" "why not?--provided, of course, they were--well, gentlefolk and associated accordingly." "but one must associate with one's pupils." "oh, certainly, certainly; just as one must associate with one's maids and chauffeurs and dressmakers--cordially and kindly, but with a difference." "but--but, dear mrs. vanderpool, you wouldn't want your children trained that way, would you?" "certainly not, my dear. but these are not my children, they are the children of negroes; we can't quite forget that, can we?" "no, i suppose not," miss taylor admitted, a little helplessly. "but--it seems to me--that's the modern idea of taking culture to the masses." "frankly, then, the modern idea is not my idea; it is too socialistic. and as for culture applied to the masses, you utter a paradox. the masses and work is the truth one must face." "and culture and work?" "quite incompatible, i assure you, my dear." she stretched her silken limbs, lazily, while miss taylor sat silently staring at the waters. just then mrs. grey drove up in her new red motor. up to the time of mary taylor's arrival the acquaintance of the vanderpools and mrs. grey had been a matter chiefly of smiling bows. after miss taylor came there had been calls and casual intercourse, to mrs. grey's great gratification and mrs. vanderpool's mingled amusement and annoyance. mrs. grey announced the arrival of the easterlys and john taylor for the week-end. as mrs. vanderpool could think of nothing less boring, she consented to dine. the atmosphere of mrs. grey's ornate cottage was different from that of the vanderpools. the display of wealth and splendor had a touch of the barbaric. mary taylor liked it, although she found the vanderpool atmosphere more subtly satisfying. there was a certain grim power beneath the greys' mahogany and velvets that thrilled while it appalled. precisely that side of the thing appealed to her brother. he would have seen little or nothing in the plain elegance yonder, while here he saw a japanese vase that cost no cent less than a thousand dollars. he meant to be able to duplicate it some day. he knew that grey was poor and less knowing than he sixty years ago. the dead millionaire had begun his fortune by buying and selling cotton--travelling in the south in reconstruction times, and sending his agents. in this way he made his thousands. then he took a step forward, and instead of following the prices induced the prices to follow him. two or three small cotton corners brought him his tens of thousands. about this time easterly joined him and pointed out a new road--the buying and selling of stock in various cotton-mills and other industrial enterprises. grey hesitated, but easterly pushed him on and he made his hundreds of thousands. then easterly proposed buying controlling interests in certain large mills and gradually consolidating them. the plan grew and succeeded, and grey made his millions. then grey stopped; he had money enough, and he would venture no farther. he "was going to retire and eat peanuts," he said with a chuckle. easterly was disgusted. he, too, had made millions--not as many as grey, but a few. it was not, however, simply money that he wanted, but power. the lust of financial dominion had gripped his soul, and he had a vision of a vast trust of cotton manufacturing covering the land. he talked this incessantly into grey, but grey continued to shake his head; the thing was too big for his imagination. he was bent on retiring, and just as he had set the date a year hence he inadvertently died. on the whole, mr. easterly was glad of his partner's definite withdrawal, since he left his capital behind him, until he found his vast plans about to be circumvented by mrs. grey withdrawing this capital from his control. "to give to the niggers and chinamen," he snorted to john taylor, and strode up and down the veranda. john taylor removed his coat, lighted a black cigar, and elevated his heels. the ladies were in the parlor, where the female easterlys were prostrating themselves before mrs. vanderpool. "just what is your plan?" asked taylor, quite as if he did not know. "why, man, the transfer of a hundred millions of stock would give me control of the cotton-mills of america. think of it!--the biggest trust next to steel." "why not bigger?" asked taylor, imperturbably puffing away. mr. easterly eyed him. he had regarded taylor hitherto as a very valuable asset to the business--had relied on his knowledge of routine, his judgment and his honesty; but he detected tonight a new tone in his clerk, something almost authoritative and self-reliant. he paused and smiled at him. "bigger?" but john taylor was dead in earnest. he did not smile. "first, there's england--and all europe; why not bring them into the trust?" "possibly, later; but first, america. of course, i've got my eyes on the european situation and feelers out; but such matters are more difficult and slower of adjustment over there--so damned much law and gospel." "but there's another side." "what's that?" "you are planning to combine and control the manufacture of cotton--" "yes." "but how about your raw material? the steel trust owns its iron mines." "of course--mines could be monopolized and hold the trust up; but our raw material is perfectly safe--farms growing smaller, farms isolated, and we fixing the price. it's a cinch." "are you sure?" taylor surveyed him with a narrowed look. "certain." "i'm not. i've been looking up things, and there are three points you'd better study: first, cotton farms are not getting smaller; they're getting bigger almighty fast, and there's a big cotton-land monopoly in sight. second, the banks and wholesale houses in the south _can_ control the cotton output if they work together. third, watch the southern 'farmers' league' of big landlords." mr. easterly threw away his cigar and sat down. taylor straightened up, switched on the porch light, and took a bundle of papers from his coat pocket. "here are census figures," he said, "commercial reports and letters." they pored over them a half hour. then easterly arose. "there's something in it," he admitted, "but what can we do? what do you propose?" "monopolize the growth as well as the manufacture of cotton, and use the first to club european manufacturers into submission." easterly stared at him. "good lord!" he ejaculated; "you're crazy!" but taylor smiled a slow, thin smile, and put away his papers. easterly continued to stare at his subordinate with a sort of fascination, with the awe that one feels when genius unexpectedly reveals itself from a source hitherto regarded as entirely ordinary. at last he drew a long breath, remarking indefinitely: "i'll think it over." a stir in the parlor indicated departure. "well, you watch the farmers' league, and note its success and methods," counselled john taylor, his tone and manner unchanged. "then figure what it might do in the hands of--let us say, friends." "who's running it?" "a colonel cresswell is its head, and happens also to be the force behind it. aristocratic family--big planter--near where my sister teaches." "h'm--well, we'll watch _him_." "and say," as easterly was turning away, "you know congressman smith?" "i should say i did." "well, mrs. grey seems to be depending on him for advice in distributing some of her charity funds." easterly appeared startled. "she is, is she!" he exclaimed. "but here come the ladies." he went forward at once, but john taylor drew back. he noted mrs. vanderpool, and thought her too thin and pale. the dashing young miss easterly was more to his taste. he intended to have a wife like that one of these days. "mary," said he to his sister as he finally rose to go, "tell me about the cresswells." mary explained to him at length the impossibility of her knowing much about the local white aristocracy of tooms county, and then told him all she had heard. "mrs. grey talked to you much?" "yes." "about darky schools?" "yes." "what does she intend to do?" "i think she will aid miss smith first." "did you suggest anything?" "well, i told her what i thought about coöperating with the local white people." "the cresswells?" "yes--you see mrs. vanderpool knows the cresswells." "does, eh? good! say, that's a good point. you just bear heavy on it--coöperate with the cresswells." "why, yes. but--you see, john, i don't just know whether one _could_ coöperate with the cresswells or not--one hears such contradictory stories of them. but there must be some other white people--" "stuff! it's the cresswells we want." "well," mary was very dubious, "they are--the most important." _seven_ the place of dreams when she went south late in september, mary taylor had two definite but allied objects: she was to get all possible business information concerning the cresswells, and she was to induce miss smith to prepare for mrs. grey's benevolence by interesting the local whites in her work. the programme attracted miss taylor. she felt in touch, even if dimly and slightly, with great industrial movements, and she felt, too, like a discerning pioneer in philanthropy. both roles she liked. besides, they held, each, certain promises of social prestige; and society, miss taylor argued, one must have even in alabama. bles alwyn met her at the train. he was growing to be a big fine bronze giant, and mary was glad to see him. she especially tried, in the first few weeks of opening school, to glean as much information as possible concerning the community, and particularly the cresswells. she found the negro youth quicker, surer, and more intelligent in his answers than those she questioned elsewhere, and she gained real enjoyment from her long talks with him. "isn't bles developing splendidly?" she said to miss smith one afternoon. there was an unmistakable note of enthusiasm in her voice. miss smith slowly closed her letter-file but did not look up. "yes," she said crisply. "he's eighteen now--quite a man." "and most interesting to talk with." "h'm--very"--drily. mary was busy with her own thoughts, and she did not notice the other woman's manner. "do you know," she pursued, "i'm a little afraid of one thing." "so am i." "oh, you've noted it, too?--his friendship for that impossible girl, zora?" miss smith gave her a searching look. "what of it?" she demanded. "she is so far beneath him." "how so?" "she is a bold, godless thing; i don't understand her." "the two are not quite the same." "of course not; but she is unnaturally forward." "too bright," miss smith amplified. "yes; she knows quite too much. you surely remember that awful scarlet dress? well, all her clothes have arrived, or remained, at a simplicity and vividness that is--well--immodest." "does she think them immodest?" "what she thinks is a problem." "_the_ problem, you mean?" "well, yes." they paused a moment. then miss smith said slowly: "what i don't understand, i don't judge." "no, but you can't always help seeing and meeting it," laughed miss taylor. "certainly not. i don't try; i court the meeting and seeing. it is the only way." "well, perhaps, for us--but not for a boy like bles, and a girl like zora." "true; men and women must exercise judgment in their intercourse and"--she glanced sharply at miss taylor--"my dear, you yourself must not forget that bles alwyn is a man." far up the road came a low, long, musical shouting; then with creaking and straining of wagons, four great black mules dashed into sight with twelve bursting bales of yellowish cotton looming and swaying behind. the drivers and helpers were lolling and laughing and singing, but miss taylor did not hear nor see. she had sat suddenly upright; her face had flamed crimson, and then went dead white. "miss--miss smith!" she gasped, overwhelmed with dismay, a picture of wounded pride and consternation. miss smith turned around very methodically and took her hand; but while she spoke the girl merely stared at her in stony silence. "now, dear, don't mean more than i do. i'm an old woman, and i've seen many things. this is but a little corner of the world, and yet many people pass here in thirty years. the trouble with new teachers who come is, that like you, they cannot see black folk as human. all to them are either impossible zoras, or else lovable blessings. they forget that zora is not to be annihilated, but studied and understood, and that bles is a young man of eighteen and not a clod." "but that he should dare--" mary began breathlessly. "he hasn't dared," miss smith went gently on. "no thought of you but as a teacher has yet entered his dear, simple head. but, my point is simply this: he's a man, and a human one, and if you keep on making much over him, and talking to him and petting him, he'll have the right to interpret your manner in his own way--the same that any young man would." "but--but, he's a--a--" "a negro. to be sure, he is; and a man in addition. now, dear, don't take this too much to heart; this is not a rebuke, but a clumsy warning. i am simply trying to make clear to you _why_ you should be careful. treat poor zora a little more lovingly, and bles a little less warmly. they are just human--but, oh! so human." mary taylor rose up stiffly and mumbled a brief good-night. she went to her room, and sat down in the dark. the mere mention of the thing was to her so preposterous--no, loathsome, she kept repeating. she slowly undressed in the dark, and heard the rumbling of the cotton wagons as they swayed toward town. the cry of the naked was sweeping the world, and yonder in the night black men were answering the call. they knew not what or why they answered, but obeyed the irresistible call, with hearts light and song upon their lips--the song of service. they lashed their mules and drank their whiskey, and all night the piled fleece swept by mary taylor's window, flying--flying to that far cry. miss taylor turned uneasily in her bed and jerked the bed-clothes about her ears. "mrs. vanderpool is right," she confided to the night, with something of the awe with which one suddenly comprehends a hidden oracle; "there must be a difference, always, always! that impudent negro!" all night she dreamed, and all day,--especially when trim and immaculate she sat in her chair and looked down upon fifty dark faces--and upon zora. zora sat thinking. she saw neither miss taylor nor the long straight rows of desks and faces. she heard neither the drone of the spellers nor did she hear miss taylor say, "zora!" she heard and saw none of this. she only heard the prattle of the birds in the wood, far down where the silver fleece would be planted. for the time of cotton-planting was coming; the gray and drizzle of december was past and the hesitation, of january. already a certain warmth and glow had stolen into the air, and the swamp was calling its child with low, seductive voice. she knew where the first leaves were bursting, where tiny flowers nestled, and where young living things looked upward to the light and cried and crawled. a wistful longing was stealing into her heart. she wanted to be free. she wanted to run and dance and sing, but bles wanted-- "zora!" this time she heard the call, but did not heed it. miss taylor was very tiresome, and was forever doing and saying silly things. so zora paid no attention, but sat still and thought. yes, she would show bles the place that very night; she had kept it secret from him until now, out of perverseness, out of her love of mystery and secrets. but tonight, after school, when he met her on the big road with the clothes, she would take him and show him the chosen spot. soon she was aware that school had been dismissed, and she leisurely gathered up her books and rose. mary taylor regarded her in perplexed despair. oh, these people! mrs. vanderpool was right: culture and--some masses, at least--were not to be linked; and, too, culture and work--were they incompatible? at any rate, culture and _this_ work were. now, there was mrs. vanderpool--she toiled not, neither did she spin, and yet! if all these folk were like poor, stupid, docile jennie it would be simpler, but what earthly sense was there in trying do to anything with a girl like zora, so stupid in some matters, so startlingly bright in others, and so stubborn in everything? here, she was doing some work twice as well and twice as fast as the class, and other work she would not touch because she "didn't like it." her classification in school was nearly as difficult as her classification in the world, and miss taylor reached up impatiently and removed the gold pin from her stock to adjust it more comfortably when zora sauntered past unseeing, unheeding, with that curious gliding walk which miss taylor called stealthy. she laid the pin on the desk and on sudden impulse spoke again to the girl as she arranged her neck trimmings. "zora," she said evenly, "why didn't you come to class when i called?" "i didn't hear you," said zora, looking at her full-eyed and telling the half-truth easily. miss taylor was sure zora was lying, and she knew that she had lied to her on other occasions. indeed, she had found lying customary in this community, and she had a new england horror of it. she looked at zora disapprovingly, while zora looked at her quite impersonally, but steadily. then miss taylor braced herself, mentally, and took the war into africa. "do you ever tell lies, zora?" "yes." "don't you know that is a wicked, bad habit?" "why?" "because god hates them." "how does _you_ know he does?" zora's tone was still impersonal. "he hates all evil." "but why is lies evil?" "because they make us deceive each other." "is that wrong?" "yes." zora bent forward and looked squarely into miss taylor's blue eyes. miss taylor looked into the velvet blackness of hers and wondered what they veiled. "is it wrong," asked zora, "to make believe you likes people when you don't, when you'se afeared of them and thinks they may rub off and dirty you?" "why--why--yes, if you--if you, deceive." "then you lies sometimes, don't you?" miss taylor stared helplessly at the solemn eyes that seemed to look so deeply into her. "perhaps--i do, zora; i'm sure i don't mean to, and--i hope god will forgive me." zora softened. "oh, i reckon he will if he's a good god, because he'd know that lies like that are heaps better than blabbing the truth right out. only," she added severely, "you mustn't keep saying it's wicked to lie 'cause it ain't. sometimes i lies," she reflected pensively, "and sometimes i don't--it depends." miss taylor forgot her collar, and fingered the pin on the desk. she felt at once a desperate desire to know this girl better and to establish her own authority. yet how should she do it? she kept toying with the pin, and zora watched her. then miss taylor said, absently: "zora, what do you propose to do when you grow up?" zora considered. "think and walk--and rest," she concluded. "i mean, what work?" "work? oh, i sha'n't work. i don't like work--do you?" miss taylor winced, wondering if the girl were lying again. she said quickly: "why, yes--that is, i like some kinds of work." "what kinds?" but miss taylor refused to have the matter made personal, as zora had a disconcerting way of pointing all their discussions. "everybody likes some kinds of work," she insisted. "if you likes it, it ain't work," declared zora; but mary taylor proceeded around her circumscribed circle: "you might make a good cook, or a maid." "i hate cooking. what's a maid?" "why, a woman who helps others." "helps folks that they love? i'd like that." "it is not a question of affection," said miss taylor, firmly: "one is paid for it." "i wouldn't work for pay." "but you'll have to, child; you'll have to earn a living." "do you work for pay?" "i work to earn a living." "same thing, i reckon, and it ain't true. living just comes free, like--like sunshine." "stuff! zora, your people must learn to work and work steadily and work hard--" she stopped, for she was sure zora was not listening; the far away look was in her eyes and they were shining. she was beautiful as she stood there--strangely, almost uncannily, but startlingly beautiful with her rich dark skin, softly moulded features, and wonderful eyes. "my people?--my people?" she murmured, half to herself. "do you know my people? they don't never work; they plays. they is all little, funny dark people. they flies and creeps and crawls, slippery-like; and they cries and calls. ah, my people! my poor little people! they misses me these days, because they is shadowy things that sing and smell and bloom in dark and terrible nights--" miss taylor started up. "zora, i believe you're crazy!" she cried. but zora was looking at her calmly again. "we'se both crazy, ain't we?" she returned, with a simplicity that left the teacher helpless. miss taylor hurried out, forgetting her pin. zora looked it over leisurely, and tried it on. she decided that she liked it, and putting it in her pocket, went out too. school was out but the sun was still high, as bles hurried from the barn up the big road beside the soft shadows of the swamp. his head was busy with new thoughts and his lips were whistling merrily, for today zora was to show him the long dreamed of spot for the planting of the silver fleece. he hastened toward the cresswell mansion, and glanced anxiously up the road. at last he saw her coming, swinging down the road, lithe and dark, with the big white basket of clothes poised on her head. "zora," he yodled, and she waved her apron. he eased her burden to the ground and they sat down together, he nervous and eager; she silent, passive, but her eyes restless. bles was full of his plans. "zora," he said, "we'll make it the finest bale ever raised in tooms; we'll just work it to the inch--just love it into life." she considered the matter intently. "but,"--presently,--"how can we sell it without the cresswells knowing?" "we won't try; we'll just take it to them and give them half, like the other tenants." "but the swamp is mortal thick and hard to clear." "we can do it." zora had sat still, listening; but now, suddenly, she leapt to her feet. "come," she said, "i'll take the clothes home, then we'll go"--she glanced at him--"down where the dreams are." and laughing, they hurried on. elspeth stood in the path that wound down to the cottage, and without a word zora dropped the basket at her feet. she turned back; but bles, struck by a thought, paused. the old woman was short, broad, black and wrinkled, with yellow fangs, red hanging lips, and wicked eyes. she leered at them; the boy shrank before it, but stood his ground. "aunt elspeth," he began, "zora and i are going to plant and tend some cotton to pay for her schooling--just the very best cotton we can find--and i heard"--he hesitated,--"i heard you had some wonderful seed." "yes," she mumbled, "i'se got the seed--i'se got it--wonder seed, sowed wid the three spells of obi in the old land ten tousand moons ago. but you couldn't plant it," with a sudden shrillness, "it would kill you." "but--" bles tried to object, but she waved him away. "git the ground--git the ground; dig it--pet it, and we'll see what we'll see." and she disappeared. zora was not sure that it had been wise to tell their secret. "i was going to steal the seed," she said. "i knows where it is, and i don't fear conjure." "you mustn't steal, zora," said bles, gravely. "why?" zora quickly asked. but before he answered, they both forgot; for their faces were turned toward the wonder of the swamp. the golden sun was pouring floods of glory through the slim black trees, and the mystic sombre pools caught and tossed back the glow in darker, duller crimson. long echoing cries leapt to and fro; silent footsteps crept hither and yonder; and the girl's eyes gleamed with a wild new joy. "the dreams!" she cried. "the dreams!" and leaping ahead, she danced along the shadowed path. he hastened after her, but she flew fast and faster; he followed, laughing, calling, pleading. he saw her twinkling limbs a-dancing as once he saw them dance in a halo of firelight; but now the fire was the fire of the world. her garments twined and flew in shadowy drapings about the perfect moulding of her young and dark half-naked figure. her heavy hair had burst its fastenings and lay in stiffened, straggling masses, bending reluctantly to the breeze, like curled smoke; while all about, the mad, wild singing rose and fell and trembled, till his head whirled. he paused uncertainly at a parting of the paths, crying: "zora! zora!" as for some lost soul. "zora! zora!" echoed the cry, faintly. abruptly the music fell; there came a long slow-growing silence; and then, with a flutter, she was beside him again, laughing in his ears and crying with mocking voice: "is you afeared, honey?" he saw in her eyes sweet yearnings, but could speak nothing. he could only clasp her hand tightly, and again down they raced through the wood. all at once the swamp changed and chilled to a dull grayness; tall, dull trees started down upon the murky waters; and long pendent streamings of moss-like tears dripped from tree to earth. slowly and warily they threaded their way. "are you sure of the path, zora?" he once inquired anxiously. "i could find it asleep," she answered, skipping sure-footed onward. he continued to hold her hand tightly, and his own pace never slackened. around them the gray and death-like wilderness darkened. they felt and saw the cold white mist rising slowly from the ground, and waters growing blacker and broader. at last they came to what seemed the end. silently and dismally the half-dead forest, with its ghostly moss, lowered and darkened, and the black waters spread into a great silent lake of slimy ooze. the dead trunk of a fallen tree lay straight in front, torn and twisted, its top hidden yonder and mingled with impenetrable undergrowth. "where now, zora?" he cried. in a moment she had slipped her hand away and was scrambling upon the tree trunk. the waters yawned murkily below. "careful! careful!" he warned, struggling after her until she disappeared amid the leaves. he followed eagerly, but cautiously; and all at once found himself confronting a paradise. before them lay a long island, opening to the south, on the black lake, but sheltered north and east by the dense undergrowth of the black swamp and the rampart of dead and living trees. the soil was virgin and black, thickly covered over with a tangle of bushes, vines, and smaller growth all brilliant with early leaves and wild flowers. "a pretty tough proposition for clearing and ploughing," said bles, with practised eye. but zora eagerly surveyed the prospect. "it's where the dreams lives," she whispered. meantime miss taylor had missed her brooch and searched for it in vain. in the midst of this pursuit the truth occurred to her--zora had stolen it. negroes would steal, everybody said. well, she must and would have the pin, and she started for elspeth's cabin. on the way she met the old woman in the path, but got little satisfaction. elspeth merely grunted ungraciously while eyeing the white woman with suspicion. mary taylor, again alone, sat down at a turn in the path, just out of sight of the house, and waited. soon she saw, with a certain grim satisfaction, zora and bles emerging from the swamp engaged in earnest conversation. here was an opportunity to overwhelm both with an unforgettable reprimand. she rose before them like a spectral vengeance. "zora, i want my pin." bles started and stared; but zora eyed her calmly with something like disdain. "what pin?" she returned, unmoved. "zora, don't deny that you took my pin from the desk this afternoon," the teacher commanded severely. "i didn't say i didn't take no pin." "persons who will lie and steal will do anything." "why shouldn't people do anything they wants to?" "and you knew the pin was mine." "i saw you a-wearing of it," admitted zora easily. "then you have stolen it, and you are a thief." still zora appeared to be unimpressed with the heinousness of her fault. "did you make that pin?" she asked. "no, but it is mine." "why is it yours?" "because it was given to me." "but you don't need it; you've got four other prettier ones--i counted." "that makes no difference." "yes it does--folks ain't got no right to things they don't need." "that makes no difference, zora, and you know it. the pin is mine. you stole it. if you had wanted a pin and asked me i might have given you--" the girl blazed. "i don't want your old gifts," she almost hissed. "you don't own what you don't need and can't use. god owns it and i'm going to send it back to him." with a swift motion she whipped the pin from her pocket and raised her arm to hurl it into the swamp. bles caught her hand. he caught it lightly and smiled sorrowfully into her eyes. she wavered a moment, then the answering light sprang to her face. dropping the brooch into his hand, she wheeled and fled toward the cabin. bles handed it silently to miss taylor. mary taylor was beside herself with impatient anger--and anger intensified by a conviction of utter helplessness to cope with any strained or unusual situations between herself and these two. "alwyn," she said sharply, "i shall report zora for stealing. and you may report yourself to miss smith tonight for disrespect toward a teacher." _eight_ mr. harry cresswell the cresswells, father and son, were at breakfast. the daughter was taking her coffee and rolls up stairs in bed. "p'sh! i don't like it!" declared harry cresswell, tossing the letter back to his father. "i tell you, it is a damned yankee trick." he was a man of thirty-five, smooth and white, slight, well-bred and masterful. his father, st. john cresswell, was sixty, white-haired, mustached and goateed; a stately, kindly old man with a temper and much family pride. "well, well," he said, his air half preoccupied, half unconcerned, "i suppose so--and yet"--he read the letter again, aloud: "'approaching you as one of the most influential landowners of alabama, on a confidential matter'--h'm--h'm--'a combination of capital and power, such as this nation has never seen'--'cotton manufacturers and cotton growers.' ... well, well! of course, i suppose there's nothing in it. and yet, harry, my boy, this cotton-growing business is getting in a pretty tight pinch. unless relief comes somehow--well, we'll just have to quit. we simply can't keep the cost of cotton down to a remunerative figure with niggers getting scarcer and dearer. every year i have to pinch 'em closer and closer. i had to pay maxwell two hundred and fifty to get that old darky and his boys turned over to me, and one of the young ones has run away already." harry lighted a cigarette. "we must drive them more. you're too easy, father; they understand that. by the way, what did that letter say about a 'sister'?" "says he's got a sister over at the nigger school whom perhaps we know. i suppose he thinks we dine there occasionally." the old man chuckled. "that reminds me, elspeth is sending her girl there." "what's that?" an angry gleam shot into the younger man's eye. "yes. she announced this morning, pert as you please, that she couldn't tote clothes any more--she had to study." "damn it! this thing is going too far. we can't keep a maid or a plough-boy on the place because of this devilish school. it's going to ruin the whole labor system. we've been too mild and decent. i'm going to put my foot down right here. i'll make elspeth take that girl out of school if i have to horse-whip her, and i'll warn the school against further interference with our tenants. here, in less than a week, go two plough-hands--and now this girl." the old man smiled. "you'll hardly miss any work zora does," he said. "i'll make her work. she's giving herself too many damned airs. i know who's back of this--it's that nigger we saw talking to the white woman in the field the other day." "well, don't work yourself up. the wench don't amount to much anyhow. by the way, though, if you do go to the school it won't hurt to see this taylor's sister and size the family up." "pshaw! i'm going to give the smith woman such a scare that she'll keep her hands off our niggers." and harry cresswell rode away. mary taylor had charge of the office that morning, while miss smith, shut up in her bedroom, went laboriously over her accounts. miss mary suddenly sat up, threw a hasty glance into the glass and felt the back of her belt. it was--it couldn't be--surely, it was mr. harry cresswell riding through the gateway on his beautiful white mare. he kicked the gate open rather viciously, did not stop to close it, and rode straight across the lawn. miss taylor noticed his riding breeches and leggings, his white linen and white, clean-cut, high-bred face. such apparitions were few about the country lands. she felt inclined to flutter, but gripped herself. "good-morning," she said, a little stiffly. mr. cresswell halted and stared; then lifting the hat which he had neglected to remove in crossing the hall, he bowed in stately grace. miss taylor was no ordinary picture. her brown hair was almost golden; her dark eyes shone blue; her skin was clear and healthy, and her white dress--happy coincidence!--had been laundered that very morning. her half-suppressed excitement at the sudden duty of welcoming the great aristocrat of the county, gave a piquancy to her prettiness. "the--devil!" commented mr. harry cresswell to himself. but to miss taylor: "i beg pardon--er--miss smith?" "no--i'm sorry. miss smith is engaged this morning. i am miss taylor." "i cannot share miss taylor's sorrow," returned mr. cresswell gravely, "for i believe i have the honor of some correspondence with miss taylor's brother." mr. cresswell searched for the letter, but did not find it. "oh! has john written you?" she beamed suddenly. "i'm so glad. it's more than he's done for me this three-month. i beg your pardon--do sit down--i think you'll find this one easier. our stock of chairs is limited." it was delightful to have a casual meeting receive this social stamp; the girl was all at once transfigured--animated, glowing, lovely; all of which did not escape the caller's appraising inspection. "there!" said mr. cresswell. "i've left your gate gaping." "oh, don't mind ... i hope john's well?" "the truth is," confessed cresswell, "it was a business matter--cotton, you know." "john is nothing but cotton; i tell him his soul is fibrous." "he mentioned your being here and i thought i'd drop over and welcome you to the south." "thank you," returned miss taylor, reddening with pleasure despite herself. there was a real sincerity in the tone. all this confirmed so many convictions of hers. "of course, you know how it is in the south," cresswell pursued, the opening having been so easily accomplished. "i understand perfectly." "my sister would be delighted to meet you, but--" "oh i realize the--difficulties." "perhaps you wouldn't mind riding by some day--it's embarrassing to suggest this, but, you know--" miss taylor was perfectly self-possessed. "mr. cresswell," she said seriously, "i know very well that it wouldn't do for your sister to call here, and i sha'n't mind a bit coming by to see her first. i don't believe in standing on stupid ceremony." cresswell thanked her with quiet cordiality, and suggested that when he was driving by he might pick her up in his gig some morning. miss taylor expressed her pleasure at the prospect. then the talk wandered to general matters--the rain, the trees, the people round about, and, inevitably--the negro. "oh, by the bye," said mr. cresswell, frowning and hesitating over the recollection of his errand's purpose, "there was one matter"--he paused. miss taylor leant forward, all interest. "i hardly know that i ought to mention it, but your school--" this charming young lady disarmed his truculent spirit, and the usually collected and determined young man was at a loss how to proceed. the girl, however, was obviously impressed and pleased by his evidence of interest, whatever its nature; so in a manner vastly different from the one he had intended to assume, he continued: "there is a way in which we may be of service to you, and that is by enlightening you upon points concerning which the nature of your position--both as teacher and socially--must keep you in the dark. "for instance, all these negroes are, as you know, of wretchedly low morals; but there are a few so depraved that it would be suicidal to take them into this school. we recognize the good you are doing, but we do not want it more than offset by utter lack of discrimination in choosing your material." "certainly not--have we--" miss mary faltered. this beginning was a bit ominous, wholly unexpected. "there is a girl, zora, who has just entered, who--i must speak candidly--who ought not to be here; i thought it but right to let you know." "thank you, so much. i'll tell miss smith." mary taylor suddenly felt herself a judge of character. "i suspected that she was--not what she ought to be. believe me, we appreciate your interest." a few more words, and mr. cresswell, after bending courteously over her hand with a deference no new englander had ever shown, was riding away on his white mare. for a while mary taylor sat very quietly. it was like a breath of air from the real world, this hour's chat with a well-bred gentleman. she wondered how she had done her part--had she been too eager and school-girlish? had she met this stately ceremony with enough breeding to show that she too was somebody? she pounced upon miss smith the minute that lady entered the office. "miss smith, who do you think has been here?" she burst out enthusiastically. "i saw him on the lawn." there was a suspicious lack of warmth in this brief affirmation. "he was so gracious and kindly, and he knows my brother. and oh, miss smith! we've got to send that zora right away." "indeed"--the observation was not even interrogatory. the preceptress of the struggling school for negro children merely evinced patience for the younger woman's fervency. "yes; he says she's utterly depraved." "said that, did he?" miss smith watched her with tranquil regard. miss taylor paused. "of course, we cannot think of keeping her." miss smith pursed her lips, offering her first expression of opinion. "i guess we'll worry along with her a little while anyhow," she said. the girl stared at miss smith in honest, if unpardonable, amazement. "do you mean to say that you are going to keep in this school a girl who not only lies and steals but is positively--_immoral_?" miss smith smiled, wholly unmoved. "no; but i mean that _i_ am here to learn from those whose ideas of right do not agree with mine, to discover _why_ they differ, and to let them learn of me--so far as i am worthy." mary taylor was not unappreciative of miss smith's stern high-mindedness, but her heart hardened at this, to her, misdirected zeal. echo of the spirit of an older day, miss smith seemed, to her, to be cramped and paralyzed in an armor of prejudice and sectionalisms. plain-speaking was the only course, and mary, if a little complacent perhaps in her frankness, was sincere in her purpose. "i think, miss smith, you are making a very grave mistake. i regard zora as a very undesirable person from every point of view. i look upon mr. cresswell's visit today as almost providential. he came offering an olive branch from the white aristocracy to this work; to bespeak his appreciation and safeguard the future. moreover," and miss taylor's voice gathered firmness despite miss smith's inscrutable eye, "moreover, i have reason to know that the disposition--indeed, the plan--in certain quarters to help this work materially depends very largely on your willingness to meet the advances of the southern whites half way." she paused for a reply or a question. receiving neither, she walked with dignity up the stairs. from her window she could see cresswell's straight shoulders, as he rode toward town, and beyond him a black speck in the road. but she could not see the smile on mr. cresswell's lips, nor did she hear him remark twice, with seeming irrelevance, "the devil!" the rider, being closer to it, recognized in mary taylor's "black speck" bles alwyn walking toward him rapidly with axe and hoe on shoulder, whistling merrily. they saw each other almost at the same moment and whistle and smile faded. mr. cresswell knew the negro by sight and disliked him. he belonged in his mind to that younger class of half-educated blacks who were impudent and disrespectful toward their superiors, not even touching his hat when he met a white man. moreover, he was sure that it was miss taylor with whom this boy had been talking so long and familiarly in the cotton-field last spring--an offence doubly heinous now that he had seen miss taylor. his first impulse was to halt the negro then and there and tell him a few plain truths. but he did not feel quarrelsome at the moment, and there was, after all, nothing very tangible to justify a berating. the fellow's impudence was sure to increase, and then! so he merely reined his horse to the better part of the foot-path and rode on. bles, too, was thinking. he knew the well-dressed man with his milk-white face and overbearing way. he would expect to be greeted with raised hat but bles bit his lips and pulled down his cap firmly. the axe, too, in some indistinct way felt good in his hand. he saw the horse coming in his pathway and stepping aside in the dust continued on his way, neither looking nor speaking. so they passed each other by, mr. cresswell to town, bles to the swamp, apparently ignorant of each other's very existence. yet, as the space widened between them, each felt a more vindictive anger for the other. how dares the black puppy to ignore a cresswell on the highway? if this went on, the day would surely come when negroes felt no respect or fear whatever for whites? and then--my god! mr. cresswell struck his mare a vicious blow and dashed toward town. the black boy, too, went his way in silent, burning rage. why should he be elbowed into the roadside dust by an insolent bully? why had he not stood his ground? pshaw! all this fine frenzy was useless, and he knew it. the sweat oozed on his forehead. it wasn't man against man, or he would have dragged the pale puppy from his horse and rubbed his face in the earth. it wasn't even one against many, else how willingly, swinging his axe, would have stood his ground before a mob. no, it was one against a world, a world of power, opinion, wealth, opportunity; and he, the one, must cringe and bear in silence lest the world crash about the ears of his people. he slowly plodded on in bitter silence toward the swamp. but the day was balmy, the way was beautiful; contempt slowly succeeded anger, and hope soon triumphed over all. for yonder was zora, poised, waiting. and behind her lay the field of dreams. _nine_ the planting zora looked down upon bles, where he stood to his knees in mud. the toil was beyond exhilaration--it was sickening weariness and panting despair. the great roots, twined in one unbroken snarl, clung frantically to the black soil. the vines and bushes fought back with thorn and bramble. zora stood wiping the blood from her hands and staring at bles. she saw the long gnarled fingers of the tough little trees and they looked like the fingers of elspeth down there beneath the earth pulling against the boy. slowly zora forgot her blood and pain. who would win--the witch, or jason? bles looked up and saw the bleeding hands. with a bound he was beside her. "zora!" the cry seemed wrung from his heart by contrition. why had he not known--not seen before! "zora, come right out of this! sit down here and rest." she looked at him unwaveringly; there was no flinching of her spirit. "i sha'n't do it," she said. "you'se working, and i'se going to work." "but--zora--you're not used to such work, and i am. you're tired out." "so is you," was her reply. he looked himself over ruefully, and dropping his axe, sat down beside her on a great log. silently they contemplated the land; it seemed indeed a hopeless task. then they looked at each other in sudden, unspoken fear of failure. "if we only had a mule!" he sighed. immediately her face lighted and her lips parted, but she said nothing. he presently bounded to his feet. "never mind, zora. to-morrow is saturday, and i'll work all day. we just _will_ get it done--sometime." his mouth closed with determination. "we won't work any more today, then?" cried zora, her eagerness betraying itself despite her efforts to hide it. "_you_ won't," affirmed bles. "but i've got to do just a little--" but zora was adamant: he was tired; she was tired; they would rest. to-morrow with the rising sun they would begin again. "there'll be a bright moon tonight," ventured bles. "then i'll come too," zora announced positively, and he had to promise for her sake to rest. they went up the path together and parted diffidently, he watching her flit away with sorrowful eyes, a little disturbed and puzzled at the burden he had voluntarily assumed, but never dreaming of drawing back. zora did not go far. no sooner did she know herself well out of his sight than she dropped lightly down beside the path, listening intently until the last echo of his footsteps had died away. then, leaving the cabin on her right, and the scene of their toil on her left, she cut straight through the swamp, skirted the big road, and in a half-hour was in the lower meadows of the cresswell plantations, where the tired stock was being turned out to graze for the night. here, in the shadow of the wood, she lingered. slowly, but with infinite patience, she broke one strand after another of the barbed-wire fencing, watching, the while, the sun grow great and crimson, and die at last in mighty splendor behind the dimmer westward forests. the voices of the hands and hostlers grew fainter and thinner in the distance of purple twilight until the last of them disappeared. silence fell, deep and soft; the silence of a day sinking to sleep. not until then did zora steal forth from her hiding-place. she had chosen her mule long before--a big, black beast, snorting over his pile of corn,--and gliding up to him, she gathered his supper into her skirt, found a stout halter, and fed him sparingly as he followed her. quickly she unfastened the pieces of the fence, led the animal through, and spliced them again; and then, with fox-like caution, she guided her prize through the labyrinthine windings of the swamp. it was dark and haunting, and ever and again rose lonely night cries. the girl trembled a little, but plodded resolutely on until the dim silver disk of the half-moon began to glimmer through the trees. then she pressed on more swiftly, and fed more scantily, until finally, with the moonlight pouring over them at the black lagoon, zora attempted to drive the animal into the still waters; but he gave a loud protesting snort and balked. by subtle temptings she gave him to understand that plenty lay beyond the dark waters, and quickly swinging herself to his back she started to ride him up and down along the edge of the lagoon, petting and whispering to him of good things beyond. slowly her eyes grew wide; she seemed to be riding out of dreamland on some hobgoblin beast. deeper and deeper they penetrated into the dark waters. now they entered the slime; now they stumbled on hidden roots; but deeper and deeper they waded until at last, turning the animal's head with a jerk, and giving him a sharp stroke of the whip, she headed straight for the island. a moment the beast snorted and plunged; higher and higher the black still waters rose round the girl. they crept up her little limbs, swirled round her breasts and gleamed green and slimy along her shoulders. a wild terror gripped her. maybe she was riding the devil's horse, and these were the yawning gates of hell, black and sombre beneath the cold, dead radiance of the moon. she saw again the gnarled and black and claw-like fingers of elspeth gripping and dragging her down. a scream struggled in her breast, her fingers relaxed, and the big beast, stretching his cramped neck, rose in one mighty plunge and planted his feet on the sand of the island. * * * * * bles, hurrying down in the morning with new tools and new determination, stopped and stared in blank amazement. zora was perched in a tree singing softly and beneath a fat black mule was finishing his breakfast. "zora--" he gasped, "how--how did you do it?" she only smiled and sang a happier measure, pausing only to whisper: "dreams--dreams--it's all dreams here, i tells you." bles frowned and stood irresolute. the song proceeded with less assurance, slower and lower, till it stopped, and the singer dropped to the ground, watching him with wide eyes. he looked down at her, slight, tired, scratched, but undaunted, striving blindly toward the light with stanch, unfaltering faith. a pity surged in his heart. he put his arm about her shoulders and murmured: "you poor, brave child." and she shivered with joy. all day saturday and part of sunday they worked feverishly. the trees crashed and the stumps groaned and crept up into the air, the brambles blazed and smoked; little frightened animals fled for shelter; and a wide black patch of rich loam broadened and broadened till it kissed, on every side but the sheltered east, the black waters of the lagoon. late sunday night the mule again swam the slimy lagoon, and disappeared toward the cresswell fields. then bles sat down beside zora, facing the fields, and gravely took her hand. she looked at him in quick, breathless fear. "zora," he said, "sometimes you tell lies, don't you?" "yes," she said slowly; "sometimes." "and, zora, sometimes you steal--you stole the pin from miss taylor, and we stole mr. cresswell's mule for two days." "yes," she said faintly, with a perplexed wrinkle in her brows, "i stole it." "well, zora, i don't want you ever to tell another lie, or ever to take anything that doesn't belong to you." she looked at him silently with the shadow of something like terror far back in the depths of her deep eyes. "always--tell--the truth?" she repeated slowly. "yes." her fingers worked nervously. "all the truth?" she asked. he thought a while. "no," said he finally, "it is not necessary always to tell all the truth; but never tell anything that isn't the truth." "never?" "never." "even if it hurts me?" "even if it hurts. god is good, he will not let it hurt much." "he's a fair god, ain't he?" she mused, scanning the evening sky. "yes--he's fair, he wouldn't take advantage of a little girl that did wrong, when she didn't know it was wrong." her face lightened and she held his hands in both hers, and said solemnly as though saying a prayer: "i won't lie any more, and i won't steal--and--" she looked at him in startled wistfulness--he remembered it in after years; but he felt he had preached enough. "and now for the seed!" he interrupted joyously. "and then--the silver fleece!" that night, for the first time, bles entered zora's home. it was a single low, black room, smoke-shadowed and dirty, with two dingy beds and a gaping fire-place. on one side of the fire-place sat the yellow woman, young, with traces of beauty, holding the white child in her arms; on the other, hugging the blaze, huddled a formless heap, wreathed in coils of tobacco smoke--elspeth, zora's mother. zora said nothing, but glided in and stood in the shadows. "good-evening," said bles cheerily. the woman with the baby alone responded. "i came for the seed you promised us--the cotton-seed." the hag wheeled and approached him swiftly, grasping his shoulders and twisting her face into his. she was a horrible thing--filthy of breath, dirty, with dribbling mouth and red eyes. her few long black teeth hung loosely like tusks and the folds of fat on her chin curled down on her great neck. bles shuddered and stepped back. "is you afeared, honey?" she whispered. "no," he said sturdily. she chuckled drily. "yes, you is--everybody's 'feared of old elspeth; but she won't hurt you--you's got the spell;" and wheeling again, she was back at the fire. "but the seed?" he ventured. she pointed impressively roofward. "the dark of the moon, boy, the dark of the moon--the first dark--at midnight." bles could not wring another word from her; nor did the ancient witch, by word or look, again give the slightest indication that she was aware of his presence. with reluctant farewell, bles turned home. for a space zora watched him, and once she started after him, but came slowly back, and sat by the fire-place. out of the night came voices and laughter, and the sound of wheels and galloping horses. it was not the soft, rollicking laughter of black men, but the keener, more metallic sound of white men's cries, and bles alwyn paused at the edge of the wood, looked back and hesitated, but decided after a moment to go home and to bed. zora, however, leapt to her feet and fled into the night, while the hag screamed after her and cursed. there was tramping of feet on the cabin floor, and loud voices and singing and cursing. "where's zora?" some one yelled, with an oath. "damn it! where is she? i haven't seen her for a year, you old devil." the hag whimpered and snarled. far down in the field of the fleece, zora lay curled beneath a tall dark tree asleep. all night there was coming and going in the cabin; the talk and laughter grew loud and boisterous, and the red fire glared in the night. * * * * * the days flew by and the moon darkened. in the swamp, the hidden island lay spaded and bedded, and bles was throwing up a dyke around the edge; zora helped him until he came to the black oak at the western edge. it was a large twisted thing with one low flying limb that curled out across another tree and made a mighty seat above the waters. "don't throw the dirt too high there," she begged; "it'll bring my seat too near the earth." he looked up. "why, it's a throne," he laughed. "it needs a roof," he whimsically told her when his day's work was done. deftly twisting and intertwining the branches of tree and bush, he wove a canopy of living green that shadowed the curious nest and warded it snugly from wind and water. early next morning bles slipped down and improved the nest; adding foot-rests to make the climbing easy, peep-holes east and west, a bit of carpet over the bark, and on the rough main trunk, a little picture in blue and gold of bougereau's madonna. zora sat hidden and alone in silent ecstasy. bles peeped in--there was not room to enter: the girl was staring silently at the madonna. she seemed to feel rather than hear his presence, and she inquired softly: "who's it, bles?" "the mother of god," he answered reverently. "and why does she hold a lily?" "it stands for purity--she was a good woman." "with a baby," zora added slowly. "yes--" said bles, and then more quickly--"it is the christ child--god's baby." "god is the father of all the little babies, ain't he, bles?" "why, yes--yes, of course; only this little baby didn't have any other father." "yes, i know one like that," she said,--and then she added softly: "poor little christ-baby." bles hesitated, and before he found words zora was saying: "how white she is; she's as white as the lily, bles; but--i'm sorry she's white--bles, what's purity--just whiteness?" bles glanced at her awkwardly but she was still staring wide-eyed at the picture, and her voice was earnest. she was now so old and again so much a child, an eager questioning child, that there seemed about her innocence something holy. "it means," he stammered, groping for meanings--"it means being good--just as good as a woman knows how." she wheeled quickly toward him and asked him eagerly: "not better--not better than she knows, but just as good, in--lying and stealing and--and everything?" bles smiled. "no--not better than she knows, but just as good." she trembled happily. "i'm--pure," she said, with a strange little breaking voice and gesture. a sob struggled in his throat. "of course you are," he whispered tenderly, hiding her little hands in his. "i--i was so afraid--sometimes--that i wasn't," she whispered, lifting up to him her eyes streaming with tears. silently he kissed her lips. from that day on they walked together in a new world. no revealing word was spoken; no vows were given, none asked for; but a new bond held them. she grew older, quieter, taller, he humbler, more tender and reverent, as they toiled together. so the days passed. the sun burned in the heavens; but the silvered glory of the moon grew fainter and fainter and each night it rose later than the night before. then one day zora whispered: "tonight!" bles came to the cabin, and he and zora and elspeth sat silently around the fire-place with its meagre embers. the night was balmy and still; only occasionally a wandering breeze searching the hidden places of the swamp, or the call and song of night birds, jarred the stillness. long they sat, until the silence crept into bles's flesh, and stretching out his hand, he touched zora's, clasping it. after a time the old woman rose and hobbled to a big black chest. out of it she brought an old bag of cotton seed--not the white-green seed which bles had always known, but small, smooth black seeds, which she handled carefully, dipping her hands deep down and letting them drop through her gnarled fingers. and so again they sat and waited and waited, saying no word. not until the stars of midnight had swung to the zenith did they start down through the swamp. bles sought to guide the old woman, but he found she knew the way better than he did. her shadowy figure darting in and out among the trunks till they crossed the tree bridge, moved ever noiselessly ahead. she motioned the boy and girl away to the thicket at the edge, and stood still and black in the midst of the cleared island. bles slipped his arm protectingly around zora, glancing fearfully about in the darkness. slowly a great cry rose and swept the island. it struck madly and sharply, and then died away to uneasy murmuring. from afar there seemed to come the echo or the answer to the call. the form of elspeth blurred the night dimly far off, almost disappearing, and then growing blacker and larger. they heard the whispering "_swish-swish_" of falling seed; they felt the heavy tread of a great coming body. the form of the old woman suddenly loomed black above them, hovering a moment formless and vast then fading again away, and the "_swish-swish_" of the falling seed alone rose in the silence of the night. at last all was still. a long silence. then again the air seemed suddenly filled with that great and awful cry; its echoing answer screamed afar and they heard the raucous voice of elspeth beating in their ears: _"de seed done sowed! de seed done sowed!"_ _ten_ mr. taylor calls "thinking the matter over," said harry cresswell to his father, "i'm inclined to advise drawing this taylor out a little further." the colonel puffed his cigar and one eye twinkled, the lid of the other being at the moment suggestively lowered. "was she pretty?" he asked; but his son ignored the remark, and the father continued: "i had a telegram from taylor this morning, after you left. he'll be passing through montgomery the first of next month, and proposes calling." "i'll wire him to come," said harry, promptly. at this juncture the door opened and a young lady entered. helen cresswell was twenty, small and pretty, with a slightly languid air. outside herself there was little in which she took very great interest, and her interest in herself was not absorbing. yet she had a curiously sweet way. her servants liked her and the tenants could count on her spasmodic attentions in time of sickness and trouble. "good-morning," she said, with a soft drawl. she sauntered over to her father, kissed him, and hung over the back of his chair. "did you get that novel for me, harry?"--expectantly regarding her brother. "i forgot it, sis. but i'll be going to town again soon." the young lady showed that she was annoyed. "by the bye, sis, there's a young lady over at the negro school whom i think you'd like." "black or white?" "a young lady, i said. don't be sarcastic." "i heard you. i did not know whether you were using our language or others'." "she's really unusual, and seems to understand things. she's planning to call some day--shall you be at home?" "certainly not, harry; you're crazy." and she strolled out to the porch, exchanged some remarks with a passing servant, and then nestled comfortably into a hammock. she helped herself to a chocolate and called out musically: "pa, are you going to town today?" "yes, honey." "can i go?" "i'm going in an hour or so, and business at the bank will keep me until after lunch." "i don't care, i just must go. i'm clean out of anything to read. and i want to shop and call on dolly's friend--she's going soon." "all right. can you be ready by eleven?" she considered. "yes--i reckon," she drawled, prettily swinging her foot and watching the tree-tops above the distant swamp. harry cresswell, left alone, rang the bell for the butler. "still thinking of going, are you, sam?" asked cresswell, carelessly, when the servant appeared. he was a young, light-brown boy, his manner obsequious. "why, yes, sir--if you can spare me." "spare you, you black rascal! you're going anyhow. well, you'll repent it; the north is no place for niggers. see here, i want lunch for two at one o'clock." the directions that followed were explicit and given with a particularity that made sam wonder. "order my trap," he finally directed. cresswell went out on the high-pillared porch until the trap appeared. "oh, harry! i wanted to go in the trap--take me?" coaxed his sister. "sorry, sis, but i'm going the other way." "i don't believe it," said miss cresswell, easily, as she settled down to another chocolate. cresswell did not take the trouble to reply. miss taylor was on her morning walk when she saw him spinning down the road, and both expressed surprise and pleasure at the meeting. "what a delightful morning!" said the school-teacher, and the glow on her face said even more. "i'm driving round through the old plantation," he explained; "won't you join me?" "the invitation is tempting," she hesitated; "but i've got just oodles of work." "what! on saturday?" "saturday is my really busy day, don't you know. i guess i could get off; really, though, i suspect i ought to tell miss smith." he looked a little perplexed; but the direction in which her inclinations lay was quite clear to him. "it--it would be decidedly the proper thing," he murmured, "and we could, of course, invite miss--" she saw the difficulty and interrupted him: "it's quite unnecessary; she'll think i have simply gone for a long walk." and soon they were speeding down the silent road, breathing the perfume of the pines. now a ride of an early spring morning, in alabama, over a leisurely old plantation road and behind a spirited horse, is an event to be enjoyed. add to this a man bred to be agreeable and outdoing his training, and a pretty girl gay with new-found companionship--all this is apt to make a morning worth remembering. they turned off the highway and passed through long stretches of ploughed and tumbled fields, and other fields brown with the dead ghosts of past years' cotton standing straggling and weather-worn. long, straight, or curling rows of ploughers passed by with steaming, struggling mules, with whips snapping and the yodle of workers or the sharp guttural growl of overseers as a constant accompaniment. "they're beginning to plough up the land for the cotton-crop," he explained. "what a wonderful crop it is!" mary had fallen pensive. "yes, indeed--if only we could get decent returns for it." "why, i thought it was a most valuable crop." she turned to him inquiringly. "it is--to negroes and manufacturers, but not to planters." "but why don't the planters do something?" "what can be done with negroes?" his tone was bitter. "we tried to combine against manufacturers in the farmers' league of last winter. my father was president. the pastime cost him fifty thousand dollars." miss taylor was perplexed, but eager. "you must correspond with my brother, mr. cresswell," she gravely observed. "i'm sure he--" before she could finish, an overseer rode up. he began talking abruptly, with a quick side-glance at mary, in which she might have caught a gleam of surprised curiosity. "that old nigger, jim sykes, over on the lower place, sir, ain't showed up again this morning." cresswell nodded. "i'll drive by and see," he said carelessly. the old man was discovered sitting before his cabin with his head in his hands. he was tall, black, and gaunt, partly bald, with tufted hair. one leg was swathed in rags, and his eyes, as he raised them, wore a cowed and furtive look. "well, uncle jim, why aren't you at work?" called cresswell from the roadside. the old man rose painfully to his feet, swayed against the cabin, and clutched off his cap. "it's my leg again, master harry--the leg what i hurt in the gin last fall," he answered, uneasily. cresswell frowned. "it's probably whiskey," he assured his companion, in an undertone; then to the man: "you must get to the field to-morrow,"--his habitually calm, unfeeling positiveness left no ground for objection; "i cannot support you in idleness, you know." "yes, master harry," the other returned, with conciliatory eagerness; "i knows that--i knows it and i ain't shirking. but, master harry, they ain't doing me right 'bout my cabin--i just wants to show you." he got out some dirty papers, and started to hobble forward, wincing with pain. mary taylor stirred in her seat under an involuntary impulse to help, but cresswell touched the horse. "all right, uncle jim," he said; "we'll look it over to-morrow." they turned presently to where they could see the cresswell oaks waving lazily in the sunlight and the white gleam of the pillared "big house." a pause at the cresswell store, where mr. cresswell entered, afforded mary taylor an opportunity further to extend her fund of information. "do you go to school?" she inquired of the black boy who held the horse, her mien sympathetic and interested. "no, ma'am," he mumbled. "what's your name?" "buddy--i'se one of aunt rachel's chilluns." "and where do you live, buddy?" "i lives with granny, on de upper place." "well, i'll see aunt rachel and ask her to send you to school." "won't do no good--she done ast, and mr. cresswell, he say he ain't going to have no more of his niggers--" but mr. cresswell came out just then, and with him a big, fat, and greasy black man, with little eyes and soft wheedling voice. he was following cresswell at the side but just a little behind, hat in hand, head aslant, and talking deferentially. cresswell strode carelessly on, answering him with good-natured tolerance. the black man stopped with humility before the trap and swept a profound obeisance. cresswell glanced up quizzically at miss taylor. "this," he announced, "is jones, the baptist preacher--begging." "ah, lady,"--in mellow, unctuous tones--"i don't know what we poor black folks would do without mr. cresswell--the lord bless him," said the minister, shoving his hand far down into his pocket. shortly afterward they were approaching the cresswell mansion, when the young man reined in the horse. "if you wouldn't mind," he suggested, "i could introduce my sister to you." "i should be delighted," answered miss taylor, readily. when they rolled up to the homestead under its famous oaks the hour was past one. the house was a white oblong building of two stories. in front was the high pillared porch, semi-circular, extending to the roof with a balcony in the second story. on the right was a broad verandah looking toward a wide lawn, with the main road and the red swamp in the distance. the butler met them, all obeisance. "ask miss helen to come down," said mr. cresswell. sam glanced at him. "miss helen will be dreadful sorry, but she and the colonel have just gone to town--i believe her aunty ain't well." mr. cresswell looked annoyed. "well, well! that's too bad," he said. "but at any rate, have a seat a moment out here on the verandah, miss taylor. and, sam, can't you find us a sandwich and something cool? i could not be so inhospitable as to send you away hungry at this time of day." miss taylor sat down in a comfortable low chair facing the refreshing breeze, and feasted her eyes on the scene. oh, this was life: a smooth green lawn, and beds of flowers, a vista of brown fields, and the dark line of wood beyond. the deft, quiet butler brought out a little table, spread with the whitest of cloths and laid with the brightest of silver, and "found" a dainty lunch. there was a bit of fried chicken breast, some crisp bacon, browned potatoes, little round beaten biscuit, and rose-colored sherbet with a whiff of wine in it. miss taylor wondered a little at the bounty of southern hospitality; but she was hungry, and she ate heartily, then leaned back dreamily and listened to mr. cresswell's smooth southern _r_'s, adding a word here and there that kept the conversation going and brought a grave smile to his pale lips. at last with a sigh she arose to her feet. "i must go! what shall i tell miss smith! no, no--no carriage; i must walk." of course, however, she could not refuse to let him go at least half-way, ostensibly to tell her of the coming of her brother. he expressed again his disappointment at his sister's absence. somewhat to miss taylor's surprise miss smith said nothing until they were parting for the night, then she asked: "was miss cresswell at home?" mary reddened. "she had been called suddenly to town." "well, my dear, i wouldn't do it again." the girl was angry. "i'm not a school-girl, but a grown woman, and capable of caring for myself. moreover, in matter of propriety i do not think you have usually found my ideas too lax--rather the opposite." "there, there, dear; don't be angry. only i think if your brother knew--" "he will know in a very few weeks; he is coming to visit the cresswells." and miss taylor sailed triumphantly up the stairs. but john taylor was not the man to wait weeks when a purpose could be accomplished in days or hours. no sooner was harry cresswell's telegram at hand than he hastened back from savannah, struck across country, and the week after his sister's ride found him striding up the carriage-way of the cresswell home. john taylor had prospered since summer. the cotton manufacturers' combine was all but a fact; mr. easterly had discovered that his chief clerk's sense and executive ability were invaluable, and john taylor was slated for a salary in five figures when things should be finally settled, not to mention a generous slice of stock--watery at present, but warranted to ripen early. while mr. easterly still regarded taylor's larger trust as chimerical, some occurrences of the fall made him take a respectful attitude toward it. just as the final clauses of the combine agreement were to be signed, there appeared a shortage in the cotton-crop, and prices began to soar. the cause was obviously the unexpected success of the new farmers' league among the cotton-growers. mr. easterly found it comparatively easy to overthrow the corner, but the flurry made some of the manufacturers timid, and the trust agreement was postponed until a year later. this experience and the persistence of mr. taylor induced mr. easterly to take a step toward the larger project: he let in some eager outside capital to the safer manufacturing scheme, and withdrew a corresponding amount of mrs. grey's money. this he put into john taylor's hands to invest in the south in bank stock and industries with the idea of playing a part in the financial situation there. "it's a risk, taylor, of course, and we'll let the old lady take the risk. at the worst it's safer than the damned foolishness she has in mind." so it happened that john taylor went south to look after large investments and, as mr. easterly expressed it, "to bring back facts, not dreams." his investment matters went quickly and well, and now he turned to his wider and bigger scheme. he wrote the cresswells tentatively, expecting no reply, or an evasive one; planning to circle around them, drawing his nets closer, and trying them again later. to his surprise they responded quickly. "humph! hard pressed," he decided, and hurried to them. so it was the week after mary taylor's ride that found him at cresswell's front door, thin, eagle-eyed, fairly well dressed and radiating confidence. "john taylor," he announced to sam, jerkily, thrusting out a card. "want to see mr. cresswell; soon as possible." sam made him wait a half-hour, for the sake of discipline, and then brought father and son. "good-morning, mr. cresswell, and mr. cresswell again," said mr. taylor, helping himself to a straight-backed chair. "hope you'll pardon this unexpected visit. found myself called through montgomery, just after i got your wire; thought i'd better drop over." at harry's suggestion they moved to the verandah and sat down over whiskey and soda, which taylor refused, and plunged into the subject without preliminaries. "i'm assuming that you gentlemen are in the cotton business for making money. so am i. i see a way in which you and your friends can help me and mine, and clear up more millions than all of us can spend; for this reason i've hunted you up. this is my scheme. "see here; there are a thousand cotton-mills in this country, half of them in the south, one-fourth in new england, and one-fourth in the middle states. they are capitalized at six hundred million dollars. now let me tell you: we control three hundred and fifty millions of that capitalization. the trust is going through capitalization at a billion. the only thing that threatens it is child-labor legislation in the south, the tariff, and the control of the supply of cotton. pretty big hindrances, you say. that's so, but look here: we've got the stock so placed that nothing short of a popular upheaval can send any child labor bill through congress in six years. see? after that we don't care. same thing applies to the tariff. the last bill ran ten years. the present bill will last longer, or i lose my guess--'specially if smith is in the senate. "well, then, there remains raw cotton. the connection of cotton-raising and its raw material is too close to risk a manufacturing trust that does not include practical control of the raw material. for that reason we're planning a trust to include the raising and manufacturing of cotton in america. then, too, cornering the cotton market here means the whip-hand of the industrial world. gentlemen, it's the biggest idea of the century. it beats steel." colonel cresswell chuckled. "how do you spell that?" he asked. but john taylor was not to be diverted; his thin face was pale, but his gray eyes burned with the fire of a zealot. harry cresswell only smiled dimly and looked interested. "now, again," continued john taylor. "there are a million cotton farms in the south, half run by colored people and half by whites. leave the colored out of account as long as they are disfranchised. the half million white farms are owned or controlled by five thousand wholesale merchants and three thousand big landowners, of whom you, colonel cresswell, are among the biggest with your fifty thousand acres. ten banks control these eight thousand people--one of these is the jefferson national of montgomery, of which you are a silent director." colonel cresswell started; this man evidently had inside information. did he know of the mortgage, too? "don't be alarmed. i'm safe," taylor assured him. "now, then, if we can get the banks, wholesale merchants, and biggest planters into line we can control the cotton crop." "but," objected harry cresswell, "while the banks and the large merchants may be possibilities, do you know what it means to try to get planters into line?" "yes, i do. and what i don't know you and your father do. colonel cresswell is president of the farmers' league. that's the reason i'm here. your success last year made you indispensable to our plans." "our success?" laughed colonel cresswell, ruefully, thinking of the fifty thousand dollars lost and the mortgage to cover it. "yes, sir--success! you didn't know it; we were too careful to allow that; and i say frankly you wouldn't know it now if we weren't convinced you were too far involved and the league too discouraged to repeat the dose." "now, look here, sir," began colonel cresswell, flushing and drawing himself erect. "there, there, colonel cresswell, don't misunderstand me. i'm a plain man. i'm playing a big game--a tremendous one. i need you, and i know you need me. i find out about you, and my sources of knowledge are wide and unerring. but the knowledge is safe, sir; it's buried. last year when you people curtailed cotton acreage and warehoused a big chunk of the crop you gave the mill men the scare of their lives. we had a hasty conference and the result was that the bottom fell out of your credit." colonel cresswell grew pale. there was a disquieting, relentless element in this unimpassioned man's tone. "you failed," pursued john taylor, "because you couldn't get the banks and the big merchants behind you. we've got 'em behind us--with big chunks of stock and a signed iron-clad agreement. you can wheel the planters into line--will you do it?" john taylor bent forward tense but cool and steel-like. harry cresswell laid his hand on his father's arm and said quietly: "and where do we come in?" "that's business," affirmed john taylor. "you and two hundred and fifty of the biggest planters come in on the ground-floor of the two-billion-dollar all-cotton combine. it can easily mean two million to you in five years." "and the other planters?" "they come in for high-priced cotton until we get our grip." "and then?" the quiet question seemed to invoke a vision for john taylor; the gray eyes took on the faraway look of a seer; the thin, bloodless lips formed a smile in which there was nothing pleasant. "they keep their mouths shut or we squeeze 'em and buy the land. we propose to own the cotton belt of the south." colonel cresswell started indignantly from his seat. "do you think--by god, sir!--that i'd betray southern gentlemen to--" but harry's hand and impassive manner restrained him; he cooled as suddenly as he had flared up. "thank you very much, mr. taylor," he concluded; "we'll consider this matter carefully. you'll spend the night, of course." "can't possibly--must catch that next train back." "but we must talk further," the colonel insisted. "and then, there's your sister." "by jove! forgot all about mary." john taylor after a little desultory talk, followed his host up-stairs. the next afternoon john taylor was sitting beside helen cresswell on the porch which overlooked the terrace, and was, on the whole, thinking less of cotton than he had for several years. to be sure, he was talking cotton; but he was doing it mechanically and from long habit, and was really thinking how charming a girl helen cresswell was. she fascinated him. for his sister taylor had a feeling of superiority that was almost contempt. the idea of a woman trying to understand and argue about things men knew! he admired the dashing and handsome miss easterly, but she scared him and made him angrily awkward. this girl, on the other hand, just lounged and listened with an amused smile, or asked the most child-like questions. she required him to wait on her quite as a matter of course--to adjust her pillows, hand her the bon-bons, and hunt for her lost fan. mr. taylor, who had not waited on anybody since his mother died, and not much before, found a quite inexplicable pleasure in these little domesticities. several times he took out his watch and frowned; yet he managed to stay with her quite happily. on her part miss cresswell was vastly amused. her acquaintance with men was not wide, but it was thorough so far as her own class was concerned. they were all well-dressed and leisurely, fairly good looking, and they said the same words and did the same things in the same way. they paid her compliments which she did not believe, and they did not expect her to believe. they were charmingly deferential in the matter of dropped handkerchiefs, but tyrannical of opinion. they were thoughtful about candy and flowers, but thoughtless about feelings and income. altogether they were delightful, but cloying. this man was startlingly different; ungainly and always in a desperate, unaccountable hurry. he knew no pretty speeches, he certainly did not measure up to her standard of breeding, and yet somehow he was a gentleman. all this was new to helen cresswell, and she liked it. meanwhile the men above-stairs lingered in the colonel's office--the older one perturbed and sputtering, the younger insistent and imperturbable. "the fact is, father," he was saying, "as you yourself have said, one bad crop of cotton would almost ruin us." "but the prospects are good." "what are prospects in march? no, father, this is the situation--three good crops in succession will wipe off our indebtedness and leave us facing only low prices and a scarcity of niggers; on the other hand--" the father interrupted impatiently. "yes, on the other hand, if we plunge deeper in debt and betray our friends we may come out millionaires or--paupers." "precisely," said harry cresswell, calmly. "now, our plan is to take no chances; i propose going north and looking into this matter thoroughly. if he represents money and has money, and if the trust has really got the grip he says it has, why, it's a case of crush or get crushed, and we'll have to join them on their own terms. if he's bluffing, or the thing looks weak, we'll wait." it all ended as matters usually did end, in harry's having his way. he came downstairs, expecting, indeed, rather hoping, to find taylor impatiently striding to and fro, watch in hand; but here he was, ungainly, it might be, but quite docile, drawing the picture of a power-loom for miss cresswell, who seemed really interested. harry silently surveyed them from the door, and his face lighted with a new thought. taylor, espying him, leapt to his feet and hauled out his watch. "well--i--" he began lamely. "no, you weren't either," interrupted harry, with a laugh that was unmistakably cordial and friendly. "you had quite forgotten what you were waiting for--isn't that so, sis?" helen regarded her brother through her veiling lashes: what meant this sudden assumption of warmth and amiability? "no, indeed; he was raging with impatience," she returned. "why, miss cresswell, i--i--" john taylor forsook social amenities and pulled himself together. "well," shortly, "now for that talk--ready?" and quite forgetting miss cresswell, he bolted into the parlor. "the decision we have come to is this," said harry cresswell. "we are in debt, as you know." "forty-nine thousand, seven hundred and forty-two dollars and twelve cents," responded taylor; "in three notes, due in twelve, twenty-four, and thirty-six months, interest at eight per cent, held by--" the colonel snorted his amazement, and harry cresswell cut in: "yes," he calmly admitted; "and with good crops for three years we'd be all right; good crops even for two years would leave us fairly well off." "you mean it would relieve you of the present stringency and put you face to face with the falling price of cotton and rising wages," was john taylor's dry addendum. "rising price of cotton, you mean," harry corrected. "oh, temporarily," john taylor admitted. "precisely, and thus postpone the decision." "no, mr. cresswell. i'm offering to let you in on the ground floor--_now_--not next year, or year after." "mr. taylor, have you any money in this?" "everything i've got." "well, the thing is this way: if you can prove to us that conditions are as you say, we're in for it." "good! meet me in new york, say--let's see, this is march tenth--well, may third." young cresswell was thinking rapidly. this man without doubt represented money. he was anxious for an alliance. why? was it all straight, or did the whole move conceal a trick? his eyes strayed to the porch where his pretty sister sat languidly, and then toward the school where the other sister lived. john taylor looked out on the porch, too. they glanced quickly at each other, and each wondered if the other had shared his thought. harry cresswell did not voice his mind for he was not wholly disposed to welcome what was there; but he could not refrain from saying in tones almost confidential: "you could recommend this deal, then, could you--to your own friends?" "to my own family," asserted john taylor, looking at harry cresswell with sudden interest. but mr. cresswell was staring at the end of his cigar. _eleven_ the flowering of the fleece "zora," observed miss smith, "it's a great blessing not to need spectacles, isn't it?" zora thought that it was; but she was wondering just what spectacles had to do with the complaint she had brought to the office from miss taylor. "i'm always losing my glasses and they get dirty and--oh, dear! now where is that paper?" zora pointed silently to the complaint. "no, not that--another paper. it must be in my room. don't you want to come up and help me look?" they went up to the clean, bare room, with its white iron bed, its cool, spotless shades and shining windows. zora walked about softly and looked, while miss smith quietly searched on desk and bureau, paying no attention to the girl. for the time being she was silent. "i sometimes wish," she began at length, "i had a bright-eyed girl like you to help me find and place things." zora made no comment. "sometimes bles helps me," added miss smith, guilefully. zora looked sharply at her. "could i help?" she asked, almost timidly. "why, i don't know,"--the answer was deliberate. "there are one or two little things perhaps--" placing a hand gently upon zora's shoulder, she pointed out a few odd tasks, and left the girl busily doing them; then she returned to the office, and threw miss taylor's complaint into the waste-basket. for a week or more zora slipped in every day and performed the little tasks that miss smith laid out: she sorted papers, dusted the bureau, hung a curtain; she did not do the things very well, and she broke some china, but she worked earnestly and quickly, and there was no thought of pay. then, too, did not bles praise her with a happy smile, as together, day after day, they stood and watched the black dirt where the silver fleece lay planted? she dreamed and sang over that dark field, and again and again appealed to him: "s'pose it shouldn't come up after all?" and he would laugh and say that of course it would come up. one day, when zora was helping miss smith in the bedroom, she paused with her arms full of clothes fresh from the laundry. "where shall i put these?" miss smith looked around. "they might go in there," she said, pointing to a door. zora opened it. a tiny bedroom was disclosed, with one broad window looking toward the swamp; white curtains adorned it, and white hangings draped the plain bureau and wash-stand and the little bed. there was a study table, and a small bookshelf holding a few books, all simple and clean. zora paused uncertainly, and surveyed the room. "sometimes when you're tired and want to be alone you can come up here, zora," said miss smith carelessly. "no one uses this room." zora caught her breath sharply, but said nothing. the next day miss smith said to her when she came in: "i'm busy now, dear, but you go up to your little room and read and i'll call." zora quietly obeyed. an hour later miss smith looked in, then she closed the door lightly and left. another hour flew by before zora hurried down. "i was reading, and i forgot," she said. "it's all right," returned miss smith. "i didn't need you. and any day, after you get all your lessons, i think miss taylor will excuse you and let you go to your room and read." miss taylor, it transpired, was more than glad. day after day bles and zora visited the field; but ever the ground lay an unrelieved black beneath the bright sun, and they would go reluctantly home again, today there was much work to be done, and zora labored steadily and eagerly, never pausing, and gaining in deftness and care. in the afternoon bles went to town with the school wagon. a light shower flew up from the south, lingered a while and fled, leaving a fragrance in the air. for a moment zora paused, and her nostrils quivered; then without a word she slipped down-stairs, glided into the swamp, and sped away to the island. she swung across the tree and a low, delighted cry bubbled on her lips. all the rich, black ground was sprinkled with tender green. she bent above the verdant tenderness and kissed it; then she rushed back, bursting into the room. "_it's come! it's come!--the silver fleece!_" miss smith was startled. "the silver fleece!" she echoed in bewilderment. zora hesitated. it came over her all at once that this one great all-absorbing thing meant nothing to the gaunt tired-look woman before her. "would bles care if i told?" she asked doubtfully. "no," miss smith ventured. and then the girl crouched at her feet and told the dream and the story. many factors were involved that were quite foreign to the older woman's nature and training. the recital brought to her new england mind many questions of policy and propriety. and yet, as she looked down upon the dark face, hot with enthusiasm, it all seemed somehow more than right. slowly and lightly miss smith slipped her arm about zora, and nodded and smiled a perfect understanding. they looked out together into the darkening twilight. "it is so late and wet and you're tired tonight--don't you think you'd better sleep in your little room?" zora sat still. she thought of the noisy flaming cabin and the dark swamp; but a contrasting thought of the white bed made her timid, and slowly she shook her head. nevertheless miss smith led her to the room. "here are things for you to wear," she pointed out, opening the bureau, "and here is the bath-room." she left the girl standing in the middle of the floor. in time zora came to stay often at miss smith's cottage, and to learn new and unknown ways of living and dressing. she still refused to board, for that would cost more than she could pay yet, and she would accept no charity. gradually an undemonstrative friendship sprang up between the pale old gray-haired teacher and the dark young black-haired girl. delicately, too, but gradually, the companionship of bles and zora was guided and regulated. of mornings zora would hurry through her lessons and get excused to fly to the swamp, to work and dream alone. at noon bles would run down, and they would linger until he must hurry back to dinner. after school he would go again, working while she was busy in miss smith's office, and returning later, would linger awhile to tell zora of his day while she busied herself with her little tasks. saturday mornings they would go to the swamp and work together, and sometimes miss smith, stealing away from curious eyes, would come and sit and talk with them as they toiled. in those days, for these two souls, earth came very near to heaven. both were in the midst of that mighty change from youth to womanhood and manhood. their manner toward each other by degrees grew shyer and more thoughtful. there was less of comradeship, but the little meant more. the rough good fellowship was silently put aside; they no longer lightly clasped hands; and each at times wondered, in painful self-consciousness, if the other cared. then began, too, that long and subtle change wherein a soul, until now unmindful of its wrappings, comes suddenly to consciousness of body and clothes; when it gropes and tries to adjust one with the other, and through them to give to the inner deeper self, finer and fuller expression. one saw it easily, almost suddenly, in alwyn's sunday suit, vivid neckties, and awkward fads. slower, subtler, but more striking was the change in zora, as she began to earn bits of pin money in the office and to learn to sew. dresses hung straighter; belts served a better purpose; stockings were smoother; underwear was daintier. then her hair--that great dark mass of immovable infinitely curled hair--began to be subdued and twisted and combed until, with steady pains and study, it lay in thick twisted braids about her velvet forehead, like some shadowed halo. all this came much more slowly and spasmodically than one tells it. few noticed the change much; none noticed all; and yet there came a night--a student's social--when with a certain suddenness the whole school, teachers and pupils, realized the newness of the girl, and even bles was startled. he had bought her in town, at christmas time, a pair of white satin slippers, partly to test the smallness of her feet on which in younger days he had rallied her, and partly because she had mentioned a possible white dress. they were a cheap, plain pair but dainty, and they fitted well. when the evening came and the students were marching and the teachers, save miss smith, were sitting rather primly apart and commenting, she entered the room. she was a little late, and a hush greeted her. one boy, with the inimitable drawl of the race, pushed back his ice-cream and addressed it with a mournful head-shake: "go way, honey, yo' los' yo' tas'e!" the dress was plain and fitted every curving of a healthy girlish form. she paused a moment white-bodied and white-limbed but dark and velvet-armed, her full neck and oval head rising rich and almost black above, with its deep-lighted eyes and crown of silent darkling hair. to some, such a revelation of grace and womanliness in this hoyden, the gentle swelling of lankness to beauty, of lowliness to shy self-poise, was a sudden joy, to others a mere blindness. mary taylor was perplexed and in some indefinite way amazed; and many of the other teachers saw no beauty, only a strangeness that brought a smile. they were such as know beauty by convention only, and find it lip-ringed, hoop-skirted, tattooed, or corsetted, as time and place decree. the change in zora, however, had been neither cataclysmic nor revolutionary and it was yet far--very far--from complete. she still ran and romped in the woods, and dreamed her dreams; she still was passionately independent and "queer." tendencies merely had become manifest, some dominant. she would, unhindered, develop to a brilliant, sumptuous womanhood; proud, conquering, full-blooded, and deep bosomed--a passionate mother of men. herein lay all her early wildness and strangeness. herein lay, as yet half hidden, dimly sensed and all unspoken, the power of a mighty all-compelling love for one human soul, and, through it, for all the souls of men. all this lay growing and developing; but as yet she was still a girl, with a new shyness and comeliness and a bold, searching heart. in the field of the silver fleece all her possibilities were beginning to find expression. these new-born green things hidden far down in the swamp, begotten in want and mystery, were to her a living wonderful fairy tale come true. all the latent mother in her brooded over them; all her brilliant fancy wove itself about them. they were her dream-children, and she tended them jealously; they were her hope, and she worshipped them. when the rabbits tried the tender plants she watched hours to drive them off, and catching now and then a pulsing pink-eyed invader, she talked to it earnestly: "brer rabbit--poor little brer rabbit, don't you know you mustn't eat zora's cotton? naughty, naughty brer rabbit." and then she would show it where she had gathered piles of fragrant weeds for it and its fellows. the golden green of the first leaves darkened, and the plants sprang forward steadily. never before was such a magnificent beginning, a full month ahead of other cotton. the rain swept down in laughing, bubbling showers, and laved their thirsty souls, and zora held her beating breast day by day lest it rain too long or too heavily. the sun burned fiercely upon the young cotton plants as the spring hastened, and they lifted their heads in darker, wilder luxuriance; for the time of hoeing was at hand. these days were days of alternate hope and doubt with bles alwyn. strength and ambition and inarticulate love were fighting within him. he felt, in the dark thousands of his kind about him, a mighty calling to deeds. he was becoming conscious of the narrowness and straightness of his black world, and red anger flashed in him ever and again as he felt his bonds. his mental horizon was broadening as he prepared for the college of next year; he was faintly grasping the wider, fuller world, and its thoughts and aspirations. but beside and around and above all this, like subtle, permeating ether, was--zora. his feelings for her were not as yet definite, expressed, or grasped; they were rather the atmosphere in which all things occurred and were felt and judged. from an amusing pastime she had come to be a companion and thought-mate; and now, beyond this, insensibly they were drifting to a silenter, mightier mingling of souls. but drifting, merely--not arrived; going gently, irresistibly, but not yet at the realized goal. he felt all this as the stirring of a mighty force, but knew not what he felt. the teasing of his fellows, the common love-gossip of the school yard, seemed far different from his plight. he laughed at it and indignantly denied it. yet he was uncomfortable, restless, unhappy. he fancied zora cared less for his company, and he gave her less, and then was puzzled to find time hanging so empty, so wretchedly empty, on his hands. when they were together in these days they found less to talk about, and had it not been for the silver fleece which in magic wilfulness opened both their mouths, they would have found their companionship little more than a series of awkward silences. yet in their silences, their walks, and their sittings there was a companionship, a glow, a satisfaction, as came to them nowhere else on earth, and they wondered at it. they were both wondering at it this morning as they watched their cotton. it had seemingly bounded forward in a night and it must be hoed forthwith. yet, hoeing was murder--the ruthless cutting away of tenderer plants that the sturdier might thrive the more and grow. "i hate it, bles, don't you?" "hate what?" "killing any of it; it's all so pretty." "but it must be, so that what's left will be prettier, or at least more useful." "but it shouldn't be so; everything ought to have a chance to be beautiful and useful." "perhaps it ought to be so," admitted bles, "but it isn't." "isn't it so--anywhere?" "i reckon not. death and pain pay for all good things." she hoed away silently, hesitating over the choice of the plants, pondering this world-old truth, saddened by its ruthless cruelty. "death and pain," she murmured; "what a price!" bles leaned on his hoe and considered. it had not occurred to him till now that zora was speaking better and better english: the idioms and errors were dropping away; they had not utterly departed, however, but came crowding back in moments of excitement. at other times she clothed miss smith's clear-cut, correct speech in softer southern accents. she was drifting away from him in some intangible way to an upper world of dress and language and deportment, and the new thought was pain to him. so it was that the fleece rose and spread and grew to its wonderful flowering; and so these two children grew with it into theirs. zora never forgot how they found the first white flower in that green and billowing sea, nor her low cry of pleasure and his gay shout of joy. slowly, wonderfully the flowers spread--white, blue, and purple bells, hiding timidly, blazing luxuriantly amid the velvet leaves; until one day--it was after a southern rain and the sunlight was twinkling through the morning--all the fleece was in flower--a mighty swaying sea, darkling rich and waving, and upon it flecks and stars of white and purple foam. the joy of the two so madly craved expression that they burst into singing; not the wild light song of dancing feet, but a low, sweet melody of her fathers' fathers, whereunto alwyn's own deep voice fell fitly in minor cadence. miss smith and miss taylor, who were sorting the mail, heard them singing as they came up out of the swamp. miss taylor looked at them, then at miss smith. but miss smith sat white and rigid with the first opened letter in her hand. _twelve_ the promise miss smith sat with her face buried in her hands while the tears trickled silently through her thin fingers. before her lay the letter, read a dozen times: "old mrs. grey has been to see me, and she has announced her intention of endowing five colored schools, yours being one. she asked if $ , would do it. she has plenty of money, so i told her $ , would be better--$ , apiece. she's arranging for a board of trust, etc. you'll probably hear from her soon. you've been so worried about expenses that i thought i'd send this word on; i knew you'd be glad." glad? dear god, how flat the word fell! for thirty years she had sown the seed, planting her life-blood in this work, that had become the marrow of her soul. successful? no, it had not been successful; but it had been human. through yonder doorway had trooped an army of hundreds upon hundreds of bright and dull, light and dark, eager and sullen faces. there had been good and bad, honest and deceptive, frank and furtive. some had caught, kindled and flashed to ambition and achievement; some, glowing dimly, had plodded on in a slow, dumb faithful work worth while; and yet others had suddenly exploded, hurtling human fragments to heaven and to hell. around this school home, as around the centre of some little universe, had whirled the sorrowful, sordid, laughing, pulsing drama of a world: birth pains, and the stupor of death; hunger and pale murder; the riot of thirst and the orgies of such red and black cabins as elspeth's, crouching in the swamp. she groaned as she read of the extravagances of the world and saw her own vanishing revenues; but the funds continued to dwindle until sarah smith asked herself: "what will become of this school when i die?" with trembling fingers she had sat down to figure how many teachers must be dropped next year, when her brother's letter came, and she slipped to her knees and prayed. mrs. grey's decision was due in no little way to mary taylor's reports. slowly but surely the girl had begun to think that she had found herself in this new world. she would never be attuned to it thoroughly, for she was set for different music. the veil of color and race still hung thickly between her and her pupils; and yet she seemed to see some points of penetration. no one could meet daily a hundred or more of these light-hearted, good-natured children without feeling drawn to them. no one could cross the thresholds of the cabins and not see the old and well-known problems of life and striving. more and more, therefore, the work met miss taylor's approval and she told mrs. grey so. at the same time mary taylor had come to some other definite conclusions: she believed it wrong to encourage the ambitions of these children to any great extent; she believed they should be servants and farmers, content to work under present conditions until those conditions could be changed; and she believed that the local white aristocracy, helped by northern philanthropy, should take charge of such gradual changes. these conclusions she did not pretend to have originated; but she adopted them from reading and conversation, after hesitating for a year before such puzzling contradictions as bles alwyn and harry cresswell. for her to conclude to treat bles alwyn as a man despite his color was as impossible as to think mr. cresswell a criminal. some compromise was imperative which would save her the pleasure of mr. cresswell's company and at the same time leave open a way of fulfilling the world's duty to this black boy. she thought she had found this compromise and she wrote mrs. grey suggesting a chain of endowed negro schools under the management of trustees composed of northern business men and local southern whites. mrs. grey acquiesced gladly and announced her plan, eventually writing miss smith of her decision "to second her noble efforts in helping the poor colored people," and she hoped to have the plan under way before next fall. the sharpness of miss smith's joy did not let her dwell on the proposed "board of trust"; of course, it would be a board of friends of the school. she sat in her office looking out across the land. school had closed for the year and bles with the carryall was just taking miss taylor to the train with her trunk and bags. far up the road she could see dotted here and there the little dirty cabins of cresswell's tenants--the cresswell domain that lay like a mighty hand around the school, ready at a word to squeeze its life out. only yonder, to the eastward, lay the way out; the five hundred acres of the tolliver plantation, which the school needed so sadly for its farm and community. but the owner was a hard and ignorant white man, hating "niggers" only a shade more than he hated white aristocrats of the cresswell type. he had sold the school its first land to pique the cresswells; but he would not sell any more, she was sure, even now when the promise of wealth faced the school. she lay back and closed her eyes and fell lightly asleep. as she slept an old woman came toiling up the hill northward from the school, and out of the eastward spur of the cresswell barony. she was fat and black, hooded and aproned, with great round head and massive bosom. her face was dull and heavy and homely, her old eyes sorrowful. she moved swiftly, carrying a basket on her arm. opposite her, to the southward, but too far for sight, an old man came out of the lower cresswell place, skirting the swamp. he was tall, black, and gaunt, part bald with tufted hair, and a cowed and furtive look was in his eyes. one leg was crippled, and he hobbled painfully. up the road to the eastward that ran past the school, with the morning sun at his back, strode a young man, yellow, crisp-haired, strong-faced, with darkly knit brows. he greeted bles and the teacher coldly, and moved on in nervous haste. a woman, hurrying out of the westward swamp up the path that led from elspeth's, saw him and shrank back hastily. she turned quickly into the swamp and waited, looking toward the school. the old woman hurried into the back gate just as the old man appeared to the southward on the road. the young man greeted him cordially and they stopped a moment to talk, while the hiding woman watched. "howdy, uncle jim." "howdy, son. hit's hot, ain't it? how is you?" "tolerable, how are you?" "poorly, son, poorly--and worser in mind. i'se goin' up to talk to old miss." "so am i, but i just see aunt rachel going in. we'd better wait." miss smith started up at the timid knocking, and rubbed her eyes. it was long since she had slept in the daytime and she was annoyed at such laziness. she opened the back door and led the old woman to the office. "now, what have you got there?" she demanded, eyeing the basket. "just a little chicken fo' you and a few aigs." "oh, you are so thoughtful!" sarah smith's was a grateful heart. "go 'long now--hit ain't a thing." then came a pause, the old woman sliding into the proffered seat, while over her genial, dimpled smile there dropped a dull veil of care. her eyes shifted uneasily. miss smith tried not to notice the change. "well, are you all moved, aunt rachel?" she inquired cheerfully. "no'm, and we ain't gwine to move." "but i thought it was all arranged." "it was," gloomily, "but de ole cunnel, he won't let us go." the listener was instantly sympathetic. "why not?" she asked. "he says we owes him." "but didn't you settle at christmas?" "yas'm; but when he found we was goin' away, he looked up some more debts." "how much?" "i don't know 'zactly--more'n a hundred dollars. den de boys done got in dat trouble, and he paid their fines." "what was the trouble?" "well, one was a-gambling, and the other struck the overseer what was a-whippin' him." "whipping him!"--in horrified exclamation, quite as much at aunt rachel's matter-of-fact way of regarding the matter as at the deed itself. "yas'm. he didn't do his work right and he whipped him. i speck he needed it." "but he's a grown man," miss smith urged earnestly. "yas'm; he's twenty now, and big." "whipped him!" miss smith repeated. "and so you can't leave?" "no'm, he say he'll sell us out and put us in de chain-gang if we go. the boys is plumb mad, but i'se a-pleadin' with 'em not to do nothin' rash." "but--but i thought they had already started to work a crop on the tolliver place?" "yes'm, dey had; but, you see, dey were arrested, and then cunnel cresswell took 'em and 'lowed they couldn't leave his place. ol' man tolliver was powerful mad." "why, aunt rachel, it's slavery!" cried the lady in dismay. aunt rachel did not offer to dispute her declaration. "yas'm, hit's slavery," she agreed. "i hates it mighty bad, too, 'cause i wanted de little chillens in school; but--" the old woman broke down and sobbed. a knocking came at the door; hastily wiping her eyes aunt rachel rose. "i'll--i'll see what i can do, aunt rachel--i must do something," murmured miss smith hastily, as the woman departed, and an old black man came limping in. miss smith looked up in surprise. "i begs pardon, mistress--i begs pardon. good-morning." "good-morning--" she hesitated. "sykes--jim sykes--that's me." "yes, i've heard of you, mr. sykes; you live over south of the swamp." "yes, ma'am, that's me; and i'se got a little shack dar and a bit of land what i'se trying to buy." "of colonel cresswell?" "yas'm, of de cunnel." "and how long have you been buying it?" "going on ten year now; and dat's what i comes to ask you about." "goodness me! and how much have you paid a year?" "i gen'rally pays 'bout three bales of cotton a year." "does he furnish you rations?" "only sugar and coffee and a little meat now and then." "what does it amount to a year?" "i doesn't rightly know--but i'se got some papers here." miss smith looked them over and sighed. it was the same old tale of blind receipts for money "on account"--no items, no balancing. by his help she made out that last year his total bill at cresswell's store was perhaps forty dollars. "an' last year's bill was bigger'n common 'cause i hurt my leg working at the gin and had to have some medicine." "why, as far as i can see, mr. sykes, you've paid cresswell about a thousand dollars in the last ten years. how large is your place?" "about twenty acres." "and what were you to pay for it?" "four hundred." "have you got the deed?" "yes'm, but i ain't finished paying yet; de cunnel say as how i owes him two hundred dollars still, and i can't see it. dat's why i come over here to talk wid you." "where is the deed?" he handed it to her and her heart sank. it was no deed, but a complicated contract binding the tenant hand and foot to the landlord. she sighed, he watching her eagerly. "i'se getting old," he explained, "and i ain't got nobody to take care of me. i can't work as i once could, and de overseers dey drives me too hard. i wants a little home to die in." miss smith's throat swelled. she couldn't tell him that he would never get one at the present rate; she only said: "i'll--look this up. you come again next saturday." then sadly she watched the ragged old slave hobble away with his cherished "papers." he greeted the young man at the gate and passed out, while the latter walked briskly up to the door and knocked. "why, how do you do, robert?" "how do you do, miss smith?" "well, are you getting things in shape so as to enter school early next year?" robert looked embarrassed. "that's what i came to tell you, miss smith. mr. cresswell has offered me forty acres of good land." miss smith looked disheartened. "robert, here you are almost finished, and my heart is set on your going to atlanta university and finishing college. with your fine voice and talent for drawing--" a dogged look settled on robert's young bright face, and the speaker paused. "what's the use, miss smith--what opening is there for a--a nigger with an education?" miss smith was shocked. "why--why, every chance," she protested, "and where there's none _make_ a chance!" "miss taylor says"--miss smith's heart sank; how often had she heard that deadening phrase in the last year!--"that there's no use. that farming is the only thing we ought to try to do, and i reckon she thinks there ain't much chance even there." "robert, farming is a noble calling. whether you're suited to it or not, i don't yet know, but i'd like nothing better than to see you settled here in a decent home with a family, running a farm. but, robert, farming doesn't call for less intelligence than other things; it calls for more. it is because the world thinks any training good enough for a farmer that the southern farmer is today practically at the mercy of his keener and more intelligent fellows. and of all people, robert, your people need trained intelligence to cope with this problem of farming here. without intelligence and training and some capital it is the wildest nonsense to think you can lead your people out of slavery. look round you." she told him of the visitors. "are they not hard working honest people?" "yes, ma'am." "yet they are slaves--dumb driven cattle." "but they have no education." "and you have a smattering; therefore are ready to pit yourself against the organized plantation system without capital or experience. robert, you may succeed; you may find your landlord honest and the way clear; but my advice to you is--finish your education, develop your talents, and then come to your life work a full-fledged man and not a half-ignorant boy." "i'll think of it," returned the boy soberly. "i reckon you're right. i know miss taylor don't think much of us. but i'm tired of waiting; i want to get to work." miss smith laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder. "i've been waiting thirty years, robert," she said, with feeling, and he hung his head. "i wanted to talk about it," he awkwardly responded, turning slowly away. but miss smith stopped him. "robert, where is the land cresswell offers you?" "it's on the tolliver place." "the tolliver place?" "yes, he is going to buy it." miss smith dismissed the boy absently and sat down. the crisis seemed drawing near. she had not dreamed the tolliver place was for sale. the old man must be hard pressed to sell to the cresswells. she started up. why not go see him? perhaps a mortgage on the strength of the endowment? it was dangerous--but-- she threw a veil over her hair, and opened the door. a woman stood there, who shrank and cowered, as if used to blows. miss smith eyed her grimly, then slowly stepped back. "come in," she commanded briefly, motioning the woman to a chair. but she stood, a pathetic figure, faded, worn, yet with unmistakable traces of beauty in her golden face and soft brown hair. miss smith contemplated her sadly. here was her most haunting failure, this girl whom she first had seen twelve years ago in her wonderful girlish comeliness. she had struggled and fought for her, but the forces of the devil had triumphed. she caught glimpses of her now and then, but today was the first time she had spoken to her for ten years. she saw the tears that gathered but did not fall; then her hands quivered. "bertie," she began brokenly. the girl shivered, but stood aloof. "miss smith," she said. "no--don't talk--i'm bad--but i've got a little girl, miss smith, ten years old, and--and--i'm afraid for her; i want you to take her." "i have no place for one so young. and why are you afraid for her?" "the men there are beginning to notice her." "where?" "at elspeth's." "do you stay there now?" "yes." "why?" "_he_ wants me to." "must you do as he wants?" "yes. but i want the child--different." "don't _you_ want to be different?" the woman quivered again but she answered steadily: "no." miss smith sank into a chair and moistened her dry lips. "elspeth's is an awful place," she affirmed solemnly. "yes." "and zora?" "she is not there much now, she stays away." "but if she escapes, why not you?" "she wants to escape." "and you?" "i don't want to." this stubborn depravity was so distressing that sarah smith was at an utter loss what to say or do. "i can do nothing--" she began. "for me," the woman quickly replied; "i don't ask anything; but for the child,--she isn't to blame." the older woman wavered. "won't you try?" pleaded the younger. "yes--i'll try, i'll try; i am trying all the time, but there are more things than my weak strength can do. good-bye." miss smith stood a long time in the doorway, watching the fading figure and vaguely trying to remember what it was that she had started to do, when the sharp staccato step of a mule drew her attention to a rider who stopped at the gate. it was her neighbor, tolliver--a gaunt, yellow-faced white man, ragged, rough, and unkempt; one of the poor whites who had struggled up and failed. he spent no courtesy on the "nigger" teacher, but sat in his saddle and called her to the gate, and she went. "say," he roughly opened up, "i've got to sell some land and them damn cresswells are after it. you can have it for five thousand dollars if you git the cash in a week." with a muttered oath he rode abruptly off; but not before she had seen the tears in his eyes. all night sarah smith lay thinking, and all day she thought and dreamed. toward dark she walked slowly out the gate and up the highway toward the cresswell oaks. she had never been within the gates before, and she looked about thoughtfully. the great trees in their regular curving rows must have been planted more than half a century ago. the lawn was well tended and the flowers. yes, there were signs of taste and wealth. "but it was built on a moan," cried miss smith to herself, passionately, and she would not look round any more, but stared straight ahead where she saw old colonel cresswell smoking and reading on the verandah. the colonel saw her, too, and was uneasy, for he knew that miss smith had a sharp tongue and a most disconcerting method of argument, which he, as a southern gentleman, courteous to all white females, even if they did eat with "niggers," could not properly answer. he received her with courtesy, offered a chair, laid aside his cigar, and essayed some general remarks on cotton weather. but miss smith plunged into her subject: "colonel cresswell, i'm thinking of raising some money from a mortgage on our school property." the colonel's face involuntarily lighted up. he thought he saw the beginning of the end of an institution which had been a thorn in his flesh ever since tolliver, in a fit of rage, had sold land for a negro school. "h'm," he reflected deprecatingly, wiping his brow. "i need some ready money," she continued, "to keep from curtailing our work." "indeed?" "i have good prospects in a year or so"--the colonel looked up sharply, but said nothing--"and so i thought of a mortgage." "money is pretty tight," was the colonel's first objection. "the land is worth, you know, at least fifty dollars an acre." "not more than twenty-five dollars, i fear." "why, you wanted seventy-five dollars for poorer land last year! we have two hundred acres." it was not for nothing that this lady had been born in new england. "i wouldn't reckon it as worth more than five thousand dollars," insisted the colonel. "and ten thousand dollars for improvements." but the colonel arose. "you had better talk to the directors of the jefferson bank," he said politely. "they may accommodate you--how much would you want?" "five thousand dollars," miss smith replied. then she hesitated. that would buy the land, to be sure; but money was needed to develop and run it; to install tenants; and then, too, for new teachers. but she said nothing more, and, nodding to his polite bow, departed. colonel cresswell had noticed her hesitation, and thought of it as he settled to his cigar again. bles alwyn arose next morning and examined the sky critically. he feared rain. the season had been quite wet enough, particularly down on the swamp land, and but yesterday bles had viewed his dykes with apprehension for the black pool scowled about them. he dared not think what a long heavy rain might do to the wonderful island of cotton which now stood fully five feet high, with flowers and squares and budding bolls. it might not rain, but the safest thing would be to work at those dykes, so he started for spade and hoe. he heard miss smith calling, however. "bles--hitch up!" he was vexed. "are you--in a hurry, miss smith?" he asked. "yes, i am," she replied, with unmistakable positiveness. he started off, and hesitated. "miss smith, would jim do to drive?" "no," sharply. "i want you particularly." at another time she might have observed his anxiety, but today she was agitated. she knew she was taking a critical step. slowly bles hitched up. after all it might not rain, he argued as they jogged toward town. in silence they rode on. bles kept looking at the skies. the south was getting darker and darker. it might rain. it might rain only an hour or so, but, suppose it should rain a day--two days--a week? miss smith was looking at her own skies and despite the promised sunrise they loomed darkly. five thousand was needed for the land and at least another thousand for repairs. two thousand would "buy" a half dozen desirable tenants by paying their debts to their present landlords. then two thousand would be wanted for new teachers and a carpenter shop--ten thousand dollars! it was a great temptation. and yet, once in the hands of these past-masters of debt-manipulation, would her school be safe? suppose, after all, this grey gift--but she caught her breath sharply just as a wet splash of rain struck upon her forehead. no. god could not be so cruel. she pushed her bonnet back: how good and cool the water felt! but on bles as he raised the buggy top it felt hot and fiery. he felt the coming of some great calamity, the end of a dream. this rain might stay for days; it looked like such a downpour; and that would mean the end of the silver fleece; the end of zora's hopes; the end of everything. he gulped in despairing anger and hit the staid old horse the smartest tap she had known all summer. "why, bles, what's the matter?" called miss smith, as the horse started forward. he murmured something about getting wet and drew up at the toomsville bank. miss smith was invited politely into the private parlor. she explained her business. the president was there and colonel cresswell and one other local director. "i have come for a mortgage. our land is, as you know, gentlemen, worth at least ten thousand dollars; the buildings cost fifteen thousand dollars; our property is, therefore, conservatively valued at twenty-five thousand dollars. now i want to mortgage it for"--she hesitated--"five thousand dollars." colonel cresswell was silent, but the president said: "money is rather scarce just now, miss smith; but it happens that i have ten thousand dollars on hand, which we prefer, however, to loan in one lump sum. now, if the security were ample, i think perhaps you might get this ten thousand dollars." miss smith grew white; it was the sum she wanted. she tried to escape the temptation, yet the larger amount was more than twice as desirable to her as the smaller, and she knew that they knew it. they were trying to tempt her; they wanted as firm a hold on the school property as possible. and yet, why should she hesitate? it was a risk, but the returns would be enormous--she must do it. besides, there was the endowment; it was certain; yes--she felt forced to close the bargain. "very well," she declared her decision, and they handed her the preliminary papers. she took the pen and glanced at mr. cresswell; he was smiling slightly, but nevertheless she signed her name grimly, in a large round hand, "sarah smith." _thirteen_ mrs. grey gives a dinner the hon. charles smith, miss sarah's brother, was walking swiftly uptown from mr. easterly's wall street office and his face was pale. at last the cotton combine was to all appearances an assured fact and he was slated for the senate. the price he had paid was high: he was to represent the interests of the new trust and sundry favorable measures were already drafted and reposing in the safe of the combine's legal department. among others was one relating to child labor, another that would effect certain changes in the tariff, and a proposed law providing for a cotton bale of a shape and dimensions different from the customary--the last constituting a particularly clever artifice which, under the guise of convenience in handling, would necessitate the installation of entirely new gin and compress machinery, to be supplied, of course, by the trust. as mr. smith drew near mrs. grey's murray hill residence his face had melted to a cynical smile. after all why should he care? he had tried independence and philanthropy and failed. why should he not be as other men? he had seen many others that very day swallow the golden bait and promise everything. they were gentlemen. why should he pose as better than his fellows? there was young cresswell. did his aristocratic air prevent his succumbing to the lure of millions and promising the influence of his father and the whole farmer's league to the new project? mr. smith snapped his fingers and rang the bell. the door opened softly. the dark woodwork of the old english wainscoting glowed with the crimson flaming of logs in the wide fireplace. there was just the touch of early autumn chill in the air without, that made both the fire and the table with its soft linen, gold and silver plate, and twinkling glasses a warming, satisfying sight. mrs. grey was a portly woman, inclined to think much of her dinner and her clothes, both of which were always rich and costly. she was not herself a notably intelligent woman; she greatly admired intelligence or whatever looked to her like intelligence in others. her money, too, was to her an ever worrying mystery and surprise, which she found herself always scheming to husband shrewdly and spend philanthropically--a difficult combination. as she awaited her guests she surveyed the table with both satisfaction and disquietude, for her social functions were few, tonight there were--she checked them off on her fingers--sir james creighton, the rich english manufacturer, and lady creighton, mr. and mrs. vanderpool, mr. harry cresswell and his sister, john taylor and his sister, and mr. charles smith, whom the evening papers mentioned as likely to be united states senator from new jersey--a selection of guests that had been determined, unknown to the hostess, by the meeting of cotton interests earlier in the day. mrs. grey's chef was high-priced and efficient, and her butler was the envy of many; consequently, she knew the dinner would be good. to her intense satisfaction, it was far more than this. it was a most agreeable couple of hours; all save perhaps mr. smith unbent, the englishman especially, and the vanderpools were most gracious; but if the general pleasure was owing to any one person particularly it was to mr. harry cresswell. mrs. grey had met southerners before, but not intimately, and she always had in mind vividly their cruelty to "poor negroes," a subject she made a point of introducing forthwith. she was therefore most agreeably surprised to hear mr. cresswell express himself so cordially as approving of negro education. "why, i thought," said mrs. grey, "that you southerners rather disapproved--or at least--" mr. cresswell inclined his head courteously. "we southerners, my dear mrs. grey, are responsible for a variety of reputations." and he told an anecdote that set the table laughing. "seriously, though," he continued, "we are not as black as the blacks paint us, although on the whole i _prefer_ that helen should marry--a white man." they all glanced at miss cresswell, who lay softly back in her chair like a white lily, gleaming and bejewelled, her pale face flushing under the scrutiny; mrs. grey was horrified. "why--why the idea!" she sputtered. "why, mr. cresswell, how can you conceive of anything else--no northerner dreams--" mr. cresswell sipped his wine slowly. "no--no--i do not think you do _mean_ that--" he paused and the englishman bent forward. "really, now, you do not mean to say that there is a danger of--of amalgamation, do you?" he sang. mr. cresswell explained. no, of course there was no immediate danger; but when people were suddenly thrust beyond their natural station, filled with wild ideas and impossible ambitions, it meant terrible danger to southern white women. "but you believe in some education?" asked mary taylor. "i believe in the training of people to their highest capacity." the englishman here heartily seconded him. "but," cresswell added significantly, "capacity differs enormously between races." the vanderpools were sure of this and the englishman, instancing india, became quite eloquent. mrs. grey was mystified, but hardly dared admit it. the general trend of the conversation seemed to be that most individuals needed to be submitted to the sharpest scrutiny before being allowed much education, and as for the "lower races" it was simply criminal to open such useless opportunities to them. "why, i had a colored servant-girl once," laughed mrs. vanderpool by way of climax, "who spent half her wages in piano lessons." then mary taylor, whose conscience was uncomfortable, said: "but, mr. cresswell, you surely believe in schools like miss smith's?" "decidedly," returned mr. cresswell, with enthusiasm, "it has done great good." mrs. grey was gratified and murmured something of miss smith's "sacrifice." "positively heroic," added cresswell, avoiding his sister's eyes. "of course," mary taylor hastened to encourage this turn of the conversation, "there are many points on which miss smith and i disagree, but i think everybody admires her work." mrs. grey wanted particulars. "what did you disagree about?" she asked bluntly. "i may be responsible for some of the disagreement," interrupted mr. cresswell, hesitatingly; "i'm afraid miss smith does not approve of us white southerners." "but you mean to say you can't even advise her?" "oh, no; we can. but--we're not--er--exactly welcomed. in fact," said cresswell gravely, "the chief criticism i have against your northerners' schools for negroes is, that they not only fail to enlist the sympathy and aid of the _best_ southerners, but even repel it." "that is very wrong--very wrong," commented the englishman warmly, a sentiment in which mrs. grey hastened to agree. "of course," continued cresswell, "i am free to confess that i have no personal desire to dabble in philanthropy, or conduct schools of any kind; my hands are full of other matters." "but it's precisely the advice of such disinterested men that philanthropic work needs," mr. vanderpool urged. "well, i volunteered advice once in this case and i sha'n't repeat the experiment soon," said cresswell laughing. mrs. grey wanted to hear the incident, but the young man was politely reluctant. mary taylor, however, related the tale of zora to mrs. grey's private ear later. "fortunately," said mr. vanderpool, "northerners and southerners are arriving at a better mutual understanding on most of these matters." "yes, indeed," cresswell agreed. "after all, they never were far apart, even in slavery days; both sides were honest and sincere." all through the dinner mr. smith had been preoccupied and taciturn. now he abruptly shot a glance at cresswell. "i suppose that one was right and one was wrong." "no," said cresswell, "both were right." "i thought the only excuse for fighting was a great right; if right is on neither side or simultaneously on both, then war is not only hell but damnation." mrs. grey looked shocked and mrs. vanderpool smiled. "how about fighting for exercise?" she suggested. "at any rate," said cresswell, "we can all agree on helping these poor victims of our quarrel as far as their limited capacity will allow--and no farther, for that is impossible." very soon after dinner charles smith excused himself. he was not yet inured to the ways of high finance, and the programme of the cotton barons, as unfolded that day, lay heavy on his mind, despite all his philosophy. "i have had a--full day," he explained to mrs. grey. _fourteen_ love the rain was sweeping down in great thick winding sheets. the wind screamed in the ancient cresswell oaks and swirled across the swamp in loud, wild gusts. the waters roared and gurgled in the streams, and along the roadside. then, when the wind fell murmuring away, the clouds grew blacker and blacker and rain in long slim columns fell straight from heaven to earth digging itself into the land and throwing back the red mud in angry flashes. so it rained for one long week, and so for seven endless days bles watched it with leaden heart. he knew the silver fleece--his and zora's--must be ruined. it was the first great sorrow of his life; it was not so much the loss of the cotton itself--but the fantasy, the hopes, the dreams built around it. if it failed, would not they fail? was not this angry beating rain, this dull spiritless drizzle, this wild war of air and earth, but foretaste and prophecy of ruin and discouragement, of the utter futility of striving? but if his own despair was great his pain at the plight of zora made it almost unbearable. he did not see her in these seven days. he pictured her huddled there in the swamp in the cheerless leaky cabin with worse than no companions. ah! the swamp, the cruel swamp! it was a fearful place in the rain. its oozing mud and fetid vapors, its clinging slimy draperies,--how they twined about the bones of its victims and chilled their hearts. yet here his zora,--his poor disappointed child--was imprisoned. child? he had always called her child--but now in the inward illumination of these dark days he knew her as neither child nor sister nor friend, but as the one woman. the revelation of his love lighted and brightened slowly till it flamed like a sunrise over him and left him in burning wonder. he panted to know if she, too, knew, or knew and cared not, or cared and knew not. she was so strange and human a creature. to her all things meant something--nothing was aimless, nothing merely happened. was this rain beating down and back her love for him, or had she never loved? he walked his room, gripping his hands, peering through the misty windows toward the swamp--rain, rain, rain, nothing but rain. the world was water veiled in mists. then of a sudden, at midday, the sun shot out, hot and still; no breath of air stirred; the sky was like blue steel; the earth steamed. bles rushed to the edge of the swamp and stood there irresolute. perhaps--if the water had but drained from the cotton!--it was so strong and tall! but, pshaw! where was the use of imagining? the lagoon had been level with the dykes a week ago; and now? he could almost see the beautiful silver fleece, bedraggled, drowned, and rolling beneath the black lake of slime. he went back to his work, but early in the morning the thought of it lured him again. he must at least see the grave of his hope and zora's, and out of it resurrect new love and strength. perhaps she, too, might be there, waiting, weeping. he started at the thought. he hurried forth sadly. the rain-drops were still dripping and gleaming from the trees, flashing back the heavy yellow sunlight. he splashed and stamped along, farther and farther onward until he neared the rampart of the clearing, and put foot upon the tree-bridge. then he looked down. the lagoon was dry. he stood a moment bewildered, then turned and rushed upon the island. a great sheet of dazzling sunlight swept the place, and beneath lay a mighty mass of olive green, thick, tall, wet, and willowy. the squares of cotton, sharp-edged, heavy, were just about to burst to bolls! and underneath, the land lay carefully drained and black! for one long moment he paused, stupid, agape with utter amazement, then leaned dizzily against a tree. the swamp, the eternal swamp, had been drained in its deepest fastness; but, how?--how? he gazed about, perplexed, astonished. what a field of cotton! what a marvellous field! but how had it been saved? he skirted the island slowly, stopping near zora's oak. here lay the reading of the riddle: with infinite work and pain, some one had dug a canal from the lagoon to the creek, into which the former had drained by a long and crooked way, thus allowing it to empty directly. the canal went straight, a hundred yards through stubborn soil, and it was oozing now with slimy waters. he sat down weak, bewildered, and one thought was uppermost--zora! and with the thought came a low moan of pain. he wheeled and leapt toward the dripping shelter in the tree. there she lay--wet, bedraggled, motionless, gray-pallid beneath her dark-drawn skin, her burning eyes searching restlessly for some lost thing, her lips a-moaning. in dumb despair he dropped beside her and gathered her in his arms. the earth staggered beneath him as he stumbled on; the mud splashed and sunlight glistened; he saw long snakes slithering across his path and fear-struck beasts fleeing before his coming. he paused for neither path nor way but went straight for the school, running in mighty strides, yet gently, listening to the moans that struck death upon his heart. once he fell headlong, but with a great wrench held her from harm, and minded not the pain that shot through his ribs. the yellow sunshine beat fiercely around and upon him, as he stumbled into the highway, lurched across the mud-strewn road, and panted up the porch. "miss smith--!" he gasped, and then--darkness. the years of the days of her dying were ten. the boy that entered the darkness and the shadow of death emerged a man, a silent man and grave, working furiously and haunting, day and night, the little window above the door. at last, of one gray morning when the earth was stillest, they came and told him, "she will live!" and he went out under the stars, lifted his long arms and sobbed: "curse me, o god, if i let me lose her again!" and god remembered this in after years. the hope and dream of harvest was upon the land. the cotton crop was short and poor because of the great rain; but the sun had saved the best, and the price had soared. so the world was happy, and the face of the black-belt green and luxuriant with thickening flecks of the coming foam of the cotton. up in the sick room zora lay on the little white bed. the net and web of endless things had been crawling and creeping around her; she had struggled in dumb, speechless terror against some mighty grasping that strove for her life, with gnarled and creeping fingers; but now at last, weakly, she opened her eyes and questioned. bles, where was he? the silver fleece, how was it? the sun, the swamp? then finding all well, she closed her eyes and slept. after some days they let her sit by the window, and she saw bles pass, but drew back timidly when he looked; and he saw only the flutter of her gown, and waved. at last there came a day when they let her walk down to the porch, and she felt the flickering of her strength again. yet she looked different; her buxom comeliness was spiritualized; her face looked smaller, and her masses of hair, brought low about her ears, heightened her ghostly beauty; her skin was darkly transparent, and her eyes looked out from velvet veils of gloom. for a while she lay in her chair, in happy, dreamy pleasure at sun and bird and tree. bles did not know yet that she was down; but soon he would come searching, for he came each hour, and she pressed her little hands against her breast to still the beating of her heart and the bursting wonder of her love. then suddenly a panic seized her. he must not find her here--not here; there was but one place in all the earth for them to meet, and that was yonder in the silver fleece. she rose with a fleeting glance, gathered the shawl round her, then gliding forward, wavering, tremulous, slipped across the road and into the swamp. the dark mystery of the swamp swept over her; the place was hers. she had been born within its borders; within its borders she had lived and grown, and within its borders she had met her love. on she hurried until, sweeping down to the lagoon and the island, lo! the cotton lay before her! a great white foam was spread upon its brown and green; the whole field was waving and shivering in the sunlight. a low cry of pleasure burst from her lips; she forgot her weakness, and picking her way across the bridge, stood still amid the cotton that nestled about her shoulders, clasping it lovingly in her hands. he heard that she was down-stairs and ran to meet her with beating heart. the chair was empty; but he knew. there was but one place then for these two souls to meet. yet it was far, and he feared, and ran with startled eyes. she stood on the island, ethereal, splendid, like some tall, dark, and gorgeous flower of the storied east. the green and white of the cotton billowed and foamed about her breasts; the red scarf burned upon her neck; the dark brown velvet of her skin pulsed warm and tremulous with the uprushing blood, and in the midnight depths of her great eyes flamed the mighty fires of long-concealed and new-born love. he darted through the trees and paused, a tall man strongly but slimly made. he threw up his hands in the old way and hallooed; happily she crooned back a low mother-melody, and waited. he came down to her slowly, with fixed, hungry eyes, threading his way amid the fleece. she did not move, but lifted both her dark hands, white with cotton; and then, as he came, casting it suddenly to the winds, in tears and laughter she swayed and dropped quivering in his arms. and all the world was sunshine and peace. _fifteen_ revelation harry cresswell was scowling over his breakfast. it was not because his apartment in the new york hotel was not satisfactory, or his breakfast unpalatable; possibly a rather bewildering night in broadway was expressing its influence; but he was satisfied that his ill-temper was due to a paragraph in the morning paper: "it is stated on good authority that the widow of the late multimillionaire, job grey, will announce a large and carefully planned scheme of negro education in the south, and will richly endow schools in south carolina, georgia, alabama, louisiana, and texas." cresswell finally thrust his food away. he knew that mrs. grey helped miss smith's school, and supposed she would continue to do so; with that in mind he had striven to impress her, hoping that she might trust his judgment in later years. he had no idea, however, that she meant to endow the school, or entertained wholesale plans for negro education. the knowledge made him suspicious. why had neither mary nor john taylor mentioned this? was there, after all, some "nigger-loving" conspiracy back of the cotton combine? he took his hat and started down-town. once in john taylor's broadway office, he opened the subject abruptly--the more so perhaps because he felt a resentment against taylor for certain unnamed or partially voiced assumptions. here was a place, however, for speech, and he spoke almost roughly. "taylor, what does this mean?" he thrust the clipping at him. "mean? that mrs. grey is going to get rid of some of her surplus cash--is going to endow some nigger schools," taylor drily retorted. "it must be stopped," declared cresswell. the other's brows drew up. "why?" in a surprised tone. "why? why? do you think the plantation system can be maintained without laborers? do you think there's the slightest chance of cornering cotton and buying the black belt if the niggers are unwilling to work under present conditions? do you know the man that stands ready to gobble up every inch of cotton land in this country at a price which no trust can hope to rival?" john taylor's interest quickened. "why, no," he returned sharply. "who?" "the black man, whose woolly head is filled with ideas of rising. we're striving by main force to prevent this, and here come your damned northern philanthropists to plant schools. why, taylor, it'll knock the cotton trust to hell." "don't get excited," said taylor, judicially. "we've got things in our hands; it's the grey money, you know, that is back of us." "that's just what confounds me," declared the perplexed young man. "are you men fools, or rascals? don't you see the two schemes can't mix? they're dead opposite, mutually contradictory, absolutely--" taylor checked him; it was odd to behold harry cresswell so disturbed. "well, wait a moment. let's see. sit down. wish i had a cigar for you, but i don't smoke." "do you happen to have any whiskey handy?" "no, i don't drink." "well, what the devil--oh, well, fire away." "now, see here. we control the grey millions. of course, we've got to let her play with her income, and that's considerable. her favorite game just now is negro education, and she's planning to go in heavy. her adviser in this line, however, is smith, and he belongs to us." "what smith?" "why, the man who's going to be senator from new jersey. he has a sister teaching in the south--you know, of course; it's at your home where my sister mary taught." "great scott! is that woman's brother going to spend this money? why, are you daft? see here! american cotton-spinning supremacy is built on cheap cotton; cheap cotton is built on cheap niggers. educating, or rather _trying_ to educate niggers, will make them restless and discontented--that is, scarce and dear as workers. don't you see you're planning to cut off your noses? this smith school, particularly, has nearly ruined our plantation. it's stuck almost in our front yard; _you_ are planning to put our plough-hands all to studying greek, and at the same time to corner the cotton crop--rot!" john taylor caressed his lean jaw. "new point of view to me; i sort of thought education would improve things in the south," he commented, unmoved. "it would if we ran it." "we?" "yes--we southerners." "um!--i see--there's light. see here, let's talk to easterly about this." they went into the next office, and after a while got audience with the trust magnate. mr. easterly heard the matter carefully and waved it aside. "oh, that doesn't concern us, taylor; let cresswell take care of the whole thing. we'll see that smith does what cresswell wants." but taylor shook his head. "smith would kick. mrs. grey would get suspicious, and the devil be to pay. this is better. form a big committee of northern business men like yourself--philanthropists like vanderpool, and southerners like cresswell; let them be a sort of negro education steering-committee. we'll see that on such committee you southerners get what you want--control of negro education." "that sounds fair. but how about the smith school? my father writes me that they are showing signs of expecting money right off--is that true? if it is, i want it stopped; it will ruin our campaign for the farmers' league." john taylor looked at cresswell. he thought he saw something more than general policy, or even racial prejudice--something personal--in his vehemence. the smith school was evidently a severe thorn in the flesh of this man. all the more reason for mollifying him. then, too, there was something in his argument. it was not wise to start educating these negroes and getting them discontented just now. ignorant labor was not ideal, but it was worth too much to employers to lose it now. educated negro labor might be worth more to negroes, but not to the cotton combine. "h'm--well, then--" and john taylor went into a brown study, while cresswell puffed impatiently at a cigarette. "i have it," said taylor. cresswell sat up. "first, let mr. easterly get smith." easterly turned to the telephone. "is that you, smith?" "well, this is easterly.... yes--how about mrs. grey's education schemes?... yes.... h'm--well,--see here smith, we must go a little easy there.... oh, no, no,--but to advertise just now a big scheme of negro education would drive the cresswells, the farmers' league, and the whole business south dead against us.... yes, yes indeed; they believe in education all right, but they ain't in for training lawyers and professors just yet.... no, i don't suppose her school is.... well, then; see here. she'll be reasonable, won't she, and placate the cresswells?... no, i mean run the school to suit their ideas.... no, no, but in general along the lines which they could approve.... yes, i thought so ... of course ... good-bye." "inclined to be a little nasty?" asked taylor. "a little sharp--but tractable. now, mr. cresswell, the thing is in your hands. we'll get this committee which taylor suggests appointed, and send it on a junket to alabama; you do the rest--see?" "who'll be the committee?" asked cresswell. "name it." mr. cresswell smiled and left. the winter started in severely, and it was easy to fill two private cars with members of the new negro education board right after thanksgiving. cresswell had worked carefully and with caution. there was mrs. grey, comfortable and beaming, mr. easterly, who thought this a good business opportunity, and his family. mrs. vanderpool liked the south and was amused at the trip, and had induced mr. vanderpool to come by stories of shooting. "ah!" said mr. vanderpool. mr. charles smith and john taylor were both too busy to go, but bronchial trouble induced the rev. dr. boldish of st. faith's rich parish to be one of the party, and at the last moment temple bocombe, the sociologist, consented to join. "awfully busy," he said, "but i've been reading up on the negro problem since you mentioned the matter to me last week, mr. cresswell, and i think i understand it thoroughly. i may be able to help out." the necessary spice of young womanhood was added to the party by miss taylor and miss cresswell, together with the silent miss boldish. they were a comfortable and sometimes merry party. dr. boldish pointed out the loafers at the stations, especially the black ones; mr. bocombe counted them and estimated the number of hours of work lost at ten cents an hour. "do they get that--ten cents an hour?" asked miss taylor. "oh, i don't know," replied mr. bocombe; "but suppose they do, for instance. that is an average wage today." "they look lazy," said mrs. grey. "they are lazy," said mr. cresswell. "so am i," added mrs. vanderpool, suppressing a yawn. "it is uninteresting," murmured her husband, preparing for a nap. on the whole the members of the party enjoyed themselves from the moment they drew out of jersey city to the afternoon when, in four carriages, they rolled beneath the curious eyes of all toomsville and swept under the shadowed rampart of the swamp. "the christmas" was coming and all the southern world was busy. few people were busier than bles and zora. slowly, wonderfully for them, heaven bent in these dying days of the year and kissed the earth, and the tremor thrilled all lands and seas. everything was good, all things were happy, and these two were happiest of all. out of the shadows and hesitations of childhood they had stepped suddenly into manhood and womanhood, with firm feet and uplifted heads. all the day that was theirs they worked, picking the silver fleece--picking it tenderly and lovingly from off the brown and spent bodies which had so utterly yielded life and beauty to the full fruition of this long and silken tendril, this white beauty of the cotton. november came and flew, and still the unexhausted field yielded its frothing fruit. today seemed doubly glorious, for bles had spoken of their marriage; with twined hands and arms, and lips ever and again seeking their mates, they walked the leafy way. unconscious, rapt, they stepped out into the big road skirting the edge of the swamp. why not? was it not the king's highway? and love was king. so they talked on, unknowing that far up the road the cresswell coaches were wheeling along with precious burdens. in the first carriage were mrs. grey and mrs. vanderpool, mr. cresswell and miss taylor. mrs. vanderpool was lolling luxuriously, but mrs. grey was a little stiff from long travel and sat upright. mr. cresswell looked clean-cut and handsome, and miss taylor seemed complacent and responsible. the dying of the day soothed them all insensibly. groups of dark little children passed them as they neared the school, staring with wide eyes and greeting timidly. "there seems to be marrying and giving in marriage," laughed mrs. vanderpool. "not very much," said mr. cresswell drily. "well, at least plenty of children." "plenty." "but where are the houses?" asked mrs. grey. "perhaps in the swamp," said mrs. vanderpool lightly, looking up at the sombre trees that lined the left. "they live where they please and do as they please," cresswell explained; to which mrs. vanderpool added: "like other animals." mary taylor opened her lips to rebuke this levity when suddenly the coachman called out and the horses swerved, and the carriage's four occupants faced a young man and a young woman embracing heartily. out through the wood bles and zora had come to the broad red road; playfully he celebrated all her beauty unconscious of time and place. "you are tall and bend like grasses on the swamp," he said. "and yet look up to you," she murmured. "your eyes are darkness dressed in night." "to see you brighter, dear," she said. "your little hands are much too frail for work." "they must grow larger, then, and soon." "your feet are far too small to travel on." "they'll travel on to you--that's far enough." "your lips--your full and purple lips--were made alone for kissing, not for words." "they'll do for both." he laughed in utter joy and touched her hair with light caressing hands. "it does not fly with sunlight," she said quickly, with an upward glance. "no," he answered. "it sits and listens to the night." but even as she nestled to him happily there came the harsh thunder of horses' hoofs, beating on their ears. he drew her quickly to him in fear, and the coach lurched and turned, and left them facing four pairs of eyes. miss taylor reddened; mrs. grey looked surprised; mrs. vanderpool smiled; but mr. cresswell darkened with anger. the couple unclasped shamefacedly, and the young man, lifting his hat, started to stammer an apology; but cresswell interrupted him: "keep your--your philandering to the woods, or i shall have you arrested," he said slowly, his face colorless, his lips twitching with anger. "drive on, john." miss taylor felt that her worst suspicions had been confirmed; but mrs. vanderpool was curious as to the cause of cresswell's anger. it was so genuine that it needed explanation. "are kisses illegal here?" she asked before the horses started, turning the battery of her eyes full upon him. but cresswell had himself well in hand. "no," he said. "but the girl is--notorious." on the lovers the words fell like a blow. zora shivered, and a grayish horror mottled the dark burning of her face. bles started in anger, then paused in shivering doubt. what had happened? they knew not; yet involuntarily their hands fell apart; they avoided each other's eyes. "i--i must go now," gasped zora, as the carriage swept away. he did not hold her, he did not offer the farewell kiss, but stood staring at the road as she walked into the swamp. a moment she paused and looked back; then slowly, almost painfully, she took the path back to the field of the fleece, and reaching it after long, long minutes, began mechanically to pick the cotton. but the cotton glowed crimson in the failing sun. bles walked toward the school. what had happened? he kept asking. and yet he dared not question the awful shape that sat somewhere, cold and still, behind his soul. he heard the hoofs of horses again. it was miss taylor being brought back to the school to greet miss smith and break the news of the coming of the party. he raised his hat. she did not return the greeting, but he found her pausing at the gate. it seemed to her too awful for this foolish fellow thus to throw himself away. she faced him and he flinched as from some descending blow. "bles," she said primly, "have you absolutely no shame?" he braced himself and raised his head proudly. "i am going to marry her; it is no crime." then he noted the expression on her face, and paused. she stepped back, scandalized. "can it be, bles alwyn," she said, "that you don't know the sort of girl she is?" he raised his hands and warded off her words, dumbly, as she turned to go, almost frightened at the havoc she saw. the heavens flamed scarlet in his eyes and he screamed. "it's a lie! it's a damned lie!" he wheeled about and tore into the swamp. "it's a damned lie!" he shouted to the trees. "is it?--is it?" chirped the birds. "it's a cruel falsehood!" he moaned. "is it?--is it?" whispered the devils within. it seemed to him as though suddenly the world was staggering and faltering about him. the trees bent curiously and strange breathings were upon the breezes. he unbuttoned his collar that he might get more air. a thousand things he had forgotten surged suddenly to life. slower and slower he ran, more and more the thoughts crowded his head. he thought of that first red night and the yelling and singing and wild dancing; he thought of cresswell's bitter words; he thought of zora telling how she stayed out nights; he thought of the little bower that he had built her in the cotton field. a wild fear struggled with his anger, but he kept repeating, "no, no," and then, "at any rate, she will tell me the truth." she had never lied to him; she would not dare; he clenched his hands, murder in his heart. slowly and more slowly he ran. he knew where she was--where she must be, waiting. and yet as he drew near huge hands held him back, and heavy weights clogged his feet. his heart said: "on! quick! she will tell the truth, and all will be well." his mind said: "slow, slow; this is the end." he hurled the thought aside, and crashed through the barrier. she was standing still and listening, with a huge basket of the piled froth of the field upon her head. one long brown arm, tender with curvings, balanced the cotton; the other, poised, balanced the slim swaying body. bending she listened, her eyes shining, her lips apart, her bosom fluttering at the well-known step. he burst into her view with the fury of a beast, rending the wood away and trampling the underbrush, reeling and muttering until he saw her. she looked at him. her hands dropped, she stood very still with drawn face, grayish-brown, both hands unconsciously out-stretched, and the cotton swaying, while deep down in her eyes, dimly, slowly, a horror lit and grew. he paused a moment, then came slowly onward doggedly, drunkenly, with torn clothes, flying collar, and red eyes. then he paused again, still beyond arm's-length, looking at her with fear-struck eyes. the cotton on her head shivered and dropped in a pure mass of white and silvery snow about her limbs. her hands fell limply and the horror flamed in her wet eyes. he struggled with his voice but it grated and came hoarse and hard from his quivering throat. "zora!" "yes, bles." "you--you told me--you were--pure." she was silent, but her body went all a-tremble. he stepped forward until she could almost touch him; there standing straight and tall he glared down upon her. "answer me," he whispered in a voice hard with its tight held sobs. a misery darkened her face and the light died from her eyes, yet she looked at him bravely and her voice came low and full as from afar. "i asked you what it meant to be pure, bles, and--and you told--and i told you the truth." "what it meant!--what it meant!" he repeated in the low, tense anguish. "but--but, bles--" she faltered; there came an awful pleading in her eyes; her hand groped toward him; but he stepped slowly back--"but, bles--you said--willingly--you said--if--if she knew--" he thundered back in livid anger: "knew! all women know! you should have _died_!" sobs were rising and shaking her from head to foot, but she drove them back and gripped her breasts with her hands. "no, bles--no--all girls do not know. i was a child. not since i knew you, bles--never, never since i saw you." "since--since," he groaned--"christ! but before?" "yes, before." "my god!" she knew the end had come. yet she babbled on tremblingly: "he was our master, and all the other girls that gathered there did his will; i--i--" she choked and faltered, and he drew farther away--"i began running away, and they hunted me through the swamps. and then--then i reckon i'd have gone back and been--as they all are--but you came, bles--you came, and you--you were a new great thing in my life, and--and--yet, i was afraid i was not worthy until you--you said the words. i thought you knew, and i thought that--that purity was just wanting to be pure." he ground his teeth in fury. oh, he was an innocent--a blind baby--the joke and laughing-stock of the country around, with yokels grinning at him and pale-faced devils laughing aloud. the teachers knew; the girls knew; god knew; everybody but he knew--poor blind, deaf mole, stupid jackass that he was. he must run--run away from this world, and far off in some free land beat back this pain. then in sheer weariness the anger died within his soul, leaving but ashes and despair. slowly he turned away, but with a quick motion she stood in his path. "bles," she cried, "how can i grow pure?" he looked at her listlessly. "never--never again," he slowly answered her. dark fear swept her drawn face. "never?" she gasped. pity surged and fought in his breast; but one thought held and burned him. he bent to her fiercely: "who?" he demanded. she pointed toward the cresswell oaks, and he turned away. she did not attempt to stop him again, but dropped her hands and stared drearily up into the clear sky with its shining worlds. "good-bye, bles," she said slowly. "i thank god he gave you to me--just a little time." she hesitated and waited. there came no word as the man moved slowly away. she stood motionless. then slowly he turned and came back. he laid his hand a moment, lightly, upon her head. "good-bye--zora," he sobbed, and was gone. she did not look up, but knelt there silent, dry-eyed, till the last rustle of his going died in the night. and then, like a waiting storm, the torrent of her grief swept down upon her; she stretched herself upon the black and fleece-strewn earth, and writhed. _sixteen_ the great refusal all night miss smith lay holding the quivering form of zora close to her breast, staring wide-eyed into the darkness--thinking, thinking. in the morning the party would come. there would be mrs. grey and mary taylor, mrs. vanderpool, who had left her so coldly in the lurch before, and some of the cresswells. they would come well fed and impressed with the charming hospitality of their hosts, and rather more than willing to see through those host's eyes. they would be in a hurry to return to some social function, and would give her work but casual attention. it seemed so dark an ending to so bright a dream. never for her had a fall opened as gloriously. the love of this boy and girl, blossoming as it had beneath her tender care, had been a sacred, wonderful history that revived within her memories of long-forgotten days. but above lay the vision of her school, redeemed and enlarged, its future safe, its usefulness broadened--small wonder that to sarah smith the future had seemed in november almost golden. then things began to go wrong. the transfer of the tolliver land had not yet been effected; the money was ready, but mr. tolliver seemed busy or hesitating. next came this news of mrs. grey's probable conditions. so here it was christmas time, and sarah smith's castles lay almost in ruins about her. the girl moaned in her fitful sleep and miss smith soothed her. poor child! here too was work--a strange strong soul cruelly stricken in her youth. could she be brought back to a useful life? how she needed such a strong, clear-eyed helper in this crisis of her work! would zora make one or would this blow send her to perdition? not if sarah smith could save her, she resolved, and stared out the window where the pale red dawn was sending its first rays on the white-pillared mansion of the cresswells. mrs. grey saw the light on the columns, too, as she lay lazily in her soft white bed. there was a certain delicious languor in the late lingering fall of alabama that suited her perfectly. then, too, she liked the house and its appointments; there was not, to be sure, all the luxury that she was used to in her new york mansion, but there was a certain finish about it, an elegance and staid old-fashioned hospitality that appealed to her tremendously. mrs. grey's heart warmed to the sight of helen in her moments of spasmodic caring for the sick and afflicted on the estate. no better guardian of her philanthropies could be found than these same cresswells. she must, of course, go over and see dear sarah smith; but really there was not much to say or to look at. the prospects seemed most alluring. later, mr. easterly talked a while on routine business, saying, as he turned away: "i am more and more impressed, mrs. grey, with your wisdom in placing large investments in the south. with peaceful social conditions the returns will be large." mrs. grey heard this delicate flattery complacently. she had her streak of thrift, and wanted her business capacity recognized. she listened attentively. "for this reason, i trust you will handle your negro philanthropies judicially, as i know you will. there's dynamite in this race problem for amateur reformers, but fortunately you have at hand wise and sympathetic advisers in the cresswells." mrs. grey agreed entirely. mary taylor, alone of the committee, took her commission so seriously as to be anxious to begin work. "we are to visit the school this morning, you know," she reminded the others, looking at her watch; "i'm afraid we're late already." the remark created mild consternation. it seemed that mr. vanderpool had gone hunting and his wife had not yet arisen. dr. boldish was very hoarse, mr. easterly was going to look over some plantations with colonel cresswell, and mr. bocombe was engrossed in a novel. "clever, but not true to life," he said. finally the clergyman and mr. bocombe, mrs. grey and mrs. vanderpool and miss taylor started for the school, with harry cresswell, about an hour after lunch. the delay and suppressed excitement among the little folks had upset things considerably there, but at the sight of the visitors at the gate miss smith rang the bell. the party came in, laughing and chatting. they greeted miss smith cordially. dr. boldish was beginning to tell a good story when a silence fell. the children had gathered, quietly, almost timidly, and before the distinguished company realized it, they turned to meet that battery of four hundred eyes. a human eye is a wonderful thing when it simply waits and watches. not one of these little things alone would have been worth more than a glance, but together, they became mighty, portentous. mr. bocombe got out his note-book and wrote furiously therein. dr. boldish, naturally the appointed spokesman, looked helplessly about and whispered to mrs. vanderpool: "what on earth shall i talk about?" "the brotherhood of man?" suggested the lady. "hardly advisable," returned dr. boldish, seriously, "in our friend's presence,"--with a glance toward cresswell. then he arose. "my friends," he said, touching his finger-tips and using blank verse in a minor. "this is an auspicious day. you should be thankful for the gifts of the lord. his bounty surrounds you--the trees, the fields, the glorious sun. he gives cotton to clothe you, corn to eat, devoted friends to teach you. be joyful. be good. above all, be thrifty and save your money, and do not complain and whine at your apparent disadvantages. remember that god did not create men equal but unequal, and set metes and bounds. it is not for us to question the wisdom of the almighty, but to bow humbly to his will. "remember that the slavery of your people was not necessarily a crime. it was a school of work and love. it gave you noble friends, like mr. cresswell here." a restless stirring, and the battery of eyes was turned upon that imperturbable gentleman, as if he were some strange animal. "love and serve them. remember that we get, after all, little education from books; rather in the fields, at the plough and in the kitchen. let your ambition be to serve rather than rule, to be humble followers of the lowly jesus." with an upward glance the rev. dr. boldish sat down amid a silence a shade more intense than that which had greeted him. then slowly from the far corner rose a thin voice, tremulously. it wavered on the air and almost broke, then swelled in sweet, low music. other and stronger voices gathered themselves to it, until two hundred were singing a soft minor wail that gripped the hearts and tingled in the ears of the hearers. mr. bocombe groped with a puzzled expression to find the pocket for his note-book; harry cresswell dropped his eyes, and on mrs. vanderpool's lips the smile died. mary taylor flushed, and mrs. grey cried frankly: "poor things!" she whispered. "now," said mrs. grey, turning about, "we haven't but just a moment and we want to take a little look at your work." she smiled graciously upon miss smith. mrs. grey thought the cooking-school very nice. "i suppose," she said, "that you furnish cooks for the county." "largely," said miss smith. mrs. vanderpool looked surprised, but miss smith added: "this county, you know, is mostly black." mrs. grey did not catch the point. the dormitories were neat and the ladies expressed great pleasure in them. "it is certainly nice for them to know what a clean place is," commented mrs. grey. mr. cresswell, however, looked at a bath-room and smiled. "how practical!" he said. "can you not stop and see some of the classes?" sarah smith knew in her heart that the visit was a failure, still she would do her part to the end. "i doubt if we shall have time," mrs. grey returned, as they walked on. "mr. cresswell expects friends to dinner." "what a magnificent intelligence office," remarked mr. bocombe, "for furnishing servants to the nation. i saw splendid material for cooks and maids." "and plough-boys," added cresswell. "and singers," said mary taylor. "well, now that's just my idea," said mrs. grey, "that these schools should furnish trained servants and laborers for the south. isn't that your idea, miss smith?" "not exactly," the lady replied, "or at least i shouldn't put it just that way. my idea is that this school should furnish men and women who can work and earn an honest living, train up families aright, and perform their duties as fathers, mothers, and citizens." "yes--yes, precisely," said mrs. grey, "that's what i meant." "i think the whites can attend to the duties of citizenship without help," observed mr. cresswell. "don't let the blacks meddle in politics," said dr. boldish. "i want to make these children full-fledged men and women, strong, self-reliant, honest, without any 'ifs' and 'ands' to their development," insisted miss smith. "of course, and that is just what mr. cresswell wants. isn't it, mr. cresswell?" asked mrs. grey. "i think i may say yes," mr. cresswell agreed. "i certainly want these people to develop as far as they can, although miss smith and i would differ as to their possibilities. but it is not so much in the general theory of negro education as in its particular applications where our chief differences would lie. i may agree that a boy should learn higher arithmetic, yet object to his loafing in plough-time. i might want to educate some girls but not girls like zora." mrs. vanderpool glanced at mr. cresswell, smiling to herself. mrs. grey broke in, beaming: "that's just it, dear miss smith,--just it. your heart is good, but you need strong practical advice. you know we weak women are so impractical, as my poor job so often said. now, i'm going to arrange to endow this school with at least--at least a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. one condition is that my friend, mr. cresswell here, and these other gentlemen, including sound northern business men like mr. easterly, shall hold this money in trust, and expend it for your school as they think best." "mr. cresswell would be their local representative?" asked miss smith slowly with white face. "why yes--yes, of course." there was a long, tense silence. then the firm reply, "mrs. grey, i thank you, but i cannot accept your offer." sarah smith's voice was strong, the tremor had left her hands. she had expected something like this, of course; yet when it came--somehow it failed to stun. she would not turn over the direction of the school, or the direction of the education of these people, to those who were most opposed to their education. therefore, there was no need to hesitate; there was no need to think the thing over--she had thought it over--and she looked into mrs. grey's eyes and with gathering tears in her own said: "again, i thank you very much, mrs. grey." mrs. grey was a picture of the most emphatic surprise, and mr. cresswell moved to the window. mrs. grey looked helplessly at her companions. "but--i don't understand, miss smith--why can't you accept my offer?" "because you ask me to put my school in control of those who do not wish for the best interests of black folk, and in particular i object to mr. cresswell," said miss smith, slowly but very distinctly, "because his relation to the forces of evil in this community has been such that he can direct no school of mine." mrs. vanderpool moved toward the door and mr. cresswell bowing slightly followed. dr. boldish looked indignant and mr. bocombe dove after his note-book. mary taylor, her head in a whirl, came forward. she felt that in some way she was responsible for this dreadful situation and she wanted desperately to save matters from final disaster. "come," she said, "mrs. grey, we'll talk this matter over again later. i am sure miss smith does not mean quite all she says--she is tired and nervous. you join the others and don't wait for me and i will be along directly." mrs. grey was only too glad to escape and mr. bocombe got a chance to talk. he drew out his note-book. "awfully interesting," he said, "awfully. now--er--let's see--oh, yes. did you notice how unhealthy the children looked? race is undoubtedly dying out; fact. no hope. weak. no spontaneity either--rather languid, did you notice? yes, and their heads--small and narrow--no brain capacity. they can't concentrate; notice how some slept when dr. boldish was speaking? mr. cresswell says they own almost no land here; think of it? this land was worth only ten dollars an acre a decade ago, he says. negroes might have bought all and been rich. very shiftless--and that singing. now, i wonder where they got the music? imitation, of course." and so he rattled on, noting not the silence of the others. as the carriage drove off mary turned to miss smith. "now, miss smith," she began--but miss smith looked at her, and said sternly, "sit down." mary taylor sat down. she had been so used to lecturing the older woman that the sudden summoning of her well known sternness against herself took her breath, and she sat awkwardly like the school girl that she was waiting for miss smith to speak. she felt suddenly very young and very helpless--she who had so jauntily set out to solve this mighty problem by a waving of her wand. she saw with a swelling of pity the drawn and stricken face of her old friend and she started up. "sit down," repeated miss smith harshly. "mary taylor, you are a fool. you are not foolish, for the foolish learn; you are simply a fool. you will never learn; you have blundered into this life work of mine and well nigh ruined it. whether i can yet save it god alone knows. you have blundered into the lives of two loving children, and sent one wandering aimless on the face of the earth and the other moaning in yonder chamber with death in her heart. you are going to marry the man that sought zora's ruin when she was yet a child because you think of his aristocratic pose and pretensions built on the poverty, crime, and exploitation of six generations of serfs. you'll marry him and--" but miss taylor leapt to her feet with blazing cheeks. "how dare you?" she screamed, beside herself. "but god in heaven help you if you do," finished miss smith, calmly. _seventeen_ the rape of the fleece when slowly from the torpor of ether, one wakens to the misty sense of eternal loss, and there comes the exquisite prick of pain, then one feels in part the horror of the ache when zora wakened to the world again. the awakening was the work of days and weeks. at first in sheer exhaustion, physical and mental, she lay and moaned. the sense of loss--of utter loss--lay heavy upon her. something of herself, something dearer than self, was gone from her forever, and an infinite loneliness and silence, as of endless years, settled on her soul. she wished neither food nor words, only to be alone. then gradually the pain of injury stung her when the blood flowed fuller. as miss smith knelt beside her one night to make her simple prayer zora sat suddenly upright, white-swathed, dishevelled, with fury in her midnight eyes. "i want no prayers!" she cried, "i will not pray! he is no god of mine. he isn't fair. he knows and won't tell. he takes advantage of us--he works and fools us." all night miss smith heard mutterings of this bitterness, and the next day the girl walked her room like a tigress,--to and fro, to and fro, all the long day. toward night a dumb despair settled upon her. miss smith found her sitting by the window gazing blankly toward the swamp. she came to miss smith, slowly, and put her hands upon her shoulders with almost a caress. "you must forgive me," she pleaded plaintively. "i reckon i've been mighty bad with you, and you always so good to me; but--but, you see--it hurts so." "i know it hurts, dear; i know it does. but men and women must learn to bear hurts in this world." "not hurts like this; they couldn't." "yes, even hurts like this. bear and stand straight; be brave. after all, zora, no man is quite worth a woman's soul; no love is worth a whole life." zora turned away with a gesture of impatience. "you were born in ice," she retorted, adding a bit more tenderly, "in clear strong ice; but i was born in fire. i live--i love; that's all." and she sat down again, despairingly, and stared at the dull swamp. miss smith stood for a moment and closed her eyes upon a vision. "ice!" she whispered. "my god!" then, at length, she said to zora: "zora, there's only one way: do something; if you sit thus brooding you'll go crazy." "do crazy folks forget?" "nonsense, zora!" miss smith ridiculed the girl's fantastic vagaries; her sound common sense rallied to her aid. "they are the people who remember; sane folk forget. work is the only cure for such pain." "but there's nothing to do--nothing i want to do--nothing worth doing--now." "the silver fleece?" the girl sat upright. "the silver fleece," she murmured. without further word, slowly she arose and walked down the stairs, and out into the swamp. miss smith watched her go; she knew that every step must be the keen prickle of awakening flesh. yet the girl walked steadily on. * * * * * it was the christmas--not christmas-tide of the north and west, but christmas of the southern south. it was not the festival of the christ child, but a time of noise and frolic and license, the great pay-day of the year when black men lifted their heads from a year's toiling in the earth, and, hat in hand, asked anxiously: "master, what have i earned? have i paid my old debts to you? have i made my clothes and food? have i got a little of the year's wage coming to me?" or, more carelessly and cringingly: "master, gimme a christmas gift." the lords of the soil stood round, gauging their cotton, measuring their men. their stores were crowded, their scales groaned, their gins sang. in the long run public opinion determines all wage, but in more primitive times and places, private opinion, personal judgment of some man in power, determines. the black belt is primitive and the landlord wields the power. "what about johnson?" calls the head clerk. "well, he's a faithful nigger and needs encouragement; cancel his debt and give him ten dollars for christmas." colonel cresswell glowed, as if he were full of the season's spirit. "and sanders?" "how's his cotton?" "good, and a lot of it." "he's trying to get away. keep him in debt, but let him draw what he wants." "aunt rachel?" "h'm, they're way behind, aren't they? give her a couple of dollars--not a cent more." "jim sykes?" "say, harry, how about that darky, sykes?" called out the colonel. excusing himself from his guests, harry cresswell came into the office. to them this peculiar spectacle of the market place was of unusual interest. they saw its humor and its crowding, its bizarre effects and unwonted pageantry. black giants and pigmies were there; kerchiefed aunties, giggling black girls, saffron beauties, and loafing white men. there were mules and horses and oxen, wagons and buggies and carts; but above all and in all, rushing through, piled and flying, bound and baled--was cotton. cotton was currency; cotton was merchandise; cotton was conversation. all this was "beautiful" to mrs. grey and "unusually interesting" to mrs. vanderpool. to mary taylor it had the fascination of a puzzle whose other side she had already been partially studying. she was particularly impressed with the joy and abandon of the scene--light laughter, huge guffaws, handshakes, and gossipings. "at all events," she concluded, "this is no oppressed people." and sauntering away from the rest she noted the smiles of an undersized smirking yellow man who hurried by with a handful of dollar bills. at a side entrance liquor was evidently on sale--men were drinking and women, too; some were staggering, others cursing, and yet others singing. then suddenly a man swung around the corner swearing in bitter rage: "the damned thieves, they'se stole a year's work--the white--" but some one called, "hush up, sanders! there's a white woman." and he threw a startled look at mary and hurried by. she was perplexed and upset and stood hesitating a moment when she heard a well-known voice: "why, miss taylor, i was alarmed for you; you really must be careful about trusting yourself with these half drunken negroes." "wouldn't it be better not to give them drink, mr. cresswell?" "and let your neighbor sell them poison at all hours? no, miss taylor." they joined the others, and all were turning toward the carriage when a figure coming down the road attracted them. "quite picturesque," observed mrs. vanderpool, looking at the tall, slim girl swaying toward them with a piled basket of white cotton poised lightly on her head. "why," in abrupt recognition, "it is our venus of the roadside, is it not?" mary saw it was zora. just then, too, zora caught sight of them, and for a moment hesitated, then came on; the carriage was in front of the store, and she was bound for the store. a moment mary hesitated, too, and then turned resolutely to greet her. but zora's eyes did not see her. after one look at that sorrow-stricken face, mary turned away. colonel cresswell stood by the door, his hat on, his hands in his pockets. "well, zora, what have you there?" he asked. "cotton, sir." harry cresswell bent over it. "great heavens! look at this cotton!" he ejaculated. his father approached. the cotton lay in silken handfuls, clean and shimmering, with threads full two inches long. the idlers, black and white, clustered round, gazing at it, and fingering it with repeated exclamations of astonishment. "where did this come from?" asked the colonel sharply. he and harry were both eying the girl intently. "i raised it in the swamp," zora replied quietly, in a dead voice. there was no pride of achievement in her manner, no gladness; all that had flown. "is that all?" "no, sir; i think there's two bales." "two bales! where is it? how the devil--" the colonel was forgetting his guests, but harry intervened. "you'll need to get it picked right off," he suggested. "it's all picked, sir." "but where is it?" "if you'll send a wagon, sir--" but the colonel hardly waited. "here you, jim, take the big mules and drive like--where's that wench?" but zora was already striding on ahead, and was far up the red road when the great mules galloped into sight and the long whip snapped above their backs. the colonel was still excited. "that cotton must be ours, harry--all of it. and see that none is stolen. we've got no contract with the wench, so don't dally with her." but harry said firmly, quietly: "it's fine cotton, and she raised it; she must be paid well for it." colonel cresswell glanced at him with something between contempt and astonishment on his face. "you go along with the ladies," harry added; "i'll see to this cotton." mary taylor's smile had rewarded him; now he must get rid of his company--before zora returned. it was dark when the cotton came; such a load as cresswell's store had never seen before. zora watched it weighed, received the cotton checks, and entered the store. only the clerk was there, and he was closing. he pointed her carelessly to the office in the back part. she went into the small dim room, and laying the cotton-check on the desk, stood waiting. slowly the hopelessness and bitterness of it all came back in a great whelming flood. what was the use of trying for anything? she was lost forever. the world was against her, and again she saw the fingers of elspeth--the long black claw-like talons that clutched and dragged her down--down. she did not struggle--she dropped her hands listlessly, wearily, and stood but half conscious as the door opened and mr. harry cresswell entered the dimly lighted room. she opened her eyes. she had expected his father. somewhere way down in the depths of her nature the primal tiger awoke and snarled. she was suddenly alive from hair to finger tip. harry cresswell paused a second and swept her full length with his eye--her profile, the long supple line of bosom and hip, the little foot. then he closed the door softly and walked slowly toward her. she stood like stone, without a quiver; only her eye followed the crooked line of the cresswell blue blood on his marble forehead as she looked down from her greater height; her hand closed almost caressingly on a rusty poker lying on the stove nearby; and as she sensed the hot breath of him she felt herself purring in a half heard whisper. "i should not like--to kill you." he looked at her long and steadily as he passed to his desk. slowly he lighted a cigarette, opened the great ledger, and compared the cotton-check with it. "three thousand pounds," he announced in a careless tone. "yes, that will make about two bales of lint. it's extra cotton--say fifteen cents a pound--one hundred fifty dollars--seventy-five dollars to you--h'm." he took a note-book out of his pocket, pushed his hat back on his head, and paused to relight his cigarette. "let's see--your rent and rations--" "elspeth pays no rent," she said slowly, but he did not seem to hear. "your rent and rations with the five years' back debt,"--he made a hasty calculation--"will be one hundred dollars. that leaves you twenty-five in our debt. here's your receipt." the blow had fallen. she did not wince nor cry out. she took the receipt, calmly, and walked out into the darkness. they had stolen the silver fleece. what should she do? she never thought of appeal to courts, for colonel cresswell was justice of the peace and his son was bailiff. why had they stolen from her? she knew. she was now penniless, and in a sense helpless. she was now a peon bound to a master's bidding. if elspeth chose to sign a contract of work for her to-morrow, it would mean slavery, jail, or hounded running away. what would elspeth do? one never knew. zora walked on. an hour ago it seemed that this last blow must have killed her. but now it was different. into her first despair had crept, in one fierce moment, grim determination. somewhere in the world sat a great dim injustice which had veiled the light before her young eyes, just as she raised them to the morning. with the veiling, death had come into her heart. and yet, they should not kill her; they should not enslave her. a desperate resolve to find some way up toward the light, if not to it, formed itself within her. she would not fall into the pit opening before her. somehow, somewhere lay the way. she must never fall lower; never be utterly despicable in the eyes of the man she had loved. there was no dream of forgiveness, of purification, of re-kindled love; all these she placed sadly and gently into the dead past. but in awful earnestness, she turned toward the future; struggling blindly, groping in half formed plans for a way. she came thus into the room where sat miss smith, strangely pallid beneath her dusky skin. but there lay a light in her eyes. _eighteen_ the cotton corner all over the land the cotton had foamed in great white flakes under the winter sun. the silver fleece lay like a mighty mantle across the earth. black men and mules had staggered beneath its burden, while deep songs welled in the hearts of men; for the fleece was goodly and gleaming and soft, and men dreamed of the gold it would buy. all the roads in the country had been lined with wagons--a million wagons speeding to and fro with straining mules and laughing black men, bearing bubbling masses of piled white fleece. the gins were still roaring and spitting flames and smoke--fifty thousand of them in town and vale. then hoarse iron throats were filled with fifteen billion pounds of white-fleeced, black-specked cotton, for the whirling saws to tear out the seed and fling five thousand million pounds of the silken fibre to the press. and there again the black men sang, like dark earth-spirits flitting in twilight; the presses creaked and groaned; closer and closer they pressed the silken fleece. it quivered, trembled, and then lay cramped, dead, and still, in massive, hard, square bundles, tied with iron strings. out fell the heavy bales, thousand upon thousand, million upon million, until they settled over the south like some vast dull-white swarm of birds. colonel cresswell and his son, in these days, had a long and earnest conversation perforated here and there by explosions of the colonel's wrath. the colonel could not understand some things. "they want us to revive the farmers' league?" he fiercely demanded. "yes," harry calmly replied. "and throw the rest of our capital after the fifty thousand dollars we've already lost?" "yes." "and you were fool enough to consent--" "wait, father--and don't get excited. listen. cotton is going up--" "of course it's going up! short crop and big demand--" "cotton is going up, and then it's going to fall." "i don't believe it." "i know it; the trust has got money and credit enough to force it down." "well, what then?" the colonel glared. "then somebody will corner it." "the farmers' league won't stand--" "precisely. the farmers' league can do the cornering and hold it for higher prices." "lord, son! if we only could!" groaned the colonel. "we can; we'll have unlimited credit." "but--but--" stuttered the bewildered colonel, "i don't understand. why should the trust--" "nonsense, father--what's the use of understanding. our advantage is plain, and john taylor guarantees the thing." "who's john taylor?" snorted the colonel. "why should we trust him?" "well," said harry slowly, "he wants to marry helen--" his father grew apopletic. "i'm not saying he will, father; i'm only saying that he wants to," harry made haste to placate the rising tide of wrath. "no southern gentleman--" began the colonel. but harry shrugged his shoulders. "which is better, to be crushed by the trust or to escape at their expense, even if that escape involves unwarranted assumptions on the part of one of them? i tell you, father, the code of the southern gentleman won't work in wall street." "and i'll tell you why--there _are_ no southern gentlemen," growled his father. the silver fleece was golden, for its prices were flying aloft. mr. caldwell told colonel cresswell that he confidently expected twelve-cent cotton. "the crop is excellent and small, scarcely ten million bales," he declared. "the price is bound to go up." colonel cresswell was hesitant, even doubtful; the demand for cotton at high prices usually fell off rapidly and he had heard rumors of curtailed mill production. while, then, he hoped for high prices he advised the farmers' league to be on guard. mr. caldwell seemed to be right, for cotton rose to ten cents a pound--ten and a half--eleven--and then the south began to see visions and to dream dreams. "yes, my dear," said mr. maxwell, whose lands lay next to the cresswells' on the northwest, "yes, if cotton goes to twelve or thirteen cents as seems probable, i think we can begin the new house"--for mrs. maxwell's cherished dream was a pillared mansion like the cresswells'. mr. tolliver looked at his house and barns. "well, daughter, if this crop sells at twelve cents, i'll be on my feet again, and i won't have to sell that land to the nigger school after all. once out of the clutch of the cresswells--well, i think we can have a coat of paint." and he laughed as he had not laughed in ten years. down in the bottoms west of the swamp a man and woman were figuring painfully on an old slate. he was light brown and she was yellow. "honey," he said tremblingly, "i b'lieve we can do it--if cotton goes to twelve cents, we can pay the mortgage." two miles north of the school an old black woman was shouting and waving her arms. "if cotton goes to twelve cents we can pay out and be free!" and she threw her apron over her head and wept, gathering her children in her arms. but even as she cried a flash and tremor shook the south. far away to the north a great spider sat weaving his web. the office looked down from the clouds on lower broadway, and was soft with velvet and leather. swift, silent messengers hurried in and out, and mr. easterly, deciding the time was ripe, called his henchman to him. "taylor, we're ready--go south." and john taylor rose, shook hands silently, and went. as he entered cresswell's plantation store three days later, a colored woman with a little boy turned sadly away from the counter. "no, aunty," the clerk was telling her, "calico is too high; can't let you have any till we see how your cotton comes out." "i just wanted a bit; i promised the boy--" "go on, go on--why, mr. taylor!" and the little boy burst into tears while he was hurried out. "tightening up on the tenants?" asked taylor. "yes; these niggers are mighty extravagant. besides, cotton fell a little today--eleven to ten and three-fourths; just a flurry, i reckon. had you heard?" mr. taylor said he had heard, and he hurried on. next morning the long shining wires of that great broadway web trembled and flashed again and cotton went to ten cents. "no house this year, i fear," quoth mr. maxwell, bitterly. the next day nine and a half was the quotation, and men began to look at each other and asked questions. "paper says the crop is larger than the government estimate," said tolliver, and added, "there'll be no painting this year." he looked toward the smith school and thought of the five thousand dollars waiting; but he hesitated. john taylor had carefully mentioned seven thousand dollars as a price he was willing to pay and "perhaps more." was cresswell back of taylor? tolliver was suspicious and moved to delay matters. "it's manipulation and speculation in new york," said colonel cresswell, "and the farmers' league must begin operations." the local paper soon had an editorial on "our distinguished fellow citizen, colonel cresswell," and his efforts to revive the farmers' league. it was understood that colonel cresswell was risking his whole private fortune to hold the price of cotton, and some effort seemed to be needed, for cotton dropped to nine cents within a week. swift negotiations ensued, and a meeting of the executive committee of the farmers' league was held in montgomery. a system of warehouses and warehouse certificates was proposed. "but that will cost money," responded each of the dozen big landlords who composed the committee; whereupon harry cresswell introduced john taylor, who represented thirty millions of southern bank stock. "i promise you credit to any reasonable amount," said mr. taylor, "i believe in cotton--the present price is abnormal." and mr. taylor knew whereof he spoke, for when he sent a cipher despatch north, cotton dropped to eight and a half. the farmers' league leased three warehouses at savannah, montgomery, and new orleans. then silently the south gripped itself and prepared for battle. men stopped spending, business grew dull, and millions of eyes were glued to the blackboards of the cotton-exchange. tighter and tighter the reins grew on the backs of the black tenants. "miss smith, is yo' got just a drap of coffee to lend me? mr. cresswell won't give me none at the store and i'se just starving for some," said aunt rachel from over the hill. "we won't git free this year, miss smith, not this year," she concluded plaintively. cotton fell to seven and a half cents and the muttered protest became angry denunciation. why was it? who was doing it? harry cresswell went to montgomery. he was getting nervous. the thing was too vast. he could not grasp it. it set his head in a whirl. harry cresswell was not a bad man--are there any bad men? he was a man who from the day he first wheedled his black mammy into submission, down to his thirty-sixth year, had seldom known what it was voluntarily to deny himself or curb a desire. to rise when he would, eat what he craved, and do what the passing fancy suggested had long been his day's programme. such emptiness of life and aim had to be filled, and it was filled; he helped his father sometimes with the plantations, but he helped spasmodically and played at work. the unregulated fire of energy and delicacy of nervous poise within him continually hounded him to the verge of excess and sometimes beyond. cool, quiet, and gentlemanly as he was by rule of his clan, the ice was thin and underneath raged unappeased fires. he craved the madness of alcohol in his veins till his delicate hands trembled of mornings. the women whom he bent above in languid, veiled-eyed homage, feared lest they love him, and what work was to others gambling was to him. the cotton combine, then, appealed to him overpoweringly--to his passion for wealth, to his passion for gambling. but once entered upon the game it drove him to fear and frenzy: first, it was a long game and harry cresswell was not trained to waiting, and, secondly, it was a game whose intricacies he did not know. in vain did he try to study the matter through. he ordered books from the north, he subscribed for financial journals, he received special telegraphic reports only to toss them away, curse his valet, and call for another brandy. after all, he kept saying to himself, what guarantee, what knowledge had he that this was not a "damned yankee trick"? now that the web was weaving its last mesh in early january he haunted montgomery, and on this day when it seemed that things must culminate or he would go mad, he hastened again down to the planters' hotel and was quickly ushered to john taylor's room. the place was filled with tobacco smoke. an electric ticker was drumming away in one corner, a telephone ringing on the desk, and messenger boys hovered outside the door and raced to and fro. "well," asked cresswell, maintaining his composure by an effort, "how are things?" "great!" returned taylor. "league holds three million bales and controls five. it's the biggest corner in years." "but how's cotton?" "ticker says six and three-fourths." cresswell sat down abruptly opposite taylor, looking at him fixedly. "that last drop means liabilities of a hundred thousand to us," he said slowly. "exactly," taylor blandly admitted. beads of sweat gathered on cresswell's forehead. he looked at the scrawny iron man opposite, who had already forgotten his presence. he ordered whiskey, and taking paper and pencil began to figure, drinking as he figured. slowly the blood crept out of his white face leaving it whiter, and went surging and pounding in his heart. poverty--that was what those figures spelled. poverty--unclothed, wineless poverty, to dig and toil like a "nigger" from morning until night, and to give up horses and carriages and women; that was what they spelled. "how much--farther will it drop?" he asked harshly. taylor did not look up. "can't tell," he said, "'fraid not much though." he glanced through a telegram. "no--damn it!--outside mills are low; they'll stampede soon. meantime we'll buy." "but, taylor--" "here are one hundred thousand offered at six and three-fourths." "i tell you, taylor--" cresswell half arose. "done!" cried taylor. "six and one-half," clicked the machine. cresswell arose from his chair by the window and came slowly to the wide flat desk where taylor was working feverishly. he sat down heavily in the chair opposite and tried quietly to regain his self-control. the liabilities of the cresswells already amounted to half the value of their property, at a fair market valuation. the cotton for which they had made debts was still falling in value. every fourth of a cent fall meant--he figured it again tremblingly--meant one hundred thousand more of liabilities. if cotton fell to six he hadn't a cent on earth. if it stayed there--"my god!" he felt a faintness stealing over him but he beat it back and gulped down another glass of fiery liquor. then the one protecting instinct of his clan gripped him. slowly, quietly his hand moved back until it grasped the hilt of the big colt's revolver that was ever with him--his thin white hand became suddenly steady as it slipped the weapon beneath the shadow of the desk. "if it goes to six," he kept murmuring, "we're ruined--if it goes to six--if--" "tick," sounded the wheel and the sound reverberated like sudden thunder in his ears. his hand was iron, and he raised it slightly. "six," said the wheel--his finger quivered--"and a half." "hell!" yelled taylor. "she's turned--there'll be the devil to pay now." a messenger burst in and taylor scowled. "she's loose in new york--a regular mob in new orleans--and--hark!--by god! there's something doing here. damn it--i wish we'd got another million bales. let's see, we've got--" he figured while the wheel whirred--" -- - / -- -- - / ." cresswell listened, staggered to his feet, his face crimson and his hair wild. "my god, taylor," he gasped. "i'm--i'm a half a million ahead--great heavens!" the ticker whirred, " - / -- -- - / -- ." then it stopped dead. "exchange closed," said taylor. "we've cornered the market all right--cornered it--d'ye hear, cresswell? we got over half the crop and we can send prices to the north star--you--why, i figure it you cresswells are worth at least seven hundred and fifty thousand above liabilities this minute," and john taylor leaned back and lighted a big black cigar. "i've made a million or so myself," he added reflectively. cresswell leaned back in his chair, his face had gone white again, and he spoke slowly to still the tremor in his voice. "i've gambled--before; i've gambled on cards and on horses; i've gambled--for money--and--women--but--" "but not on cotton, hey? well, i don't know about cards and such; but they can't beat cotton." "and say, john taylor, you're my friend." cresswell stretched his hand across the desk, and as he bent forward the pistol crashed to the floor. _nineteen_ the dying of elspeth rich! this was the thought that awakened harry cresswell to a sense of endless well-being. rich! no longer the mirage and semblance of wealth, the memory of opulence, the shadow of homage without the substance of power--no; now the wealth was real, cold hard dollars, and in piles. how much? he laughed aloud as he turned on his pillow. what did he care? enough--enough. not less than half a million; perhaps three-quarters of a million; perhaps--was not cotton still rising?--a whole round million! that would mean from twenty-five to fifty thousand a year. great heavens! and he'd been starving on a bare couple of thousand and trying to keep up appearances! today the cresswells were almost millionaires; aye, and he might be married to more millions. he sat up with a start. today mary was going north. he had quite forgotten it in the wild excitement of the cotton corner. he had neglected her. of course, there was always the hovering doubt as to whether he really wanted her or not. she had the form and carriage; her beauty, while not startling, was young and fresh and firm. on the other hand there was about her a certain independence that he did not like to associate with women. she had thoughts and notions of the world which were, to his southern training, hardly feminine. and yet even they piqued him and spurred him like the sight of an untrained colt. he had not seen her falter yet beneath his glances or tremble at his touch. all this he desired--ardently desired. but did he desire her as a wife? he rather thought that he did. and if so he must speak today. there was his father, too, to reckon with. colonel cresswell, with the perversity of the simple-minded, had taken the sudden bettering of their fortunes as his own doing. he had foreseen; he had stuck it out; his credit had pulled the thing through; and the trust had learned a thing or two about southern gentlemen. toward john taylor he perceptibly warmed. his business methods were such as a cresswell could never stoop to; but he was a man of his word, and colonel cresswell's correspondence with mr. easterly opened his eyes to the beneficent ideals of northern capital. at the same time he could not consider the easterlys and the taylors and such folk as the social equals of the cresswells, and his prejudice on this score must still be reckoned with. below, mary taylor lingered on the porch in strange uncertainty. harry cresswell would soon be coming downstairs. did she want him to find her? she liked him frankly, undisguisedly; but from the love she knew to be so near her heart she recoiled in perturbation. he wooed her--whether consciously or not, she was always uncertain--with every quiet attention and subtle deference, with a devotion seemingly quite too delicate for words; he not only fetched her flowers, but flowers that chimed with day and gown and season--almost with mood. he had a woman's premonitions in fulfilling her wishes. his hands, if they touched her, were soft and tender, and yet he gave a curious impression of strength and poise and will. indeed, in all things he was in her eyes a gentleman in the fine old-fashioned aristocracy of the term; her own heart voiced all he did not say, and pleaded for him to her own confusion. and yet, in her heart, lay the awful doubt--and the words kept ringing in her ears! "you will marry this man--but heaven help you if you do!" so it was that on this day when she somehow felt he would speak, his footsteps on the stairs filled her with sudden panic. without a word she slipped behind the pillars and ran down among the oaks and sauntered out upon the big road. he caught the white flutter of her dress, and smiled indulgently as he watched and waited and lightly puffed his cigarette. the morning was splendid with that first delicious languor of the spring which breathes over the southland in february. mary taylor filled her lungs, lifted her arms aloft, and turning, stepped into the deep shadow of the swamp. abruptly the air, the day, the scene about her subtly changed. she felt a closeness and a tremor, a certain brooding terror in the languid sombre winds. the gold of the sunlight faded to a sickly green, and the earth was black and burned. a moment she paused and looked back; she caught the man's silhouette against the tall white pillars of the mansion and she fled deeper into the forest with the hush of death about her, and the silence which is one great voice. slowly, and mysteriously it loomed before her--that squat and darksome cabin which seemed to fitly set in the centre of the wilderness, beside its crawling slime. she paused in sudden certainty that there lay the answer to her doubts and mistrust. she felt impelled to go forward and ask--what? she did not know, but something to still this war in her bosom. she had seldom seen elspeth; she had never been in her cabin. she had felt an inconquerable aversion for the evil hag; she felt it now, and shivered in the warm breeze. as she came in full view of the door, she paused. on the step of the cabin, framed in the black doorway, stood zora. measured by the squat cabin she seemed in height colossal; slim, straight as a pine, motionless, with one long outstretched arm pointing to where the path swept onward toward the town. it was too far for words but the scene lay strangely clear and sharp-cut in the green mystery of the sunlight. before that motionless, fateful figure crouched a slighter, smaller woman, dishevelled, clutching her breast; she bent and rose--hesitated--seemed to plead; then turning, clasped in passionate embrace the child whose head was hid in zora's gown. next instant she was staggering along the path whither zora pointed. slowly the sun was darkened, and plaintive murmurings pulsed through the wood. the oppression and fear of the swamp redoubled in mary taylor. zora gave no sign of having seen her. she stood tall and still, and the little golden-haired girl still sobbed in her gown. mary taylor looked up into zora's face, then paused in awe. it was a face she did not know; it was neither the beautifully mischievous face of the girl, nor the pain-stricken face of the woman. it was a face cold and mask-like, regular and comely; clothed in a mighty calm, yet subtly, masterfully veiling behind itself depths of unfathomed misery and wild revolt. all this lay in its darkness. "good-morning, miss taylor." mary, who was wont to teach this woman--so lately a child--searched in vain for words to address her now. she stood bare-haired and hesitating in the pale green light of the darkened morning. it seemed fit that a deep groan of pain should gather itself from the mysterious depths of the swamp, and drop like a pall on the black portal of the cabin. but it brought mary taylor back to a sense of things, and under a sudden impulse she spoke. "is--is anything the matter?" she asked nervously. "elspeth is sick," replied zora. "is she very sick?" "yes--she has been called," solemnly returned the dark young woman. mary was puzzled. "called?" she repeated vaguely. "we heard the great cry in the night, and elspeth says it is the end." it did not occur to mary taylor to question this mysticism; she all at once understood--perhaps read the riddle in the dark, melancholy eyes that so steadily regarded her. "then you can leave the place, zora?" she exclaimed gladly. "yes, i could leave." "and you will." "i don't know." "but the place looks--evil." "it is evil." "and yet you will stay?" zora's eyes were now fixed far above the woman's head, and she saw a human face forming itself in the vast rafters of the forest. its eyes were wet with pain and anger. "perhaps," she answered. the child furtively uncovered her face and looked at the stranger. she was blue-eyed and golden-haired. "whose child is this?" queried mary, curiously. zora looked coldly down upon the child. "it is bertie's. her mother is bad. she is gone. i sent her. she and the others like her." "but where have you sent them?" "to hell!" mary taylor started under the shock. impulsively she moved forward with hands that wanted to stretch themselves in appeal. "zora! zora! _you_ mustn't go, too!" but the black girl drew proudly back. "i _am_ there," she returned, with unmistakable simplicity of absolute conviction. the white woman shrank back. her heart was wrung; she wanted to say more--to explain, to ask to help; there came welling to her lips a flood of things that she would know. but zora's face again was masked. "i must go," she said, before mary could speak. "good-bye." and the dark groaning depths of the cabin swallowed her. with a satisfied smile, harry cresswell had seen the northern girl disappear toward the swamp; for it is significant when maidens run from lovers. but maidens should also come back, and when, after the lapse of many minutes, mary did not reappear, he followed her footsteps to the swamp. he frowned as he noted the footprints pointing to elspeth's--what did mary taylor want there? a fear started within him, and something else. he was suddenly aware that he wanted this woman, intensely; at the moment he would have turned heaven and earth to get her. he strode forward and the wood rose darkly green above him. a long, low, distant moan seemed to sound upon the breeze, and after it came mary taylor. he met her with tender solicitude, and she was glad to feel his arm beneath hers. "i've been searching for you," he said after a silence. "you should not wander here alone--it is dangerous." "why, dangerous?" she asked. "wandering negroes, and even wild beasts, in the forest depths--and malaria--see, you tremble now." "but not from malaria," she slowly returned. he caught an unfamiliar note in his voice, and a wild desire to justify himself before this woman clamored in his heart. with it, too, came a cooler calculating intuition that frankness alone would win her now. at all hazards he must win, and he cast the die. "miss taylor," he said, "i want to talk to you--i have wanted to for--a year." he glanced at her: she was white and silent, but she did not tremble. he went on: "i have hesitated because i do not know that i have a right to speak or explain to--to--a good woman." he felt her arm tighten on his and he continued: "you have been to elspeth's cabin; it is an evil place, and has meant evil for this community, and for me. elspeth was my mother's favorite servant and my own mammy. my mother died when i was ten and left me to her tender mercies. she let me have my way and encouraged the bad in me. it's a wonder i escaped total ruin. her cabin became a rendezvous for drinking and carousing. i told my father, but he, in lazy indifference, declared the place no worse than all negro cabins, and did nothing. i ceased my visits. still she tried every lure and set false stories going among the negroes, even when i sought to rescue zora. i tell you this because i know you have heard evil rumors. i have not been a good man--mary; but i love you, and you can make me good." perhaps no other appeal would have stirred mary taylor. she was in many respects an inexperienced girl. but she thought she knew the world; she knew that harry cresswell was not all he should be, and she knew too that many other men were not. moreover, she argued he had not had a fair chance. all the school-ma'am in her leaped to his teaching. what he needed was a superior person like herself. she loved him, and she deliberately put her arms about his neck and lifted her face to be kissed. back by the place of the silver fleece they wandered, across the big road, up to the mansion. on the steps stood john taylor and helen cresswell hand in hand and they all smiled at each other. the colonel came out, smiling too, with the paper in his hands. "easterly's right," he beamed, "the stock of the cotton combine--" he paused at the silence and looked up. the smile faded slowly and the red blood mounted to his forehead. anger struggled back of surprise, but before it burst forth silently the colonel turned, and muttering some unintelligible word, went slowly into the house and slammed the door. so for harry cresswell the day burst, flamed, and waned, and then suddenly went out, leaving him dull and gray; for mary and her brother had gone north, helen had gone to bed, and the colonel was in town. outside the weather was gusty and lowering with a chill in the air. he paced the room fitfully. well, he was happy. or, was he happy? he gnawed his mustache, for already his quick, changeable nature was feeling the rebound from glory to misery. he was a little ashamed of his exaltation; a bit doubtful and uncertain. he had stooped low to this yankee school-ma'am, lower than he had ever stooped to a woman. usually, while he played at loving, women grovelled; for was he not a cresswell? would this woman recognize that fact and respect him accordingly? then there was zora; what had she said and hinted to mary? the wench was always eluding and mocking him, the black devil! but, pshaw!--he poured himself a glass of brandy--was he not rich and young? the world was his. his valet knocked. "gentleman is asking if you forgits it's saturday night, sir?" said sam. cresswell walked thoughtfully to the window, swept back the curtain, and looked toward the darkness and the swamp. it lowered threateningly; behind it the night sky was tinged with blood. "no," he said; "i'm not going." and he shut out the glow. yet he grew more and more restless. the devil danced in his veins and burned in his forehead. his hands shook. he heard a rustle of departing feet beneath his window, then a pause and a faint halloo. "all right," he called, and in a moment went downstairs and out into the night. as he closed the front door there seemed to come faintly up from the swamp a low ululation, like the prolonged cry of some wild bird, or the wail of one's mourning for his dead. within the cabin, elspeth heard. tremblingly, she swayed to her feet, a haggard, awful sight. she motioned zora away, and stretching her hands palms upward to the sky, cried with dry and fear-struck gasp: "i'se called! i'se called!" on the bed the child smiled in its dreaming; the red flame of the firelight set the gold to dancing in her hair. zora shrank back into the shadows and listened. then it came. she heard the heavy footsteps crashing through the underbrush--coming, coming, as from the end of the world. she shrank still farther back, and a shadow swept the door. he was a mighty man, black and white-haired, and his eyes were the eyes of death. he bent to enter the door, and then uplifting himself and stretching his great arms, his palms touched the blackened rafters. zora started forward. thick memories of some forgotten past came piling in upon her. where had she known him? what was he to her? slowly elspeth, with quivering hands, unwound the black and snake-like object that always guarded her breast. without a word, he took it, and again his hands flew heavenward. with a low and fearful moan the old woman lurched sideways, then crashed, like a fallen pine, upon the hearthstone. she lay still--dead. three times the man passed his hands, wave-like, above the dead. three times he murmured, and his eyes burned into the shadows, where the girl trembled. then he turned and went as he had come, his heavy feet crashing through the underbrush, on and on, fainter and fainter, as to the end of the world. zora shook herself from the trance-like horror and passed her hands across her eyes to drive out the nightmare. but, no! there lay the dead upon the hearth with the firelight flashing over her, a bloated, hideous, twisted thing, distorted in the rigor of death. a moment zora looked down upon her mother. she felt the cold body whence the wandering, wrecked soul had passed. she sat down and stared death in the face for the first time. a mighty questioning arose within, a questioning and a yearning. was elspeth now at peace? was death the way--the wide, dark way? she had never thought of it before, and as she thought she crept forward and looked into the fearful face pityingly. "mammy!" she whispered--with bated breath--"mammy elspeth!" out of the night came a whispered answer: "_elspeth! elspeth!_" zora sprang to her feet, alert, fearful. with a swing of her arm, she pulled the great oaken door to and dropped the bar into its place. over the dead she spread a clean white sheet. into the fire she thrust pine-knots. they glared in vague red, and shadowy brilliance, waving and quivering and throwing up thin swirling columns of black smoke. then standing beside the fireplace with the white, still corpse between her and the door, she took up her awful vigil. there came a low knocking at the door; then silence and footsteps wandering furtively about. the night seemed all footsteps and whispers. there came a louder knocking, and a voice: "_elspeth! elspeth! open the door; it's me._" then muttering and wandering noises, and silence again. the child on the bed turned itself, murmuring uneasily in its dreams. and then _they_ came. zora froze, watching the door, wide-eyed, while the fire flamed redder. a loud quick knock at the door--a pause--an oath and a cry. "_elspeth! open this door, damn you!_" a moment of waiting and then the knocking came again, furious and long continued. outside there was much trampling and swearing. zora did not move; the child slept on. a tugging and dragging, a dull blow that set the cabin quivering; then,-- "_bang! crack! crash!_"--the door wavered, splintered, and dropped upon the floor. with a snarl, a crowd of some half-dozen white faces rushed forward, wavered and stopped. the awakened child sat up and stared with wide blue eyes. slowly, with no word, the intruders turned and went silently away, leaving but one late comer who pressed forward. "what damned mummery is this?" he cried, and snatching at the sheet, dragged it from the black distorted countenance of the corpse. he shuddered but for a moment he could not stir. he felt the midnight eyes of the girl--he saw the twisted, oozing mouth of the hag, blue-black and hideous. suddenly back behind there in the darkness a shriek split the night like a sudden flash of flame--a great ringing scream that cracked and swelled and stopped. with one wild effort the man hurled himself out the door and plunged through the darkness. panting and cursing, he flashed his huge revolver--"_bang! bang! bang!_" it cracked into the night. the sweat poured from his forehead; the terror of the swamp was upon him. with a struggling and tearing in his throat, he tripped and fell fainting under the silent oaks. _twenty_ the weaving of the silver fleece the silver fleece, darkly cloaked and girded, lay in the cotton warehouse of the cresswells, near the store. its silken fibres, cramped and close, shone yellow-white in the sunlight; sadly soiled, yet beautiful. many came to see zora's twin bales, as they lay, handling them and questioning, while colonel cresswell grew proud of his possession. the world was going well with the colonel. freed from money cares, praised for his generalship in the cotton corner, able to entertain sumptuously, he was again a southern gentleman of the older school, and so in his envied element. yet today he frowned as he stood poking absently with his cane at the baled fleece. this marriage--or, rather, these marriages--were not to his liking. it was a _mesalliance_ of a sort that pricked him tenderly; it savored grossly of bargain and sale. his neighbors regarded it with disconcerting equanimity. they seemed to think an alliance with northern millions an honor for cresswell blood, and the colonel thumped the nearer bale vigorously. his cane slipped along the iron bands suddenly, and the old man lurching forward, clutched in space to save himself and touched a human hand. zora, sitting shadowed on the farther bale, drew back her hand quickly at the contact, and started to move away. "who's that?" thundered the colonel, more angry at his involuntary fright than at the intrusion. "here, boys!" but zora had come forward into the space where the sunlight of the wide front doors poured in upon the cotton bales. "it's me, colonel," she said. he glared at her. she was taller and thinner than formerly, darkly transparent of skin, and her dark eyes shone in strange and dusky brilliance. still indignant and surprised, the colonel lifted his voice sharply. "what the devil are you doing here?--sleeping when you ought to be at work! get out! and see here, next week cotton chopping begins--you'll go to the fields or to the chain-gang. i'll have no more of your loafing about my place." awaiting no reply, the colonel, already half ashamed of his vehemence, stormed out into the sunlight and climbed upon his bay mare. but zora still stood silent in the shadow of the silver fleece, hearing and yet not hearing. she was searching for the way, groping for the threads of life, seeking almost wildly to understand the foundations of understanding, piteously asking for answer to the puzzle of life. all the while the walls rose straight about her and narrow. to continue in school meant charity, yet she had nowhere to go and nothing to go with. to refuse to work for the cresswells meant trouble for the school and perhaps arrest for herself. to work in the fields meant endless toil and a vista that opened upon death. like a hunted thing the girl turned and twisted in thought and faced everywhere the blank impossible. cold and dreamlike without, her shut teeth held back seething fires within, and a spirit of revolt that gathered wildness as it grew. above all flew the dream, the phantasy, the memory of the past, the vision of the future. over and over she whispered to herself: "this is not the end; this can not be the end." somehow, somewhere, would come salvation. yet what it would be and what she expected she did not know. she sought the way, but what way and whither she did not know, she dared not dream. one thing alone lay in her wild fancy like a great and wonderful fact dragging the dream to earth and anchoring it there. that was the silver fleece. like a brooding mother, zora had watched it. she knew how the gin had been cleaned for its pressing and how it had been baled apart and carefully covered. she knew how proud colonel cresswell was of it and how daily he had visitors to see it and finger the wide white wound in its side. "yes, sir, grown on my place, by my niggers, sir!" he assured them; and they marvelled. to zora's mind, this beautiful baled fibre was hers; it typified happiness; it was an holy thing which profane hands had stolen. when it came back to her (as come it must, she cried with clenched hands) it would bring happiness; not the great happiness--that was gone forever--but illumination, atonement, and something of the power and the glory. so, involuntarily almost, she haunted the cotton storehouse, flitting like a dark and silent ghost in among the workmen, greeting them with her low musical voice, warding them with the cold majesty of her eyes; each day afraid of some last parting, each night triumphant--it was still there! the colonel--zora already forgotten--rode up to the cresswell oaks, pondering darkly. it was bad enough to contemplate helen's marriage in distant prospect, but the sudden, almost peremptory desire for marrying at eastertide, a little less than two months away, was absurd. there were "business reasons arising from the presidential campaign in the fall," john taylor had telegraphed; but there was already too much business in the arrangement to suit the colonel. with harry it was different. indeed it was his own quiet suggestion that made john taylor hurry matters. harry trusted to the novelty of his father's new wealth to make the latter complacent; he himself felt an impatient longing for the haven of a home. he had been too long untethered. he distrusted himself. the devil within was too fond of taking the bit in his teeth. he would remember to his dying day one awful shriek in the night, as of a soul tormenting and tormented. he wanted the protection of a good woman, and sometimes against the clear whiteness of her letters so joyous and generous, even if a bit prim and didactic, he saw a vision of himself reflected as he was, and he feared. it was distinctively disconcerting to colonel cresswell to find harry quite in favor of early nuptials, and to learn that the sole objection even in helen's mind was the improbability of getting a wedding-gown in time. helen had all a child's naive love for beautiful and dainty things, and a wedding-gown from paris had been her life dream. on this point, therefore, there ensued spirited arguments and much correspondence, and both her brother and her lover evinced characteristic interest in the planning. said harry: "sis, i'll cable to paris today. they can easily hurry the thing along." helen was delighted; she handed over a telegram just received from john taylor. "send me, express, two bales best cotton you can get." the colonel read the message. "i don't see the connection between this and hurrying up a wedding-gown," he growled. none of them discerned the handwriting of destiny. "neither do i," said harry, who detected yielding in his father's tone. "but we'd better send him the two prize bales; it will be a fine advertisement of our plantation, and evidently he has a surprise in store for us." the colonel affected to hesitate, but next morning the silver fleece went to town. zora watched it go, and her heart swelled and died within her. she walked to town, to the station. she did not see mrs. vanderpool arriving from new orleans; but mrs. vanderpool saw her, and looked curiously at the tall, tragic figure that leaned so dolorously beside the freight car. the bales were loaded into the express car; the train pulled away, its hoarse snorting waking vague echoes in the forest beyond. but to the girl who stood at the end, looking outward to darkness, those echoes roared like the crack of doom. a passing band of contract hands called to her mockingly, and one black giant, laughing loudly, gripped her hand. "come, honey," he shouted, "you'se a'dreaming! come on, honey!" she turned abruptly and gripped his hand, as one drowning grips anything offered--gripped till he winced. she laughed a loud mirthless laugh, that came pouring like a sob from her deep lungs. "come on!" she mocked, and joined them. they were a motley crowd, ragged, swaggering, jolly. there were husky, big-limbed youths, and bold-faced, loud-tongued girls. to-morrow they would start up-country to some backwoods barony in the kingdom of cotton, and work till christmas time. today was the last in town; there was craftily advanced money in their pockets and riot in their hearts. in the gathering twilight they marched noisily through the streets; in their midst, wide-eyed and laughing almost hysterically, marched zora. mrs. vanderpool meantime rode thoughtfully out of town toward cresswell oaks. she was returning from witnessing the mardi gras festivities at new orleans and at the urgent invitation of the cresswells had stopped off. she might even stay to the wedding if the new plans matured. mrs. vanderpool was quite upset. her french maid, on whom she had depended absolutely for five years or more, had left her. "i think i want to try a colored maid," she told the cresswells, laughingly, as they drove home. "they have sweet voices and they can't doff their uniform. helene without her cap and apron was often mistaken for a lady, and while i was in new orleans a french confectioner married her under some such delusion. now, haven't you a girl about here who would do?" "no," declared harry decisively, but his sister suggested that she might ask miss smith at the colored school. again mrs. vanderpool laughed, but after tea she wandered idly down the road. the sun behind the swamp was crimsoning the world. mrs. vanderpool strolled alone to the school, and saw sarah smith. there was no cordiality in the latter's greeting, but when she heard the caller's errand her attention was at once arrested and held. the interests of her charges were always uppermost in her mind. "can't i have the girl zora?" mrs. vanderpool at last inquired. miss smith started, for she was thinking of zora at that very instant. the girl was later than usual, and she was momentarily expecting to see her tall form moving languidly up the walk. she gave mrs. vanderpool a searching look. mrs. vanderpool glanced involuntarily at her gown and smiled as she did it. "could i trust you with a human soul?" asked miss smith abruptly. mrs. vanderpool looked up quickly. the half mocking answer that rose involuntarily to her lips was checked. within, mrs. vanderpool was a little puzzled at herself. why had she asked for this girl? she had felt a strange interest in her--a peculiar human interest since she first saw her and as she saw her again this afternoon. but would she make a satisfactory maid? was it not a rather dangerous experiment? why had she asked for her? she certainly had not intended to when she entered the house. in the silence miss smith continued: "here is a child in whom the fountains of the great deep are suddenly broken up. with peace and care she would find herself, for she is strong. but here there is no peace. slavery of soul and body awaits her and i am powerless to protect her. she must go away. that going away may make or ruin her. she knows nothing of working for wages and she has not the servant's humility; but she has loyalty and pluck. for one she loves there is nothing she would not do; but she cannot be driven. or rather, if she is driven, it may rouse in her the devil incarnate. she needs not exactly affection--she would almost resent that--but intelligent interest and care. in return for this she will gradually learn to serve and serve loyally. frankly, mrs. vanderpool, i would not have chosen you for this task of human education. indeed, you would have been my last thought--you seem to me--i speak plainly--a worldly woman. yet, perhaps--who can tell?--god has especially set you to this task. at any rate, i have little choice. i am at my wits' end. elspeth, the mother of this child, is not long dead; and here is the girl, beautiful, unprotected; and here am i, almost helpless. she is in debt to the cresswells, and they are pressing the claim to her service. take her if you can get her--it is, i fear, her only chance. mind you--if you can persuade her; and that may be impossible." "where is she now?" miss smith glanced out at the darkening landscape, and then at her watch. "i do not know; she's very late. she's given to wandering, but usually she is here before this time." "i saw her in town this afternoon," said mrs. vanderpool. "zora? in town?" miss smith rose. "i'll send her to you tomorrow," she said quietly. mrs. vanderpool had hardly reached the oaks before miss smith was driving toward town. a small cabin on the town's ragged fringe was crowded to suffocation. within arose noisy shouts, loud songs, and raucous laughter; the scraping of a fiddle and whine of an accordion. liquor began to appear and happy faces grew red-eyed and sodden as the dances whirled. at the edge of the orgy stood zora, wild-eyed and bewildered, mad with the pain that gripped her heart and hammered in her head, crying in tune with the frenzied music--"the end--the end!" abruptly she recognized a face despite the wreck and ruin of its beauty. "bertie!" she cried as she seized the mother of little emma by the arm. the woman staggered and offered her glass. "drink," she cried, "drink and forget." in a moment zora sprang forward and seized the burning liquid in both hands. a dozen hands clapped a devil's tattoo. a score of voices yelled and laughed. the shriek of the music was drowned beneath the thunder of stamping feet. men reeled to singing women's arms, but above the roar rose the song of the voice of zora--she glided to the middle of the room, standing tip-toed with skirts that curled and turned; she threw back her head, raised the liquor to her lips, paused and looked into the face of miss smith. a silence fell like a lightning flash on the room as that white face peered in at the door. slowly zora's hands fell and her eyes blinked as though waking from some awful dream. she staggered toward the woman's outstretched arms.... late that night the girl lay close in miss smith's motherly embrace. "i was going to hell!" she whispered, trembling. "why, zora?" asked miss smith calmly. "i couldn't find the way--and i wanted to forget." "people in hell don't forget," was the matter-of-fact comment. "and, zora, what way do you seek? the way where?" zora sat up in bed, and lifted a gray and stricken face. "it's a lie," she cried, with hoarse earnedstness, "the way nowhere. there is no way! you know--i want _him_--i want nothing on earth but him--and him i can't ever have." the older woman drew her down tenderly. "no, zora," she said, "there's something you want more than him and something you can have!" "what?" asked the wondering girl. "his respect," said sarah smith, "and i know the way." _twenty-one_ the marriage morning mrs. vanderpool watched zora as she came up the path beneath the oaks. "she walks well," she observed. and laying aside her book, she waited with a marked curiosity. the girl's greeting was brief, almost curt, but unintentionally so, as one could easily see, for back in her eyes lurked an impatient hunger; she was not thinking of greetings. she murmured a quick word, and stood straight and tall with her eyes squarely on the lady. in the depths of mrs. vanderpool's heart something strange--not new, but very old--stirred. before her stood this tall black girl, quietly returning her look. mrs. vanderpool had a most uncomfortable sense of being judged, of being weighed,--and there arose within her an impulse to self-justification. she smiled and said sweetly, "won't you sit?" but despite all this, her mind seemed leaping backward a thousand years; back to a simpler, primal day when she herself, white, frail, and fettered, stood before the dusky magnificence of some bejewelled barbarian queen and sought to justify herself. she shook off the phantasy,--and yet how well the girl stood. it was not every one that could stand still and well. "please sit down," she repeated with her softest charm, not dreaming that outside the school white persons did not ask this girl to sit in their presence. but even this did not move zora. she sat down. there was in her, walking, standing, sitting, a simple directness which mrs. vanderpool sensed and met. "zora, i need some one to help me--to do my hair and serve my coffee, and dress and take care of me. the work will not be hard, and you can travel and see the world and live well. would you like it?" "but i do not know how to do all these things," returned zora, slowly. she was thinking rapidly--was this the way? it sounded wonderful. the world, the great mysterious world, that stretched beyond the swamp and into which bles and the silver fleece had gone--did it lead to the way? but if she went there what would she see and do, and would it be possible to become such a woman as miss smith pictured? "what is the world like?" asked zora. mrs. vanderpool smiled. "oh, i meant great active cities and buildings, myriads of people and wonderful sights." "yes--but back of it all, what is it really? what does it look like?" "heavens, child! don't ask. really, it isn't worth while peering back of things. one is sure to be disappointed." "then what's the use of seeing the world?" "why, one must live; and why not be happy?" answered mrs. vanderpool, amused, baffled, spurred for the time being from her chronic _ennui_. "are you happy?" retorted zora, looking her over carefully, from silken stockings to garden hat. mrs. vanderpool laid aside her little mockery and met the situation bravely. "no," she replied simply. her eyes grew old and tired. involuntarily zora's hand crept out protectingly and lay a moment over the white jewelled fingers. then quickly recovering herself, she started hastily to withdraw it, but the woman's fingers closed around the darker ones, and mrs. vanderpool's eyes became dim. "i need you, zora," she said; and then, seeing the half-formed question, "yes, and you need me; we need each other. in the world lies opportunity, and i will help you." zora rose abruptly, and mrs. vanderpool feared, with a tightening of heart, that she had lost this strangely alluring girl. "i will come to-morrow," said zora. as mrs. vanderpool went in to lunch, reaction and lingering doubts came trouping back. to replace the daintiest of trained experts with the most baffling semi-barbarian, well! "have you hired a maid?" asked helen. "i've engaged zora," laughed mrs. vanderpool, lightly; "and now i'm wondering whether i have a jewel or--a white elephant." "probably neither," remarked harry cresswell, drily; but he avoided the lady's inquiring eyes. next morning zora came easily into mrs. vanderpool's life. there was little she knew of her duties, but little, too, that she could not learn with a deftness and divination almost startling. her quietness, her quickness, her young strength, were like a soothing balm to the tired woman of fashion, and within a week she had sunk back contentedly into zora's strong arms. "it's a jewel," she decided. with this verdict, the house agreed. the servants waited on "miss zora" gladly; the men scarcely saw her, and the ladies ran to her for help in all sorts. harry cresswell looked upon this transformation with an amused smile, but the colonel saw in it simply evidence of dangerous obstinacy in a black girl who hitherto had refused to work. zora had been in the house but a week when a large express package was received from john taylor. its unwrapping brought a cry of pleasure from the ladies. there lay a bolt of silken-like cambric of wondrous fineness and lustre, marked: "for the wedding-dress." the explanation accompanied the package, that mary taylor had a similar piece in the north. helen and harry said nothing of the cablegram to the paris tailor, and helen took no steps toward having the cambric dress made, not even when the wedding invitations appeared. "a cresswell married in cotton!" helen was almost in tears lest the paris gown be delayed, and sure enough a cablegram came at last saying that there was little likelihood of the gown being ready by easter. it would be shipped at the earliest convenience, but it could hardly catch the necessary boat. helen had a good cry, and then came a wild rush to get john taylor's cloth ready. still, helen was querulous. she decided that silk embroidery must embellish the skirt. the dressmaker was in despair. "i haven't a single spare worker," she declared. helen was appealing to mrs. vanderpool. "i can do it," said zora, who was in the room. "do you know how?" asked the dressmaker. "no, but i want to know." mrs. vanderpool gave a satisfied nod. "show her," she said. the dressmaker was on the edge of rebellion. "zora sews beautifully," added mrs. vanderpool. thus the beautiful cloth came to zora's room, and was spread in a glossy cloud over her bed. she trembled at its beauty and felt a vague inner yearning, as if some subtle magic of the woven web were trying to tell her its story. she worked over it faithfully and lovingly in every spare hour and in long nights of dreaming. wilfully she departed from the set pattern and sewed into the cloth something of the beauty in her heart. in new and intricate ways, with soft shadowings and coverings, she wove in that white veil her own strange soul, and mrs. vanderpool watched her curiously, but in silence. meantime all things were arranged for a double wedding at cresswell oaks. as john and mary taylor had no suitable home, they were to come down and the two brides to go forth from the cresswell mansion. accordingly the taylors arrived a week before the wedding and the home took on a festive air. even colonel cresswell expanded under the genial influences, and while his head still protested his heart was glad. he had to respect john taylor's undoubted ability; and mary taylor was certainly lovely, in spite of that assumption of cleverness of which the colonel could not approve. mary returned to the old scenes with mingled feelings. especially was she startled at seeing zora a member of the household and apparently high in favor. it brought back something of the old uneasiness and suspicion. all this she soon forgot under the cadence of harry cresswell's pleasant voice and the caressing touch of his arm. he seemed handsomer than ever; and he was, for sleep and temperance and the wooing of a woman had put a tinge in his marble face, smoothed the puffs beneath his eyes, and given him a more distinguished bearing and a firmer hand. and mary taylor was very happy. so was her brother, only differently; he was making money; he was planning to make more, and he had something to pet which seemed to him extraordinarily precious and valuable. taylor eagerly inquired after the cloth, and followed the ladies to zora's room, adjoining mrs. vanderpool's, to see it. it lay uncut and shimmering, covered with dim silken tracery of a delicacy and beauty which brought an exclamation to all lips. "that's what we can do with alabama cotton," cried john taylor in triumph. they turned to him incredulously. "but--" "no 'buts' about it; these are the two bales you sent me, woven with a silk woof." no one particularly noticed that zora had hastily left the room. "i had it done in easterly's new jersey mills according to an old plan of mine. i'm going to make cloth like that right in this county some day," and he chuckled gayly. but zora was striding up and down the halls, the blood surging in her ears. after they were gone she came back and closed the doors. she dropped on her knees and buried her face in the filmy folds of the silver fleece. "i knew it! i knew it!" she whispered in mingled tears and joy. "it called and i did not understand." it was her talisman new-found; her love come back, her stolen dream come true. now she could face the world; god had turned it straight again. she would go into the world and find--not love, but the thing greater than love. outside the door came voices--the dressmaker's tones, helen's soft drawl, and mrs. vanderpool's finished accents. her face went suddenly gray. the silver fleece was not hers! it belonged--she rose hastily. the door opened and they came in. the cutting must begin at once, they all agreed. "is it ready, zora?" inquired helen. "no," zora quietly answered, "not quite, but tomorrow morning, early." as soon as she was alone again, she sat down and considered. by and by, while the family was at lunch, she folded the silver fleece carefully and locked it in her new trunk. she would hide it in the swamp. during the afternoon she sent to town for oil-cloth, and bade the black carpenter at miss smith's make a cedar box, tight and tarred. in the morning she prepared mrs. vanderpool's breakfast with unusual care. she was sorry for mrs. vanderpool, and sorry for miss smith. they would not, they could not, understand. what would happen to her? she did not know; she did not care. the silver fleece had returned to her. soon it would be buried in the swamp whence it came. she had no alternative; she must keep it and wait. she heard the dressmaker's voice, and then her step upon the stair. she heard the sound of harry cresswell's buggy, and a scurrying at the front door. on came the dressmaker's footsteps--then her door was unceremoniously burst open. helen cresswell stood there radiant; the dressmaker, too, was wreathed in smiles. she carried a big red-sealed bundle. "zora!" cried helen in ecstasy. "it's come!" zora regarded her coldly, and stood at bay. the dressmaker was ripping and snipping, and soon there lay revealed before them--the paris gown! helen was in raptures, but her conscience pricked her. she appealed to them. "ought i to tell? you see, mary's gown will look miserably common beside it." the dressmaker was voluble. there was really nothing to tell; and besides, helen was a cresswell and it was to be expected, and so forth. helen pursed her lips and petulantly tapped the floor with her foot. "but the other gown?" "where is it?" asked the dressmaker, looking about. "it would make a pretty morning-dress--" but helen had taken a sudden dislike to the thought of it. "i don't want it," she declared. "and besides, i haven't room for it in my trunks." of a sudden she leaned down and whispered to zora: "zora, hide it and keep it if you want it. come," to the dressmaker, "i'm dying to try this on--now.... remember, zora--not a word." and all this to zora seemed no surprise; it was the way, and it was opening before her because the talisman lay in her trunk. so at last it came to easter morning. the world was golden with jasmine, and crimson with azalea; down in the darker places gleamed the misty glory of the dogwood; new cotton shook, glimmered, and blossomed in the black fields, and over all the soft southern sun poured its awakening light of life. there was happiness and hope again in the cabins, and hope and--if not happiness, ambition, in the mansions. zora, almost forgetting the wedding, stood before the mirror. laying aside her dress, she draped her shimmering cloth about her, dragging her hair down in a heavy mass over ears and neck until she seemed herself a bride. and as she stood there, awed with the mystical union of a dead love and a living new born self, there came drifting in at the window, faintly, the soft sound of far-off marriage music. "'tis thy marriage morning, shining in the sun!" two white and white-swathed brides were coming slowly down the great staircase of cresswell oaks, and two white and black-clothed bridegrooms awaited them. either bridegroom looked gladly at the flow of his sister's garments and almost darkly at his bride's. for helen was decked in parisian splendor, while mary was gowned in the fleece. "'tis thy marriage morning, shining in the sun!" up floated the song of the little dark-faced children, and zora listened. _twenty-two_ miss caroline wynn bles alwyn was seated in the anteroom of senator smith's office in washington. the senator had not come in yet, and there were others waiting, too. the young man sat in a corner, dreaming. washington was his first great city, and it seemed a never-ending delight--the streets, the buildings, the crowds; the shops, and lights, and noise; the kaleidoscopic panorama of a world's doing, the myriad forms and faces, the talk and laughter of men. it was all wonderful magic to the country boy, and he stretched his arms and filled his lungs and cried: "here i shall live!" especially was he attracted by his own people. they seemed transformed, revivified, changed. some might be mistaken for field hands on a holiday--but not many. others he did not recognize--they seemed strange and alien--sharper, quicker, and at once more overbearing and more unscrupulous. there were yet others--and at the sight of these bles stood straighter and breathed like a man. they were well dressed, and well appearing men and women, who walked upright and looked one in the eye, and seemed like persons of affairs and money. they had arrived--they were men--they filled his mind's ideal--he felt like going up to them and grasping their hands and saying, "at last, brother!" ah, it was good to find one's dreams, walking in the light, in flesh and blood. continually such thoughts were surging through his brain, and they were rioting through it again as he sat waiting in senator smith's office. the senator was late this morning; when he came in he glanced at the morning paper before looking over his mail and the list of his callers. "do fools like the american people deserve salvation?" he sneered, holding off the headlines and glancing at them. "'league beats trust.' ... 'farmers of south smash effort to bear market ... send cotton to twelve cents ... common people triumph.' "a man is induced to bite off his own nose and then to sing a pæan of victory. it's nauseating--senseless. there is no earthly use striving for such blockheads; they'd crucify any saviour." thus half consciously senator smith salved his conscience, while he extracted a certificate of deposit for fifty thousand dollars from his new york mail. he thrust it aside from his secretary's view and looked at his list as he rang the bell: there was representative todd, and somebody named alwyn--nobody of importance. easterly was due in a half-hour. he would get rid of todd meantime. "poor todd," he mused; "a lamb for the slaughter." but he patiently listened to him plead for party support and influence for his bill to prohibit gambling in futures. "i was warned that it was useless to see you, senator smith, but i would come. i believe in you. frankly, there is a strong group of your old friends and followers forming against you; they met only last night, but i did not go. won't you take a stand on some of these progressive matters--this bill, or the child labor movement, or low tariff legislation?" mr. smith listened but shook his head. "when the time comes," he announced deliberately, "i shall have something to say on several of these matters. at present i can only say that i cannot support this bill," and mr. todd was ushered out. he met mr. easterly coming in and greeted him effusively. he knew him only as a rich philanthropist, who had helped the neighborhood guild in washington--one of todd's hobbies. easterly greeted smith quietly. "got my letter?" "yes." "here are the three bills. you will go on the finance committee tomorrow; sumdrich is chairman by courtesy, but you'll have the real power. put the child labor bill first, and we'll work the press. the tariff will take most of the session, of course. we'll put the cotton inspection bill through in the last days of the session--see? i'm manoeuvring to get the southern congressmen into line.... oh, one thing. thompson says he's a little worried about the negroes; says there's something more than froth in the talk of a bolt in the northern negro vote. we may have to give them a little extra money and a few more minor offices than usual. talk with thompson; the negroes are sweet on you and he's going to be the new chairman of the campaign, you know. ever met him?" "yes." "well--so long." "just a moment," the statesman stayed the financier. "todd just let fall something of a combination against us in congress--know anything of it?" "not definitely; i heard some rumors. better see if you can run it down. well, i must hurry--good day." while bles alwyn in the outer office was waiting and musing, a lady came in. out of the corner of his eye he caught the curve of her gown, and as she seated herself beside him, the suggestion of a faint perfume. a vague resentment rose in him. colored women would look as well as that, he argued, with the clothes and wealth and training. he paused, however, in his thought: he did not want them like the whites--so cold and formal and precise, without heart or marrow. he started up, for the secretary was speaking to him. "are you the--er--the man who had a letter to the senator?" "yes, sir." "let me see it. oh, yes--he will see you in a moment." bles was returning the letter to his pocket when he heard a voice almost at his ear. "i beg your pardon--" he turned and started. it was the lady next to him, and she was colored! not extremely colored, but undoubtedly colored, with waving black hair, light brown skin, and the fuller facial curving of the darker world. and yet bles was surprised, for everything else about her--her voice, her bearing, the set of her gown, her gloves and shoes, the whole impression was--bles hesitated for a word--well, "white." "yes--yes, ma'am," he stammered, becoming suddenly conscious that the lady had now a second time asked him if he was acquainted with senator smith. "that is, ma'am,"--why was he saying "ma'am," like a child or a servant?--"i know his sister and have a letter for him." "do you live in washington?" she inquired. "no--but i want to. i've been trying to get in as a clerk, and i haven't succeeded yet. that's what i'm going to see senator smith about." "have you had the civil-service examinations?" "yes. i made ninety-three in the examination for a treasury clerkship." "and no appointment? i see--they are not partial to us there." bles was glad to hear her say "us." she continued after a pause: "may i venture to ask a favor of you?" "certainly," he responded. "my name is wynn," lowering her voice slightly and leaning toward him. "there are so many ahead of me and i am in a hurry to get to my school; but i must see the senator--couldn't i go in with you? i think i might be of service in this matter of the examination, and then perhaps i'd get a chance to say a word for myself." "i'd be very glad to have you come," said bles, cordially. the secretary hesitated a little when the two started in, but miss wynn's air was so quietly assured that he yielded. senator smith looked at the tall, straight black man with his smooth skin and frank eyes. and for a second time that morning a vision of his own youth dimmed his eyes. but he spoke coldly: "mr. alwyn, i believe." "yes, sir." "and--" "my friend, miss wynn." the senator glanced at miss wynn and she bowed demurely. then he turned to alwyn. "well, mr. alwyn, washington is a bad place to start in the world." bles looked surprised and incredulous. he could conceive of no finer starting-place, but he said nothing. "it is a grave," continued the senator, "of ambitions and ideals. you would far better go back to alabama"--pausing and looking at the young man keenly--"but you won't--you won't--not yet, at any rate." and bles shook his head slowly. "no--well, what can i do for you?" "i want work--i'll do anything." "no, you'll do one thing--be a clerk, and then if you have the right stuff in you you will throw up that job in a year and start again." "i'd like at least to try it, sir." "well, i can't help you much there; that's in civil-service, and you must take the examination." "i have, sir." "so? where, and what mark?" "in the treasury department; i got a mark of ninety-three." "what!--and no appointment?" the senator was incredulous. "no, sir; not yet." here miss wynn interposed. "you see, senator," she said, "civil-service rules are not always impervious to race prejudice." the senator frowned. "do you mean to intimate that mr. alwyn's appointment is held up because he is colored?" "i do." "well--well!" the senator rang for a clerk. "get me the treasury on the telephone." in a moment the bell rang. "i want mr. cole. is that you, mr. cole? good-morning. have you a young man named alwyn on your eligible list? what? yes?" a pause. "indeed? well, why has he no appointment? of course, i know, he's a negro. yes, i desire it very much--thank you." "you'll get an appointment to-morrow morning," and the senator rose. "how is my sister?" he asked absently. "she was looking worried, but hopeful of the new endowment when i left." the senator held out his hand; bles took it and then remembered. "oh, i beg pardon, but miss wynn wanted a word on another matter." the senator turned to miss wynn. "i am a school-teacher, senator smith, and like all the rest of us i am deeply interested in the appointment of the new school-board." "but you know the district committee attends to those things," said the senator hastily. "and then, too, i believe there is talk of abolishing the school-board and concentrating power in the hands of the superintendent." "precisely," said miss wynn. "and i came to tell you, senator smith, that the interests which are back of this attack upon the schools are no friends of yours." miss wynn extracted from her reticule a typewritten paper. he took the paper and read it intently. then he keenly scrutinized the young woman, and she steadily returned his regard. "how am i to know this is true?" "follow it up and see." he mused. "where did you get these facts?" he asked suddenly. she smiled. "it is hardly necessary to say." "and yet," he persisted, "if i were sure of its source i would know my ground better and--my obligation to you would be greater." she laughed and glanced toward alwyn. he had moved out of earshot and was waiting by the window. "i am a teacher in the m street high school," she said, "and we have some intelligent boys there who work their way through." "yes," said the senator. "some," continued miss wynn, tapping her boot on the carpet, "some--wait on table." the senator slowly put the paper in his pocket. "and now," he said, "miss wynn, what can i do for you?" she looked at him. "if judge haynes is reappointed to the school-board i shall probably continue to teach in the m street high school," she said slowly. the senator made a memorandum and said: "i shall not forget miss wynn--nor her friends." and he bowed, glancing at alwyn. the woman contemplated bles in momentary perplexity, then bowing in turn, left. bles followed, debating just what he ought to say, how far he might venture to accompany her, what--but she easily settled it all. "i thank you--good-bye," she said briefly at the door, and was gone. bles did not know whether to feel relieved or provoked, or disappointed, and by way of compromise felt something of all three. the next morning he received notice of his appointment to a clerkship in the treasury department, at a salary of nine hundred dollars. the sum seemed fabulous and he was in the seventh heaven. for many days the consciousness of wealth, the new duties, the street scenes, and the city life kept him more than busy. he planned to study, and arranged with a professor at howard university to guide him. he bought an armful of books and a desk, and plunged desperately to work. gradually as he became used to the office routine, and in the hours when he was weary of study, he began to find time hanging a little heavily on his hands; indeed--although he would not acknowledge it--he was getting lonesome, homesick, amid the myriad men of a busy city. he argued to himself that this was absurd, and yet he knew that he was longing for human companionship. when he looked about him for fellowship he found himself in a strange dilemma: those black folk in whom he recognized the old sweet-tempered negro traits, had also looser, uglier manners than he was accustomed to, from which he shrank. the upper classes of negroes, on the other hand, he still observed from afar; they were strangers not only in acquaintance but because of a curious coldness and aloofness that made them cease to seem his own kind; they seemed almost at times like black white people--strangers in way and thought. he tried to shake off this feeling but it clung, and at last in sheer desperation, he promised to go out of a night with a fellow clerk who rather boasted of the "people" he knew. he was soon tired of the strange company, and had turned to go home, when he met a newcomer in the doorway. "why, hello, sam! sam stillings!" he exclaimed delightedly, and was soon grasping the hand of a slim, well-dressed man of perhaps thirty, with yellow face, curling hair, and shifting eyes. "well, of all things, bles--er--ah--mr. alwyn! thought you were hoeing cotton." bles laughed and continued shaking his head. he was foolishly glad to see the former cresswell butler, whom he had known but slightly. his face brought back unuttered things that made his heart beat faster and a yearning surge within him. "i thought you went to chicago," cried bles. "i did, but goin' into politics--having entered the political field, i came here. and you graduated, i suppose, and all that?" "no," bless admitted a little sadly, as he told of his coming north, and of senator smith's influence. "but--but how are--all?" abruptly sam hooked his arm into alwyn's and pulled him with him down the street. stillings was a type. up from servility and menial service he was struggling to climb to money and power. he was shrewd, willing to stoop to anything in order to win. the very slights and humiliations of prejudice he turned to his advantage. when he learned all the particulars of alwyn's visit to senator smith and his cordial reception he judged it best to keep in touch with this young man, and he forthwith invited bles to accompany him the next night to the fifteenth street presbyterian church. "you'll find the best people there," he said; "the aristocracy. the treble clef gives a concert, and everybody that's anybody will be there." they met again the following evening and proceeded to the church. it was a simple but pleasant auditorium, nearly filled with well-dressed people. during the programme bles applauded vociferously every number that pleased him, which is to say, every one--and stamped his feet, until he realized that he was attracting considerable attention to himself. then the entertainment straightway lost all its charm; he grew painfully embarrassed, and for the remainder of the evening was awkwardly self-conscious. when all was over, the audience rose leisurely and stood in little knots and eddies, laughing and talking; many moved forward to say a word to the singers and players, stillings stepped aside to a group of men, and bles was left miserably alone. a man came to him, a white-faced man, with slightly curling close gray hair, and high-bred ascetic countenance. "you are a stranger?" he asked pleasantly, and bles liked him. "yes, sir," he answered, and they fell to talking. he discovered that this was the pastor of the church. "do you know no one in town?" "one or two of my fellow clerks and mr. stillings. oh, yes, i've met miss wynn." "why, here is miss wynn now." bles turned. she was right behind him, the centre of a group. she turned, slowly, and smiled. "oh!" she uttered twice, but with difference cadence. then something like amusement lurked a moment in her eye, and she quietly presented bles to her friends, while stillings hovered unnoticed in the offing: "miss jones--mr. alwyn of--" she paused a second--"alabama. miss taylor--mr. alwyn--and," with a backward curving of her neck, "mr. teerswell," and so on. mr. teerswell was handsome and indolent, with indecision in his face and a cynical voice. in a moment bles felt the subtle antagonism of the group. he was an intruder. mr. teerswell nodded easily and turned away, continuing his conversation with the ladies. but miss wynn was perverse and interrupted. "i saw you enjoyed the concert, mr. alwyn," she said, and one of the young ladies rippled audibly. bles darkened painfully, realizing that these people must have been just behind him. but he answered frankly: "yes, i did immensely--i hope i didn't disturb you; you see, i'm not used to hearing such singing." mr. teerswell, compelled to listen, laughed drily. "plantation melodies, i suppose, are more your specialty," he said with a slight cadence. "yes," said bles simply. a slight pause ensued. then came the surprise of the evening for bles alwyn. even his inexperienced eye could discern that miss wynn was very popular, and that most of the men were rivals for her attentions. "mr. alwyn," she said graciously, rising. "i'm going to trouble you to see me to my door; it's only a block. good-night, all!" she called, but she bowed to mr. teerswell. miss wynn placed her hand lightly on bles's arm, and for a moment he paused. a thrill ran through him as he felt again the weight of a little hand and saw beside him the dark beautiful eyes of a girl. he felt again the warm quiver of her body. then he awoke to the lighted church and the moving, well-dressed throng. the hand on his arm was not so small; but it was well-gloved, and somehow the fancy struck him that it was a cold hand and not always sympathetic in its touch. _twenty-three_ the training of zora "i did not know the world was so large," remarked zora as she and mrs. vanderpool flew east and northward on the new york-new orleans limited. for a long time the girl had given herself up to the sheer delight of motion. gazing from the window, she compared the lands she passed with the lands she knew: noting the formation of the cotton; the kind and growth of the trees; the state of the roads. then the comparisons became infinite, endless; the world stretched on and on until it seemed mere distance, and she suddenly realized how vast a thing it was and spoke. mrs. vanderpool was amused. "it's much smaller than one would think," she responded. when they came to atlanta zora stared and wrinkled her brows. it was her first large city. the other towns were replicas of toomsville; strange in number, not in kind; but this was different, and she could not understand it. it seemed senseless and unreasonable, and yet so strangely so that she was at a loss to ask questions. she was very solemn as they rode on and night came down with dreams. she awoke in washington to new fairylands and wonders; the endless going and coming of men; great piles that challenged heaven, and homes crowded on homes till one could not believe that they were full of living things. they rolled by baltimore and philadelphia, and she talked of every-day matters: of the sky which alone stood steadfast amid whirling change; of bits of empty earth that shook themselves here and there loose from their burden of men, and lay naked in the cold shining sunlight. all the while the greater questions were beating and curling and building themselves back in her brain, and above all she was wondering why no one had told her before of all this mighty world. mrs. vanderpool, to whom it seemed too familiar for comment, had said no word; or, if she had spoken, zora's ears had not been tuned to understand; and as they flew toward the towering ramparts of new york, she sat up big with the terror of a new thought: suppose this world were full yet of things she did not know nor dream of? how could she find out? she must know. when finally they were settled in new york and sat high up on the fifth avenue front of the hotel, gradually the inarticulate questioning found words, albeit strange ones. "it reminds me of the swamp," she said. mrs. vanderpool, just returned from a shopping tour, burst into laughter. "it is--but i marvel at your penetration." "i mean, it is moving--always moving." "the swamp seemed to me unearthly still." "yes--yes," cried zora, eagerly, brushing back the rumpled hair; "and so did the city, at first, to me." "still! new york?" "yes. you see, i saw the buildings and forgot the men; and the buildings were so tall and silent against heaven. and then i came to see the people, and suddenly i knew the city was like the swamp, always restless and changing." "and more beautiful?" suggested mrs. vanderpool, slipping her arms into her lounging-robe. "oh, no; not nearly so beautiful. and yet--more interesting." then with a puzzled look: "i wonder why?" "perhaps because it's people and not things." "it's people in the swamp," asserted zora, dreamily, smoothing out the pillows of the couch, "'little people,' i call them. the difference is, i think, that there i know how the story will come out; everything is changing, but i know how and why and from what and to what. now here, _every_thing seems to be happening; but what is it that is happening?" "you must know what has happened, to know what may happen," said mrs. vanderpool. "but how can i know?" "i'll get you some books to-morrow." "i'd like to know what it means," wistfully. "it is meaningless." the woman's cynicism was lost upon zora, of course, but it possessed the salutary effect of stimulating the girl's thoughts, encouraging her to discover for herself. "i think not; so much must mean something," she protested. zora gathered up the clothes and things and shaded the windows, glancing the while down on the street. "everybody is going, going," she murmured. "i wonder where. don't they ever get there?" "few arrive," said mrs. vanderpool. zora softly bent and passed her cool soft hand over her forehead. "then why do they go?" "the zest of the search, perhaps." "no," said zora as she noiselessly left the room and closed the door; "no, they are searching for something they have lost. perhaps they, too, are searching for the way," and the tears blinded her eyes. mrs. vanderpool lay in the quiet darkened room with a puzzled smile on her lips. a month ago she had not dreamed that human interest in anybody would take so strong a hold upon her as her liking for zora had done. she was a woman of unusual personal charm, but her own interest and affections were seldom stirred. had she been compelled to earn a living she would have made a successful teacher or manipulator of men. as it was, she viewed the human scene with detached and cynical interest. she had no children, few near relations, a husband who went his way and still was a gentleman. essentially mrs. vanderpool was unmoral. she held the code of her social set with sportsmanlike honor; but even beyond this she stooped to no intrigue, because none interested her. she had all the elements of power save the motive for doing anything in particular. for the first time, perhaps, zora gave her life a peculiar human interest. she did not love the girl, but she was intensely interested in her; some of the interest was selfish, for zora was going to be a perfect maid. the girl's language came to be more and more like mrs. vanderpool's; her dress and taste in adornment had been mrs. vanderpool's first care, and it led to a curious training in art and sense of beauty until the lady now and then found herself learner before the quick suggestiveness of zora's mind. when mrs. harry cresswell called a month or so later the talk naturally included mention of zora. mary was happy and vivacious, and noted the girl's rapid development. "i wonder what i shall make out of her?" queried mrs. vanderpool. "do you know, i believe i could mould her into a lady if she were not black." mary cresswell laughed. "with that hair?" "it has artistic possibilities. you should have seen my hair-dresser's face when i told her to do it up. her face and zora's were a pantomime for the gods. yet it was done. it lay in some great twisted cloud and in that black net gown of mine zora was simply magnificent. her form is perfect, her height is regal, her skin is satin, and my jewels found a resting place at last. jewels, you know, dear, were never meant for white folk. i was tempted to take her to the box at the opera and let new york break its impudent neck." mary was shocked. "but, mrs. vanderpool," she protested, "is it right? is it fair? why should you spoil this black girl and put impossible ideas into her head? you can make her a perfect maid, but she can never be much more in america." "she is a perfect maid now; that's the miracle of it--she's that deft and quick and quiet and thoughtful! the hotel employees think her perfect; my friends rave--really, i'm the most blessed of women. but do you know i like the girl? i--well, i think of her future." "it's wrong to treat her as you do. you make her an equal. her room is one of the best and filled with books and bric-a-brac. she sometimes eats with you--is your companion, in fact." "what of it? she loves to read, and i guide her while she keeps me up on the latest stuff. she can talk much better than many of my friends and then she piques my curiosity: she's a sort of intellectual sauce that stirs my rapidly failing mental appetite. i think that as soon as i can make up my mind to spare her, i'll take her to france and marry her off in the colonies." "well, that's possible; but one doesn't easily give up good servants. by the way, i learn from miss smith that the boy, bles alwyn, in whom zora was so interested, is a clerk in the treasury department at washington." "indeed! i'm going to washington this winter; i'll look him over and see if he's worth zora--which i greatly doubt." mrs. cresswell pursed her lips and changed the subject. "have you seen the easterlys?" "the ladies left their cards--they are quite impossible. mr. easterly calls this afternoon. i can't imagine why, but he asked for an appointment. will you go south with mr. cresswell? i'm glad to hear he's entering politics." "no, i shall do some early house hunting in washington," said mrs. cresswell, rising as mr. easterly was announced. mr. easterly was not at home in mrs. vanderpool's presence. she spoke a language different from his, and she had shown a disconcerting way, in the few times when he had spoken with her, of letting the weight of the conversation rest on him. he felt very distinctly that mrs. vanderpool was not particularly desirous of his company, nor that of his family. nevertheless, he needed mrs. vanderpool's influence just now, and he was willing to pay considerable for it. once under obligation to him her services would be very valuable. he was glad to find mrs. cresswell there. it showed that the cresswells were still intimate, and the cresswells were bound to him and his interests by strong ties. he bowed as mrs. cresswell left, and then did not beat around the bush because, in this case, he did not know how. "mrs. vanderpool, i need your aid." mrs. vanderpool smiled politely, and murmured something. "we are, you know, in the midst of a rather warm presidential campaign," continued mr. easterly. "yes?" with polite interest. "we are going to win easily, but our majority in congress for certain matters will depend on the attitude of southerners and you usually spend the winters in washington. if, now, you could drop a word here and there--" "but why should i?" asked mrs. vanderpool. "mrs. vanderpool, to be frank, i know some excellent investments that your influence in this line would help. i take it you're not so rich but that--" mrs. vanderpool smiled faintly. "really, mr. easterly, i know little about such matters and care less. i have food and clothes. why worry with more?" mr. easterly half expected this and he determined to deliver his last shot on the run. he arose with a disappointed air. "of course, mrs. vanderpool, i see how it is: you have plenty and one can't expect your services or influence for nothing. it had occurred to me that your husband might like something political; but i presume not." "something political?" "yes. you see, it's barely possible, for instance, that there will be a change in the french ambassadorship. the present ambassador is old and--well, i don't know, but as i say, it's possible. of course though, that may not appeal to you, and i can only beg your good offices in charity if--if you see your way to help us. well, i must be going." "what is--i thought the president appointed ambassadors." "to be sure, but we appoint presidents," laughed mr. easterly. "good-day. i shall hope to see you in washington." "good-day," mrs. vanderpool returned absently. after he had gone she walked slowly to zora's room and opened the door. for a long time she stood quietly looking in. zora was curled in a chair with a book. she was in dreamland; in a world of books builded thoughtfully for her by mrs. vanderpool, and before that by miss smith. her work took but little of her time and left hours for reading and thinking. in that thought-life, more and more her real living centred. hour after hour, day after day, she lay buried, deaf and dumb to all else. her heart cried, up on the world's four corners of the way, and to it came the vision splendid. she gossiped with old herodotus across the earth to the black and blameless ethiopians; she saw the sculptured glories of phidias marbled amid the splendor of the swamp; she listened to demosthenes and walked the appian way with cornelia--while all new york streamed beneath her window. she saw the drunken goths reel upon rome and heard the careless negroes yodle as they galloped to toomsville. paris, she knew,--wonderful, haunting paris: the paris of clovis, and st. louis; of louis the great, and napoleon iii; of balzac, and her own dumas. she tasted the mud and comfort of thick old london, and the while wept with jeremiah and sang with deborah, semiramis, and atala. mary of scotland and joan of arc held her dark hands in theirs, and kings lifted up their sceptres. she walked on worlds, and worlds of worlds, and heard there in her little room the tread of armies, the paeans of victory, the breaking of hearts, and the music of the spheres. mrs. vanderpool watched her a while. "zora," she presently broke into the girl's absorption, "how would you like to be ambassador to france?" _twenty-four_ the education of alwyn miss caroline wynn of washington had little faith in the world and its people. nor was this wholly her fault. the world had dealt cruelly with the young dreams and youthful ambitions of the girl; partly with its usual heartlessness, partly with that cynical and deadening reserve fund which it has today for its darker peoples. the girl had bitterly resented her experiences at first: she was brilliant and well-trained; she had a real talent for sculpture, and had studied considerably; she was sprung from at least three generations of respectable mulattoes, who had left a little competence which yielded her three or four hundred dollars a year. furthermore, while not precisely pretty, she was good-looking and interesting, and she had acquired the marks and insignia of good breeding. perhaps she wore her manners just a trifle consciously; perhaps she was a little morbid that she would fail of recognition as a lady. nor was this unnatural: her brown skin invited a different assumption. despite this almost unconscious mental aggressiveness, she was unusually presentable and always well-groomed and pleasant of speech. yet she found nearly all careers closed to her. at first it seemed accidental, the luck of life. then she attributed it to her sex; but at last she was sure that, beyond chance and womanhood, it was the colorline that was hemming her in. once convinced of this, she let her imagination play and saw the line even where it did not exist. with her bit of property and brilliant parts she had had many suitors but they had been refused one after another for reasons she could hardly have explained. for years now tom teerswell had been her escort. whether or not caroline wynn would every marry him was a perennial subject of speculation among their friends and it usually ended in the verdict that she could not afford it--that it was financially impossible. nevertheless, the two were usually seen in public together, and although she often showed her quiet mastery of the situation, seldom had she snubbed him so openly as at the treble clef concert. teerswell was furious and began to plot vengeance; but miss wynn was attracted by the personality of bles alwyn. southern country negroes were rare in her set, but here was a man of intelligence and keenness coupled with an amazing frankness and modesty, and perceptibly shadowed by sorrow. the combination was, so far as she had observed, both rare and temporary and she was disposed to watch it in this case purely as a matter of intellectual curiosity. at the door of her home, therefore, after a walk of unusual interest, she said: "i'm going to have a few friends in next tuesday night; won't you come, mr. alwyn?" and mr. alwyn said that he would. next morning miss wynn rather repented her hasty invitation, but of course nothing could be done now. nothing? well, there was one thing; and she went to the telephone. a suggestion to bles that he might profitably extend his acquaintance sent him to a certain tailor shop kept by a friend of hers; a word to the tailor guarded against the least suspicion of intrigue entering bles's head. it turned out quite as miss wynn had designed; mr. grey, the tailor, gave bles some points on dressing, and made him, southern fashion, a frock-coat for dress wear that set off his fine figure. on the night of the gathering at miss wynn's bles dressed with care, hesitating long over a necktie, but at last choosing one which he had recently purchased and which pleased him particularly. he was prompt to the minute and was consequently the first guest; but miss wynn's greeting was so quietly cordial that his embarrassment soon fled. she looked him over at leisure and sighed at his tie; otherwise he was thoroughly presentable according to the strictest washington standard. they sat down and talked of generalities. then an idea occurring to her, she conducted the conversation by devious paths to ties and asked alwyn if he had heard of the fad of collecting ties. he had not, and she showed him a sofa pillow. "your tie quite attracted me," she said; "it would make just the dash of color i need in my new pillow." "you may have it and welcome. i'll send--" "oh, no! a bird in the hand, you know. i'll trade with you now for another i have." "done!" the exchange was soon made, miss wynn tying the new one herself and sticking a small carved pin in it. bles slowly sat down again, and after a pause said, "thank you." she looked up quickly, but he seemed quite serious and good-natured. "you see," he explained, "in the country we don't know much about ties." the well-balanced miss wynn for a moment lost her aplomb, but only for a moment. "we must all learn," she replied with penetration, and so their friendship was established. the company now began to gather, and soon the double parlor held an assemblage of twenty-five or thirty persons. they formed a picturesque group: conventional but graceful in dress; animated in movement; full of good-natured laughter, but quite un-american in the beautiful modulation of their speaking tones; chiefly noticeable, however, to a stranger, in the vast variety of color in skin, which imparted to the throng a piquant and unusual interest. every color was here; from the dark brown of alwyn, who was customarily accounted black, to the pale pink-white of miss jones, who could "pass for white" when she would, and found her greatest difficulties when she was trying to "pass" for black. midway between these two extremes lay the sallow pastor of the church, the creamy miss williams, the golden yellow of mr. teerswell, the golden brown of miss johnson, and the velvet brown of mr. grey. the guest themselves did not notice this; they were used to asking one's color as one asks of height and weight; it was simply an extra dimension in their world whereby to classify men. beyond this and their hair, there was little to distinguish them from a modern group of men and women. the speech was a softened english, purely and, on the whole, correctly spoken--so much so that it seemed at first almost unfamiliar to bles, and he experienced again the uncomfortable feeling of being among strangers. then, too, he missed the loud but hearty good-nature of what he had always called "his people." to be sure, a more experienced observer might have noted a lively, excitable tropical temperament set and cast in a cold northern mould, and yet flashing fire now and then in a sudden anomalous out-bursting. but bles missed this; he seemed to have slipped and lost his bearings, and the characteristics of his simple world were rolling curiously about. here stood a black man with a white man's voice, and yonder a white woman with a negro's musical cadences; and yet again, a brown girl with exactly miss cresswell's air, and yonder, miss williams, with zora's wistful willfulness. bles was bewildered and silent, and his great undying sorrow sank on his heart with sickening hopeless weight. his hands got in the way and he found no natural nook in all those wide and tastefully furnished rooms. once he discovered himself standing by a marble statue of a nude woman, and he edged away; then he stumbled over a rug and saved himself only to step on miss jones's silken train. miss jones's smile of pardon was wintry. when he did approach a group and listen, they seemed speaking of things foreign to him--usually of people he did not know, their homes, their doings, their daughters and their fathers. they seemed to know people intimately who lived far away. "you mean the smiths of boston?" asked miss jones. "no, of cleveland. they're not related." "i heard that mcghee of st. paul will be in the city next week with his daughter." "yes, and the bentleys of chicago." bles passed on. he was disappointed. he was full of things to say, of mighty matters to discuss; he felt like stopping these people and crying: "ho! what of the morning? how goes the great battle for black men's rights? i have came with messages from the host, to you who guard the mountain tops." apparently they were not discussing or caring about "the problem." he grew disgusted and was edging toward the door when he encountered his hostess. "is all well with you, mr. alwyn?" she asked lightly. "no, i'm not enjoying myself," said bles, truthfully. "delicious! and why not?" he regarded her earnestly. "there are so many things to talk about," he said; "earnest things; things of importance. i--i think when our people--" he hesitated. our?--was _our_ right? but he went on: "when our people meet we ought to talk of our situation, and what to do and--" miss wynn continued to smile. "we're all talking of it all the time," she said. he looked incredulous. "yes, we are," she insisted. "we veil it a little, and laugh as lightly as we can; but there is only one thought in this room, and that's grave and serious enough to suit even you, and quite your daily topic." "but i don't understand." "ah, there's the rub. you haven't learned our language yet. we don't just blurt into the negro problem; that's voted bad form. we leave that to our white friends. we saunter to it sideways, touch it delicately because"--her face became a little graver--"because, you see, it hurts." bles stood thoughtful and abashed. "i--i think i understand," he gravely said at last. "come here," she said with a sudden turn, and they joined an absorbed group in the midst of a conversation. "--thinking of sending jessie to bryn mawr," bles heard miss jones saying. "could she pass?" "oh, they might think her spanish." "but it's a snobbish place and she would have to give up all her friends." "yes, freddie could scarcely visit--" the rest was lost. "which, being interpreted," whispered miss wynn, "means that bryn mawr draws the color line while we at times surmount it." they moved on to another group. "--splendid draughtsman," a man was saying, "and passed at the head of the crowd; but, of course, he has no chance." "why, it's civil-service, isn't it?" "it is. but what of that? there was watson--" miss wynn did not pause. she whispered: "this is the tale of civil service reform, and how this mighty government gets rid of black men who know too much." "but--" bles tried to protest. "hush," miss wynn commanded and they joined the group about the piano. teerswell, who was speaking, affected not to notice them, and continued: "--i tell you, it's got to come. we must act independently and not be bought by a few offices." "that's all well enough for you to talk, teerswell; you have no wife and babies dependant on you. why should we who have sacrifice the substance for the shadow?" "you see, the judge has got the substance," laughed teerswell. "still i insist: divide and conquer." "nonsense! unite, and keep." bles was puzzled. "they're talking of the coming campaign," said miss wynn. "what!" exclaimed bles aloud. "you don't mean that any one can advise a black man to vote the democratic ticket?" an elderly man turned to them. "thank you, sir," he said; "that is just my attitude; i fought for my freedom. i know what slavery is; may i forget god when i vote for traitors and slave-holders." the discussion waxed warm and miss wynn turned away and sought miss jones. "come, my dear," she said, "it's 'the problem' again." they sauntered away toward a ring of laughter. the discussion thus begun at miss wynn's did not end there. it was on the eve of the great party conventions, and the next night sam stillings came around to get some crumbs from this assembly of the inner circle, into which alwyn had been so unaccountably snatched, and outside of which, despite his endeavors, stillings lingered and seemed destined to linger. but stillings was a patient, resolute man beneath his deferential exterior, and he saw in bles a stepping stone. so he began to drop in at his lodgings and tonight invited him to the bethel literary. "what's that?" asked bles. "a debating club--oldest in the city; the best people all attend." bles hesitated. he had half made up his mind that this was the proper time to call on miss wynn. he told stillings so, and told him also of the evening and the discussion. "why, that's the subject up tonight," stillings declared, "and miss wynn will be sure to be there. you can make your call later. perhaps you wouldn't mind taking me when you call." alwyn reached for his hat. when they arrived, the basement of the great church was filling with a throng of men and women. soon the officers and the speaker of the evening appeared. the president was a brown woman who spoke easily and well, and introduced the main speaker. he was a tall, thin, hatchet-faced black man, clean shaven and well dressed, a lawyer by profession. his theme was "the democratic party and the negro." his argument was cool, carefully reasoned, and plausible. he was evidently feeling for the sympathy of his audience, and while they were not enthusiastic, they warmed to him gradually and he certainly was strongly impressing them. bles was thinking. he sat in the back of the hall, tense, alert, nervous. as the speaker progressed a white man came in and sat down beside him. he was spectacled, with bushy eyebrows and a sleepy look. but he did not sleep. he was very observant. "who's speaking?" he asked bles, and bles told him. then he inquired about one or two other persons. bles could not inform him, but stillings could and did. stillings seemed willing to devote considerable time to him. bles forgot the man. he was almost crouching for a spring, and no sooner had the speaker, with a really fine apostrophe to independence and reason in voting, sat down, than bles was on his feet, walking forward. his form was commanding, his voice deep and musical, and his earnestness terribly evident. he hardly waited for recognition from the slightly astonished president, but fairly burst into speech. "i am from alabama," he began earnestly, "and i know the democratic party." then he told of government and conditions in the black belt, of the lying, oppression, and helplessness of the sodden black masses; then, turning, he reminded them of the history of slavery. finally, he pointed to lincoln's picture and to sumner's and mentioned other white friends. "and, my brothers, they are not all dead yet. the gentleman spoke of senator smith and blamed and ridiculed him. i know senator smith but slightly, but i do know his sister well." dropping to simple narrative, he told of miss smith and of his coming to school; and if his audience felt that great depth of emotion that welled beneath his quiet, almost hesitating, address, it was not simply because of what he did say, but because, too, of the unspoken story that lay too deep for words. he spoke for nearly an hour, and when he stopped, for a moment his hearers sighed and then sprang into a whirlwind of applause. they shouted, clapped, and waved while he sat in blank amazement, and was with difficulty forced to the rostrum to bow again and again. the spectacled white man leaned over to stillings. "who is he?" he asked. stillings told him. the man noted the name and went quietly out. miss wynn sat lost in thought, and teerswell beside her fumed. she was not easily moved, but that speech had moved her. if he could thus stir men and not be himself swayed, she mused, he would be--invincible. but tonight he was moved as greatly as his hearers had been, and that was dangerous. if his intense belief happened to be popular, all right; but if not? she frowned. he was worth watching, she concluded; quite worth watching, and perhaps worth guiding. when alwyn accompanied her home that night, miss wynn set herself to know him better for she suspected that he might be a coming man. the best preliminary to her purpose was, she knew, to speak frankly of herself, and that she did. she told him of her youth and training, her ambitions, her disappointments. quite unconsciously her cynicism crept to the fore, until in word and tone she had almost scoffed at many things that alwyn held true and dear. the touch was too light, the meaning too elusive, for alwyn to grasp always the point of attack; but somehow he got the distant impression that miss wynn had little faith in truth and goodness and love. vaguely shocked he grew so silent that she noticed it and concluded she had said too much. but he pursued the subject. "surely there must be many friends of our race willing to stand for the right and sacrifice for it?" she laughed unpleasantly, almost mockingly. "where?" "well--there's miss smith." "she gets a salary, doesn't she?" "a very small one." "about as large as she could earn. north, i don't doubt." "but the unselfish work she does--the utter sacrifice?" "oh, well, we'll omit alabama, and admit the exception." "well, here, in washington--there's your friend, the judge, who has befriended you so, as you admit." she laughed again. "you remember our visit to senator smith?" "yes." "well, it got the judge his reappointment to the school board." "he deserved it, didn't he?" "i deserved it," she said luxuriously, hugging her knee and smiling; "you see, his appointment meant mine." "well, what of it--didn't--" "listen," she cut in a little sharply. "once a young brown girl, with boundless faith in white folks, went to a judge's office to ask for an appointment which she deserved. there was no one there. the benign old judge with his saintly face and white hair suggested that she lay aside her wraps and spend the afternoon." bles arose to his feet. "what--what did you do?" he asked. "sit down--there's a good boy." i said: "'judge, a friend is expecting me at two,' it was then half-past one, 'would i not best telephone?'" "'step right into the booth,' said the judge, quite indulgently." miss wynn leaned back, and bles felt his heart sinking; but he said nothing. "and then," she continued, "i telephoned the judge's wife that he was anxious to see her on a matter of urgent business; namely, my appointment." she gazed reflectively out of the window. "you should have seen his face when i told him," she concluded. "i was appointed." but bles asked coldly: "why didn't you have him arrested?" "for what? and suppose i had?" bles threw out his arms helplessly. "oh! it isn't as bad as that all over the world, is it?" "it's worse," affirmed miss wynn, quietly positive. "and you are still friendly with him?" "what would you have? i use the world; i did not make it; i did not choose it. he is the world. through him i earn my bread and butter. i have shown him his place. shall i try in addition to reform? shall i make him an enemy? i have neither time nor inclination. shall i resign and beg, or go tilting at windmills? if he were the only one it would be different; but they're all alike." her face grew hard. "have i shocked you?" she said as they went toward the door. "no," he answered slowly. "but i still--believe in the world." "you are young yet, my friend," she lightly replied. "and besides, that good miss smith has gone and grafted a new england conscience on a tropical heart, and--dear me!--but it's a gorgeous misfit. good-bye--come again." she bowed him graciously out, and paused to take the mail from the box. there was, among many others, a letter from senator smith. _twenty-five_ the campaign mr. easterly sat in mrs. vanderpool's apartments in the new willard, washington, drinking tea. his hostess was saying rather carelessly: "do you know, mr. vanderpool has developed a quite unaccountable liking for the idea of being ambassador to france?" "dear me!" mildly exclaimed mr. easterly, helping himself liberally to cakes. "i do hope the thing can be managed, but--" "what are the difficulties?" mrs. vanderpool interrupted. "well, first and foremost, the difficulty of electing our man." "i thought that a foregone conclusion." "it was. but do you know that we're encountering opposition from the most unexpected source?" the lady was receptive, and the speaker concluded: "the negroes." "the negroes!" "yes. there are five hundred thousand or more black voters in pivotal northern states, you know, and they're in revolt. in a close election the negroes of new york, ohio, indiana, and illinois choose the president." "what's the matter?" "well, business interests have driven our party to make friends with the south. the south has disfranchised negroes and lynched a few. the darkies say we've deserted them." mrs. vanderpool laughed. "what extraordinary penetration," she cried. "at any rate," said mr. easterly, drily, "mr. vanderpool's first step toward paris lies in getting the northern negroes to vote the republican ticket. after that the way is clear." mrs. vanderpool mused. "i don't suppose you know any one who is acquainted with any number of these northern darkies?" continued mr. easterly. "not on my calling-list," said mrs. vanderpool, and then she added more thoughtfully: "there's a young clerk in the treasury department named alwyn who has brains. he's just from the south, and i happened to read of him this morning--see here." mr. easterly read an account of the speech at the bethel literary. "we'll look this young man up," he decided; "he may help. of course, mrs. vanderpool, we'll probably win; we can buy these negroes off with a little money and a few small offices; then if you will use your influence for the part with the southerners, i can confidently predict from four to eight years' sojourn in paris." mrs. vanderpool smiled and called her maid as mr. easterly went. "zora!" she had to call twice, for zora, with widened eyes, was reading the washington post. meantime in the office of senator smith, toward which mr. easterly was making his way, several members of the national republican campaign committee had been closeted the day before. "now, about the niggers," the chairman had asked; "how much more boodle do they want?" "that's what's bothering us," announced a member; "it isn't the boodle crowd that's hollering, but a new set, and i don't understand them; i don't know what they represent, nor just how influential they are." "what can i do to help you?" asked senator smith. "this. you are here at washington with these negro office-holders at your back. find out for us just what this revolt is, how far it goes, and what good men we can get to swing the darkies into line--see?" "very good," the senator acquiesced. he called in a spectacled man with bushy eyebrows and a sleepy look. "i want you to work the negro political situation," directed the senator, "and bring me all the data you can get. personally, i'm at sea. i don't understand the negro of today at all; he puzzles me; he doesn't fit any of my categories, and i suspect that i don't fit his. see what you can find out." the man went out, and the senator turned to his desk, then paused and smiled. one day, not long since, he had met a colored person who personified his perplexity concerning negroes; she was a lady, yet she was black--that is, brown; she was educated, even cultured, yet she taught negroes; she was quiet, astute, quick and diplomatic--everything, in fact, that "negroes" were not supposed to be; and yet she was a "negro." she had given him valuable information which he had sought in vain elsewhere, and the event proved it correct. suppose he asked caroline wynn to help him in this case? it would certainly do no harm and it might elect a republican president. he wrote a short letter with his own hand and sent it to post. miss wynn read the letter after alwyn's departure with a distinct thrill which was something of a luxury for her. evidently she was coming to her kingdom. the republican boss was turning to her for confidential information. "what do the colored people want, and who can best influence them in this campaign?" she curled up on the ottoman and considered. the first part of the query did not bother her. "whatever they want they won't get," she said decisively. but as to the man or men who could influence them to believe that they were getting, or about to get, what they wanted--there was a question. one by one she considered the men she knew, and, by a process of elimination, finally arrived at bles alwyn. why not take this young man in hand and make a negro leader of him--a protagonist of ten millions? it would not be unpleasant. but could she do it? would he be amenable to her training and become worldly wise? she flattered herself that he would, and yet--there was a certain steadfast look in the depths of his eyes that might prove to be sheer stubbornness. at any rate, who was better? there was a fellow, stillings, whom alwyn had introduced and whom she had heard of. now he was a politician--but nothing else. she dismissed him. of course, there was the older set of office-holders and rounders. but she was determined to pick a new man. he was worth trying, at any rate; she knew none other with the same build, the brains, the gifts, the adorable youth. very good. she wrote two letters, and then curled up to her novel and candy. next day senator smith held miss wynn's letter unopened in his hand when mr. easterly entered. they talked of the campaign and various matters, until at last easterly said: "say, there's a negro clerk in the treasury named alwyn." "i know him--i had him appointed." "good. he may help us. have you seen this?" the senator read the clipping. "i hadn't noticed it--but here's my agent." the spectacled man entered with a mass of documents. he had papers, posters, programmes, and letters. "the situation is this," he said. "a small group of educated negroes are trying to induce the rest to punish the republican party for not protecting them. these men are not politicians, nor popular leaders, but they have influence and are using it. the old-style negro politicians are no match for them, and the crowd of office-holders are rather bewildered. strong measures are needed. educated men of earnestness and ability might stem the tide. and i believe i know one such man. he spoke at a big meeting last night at the metropolitan church. his name is alwyn." senator smith listened as he opened the letter from caroline wynn. then he started. "well!" he ejaculated, looking quickly up at easterly. "this is positively uncanny. from three separate sources the name of alwyn pops up. looks like a mascot. call up the treasury. let's have him up when the sub-committee meets to-morrow." bles alwyn hurried up to senator smith's office, hoping to hear something about the school; perhaps even about--but he stopped with a sigh, and sat down in the ante-room. he was kept waiting a few moments while senator smith, the chairman, and one other member of the sub-committee had a word. "now, i don't know the young man, mind you," said the senator; "but he's strongly recommended." "what shall we offer him?" asked the chairman. "try him at twenty-five dollars a speech. if he balks, raise to fifty dollars, but no more." they summoned the young man. the chairman produced cigars. "i don't smoke," said bles apologetically. "well, we haven't anything to drink," said the chairman. but senator smith broke in, taking up at once the paramount interest. "mr. alwyn, as you know, the democrats are making an effort to get the negro vote in this campaign. now, i know the disadvantages and wrongs which black men in this land are suffering. i believe the republicans ought to do more to defend them, and i'm satisfied they will; but i doubt if the way to get negro rights is to vote for those who took them away." "i agree with you perfectly," said bles. "i understand you do, and that you made an unusually fine speech on the subject the other night." "thank you, sir." this was a good deal more than bles had expected, and he was embarrassed. "well, now, we think you're just the man to take the stump during september and october and convince the colored people of their real interests." "i doubt if i could, sir; i'm not a speaker. in fact, that was my first public speech." "so much the better. are you willing to try?" "why, yes, sir; but i could hardly afford to give up my position." "we'll arrange for a leave of absence." "then i'll try, sir." "what would you expect as pay?" "i suppose my salary would stop?" "i mean in addition to that." "oh, nothing, sir; i'd be glad to do the work." the chairman nearly choked; sitting back, he eyed the young man. either they were dealing with a fool, or else a very astute politician. if the former, how far could they trust him; if the latter, what was his game? "of course, there'll be considerable travelling," the chairman ventured, looking reflectively out of the window. "yes, sir, i suppose so." "we might pay the railroad fare." "thank you, sir. when shall i begin?" the chairman consulted his calendar. "suppose you hold yourself in readiness for one week from today." "all right," and bles rose. "good-day, gentlemen." but the chairman was still puzzled. "now, what's his game?" he asked helplessly. "he may be honest," offered senator smith, contemplating the door almost wistfully. the campaign progressed. the national republican committee said little about the negro revolt and affected to ignore it. the papers were silent. underneath this calm, however, the activity was redoubled. the prominent negroes were carefully catalogued, written to, and put under personal influence. the negro papers were quietly subsidized, and they began to ridicule and reproach the new leaders. as the fall progressed, mass-meetings were held in washington and the small towns. larger and larger ones were projected, and more and more alwyn was pushed to the front. he was developing into a most effective speaker. he had the voice, the presence, the ideas, and above all he was intensely in earnest. there were other colored orators with voice, presence, and eloquence; but their people knew their record and discounted them. alwyn was new, clear, and sincere, and the black folk hung on his words. large and larger crowds greeted him until he was the central figure in a half dozen great negro mass-meetings in the chief cities of the country, culminating in new york the night before election. perhaps the secret newspaper work, the personal advice of employers and friends, and the liberal distribution of cash, would have delivered a large part of the negro vote to the republican candidate. perhaps--but there was a doubt. with the work of alwyn, however, all doubt disappeared, and there was little reason for denying that the new president walked into the white house through the instrumentality of an unknown georgia negro, little past his majority. this is what senator smith said to mr. easterly; what miss wynn said to herself; and it was what mrs. vanderpool remarked to zora as zora was combing her hair on the wednesday after election. zora murmured an indistinct response. as already something of the beauty of the world had found question and answer in her soul, and as she began to realize how the world had waxed old in thought and stature, so now in their last days a sense of the power of men, as set over against the immensity and force of their surroundings, became real to her. she had begun to read of the lives and doing of those called great, and in her mind a plan was forming. she saw herself standing dim within the shadows, directing the growing power of a man: a man who would be great as the world counted greatness, rich, high in position, powerful--wonderful because his face was black. he would never see her; never know how she worked and planned, save perhaps at last, in that supreme moment as she passed, her soul would cry to his, "redeemed!" and he would understand. all this she was thinking and weaving; not clearly and definitely, but in great blurred clouds of thought of things as she said slowly: "he should have a great position for this." "why, certainly," mrs. vanderpool agreed, and then curiously: "what?" zora considered. "negroes," she said, "have been registers of the treasury, and recorders of deeds here in washington, and douglas was marshal; but i want bles--" she paused and started again. "those are not great enough for mr. alwyn; he should have an office so important that negroes would not think of leaving their party again." mrs. vanderpool took pains to repeat zora's words to mr. easterly. he considered the matter. "in one sense, it's good advice," he admitted; "but there's the south to reckon with. i'll think it over and speak to the president. oh, yes; i'm going to mention france at the same time." mrs. vanderpool smiled and leaned back in her carriage. she noted with considerable interest the young colored woman who was watching her from the sidewalk: a brown, well-appearing young woman of notable self-possession. caroline wynn scrutinized mrs. vanderpool because she had been speaking with mr. easterly, and mr. easterly was a figure of political importance. that very morning miss wynn had telegraphed bles alwyn. alwyn arrived at washington just as the morning papers heralded the sweeping republican victory. all about he met new deference and new friends; strangers greeted him familiarly on the street; sam stillings became his shadow; and when he reported for work his chief and fellow clerks took unusual interest in him. "have you seen senator smith yet?" miss wynn asked after a few words of congratulation. "no. what for?" "what for?" she answered. "go to him today; don't fail. i shall be at home at eight tonight." it seemed to bles an exceedingly silly thing to do--calling on a busy man with no errand; but he went. he decided that he would just thank the senator for his interest, and get out; or, if the senator was busy, he would merely send in his card. evidently the senator was busy, for his waiting-room was full. bles handed the card to the secretary with a word of apology, but the secretary detained him. "ah, mr. alwyn," he said affably; "glad to see you. the senator will want to see you, i know. wait just a minute." and soon bles was shaking senator smith's hand. "well, mr. alwyn," said the senator heartily, "you delivered the goods." "thank you, sir. i tried to." senator smith thoughtfully looked him over and drew out the letters. "your friends, mr. alwyn," he said, adjusting his glasses, "have a rather high opinion of you. here now is stillings, who helped on the campaign. he suggests an eighteen-hundred-dollar clerkship for you." the senator glanced up keenly and omitted to state what stillings suggested for himself. alwyn was visibly grateful as well as surprised. "i--i hoped," he began hesitatingly, "that perhaps i might get a promotion, but i had not thought of a first-class clerkship." "h'm." senator smith leaned back and twiddled his thumbs, staring at alwyn until the hot blood darkened his cheeks. then bles sat up and stared politely but steadily back. the senator's eyes dropped and he put out his hand for the second note. "now, your friend, miss wynn"--alwyn started--"is even more ambitious." he handed her letter to the young man, and pointed out the words. "of course, senator," bles read, "we expect mr. alwyn to be the next register of the treasury." bles looked up in amazement, but the senator reached for a third letter. the room was very still. at last he found it. "this," he announced quietly, "is from a man of great power and influence, who has the ear of the new president." he smoothed out the letter, paused briefly, then read aloud: "'it has been suggested to me by'"--the senator did not read the name; if he had "mrs. vanderpool" would have meant little to alwyn--"'it has been suggested to me by blank that the future allegiance of the negro vote to the republican party might be insured by giving to some prominent negro a high political position--for instance, treasurer of the united states'--salary, six thousand dollars," interpolated senator smith--"'and that alwyn would be a popular and safe appointment for that position.'" the senator did not read the concluding sentence, which ran: "think this over; we can't touch political conditions in the south; perhaps this sop will do." for a long time alwyn sat motionless, while the senator said nothing. then the young man rose unsteadily. "i don't think i quite grasp all this," he said as he shook hands. "i'll think it over," and he went out. when caroline wynn heard of that extraordinary conversation her amazement knew no bounds. yet alwyn ventured to voice doubts: "i'm not fitted for either of those high offices; there are many others who deserve more, and i don't somehow like the idea of seeming to have worked hard in the campaign simply for money or fortune. you see, i talked against that very thing." miss wynn's eyes widened. "well, what else--" she began and then changed. "mr. alwyn, the line between virtue and foolishness is dim and wavering, and i should hate to see you lost in that marshy borderland. by a streak of extraordinary luck you have gained the political leadership of negroes in america. here's your chance to lead your people, and here you stand blinking and hesitating. be a man!" alwyn straightened up and felt his doubts going. the evening passed very pleasantly. "i'm going to have a little dinner for you," said miss wynn finally, and alwyn grew hot with pleasure. he turned to her suddenly and said: "why, i'm rather--black." she expressed no surprise but said reflectively: "you _are_ dark." "and i've been given to understand that miss wynn and her set rather--well, preferred the lighter shades of colored folk." miss wynn laughed lightly. "my parents did," she said simply. "no dark man ever entered their house; they were simply copying the white world. now i, as a matter of aesthetic beauty, prefer your brown-velvet color to a jaundiced yellow, or even an uncertain cream; but the world doesn't." "the world?" "yes, the world; and especially america. one may be chinese, spaniard, even indian--anything white or dirty white in this land, and demand decent treatment; but to be negro or darkening toward it unmistakably means perpetual handicap and crucifixion." "why not, then, admit that you draw the color-line?" "because i don't; but the world does. i am not prejudiced as my parents were, but i am foresighted. indeed, it is a deep ethical query, is it not, how far one has the right to bear black children to the world in the land of the free and the home of the brave. is it fair--to the children?" "yes, it is!" he cried vehemently. "the more to take up the fight, the surer the victory." she laughed at his earnestness. "you are refreshing," she said. "well, we'll dine next tuesday, and we'll have the cream of our world to meet you." he knew that this was a great triumph. it flattered his vanity. after all, he was entering this higher dark world whose existence had piqued and puzzled him so long. he glanced at miss wynn beside him there in the dimly lighted parlor: she looked so aloof and unapproachable, so handsome and so elegant. he thought how she would complete a house--such a home as his prospective four or six thousand dollars a year could easily purchase. she saw him surveying her, and she smiled at him. "i find but one fault with you," she said. he stammered for a pretty speech, but did not find it before she continued: "yes--you are so delightfully primitive; you will not use the world as it is but insist on acting as if it were something else." "i am not sure i understand." "well, there is the wife of my judge: she is a fact in my world; in yours she is a problem to be stated, straightened, and solved. if she had come to you, as she did to me yesterday, with her theory that all that southern negroes needed was to learn how to make good servants and lay brick--" "i should have shown her--" bles tried to interject. "nothing of the sort. you would have tried to show her and would have failed miserably. she hasn't learned anything in twenty years." "but surely you didn't join her in advocating that ten million people be menials?" "oh, no; i simply listened." "well, there was no harm in that; i believe in silence at times." "ah! but i did not listen like a log, but positively and eloquently; with a nod, a half-formed word, a comment begun, which she finished." bles frowned. "as a result," continued miss wynn, "i have a check for five hundred dollars to finish our cooking-school and buy a cast of minerva for the assembly-room. more than that, i have now a wealthy friend. she thinks me an unusually clever person who, by a process of thought not unlike her own, has arrived at very similar conclusions." "but--but," objected bles, "if the time spent cajoling fools were used in convincing the honest and upright, think how much we would gain." "very little. the honest and upright are a sad minority. most of these white folk--believe me, boy," she said caressingly,--"are fools and knaves: they don't want truth or progress; they want to keep niggers down." "i don't believe it; there are scores, thousands, perhaps millions such, i admit; but the average american loves justice and right, and he is the one to whom i appeal with frankness and truth. great heavens! don't you love to be frank and open?" she narrowed her eyelids. "yes, sometimes i do; once i was; but it's a luxury few of us negroes can afford. then, too, i insist that it's jolly to fool them." "don't you hate the deception?" she chuckled and put her head to one side. "at first i did; but, do you know, now i believe i prefer it." he looked so horrified that she burst out laughing. he laughed too. she was a puzzle to him. he kept thinking what a mistress of a mansion she would make. "why do you say these things?" he asked suddenly. "because i want you to do well here in washington." "general philanthropy?" "no, special." her eyes were bright with meaning. "then you care--for me?" "yes." he bent forward and cast the die. "enough to marry me?" she answered very calmly and certainly: "yes." he leaned toward her. and then between him and her lips a dark and shadowy face; two great storm-swept eyes looked into his out of a world of infinite pain, and he dropped his head in hesitation and shame, and kissed her hand. miss wynn thought him delightfully bashful. _twenty-six_ congressman cresswell the election of harry cresswell to congress was a very simple matter. the colonel and his son drove to town and consulted the judge; together they summoned the sheriff and the local member of the state legislature. "i think it's about time that we cresswells asked for a little of the political pie," the colonel smilingly opened. "well, what do you want?" asked the judge. "harry wants to go to congress." the judge hesitated. "we'd half promised that to caldwell," he objected. "it will be a little costly this year, too," suggested the sheriff, tentatively. "about how much?" asked the colonel. "at least five thousand," said the legislator. the colonel said nothing. he simply wrote a check and the matter was settled. in the fall harry cresswell was declared elected. there were four hundred and seventy-two votes cast but the sheriff added a cipher. he said it would look better. early december found the cresswells domiciled in a small house in du pont circle, washington. they had an automobile and four servants, and the house was furnished luxuriously. mary taylor cresswell, standing in her morning room and looking out on the flowers of the square, told herself that few people in the world had cause to be as happy as she. she was tastefully gowned, in a way to set off her blonde beauty and her delicate rounded figure. she was surrounded with wealth, and above all, she was in that atmosphere of aristocracy for which she had always yearned; and already she was acquiring that poise of the head, and a manner of directing the servants, which showed her born to the purple. she had cause to be extremely happy, she told herself this morning, and yet she was puzzled to understand why she was not. why was she restless and vaguely ill at ease so often these days? one matter, indeed, did worry her; but that would right itself in time, she was sure. she had always pictured herself as directing her husband's work. she did not plan to step in and demand a share; she knew from experience with her brother that a woman must prove her usefulness to a man before he will admit it, and even then he may be silent. she intended gradually and tactfully to relieve her husband of care connected with his public life so that, before he realized it, she would be his guiding spirit and his inspiration. she had dreamed the details of doing this so long that it seemed already done, and she could imagine no obstacle to its realization. and yet she found herself today no nearer her goal than when first she married. not because mr. cresswell did not share his work, but because, apparently, he had no work, no duties, no cares. at first, in the dim glories of the honeymoon, this seemed but part of his delicate courtesy toward her, and it pleased her despite her thrifty new england nature; but now that they were settled in washington, the election over and congress in session, it really seemed time for work and life to begin in dead earnest, and new england mary was dreaming mighty dreams and golden futures. but harry apparently was as content as ever with doing nothing. he arose at ten, dined at seven, and went to bed between midnight and sunrise. there was some committee meetings and much mail, but mary was admitted to knowledge of none of these. the obvious step, of course, would be to set him at work; but from this undertaking mary unconsciously recoiled. she had already recognized that while her tastes and her husband's were mostly alike, they were also strikingly different in many respects. they agreed in the daintiness of things, the elegance of detail; but they did not agree always as to the things themselves. given the picture, they would choose the same frame--but they would not choose the same picture. they liked the same voice, but not the same song; the same company, but not the same conversation. of course, mary reflected, frowning at the flowers--of course, this must always be so when two human beings are thrown into new and intimate association. in time they would grow to sweet communion; only, she hoped the communion would be on tastes nearer hers than those he sometimes manifested. she turned impatiently from the window with a feeling of loneliness. but why lonely? she idly fingered a new book on the table and then put it down sharply. there had been several attempts at reading aloud between them some evenings ago, and this book reminded her of them. she had bought jane addams' "newer ideals of peace," and he had yawned over it undisguisedly. then he had brought this novel, and--well, she had balked at the second chapter, and he had kissed her and called her his "little prude." she did not want to be a prude; she hated to seem so, and had for some time prided herself on emancipation from narrow new england prejudices. for example, she had not objected to wine at dinner; it had seemed indeed rather fine, imparting, as it did, an old-fashioned flavor; but she did not like the whiskey, and harry at times appeared to become just a bit too lively--nothing excessive, of course, but his eyes and the smell and the color were a little too suggestive. and yet he was so kind and good, and when he came in at evening he bent so gallantly for his kiss, and laid fresh flowers before her: could anything have been more thoughtful and knightly? just here again she was puzzled; with her folk, hard work and inflexible duty were of prime importance; they were the rock foundation; and she somehow had always counted on the courtesies of life as added to them, making them sweet and beautiful. but in this world, not perhaps so much with harry as with others of his set, the depths beneath the gravely inclined head, the deferential smile and ceremonious action, the light clever converse, had sounded strangely hollow once or twice when she had essayed to sound them, and a certain fear to look and see possessed her. the bell rang, and she was a little startled at the fright that struck her heart. she did not analyze it. in reality--pride forbade her to admit it--she feared it was a call of some of harry's friends: some languid, assured southern ladies, perilously gowned, with veiled disdain for this interloping northerner and her strong mind. especially was there one from new orleans, tall and dark-- but it was no caller. it was simply some one named stillings to see mr. cresswell. she went down to see him--he might be a constituent--and found a smirky brown man, very apologetic. "you don't know me--does you, mrs. cresswell?" said stillings. he knew when it was diplomatic to forget his grammar and assume his dialect. "why--no." "you remember i worked for mr. harry and served you-all lunch one day." "oh, yes--why, yes! i remember now very well." "well, i wants to see mr. harry very much; could i wait in the back hall?" mary started to have him wait in the front hall, but she thought better of it and had him shown back. less than an hour later her husband entered and she went quickly to him. he looked worn and white and tired, but he laughed her concern lightly off. "i'll be in earlier tonight," he declared. "is the congressional business very heavy?" he laughed so hilariously that she felt uncomfortable, which he observed. "oh, no," he answered deftly; "not very." and as they moved toward the dining-room mary changed the subject. "oh," she exclaimed, suddenly remembering. "there is a man--a colored man--waiting to see you in the back hall, but i guess he can wait until after lunch." they ate leisurely. "there's going to be racing out at the park this evening," said harry. "want to go?" "i was going to hear an art lecture at the club," mary returned, and grew thoughtful; for here walked her ghost again. of course, the club was an affair with more of gossip than of intellectual effort, but today, largely through her own suggestion, an art teacher of european reputation was going to lecture, and mary preferred it to the company of the race track. and--just as certainly--her husband didn't. "don't forget the man, dear," she reminded him; but he was buried in his paper, frowning. "look at that," he said finally. she glanced at the head-lines--"prominent negro politician candidate for high office at hands of new administration. b. alwyn of alabama." "why, it's bles!" she said, her face lighting as his darkened. "an impudent negro," he voiced his disgust. "if they must appoint darkies why can't they get tractable ones like my nigger stillings." "stillings?" she repeated. "why, he's the man that's waiting." "sam, is it? used to be one of our servants--you remember? wants to borrow more money, i presume." he went down-stairs, after first helping himself to a glass of whiskey, and then gallantly kissing his wife. mrs. cresswell was more unsatisfied than usual. she could not help feeling that mr. cresswell was treating her about as he treated his wine--as an indulgence; a loved one, a regular one, but somehow not as the reality and prose of life, unless--she started at the thought--his life was all indulgence. having nothing else to do, she went out and paraded the streets, watching the people who were happy enough to be busy. cresswell and stillings had a long conference, and when stillings hastened away he could not forbear cutting a discreet pigeon-wing as he rounded the corner. he had been promised the backing of the whole southern delegation in his schemes. that night teerswell called on him in his modest lodgings, where over hot whiskey and water they talked. "the damned southern upstart," growled teerswell, forgetting stillings' birth-place. "do you mean to say he's actually slated for the place?" "he's sure of it, unless something turns up." "well, who'd have dreamed it?" teerswell mixed another stiff dram. "and that isn't all," came sam stillings' unctuous voice. teerswell glanced at him. "what else?" he asked, pausing with the steaming drink poised aloft. "if i'm not mistaken, alwyn intends to marry miss wynn." "you lie!" the other suddenly yelled with an oath, overturning his tumbler and striding across the floor. "do you suppose she'd look at that black--" "well, see here," said the astute stillings, checking the details upon his fingers. "they visit senator smith's together; he takes her home from the treble clef; they say he talked to nobody else at her party; she recommends him for the campaign--" "what!" teerswell again exploded. but stillings continued smoothly: "oh, i have ways of finding things out. she corresponds with him during the campaign; she asks smith to make him register; and he calls on her every night." teerswell sat down limply. "i see," he groaned. "it's all up. she's jilted me--and i--and i--" "i don't see as it's all up yet," stillings tried to reassure him. "but didn't you say they were engaged?" "i think they are; but--well, you know carrie wynn better than i do: suppose, now--suppose he should lose the appointment?" "but you say that's sure." "unless something turns up." "but what _can_ turn up?" "we might turn something." "what--what--i tell you man, i'd--i'd do anything to down that nigger. i hate him. if you'll help me i'll do anything for you." stillings arose and carefully opening the hall door peered out. then he came back and, seating himself close to teerswell, pushed aside the whiskey. "teerswell," he whispered, "you know i was working to be register of the treasury. well, now, when the scheme of making alwyn treasurer came up they determined to appoint a southern white republican and give me a place under alwyn. now, if alwyn fails to land i've got no chance for the bigger place, but i've got a good chance to be register according to the first plan. i helped in the campaign; i've got the negro secret societies backing me and--i don't mind telling you--the solid southern congressional delegation. i'm trying now ostensibly for a chief-clerkship under bles, and i'm pretty sure of it: it pays twenty-five hundred. see here: if we can make bles do some fool talking and get it into the papers, he'll be ditched, and i'll be register." "great!" shouted teerswell. "wait--wait. now, if i get the job, how would you like to be my assistant?" "like it? why, great jehoshaphat! i'd marry carrie--but how can i help you?" "this way. i want to be better known among influential negroes. you introduce me and let me make myself solid. especially i must get in miss wynn's set so that both of us can watch her and alwyn, and make her friends ours." "i'll do it--shake!" and stillings put his oily hand into teerswell's nervous grip. "now, here," stillings went on, "you stow all that jealousy and heavy tragedy. treat alwyn well and call on miss wynn as usual--see?" "it's a hard pill--but all right." "leave the rest to me; i'm hand in glove with alwyn. i'll put stuff into him that'll make him wave the bloody shirt at the next meeting of the bethel literary--see? then i'll go to cresswell and say, 'dangerous nigger--, just as i told you.' he'll begin to move things. you see? cresswell is in with smith--both directors in the big cotton combine--and smith will call alwyn down. then we'll think further." "stillings, you look like a fool, but you're a genius." and teerswell fairly hugged him. a few more details settled, and some more whiskey consumed, and teerswell went home at midnight in high spirits. stillings looked into the glass and scowled. "look like a fool, do i?" he mused. "well, i ain't!" congressman cresswell was stirred to his first political activity by the hint given him through stillings. he not only had a strong personal dislike for alwyn, but he regarded the promise to him of a high office as a menace to the south. the second speech which alwyn made at the bethel literary was, as stillings foresaw, a reply to the stinging criticisms of certain colored papers engineered by teerswell, who said that alwyn had been bribed to remain loyal to the republicans by a six thousand dollar office. alwyn had been cut to the quick, and his reply was a straight out defence of negro rights and a call to the republican party to redeem its pledges. caroline wynn, seeing the rocks for which her political craft was headed, adroitly steered several newspaper reports into the waste basket, but stillings saw to it that a circumstantial account was in the _colored american_, and that a copy of this paper was in congressman cresswell's hands. cresswell lost no time in calling on senator smith and pointing out to him that bles alwyn was a dangerous negro: seeking social equality, hating white people, and scheming to make trouble. he was too young and heady. it would be fatal to give such a man office and influence; fatal for the development of the south, and bad for the cotton combine. senator smith was unconvinced. alwyn struck him as a well-balanced fellow, and he thought he deserved the office. he would, however, warn him to make no further speeches like that of last night. cresswell mentioned stillings as a good, inoffensive negro who knew his place and could be kept track of. "stillings is a good man," admitted smith; "but alwyn is better. however, i'll bear what you say in mind." cresswell found mr. easterly in mrs. vanderpool's parlor, and that gentleman was annoyed at the news. "i especially picked out this alwyn because he was southern and tractable, and seemed to have sense enough to know how to say well what we wanted to say." "when, as a matter of fact," drawled mrs. vanderpool, "he was simply honest." "the south won't stand it," cresswell decisively affirmed. "well--" began mr. easterly. "see here," interrupted mrs. vanderpool. "i'm interested in alwyn; in fact, an honest man in politics, even if he is black, piques my curiosity. give him a chance and i'll warrant he'll develop all the desirable traits of a first class office-holder." easterly hesitated. "we must not offend the south, and we must placate the negroes," he said. "the right sort of negro--one like stillings--appointed to a reasonable position, would do both," opined cresswell. "it evidently didn't," mrs. vanderpool interjected. cresswell arose. "i tell you, mr. easterly, i object--it mustn't go through." he took his leave. mrs. vanderpool did not readily give up her plea for alwyn, and bade zora get mr. smith on the telephone for discussion. "well," reported easterly, hanging up the receiver, "we may land him. it seems that he is engaged to a washington school-teacher, and smith says she has him well in hand. she's a pretty shrewd proposition, and understands that alwyn's only chance now lies in keeping his mouth shut. we may land him," he repeated. "engaged!" gasped mrs. vanderpool. zora quietly closed the door. _twenty-seven_ the vision of zora how zora found the little church she never knew; but somehow, in the long dark wanderings which she had fallen into the habit of taking at nightfall, she stood one evening before it. it looked warm, and she was cold. it was full of her people, and she was very, very lonely. she sat in a back seat, and saw with unseeing eyes. she said again, as she had said to herself a hundred times, that it was all right and just what she had expected. what else could she have dreamed? that he should ever marry her was beyond possibility; that had been settled long since--there where the tall, dark pines, wan with the shades of evening, cast their haunting shadows across the silver fleece and half hid the blood-washed west. after _that_ he would marry some one else, of course; some good and pure woman who would help and uplift and serve him. she had dreamed that she would help--unknown, unseen--and perhaps she had helped a little through mrs. vanderpool. it was all right, and yet why so suddenly had the threads of life let go? why was she drifting in vast waters; in uncharted wastes of sea? why was the puzzle of life suddenly so intricate when but a little week ago she was reading it, and its beauty and wisdom and power were thrilling her delighted hands? could it be possible that all unconsciously she had dared dream a forbidden dream? no, she had always rejected it. when no one else had the right; when no one thought; when no one cared, she had hovered over his soul as some dark guardian angel; but now, now somebody else was receiving his gratitude. it was all right, she supposed; but she, the outcast child of the swamp, what was there for her to do in the great world--her, the burden of whose sin-- but then came the voice of the preacher: _"behold the lamb of god, that taketh away the sin of the world_." she found herself all at once intently listening. she had been to church many times before, but under the sermons and ceremonies she had always sat coldly inert. in the south the cries, contortions, and religious frenzy left her mind untouched; she did not laugh or mock, she simply sat and watched and wondered. at the north, in the white churches, she enjoyed the beauty of wall, windows, and hymn, liked the voice and surplice of the preacher; but his words had no reference to anything in which she was interested. here suddenly came an earnest voice addressed, by singular chance, to her of all the world. she listened, bending forward, her eyes glued to the speaker's lips and letting no word drop. he had the build and look of the fanatic: thin to emancipation; brown; brilliant-eyed; his words snapped in nervous energy and rang in awful earnestness. "life is sin, and sin is sorrow. sorrow is born of selfishness and self-seeking--our own good, our own happiness, our own glory. as if any one of us were worth a life! no, never. a single self as an end is, and ought to be, disappointment; it is too low; it is nothing. only in a whole world of selves, infinite, endless, eternal world on worlds of selves--only in their vast good is true salvation. the good of others is our true good; work for others; not for your salvation, but the salvation of the world." the audience gave a low uneasy groan and the minister in whose pulpit the stranger preached stirred uneasily. but he went on tensely, with flying words: "unselfishness is sacrifice--jesus was supreme sacrifice." ("amen," screamed a voice.) "in your dark lives," he cried, "_who_ is the king of glory? sacrifice. lift up your heads, then, ye gates of prejudice and hate, and let the king of glory come in. forget yourselves and your petty wants, and behold your starving people. the wail of black millions sweeps the air--east and west they cry, help! help! are you dumb? are you blind? do you dance and laugh, and hear and see not? the cry of death is in the air; they murder, burn, and maim us!" ("oh--oh--" moaned the people swaying in their seats.) "when we cry they mock us; they ruin our women and debauch our children--what shall we do? "behold the lamb of god that taketh away sin. behold the supreme sacrifice that makes us clean. give up your pleasures; give up your wants; give up all to the weak and wretched of our people. go down to pharaoh and smite him in god's name. go down to the south where we writhe. strive--work--build--hew--lead--inspire! god calls. will you hear? come to jesus. the harvest is waiting. who will cry: 'here am i, send me!'" zora rose and walked up the aisle; she knelt before the altar and answered the call: "here am i--send me." and then she walked out. above her sailed the same great stars; around her hummed the same hoarse city; but within her soul sang some new song of peace. "what is the matter, zora?" mrs. vanderpool inquired, for she seemed to see in the girl's face and carriage some subtle change; something that seemed to tell how out of the dream had stepped the dreamer into the realness of things; how suddenly the seeker saw; how to the wanderer, the way was opened. just how she sensed this mrs. vanderpool could not have explained, nor could zora. was there a change, sudden, cataclysmic? no. there were to come in future days all the old doubts and shiverings, the old restless cry: "it is all right--all right!" but more and more, above the doubt and beyond the unrest, rose the great end, the mighty ideal, that flickered and wavered, but ever grew and waxed strong, until it became possible, and through it all things else were possible. thus from the grave of youth and love, amid the soft, low singing of dark and bowed worshippers, the angel of the resurrection rolled away the stone. "what is the matter, zora?" mrs. vanderpool repeated. zora looked up, almost happily--standing poised on her feet as if to tell of strength and purpose. "i have found the way," she cried joyously. mrs. vanderpool gave her a long searching look. "where have you been?" she asked. "i've been waiting." "i'm sorry--but i've been--converted." and she told her story. "pshaw, zora!" mrs. vanderpool uttered impatiently. "he's a fakir." "maybe," said zora serenely and quietly; "but he brought the word." "zora, don't talk cant; it isn't worthy of your intelligence." "it was more than intelligent--it was true." "zora--listen, child! you were wrought up tonight, nervous--wild. you were happy to meet your people, and where he said one word you supplied two. what you attribute to him is the voice of your own soul." but zora merely smiled. "all you say may be true. but what does it matter? i know one thing, like the man in the bible: 'whereas i was blind now i see.'" mrs. vanderpool gave a little helpless gesture. "and what shall you do?" she asked. "i'm going back south to work for my people." "when?" the old careworn look stole across mrs. vanderpool's features. zora came gently forward and slipped her arms lovingly about the other woman's neck. "not right off," she said gently; "not until i learn more. i hate to leave you, but--it calls!" mrs. vanderpool held the dark girl close and began craftily: "you see, zora, the more you know the more you can do." "yes." "and if you are determined i will see that you are taught. you must know settlement-work and reform movements; not simply here but--" she hesitated--"in england--in france." "will it take long?" zora asked, smoothing the lady's hair. mrs. vanderpool considered. "no--five years is not long; it is all too short." "five years: it is very long; but there is a great deal to learn. must i study five years?" mrs. vanderpool threw back her head. "zora, i am selfish i know, but five years truly is none too long. then, too, zora, we have work to do in that time." "what?" "there is alwyn's career," and mrs. vanderpool looked into zora's eyes. the girl did not shrink, but she paused. "yes," she said slowly, "we must help him." "and after he rises--" "he will marry." "whom?" "the woman he loves," returned zora, quietly. "yes--that is best," sighed mrs. vanderpool. "but how shall we help him?" "make him treasurer of the united states without sacrificing his manhood or betraying his people." "i can do that," said mrs. vanderpool slowly. "it will cost something," said zora. "i will do it," was the lady's firm assurance. zora kissed her. the next afternoon mrs. cresswell went down to a white social settlement of which congressman todd had spoken, where a meeting of the civic club was to be held. she had come painfully to realize that if she was to have a career she must make it for herself. the plain, unwelcome truth was that her husband had no great interests in life in which she could find permanent pleasure. companionship and love there was and, she told herself, always would be; but in some respects their lives must flow in two streams. last night, for the second time, she had irritated him; he had spoken almost harshly to her, and she knew she must brood or work today. and so she hunted work, eagerly. she felt the atmosphere the moment she entered. there were carelessly gowned women and men smart and shabby, but none of them were thinking of clothes nor even of one another. they had great deeds in mind; they were scanning the earth; they were toiling for men. the same grim excitement that sends smaller souls hunting for birds and rabbits and lions, had sent them hunting the enemies of mankind: they were bent to the chase, scenting the game, knowing the infinite meaning of their hunt and the glory of victory. mary cresswell had listened but a half hour before her world seemed so small and sordid and narrow, so trivial, that a sense of shame spread over her. these people were not only earnest, but expert. they acknowledged the need of mr. todd's educational bill. "but the republicans are going to side-track it; i have that on the best authority," said one. "true; but can't we force them to it?" "only by political power, and they've just won a campaign." "they won it by negro votes, and the negro who secured the votes is eager for this bill; he's a fine, honest fellow." "very well; work with him; and when we can be of real service let us know. meantime, this child labor bill is different. it's bound to pass. both parties are back of it, and public opinion is aroused. now our work is to force amendments enough to make the bill effective." discussion followed; not flamboyant and declamatory, but tense, staccato, pointed. mrs. cresswell found herself taking part. someone mentioned her name, and one or two glances of interest and even curiosity were thrown her way. congressmen's wives were rare at the civic club. congressmen todd urged mrs. cresswell to stay after the discussion and attend a meeting of the managers and workers of the washington social settlements. "have you many settlements?" she inquired. "three in all--two white and one colored." "and will they all be represented?" "yes, of course, mrs. cresswell. if you object to meeting the colored people--" mrs. cresswell blushed. "no, indeed," she answered; "i used to teach colored people." she watched this new group gather: a business man, two fashionable ladies, three college girls, a gray-haired colored woman, and a young spectacled brown man, and then, to her surprise, mrs. vanderpool and zora. zora was scarcely seated when that strange sixth sense of hers told her that something had happened, and it needed but a side-glance from mrs. vanderpool to indicate what it was. she sat with folded hands and the old dreamy look in her eyes. in one moment she lived it all again--the red cabin, the moving oak, the sowing of the fleece, and its fearful reaping. and now, when she turned her head, she would see the woman who was to marry bles alwyn. she had often dreamed of her, and had set a high ideal. she wanted her to be handsome, well dressed, earnest and good. she felt a sort of person proprietorship in her, and when at last the quickened pulse died to its regular healthy beat, she turned and looked and knew. caroline wynn deemed it a part of the white world's education to participate in meetings like this; doing so was not pleasant, but it appealed to her cynicism and mocking sense of pleasure. she always roused hostility as she entered: her gown was too handsome, her gloves too spotless, her air had hauteur enough to be almost impudent in the opinion of most white people. then gradually her intelligence, her cool wit and self-possession, would conquer and she would go gracefully out leaving a rather bewildered audience behind. she sat today with her dark gold profile toward zora, and the girl looked and was glad. she was such a woman she would have bles marry. she was glad, and she choked back the sob that struggled and fought in her throat. the meeting never got beyond a certain constraint. the congressman made an excellent speech; there were various sets of figures read by the workers; and miss wynn added a touch of spice by several pertinent questions and comments. then, as the meeting broke up and mrs. cresswell came forward to speak to zora, mrs. vanderpool managed to find herself near miss wynn and to be introduced. they exchanged a few polite phrases, fencing delicately to test the other's wrist and interest. they touched on the weather, and settlement work; but miss wynn did not propose to be stranded on the negro problem. "i suppose the next bit of excitement will be in the inauguration," she said to mrs. vanderpool. "i understand it will be unusually elaborate," returned mrs. vanderpool, a little surprised at the turn. then she added pleasantly: "i think i shall see it through, from speech to ball." "yes, i do usually," miss wynn asserted, adjusting her furs. mrs. vanderpool was further surprised. did colored people attend the ball? "we sorely need a national ball-room," she said. "isn't the census building wretched?" "i do not know," smiled miss wynn. "oh, i thought you said--" "i meant _our_ ball." "oh!" said mrs. vanderpool in turn. "oh!" here a thought came. of course, the colored people had their own ball; she remembered having heard about it. why not send zora? she plunged in: "miss wynn, i have a maid--such an intelligent girl; i do wish she could attend your ball--" seeing her blunder, she paused. miss wynn was coolly buttoning her glove. "yes," she acknowledged politely, "few of us can afford maids, and therefore we do not usually arrange for them; but i think we can have your _protégée_ look on from the gallery. good-afternoon." as mrs. vanderpool drove home she related the talk to zora. zora was silent at first. then she said deliberately: "miss wynn was right." "why, zora!" "did helene attend the ball four years ago?" "but, zora, must you folk ape our nonsense as well as our sense?" "you force us to," said zora. _twenty-eight_ the annunciation the new president had been inaugurated. beneath the creamy pile of the old capitol, and facing the new library, he had stood aloft and looked down on a waving sea of faces--black-coated, jostling, eager-eyed fellow creatures. they had watched his lips move, had scanned eagerly his dress and the gowned and decorated dignitaries beside him; and then, with blare of band and prancing of horses, he had been whirled down the dip and curve of that long avenue, with its medley of meanness and thrift and hurry and wealth, until, swinging sharply, the dim walls of the white house rose before him. he entered with a sigh. then the vast welter of humanity dissolved and streamed hither and thither, gaping and laughing until night, when thousands poured into the red barn of the census shack and entered the artificial fairyland within. the president walked through, smiling; the senators protected their friends in the crush; and harry cresswell led his wife to a little oasis of southern ladies and gentlemen. "this is democracy for you," said he, wiping his brow. from a whirling eddy mrs. vanderpool waved at them, and they rescued her. "i think i am ready to go," she gasped. "did you ever!" "come," cresswell invited. but just then the crowd pushed them apart and shot them along, and mrs. cresswell found herself clinging to her husband amid two great whirling variegated throngs of driving, white-faced people. the band crashed and blared; the people laughed and pushed; and with rhythmic sound and swing the mighty throng was dancing. it took much effort, but at last the cresswell party escaped and rolled off in their carriages. they swept into the avenue and out again, then up th street, where, turning for some street obstruction, they passed a throng of carriages on a cross street. "it's the other ball," cried mrs. vanderpool, and amid laughter she added, "let's go!" it was--the other ball. for washington is itself, and something else besides. along beside it ever runs that dark and haunting echo; that shadowy world-in-world with its accusing silence, its emphatic self-sufficiency. mrs. cresswell at first demurred. she thought of elspeth's cabin: the dirt, the smell, the squalor: of course, this would be different; but--well, mrs. cresswell had little inclination for slumming. she was interested in the under-world, but intellectually, not by personal contact. she did not know that this was a side-world, not an under-world. yet the imposing building did not look sordid. "hired?" asked some one. "no, owned." "indeed!" then there was a hitch. "tickets?" "where can we buy them?" "not on sale," was the curt reply. "actually exclusive!" sneered cresswell, for he could not imagine any one unwelcome at a negro ball. then he bethought himself of sam stillings and sent for him. in a few minutes he had a dozen complimentary tickets in his hand. they entered the balcony and sat down. mary cresswell leaned forward. it was interesting. beneath her was an ordinary pretty ball--flowered, silked, and ribboned; with swaying whirling figures, music, and laughter, and all the human fun of gayety and converse. and then she was impressed with the fact that this was no ordinary scene; it was, on the contrary, most extraordinary. there was a black man waltzing with a white woman--no, she was not white, for mary caught the cream and curl of the girl as she swept past: but there was a white man (was he white?) and a black woman. the color of the scene was wonderful. the hard human white seemed to glow and live and run a mad gamut of the spectrum, from morn till night, from white to black; through red and sombre browns, pale and brilliant yellows, dead and living blacks. through her opera-glasses mary scanned their hair; she noted everything from the infinitely twisted, crackled, dead, and grayish-black to the piled mass of red golden sunlight. her eyes went dreaming; there below was the gathering of the worlds. she saw types of all nations and all lands swirling beneath her in human brotherhood, and a great wonder shook her. they seemed so happy. surely, this was no nether world; it was upper earth, and--her husband beckoned; he had been laughing incontinently. he saw nothing but a crowd of queer looking people doing things they were not made to do and appearing absurdly happy over it. it irritated him unreasonably. "see the washer-woman in red," he whispered. "look at the monkey. come, let's go." they trooped noisily down-stairs, and cresswell walked unceremoniously between a black man and his partner. mrs. vanderpool recognized and greeted the girl as miss wynn. mrs. cresswell did not notice her, but she paused with a start of recognition at the sight of the man. "why, bles!" she exclaimed impetuously, starting to hold out her hand. she was sincerely pleased at seeing him. then she remembered. she bowed and smiled, looking at him with interest and surprise. he was correctly dressed, and the white shirt set off the comeliness of his black face in compelling contrast. he carried himself like a man, and bowed with gravity and dignity. she passed on and heard her husband's petulant voice in her ear. "mary--mary! for heaven's sake, come on; don't shake hands with niggers." it was recurring flashes of temper like this, together with evidences of dubious company and a growing fondness for liquor, that drove mary cresswell more and more to find solace in the work of congressman todd's civic club. she collected statistics for several of the committee, wrote letters, interviewed a few persons, and felt herself growing in usefulness and importance. she did not mention these things to her husband; she knew he would not object, but she shrank from his ridicule. the various causes advocated by the civic club felt the impetus of the aggressive work of the organization. this was especially the case with the national education bill and the amendment to the child labor bill. the movement became strong enough to call mr. easterly down from new york. he and the inner circle went over matters carefully. "we need the political strength of the south," said easterly; "not only in framing national legislation in our own interests, but always in state laws. particularly, we must get them into line to offset todd's foolishness. the child labor bill must either go through unamended or be killed. the cotton inspection bill--our chief measure--must be slipped through quietly by southern votes, while in the tariff mix-up we must take good care of cotton. "now, on the other hand, we are offending the southerners in three ways: todd's revived blair bill is too good a thing for niggers; the south is clamoring for a first classy embassy appointment; and the president's nomination of alwyn as treasurer will raise a howl from virginia to texas." "there is some strong influence back of alwyn," said senator smith; "not only are the negroes enthused, but the president has daily letters from prominent whites." "the strong influence is named vanderpool," easterly drily remarked. "she's playing a bigger political game than i laid out for her. that's the devil with women: they can't concentrate: they get too damned many side issues. now, i offered her husband the french ambassadorship provided she'd keep the southerners feeling good toward us. she's hand in glove with the southerners, all right; but she wants not only her husband's appointment but this darkey's too." "but that's been decided, hasn't it?" put in smith. "yes," grumbled easterly; "but it makes it hard already. at any rate, the educational bill must be killed right off. no more talk; no more consideration--kill it, and kill it now. now about this child labor bill: todd's civic club is raising the mischief. who's responsible?" the silent jackson spoke up. "congressman cresswell's wife has been very active, and todd thinks they've got the south with them." "congressman cresswell's wife!" easterly's face was one great exclamation point. "now what the devil does this mean?" "i'm afraid," said senator smith, "that it may mean an attempt on the part of cresswell's friends to boost him for the french ambassadorship. he's the only southerner with money enough to support the position, and there's been a good deal of quiet talk, i understand, in southern circles." "but it's treason!" easterly shouted. "it will ruin the plans of the combine to put this amended child labor bill through. john taylor has just written me that he's starting mills at toomsville, and that he depends on unrestricted labor conditions, as we must throughout the south. doesn't cresswell know this?" "of course. i think it's just a bluff. if he gets the appointment he'll let the bill drop." "i see--everybody is raising his price, is he? pretty soon the darky will be holding us up. well, see cresswell, and put it to him strong. i must go. wire me." senator smith presented the matter bluntly to cresswell as soon as he saw him. "which would the south prefer--todd's education bill, or alwyn's appointment?" it was characteristic of cresswell that the smaller matter of stillings' intrigue should interest him more than todd's measure, of which he knew nothing. "what is todd's bill?" asked harry cresswell, darkening. smith, surprised, got out a copy and explained. cresswell interrupted before he was half through. "don't you see," he said angrily, "that that will ruin our plans for the cotton combine?" "yes, i do," replied smith; "but it will not do the immediate harm that the amended child labor bill will do." "what's that?" demanded cresswell, frowning again. senator smith regarded him again: was cresswell playing a shrewd game? "why," he said at length, "aren't you promoting it?" "no," was the reply. "never heard of it." "but," senator smith began, and paused. he turned and took up a circular issued by the civic club, giving a careful account of their endeavors to amend and pass the child labor bill. cresswell read it, then threw it aside. "nonsense!" he indignantly repudiated the measure. "that will never do; it's as bad as the education bill." "but your wife is encouraging it and we thought you were back of it." cresswell stared in blank amazement. "my wife!" he gasped. then he bethought himself. "it's a mistake," he supplemented; "mrs. cresswell gave them no authority to sign her name." "she's been very active," smith persisted, "and naturally we were all anxious." cresswell bit his lip. "i shall speak to her; she does not realize what use they are making of her passing interest." he hurried away, and senator smith felt a bit sorry for mrs. cresswell when he recalled the expression on her husband's face. mary cresswell did not get home until nearly dinner time; then she came in glowing with enthusiasm. her work had received special commendation that afternoon, and she had been asked to take the chairmanship of the committee on publicity. finding that her husband was at home, she determined to tell him--it was so good to be doing something worth while. perhaps, too, he might be made to show some interest. she thought of mr. and mrs. todd and the old dream glowed faintly again. cresswell looked at her as she entered the library where he was waiting and smoking. she was rumpled and muddy, with flying hair and thick walking shoes and the air of bustle and vigor which had crept into her blood this last month. truly, her cheeks were glowing and her eyes bright, but he disapproved. softness and daintiness, silk and lace and glimmering flesh, belonged to women in his mind, and he despised amazons and "business" women. he received her kiss coldly, and mary's heart sank. she essayed some gay greeting, but he interrupted her. "what's this stuff about the civic club?" he began sharply. "stuff?" she queried, blankly. "that's what i said." "i'm sure i don't know," she answered stiffly. "i belong to the civic club, and have been working with it." "why didn't you tell me?" his resentment grew as he proceeded. "i did not think you were interested." "didn't you know that this child labor business was opposed to my interests?" "dear, i did not dream it. it's a republican bill, to be sure; but you seemed very friendly with senator smith, who introduced it. we were simply trying to improve it." "suppose we didn't want it improved." "that's what some said; but i did not believe such--deception." the blood rushed to cresswell's face. "well, you will drop this bill and the civic club from now on." "why?" "because i say so," he retorted explosively, too angry to explain further. she looked at him--a long, fixed, penetrating look which revealed more than she had ever seen before, then turned away and went slowly up-stairs. she did not come down to dinner, and in the evening the doctor was called. cresswell drooped a bit after eating, hesitated, and reflected. he had acted too cavalierly in this civic club mess, he concluded, and yet he would not back down. he'd go see her and pet her a bit, but be firm. he opened her boudoir door gently, and she stood before him radiant, clothed in silk and lace, her hair loosened. he paused, astonished. but she threw herself upon his neck, with a joyful, half hysterical cry. "i will give it all up--everything! willingly, willingly!" her voice dropped abruptly to a tremulous whisper. "oh, harry! i--i am to be the mother of a child!" _twenty-nine_ a master of fate "there is not the slightest doubt, miss wynn," senator smith was saying, "but that the schools of the district will be reorganized." "and the board of education abolished?" she added. "yes. the power will be delegated to a single white superintendent." the vertical line in caroline wynn's forehead became pronounced. "whose work is this, senator?" she asked. "well, there are, of course, various parties back of the change: the 'outs,' the reformers, the whole tendency to concentrate responsibility, and so on. but, frankly, the deciding factor was the demand of the south." "is there anything in washington that the south does not already own?" senator smith smiled thinly. "not much," drily; "but we own the south." "and part of the price is putting the colored schools of the district in the hands of a southern man and depriving us of all voice in their control?" "precisely, miss wynn. but you'd be surprised to know that it was the negroes themselves who stirred the south to this demand." "not at all; you mean the colored newspapers, i presume." "the same, with teerswell's clever articles; then his partner stillings worked the 'impudent negro teacher' argument on cresswell until cresswell was wild to get the south in control of the schools." "but what do teerswell and stillings want?" "they want bles alwyn to make a fool of himself." "that is a trifle cryptic," miss wynn mused. the senator amplified. "we are giving the south the washington schools and killing the education bill in return for this support of some of our measures and their assent to alwyn's appointment. you see i speak frankly." "i can stand it, senator." "i believe you can. well, now, if alwyn should act unwisely and offend the south, somebody else stands in line for the appointment." "as treasurer?" she asked in surprise. "oh, no, they are too shrewd to ask that; it would offend their backers, or shall i say their tools, the southerners. no, they ask only to be register and assistant register of the treasury. this is an office colored men have held for years, and it is quite ambitious enough for them; so stillings assures cresswell and his friends." "i see," miss wynn slowly acknowledged. "but how do they hope to make mr. alwyn blunder?" "too easily, i fear--unless _you_ are very careful. alwyn has been working like a beaver for the national education bill. he's been in to see me several times, as you probably know. his heart is set on it. he regards its passage as a sort of vindication of his defence of the party." "yes." "now, the party has dropped the bill for good, and alwyn doesn't like it. if he should attack the party--" "but he wouldn't," cried miss wynn with a start that belied her conviction. "did you know that he is to be invited to make the principal address to the graduates of the colored high-school?" "but," she objected. "they have selected bishop johnson; i--" "i know you did," laughed the senator, "but the judge got orders from higher up." "shrewd mr. teerswell," remarked miss wynn, sagely. "shrewd mr. stillings," the senator corrected; "but perhaps too shrewd. suppose mr. alwyn should take this occasion to make a thorough defence of the party?" "but--will he?" "that's where you come in," senator smith pointed out, rising, "and the real reason of this interview. we're depending on you to pull the party out of an awkward hole," and he shook hands with his caller. miss wynn walked slowly up pennsylvania avenue with a smile on her face. "i did not give him the credit," she declared, repeating it; "i did not give him the credit. here i was, playing an alluring game on the side, and my dear tom transforms it into a struggle for bread and butter; for of course, if the board of education goes, i lose my place." she lifted her head and stared along the avenue. a bitterness dawned in her eyes. the whole street was a living insult to her. here she was, an american girl by birth and breeding, a daughter of citizens who had fought and bled and worked for a dozen generations on this soil; yet if she stepped into this hotel to rest, even with full purse, she would be politely refused accommodation. should she attempt to go into this picture show she would be denied entrance. she was thirsty with the walk; but at yonder fountain the clerk would roughly refuse to serve her. it was lunch time; there was no place within a mile where she was allowed to eat. the revolt deepened within her. beyond these known and definite discriminations lay the unknown and hovering. in yonder store nothing hindered the clerk from being exceptionally pert; on yonder street-car the conductor might reserve his politeness for white folk; this policeman's business was to keep black and brown people in their places. all this caroline wynn thought of, and then smiled. this was the thing poor blind bles was trying to attack by "appeals" for "justice." nonsense! does one "appeal" to the red-eyed beast that throttles him? no. he composes himself, looks death in the eye, and speaks softly, on the chance. whereupon miss wynn composed herself, waved gayly at a passing acquaintance, and matched some ribbons in a department store. the clerk was new and anxious to sell. meantime her brain was busy. she had a hard task before her. alwyn's absurd conscience and quixotic ideas were difficult to cope with. after his last indiscreet talk she had ventured deftly to remonstrate, and she well remembered the conversation. "wasn't what i said true?" he had asked. "perfectly. is that an excuse for saying it?" "the facts ought to be known." "yes, but ought you to tell them?" "if not i, who?" "some one who is less useful elsewhere, and whom i like less." "carrie," he had been intensely earnest. "i want to do the best thing, but i'm puzzled. i wonder if i'm selling my birthright for six thousand dollars?" "in case of doubt, do it." "but there's the doubt: i may convert; i may open the eyes of the blind; i may start a crusade for negro rights." "don't believe it; it's useless; we'll never get our rights in this land." "you don't believe that!" he had ejaculated, shocked. well, she must begin again. as she had hoped, he was waiting for her when she reached home. she welcomed him cordially, made a little music for him, and served tea. "bles," she said, "the opposition has been laying a pretty shrewd trap for you." "what?" he asked absently. "they are going to have you chosen as high school commencement orator." "me? stuff!" "you--and not stuff, but 'education' will be your natural theme. indeed, they have so engineered it that the party chiefs expect from you a defence of their dropping of the educational bill." "what!" "yes, and probably your nomination will come before the speech and confirmation after." bles walked the floor excitedly for a while and then sat down and smiled. "it was a shrewd move," he said; "but i think i thank them for it." "i don't. but still, _"''t is the sport to see the engineer hoist by his own petar.'"_ bles mused and she watched him covertly. suddenly she leaned over. "moreover," she said, "about that same date i'm liable to lose my position as teacher." he looked at her quickly, and she explained the coming revolution in school management. he did not discuss the matter, and she was equally reticent; but when he entered the doors of his lodging-place and, gathering his mail, slowly mounted the stairs, there came the battle of his life. he knew it and he tried to wage it coolly and with method. he arrayed the arguments side by side: on this side lay success; the greatest office ever held by a negro in america--greater than douglass or bruce or lynch had held--a landmark, a living example and inspiration. a man owed the world success; there were plenty who could fail and stumble and give multiple excuses. should he be one? he viewed the other side. what must he pay for success? aye, face it boldly--what? mechanically he searched for his mail and undid the latest number of the _colored american_. he was sure the answer stood there in teerswell's biting vulgar english. and there it was, with a cartoon: his master's voice alwyn is ordered to eat his words or get out watch him do it gracefully the republican leaders, etc. he threw down his paper, and the hot blood sang in his ears. the sickening thought was that it was true. if he did make the speech demanded it would be like a dog obedient to his master's voice. the cold sweat oozed on his face; throwing up the window, he drank in the spring breeze, and stared at the city he once had thought so alluring. somehow it looked like the swamp, only less beautiful; he stretched his arms and his lips breathed--"zora!" he turned hastily to his desk and looked at the other piece of mail--a single sealed note carefully written on heavy paper. he did not recognize the handwriting. then his mind flew off again. what would they say if he failed to get the office? how they would silently hoot and jeer at the upstart who suddenly climbed so high and fell. and carrie wynn--poor carrie, with her pride and position dragged down in his ruin: how would she take it? he writhed in soul. and yet, to be a man; to say calmly, "no"; to stand in that great audience and say, "my people first and last"; to take carrie's hand and together face the world and struggle again to newer finer triumphs--all this would be very close to attainment of the ideal. he found himself staring at the little letter. would she go? would she, could she, lay aside her pride and cynicism, her dainty ways and little extravagances? an odd fancy came to him: perhaps the answer to the riddle lay sealed within the envelope he fingered. he opened it. within lay four lines of writing--no more--no address, no signature; simply the words: _"it matters now how strait the gate, how charged with punishment the scroll; i am the master of my fate, i am the captain of my soul."_ he stared at the lines. eleven o'clock--twelve--one--chimed the deep-voiced clock without, before alwyn went to bed. miss wynn had kept a vigil almost as long. she knew that bles had influential friends who had urged his preferment; it might be wise to enlist them. before she fell asleep she had determined to have a talk with mrs. vanderpool. she had learned from senator smith that the lady took special interest in alwyn. mrs. vanderpool heard miss wynn's story next day with some inward dismay. really the breadth and depth of intrigue in this city almost frightened her as she walked deeper into the mire. she had promised zora that bles should receive his reward on terms which would not wound his manhood. it seemed an easy, almost an obvious thing, to promise at the time. yet here was this rather unusual young woman asking mrs. vanderpool to use her influence in making alwyn bow to the yoke. she fenced for time. "but i do not know mr. alwyn." "i thought you did; you recommended him highly." "i knew of him slightly in the south and i have watched his career here." "it would be too bad to have that career spoiled now." "but is it necessary? suppose he should defend the education bill." "and criticise the party?" asked miss wynn. "it would take strong influence to pull him through." "and if that strong influence were found?" said mrs. vanderpool thoughtfully. "it would surely involve some other important concession to the south." mrs. vanderpool looked up, and an interjection hovered on her lips. was it possible that the price of alwyn's manhood would be her husband's appointment to paris? and if it were? "i'll do what i can," she said graciously; "but i am afraid that will not be much." miss wynn hesitated. she had not succeeded even in guessing the source of mrs. vanderpool's interest in alwyn, and without that her appeal was but blind groping. she stopped on her way to the door to admire a bronze statuette and find time to think. "you are interested in bronzes?" asked mrs. vanderpool. "oh, no; i'm far too poor. but i've dabbled a bit in sculpture." "indeed?" mrs. vanderpool revealed a mild interest, and miss wynn was compelled to depart with little enlightenment. on the way up town she concluded that there was but one chance of success: she must write alwyn's speech. with characteristic decision she began her plans at once. "what will you say in your speech?" she asked him that night as he rose to go. he looked at her and she wavered slightly under his black eyes. the fight was becoming a little too desperate even for her steady nerves. "you would not like me to act dishonestly, would you?" he asked. "no," she involuntarily replied, regretting the word the moment she had uttered it. he gave her one of his rare sweet smiles, and, rising, before she realized his intent, he had kissed her hands and was gone. she asked herself why she had been so foolish; and yet, somehow, sitting there alone in the firelight, she felt glad for once that she had risen above intrigue. then she sighed and smiled, and began to plot anew. teerswell dropped in later and brought his friend, stillings. they found their hostess gay and entertaining. miss wynn gathered books about her, and in the days of april and may she and alwyn read up on education. he marvelled at the subtlety of her mind, and she at the relentlessness of his. they were very near each other during these days, and yet there was ever something between them: a vision to him of dark and pleading eyes that he constantly saw beside her cool, keen glance. and he to her was always two men: one man above men, whom she could respect but would not marry, and one man like all men, whom she would marry but could not respect. his devotion to an ideal which she thought so utterly unpractical, aroused keen curiosity and admiration. she was sure he would fail in the end, and she wanted him to fail; and somehow, somewhere back beyond herself, her better self longed to find herself defeated; to see this mind stand firm on principle, under circumstances where she believed men never stood. deep within her she discovered at times a passionate longing to believe in somebody; yet she found herself bending every energy to pull this man down to the level of time-servers, and even as she failed, feeling something like contempt for his stubbornness. the great day came. he had her notes, her suggestions, her hints, but she had no intimation of what he would finally say. "will you come to hear me?" he asked. "no," she murmured. "that is best," he said, and then he added slowly, "i would not like you ever to despise me." she answered sharply: "i want to despise you!" did he understand? she was not sure. she was sorry she had said it; but she meant it fiercely. then he left her, for it was already four in the afternoon and he spoke at eight. in the morning she came down early, despite some dawdling over her toilet. she brought the morning paper into the dining-room and sat down with it, sipping her coffee. she leaned back and looked leisurely at the headings. there was nothing on the front page but a divorce, a revolution, and a new trust. she took another sip of her coffee, and turned the page. there it was, "colored high schools close--vicious attack on republican party by negro orator." she laid the paper aside and slowly finished her coffee. a few minutes later she went to her desk and sat there so long that she started at hearing the clock strike nine. the day passed. when she came home from school she bought an evening paper. she was not surprised to learn that the senate had rejected alwyn's nomination; that samuel stillings had been nominated and confirmed as register of the treasury, and that mr. tom teerswell was to be his assistant. also the bill reorganizing the school board had passed. she wrote two notes and posted them as she went out to walk. when she reached home stillings was there, and they talked earnestly. the bell rang violently. teerswell rushed in. "well, carrie!" he cried eagerly. "well, tom," she responded, giving him a languid hand. stillings rose and departed. teerswell nodded and said: "well, what do you think of last night?" "a great speech, i hear." "a fool speech--that speech cost him, i calculate, between twenty-four and forty-eight thousand dollars." "possibly he's satisfied with his bargain." "possibly. are you?" "with his bargain?" quickly. "yes." "no," he pressed her, "with your bargain?" "what bargain?" she parried. "to marry him." "oh, no; that's off." "is it off?" cried teerswell delightedly. "good! it was foolish from the first--that black country--" "gently," miss wynn checked him. "i'm not yet over the habit." "come. see what i've bought. you know i have a salary now." he produced a ring with a small diamond cluster. "how pretty!" she said, taking it and looking at it. then she handed it back. he laughed gayly. "it's yours, carrie. you're going to marry me." she looked at him queerly. "am i? but i've got another ring already," she said. "oh, send alwyn's back." "i have. this is still another." and uncovering her hand she showed a ring with a large and beautiful diamond. he rose. "whose is that?" he demanded apprehensively. "mine--" her eyes met his. "but who gave it to you?" "mr. stillings," was the soft reply. he stared at her helplessly. "i--i--don't understand!" he stammered. "well, to be brief, i'm engaged to mr. stillings." "what! to that flat-headed--" "no," she coolly interrupted, "to the register of the treasury." the man was too dumbfounded, too overwhelmed for coherent speech. "but--but--come; why in god's name--will you throw yourself away on--on such a--you're joking--you--" she motioned him to a chair. he obeyed like one in a trance. "now, tom, be calm. when i was a baby i loved you, but that is long ago. today, tom, you're an insufferable cad and i--well, i'm too much like you to have two of us in the same family." "but, stillings!" he burst forth, almost in tears. "the snake--what is he?" "nearly as bad as you, i'll admit; but he has four thousand a year and sense enough to keep it. in truth, i need it; for, thanks to your political activity, my own position is gone." "but he's a--a damned rascal!" wounded self-conceit was now getting the upper hand. she laughed. "i think he is. but he's such an exceptional rascal; he appeals to me. you know, tom, we're all more or less rascally--except one." "except who?" he asked quickly. "bles alwyn." "the fool!" "yes," she slowly agreed. "bles alwyn, the fool--and the man. but by grace of the negro problem, i cannot afford to marry a man--hark! some one is on the steps. i'm sure it's bles. you'd better go now. don't attempt to fight with him; he's very strong. good-night." alwyn entered. he didn't notice teerswell as he passed out. he went straight to miss wynn holding a crumpled note, and his voice faltered a little. "do you mean it?" "yes, bles." "why?" "because i am selfish and--small." "no, you are not. you want to be; but give it up, carrie; it isn't worth the cost. come, let's be honest and poor--and free." she regarded him a moment, searchingly, then a look half quizzical, half sorrowful came into her eyes. she put both her hands on his shoulders and said as she kissed his lips: "bles, almost thou persuadest me--to be a fool. now go." _thirty_ the return of zora "i never realized before just what a lie meant," said zora. the paper in mrs. vanderpool's hands fell quickly to her lap, and she gazed across the toilet-table. as she gazed that odd mirage of other days haunted her again. she did not seem to see her maid, nor the white and satin morning-room. she saw, with some long inner sight, a vast hall with mighty pillars; a smooth, marbled floor and a great throng whose silent eyes looked curiously upon her. strange carven beasts gazed on from a setting of rich, barbaric splendor and she herself--the liar--lay in rags before the gold and ivory of that lofty throne whereon sat zora. the foolish phantasy passed with the second of time that brought it, and mrs. vanderpool's eyes dropped again to her paper, to those lines,-- "the president has sent the following nominations to the senate ... to be ambassador to france, john vanderpool, esq." the first feeling of triumph thrilled faintly again until the low voice of zora startled her. it was so low and calm, it came as though journeying from great distances and weary with travel. "i used to think a lie a little thing, a convenience; but now i see. it is a great no and it kills things. you remember that day when mr. easterly called?" "yes," replied mrs. vanderpool, faintly. "i heard all he said. i could not help it; my transom was open. and then, too, after he mentioned--mr. alwyn's name, i wanted to hear. i knew that his appointment would cost you the embassy--unless bles was tempted and should fall. so i came to you to say--to say you mustn't pay the price." "and i lied," said mrs. vanderpool. "i told you that he should be appointed and remain a man. i meant to make him see that he could yield without great cost. but i let you think i was giving up the embassy when i never intended to." she spoke coldly, yet zora knew. she reached out and took the white, still hands in hers, and over the lady's face again flitted that stricken look of age. "i do not blame you," said zora gently. "i blame the world." "i am the world," mrs. vanderpool uttered harshly, then suddenly laughed. but zora went on: "it bewildered me when i first read the news early this morning; the world--everything--seemed wrong. you see, my plan was all so splendid. just as i turned away from him, back to my people, i was to help him to the highest. i was so afraid he would miss it and think that right didn't win in life, that i wrote him--" "you wrote him? so did i." zora glanced at her quickly. "yes," said mrs. vanderpool. "i thought i knew him. he seemed an ordinary, rather priggish, opinionated country boy, and i wrote and said--oh, i said that the world is the world; take it as it is. you wrote differently, and he obeyed you." "no; he did not know it was i. i was just a voice from nowhere calling to him. i thought i was right. i wrote each day, sometimes twice, sending bits of verse, quotations, references, all saying the same thing: right always triumphs. but it doesn't, does it?" "no. it never does save by accident." "i do not think that is quite so," zora pondered aloud, "and i am a little puzzled. i do not belong in this world where right and wrong get so mixed. with us yonder there is wrong, but we call it wrong--mostly. oh, i don't know; even there things are mixed." she looked sadly at mrs. vanderpool, and the fear that had been hovering behind her mistress's eyes became visible. "it was so beautiful," said zora. "i expected a great thing of you--a sacrifice. i do not blame you because you could not do it; and yet--yet, after this,--don't you see?--i cannot stay here." mrs. vanderpool arose and walked over to her. she stood above her, in her silken morning-gown, her brown and gray sprinkled hair rising above the pale, strong-lined face. "zora," she faltered, "will you leave me?" zora answered, "yes." it was a soft "yes," a "yes" full of pity and regret, but a "yes" that mrs. vanderpool knew in her soul to be final. she sat down again on the lounge and her fingers crept along the cushions. "ambassadorships come--high," she said with a catch in her voice. then after a pause: "when will you go, zora?" "when you leave for the summer." mrs. vanderpool looked out upon the beautiful city. she was a little surprised at herself. she had found herself willing to sacrifice almost anything for zora. no living soul had ever raised in her so deep an affection, and yet she knew now that, although the cost was great, she was willing to sacrifice zora for paris. after all, it was not too late; a rapid ride even now might secure high office for alwyn and make cresswell ambassador. it would be difficult but possible. but she had not the slightest inclination to attempt it, and she said aloud, half mockingly: "you are right, zora. i promised--and--i lied. liars have no place in heaven and heaven is doubtless a beautiful place--but oh, zora! you haven't seen paris!" two months later they parted simply, knowing well it was forever. mrs. vanderpool wrote a check. "use this in your work," she said. "miss smith asked for it long ago. it is--my campaign contribution." zora smiled and thanked her. as she put the sealed envelope in her trunk her hand came in contact with a long untouched package. zora took it out silently and opened it and the beauty of it lightened the room. "it is the silver fleece," said zora, and mrs. vanderpool kissed her and went. zora walked alone to the vaulted station. she did not try to buy a pullman ticket, although the journey was thirty-six hours. she knew it would be difficult if not impossible and she preferred to share the lot of her people. once on the foremost car, she leaned back and looked. the car seemed clean and comfortable but strangely short. then she realized that half of it was cut off for the white smokers and as the door swung whiffs of the smoke came in. but she was content for she was almost alone. it was eighteen little months ago that she had ridden up to the world with widening eyes. in that time what had happened? everything. how well she remembered her coming, the first reflection of yonder gilded dome and the soaring of the capitol; the swelling of her heart, with inarticulate wonder; the pain of the thirst to know and understand. she did not know much now but she had learned how to find things out. she did not understand all, but some things she-- "ticket"--the tone was harsh and abrupt. zora started. she had always noted how polite conductors were to her and mrs. vanderpool--was it simply because mrs. vanderpool was evidently a great and rich lady? she held up her ticket and he snatched it from her muttering some direction. "i beg your pardon?" she said. "change at charlotte," he snapped as he went on. it seemed to zora that his discourtesy was almost forced: that he was afraid he might be betrayed into some show of consideration for a black woman. she felt no anger, she simply wondered what he feared. the increasing smell of tobacco smoke started her coughing. she turned. to be sure. not only was the door to the smoker standing open, but a white passenger was in her car, sitting by the conductor and puffing heartily. as the black porter passed her she said gently: "is smoking allowed in here?" "it ain't non o' my business," he flung back at her and moved away. all day white men passed back and forward through the car as through a thoroughfare. they talked loudly and laughed and joked, and if they did not smoke they carried their lighted cigars. at her they stared and made comments, and one of them came and lounged almost over her seat, inquiring where she was going. she did not reply; she neither looked nor stirred, but kept whispering to herself with something like awe: "this is what they must endure--my poor people!" at lynchburg a newsboy boarded the train with his wares. the conductor had already appropriated two seats for himself, and the newsboy routed out two colored passengers, and usurped two other seats. then he began to be especially annoying. he joked and wrestled with the porter, and on every occasion pushed his wares at zora, insisting on her buying. "ain't you got no money?" he asked. "where you going?" "say," he whispered another time, "don't you want to buy these gold spectacles? i found 'em and i dassen't sell 'em open, see? they're worth ten dollars--take 'em for a dollar." zora sat still, keeping her eyes on the window; but her hands worked nervously, and when he threw a book with a picture of a man and half-dressed woman directly under her eyes, she took it and dropped it out the window. the boy started to storm and demanded pay, while the conductor glared at her; but a white man in the conductor's seat whispered something, and the row suddenly stopped. a gang of colored section hands got on, dirty and loud. they sprawled about and smoked, drank, and bought candy and cheap gewgaws. they eyed her respectfully, and with one of them she talked a little as he awkwardly fingered his cap. as the day wore on zora found herself strangely weary. it was not simply the unpleasant things that kept happening, but the continued apprehension of unknown possibilities. then, too, she began to realize that she had had nothing to eat. travelling with mrs. vanderpool there was always a dainty lunch to be had at call. she did not expect this, but she asked the porter: "do you know where i can get a lunch?" "search me," he answered, lounging into a seat. "ain't no chance betwixt here and danville as i knows on." zora viewed her plight with a certain dismay--twelve hours without food! how foolish of her not to have thought of this. the hours passed. she turned desperately to the gruff conductor. "could i buy a lunch from the dining-car?" she inquired. "no," was the curt reply. she made herself as comfortable as she could, and tried to put the matter from her mind. she remembered how, forgotten years ago, she had often gone a day without eating and thought little of it. night came slowly, and she fell to dreaming until the cry came, "charlotte! change cars!" she scrambled out. there was no step to the platform, her bag was heavy, and the porter was busy helping the white folks to alight. she saw a dingy lunchroom marked "colored," but she had no time to go to it for her train was ready. there was another colored porter on this, and he was very polite and affable. "yes, miss; certainly i'll fetch you a lunch--plenty of time." and he did. it did not look clean but zora was ravenous. the white smoker now had few occupants, but the white train crew proceeded to use the colored coach as a lounging-room and sleeping-car. there was no passenger except zora. they took off their coats, stretched themselves on the seats, and exchanged jokes; but zora was too tired to notice much, and she was dozing wearily when she felt a touch on the arm and found the porter in the seat beside her with his arm thrown familiarly behind her along the top of the back. she rose abruptly to her feet and he started up. "i beg pardon," he said, grinning. zora sat slowly down as he got up and left. she determined to sleep no more. yet a vast vision sank on her weary spirit--the vision of a dark cloud that dropped and dropped upon her, and lay as lead along her straining shoulders. she must lift it, she knew, though it were big as a world, and she put her strength to it and groaned as the porter cried in the ghostly morning light: "atlanta! all change!" away yonder at the school near toomsville, miss smith sat waiting for the coming of zora, absently attending the duties of the office. dark little heads and hands bobbed by and soft voices called: "miss smith, i wants a penny pencil." "miss smith, is yo' got a speller fo' ten cents?" "miss smith, mammy say please lemme come to school this week and she'll sho' pay sata'day." yet the little voices that summoned her back to earth were less clamorous than in other years, for the school was far from full, and miss smith observed the falling off with grave eyes. this condition was patently the result of the cotton corner and the subsequent manipulation. when cotton rose, the tenants had already sold their cotton; when cotton fell the landlords squeezed the rations and lowered the wages. when cotton rose again, up went the new spring rent contracts. so it was that the bewildered black serf dawdled in listless inability to understand. the cresswells in their new wealth, the maxwells and tollivers in the new pinch of poverty, stretched long arms to gather in the tenants and their children. excuse after excuse came to the school. "i can't send the chilluns dis term, miss smith; dey has to work." "mr. cresswell won't allow will to go to school this term." "mr. tolliver done put sam in the field." and so miss smith contemplated many empty desks. slowly a sort of fatal inaction seized her. the school went on; daily the dark little cloud of scholars rose up from hill and vale and settled in the white buildings; the hum of voices and the busy movements of industrious teachers filled the day; the office work went on methodically; but back of it all miss smith sat half hopeless. it cost five thousand a year to run the school, and this sum she raised with increasingly greater difficulty. extra and heart-straining effort had been needed to raise the eight hundred dollars additional for interest money on the mortgage last year. next year it might have to come out of the regular income and thus cut off two teachers. beyond all this the raising of ten thousand dollars to satisfy the mortgage seemed simply impossible, and miss smith sat in fatal resignation, awaiting the coming day. "it's the lord's work. i've done what i could. i guess if he wants it to go on, he'll find a way. and if he doesn't--" she looked off across the swamp and was silent. then came zora's letter, simple and brief, but breathing youth and strength of purpose. miss smith seized upon it as an omen of salvation. in vain her shrewd new england reason asked: "what can a half-taught black girl do in this wilderness?" her heart answered back: "what is impossible to youth and resolution?" let the shabbiness increase; let the debts pile up; let the boarders complain and the teachers gossip--zora was coming. and somehow she and zora would find a way. and zora came just as the sun threw its last crimson through the black swamp; came and gathered the frail and white-haired woman in her arms; and they wept together. long and low they talked, far into the soft southern night; sitting shaded beneath the stars, while nearby blinked the drowsy lights of the girls' dormitory. at last miss smith said, rising stiffly: "i forgot to ask about mrs. vanderpool. how is she, and where?" zora murmured some answer; but as she went to bed in her little white room she sat wondering sadly. where was the poor spoiled woman? who was putting her to bed and smoothing the pillow? who was caring for her, and what was she doing? and zora strained her eyes northward through the night. at this moment, mrs. vanderpool, rising from a gala dinner in the brilliant drawing-room of her lake george mansion, was reading the evening paper which her husband had put into her hands. with startled eyes she caught the impudent headlines: vanderpool dropped senate refuses to confirm todd insurgents muster enough votes to defeat confirmation of president's nominee rumored revenge for machine's defeat of child labor bill amendment. the paper trembled in her jewelled hands. she glanced down the column. "todd asks: who is vanderpool, anyhow? what did he ever do? he is known only as a selfish millionaire who thinks more of horses than of men." carelessly mrs. vanderpool threw the paper to the floor and bit her lips as the angry blood dyed her face. "they _shall_ confirm him," she whispered, "if i have to mortgage my immortal soul!" and she rang up long distance on the telephone. _thirty-one_ a parting of ways "was the child born dead?" "worse than dead!" somehow, somewhere, mary cresswell had heard these words; long, long, ago, down there in the great pain-swept shadows of utter agony, where earth seemed slipping its moorings; and now, today, she lay repeating them mechanically, grasping vaguely at their meaning. long she had wrestled with them as they twisted and turned and knotted themselves, and she worked and toiled so hard as she lay there to make the thing clear--to understand. "was the child born dead?" "worse than dead!" then faint and fainter whisperings: what could be worse than death? she had tried to ask the grey old doctor, but he soothed her like a child each day and left her lying there. today she was stronger, and for the first time sitting up, looking listlessly out across the world--a queer world. why had they not let her see the child--just one look at its little dead face? that would have been something. and again, as the doctor cheerily turned to go, she sought to repeat the old question. he looked at her sharply, then interrupted, saying kindly: "there, now; you've been dreaming. you must rest quietly now." and with a nod he passed into the other room to talk with her husband. she was not satisfied. she had not been dreaming. she would tell harry to ask him--she did not often see her husband, but she must ask him now and she arose unsteadily and swayed noiselessly across the floor. a moment she leaned against the door, then opened it slightly. from the other side the words came distinctly and clearly: "--other children, doctor?" "you must have no other children, mr. cresswell." "why?" "because the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation." slowly, softly, she crept away. her mind seemed very clear. and she began a long journey to reach her window and chair--a long, long journey; but at last she sank into the chair again and sat dry-eyed, wondering who had conceived this world and made it, and why. a long time afterward she found herself lying in bed, awake, conscious, clear-minded. yet she thought as little as possible, for that was pain; but she listened gladly, for without she heard the solemn beating of the sea, the mighty rhythmic beating of the sea. long days she lay, and sat and walked beside those vast and speaking waters, till at last she knew their voice and they spoke to her and the sea-calm soothed her soul. for one brief moment of her life she saw herself clearly: a well-meaning woman, ambitious, but curiously narrow; not willing to work long for the vision, but leaping at it rashly, blindly, with a deep-seated sense of duty which she made a source of offence by preening and parading it, and forcing it to ill-timed notice. she saw that she had looked on her husband as a means not an end. she had wished to absorb him and his work for her own glory. she had idealized for her own uses a very human man whose life had been full of sin and fault. she must atone. no sooner, in this brief moment, did she see herself honestly than her old habits swept her on tumultuously. no ordinary atonement would do. the sacrifice must be vast; the world must stand in wonder before this clever woman sinking her soul in another and raising him by sheer will to the highest. so after six endless months mary cresswell walked into her washington home again. she knew she had changed in appearance, but she had forgotten to note how much until she saw the stare--almost the recoil--of her husband, the muttered exclamation, the studied, almost overdone welcome. then she went up to her mirror and looked long, and knew. she was strong; she felt well; but she was slight, almost scrawny, and her beauty was gone forever. it had been of that blonde white-and-pink type that fades in a flash, and its going left her body flattened and angular, her skin drawn and dead white, her eyes sunken. from the radiant girl whom cresswell had met three years earlier the change was startling, and yet the contrast seemed even greater than it was, for her glory then had been her abundant and almost golden hair. now that hair was faded, and falling so fast that at last the doctor advised her to cut it short. this left her ill-shaped head exposed and emphasized the sunken hollows of her face. she knew that she was changed but she did not quite realize how changed, until now as she stood and gazed. yet she did not hesitate but from that moment set herself to her new life task. characteristically, she started dramatically and largely. she was to make her life an endless sacrifice; she was to revivify the manhood in harry cresswell, and all this for no return, no partnership of soul--all was to be complete sacrifice and sinking soul in soul. if mary cresswell had attempted less she would have accomplished more. as it was, she began well; she went to work tactfully, seeming to note no change in his manner toward her; but his manner had changed. he was studiously, scrupulously polite in private, and in public devoted; but there was no feeling, no passion, no love. the polished shell of his clan reflected conventional light even more carefully than formerly because the shell was cold and empty. there were no little flashes of anger now, no poutings nor sweet reconciliations. life ran very smoothly and courteously; and while she did not try to regain the affection, she strove to enthrall his intellect. she supplied a sub-committee upon which he was serving--not directly, but through him--with figures, with reports, books, and papers, so that he received special commendations; a praise that piqued as well as pleased him, because it implied a certain surprise that he was able to do it. "the damned yankees!" he sneered. "they think they've got the brains of the nation." "why not make a speech on the subject?" she suggested. he laughed. the matter under discussion was the cotton-goods schedule of the new tariff bill, about which really he knew a little; his wife placed every temptation to knowledge before him, even inspiring senator smith to ask him to defend that schedule against the low-tariff advocate. mary cresswell worked with redoubled energy, and for nearly a week harry staid at home nights and studied. thanks to his wife the speech was unusually informing and well put, and the fact that a prominent free-trader spoke the same afternoon gave it publicity, while mr. easterly saw to the press despatches. cresswell subscribed to a clipping-bureau and tasted the sweets of dawning notoriety, and mrs. cresswell arranged a select dinner-party which included a cabinet officer, a foreign ambassador, two millionaires, and the leading southern congressmen. the talk came around to the failure of the senate to confirm mr. vanderpool, and it was generally assumed that the president would not force the issue. who, then, should be nominated? there were several suggestions, but the knot of southern congressmen about mrs. cresswell declared emphatically that it must be a southerner. not since the war had a prominent southerner represented america at a first-class foreign court; it was shameful; the time was ripe for change. but who? here opinions differed widely. nearly every one mentioned a candidate, and those who did not seemed to refrain from motives of personal modesty. mary cresswell sped her departing guests with a distinct purpose in mind. she must make herself leader of the southern set in washington and concentrate its whole force on the appointment of harry cresswell as ambassador to france. quick reward and promotion were essential to harry's success. he was not one to keep up the strain of effort a long time. unless, then, tangible results came and came quickly, he was liable to relapse into old habits. therefore he must succeed and succeed at once. she would have preferred a less ornamental position than the ambassadorship, but there were no other openings. the alabama senators were firmly seated for at least four years and the governorship had been carefully arranged for. a term of four years abroad, however, might bring harry cresswell back in time for greater advancement. at any rate, it was the only tangible offering, and mary cresswell silently determined to work for it. here it was that she made her mistake. it was one thing for her to be a tactful hostess, pleasing her husband and his guests; it was another for her to aim openly at social leadership and political influence. she had at first all the insignia of success. her dinners became of real political significance and her husband figured more and more as a leading southerner. the result was two-fold. cresswell, on the one hand, with his usual selfishness, took his rising popularity as a matter of course and as the fruits of his own work; he was rising, he was making valuable speeches, he was becoming a social power, and his only handicap was his plain and over-ambitious wife. but on the other hand mrs. cresswell forgot two pitfalls: the cleft between the old southern aristocracy and the pushing new southerners; and above all, her own northern birth and presumably pro-negro sympathies. what mrs. cresswell forgot mrs. vanderpool sensed unerringly. she had heard with uneasiness of cresswell's renewed candidacy for the paris ambassadorship, and she set herself to block it. she had worked hard. the president stood ready to send her husband's appointment again to the senate whenever easterly could assure him of favorable action. easterly had long and satisfactory interviews with several senators, while the todd insurgents were losing heart at the prospect of choosing between vanderpool and cresswell. at present four southern votes were needed to confirm vanderpool; but if they could not be had, easterly declared it would be good politics to nominate cresswell and give him republican support. manifestly, then, mrs. vanderpool's task was to discredit the cresswells with the southerners. it was not a work to her liking, but the die was cast and she refused to contemplate defeat. the result was that while mrs. cresswell was giving large and brilliant parties to the whole southern contingent, mrs. vanderpool was engineering exclusive dinners where old new york met stately charleston and gossiped interestingly. on such occasions it was hinted not once, but many times, that the cresswells were well enough, but who was that upstart wife who presumed to take social precedence? it was not, however, until mrs. cresswell's plan for an all-southern art exhibit in washington that mrs. vanderpool, in a flash of inspiration, saw her chance. in the annual exhibit of the corcoran art gallery, a southern girl had nearly won first prize over a western man. the concensus of southern opinion was that the judgment had been unfair, and mrs. cresswell was convinced of this. with quick intuition she suggested a southern exhibit with such social prestige back of it as to impress the country. the proposal caught the imagination of the southern set. none suspected a possible intrusion of the eternal race issue for no negroes were allowed in the corcoran exhibit or school. this mrs. vanderpool easily ascertained and a certain sense of justice combined in a curious way with her political intrigue to bring about the undoing of mary cresswell. mrs. vanderpool's very first cautious inquiries by way of the back stairs brought gratifying response--for did not all black washington know well of the work in sculpture done by mrs. samuel stillings, _nee_ wynn? mrs. vanderpool remembered mrs. stillings perfectly, and she walked, that evening, through unobtrusive thoroughfares and called on mrs. stillings. had mrs. stillings heard of the new art movement? did she intend to exhibit? mrs. stillings did not intend to exhibit as she was sure she would not be welcome. she had had a bust accepted by the corcoran art gallery once, and when they found she was colored they returned it. but if she were especially invited? that would make a difference, although even then the line would be drawn somehow. "would it not be worth a fight?" suggested mrs. vanderpool with a little heightening of color in her pale cheek. "perhaps," said mrs. stillings, as she brought out some specimens of her work. mrs. vanderpool was both ashamed and grateful. with money and leisure mrs. stillings had been able to get in new york and boston the training she had been denied in washington on account of her color. the things she exhibited really had merit and one curiously original group appealed to mrs. vanderpool tremendously. "send it," she counseled with strangely contradictory feelings of enthusiasm, and added: "enter it under the name of wynn." in addition to the general invitations to the art exhibit numbers of special ones were issued to promising southern amateurs who had never exhibited. for these a prize of a long-term scholarship and other smaller prizes were offered. when mrs. vanderpool suggested the name of "miss wynn" to mrs. cresswell among a dozen others, for special invitation, there was nothing in its sound to distinguish it from the rest of the names, and the invitation went duly. as a result there came to the exhibit a little group called "the outcasts," which was really a masterly thing and sent the director, signor alberni, into hysterical commendation. in the private view and award of prizes which preceded the larger social function the jury hesitated long between "the outcasts" and a painting from georgia. mrs. cresswell was enthusiastic and voluble for the bit of sculpture, and it finally won the vote for the first prize. all was ready for the great day. the president was coming and most of the diplomatic corps, high officers of the army, and all the social leaders. congress would be well represented, and the boom for cresswell as ambassador to france was almost visible in the air. mary cresswell paused a moment in triumph looking back at the darkened hall, when a little woman fluttered up to her and whispered: "mrs. cresswell, have you heard the gossip?" "no--what?" "that wynn woman they say is a nigger. some are whispering that you brought her in purposely to force social equality. they say you used to teach darkies. of course, i don't believe all their talk, but i thought you ought to know." she talked a while longer, then fluttered furtively away. mrs. cresswell sat down limply. she saw ruin ahead--to think of a black girl taking a prize at an all-southern art exhibit! but there was still a chance, and she leaped to action. this colored woman was doubtless some poor deserving creature. she would call on her immediately, and by an offer of abundant help induce her to withdraw quietly. entering her motor, she drove near the address and then proceeded on foot. the street was a prominent one, the block one of the best, the house almost pretentious. she glanced at her memorandum again to see if she was mistaken. perhaps the woman was a domestic; probably she was, for the name on the door was stillings. it occurred to her that she had heard that name before--but where? she looked again at her memorandum and at the house. she rang the bell, asking the trim black maid: "is there a person named caroline wynn living in this house?" the girl smiled and hesitated. "yes, ma'am," she finally replied. "won't you come in?" she was shown into the parlor, where she sat down. the room was most interesting, furnished in unimpeachable taste. a few good pictures were on the walls, and mrs. cresswell was examining one when she heard the swish of silken skirts. a lady with gold brown face and straight hair stood before her with pleasant smile. where had mrs. cresswell seen her before? she tried to remember, but could not. "you wished to see--caroline wynn?" "yes." "what can i do for you?" mrs. cresswell groped for her proper cue, but the brown lady merely offered a chair and sat down silently. mrs. cresswell's perplexity increased. she had been planning to descend graciously but authoritatively upon some shrinking girl, but this woman not only seemed to assume equality but actually looked it. from a rapid survey, mrs. cresswell saw a black silk stocking, a bit of lace, a tailor-made gown, and a head with two full black eyes that waited in calmly polite expectancy. something had to be said. "i--er--came; that is, i believe you sent a group to the art exhibit?" "yes." "it was good--very good." miss wynn said nothing, but sat calmly looking at her visitor. mrs. cresswell felt irritated. "of course," she managed to continue, "we are very sorry that we cannot receive it." "indeed? i understood it had taken the first prize." mrs. cresswell was aghast. who had rushed the news to this woman? she realized that there were depths to this matter that she did not understand and her irritation increased. "you know that we could not give the prize to a--negro." "why not?" "that is quite immaterial. social equality cannot be forced. at the same time i recognize the injustice, and i have come to say that if you will withdraw your exhibit you will be given a scholarship in a boston school." "i do not wish it." "well, what do you want?" "i was not aware that i had asked for anything." mrs. cresswell felt herself getting angry. "why did you send your exhibit when you knew it was not wanted?" "because you asked me to." "we did not ask for colored people." "you asked all southern-born persons. i am a person and i am southern born. moreover, you sent me a personal letter." mrs. cresswell was sure that this was a lie and was thoroughly incensed. "you cannot have the prize," she almost snapped. "if you will withdraw i will pay you any reasonable sum." "thank you. i do not want money; i want justice." mrs. cresswell arose and her face was white. "that is the trouble with you negroes: you wish to get above your places and force yourselves where you are not wanted. it does no good, it only makes trouble and enemies." mrs. cresswell stopped, for the colored woman had gone quietly out of the room and in a moment the maid entered and stood ready. mrs. cresswell walked slowly to the door and stepped out. then she turned. "what does miss wynn do for a living?" the girl tittered. "she used to teach school but she don't do nothing now. she's just married; her husband is mr. stillings, register of the treasury." mrs. cresswell saw light as she turned to go down the steps. there was but one resource--she must keep the matter out of the newspapers, and see stillings, whom she now remembered well. "i beg pardon, does the miss wynn live here who got the prize in the art exhibition?" mrs. cresswell turned in amazement. it was evidently a reporter, and the maid was admitting him. the news would reach the papers and be blazoned to-morrow. slowly she caught her motor and fell wearily back on its cushions. "where to, madame?" asked the chauffeur. "i don't care," returned madame; so the chauffeur took her home. she walked slowly up the stairs. all her carefully laid plans seemed about to be thwarted and her castles were leaning toward ruin. yet all was not lost, if her husband continued to believe in her. if, as she feared, he should suspect her on account of this negro woman, and quarrel with her-- but he must not. this very night, before the morning papers came out, she must explain. he must see; he must appreciate her efforts. she rushed into her dressing-room and called her maid. contrary to her puritan notions, she frankly sought to beautify herself. she remembered that it was the anniversary of her coming to this house. she got out her wedding-dress, and although it hung loosely, the maid draped the silver fleece beautifully about her. she heard her husband enter and come up-stairs. quickly finishing her toilet, she hurried down to arrange the flowers, for they were alone that night. the telephone rang. she knew it would ring up-stairs in his room, but she usually answered it for he disliked to. she raised the receiver and started to speak when she realized that she had broken into the midst of a conversation. "--committee won't meet tonight, harry." "so? all right. anything on?" "yes--big spree at nell's. will you go?" "sure thing; you know me! what time?" "meet us at the willard by nine. s'long." "good-bye." she slowly, half guiltily, replaced the receiver. she had not meant to listen, but now to her desperate longing to keep him home was added a new motive. where was "nell's"? what was "nell's"? what was--and there was fear in her heart. at dinner she tried all her powers on him. she had his favorite dishes; she mixed his salad and selected his wine; she talked interestingly, and listened sympathetically, to him. he looked at her with more attention. her cheeks were more brilliant, for she had touched them with rouge. her eyes flashed; but he glanced furtively at her short hair. she saw the act; but still she strove until he was content and laughing; then coming round back of his chair, she placed her arms about his neck. "harry, will you do me a favor?" "why, yes--if--" "it is something i want very, very much." "well, all right, if--" "harry, i feel a little--hysterical, tonight, and--you will not refuse me, will you, harry?" standing there, she saw the tableau in her own mind, and it looked strange. she was afraid of herself. she knew that she would do something foolish if she did not win this battle. she felt that overpowering fanaticism back within her raging restlessly. if she was not careful-- "but what is it you want?" asked her husband. "i don't want you to go out tonight." he laughed awkwardly. "nonsense, girl! the sub-committee on the cotton schedule meets tonight--very important; otherwise--" she shuddered at the smooth lie and clasped him closer, putting her cheek to his. "harry," she pleaded, "just this once--for me." he disengaged himself, half impatiently, and rose, glancing at the clock. it was nearly nine. a feeling of desperation came over her. "harry," she asked again as he slipped on his coat. "don't be foolish," he growled. "just this once--harry--i--" but the door banged to, and he was gone. she stood looking at the closed door a moment. something in her head was ready to snap. she went to the rack and taking his long heavy overcoat slipped it on. it nearly touched the floor. she seized a soft broad-brimmed hat and umbrella and walked out. just what she meant to do she did not know, but somehow she must save her husband and herself from evil. she hurried to the willard hotel and watched, walking up and down the opposite sidewalk. a woman brushed by her and looked her in the face. "hell! i thought you was a man," she said. "is this a new gag?" mrs. cresswell looked down at herself involuntarily and smiled wanly. she did look like a man, with her hat and coat and short hair. the woman peered at her doubtingly. she was, as mrs. cresswell noticed, a young woman, once pretty, perhaps, and a little over-dressed. "are you walking?" she asked. "what do you mean?" asked mrs. cresswell, and then in a moment it flashed upon her. she took the woman's arm and walked with her. suddenly she stopped. "where's--nell's?" the woman frowned. "oh, that's a swell place," she said. "senators and millionaires. too high for us to fly." mrs. cresswell winced. "but where is it?" she asked. "we'll walk by it if you want to." and mary cresswell walked in another world. up from the ground of the drowsy city rose pale gray forms; pale, flushed, and brilliant, in silken rags. up and down they passed, to and fro, looking and gliding like sheeted ghosts; now dodging policemen, now accosting them familiarly. "hello, elise," growled one big blue-coat. "hello, jack." "what's this?" and he peered at mrs. cresswell, who shrank back. "friend of mine. all right." a horror crept over mary cresswell: where had she lived that she had seen so little before? what was washington, and what was this fine, tall, quiet residence? was this--"nell's"? "yes, this is it--good-bye--i must--" "wait--what is your name?" "i haven't any name," answered the woman suspiciously. "well--pardon me! here!" and she thrust a bill into the woman's hand. the girl stared. "well, you're a queer one! thanks. guess i'll turn in." mary cresswell turned to see her husband and his companions ascending the steps of the quiet mansion. she stood uncertainly and looked at the opening and closing door. then a policeman came by and looked at her. "come, move on," he brusquely ordered. her vacillation promptly vanished, and she resolutely mounted the steps. she put out her hand to ring, but the door flew silently open and a man-servant stood looking at her. "i have some friends here," she said, speaking coarsely. "you will have to be introduced," said the man. she hesitated and started to turn away. thrusting her hand in her pocket it closed upon her husband's card-case. she presented a card. it worked a rapid transformation in the servant's manner, which did not escape her. "come in," he invited her. she did not stop at the outstretched arm of the cloakman, but glided quickly up the stairs toward a vision of handsome women and strains of music. harry cresswell was sitting opposite and bending over an impudent blue-and-blonde beauty. mary slipped straight across to him and leaned across the table. the hat fell off, but she let it go. "harry!" she tried to say as he looked up. then the table swayed gently to and fro; the room bowed and whirled about; the voices grew fainter and fainter--all the world receded suddenly far away. she extended her hands languidly, then, feeling so utterly tired, let her eyelids drop and fell asleep. she awoke with a start, in her own bed. she was physically exhausted but her mind was clear. she must go down and meet him at breakfast and talk frankly with him. she would let bygones be bygones. she would explain that she had followed him to save him, not to betray him. she would point out the greater career before him if only he would be a man; she would show him that they had not failed. for herself she asked nothing, only his word, his confidence, his promise to try. after his first start of surprise at seeing her at the table, cresswell uttered nothing immediately save the commonplaces of greeting. he mentioned one or two bits of news from the paper, upon which she commented while dawdling over her egg. when the servant went out and closed the door, she paused a moment considering whether to open by appeal or explanation. his smooth tones startled her: "of course, after your art exhibit and the scene of last night, mary, it will be impossible for us to live longer together." she stared at him, utterly aghast--voiceless and numb. "i have seen the crisis approaching for some time, and the negro business settles it," he continued. "i have now decided to send you to my home in alabama, to my father or your brother. i am sure you will be happier there." he rose. bowing courteously, he waited, coldly and calmly, for her to go. all at once she hated him and hated his aristocratic repression; this cold calm that hid hell and its fires. she looked at him, wide-eyed, and said in a voice hoarse with horror and loathing: "you brute! you nasty brute!" _thirty-two_ zora's way zora was looking on her world with the keener vision of one who, blind from very seeing, closes the eyes a space and looks again with wider clearer vision. out of a nebulous cloudland she seemed to step; a land where all things floated in strange confusion, but where one thing stood steadfast, and that was love. when love was shaken all things moved, but now, at last, for the first time she seemed to know the real and mighty world that stood behind that old and shaken dream. so she looked on the world about her with new eyes. these men and women of her childhood had hitherto walked by her like shadows; today they lived for her in flesh and blood. she saw hundreds and thousands of black men and women: crushed, half-spirited, and blind. she saw how high and clear a light sarah smith, for thirty years and more, had carried before them. she saw, too, how that the light had not simply shone in darkness, but had lighted answering beacons here and there in these dull souls. there were thoughts and vague stirrings of unrest in this mass of black folk. they talked long about their firesides, and here zora began to sit and listen, often speaking a word herself. all through the countryside she flitted, till gradually the black folk came to know her and, in silent deference to some subtle difference, they gave her the title of white folk, calling her "miss" zora. today, more than ever before, zora sensed the vast unorganized power in this mass, and her mind was leaping here and there, scheming and testing, when voices arrested her. it was a desolate bit of the cresswell manor, a tiny cabin, new-boarded and bare, in front of it a blazing bonfire. a white man was tossing into the flames different household articles--a feather bed, a bedstead, two rickety chairs. a young, boyish fellow, golden-faced and curly, stood with clenched fists, while a woman with tear-stained eyes clung to him. the white man raised a cradle to dash it into the flames; the woman cried, and the yellow man raised his arm threateningly. but zora's hand was on his shoulder. "what's the matter, rob?" she asked. "they're selling us out," he muttered savagely. "millie's been sick since the last baby died, and i had to neglect my crop to tend her and the other little ones--i didn't make much. they've took my mule, now they're burning my things to make me sign a contract and be a slave. but by--" "there, rob, let millie come with me--we'll see miss smith. we must get land to rent and arrange somehow." the mother sobbed, "the cradle--was baby's!" with an oath the white man dashed the cradle into the fire, and the red flame spurted aloft. the crimson fire flashed in zora's eyes as she passed the overseer. "well, nigger, what are you going to do about it?" he growled insolently. zora's eyelids drooped, her upper lip quivered. "nothing," she answered softly. "but i hope your soul will burn in hell forever and forever." they proceeded down the plantation road, but zora could not speak. she pushed them slowly on, and turned aside to let the anger, the impotent, futile anger, rage itself out. alone in the great broad spaces, she knew she could fight it down, and come back again, cool and in calm and deadly earnest, to lead these children to the light. the sorrow in her heart was new and strange; not sorrow for herself, for of that she had tasted the uttermost; but the vast vicarious suffering for the evil of the world. the tumult and war within her fled, and a sense of helplessness sent the hot tears streaming down her cheeks. she longed for rest; but the last plantation was yet to be passed. far off she heard the yodle of the gangs of peons. she hesitated, looking for some way of escape: if she passed them she would see something--she always saw something--that would send the red blood whirling madly. "here, you!--loafing again, damn you!" she saw the black whip writhe and curl across the shoulders of the plough-boy. the boy crouched and snarled, and again the whip hissed and cracked. zora stood rigid and gray. "my god!" her silent soul was shrieking within, "why doesn't the coward--" and then the "coward" did. the whip was whirring in the air again; but it never fell. a jagged stone in the boy's hand struck true, and the overseer plunged with a grunt into the black furrow. in blank dismay, zora came back to her senses. "poor child!" she gasped, as she saw the boy flying in wild terror over the fields, with hue and cry behind him. "poor child!--running to the penitentiary--to shame and hunger and damnation!" she remembered the rector in mrs. vanderpool's library, and his question that revealed unfathomable depths of ignorance: "really, now, how do you account for the distressing increase in crime among your people?" she swung into the great road trembling with the woe of the world in her eyes. cruelty, poverty, and crime she had looked in the face that morning, and the hurt of it held her heart pinched and quivering. a moment the mists in her eyes shut out the shadows of the swamp, and the roaring in her ears made a silence of the world. before she found herself again she dimly saw a couple sauntering along the road, but she hardly noticed their white faces until the little voice of the girl, raised timidly, greeted her. "howdy, zora." zora looked. the girl was emma, and beside her, smiling, stood a half-grown white man. it was emma, bertie's child; and yet it was not, for in the child of other days zora saw for the first time the dawning woman. and she saw, too, the white man. suddenly the horror of the swamp was upon her. she swept between the couple like a gust, gripping the child's arm till she paled and almost whimpered. "i--i was just going on an errand for miss smith!" she cried. looking down into her soul, zora discerned its innocence and the fright shining in the child's eyes. her own eyes softened, her grip became a caress, but her heart was hard. the young man laughed awkwardly and strolled away. zora looked back at him and the paramount mission of her life formed itself in her mind. she would protect this girl; she would protect all black girls. she would make it possible for these poor beasts of burden to be decent in their toil. out of protection of womanhood as the central thought, she must build ramparts against cruelty, poverty, and crime. all this in turn--but now and first, the innocent girlhood of this daughter of shame must be rescued from the devil. it was her duty, her heritage. she must offer this unsullied soul up unto god in mighty atonement--but how? here now was no protection. already lustful eyes were in wait, and the child was too ignorant to protect herself. she must be sent to boarding-school, somewhere far away; but the money? god! it was money, money, always money. then she stopped suddenly, thrilled with the recollection of mrs. vanderpool's check. she dismissed the girl with a kiss, and stood still a moment considering. money to send emma off to school; money to buy a school farm; money to "buy" tenants to live on it; money to furnish them rations; money-- she went straight to miss smith. "miss smith, how much money have you?" miss smith's hand trembled a bit. ah, that splendid strength of young womanhood--if only she herself had it! but perhaps zora was the chosen one. she reached up and took down a well-worn book. "zora," she said slowly, "i've been going to tell you ever since you came, but i hadn't the courage. zora," miss smith hesitated and gripped the book with thin white fingers, "i'm afraid--i almost know that this school is doomed." there lay a silence in the room while the two women stared into each other's souls with startled eyes. swallowing hard, miss smith spoke. "when i thought the endowment sure, i mortgaged the school in order to buy tolliver's land. the endowment failed, as you know, because--perhaps i was too stubborn." but zora's eyes snapped "no!" and miss smith continued: "i borrowed ten thousand dollars. then i tried to get the land, but tolliver kept putting me off, and finally i learned that colonel cresswell had bought it. it seems that tolliver got caught tight in the cotton corner, and that cresswell, through john taylor, offered him twice what he had agreed to sell to me for, and he took it. i don't suppose taylor knew what he was doing; i hope he didn't. "well, there i was with ten thousand dollars idle on my hands, paying ten per cent on it and getting less than three per cent. i tried to get the bank to take the money back, but they refused. then i was tempted--and fell." she paused, and zora took both her hands in her own. "you see," continued miss smith, "just as soon as the announcement of the prospective endowment was sent broadcast by the press, the donations from the north fell off. letter after letter came from old friends of the school full of congratulations, but no money. i ought to have cut down the teaching force to the barest minimum, and gone north begging--but i couldn't. i guess my courage was gone. i knew how i'd have to explain and plead, and i just could not. so i used the ten thousand dollars to pay its own interest and help run the school. already it's half gone, and when the rest goes then will come the end." without, the great red sun paused a moment over the edge of the swamp, and the long, low cry of night birds broke sadly on the twilight silence. zora sat stroking the lined hands. "not the end," she spoke confidently. "it cannot end like this. i've got a little money that mrs. vanderpool gave me, and somehow we must get more. perhaps i might go north and--beg." she shivered. then she sat up resolutely and turned to the book. "let's go over matters carefully," she proposed. together they counted and calculated. "the balance is four thousand seven hundred and ninety-eight dollars," said miss smith. "yes, and then there's mrs. vanderpool's check." "how much is that?" zora paused; she did not know. in her world there was little calculation of money. credit and not cash is the currency of the black belt. she had been pleased to receive the check, but she had not examined it. "i really don't know," she presently confessed. "i think it was one thousand dollars; but i was so hurried in leaving that i didn't look carefully," and the wild thought surged in her, suppose it was more! she ran into the other room and plunged into her trunk; beneath the clothes, beneath the beauty of the silver fleece, till her fingers clutched and tore the envelope. a little choking cry burst from her throat, her knees trembled so that she was obliged to sit down. in her fingers fluttered a check for--_ten thousand dollars!_ it was not until the next day that the two women were sufficiently composed to talk matters over sanely. "what is your plan?" asked zora. "to put the money in a northern savings bank at three per cent interest; to supply the rest of the interest, and the deficit in the running expenses, from our balance, and to send you north to beg." zora shook her head. "it won't do," she objected. "i'd make a poor beggar; i don't know human nature well enough, and i can't talk to rich white folks the way they expect us to talk." "it wouldn't be hypocrisy, zora; you would be serving in a great cause. if you don't go, i--" "wait! you sha'n't go. if any one goes it must be me. but let's think it out: we pay off the mortgage, we get enough to run the school as it has been run. then what? there will still be slavery and oppression all around us. the children will be kept in the cotton fields; the men will be cheated, and the women--" zora paused and her eyes grew hard. she began again rapidly: "we must have land--our own farm with our own tenants--to be the beginning of a free community." miss smith threw up her hands impatiently. "but sakes alive! where, zora? where can we get land, with cresswell owning every inch and bound to destroy us?" zora sat hugging her knees and staring out the window toward the sombre ramparts of the swamp. in her eyes lay slumbering the madness of long ago; in her brain danced all the dreams and visions of childhood. "i'm thinking," she murmured, "of buying the swamp." _thirty-three_ the buying of the swamp "it's a shame," asserted john taylor with something like real feeling. he was spending sunday with his father-in-law, and both, over their after-dinner cigars, were gazing thoughtfully at the swamp. "what's a shame?" asked colonel cresswell. "to see all that timber and prime cotton-land going to waste. don't you remember those fine bales of cotton that came out of there several seasons ago?" the colonel smoked placidly. "you can't get it cleared," he said. "but couldn't you hire some good workers?" "niggers won't work. now if we had italians we might do it." "yes, and in a few years they'd own the country." "that's right; so there we are. there's only one way to get that swamp cleared." "how?" "sell it to some fool darkey." "sell it? it's too valuable to sell." "that's just it. you don't understand. the only way to get decent work out of some niggers is to let them believe they're buying land. in nine cases out of ten he works hard a while and then throws up the job. we get back our land and he makes good wages for his work." "but in the tenth case--suppose he should stick to it?" "oh,"--easily, "we could get rid of him when we want to. white people rule here." john taylor frowned and looked a little puzzled. he was no moralist, but he had his code and he did not understand colonel cresswell. as a matter of fact, colonel cresswell was an honest man. in most matters of commerce between men he was punctilious to a degree almost annoying to taylor. but there was one part of the world which his code of honor did not cover, and he saw no incongruity in the omission. the uninitiated cannot easily picture to himself the mental attitude of a former slaveholder toward property in the hands of a negro. such property belonged of right to the master, if the master needed it; and since ridiculous laws safeguarded the property, it was perfectly permissible to circumvent such laws. no negro starved on the cresswell place, neither did any accumulate property. colonel cresswell saw to both matters. as the colonel and john taylor were thus conferring, zora appeared, coming up the walk. "who's that?" asked the colonel shading his eyes. "it's zora--the girl who went north with mrs. vanderpool," taylor enlightened him. "back, is she? too trifling to stick to a job, and full of northern nonsense," growled the colonel. "even got a northern walk--i thought for a moment she was a lady." neither of the gentlemen ever dreamed how long, how hard, how heart-wringing was that walk from the gate up the winding way beneath their careless gaze. it was not the coming of the thoughtless, careless girl of five years ago who had marched a dozen times unthinking before the faces of white men. it was the approach of a woman who knew how the world treated women whom it respected; who knew that no such treatment would be thought of in her case: neither the bow, the lifted hat, nor even the conventional title of decency. yet she must go on naturally and easily, boldly but circumspectly, and play a daring game with two powerful men. "can i speak with you a moment, colonel?" she asked. the colonel did not stir or remove his cigar; he even injected a little gruffness into his tone. "well, what is it?" of course, she was not asked to sit, but she stood with her hands clasped loosely before her and her eyes half veiled. "colonel, i've got a thousand dollars." she did not mention the other nine. the colonel sat up. "where did you get it?" he asked. "mrs. vanderpool gave it to me to use in helping the colored people." "what are you going to do with it?" "well, that's just what i came to see you about. you see, i might give it to the school, but i've been thinking that i'd like to buy some land for some of the tenants." "i've got no land to sell," said the colonel. "i was thinking you might sell a bit of the swamp." cresswell and taylor glanced at each other and the colonel re-lit his cigar. "how much of it?" he asked finally. "i don't know; i thought perhaps two hundred acres." "two hundred acres? do you expect to buy that land for five dollars an acre?" "oh, no, sir. i thought it might cost as much as twenty-five dollars." "but you've only got a thousand dollars." "yes, sir; i thought i might pay that down and then pay the rest from the crops." "who's going to work on the place?" zora named a number of the steadiest tenants to whom she had spoken. "they owe me a lot of money," said the colonel. "we'd try to pay that, too." colonel cresswell considered. there was absolutely no risk. the cost of the land, the back debts of the tenants--no possible crops could pay for them. then there was the chance of getting the swamp cleared for almost nothing. "how's the school getting on?" he asked suddenly. "very poorly," answered zora sadly. "you know it's mortgaged, and miss smith has had to use the mortgage money for yearly expenses." the colonel smiled grimly. "it will cost you fifty dollars an acre," he said finally. zora looked disappointed and figured out the matter slowly. "that would be one thousand down and nine thousand to pay--" "with interest," said cresswell. zora shook her head doubtfully. "what would the interest be?" she asked. "ten per cent." she stood silent a moment and colonel cresswell spoke up: "it's the best land about here and about the only land you can buy--i wouldn't sell it to anybody else." she still hesitated. "the trouble is, you see, colonel cresswell, the price is high and the interest heavy. and after all i may not be able to get as many tenants as i'd need. i think though, i'd try it if--if i could be sure you'd treat me fairly, and that i'd get the land if i paid for it." colonel cresswell reddened a little, and john taylor looked away. "well, if you don't want to undertake it, all right." zora looked thoughtfully across the field-- "mr. maxwell has a bit of land," she began meditatively. "worked out, and not worth five dollars an acre!" snapped the colonel. but he did not propose to hand maxwell a thousand dollars. "now, see here, i'll treat you as well as anybody, and you know it." "i believe so, sir," acknowledged zora in a tone that brought a sudden keen glance from taylor; but her face was a mask. "i reckon i'll make the bargain." "all right. bring the money and we'll fix the thing up." "the money is here," said zora, taking an envelope out of her bosom. "well, leave it here, and i'll see to it." "but you see, sir, miss smith is so methodical; she expects some papers or receipts." "well, it's too late tonight." "possibly you could sign a sort of receipt and later--" cresswell laughed. "well, write one," he indulgently assented. and zora wrote. when zora left colonel cresswell's about noon that sunday she knew her work had just begun, and she walked swiftly along the country roads, calling here and there. would uncle isaac help her build a log home? would the boys help her some time to clear some swamp land? would rob become a tenant when she asked? for this was the idle time of the year. crops were laid by and planting had not yet begun. this too was the time of big church meetings. she knew that in her part of the country on that day the black population, man, woman, and child, were gathered in great groups; all day they had been gathering, streaming in snake-like lines along the country roads, in well-brushed, brilliant attire, half fantastic, half crude. down where the toomsville-montgomery highway dipped to the stream that fed the cresswell swamp squatted a square barn that slept through day and weeks in dull indifference. but on the first sunday it woke to sudden mighty life. the voices of men and children mingled with the snorting of animals and the cracking of whips. then came the long drone and sing-song of the preacher with its sharp wilder climaxes and the answering "amens" and screams of the worshippers. this was the shrine of the baptists--shrine and oracle, centre and source of inspiration--and hither zora hurried. the preacher was jones, a big man, fat, black, and greasy, with little eyes, unctuous voice, and three manners: his white folks manner, soft, humble, wheedling; his black folks manner, voluble, important, condescending; and above all, his pulpit manner, loud, wild, and strong. he was about to don this latter cloak when zora approached with a request briefly to address the congregation. remembering some former snubs, his manner was lordly. "i doesn't see," he returned reflectively, wiping his brows, "as how i can rightly spare you any time; the brethren is a-gettin' mighty onpatient to hear me." he pulled down his cuffs, regarding her doubtfully. "i might speak after you're through," she suggested. but he objected that there was the regular collection and two or three other collections, a baptism, a meeting of the trustees; there was no time, in short; but--he eyed her again. "does you want--a collection?" he questioned suspiciously, for he could imagine few other reasons for talking. then, too, he did not want to be too inflexible, for all of his people knew zora and liked her. "oh, no, i want no collection at all. i only want a little voluntary work on their part." he looked relieved, frowned through the door at the audience, and looked at his bright gold watch. the whole crowd was not there yet--perhaps-- "you kin say just a word before the sermont," he finally yielded; "but not long--not long. they'se just a-dying to hear me." so zora spoke simply but clearly: of neglect and suffering, of the sins of others that bowed young shoulders, of the great hope of the children's future. then she told something of what she had seen and read of the world's newer ways of helping men and women. she talked of cooperation and refuges and other efforts; she praised their way of adopting children into their own homes; and then finally she told them of the land she was buying for new tenants and the helping hands she needed. the preacher fidgeted and coughed but dared not actually interrupt, for the people were listening breathless to a kind of straightforward talk which they seldom heard and for which they were hungering. and zora forgot time and occasion. the moments flew; the crowd increased until the wonderful spell of those dark and upturned faces pulsed in her blood. she felt the wild yearning to help them beating in her ears and blinding her eyes. "oh, my people!" she almost sobbed. "my own people, i am not asking you to help others; i am pleading with you to help yourselves. rescue your own flesh and blood--free yourselves--free yourselves!" and from the swaying sobbing hundreds burst a great "amen!" the minister's dusky face grew more and more sombre, and the angry sweat started on his brow. he felt himself hoaxed and cheated, and he meant to have his revenge. two hundred men and women rose and pledged themselves to help zora; and when she turned with overflowing heart to thank the preacher he had left the platform, and she found him in the yard whispering darkly with two deacons. she realized her mistake, and promised to retrieve it during the week; but the week was full of planning and journeying and talking. saturday dawned cool and clear. she had dinner prepared for cooking in the yard: sweet potatoes, hoe-cake, and buttermilk, and a hog to be barbecued. everything was ready by eight o'clock in the morning. emma and two other girl helpers were on the tip-toe of expectancy. nine o'clock came and no one with it. ten o'clock came, and eleven. high noon found zora peering down the highway under her shading hand, but no soul in sight. she tried to think it out: what could have happened? her people were slow, tardy, but they would not thus forget her and disappoint her without some great cause. she sent the girls home at dusk and then seated herself miserably under the great oak; then at last one half-grown boy hurried by. "i wanted to come, miss zora, but i was afeared. preacher jones has been talking everywhere against you. he says that your mother was a voodoo woman and that you don't believe in god, and the deacons voted that the members mustn't help you." "and do the people believe that?" she asked in consternation. "they just don't know what to say. they don't 'zactly believe it, but they has to 'low that you didn't say much 'bout religion when you talked. you ain't been near big meetin'--and--and--you ain't saved." he hurried on. zora leaned her head back wearily, watching the laced black branches where the star-light flickered through--as coldly still and immovable as she had watched them from those gnarled roots all her life--and she murmured bitterly the world-old question of despair: "what's the use?" it seemed to her that every breeze and branch was instinct with sympathy, and murmuring, "what's the use?" she wondered vaguely why, and as she wondered, she knew. for yonder where the black earth of the swamp heaved in a formless mound she felt the black arms of elspeth rising from the sod--gigantic, mighty. they stole toward her with stealthy hands and claw-like talons. they clutched at her skirts. she froze and could not move. down, down she slipped toward the black slime of the swamp, and the air about was horror--down, down, till the chilly waters stung her knees; and then with one grip she seized the oak, while the great hand of elspeth twisted and tore her soul. faint, afar, nearer and nearer and ever mightier, rose a song of mystic melody. she heard its human voice and sought to cry aloud. she strove again and again with that gripping, twisting pain--that awful hand--until the shriek came and she awoke. she lay panting and sweating across the bent and broken roots of the oak. the hand of elspeth was gone but the song was still there. she rose trembling and listened. it was the singing of the big meeting in the church far away. she had forgotten this religious revival in her days of hurried preparation, and the preacher had used her absence and apparent indifference against her and her work. the hand of elspeth was reaching from the grave to pull her back; but she was no longer dreaming now. drawing her shawl about her, she hurried down the highway. the meeting had overflowed the church and spread to the edge of the swamp. the tops of young trees had been bent down and interlaced to form a covering and benches twined to their trunks. thus a low and wide cathedral, all green and silver in the star-light, lay packed with a living mass of black folk. flaming pine torches burned above the devotees; the rhythm of their stamping, the shout of their voices, and the wild music of their singing shook the night. four hundred people fell upon their knees when the huge black preacher, uncoated, red-eyed, frenzied, stretched his long arms to heaven. zora saw the throng from afar, and hesitated. after all, she knew little of this strange faith of theirs--had little belief in its mummery. she herself had been brought up almost without religion save some few mystic remnants of a half-forgotten heathen cult. the little she had seen of religious observance had not moved her greatly, save once yonder in washington. there she found god after a searching that had seared her soul; but he had simply pointed the way, and the way was human. humanity was near and real. she loved it. but if she talked again of mere men would these devotees listen? already the minister had spied her tall form and feared her power. he set his powerful voice and the frenzy of his hearers to crush her. "who is dis what talks of doing the lord's work for him? what does de good book say? take no thought 'bout de morrow. why is you trying to make dis ole world better? i spits on the world! come out from it. seek jesus. heaven is my home! is it yo's?" "yes," groaned the multitude. his arm shot out and he pointed straight at zora. "beware the ebil one!" he shouted, and the multitude moaned. "beware of dem dat calls ebil good. beware of dem dat worships debbils; the debbils dat crawl; de debbils what forgits god." "help him, lord!" cried the multitude. zora stepped into the circle of light. a hush fell on the throng; the preacher paused a moment, then started boldly forward with upraised hands. then a curious thing happened. a sharp cry arose far off down toward the swamp and the sound of great footsteps coming, coming as from the end of the world; there swelled a rhythmical chanting, wilder and more primitive than song. on, on it came, until it swung into sight. an old man led the band--tall, massive, with tufted gray hair and wrinkled leathery skin, and his eyes were the eyes of death. he reached the circle of light, and zora started: once before she had seen that old man. the singing stopped but he came straight on till he reached zora's side and then he whirled and spoke. the words leaped and flew from his lips as he lashed the throng with bitter fury. he said what zora wanted to say with two great differences: first, he spoke their religious language and spoke it with absolute confidence and authority; and secondly, he seemed to know each one there personally and intimately so that he spoke to no inchoate throng--he spoke to them individually, and they listened awestruck and fearsome. "god is done sent me," he declared in passionate tones, "to preach his acceptable time. faith without works is dead; who is you that dares to set and wait for the lord to do your work?" then in sudden fury, "ye generation of vipers--who kin save you?" he bent forward and pointed his long finger. "yes," he cried, "pray, sam collins, you black devil; pray, for the corn you stole thursday." the black figure moved. "moan, sister maxwell, for the backbiting you did today. yell, jack tolliver, you sneaking scamp, t'wil the lord tell uncle bill who ruined his daughter. weep, may haynes, for that baby--" but the woman's shriek drowned his words, and he whirled full on the preacher, stamping his feet and waving his hands. his anger choked him; the fat preacher cowered gray and trembling. the gaunt fanatic towered over him. "you--you--ornery hound of hell! god never knowed you and the devil owns your soul!" there leapt from his lips a denunciation so livid, specific, and impassioned that the preacher squatted and bowed, then finally fell upon his face and moaned. the gaunt speaker turned again to the people. he talked of little children; he pictured their sin and neglect. "god is done sent me to offer you all salvation," he cried, while the people wept and wailed; "not in praying, but in works. follow me!" the hour was halfway between midnight and dawn, but nevertheless the people leapt frenziedly to their feet. "follow me!" he shouted. and, singing and chanting, the throng poured out upon the black highway, waving their torches. zora knew his intention. with a half-dozen of younger onlookers she unhitched teams and rode across the land, calling at the cabins. before sunrise, tools were in the swamp, axes and saws and hammers. the noise of prayer and singing filled the sabbath dawn. the news of the great revival spread, and men and women came pouring in. then of a sudden the uproar stopped, and the ringing of axes and grating of saws and tugging of mules was heard. the forest trembled as by some mighty magic, swaying and falling with crash on crash. huge bonfires blazed and crackled, until at last a wide black scar appeared in the thick south side of the swamp, which widened and widened to full twenty acres. the sun rose higher and higher till it blazed at high noon. the workers dropped their tools. the aroma of coffee and roasting meat rose in the dim cool shade. with ravenous appetites the dark, half-famished throng fell upon the food, and then in utter weariness stretched themselves and slept: lying along the earth like huge bronze earth-spirits, sitting against trees, curled in dense bushes. and zora sat above them on a high rich-scented pile of logs. her senses slept save her sleepless eyes. amid a silence she saw in the little grove that still stood, the cabin of elspeth tremble, sigh, and disappear, and with it flew some spirit of evil. then she looked down to the new edge of the swamp, by the old lagoon, and saw bles alwyn standing there. it seemed very natural; and closing her eyes, she fell asleep. _thirty-four_ the return of alwyn bles alwyn stared at mrs. harry cresswell in surprise. he had not seen her since that moment at the ball, and he was startled at the change. her abundant hair was gone; her face was pale and drawn, and there were little wrinkles below her sunken eyes. in those eyes lurked the tired look of the bewildered and the disappointed. it was in the lofty waiting-room of the washington station where alwyn had come to meet a friend. mrs. cresswell turned and recognized him with genuine pleasure. he seemed somehow a part of the few things in the world--little and unimportant perhaps--that counted and stood firm, and she shook his hand cordially, not minding the staring of the people about. he took her bag and carried it towards the gate, which made the observers breathe easier, seeing him in servile duty. someway, she knew not just how, she found herself telling him of the crisis in her life before she realized; not everything, of course, but a great deal. it was much as though she were talking to some one from another world--an outsider; but one she had known long, one who understood. both from what she recounted and what she could not tell he gathered the substance of the story, and it bewildered him. he had not thought that white people had such troubles; yet, he reflected, why not? they, too, were human. "i suppose you hear from the school?" he ventured after a pause. "why, yes--not directly--but zora used to speak of it." bles looked up quickly. "zora?" "yes. didn't you see her while she was here? she has gone back now." then the gate opened, the crowd surged through, sweeping them apart, and next moment he was alone. alwyn turned slowly away. he forgot the friend he was to meet. he forgot everything but the field of the silver fleece. it rose shadowy there in the pale concourse, swaying in ghostly breezes. the purple of its flowers mingled with the silver radiance of tendrils that trembled across the hurrying throng, like threads of mists along low hills. in its midst rose a dark, slim, and quivering form. she had been here--here in washington! why had he not known? what was she doing? "she has gone back now"--back to the sun and the swamp, back to the burden. why should not he go back, too? he walked on thinking. he had failed. his apparent success had been too sudden, too overwhelming, and when he had faced the crisis his hand had trembled. he had chosen the right--but the right was ineffective, impotent, almost ludicrous. it left him shorn, powerless, and in moral revolt. the world had suddenly left him, as the vision of carrie wynn had left him, alone, a mere clerk, an insignificant cog in the great grinding wheel of humdrum drudgery. his chance to do and thereby to be had not come. he thought of zora again. why not go back to the south where she had gone? he shuddered as one who sees before him a cold black pool whither his path leads. to face the proscription, the insult, the lawless hate of the south again--never! and yet he went home and sat down and wrote a long letter to miss smith. the reply that came after some delay was almost curt. it answered few of his questions, argued with none of his doubts, and made no mention of zora. yes, there was need of a manager for the new farm and settlement. she was not sure whether alwyn could do the work or not. the salary was meagre and the work hard. if he wished it, he must decide immediately. two weeks later found alwyn on the train facing southward in the jim crow car. how he had decided to go back south he did not know. in fact, he had not decided. he had sat helpless and inactive in the grip of great and shadowed hands, and the thing was as yet incomprehensible. and so it was that the vision zora saw in the swamp had been real enough, and alwyn felt strangely disappointed that she had given no sign of greeting on recognition. in other ways, too, zora, when he met her, was to him a new creature. she came to him frankly and greeted him, her gladness shining in her eyes, yet looking nothing more than gladness and saying nothing more. just what he had expected was hard to say; but he had left her on her knees in the dirt with outstretched hands, and somehow he had expected to return to some corresponding mental attitude. the physical change of these three years was marvellous. the girl was a woman, well-rounded and poised, tall, straight, and quick. and with this went mental change: a self-mastery; a veiling of the self even in intimate talk; a subtle air as of one looking from great and unreachable heights down on the dawn of the world. perhaps no one who had not known the child and the girl as he had would have noted all this; but he saw and realized the transformation with a pang--something had gone; the innocence and wonder of the child, and in their place had grown up something to him incomprehensible and occult. miss smith was not to be easily questioned on the subject. she took no hints and gave no information, and when once he hazarded some pointed questions she turned on him abruptly, observing acidly: "if i were you i'd think less of zora and more of her work." gradually, in his spiritual perplexity, alwyn turned to mary cresswell. she was staying with the colonel at cresswell oaks. her coming south was supposed to be solely for reasons of health, and her appearance made this excuse plausible. she was lonely and restless, and naturally drawn toward the school. her intercourse with miss smith was only formal, but her interest in zora's work grew. down in the swamp, at the edge of the cleared space, had risen a log cabin; long, low, spacious, overhung with oak and pine. it was zora's centre for her settlement-work. there she lived, and with her a half-dozen orphan girls and children too young for the boarding department of the school. mrs. cresswell easily fell into the habit of walking by here each day, coming down the avenue of oaks across the road and into the swamp. she saw little of zora personally but she saw her girls and learned much of her plans. the rooms of the cottage were clean and light, supplied with books and pictures, simple toys, and a phonograph. the yard was one wide green and golden play-ground, and all day the music of children's glad crooning and the singing of girls went echoing and trembling through the trees, as they played and sewed and washed and worked. from the cresswells and the maxwells and others came loads of clothes for washing and mending. the tolliver girls had simple dresses made, embroidery was ordered from town, and soon there would be the gardens and cotton fields. mrs. cresswell would saunter down of mornings. sometimes she would talk to the big girls and play with the children; sometimes she would sit hidden in the forest, listening and glimpsing and thinking, thinking, till her head whirled and the world danced red before her eyes, today she rose wearily, for it was near noon, and started home. she saw alwyn swing along the road to the school dining-room where he had charge of the students at the noonday meal. alwyn wanted mrs. cresswell's judgment and advice. he was growing doubtful of his own estimate of women. evidently something about his standards was wrong; consequently he made opportunities to talk with mrs. cresswell when she was about, hoping she would bring up the subject of zora of her own accord. but she did not. she was too full of her own cares and troubles, and she was only too glad of willing and sympathetic ears into which to pour her thoughts. miss smith soon began to look on these conversations with some uneasiness. black men and white women cannot talk together casually in the south and she did not know how far the north had put notions in alwyn's head. today both met each other almost eagerly. mrs. cresswell had just had a bit of news which only he would fully appreciate. "have you heard of the vanderpools?" she asked. "no--except that he was appointed and confirmed at last." "well, they had only arrived in france when he died of apoplexy. i do not know," added mrs. cresswell, "i may be wrong and--i hope i'm not glad." then there leapt to her mind a hypothetical question which had to do with her own curious situation. it was characteristic of her to brood and then restlessly to seek relief in consulting the one person near who knew her story. she started to open the subject again today. but alwyn, his own mind full, spoke first and rapidly. he, too, had turned to her as he saw her come from zora's home. he must know more about the girl. he could no longer endure this silence. zora beneath her apparent frankness was impenetrable, and he felt that she carefully avoided him, although she did it so deftly that he felt rather than observed it. miss smith still systematically snubbed him when he broached the subject of zora. with others he did not speak; the matter seemed too delicate and sacred, and he always had an awful dread lest sometime, somewhere, a chance and fatal word would be dropped, a breath of evil gossip which would shatter all. he had hated to obtrude his troubles on mrs. cresswell, who seemed so torn in soul. but today he must speak, although time pressed. "mrs. cresswell," he began hurriedly, "there's a matter--a personal matter of which i have wanted to speak--a long time--i--" the dinner-bell rang, and he stopped, vexed. "come up to the house this afternoon," she said; "colonel cresswell will be away--" then she paused abruptly. a strange startling thought flashed through her brain. alwyn noticed nothing. he thanked her cordially and hurried toward the dining-hall, meeting colonel cresswell on horseback just as he turned into the school gate. mary cresswell walked slowly on, flushing and paling by turns. could it be that this negro had dared to misunderstand her--had presumed? she reviewed her conduct. perhaps she had been indiscreet in thus making a confidant of him in her trouble. she had thought of him as a boy--an old student, a sort of confidential servant; but what had he thought? she remembered miss smith's warning of years before--and he had been north since and acquired northern notions of freedom and equality. she bit her lip cruelly. yet, she mused, she was herself to blame. she had unwittingly made the intimacy and he was but a negro, looking on every white woman as a goddess and ready to fawn at the slightest encouragement. there had been no one else here to confide in. she could not tell miss smith her troubles, although she knew miss smith must suspect. harry cresswell, apparently, had written nothing home of their quarrel. all the neighbors behaved as if her excuse of ill-health were sufficient to account for her return south to escape the rigors of a northern winter. alwyn, and alwyn alone, really knew. well, it was her blindness, and she must right it quietly and quickly with hard ruthless plainness. she blushed again at the shame of it; then she began to excuse. after all, which was worse--a cresswell or an alwyn? it was no sin that alwyn had done; it was simply ignorant presumption, and she must correct him firmly, but gently, like a child. what a crazy muddle the world was! she thought of harry cresswell and the tale he told her in the swamp. she thought of the flitting ghosts that awful night in washington. she thought of miss wynn who had jilted alwyn and given her herself a very bad quarter of an hour. what a world it was, and after all how far was this black boy wrong? just then colonel cresswell rode up behind and greeted her. she started almost guiltily, and again a sense of the awkwardness of her position reddened her face and neck. the colonel dismounted, despite her protest, and walked beside her. they chatted along indifferently, of the crops, her brother's new baby, the proposed mill. "mary," his voice abruptly struck a new note. "i don't like the way you talk with that alwyn nigger." she was silent. "of course," he continued, "you're northern born and you have been a teacher in this school and feel differently from us in some ways; but mark what i say, a nigger will presume on the slightest pretext, and you must keep them in their place. then, too, you are a cresswell now--" she smiled bitterly; he noticed it, but went on: "you are a cresswell, even if you have caught harry up to some of his deviltry,"--she started,--"and got miffed about it. it'll all come out right. you're a cresswell, and you must hold yourself too high to 'mister' a nigger or let him dream of any sort of equality." he spoke pleasantly, but with a certain sharp insistence that struck a note of fear in mary's heart. for a moment she thought of writing alwyn not to call. but, no; a note would be unwise. she and colonel cresswell lunched rather silently. "well, i must get to town," he finally announced. "the mill directors meet today. if maxwell calls by about that lumber tell him i'll see him in town." and away he went. he had scarcely reached the highway and ridden a quarter of a mile or so when he spied bles alwyn hurrying across the field toward the cresswell oaks. he frowned and rode on. then reining in his horse, he stopped in the shadow of the trees and watched alwyn. it was here that zora saw him as she came up from her house. she, too, stopped, and soon saw whom he was watching. she had been planning to see mr. cresswell about the cut timber on her land. by legal right it was hers but she knew he would claim half, treating her like a mere tenant. seeing him watching alwyn she paused in the shadow and waited, fearing trouble. she, too, had felt that the continued conversations of alwyn and mrs. cresswell were indiscreet, but she hoped that they had attracted no one else's attention. now she feared the colonel was suspicious and her heart sank. alwyn went straight toward the house and disappeared in the oak avenue. still colonel cresswell waited but zora waited no longer. alwyn must be warned. she must reach cresswell's mansion before cresswell did and without him seeing her. this meant a long detour of the swamp to approach the oaks from the west. she silently gathered up her skirts and walked quickly and carefully away. she was a strong woman, lithe and vigorous, living in the open air and used to walking. once out of hearing she threw away her hat and bending forward ran through the swamp. for a while she ran easily and swiftly. then for a moment she grew dizzy and it seemed as though she was standing still and the swamp in solemn grandeur marching past--in solemn mocking grandeur. she loosened her dress at the neck and flew on. she sped at last through the oaks, up the terraces, and slowing down to an unsteady walk, staggered into the house. no one would wonder at her being there. she came up now and then and sorted the linen and piled the baskets for her girls. she entered a side door and listened. the colonel's voice sounded impatiently in the front hall. "mary! mary?" a pause, then an answer: "yes, father!" he started up the front stairway and zora hurried up the narrow back stairs, almost overturning a servant. "i'm after the clothes," she explained. she reached the back landing just in time to see colonel cresswell's head rising up the front staircase. with a quick bound she almost fell into the first room at the top of the stairs. bles alwyn had hurried through his dinner duties and hastened to the oaks. the questions, the doubts, the uncertainty within him were clamoring for utterance. how much had mrs. cresswell ever known of zora? what kind of a woman was zora now? mrs. cresswell had seen her and had talked to her and watched her. what did she think? thus he formulated his questions as he went, half timid, and fearful in putting them and yet determined to know. mrs. cresswell, waiting for him, was almost panic-stricken. probably he would beat round the bush seeking further encouragement; but at the slightest indication she must crush him ruthlessly and at the same time point the path of duty. he ought to marry some good girl--not zora, but some one. somehow zora seemed too unusual and strange for him--too inhuman, as mary cresswell judged humanity. she glanced out from her seat on the upper verandah over the front porch and saw alwyn coming. where should she receive him? on the porch and have mr. maxwell ride up? in the parlor and have the servants astounded and talking? if she took him up to her own sitting-room the servants would think he was doing some work or fetching something for the school. she greeted him briefly and asked him in. "good-afternoon, bles"--using his first name to show him his place, and then inwardly recoiling at its note of familiarity. she preceded him up-stairs to the sitting-room, where, leaving the door ajar, she seated herself on the opposite side of the room and waited. he fidgeted, then spoke rapidly. "mrs. cresswell--this is a personal affair." she reddened angrily. "a love affair"--she paled with something like fear--"and i"--she started to speak, but could not--"i want to know what you think about zora?" "about zora!" she gasped weakly. the sudden reaction, the revulsion of her agitated feelings, left her breathless. "about zora. you know i loved her dearly as a boy--how dearly i have only just begun to realize: i've been wondering if i understood--if i wasn't--" mrs. cresswell got angrily to her feet. "you have come here to speak to me of that--that--" she choked, and bles thought his worst fears realized. "mary, mary!" colonel cresswell's voice broke suddenly in upon them. with a start of fear mrs. cresswell rushed out into the hall and closed the door. "mary, has that alwyn nigger been here this afternoon?" mr. cresswell was coming up-stairs, carrying his riding whip. "why, no!" she answered, lying instinctively before she quite realized what her lie meant. she hesitated. "that is, i haven't seen him. i must have nodded over my book,"--looking toward the little verandah at the front of the upper hall, where her easy chair stood with her book. then with an awful flash of enlightenment she realized what her lie might mean, and her heart paused. cresswell strode up. "i saw him come up--he must have entered. he's nowhere downstairs," he wavered and scowled. "have you been in your sitting-room?" and then, not waiting for a reply, he strode to the door. "but the damned scoundrel wouldn't dare!" he deliberately placed his hand in his right-hand hip-pocket and threw open the door. mary cresswell stood frozen. the full horror of the thing burst upon her. her own silly misapprehension, the infatuation of alwyn for zora, her thoughtless--no, vindictive--betrayal of him to something worse than death. she listened for the crack of doom. she heard a bird singing far down in the swamp; she heard the soft raising of a window and the closing of a door. and then--great god in heaven! must she live forever in this agony?--and then, she heard the door bang and mr. cresswell's gruff voice-- "well, where is he?--he isn't in there!" mary cresswell felt that something was giving way within. she swayed and would have crashed to the bottom of the staircase if just then she had not seen at the opposite end of the hall, near the back stairs, zora and alwyn emerge calmly from a room, carrying a basket full of clothes. colonel cresswell stared at them, and zora instinctively put up her hand and fastened her dress at the throat. the colonel scowled, for it was all clear to him now. "look here," he angrily opened upon them, "if you niggers want to meet around keep out of this house; hereafter i'll send the clothes down. by god, if you want to make love go to the swamp!" he stamped down the stairs while an ashy paleness stole beneath the dark-red bronze of zora's face. they walked silently down the road together--the old familiar road. alwyn was staring moodily ahead. "we must get married--before christmas, zora," he presently avowed, not looking at her. he felt the basket pause and he glanced up. her dark eyes were full upon him and he saw something in their depths that brought him to himself and made him realize his blunder. "zora!" he stammered, "forgive me! will you marry me?" she looked at him calmly with infinite compassion. but her reply was uttered unhesitantly; distinct, direct. "no, bles." _thirty-five_ the cotton mill the people of toomsville started in their beds and listened. a new song was rising on the air: a harsh, low, murmuring croon that shook the village ranged around its old square of dilapadated stores. it was not a song of joy; it was not a song of sorrow; it was not a song at all, perhaps, but a confused whizzing and murmuring, as of a thousand ill-tuned, busy voices. some of the listeners wondered; but most of the town cried joyfully, "it's the new cotton-mill!" john taylor's head teemed with new schemes. the mill trust of the north was at last a fact. the small mills had not been able to buy cotton when it was low because cresswell was cornering it in the name of the farmers' league; now that it was high they could not afford to, and many surrendered to the trust. "next thing," wrote taylor to easterly, "is to reduce cost of production. too much goes in wages. gradually transfer mills south." easterly argued that the labor was too unskilled in the south and that to send northern spinners down would spread labor troubles. taylor replied briefly: "never fear; we'll scare them with a vision of niggers in the mills!" colonel cresswell was not so easily won over to the new scheme. in the first place he was angry because the school, which he had come to regard as on its last legs, somehow still continued to flourish. the ten-thousand-dollar mortgage had but three more years, and that would end all; but he had hoped for a crash even earlier. instead of this, miss smith was cheerfully expanding the work, hiring new teachers, and especially she had brought to help her two young negroes whom he suspected. colonel cresswell had prevented the tolliver land sale, only to be inveigled himself into zora's scheme which now began to worry him. he must evict zora's tenants as soon as the crops were planted and harvested. there was nothing unjust about such a course, he argued, for negroes anyway were too lazy and shiftless to buy the land. they would not, they could not, work without driving. all this he imparted to john taylor, to which that gentleman listened carefully. "h'm, i see," he owned. "and i know the way out." "how?" "a cotton mill in toomsville." "what's that got to do with it?" "bring in whites." "but i don't want poor white trash; i'd sooner have niggers." "now, see here," argued taylor, "you can't have everything you want--day's gone by for aristocracy of old kind. you must have neighbors: choose, then, white or black. i say white." "but they'll rule us--out-vote us--marry our daughters," warmly objected the colonel. "some of them may--most of them won't. a few of them with brains will help us rule the rest with money. we'll plant cotton mills beside the cotton fields, use whites to keep niggers in their place, and the fear of niggers to keep the poorer whites in theirs." the colonel looked thoughtful. "there's something in that," he confessed after a while; "but it's a mighty big experiment, and it may go awry." "not with brains and money to guide it. and at any rate, we've got to try it; it's the next logical step, and we must take it." "but in the meantime, i'm not going to give up good old methods; i'm going to set the sheriff behind these lazy niggers," said the colonel; "and i'm going to stop that school putting notions into their heads." in three short months the mill at toomsville was open and its wheels whizzing to the boundless pride of the citizens. "our enterprise, sir!" they said to the strangers on the strength of the five thousand dollars locally invested. once it had vigor to sing, the song of the mill knew no resting; morning and evening, day and night it crooned its rhythmic tune; only during the daylight sundays did its murmur die to a sibilant hiss. all the week its doors were filled with the coming and going of men and women and children: many men, more women, and greater and greater throngs of children. it seemed to devour children, sitting with its myriad eyes gleaming and its black maw open, drawing in the pale white mites, sucking their blood and spewing them out paler and ever paler. the face of the town began to change, showing a ragged tuberculous looking side with dingy homes in short and homely rows. there came gradually a new consciousness to the town. hitherto town and country had been ruled by a few great landlords but at the very first election, colton, an unknown outsider, had beaten the regular candidate for sheriff by such a majority that the big property owners dared not count him out. they had, however, an earnest consultation with john taylor. "it's just as i said," growled colonel cresswell, "if you don't watch out our whole plantation system will be ruined and we'll be governed by this white trash from the hills." "there's only one way," sighed caldwell, the merchant; "we've got to vote the niggers." john taylor laughed. "nonsense!" he spurned the suggestion. "you're old-fashioned. let the mill-hands have the offices. what good will it do?" "what good! why, they'll do as they please with us." "bosh! don't we own the mill? can't we keep wages where we like by threatening to bring in nigger labor?" "no, you can't, permanently," maxwell disputed, "for they sometime will call your bluff." "let 'em call," said taylor, "and we'll put niggers in the mills." "what!" ejaculated the landlords in chorus. only maxwell was silent. "and kill the plantation system?" "oh, maybe some time, of course. but not for years; not until you've made your pile. you don't really expect to keep the darkies down forever, do you?" "no, i don't," maxwell slowly admitted. "this system can't last always--sometimes i think it can't last long. it's wrong, through and through. it's built on ignorance, theft, and force, and i wish to god we had courage enough to overthrow it and take the consequences. i wish it was possible to be a southerner and a christian and an honest man, to treat niggers and dagoes and white trash like men, and be big enough to say, 'to hell with consequences!'" colonel cresswell stared at his neighbor, speechless with bewilderment and outraged traditions. such unbelievable heresy from a northerner or a negro would have been natural; but from a southerner whose father had owned five hundred slaves--it was incredible! the other landlords scarcely listened; they were dogged and impatient and they could suggest no remedy. they could only blame the mill for their troubles. john taylor left the conference blithely. "no," he said to the committee from the new mill-workers' union. "can't raise wages, gentlemen, and can't lessen hours. mill is just started and not yet paying expenses. you're getting better wages than you ever got. if you don't want to work, quit. there are plenty of others, white and black, who want your jobs." the mention of black people as competitors for wages was like a red rag to a bull. the laborers got together and at the next election they made a clean sweep, judge, sheriff, two members of the legislature, and the registrars of votes. undoubtedly the following year they would capture harry cresswell's seat in congress. the result was curious. from two sides, from landlord and white laborer, came renewed oppression of black men. the laborers found that their political power gave them little economic advantage as long as the threatening cloud of negro competition loomed ahead. there was some talk of a strike, but colton, the new sheriff, discouraged it. "i tell you, boys, where the trouble lies: it's the niggers. they live on nothing and take any kind of treatment, and they keep wages down. if you strike, they'll get your jobs, sure. we'll just have to grin and bear it a while, but get back at the darkies whenever you can. i'll stick 'em into the chain-gang every chance i get." on the other hand, inspired by fright, the grip of the landlords on the black serfs closed with steadily increasing firmness. they saw one class rising from beneath them to power, and they tightened the chains on the other. matters simmered on in this way, and the only party wholly satisfied with conditions was john taylor and the few young southerners who saw through his eyes. he was making money. the landlords, on the contrary, were losing power and prestige, and their farm labor, despite strenuous efforts, was drifting to town attracted by new and incidental work and higher wages. the mill-hands were more and more overworked and underpaid, and hated the negroes for it in accordance with their leaders' directions. at the same time the oppressed blacks and scowling mill-hands could not help recurring again and again to the same inarticulate thought which no one was brave enough to voice. once, however, it came out flatly. it was when zora, crowding into the village courthouse to see if she could not help aunt rachel's accused boy, found herself beside a gaunt, overworked white woman. the woman was struggling with a crippled child and zora, turning, lifted him carefully for the weak mother, who thanked her half timidly. "that mill's about killed him," she said. at this juncture the manacled boy was led into court, and the woman suddenly turned again to zora. "durned if i don't think these white slaves and black slaves had ought ter git together," she declared. "i think so, too," zora agreed. colonel cresswell himself caught the conversation and it struck him with a certain dismay. suppose such a conjunction should come to pass? he edged over to john taylor and spoke to him; but taylor, who had just successfully stopped a suit for damages to the injured boy, merely shrugged his shoulders. "what's this nigger charged with?" demanded the judge when the first black boy was brought up before him. "breaking his labor contract." "any witnesses?" "i have the contract here," announced the sheriff. "he refuses to work." "a year, or one hundred dollars." colonel cresswell paid his fine, and took him in charge. "what's the charge here?" said the judge, pointing to aunt rachel's boy. "attempt to kill a white man." "any witnesses?" "none except the victim." "and i," said zora, coming forward. both the sheriff and colonel cresswell stared at her. of course, she was simply a black girl but she was an educated woman, who knew things about the cresswell plantations that it was unnecessary to air in court. the newly elected judge had not yet taken his seat, and cresswell's word was still law in the court. he whispered to the judge. "case postponed," said the court. the sheriff scowled. "wait till jim gets on the bench," he growled. the white bystanders, however, did not seem enthusiastic and one man--he was a northern spinner--spoke out plainly. "it's none o' my business, of course. i've been fired and i'm damned glad of it. but see here: if you mutts think you're going to beat these big blokes at their own game of cheating niggers you're daffy. you take this from me: get together with the niggers and hold up this whole capitalist gang. if you don't get the niggers first, they'll use 'em as a club to throw you down. you hear me," and he departed for the train. colton was suspicious. the sentiment of joining with the negroes did not seem to arouse the bitter resentment he expected. there even came whispers to his ears that he had sold out to the landlords, and there was enough truth in the report to scare him. thus to both parties came the uncomfortable spectre of the black men, and both sides went to work to lay the ghost. particularly was colonel cresswell stirred to action. he realized that in bles and zora he was dealing with a younger class of educated black folk, who were learning to fight with new weapons. they were, he was sure, as dissolute and weak as their parents, but they were shrewder and more aspiring. they must be crushed, and crushed quickly. to this end he had recourse to two sources of help--johnson and the whites in town. johnson was what colonel cresswell repeatedly called "a faithful nigger." he was one of those constitutionally timid creatures into whom the servility of his fathers had sunk so deep that it had become second-nature. to him a white man was an archangel, while the cresswells, his father's masters, stood for god. he served them with dog-like faith, asking no reward, and for what he gave in reverence to them, he took back in contempt for his fellows--"niggers!" he applied the epithet with more contempt than the colonel himself could express. to the negroes he was a "white folk's nigger," to be despised and feared. to him colonel cresswell gave a few pregnant directions. then he rode to town, and told taylor again of his fears of a labor movement which would include whites and blacks. taylor could not see any great danger. "of course," he conceded, "they'll eventually get together; their interests are identical. i'll admit it's our game to delay this as long possible." "it must be delayed forever, sir." "can't be," was the terse response. "but even if they do ally themselves, our way is easy: separate the leaders, the talented, the pushers, of both races from their masses, and through them rule the rest by money." but colonel cresswell shook his head. "it's precisely these leaders of the negroes that we mush crush," he insisted. taylor looked puzzled. "i thought it was the lazy, shiftless, and criminal negroes, you feared?" "hang it, no! we can deal with them; we've got whips, chain-gangs, and--mobs, if need be--no, it's the negro who wants to climb up that we've got to beat to his knees." taylor could not follow this reasoning. he believed in an aristocracy of talent alone, and secretly despised colonel cresswell's pretensions of birth. if a man had ability and push taylor was willing and anxious to open the way for him, even though he were black. the caste way of thinking in the south, both as applied to poor whites and to negroes, he simply could not understand. the weak and the ignorant of all races he despised and had no patience with them. "but others--a man's a man, isn't he?" he persisted. but colonel cresswell replied: "no, never, if he's black, and not always when he's white," and he stalked away. zora sensed fully the situation. she did not anticipate any immediate understanding with the laboring whites, but she knew that eventually it would be inevitable. meantime the negro must strengthen himself and bring to the alliance as much independent economic strength as possible. for the development of her plans she needed bles alwyn's constant cooperation. he was business manager of the school and was doing well, but she wanted to point out to him the larger field. so long as she was uncertain of his attitude toward her, it was difficult to act; but now, since the flash of the imminent tragedy at cresswell oaks had cleared the air, with all its hurt a frank understanding had been made possible. the very next day zora chose to show bles over her new home and grounds, and to speak frankly to him. they looked at the land, examined the proposed farm sites, and viewed the living-room and dormitory in the house. "you haven't seen my den," said zora. "no." "miss smith is in there now; she often hides there. come." he went into the large central house and into the living-room, then out on the porch, beyond which lay the kitchen. but to the left, and at the end of the porch, was a small building. it was ceiled in dark yellow pine, with figured denim on the walls. a straight desk of rough hewn wood stood in the corner by the white-curtained window, and a couch and two large easy-chairs faced a tall narrow fireplace of uneven stone. a thick green rag-carpet covered the floor; a few pictures were on the walls--a madonna, a scene of mad careering horses, and some sad baby faces. the room was a unity; things fitted together as if they belonged together. it was restful and beautiful, from the cheerful pine blaze before which miss smith was sitting, to the square-paned window that let in the crimson rays of gathering night. all round the room, stopping only at the fireplace, ran low shelves of the same yellow pine, filled with books and magazines. he scanned curiously plato's republic, gorky's "comrades," a cyclopædia of agriculture, balzac's novels, spencer's "first principles," tennyson's poems. "this is my university," zora explained, smiling at his interested survey. they went out again and wandered down near the old lagoon. "now, bles," she began, "since we understand each other, can we not work together as good friends?" she spoke simply and frankly, without apparent effort, and talked on at length of her work and vision. somehow he could not understand. his mental attitude toward zora had always been one of guidance, guardianship, and instruction. he had been judging and weighing her from on high, looking down upon her with thoughts of uplift and development. always he had been holding her dark little hands to lead her out of the swamp of life, and always, when in senseless anger he had half forgotten and deserted her, this vision of elder brotherhood had still remained. now this attitude was being revolutionized. she was proposing to him a plan of wide scope--a bold regeneration of the land. it was a plan carefully studied out, long thought of and read about. he was asked to be co-worker--nay, in a sense to be a follower, for he was ignorant of much. he hesitated. then all at once a sense of his utter unworthiness overwhelmed him. who was he to stand and judge this unselfish woman? who was he to falter when she called? a sense of his smallness and narrowness, of his priggish blindness, rose like a mockery in his soul. one thing alone held him back: he was not unwilling to be simply human, a learner and a follower; but would he as such ever command the love and respect of this new and inexplicable woman? would not comradeship on the basis of the new friendship which she insisted on, be the death of love and thoughts of love? thus he hesitated, knowing that his duty lay clear. in her direst need he had deserted her. he had left her to go to destruction and expected that she would. by a superhuman miracle she had risen and seated herself above him. she was working; here was work to be done. he was asked to help; he would help. if it killed his old and new-born dream of love, well and good; it was his punishment. yet the sacrifice, the readjustment was hard; he grew to it gradually, inwardly revolting, feeling always a great longing to take this woman and make her nestle in his arms as she used to; catching himself again and again on the point of speaking to her and urging, yet ever again holding himself back and bowing in silent respect to the dignity of her life. only now and then, when their eyes met suddenly or unthinkingly, a great kindling flash of flame seemed struggling behind showers of tears, until in a moment she smiled or spoke, and then the dropping veil left only the frank open glance, unwavering, soft, kind, but nothing more. then alwyn would go wearily away, vexed or disappointed, or merely sad, and both would turn to their work again. _thirty-six_ the land colonel cresswell started all the more grimly to overthrow the new work at the school because somewhere down beneath his heart a pity and a wonder were stirring; pity at the perfectly useless struggle to raise the unraisable, a wonder at certain signs of rising. but it was impossible--and unthinkable, even if possible. so he squared his jaw and cheated zora deliberately in the matter of the cut timber. he placed every obstacle in the way of getting tenants for the school land. here johnson, the "faithful nigger," was of incalculable assistance. he was among the first to hear the call for prospective tenants. the meeting was in the big room of zora's house, and aunt rachel came early with her cheery voice and smile which faded so quickly to lines of sorrow and despair, and then twinkled back again. after her hobbled old sykes. fully a half-hour later rob hurried in. "johnson," he informed the others, "has sneaked over to cresswell's to tell of this meeting. we ought to beat that nigger up." but zora asked him about the new baby, and he was soon deep in child-lore. higgins and sanders came together--dirty, apologetic, and furtive. then came johnson. "how do, miss zora--mr. alwyn, i sure is glad to see you, sir. well, if there ain't aunt rachel! looking as young as ever. and higgins, you scamp--ah, mr. sanders--well, gentlemen and ladies, this sure is gwine to be a good cotton season. i remember--" and he ran on endlessly, now to this one, now to that, now to all, his little eyes all the while dancing insinuatingly here and there. about nine o'clock a buggy drove up and carter and simpson came in--carter, a silent, strong-faced, brown laborer, who listened and looked, and simpson, a worried nervous man, who sat still with difficulty and commenced many sentences but did not finish them. alwyn looked at his watch and at zora, but she gave no sign until they heard a rollicking song outside and tylor burst into the room. he was nearly seven feet high and broad-shouldered, yellow, with curling hair and laughing brown eyes. he was chewing an enormous quid of tobacco, the juice of which he distributed generously, and had had just liquor enough to make him jolly. his entrance was a breeze and a roar. alwyn then undertook to explain the land scheme. "it is the best land in the county--" "when it's cl'ared," interrupted johnson, and simpson looked alarmed. "it is partially cleared," continued alwyn, "and our plan is to sell off small twenty-acre farms--" "you can't do nothing on twenty acres--" began johnson, but tylor laid his huge hand right over his mouth and said briefly: "shut up!" alwyn started again: "we shall sell a few twenty-acre farms but keep one central plantation of one hundred acres for the school. here miss zora will carry on her work and the school will run a model farm with your help. we want to centre here agencies to make life better. we want all sorts of industries; we want a little hospital with a resident physician and two or three nurses; we want a cooperative store for buying supplies; we want a cotton-gin and saw-mill, and in the future other things. this land here, as i have said, is the richest around. we want to keep this hundred acres for the public good, and not sell it. we are going to deed it to a board of trustees, and those trustees are to be chosen from the ones who buy the small farms." "who's going to get what's made on this land?" asked sanders. "all of us. it is going first to pay for the land, then to support the home and the school, and then to furnish capital for industries." johnson snickered. "you mean youse gwine to git yo' livin' off it?" "yes," answered alwyn; "but i'm going to work for it." "who's gwine--" began simpson, but stopped helplessly. "who's going to tend this land?" asked the practical carter. "all of us. each man is going to promise us so many days' work a year, and we're going to ask others to help--the women and girls and school children--they will all help." "can you put trust in that sort of help?" "we can when once the community learns that it pays." "does you own the land?" asked johnson suddenly. "no; we're buying it, and it's part paid for already." the discussion became general. zora moved about among the men whispering and explaining; while johnson moved, too, objecting and hinting. at last he arose. "brethren," he began, "the plan's good enough for talkin' but you can't work it; who ever heer'd tell of such a thing? first place, the land ain't yours; second place, you can't get it worked; third place, white folks won't 'low it. who ever heer'd of such working land on shares?" "you do it for white folks each day, why not for yourselves," alwyn pointed out. "'cause we ain't white, and we can't do nothin' like that." tylor was asleep and snoring and the others looked doubtfully at each other. it was a proposal a little too daring for them, a bit too far beyond their experience. one consideration alone kept them from shrinking away and that was zora's influence. not a man was there whom she had not helped and encouraged nor who had not perfect faith in her; in her impetuous hope, her deep enthusiasm, and her strong will. even her defects--the hard-held temper, the deeply rooted dislikes--caught their imagination. finally, after several other meetings five men took courage--three of the best and two of the weakest. during the spring long negotiations were entered into by miss smith to "buy" the five men. colonel cresswell and mr. tolliver had them all charged with large sums of indebtedness and these sums had to be assumed by the school. as colonel cresswell counted over two thousand dollars of school notes and deposited them beside the mortgage he smiled grimly for he saw the end. yet, even then his hand trembled and that curious doubt came creeping back. he put it aside angrily and glanced up. "nigger wants to talk with you," announced his clerk. the colonel sauntered out and found bles alwyn waiting. "colonel cresswell," he said, "i have charge of the buying for the school and our tenants this year and i naturally want to do the best possible. i thought i'd come over and see about getting my supplies at your store." "that's all right; you can get anything you want," said colonel cresswell cheerily, for this to his mind was evidence of sense on the part of the negroes. bles showed his list of needed supplies--seeds, meat, corn-meal, coffee, sugar, etc. the colonel glanced over it carelessly, then moved away. "all right. come and get what you want--any time," he called back. "but about the prices," said alwyn, following him. "oh, they'll be all right." "of course. but what i want is an estimate of your lowest cash prices." "cash?" "yes, sir." cresswell thought a while; such a business-like proposition from negroes surprised him. "well, i'll let you know," he said. it was nearly a week later before alwyn approached him again. "now, see here," said colonel cresswell, "there's practically no difference between cash and time prices. we buy our stock on time and you can just as well take advantage of this as not. i have figured out about what these things will cost. the best thing for you to do is to make a deposit here and get things when you want them. if you make a good deposit i'll throw off ten per cent, which is all of my profit." "thank you," said alwyn, but he looked over the account and found the whole bill at least twice as large as he expected. without further parley, he made some excuse and started to town while mr. cresswell went to the telephone. in town alwyn went to all the chief merchants one after another and received to his great surprise practically the same estimate. he could not understand it. he had estimated the current market prices according to the montgomery paper, yet the prices in toomsville were fifty to a hundred and fifty per cent higher. the merchant to whom he went last, laughed. "don't you know we're not going to interfere with colonel cresswell's tenants?" he stated the dealers' attitude, and alwyn saw light. he went home and told zora, and she listened without surprise. "now to business," she said briskly. "miss smith," turning to the teacher, "as i told you, they're combined against us in town and we must buy in montgomery. i was sure it was coming, but i wanted to give colonel cresswell every chance. bles starts for montgomery--" alwyn looked up. "does he?" he asked, smiling. "yes," said zora, smiling in turn. "we must lose no further time." "but there's no train from toomsville tonight." "but there's one from barton in the morning and barton is only twenty miles away." "it is a long walk." alwyn thought a while, silently. then he rose. "i'm going," he said. "good-bye." in less than a week the storehouse was full, and tenants were at work. the twenty acres of cleared swamp land, attended to by the voluntary labor of all the tenants, was soon bearing a magnificent crop. colonel cresswell inspected all the crops daily with a proprietary air that would have been natural had these folk been simply tenants, and as such he persisted in regarding them. the cotton now growing was perhaps not so uniformly fine as the first acre of silver fleece, but it was of unusual height and thickness. "at least a bale to the acre," alwyn estimated, and the colonel mentally determined to take two-thirds of the crop. after that he decided that he would evict zora immediately; since sufficient land was cleared already for his purposes and moreover, he had seen with consternation a herd of cattle grazing in one field on some early green stuff, and heard a drove of hogs in the swamp. such an example before the tenants of the black belt would be fatal. he must wait a few weeks for them to pick the cotton--then, the end. he was fighting the battle of his color and caste. the children sang merrily in the brown-white field. the wide baskets, poised aloft, foamed on the erect and swaying bodies of the dark carriers. the crop throughout the land was short that year, for prices had ruled low last season in accordance with the policy of the combine. this year they started high again. would they fall? many thought so and hastened to sell. zora and alwyn gathered their tenants' crops, ginned them at the cresswells' gin, and carried their cotton to town, where it was deposited in the warehouse of the farmers' league. "now," said alwyn, "we would best sell while prices are high." zora laughed at him frankly. "we can't," she said. "don't you know that colonel cresswell will attach our cotton for rent as soon as it touches the warehouse?" "but it's ours." "nothing is ours. no black man ordinarily can sell his crop without a white creditor's consent." alwyn fumed. "the best way," he declared, "is to go to montgomery and get a first-class lawyer and just fight the thing through. the land is legally ours, and he has no right to our cotton." "yes, but you must remember that no man like colonel cresswell regards a business bargain with a colored man as binding. no white man under ordinary circumstances will help enforce such a bargain against prevailing public opinion." "but if we cannot trust to the justice of the case, and if you knew we couldn't, why did you try?" "because i had to try; and moreover the circumstances are not altogether ordinary: the men in power in toomsville now are not the landlords of this county; they are poor whites. the judge and sheriff were both elected by mill-hands who hate cresswell and taylor. then there's a new young lawyer who wants harry cresswell's seat in congress; he don't know much law, i'm afraid; but what he don't know of this case i think i do. i'll get his advice and then--i mean to conduct the case myself," zora calmly concluded. "without a lawyer!" bles alwyn stared his amazement. "without a lawyer in court." "zora! that would be foolish!" "is it? let's think. for over a year now i've been studying the law of the case," and she pointed to her law books; "i know the law and most of the decisions. moreover, as a black woman fighting a hopeless battle with landlords, i'll gain the one thing lacking." "what's that?" "the sympathy of the court and the bystanders." "pshaw! from these southerners?" "yes, from them. they are very human, these men, especially the laborers. their prejudices are cruel enough, but there are joints in their armor. they are used to seeing us either scared or blindly angry, and they understand how to handle us then, but at other times it is hard for them to do anything but meet us in a human way." "but, zora, think of the contact of the court, the humiliation, the coarse talk--" zora put up her hand and lightly touched his arm. looking at him, she said: "mud doesn't hurt much. this is my duty. let me do it." his eyes fell before the shadow of a deeper rebuke. he arose heavily. "very well," he acquiesced as he passed slowly out. the young lawyer started to refuse to touch the case until he saw--or did zora adroitly make him see?--a chance for eventual political capital. they went over the matter carefully, and the lawyer acquired a respect for the young woman's knowledge. "first," he said, "get an injunction on the cotton--then go to court." and to insure the matter he slipped over and saw the judge. colonel cresswell next day stalked angrily into his lawyers' office. "see here," he thundered, handing the lawyer the notice of the injunction. "see the judge," began the lawyer, and then remembered, as he was often forced to do these days, who was judge. he inquired carefully into the case and examined the papers. then he said: "colonel cresswell, who drew this contract of sale?" "the black girl did." "impossible!" "she certainly did--wrote it in my presence." "well, it's mighty well done." "you mean it will stand in law?" "it certainly will. there's but one way to break it, and that's to allege misunderstanding on your part." cresswell winced. it was not pleasant to go into open court and acknowledge himself over-reached by a negro; but several thousand dollars in cotton and land were at stake. "go ahead," he concurred. "you can depend on taylor, of course?" added the lawyer. "of course," answered cresswell. "but why prolong the thing?" "you see, she's got your cotton tied by injunction." "i don't see how she did it." "easy enough: this judge is the poor white you opposed in the last primary." within a week the case was called, and they filed into the courtroom. cresswell's lawyer saw only this black woman--no other lawyer or sign of one appeared to represent her. the place soon filled with a lazy, tobacco-chewing throng of white men. a few blacks whispered in one corner. the dirty stove was glowing with pine-wood and the judge sat at a desk. "where's your lawyer?" he asked sharply of zora. "i have none," returned zora, rising. there came a silence in the court. her voice was low, and the men leaned forward to listen. the judge felt impelled to be over-gruff. "get a lawyer," he ordered. "your honor, my case is simple, and with your honor's permission i wish to conduct it myself. i cannot afford a lawyer, and i do not think i need one." cresswell's lawyer smiled and leaned back. it was going to be easier than he supposed. evidently the woman believed she had no case, and was weakening. the trial proceeded, and zora stated her contention. she told how long her mother and grandmother had served the cresswells and showed her receipt for rent paid. "a friend sent me some money. i went to mr. cresswell and asked him to sell me two hundred acres of land. he consented to do so and signed this contract in the presence of his son-in-law." just then john taylor came into the court, and cresswell beckoned to him. "i want you to help me out, john." "all right," whispered taylor. "what can i do?" "swear that cresswell didn't mean to sign this," said the lawyer quickly, as he arose to address the court. taylor looked at the paper blankly and then at cresswell and some inkling of the irreconcilable difference in the two natures leapt in both their hearts. cresswell might gamble and drink and lie "like a gentleman," but he would never willingly cheat or take advantage of a white man's financial necessities. taylor, on the other hand, had a horror of a lie, never drank nor played games of chance, but his whole life was speculation and in the business game he was utterly ruthless and respected no one. such men could never thoroughly understand each other. to cresswell a man who had cheated the whole south out of millions by a series of misrepresentations ought to regard this little falsehood as nothing. meantime colonel cresswell's lawyer was on his feet, and he adopted his most irritating and contemptuous manner. "this nigger wench wrote out some illegible stuff and colonel cresswell signed it to get rid of her. we are not going to question the legality of the form--that's neither here nor there. the point is, mr. cresswell never intended--never dreamed of selling this wench land right in front of his door. he meant to rent her the land and sign a receipt for rent paid in advance. i will not worry your honor by a long argument to prove this, but just call one of the witnesses well known to you--mr. john taylor of the toomsville mills." taylor looked toward the door and then slowly took the stand. "mr. taylor," said the lawyer carelessly, "were you present at this transaction?" "yes." "did you see colonel cresswell sign this paper?" "yes." "well, did he intend so far as you know to sign such a paper?" "i do not know his intentions." "did he say he meant to sign such a contract?" taylor hesitated. "yes," he finally answered. colonel cresswell looked up in amazement and the lawyer dropped his glasses. "i--i don't think you perhaps understood me, mr. taylor," he gasped. "i--er--meant to ask if colonel cresswell, in signing this paper, meant to sign a contract to sell this wench two hundred acres of land?" "he said he did," reiterated taylor. "although i ought to add that he did not think the girl would ever be able to pay. if he had thought she would pay, i don't think he would have signed the paper." colonel cresswell went red, than pale, and leaning forward before the whole court, he hurled: "you damned scoundrel!" the judge rapped for order and fidgeted in his seat. there was some confusion and snickering in the courtroom. finally the judge plucked up courage: "the defendant is ordered to deliver this cotton to zora cresswell," he directed. the raging of colonel cresswell's anger now turned against john taylor as well as the negroes. wind of the estrangement flew over town quickly. the poor whites saw a chance to win taylor's influence and the sheriff approached him cautiously. taylor paid him slight courtesy. he was irritated with this devilish negro problem; he was making money; his wife and babies were enjoying life, and here was this fool trial to upset matters. but the sheriff talked. "the thing i'm afraid of," he said, "is that cresswell and his gang will swing in the niggers on us." "how do you mean?" "let 'em vote." "but they'd have to read and write." "sure!" "well, then," said taylor, "it might be a good thing." colton eyed him suspiciously. "you'd let a nigger vote?" "why, yes, if he had sense enough." "there ain't no nigger got sense." "oh, pshaw!" taylor ejaculated, walking away. the sheriff was angry and mistrustful. he believed he had discovered a deep-laid scheme of the aristocrats to cultivate friendliness between whites and blacks, and then use black voters to crush the whites. such a course was, in colton's mind, dangerous, monstrous, and unnatural; it must be stopped at all hazards. he began to whisper among his friends. one or two meetings were held, and the flame of racial prejudice was studiously fanned. the atmosphere of the town and country quickly began to change. whatever little beginnings of friendship and understanding had arisen now quickly disappeared. the town of a saturday no longer belonged to a happy, careless crowd of black peasants, but the black folk found themselves elbowed to the gutter, while ugly quarrels flashed here and there with a quick arrest of the negroes. colonel cresswell made a sudden resolve. he sent for the sheriff and received him at the oaks, in his most respectable style, filling him with good food, and warming him with good liquor. "colton," he asked, "are you sending any of your white children to the nigger school yet?" "what!" yelled colton. the colonel laughed, frankly telling colton john taylor's philosophy on the race problem,--his willingness to let negroes vote; his threat to let blacks and whites work together; his contempt for the officials elected by the people. "candidly, colton," he concluded, "i believe in aristocracy. i can't think it right or wise to replace the old aristocracy by new and untried blood." and in a sudden outburst--"but, by god, sir! i'm a white man, and i place the lowest white man ever created above the highest darkey ever thought of. this yankee, taylor, is a nigger-lover. he's secretly encouraging and helping them. you saw what he did to me, and i'm warning you in time." colton's glass dropped. "i thought it was you that was corralling the niggers against us," he exclaimed. the colonel reddened. "i don't count all white men my equals, i admit," he returned with dignity, "but i know the difference between a white man and a nigger." colton stretched out his massive hand. "put it there, sir," said he; "i misjudged you, colonel cresswell. i'm a southerner, and i honor the old aristocracy you represent. i'm going to join with you to crush this yankee and put the niggers in their places. they are getting impudent around here; they need a lesson and, by gad! they'll get one they'll remember." "now, see here, colton,--nothing rash," the colonel charged him, warningly. "don't stir up needless trouble; but--well, things must change." colton rose and shook his head. "the niggers need a lesson," he muttered as he unsteadily bade his host good-bye. cresswell watched him uncomfortably as he rode away, and again a feeling of doubt stirred within him. what new force was he loosening against his black folk--his own black folk, who had lived about him and his fathers nigh three hundred years? he saw the huge form of the sheriff loom like an evil spirit a moment on the rise of the road and sink into the night. he turned slowly to his cheerless house shuddering as he entered the uninviting portals. _thirty-seven_ the mob when emma, bertie's child, came home after a two years' course of study, she had passed from girlhood to young womanhood. she was white, and sandy-haired. she was not beautiful, and she appeared to be fragile; but she also looked sweet and good, with that peculiar innocence which peers out upon the world with calm, round eyes and sees no evil, but does methodically its simple, everyday work. zora mothered her, miss smith found her plenty to do, and bles thought her a good girl. but mrs. cresswell found her perfect, and began to scheme to marry her off. for mary cresswell, with the restlessness and unhappiness of an unemployed woman, was trying to atone for her former blunders. her humiliation after the episode at cresswell oaks had been complete. it seemed to her that the original cause of her whole life punishment lay in her persistent misunderstanding of the black people and their problem. zora appeared to her in a new and glorified light--a vigorous, self-sacrificing woman. she knew that zora had refused to marry bles, and this again seemed fitting. zora was not meant for marrying; she was a born leader, wedded to a great cause; she had long outgrown the boy and girl affection. she was the sort of woman she herself might have been if she had not married. alwyn, on the other hand, needed a wife; he was a great, virile boy, requiring a simple, affectionate mate. no sooner did she see emma than she was sure that this was the ideal wife. she compared herself with helen cresswell. helen was a contented wife and mother because she was fitted for the position, and happy in it; while she who had aimed so high had fallen piteously. from such a fate she would save zora and bles. emma's course in nurse-training had been simple and short and there was no resident physician; but emma, in her unemotional way, was a born nurse and did much good among the sick in the neighborhood. zora had a small log hospital erected with four white beds, a private room, and an office which was also emma's bedroom. the new white physician in town, just fresh from school in atlanta, became interested and helped with advice and suggestions. meantime john taylor's troubles began to increase. under the old political regime it had been an easy matter to avoid serious damage-suits for the accidents in the mill. much child labor and the lack of protective devices made accidents painfully frequent. taylor insisted that the chief cause was carelessness, while the mill hands alleged criminal neglect on his part. when the new labor officials took charge of the court and the break occurred between colonel cresswell and his son-in-law, taylor found that several damage-suits were likely to cost him a considerable sum. he determined not to let the bad feelings go too far, and when a particularly distressing accident to a little girl took place, he showed more than his usual interest and offered to care for her. the new young physician recommended zora's infirmary as the only near place that offered a chance for the child's recovery. "take her out," taylor promptly directed. zora was troubled when the child came. she knew the suspicious temper of the town whites. the very next day taylor sent out a second case, a child who had been hurt some time before and was not recovering as she should. under the care of the little hospital and the gentle nurse the children improved rapidly, and in two weeks were outdoors, playing with the little black children and even creeping into classrooms and listening. the grateful mothers came out twice a week at least; at first with suspicious aloofness, but gradually melting under zora's tact until they sat and talked with her and told their troubles and struggles. zora realized how human they were, and how like their problems were to hers. they and their children grew to love this busy, thoughtful woman, and zora's fears were quieted. the catastrophe came suddenly. the sheriff rode by, scowling and hunting for some poor black runaway, when he saw white children in the negro school and white women, whom he knew were mill-hands, looking on. he was black with anger; turning he galloped back to town. a few hours later the young physician arrived hastily in a cab to take the women and children to town. he said something in a low tone to zora and drove away, frowning. zora came quickly to the school and asked for alwyn. he was in the barn and she hurried there. "bles," she said quietly, "it is reported that a toomsville mob will burn the school tonight." bles stood motionless. "i've been fearing it. the sheriff has been stirring up the worst elements in the town lately and the mills pay off tonight." "well," she said quietly, "we must prepare." he looked at her, his face aglow with admiration. "you wonder-woman!" he exclaimed softly. a moment they regarded each other. she saw the love in his eyes, and he saw rising in hers something that made his heart bound. but she turned quickly away. "you must hurry, bles; lives are at stake." and in another moment he thundered out of the barn on the black mare. along the pike he flew and up the plantation roads. across broad fields and back again, over to the barton pike and along the swamp. at every cabin he whispered a word, and left behind him grey faces and whispering children. his horse was reeking with sweat as he staggered again into the school-yard; but already the people were gathering, with frightened, anxious, desperate faces. women with bundles and children, men with guns, tottering old folks, wide-eyed boys and girls. up from the swamp land came the children crying and moaning. the sun was setting. the women and children hurried into the school building, closing the doors and windows. a moment alwyn stood without and looked back. the world was peaceful. he could hear the whistle of birds and the sobbing of the breeze in the shadowing oaks. the sky was flashing to dull and purplish blue, and over all lay the twilight hush as though god did not care. he threw back his head and clenched his hands. his soul groaned within him. "heavenly father, was man ever before set to such a task?" fight? god! if he could but fight! if he could but let go the elemental passions that were leaping and gathering and burning in the eyes of yonder caged and desperate black men. but his hands were tied--manacled. one desperate struggle, a whirl of blood, and the whole world would rise to crush him and his people. the white operatore in yonder town had but to flash the news, "negroes killing whites," to bring all the country, all the state, all the nation, to red vengeance. it mattered not what the provocation, what the desperate cause. the door suddenly opened behind him and he wheeled around. "zora!" he whispered. "bles," she answered softly, and they went silently in to their people. all at once, from floor to roof, the whole school-house was lighted up, save a dark window here and there. then some one slipped out into the darkness and soon watch-fire after watch-fire flickered and flamed in the night, and then burned vividly, sending up sparks and black smoke. thus ringed with flaming silence, the school lay at the edge of the great, black swamp and waited. owls hooted in the forest. afar the shriek of the montgomery train was heard across the night, mingling with the wail of a wakeful babe; and then redoubled silence. the men became restless, and johnson began to edge away toward the lower hall. alwyn was watching him when a faint noise came to him on the eastern breeze--a low, rumbling murmur. it died away, and rose again; then a distant gun-shot woke the echoes. "they're coming!" he cried. standing back in the shadow of a front window, he waited. slowly, intermittently, the murmuring swelled, till it grew distinguishable as yelling, cursing, and singing, intermingled with the crash of pistol-shots. far away a flame, as of a burning cabin, arose, and a wilder, louder yell greeted it. now the tramp of footsteps could be heard, and clearer and thicker the grating and booming of voices, until suddenly, far up the pike, a black moving mass, with glitter and shout, swept into view. they came headlong, guided by pine-torches, which threw their white and haggard faces into wild distortion. then as bonfire after bonfire met their gaze, they moved slowly and more slowly, and at last sent a volley of bullets at the fires. one bullet flew high and sang through a lighted window. without a word, uncle isaac sank upon the floor and lay still. silence and renewed murmuring ensued, and the sound of high voices in dispute. then the mass divided into two wings and slowly encircled the fence of fire; starting noisily and confidently, and then going more slowly, quietly, warily, as the silence of the flame began to tell on their heated nerves. strained whispers arose. "careful there!" "go on, damn ye!" "there's some one by yon fire." "no, there ain't." "see the bushes move." _bang! bang! bang!_ "who's that?" "it's me." "let's rush through and fire the house." "and leave a pa'cel of niggers behind to shoot your lights out? not me." "what the hell are you going to do?" "i don't know yet." "i wish i could see a nigger." _"hark!"_ stealthy steps were approaching, a glint of steel flashed behind the fire lights. each band mistook the other for the armed negroes, and the leaders yelled in vain; human power can not stay the dashing torrent of fear-inspired human panic. whirling, the mob fled till it struck the road in two confused, surging masses. then in quick frenzy, shots flew; three men threw up their hands and tumbled limply in the dust, while the main body rushed pellmell toward town. at early dawn, when the men relaxed from the strain of the night's vigil, alwyn briefly counselled them: "hide your guns." "why?" blustered rob. "haven't i a right to have a gun?" "yes, you have, rob; but don't be foolish--hide it. we've not heard the last of this." but rob tossed his head belligerently. in town, rumor spread like wildfire. a body of peaceful whites passing through the black settlement had been fired on from ambush, and six killed--no, three killed--no, one killed and two severely wounded. "the thing mustn't stop here," shouted sheriff colton; "these niggers must have a lesson." and before nine next morning fully half the grown members of the same mob, now sworn in as deputies, rode with him to search the settlement. they tramped insolently through the school grounds, but there was no shred of evidence until they came to rob's cabin and found his gun. they tied his hands behind him and marched him toward town. but before the mob arrived the night before, johnson feeling that his safety lay in informing the white folks, had crawled with his gun into the swamp. in the morning he peered out as the cavalcade approached, and not knowing what had happened, he recognized colton, the sheriff, and signalled to him cautiously. in a moment a dozen men were on him, and he appealed and explained in vain--the gun was damning evidence. the voices of rob's wife and children could be heard behind the two men as they were hurried along at a dog trot. the town poured out to greet them--"the murderers! the murderers! kill the niggers!" and they came on with a rush. the sheriff turned and disappeared in the rear. there was a great cloud of dust, a cry and a wild scramble, as the white and angry faces of men and boys gleamed a moment and faded. a hundred or more shots rang out; then slowly and silently, the mass of women and men were sucked into the streets of the town, leaving but black eddies on the corners to throw backward glances toward the bare, towering pine where swung two red and awful things. the pale boy-face of one, with soft brown eyes glared up sightless to the sun; the dead, leathered bronze of the other was carved in piteous terror. _thirty-eight_ atonement three months had flown. it was spring again, and zora sat in the transformed swamp--now a swamp in name only--beneath the great oak, dreaming. and what she dreamed there in the golden day she dared not formulate even to her own soul. she rose with a start, for there was work to do. aunt rachel was ill, and emma went daily to attend her; today, as she came back, she brought news that colonel cresswell, who had been unwell for several days, was worse. she must send emma up to help, and as she started toward the school she glanced toward the cresswell oaks and saw the arm-chair of its master on the pillared porch. colonel cresswell sat in his chair on the porch, alone. as far as he could see, there was no human soul. his eyes were blood-shot, his cheeks sunken, and his breath came in painful gasps. a sort of terror shook him until he heard the distant songs of black folk in the fields. he sighed, and lying back, closed his eyes and the breath came easier. when he opened them again a white figure was coming up the avenue of the oaks. he watched it greedily. it was mary cresswell, and she started when she saw him. "you are worse, father?" she asked. "worse and better," he replied, smiling cynically. then suddenly he announced: "i've made my will." "why--why--" she stammered. "why?" sharply. "because i'm going to die." she said nothing. he smiled and continued: "i've got it all fixed. harry was in a tight place--gambling as usual--and i gave him a lump sum in lieu of all claims. then i gave john taylor--you needn't look. i sent for him. he's a damned scoundrel; but he won't lie, and i needed him. i willed his children all the rest except two or three legacies. one was one hundred thousand dollars for you--" "oh, father!" she cried. "i don't deserve it." "i reckon two years with harry was worth about that much," he returned grimly. "then there's another gift of two hundred thousand dollars and this house and plantation. whom do you think that's for?" "helen?" "helen!" he raised his hand in threatening anger. "i might rot here for all she cares. no--no--but then--i'll not tell you--i--ah--" a spasm of pain shot across his face, and he lay back white and still. abruptly he sat up again and peered down the oaks. "hush!" he gasped. "who's that?" "i don't know--it's a girl--i--" he gripped her till she winced. "my god--it walks--like my wife--i tell you--she held her head so--who is it?" he half rose. "oh, father, it's nobody but emma--little emma--bertie's child--the mulatto girl. she's a nurse now, and i asked to have her come and attend you." "oh," he said, "oh--" he looked at the girl curiously. "come here." he peered into her white young face. "do you know me?" the girl shrank away from him. "yes, sir." "what do you do?" "i teach and nurse at the school." "good! well, i'm going to give you some money--do you know why?" a flash of self-consciousness passed over the girl's face; she looked at him with her wide blue eyes. "yes, grandfather," she faltered. mrs. cresswell rose to her feet; but the old man slowly dropped the girl's hand and lay back in his chair, with lips half smiling. "grandfather," he repeated softly. he closed his eyes a space and then opened them. a tremor shivered in his limbs as he stared darkly at the swamp. "hark!" he cried harshly. "do you hear the bodies creaking on the limbs? it's rob and johnson. i did it--i--" suddenly he rose and stood erect and his wild eyes stricken with death stared full upon emma. slowly and thickly he spoke, working his trembling hands. "nell--nell! is it you, little wife, come back to accuse me? ah, nell, don't shrink! i know--i have sinned against the light and the blood of your poor black people is red on these old hands. no, don't put your clean white hands upon me, nell, till i wash mine. i'll do it, nell; i'll atone. i'm a cresswell yet, nell, a cresswell and a gen--" he swayed. vainly he struggled for the word. the shudder of death shook his soul, and he passed. a week after the funeral of colonel cresswell, john taylor drove out to the school and was closeted with miss smith. his sister, installed once again for a few days in her old room at the school, understood that he was conferring about emma's legacy, and she was glad. she was more and more convinced that the marriage of emma and bles was the best possible solution of many difficulties. she had asked emma once if she liked bles, and emma had replied in her innocent way, "oh, so much." as for bles, he was often saying what a dear child emma was. neither perhaps realized yet that this was love, but it needed, mrs. cresswell was sure, only the lightning-flash, and they would know. and who could furnish that illumination better than zora, the calm, methodical zora, who knew them so well? as for herself, once she had accomplished the marriage and paid the mortgage on the school out of her legacy, she would go abroad and in travel seek forgetfulness and healing. there had been no formal divorce, and so far as she was concerned there never would be; but the separation from her husband and america would be forever. her brother came out of the office, nodded casually, for they had little intercourse these days, and rode away. she rushed in to miss smith and found her sitting there--straight, upright, composed in all save that the tears were streaming down her face and she was making no effort to stop them. "why--miss smith!" she faltered. miss smith pointed to a paper. mrs. cresswell picked it up curiously. it was an official notification to the trustees of the smith school of a legacy of two hundred thousand dollars together with the cresswell house and plantation. mrs. gresswell sat down in open-mouthed astonishment. twice she tried to speak, but there were so many things to say that she could not choose. "tell zora," miss smith at last managed to say. zora was dreaming again. somehow, the old dream-life, with its glorious phantasies, had come silently back, richer and sweeter than ever. there was no tangible reason why, and yet today she had shut herself in her den. searching down in the depths of her trunk, she drew forth that filmy cloud of white--silk-bordered and half finished to a gown. why were her eyes wet today and her mind on the silver fleece? it was an anniversary, and perhaps she still remembered that moment, that supreme moment before the mob. she half slipped on, half wound about her, the white cloud of cloth, standing with parted lips, looking into the long mirror and gleaming in the fading day like midnight gowned in mists and stars. abruptly there came a peremptory knocking at the door. "zora! zora!" sounded mrs. cresswell's voice. forgetting her informal attire, she opened the door, fearing some mishap. mrs. cresswell poured out the news. zora received it in such motionless silence that mary wondered at her want of feeling. at last, however, she said happily to zora: "well, the battle's over, isn't it?" "no, it's just begun." "just begun?" echoed mary in amazement. "think of the servile black folk, the half awakened restless whites, the fat land waiting for the harvest, the masses panting to know--why, the battle is scarcely even begun." "yes, i guess that's so," mary began to comprehend. "we'll thank god it has begun, though." "thank god!" zora reverently repeated. "come, let's go back to poor, dear miss smith," suggested mary. "i can't come just now--but pretty soon." "why? oh, i see; you're trying on something--how pretty and becoming! well, hurry." as they stood together, the white woman deemed the moment opportune; she slipped her arm about the black woman's waist and began: "zora, i've had something on my mind for a long time, and i shouldn't wonder if you had thought of the same thing." "what is it?" "bles and emma." "what of them?" "their liking for each other." zora bent a moment and caught up the folds of the fleece. "i hadn't noticed it," she said in a low voice. "well, you're busy, you see. they've been very much together--his taking her to her charges, bringing her back, and all that. i know they love each other; yet something holds them apart, afraid to show their love. do you know--i've wondered if--quite unconciously, it is you? you know bles used to imagine himself in love with you, just as he did afterward with miss wynn." "miss--wynn?" "yes, the washington girl. but he got over that and you straightened him out finally. still, emma probably thinks yours is the prior claim, knowing, of course, nothing of facts. and bles knows she thinks of him and you, and i'm convinced if you say the word, they'd love and marry." zora walked silently with her to the door, where, looking out, she saw bles and emma coming from aunt rachel's. he was helping her from the carriage with smiling eyes, and her innocent blue eyes were fastened on him. zora looked long and searchingly. "please run and tell them of the legacy," she begged. "i--i will come--in a moment." and mrs. cresswell hurried out. zora turned back steadily to her room, and locked herself in. after all, why shouldn't it be? why had it not occurred to her before in her blindness? if she had wanted him--and ah, god! was not all her life simply the want of him?--why had she not bound him to her when he had offered himself? why had she not bound him to her? she knew as she asked--because she had wanted all, not a part--everything, love, respect and perfect faith--not one thing could she spare then--not one thing. and now, oh, god! she had dreamed that it was all hers, since that night of death and circling flame when they looked at each other soul to soul. but he had not meant anything. it was pity she had seen there, not love; and she rose and walked the room slowly, fast and faster. with trembling hands she drew the silver fleece round her. her head swam again and the blood flashed in her eyes. she heard a calling in the swamp, and the shadow of elspeth seemed to hover over her, claiming her for her own, dragging her down, down.... she rushed through the swamp. the lagoon lay there before her presently, gleaming in the darkness--cold and still, and in it swam an awful shape. she held her burning head--was not everything plain? was not everything clear? this was sacrifice! this was the atonement for the unforgiven sin. emma's was the pure soul which she must offer up to god; for it was god, a cold and mighty god, who had given it to bles--her bles. it was well; god willed it. but could she live? must she live? did god ask that, too? all at once she stood straight; her whole body grew tense, alert. she heard no sound behind her, but knew he was there, and braced herself. she must be true. she must be just. she must pay the uttermost farthing. "bles," she called faintly, but did not turn her head. "zora!" "bles," she choked, but her voice came stronger, "i know--all. emma is a good girl. i helped bring her up myself and did all i could for her and she--she is pure; marry her." his voice came slow and firm: "emma? but i don't love emma. i love--some one else." her heart bounded and again was still. it was that washington girl then. she answered dully, groping for words, for she was tired: "who is it?" "the best woman in all the world, zora." "and is"--she struggled at the word madly--"is she pure?" "she is more than pure." "then you must marry her, bles." "i am not worthy of her," he answered, sinking before her. then at last illumination dawned upon her blindness. she stood very still and lifted up her eyes. the swamp was living, vibrant, tremulous. there where the first long note of night lay shot with burning crimson, burst in sudden radiance the wide beauty of the moon. there pulsed a glory in the air. her little hands groped and wandered over his close-curled hair, and she sobbed, deep voiced: "will you--marry me, bles?" l'envoi lend me thine ears, o god the reader, whose fathers aforetime sent mine down into the land of egypt, into this house of bondage. lay not these words aside for a moment's phantasy, but lift up thine eyes upon the horror in this land;--the maiming and mocking and murdering of my people, and the prisonment of their souls. let my people go, o infinite one, lest the world shudder at the end distributed proofreading canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net swamp cat _books by_ jim kjelgaard big red rebel siege forest patrol buckskin brigade chip, the dam builder fire hunter irish red kalak of the ice a nose for trouble snow dog trailing trouble wild trek the explorations of pere marquette the spell of the white sturgeon outlaw red the coming of the mormons cracker barrel trouble shooter the lost wagon lion hound trading jeff and his dog desert dog haunt fox the oklahoma land run double challenge swamp cat swamp cat by jim kjelgaard _illustrated by_ edward shenton dodd, mead & company new york © by jim kjelgaard all rights reserved no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher thirteenth printing library of congress catalog card number: - printed in the united states of america by the cornwall press, inc., cornwall, n. y. _to polly goodwin_ contents . exiled . andy . the first planting . feathered death . partners . frosty prowls . the second planting . marooned . intruder . andy hunts . the war of the owls . deep sand the characters and situations in this book are wholly fictional and imaginative: they do not portray and are not intended to portray any actual persons or parties. swamp cat exiled the sound came to frosty as a mere vibration that hummed about the fine hairs in his inner ears and set his whiskers to tingling. about to leap from the shelf on which he crouched and resume the boisterous play with his two brothers, he remained where he was and strained for a repetition of the noise. he knew only that it was. before he could continue playing, he must know what it was. on the chaff-littered floor of the shed in which they lived, frosty's brothers engaged in a mock war. they slapped and bit each other, but their claws were sheathed and needle-sharp baby teeth did not penetrate the skin. breaking, they raced pell-mell across the shed. so nearly alike that no casual observer could have seen any difference between the pair, one gray kitten stretched full-length behind a little heap of chaff and waited in this cunning ambush for the other to venture near. they too would have stopped playing if they had been aware of the noise, but only frosty knew it because only his senses were keen enough to detect it. however, more than just superior powers of perception set him apart from the kittens on the floor. the mother of the three, beloved pet of the household, was a medium-sized gray cat that had never done much of anything except doze in the sunshine in summer, lie beside the stove in winter, rub against the legs of the various members of the family when she was pleased, sulk when she was not, and somewhat indifferently carry on various affairs which no cat ever considers the business of any human. their father was a huge black-and-white old tom. a confirmed wanderer and unregenerate adventurer, he bore as many battle scars as any soldier ever carried. smart and crafty, he had never offered allegiance to anything save his own wanderlust and he feared nothing. from point of lineage or breeding, neither the gray mother nor the black-and-white old tom were distinguished by anything special. products of generations of cats that had been allowed to wander where they would and breed as they pleased, in local parlance, they were just common cats. it was a misnomer, though, because there is no such thing as a common cat. perhaps because they were a little nearer the source of things, the ancient peoples who brought cats from the wilderness to their firesides understood this perfectly. they knew that cats are proud. they applauded their intelligence, warmed to their complex characters, marveled at their temperaments and tried eagerly to fathom that unfathomable mystery, so that they might understand why cats were as they were. failing, they accepted their failure with wisdom. they could not understand cats any more than they could understand why gold glittered or precious jewels sparkled, but they did not have to know why a flawless diamond or ruby came about in order to appreciate it. they bowed to perfection and they acknowledged the perfection of cats by making them their equals, or even their superiors. cats had first choice at their own tables, and whole villages walked in the funeral procession when a cat died. they made cats the companions of kings, and it was death to the commoner who hurt or even touched one. they put cats in their temples and worshipped them; many a figure which meant a god to these ancient peoples wore the head of a cat on the body of a man. some part of what had impressed these ancients was evident in frosty as he lay on the shelf and waited for the sound to repeat itself, so he could identify it. though he gave his entire being to the task at hand, his was not the strained tension of a dog that concentrates completely on just one thing. rather than fret toward the source of the sound, it was as though frosty had opened an invisible door which not only could but must let the source become one with him. blood brother to the two kittens on the floor, frosty was a third bigger than they. but the lithe slimness of his mother had tempered the blocky proportions of his father, so that he combined size with strength and fluid grace. his basic fur was jet black, but single white hairs were so scattered through it that he looked as though he were sprinkled with hoarfrost. his eyes were remarkable, and somehow seemed to reflect the accumulated wisdom of all cats since the first. a split second after the first tremor, the noise came again, a tiny bit louder, and thereafter resolved itself into a pattern of rhythmic noises. a horse was coming, and because the tremors strengthened with each step it took. frosty knew that it was coming toward the shed. finally becoming aware of the sound, the gray kittens stopped playing until they too could identify it. frosty's eyes sparkled mischievously. he had been born with a quivering bump of curiosity that stopped throbbing only when it was satisfied, and it was satisfied only when frosty knew at all times exactly what lay about him. his nose was relatively dull, but his eyes and ears verged on the marvelous, so he interpreted the world keenly through sight and hearing. but once he was sure, as he was now sure that he heard a horse, he need concern himself no longer because, from this point on, that part of his brain which worked automatically would take over and tell him what the horse was doing. imps of mischief continued to dance in frosty's eyes. having just detected the sound, his brothers must now identify it. trying to do so was occupying all their attention and there would never be a better chance to take them off guard. frosty launched himself from the shelf. it was a kitten's leap, propelled by a kitten's muscles, but there was still something breath-taking, almost unreal, about it. no blind jump, every nerve and muscle in frosty's body was at all times under perfect control. he landed exactly where he had planned on landing, astride his two brothers, and the three kittens tumbled over and over on the floor. even while he parried paw or fangs, or inflicted playful blows of his own, that part of his brain which had taken over for frosty kept him informed of the horse's progress. there was no need to stop playing and give the horse undivided attention. horses, in a cat's opinion, were big, clumsy and uninteresting. the horse stopped near the house to which the shed belonged and a man whose voice frosty did not recognize called, "halloo the house!" the door opened and the mistress of the place answered, "hello, luke. just a minute." when the house door opened, at once the two gray kittens broke off playing and padded to the shed's door. they stood before it, voicing little mews of anticipation and so eager that their heads alternately raised and dipped, then turned, as though on swivels. their tails were straight and pink tongues flicked out. though he did not hide his interest, frosty stayed well back from the shed door. he knew as well as his two brothers did that the saucers of milk and occasional pile of table scraps upon which all three kittens fed came from the house and that the woman always brought them. but frosty possessed in full a quality which his brothers had only in part. frosty's heritage, in great measure, came from his renegade father. incapable of fearing anything, he was sufficient unto himself and he'd known that from the first day he'd opened his eyes and looked around the shed. there was not and never would be a situation with which he could not cope or a foe from whom he would run in panic. his self-confidence was almost as vast as his curiosity. he would stand alone, or with kindred spirits. never would he place himself at the mercy of, or pay homage to, one who was not kindred. he liked the woman. she was unfailingly kind and gentle. she knew exactly how to pet him and she--a small point--brought his food. but he would not, as the gray kittens did, unbend so far as to meet her at the door. she was not his superior. the woman spoke again and there was a little question in her voice. "mr. harris isn't here now, luke, but i suppose it's all right for you to take them?" "it's all right, miz harris." the man's voice was curiously flat and toneless. "i tol' the mister i'd get 'em today." "well--" the woman still doubted. "how much did he promise you?" "two dollars, miz harris." "all right. i'll pay you. they're in here." she pulled the shed door open and frosty looked out to see his mistress standing beside a lean hillman, dressed in sun-faded blue trousers that, somehow, were kept from falling down by frayed galluses draped over a torn shirt. the man's hair needed cutting and ragged sideburns strayed down either cheek, to meet beneath his chin. his face was hatchet like, its distinguishing characteristic being a pair of pale blue eyes. he held the reins of a skittish-looking brown horse that wore a good saddle. frosty stayed where he was, instinctively flattening himself so that he lay a little nearer the floor. tails erect, eyes happy, pleased purrs filling the shed, the two gray kittens arched against their mistress' feet. she knelt and took one in either hand. "oh, the dears! i hate to see them go!" "kind o' hard," the man said, "to keep so many cats in town." "it's impossible," she sighed. "can you wait a while? it lacks an hour to their feeding time, but maybe i should feed them before they go?" "now don't you fret," he reassured her. "in two hours i'll have 'em up at my place, an' anybody in the hills'll tell you luke trull's critters don't starve. they'll eat plenty." "i hope so. how are you going to carry them?" "if you'll just hold queenie--" he handed the horse's reins to her, took a gunny sack from beneath his shirt, plopped the two surprised gray kittens into it and advanced on frosty. unafraid, but always willing to temper valor with discretion, frosty waited until he was near enough to swoop, then darted into a cracked piece of tile pipe that lay in the shed. luke trull said, "this'n ain't friendly." "no," mrs. harris admitted, "he isn't like the others." "makes no diffe'nce. we can use him, an' his wildness might pay off up in the hills." frosty readied himself. the three-foot length of tile was not merely the best but almost the only hiding place in the shed. if he was found out here, he'd have no choice except fighting. luke trull's hand crept like an unwieldy snake into the hollow tile and frosty struck with unsheathed claws. the man gritted, "why, ya leetle--!" "what's wrong?" the woman asked anxiously. "the leetle--! he bit me!" "please be gentle!" the hand came nearer and its steel-strong fingers enfolded frosty. the black kitten raked until his paws were secured and then scissored with needle-sharp baby teeth. spitting and snarling, he was pulled out of the tile and dropped into the gunny sack, along with his brothers. he made another mad lunge at luke trull but succeeded only in entangling his claws in the sacking. furious, but unable to do anything about it at once, frosty subsided. the man held up his scratched hand. "the leetle--!" the woman said, "i'm sorry!" "makes no mind," luke trull said. "i'll stop down to the drugstore an' git aught to put on it." "i'll pay for it. will two dollars extra be all right?" "if ye've a mind, miz harris." "you--you won't hurt the kittens?" "oh no, miz harris! 'course not! why would i hurt 'em when i told the mister i'd take 'em?" "here's your money." "thankee." luke trull tied the mouth of the gunny sack, slung it over the saddle horn, and swung expertly into the saddle. the horse broke into a fast walk and the gunny sack bobbed back and forth in cadence with the horse's movements. paws spread, claws extended, frosty steadied himself by holding onto the sacking. one of the gray kittens whimpered plaintively. rigid with uncertainty, the second merely stared. frosty paid his brothers not the slightest attention. he could smell nothing, see nothing except dim light that filtered through the gunny sack's coarse weave, and he heard little but the measured clomp-clomp of the horse's hooves. since he could know nothing whatever of what lay about him, or what might happen next, he couldn't possibly plan any intelligent course of action or know how to cope with the next problem that arose. he must be ready for anything and he was. though he knew no fear, his nerves were taut as a blown-up balloon. from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail, no tiny part of him was even slightly relaxed. just so, provision is made for all cats that find themselves in serious and uncertain situations. frosty, and to a lesser extent the gray kittens, were ready to fly in any direction or to do instantly whatever the next second, the next minute, the next hour, or any elapsed time, might have them do. they did not bob around as puppies would have because each had all four claws firmly fixed in the sacking and, in a very real way, even while they were together, they remained apart. though on occasion several cats will cooperate to do what one alone cannot do, theirs is not the pack instinct of dogs and wolves. intelligent enough to work with others when the situation demands it, they are too highly individualized to look to any one leader and too smart ever completely to trust their own fate to anything except themselves. the gray kitten that had mewed before, called a second time. it was not a cry of fear, but one of appeal. until now, the kitten's world had consisted of the shed, of daytime forays into the yard, of all the food it could eat and of unfailingly gentle treatment at the hands of human beings. the desperate kitten wanted only to be back in the familiar world from which it had been so rudely torn. far more intelligent and advanced than either of the gray kittens, frosty gave himself wholly to facing things as they were, with no vain lamentations for what had been. still able to smell only the dusty sack, to see little and to hear only the horse's hoofbeats, he kept every sense alert. thus he knew when they left the road and started climbing a mountain path. the little dust bombs that had been exploding under the horse's feet no longer floated upwards. metal-shod hooves rang on rocks and boulders and the air was cleaner. frosty sensed only the physical change, welcome because the dust was less oppressive. being a cat, he knew nothing of the town's social life, as it was conducted by humans, and if he had known, he wouldn't have cared. but town life had a definite bearing on why he and his brothers were here. the town owed its existence to the fact that it was the logical place to establish a railroad yard. its inhabitants consisted of those who worked for the railroad and various business and professional people who had gathered to serve them. the first scheduled train had run over the new-laid rails just twenty-eight years ago, and, with few exceptions, everybody in the town who was past thirty had come from somewhere else. those who'd stayed had established the town's oldest and most-respected families, and such traditions as there were centered about them and the history they'd seen in the making. it was a colorful story, for though there hadn't been any town, there had been people here long before the steel rails crept this way. they were the trulls, the casmans, the haroldsons, the gates, and others. according to popular report, in which there was probably more than a little truth, these natives of the region lived back in the hills because no place that smacked even faintly of civilization would have them and, before the coming of the railroad and the building of the town, they did just about as they pleased. a choice story, one the town's newspaper reprinted at least once a year, concerned the twenty-five-year-long feud that the trulls and casmans had carried on with the gates. occasionally, some of the hill people had come into town, worked on the railroad long enough to get money for some purpose or other and gone again. they hadn't wanted steady jobs and they still didn't. now the town's relations with the hill dwellers were somewhat curious. the railroad had brought law with it and the hill people had had to conform, but they had never conformed completely. periodically, the game warden found a trull, casman, or some other hillman, with game or fish taken out of season. two years ago, federal officers, searching for illicit stills, had combed the whole area thoroughly. they had uncovered no bootlegging operations but that, as every townsman knew, was only because the hill dwellers had been too clever for them. legend and fact mingled indiscriminately to influence the town's view of the hill people. it was commonly believed that, once a hill man promised to do something, the deed was as good as done. it was also believed that, back in their own wild country, the hill dwellers were still a law unto themselves. many were the darkly whispered tales of violence, even murder, and pagan rites. but most of these stories were born in some town-dweller's imagination. however, there was fact, and andy gates furnished the outstanding example. andy was the last resident survivor of the gates clan. three years ago, looking fourteen but claiming he was sixteen, andy had come into town and obtained a job on the night shift in the roundhouse. days he had enrolled in the town's high school, where he not only completed a four-year course in three but graduated as salutatorian. then, though he might have continued to work for the railroad, with every prospect of some day having a very good job, andy had gone back to the hills. so fact and romance tinted each other, and when mrs. harris handed the three kittens over to luke trull, she hadn't the least idea that he would do anything but exactly as he had promised and give them a fine home. she didn't know anything about his home and had only a vague idea of where he lived. however, who could doubt that surplus kittens, for which there was no room in town, would be very well off in the hills? it never occurred to her, it never occurred to anyone outside the hills, that luke was a man of the meanest order. with an inborn aversion to work, he liked money and he constantly schemed and planned to get some. his scratched hand, an injury not even worth noticing, he had quickly recognized as an opportunity to extort two dollars more from mrs. harris. he had never had the slightest intention of buying any antiseptic from the drugstore and now, as his horse climbed the mountain path, he looked for a good place to rid himself of the kittens. they'd be nothing except a burden at luke's place and he did not want them. at the same time, he must be very careful. those fools from town were always coming into the hills for one reason or another, and, of course, everybody in the town knew everybody else. if he were seen discarding the kittens, he'd get no more surplus kittens or pups either and thus a handy source of income would dry up. luke swung in the saddle to look behind him and saw nobody. there didn't seem to be anybody ahead, either, but luke's were the senses and instincts of a hillman. he could not see around the next bend, but there might be somebody there who could see him. luke rode on. he rounded the bend and silently commended himself for his own caution. swinging down a long, straight stretch toward him came young andy gates. although of anything except a poetical turn of mind, luke thought, as he always did when he saw andy at a distance, of a birch sapling that has shot far into the air without developing a trunk that is capable of supporting it. there was nothing complimentary in the comparison; slim and tall saplings might topple with the first storm. but the description was apt. six feet two, andy's body had not yet filled out in proportion to his height. he had straight, jet-black hair and a smile that always seemed in bud on his mouth but never quite bloomed. unless one looked squarely into his black eyes--and luke never did because andy's eyes made him uncomfortable--the over-all impression he gave was one of extreme gentleness. with his long legs, he covered the ground like a coursing greyhound. he was now, luke guessed, on his way into town to buy some needed supplies. they met and luke said, "hi, andy." andy touched a hand to his forehead in salute. "hello, luke." then they passed and each continued his separate way. a puzzled smile parted luke's thin lips. young gates was a queer one. smart enough, if book learning passed for smartness; he had gone to town and got himself a schooling. then, and only he knew why, he had come back to the ancestral gates holdings in dog tooth valley. what he, or for that matter anyone else, wanted there was a mystery. there was some five hundred acres, all paid for and with a clear title. but there was not enough plow land to provide even a small family with enough vegetables for its own use. here and there was a small patch of scrub timber, and almost all the rest was swamp land. when they'd needed that above all else, dog tooth valley had provided a safe haven for the once-numerous gates men. they knew the only safe paths across their endless swamps and, to this day, nobody else did. but the feud was long since ended. though it had been neither as prolonged nor as bitter as the town liked to remember it and there had been a lot more hand to hand slugging than there ever had been combat with deadly weapons, the law had ended it and a new day had come to the hills. it was a better day, too. who but a fool would try to get what he wanted with a gun when it was much easier and safer to think his way through to it? turning to steal a covert glance behind him, luke saw that andy had disappeared. the man whirled his horse to the side of the trail, lifted the bag of kittens from his saddle horn and threw the still-tied sack into a copse of brush. andy the spring sun, which rose at half-past five, was just climbing into the sky when andy gates got out of bed. he entered the compact kitchen of his little house, started a wood fire in the range, put a pot of coffee over an open lid hole and, while waiting for this to start percolating, walked to the front of his place and looked over his domain. the house was built on a rocky knoll, one of the few places in dog tooth valley that was not given over to swamp land. enough topsoil clung to the elevation to support a small garden. surrounding the garden was a tightly woven picket fence, and, even as andy watched, a trim doe from out of the swamp nosed hopefully at the pickets. andy smiled with his eyes; the doe could not get into his garden. beyond, were three small sheds. in one andy kept the dozen chickens that supplied him with eggs and an occasional table fowl; the other two were a fur shed and a place for storing provisions. all the rest was swamp land. the scene had been familiar since andy's babyhood, but, even though it was old, somehow it was always new. directly in front of the house was a watery slough, around and in which cattails, lily pads and other swamp vegetation grew in lush profusion. just beyond the slough was a cluster of dead trees that thrust skeleton branches and twigs forlornly and forever skyward. the dead trees were one of the swamp's many mysteries. why they'd grown in the first place, andy did not know. nor could he understand why they did not fall down, as other dead trees did, sooner or later. he thought that they took out of the swamp some mineral content that toughened and hardened them. they'd been there since he could remember. beyond the trees, marked here and there by other dead trees and an occasional knoll upon which grew a little patch of live ones, the swamp stretched clear to the foot of some low hills that rose in the distance. andy picked out the paths across it; the sloughs and ponds wherein lurked pickerel, perch and bass; the game trails; and the places where, in bygone days, men of the gates clan had hidden from their enemies. he turned soberly back to the stove, put a slab of butter in a skillet, melted it and broke four eggs into it. he toasted bread on top of the stove and sat down to eat his breakfast. the gates family had long since scattered far and wide. when the railroad brought the law with it, they could no longer raid the trulls and casmans and retreat to the safety of their swamp. safety was about all the swamp did offer; no hungry family had yet found a way to take a livelihood from it. andy poured himself a second cup of coffee. one by one, the gates men had taken their belongings and their families from the hills. but there'd been the inevitable one who couldn't leave. foolish, the rest had called jared, andy's father, but jared hadn't cared. only his son could understand that some roots went too deep to be torn out. jared might have left the swamp, but he wouldn't have been happy elsewhere. this was perfectly plain to andy because he wouldn't either. he'd striven to finish four years of high school in three largely because he was lonesome for the swamp and he'd gone to school for a specific purpose. jared, resting these past four years in the family plot on fiddler's knob, had been contented just to accept the swamp. he'd hunted a little, fished a little, trapped a little and worked by the day for whomever saw fit to give him a job. andy wanted to make the swamp produce something worthwhile and he'd spent hours in the school library, seeking a way. farming, in the accepted sense, was not even to be considered. the swamp would grow no commercial crop. there was little likelihood that it contained valuable minerals, either, but, by sheer chance, andy had run across an account of the great swamps of louisiana and the muskrats that abounded there. in this, he hoped, he had his answer. there were fur bearers in the swamp; mink, otter, raccoon and an occasional fox or coyote. strangely enough, there were no muskrats, but andy thought this was explained by the fact that all the swamp's outlets were subterranean. there was no surface connection with any stream or river, and any muskrat that tried to get into the swamp would have a long and perilous journey overland. however, he knew that there was a vast abundance of the aquatic plants on which muskrats fed, and muskrats did very well in northern climates, too. they were found well into canada. if andy could establish muskrats in his swamp, let them multiply and harvest the surplus, he might very well earn more than just a livelihood. at any rate, the experiment was worth trying and, after corresponding with various animal dealers and breeders, he had succeeded in buying six pairs of muskrats. if everything went according to schedule, they'd arrive on the one o'clock train. andy washed his breakfast dishes, tidied up the house and went outside. hoisting a white tail over her back, the hopeful doe fled into the swamp. andy walked toward his garden and was halted by a whirring rattle. a thick-bodied rattlesnake wriggled hastily out of his way and he let it go. rattlesnakes were one commodity that the swamp did produce in abundance, and they'd killed all three of the dogs andy had tried to keep. after that, he had stopped keeping them. there was little point in getting another dog when it was certain to run afoul of a snake and he didn't really miss the companionship. though he lived alone, he was never lonely. nobody could be if he loved and understood the swamp. opening the gate, andy looked at his garden, saw that it had not been molested and sighed relievedly. deer could not get through the fence, but raccoons had a fancy for tender young vegetables, too, and they could get over it. perhaps the rattlesnake, dangerous only to the unwary and the small creatures upon which it lived, was acting as a sort of guardian. it would be a good idea to let it stay where it was. catching up a hoe, andy cultivated his young plants. two hours later, he laid the tool aside, returned to the house, took up a casting rod with a silver spoon on the leader and stepped down to the slough. he cast expertly, laying his spoon just off the fringe of lily pads that grew on the far side of the slough. he let the spoon sink a little ways, began the retrieve, and there was a succession of little ripples as a good bass followed it clear across the slough. andy cast again and again. on his fourth cast, the bass struck. he fought it across the slough and lifted it out of the water. thus he had his dinner. after he'd cooked and eaten it, he started down the trail leading into town. passing luke trull, he was happy to salute him briefly and hurry on. the feud was long since just a memory, but even if it had never been, andy would not have liked luke trull. he was a coarse and often cruel man, and better left alone. given to violent rages, he was, nevertheless, usually able to avoid trouble. andy strode into the town, returned the greetings of friends he met there, made his way to the express office and waited for johnny linger, the agent, to look up. an old friend from andy's railroading days, johnny's greeting was explosive, "hi, andy!" "hello, johnny. is there anything for me?" "six somethings." johnny indicated six small wooden crates at one side of the room. "i was hoping you'd drop by. what are they, andy?" "muskrats." andy peered between the slats of one crate at two brown-furred animals about as big as cottontail rabbits. "six mated pairs." johnny asked whimsically, "what are you going to do with 'em, andy?" "see if they like my swamp. i forgot my pack board, johnny. will you loan me one?" "sure thing." "would you mind letting me pick them up after dark?" "any time you say. you'd just as soon keep it private, huh?" "i'd just as soon," andy agreed. "nobody will know i have them if i take them in after dark." * * * * * a moment before the sack landed in the brush, all three kittens turned so that the entire trio landed on their feet. this was not an instinctive move but a planned one that was possible because a cat thinks so swiftly. they would not have been hurt if they'd been thrown on rocks. as it was, the yielding branches of the brush broke their fall, so that they came to earth almost gently. wild-eyed, panting, the two gray kittens stretched full-length and waited tensely. as tense as his brothers, frosty was not satisfied merely to wait. a true son of the black-and-white tom, he had inherited all that old warrior's character, courage and spirit. before he did anything else, to the best of his ability, frosty determined what lay about them. normally he depended on his ears, his eyes, and to a lesser extent, his nose. now his eyes were almost useless, but the sun shone brightly and some light penetrated the sack. just overhead, a leafy branch was moving in the gentle wind, and when the branch moved, its shadow shifted across the sack. frosty studied it intently, trying to determine exactly what it was and why it should be. unable to do so, after the shadow had moved back and forth a dozen times, he did satisfy himself that it was harmless. he then gave himself over to the use of his ears and nose. faintly in the distance, he still heard the measured hoofbeats of luke trull's horse. the animal was going farther away and therefore he need not concern himself with it, but indelibly graven on frosty's mind was the image of luke trull himself. the man was a deadly enemy and had proven himself such. he must never be considered as anything else, but enemies could harm or be harmed only when they were near and luke trull was gone with his horse. there were more immediate problems. for a short space the only sounds were the horse's hoofbeats, the sighing of the gentle breeze and the kittens' panting. then a mottled thrush that had been startled into hasty flight when the hurled sack came his way, cocked his head in the chokecherry tree to which he had flown. the sack seemed harmless. at any rate, it did not pursue. curious, the thrush flew back to the copse, tilted on a twig and gave voice to a few questioning notes. frosty heard and interpreted correctly. he had seen birds and even stalked them, when he and his brothers played outside the shed. he was not particularly concerned about the thrush. it was unlikely to offer a battle; all the birds he'd ever seen had avoided him. frosty started suddenly. winging in solitary flight over the mountain, a jet-black crow voiced its raucous song. frosty heard and marveled. never before had such a sound crossed his ears and he waited to hear it again. when the crow did not repeat its call, frosty sank back. but he knew no peace. his curiosity, aroused and unsatisfied, tormented him and would continue to do so until he heard another crow call and identified the source of a sound so intriguing. the sun burned hotly and the gray kitten that had mewed before, cried again. the weakest of the three, the kitten was suffering far more than his brothers. frosty looked once toward his protesting brother and turned his head away. he too was hungry and thirsty, but it was not in him to cry. he poked experimentally at a tiny hole in the gunny sack. unable to thrust his paw through, he turned his attention elsewhere. he was too smart to waste time trying the obviously impossible. when he laid plans, they would succeed. the only scents that reached his nostrils were those of sun-warmed foliage and earth and the heavy, rank odor of a rotting log that lay nearby. the weakening gray kitten mewed again and frosty twisted uncomfortably. it was long past feeding time and hunger was an ache. but thirst was becoming a torture. the fine hairs in frosty's inner ears quivered like stretched wires and he turned his head toward the rotting log. the sound that originated there was so faint and wispy that only a very sensitive ear could have detected it. a chipmunk ran up the log, saw the sack, stopped, sat up for a better view, squeaked in frenzied alarm and turned to flash back along the log. he dived into its hollow interior. the weakening gray kitten twisted, laid his ears back, snarled and sprang upon and slashed viciously at his gray brother. the attacked kitten slashed back. exhausted by its own tremendous effort, the feeble kitten sank down apathetically and closed its eyes. in a grim way, it was the luckiest of the three, for it would be the first to die. frosty unsheathed and sheathed his claws. he looked meaningfully at the second gray kitten, which flattened its ears and spat at him. frosty turned around to face his brother. the sun went down and when it did a chill fell on the mountain. but it brought no relief from raging thirst, though hunger was forgotten. the weakest kitten, past caring what happened, stretched limply. its eyes were closed and it gasped for breath. but frosty and the other gray kitten were still strong. far across the mountain, his every need and want attended to, luke trull slept soddenly in his comfortable bed. frosty strained. something was walking nearby. it walked on paws so soft and stealthy that the sound came to frosty's ears almost like the ghost of a noise. it was less than half real, but it was there. frosty turned to face it, knowing that, as always, he must be ready for anything. nearby, there was a short sigh as something expelled its breath. the gray kitten laid his ears back and snarled. frosty caught the scent of whatever came and at once was aware of two things. the approaching creature was alien to him but he was immediately hostile to it. somewhat like a dog, whatever came was not a dog. but it was wild and big, and it meant no good. frosty bristled. he could have no way of knowing that the creature, now smelling closely at the sack, was a prowling coyote. a big and crafty old male, the coyote had acquired his craft the hard way. four years ago, he had left his right front paw in a steel trap, and ever since he had avoided everything which he did not know. he knew all about helpless kittens and pups in gunny sacks. over the years, luke trull had carried dozens from the town to a promised "good home" in the hills. it was one of the more paradoxical aspects of town-hill relationships that nobody had ever challenged him or stopped to think about it. the most superficial reasoning would have demonstrated that, if luke had really taken home all the kittens and pups he had promised to take there, he couldn't possibly have room for anything else. luke's method of disposing of surplus kittens and pups was manna to the coyote. and, in a way, the coyote's very presence was a blessing to the helpless animals. the coyote killed cleanly, never needing more than one snap of his jaws, and such a death was much easier than waiting for thirst and hunger to do their work. strong pups and kittens often lived a surprisingly long time. having satisfied himself that this was exactly what he had thought it would be, the coyote pinned the sack down with his front paws and went to work with his teeth. he had done this so many times that he was a past master at it and his technique was admirable. rip a hole in the sack, pull out the trapped kittens or pups, snap once and enjoy an easy meal. the coyote was neither in a hurry nor particularly concerned. this formula he himself had perfected. never yet had a sacked kitten or pup escaped him or hurt him even slightly. he pulled out the half-dead gray kitten, killed it and laid it aside. the second gray kitten fought, but not very long or very hard. then, suddenly, what the coyote knew as an old story took on a new and astonishing twist. instead of waiting to be pulled out of the sack, frosty sprang out. straight to the coyote's head he went, all four paws raking, while baby teeth found a mark. he could work no serious damage, but fighting on his side was a powerful ally whose presence frosty did not even suspect. the coyote had opened numerous sacks and each time everything had happened in exactly the same way. deciding to his own satisfaction that they'd always continue to fall into the same pattern, he had prepared himself for nothing else. frosty's vicious attack startled him, so that he leaped suddenly backwards. when he did, frosty relinquished his hold and sprang away. but he did not do so aimlessly. the coyote's backward leap brought him near the end of the rotting log and frosty's night-piercing eyes found the hollow there. his feline brain, able to execute a plan the instant it was conceived, did the rest. the end of frosty's tail disappeared into the hollow a half-inch ahead of the coyote's snapping jaws. though the hollow was scarcely big enough to admit his small body, frosty managed to turn around in it. three feet away, the coyote bent his head to peer into the hollow and his disappointed panting sounded in jerky sequence. growling a warning, frosty took no further action. this was as simple and precise as a mathematical formula. the coyote could kill him. the coyote wanted to kill him. but the kitten was in the hollow log and the coyote was not. if the coyote could get in, he'd be here. all these indisputable elements added up to the fact that, at least temporarily, frosty was safe. he crouched watchfully, not afraid of the coyote but not foolish enough to engage in a battle that he did not have to fight. he was no match for the creature, he knew it, and since there didn't seem to be anything he could do right now, he did nothing. after a moment, the coyote went away. no fool, he was perfectly aware of the fact that he might growl and scratch at the hole all night and still not reach the black kitten. he paused long enough to eat the two gray kittens and padded away on silent paws. frosty stayed where he was for another twenty minutes. when he finally moved, he went only to the entrance of the hollow and lingered there for five minutes more. he thought the coyote had gone but he wanted to be sure, and only when he was sure did he drop out of the hollow onto the ground. he went into a half-crouch, tail curled against his flank and tense muscles ready to carry him wherever circumstance indicated he should go. this was a wholly unfamiliar world, one in which he'd have to feel every inch of his way. the least wrong move could bring disaster. finally, eyes and ears alert, he moved softly as a shadow. frosty paused beside the limp gunny sack. he touched it with an extended nose, then glided cautiously around it. there was nothing to indicate that the sack was dangerous, but it had trapped him once and might again. save for scent that still lingered on the sack, there was nothing whatever to indicate that the two gray kittens had ever been. knowing that he must do something, but with no clear idea of what that might be or where he should go, frosty started into the night. he halted suddenly, warned more by deep-seated instinct than anything he could see or hear, and stood quietly under a bush. a moment later, he saw a big bird, a cruising great horned owl, pass overhead. frosty stayed where he was for ten minutes. he knew only that he must be cautious. he could not know that the owl was hunting, and that a tender young kitten would be as acceptable as anything else. a half-hour later, frosty came to a streamlet, one of many that pursued their winding courses across the mountain, tumbled down it and finally poured their waters into a river. he crouched full-length and lapped water with a dainty pink tongue. . . . the kitten licked his chops, waited a bit, then drank again. his thirst satisfied, he attended to every cat's implicit duty. sitting down, he washed himself thoroughly with his tongue and used his front paws to groom that part of his fur which his tongue would not reach. he licked his chops once more, smoothed his whiskers and wandered on. he struck at and missed a mouse that rustled the grass in front of him and watched, wide-eyed with wonder, when a rabbit bounded away. he missed another mouse and fluffed his fur and spat when a hunting fox rippled past. dawn found him in a grassy meadow. little tendrils of moisture curled upward from dew-wet grass and a thin blanket of mist overhung the meadow. when something moved sluggishly in front of him, frosty sprang to pin it down. his prize was a fat grasshopper, too torpid with morning cold to move swiftly. the kitten's tail lashed back and forth. he looked intently at this, the first catch he had ever made. then he ate it and found it good. casting back and forth across the meadow, frosty caught and ate grasshoppers until his stomach would hold no more. the first planting strapped on a pack board borrowed from the express agent, the six crates were neither a heavy nor a clumsy burden. each box was divided by a partition, with a muskrat at either end. andy had specified that they be shipped in such a fashion because he wanted to be sure of mated pairs and he also wanted to be certain of forestalling domestic arguments among his charges. it was entirely possible that a male and female muskrat, regardless of how long they'd been mated, might start exercising their formidable cutting teeth on each other if put together in the same small crate. now and again, there came a scraping of claws as one of the muskrats, unbalanced by a twist or turn, slid across the wooden floor of its prison. as he carried his new acquisitions up the dark mountain, andy pondered. muskrats, his research had taught him, are almost entirely aquatic creatures, though occasionally they make overland journeys. their food consists of aquatic plants, tender roots and bulbs, and they are very fond of fresh-water mussels. they construct houses of mud mixed with plant stalks or dig burrows in the bank. the entrance to either type of dwelling is always under water. they store food but remain active under the ice all winter long. very prolific, they produce from two to five litters a year, with from four to as many as a dozen young in each litter. there is a reason for this. muskrats, like rabbits, are the prey of numerous things that walk, crawl or fly. they counterbalance heavy casualties with large and frequent families. some naturalists claim that, by the end of the first summer, the earliest young born will rear families of their own. others declare that no young breed until the spring following their birth. because this was at best an uncertain experiment and andy could have no idea as to how it would work out, he had chosen six mated pairs. his plan was to release them in six different parts of the swamp and see where they flourished best. after he had a better idea of what he was doing, he could buy more breeding stock--but there was still one great worry. these muskrats had been reared in a large pond where, insofar as they had had to find their own food, build their own houses and dig their own burrows and tunnels, conditions were approximately the same as would have been encountered in the wilderness. however, it was a fenced pond and a carefully patrolled one. there had been no predators to keep them alert, whereas the swamp was filled with sudden death in many forms. would pen-raised muskrats be able to survive the unfamiliar perils? andy carried his captives into the house, unbuckled the straps that held their pens on his shoulders and eased them gently to the floor. he then separated the crates so that there was space between them. the animals emitted an offensive odor, but this was only because they had been in the tiny boxes so long. they'd cleanse themselves after they had room in which to do it. unless they are sick, few animals will tolerate uncleanliness. andy grimaced. it was less than an alluring prospect to have the muskrats in his house all night, and, other things being equal, they'd be perfectly all right on the porch. but the battle had already started. if they were left outside, a prowling mink might well happen along and put an end to all twelve. it was wiser to endure the odor overnight and keep his charges safe. andy slept well, nevertheless. he was up and had breakfasted with the first hint of dawn. kicking off his slippers, he pulled rubber boots over his trousers. the sun was just rising when, with five crates of muskrats back on the pack board--the sixth he intended to release in the watery slough directly in front of his house--he started out. his step was light and his heart happy, as it always was when he went into the swamp. it was to andy what his mountains are to the born mountaineer; his rolling prairie to the confirmed plainsman; his sun-scorched hills and forbidding acres of cactus to the desert lover. the swamp was grim and andy knew it. but it was also beautiful and he saw its beauty. as no other place could ever be, it was home. he wended his way around the watery slough. swamp grasses, each one of which bore myriad seeds as delicate as fairy dust, brushed against him as he walked. beneath his feet, the earth trembled. there were firm areas in the swamp, rocky places and high knolls where the green trees grew. but much of that which was not given over to surface water was a huge, floating island, undermined by water. in numerous places, it was possible to stand on grass, punch a hole through to the water below, lower a baited hook and pull out a wriggling perch. andy walked swiftly and confidently, for he knew exactly where he was going. when he came to a long slough that varied between a foot and five feet in depth, he plunged unhesitatingly in and waded across without a thought for the death that lurked on either side. this was dead man's slough. across the center, where andy had walked, extended a solid path which at no point was more than twenty inches wide. to step off that was to step into bottomless quicksand. according to legend, an armed party of trulls and casmans, in close pursuit of bije gates, had turned back at dead man's slough. leading, arvin casman had stepped off the path and disappeared before his friends could help him. his bones were still in the quicksand. andy didn't know and he didn't much care whether this tale was true. the feud was long over, a thing of the past, and sleeping dogs were better left alone. but it was a foregone conclusion that, if arvin casman or anyone else had stepped into dead man's slough, his bones were still there. at the far side of the slough, andy turned left along its weed-lined shore, lowered his load to the ground, gently unfastened the wire that fastened one of the partitions shut and opened the door. a cautious brown nose was thrust forth and immediately withdrawn. the muskrat in the partition crouched nervously. now and again there came the sound of a scraping paw. puzzled, andy frowned. then suddenly he understood. he had assumed that, after their long imprisonment in the tiny cages, the animals would be wild for freedom. however, they had been uprooted from safe and comfortable homes, endured a long and nerve-wracking journey, seen sights and heard sounds that must have been terrifying, and, through all this, they had stayed safe in their cages. it was small wonder that they were reluctant to leave. andy tilted the box and spilled both its occupants into the water. they went down, came up gasping and, for a short space, swam in a frenzied, meaningless fashion. then their sudden fright passed. the nightmare was behind them. they were back in the water and muskrats are born for water. they began to enjoy themselves. for the sheer luxury of so doing, they dived. though they must have come within a hair's breadth of the bottom, they were such expert swimmers that they dislodged not even one fleck of mud. forty feet away, they surfaced and played with each other for a moment. somewhat clumsy on land, but incredibly graceful in the water, they swam around and around in the slough and regarded andy with beady little black eyes. andy worried, for this was what he had feared most. animals acquainted with danger would never expose themselves so recklessly. he threw pebbles at them, but though they dived when the pebbles splashed near, they surfaced again almost at once. finally they swam to the weed-grown bank and began to eat ravenously. andy left them and went on. throwing pebbles at this freshly liberated pair all day long, or all week long, would teach them nothing except how to dodge pebbles. if they were to survive in the swamp, they'd have to do so through their own instincts and intelligence, plus, probably, a great deal of luck. andy released his remaining pairs of muskrats at scattered points and returned the way he had come, to pick up the empty crates. without so much as a glance for him, four of the five pairs he had freed were calmly eating the tender young shoots of marsh weeds or digging in the mud for bulbs. the remaining pair, the second he had liberated, dived hastily beneath an overhanging bank and refused to show themselves again. andy began to have hopes. perhaps it would not take the animals as long as he had thought it would to learn caution. or maybe this pair was just naturally cautious. if they were, and remained that way, they stood a good chance of surviving. reaching home, andy took his sixth and final pair of muskrats down to the watery slough in front of his house. he had deliberately saved them until last because he wanted to study at some length just how they reacted when released and just what they did. andy carried the crate to the water's edge, opened the door and jumped just in time. the first five pairs had huddled in their crates until spilled out, but these two had both ideas of their own and a grudge against the human race. as soon as the crate was opened, the two rushed andy. bristled, clicking their teeth, they pursued him for five yards. then, as though discussing the situation between themselves, they clicked their teeth at each other and, in no hurry at all, turned back to the slough. andy grinned his appreciation. together, the two muskrats weighed perhaps five pounds. he weighed a hundred and seventy. but they hadn't hesitated to charge him when they thought circumstances warranted it; there was nothing wrong with their courage. andy watched them closely. still unhurried, and obviously with no intention of hurrying, the pair waddled back to the crate and inspected it thoroughly. then they went into the water and their delight knew no bounds. they dived. surfacing, they swam about for the sheer joy of swimming, then dived again. for a few minutes they occupied themselves eating swamp growth. then they submerged beneath an embankment and a cloud of mud stained the water. evidently this pair intended to lose no time in setting up housekeeping; the cloud of mud could mean only that they were excavating a burrow. the underwater entrance would lead upward into the bank. one of the pair--it was hard to distinguish between them but andy thought it was the male--came up for a hasty look around and promptly dived again. muddy water continued to flow out from beneath the bank. andy went to his house for a bite of lunch and when he returned to the slough the muskrats were still submerged. he grinned smugly. obviously this particular pair of muskrats needed a den in a hurry and there could be only one reason for such a rush. a family was already on its way. there was motion on the opposite side of the slough and a lithe brown mink appeared in the rushes there. it stood still, one paw raised like a pointing dog's and serpent-like head extended. after a moment, it slithered back into the rushes and disappeared. andy frowned. mink are savage creatures, and now this one knew of the muskrats' presence. it had made no effort to investigate closely, either because it had just fed and wasn't hungry or because it had other game in mind. but it might have marked the muskrats as a possible future dinner and mink were almost the only predator able to follow a muskrat into its den. though they preferred peace, muskrats could fight savagely and they had the courage to fight. if there were easier game available, a mink might very well choose it rather than risk a battle. but a hunger-driven mink would never reckon the odds and unless it was very lucky, no muskrat could defeat or escape from one. this presented a serious problem. furs provided an important part of andy's income. if he trapped the mink now, instead of waiting for cold weather to bring prime furs, he'd get nothing for it. but if the mink started killing his muskrats, he'd have to trap it. mink were one of the many things he'd have to watch closely. late in the afternoon, andy started back into the swamp to see how his charges were doing. the pair he'd left in dead man's slough were busy making themselves a house. when andy approached, they swam cautiously to a clump of reeds and lurked near them. studying him with watchful eyes, they swam in little circles. when he made a sudden move, they dived. satisfied, andy went on. these two were at least beginning to suspect that all callers wouldn't necessarily be friendly. the second pair, the naturally cautious ones, were not in sight when andy approached the slough where he'd left them. but dimly beneath the water he saw the entrance to a den. no doubt the muskrats were in it. andy came to the third slough just in time to see a clean-limbed gray fox, a muskrat dangling limply from his jaws, trotting away from it. andy muttered under his breath. he hadn't brought a gun because, though he'd known that predators might be raiding his muskrats, he hadn't expected to catch any in the act. but from now on he must always be armed and definitely he would have to eliminate this particular fox. having learned that it could catch muskrats, it might hunt them constantly and conceivably could catch all twelve. returning to his house, andy took two fox traps and a bottle of fox scent from his storage room. slipping the bottle into his pocket and taking the traps in one hand and his repeating . rifle in the other, he went back to the slough. he tied a flat stone to the pan of each trap, waded into the slough and set the traps so that only the stone protruded above water. then he cut two willow withes and dipped one end of each into his bottle of fox scent. eighteen inches from his traps, he thrust them into the mud until only the scented ends protruded. it was an old and effective trapper's trick, based on a fox's dislike of getting wet. excited by the tantalizing scent and wanting to get close to it, the fox would use the stone on the trap pan as an effective means of so doing and, of course, spring the trap. twilight fell, and, in the gathering gloom of early evening, andy hurried to the next slough. he halted in his tracks and muttered angrily. on a patch of smooth grass, five feet from the water's edge, lay the gnawed head and naked, scaley tail of a muskrat. there was no track or sign to show what had caught it, but clinging to a nearby reed, andy found a cottony puff of fur from a bobcat. he muttered again. it was too dark to go to the house for more traps, but it would be well to have some waiting here. the killer, probably a bobcat, knew of the other muskrat and would return to get it. andy trotted toward the next and last slough and found both muskrats swimming placidly. a split second later, a great horned owl dipped out of the sky, plucked one of the swimming animals from the water and floated away with its victim in its talons. it happened so suddenly and so unexpectedly that andy needed a moment to realize it had happened at all. it was like watching a peaceful scene in which a bomb is suddenly exploded. uncannily silent wings giving not the slightest hint of his approach, the owl was not there, then he was, then he was gone. so perfectly timed and executed was the maneuver that it was carried through from start to finish without the owl's ruffling a single feather or missing one beat of his wings. it was a master feat by a master craftsman. leveling his rifle, sighting as best he could in the uncertain light, andy snapped a shot after the fleeing owl. he shot a second time, a third, and watched the bird fly out of sight. when he lowered the rifle, there was dread in his heart. he had hoped that, in time, his muskrats would come to know and learn to avoid land prowlers, such as foxes and bobcats. but there was not and couldn't possibly be any defense against raiding great horned owls. the wariest muskrat would never hear them coming and, nine times out of ten, would never see them. they were destruction itself, death in its most efficient form. a very few of them, hunting the swamp regularly, could make it impossible ever to raise muskrats there. andy made up his mind. no believer in the unnecessary destruction of anything at all, he must defend that which was his. the only possible course lay in keeping the swamp as free of great horned owls as he could. somewhat dejectedly, he made his way back to the house. turning his swamp into a muskrat farm had seemed like a grand dream, but maybe it could never be anything except a dream. he had expected to lose some, but the first day was not yet ended and he'd lost a quarter of all the muskrats liberated. if casualties kept up at this rate, he'd have none left in another three days. the next morning, carrying more traps and armed with his . , he went back into the swamp. passing dead man's slough, he sighed in relief to discover that the two muskrats he had left there were safe. the second pair, the cautious ones, were not in sight but a partly finished house was evidence that they were still in the slough. why they wanted a house when they already had a den was puzzling, but andy supposed they had their own reasons. approaching the third slough, the one from which the fox had taken the muskrat, andy halted and stood quietly. a leaning log angled from the bank into the slough, and the surviving muskrat sat on it, shucking a fresh-water mussel. it bit through the tough mechanism that clamped the shell, scooped out and ate the tender flesh within, let the shell fall into the water and dived for another mussel. the gray fox that had caught the first muskrat had come back for the second one. he was lying motionless on the bank. as soon as the muskrat dived, the fox rose, paced forward and, a split second before the muskrat's head broke water, went into another crouch. slowly, making no swift move that would call attention to himself, andy raised and sighted his rifle. but he did not shoot because he was interested. the fox, evidently a young one that had not yet learned that it pays to look in all directions all the time, was so intent on the muskrat that it paid no attention to anything else. the muskrat climbed out on the log, ate his mussel and dived for another one. the fox rose, paced forward, and threw himself down again. crouching, he seemed a part of the grass and andy could not help admiring both his plan and the way he was putting it into effect. he continued to hold his fire because here was a chance to learn exactly how foxes catch muskrats and such knowledge might very well be useful. the muskrat reappeared, climbed on the log . . . and the fox leaped. he should have pinned his quarry, but something warned the muskrat and the fox was still in the air when it rolled off the log and dived. struggling wildly, the fox splashed water with his front paws and fought desperately to get back onto the bank. he could not. the bottom of this slough was stony for the most part, but just off the bank from which the fox had leaped was more quicksand and the animal was hopelessly enmeshed in it. he made a mighty effort to hold his nose out of water and andy's shot caught him in the head just before he went down. it was by far the kindest thing to do. andy was surprised and pleased when the day passed and he lost no more muskrats. he was mystified when a whole week went by with no further losses. then the answer occurred to him. muskrats, like everything else, produce their quota of fools, and two of the three that had died the first day probably belonged in that category. the third, the one taken by the great horned owl, had been just plain unlucky. andy caught a young bobcat, picked up his traps . . . and in three days lost the two muskrats in dead man's slough and the one whose mate had been killed by the bobcat! there were neither tracks nor any other sign to identify the raider, but on one of the high knobs andy found him. it was another great horned owl that sat quietly in a gnarled oak, with his tufted ears silhouetted against the sky and his eyes closed against the sun's glare. andy's shot caught him squarely, and he flapped his wings just once as he toppled from the perch. leaving him where he fell, andy went ruefully home. it was very evident that muskrat farming was somewhat less than the ideal way to get rich quick. of his original stock of twelve, he had exactly six left. they were the pair in front of his house, the cautious pair, and two singles. not too much could be expected from them, and andy thought of his lean bank balance. to buy more muskrats for predators to kill fell short of wise investment. dejectedly andy went to the slough in front of his house and sat with his arms clasping his knees. the male muskrat came up to stare haughtily at him and andy stared defiantly back. "all right!" he invited. "go ahead and look!" the muskrat--andy had whimsically named the pair four-leaf and clover--made a lazy circle and turned to fix unblinking eyes on the boy. andy grimaced. at no time had he exerted the slightest effort to make pets of any of his charges because it was better to have them wild. but four-leaf and clover, living so near and visited so frequently, were on familiar terms with him. he had an uncomfortable feeling that they were not on equal terms. four-leaf and clover considered themselves vastly superior to any mere human being! "if you don't wipe that sneer off your face," andy threatened, "i'll turn you into a genuine muskrat-hide glove!" he picked up a pebble and was about to plunk it into the water near four-leaf when clover's head broke water. behind her, in formation so precise that they seemed to have drilled for it, came an even dozen small copies of herself. andy dropped the pebble and a broad smile lighted his face. "glory be! darned if we'uns haven't got ourselves some babies!" his dejection melted like mist before the rising sun. happily he pulled on his boots and went into the swamp. he'd lost half his original stock and still had six more muskrats than he'd started with. reaching the slough where the cautious pair lived, andy crouched quietly in the grass beside it. a half hour later, they appeared with ten babies, and when andy passed the sloughs inhabited by lone muskrats whose mates had been killed, he was amazed to find each of them with eight young. obviously, both females had survived. jubilantly, andy threw his hat into the air, and when he reached home he went carefully over his plans for the future. if he forgot about the new rifle he had intended to give himself for christmas and made his old clothes last a while longer, he could buy twenty more mated pairs. the next morning he walked into town and mailed his order. * * * * * a week later, while patrolling the swamp to inspect his various colonies of muskrats, andy saw a great horned owl flying low over the grass with what appeared to be a black muskrat in its talons. suddenly the victim twisted about to attack its captor. when they came nearer, andy saw, to his vast astonishment, that the supposed muskrat was a black kitten! feathered death his stomach filled with grasshoppers, frosty went to one of several large pine stumps that were spotted here and there about the meadow and crawled beneath an out-jutting root, from the under side of which the earth had crumbled away. he lay perfectly still and went to sleep. aside from luke trull and the coyote, he knew nothing of the enemies he might find in these wild uplands. however, there were sure to be some, and certainly he would be much harder to find beneath the root than he would if he merely lay down on some grassy bed. but he was incapable of sodden slumber. a part of him that never slept was aware of wind rippling the grass; the furtive rustlings and scrapings of a family of mice that dwelt in a tiny burrow beneath the same root; the chattering of a blue jay that, having nothing to scold, was scolding anyhow. frosty eased into wakefulness. he knew the wind and he knew the mice, but not the jay and he must know it. without seeming to move, he edged far enough around the root so he could see the bird. it was perched on another stump, flitting its wings, flicking its tail, ducking its head and scolding. frosty studied it for a second, and by the time he went back to sleep it was assured that, for as long as he lived, he would associate the sound with the beautiful bird that made it and the bird with the sound. he had learned something else. never again, if he heard a blue jay screech, would he have to waken and look for it. he thought of the shed from which luke trull had taken him, but not with any feeling of nostalgia or homesickness because the shed belonged to yesterday. that was there and he was here, and even if he wished to do so, he would be unable to find it again. nor, aside from the fact that he wanted to stay in or very near the meadow, did he have any plans. a rover by nature, he must not rove until conditions were much more auspicious than they were right now. what he knew about the hills consisted largely of the fact that he did not know them at all. but if he stayed near the meadow, he was certain of finding plenty of fat grasshoppers to eat any time he was hungry. it was a common sense decision. when five deer came slowly into the meadow, frosty's built-in ear antenna immediately picked up the thudding of their hooves and a moment later he heard their noisy chewing as they ate grass. he stayed where he was, lacking the slightest idea as to what manner of creature had come into the meadow now but determined to find out. they were feeding toward his stump. twenty minutes later, they were directly in front of it and, as before, frosty eased just far enough out so he could see them. they were big animals, but obviously they intended no harm. when the shuffling hooves of one disturbed a meadow mouse that leaped in wild panic toward the stump, frosty had only to move aside in order to catch it. he pinned the mouse with his paws, ended its tiny struggle with his teeth and gazed defiantly at the deer. they swung their heads toward him, jaws moving in graceless discord as they continued to chew the grass with which they had filled them. then they lowered their heads to crop more grass. frosty lay down to eat his prize, liking the taste of hot flesh in his mouth and the salty tang of fresh-caught prey. he ate all except the hairless tail, and the mouse whetted his appetite for more. slipping out from beneath his root, he looked about for the deer. still cropping gustily, they were feeding toward the forest on the far side of the meadow. frosty minced after them. they had driven one mouse from its covert; the chances were that they would drive more. frosty edged up to a sleek doe that suddenly wheeled and pounded down on him. just in time, he saved himself by slipping behind a boulder. . . . when he could no longer hear the plunging doe, he peered over it. she had resumed feeding. more watchful now, frosty slunk toward the deer. they saw him but paid no attention. evidently they did not mind his trailing them. they did not want him on the place where they were feeding now or where they might feed a moment from now. another mouse panicked. frosty caught and ate it. by the time he had a third mouse, his appetite was satisfied. in addition, he had learned a priceless lesson; large grazing beasts are apt to disturb small creatures that dwell in the grass. the deer, having grazed their fill, drifted to beds in the shady forest. frosty curled up in a sunny spot and let this new world come to him. when two more crows winged lazily over the meadow, cawing as they flew, he knew it as the same sound he had heard while a prisoner in the sack and satisfied his curiosity on that score. he was alert to every furtive rustling, every note in the multi-toned song the breeze sang, every motion in the grass and every flutter of every leaf on a grove of nearby sycamores. the creatures that lived in the meadow were small ones; various insects; moles and mice; cottontail rabbits and harmless snakes. frosty identified each in turn and after he'd done so, he stored each away in his brain. having met and known anything at all, it was his forever. he'd never forget it and never fail to know it should he meet it again. but there was much that he did not know and the unknown roused his instant curiosity. when he saw a flicker of motion over near the sycamores, he concentrated his whole attention on it. he did not know that he'd seen one of two gray squirrels that had chosen to abide for a couple of days in the sycamores, or that all he'd seen was a glimpse of its tail as it climbed a tree. it was strange and he could not rest until it was familiar. frosty began to stalk the sycamores, and the stalk saved his life. he saw nothing and heard nothing, but the same coyote that had ripped the sack open was suddenly upon him. knowing of the gray squirrels, and hoping to catch one or the other on the ground, the coyote had been stalking the sycamores, too. finding frosty, the creature had accepted him instead. not stopping to see what threatened, but reacting instantly, frosty sprang for a sycamore trunk and drew himself up less than two inches ahead of the coyote's snapping jaws. he climbed to the sycamore's crotch and turned to look down. tongue lolling like a dog's, the coyote looked anxiously up and whined his disappointment. then, realizing he'd get nothing among the sycamores, he turned away to hunt some rabbits with whose thicket he was acquainted. frosty remained in the sycamore's crotch. though he had considered himself very alert, he'd had no slight inkling of the coyote's presence until it was almost too late. concentrating on the gray squirrel, he had given little thought to the fact that something might be stalking him. never again must he be so lax--but he had learned. had he been beneath the root, very probably the coyote might have dug him out. but, as had just been proven, the coyote was unable to climb trees. it followed, therefore, that a tree would be a much safer place in which to rest. frosty cleaned his fur, and when one of the gray squirrels appeared in the higher branches of the same tree, he looked at it with challenging interest. but the squirrel fled in panic-stricken terror when it saw the kitten. frosty stayed in his perch until just before nightfall, then descended to hunt again. but the grasshoppers, that had been so easy to catch when numbed by early morning cold, were amazingly agile now. the kitten stalked one that was crawling up a blade of grass. escaping from between his clutching claws, the insect spread bright-colored wings and flew away. frosty marked it down, but when he went to the place where it had descended, it was not there. alighting, the grasshopper had crawled along the ground. presently, four feet to one side, it spread gaudy wings and took flight once more. again frosty marked it down and again failed to find it. crawling beneath a dead weed that matched its drab color exactly, the grasshopper was remaining perfectly still. an hour's hard hunting brought the black kitten one grasshopper, a vast frustration and a mounting hunger. then twilight crept stealthily over the hills and the grasshoppers settled down in various places where they would pass the hours of darkness. because they did not move at all and were almost perfectly camouflaged when holding still, and because it was dark, frosty could not see them. he pounced eagerly when a mouse rustled in front of him. but since he did not know how to hunt mice--the only ones he'd caught were those that fled in terror from the feeding deer--he missed. he ambled disconsolately down to the cold little stream that wandered through the meadow. he was hungry and growing hungrier, but he had not forgotten the earlier lesson of the day when, because he'd given all his attention to the gray squirrel in the sycamores, the coyote had almost caught him. though he was principally interested in getting anything at all to eat, he did not neglect that which lay about him. when he came near the stream, he knew that something else was already there. he stalked cautiously forward until he could see what it was. a mink crouched on the stream bank, busily eating a fourteen-inch trout that it had surprised in the shallows. sure of its own powers, fearing nothing, the mink gave no attention to anything save the meal it had caught. finished, it licked its chops and turned to stare at the tall grass in which frosty lay. the mink knew and had known since the kitten came that frosty was there, for its nose had told it. a bloody little creature, ordinarily it might have amused itself by killing the kitten. but a full belly can make even a mink feel good, and after a moment, it turned to travel downstream. frosty stole forward to find the trout's tail, head and fins. the epicurean mink had chosen only the choice portions and left this carrion for any scavenger that might come. but it was good and it dulled frosty's hunger. his meal ended, he washed up, then and went back into the meadow. no longer hungry and thus no longer finding it necessary to devote his attention to finding food, the kitten could concentrate on the other creatures that had come into the meadow. he sat on a hillock to watch a fox hunt mice. it was a big, sleek dog fox, with a mate and cubs back in a hillside den, and it made not the slightest effort to stalk its quarry. instead, it walked openly, head up and ears alert. when it heard a mouse in a grass-thatched runway, the fox reared, to come stiffly down with both front paws. five times it reared, and five times it pinned the mouse it wanted and extricated it from the grass beneath which it was pinned. suddenly the fox smelled frosty and whirled. it came trotting, its attitude more one of aroused curiosity than hostility. the kitten was something new, and before the fox took any further action, it wanted to know exactly what this strange creature was. its head curving gracefully toward frosty, it stopped four feet away. trapped and knowing it, the kitten made ready to fight. he laid his ears back and framed a snarl on his jaws. the growl that rumbled from his chest was the most ferocious of which he was capable. looking more amused than cautious, the fox extended an exploring paw. frosty struck and missed. he was no match for this veteran of the wilderness. the fox circled and the kitten turned with him. after a short space, seemingly well-entertained, the fox padded away. no wanton killer, it was a good hunter and, in this time of plenty, it could take its choice of mice, fat rabbits, or plump grouse. any one of them was preferable to this snarling kitten, though had it been lean hunting, or had the fox been hungry enough, frosty would have died right there. the black kitten tried to hunt mice as he had seen the fox catch them, but, though he could hear them scurrying along their runways, his timing was poor and his knowledge scant. one needed the skill that only experience brought to succeed at this sort of hunting. frosty leaped a dozen times without pinning even one mouse. when the five deer came back into the meadow, he trotted eagerly toward them. though they had no war with mice, the deer never cared where they walked. their hooves penetrated grass-roofed runways and now and then plowed into a nest. whenever they did, the mice suffered a panic that momentarily robbed them of reason or of any desire save to escape destruction. the feeding deer disturbed two that frosty caught and ate. with the first light of morning, hunger satisfied, he returned to his sycamore and climbed to the familiar crotch. impatiently he lay down. he was fed and tired, and he wanted to sleep, but the cold morning wind ruffled his fur and made comfortable sleep impossible. any other animal would have accepted conditions as they were and slept anyhow. frosty was a cat, and cats never accept second best if they can get the best. frosty climbed out on one of the sycamore's massive limbs until the slender branches in which the limb terminated swayed beneath his weight. that made him afraid of falling, so he turned and went back. but he was still disinclined to accept a bed where the cold wind could chill him if there were a possibility of something better. he tried a second limb, a third, then went up the trunk and found exactly what he sought. a big limb, growing out of the trunk, had rotted and fallen. in falling, it had left a cavity that had been enlarged by a pair of pileated woodpeckers which had nested in it over a period of years. blowing leaves had sifted in and partly filled the hollow, and the cold wind seethed harmlessly past. frosty found it a warm, dry and safe bed. since the opening was barely big enough to admit him, he could defend it against anything else that tried to enter. more than once, in the days that followed, it was necessary for him to fill his belly with grasshoppers only for the simple reason that he could catch nothing else. he learned to see them in the grass, and to gauge his strike so he could catch them before they were able to take to the air. he became an expert hunter of grasshoppers, and the precise training this afforded helped him in other ways. the mice in their grass-thatched runways could never be seen. they must be heard, and since the strike was always blind, it had to be exact. a fraction of an inch one way or the other and the mouse escaped. frosty learned to strike so expertly that almost never did his victim elude him. only when he was feeling lazy or had a run of bad luck did he depend on the browsing deer to flush his mice for him. as he lived, so did he learn. stealthy footsteps foretold some slinking beast of prey. but so did the sudden chatter of an excited bird, a madly-scooting rabbit, or the deer when they stopped eating and became alert. frosty taught himself to read such signs, and by them he always knew when the coyote or some other dangerous creature was aprowl. he acquired a vast confidence in his own ability to meet and overcome any dangers that threatened. hunting mice in the meadow one night, he came face to face with a bobcat that was similarly engaged. the bobcat snarled and leaped at him, and had he turned to run, frosty would have been overtaken and killed. instead of running, he stood his ground and spat back. the bobcat, pretending vast interest in a clump of grass near the kitten, scraped the grass with contemptuous feet and stalked away. frosty extended his range from the meadow into the woods, and each journey became a bit longer and a bit more daring. he not only lived but lived well, and his first great triumph was achieved some six weeks after he came to the meadow. every afternoon, when the sun was hot and high, a mother grouse led her five bobtailed young to some abandoned ant hills beside the forest. the birds burrowed luxuriously in the gritty earth, working it into their feathers and using their wings and beaks to throw it over their backs. the sand and grit acted as a cleansing bath. occasionally other predators visited the meadow in the afternoon, but the grouse came so quietly that these passers-by never knew of them. frosty, who hunted the meadow almost every afternoon, knew all about them. but after stalking his stealthiest, only to have the mother grouse sound a warning and the whole brood take wing in his very face, he gave himself over to studying them. they were very difficult to stalk because the grass around the ant hills was short and he could be seen. but after two weeks, he thought he saw a way. this afternoon, a full hour before the grouse family was due to come out of the woods, frosty was lying motionless behind one of the ant hills. his eyes were unblinking and even the tip of his tail did not twitch. to all appearances, he was a dead thing. he heard the grouse coming; they were announced by the tiny sounds of their own feet and the mother's querulous clucking as she warned her young to take every care. frosty remained motionless until two of the young grouse mounted the very ant hill behind which he lay. then, without seeming to move at all and certainly without visible effort, he was up and over. while the other grouse took thundering wing, he fastened his claws in one and pulled it down. that gave him an inflated idea of his own prowess, and the next afternoon he was again hiding in the ant hills, waiting for the grouse. they did not come. the young were silly and inexperienced but the mother was no fool. she would never be deceived by the same ruse twice in succession. however, catching just one grouse gave frosty so much confidence that he increased his field vastly, and as he did, he learned still more. because enemies could be anywhere, it was at all times necessary to be sharply alert. but frosty had already discovered that the things besides himself which could climb trees were disinclined to be hostile, and, once in the forest, he was never very far from a convenient tree. he changed his sleeping place from the sycamore's hollow trunk to the hollow limb of a massive oak in the forest. he also did more of his hunting in the forest. the place teemed with young rabbits and grouse, many of which were adventurous, incautious, downright silly, or a combination of all three. his kills consisted almost exclusively of these easy-to-catch creatures but, in catching the young and foolish, he was laying the groundwork that would later enable him to bring down the wise and experienced. frosty's move into the forest brought increased skill in hunting, but it also brought disaster. he was prowling one morning when he heard, smelled and then saw a coyote coming. deliberately, frosty showed himself. this was a game he had learned to play, gauging exactly every move the coyote made. when his antagonist rushed, frosty waited until the last possible second before scrambling up the slender trunk of a black birch. he halted just beyond reach of his enemy's strongest leap and looked down contemptuously. suddenly he was wrenched from the tree and suspended in mid air. he did not know what had happened, for he had seen and heard nothing, but he did know that he must not submit meekly to anything at all. he tried to twist himself and rise to attack whatever held him. now he saw that it was a great bird. frosty had been plucked from his perch by a great horned owl, but he was lucky. three days ago, in a foray against ira casman's chickens, the owl had been repelled by a shotgun in the hands of ira's brother. too fine to kill, the number ten shot had only wounded and weakened him. he had since missed every strike at everything and now, famished, he had caught the first creature he could that might be edible. however, instead of being deeply imbedded, his claws were hooked only through the loose skin on frosty's back. the owl winged toward a pine stub, alighted on a branch and turned to kill his captive so he could eat it. but the second he found a purchase for his feet, frosty attacked furiously. he sank his teeth through feathers into flesh, even while he raked with his claws. always before, such of the owl's victims as had lived until they were landed in a tree were terrified and shivering, easy prey. he had bargained for no such fury as this. he took wing again, and this time his course led across the swamp. on the other side was a ledge of rock. even a cat, dropped from any considerable height onto it, would not be likely to move again. frosty knew only that he was helpless, and the knowledge redoubled his anger. he twisted and turned, doing his best to fling himself into any position from which he could claw or bite his captor. without knowing what it was or what it meant, he heard andy gates's shot. he did know that the owl went suddenly limp and that they plummeted toward the swamp. strikingly, frosty was momentarily stunned. he tried dazedly to get up and run away when something else seized him. he turned to attack this new enemy. partners twisting himself almost double, frosty sank his teeth into the fleshy part of andy's hand and raked with all four paws. blood welled from the scratches and cuts and dripped onto the dead owl. but instead of flinging the kitten from him, andy encircled frosty's neck with his right thumb and forefinger, rendered his front paws ineffective by slipping his other three fingers behind them, grabbed his rear paws with his left hand and stretched him out. he murmured, "if you aren't the little spitfire!" unable to do anything else, frosty could only glare. the smile that always lingered in andy's eyes almost flashed to his lips. his face softened. he spoke soothingly, "you might as well stop it. you'd have a real rough time clawing me all to bits." frosty snarled and andy grinned. he'd never had a cat or thought of getting one, but besides his fighting heart, there was something about frosty to which he warmed. without thinking that he too had defied conventional living, andy recognized something akin to himself. he said firmly, "you're going to get some help whether you want it or not." holding frosty so that he could neither scratch nor bite, andy carried him back to the house, pushed the door open with his knee and wondered. the kitten must be hurt because nothing withstood the strike of a great horned owl without getting hurt. in spite of the fact that he did not appear to be seriously injured, he probably would bear watching for a few days. andy thought speculatively of one of the cages in which the muskrats had been shipped. he'd be able to watch the spunky little fellow closely if he put him in one. for no apparent reason, he suddenly remembered when he had lived in town, working on the railroad nights and going to school days. there had always been a feeling of too little room and too much confinement. he looked again at frosty . . . and put him down on the floor. "guess we won't lock you up." frosty scooted beneath the stove and again andy's smile threatened to blossom. running, the kitten looked oddly like a strip of black velvet upon which frost crystals sparkle. it was then that andy gave him his name. "okeh, frosty. if that's what you like, that's what you can have." he stooped to peer beneath the stove and was warned away with a rumbling growl, so he straightened. after he had satisfied himself that the kitten was all right, frosty would be free to go his own way. there never had been and never would be any prisoners in the swamp. going outside, careful to latch the door behind him lest it blow open and let frosty escape, andy caught up a discarded tin can and took a spade from his shed. he turned the rich muck at the swamp's edge, dropped the fat worms he uncovered into the can, then went back to the house for a willow pole with a line, hook and cork bobber attached. carrying the pole and can of worms, he made his way to the watery slough in front of his house. while their dozen children sported in the slough, four-leaf and clover dug succulent bulbs in the mud on the opposite bank. none paid any attention to andy. this colony, protected by the nearness of the house and seeming to know it, was not nearly as wary as those that lived in more remote sections of the swamp. even the great horned owls had not attacked them. andy strung a wriggling worm on his hook and was about to cast it when, "howdy." andy turned to face luke trull, who had stolen upon him unseen and unheard. still wearing his sun-faded trousers and torn shirt, still needing a haircut and shave, his eyes were fixed on the muskrats in the slough. andy's heart sank. he'd feared the native swamp predators. but not even the great horned owls could work the same fearful damage as luke trull, should he decide to come raiding. andy said coldly, "hi, luke." "i heerd tell," the other smirked, "'bout somethin' new in the swamp." "who told you?" "news gits 'round." "there is something new. but it belongs to me and so does the swamp. both are to be left alone." "oh sure. sure 'nough. i aim to leave 'em alone. they's mushrats, ain't they?" "that's right. they're muskrats." "wu'th a heap of money, ain't they?" "not a 'heap.' maybe a couple of dollars or so for a good prime pelt." "could be a heap given a man ketches enough of 'em. how many you got all told?" "not enough to start trapping." "the hills is full of talk 'bout how you've turned your no-count swamp into a mushrat farm. they's talk 'bout how you aim to get rich off mushrat pelts." "nobody's going to get rich. and anybody who traps any muskrats before i give the word, or without my permission, will be in trouble." "oh, sure. sure 'nough. but i've already said i don't aim to bother 'em none." andy said shortly, "that's a good idea. i'll be seeing you, luke." "yep. i'll be 'round." the lean hillman drifted away as silently as he had come and andy cast his baited hook. but his thoughts were troubled ones. he had hoped to keep his muskrat ranch a secret, but he should have known the impossibility of that. only he knew all the safe paths through the swamp, but luke trull, the haroldsons and the casmans knew some of them. frequently they came to fish in some favored slough or other. somebody must have seen a colony of muskrats--perhaps they'd stumbled across four-leaf and clover and their family--and it hadn't been hard to piece the rest of the story together. probably johnny linger, the express agent, hadn't talked to any hillman. but johnny had friends in town to whom he might have talked, his friends had friends, and by the time enough people knew the story, it could easily get back to the hill dwellers. andy was so absorbed with this new problem that he was entirely unaware of the fact that his cork bobber had disappeared. he yanked the pole, missed his strike and strung another worm on the stripped hook. he might post his swamp against trespassers. not that trespass signs had ever kept a single casman, haroldson--or especially a trull--from going where he wished to go but at the very least they'd be evidence that he had acted in his own behalf. but trespass signs or not, there was going to be trouble in plenty if human predators started raiding his muskrats and trouble was always better avoided. he missed another nibble and began to concentrate on his fishing. very possibly he was killing his ogres before he met them. but when luke trull saw a possibility of earning money without working for it--? the bobber disappeared again. andy struck in time, lifted a flapping jumbo perch out of the slough, put it on a stringer, rebaited and cast his line. there was little sport in catching the perch with such heavy tackle, but they were delicious eating and the slough swarmed with them. andy fished until he had six. he sat down, scaled his catch, ran his knife along each side of their backbones, and removed the tasty fillets. the offal, which ordinarily he would have thrown away, he laid on a saucer-sized lily pad and took to the house with him. still beneath the stove, frosty greeted him with a bubbling growl. andy wrapped four of the fish heads in a piece of discarded newspaper and put them in his icebox. the remainder, along with the offal, he placed on a saucer and thrust beneath the stove. he remembered to put a dish of water beside the saucer. andy prepared a batch of biscuits, fried his own fish, ate lunch and washed the dishes. the untouched fish heads remained where he had placed them, and when he stooped to peer beneath the stove, frosty glared back balefully. a little worried that the kitten might be hurt worse than he appeared to be, andy closed and latched the door and took the trail to town. uneasy feelings stirred within him. the town, he had long ago decided to his own satisfaction, had little real touch with the hills. to the townspeople, the hillmen were a strange breed, like lions in a zoo, and as such they could always furnish entertainment. regardless of the work, hopes and dreams it had taken to put them there, few townsmen could be expected to take seriously a swamp with muskrats in it. stealing goods from a town store would be a criminal offense and provoke righteous indignation. stealing muskrats from his swamp would be just another example of what the hillmen were always doing to each other and provoke, at the very most, a sympathetic chuckle. even as he walked resolutely ahead, andy thought that he would have to stand alone. nevertheless, he still felt he must try to enlist aid. an ounce of prevention was definitely worth at least a pound of cure, and though nothing had happened as yet, now was the time to take steps in his own defense. but what could he do and who would listen? reaching town, andy turned aside to the state police substation. the harassed-appearing trooper in charge put aside the report upon which he was working and looked up questioningly. "my name's gates," andy introduced himself. "andy gates. i want to post my land against trespassers." "well--has someone tried to stop you?" "no," andy admitted, "but suppose i post it and someone trespasses? what's the penalty?" the trooper traced a meaningless doodle with his pen. "that depends a lot on circumstances. few judges or justices are inclined to be harsh with a person who merely walks on another's property, even if it is posted." "suppose they steal?" "that's entirely different. what have they stolen?" "nothing yet." "well," the trooper's voice was edged with sarcasm, "what do you think they might steal?" "muskrats." "muskrats?" puzzled wrinkles furrowed the trooper's brow. "do you have some?" "yes." "are they penned?" "no, they're running loose in my swamp." "then how can you claim they're yours?" "i bought and paid for them and the swamp's private property." "well," the trooper shrugged, "when somebody starts stealing them, you come see us." andy turned dejectedly away. if it were a hoard of gold or jewels in his swamp, the trooper would have understood instantly and taken the proper steps to protect it. the boy grinned wryly. doubtless the trooper thought he was a harmless crackpot and was even now congratulating himself on being rid of him so easily. andy went to see the official whom he had planned to consult from the first. joe wilson, the district game warden, was old and would give way to a younger man soon, but he was wise in the ways of the hills and he knew the hillmen as few townspeople did. andy came to his house, knocked and was admitted by lois, the pleasant-faced daughter who kept house for joe. "why hello, andy. goodness! it's been a while since we've seen you. do come in." "is your dad home, lois?" "in his study. go right in." there was a pang in her voice, for there had been a time when no daylight hours, and frequently few night hours, would have found joe wilson behind his desk. now, when he went into the hills at all, it was only to those places which could be reached by car. lean as a weasel, the way he had spent his life was written in his seamed face and wise eyes. storms and sun and wind had marked his face, age and experience had implanted the wisdom in his eyes. he swung on his worn swivel chair to face andy. "hi, young feller." "hi, joe." andy shook the warden's extended hand. "you're looking great." "i may be good for a few days yet. what's on your mind?" "i need your advice." "so?" "i've stocked my swamp with muskrats and--" andy told of the six pairs of muskrats he had planted in his swamp. he spoke of their misadventures with the fox and bobcat and of raiding great horned owls. but in spite of losses, the survivors had produced thirty-eight young. they had not only adjusted themselves to the swamp but had learned how to protect their babies. naturally, there would be some losses among the young, but, as far as andy knew, there hadn't yet been any. he had ordered twenty more mated pairs, which were due next week. he knew he'd lose some, perhaps half or even more, but some would survive and multiply. next spring, when muskrat pelts were at their best, he'd harvest a few, if conditions so warranted. if not enough muskrats survived the winter, he'd let them go another season or more. he hoped that, over the years, he might build up enough of a muskrat population so that harvesting the surplus every year would be profitable. however, he had no illusions of great wealth. when he was finished, joe wilson tamped a blackened pipe full of tobacco, lighted it and puffed soberly for a moment. then he turned to andy. "seems to me you're doing all right by yourself. why do you need my advice?" "luke trull has found out about it." "oh, gosh!" andy said dryly, "i know what you mean." "you leatherhead! why didn't you take them in at night and plant them back in the swamp? you know places there that nobody else can reach." "i did take them in at night, but i wanted to keep one pair under close observation, so i released them in the slough in front of my house. somebody saw them, or somebody, fishing back in the swamp, stumbled across another colony. then too, i think johnny linger talked. they came, of course, through his station." "johnny wouldn't talk." "not to luke trull," andy conceded. "but he has friends in town. they have friends, and the news got around. what can i do?" "have you been to the state police?" "yes. they told me to wait until somebody starts poaching, then come to them and they'd see what they could do about it." "they can't do anything," joe wilson said quietly. "they'd have to catch luke in the act, and knowing him as i do, they can't. i know that he's been violating game laws ever since he was old enough to shoot a gun or cast a line, but i myself have been able to catch him only once in fifteen years. you're in for trouble, andy." "i know it. will posting the swamp help?" "will a trespass sign keep luke trull out of any place he wants to go into?" "no." "nor will anything else. he's mean as a mink and crafty as a shot-stung mallard. he'll find a way to get into your back sloughs and eddys; a shallow-draft boat light enough to carry will take him there. he won't be stopped as long as he scents money in the offing." andy said grimly, "i could meet him, explain that he was to stay out of the swamp and back it up with fists." "do that and you're in trouble," joe wilson pointed out. "luke wouldn't fight back. but he would gallop that horse of his all the way into town and swear out an assault warrant. it'd be you, not luke, whom the state police would bring in." "if he was caught with muskrat pelts, wouldn't it be proof that he stole them from me?" joe wilson shrugged. "there's two hundred miles of streams and fifty different ponds back in those hills, and the trapping season is open to anyone with a license. luke could, and would, say he took his pelts elsewhere." "there are no muskrats anywhere except in my swamp." "do you know every pond and every foot of stream?" "of course not." "then how would you expect to convince a judge or justice? one muskrat pelt looks exactly like another; there's nothing special to mark yours." "isn't there anything i can do?" "yes there is, andy. has it occurred to you that your muskrat ranch will either have to be something pretty decent or else not worth bothering with?" "what do you mean?" the warden shrugged. "just this. considering the price of muskrats, you'll have to have plenty of 'em to make the thing pay off. their pelts are at the best in late winter and early spring. to make it worthwhile, you'll have to have a great many and you won't be able to handle 'em all anyhow. now ira and jud casman are decent enough people. so are old man haroldson and his sons. take them into your confidence. ask them to lay off until you have a trapping stock, and promise that, when and if you get one, they can help you reap your harvest. you won't be able to do it all, anyhow. they'll understand and i'm sure they'll cooperate." "they won't be able to keep luke off my neck." "nobody," said joe wilson, "ever kept luke off anybody's neck, once he has decided to land on it. do you know what i'd do?" "what?" "hope he falls in a quicksand slough, if he comes for your muskrats!" the warden said grimly. "failing that, you'll just have to meet any situation as it arises. i wish you luck." "thanks," andy murmured. "it looks as though i'll need it. well, i'll be getting back." "stay and have a bite with us." "i'd like to but i left a kitten that thinks he's a tiger under my kitchen stove. i'd better get back and make sure he hasn't clawed the house to bits. he looked as though he'd like to do just that." the sun was sinking when andy arrived home. a rattlesnake, sluggishly digesting a chipmunk it had caught, rattled a desultory warning without moving out of his way. the hopeful doe, again sniffing at the garden pickets, looked resentfully at andy and bounced off. four-leaf, clover and their brood of young were sporting in the watery slough. the setting sun cast long shadows of the dead trees across the swamp and the chickens were clucking sleepily. a balmy breeze ruffled the swamp grass. it was another summer night, exactly like summer nights had been for ages past and would be for ages to come. andy sighed and went into his house. he was discouraged and tired. for once, the swamp struck no responsive chord and the fact that he had come home failed to move him. he knelt to peer beneath the stove. the fish had been eaten, but frosty was still far under there and his warning growl rumbled. andy got wearily to his feet. obviously the kitten was not seriously injured and just as obviously any sort of enclosure, even a whole house, was far too much of a prison for his feline spirit. too listless to have much appetite, andy fixed himself a sandwich, washed it down with a glass of water, took the other fish heads from his icebox and put them on the porch. before he went to bed, he opened the door and propped it with a chunk of fire wood. he was attracted to frosty and would like to keep him. but there would be no prisoners here; the kitten could have his freedom, if that was what he wanted. andy lay awake while the night wasted. then sheer exhaustion made itself felt. he fell into deep slumber and did not rouse again until the sun was an hour high. he sat up in bed to see frosty settled in the still open doorway, washing his face with his front paws. andy's dejection of yesterday melted away. he smiled. "well! so you decided to stay, after all!" frosty glanced at him and continued to wash his face. frosty prowls having his freedom, frosty accepted it. partly because the boy had set him free, he also accepted andy. but there was another and very compelling reason why he had chosen to come back into the house, rather than escape into the swamp or the surrounding wilderness. perfectly capable of making his own way, entirely self-sufficient, he recognized no superior and would bow to no inferior. but he liked andy and, in spite of the fact that he could do very well all by himself, he would not choose a lonely life, providing he could ally himself with an equal. if this fellow had kept him prisoner for a little while, he had also set him free and he had offered no real hurt. frosty had recognized in andy the same needs and urgencies that were so powerful within himself. they were traveling similar paths and it was well that they go together. but it must be on a basis of strict equality, and because he was currently busy washing his face, frosty continued to do so after andy spoke to him. the young man's smile remained. "independent little devil, aren't you?" his cleanup finished, frosty sat down with his tail curled behind him and stared at the youth with unreadable feline eyes. not until andy swung out of bed and started across the floor did the kitten move. then he went to meet his new partner, and arched his back and purred when andy stooped to pet him. thus, with a caress and a purr, their bargain was signed and sealed and both understood its terms. while andy prepared his breakfast, frosty walked back out the open door and composed himself in the warming sun. he was not hungry, the fish heads and offal had been more than an adequate meal. while seeming to sleep, he inspected this new domain over which he had just become co-ruler. sporting in the slough, four-leaf and clover and their family attracted his slight interest. they did not seem to be dangerous. they were creatures of the water, and, aside from its convenience when he was thirsty, frosty had a violent aversion to water in all its forms. if he were hungry and happened to find a young muskrat on land, he might very well catch and kill one. under no circumstances would he molest creatures in their sloughs and ponds. while his eyes remained on the muskrat family, his ears were attuned to every sound. the various birdcalls he knew and because he did, he dismissed them as of little consequence. but when he heard the doe, that had gone to rest in some tall swamp grass, reach back to scratch an itching flank with a moist muzzle, he became instantly alert. he did not know the sound and he must know it. rising, frosty slipped from the porch into the yard. he had marked the doe, but though she remained the primary center of interest, he did not concentrate on her to the exclusion of all else. his first days in the hills had taught him that he could afford to neglect nothing on the ground and his recent grim experience with the owl was proof enough that he must also and at all times be aware of everything in the air. because he was alert, frosty saw the rattlesnake andy had encountered last night before it saw him. still sluggish, digestion not yet complete, the snake had crawled to the lee of a boulder for the greater protection it offered against the night's chill. it coiled there, fearing little and scarcely interested in anything that happened. frosty soft-pawed a bit nearer. the snake was interesting and he had never before seen its like. now was a good time to gauge its potentialities and discover for himself what manner of creature it might be. guided by innate caution, the kitten halted three feet away and stared fixedly. becoming alert, the snake rattled a warning. frosty listened, and having heard the sound, it was his. watching the kitten with beady eyes, the snake ceased rattling. frosty arched his back. he still did not know what manner of creature this might be, but whatever it was, he did not like it. intending to discover for himself exactly what the snake could do, he remained cautious. his feint, when he made it, was swift as only a cat's can be. his leap carried him to within fifteen inches of the forty-five inch snake and he nearly met disaster. the striking fangs came within a breath of brushing his fur! having found out everything he wanted to know, frosty withdrew. the snake would strike and its swiftness equaled his own, but the kitten's anger increased. he had been challenged in his own territory. he would accept that challenge, but not blindly. a born warrior, he was also a born strategist. the snake, rattling continuously now, undulated its thick body into coils. but though its strike was lightning fast, otherwise it was a comparatively sluggish thing. frosty feinted again. he knew to the exact hundredth of an inch the length of his last feint and this one he deliberately shortened. the snake struck, its venom-filled fangs falling just short, and frosty became master of the situation. knowing precisely how far the snake could strike, he feinted in rapid succession and each time teased the snake into hitting at him. finally, recognizing an _impasse_ and rattling a warning as it did so, the snake started crawling away. frosty leaped. he landed exactly where he had intended to land, just behind the head, where the snake's thick body tapered to a thin neck, and he bit even as he landed. his teeth met and almost in the same motion he leaped away. for an interested moment he watched the quivering snake, now stretched full length. there were no death throes and no writhing coils, for frosty had done exactly as he had planned to do and severed the spine. the reptile had died instantly. forgetting the snake, frosty padded on toward the doe. nearing her, he went into a stalk so stealthy and so silent that he crouched in the grass less than three feet away before she was aware of his presence. her ears flicked forward and she opened alarmed eyes. recognizing no threat, she relaxed and again scratched her flank with her muzzle. satisfied because he had traced the source of this sound, the kitten retraced, almost step for step, the path he had taken coming into the grass and he was at the edge of the clearing when andy emerged from the house. frosty did not show himself. despite his liking for his human companion, he would not rush to meet him, as a dog might have, unless he felt like it, and right now he did not feel that way. setting out to explore this new land, he wanted to do it in his own time and way and, for the present, he cared for no company. waiting until andy was out of sight, he skirted the swamp and stopped to look closely at the muskrats, which were still swimming about in the slough. the parent animals moved farther out and eleven of their young followed. the twelfth, whose bump of curiosity was bigger than his portion of good sense, raised in the water for a better look at this fascinating creature, then swam eagerly toward him. head extended, nostrils quivering, eyes bright, he climbed out on the bank. the kitten stared back haughtily. bigger than the baby muskrat, he still was not hungry enough to hunt. besides, obviously the muskrats were lesser creatures. frosty considered them as belonging in almost the same category as the rabbits that almost always ran. he went around the slough and into the swamp. the tall grass waved over his head, so that he could see only that which lay directly about him. nor could he smell very much because the over-all dank odor of the swamp drowned slighter scents. a mink or fox would have detected them and sought out their sources, if they were interested enough to do so. a cat could not, but frosty's matchless ears took the place of both eyes and nose. he heard the flutter of a bird's wing, marked it down and deliberated. having fed, he'd still accept a choice tidbit should one come his way. he stalked the bird and found it in a patch of grass. it was a sora. coming here to feed on seeds, it had entangled one foot in a slim strip of wire-tough swamp grass and, in struggling to free itself, had succeeded only in tangling the other foot. almost exhausted, it was able to do little save flutter its wings. frosty pounced upon the bird, killed it and ate as much as he wanted. his belly filled, he sought a warm place and curled up to rest. but he was careful to choose a napping place roofed with interlaced tops of swamp grass. there were enemies in the air, but it stood to reason that they could not catch him if they were unable to see him. in spite of the fact that he was hidden, at no time did he sleep so soundly that he was oblivious to what went on and again his ears served him. something that splashed in a nearby slough had to be a leaping fish; swimming muskrats seldom splashed or did anything else to attract attention to themselves. from far off came a loud noise; one of the dead swamp trees had finally toppled. frosty alerted himself only when he heard a sound he did not know. it was not loud but neither was it especially muted, as though some small creature that did not care whether or not it was seen moved through the swamp. at length it arose near the remains of the sora. silent as a shadow, frosty stalked forward. even before he reached what was left of the bird, he heard something eating. he looked through an aperture in the grass to see a creature approximately the size of a large cat, contentedly feasting on the remains of the sora. it was lustrous-black, except for a v-shaped patch of white on its head that became two white stripes which ran to the base of its tail. this silky tail was heavily furred, the feet were short and stubby. frosty stared with vast curiosity. suddenly, and almost without visible motion, he flattened himself where he was and held perfectly still. a day-cruising great horned owl, which frosty had seen at all only because he was wholly alert, floated in to seize the feeding animal. the owl winged low over the swamp with his prey. frosty sneezed and raced violently away, for suddenly the air was nauseous with stink so thick that a knife might almost have cut it. obviously the owl didn't mind at all, but to frosty it was a repulsive odor. however, he had learned something else; no matter where they were encountered or what they were doing, skunks were better left alone. after running a hundred yards, frosty continued at a fast walk. the air still reeked and he wanted to get away from the stench. as soon as he had gone far enough so that there was only faint evidence of the unfortunate skunk's fate, he resumed prowling. the swamp interested him greatly and he wanted to learn as much as possible about it. because exploration was currently more fascinating than fighting, he detoured around another rattlesnake and continued on his way. he mounted a little rise that was literally honeycombed with the burrows of striped gophers and stopped to watch. flitting from their burrows, the gophers were feasting upon a veritable inundation of grasshoppers that had come among them. moving like an animated streak, one of them would pounce upon a grasshopper and at once dodge back to its burrow or into the shelter of some huckleberry brush that grew upon the knoll. the wise little animals never exposed themselves for more than a few seconds at a time, for they knew too well the many perils that threatened. as frosty watched the gophers, disaster struck them. another rattlesnake, lying like a strip of carelessly discarded velvet upon the little rise, struck a gopher when it paused nearby to snatch up a grasshopper. forgetting his grasshopper, the stricken animal bounced toward his burrow. but he no longer moved like a streak. the injected venom made itself felt almost at once, and instead of ducking into his refuge, the gopher crawled down it. after a moment, in no hurry at all and following his quarry by the scent it left on the ground, the snake moved sluggishly on the gopher's trail, finally disappearing down the burrow which the stricken creature had entered. frosty circled the little rise and went on. he was far too well-fed even to think of hunting the gophers, but the colony was something to remember when he should be hungry. any rodent at all was not only acceptable but desirable food. coming to a slough, frosty slunk like a wraith along its edge and sank down to watch a baby muskrat. visible only from the bank upon which the kitten crouched, hidden from every other direction by a curl of overhanging grass, the youngster was busily engaged in digging succulent bulbs from the mud on the bank's far side. thus frosty learned what even andy had not yet discovered. this baby belonged to the cautious pair that knew so well how to protect themselves, and evidently he had inherited his parents' caution. already anticipating another litter, the parents were separating themselves from the first one. the muskrats were doing exactly as andy had hoped they'd do and spreading out. little interested, frosty resumed his travels and found himself on a point of land that jutted into the slough. he paused, looking at the six feet of water that lay before him. he could not jump it and he would never swim unless forced to do so, therefore he did the only thing he could do and retraced his steps. continuing around the slough, he came to a blanket of tangled weeds that covered it and crossed on them. anything heavier, or even heavier-footed, would have fallen through. frosty not only proceeded in perfect safety but knew he was safe. he came to a little stream, one of the few clear-running streams in the swamp, and watched a mother mallard and her brood of seven swim happily there. frosty did not molest them. no wanton killer, he would hunt only when he wanted to eat. but the mallard family was something else to remember should he be hungry and in their vicinity. when night fell, he was still in the swamp and entirely unconcerned about it. this was, perhaps, even a little more to his liking for he was a little more a creature of night than day. frosty halted suddenly. he was in an area which, being heavily browsed by swamp deer, had comparatively short grass. deer moved about, chewing noisily and now and then blowing to clear their nostrils of a bit of dust. but there was something more and the kitten strained to discover its identity. he saw the deer more clearly than a human being would have but not as clearly as he himself would have seen them by day. though his night vision was good, he had no magic lens that pierced the darkness and made everything easily visible. besides the deer and the chewed-down grass, he could see nothing. he could hear only the deer moving, chewing, blowing, and the soft murmur of the wind that never seemed to cease. he still knew that danger threatened. the knowledge came to him, probably, through a very faint sound that tickled his built-in ear antennae, without identifying itself and without even seeming like an audible noise. had he had any clear idea of what he faced now, he would have known what to do about it. lacking any idea whatsoever, he could only be careful. he turned away from the sound and went back into tall grass. once there, where he was at least partially shielded from great horned owls, he broke into a fast run. but it was not a panicky run. he had set out to elude something which he realized existed, and that was all he knew about it. no instinct could possibly help him and blind flight could lead to nothing but trouble. in a situation such as this, his only hope lay in relying on planned intelligence. frosty halted after running three hundred yards and turned to face the direction from which he had come. he had scurried into a part of the swamp which he had not yet visited. this was an error, and almost instantly he knew it was an error. every tree, clump of brush and the various kinds of grass through which he had already prowled were clearly mapped in his brain. he should have gone back there because, in the event of an emergency, he would have known exactly what lay around him and precisely how he might take advantage of the terrain. but it was too late to turn now. he could hear nothing save the wind, a group of barred owls talking to each other in some of the dead trees, and suddenly, far off, the death shriek of a rabbit upon which a mink had pounced. he still knew there was danger, and that it was on his trail. he ran on. suddenly he came to a slough, a thirty-foot-wide stretch of water whose surface eerily reflected the dim light that filtered from stars. six feet out, a group of dead trees reared skeleton trunks and rattled their bare bones of branches. frosty turned again. he was not trapped, for he could run in either direction along the slough's bank, but that would be blind running and he did not know where it might lead him. now was the time for planning, and before he did anything else, he wanted to know from exactly what he fled. suddenly he did know. it was another coyote, for presently he heard it, and it was on his trail. he could not know that it was a young beast which, catching the scent of a cat and eager to renew the age-old cat and dog fight, had flung itself pell-mell along that scent. frosty made ready to fight. he saw the coyote emerge from the grass and run headlong at him. crouching, prepared to spring, his nerve broke suddenly. turning, he leaped blindly for the trunk of the nearest tree, missed by eighteen inches, fell into the slough and went under. surfacing, he knew only seething fury. water was the most distasteful of all places to him. being forced ignominiously to fall into it roused all his warrior blood, but even now he did not attack blindly. striking for the bank, he saw the eager coyote waiting for him and marked its position exactly. when his paws found a footing, he sprang at once and his body arched into the air. again he went to the head, scraping with all four paws, even while he sliced with his teeth. the startled coyote--a veteran would have known exactly what to do--stood for one brief second. then it gave a startled yelp, unseated its attacker with a fling of its head and streaked away. frosty waited long enough to assure himself that his enemy was not coming back. once he was positive of that, he meticulously groomed his wet fur and started toward the house. the second planting visiting the game warden, joe wilson, and listening to his old friend's sage advice had started andy on a whole fresh train of thought and furnished new ideas. he sat at the table in his little house and devoted himself to serious thinking. muskrat pelts were fairly valuable in the fall, as soon as the weather turned cold enough to make them so. but they were far and away at their best, and brought the highest prices, if taken in late winter or early spring. in order to realize the maximum profit from his venture--and even to think about anything else would be silly--the entire crop of pelts would have to be harvested in a comparatively short time. this posed a problem which, until now, andy had not even considered. nor had he thought of sharing with his neighbors, he admitted honestly. he now saw this as a near necessity, aside from being a kindly gesture. though everything looked favorable, as yet he could not possibly know whether his plan to turn the swamp into one big muskrat ranch would end in success or failure. but he did know that there could be no intermediate point. muskrat pelts, which, depending on the fur market, might bring a little more or a little less than two dollars each--and probably would average that--were not so valuable that a few, or even a few dozen, would be worthwhile. he had to take a great many. but if he restricted himself to the best part of the trapping season--even though he worked as many hours as possible seven days a week during that time--how many pelts would one man, working alone, be able to handle? without knowing the limit, he was sure that there had to be one. merely setting enough traps and moving them whenever a sufficient number of muskrats had been taken from any one portion of the swamp would, within itself, be no small task. in fact, though most of it could be done before trapping started, just patrolling the swamp and deciding how many pelts might safely be taken, and still leave an adequate foundation breeding stock, would be a big job. then there would be skinning the catch, making stretching boards and stretching the pelts. all of this not only had to be done, but it must be well done. a poorly cleansed or badly stretched pelt was not worth nearly as much as one cared for expertly. it would be to his benefit--and theirs, too--if he accepted joe wilson's advice and asked the casman brothers and old man haroldson and his sons whether they cared to participate. since andy was furnishing the swamp, all the initial investment and all the basic work, it would be feasible and acceptable to work something out on a share basis. it would, naturally, be useless to ask luke trull to cooperate with anybody in anything. andy caught up a stub of pencil and a scratch pad and began to figure. he had planted twelve muskrats, of which he had six, two pairs and two lone females, left. they had produced thirty-eight young, and though andy could not be sure--he had found the remains of two baby muskrats without identifying what had killed them--he thought that at least thirty remained. he intended to plant twenty more mated pairs, and judging from past experience, he could expect to lose half of them. if the rest, and supposing ten females survived, propagated in proportion to the first planting, there would be somewhat more than ninety young. if each adult female produced at least one more litter-- andy threw his pencil down and stared across the table. so many factors entered into the picture that there was about as much possibility of accurately forecasting how much increase there would be as there was of knowing definitely which cow in a herd would switch its tail to the left first. if he could keep furred and feathered predators down and luke trull out, and if he were lucky, there might be anywhere between and muskrats in the swamp with the coming of spring. that would not be nearly enough to start reaping a harvest of pelts. it wouldn't even be an adequate breeding stock, and perhaps there would not be enough muskrats to start trapping the following spring. but by the third year, always assuming that luck was on his side, the venture should show at least a modest return. at any rate, he would see ira and jud casman and old man haroldson and his five strapping sons in the near future. he would explain what he was doing and what he hoped to do and he would point out that, if he had their co-operation, which he thought he'd get, nobody would become rich but there would be something for all who cared to join in. coming in the spring, when other work was slack, such funds would be welcome. luke trull was and would have to remain andy's problem. rising, the boy walked to the window and peered into the darkness. he hadn't seen the frost-coated kitten since early morning, and in addition to anxiety, he felt an unaccountable sense of disappointment. somewhat irritably, he tried to shrug it away. why should he have sensed a powerful bond between the kitten and himself? and why was he forever getting ideas and fancies which no one else seemed ever to entertain? obviously the kitten, at best a half-wild thing, had gone back into the wilderness out of which it had come. that was its privilege. andy resumed his seat at the table and again took up his pencil and scratch pad. a second time he started calculating as to exactly what was going to happen, and a second time he gave it up as useless. he'd thought everything was carefully planned and well executed, but all the books he had read and all the information at his disposal, while definitely valuable, could at the very best only help guide him. no book ever written could tell him exactly what muskrats would do in his swamp, for the simple reason that there had never before been any muskrats there. though he would certainly apply what he already knew, experience alone could teach him the rest. andy started suddenly. he listened, sure he'd heard the cry of a cat, but when the sound was not repeated he decided he had heard only the wind whining around a corner of his house. two minutes later, and there was no mistake this time, he heard the cry again. he walked to the door, opened it, and frosty padded in. as meticulously clean as though he had done nothing all day long except groom himself, tail erect and eyes friendly, but at the same time managing to preserve his own great dignity, he came straight to andy and arched against his legs. but when andy stooped to pick him up, the frost-coated kitten dodged aside. he retreated about four feet, sat down on the floor with his tail curled around his legs and regarded andy with grave eyes. understanding, andy grinned. some cats might love to be fondled and cuddled, but obviously frosty was not one of them. he was a partner, not a possession, and his were a partner's rights. the boy's grin widened. again, as he had this morning, he saw something about this proud kitten that fitted exactly his own ideas. independent, intelligent and spirited, frosty knew what he wanted and what he did not want, and certainly he wanted no condescension or patronizing. andy spoke to him. "i don't know where you've been all day, frosty, but wherever it was, you should be hungry now. how about some grub?" he himself had dined on chicken, and he took a leg from the cold remains that were stored in his icebox. cutting the meat away from the bone, he laid it on a clean saucer and placed the saucer on the floor. after a moment's grave deliberation, frosty padded forward and ate daintily. he cleaned his face and whiskers and came over to settle himself near andy's chair. the closed door and the fact that he was shut in were of little importance, for he had satisfied himself that the door would be opened again. purring, he gave himself over to slumber as sound as he would ever enjoy after andy had reached down to stroke him gently. he would never be satisfied always to stay in the house; he had large ideas which called for ample space in which to execute them. but again he had found a refuge. as long as he was in the house, he need not be constantly alert, for no danger threatened here. andy picked up a magazine devoted to furs and fur raising and thumbed through it, but his mind was not on the printed pages. when encroaching civilization forced them to change their way of life, the gates clan had scattered. but two of the gates clan, andy and his father, had been unable to leave the swamp. it was a home to which they were bound by unbreakable ties--but it was also a way of life that nobody else would have chosen and nobody at all understood. even to the hillmen, far closer to it than any town dweller could possibly be, anyone who elected deliberately to live in the swamp was throwing his life away. andy could not live elsewhere, but he knew suddenly that his life had taken a turn for the better. he not only had a companion, but one that had chosen of its own free will to join him. in addition, although andy had no way of knowing where frosty had been, it went without saying that he must have been prowling somewhere, and his new partner was evidently not only able to cope with but to triumph over the rigors and challenges that such a life offered. andy needed to know no more. after a while he rose, undressed, gave himself a sponge bath with warm water from the stove's reservoir, put on his pajamas and went to bed. he lay wakeful in the darkness, and when something jumped on the bed he put out a hand to touch frosty. he smiled contentedly and went to sleep. * * * * * andy was up with the dawn, and as he built a fire in the kitchen stove he started pondering a new problem that faced him. his own way of life had for so long been so well worked out that it had fallen into a routine pattern. in summer, since he had only an icebox and visited the town infrequently, he never bought fresh meat which he himself would be unable to use before it spoiled. he depended on staples, ham and bacon, a very few canned meats, eggs, fish from the swamp, an occasional chicken and vegetables from his garden. after hunting season opened and icy weather set in, he froze the game he shot and occasionally he purchased from or traded with the casman brothers or one of the haroldsons for a side of pork. having frosty meant that he must make provision for him, but it was not an urgent matter and it could be taken care of when he went into town. possibly he would buy some cans of commercial cat food to supplement what he already had to offer. andy breakfasted on eggs, opened a can of milk for frosty and washed the dishes. frosty slipped out with him and composed himself on the porch when his companion left the house. andy gave him a farewell pat and set his face toward the casman brothers' farm. ira and jud, bachelors, lived two miles back in the hills. the various abandoned farms andy passed on his way to them were sufficient evidence that, in their own way, the casman brothers were as hard as the granite boulders that reared humped gray backs out of their fields and pastures. the gateses had not been the only ones to leave the hills. many of the casmans and haroldsons, and all the trulls excepting luke, had gone, too. ira and jud, like old man haroldson and his sons, had not only managed to hang on but even did quite well. they never had more than modest sums of money, but they never knew want either, and they were happy with the life they led. andy passed the one-room, one-teacher country school which he had attended and which was now kept open solely for the numerous offspring of old man haroldson's sons. he swung up a hill, descended the other side and saw the casman farm. the house and outbuildings were well back from the dirt road. five cattle and about sixty sheep grazed in a pasture and the fields were green with various crops. andy swung up the lane toward the house and the casmans' big, friendly dog--there were far fewer rattlesnakes away from the swamp--bounded forward. he barked a happy welcome and andy stooped to pet him. straightening, he saw jud casman standing in the doorway. jud was lean as a greyhound, tough as an oak knot, suspicious and approximately as talkative as a wary buck. there was no certain way to determine his age. he had taken an active part in the trull-casman-gates feud, but, like andy, he knew that belonged to the past. he murmured, "mawnin', andy." "good morning, jud." "you et?" "i've had breakfast, jud. i've come to talk with you and to ask something from you and ira." "ira's afield. call him in if'n you like." "that isn't necessary. you can tell him. i'm trying to do something in my swamp. now--" andy described his project. he spoke of the muskrats he had already liberated, and of the increase in them. he told of the twenty pairs that were due in a few days. if the plan worked, andy said, it would work very well--so well, in fact, that he would need help. therefore, he would share with any hillman who cared to join him. he himself must retain complete control and he would say how many muskrats might be taken from any one section of the swamp. it would be the trapper's job to take the muskrats, pelt them and stretch the pelts. for so doing, he would receive half the value of such pelts as he handled and andy would do the marketing. jud listened in attentive silence. when andy was finished, he spoke. "what you want of ira'n me?" "a chance," andy said frankly, "and nothing more. the best way i can figure it, there won't even be an adequate breeding stock next spring. there can't possibly be any trapping; maybe there can't even be any the following spring. but we should be able to start the spring following that. all i want from you, or anyone, is to leave the muskrats alone until the time is right." "me'n ira got no call to pester 'em." "thanks, jud." "m-_mm_. you're gittin' twenty mo' these mushrats?" "forty. twenty mated pairs." "quite a passel to tote." "i'll make three trips." "you needn't," jud declared. "come get our tom horse. he packs good an' just turn him loose when you're done. he'll come home." * * * * * andy led tom, the casman brothers' gentle brown pack horse, off the road and down the trail to his house. the halter rope was slack. tom knew he had a job and was entirely willing to do it. sure-footed as a goat, he threaded his way among the boulders in his path and matched his pace to andy's. since it was unnecessary to watch the horse, andy gave himself to reflection. there was a change in his relations with the casman brothers and old man haroldson and his sons. nobody had mentioned it and it could not be seen, but it could be felt. his reception by each of the haroldsons had been approximately the same as that which the casmans had accorded him. none had been loquacious, but all had listened and all had promised to leave andy's muskrats alone until he himself gave the word. through that simple understanding, the change was worked. formerly considered at least queer, if not an outright crackpot, he had now advanced to being respected. nobody except himself had thought his swamp anything except a worthless marsh. he had not only seen possibilities there but was in the process of developing them. time might very well prove that it was they, not he, who had been short-sighted. when he arrived at his house, andy tied tom to the porch railing. frosty, napping in the sun, glided silkily over, regarded the horse with haughty and the muskrats with haughtier disdain, then sat down to watch the proceedings. unstrapping the ropes that bound the crates to tom's pack saddle, andy lifted them to the ground, one by one. when they were all unloaded, he untied tom, looped the lead rope through his bridle so it wouldn't drag and patted him on the rump. the horse started cheerfully up the trail toward his home. these muskrats were designed for the most inaccessible ponds and sloughs in the swamp and it was too late even to think of taking them in today. two at a time, one under each arm, andy carried the crates inside. he stepped back to look at them with pleased satisfaction. an almost visible sneer on his face, frosty paraded up and down the row of crates, looked intently at the occupants of each and turned loftily away. andy laughed. "i take it you don't think they're your social equals?" disdaining to glance again at the crated muskrats, frosty curled up in his favorite place near andy's chair. he lost himself in his own meditations and the young man gave him an affectionate glance. the further this partnership progressed, the better he liked it. andy was up and had breakfasted before daylight. he let frosty out and then gave his attention to the muskrats. twenty crates meant four loads of five crates each. that many was by no means a heavy pack, but it was as much as could be carried comfortably through the swamp. besides, andy had in mind four different sections of the swamp where he wanted to plant these animals. strapping five crates to his pack board, he went outside. always before, as soon as he was let out of the house, frosty had gone about his own affairs of the day and usually andy had not seen him again until after nightfall. this morning he was surprised to find the kitten still waiting, and even more astonished when frosty fell in beside him. andy raised puzzled brows. "what are you aiming to do here, fella?" tail high, eyes friendly, frosty stayed beside him. andy grinned good-naturedly. dogs were supposed to accompany their masters wherever they went, but nobody expected a cat to do so. however, this one had evidently made up his mind to go along and he was welcome. maybe, andy thought whimsically, he wants to see for himself what is going to happen to the muskrats. andy made his way toward the north end of the swamp, a wild and tangled place, with not too many sloughs and ponds but more trees and brush than any other part of the whole area. it was also the most dangerous part of the swamp because safe trails were few. the boy worked his way through a tangle of brush and came to a slough. he stopped. frosty halted beside him and andy looked speculatively at his companion. so far, the kitten had shown not the slightest desire to let himself be handled or to permit any undue familiarity. but when andy stooped and picked him up, frosty settled contentedly in his arms. safe on the other side of the slough, of his own accord he jumped down. andy grinned in appreciation. while respecting his own self, frosty had no objection to hitchhiking when that was in order. he'd known very well that andy could carry him securely across the slough. again on the ground, he paced contentedly beside his partner. he sat on the bank and watched solemnly when andy released the first pair of muskrats in a weed-grown pond. confused at first, the liberated animals quickly gave way to the usual wild delight and for the next few moments devoted themselves to sporting in the slough. then, swimming to the bank, they began to satisfy their hunger. aside from keeping a wary eye on andy, they made no attempt to hide and offered not the slightest indication that they knew danger might lurk here. andy went on. previous experience had taught him that, with rare exceptions, pen-raised muskrats--and probably most other pen-raised creatures--would react in just this fashion. never having known danger, they could not possibly understand that it existed. but they would learn if they escaped the first few perils that threatened, and though some would surely die, some would live. making his way to the next slough, where once more frosty watched gravely, andy released another pair of muskrats. he liberated a third pair, and was about to free a fourth when he discovered that the kitten was no longer beside him. andy swung to look for his companion. thirty yards away, frosty had leaped to the top of a moss-covered boulder and flattened himself on it. his tail was straight behind him, and he was so still that not even a hair rippled. his attitude was one of watchful alertness. the short hairs on the back of andy's neck rippled and he had a presentiment of danger. at once he dismissed it. there were plenty of dangers in the swamp, but he knew all of them and understood how to cope with them. still, frosty had heard or sensed something of which he remained unaware. andy started toward him. he had covered less than half the distance when the kitten slipped from the boulder, melted into the brush, and disappeared. a second time, andy had a premonition of danger and a second time he forced it from his mind. certainly, frosty knew something he did not know. however, it was not only possible but highly probable that the kitten might be greatly alarmed by something which would not trouble him at all. andy strained to hear a rattlesnake or to see evidence of a coyote, bobcat, great horned owl, or anything else that might have frightened frosty. he could neither see nor hear anything at all, and anxiety for the kitten rose within him. he was not greatly concerned about whatever had caused his partner to flee. frosty had lived in the wilderness a long while and the very fact that he had lived was evidence that he knew how to stay alive. but as far as andy knew, the only ways out of this section of the swamp led across sloughs and he was certain that, of his own accord, frosty would not cross water. therefore, unless he could be found, he was marooned here. andy hurried to liberate his two remaining pairs of muskrats, then hastened back to the boulder upon which frosty had crouched. he called, "frosty." there was no response and the boy's anxiety mounted. he'd lived with his partner long enough to assure himself that the quality which he had first seen in frosty was indeed a part of him. the kitten was not only capable of deciding for himself and acting as he felt best, but once he had made up his mind to do a certain thing, he would do it and nothing whatever would swerve him. even though he heard his friend calling, he would respond only if he was satisfied that that was the proper thing to do. andy began methodically to cast back and forth. an hour and a half later, he gave up the search as hopeless. no human could find a cat that did not want to be found, and the day was wasting. the boy hurried hopefully back to the slough over which he had carried frosty. but the frost-coated kitten was not waiting for him. andy deliberated. he should turn back and resume the hunt for his partner. sooner or later, no matter where he hid or what his reason for hiding was, when that reason no longer existed, frosty would show himself. at the same time, and aside from their practical value, he had an obligation to the remaining muskrats. they'd been imprisoned in the little crates for as long as anything should be, and it was only right and just to release them. andy made up his mind. hurrying back to the house, he strapped five more crates on the pack board and took them into the swamp. he did not stop for lunch because he wanted to finish as soon as possible and go look for frosty. he took a third load and went back for the last one. these he carried to a remote but relatively open section of the swamp. there were few trees and little brush here, but swamp grass grew tall and the ponds and sloughs were choked with succulent aquatic growth that would enable his released captives to live richly. he freed four pairs and was about to liberate a fifth when he straightened. again, and for no apparent reason, he felt a strong sense of danger. the short hairs on his neck resumed prickling. something was indeed in the swamp, but it was not stalking frosty. it was on his trail. andy whirled suddenly to see luke trull, who had been peering cautiously over the swamp grass, throw himself down in it. marooned acting as though he had seen nothing, andy put his remaining cage of muskrats beside the slough that was to be their future home. he knelt, opened the cage, spilled the muskrats into the slough and watched them swim bewilderedly about. casually, for luke trull was crafty as any fox that had ever padded through the swamp, he strapped the empty crate on his pack board and slipped into the shoulder straps. he turned as if intending to retrace exactly the path he had followed. the swamp grass was tall and dense. a man who wanted to crawl away would do so if his suspicions were aroused and have every chance of hiding successfully. when the path had brought him as near as possible to the place where he had seen luke trull duck into the grass, andy shucked the pack board from his shoulder and ran as swiftly as possible toward the spot. a moment later, he looked down on the hillman. luke was on his hands and knees. his head turned so he could see over his shoulder, and the eyes that met andy's were as cold as those of any hunting great horned owl or bobcat. but his lips framed an appeasing smile and his voice was amiable, "hi, andy." andy stood still, for the moment unable to speak. fierce, hot anger mingled with almost complete discouragement. even though he had taken the casmans and the haroldsons into his confidence, it had still been a grave mistake to bring the muskrats in by day, for luke trull had seen and luke had known. the boy licked dry lips. when he had left the house this morning, it had never occurred to him that he might be followed and therefore he had been off guard. of course he shouldn't have been, but it was too late to think of that now. since he had failed to be alert, any hillman who cared to do so, while remaining unobserved himself, could have followed him wherever he went. andy knew now why frosty had hidden. luke must have been on his trail from the very first. he himself had not only shown the fellow the safe paths into the swamp, but luke knew where everyone of these twenty pairs of muskrats were planted. it went without saying that he would know how to find them again, and probably he would be able to find the others. andy bit off his words and spat them at the crouching man, "i told you to stay out of my swamp!" "why now, you never told me nothin' like that." "what are you doing here?" "lookin'." "get up, luke!" "now, andy, mought's well be neighborly. you give leave to ira'n jud casman an' all the haroldsons to help ya trap mushrats. all i come out for was to see why ya fo'got to ask me?" it was a flimsy excuse. luke knew well enough where andy lived, and if he had wanted to ask him anything at all, he might easily have come to his house. any farfetched chance that he might actually have followed andy into the swamp to ask about anything at all was refuted by the fact that he had been hiding in the grass. andy's voice was dangerously low-pitched, "get up, luke!" "not afore ya cool a mite." andy reached down, grasped the other's coat collar, jerked him erect and spun him around. when he swung, the blow started at the tips of his toes and traveled through his clenched fist. he connected squarely, and luke trull sat down suddenly in the grass. supporting himself with both arms, he looked intently at andy. his eyes remained cold and the smile was gone. andy spoke quietly, "get out! don't come back!" without a word, luke trull rose and shuffled away. andy had a sudden cold feeling. luke trull was no more ethical than a rattlesnake, and he was far more dangerous. andy knew that the man would come again, but he would not be caught again. nor would he ever forget this. one way or another, he would have his revenge, and if he confined his vengeance to wiping out the muskrat colonies, andy would be lucky. the boy's courage returned. he had known when he planned his muskrat ranch that it would be no easy task and that he would have to fight for it, so fight he would. andy picked up his pack board and in what remained of the day went back to the place where frosty had disappeared. he searched carefully but he could not find the kitten, and when he returned to the house, frosty was not there. the boy dawdled over a skimpy supper and went dispiritedly to bed. rising at daybreak, andy hurried eagerly to the door and called, but his frost-coated partner did not respond. pondering the advisability of going again to look for him, he decided that it would be a waste of time. he'd already covered that whole section very thoroughly without finding a trace of the kitten. frosty would be found when and if he was ready. andy was on the point of going into the swamp to check on the muskrats he had planted yesterday, but he caught up a hoe instead and went to his garden. sadly neglected for too long, weeds were crowding vegetables. andy hoed his way down the aisles in his onion patch. putting the hoe aside, he knelt to pull the weeds that were growing among the onions. hearing a car on the road, he merely glanced up briefly, then resumed his weeding. he expected no visitors, certainly none who might drive a car. suddenly a crisp voice asked, "is your name gates?" andy turned, startled, and rose to confront a young man who wore a state policeman's uniform. reserved and doing his best to uphold both the dignity and the authority of his position, nevertheless the young trooper could not completely hide a sparkle in his eye and a humorous twist to his mouth. andy said, "i'm gates." "andrew gates?" "that's right." "i have a warrant for your arrest." andy gave way to astonishment. "a what?" "do you want me to read it to you?" "what's it about?" "an assault warrant sworn out by a man named trull. let's see," the trooper glanced at the warrant, "luke trull." andy clenched his jaws. joe wilson, who had said that luke would not fight back, but would go to the state police if andy hit him, had known exactly what he was talking about. the trooper looked steadily at andy. "well?" "that's right." "you assaulted this trull character?" "yes." "and you admit it?" "i admit it." the trooper turned quizzical. "why?" "i found him in my swamp." "is the swamp posted?" "no." "did he threaten you?" "no." "yours was a wilful attack?" "yes." "have you nothing to say in your own defense?" andy answered wearily, "it would take too long. you'd have to know luke trull." the trooper, who never should have done so and never would have done so had he been more experienced, grinned. "i'll have to take you in." "okeh. i'll just let my chickens out to forage." side by side, a somehow awkward silence between them, they walked to the chicken pen and then on to the trooper's parked car. the officer made a u-turn and started toward town. he asked suddenly, "what do you want in that swamp?" "quite a few things." "this trull--seems to me i've seen his name on our records--what's he want there?" "something that belongs to me." "did he steal from you?" "no." "i don't get it." "he's going to steal. i planted muskrats in the swamp. he followed me to find out where they are." the trooper said thoughtfully, "oh!" for five minutes they drove in silence. the officer broke it with, "i can take you before justice benton, one of the best." andy said, "okeh." "one of the best," the trooper emphasized. "have you ever been arrested before?" "no!" "then you can't know court procedure," the policeman said. "now benton is a great jurist. he's really wasting himself in a small town. he spends most of his time studying the decisions of various high courts, including the supreme court, and deciding what he might have done were he to rule on the same point of law. he shouldn't be handling minor cases and he knows it, and it irritates him if one takes up his time. he always wants to lay it on with a heavy hand when that happens, and he could send you to jail. on the other hand, when a defendant's reasonable and admits his guilt, benton's usually inclined to go light. now you've already told me you're guilty and i'll have to testify as to that. do you understand?" andy grinned his appreciation. the trooper, in the only way he possibly could, was telling him how to get off lightly. andy said, "i understand." an hour later, he faced judge benton, a stern-faced little man who had a disconcerting habit of peering over instead of through his glasses. the trooper recited the charges. justice benton glanced briefly at the papers pertaining to the case and turned to andy, "how does the defendant plead?" "guilty," andy murmured. "young man," justice benton said sternly, "in flouting the laws of this great state, you have set yourself above the whole people whose duly elected representatives formulate those laws. however, you are youthful and the court is not unaware of the fact that youth is too often prompted by passion and inexperience. so the maximum sentence shall not be imposed. at the same time, you receive fair warning that henceforth you are to keep the peace with this plaintiff whom you have so grievously wronged. nor must your present breach of the law go unpunished. in lieu of fine, this court sentences you to--" justice benton paused dramatically, then finished, "ten days in jail." * * * * * whimsically deciding that frosty wanted to accompany him into the swamp so he could see for himself what happened to the muskrats, andy would never be aware of the fact that a chance shot had hit the mark. the kitten was curious about the muskrats' fate, but above and beyond that, he wanted something else. in electing to become andy's partner, he had chosen much better than he knew. self-sufficient and willing to surrender none of his independence, the partnership had been affected by a circumstance over which he had not the slightest control. liking andy and wanting a strong ally of his caliber, frosty had come to love his partner. a confirmed prowler, he would continue to prowl and to go his own way whenever that seemed expedient. but he went gladly back to the house and eagerly looked forward to meeting andy when he arrived. there were even times when he voluntarily cut his prowling short to have his partner's company. he also went into the swamp partly because andy was going there. he became aware that they were being followed shortly after andy planted the third pair of muskrats, but at first all he knew was that something trailed him. uneasy backward glances and growing nervousness were lost on his friend, who was intent on getting his work done. this was wholly understandable, for it never occurred to frosty that andy was responsible for him, any more than he was obligated to watch out for his partner. never for an instant questioning that he was well able to take care of himself, he never doubted that his partner could do likewise. finally, able to bear the tension no longer, frosty had to find out for himself just who was trailing them. his ears had already informed him that it was a man. no fox, bobcat, coyote, or anything else that belonged to the wild, had ever walked so heavily or so clumsily. blowing against him, the wind brought no identifying scent to his nose. frosty sprang to the boulder's top because it was a vantage point from which, while he still used his ears, he could use his eyes to better advantage. he had one fleeting glimpse of their pursuer just after andy turned. two hundred yards behind them, to the side instead of directly on their tail, luke trull saw andy turn and dropped behind a boulder. frosty unsheathed and sheathed his claws while his tail twitched angrily. he knew this man as an enemy much more deadly than any other he had ever faced. even the great horned owl that had seized him had worked less injury than luke trull. vividly frosty remembered the ride, tortured hours in the sack before the coyote came to release him, and the hardships after that. but there was something more. the various creatures that would have killed and eaten frosty had merely been pursuing life in the only way they could live it. luke trull had belittled him and struck at his pride. but he was powerful, and though frosty did not fear him, it was prudent to avoid a battle. he slipped from the boulder, drifted into thick brush and waited. when andy came back and called, frosty remained in hiding. this was his affair and he expected no other living thing ever to fight in his behalf, but neither could he be guided by any judgment save his own. at the same time, he realized that, obviously, andy was not afraid of luke trull, and his respect for his partner increased. but he would not show himself as long as luke was near. andy's search brought him very near, but frosty remained perfectly still. his was the patience of a cat. few other animals could wait so long or so uncomplainingly for exactly the right moment, be so sure of that moment when it arrived, and act accordingly. but one mistake was one too many, and he had no intention of making any more. finally, andy went back in the direction from which they had come. after an interval, luke trull rose to follow him. frosty stayed in hiding. he had no idea as to what was happening here, or why his partner and luke trull should be together in the swamp, and he did not give a thought to possible danger for andy. frosty had accepted him as a partner largely because he was strong. frosty moved only when he was sure both had gone. he wanted to go back to the house and wait for andy there, but he did not return directly to the slough over which andy had carried him. only when forced to do so would he enter water, and he knew perfectly well that he could not cross the slough. he must find his own trail. because he was in thick brush, he made no effort to hide but he did remain wholly alert. slowing when he emerged from the brush into a grove of trees, he saw water sparkling. he went cautiously forward. he looked out on a relatively quiet section of the same slough, and as he gazed, a big bass broke water and splashed back in. a log floated against the bank on the other side, and a sora teetered on it. in a little eddy given over to lily pads, a heron balanced on one leg and waited with poised bill for an unwary fish to venture near. frosty slunk back into the brush and slipped into another grove of trees. suddenly he halted in his tracks. high in one of the trees, a tamarack, he had seen something move. little more than a flicker, it was enough to make him aware of an alien presence. flattening himself, he held perfectly still and searched. presently he saw clearly the thing that had moved. it was another great horned owl. twenty feet from the ground, it perched close to the trunk of the gloomy tamarack and enjoyed a nap. frosty remained where he was. experience had taught him what these great birds could do, and again he wanted to escape notice because, if it came to a battle, he was not sure he would win it. the great owls were strong and unbelievably ferocious, and a motion might bring this one down upon him. never taking his eyes from it, frosty decided exactly what he would do if the owl swooped at him. if possible, he would get back into the brush. he heard andy come back to resume the search, but again he dared not move. his friend went away. twilight draped its gray mantle over the swamp, and finally the owl took wing. frosty still did not move, for the owl merely soared gracefully over the slough, dipped to pluck a swimming muskrat from the water and winged into a dead tree to devour its prey. frosty slunk away. in the tamarack, the owl had been an unknown factor. it might be hungry and it might not. now it was known. having the muskrat, it would eat. after eating, it would not be hungry. therefore, the chances of its hunting anything else in the near future were small. frosty resumed his search for a way out of the swamp. a while later, he knew that there was none. he was on a little island which he could not possibly leave unless he wanted to swim, and he would not swim. hungry, frosty gave himself over to finding something to eat. he prowled back through the brush without discovering anything, and when hunger emboldened him, he stalked among the trees. he struck at and missed a rabbit that promptly jumped into and swam across the slough. the small island had never supported much life anyway, and the owl had been living on it and hunting every night for almost two weeks. many of the island's furred inhabitants had already fallen to it, and whatever had escaped knew it was here. the mice and gophers that remained ventured from their burrows only when necessity forced them to do so. hearing a bird stir, frosty marked the tree in which it roosted and made his way there. he climbed and was ten feet from the ground when the bird took wing and rattled off into the darkness. frosty descended the tree. he took a stance before a mouse's burrow and waited. but the mouse did not emerge. dawn was breaking and frosty was still hungry when he went back to look for the owl. he found it still in the dead tree. he settled down to watch, for once again the owl was an unknown factor. it had fed last night, but it might be in the mood to feed again and the kitten was of no mind to serve as its next dinner. if he knew where his enemy was, he would also know what it was doing. he watched the owl all day. again, with the coming of dusk, the owl winged out to get another muskrat. little interested in the muskrats' fate and unable to catch one himself because none climbed out on the island, frosty could not know that the owl had found a bonanza here. its plan was to remain, with little need to exert itself, until it had caught every one of the ten muskrats andy had planted. then it would seek another hunting ground. knowing that once more it was safe to prowl, for the owl would not hunt until it was again hungry, frosty knew also that he must have something to quiet his own raging hunger. but if he hunted frantically or hastily, he would frighten his prey instead of catching it. returning to the mouse's den he had watched last night, he settled himself down to wait. . . . two hours later, the mouse poked a cautious nose out, then came all the way from its burrow. frosty pounced and pinned his prey. the mouse was a mere tidbit, but it eased the sharpest hunger pangs. frosty sought another burrow. he caught nothing, and again with dawn he sought out the owl. it had gone back to the tamarack and was almost hidden by the tree's foliage. following its customary routine, it went forth at dusk to catch another muskrat, then winged into the dead tree. in the hope that the owl might have dropped some part of its meal, frosty nosed beneath the tamarack. he found only furry pellets; such parts as the owl hadn't eaten were cached in the tamarack's upper branches and frosty did not dare climb the tree because the dead stub in which the owl perched was too near. desperately, the kitten sought out another mouse's burrow, but when he found one, he shed his desperation and gave way to patience. he caught and ate the mouse. seeking another burrow, he was thwarted when the gentle wind that always murmured over the swamp became a stiff breeze. he could not possibly hold still, for the wind ruffled his fur and the mouse knew he waited. frosty prowled after daybreak. he knew he was taking a chance, but it was not a great one, for so far the owl had hunted only at twilight. when a crow cawed, the kitten swung at once toward the sound. the crow was across the slough and thus out of reach, but perhaps it would come nearer and it offered the only present chance to get food. coming out on that quiet part of the slough where he had seen the log, frosty discovered that last night's stiff wind had moved it. now, instead of lying against the bank, it angled out into the water, with its nearer end only two feet away and its farther against the opposite bank. seeing opportunity, frosty seized it. he sprang, landed on the log, ran swiftly across and leaped into tall swamp grass on the other side. crossing the log had been a very dangerous moment for he was completely exposed while doing so. now he was safe, and since peril was behind him, it could be forgotten. frosty resumed stalking the crow. he found it beside a branch of the slough, pecking at a small dead fish that had washed up there and calling at intervals. frosty slunk through some tall grass and came to a place where foliage grew only in scattered places. he stopped to study the situation. when the crow lowered its head to peck at the fish, he glided swiftly forward and hid behind a tuft of grass. he waited quietly when the bird looked around and glided to another tuft when it resumed feeding. suddenly the crow saw him. with a startled squawk, it beat frantically into the air, struggled to gain altitude and cawed derisively after it had done so. frosty ran forward to get what was left of the little fish and the crow jeered at him again. winging over the kitten, presently the crow saw the owl in the dead tree and its raucous insults became a sharp, clear call. another crow answered, and another. the owl was their enemy by night, when it came on silent wings to pluck sleeping crows from their roosts, but they were its masters by day. the flock gathered and advanced to the attack. diving on the owl, they pecked with sharp beaks and beat with their wings. at first the owl fought back, but they were too many and too swift. followed by the screaming crows, he winged across the swamp. the pursuit and the noise attending it died in the distance. lacking the faintest notion that, however indirectly, he had saved this colony of muskrats for andy, frosty finished his fish and went to hunt gophers. intruder safely off the island, frosty's main concern was something to eat. he set his course for the little knoll upon which he had discovered the gopher colony. while remaining aware of everything about him, he walked more openly than he ever had before and far more confidently. bigger than average from birth, he was fulfilling his early promise of becoming an unusually large cat. traces of the kitten remained, but his stride was almost that of an adult and great muscles were already prominent in his neck, front quarters and shoulders. the life he'd been forced to lead had developed them and, in advance of full maturity, had made him tough as rawhide. but though he had inherited his father's size, he also had his mother's grace and balanced proportions. frosty was big without being even slightly awkward. he walked more freely because, with increasing size and experience, there had come an increasing awareness of his own powers. having killed a rattlesnake and put a coyote to flight, he had discovered for himself that the best defense is often a determined offense. so when he saw a gray fox padding toward him, instead of running or hiding, he prepared to fight, if that were necessary. the fox was an old and wise veteran that had been born in a corner of the swamp, had hunted in it since he'd been old enough to hunt, and that knew its every corner. he had a mate and cubs that had left their hillside den a couple of weeks ago, and last night he'd gone hunting with his family. but the cubs were still clumsy hunters who frightened more game than they caught, and the two baby muskrats that the old fox had finally snatched had been just enough to satisfy them. hunting for herself, the fox's mate had had several mice and a woodcock. the dog fox had eaten nothing. now, while his lazy family rested in a thicket, he was out to find a meal for himself. he walked openly, depending on his nose to guide him to food, because he knew and did not fear the swamp. since attaining full growth, the only natural enemies that had ever challenged him were occasional coyotes, and if the fox did not choose to run from them, or fight, he could always climb a tree. andy gates was the only human being who ever penetrated very deeply into the swamp, and andy was confined to certain paths and trails which the fox did not have to travel. however, his nose had already told him that andy was not in the swamp today. the muskrats were new to the swamp. yet, to the experienced fox, they were an old story. among any young animals, there were always a certain number of unwise or incautious. they seldom lasted long, but after catching the pair of youngsters, the fox had wasted no time hunting more because all the others had stayed out of reach in the water. he was on his way to a rabbit colony of which he knew when frosty's scent crossed his nostrils. he stopped at once, knowing it for an alien scent; then followed his nose toward it. six feet away, he stopped again. frosty's jaws framed a snarl, and a warning growl rumbled in his chest. every hair on his body was fluffed, making him seem twice his actual size. his tail was stiffly erect and fluffed, too, and his muscles were ready to carry him into battle. for a moment the fox regarded him closely, then circled and trotted on. the fox was wise enough to know that frosty did not merely look dangerous. he was dangerous. frosty resumed his own course toward the gopher colony. he remembered it to the last detail, and he had not forgotten the rattlesnake that lived there. the snake was still present, but it had recently fed and was sluggish. frosty settled himself in front of a gopher's den. he held perfectly still, eyes fixed on the burrow's mouth, and presently, deep in the earth, he heard a gopher moving. he remained quiet until the little rodent emerged from its den, then pounced. he caught his prey, devoured it and made a half-hearted pass at the snake. but he did not continue the battle because he was anxious to see andy, and, now that he had eaten, he could go find his partner. frosty made his way toward the house. he knew before he emerged from the swamp that andy was not there. though the kitten lacked a keen sense of smell, wood smoke had a pungent odor that lingered for a long time, and there had been no recent fire in the stove. frosty came out of the swamp to see the persistent doe, that had not yet given up hope of getting into the garden, resting beside it. a crow sat on the house's ridgepole and croaked raucous insults to the four winds. scurrying across the porch, a striped chipmunk dived into a crevice. frosty marked him down; the gopher had not filled his stomach. as soon as he climbed onto the porch, he knew that the house had been unoccupied for several days. it had a cold and deserted air, like a frame from which the picture had been removed, and the odors that seeped under the door were cold ones. frosty cried his loneliness, but he did not question his friend's absence. he reserved for himself the right to go prowling and to stay for as long as it suited him. it naturally followed that andy had the same privilege, and sooner or later he would come back. frosty settled beside the crevice in which the chipmunk had disappeared. he caught the furry little animal, ate it, and his hunger was satisfied. curling up in his favorite place, he settled himself for a nap. all about were familiar things, and even while he napped, his ears brought him their story. he heard the doe rise and begin to crop grass, birds crying in the swamp, the murmur of the wind, muskrats swimming in the slough, and he awakened to none of it because it was familiar. but an hour later, when he heard a man walking, he glided silently under the porch and waited there. he'd heard those footsteps before, and he knew who was coming. five minutes later, luke trull passed the house and went into the swamp. frosty watched with anger in his eyes, knowing only that once again he had been near his deadliest enemy. he couldn't possibly know that luke wouldn't have dared let himself be seen going into the swamp, or even past the house, had andy been home. nor could frosty understand, as luke did, that andy was in jail and would not be back for several days. luke disappeared in the tall swamp grass. he knew where andy had planted his twenty pairs of muskrats and the safe trails to them, for andy himself had inadvertently pointed them out. luke did not know how many other colonies there were or their locations, but there would never be a safer time to look for them. he had his own plans, and he had already decided how and when he intended to strike. all he had to find out was where. evening shadows were long when hunger forced frosty from the house. he left reluctantly, for he was very lonesome and ached for andy's presence, but he must have food. the kitten stalked down to the slough in which four-leaf and clover were making their home. only two of the young remained, and they had built themselves a very clumsy house at the slough's far end. the others--partly spurred by a natural wanderlust of youth and partly driven by irritable parents that were expecting new babies and had no time for the old--had gone into the swamp. frosty flattened himself, and again anger flared in his eyes. luke trull came back out of the swamp and took himself off toward the road. waiting until the hated man was out of hearing, frosty went on. he stalked a red-winged blackbird that was swaying on a reed, sprang--and lashed his tail in anger when the bird escaped him. he glared after the bird as it flew, knowing that he should have made a kill and not understanding why he had not. he leaped at a mouse that was moving through its grass-thatched tunnel and missed by a fraction of an inch. twenty minutes later, he missed a strike at a woodcock that whistled away in front of him. chagrined by these failures, frosty went deeper into the swamp. his hunger grew, but so did his bad luck. for some reason, everything in the swamp seemed to be not only unusually alert but extraordinarily agile. frosty missed five more strikes at mice and three at various birds. casting back and forth, he sought for new quarry. black night found him deep in the swamp and still hungry. hearing fresh game, he broke into a swift run. but again his luck was bad. he'd heard a young muskrat, one of the sons of four-leaf and clover, swimming up a thin finger of water that led over a little knob and into a slough. the kitten reached the knob a split second after the youngster jumped into the slough and swam away. twitching an angry tail and glaring, frosty watched the little drama that unfolded before him. another young muskrat, a daughter of the cautious pair, was already in the slough. the two met, looked awkwardly at each other, swam in circles, then climbed out on a half-submerged log and became better acquainted. finally, side by side, they dived beneath an overhanging bank and began to enlarge a burrow that the little female had already started. they were simply two lonely, lost youngsters who, for the present, were happy just to have each other's company. but if both lived, next year there would be another muskrat colony. frosty stalked and missed a rabbit, and made a wild spring at a grouse that was roosting in the lower branches of a tamarack. when the grouse rattled off in the darkness, he spat. then he regained his self-control. irritated by repeated failures, he had been striking furiously but wildly, and that was no way to hunt. he must follow a careful plan. when he heard deer grazing, he trotted toward them. they were a little herd of two does with three fawns that browsed together. a short distance from them a huge buck, a craggy-horned old patriarch of the swamp, kept to himself, but from time to time cast possessive glances at the does. still farther away, where he could flee into the swamp if the bigger one chased him, a smaller buck grazed nervously. the big buck and the small one had spent a companionable winter, spring and part of the summer in a secluded thicket. now, though the rutting season was still weeks away, both were becoming interested in the does and jealousy had come between them. the big buck raised his head, shook his antlers and stamped a threatening hoof when frosty came near. the kitten looked haughtily at him. he'd known deer for a long while, and he could elude any charge they made. he waited patiently near the does and fawns, and when they disturbed a mouse that leaped in panic-stricken haste from them, he caught and ate it. trotting to overtake the grazing deer, he caught the next mouse they disturbed and the one after that. his hunger satisfied, he cleaned himself thoroughly and started back toward the house. thus, the first hunting trick he had ever learned again proved valuable. the house was still cold, and the odors seeping under the door were stale ones. again, frosty cried his loneliness. then he settled himself on the porch to wait and hope for andy's return. for the following three days, luke trull went into the swamp every morning and stayed until evening. his trespassing enraged the kitten, not because the man trespassed but because he was an enemy who came near. if frosty had known how, he would have worked some harm on luke. but he did not know how. it would be the sheerest folly to attack a man unless every advantage was on his own side, so he hid when luke passed and again when the hillman emerged from the swamp. then luke appeared no more. frosty's concerns narrowed to keeping his belly filled and waiting anxiously for andy's return. * * * * * andy, serving his ten days in the town jail with nothing whatever to do, had ample time to think. and the more he thought, the more evident it became that he had walked squarely into a cunning trap. it was none of the young trooper's doing. that embarrassed youngster had visited andy and explained that, usually, in such cases, justice benton levied a small fine and a big lecture. benton himself might be pardoned partly on the grounds of his own ignorance and partly because of a social system which, for political expediency, gave a man of his caliber wide and flexible authority. luke trull, and luke alone, had set the trap, baited it, lured his victim--and sprung his trap when the time was ripe. andy figured out to his own satisfaction exactly why things could have turned out no other way. a townsman, brought before justice benton on a minor assault charge, probably would have been let off with a fine and a lecture. but in the town's opinion, which meant majority opinion, there was a vast difference between town and hill dwellers. the former were commonly supposed to be law-abiding. the latter were not only generally considered lawless, but they were also a different breed of people who merited different treatment. a townsman could understand the law. a hillman could better understand jail, and that was a state of affairs which luke trull comprehended to perfection. aside from being aware that there was a very good chance of andy's serving a jail sentence, luke had also known that he would be ordered to keep the peace. if he appeared again on an assault charge, his sentence might very well be six months instead of ten days. lying on his bunk and staring at the ceiling, andy conceded that he had been stupid as a fox cub just learning to hunt. it was, he decided, not only possible but probable that luke, knowing the boy would resort to violence, had exposed himself deliberately. it was another tribute to his cunning that he had not let himself be seen until after he discovered where andy put the last of his twenty pairs of muskrats. andy grinned ruefully and thought of joe wilson. he should have listened to the game warden, but he hadn't listened and here he was. however, there were still some puzzling aspects to the situation. if andy's fondest hopes were realized, and there were muskrats in the swamp by spring, they would still represent no fortune. it was hard to believe that even luke trull would go to this much trouble for what the reward might be. on the other hand, luke knew definitely only that andy had planted at least the pairs and some before that. he did not know how many had been previously planted, and he might think there were a great many more than actually had been liberated. andy narrowed his eyes. luke, nobody's fool, would not trap furs in the summer because they were worthless then, and he was not one to exert himself for nothing. so, except for those that fell to natural predators, the muskrats were safe during andy's sojourn in jail. but luke could and probably would take advantage of andy's absence to explore the swamp and locate as many other colonies as possible. the jail's outer door opened. the waiter from a cafe across the street brought andy's supper and handed it through the cell bars. ordinarily aloof, tonight the fellow was talkative. "here you are, bud." andy said, "thanks." "what are you in for?" the waiter asked. "i murdered my grandmother." the waiter grinned. "they say you guys from the hills do take pot shots at each other." "we have to have some entertainment." "how many more days you got?" "after tomorrow, i'll no longer be a guest here." "they say," the waiter pursued his interrogation, "that you and another guy fought over some muskrats?" "for once," andy agreed, "rumor got something right." "really?" "really." "and you're in jail on account of some muskrats?" "that's right." the waiter continued, "i've heard that it's as much as a man's life is worth to go into those hills alone at night." "oh, don't talk like a fool!" andy snapped. "i was just being civil," the waiter retorted sulkily. the man left and andy was alone with his dinner and his thoughts. he nibbled listlessly at the food. the waiter exemplified the town's attitude; hillmen would fight over anything, even worthless muskrats in a worthless swamp. in their opinion, it was a small thing, and not a project upon which a man hoped to build a career and a life. out of the dim past, ghosts came to haunt andy. he saw again the men of the gates clan, the older men who had asked neither favors nor assistance from anyone. they had settled their own problems in their own way or died trying, and if they died, no survivor had ever looked to the law for redress. andy forced the ghosts from his mind. their ways had suited their times, but there were different times. nobody could be his own law, and taking the law into one's own hands could lead only to disaster. besides, the boy thought, he must not borrow trouble. luke trull had not yet raided his muskrats, and at least as much as anything else, his own hot-headedness was responsible for his present predicament. andy went to sleep. * * * * * the next morning, two hours after breakfast, a state policeman came to unlock the cell. it was not the young trooper but an older, hardened man who looked at andy with no more personal interest than a scientist wastes on a specimen. "okeh." the trooper nodded toward the door. "you can go." andy walked through the open door, and from the cafe across the street two men stared curiously at him. he turned away, his face burning, and walked swiftly out of town. he had a sudden, vast need for the swamp and the things that were of the swamp. somehow he felt that, when he was once again where he belonged, this would seem just another bad dream. he hurried along into the hills and when he came to the path leading to his place, half ran down it. he was still a hundred yards from the house when frosty came running happily to greet him. andy stooped to caress his partner, and the kitten arched against his legs and purred. side by side, they walked to the house. entering, andy took his . from its rack, then the two partners went contentedly into the swamp. andy hunts a north wind, whistling across the swamp, launched a savage attack against andy's house, broke in half and snarled fiercely around either side. bearing a scattering of snowflakes, the wind whipped away the thin plume of smoke that curled from the chimney and whirled dry leaves across the yard. a little flock of sparrows that had gone to roost under the eaves fluffed their feathers, huddled close together for warmth and twittered sleepily of the lenient weather that had been. the doe that had tried all summer to get into andy's garden walked through the open gate and happily crunched cabbage stalks from which the heads had been cut. the doe raised her head. chewing lustily, she stared into the wind-stirred night. her ears flicked forward and her eyes were big with interest. something was coming, but it was nothing to fear. a moment later, a buck came out of the swamp. it was the smaller of the two bucks frosty had seen when he waited for the deer to frighten mice toward him. there was a bloody welt along his flank and he limped slightly with his right front leg. when the right time came, he had fought the old patriarch for the two does and had been defeated by the bigger, stronger buck. but there was no denying the season or the forces that drove him. the doe came out of the garden, and the pair halted, ten feet apart. then, with mincing little steps, they closed the distance between them. the buck arched his swollen neck, shook his antlers and pawed the ground. stepping high, like a parade horse, he danced clear around the doe and nudged her gently. the doe brushed his flank with her black muzzle and, after five minutes, they went into the hills together. the big buck, who would not be averse to adding another wife to his harem, waited in the swamp. high over the swamp, a v-line of wild geese let themselves be tumbled along by the wind. at a signal from their leader, they banked, glided into the swamp and settled in the center of a pond. with morning, when they could see any enemies that might be lurking on the bank, they would go to feed. three young muskrats, a male and two females, that had been busy cutting reeds and taking them into a roomy burrow, dived in panicky haste when the geese alighted. after a while, screening themselves beneath some frozen rushes that overhung the bank, they came up to see what was happening. when the geese did not make any hostile moves, they resumed cutting and storing reeds. in the middle branches of a tamarack that had shed its needles, a great horned owl ripped at a muskrat which it had plucked from a slough's surface. another owl, on the way to hunt, floated silently past. mice stayed deep in their burrows and stirred only when it was necessary to gather seeds to eat. gophers did not move at all, and rattlesnakes had long since sought winter dens in which the frost could not touch them. as though knowing it was well to eat as much as possible while there was still plenty to be had, a rabbit stuffed itself. a lithe mink that had just swum a slough pointed its snake-like head at the rabbit, stalked, pounced and made a kill. in the house, andy slept snugly and soundly beneath warm quilts. frosty was curled beside him. . . . so the night passed. andy awakened when the first gray light of an autumn morning was just beginning to play with the black windows. his hand stole to frosty, who pushed a furry head against it and licked his partner's palm with a raspy tongue. for a few extra minutes, andy listened to the snarling wind and enjoyed the comfort of his bed. he had a sense of well-being which the bitter weather to be served only to intensify. sometimes alone and sometimes with frosty--and always carrying his . , the shells for which were inexpensive--he had been in the swamp every day. more muskrats had been lost and that he knew, but on the whole, they had done better than he thought they could. prowling every slough and every arm of every slough that he was able to reach and carefully watching every pond, he had found sixty-one different colonies. each contained at least a pair, for the older muskrats that had lost their mates had traveled until they had found others. some adults had taken young mates, and some of the older males had fought savagely for theirs. there were colonies which andy knew definitely contained at least three muskrats, and there was one with five. in addition, and despite the fact that he had searched as thoroughly as he could, there was a distinct possibility that he had not located every colony. some of the sloughs had so many arms and branches that they were practically water systems within themselves, and some of the branches were hidden by foliage. with luck, there should be at least muskrats by spring, and that was one reason why the north wind sang such a beautiful song. andy had shot another great horned owl. he had caught another fox and a bobcat, which he knew were raiding his muskrats, and this in a time of plenty, when anything with more than mediocre hunting skill could fill its belly. now the migratory birds were going or had already gone. soon mice would be moving beneath snow, rather than grass tunnels. that left little except grouse, which were very wise and very hard to catch; sparrows, chickadees and the few other birds that stayed throughout the winter; and rabbits. however, predators did not migrate. the hungry season, which would bring fierce competition for available food, was just around the corner. but ice-locked ponds and sloughs would protect the muskrats from almost everything. if andy could see his charges through the next four to six weeks, he should be able to bring most of them safely through the winter. of course, there was always a possibility of bitter cold that would freeze shallow ponds and sloughs to the bottom. if any water did freeze in such a fashion, muskrats trapped there would starve, merely because they had to be able to move about in order to get food. but most of the colonies were in water deep enough to be safe, regardless of what the weather brought, and only about one winter in ten was very severe. andy had a sobering thought. no ice would deter luke trull, the deadliest predator of all! andy had expected the fellow to strike before this. though far from their best, soon pelts would be good enough to command a fair price. however, luke had not come and andy hoped he would not. frosty rose, stretched, leaped lightly to the floor and delivered himself of a querulous call. andy grinned and sat up in bed. "time to be moving, huh?" he swung out of bed, padded across the floor, lifted the stove lid, stirred the gray ashes with his lid lifter and dropped dry kindling on hot coals. fire nibbled anxiously at the kindling, then took a big bite and flame crackled. andy dressed. he lifted the lid again to add some chunks of wood and looked out the window. the wind still blew hard; but after spitting out just enough snow to dust everything, rolling black clouds had closed their mouths tightly. the thermometer outside the window registered exactly one degree above freezing. andy cut slices from a slab of bacon and laid them in a skillet. his eyes were questioning and he strained to listen. this first real touch of winter should have brought more than just a north wind; wild geese should have blown in, too. but he could not hear them calling. frosty looked expectantly at his partner, voiced an imperious command and walked to the door. andy let him out. frosty had had no breakfast, but that was nothing to worry about. no longer a kitten but a great cat, he was well able to take care of himself and andy had long since discovered that, though he made no distinction between young and old, or male and female, he did not kill wantonly. he did take what he wanted to satisfy his hunger, but so did everything else. andy broke eggs into the skillet and laid two slices of bread on the stove to toast. he was always busy, but during the next six weeks he'd be doubly so. with waterfowl season open, small game season about to open, and deer hunting to follow that, the time had arrived both to enjoy sport and to fill his winter larder. andy hurried through breakfast and the morning's housework, took a double-barreled twelve gauge shotgun from the gun rack, pulled his boots on and donned a wool jacket. he thrust half a dozen number two shells into his pocket and went into the swamp. he walked fast, paying little attention to the noise he made and making no special effort to conceal himself. geese were the wariest of game, and only by accident would a flock alight on any accessible pond or slough. they preferred hidden places, deep in the swamp, and long experience had taught andy where to find waters which the geese liked best. the boy halted to watch a couple of young muskrats that were frantically cutting reeds to store for winter use. he shook his head in wonder. these animals were the offspring of some muskrats he had liberated. they'd never faced a winter in the swamp; they hadn't even lived through a winter, but they still knew enough to cut and store food. how did they know? andy couldn't explain it, nor could anyone else. instinct, perhaps, was responsible for part, but andy had never accepted the theory that instinct is responsible for all a wild creature's actions. if this were true, the muskrats he had planted should have known by instinct that there would be predators about. they'd had to learn, but in learning, they had passed some knowledge on to their offspring. the young were more wary than their parents had been. maybe, andy thought, only the fittest of the adults he'd planted had survived. they'd lived because they were smarter or stronger, or perhaps both. it followed that most of the offspring of such parents would be smart and strong too, and thus it became a process of natural selection. he went on and came to a long, wide slough in which the five muskrats lived. relatively shallow, the slough had a quicksand bottom, and, according to legend, the bones of two men lay somewhere in its depths. they were a gates and a trull who had met here, started a hand-to-hand battle and tumbled into the water. in this instance, legend probably was strictly fancy, with no basis in fact. the slough was not deep, but a good swimmer who knew what he was doing might have every chance of crossing it safely. andy frowned. on the far side of the slough was a high knob. a scattering of brush and scrub aspen grew there, and almost at the very edge of the slough was a huge sycamore with gnarled branches and a hollow trunk. a well-marked path led out of the water into the hollow. andy's frown deepened. muskrats had made the path, and if they intended to live in the hollow sycamore, they risked a very precarious situation. predators could reach them there, but, above and beyond that danger, they'd be locked out of the slough when it froze. then, even if they did not fall to some fanged or taloned prowler, they'd starve. muskrats could not live on hard-frozen vegetation. andy went around the slough, broke his shotgun and extracted the shells, then leaned his weapon against an aspen. he knelt beside the sycamore, but when he sought to support himself with his left hand, he slipped and his arm sank to the elbow in mud. scrambling hastily to pull himself back, he grimaced at the muddy sleeve, cleaned it as best he could with a handful of rushes and removed his jacket to wring the water out. it was not yet cold enough to make it necessary to start a fire so he might dry out the jacket. the next time he knelt, he braced his left hand against the sycamore before he peered into the gloomy interior. when his eyes became adjusted to the darkness, he saw a burrow at the far end. satisfied, he rose. the muskrats were not naturally lazy creatures that had chosen to live in the sycamore, rather than dig their own den. they were merely using the hollow as a partial shelter for a surface den, and doubtless there was another exit that led directly into the water. andy searched until he found it, under an overhanging bank. he caught up his shotgun, reloaded and continued into the swamp. a hundred yards farther on, a young deer, a spring-born fawn, looked steadily at him, twitched long ears, stamped a nervous hoof, then hoisted a white tail and bounded into the swamp. it was followed by two more fawns, which, in turn, were trailed by a pair of adult does. andy stood perfectly still. at this season, a buck should be with the does and he wanted to locate the buck. after a moment, he saw what he was looking for. off in the swamp grass was the barest ripple of motion, a phantom thing that at first seemed not even to exist. it was the craggy-horned old patriarch, the same beast that frosty had seen and that, later, had driven his smaller rival away. too smart to show himself in any open space, the old buck was sneaking, almost unseen, through grass that was tall enough to cover his back. but he had forgotten about his antlers, and now and again they showed. andy watched closely until the old buck was out of sight. every year, if for nothing except for winter meat, a buck was a necessity and this was far and away the biggest in the swamp. but he was also by far the wisest. andy had hunted him for the past three seasons and had managed only a couple of snap shots at him. the old buck refused to be driven from the swamp, and he was acquainted with every inch of that. he never panicked, seldom made an unwise move, and he knew all about hunters with firearms. andy bent his head against the wind and walked on. four weeks would bring another deer season and he intended to spend at least the first half of it matching wits with the old patriarch. if he couldn't get him, he'd take a smaller buck. he looked again at the rolling black clouds. he had heard no geese nor had he seen any, but it was goose weather and they should be down. nearing the slough where he hoped to find them, andy crouched so that his head was below the tops of the swamp grass. he knew the game he sought. not even the old buck was warier or harder to approach. when the boy saw the tops of some tamaracks that flanked the slough, he held the shotgun in his right hand and crawled. he advanced with almost painful slowness. a suspicious sound could warn geese as swiftly as an enemy in sight. the last twenty yards andy wriggled on his stomach. he looked through a fringe of swamp grass at the slough. more than twenty geese swam on it, but the sentry they'd posted had become suspicious and had alerted the others. positive that the geese had not seen him, and until now equally certain that they had not heard him, andy grinned his appreciation. he must have made some sound which possibly nothing except a wild goose could have detected, but his stalk was successful. well within range, all he had to do was stand up and get two of the flock when they took to the air. then his glance strayed across the slough and he muttered under his breath. one on a lower branch and one on an upper, two great horned owls sat in the same tamarack. andy muttered again. within easy range of wild geese, he might have at least two. but choosing them meant letting the owls go, and if he did, he might very well pay for his choice with a dozen or more muskrats. andy sighed. he leveled his shotgun, sighted on the topmost owl and squeezed the trigger. almost before the booming report died, he got the second owl with the other barrel. in a frantic haste, he ejected the two empty shells and slipped fresh ones in, but with a great flapping of wings, the geese were already airborne. andy sighed again and watched them go. he still might shoot, but he could no longer be certain of a kill and it was far better to let the geese escape than to wound one. andy turned dejectedly away from the slough. his swamp was not on one of the great flyways, down or up which, according to the season, waterfowl stream. only the strays alighted here, and some seasons they were very few. the boy shrugged and walked on. the two geese he had hoped to get would have provided his christmas and thanksgiving dinners--and several more besides. but the great horned owls were far too dangerous to be tolerated. andy longed for the freeze--up that would make his muskrats safe. * * * * * the next day, on a different slough, andy bagged two mallards out of a flock that beat hastily into the air before him, and the day after that he got two more. he plucked and dressed the ducks, wrapped each separately in flour sacking and hung it in his shed to freeze. these were the last of the waterfowl. if more came, he missed them. the weather, never very cold or very warm, dropped to a few degrees below freezing every night and climbed a few degrees above it every day. there were some more snow flurries and brittle shell ice formed on the edges of some ponds and sloughs. but, except in places that were shadowed all day long, both snow and ice melted under the noon sun. andy made ready for the trapping and small game season. an hour before dawn on opening day, he had breakfasted. he let frosty out, and with the shotgun under his arm, started off. his way led him into the hills, rather than the swamp, for this morning he intended to set fox traps and there were more foxes in the hills. black night was just shading into gray dawn when he threaded his path among a copse of scrub oak toward a huge stump that had supported a great pine but that was now a melancholy, moss- and lichen-covered relic. andy pawed aside some dead leaves that seemed to have blown into the stump and revealed his fox traps. along with a packsack, leather trapping gloves, a roll of canvas, a bottle of scent, trap stakes and even the hatchet used to drive the stakes, they had been in the stump all summer and no trace of human scent could possibly cling to them. before doing anything else, andy slipped his hands into the gloves. being careful to touch them with nothing except the gloves, he put eight traps, eight stakes, the roll of canvas, the hatchet and the bottle of scent into the packsack and shouldered it. the hills were cut with numerous tote roads over which, at one time, wagons loaded with timber had traveled. though some were brush-grown, most such roads remained open enough so that foxes en route from one place to another traveled them. approaching such a road, andy stopped. he unrolled his strip of canvas, walking on it as he did so. when he came to the middle of the road, he knelt to study the ground carefully. after he was sure he had memorized every tiny detail, he used the hatchet's blade to scoop a hole just big enough to hide a set trap. the surplus earth he scattered to either side. he started a stake through the trap ring and kept pounding until the top of the stake was level with its surroundings. then he replaced every leaf and every blade of grass exactly as it had been. andy took the bottle of scent from his pack, uncorked it and grimaced. the scent was a nauseous substance, composed of exactly measured portions of thoroughly rotted fish; the castor, or scent glands, of beaver; oil of asafetida and oil of wintergreen. its odor would shame the most formidable skunk, but foxes found it irresistible! andy put one drop on his set trap and, rolling up his canvas as he did so, walked backwards. in like manner, he set seven more fox traps. he hurried back toward the house, for he wanted to spend the afternoon in his swamp, but when a fat rabbit with a flashing white tail scooted before him, he shot it. he collected four more rabbits, the bag limit for one day. however, the possession limit was ten and rabbits were plentiful. if he froze these five and four more, he would still have one under the possession limit and, whenever he felt so inclined, he would be entitled to shoot a rabbit for his dinner. andy skinned and dressed his rabbits and hung them in the shed. after a hurried lunch, he exchanged his packs for boots and went into the swamp with mink traps. after reading sign in the few snows that had lingered after sunup, he had determined that there were sixteen mink in the swamp. if he took ten, there would still be enough to perform the necessary functions of such predators, such as catching sick rabbits that would otherwise spread disease and restocking the swamp next year. andy waded a winding little watercourse. he knew mink as inquisitive creatures that will investigate and, if possible, squeeze into every crack and crevice along their line of travel. on this knowledge he had based his plan for trapping mink without catching any muskrats, which also might travel the waterways. he set his traps at places which mink would investigate but muskrats were likely to avoid, and he baited each with a tiny bit of scent from the scent glands of mink trapped last year. on the way home, he shot two grouse and added them to his collection in the shed. thereafter, while the weather became neither very cold nor unduly warm, andy went into the hills every morning and into the swamp every afternoon. he added lustrous fox pelts to his cache in the fur shed, took the ten mink he wanted to catch in eight days and worried because the winter freeze was late. however, neither luke trull nor any extraordinary wave of natural predators had as yet attacked the muskrat colonies. the night before deer season opened, andy took his - from its rack and looked through the spotless bore. he put the rifle to his shoulder, squinted over the sights, and in imagination he was actually sighting on the great swamp buck. the next morning, he set out on what he was sure would be the hardest hunt of his life. * * * * * at first frosty was puzzled by and resentful of the strange madness that had suddenly come over his partner. he had gone once with andy into the swamp and once into the hills, and each time his companion had used his shotgun. though frosty did not mind the snap of a . , the blast of this great weapon was a tremendous shock to feline nerves. after the first discharge, he'd hoped that andy would never fire the shotgun again. after the second, he decided definitely that he would not be around if it were shot off any more. thereafter, when andy carried the shotgun, and he carried it every day, frosty took himself elsewhere. angry at first, feline philosophy came to frosty's aid. it was decidedly a madness--anyone who would make such a noise had to be insane--but sooner or later andy would regain his senses and they could take up their companionship where it had been broken off. frosty roamed the swamp, going where he wished and doing as he pleased, for he was very sure of himself and his own powers now. the night before deer season opened, he fed heartily on a rabbit, slept in a hollow log . . . and resumed prowling. just before daylight, he came upon the big buck. the fawns had long since been driven away to shift for themselves and one of the does had gone of her own free will. when the patriarch approached the remaining doe, she slashed viciously at him with a front hoof and ran a few steps. the second time he came near, she slashed again and disappeared in the swamp grass. still in the grip of the rutting season's urge, the angry buck scraped the ground with his antlers. frosty watched with interest. he had never met his superior. except for andy, he had never even met his equal, so he understood this enraged beast. the cat soft-footed to an aspen that grew in front of a ledge of rocks and gauged the exact distance to a crevice beneath the ledge. then he deliberately showed himself. at once the buck charged. frosty scrambled up the aspen and looked down contemptuously as the great creature raked the tree with his antlers, snorted and fell to scraping the earth with a front hoof. he reared--a move frosty had anticipated--and the black cat dug his nose with a single lightning-like thrust of his paw. then he leaped out of the tree and, with the buck pounding behind him, dodged into the crevice. snorting and puffing, the buck stamped angrily back and forth. he stopped and tried to edge an antler into the crevice. when his nose came near enough, frosty scratched it again. the buck, all fury, thought only of reaching and killing this insignificant thing that had dared defy him. for a time frosty amused himself by scratching the patriarch's nose every time it came within reach. then he withdrew to the rear of the crevice and went to sleep. the buck could not reach him, and while the furious beast stood guard, nothing else would try. frosty slept peacefully, wholly at ease. daylight had bloomed when he was awakened by footsteps. from their rhythm and cadence, he knew they were andy's. the cat waited. he'd be happy to meet his partner again, providing andy had left the shotgun home. then came a blast that outdid even the shotgun's and frosty crouched very quietly in his crevice. andy was still mad, the cat decided, for he was still going about making noises that could not possibly be tolerated by anything in its right mind. however, the buck had hit the ground very hard and very suddenly, and now it lay very still. frosty heard andy's amazed, "i'll be dog-goned! hunt _this_ buck for three years and then stumble right over him! wonder how he got his nose dug that way?" the war of the owls the next morning, knife in hand, andy knelt beside his big buck and expertly skinned out both hindquarters. frosty, entirely at ease as long as no rifles or shotguns were about, sat contentedly near and watched the proceedings with interest. slitting the tendons, andy tied a rope through each, slung the other ends of the ropes over a porch beam and made ready to hoist the carcass aloft and finish skinning. frosty slipped into his favorite hiding place under the porch and did not come out again. andy slackened the taut ropes and eased the buck down onto the floor. frosty was not precisely a watch dog, but the boy had learned to tell from the big cat's actions when something was coming. a little while later, jud casman appeared around a corner of the house. he was dressed for hunting, but not precisely in the costume which fashion magazines say the well-dressed hunter should wear. he wore wool trousers whose legs had been slit so that they might fit over knee-length rubber boots. it was a good, practical arrangement; snow and water would run down the trouser legs, rather than inside the boots. his upper torso was encased in a jacket over which he wore the cut-off upper half of some red woolen underwear. that, according to jud, both enabled other hunters to see him and made the jacket snug enough so that some loose end wasn't forever catching in the brush. his hat might have descended to jud from the first person ever to see the swamp. his rifle matched the costume. it was a muzzle-loader of a type generally associated with frontiersmen and indian fighters, and it was almost as long as jud was tall. a single shot, it had been handed down by jud's father, who in turn had obtained it from his father. the bore had been re-reamed and re-rifled so many times that now it cast a slug approximately the size of a small cannon ball. a lot of people had laughed at jud and his rifle, but on his side, jud snickered at those who needed a whole handful of cartridges when, as any child should know, one ball was plenty, if you put it in the right place. andy, who had seen jud pick the heads off squirrels and grouse and shoot flying geese, knew that jud killed whatever he shot at. he left no wounded creature to die in agony. jud eyed the big buck and expressed his opinion, "_hm-m._" andy said, "it's the big one." "give ya a heap of trouble?" "i walked right up to him," andy admitted. "he didn't even run." "i'll give ya a hand," jud offered. "just snug them ropes when i lift." jud leaned his rifle against the house. no big man, he lifted the -pound buck without visible strain or effort and andy tightened the ropes. saying not another word, jud picked up his rifle and went into the swamp. andy resumed his work, cutting with the knife point and pulling the loosened skin down around the carcass. since this was deer season, obviously jud was going into the swamp to get himself a deer. andy knew where there were some, but if jud had wanted advice, he'd have asked for it. andy skinned his buck down and severed the head as close to the scalp as possible. he grinned. some years ago, old man haroldson had taken a party deer hunting and among them they had shot five deer. when it came time to divide the venison, the hunters, with visions of choice steaks and roasts, had offered old man haroldson the five necks. he had accepted with alacrity, and ever since had been gleefully telling how he put one over on the city-slickers, for the neck was the best part of any deer, in his opinion. whether it was or not, andy thought, there was a lot of good meat in it. frosty came out from beneath the porch and again sat companionably close. he turned up his nose at a little chunk of venison andy threw him. able to take his choice of the finest viands in the swamp, frosty would accept second best only when he could not get first. andy looked with regret at the great antlers, a really fine trophy. but it cost money to have a deer head mounted, and he had no money to spare. he consoled himself with the thought that the antlers, sawed from the scalp and nailed over his door, would still look very nice. he split the carcass and made ready to separate it into the cuts he wanted. a half-hour later, out in the swamp, jud's rifle roared like a clap of thunder. looking disgusted, frosty departed to such peace and quiet as he might find under the porch. andy glanced toward the swamp. jud had shot. therefore he had his buck.... in another twenty minutes, he appeared with it. it was a fair-sized three-year-old. jud had slit the tendons in the hind legs, thrust the front ones through, fastened them with pegs, and was carrying his buck as andy would have carried a packsack. but, though the buck probably weighed pounds, jud was not laboring nor was he the least bit strained. he paused again beside the porch. "got one, huh?" andy greeted him. "yep." "nice one, too." "nice eatin'," jud grunted. "i take it you know they's owls in the swamp, andy?" "owls?" "cat owls," jud said. "i see six. i'd of shot some but i didn't know as you'd of wanted me to." "thanks, jud." "don't mention it," jud said politely. he departed with his buck and andy began to work furiously. "cat owl" was a local term for great horned owl, and if jud had seen six during the short time he'd been absent, they had not only invaded the swamp in force but their invasion had occurred since yesterday. andy nicked his finger, muttered to himself and continued to work feverishly. one owl in the swamp was a threat. six could mean only that game had already become scarce in other localities, and the owls were gathering in his swamp to find food. it was true that, in winter, much small game did seek a refuge in the swamp and, for that very reason, it had more than its winter-time quota of great horned owls and other predators. this early in the season, andy's muskrats must be the very lure that was attracting them. he had feared just such an invasion, and now he must fight it. he wrapped the venison in flour sacking, hung the portions in his shed and closed the door behind him. finished, he breathed a sigh of relief, took his . from its rack, filled the magazine, stuck a couple of extra boxes of cartridges in his pocket and started for the swamp. frosty, who shuddered at the sight of a shotgun but did not mind the . , came happily to join him. andy was rational again. they could take up their partnership where it had been broken off. tail erect and even whiskers seeming to quiver with joy, frosty trotted by andy's side. andy set a direct course for the nearest trees. he searched eagerly, hoping he would not find what he feared he would, and optimism leaped in his breast when he saw nothing. then an owl, a huge bird with a mighty spread of wings, labored up from a slough with a muskrat in its talons. andy leveled his rifle, holding it steady, even while he tried to conquer the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. compared to some other birds, the owls are not swift fliers and this one was furthered slowed by the burden it carried. it was possible to pick it out of the air with a rifle, but andy held his fire because, obviously, the owl intended to light in one of the trees. a sitting shot was not sporting, but there was no question of sport connected with this and a sitting shot was far more certain. the owl dipped gracefully toward a tree and andy followed with the rifle sights. at exactly the right moment, he squeezed the trigger. the vicious little rifle spat its leaden death and the owl dropped limply. he lay tumbled on the ground, talons still imbedded in the muskrat, when andy reached him. it was a grip of steel, so powerful that the boy had to use the point of his knife to disengage each talon separately. andy skinned the still-warm muskrat, knowing as he did so that the pelt would bring less than a good price because the owl's talons had pierced it. but it was something salvaged. the next owl was a dodging gray shape that winged erratically over the swamp grass, more than six hundred feet away. andy leveled his rifle, sighted and shot. he shot a second time . . . and a third. on the third shot, a gray feather detached itself from the bird and floated gracefully downwards. but the shot also warned the owl. he dipped out of sight. hearing something in the grass that interested him, frosty went to investigate. andy strode grimly toward the next grove of trees. he scored a clean miss on an owl perched in a tree, then brought down one in flight. quickly, he reloaded his little rifle. it was better than the shotgun for such hunting, partly because shotgun shells were so much more expensive and partly because the shotgun was limited in range. he would certainly have killed the owl in the tree had he had the shotgun, but probably he would have merely wounded the pair he had brought down and even owls deserved better than that. far off, hopelessly out of range, andy saw two owls in the hollow sycamore that overlooked the slough where the five muskrats lived. he stooped to crawl. when he was within rifle shot, he raised cautiously above the swamp grass--to see the sycamore empty. he muttered to himself. he did not think that he had frightened the owls, for they were incredibly bold. doubtless they'd gone off to hunt, and almost surely they were hunting muskrats. rising, andy walked to the hollow sycamore and cradled the rifle in the crook of his arm while he leaned against it. five minutes later, a muskrat emerged from an underwater burrow, surfaced and swam in little circles. only his head and back broke water. he regarded andy with beady little eyes. although less than ten feet away, the muskrat considered himself safe because he was in the water. the owl came so silently and so eerily that, somehow, it seemed to have materialized out of thin air. gliding over the slough, it took the swimming muskrat in both claws and never missed a wing beat as it flew on. andy gasped. he leveled the rifle and shot five times, but the gathering dusk made his aim uncertain and again he missed. andy's brain reeled. naturally ferocious, the raiding owls were ten times as fierce and ten times as dangerous as they ever were otherwise because they were also desperately hungry. this one must have seen andy, but the presence of an armed man had not prevented it from taking a muskrat that was not even a pebble's toss away. andy glared at the darkening sky, as though his fierce will to hold back the night and let him continue hunting owls would somehow grant time for so long. but approaching night would not be stopped, and he could do nothing before another morning. however, the owls could and would hunt. all night long the muskrats in the swamp would be at their mercy--and they had no mercy! andy trailed tiredly back to his house. he found frosty on the porch, let him in and nibbled at a supper for which he had neither taste nor desire. unless something came to his aid, he was ruined and he knew it. one man alone could not turn back the tide of owls. given one more week, they would take every muskrat from every slough. back in the swamp with daylight the next morning, andy shot two owls almost before night's curtain lifted. hunting, he got three more and missed four. then, shortly before noon, the wind began to scream. just before dusk, it lulled, and that night andy looked happily at his frosted windows. he had to go outside to read the thermometer, but he'd have walked five miles to discover that it was twelve degrees below zero. the following morning, every pond and every slough wore a safe armor of ice. * * * * * it was an extraordinary winter. neither mild nor severe, it skipped the usual january thaw completely and lingered on almost as it had started. except for the one severe cold snap that froze the swamp, the temperature dropped to zero or below only on a few scattered days. however, on two days alone did it climb into the fifties. most of the time it lingered at a few degrees below or a few above the freezing point. the customary snows did not fall. the deepest, only about three inches, came shortly before the temperature reached the fifties and much of it melted then. otherwise, there were only dustings of snow. thus, though there was tracking most of the time, snowshoes were never needed. for andy it was a wonderful, peaceful time, which was further distinguished by being the winter of the big bonanza. few of the town dwellers were so old-fashioned as to have coal furnaces. strictly in tune with modern trends, they used oil or gas. but the ways of the forefathers are not that easily forsaken, and, though the town dwellers also considered this strictly in keeping with progress, a great many of them wanted fireplaces. they served no practical purpose because their houses were always warm enough anyhow. but the fireplaces did fill a spiritual need, and having them, the townsmen wanted fuel to burn in them. naturally, nobody with a fireplace would consider burning anything except wood. a fuel-dealer in town had given the casman brothers an order for cords of fireplace wood, to be picked up at the casman farm and paid for at six dollars a cord. even though the same dealer was selling it in town for twelve dollars a cord, it was still a good deal. jud and ira, remembering that andy had invited them to participate in his muskrat ranch on a share basis, invited him to do the same with their wood. three men were needed for supplying the wood. the casmans had several acres of yellow birch which they wanted to clear for additional pasture anyhow, also the horses to haul the poles and the machinery for sawing them. the casmans were to keep one third of the payment. they would split the remaining two thirds three ways with andy. andy accepted happily, for he had already taken as many mink and fox pelts as he could safely take and leave enough for re-stocking. his trappings throughout the rest of the winter would have been confined to taking bobcats and weasels, upon both of which there was a bounty, and he'd have been lucky to earn one hundred dollars. since his muskrats were safe beneath the ice, a routine patrol sufficed for the swamp. he could do that on sunday. anyway, he liked to cut wood. for the first week, armed with razor-sharp axes that were kept that way by frequent honing, the three of them attacked the grove of yellow birch. then, while ira and andy set up the gasoline-powered buzz saw, ira used his own horses to drag the wood in to them. when they had enough to keep them busy for a while, he felled and trimmed more trees alone. except for sundays, which the casmans always observed, even though they did not do it in church, the trio worked hard every day from dawn to dusk. as a result, wood piled up fast. one afternoon, andy glanced at the sun, calculated that they could work at least one more hour and picked up one end of a birch pole, while ira took the other. co-ordinating their actions perfectly, for they had been working together a long while, they swung it into the cradle. ira had taken the saw end, and andy was just as happy. the whirling saw, kept as sharp as the axes, could scream its way through a twelve-inch tree in a couple of clock ticks--and through a man's hand in considerably less time! but ira, who had been handling the business end of a buzz saw ever since he'd been old enough to work, had yet to receive his first nick. the pair finished the log, took another, and at exactly the right time jud came in from the wood lot. the three of them worked to arrange the tumbled pile of wood in neat cords, eight feet long by four feet high, and so well did they know what they were doing that, by the time they were finished, it lacked only a few minutes of being too dark to work any more. ira solemnly regarded the results of their day's labor. "twenty mo' cords to go," he announced. "we finish early nex' week." "jest in time," jud said. "breakup's comin', an' them town folk won't want wood then." "how do you know the breakup's coming?" andy challenged him. "my rheumatiz changed." "twon't be much of a breakup," ira murmured. "ain't enough snow fo' that. i mistrust 'twill be a puny season' fo' crops, less'n we get a heap o' spring rains." "there'll be water in the swamp," andy said. "allus some theah," ira conceded. "how's yo' mushrats doin', andy?" andy hid his instinctive smile. he'd been working with the casmans all winter, and this was the first time either had asked about his muskrats. in the hills, a man's business was strictly his own. "i figure the owls cleaned out five colonies," andy said, "and probably got an animal or two from others. but since i've been able to walk on the ice, i've found seven colonies that i hadn't even known about. they're on little bits of slough arms that i couldn't even reach before." "any owls theah now?" "about the usual winter's supply. i haven't been shooting any since the freeze-up because they can't do any great damage. no sense in shooting anything at all for the sake of killing." "tha's right," jud agreed. "but won't they raise the dickens when the breakup comes?" "not too much," andy said. "birds will be coming back and everything else will move more. the owls will scatter. well, see you monday." "shuah thing," jud said gravely. "shuah thing," ira echoed. andy walked homeward and frosty met him. for the first week, the big cat had accompanied his partner to the wood lot and happily explored new country while trees were felled. but, though frosty did not mind the thudding of axes, he disliked the screeching buzz saw even more cordially than blasting rifles and shotguns. he was happy to stay near andy nights and to accompany him on sunday patrols into the swamp. they went together the next day, walking safely on ice and frozen earth. the five colonies that had been ravished--and andy was sure that owls had raided them--were easy to locate. the tops of all muskrat houses protruded above the ice that locked them in, but these five had fallen into disrepair and the winds were scattering them. all the rest of the houses were firm and sound. the next week, andy finished his job with the casmans and, just as jud had predicted, the breakup followed. it was no violent change but a soft and gentle thing. one day the temperature climbed to near-summer heights and remained there for three days. it wiped out the snow and presently it took the ice, too. because there had been little snow and not much spring run-off, except for the thaw, there was almost no change in the swamp. andy resumed his daily patrols. the owls were still present and, as andy discovered when one plucked a rabbit from under his very nose, still ravenous. but muskrats that had been ice-bound for weeks were frantic for a taste of fresh food. they swarmed out of dens and houses to dig in the mud for anything succulent. their very eagerness made them careless. andy shot a bobcat with a muskrat in its mouth, found where a great horned owl had taken one, and a fox another. but there was no great wave of predators immediately. another week elapsed before he knew definitely that something was seriously wrong. the sign left by digging muskrats was easy to see, and after a week, in eight separate colonies, there was not only no fresh sign but the houses were falling into disrepair. andy redoubled his efforts, going into the swamp with daylight and staying until dark. this predator was a complete mystery. it left neither tracks nor sign, and the only evidence that it had struck at all was another colony that no longer contained muskrats. andy, who had thought he knew everything there was to know about the swamp, gave up. he did not understand this, but joe wilson might be able to give him some good advice, for joe was very wise. an hour before dark, andy climbed the path leading to the road and struck out toward town. he had walked no more than half a mile when he saw a horseman coming toward him. it was luke trull, whose eyes were cold and whose smile was colder. he passed without speaking, but for a full two minutes andy stood rooted. then he turned slowly back toward his house. the trull-gates feud, with luke and himself as sole participants, was about to be renewed, for, in addition to his usual disreputable clothing, luke wore a muskrat-skin hat! deep sand ten minutes after andy left, frosty went into the swamp. he had his full growth now, and his twelve pounds were distributed perfectly over a near-perfect frame. lithe muscles were under exact control of a brain that, naturally fast, had been further sharpened by the dangers to which he had been exposed. because he was very sure of himself and what he could do, frosty disdained to hide from even the great horned owls, unless he felt like it. he would fight anything anywhere, if fighting seemed the wisest course. but he would hide, if hiding best served the ends he wanted to achieve. he was never guided by anything save his own intelligence, and he met each situation according to circumstances. not especially hungry, tonight he was in the mood to accept a tempting tidbit should one come his way. most of all, he wanted to wander and explore, for his feline curiosity never had been and never would be satisfied. no matter how many times he went into the swamp, he always found something new or some new aspect to something old. and he had prowled the swamp so much that, though the rabbit or muskrat that lived its whole life in one comparatively small area might know that area better than he, frosty grasped the over-all picture more completely than anything else. he knew the favorite grazing grounds, sleeping places and playgrounds of the deer. every muskrat colony--and frosty knew of two which even andy had not yet found--he had visited time after time and he was aware of the exact number of muskrats in each. he was acquainted with every mink, fox, bobcat, raccoon and coyote in the swamp, and he could go directly to their home dens or the place where each individual preferred to hunt. he knew the trees or copses of trees which the great horned owls preferred, and where the grouse were inclined to roost. frosty was familiar with those places where rabbits and mice were most abundant. he had trod every safe trail and visited most of the hiding places. knowing all this, the swamp still fascinated him because it was never static. there was always change, and, next to his partnership with andy, keeping aware and abreast of those changes was the most important business in frosty's life. the first night luke trull entered the swamp, frosty had known of his presence a half-hour later. luke's trespassing angered him greatly, and he still would harm the man if he could find a way to do so. he had not discovered the way, and it was far from prudent to attack even a hated man unless there was every chance of winning the fight. because he did want to discover what luke was about, frosty followed him until he knew his exact schedule. he habitually came just a few minutes after gray twilight shaded into deep night. invariably he entered the swamp by wading a shallow, hard-bottomed slough four hundred yards from andy's house. his equipment was always the same, five number one traps that he carried in his left hand and a club clutched in his right. an empty packsack hung loosely over his shoulders and there was a knife at his belt. he knew the safe trails so well that he needed no light to guide himself, but he carried a small flashlight to carry on his affairs, once he was within the swamp--and his affairs concerned the muskrat colonies. though he did not understand it, frosty had watched what he did there. when luke approached a colony, the muskrats were sure to be digging for bulbs in the bank. they always fled when he came, but they seldom went farther than the center of the pond or slough in which they lived. luke used his flashlight to see where they had been digging. then, depending on what he saw, he set one or more traps. the traps were strung on flexible wires, slipped through the ring in the chain. wooden pegs prevented their sliding off. luke cast one end of his wire into the slough or pond, tied the other to any convenient root, tree or shrub, set his traps and went to another colony. sometimes the muskrats came back as soon as luke left. sometimes they were cautious for an hour or more. but they always came and they were always trapped. when they were, they dived frantically into the water which, hitherto, had provided a safe refuge. the trap chain, sliding along the wire, was invariably stopped by the wooden peg. since no muskrat in trouble would ever think of turning toward land, they continued their efforts to get into the water until they drowned. coming back, luke picked up the drowned muskrats, placed them in the packsack, took his traps and was out of the swamp well before daylight. he had never taken more than five muskrats on any one night. but neither had he taken any less, and he had visited the swamp for seven consecutive nights. frosty expected him again tonight, but he was not particularly worried about the man's possible appearance because he could take care of himself. in the dark, he could always get out of any human's way. they never even seemed to know that he was around. the big cat faced into the brisk north wind. spring, showing her face briefly, had only wanted to tantalize the winter-weary. the wind was as cold as it had been most winter nights and there were a few snowflakes, but not enough to whiten the ground and retain tracks. undaunted by the cold wind, that could ruffle but not penetrate his thick fur, frosty gave his attention to a sound that was borne to his ears. the noise was made by a roosting bird that fluttered its wings as it changed position. it was not a bird that had been in the swamp last night. a venturesome robin, impatient to be away from the south and back at the all-important business of building a nest and rearing a family, had taken a chance on the weather. now, huddling miserably on a naked aspen, it was probably wishing it hadn't. searching in vain for warmth, the robin shifted again. grown a bit hungry, frosty stalked the tree. he advanced so artfully that few things would have taken fright, so it was not frosty's presence that launched the robin from its perch. it was the cold wind. the robin fluttered off into the darkness, to see if there might not be a warmer roost. always angry when a victim eluded him, frosty stood with one forepaw uplifted and lashed his tail. even though experience had taught him that there would be nights when all luck leaned on the side of whatever he hunted, stalking and missing always stung. he hunted to kill, he was satisfied with nothing else, and missing the robin seemed to intensify his hunger. frosty abandoned exploring in favor of determined hunting. he headed for a thicket in which several rabbits had wintered and crouched quietly beside a runway. he was hungry and growing hungrier, but he was also patient. he'd stay here for hours, if necessary, and sooner or later a rabbit would come along the runway. but he'd waited only minutes when one hopped toward him. tense and ready to spring, the black cat did not move. the rabbit was almost within springing distance when a great horned owl swooped to catch it. frosty spat his anger and leaped to attack, but the owl was airborne and he fell short by inches. there came the sounds of thumping feet as the other rabbits, finally aware of an enemy in their midst, told each other about it and sought the safety of burrows. frosty lashed his tail and glared. sooner or later, the rabbits would come out again. he would get one if he waited, but he was too hungry to wait. he set his course toward the high knob upon which the hollow sycamore grew. there were a few rabbits in the scrub there. frosty laid his ambush, waited, made a kill and started to eat. almost as soon as he began his meal, he stopped eating. his ears informed him that luke trull was coming. unwilling to abandon his hard-won dinner, frosty held perfectly still. luke set his traps, went on, and frosty finished eating. he washed himself thoroughly and felt a little sleepy. he'd have a nap before prowling any more, and since he was going to rest, he might as well do it out of the wind. the hollow sycamore, in which he'd slept several times, offered shelter. frosty padded to the hollow and entered. he halted abruptly when one of luke's muskrat traps snapped on his paw, but he did not panic. frosty touched the trap with his nose and he tried to take a bite from it. the steel was hard and unyielding; if he continued to bite it, he'd do nothing except shatter his jaws. therefore he would not bite. this was a time for planning. the pain, severe enough for anything at all, was ten times as excruciating to a cat's complex nervous system. frosty still refused to panic. he could not fight this thing, so he must outwit it. he looked at the water and shuddered, then he heard luke coming back. dragging the trap with him, frosty crawled into the sycamore. he crouched, and mounting fury served to counteract pain. luke reached the knob. his light flashed once and went out. frosty stayed quiet, hoping to escape detection by so doing. but if luke came near him, he would fight as hard and as viciously as he could. * * * * * andy walked slowly back to his house because there was no need to hurry. whatever he did from this point on--and he intended to do much--would be carried out in black night, and it still lacked a couple of hours until darkness. as he walked, andy saw almost everything in a clear light. he should have known, and he blamed himself for not knowing, that the mysterious predator could be none other than luke trull. he had been lulled into a false sense of security by luke's failure to come raiding all autumn and all winter. but he should also have known that, when he came, luke would strike at that time when muskrats were most valuable. he was nobody's fool, and naturally he would do his poaching at night. all this was so unbelievably simple that anyone should have figured it out. andy had not, but since he finally knew, the problem was far more complex than it appeared on the surface. he might, he supposed, go to the state police and say that he had seen luke trull wearing a muskrat-skin hat. the police would look at him, and each other, then they would consult their copy of the state game laws and point out that muskrat season was open to anyone who had a trapping license and it would be open for two weeks more. no doubt they would remember that he had had previous trouble with luke, and even on the far-fetched possibility that they took him seriously, no state trooper would stumble around anyone's swamp at night simply because the swamp's owner had seen someone wearing a muskrat-skin hat. there was only one way. turn time backwards for thirty years, and once again a gates and a trull would settle their differences in their own way. but andy knew that he must stop short of killing. murder, any way one considered it, was murder, and the law had no bearing on the fact that andy did not want another's blood on his hands. but he looked forward with savage joy to fighting. he would find luke, beat a confession out of him, and take him to the police himself. there were a number of reliable witnesses who knew that andy had bought the muskrats with which the swamp was stocked. if he found luke poaching, nothing else should be necessary. at the same time, andy felt the need for caution. luke was a clever person, a cunning schemer who weighed every action and made it count. why, when he saw andy coming, had he not taken off his hat and hidden it? was it his way of jeering? letting the hat speak for him, had he announced to andy that he, luke trull, was stealing muskrats and there was nothing andy could do about it? or did he want a meeting in the swamp? if so, why? luke, always willing to do anything at any time as long as it would turn a dollar for himself, seldom got into trouble. he knew the penalty for murder. it was inconceivable that he would come anywhere near risking that penalty. neither would he fight. but why had he not hidden the hat? andy walked on. luke's reasons for doing or not doing anything no longer made a difference. andy had to stop him or surrender to him, and he would not surrender. he thought again of his own lack, not exactly of foresight, but failure to act on foresight. luke had done exactly as andy had thought he'd do, and explored the swamp thoroughly while andy languished in jail. anybody who knew the trails could go into the swamp as easily by night as by day, and the muskrats had never been hurt by any human being. therefore, they did not fear humans. they'd be easy to trap. reaching his house, andy calmly and methodically unlaced his shoes, took them off, and pulled on rubber boots. he donned a wool jacket, a wool cap that came over his ears, and looked thoughtfully at the gun rack. andy turned away from it. there must be no killing, and in any fight, passion was apt to overcome good sense. what he had to do, he'd do with his fists. when darkness was complete, andy went into the swamp. his plan was simple. knowing every colony that still contained muskrats, he would visit each. if luke were in the swamp tonight, they'd meet. with only a brief glance at four-leaf and clover, since they were so near the house luke would know better than to bother them, andy went on to dead man's slough. he swerved to investigate some colonies in another part of the swamp and swung back. three hours later, a half-hour before midnight, he thought he saw a light. andy stopped in his tracks and fixed intent eyes on the place at which he thought the light had originated. for a second he turned his eyes away, then glanced back. there was no light now and perhaps there never had been any. his imagination could be playing tricks, but andy turned away from the course he'd set himself and went directly towards the high knob upon which the hollow sycamore grew. he thought he'd seen the light there, and there were still muskrats in that slough. nearing the high knob, he stopped to look and listen. but the north wind, still carrying a few snowflakes on its screaming wings, drowned all other noises and there was little light. very cautiously, andy continued to advance. he climbed the knob and leaned against a small aspen. there was a sudden, jarring pain in his head and a galaxy of bright lights danced before his eyes. he staggered, tried to hold himself up by gripping the aspen, and for a second he succeeded. presently he was aware of pain. andy opened bewildered eyes. the last he remembered, he had been holding onto an aspen and looking about. now he lay prone, hands and feet bound with wire, and a flashlight was shining in his face. somebody said something he could not hear and he closed his eyes. then he heard, "i thought ye'd come, gates." andy reopened his eyes to see luke trull, still wearing his disreputable clothing and the muskrat-skin hat, looking down at him. andy shivered. there was about luke the same lethal coldness that there is about a rattlesnake just before it strikes. luke spoke again, "ye hit me, gates." "let me loose, you fool!" luke grinned mirthlessly, and in the faint light his eyes seemed to glow. he said, "i wanted ye to know what was goin' to happen. tha's why i din' do it afore." "didn't do what?" "put ye in the slough." "they'll get you for it, luke." luke's grin widened. "ye know better'n that. ye know well's i do that more'n one man lies in these deep sand sloughs, my own pappy 'mongst 'em, an' a gates put him thar. ye allus mess 'round this swamp, an' what'll folks think when ye jest don't come out?" "you're putting your head in a noose!" "no i hain't, gates. no i hain't. an' ye did hit me. nobody hits luke trull an'," he chuckled, "i thought ye'd be in the swamp after ye saw my hat. how do you like it, gates? made it myself with two pelts f'om your swamp." "you're talking like an idiot!" "idiot? i got thirty fi' o' your mushrats so far an' fo' here," he indicated the packsack. "now i see that i got me 'nother in the hollow tree. i'll let ye see me pull it out an' kill it, gates, afore i roll ye in the slough an' let ye sink in the deep sand." he walked toward and bent near the hollow sycamore while andy made a mighty effort to loose his bonds. he strained, felt the flexible wire give, and knew that he could free himself. if he could only do it in time . . . he saw luke pull at the taut wire and heard a spitting snarl. fury incarnate, frosty came out of the hollow and sprang straight to luke's head. he clawed and scratched while he continued to spit. luke stood up, waved his hands like windmill blades, lost his footing, and tumbled backwards into the slough. andy gasped, continuing to strain at the wire that bound him, even while he remained unable to take his eyes from the drama being enacted before his eyes. the slough was quicksand, and as far as andy knew, it was bottomless. but a good swimmer, even a fully clothed one, who knew what he was doing could cross it safely. andy sighed in relief. luke was a good swimmer, and obviously he both realized his danger and knew what he was doing. only the muskrat-skin hat, leaving a trailing v-curl behind it, broke water as he dog-paddled very slowly and very cautiously. he would make it all right. the thing that came did so with uncanny silence. a great horned owl that had not been there a second before was there now, hovering over what could be nothing except a swimming muskrat. it struck, and rose with luke's hat in its talons. then it was gone. andy struggled frantically to free himself, but each second was an hour long and each minute a day. finally working bleeding hands from the wire, he loosed his legs and rose. the slough was empty, with not even a ripple to show that anything had ever been on it. after two minutes, andy turned toward frosty, who growled warningly but let his partner depress the trap spring and free his paw. frosty fell to cleaning himself. with a prayer in his heart, again andy searched the slough. but all he saw was a pair of swimming muskrats. at least two had survived, just as two must have survived in other sloughs. the muskrats paid no attention to death, for their function was life. they would build houses, dig dens, and eventually they would overspread the swamp. the muskrats dived and only bubbles rose. jim kjelgaard was born in new york city. happily enough, he was still in the pre-school age when his father decided to move the family to the pennsylvania mountains. there young jim grew up among some of the best hunting and fishing in the united states. he says: "if i had pursued my scholastic duties as diligently as i did deer, trout, grouse, squirrels, etc., i might have had better report cards!" jim kjelgaard has worked at various jobs--trapper, teamster, guide, surveyor, factory worker and laborer. when he was in the late twenties he decided to become a full-time writer. he has succeeded in his wish. he has published several hundred short stories and articles and quite a few books for young people. his hobbies are hunting, fishing, dogs, and questing for new stories. he tells us: "story hunts have led me from the atlantic to the pacific and from the arctic circle to mexico city. stories, like gold, are where you find them. you may discover one three thousand miles from home or, as in _the spell of the white sturgeon_, right on your own door step." and he adds: "i am married to a very beautiful girl and have a teen-age daughter. both of them order me around in a shameful fashion, but i can still boss the dog! we live in phoenix, arizona." =transcriber's notes:= hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in the original page , scents a mink ==> scents. a mink page , the sora silent ==> the sora. silent page / , "carelessly dis carded" changed to "carelessly discarded" page , needn't,' jud" ==> needn't," jud page , proceedings unstrapping ==> proceedings. unstrapping page , the law a hillman ==> the law. a hillman page , pacs ==> packs page , that are better ==> that area better page , particulary ==> particularly page , the plan, severe ==> the pain, severe boy scouts on a long hike or to the rescue in the black water swamps by archibald lee fletcher chicago m. a. donohue & company ------------------------------------------------------------------------ copyright m. a. donohue & co. chicago ------------------------------------------------------------------------ contents chapter page i--the boys of the beaver patrol ii--helping noodles iii--the gentle cow iv--in alabama camp v--a helping hand vi--the home-coming of jo davies vii--innocent or guilty? viii--"well, of all things!" ix--the runaway balloon x--duty above all things xi--the trail in the swamp xii--where no foot has ever trod xiii--the oasis in the swamp xiv--just in the nick of time xv--on the home-stretch xvi--"well done, beaver patrol!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ boy scouts on a long hike or, to the rescue in the black water swamps chapter i the boys of the beaver patrol "they all think, fellows, that the beaver patrol can't do it!" "we'll show 'em how we've climbed up out of the tenderfoot class; hey, boys?" "just watch our smoke, that's all. why, it's only a measly little twenty-five miles per day, and what d'ye think?" "sure seth, and what's that to a husky lot of boy scouts, who've been through the mill, and wear merit badges all around? huh! consider it as good as done right now!" half a dozen boys who wore khaki uniforms, were chattering like so many magpies as they stood in a little group on an elevation overlooking the bustling indiana town of beverly. apparently they must have been practicing some of the many clever things boy scouts delight to learn, for several of the number carried signal flags; two had pieces of a broken looking-glass in their possession; while the tall lad, seth carpenter, had a rather sadly stained blanket coiled soldier fashion about his person, that gave off a scent of smoke, proving that he must have used it in communicating with distant comrades, by means of the smoke code of signals. besides seth there were in the group jotham hale, eben newcomb, andy mullane, fritz hendricks, and a merry, red-faced boy who, because of his german extraction, went by the name of "noodles krafft." the reader who has not made the acquaintance of these wide-awake scouts in previous volumes of this series will naturally want to know something about them, and hence it might be wise to introduce the members of the beaver patrol right here. eben was the official bugler of beverly troop. he had been made to take this office much against his will, and for a long time had the greatest difficulty in getting the "hang" of his instrument, so that his comrades guyed him most unmercifully over the strange medleys he used to bring forth when meaning to sound the various "calls." but of late eben seemed to have mastered his silver-plated bugle, and was really doing very well, with an occasional lapse excepted. andy was a kentucky boy, but outside of a little extra touch of pride, and a very keen sense of his own honor, you would never know it. seth was the champion signal sender, and delighted to study up everything he could discover concerning this fascinating subject. fritz, on his part, chose to make an especial study of woodcraft, and was forever hunting for "signs," and talking of the amazing things which the old-time indians used to accomplish along this line. as for good-natured noodles, if he had any specialty at all, it lay in the art of cooking. when the boys were in camp they looked to him to supply all sorts of meals that fairly made their mouths water with eagerness to begin operations long before the bugle of eben sounded the "assembly." last of all the group, was jotham hale, a rather quiet boy, with an engaging face, and clear eyes. jotham's mother was a quaker, or at least she came from the peace-loving friends stock; and the lad had been early taught that he must never engage in fights except as a very last resort, and then to save some smaller fellow from being bullied. on one occasion, which no one in beverly would ever forget, jotham had proven that deep down in his heart he possessed true courage, and grit. he had faced a big mad dog, with only a baseball bat in his hands, and wound up the beast's career right on the main street of the town, while everybody was fleeing in abject terror from contact with the animal. because in so doing jotham had really saved an old and nearly blind veteran soldier from being bitten by the terrible brute, he had been adjudged worthy to wear the beautiful silver merit badge which is sent occasionally from boy scout headquarters to those members of the organization who have saved life at great peril to themselves. but jotham was not the only one who proudly sported a badge. in fact, every one of the eight members of the beaver patrol wore a bronze medal on the left side of his khaki jacket. this had come to them because of certain services which the patrol had rendered at the time a child had been carried away by a crazy woman, and was found, later on, through the medium of their knowledge of woodcraft. of course there were two more boys connected with the patrol, who did not happen to be present at the time we find them resting on their way home after a rather strenuous afternoon in the open. these were paul prentice, the patrol leader, and who served as acting scout master when mr. alexander was unable to accompany them; and "babe" adams, the newest recruit, a tenderfoot who was bent on learning everything connected with the game. they had gone home a little earlier than the rest, for reasons that had no connection with the afternoon's sport, each of them having a pressing engagement that could not be broken. "babe" had been nick-named in the spirit of contrariness that often marks the ways of boys; for he was an unusually tall, thin fellow; and so far as any one knew, had never shirked trouble, so that he could not be called timid in the least. "no use hurrying, fellows," declared seth, as he flung himself down on a log that happened to be lying near the edge of a little precipice, marking the abrupt end of the shelf which they had been following, so that to descend further the scouts must pass around, and pick their way down the hillside. "that's so," added jotham, following suit, and taking great care not to knock his precious bugle in the least when making the shift; "for one, i'm dead tired after such a hard afternoon. but all the same, i want you to know that i'm in apple-pie condition for that long hike, or will be, after a night's rest." "what d'ye suppose made mr. sargeant offer a prize if the beaver patrol could walk to warwick by one road, and back along another, a distance of just an even hundred miles, between sunrise of four days?" and fritz looked around at his five comrades as though inviting suggestions. "because he's fond of boys, i reckon," remarked andy. "they tell me he lost two splendid little fellows, one by drowning, and the other through being lost in the forest; and when he learned what sort of things the scouts practice, he said he was in favor of encouraging them to the limit." "well, we want to get busy, and show mr. sargeant that we're going to give him a run for his money," said seth. "we've all seen the cup in the window of the jewelers in town, and it sure is a beauty, and no mistake," added jotham. "don't anybody allow himself to think we can't cover that hundred miles inside the time limit. you know how paul keeps telling us that confidence is more'n half the battle," fritz went on to say. "you pet we want dot gup, undt we're yust bound to get der same," observed noodles, who could talk quite as well as any of his mates, but who liked to pretend every now and then, that he could only express himself in "broken english," partly because it pleased him and at the same time amused his mates. "we're right glad to hear you say that, noodles," declared seth, with a wink in the direction of the others; "because some of us have been afraid the hike might be too much for you, and eben." "now, there you go again, seth," complained the bugler, "always imagining that because i seldom blow my own horn----" but he got no further than this, for there broke out a shout, from the rest of the boys. "that's where you struck it right, eben!" cried seth, "because in the old days you seldom did blow your own horn; but i notice that you're improving right along now, and we have hopes of making a champion bugler out of you yet." "of course that was just a slip; but let it pass," remarked eben, grinning in spite of the fact that the joke was on him. "what i meant to say was that because i don't go around boasting about the great things i'm going to do, please look back on my record, and see if i haven't got there every time." "sure you have," admitted seth, "and we give you credit for bull-dog stubbornness, to beat the band. other fellows would have thrown the bugle into the bushes, and called quits; but you kept right along splitting our ears with all them awful sounds you called music. and say, if you can show the same kind of grit on this long hike we're going to try, there ain't any doubt but what we'll win out." "thank you, seth; you're a queer fish sometimes, but your heart's all right, underneath the trash," observed eben, sweetly; and when he talked like that he always put a stop to the other's teasing. "how about you, noodles; d'ye think you're good for such a tough walk?" asked fritz, turning suddenly on the red-faced, stout boy, who was moving uneasily about, as though restless. "meppy you don't know dot me, i haf peen practice on der quiet dis long time, so as to surbrize you all," came the proud reply. "feel dot muscle, seth, undt tell me if you think idt could pe peat. gymnastics i haf take, py shiminy, till all der while i dream of chinning mineself, hanging py one toe, undt all der rest. meppy you vill surbrised pe yet. holdt on, don't say nuttings, put wait!" he put on such a mysterious air that some of the boys laughed; but noodles only smiled broadly, nodded his head, and made a gesture with his hand that gave them to understand he was ready and willing to let time vindicate his reputation. "hadn't we better be moving on?" remarked andy. "yes, the sun's getting pretty low in the west, and that means it must be near supper time," said fritz, who was the possessor of a pretty brisk appetite all the time. "oh! what's the use of hurrying?" seth went on to say, shifting his position on the log, and acting as though quite content to remain an unlimited length of time. "it won't take us ten minutes to get there, once we start; fifteen at the most. and i like to walk in just when the stuff is being put on the table. it saves a heap of waiting, you know." "that's what it does," eben echoed. "because, if there's anything i hate to do, it's hanging around while they're finishing getting grub ready." "here, quit walking all over me, noodles!" called out fritz, who had coiled his rather long legs under him as well as he could, while squatting there on the ground. "i haf nodt der time to do all dot," remarked the german-american boy, calmly, "idt would pe too pig a chob. oh! excuse me off you blease, fritz; dot was an accident, i gif you my word." "well, don't stumble across me again, that's all," grumbled the other, watching noodles suspiciously, and ready to catch him at his tricks by suddenly thrusting out a foot, and tripping him up--for noodles was so fat and clumsy that when he took a "header" he always afforded more or less amusement for the crowd. it was not often that noodles displayed a desire to play tricks or joke, which fact made his present activity all the more remarkable; in fact he was developing a number of new traits that kept his chums guessing; and was far from being the dull-witted lad they had formerly looked upon as the butt of all manner of practical pranks. while the scouts continued to chat, and exchange laughing remarks upon a variety of subjects, noodles kept moving restlessly about. fritz felt pretty sure that the other was only waiting for a good chance to pretend to stumble over his legs again, and while he pretended to be entering heartily into the rattling fire of conversation, he was secretly keeping an eye on the stout scout. just as he anticipated, noodles, as though discovering his chance, lurched heavily toward him. fritz, boylike, instantly threw out a foot, intending to simply trip him up, and give the other a taste of his own medicine. well, noodles tripped handsomely, and went sprawling headlong in a ludicrous manner; but being so round and clumsy he rather overdid the matter; for instead of simply rolling there on the ground, he kept on scrambling, hands and legs shooting out every-which-way; and to the astonishment and dismay of his comrades, noodles vanished over the edge of the little precipice, close to which the scouts had made their temporary halt while on the way home! chapter ii helping noodles "oh! he fell over!" shouted eben, appalled by what had happened. "poor old noodles! what if he's gone and broke his neck?" gasped jotham, turning a reproachful look upon fritz. "i didn't mean to go as far as that, fellows, give you my word for it!" fritz in turn was muttering, for he had been dreadfully alarmed when he saw poor noodles vanish from view in such a hasty fashion. "listen!" cried andy. "hellup!" came a faint voice just then. "it's noodles!" exclaimed fritz, scrambling over in the direction of the spot where they had seen the last of their unfortunate chum. "oh! perhaps he's gone and fractured his leg, and our family doctor, meaning paul, ain't along!" groaned eben. all of them hastened to follow after the eager fritz, and on hands and knees made for the edge of the shelf of rock, from which in times past they had sent many a flag signal to some scout mounted on the roof of his house in town. fritz had more of an interest in discovering what had happened to the vanished scout than any of his comrades. possibly his uneasy conscience reproached him for having thrust out his foot in the way he did, and sending poor noodles headlong to his fate. at any rate he reached the brink of the descent before any of the rest. they unconsciously kept their eyes on fritz. he would serve as a barometer, and from his actions they could tell pretty well the conditions existing down below. if fritz exhibited any symptoms of horror, then it would afford them a chance to steel their nerves against the sight, before they reached his side. fritz was observed to crane his neck, and peer over the edge of the shelf. further he leaned, as though hardly able to believe his eyes. then, when some of the rest were holding their breath in expectation of seeing him turn a white face toward them, fritz gave vent to a hoarse laugh. it was as though the relief he felt just had to find a vent somehow. astounded by this unexpected outcome of the near-tragedy the others hastened to crawl forward still further, until they too were able to thrust out their heads, and see for themselves what it was fritz seemed to be amused at. then they, too, chuckled and shook with amusement; nor could they be blamed for giving way to this feeling, since the spectacle that met their gaze was comical enough to excite laughter on the part of any one. noodles was there all right; indeed, he was pretty much in evidence, as they could all see. in falling it happened that he had become caught by the seat of his stout khaki trousers; a friendly stump of a broken branch connected with a stunted tree that grew out of the face of the little precipice had taken a firm grip upon the loose cloth; and since the boy in struggling had turned around several times, there was no such thing as his becoming detached, unless the branch broke. "hellup! why don't you gif me a handt?" he was shouting as he clawed at the unyielding face of the rock, while vainly endeavoring to keep his head higher than his flying heels. while it was very funny to the boys who peered over the edge of the shelf, as noodles would have an ugly tumble should things give way, andy and seth quickly realized that they had better get busy without any more delay, and do the gallant rescue act. had paul been there he would have gone about it in a business-like way, for he was quick to grapple with a problem, and solve it in short order. as it was a case of too many cooks spoiling the broth, one boy suggested a certain plan, only to have a second advanced as a better method of getting noodles out of his unpleasant predicament. meantime the poor fellow was kicking, and turning, and pleading with them not to go back on an old chum, and leave him to such a terrible fate. "der rope--get quick der rope, undt pull me oop!" he wailed. "that's so, boys, noodles has struck the right nail on the head!" cried seth. "here, who's carrying that rope right now?" "noodles has got it himself, that's what!" exclaimed eben. "did you ever hear of such rotten luck, now?" demanded seth. "hold on!" interrupted andy, "seems to me i remember seeing him lay something down over here. let me look and find out. whoop! here she is, boys! that's what i call great luck. seth, suppose you see if you can drop the loop over his head." "pe sure as you don't shoke me, poys!" called out the dangling object below, in a manner to prove that he heard all they said. "get it over his feet, seth; then we can yank him up. he won't mind it for a short time. some of his brains will have a chance to run back into his head that way," suggested eben. "make quick, blease!" wailed the unhappy scout, who was growing dizzy with all this dangling and turning around. "i hears me der cloth gifing away; or else dot dree, it pe going to preak py der roots. hurry oop! get a moof on you, somepody. subbose i want to make some squash pie down on der rocks?" but seth was already hard at work trying to coax that noose at the end of the dangling rope to fall over the uptilted legs of the unfortunate scout. "keep still, you!" he shouted, when for the third time his angling operations were upset by some unexpected movement on the part of the struggling boy. "think i c'n lasso a bucking broncho? hold your feet up, and together, if you want me to get you! there, that's the way. whoop-la!" his last shout announced sudden success. indeed, the loop of the handy rope had dropped over the feet of noodles, and was speedily drawn tight by a quick movement on the part of the operator. the balance of the boys laid hold on the rope and every one felt that the tension was relieved--that is, every one but noodles, and when he found himself being drawn upward, with his head down, he probably thought things had tightened considerably. as the obliging branch saw fit to let go its tenacious grip about that time, of course noodles was soon drawn in triumph over the edge of the shale, protesting more or less because he was scratched in several places by sharp edges of the rock. "hurrah for scout tactics; they count every time!" exclaimed eben. fritz was unusually solicitous, and asked noodles several times whether he had received any serious hurt as a result of his strange experience. the german boy felt himself all over, grunting several times while so doing. but in the end he announced that he believed he was all there, and beyond a few minor bruises none the worse for his adventure. "put you pet me i haf a narrow escape," he added, seriously. "how far must i haf dropped if dot pully oldt khaki cloth gives vay?" "all of twenty feet, noodles," declared andy. "dwenty feets! ach, petter say dree dimes dot," asserted noodles. "i gives you my word, poys, dot it seemed i was on der top of a mountain, mit a fine chance my pones to preak on der rocks pelow. pelieve me, i am glad to pe here." "i hope you don't think i did that on purpose, noodles?" asked fritz, contritely. the other turned a quizzical look upon him. "tid for tad, fritz," he remarked, "iff i had nodt peen drying to choke mit you meepy i might nodt haf met with sooch a shock. petter luck nexdt time, hey?" "i don't know just what you mean, noodles, blest if i do," remarked fritz, with a puzzled look on his face, "but i agree with all you say. this practical joke business sometimes turns out different from what you expect. i'm sure done with it." but then, all boys say that, especially after they have had a little fright; only to go back to their old way of doing things when the shock has worn off. and the chances were that fritz was far from being cured of his habits. "how lucky we had the rope along," ventured jotham, who was coiling up the article in question at the time he spoke. "i always said it would come in handy," remarked eben, quickly and proudly, "and if you stop to think of the many uses we've put that same rope to, from yanking a fellow out of a quicksand, to tying up a bad man who had escaped from the penitentiary, you'll all agree with me that it's been one of the best investments we ever made." "that's right," echoed seth, always willing to give credit where such was due. "ketch me ever going into the woods without my rope," declared eben. "well, do we make that start for home and mother and supper right now; or are we going to stay here till she gets plumb dark?" asked fritz, impatiently, moving his feet out of the way every time anyone approached too closely, as though possessed by a fear lest he be tempted to repeat his recent act. "come on, everybody," said eben, making a start, "i refuse to hang out a minute longer. seems like i c'n just get a whiff of the steak a sizzling on the gridiron at our house; and say, when i think of it, i get wild. i'm as hungry as that bear that came to our camp, and sent us all up in trees like a covey of partridges." "if you're as hungry as that after just an afternoon's signal practice, think what'll happen when we've been hiking all day, and covered our little forty or fifty miles?" suggested andy, chuckling. "oh! come off, andy, you don't really mean that, do you?" called out eben over his shoulder. "i'm good for twenty-five miles, i think; but you give me a cold feeling when you talk about fifty. and poor old noodles here will melt away to just a grease spot, if the weather keeps on as warm as it is now." "don't let him worry you, eben," sang out seth. "i heard paul telling how at the most we might try for thirty the second day, so as to get ahead a bit. but what is going to count in this test is regularity--keeping up an even pace each day of the four. and chances are we'll own that fine trophy by the time we get back to beverly again." "didn't i hear something about our having to register at a lot of places along the way?" asked jotham. "yes, i believe that's a part of the game," replied seth. "it's only right, just to prove that we haven't cut across lots, and shirked any. mr. sargeant and the two members of the committee mean to wait up for us at each station, and kind of keep an eye on us. i guess they want to encourage us some, too, when we come in, dusty and tired and feeling pretty near fagged out. "some of the other fellows, steve slimmons, arty beecher, and two more, who expect to start our second patrol in the fall, wanted to go along with us; but mr. sargeant preferred to limit it to just the beavers. he said we were seasoned scouts by this time, while the other fellows might be called tenderfeet; and it would be a pity to run chances of losing the prize, just because one of them softies fell down." fritz offered this explanation, and somehow at mention of steve slimmons' name a slight smile could be seen flitting across more than one face. for well did the scouts remember when this same boy had been accounted one of the toughest lads in all milltown, as that part of beverly across the railroad tracks was called. at that time he had been called "slick" slimmons, and in many ways he deserved the name, for he was a smooth customer. but circumstances had arisen, as told in a previous volume of this series, whereby steve had gone through a rather serious experience, and had his eyes opened to the fact that in leading such a wild life he was carrying the heavy end of the log. he had broken with the tough crowd of which he had been a member up to then, and now was hand in glove with paul prentice and his scouts, in fact considered himself a member of beverly troop. the active lads found little trouble in negotiating the descent leading down to level ground. even noodles had become many times more agile than before he donned the magical khaki of the scouts; for the various duties that had to be performed from time to time by every member of the patrol had done wonders for the slow moving german-american boy. with their goal now in sight, the six scouts started off at a lively pace. if any of them felt in the least bit tired he was evidently determined not to show it to his comrades, or any one they might happen to meet on the road leading to beverly. pride is a great thing at certain times, and helps ride over many difficulties. so, in due time they separated, each fellow heading toward his own home. and the last words they called back to each other were in connection with the great hike upon which they expected to start on the following morning, which would be tuesday. many anxious looks were cast upward toward the blinking stars that night, and speculations indulged in as to the probable kind of weather that would be doled out to them while on the road. and more than one scout lay awake long after he went to bed, trying to lift the curtain that hid the future, just a little way, so as to get a peep of what was waiting for the beaver patrol, but of course without the least success. chapter iii the gentle cow "paul, how do we hold out for the third day on the hike?" "yes, and paul, please let us know just how much further you expect to coax the leg weary bunch on today? not to say that i'm tired; but then i know noodles, and another scout not far away right now, are grunting like fun every little rise in the road we come to," and seth gave his head a flirt in the quarter where eben was anxiously gripping his bugle, as if in momentary expectation of getting a signal from the patrol leader to blow the call that would signify a halt. "it's only four o'clock, fellows," began the acting scoutmaster. dismal groans sounded; but with a smile paul went on to add: "we've already made our twenty-five miles since sun-up, just this side of warwick; but it's a fine day, and i did hope we might hang on a little while further, so as to cut down our last day's hike a few miles. it's always the hardest part of the whole thing, the finishing spurt. but of course, if any of you feel played out we can call it off right now." eben and noodles braced themselves up at this, and tried to look as though they had no calling acquaintance with such a thing as fatigue. "oh! i'm good for a couple more miles, i guess," declared the former. "make idt tree, undt you will see how i holdt oudt!" proudly boasted the stout boy, who spent half his time mopping his red face; for the day had been a pretty warm one, so noodles, who had to carry a third again as much weight as any of his companions, thought. "bully boy!" exclaimed impulsive seth, "didn't i say they had the sand to do all we tried. you never would have believed noodles here could have covered the ground he has. scouting has been the making of him, as it will of any feller that cares to set his teeth together, and just try real hard." "i suggest then," went on paul, his face beaming with pleasure, "that we take a little rest right here, say of half an hour; and then march along again for three miles, as near as we can guess. and if we do that, fellows, it leaves only twenty more for the last day." "i reckon that silver trophy is as good as won," remarked andy mullane. "barring accidents; and you never can tell when something may happen," added wise seth. "then i hope it will be to you, and not to me," said eben, who was rubbing his shin at a place where he had bruised it earlier in the day. "have we got enough grub along to last out?" queried fritz. all eyes were turned toward noodles, who generally looked after this part of the business when they were abroad, either camping or tramping. "i wouldn't say yes, if fritz he puts der crimp in dot appetites off his," was what the cook announced, gravely. "then we'll see to it that he gets no more than his regular ration after this," paul declared, pretending to look severe. "huh! that makes me feel real bad right away, let me tell you, fellers," fritz remarked, touching his belt line with a rueful face. "however do you think i can fill up all this space here with just one ration? it's different with some of the rest of the bunch; take noodles for example, he hasn't got room for more'n half a ration. i speak for what he can't make way with." "say, there's a chance right now for you to fill up ahead of time!" exclaimed eben, as he pointed through the fence; and looking, the scouts saw a cow standing there, placidly chewing, her cud, and evidently watching them curiously as she attended strictly to business. "sure," fritz went on to say, quickly, getting to his feet, "she's got plenty of rations, quarts and quarts of fine rich milk. i've got half a notion to step in there, and see how it tastes. see here, if i tied a nickel or a dime in a piece of paper, and attached it to her horn, wouldn't that be all right, paul? ain't scouts got a right to live off the country as they hike through, 'specially if they pay for what they take?" "well, if it was a case of necessity, now----" began the scoutmaster. "it is," broke in eben, who for some reason seemed to want to egg fritz on, "our comrade's plumb near starved, you know, and we're talking of cutting his grub allowance down to half. but i don't think he's got the nerve to fill up on nice rich fresh milk, that's what. some people talk pretty loud, but when you pin 'em down, they say they didn't mean it." of course that finished fritz. if he had been joking before, he now took the matter in a serious light. "huh! that remark don't hit me, eben," he said, disdainfully, "if it was a ferocious old bull i might hesitate about trespassing on his field, but a gentle cow, whoever knew one to act ugly? here goes, after i've tied up this nickel in a piece of paper, with a string to it, to fix it on sukey's horn. anybody else feel milk thirsty? don't all speak at once now, because i'm first." apparently no one else was hankering after fresh milk just then; at least none of the scouts gave any indication of meaning to accompany the bold invader. "if you're really intending to go over the fence and try the milk supply," suggested paul. "i'd advise you to leave that red neck scarf that you're so proud of wearing, behind you, fritz." "yes, that's so," broke in seth, "cows, as well as bulls, don't fancy anything red, i've been told. better leave it with me, fritz." "huh, think i ain't on to your little game, seth carpenter," declared the other, making no move to take off the necktie in question, "don't i know that you've always wanted that scarf? ain't you tried to buy it off me more'n a few times? not much will i let you hold it. that tie stays by me. if the poor old cow don't like it, she can do the next best thing. now, watch me get my fill, fellers. milk is the staff of life, more'n bread; and i always did like it fresh. here goes." he clambered up on the top of the fence, while all the other scouts watched to see how the operation turned out. "take care, fritz," warned eben, solemnly, "she's got her eye on you, all right, and she's stopped chewing her cud too. p'raps she may turn out to be a hooker; you never can tell about cows. and chances are, she's got a calf up in the barn. you see, a cow is always ugly when she thinks they're agoin' to steal her calf away, like they did lots of other times." "oh! rats!" sneered the valiant fritz, drawing his staff over with him, so as to get a purchase on the ground within the field, and ease his intended jump. "listen, fritz," added jotham, "see that little enclosure just back of where she stands? looks like it might have been fenced off to protect some fruit trees or something. well, if i was in your boots now, and she made a jump for me, i'd tumble over that same fence in a hurry. a cow's got horns the same as a bull, and you'll be sorry if ever she tosses you." but fritz had evidently made up his mind, and would not allow anything to deter him. the more the other scouts threw out these hints the stronger became his determination to carry his clever scheme to completion. and when he said he was fond of fresh milk fritz only told the truth; though the chances were he would never have accepted such a risk only for the badgering of eben and seth. using his long staff in a dexterous way he dropped lightly to the ground, and immediately started to walk toward the spot where the cow stood. she had raised her head a little, and appeared to be observing his coming with certain suspicious signs. "go slow, fritz; she don't like your looks any too much!" warned paul, who had climbed to the top of the rail fence, the better to see what happened. perhaps fritz himself may have felt a little qualm just about that time, for the actions of the cow were far from reassuring; but he was too proud to show anything that seemed to savor of the "white feather" before his chums, especially after making all the boasts he had. and so he kept grimly on, even if his knees did begin to knock together a little, when he actually saw the cow suddenly lower her head, and throw up the dirt with those ugly looking short horns, to one of which he had so recently declared he meant to secure the coin he would leave, to pay for all the milk he expected to consume. paul had called out once or twice, words of warning. he also suggested that it would be wise for the adventurous one to turn back; because, if appearance went for anything the animal had a bad temper, and would be apt to give him more or less trouble. but that had no effect on fritz, who, having embarked on the venture, did not mean to back down until absolutely forced to do so. and so the other five scouts, ranged along the fence, watched to see what would happen. perhaps their hearts were beating just a little faster than ordinary; but if so, that was not a circumstance to the way fritz felt his throbbing like a trip hammer, even while he kept steadily moving ahead. he started to utter what he meant to be soothing words, as he approached the gentle bovine. he had heard farmers talking to their cows when starting to do the milking act, and thought it the proper caper. but bossy must have finally made up her mind that this trespasser had a suspicious look, and meant to carry off the little calf that could now be heard calling away off beyond a rise where a farm house and stable evidently lay. suddenly she lowered her head, and started toward fritz. frenzied shouts arose from those who were watching the proceedings from a safe distance. "run, fritz! she's coming!" bawled one. "remember the fence over there, fritz, and what i told you!" cried jotham. fritz did not take the trouble to reply. he could hardly have done so even had he so desired, for just then he was most actively employed. at the time the cow made her abrupt plunge toward him the scout could not have been more than thirty feet away. he was wise enough to realize that should he attempt to make a wild dash for the fence surrounding the field, the active four legged animal would be able to overtake him before he could get half way there. and as the one way left to him fritz jumped to one side, in order to avoid contact with those cruel-looking black horns. his first act was one of impulse rather than anything else; he just sprang to one side, and allowed the animal to go surging past, so close that he could have easily reached out his hand, and touched her flank, had he chosen to do so. of course she would quickly realize that her attack had been a failure, and recovering, turn again to renew it. he must not be on the same spot when that time came. and as there was no better opening offered than the enclosure mentioned by jotham, he started for the same, with the cow in full pursuit, and his chums shrieking all sorts of weird advice. so close was the angry animal behind him that at first fritz could not take the time to mount that fence. he chased around it, and as if accepting the challenge, bossy did the same, kicking her heels high in the air, and with tail flying far in the rear. fritz managed to keep a pretty good distance ahead of his pursuer, and as there did not seem to be any particular danger just then, some of the boys allowed their feelings of hilarity to have full swing, so that peals of riotous laughter floated to the indignant ears of the fugitive. indeed, eben laughed so much that he lost his hold, and fell into the meadow; but it was ludicrous to see how nimbly he clambered up again, as though fearful lest the cow take a sudden notion to dash that way, changing her tactics. meanwhile fritz was laying his plans looking to what he would call a coup. when he had gained a certain distance on the circling cow, so that he would have time to scramble over the fence, he hastened to put this scheme into operation. fritz had dropped upon the ground, and was evidently panting for breath. at any rate, the boys, perched like a lot of crows on the distant fence, could see him waving his campaign hat rapidly to and fro, as though trying to cool off after his recent lively experience. "look at the old cow, would you?" burst out eben, "she sees him now, i tell you! say, watch her try and jump that fence, to get closer acquainted with our chum. oh! my stars! what d'ye think of that now; ain't she gone and done it though?" while the bugler of beverly troop was speaking, the angry cow made a furious dash forward. eben had naturally imagined she meant to try and follow fritz over the fence but he was wrong. there was a terrific crash as the head of the charging beast came in contact with the frail fence; and the next thing they knew the cow had thrown down an entire section, so that no longer did any barrier separate her from the object of her increasing fury. chapter iv in alabama camp fritz was no longer sitting there taking things comfortably, and cooling himself off by using his hat as a fan. with the terrific crash the scout was on his feet, ready for further flight, as he saw the head of the cow not ten feet away from where he stood. this time he made straight for another section of the fence, and passed over it "like a bird," as seth declared. but evidently fences had little terror for the aroused cow, since she immediately proceeded to knock down another section in about the space of time it would take to read the shortest riot act ever known. this prompt act again placed her on the same side as the fleeing fritz. the loud shouts of his chums warned him of her coming on the scene again, even if that suspicious crash had failed to do so. fritz was becoming used to clambering over fences by now; in fact it seemed to be something like a settled habit. the cow saw his lead, and went him one better, for a third crash told how the poorly constructed fence had gone down before her rush, like a pack of cards in the wind. all the while fritz was changing his location. he calculated that if only he could hold out for say three more "climbs," he would be in a position to make a run for the border fence, which was made much more stoutly then the division one, and would probably turn back even a swooping bull. after it was all over, fritz would demand that his comrades give him full credit for his cunning lead. meanwhile he was kept as busy as any real beaver; getting first on one side of the crumpling fence, and then on the other; while the cow kept on making kindling wood of the barrier. paul took advantage of the animal's attention being wholly centred upon fritz, to run out upon the field, and pick up the cast-off staff of the busy scout. his intention at the time was to render all the assistance in his power; but discovering that fritz was rapidly approaching a point where he could work out his own salvation, the scoutmaster thought discretion on his part warranted a hasty departure, unless he wished to take the place his comrade vacated. the boys on the fence were shouting, and waving their hats, and doing all manner of things calculated to attract the attention of the "gentle cow," and cause her to ease up in her attack; but apparently she was not to be bought off so cheaply, and meant to pursue her advantage to the bitter end. then came the chance for which the artful fritz had been so industriously working, when he made one more fling over the remnant of the enclosure fence, and upon reaching the outside, galloped away toward the road as fast as his legs could carry him. of course the cow chased after him again as soon as she had knocked down another section of fence; but fritz seemed to have pretty good wind, considering all he had been through; and he showed excellent sprinting powers that promised to put him among the leaders at the next high school field sports exhibition. and the other five scouts gave him a hearty cheer when they saw him nimbly take the high fence on the bound, with those wicked horns not more than five feet in his rear. they soon joined the panting one, who greeted his mates with a cheery grin, as though conscious of having done very well, under such distracting conditions. "but you've yet to know whether that milk is as rich as you hoped?" remarked paul, smilingly, as he handed fritz his staff. "and chances are, you went and lost that blessed nickel you meant to tie to one of gentle bossy's horns; what a shame, and a waste of good coin!" said seth, pretending to be very much disappointed. "huh! getting off pretty cheap at that!" grunted fritz. "ketch me tryin' to milk any cow that's got a calf up in the barn. i'd rather face two bulls than one like her. don't ever mention milk to me again; i know i'll just despise the looks of it from now on. whew! but didn't she mean business; and if ever those sharp horns had got attached to me, it would have been a hard job to break away." "if you feel rested, and have changed your mind about that same splendid milk," remarked paul, "perhaps we'd better be getting along now. three miles--why, fritz, i wouldn't be much surprised if you covered all of that in the little chase you put up. all you needed to beat the record for flying was a pair of wings." fritz was wonderfully good-natured, and they could not make him angry. when other boys were apt to scowl and feel "grouchy," fritz would come up smilingly after each and every round, ready to take punishment without limit. and so they continued to walk along the road, chatting among themselves as cheerily as footsore and weary scouts might be expected to do when trying to encourage each other to further exertions. every step really meant a good deal to their success, for in the course of ten minutes paul declared that another mile had been duly covered. when they saw another cow inside a fenced enclosure the boys tried by every argument they could devise to tempt fritz to try his hand once more, but he steadfastly declined to accept the dare. "say what you like, fellers," he remarked firmly, "me and cows are on the outs, for this trip anyway. it's somebody else's turn to afford amusement for the bunch. i've sure done my duty by the crowd. let me be, won't you? tackle seth there, or babe adams. i happen to know that they like milk just every bit as much as i do. water's good enough for me, right now; and here's the spring i've been looking for a long while." at that they all hastened to discover some spots where it was possible to lap up a sufficient supply of the clear fluid. this cooling drink seemed to invigorate the boys, so that when they started off again it was with a somewhat quicker step, and heads that were held up straighter than of late. it enabled them to reel off another mile without any great effort. "only one more, and then we've just got to let up on this thing," said paul. "i really believe you're getting tired of it yourself, mr. scoutmaster?" ventured one of the boys, eagerly; for if paul would only confess to this, they felt that they could stand their own weaknesses better. "and that is no joke," laughed paul, frankly. "you see, i haven't been hardening my muscles as much lately as when the baseball season was in full swing. but with two miles placed to our account, we shouldn't be much worried about how things are coming out. will we try for that last mile, boys? it's for you to say!" he received a unanimous shout of approval, which announced that the others were of a united mind. and so they kept along the road though some steps lagged painfully, and it was mainly through the exertions of the mind that the body was whipped into obeying. finally paul turned to eben, and made a quick gesture that the bugler was waiting for, since he immediately raised the shining instrument to his lips, puffed out his cheeks, took in a tremendous breath, and gave the call that was next to the "fall in for supper" signal, the most popular known to the scouts. "alabama! here we rest!" cried seth, turning aside into the woods after paul, who evidently had his eye on a certain location, where he meant to pitch the third night's camp. "that's a good idea," remarked andy, always quick to seize upon anything that gave a hint concerning his beloved south, "let's call this alabama camp!" "put it to a vote," called out fritz, "all in favor of the same say aye; contrary no. the ayes have it unanimously. hurrah for alabama camp. seems like that's a good restful name; and i hope we sleep right good here; for most of us are pretty well used up." "don't mention that same above a whisper," warned seth, "because we've got two awfully touchy chums along, who're always carrying chips on their shoulders when it comes to the subject of being knocked out. say, paul, did you know about this camp site before; because it's the dandiest place we've struck on the big hike?" "just dumb luck," replied the other, shaking his head in the negative. "i thought it looked good this way, when i called for a halt. and you're just about right, seth; it does fill the bill great. here's our spring of clear cold water; and there you have a splendid place to start your fire, jotham. now, let's throw ourselves down for a little while, and then when we feel rested, we'll get busy doing things." all of them were only too glad to do as paul suggested. and when another ten minutes had slipped past, jotham struggled to his feet to wearily but determinedly gather together some material with which to start a blaze. when he had it going noodles realized that it was now up to him to start getting some supper cooking. they had come in very light marching order, since paul realized that if they hoped to win that lovely prize he must not load any of the boys down with superfluous burdens. as a rule they depended on the farmers to supply them with such things as they needed, chiefly eggs and milk. the former they had along with them, several dozen eggs in fact, purchased from an obliging farmer earlier in the afternoon, and fortunately carried in other knapsacks than that of fritz, who would have smashed the entire supply, had he been in charge of the same at the time of his exciting adventure with the cow. upon putting it to a vote they decided that they could just as well do without any milk for one night; especially after fritz had shown them how difficult it sometimes was to accumulate a supply. of course a coffee pot had been brought along, for somehow a camp must always seem like a dreary desert without the delicious smell of boiling coffee at each and every meal that is prepared. so noodles made a grand big omelette, using sixteen eggs for the same, and the two frying pans that had been strapped, one to each pack of a couple of scouts. besides this they had some cheese and crackers, which would help fill the vacuum that seemed to exist an hour after each and every meal. several potatoes for each scout were duly placed in the red ashes of the fire, and jealously watched, in order that they might not scorch too badly before being thoroughly roasted. on the whole, there was no reason for being ashamed of that camp supper. everything tasted just "prime," as several of the boys took pains to say; for they were artful enough to know that by showering words of praise upon the cook, they might secure his valuable services for all time to come, because noodles was open to flattery. and what was better still, there was an abundant supply for all of them, regardless of the difference in appetites; fritz was not stinted in the least, for he actually declined a further helping, and had to be urged to clean out the pan just to keep "that little bit of omelet from being wasted." having no tent along, and only a couple of dingy old blankets which they expected to use for sending smoke signals, should the occasion arise, the scouts were compelled to resort to more primitive ways of spending the night than usual. but then paul had shown them how to sleep with their heads away from the fire; and he also arranged to keep the small blaze going during the entire night, since it was apt to get pretty chilly along about two in the morning. all these things had been arranged on the first night out, so that by this time the boys were pretty well accustomed to the novel way of sleeping. and on the whole they had taken to it fairly well, no one complaining save when the mosquitoes annoyed them in one camp near the water. an hour after supper had been disposed of some of the boys were already beginning to nod drowsily. and when fellows are just dead tired it seems a sin to try and keep them awake, especially when there is no need of it. so paul announced that those who wanted to could turn in, while the rest were enjoined to keep quiet, doing their talking in whispers, so as not to disturb the sleepers; just as if the discharge of a six pound cannon close by would bother those weary scouts, once they lost themselves in the dreamland of nod. babe adams had just stepped over to get a last drink at the near-by spring, when the others were surprised to see him come tearing back again, evidently in great excitement. "paul, come over here with me, and you can see it!" he called out. "see what?" demanded the scoutmaster, at the same time climbing to his feet. "looks like some farmhouse might be afire; because you c'n see the red flames jumping up like fun!" was the thrilling announcement made by the tenderfoot scout. chapter v a helping hand "it's a fire, all right!" announced paul, after he had taken a good look. "no question about that," declared seth, who was right on the heels of the others, for you could never keep him quiet when there was anything going on, because he always wanted to be "in the swim." "yes, either a house, or a barn ablaze," remarked eben, sagely. "might be only a hay stack, you know," suggested jotham. "don't burn like that to me; i seem to see something of a building every now and then, when the flames shoot up," paul went on to remark, for he was always discovering things upon which to found a reasonable theory. "how far away does it lie, dy'e think, paul?" asked andy. "not more than half a mile, i should say," came the reply. "just my idea to a dot," jotham admitted. "why, you c'n even hear the crackle of the flames, whenever the night wind happens to blow this way," babe adams asserted; and they all agreed with him, for the same sound had come to their ears also. "we might help the poor old farmer, if we only happened to be closer," eben said, in the goodness of his heart. "and if we didn't feel so bunged-up tired," added andy. somehow the scouts began to show signs of nervousness. those might seem like pretty good excuses to some fellows; but when a boy becomes a scout he somehow looks at things in a different way from in the old days. no matter how tired he may be, he eagerly seizes on a chance to be useful to others; to do some good deed, so as to experience the delightful glow that always follows a helpful act. "say, how about it?" began jotham. "could we be useful if we did manage to trot over there, paul?" andy demanded. "i'm sure we might," answered the scoutmaster, firmly; "and if we're going, why, the sooner we make a start the better. seconds count when a house or barn is on fire. i feel pretty well rested, speaking for myself; and half a mile each way oughtn't to do us up. we're scouts on a long hike, and able to do lots of things that other fellows wouldn't dare attempt." "take me along, paul!" cried jotham. "and me!" "hope you won't forget that i'm ready to be in the bunch," seth exclaimed. in fact, there was not one out of paul's seven companions who did not vociferously inform the leader of the patrol that he was a subject for the draft. "you can't all go," decided paul, quick to decide; "and as two fellows ought to stay and look after camp while the rest are off, i'll appoint noodles and eben to that duty." groans followed the announcement. "oh! all right, paul; just as you say," remarked the bugler, after giving vent to his disappointment in this manner; "we'll keep guard while the rest of you are having a bully good time. "perhaps something will happen along here to let us enjoy ourselves." "if you need help let us know it," paul called back, for he was already moving off in the direction of the fire, followed by the five lucky scouts. "how?" bellowed noodles; "do we whoop her up, paul?" "sound the assembly, and we'll hurry back," came the answer, as the pack of boys disappeared in the darkness of the night. they kept pretty well together, so that none might stray. consequently, when one happened to trip over some log or other obstacle that lay in the path he would sing out to warn his comrades, so as to save them from the same trouble. with such a bright beacon ahead there was no trouble about keeping on a direct line for the fire. and all the while it seemed to be getting more furious. indeed, what with the shouts that came to their ears, the bellowing of cattle, and whinnying of horses, things began to get pretty lively as they approached the farmyard. presently they seemed to break out from the woods, and reach an open field. beyond this they could plainly see the fire. "it's a barn, all right!" gasped jotham, immediately. "yes, and they seem to be afraid that the farmhouse will go, too," added andy. "they're throwing buckets of water on it, sure enough," sang out babe adams. now some of the boys could easily have outrun their mates, being possessed of longer legs, or the ability to sprint on occasion; but they had the good sense to accommodate themselves to the rest, so that they were still in a squad when drawing near the scene of the excitement. a man and a woman seemed to be about the sole persons visible, and they were laboring like trojans to keep the fire from communicating to the low farmhouse that was situated close to the burning barn. the six scouts must have dawned upon the vision of the sorely pressed farmer and his wife almost like angels, for the pair were nearly exhausted, what with the labor and the excitement. "buckets--water--let us help you!" was what paul exclaimed as they came up. cows were running this way and that, bellowing like mad, as though half crazed. what with frightened chickens cackling, and hogs grunting in their near-by pen, the scene was one that those boys would not forget in a hurry. "in the kitchen--help yourselves!" the farmer said, pointing as he spoke; and without waiting for any further invitation the scouts rushed pellmell into the rear part of the house, where they seized upon all sorts of utensils, from a big dishpan, to buckets, and even a small tin foot bath tub. a brook ran close to the barn, as paul had learned with his first comprehensive glance around. this promised to be a most fortunate thing for the would be fire-fighters. led by the scoutmaster, the boys dashed in that direction, filled whatever vessel they happened to be carrying, and then hurried back to the house. here the water was dashed over the side of the building that seemed to be already scorching under the fierce heat of the blazing barn. "get us a ladder; that roof will be on fire if we don't throw water over it!" paul shouted to the farmer, as he came in contact with the man. "this way--there's a ladder here by the hen house!" was what he replied. several of the boys seized upon it, and before you could think twice they were rushing the ladder toward the side of the house. paul climbed up, carrying with him a full bucket of water; and having dashed the contents of this in such a way as to wet a considerable portion of the shingle roof, he threw the bucket down to one of the boys below. another was quickly placed in his hands. everybody was working like a beaver now, even the farmer's wife, carrying water from the creek, and getting it up to the boy on the ladder. it was pretty warm work, for the heat of the burning barn seemed terrific; but then boys can stand a good deal, especially when excited, and bent on accomplishing things; and paul stuck it out, though he afterwards found several little holes had been burned in his outing shirt by flying sparks. the barn, of course, was beyond saving, and all their energies must be expended on the house. by slow degrees the fire was burning itself out. already paul felt that the worst was past, and that if they could only keep this up for another ten minutes all would be well. a couple of neighbors had come along by this time, to help as best they could. when a fire takes place in the country everybody is ready and willing to lend a hand at carrying out things, or fighting the flames in a primitive fashion; for neighbors have to depend more or less upon each other in case of necessity. "i reckon the house ain't liable to go this time," andy remarked, when paul came down the ladder finally, trembling from his continued exertions, which had been considerable of a strain on the lad, wearied as he was with three days' tramping. "that's a fact," remarked the farmer, who came hustling forward about this time, "and i owe you boys a heap for what you done this night. i guess now, only for you comin' to help, i'd a lost my house as well as my barn. as it is i've got a lot to be thankful for. just put insurance on the barn, and the new crop of hay last week. i call that being pretty lucky for once." he shook hands with each of the scouts, and asked after their names. "i want to let your folks know what you done for us this night, boys," he said, "and p'raps you might accept some little present later on, just as a sort of remembrance, you know." "how did the fire start, sir?" asked paul. "that's what bothers me a heap," replied the farmer. "then you don't know?" continued the scoutmaster, who felt a reasonable curiosity to learn what he could of the matter while on the spot. "it's all a blank mystery to me, for a fact," continued the farmer, whose name the boys had learned was mr. rollins. "my barn and stable was all one, you see. my man has been away all day, and i had to look after the stock myself, but i finished just as dark set in, before supper, in fact, so there ain't been so much as a lighted lantern around here tonight." "perhaps, when you lighted your pipe you may have thrown the match away, and it fell in the hay?" suggested paul. "if it had, the fire'd started long ago; fact is, i'd a seen it right away. and to settle that right in the start let me say i don't smoke at all, and didn't have any occasion to strike a single match while out here." of course this statement of the farmer seemed to settle all idea of his having been in any way responsible for the burning of the barn. "it looks like a big black mystery, all right," declared fritz, who always liked to come upon some knotty problem that needed solving. "have you any idea that the fire could have been the work of tramps?" paul went on to ask. "we are never troubled that way up here," replied the farmer. "you see, it's away from the railroad, and hoboes generally follow the ties when they tramp across country." "that makes it all the more queer how the fire could have started," paul went on to remark, thoughtfully. "couldn't a been one of the cows taken to smoking, i suppose?" ventured seth, in a humorous vein. "one thing sure," continued the farmer, a little uneasily, "that fire must have been caused by what they call spontaneous combustion; or else somebody set it on purpose." "do you know of anybody who would do such a terrible thing; that is, have you any enemy that you know of, sir?" questioned paul. "none that i would ever suspect of such a mean thing as that," was the farmer's ready reply. "we're human around here, you know, and may have our little differences now and then, but they ain't none of 'em serious enough to tempt a man to burn a neighbor's barn. no, that's a dead sure thing." "well, i'm glad to hear it," the scoutmaster went on. "and i don't suppose now, you've missed any valuables, have you, sir?" the farmer turned a shade whiter, and paul could see that a shiver went through his frame. "gosh! i hadn't thought about that. wait here a minute, will you, please?" with that he dashed into the house, as though a sudden terrible suspicion had assailed him. the six scouts stood there awaiting his return. mrs. rollins was talking with the neighbors, as they watched the last of the barn disappearing in a bed of red cinders. hardly had a full minute passed before the boys saw the farmer come leaping out of the building again. no need for any one to ask a question, because his whole appearance told the story of new excitement and mystery. if ever a man looked worried and nearly heart broken the farmer did then. "it's sure enough gone, every cent of it!" he groaned, as he reached the scouts. "your money, i suppose you mean?" paul asked, sympathetically; while fritz and seth pricked up their ears eagerly at the prospect of another chapter being added to the little excitement of the evening. "yes, three thousand dollars that was to pay off my mortgage next week. i had it hid away where i thought no thief could even find it; but the little tin box, and everything has been carried off. and now i know why the barn was fired--so as to keep the missus and me out there, while the rascal made a sneak into the house, and laid hands on my savings. all gone, and the mortgage due next week!" chapter vi the home-coming of jo davies "whew! that's tough!" observed seth. one or two of the other scouts whistled, to indicate the strained condition of their nerves; and all of them pressed up a little closer, so as not to lose a single word of what was passing. "but if as you say, sir, that you had this money securely hidden, it doesn't seem possible that an ordinary tramp would know the place where you kept it, so that he could dodge right into the house, and in a minute be off with it; isn't that so?" paul was the greatest hand you ever heard of to dip deeply into a thing. where most other boys of his age would be satisfied to simply listen, and wonder, he always persisted in asking questions, in order to get at the facts. and he was not born in missouri either, as seth often laughingly declared. the farmer looked at him. there was a frown beginning to gather on his forehead as though sudden and serious doubts had commenced to take a grip on his mind. "if he took my money i'll have the law on him, as sure as my name is sile rollins," paul heard him mutter, half to himself. "then you've thought of some one who might have known that you had three thousand dollars under your roof, is that it, sir?" he asked. "y-yes, but it's hard to suspect jo, when i've done so much for him these years he's been with me," admitted the owner of the farm; though at the same time his face took on a hard expression, and he ground his teeth together furiously, while he went on to say, "but if so be he has robbed me, i ain't called upon to have any mercy on him, just because his old mother once nursed my wife, and i guess saved her life. jo has got to hand my money back, or take the consequences." "is jo your hired man?" paul asked. the farmer nodded his head moodily; he was evidently a prey to mingled feelings, and close upon the border of a dazed condition. these calamities following so swiftly upon each other's heels had taken his breath away. but presently he would recover, and be eager to do something. "you said just a bit ago that he was away today, and that you had to do the chores this evening, looking after the stock, and such things; wasn't that it, sir?" continued the scoutmaster. "he asked to have this afternoon off; wouldn't say why he wanted to get away, either. and by ginger! now that i think of it, jo did look kind of excited when he was asking me for leave. i can see why that should be so. he was figuring on this nasty little game right then and there. he wanted to be able to prove an _alibi_ in case he was ever accused. and this evening he must have put a match to the hay in the barn, and then watched his chance to creep into the house when both of us was busy trying to save the stock. oh! it makes my blood boil just to think of it. and i never would have believed jo davies could have been so cold blooded as to take the chances of burnin' the animals he seemed to be so fond of." "did he stay here over night with you?" paul asked. "not as a rule, jo didn't. you see, he's got an old mother, and they live in a little cottage about a mile away from here toward town. so jo, he always made it a point to sleep there. i had no fault to find, because he was on hand bright and early every morning. but this will kill his old mother; however could he do it? chances are, he fell in with some racing men when we had the county fair, and has got to gambling. but i'll be ruined if i don't get that money back again." "could we help you in any way, mr. rollins? you know, boy scouts are always bound to be of assistance whenever they find a chance. we're on a great hike just now, and a little leg weary; but if we can stand by you further, please let us know. how about that, boys?" and paul turned toward his chums as he spoke. "that's the ticket, paul!" replied andy, promptly. "our sentiments, every time," said seth. and the others gave vigorous nods, to indicate that they were all of the same mind; which unanimity of opinion must have been a great satisfaction to the leader. "then let's go right away, boys!" remarked the farmer, eagerly. "p'raps now we might come up with jo on the way, and ketch him with the goods on. if he'll only give me back my money i'll agree not to prosecute, on account of his poor old mother, if nothing else. but i'm as bad off as a beggar if i lose all that hard earned cash." without saying anything to mrs. rollins or the neighbors, they hurried away, the boys keeping in a cluster around the farmer. if any of the scouts began to feel twinges in the muscles of their legs, already hard pushed, they valiantly fought against betraying the weakness. besides, the excitement acted as a tonic upon them, and seemed to lend them additional powers of endurance, just as it does in foot races where the strain is terrific. "it looks bad for jo davies, i should think, paul," andy managed to say, as they pushed resolutely along. "well, he is the one fellow who may have known about the money," admitted the scout master, "and if the temptation ever came to him, he could easily watch his employer, and learn where he hid the cash. how about that, mr. rollins?" the farmer had heard what was being said, and immediately replied: "if jo was bent on robbery, p'raps he could have watched me some time, and seen where i hid that little tin box away in the attic. i used to go there once a week to add some money to the savings that i'd foolishly drawn out of bank long before i needed 'em, just to see how it felt to be rich for a little while." "when was the last time you went up there to look at it?" paul asked. "let me see, when web sterry paid me for the heifer i sold him i put the money away; and that was just ten days back." "and it was all there then, you say?" questioned paul. "surely," replied the farmer. "was jo working near the house then, can you remember, sir?" mr. rollins appeared to reflect. "when was the day we did some carpenter work on that extension--as sure as anything it was the day webb paid me! yes, i remember, now, that jo came around from his work on the plane, and told me webb was there." the farmer's excitement was increasing. things, under the clever questioning of the young scoutmaster, seemed to be fitting in with each other, just as a carpenter dovetails the ends of a box together. "it looks as though jo might have spied on you when you went up to the attic to put that new money away with the rest. if he suspected that you were keeping a large sum in the house that's what he would most likely do when he knew you had just taken in some more cash. now, i don't know jo davies, and i don't like to accuse him of such a terrible crime; but circumstantial evidence all points in his direction, mr. rollins." paul measured his words. he never liked to think ill of any one; but really in this case it seemed as though there could be hardly any doubt at all; jo davies must be the guilty party. "are we gettin' near where jo lives?" asked jotham, trying to speak lightly, although there was a plain vein of anxiety in his voice; for when a fellow has covered nearly thirty miles since sun-up, every rod counts after that; and following each little rest the muscles seem to stiffen wonderfully. "more'n two-thirds the way there," replied the farmer. "we'll see a light, like as not, when we get around this turn in the woods road. that'll come from the little cabin where he lives with his old mother. oh! but i'm sorry for mrs. davies; and the boy, he always seemed to think so much of his maw, too. you never can tell, once these fast fliers get to running with racing men. but i only hope i get my own back again. that's the main thing with me just now, you know. and if jo, he seems sorry, i might try and forget what he's done. it all depends on how things turn out. see, just as i told you, there's the light ahead." all of them saw it; and as they continued to walk hastily forward through the darkness paul was thinking how human mr. rollins was, after all; for it was only natural that his first thought should be in connection with the safe recovery of his hard earned money. they rapidly drew near the cottage, and all of the boys were beginning to wonder what was fated to happen next on the programme. doubtless they were some of them fairly quivering with eagerness, and hoping that the thief might be caught examining the stolen cash box. "hush! there's somebody coming along over there; stand still, everybody!" paul gave warning, suddenly, and the whole party remained motionless, watching a lighted lantern that was moving rapidly toward the cottage from the opposite direction, being evidently carried by an approaching man. it continued to advance straight toward the cottage. then the unknown opened the door, and went in. "that was jo," muttered mr. rollins, "i seen his face plain as anything; but why would he be coming from the direction of town, instead of my place?" "oh! that might be only a clever little trick, sir," seth made haste to say, as though to indicate in this way that scouts were able to see back of all such sly dodges. "say, he sure had something under his arm," broke in jotham just then. "yes, i saw that, too," added paul. "it was a small package, not much larger than a cigar box, i should say, and wrapped up in brown paper." "p'raps my tin cash box?" suggested mr. rollins, in trembling tones. "it might be, though i hardly think any one smart enough to play such a game as setting fire to a barn in order to draw all attention away from the house he wanted to rob, would be silly enough to carry home a tin box that would convict him, if ever it was found there." paul made this remark. they had once more started to advance, though by no means as rapidly as before. the fact that jo davies had arrived just before them, and not only carrying a lighted lantern, but with a suspicious packet under his arm, seemed to necessitate a change of pace, as well as a new line of action. "let's sneak up to the window, and peek in?" suggested fritz, and somehow the idea appealed to the others, for without any argument they proceeded to carry out the plan of campaign. it promised to be easy work. the shade seemed to be all the way up, as though the old lady who lived in the humble cottage had left a light near the window purposely in order to cheer her boy when he turned the bend below, and came in sight of home. as noiselessly as possible, therefore, the six scouts, accompanied by the farmer, crept toward this window. the sill was not over four feet from the ground, and could be easily reached; indeed, in order not to expose themselves, they were compelled to stoop rather low when approaching the spot. some sort of flower garden lay under the window. paul remembered stepping upon unseen plants, and somehow felt a pang of regret at thus injuring what had probably taken much of the old lady's time and attention to nurse along to the flowering stage. but this was an occasion when all minor scruples must be laid aside. when a man has been basely robbed, and by an employee in whom he has put the utmost confidence, one cannot stand on ceremony, even if pet flowerbeds are rudely demolished. and if the farmer's suspicions turned out to be real facts, jo davies' old mother was apt to presently have worries besides which the breaking of her flowers would not be a circumstance. now they had reached a point where, by raising their heads, they could peep into the room where the lamp gave such illumination. as scouts the boys had long ago learned to be cautious in whatever they attempted; and hence they did not immediately thrust their heads upward, at the risk of attracting the attention of whoever might be within the room. on the contrary each fellow slowly and carefully raised himself, inch by inch, until his eyes, having passed the lower sill he could see, first the low ceiling, then the upper part of the opposite wall, and last of all the occupants themselves. they were two in number, one an old woman with a sweet face and snow-white hair; the other a tall, boyish-looking chap, undoubtedly the jo who had been farmhand to mr. rollins, and was now under the dreadful ban of suspicion. when paul first caught sight of these two they were bending over the table, on which something evidently lay that had been holding their attention. jo was talking excitedly. every minute he would pause in whatever he was saying, to throw his arms around the little old lady, who in turn would clasp her arms about his neck; and in this way they seemed to be exchanging mutual congratulations. but when they moved aside while thus embracing, paul felt a cold chill run up and down his spine because _there upon the table were several piles of bank bills_! chapter vii innocent or guilty? paul could feel the farmer trembling as he happened to come in contact with his person; and from this he guessed that mr. rollins had also discovered the pile of money on the table. was jo davies, then, such a silly fellow as this? it did not seem possible that anyone not a fool would rob his employer, and immediately hurry home, to throw the stolen money before his dear old mother, with some wonderful story of how he had found it on the road, perhaps, or had it given to him by a millionaire whose horse he stopped on the highway, when it was running away with a lady in the vehicle. and somehow, from the few little glimpses paul had caught of the young fellow's face he rather liked jo davies. if, as seemed very likely, the young man had been tempted to steal this money, it would cause paul a feeling of regret, even though he had not known there was such a being as jo davies in the world half an hour before. "whoo! see the long green!" he heard seth whisper. "reckon he's gone and done it, worse luck!" and from the words and the manner of his saying them, paul guessed that the speaker must have taken a fancy to jo, as well as himself. the window happened to be shut, and so this whisper attracted no attention on the part of those within the cottage. indeed, they were so given over to excitement themselves that they were hardly apt to notice anything out of the common. paul could feel the farmer beginning to slip down, and it was easy to understand that the sight of all that money made him want to rush inside, to claim it, before the bold thief had a chance to hide his plunder somewhere. and this was the only possible thing that should be done. while mr. rollins in the kindness of his heart might wish to spare the dear old lady all he could, he dared not take any chances of losing sight of his property. "come on, boys!" that was quite enough, for when the other scouts heard paul say these three simple words they knew that there was going to be something doing. and quickly did they proceed to fall in behind their leader and the farmer. under ordinary conditions, perhaps, it might have occurred to the patrol leader to throw some sort of guard around the cabin, so as to prevent the escape of the desperate thief. he did not think of doing such a thing now, for various reasons. in the first place, one of the scouts could hardly hope to cope with such a husky young fellow as the farmhand, if once he wanted to break through the line. then again, it hardly seemed likely that jo davies would attempt to flee, when his old mother was there to witness his confusion; in fact, the chances appeared to be that he would brazen it out, and try to claim that the money belonged to him. the door was close at hand, so that it took only part of a minute for the eager farmer to reach the means of ingress. he did not hesitate a second, after having set eyes on all that alluring pile of bank notes on the table, under the glow of the lamp. and when he suddenly opened the door, to burst into the room, paul and the other scouts were close upon his heels, every fellow anxious to see what was about to happen. of course the noise caused by their entrance in such a mass, was heard by those in the room. jo davies sprang to his feet, and assumed an attitude of defiance, one arm extended, as though to defend the little fortune that lay there exposed so recklessly upon the table. possibly this was the very first time in all his life that he had experienced such a sensation as fear of robbery. when a man has never possessed anything worth stealing, he can hardly know what the feeling is. so it must have been sheer instinct that caused jo to thus stand on guard, ready apparently to fight, in order to protect his property, however recently it may have come into his possession. no wonder that he felt this sudden alarm, to have the door of his home rudely thrown open, and a horde of fellows fairly tumbling over each other, in their eagerness to enter. then, the look of alarm seemed to pass away from the face of the young fellow; as though he had recognized his employer. paul wondered whether this was real or cleverly assumed. he saw jo actually smile, and advancing a step, half hold out his hand toward mr. rollins. but the farmer was looking very stern just then. he either did not see the extended hand, or else meant to ignore it purposely, for he certainly made no move toward taking it. "i've got back, mr. rollins," jo said, his voice rather shaky, either from excitement, or some other reason; and he stared hard at paul and the other khaki-garbed scouts, as though puzzled to account for their being there. "so i see," replied the farmer, grimly. "i hope you didn't hev too much trouble with the stock, mr. rollins," jo went on to say, in a half hesitating sort of way. "well, if i did, they are all safe and sound; perhaps you'd like to know that now," the farmer went on to remark, a little bitterly. jo looked at him queerly. "he either doesn't understand what that means, or else is trying to seem ignorant," was what paul thought, seeing this expression of wonderment. "i'm glad to hear that, sure i am, mr. rollins," the other remarked, slowly, "an' seein' as how you're dropped in on us unexpected like, p'raps i ought to tell you what i meant to say in the mornin.'" "what's that?" demanded mr. rollins, unconsciously edging a little closer to the table where that tempting display of greenbacks could be seen; just as though he began to fear that it might suddenly take wings and fly away before he could put in a claim for his property. "i've come in for a little windfall, sir," began jo, proudly it appeared. "looks like you had," grumbled the farmer, as he flashed his eyes again toward the display so near at hand. "and if so be you're of the same mind about that thatcher farm, p'raps we might come to terms about the same, sir. i guess you'd just as lief sell it to _me_ as anybody else, wouldn't you, mr. rollins?" "you seem to have a lot of money all of a sudden, jo?" suggested the farmer, in a hoarse tone, so that he had to clear his throat twice while speaking. "yes, sir, that's so," declared the young farm hand, eagerly. "i never dreamed of such grand good fortune as an old aunt of mine dying up in indianapolis, and leaving me all she had in bank. that's why i asked to get off this afternoon, mr. rollins, so i could run over, and get what was comin' to me." the farmer was grinding his teeth a little; but so long as he believed he saw all his stolen hoard before him, within reach of his hand, he seemed able to control himself; he even waxed a trifle sarcastic, paul thought, when, looking straight at his hired man, he went on to say: "perhaps now, jo, i might give a pretty good guess about the size of this wonderful fortune you've come into so sudden-like. how would three thousand sound to you, jo? is that about the figure now, tell me?" jo turned a wondering face toward his old mother. "well, did you ever hear the beat of that, maw?" he cried, "mr. rollins has just guessed the size of my pile to a dollar, because it was just three thousand old aunt libby left me--a few dollars over p'raps. however did you know it, sir?" and he once more faced the sneering farmer. "i'll tell you, jo," continued mr. rollins, coldly, "i happen to have just had three thousand dollars in bills stolen from my house this very night, by some rascal who first of all set fire to my stable and barn, so that the missus and me'd be so taken up with saving our pet stock we'd leave the farmhouse unguarded. yes, and there _was_ a few dollars more'n three thousand dollars, jo. queer coincidence i'd call it now, wouldn't you?" jo turned deathly white, and stared at his employer. his eyes were round with real, or assumed horror. if he was "putting on," as seth would term it, then this farm hand must be a pretty clever actor for a crude country bumpkin, paul thought. "oh! jo, my boy, my boy, what does he mean by saying that?" the little old lady had arisen from her chair, though she trembled so that she seemed in danger of falling; but paul unconsciously moved a pace closer, ready to catch her in his arms if she swooned. but jo, quick as a flash, hearing her voice, whirled around, and threw a protecting arm about her. "it's all right, maw; don't you go and be afraid. i ain't done nawthing you need to be fearful about. this money's mine! set down again, deary. don't you worrit about jo. he ain't agoin' to make your dear old heart bleed, sure he ain't." and somehow, when paul saw the tender way in which the rough farm boy forced the little old lady back into her chair, and caught the positive tone in which he gave her this assurance, he seemed almost ready to believe jo _must_ be innocent; although when he glanced at the money his heart misgave him again. "now, mr. rollins, please tell me what it all means?" asked jo, turning and facing his employer again, with a bold, self-confident manner that must have astonished the farmer not a little. "i just come up from town as fast as i could hurry, because, you see, i knew i was bringin' the greatest of news to maw here. i did see a sorter light in the sky when i was leavin' town, and thinks i to myself, that old swamp back of the ten acre patch must be burnin' again; but i never dreamed it was the stable and hay barn, sure i didn't sir." the farmer hardly seemed to know what to say to this, he was so taken aback by the utter absence of guilt in the face and manner of jo. before he could frame any sort of reply the young fellow had spoken again. "you said as how you'd got all the stock out safe, didn't you, mr. rollins? i'd just hate to think of polly and sue and the hosses bein' burned up. whatever d'ye think could a set the fire agoin'? mebbe that last hay we put in wa'n't as well cured as it might a been, an' it's been heatin' right along. i meant to look into it more'n once, but somethin' always came along an' i plumb forgot it." mr. rollins looked at him, and frowned. he did not know how to answer such a lead as this. he was growing impatient, almost angry again. "give me my money, jo, and let me be going; i can't breathe proper in here, you've upset me so bad," he said, holding out his hand with an imperative gesture. "but i ain't got no money of yours, mr. rollins," expostulated the other, stubbornly. "i'm awful sorry if you've gone and lost your roll, and i'd do most anything to help you find it again; but that money belongs to me, and i don't mean to turn it over to nobody. it's goin' to buy a home for me and maw, understand that, sir--your little thatcher place, if so be you'll come to terms; but some other if you won't. that's plain, sir, ain't it?" "what, do you have the nerve to stick to that silly story, after admitting that this wonderfully gotten fortune of yours tallies to the dollar with what has been taken from my house?" demanded mr. rollins, acting as though half tempted to immediately pounce upon the treasure, and take possession, depending on paul and his scouts to back him up if jo showed fight. "i sure do; and i know what i know, mr. rollins!" declared the farmhand, with flashing eyes, as he pushed between the table and the irate farmer; while his little mother wrung her clasped hands, and moaned pitifully to see the strange thing that was happening there under her own roof. it looked for a moment as though there might be some sort of a rumpus; and seth even began to clench his hands as if ready to take a prominent part in the same; but as had happened more than a few times before when the storm clouds gathered over the scouts, paul's wise counsel intervened to prevent actual hostilities. "wait a minute, mr. rollins," he called out. "this thing ought to be easily settled, one way or another. you understand that queer things may happen sometimes, and there is a chance that two sums of money may be almost exactly alike. now, if jo here has inherited a nice little fortune, he ought to be able to prove that to us by showing letters, or some sort of documents. how about that, jo?" to the surprise, and pleasure as well, of the scoutmaster, jo's face immediately expanded into a wide grin, and he nodded his head eagerly. "say, maw, what did you do with that letter we had from the law firm over in indianapolis, tellin' me to come and claim my property, and to bring along something to prove that i was the said jo albion davies mentioned in aunt selina's last will and testament? in the drawer, you mean? all right, i'll get it; and let these gentlemen read the same. and there's squire mcgregor as went up with me to identify me to the lawyers, he'll tell you he saw me get this money from the bank, just before they closed this arternoon. there she is; now read her out loud, young feller." chapter viii "well, of all things!" "all right; i'll be only too glad to do the same," said paul, as he accepted what appeared to be a well thumbed letter from jo. one glance he gave at the same, and then a load seemed to have been lifted somehow from his boyish heart; because, after he had seen how jo davies loved that dear little white-haired mother, he would have felt it keenly did the circumstances make it appear that the young farmhand were guilty of robbing the man who trusted him so fully. so paul read out the letter. there is no need of giving it here, because it was rather long, and written in a very legal-like way, each sentence being enveloped in a ponderous atmosphere. but it was upon the letter-head of a big law firm in indianapolis, and in so many words informed the said jo albion davies that his respected aunt, selina lee davies, had passed out of this life, leaving him her sole heir; and that if he were interested, it would be to his advantage to come to the city as speedily as possible, to claim the little sum that was waiting for him in bank; and to be sure and bring some one along with him who would be able to vouch for his being the party in question. luckily jo had taken squire mcgregor along, who happened to know one of the members of the big law firm; for otherwise the heir might have had some trouble in proving his identity, since he had forgotten to carry even the letter in his pocket, it seemed. but of course after that mr. rollins could not say a word about claiming the tempting display of greenbacks that lay exposed upon the table. jo was already engaged in tenderly gathering them up, as though meaning to secrete his little fortune either on his person, or somewhere else. "looks like i'm clean busted, don't it?" the farmer said, with a sigh, turning toward paul, upon whom he had somehow come to rely in the strangest way possible. "it does seem as though your money has gone in a queer way, sir," replied the young scoutmaster, "but honestly now, i find it hard to believe that a common hobo would be able to find it so quick, if you had it hidden away up in a corner of the garret, and hadn't been there for ten days." jo stopped gathering his fortune together; he had snapped several heavy rubber bands around it, evidently supplied at the city bank when he drew the money. "i wonder, now, could that have anything to do with it," they heard him mutter, as he looked curiously at the farmer. the words were heard by mr. rollins, who, ready to grasp at a floating straw, in his extremity, even as might a drowning man, quickly observed: "what do you mean by saying that, jo? i hope you can give me some sort of hint that will help me find my money again; because i meant to pay off my mortgage with it, and will be hard pushed to make good, if it stays lost." "i'll tell you, sir," said jo, readily. "it was just about a week ago that i'd been to town, you remember, and getting home along about midnight i was worried about one of the hosses that had been actin' sick like. so i walked over here, not wantin' to wait till mornin'. just when i was agoin' back i seen a light movin' around over at the house, and i stopped a minute to watch the same." "yes, go on; a week ago, you say?" the farmer remarked, as jo paused to catch his breath again. "on thursday night it was, mr. rollins," the other went on. "well, just then i saw the back door open, and somebody stepped out. i seen it was you, and about the queerest part of it all was that it looked to me as if you might be walkin' around in your pajamas! do you remember comin' outdoors on that night for anything, sir?" "i don't even remember walking around that way," replied mr. rollins, hastily, and looking as though he did not know whether jo were trying to play some sort of joke on him, or not, "but go on and tell the rest. what did i do? did you stop long enough to see?" "well," continued the farm hand, "i saw you go over to the old dutch oven that hasn't been used this twenty years, and move around there a bit; but it wasn't none of my business, mr. rollins, and so i went along home. i guess any gentleman's got the right to go wanderin' around his own premises in the middle of the night, if he wants to, and nobody ain't got any right to complain because he don't make the trouble to put on his day clothes." the farmer looked helplessly at paul. plainly his wits were in a stupor, and he could not make head or tail of what jo was telling him. "can you get a pointer on to what it all means?" he asked, almost piteously. paul had conceived a wonderful idea that seemed to give great promise of solving the dark puzzle. "you just as much as said that you could not remember having come out of your house that night; and that you never knew yourself to walk around out of doors in your pajamas; is that so, sir?" he asked. "that's what i meant; and if i was put on the stand right now, i could lift my right hand, and take my solemn affidavit that i didn't do any such thing--unless by george! i was walking in my sleep!" "that's just the point i'm trying to get at, mr. rollins," said paul, quietly. "jo, here, says he _saw_ you as plain as anything, and yet you don't recollect doing it. see here, sir, can you ever remember walking in your sleep?" "why, not for a great many years," answered the farmer, somewhat confused, and yet with a new gleam of hope appearing in his expectant eyes. "but you admit then that you _have_ done such a thing?" pursued the scoutmaster. "yes, as a boy i did a heap of queer stunts when asleep. they had to lock my door for a time, and fasten my windows. why, one night they found me sitting on top of the chimney, and had to wait till i took the notion to come down; because, if they woke me, it might mean a nasty tumble that would like as not break my neck. but i haven't done anything in that line for thirty years." "until one night a week ago, mr. rollins," continued paul, convincingly, "when dreaming that your money was in danger, you got out of your bed, went up and took it from the garret where you had it hidden, walked downstairs, passed outside, and stowed it nicely away inside the big old dutch oven. and chances are you'll find it right there this minute." "oh! do you really think so, my boy?" exclaimed the delighted farmer, "then i'm going off right away and find out. if you'll go with me i'll promise to hitch up, and carry the lot of you back to your camp, no matter where that may be." "what say, shall we go, fellows?" asked the patrol leader, turning to the others. there was not one dissenting voice. every boy was just wild to ascertain how this strange mystery would turn out. and as it would be just about as long a walk to alabama camp as going to the farmer's place, they decided the matter without any argument. "and you just bet i'm going along, after what i've heard about this thing," declared jo davies, "maw, you ain't afraid to stay alone a little while longer, be you? you c'n sit on this blessed windfall while i'm gone, but don't go to fingerin' the same, because walls often have eyes as well as ears, remember." when the six scouts started off in company with mr. rollins, jo davies tagged along with them. in his own good fortune the farm hand was only hoping that the money which his employer had missed might be found in the old dutch oven, just like this smart boy scout had suggested. they covered the distance in short order. you would never have believed that those agile lads had been walking for nearly twelve hours that day, if you could see how they got over the ground, even with two of them limping. it can be easily understood that there was more or less speculation among the scouts as they hurried along. would the farmer find his missing wad snugly secreted in the old dutch oven, as paul so confidently suggested? and if such turned out to be the case, wouldn't it prove that the scoutmaster was a wonder at guessing things that were a blank puzzle to everybody else? so they presently came again to the farm. the ashes were still glowing where the big barn had so recently stood. here and there a cow or a horse could be seen, nosing around in the half light, picking at the grass in forbidden corners, and evidently about done with their recent fright. straight toward the back of the house the farmer led the way, and up to the old dutch oven that had been built on to the foundation, for the baking of bread, and all family purposes, many years back; but which had fallen into disuse ever since the new coal range had been placed in the kitchen. everybody fairly held their breath as mr. rollins dropped down on his hands and knees, struck a match, and half disappeared within the huge receptacle. he came backing out almost immediately; and before his head and shoulders appeared in view paul knew that he had made a glorious find, because they could hear him laughing almost hysterically. "just like you said, my boy, it was there!" he cried, holding up what proved to be the missing tin box that held his hoard. "and to think that i stole my own cash while i was asleep! i guess my wife'll have to tie my feet together every night after this, for a while; or perhaps i'll be running away with everything we've got. say, jo, i hope you ain't going to hold it against me that i suspected you'd been and had your morals corrupted by some of them horse jockeys you met at the county fair this summer? and about that thatcher place, jo, we'll easy make terms, because nobody ain't going to have it but you and your maw, hear that?" "well, of all things," exclaimed the delighted seth. jo evidently did not hold the slightest ill feeling against his old friend and employer, for he only too gladly took the hand mr. rollins held out. "turns out just like the fairy story, with everybody happy; only we don't see the princess this time," said seth, after the scouts had given three cheers for jo, and then three more for mr. rollins. "oh!" remarked jo, with a huge grin, "she's comin' along purty soon now; and my gettin' this windfall'll hurry up the weddin' a heap. drop past the thatcher farm along about thanksgivin' time, boys, and i'll be glad to introduce you to her." "say, perhaps we will," seth declared, with boyish enthusiasm, "because, you see, we all live at beverly, which ain't more'n twenty miles away as the crow flies. how about it, fellows?" "we'll come along with you, seth, never fear. and now, the sooner we get over to camp the better, because some of us are feeling pretty well used up," andy went on to admit with charming candor. "all right, boys, just give me a minute to run indoors, and put this package away, and i'll be with you. it won't take long to hitch up, because we managed to save the harness and wagons, me and the missus." true to his word mr. rollins was back in a very brief space of time, and catching the two horses he wanted, he attached them to a big wagon. "tumble in, boys," he called out, as he swung himself up on the driver's seat, after attaching the lighted lantern to the front, so that he could see the road as they went along. the scouts waited for no second invitation, but speedily secured places in the body of the vehicle. as there was half a foot of straw in it, they found things so much to their liking that on the way, at least three of the boys went sound asleep, and had to be aroused when the camp was finally reached. eben and noodles were poor sentinels, it seemed, for both were lying on the ground asleep, nor did they know when the other returned until told about it in the morning. but fortune had been kind to the "babes in the wood," as seth called them in derision, for nothing had happened while the main body of the patrol chanced to be away on duty. and so it was another little adventure had come along, with wonderful results, and the happiest of endings. really, some of the boys were beginning to believe that the strangest of happenings were always lying in wait, as if desirous of ambushing the members of the beaver patrol. why, they could even not start off on a hike, it seemed, without being drawn into a series of events, the like of which seldom if ever befell ordinary lads. during the hours of darkness that followed all of them slept soundly, nor was there any alarm given to disturb them. and as nothing in the wide world brings such satisfaction and contentment as good sleep, when at dawn they awoke to find the last day of the great hike at hand, every fellow declared that he was feeling especially fit to make that concluding dash with a vim. breakfast was hastily eaten; indeed, their stock of provisions had by this time gotten to a low ebb, and would not allow of much variety; though they managed to scrape enough together to satisfy everybody but fritz, who growled a little, and wanted to know however a scout could do his best when on short rations? then to the inspiring notes of eben's silver-plated bugle the boys of the beaver patrol left alabama camp, and started on the last lap for their home goal. chapter ix the runaway balloon "hey! look at all the crows flying over, would you?" seth called this out as he pointed upwards, and the rest of the patrol naturally turned their heads in order to gape. "whew! did you ever see such a flock of the old caw-caws?" burst out eben. "give 'em a toot from your bugle, and see what they think?" suggested jotham. "for goodness sake, be careful," broke in fritz, "because they might be so knocked in a heap at eben's fine playing, they'd take a tumble, and nearly smother the lot of us. we'd think it was raining crow, all right." "are they good to eat?" demanded babe, who was pretty green as yet to a great many things connected with outdoor life, "because, if we have time to stop at noon to cook a meal, we might--" he was interrupted by a shout from several of the other and wiser scouts. "say, hold on there, babe, we haven't got that near being starved as to want to eat crow," declared andy. "can they be eaten at all, paul?" persisted babe, as usual turning to the scoutmaster for information; "seems to me i've heard something like that." "yes, and people who have tried say they're not near as bad a dish as the papers always make out," paul replied. "i don't see myself why they should be, when most of the time they live on the farmer's corn." "but can you tell where that bunch is coming from, and where bound?" continued babe. "they all come out of that same place, and keep chattering as they soar on the wind, which must be some high up there." "well, i've heard it said that there's a big crow rookery somewhere back in the gloomy old black water swamps; but i never met anybody that had ever set eyes on the same. every day, winter and summer, that big flock comes out, and scatters to a lot of feeding grounds; some going down the river, where they pick up food that's been cast ashore; others bound for a meal in the corn fields." "and they come back again in the night to roost there; is that it, paul?" "yes, i guess if we stood right here half an hour before dark we'd see squads of the noisy things heading over yonder from all sorts of quarters. d'ye know, i've sometimes had a notion i'd like to explore the heart of that queer old swamp," and the young patrol leader cast a thoughtful glance toward the quarter from whence that seemingly endless stream of crows flowed continually. "hurrah! that's the ticket!" exclaimed seth. "i've heard a heap about that same spooky old place myself. they say nobody ever has been able to get to the heart of it. and i heard one man, who traps quite a lot of muskrats every winter, tell how he got lost in a part of the swamp once, and spent a couple of pretty tough days and nights wandering around, before he found his way out again. he said it'd take a heap to tempt him to try and poke into the awful center of black water swamps." "but what's that to us, fellers?" ejaculated fritz. "the boys of the beaver patrol ain't the kind to get scared at such a little thing as a swamp. just because it's a tough proposition ought to make us want to take up the game, and win out. we fairly eat hard jobs! and looking back we have a right to feel a little proud of the record we've made, eh, fellers?" of course every scout stood up a little straighter at these words, and smiled with the consciousness that they had, as fritz so aptly put it, a right to feel satisfied with certain things that had happened in the past, and from which they had emerged acknowledged victors. "just put a pin in that, to remember it, paul, won't you?" said andy. "why, sure i will, since a lot of you seem to think it worth while," replied the obliging scoutmaster, with a smile, "and if we haven't anything ahead that seems to be more worth while, we might turn out here later on, prepared to survey a trail right through the swamp. i admit that i'm curious myself to see what lies hidden away in a place where, up to now, no man has ever set a foot." "hurrah for the young explorers!" cried eben, who seemed strangely thrilled at the tempting prospect. they say the boy is father to the man; and among a bunch of six or eight lads it is almost a certainty that you will find one or two who fairly yearn to grow up, and be second livingstones, or stanleys, or dr. kanes. eben had read many books concerning the amazing doings of these pathfinders of civilisation, and doubtless even dreamed his boyish dreams that some fine day he too might make the name of newcomb famous on the pages of history by discovering some hitherto unknown tribe of black dwarfs; or charting out a land that had always been unexplored territory. they looked back many times at the stream of flying crows that continued to issue from that one point beyond the thick woods. and somehow the very prospect of later on trying to accomplish a task that had until then defied all who had attempted it, gave the scouts a pleasing thrill of anticipation. for such is boy nature. strange how things often come about. just at that moment not one of the scouts even dreamed of what was in store for them. how many times the curtain obscures our sight, even when we are on the very threshold of discovery! they tramped along sturdily, until they had covered perhaps two miles since departing from the place where the third night had been spent, and which would go down in the record of the big hike as camp alabama. a couple of the scouts limped perceptibly, but even they declared that as they went on the "kinks" were getting out of their legs, and presently all would be well. the sun shone from a fair sky, though now and then a cloud would pass over his smiling face; but as the day promised to be rather hot none of them were sorry for this. "hope it don't bring a storm along, though," remarked babe, when the matter was under discussion. "well, it's got to be some storm to keep the boys of the beaver patrol from finishing their hike on time," declared seth, grimly. "that's so, seth, you never spoke truer words," added fritz. "i reckon, now, half of beverly will turn out on the green this after noon to see the conquering heroes come home. there's been the biggest crowds around that jeweler's window all week, staring at that handsome cup, and wishing they would have a chance to help win it." "and we'd hate the worst kind to disappoint our friends and folks, wouldn't we, fellers?" eben remarked. somehow both limpers forgot to give way to their weakness, and from that minute on the very thought of the great crowd that would send up a tremendous cheer when the boys in khaki came in sight, was enough to make them walk as though they did not know such a thing as getting tired. "look!" cried fritz, a couple of minutes afterwards, "oh! my stars! what's that big thing rising up behind the tops of the trees over there?" "somebody's barn is blowing away, i guess!" exclaimed eben, in tones that shook with sudden alarm. "mebbe's it's a cyclone acomin', boys. paul, what had we ought to do? it ain't safe to be under trees at such a time, i've heard!" "cyclone, your granny!" jeered seth carpenter, who had very sharp eyes, and was less apt to get "rattled" at the prospect of sudden danger, than the bugler of beverly troop, "why, as sure as you live, i believe it's a balloon, paul!" "what! a real and true balloon?" almost shrieked eben, somewhat relieved at the improved prospect. "you're right, seth," declared the scoutmaster, "it _is_ a balloon, and it looks to me right now as though there's been trouble for the aeronaut. that gas-bag has a tough look to me, just as if it had lost about half of the stuff that keeps it floating! see how it wabbles, will you, fellows, and how low down over the trees it hangs. there, it just grazed that bunch of oaks on the little rise. the next time it'll get caught, and be ripped to pieces!" "paul, do you think that can be a man hanging there?" cried seth. "sometimes it looks to me like it was; and then again the balloon tilts over so much i just can't be sure." "we'll know soon enough," remarked the patrol leader, quietly, "because, as you can see, the runaway balloon is heading this way, full tilt. i wouldn't be surprised if it passed right over our heads." "say, perhaps we might grab hold of some trailing rope, and bring the old thing down?" suggested fritz, looking hastily around him while speaking, as if desirous of being prepared, as a true scout should always make it a point to be, and have his tree picked out, about which he would hastily wind a rope, should he be fortunate enough to get hold of such. "whew! i wouldn't want to be in that feller's shoes," observed eben, as they all stood there in the road, watching the rapidly approaching balloon. "solid ground for me, every time, except when i'm in swimming, or skimming along over the ice in winter!" andy interjected, without once removing his eager eyes from the object that had so suddenly caught their attention. it was a sight calculated to hold the attention of any one, with that badly battered balloon sweeping swiftly along on the wind, and approaching so rapidly. all of them could see that there was a man clinging to the ropes that marked the place where the customary basket should have been; evidently this latter must have been torn away during a collision with the rocks or trees on the top of a ridge with which the ungovernable gas-bag had previously been in contact; and it was a marvel how the aeronaut had been able to cling there. "will it land near here, d'ye think, paul?" asked jotham, round-eyed with wonder, and feeling very sorry for the wretched traveler of the upper air currents, who seemed to be in deadly peril of his life. "i hardly think so," replied the scoutmaster, rapidly measuring distances with his ready eye, and calculating upon the drop of the half collapsed balloon. "but see where the bally old thing's heading, will you?" cried seth, "straight at the place where them crows came out of. say, wouldn't it be awful tough now, if it dropped right down in the heart of black water swamps, where up to now never a human being has set foot, unless some indian did long ago, when the shawnees and sacs and pottawattomies and all that crowd rampaged through this region flat-footed." the scouts stood there, and watched with tense nerves as the drifting balloon drew rapidly closer. now they could plainly see the man. he had secured himself in some way among the broken ropes that had doubtless held the basket in place. yes, and he must have discovered the presence of the little khaki-clad band of boys on the road, for surely he was waving his hand to them wildly now. perhaps he understood that it was a safe thing to appeal to any boy who wore that well known suit; because every one has learned by this time that when a lad takes upon himself the duties and obligations of scoutcraft, he solemnly promises to always help a fellow in distress, when the opportunity comes along; and with most scouts the habit has become so strong that they always keep both eyes open, looking for just such openings. closer and closer came the wrecked air monster. just as one of the boys had said, it seemed about to pass very nearly overhead; and as the man would not be more than sixty or seventy feet above them, possibly he might be able to shout out a message. "keep still! he's calling something down to us!" cried seth, when several of the others had started to chatter at a lively rate. now the balloon was whipping past, going at a pretty good clip. apparently, then, it did not mean to get quite low enough to let them clutch any trailing rope, and endeavor to effect the rescue of the aeronaut. fritz did make an upward leap, and try to lay hold of the only rope that came anywhere near them; but missed it by more than a foot. "accident--badly wrenched leg--follow up, and bring help--anderson, from st. louis--balloon _great republic_--report me as down--will drop in few minutes!" they caught every word, although the man's voice seemed husky, and weak, as if he might have been long exposed and suffering. and as they stood and watched the balloon drift steadily away, lowering all the time, every one of those eight scouts felt moved by a great feeling of pity for the valiant man who had risked his life and was now in such a desperate situation. "there she goes down, fellers!" cried eben, excitedly. "and what d'ye know, the bally old balloon has taken a crazy notion to drop right in the worst part of the black water swamps, where we were just saying nobody had ever been before!" chapter x duty above all things "gee! whiz! that's tough!" fritz gave vent to his overwrought feelings after this boyish fashion; and his words doubtless echoed the thought that was in the mind of every fellow in that little bunch of staring scouts. true enough, the badly damaged balloon had taken a sudden dip downward, as though unable to longer remain afloat, with such a scanty supply of gas aboard; and as seth said, it certainly looked as though it had chosen the very worst place possible to drop--about in the heart of the swamp. "now, why couldn't the old thing have dipped low enough right here for us to grab that trailing rope?" demanded jotham, dejectedly; for he immediately began to feel that all manner of terrible things were in store for the aeronaut, if, as seemed likely, he would be marooned in the unknown morass, with no means of finding his way out, and an injured leg in the bargain to contend with. "hope he didn't come down hard enough to hurt much," remarked andy. "huh! if half we've heard about that place is true, little danger of that," declared seth. "chances are he dropped with a splash into a bed of muck. i only hope he don't get drowned before help comes along!" "help! what sort of help can reach him there?" observed fritz, solemnly; and then once again did those eight scouts exchange uneasy glances. "as soon as we let them know in beverly, why, sure they'll organize some sort of relief expedition. i know a dozen men who'd be only too glad to lend a helping hand to a lost aeronaut," andy went on to say. "wherever do you suppose he came from, paul?" asked eben. "say, didn't you hear him say st. louis?" demanded seth. "better take some of that wax out of your ears, eben." "whee! that's a pretty good ways off, seems to me," the bugler remarked, shaking his head, as though he found the story hard to believe. "why, that's nothing to brag of," seth assured him. "they have big balloon races from st. louis every year, nearly, and the gas-bags drift hundreds of miles across the country. i read about several that landed in new jersey, and one away up in canada won the prize. this one met with trouble before it got many miles on its journey. and he wants us to report that the _great republic_ is down; anderson, he said his name was, didn't he, paul?" "yes, that was it," replied the scoutmaster. paul seemed to be looking unusually grave, and the others realized that he must have something of more than usual importance on his mind. "how about that, paul," broke out fritz, who had been watching the face of the patrol leader, "we're about eighteen miles away from home; and must we wait till we get there to start help out for that poor chap?" "he might die before then," remarked jotham seriously. again a strange silence seemed to brood over the whole patrol. every fellow no doubt was thinking the same thing just then, and yet each boy hated to be the one to put it into words. they had taken so much pride in the big hike that to even suggest giving it up, and just in the supreme moment of victory, as it were, seemed next door to sacrilege, and yet they could not get around the fact that it seemed right up to them to try and save that forlorn aeronaut. his life was imperiled, and scouts are always taught to make sacrifices when they can stretch out a hand to help any one in jeopardy. paul heaved a great sigh. "fellows," he said, solemnly, "i'm going to put it up to you this time, because i feel that the responsibility ought to be shared; and remember majority rules whenever the scoutmaster thinks best to let the troop decide." "all right, paul," muttered seth, dejectedly. "it's only fair that you should saddle some of the responsibility on the rest of the bunch," admitted jotham, hardly a bit more happy looking than seth; for of course every one of them knew what was coming; and could give a pretty good guess as to the consequences. "that's a fact," added fritz, "so out with it, paul. when i've got a bitter dose to swallow i want to hurry, and get it over." "it hurts none of you more than it does me," went on the scoutmaster, firmly, "because i had set my heart on winning that fine trophy; and there'll be a lot of people disappointed this afternoon when we fail to show up, if we do." "sure thing," grunted seth, "i c'n see our friend, freddy rossiter, going around with that sickly grin on his face, telling everybody that he always knew we were a lot of fakirs, and greatly overrated; and that, like as not, even if we did show up we'd a been carried many a mile on some hay-wagon. but go on, paul; let's have the funeral quick, so a feller c'n breathe free again." "i'm going to put a motion, and every scout has a right to vote just as he thinks best. only before you decide, stop and think what it all means, to that poor man as well as ourselves," paul continued. "ready for the motion," mumbled fritz, who looked as though he had lost his very last friend, or was beginning to feel the advance symptoms of sea sickness. "all in favor of changing our plans, and trying to rescue the lost balloonist right now, say yes," the scoutmaster demanded, in as firm a tone as he could muster. a chorus of affirmatives rang out; some of the boys were a little weak in the reply they made, for it came with an awful wrench; but so far as paul could decide the response was unanimous. he smiled then. "i'm proud of you, fellows, yes i am," he declared heartily. "i think i know just what each and every one of you feels, and when you give up a thing you've been setting your minds on so long, and just when it looks as if we had an easy walk-over, i'm sure it does you credit. some of the beverly people may laugh, and make fun when we fail to turn up this afternoon; but believe me, when we do come in, and they learn what's happened, those for whose opinion we care will think all the more of us for doing what we mean to." "hope so," sighed seth, who could not coax any sort of a smile to his forlorn looking face, "but because i talk this way, paul, don't you go and get the notion in your head that if the whole thing depended on me i'd do anything different from what we expect to. there's such a thing as duty that faces every scout who's worthy of the name. for that he must expect to give up a whole lot of things he'd like to do. and you'll find that i can stand it as well as the next feller." "p'raps when they know what happened, the committee'll be willing to give us a chance to make another try next week?" suggested jotham. "good boy, jotham, and a clever idea," cried fritz. somehow the suggestion seemed to give every one a sensation of relief. "i think myself that we'll be given another chance to show what we can do," was what paul remarked. "we can prove that we had the victory about as good as clinched when this unexpected thing came along. and i know mr. sargeant will be pleased to hear that we gave up our chances of winning that trophy because a sudden serious duty confronted us." "then we're going to start right away to try and find the middle of black water swamps--is that the idea, paul?" inquired seth. "that's what it amounts to, it looks like, to me," replied the scoutmaster, as he stood there in the open road, looking long and steadily at the very spot where they had seen the last of the dropping balloon; just as though he might be fixing the locality on his mind for future use. "do we all have to go, paul, or are you going to let several of us tramp along to beverly?" some one asked just then. "that depends on how you feel about it," was the answer the scoutmaster gave. "it won't do any good for a part of the patrol to arrive on time, because, you remember one of the rules of the game is that every member must fulfill the conditions, and make the full hundred miles hike. do you want to go to town, while the rest of us are searching the swamps for the aeronaut, eben?" "i should say not," hastily replied the bugler. "how about you, noodles?" continued paul. "nixey doing; me for der swamps, undt you can put dot in your pipe undt smoke idt," the one addressed replied, for there were times when the scouts, being off duty, could forget that paul was anything other than a chum. "well," the patrol leader went on to say, laughingly, "i'm not going to ask any other fellow, for i see by the looks on your faces that you'd take it as an insult. so, the next thing to settle is where we'd better strike into the place." seth came to the front again. "well, you see, i talked a lot with that feller that got lost in there; and he told a heap of interesting things about the blooming old swamp, also where he always started into the same when trapping. you see, somehow i got a hazy idea in this silly head of mine that some time or other i might want to get a couple of chums to go with me, and try and see what there was in the middle of the black water swamps." "that's good, seth," declared one of his mates, encouragingly. "the smartest thing you ever did, barring none," added jotham. "it's apt to be of more or less use to us right now, and that's a fact," was the way paul put it. "i reckon," andy remarked, looking thoughtfully at seth, "that you could tell right now whether we happened to be near that same place. it would be a great piece of good luck if we could run across the entrance, and the trail your trapper friend made, without going far away from here." "let's see," continued seth, screwing his forehead up into a series of funny wrinkles, as he usually did when trying to look serious or thoughtful, "he told me the path he used lay right under a big sycamore tree that must have been struck by a stray bolt of lightning, some time or other, for all the limbs on the north side had been shaven clean off." "well, i declare!" ejaculated jotham. "then you've noticed such a tree, have you?" asked paul, instantly, recognizing the symptoms, for he had long made a study of each and every scout in the troop, and knew their peculiarities. "look over yonder, will you?" demanded jotham, pointing. immediately various exclamations arose. "that's the same old blasted sycamore he told me about, sure as you're born," declared seth, with a wide grin of satisfaction. "the beaver patrol luck right in the start; didn't i say nothing could hold out against that?" remarked fritz. "come along, paul; let's be heading that way," suggested jotham. in fact, all the scouts seemed anxious to get busy. the first pang of regret over giving up their cherished plan had by this time worn away, and just like boys, they were now fairly wild to be doing the next best thing. they entered heart and soul into things as they came along, whether it happened to be a baseball match; a football scrimmage on the gridiron; the searching for a lost trail in the woods, or answering the call to dinner. and so the whole eight hurried along over the back road, meaning to branch off at the point nearest to the tall sycamore that had been visited by a freak bolt from the thunder clouds, during some storm in years gone by. paul was not joining in the chatter that kept pace with their movements. he realized that he had a serious proposition on his hands just then. if so experienced a man as that muskrat trapper could get lost in black water swamps and stay lost for two whole days, it behooved a party of boys, unfamiliar with such surroundings to be very careful in all they did. but paul had ever been known as a cautious fellow. he seldom acted from impulse except when it became actually necessary, in order to meet some sudden emergency; and then there were few who could do things more quickly than the patrol leader. in a case of this kind, the chances were that they must take unusual precaution against losing their bearings; that is, they must feel that they had a back trail to follow in case forward progress became impossible, or inexpedient. paul had his theory as to the best way to accomplish such a thing; and of course it had to do with "blazing" trees as they went along. in this fashion all chances of making mistakes would be obviated; and if they failed to effect the rescue of the man who had dropped in the heart of the dismal morass at least the eight boys need not share his sad fate. leaving the road they now headed straight for the sycamore that stood as a land mark, and a specimen of the freaks of lightning. no sooner had they reached it than paul's eyes were on the ground. the others heard him give a pleased exclamation, and then say: "it's all right, fellows; because here is a well beaten trail that seems to lead straight in to the place. and now, follow me in single file!" chapter xi the trail in the swamp when the eight scouts found that they were leaving solid ground, and actually getting to where little bogs surrounded them on almost every side, they had a queer feeling. up to now none of them had ever had much experience in passing through a real swamp, because there were no such places nearer to beverly than this one, and eighteen miles is quite too far for boys to walk on ordinary occasions, when seeking fun. they looked around time and again, though none of them dared loiter, and paul, as the leader, was setting a pretty good pace. just behind paul came seth. the scoutmaster had asked him to keep close at his heels, for since seth had acquired more or less of a fund of swamp lore from the man who trapped muskrats for their pelts, in the fall and winter, if any knotty problems came up to be solved the chances were seth would be of more use than any one of the other fellows. evidently they were in for some new and perhaps novel experiences. and there is nothing that pleases the average boy more than to look upon unfamiliar scenes, unless it is to run up against a bit of an adventure. one thing paul had made sure to fetch along with him when taking this big hike, and that was his little camp hatchet. fritz had begged to be allowed to carry his old marlin shotgun, under the plea that they might run across some ferocious animal like a wildcat, or a skunk, and would find a good use for the reliable firearm; but the scoutmaster had set his foot down firmly there. but they would have to make numerous fires while on the way, and a little hatchet was apt to come in very handy. and the feel of it in his belt had given paul his idea about "blazing" the trees just as soon as they no longer had the trapper's path to serve them as a guide against their return. it is a very easy thing to make a trail in this way; only care must always be taken to make the slices, showing the white wood underneath the bark, on that side of the tree most likely to be seen by the returning pilgrim. great loss of time must result if one always had to go behind every tree in order to find the blaze that had been so carefully given, not to mention the chances of becoming confused, and eventually completely turned around. that path twisted and turned in the most amazing and perplexing manner possible. although paul had purposely warned the boys to try and keep tabs of the points of the compass as they passed along, in less than ten minutes after striking the swamp proper it is doubtful whether one of them could have told correctly just where the north lay, if asked suddenly; though by figuring it out, looking at the sun, and all that, they might have replied with a certain amount of accuracy after a while. but then they felt sure paul knew; and somehow or other they had always been in the habit of relying on the scoutmaster to do some of their thinking for them--a bad habit it is, too, for any boys to let themselves fall into, and one that paul often took them to task for. they would cheerfully admit the folly of such a course, and promise to reform, yet on the next occasion it would be the same old story of depending on paul. "path seems to be petering out a heap, paul," remarked seth, when another little time had crept along, and they had penetrated still deeper into the swamp, with a very desolate scene all around them, water surrounding many of the trees that grew there with swollen boles, such as always seems to be the case where they exist in swampy regions. "yes, i was thinking that myself," replied the other; "and it's about time for me to begin using my little hatchet, even if i don't happen to be george washington." "let's stop for a breath, and listen," suggested eben; "who knows now but what we might be nearer where the balloon dropped than we thought. p'raps we could even get an answer if we whooped her up a bit." "how about that, paul?" demanded fritz, who could shout louder perhaps than any other boy in beverly, and often led the hosts as a cheer captain, when exciting games were on with other school teams. "not a bad idea, i should say," was the reply, as the patrol leader nodded his head in approval. "suppose you lead off, fritz, and let it be a concerted yell." accordingly fritz marshaled them all in a line, and gave the word. such an outbreak as followed awoke the sleeping echoes in the swamp, and sent a number of startled birds flying madly away. indeed, jotham noticed a rabbit bounding off among the hummocks of higher ground; and noodles afterwards declared that he had seen the "cutest little pussycat" ambling away; though the others vowed it must have been a skunk, and gave noodles fair warning that if ever he tried to catch such a cunning "pussycat" he would be buried up to the neck until his clothes were fumigated. "don't hear any answer, do you, fellers?" remarked seth, after the echoes had finally died away again. everybody admitted that there seemed to have been no reply to the shout they had sent booming along. "hope we didn't scare him by making such a blooming row," seth went on to say. "i'm bothered more by thinking that he may have been killed, or very badly hurt when the balloon fell down," paul ventured to say. the thought made them all serious again. in imagination they pictured that valiant fellow who had taken his life in his hands in the interest of sport, possibly lying there on the ground senseless, or buried in the slimy mud, which could be seen in so many places all around them. and it was far from a pleasing prospect that confronted those eight scouts, though none of them gave any sign of wanting to back out. "mebbe a blast from my horn would reach him?" suggested eben. "suppose you try it, eh? paul?" fritz remarked. "no harm can come of it, so pitch in eben," the other told the troop bugler. "and put in all the wind you c'n scrape together," added seth. accordingly eben blew a blast that could have been heard fully a mile away. he grew red in the face as he sent out his call; and doubtless such a sweet medley of sounds had never before been heard in that desolate looking place since the time of the ice period. "no use; he don't answer; or if he does, we don't get it," seth observed, in a disappointed tone. "then the only thing for us to do is to go ahead," andy proposed. "paul's getting his bearings again," remarked eben. "i wanted to make dead sure," the scoutmaster observed, with a glow of determination in his eyes. "you see, we tried to note just about where the balloon seemed to fall; and it takes a lot of figuring to keep that spot in your mind all the while you're turning and twisting along this queer trail. but i feel pretty sure of my ground." "huh! wish i did the same," said seth, holding up one of his feet, and showing that he had been in black mud half way to his knee, when he made some sort of bad guess about the footing under him. apparently paul was now ready to once more start out. but they saw him give a quick hack at a tree, and upon looking as they passed they discovered that he had taken quite a slice off the bark, leaving a white space as big as his two hands, and which could easily be seen at some distance off in the direction whither they were bound. that was called a "blaze." if seth thought he was having his troubles, they were slight compared with those that attacked one other member of the little band of would-be rescuers. noodles, besides being a good-natured chap, was more or less awkward. being so very stout had more or less to do with this; and besides, he had a habit of just ambling along in any sort of happy-go-lucky way. now, while this might not be so very bad under ordinary conditions, when there was a decent and level road to be traveled over, it brought about all sorts of unexpected and unwelcome difficulties when they were trying to keep to a narrow and crooked path. twice already had noodles made a slip, and gone in knee-deep, to be dragged out by some of his comrades. and he was glancing around at the gloomy aspect with a look approaching _fear_ in his eyes, just as though he began to think that they were invading a haunted region where respectable scouts had no business to go, even on an errand of mercy. such was the wrought-up condition of his nerves, that when a branch which some one had held back, and then let slip, came in contact with the shins of noodles, he gave out a screech, and began dancing around like mad. "snakes! and as big as your wrist too! i saw 'em!" he called out, forgetting to talk in his usual broken english way, because of his excitement. they had some difficulty in convincing him that it was only a branch that had caressed his ankle, and not a venomous serpent; for noodles confessed that if he dreaded anything on the face of the earth it was just snakes, any kind of crawling varmints, from the common everyday garter species to the big boa constrictor to be seen in the menagerie that came with the annual circus visiting beverly. again and again was paul making good use of his handy little camp hatchet, and seth took note of the manner in which the blazed trail was thus fashioned. it may be all very fine to do things in theory, but there is nothing like a little practical demonstration. and in all likelihood not one of these seven boys but would be fully able to make just such a plain trail, should the necessity ever arise. when one has _seen_ a thing done he can easily remember the manner of doing it; but it is so easy to get directions confused, and make blunders. paul was not hurrying now. a mistake would be apt to cost them dear, and he believed that an ounce of prevention is always better than a pound of cure. if they could avoid going wrong, it did not matter a great deal that they made slow progress. "be sure you're right and then go ahead" was the motto of the famous frontiersman, davy crockett, and paul had long ago taken it as his pattern too. besides, it paid, for any one could see that they were steadily getting in deeper and deeper. the swamp was becoming much wilder now; and it was not hard to realize that a man getting lost here, and losing his head, might, after his bearings were gone, go wandering at haphazard for days, possibly crossing his own trail more than a few times. it seemed a lonesome place. animals they saw none. perhaps there might be deer in the outer portions, but they never came in here. although the scouts saw no evidences that wild-cats lived in the swamp, they could easily picture some such fierce animal crouching in this clump of matted trees or back of that heavy bush, watching their passage with fiery eyes. the scouts found their long staves of considerable use from time to time. had noodles for instance been more adept in the use of the one he carried he might have been saved from a whole lot of trouble. perhaps this might prove to be a valuable lesson to the boy. he could not help but see how smartly the others kept themselves from slipping off the narrow ridge of ground by planting their staves against some convenient stump, or the butt of a tree, anywhere but in the oozy mud. "wait up for me!" noodles would call out every little while, when he fell behind, for he seemed to have a horror lest he might slip into that horrible bed of mud, and be sucked down before his chums could reach him. "it iss nodt fair to leave me so far behindt der rest. how wouldt you feel if you rescued der argonaut, and lose your chump; dell me dot? give eferypody a chance, and--mine gootness, i mighty near proke my pack dot time," for he had come down with a tremendous thump, when his feet slipped out from under him. but as a rule boys are not apt to give a clumsy comrade much sympathy, and hence only rude laughter greeted this fresh mishap on the part of noodles. "nature looked out for you when she saw what an awkward chap you were going to be, noodles," called back fritz. "you're safely padded all right, and don't need to feel worried when you sit down, sudden-like. if it was me, now, there might be some talking, because i'm built more on the jack-knife plan." "oh! what is that?" cried eben, as a strange, blood-curdling sound came from a point ahead of them; just as though some unlucky fellow was being sucked down in the embrace of that slimy mud, and was giving his last shriek for help. as the other scouts had of course heard the same thing, all of the detachment came to a sudden halt, and looking rather apprehensively at one another, they waited to learn if the weird gurgling sound would be repeated, but all was deathly still. chapter xii where no foot has ever trod "now whatever do you suppose made that racket?" demanded seth. "sounded just like a feller getting drowned, and with his mouth half full of water. but i don't believe it could have been a human being, do you, paul?" and eben turned to the one in command of the troop. "no, i don't," returned the scoutmaster, promptly. "more than likely it was some sort of a bird." "a bird make a screechy sound like that?" echoed the doubting eben. "some sort of heron or crane. they make queer noises when they fight, or carry on in a sort of dance. i've read lots of things about cranes that are hard to believe, yet the naturalists stand for the truth of the accounts." paul started off again, as though not dismayed in the slightest by the strange squawk, half human in its way. and his example spurred the others on to follow in his wake, so that once more they were making steady progress. "i wouldn't care so much," grumbled fritz, as he trailed along, "if only i had a gun along. but it's tough luck to be smooching through a place like this, where a sly old cat may be watching you from the branch overhead, and your trusty marlin hanging on the nails at home." "they say you always see plenty of game when you haven't got a gun; and so i guess we'll run across all sorts of things, from bobcats to alligators!" paul went on to remark, whimsically, but there was one scout who chose to take his words seriously, and this was noodles. "what's that about alligators?" he called out from his place at the rear of the little procession. "blease don't dell me now as we shall some reptiles meet up mit pefore we finish dis exblorations. if dere iss one thing i don't like, worser as snakes, dose pe alligators. i would go across der street to avoid dem. you moost some fun pe making when you say dot, paul?" "sure i am, noodles," replied the scoutmaster quickly, "because there are no alligators or crocodiles native to the state of indiana. i believe they have a few lobsters over in indianapolis, but they don't count. but the chances are we will run across some queer things before we get out of this place." "what gets me," remarked jotham, "is the way the thing came on us. why, we'd just about said that we'd like to explore the old swamp, from curiosity if nothing else, when that balloon hove in sight, and settled down where we'd have to push right into the center of the place to find the man who was hanging to the wreck." "well, we had our wish answered on the spot, didn't we?" questioned the patrol leader, "and it came in such a way that we couldn't well back out. so here we are, up to our necks in business." "i only hopes as how we won't pe up to our necks in somedings else pefore long," came a whine from the rear, that made more than one fellow chuckle. a number of times paul stopped, for one reason or another. now it was some little imprint of animal feet that had attracted his attention in the harder mud at the side of the narrow ridge he was following; then again he wanted to listen, and renew his observations. seth was watching him closely. somehow he was reminded of that grizzled old carpenter whom he had observed, when the addition was being put to their house, and who, after measuring a board three blessed times, and picking up his saw, made ready to cut it in twain, when, possessed of an idea that he must not make a miscalculation, laid down his saw, and went to work to measure it for the fourth time! paul was not quite so bad as all that, but he did like to make sure he was right before taking a step that could not be recovered, once it was gone. "there's one thing sure," seth could not help remarking, after he had watched paul for some time, and noted how confident the other seemed with every forward step that was taken. "what might that be, seth?" demanded babe adams, when the other paused. "if that feller i talked with, the one that hunts muskrats around here in the season, had been just half as smart as paul, he never would a lost hisself in the swamps, and come near starving to death." "so say we all of us!" added jotham. "that's as neat a compliment as i ever had paid me, boys; though i hardly think i deserve it, yet. wait and see if we get lost, or not. the proof of the pudding's in the eating of it, you know. talk is cheap and butters no parsnips, they say. i like to _do_ things. but honestly speaking, i believe we're getting through this place pretty smartly." "but she keeps agettin' darker right along, paul?" complained noodles, taking advantage of a brief halt to pick up a stick and start to wiping the dark ooze from the bottom of his trousers. "that only means we're pushing steadily in toward the center; and i'm beginning to lose my fear about getting there. perhaps, after all, it may be an easy thing to put our feet where those of no other white man has ever trod." paul spoke with an assurance that carried the rest along with him. that had ever been one of his strongest points at school in the leadership of the class athletic and outdoor sports team. it was getting more and more difficult for several of the scouts to follow their leader. the narrow ledge had been bad enough, but when it came to passing along slippery logs, with the water all around, and a bath sure to follow the slightest mishap, eben's nerve gave way. "if it's going to keep up like this, paul, you'll have to drop me out, because i just can't do it, and that's a fact!" he wailed, as he clung with both hands and knees to an unusually slippery place, having lost his stick in making a miscalculation when trying to brace himself. one of the other fellows recovered the staff, and then eben was assisted across. paul had been expecting something like this, and was not very much surprised. he felt pretty sure there was another who would welcome an order to stay there on that little patch of firm ground, and wait for the return of the rest. "well, i was just thinking of leaving a rear guard, to protect our line of communications," he proceeded to say, gravely, but with a wink toward seth and fritz, "and as it will be necessary for two to fill the position, i appoint seth and noodles to the honorable post. you will take up your position here, and if anybody tries to pass you by without giving the proper countersign, arrest him on the spot." "which spot, paul?" asked noodles, solemnly. "well, it doesn't matter, so long as you stay here and guard our line of retreat. and boys, keep your eyes on the watch for signals. perhaps we may have to talk with you by smoke signs. so you can amuse yourselves by picking up some wood, and getting ready to start a smoky fire, only don't put a match to it unless we call you." "all right, paul," returned eben, taking it all in deadly earnest, although the other fellows were secretly chuckling among themselves. "and then again, i've got my bully old bugle, in case i want to give you a call. don't worry about noodles; i'll be here to look after him." "the blind leading the blind," muttered seth as he turned his face away. "there, you see now," broke in fritz, "if we only had my gun along, eben here could be a real sentry, and hold a feller up in the right way. watch this second slippery log here, boys. you c'n easy enough push anybody into the slush if he gets gay, and refuses to give the password." then he in turn also followed after paul, leaving the bugler and noodles there, congratulating themselves that they could be doing their full duty by the enterprise without taking any more desperate risks. and then when the six scouts had gone about fifty feet eben was heard wildly shouting after them. "paul, o! paul!" he was bellowing at the top of his voice. "well, what is it?" asked the scoutmaster. "you forgot something," came the answer. "what?" "you didn't give us the password, you know; and how c'n we tell whether any fellers has it right, when we don't even know." paul just turned and walked on, laughing to himself; and those who followed in his footsteps were shaking with inward amusement. either eben had taken the bait, and gorged the hook, or else he was having a little fun with them, no one knew which. however, all of them soon realized that paul had done a clever thing when he thus coaxed the two clumsy members of the patrol to drop out of line, and allow those better fitted for coping with the difficulties of the slippery path to go forward; because it steadily grew worse instead of better, and neither eben nor noodles could have long continued. why, even fritz began to feel timid about pursuing such a treacherous course, and presently he sought information. "don't you think we must be nearly in the heart of the old bog, paul? seems to me we've come a long ways, and when you think that we've got to go back over the same nasty track again, perhaps carrying a wounded man, whew! however we are going to do it, beats me." paul stopped long enough to give a tree a couple of quick upward and downward strokes with that handy little tool of his, and then glance at the resulting gash, as though he wanted to make sure that it could be seen a decent distance off. "well, that's a pretty hard question to answer," he replied, slowly. "in the first place, we don't know whether the man fell into the heart of the black water, or over by the other side. fact is, we haven't come on anything up to now to settle the matter whether he fell at all." "great governor! that _would_ be a joke on us now, wouldn't it, if we made our way all over this beastly place, when there wasn't any aeronaut to help? we'd feel like a bunch of sillies, that's right!" burst out fritz. "but we acted in good faith," paul went on to say, positively. "we weighed the matter, and arrived at the conclusion that he had fallen somewhere in here; and we agreed, _all of us_, mind you, fritz, that it was our duty to make a hunt for mr. anderson. and we're here on the ground, doing our level best." "ain't got another word to say, paul," fritz observed, hastily, "you know best; only i sure hope it don't get any worse than we find it right now. i never did like soft slimy mud. nearly got smothered in it once, when i was only a kid, and somehow it seems to give me the creeps every time i duck my leg in. but go right along; only if you hear me sing out, stop long enough to give me a pull." "we're all bound to help each other, don't forget that, fritz," said seth. "it might just as well be me that'll take a slide, and go squash into that awful mess on the right, or on the left. don't know whether to swim, or wade, if that happens; but see there, you can't find any bottom to the stuff." he thrust his long alpine staff into the mire as far as it could go; and the other scouts shuddered when they saw that so far as appearances went, the soft muck bed really had no bottom. any one so unfortunate as to fall in would surely gradually sink far over his head, unless he were rescued in time, or else had the smartness to effect his own release by seizing hold of a low-hanging branch and gradually drawing his limbs out of the clinging stuff. then they all looked ahead, as though wondering what the prospect might be for a continuance of this perilous trip which had broken up their great hike. "i guess it's about time to make another try with a shout or so, fritz," said paul, instead of giving the order for an advance. "all right, just as you say," returned the other, "we've come quite some distance since we made the last big noise; and if he's weak and wounded, yet able to answer at all, p'raps we might hear him this time. line up here, fellers, and watch my hands now, so's all to break loose together." it was a tremendous volume of sound that welled forth, as fritz waved his hands upward after a fashion that every high school fellow understood; why, seth declared that it could have been heard a mile or more away, and from that part of the swamp half way out in either direction. then they strained their ears to listen for any possible answer. the seconds began to creep past, and disappointment had already commenced to grip hold of their hearts when they started, and looked quickly, eagerly, at one another. "did you hear it?" asked fritz, gasping for breath after his exertions at holding on to that long-drawn school yell. "we sure did--something!" replied jotham, instantly, "but whether that was the balloonist answering, eben or noodles calling out to us, or some wild animal giving tongue, blest if i know." and then, why, of course five pair of eyes were turned on paul for the answer. chapter xiii the oasis in the swamp "was that another fish-eating bird like a crane, paul?" asked seth. "sounded more like a human voice," jotham put in. "and that's what it was, or else we're all pretty much mistaken," was the verdict of the scoutmaster. they turned their eyes toward the quarter from whence the sound had appeared to come; and while some thought it had welled up just in a line with this bunch of bushes, or it might be a leaning tree, still others believed it had come straight up against the breeze. although there might be a few points difference in their guesses, still it was noticeable that on the whole they were pretty uniform, and pointed almost due east from the spot where they stood. "how about the prospect of getting through there?" queried jotham, anxiously. "huh! couldn't be tougher, in my opinion," grumbled seth. "but if you look far enough, boys," remarked paul, "you can see that there seems to be some firmer ground over there." "well, now, you're right about that, paul," interjected fritz, "i was just going to say the same myself. made me think of what an oasis in a desert might look like, though to be sure i never saw one in my life." "solid ground, you mean, eh?" said babe adams, gleefully, "maybe, now, we won't be just tickled to death to feel the same under our trilbies again. this thing of picking your way along a slippery ledge about three inches wide, makes me feel like i'm walking on eggs all the while. once you lose your grip, and souse you go up to your knees, or p'raps your neck, in the nasty dip. solid ground will feel mighty welcome to me." "do we make a bee line for that quarter, paul?" asked andy. "i'd like to see you try it, that's what," jeered seth. "in three shakes of a lamb's tail you'd be swimming in the mud. guess we have to follow one of these crazy little hummocks that run criss-cross through the place, eh, frank?" "yes, you're right about that, seth; but i'm glad to say i think one runs over toward that spot; anyway, here goes to find out." the young scoutmaster made a start while speaking, and the balance of the boys lined out after him. "keep close together, so as to help each other if any trouble comes," was what paul called out over his shoulder. "yes, and for goodness sake don't all get in at once, or we'll be drowned. think what an awful time there'd be in old beverly, if six of her shining lights went and got snuffed out all at once. hey, quit your pushin' there, jotham, you nearly had me overboard that time." "well, i just _had_ to grab something, because one of my legs was in up to the knee. oh! dear, what a fine time we'll have getting all this mud off us," jotham complained, from just behind. but they were making pretty fair progress, all the same; and whenever any of the boys could venture to take their eyes off the faintly marked path they were following, long enough to send a quick look ahead, they saw that the anticipated haven of temporary refuge loomed up closer all the time. at least this was encouraging, and it served to put fresh zeal in those who had begun to almost despair of ever getting across the acre of mud that lay between the spot where they had last shouted, and the promised land. they were a cheery lot, taken as a whole; and what was even better, they believed in passing their enthusiasm along. so one, and then another, called out some encouraging words as the humor seized them. foot by foot, and yard by yard they moved along, paul always cautious about venturing upon unknown ground; but finding a way to gain his end. "here's a little patch of solid ground, and we can rest up for a minute or so," was the welcome announcement that came along the line of toiling scouts, and of course brought out various exclamations of delight. it was indeed a great relief to be able to actually stand upright once more, so as to stretch the cramped muscles in their legs. some of the boys even started to dancing, though seth scorned to do anything like this, and pretended to make all manner of fun of their contortions. "talk about them cranes doing funny stunts when they get together and dance," he remarked, "i guess, now, they haven't got anything on you fellers. why, if anybody happened to see you carryin' on that way he'd sure believe the whole bunch had broke loose from some lunatic asylum. when i dance i like to have some style about it, and not just hop around any old way." so seth took it out in stretching his arms, and rubbing the tired muscles of his legs. it was jotham who made a discovery. in jumping around he had by chance wandered a dozen yards away from the rest, when he was heard to give vent to a cry; and the other boys saw him dart forward, as if to pick something up from the ground. "what is it, jotham?" several cried in an eager chorus; for their nerves had been wrought up to a high tension by all they had gone through, and they felt, as seth aptly expressed it, "like fiddle strings keyed to next door to the snapping point." for answer jotham turned and came toward the rest. he was carrying some object in his hand, and seemed to regard it with considerable interest, as though he felt that he had made an important discovery. as he reached the others he held it up before the scoutmaster; and of course all could see what it was. "a piece of old yellow cloth!" exclaimed seth, in disgust, "say, you made all of us believe that you'd run across something worth while." "how about it, paul?" appealed jotham, turning to the one whom he fancied would be more apt to understand, "don't this tell a story; and ain't it a pretty good clue to run across?" "i should say, yes," replied paul, as he took the article in question in his own hands, and felt of it eagerly, "because, you see, seth, this is really silk, the queer kind they always make balloons out of. and that ought to tell us we're on the right track. so you see it was an important pick-up, and ought to count one point for jotham." "gee whittaker! you don't say?" ejaculated seth, staring with considerable more respect at the foot of dingy yellow stuff which the scoutmaster was holding in his hands. "well, if that's so, then i pass along the honors to jotham. but if a piece of the bally old balloon fell right here, paul, don't that tell us the wreck must a passed over where we're standing now?" "not the least doubt about that," asserted the confident paul, "and i was just looking up to see if i could make out the course it took. because it must have struck the top of a tree, to tear this piece loose." "how about that one over yonder?" suggested fritz, pointing as he spoke. "looks to me like the top was broke some, and i just bet you now that's where the big gas-bag did strike first, when it started to drop in a hurry." "then following the course of the wind, which hasn't changed this last hour, it would be carried on straight east," paul continued, logically. "sure thing," declared seth, "and if you look close now, you'll glimpse where it struck that smaller bunch of trees just ahead, where we're going to land soon. and paul, hadn't we better be trying our luck some more now? guess all the boys must be rested, and if we've just _got_ to do the grand wading act, the sooner we get started the better." "first let's call out again, and see if we get any answer. it would cheer the poor fellow up some, if he happens to be lying there badly hurt; and if he does answer, we'll get our bearings better. hit it up, fritz!" they always turned to fritz when they wanted volume of sound. that appeared to be his specialty, the one thing in which he certainly excelled. of course there was little need of any great noise, now that they had reason to believe the object of their solicitude must be close at hand; but then boys generally have plenty of spare enthusiasm, and when fritz gave the required signal they let out a roar, as usual. "there, that was certainly an answering call!" declared jotham, proudly. "sounded like he said just two words--'help--hurry!'" spoke up babe. somehow the rest seemed to be of about the same opinion, and the thought gave the scouts a strange thrill. was the unfortunate aeronaut slowly bleeding to death, lying there amidst the bushes on that tongue of land? they had given up their dearly cherished plan in order to rescue him, and had undergone considerable in the line of strenuous work, so as to arrive in time, and now that they were so close to the scene of his disaster it would be too bad if they were held back until it was too late to do him any good. "can't we hit it up a little faster, paul?" begged andy, who was rather inclined to be impulsive, because of the warm southern blood that flowed in his veins. they had once more started on, and were really making pretty good progress; but when one gives way to impatience, it may seem that a fair amount of speed is next door to standing still. paul understood the generous impulse that caused the kentucky boy to speak in this strain and while he knew that it was dangerous to attempt any swifter pace than they were then making, still, for once, he bowed to the will of the majority, and began to increase his speed. all went well, for beyond a few minor mishaps they managed to get along. what if one of the scouts did occasionally slip off the wretched footing, and splash into the mud; a helping hand was always ready to do the needful, and the delay could hardly be noticed. "there's the beginning of the firm ground just ahead!" paul presently remarked, thinking to cheer his comrades with the good news. "oh! joy!" breathed jotham, who often used queer expressions, that is, rather odd to hear from a boy. seth was the more natural one of the two when he gave vent to his delight by using the one expressive word: "bully!" in a couple of minutes at this rate they would have reached the place where the slippery trail merged into the more solid ground. perhaps some of the others may not as yet have noticed strange sounds welling up out of the bushes beyond, but paul certainly did, and he was greatly puzzled to account for the same. that singular growling could not be the wind passing through the upper branches of the trees, for one thing. it seemed to paul more like the snarling of an angry domestic cat, several times magnified. for the life of him he could not imagine what a cat would be doing here in the heart of the dreaded black water swamps. surely no hermit could be living in such a dismal and inaccessible place; even a crazy man would never dream of passing over such a terribly slippery ledge in order to get to and from his lonely habitation. but if not a cat, what was making that angry snarling? paul knew next to nothing about balloons, but he felt pretty sure that even the escaping of gas could hardly produce such a sound--it might pass through a rent in the silk with a sharp hiss, but he could plainly catch something more than that. and then his foot struck solid ground; with a sigh of relief he drew himself up, and turned to give a hand to seth, next in line, if it was needed. so they all came ashore, so to speak, and delighted to feel able to stand in a comfortable position once more. no time now for stretching or dancing, with that ugly snarling growing constantly deeper, and more angry in volume. forward was the word, and paul somehow felt glad that they gripped those handy staves, tried and true, with which every scout in course of time becomes quite adept. they would come in good play should there be any necessity for prompt action. "follow me, everybody," said paul, as he started off. "count on us to back you up!" seth declared, from which remark the scoutmaster understood that by now the others must have caught those suspicious sounds, and were trying to figure out what they stood for. it seemed as if with every forward step he took, paul could catch them more and more plainly. nor was the snarling sound alone; now he believed he caught a rustling of dead leaves, and something that might be likened to low muttered words, as though the speaker were being hard pressed, and had little breath to spare. then, as he pushed through the last fringe of bushes that interfered with his view, paul found himself looking upon the cause of all these queer noises. chapter xiv just in the nick of time "holy smoke! look at that, would you?" exclaimed seth, who had been so close on the heels of the scoutmaster that he sighted the struggling objects ahead almost as soon as paul did himself. "it's a big wildcat!" echoed jotham, with a suspicious tremor in his voice. indeed, the animal in question was a sight well calculated to give any one more or less reason to feel a touch of alarm. evidently she must be a mother cat, for a couple of partly grown kittens stood there in plain sight, with every hair on their short backs erected, and their whole appearance indicating that they were "chips off the old block," as seth afterwards declared. the wounded aeronaut sat there with a stick in his grasp. this he was wielding as best he could, to keep the angry animal at a distance, although his efforts were growing pitifully weaker, and only for the coming of the scouts he must have been compelled to throw up the sponge in a short time. evidently the wildcat had come upon him there after he had been dropped amidst the wreckage of his balloon. whether it was her natural hatred for mankind that tempted the savage beast to attack the balloonist, or the scent of fresh blood from some of his scratches, it would be hard to say, possibly both reasons had to do with her action. just how long the scrimmage had been going on paul could only guess; but he did know that the beast must have ripped the clothes partly off the aeronaut's back, and in turn he could see that one of the animal's eyes was partly closed, from a vigorous whack which the desperate man had given with his cudgel, no doubt. paul instantly made straight for the scene of commotion, never so much as hesitating a second. this was one of those emergencies spoken of before now, when the scoutmaster did not allow himself to pause and consider, but acted from impulse only. the man saw him coming, and gave expression to his satisfaction in a weak hurrah. as for the cat, at first it seemed ready to try conclusions with the whole troop of boy scouts, for it turned on paul with the ugliest glare in its yellow eyes he had ever seen. every fellow was shouting vigorously by now, and the volume of sound must have had more or less to do with settling the question. besides, the pair of kittens seemed to have been frightened off with the coming of the scouts, having slid into the friendly bushes. so the mother cat decided that after all she could yield gracefully to superior numbers--seven to one was pretty heavy odds, and those waving staves had an ugly look she did not exactly fancy. but all the same there was nothing inglorious in her retreat; she retired in perfect good order, keeping her face to the foe, and continuing to spit and snarl and growl so long as she remained in sight. several of the scouts were for following her up, and forcing the issue; but a word from paul restrained them. he saw that the animal was furiously angry, and if hard pushed would undoubtedly make things extremely interesting for any number of fellows; flying into their midst, so that they could not well use their sticks, and using her sharp claws to make criss-cross maps across their faces. scratches from the claws of all carnivorous animals are dangerous. blood poisoning is apt to set in, because of the fact that their claws are contaminated from the flesh of such birds or small game as have served them for a previous meal. and just then paul had nothing along with him to prevent the possibility of such a dreadful happening taking place. seth in particular was exceedingly loth to give over. he looked after the vanishing wild cat, and shook his head in bitter disappointment. only for his pride in obeying all orders that came to him from the scoutmaster, seth very likely would have followed the cat, and probably rued his rashness when he had to call for help a minute or so later. meanwhile paul had hurried to the side of the aeronaut, who raised his hand in greeting, while a smile broke over his anxious face. "welcome, my brave boys!" he exclaimed. "i never dreamed that you could ever get to me here, when i saw what a horrible sort of bog i had dropped into. and then, after that savage beast set on me i about gave myself up as lost. she kept walking around me, and growling for a long time before she made a jump. oh! it was a nightmare of a time, i assure you. i've seen some scrapes before in my ballooning experiences, but never one the equal of this. i'm mighty glad to meet you all. but i'll never understand how you found me. after this i'll believe boy scouts can do about anything there is going." well, that was praise enough to make every fellow glow with satisfaction, and feel glad to know he wore the khaki that had won the sincere respect of this daring voyager of the skies. "i hope you're not very badly hurt, mr. anderson?" paul ventured, as he knelt at the side of the other. "i don't believe it's serious, but all the same i'm pretty much crippled after all i've gone through with on this ill-fated trip. but i'm willing to exert myself to the limit in order to get out of this terrible swamp. you can't make a start any too soon to please me." paul drew a long breath. if it had been so difficult for active boys, used to balancing, and doing all sorts of stunts, to cross on those treacherous little hummock paths, how in the wide world were they ever going to get a wounded man out of this place? he only hoped mr. anderson would prove to be the possessor of tenacious will power, as well as a reserve fund of strength; he would certainly have good need of both before he struck solid ground again, once the return journey was begun. "well, while my chums are getting their breath after our little jaunt, suppose you let me look at any cuts you've got, mr. anderson," he suggested, first of all, in a business-like way that quite charmed the aeronaut. "what, you don't mean to tell me that you are something of a doctor as well as a leader of scouts?" he remarked, with evident pleasure, as he started to roll up one of the legs of his trousers, so as to expose his bruised ankle. "i know just a little about medicine, enough to make the other fellows want me to take charge whenever they get hurt. let me introduce my friends, sir." and accordingly paul mentioned his own name, and then in turn that of andy, babe, jotham, seth and fritz; also stating that there were two more in the patrol whom they had left stranded about half way out of the swamp, to be picked up again on the return journey. the pleased aeronaut shook hands heartily with each boy. he was experiencing a delightful revulsion of feeling, for all of a sudden the darkness had given way to broad daylight. paul on his part, after a superficial examination, was glad to find there was really nothing serious the matter. he had feared lest he might find a broken leg or even a few ribs fractured; but nothing of the kind seemed to be the case. it was true that mr. anderson had a lot of black and blue places upon his person, and would doubtless feel pretty sore for some days to come, but really paul could not see why he should not be able to keep company with his rescuers. he seemed to possess an uncommon share of grit; his determined defense against the savage wildcat proved that plainly enough; and on the whole, with what help the scouts might give on occasion, there was a fair chance of his getting out of the swamp inside of an hour or so. "now i'm ready to make a start, if you say the word," paul observed, when perhaps five minutes had passed. the gentleman had been helped to his feet. trying the injured leg, he declared he believed he would be able to get along; even though he did make a wry face at the very moment of saying this. paul endeavored to explain to him what sort of work lay before them, passing along on such insecure footing. "well, i must get in touch with a doctor, and that as speedily as possible," remarked mr. anderson, "and i'll get out of this horrible place if i have to crawl every foot of the way on my hands and knees. but i don't imagine it's going to come to such a pass as that, yet awhile. i'm ready to take my first lesson, paul, if so be you lead the way." already the aeronaut seemed to have taken a great fancy for the young scoutmaster; but then that was only what might be expected. paul had led the relief expedition; and besides, there was something attractive about the boy that always drew people to him. "then please follow directly after me; and seth, you fall in behind mr. anderson, will you?" paul went on to say. "huh! hope you don't mean that the way you say it," grunted seth, with a wide grin, "because, seems to me i've done nothing else but _fall in_ ever since i got on the go. i've investigated nearly every bog along the line, and found 'em all pretty much alike, and not to my likin' one single bit." but all the same, seth felt proud of the fact that the scoutmaster had selected him for the post of honor; for he knew that, coming just behind the wounded balloonist, he would be expected to lend a helping hand at such times as mr. anderson experienced a slip. just the consciousness of responsibility was apt to make seth much more sure-footed than before. it is always so; and wise teachers watch their chances to make boys feel that they are of some consequence. besides, experiences goes a great way and seth, having tested nearly all the muddy stretches along the way, had in a measure learned how to avoid contact with them again. in another minute the boys and mr. anderson were on the move. no doubt, if that savage mother cat and her charges were secretly watching from a leafy covert near by, they must have been heartily gratified because the menacing enemy had seen fit to quit the oasis in the swamp, leaving the remnants of the wrecked balloon to be pawed over by the frolicsome kittens. "i see that you are true scouts, for you have blazed the way as prettily as i ever saw it done, mr. anderson remarked presently. "that was paul's doing," spoke up seth, not in the least jealous. "oh! it's the easiest thing to do that anybody ever tried," declared the scoutmaster without even looking back over his shoulder, for he needed his eyes in front constantly. "so i understand," continued mr. anderson, "but then, it isn't everybody who can be smart enough to do the right thing at the right time." "how do you make out, sir?" asked paul, wishing to change the conversation, for, strange to say, he never liked to hear himself praised, in which he differed very much from the vast majority of boys. "getting along better than i expected, paul," replied the wounded balloonist. "it's only a question of time, then, before we pass out of the swamp," the other went on to say. "and as we've got our trail all laid out, and seth knows the best places to try the mud, i guess we'll make it." he was already thinking deeply and seriously. a sudden wild hope had flashed into paul's brain, and if all went well he meant to put it up to the other scouts after a while. when he looked at his watch he found that it was now just a quarter after ten; and doing some lightning calculating he believed they could be out of the morass, discounting any serious trouble, by another hour. then, supposing it took them forty-five minutes to get mr. anderson to the nearest farm house, even though they had to make a rude stretcher, and carry him, that brought the time to exactly noon. could they really do it, make the eighteen miles that still lay between themselves and the field at beverly, where they were expected to show up some time that day, if they hoped to win the prize? some how the very possibility of being put upon his mettle gave paul a thrill. he had no doubts concerning his own ability to finish the great hike within the specified space of time, before the sun had vanished behind the western horizon, but it was a grave question whether some of the other scouts could accomplish the task. there was eben for instance, never a wonder when it came to running; and then fat noodles would be apt to give out before two-thirds of those eighteen miles had been placed behind them. but if there was a ghost of a chance paul was determined to take advantage of it, and he believed that even the laggards would be keen to make the attempt, once he mentioned the subject to them. and so they kept pushing steadily along, mr. anderson showing wonderful pluck, considering the pain he must be suffering all the while from his numerous bruises and cuts. chapter xv on the home-stretch perhaps they were becoming experts at the game; or it might be that the going back over familiar ground made the job easier, since they could see each slippery place where an accident had happened on the outward trip, and thus grow additionally cautious. be that as it might, they made very few missteps on the return journey. even mr. anderson managed to do himself great credit, and seth did not have to help him up on the narrow ridge more than three or four times; nor were any of his mishaps of a serious nature. in due time, therefore, they came in sight of the place where eben and noodles had been left. their voices must have warned the pair that they were coming, for they could be seen shading their eyes with their hands to shut out the glare of the sun, as they watched the string of figures slowly picking a path through the sea of mud and water. apparently they must have counted an extra form among the muddy group; and just had to give expression to their satisfaction; for noodles yelped excitedly, while eben sent out a series of blasts from his bugle, which, upon examination, seemed to bear some faint earmarks to "lo, the conquering hero comes!" and when they landed at this half-way stage in their tiresome journey, mr. anderson had to be introduced to the remaining members of the beaver patrol. he also insisted on shaking hands with them, as he had done all the others, and letting them know his now exalted opinion about the ability of boy scouts to do wonders, all of which was sweetest music in the ears of the pair who had been cheated out of their share of the honors in the actual rescue party. when the march was resumed--and paul hastened matters as much as he could in reason--noodles and eben insisted on asking many questions as to just how they had found the balloonist. they grew quite excited when they heard about the mother wildcat and her savage little kittens; and even indulged in speculations as to what a great time they would have had defending themselves, had a trio like that paid them a visit. oh! it was certainly wearisome work, keeping up that strained position of the leg muscles so long. paul began to fear that they would never be able to accomplish the other task beyond, for he heard noodles take his regular plunges every little while, and judged that the stout boy must by this time be a sight calculated to make his mother shed tears, if ever she saw him in such a state. but all things must come to an end, and finally seth gave a shout, like unto the glad whoop a wrecked mariner might set up at sight of land ahead. "there's the place where we started in, paul; yes, and i can see that queer tree at the spot the trapper's path ended, and the fun began!" he exclaimed. "bless you, seth, for those comforting words!" called out eben from close to the rear of the procession. "one last little bulge, and then victory for us!" fritz remarked, and if the gladness expressed in his voice could be taken as an index to the feelings of his heart, then the scout must be a happy fellow just then, when the clouds rolled away, to let the sun shine again. of course they made it without any more trouble than noodles giving a last try at the friendly mud, as though wanting to really find out whether it did have any bottom down below or not. and when they took some sticks, and scraped the worst of the sticky mess off his face, noodles promised to be a sight indeed. but paul assured him that they would stop at the first spring they came across, in order to allow him to wash some of the stuff off. "ain't we a nobby looking bunch of scouts now, though?" remarked fritz, as he glanced ruefully down at his muddy uniform; for as a rule the boy had been quite particular with his clothes, having reformed after joining the organization. "it's too bad you were put to such straits to help me," declared mr. anderson, heartily, "and i mean to do everything in my power to keep you from feeling sorry that you gave up all chances of winning that beautiful trophy today. it was a shame, and i regret having been the unfortunate cause of it more than i can tell you." "oh! perhaps there might be a _little_ bit of a chance left to us yet, sir," said paul; at which every one of the other seven scouts pricked up his ears and crowded around. "what d'ye mean, paul, by sayin' that?" demanded seth, his eyes opening wide as they became glued upon those of the scoutmaster, for knowing paul as he did, he understood that the other must have some clever idea in mind. "yes, tell us what the scheme is?" pleaded jotham, who had been really more disappointed of giving up the hike than any of the others; for he knew his mother, and a certain girl jotham thought a good deal of, would be on the grandstand at the baseball grounds, waiting to cheer him as he passed by with his fellow scouts. "it all depends on how long it takes us to get mr. anderson to the nearest farmhouse," paul went on. "why, i remember seeing a house near the road just below where we left it to head for the swamp!" spoke up fritz, eagerly, "and i guess we could carry him there in less'n half an hour if we had to." at that the aeronaut spoke up. "i protest. please don't take me into consideration at all, boys," he hastened to say, "if there's the remotest chance for you to make your race, leave me right here, and start off. i'll find my way to the road, and then a farmhouse, where they'll take me in, and have me looked after. you've done wonders for me as it is, saved my life, i haven't the least doubt; and i'm going to remember it, you can depend, but i wish you'd let me take care of myself from now on." but paul shook his head. he understood the feeling that prompted the gentleman to speak in this vein; but he did not think mr. anderson was as well able to look out for himself as he would have them believe. "we never do things by halves, sir," the scoutmaster said, steadily. "if you can hobble along with one of us on either side to help, we'll go that way; but if it's too much of an effort then i'll show you how smart we are about making a litter out of some of these saplings here on which we'll carry you." mr. anderson looked pleased to hear paul talk in this confident way; but would not listen to such a thing as treating him like a badly wounded man. "give me a shoulder to lean on, and i'm sure i can make it in decent time, boys," he declared. so paul ranged on his right, with sturdy seth closing up on the left, and in this fashion they started out. the road was no great distance away, it will be remembered; and in less than ten minutes they had reached it. then turning toward distant beverly, they commenced to cover the ground they had previously gone over. there was no mistake about the farmhouse, in due time it was reached. their arrival quite excited the little household, for the men had come in from the fields to their midday meal. paul did not want to stop to explain matters; all that could be left to mr. anderson. the odor of dinner did make more than one of the scouts raise his eyebrows, and exchange a suggestive look with another; but they realized that every minute was precious to them now, and that they just could not stay long enough to sit and partake, though the farmer cordially invited them. they did accept a few things to munch at as they walked along; and promised to send word to a certain address which the aeronaut gave them; and in fact paul was to notify a committee by wire that disaster had overtaken the _great republic_, but that the aeronaut was safe, and wished the news to be communicated to his wife at a certain hotel in st. louis. of course all of the boys knew what the new hope that had come to paul amounted to. he had, with his customary carefulness, shown them in black and white figures just the number of miles that still remained uncovered, about eighteen in all, and then they figured out when the sun would be setting at beverly. "six full hours, and then some," seth had declared, with a look of contempt; as though he could see no reason why they should not come in on time easily. "why, of course we c'n do it, and then not half try. now, you'd think i'd be feeling stiff after that crouching work in the swamp. all a mistake. never fitter in my life. i could start on a run right now, and cover some miles without an effort." "well, don't do it, then," advised paul, "you know what happens to the racer who makes too big an effort in the start. get warmed up to your work, and there's a chance to hold out. better be in prime condition for the gruelling finish. that's the advice one of the greatest all-around athletes gives. so we'll start at a fair pace, and later on, if it becomes necessary we'll be able to run some." of course paul was thinking while he said this of the weak links in the chain, no other than eben and noodles. the latter was a wretched runner at best. he could walk fairly well, after a fashion, as his work of the last three days proved; and by judicious management paul hoped to coax noodles along, mile after mile. as they walked they munched the sandwiches provided at the farm house where mr. anderson had been left. thus they killed two birds with one stone, as paul put it--continued to cover a couple of precious miles while securing strength and comfort from the food. whenever a chance occurred noodles would get to work again scraping some more dirt off his garments. fritz often declared the county would prosecute him for leaving so many piles of swamp mud along the pike; but after each and every operation the stout boy declared that he felt in far better trim to continue the journey, and that at least pleased all hands. "i'm beginning to hope, noodles," remarked jotham, "that by the time we get to beverly you'll look half way decent, and not make the girls ashamed to own us as we march through the town to the music of a band, mebbe." "put i don't want to be owned py any girl as i knows; so what differences does idt make, dell me?" was all the satisfaction he got from the other; who was evidently more concerned about the cost of a new suit, all to be earned by his own individual exertions, than anything else. when the first hour had passed, and they found that they had made four miles as near as could be told, some of the scouts were exultant, and loudly declared it was going to be as easy as falling off a log. "a regular picnic, believe me!" declared seth. "like taking candy from the baby!" fritz affirmed. "a walk-over!" was babe's style of expressing his sentiments. "well, it will be that, if we ever get to beverly green before the sun drops out of sight," laughed paul. he was only concerned about noodles, truth to tell, for he knew that eben, while no great athlete, had a reserve fund in his stubborn qualities, and would shut his teeth hard together toward the end, plodding along with grim determination. noodles must be watched, and coddled most carefully, if they hoped to carry him with them over the line in time to claim the glorious trophy. and that was really why paul asked him to walk along with him, so that he could from time to time cheer the other up by a few words of praise that would make him believe he was showing great improvement in his stride. it could be seen by the way his eye lighted up that noodles appreciated this flattery; he had a real jaunty air as he walked on, and even cast an occasional glance of commiseration back at the fellows less highly favored than himself. besides, paul, as a careful manager, wished to husband a certain portion of the other's strength for the last five miles. he knew that must be the sticking time, when probably noodles would declare he could not go another step, and endeavor to drop down beside the road to rest. now paul knew how far being diplomatic went in an affair of this kind. he remembered hearing a story about two gentlemen on a hunting trip up in maine, carrying a couple of air rubber mattresses for sleeping purposes, and wondering how they could get the two guides, one a native, and the other a penobscot indian, to blow them up every night. so during the supper one of them got to comparing the chests of the two men, and exciting their rivalry as to which had the larger lungs. when he had them fully primed he said he had means of testing the matter, and brought out the twin air mattresses. eagerly then the guides lay flat on their stomachs, and at the word started to blow like two-horse power engines. the first test was declared a _tie_; and after that the guides could hardly wait for night to come to try out their lungs against each other. and with this story in his mind the young scoutmaster determined to play the two weak members of the beaver patrol against each other, having in view the benefit that would result from such keen rivalry. first he talked to noodles about eben's awakening talent in the line of pedestrian feats; and soon had the stout boy affirming that he could beat the best efforts of the bugler without more than half trying. then paul found a chance to arouse the ambition of eben in turn, by hinting at what noodles had boasted. thus paul presently had the two lads jealously watching each other. they did not come to any open rupture, because they were good fellows, and fast friends, but did eben happen to take a notion to go up a little in the line in order to speak to one of the others, noodles clung to him like a leech. indeed, paul had to restrain the eager pair more than once, for they were so determined to excel the record, each of the other, that they gave evidences of even wanting to run. by carefully nursing this spirit of emulation and rivalry the patrol leader believed he was assisting the cause, without doing either of his chums the slightest injury. it was a case of simply bringing out all there was in a couple of lads who, as a rule, were prone to give up too easily. and so they kept tramping along the turnpike leading toward home, jollying each other, and every now and then, when resting for a bit, trying to remove some of the dreadful evidences of black mud from their usually natty uniforms and leggins. "p'raps they'll think it the biggest joke going," remarked seth, "when they get on to it that we've been in the black water swamps, and i guess freddy's crowd'll laugh themselves sick, like a lot of ninnies, but just wait till we tell what took us there, and show the card mr. anderson gave us, with his message for st. louis on the back. then it seems to me the laugh will be on them." they took great consolation in remembering what a gallant piece of work they had been enabled to carry out since leaving camp alabama that morning. it would perhaps be carried far and wide in the papers, when mr. anderson's story was told, and reflect new glory on the uplifting tendency of the boy scout movement. people who did not understand what a wonderful lot of good was coming out of teaching growing lads to be able to take care of themselves under any and all conditions, besides being considerate for others, brave in time of danger, and generous toward even their enemies, would have their eyes opened. and so it was a happy and merry parcel of scouts that plodded along the road leading to beverly town that afternoon, as the sun sank lower and lower toward the west. chapter xvi "well done, beaver patrol!" they had struck along the road leading from scranton, and reached the well-known jerusalem pike, of which mention has been frequently made in previous stories of this series. as they passed the stebbens and the swartz farms the scouts gave a cheer that brought a waving of handkerchiefs from the windows of the houses, which were in plain sight of the road. far down in the west the glowing sun was sinking; but paul had calculated well, and he knew that, barring accidents, they could easily make the town before the king of day passed from sight. once they had halted for a few minutes' rest, the last they expected to enjoy, and paul had taken advantage of the opportunity to start a smoky fire; after which he and seth, the signal sender of the patrol, used the latter's blanket to send a series of dense smoke clouds soaring upward at certain intervals. one of the boys who expected to join the second patrol in the early fall, steve slimmons, would be on the lookout for this signal that would announce the coming of the weary column; and when he caught sight of the smoke waves it would be his duty to announce that, after all, the scouts had not fallen down in their brave attempt to win that glorious trophy; but were coming right along, and hoped to be on hand in due time. well, there would be a good many suppers delayed in and around beverly on that night, some of the scouts told each other. they could easily picture the green swarming with people, all watching up the road for the patrol to turn the bend, and come in sight, with unbroken ranks, having fulfilled the conditions of the hike to the letter. there was no longer any need for paul to excite the slumbering ambitions of either eben or noodles. why, after they passed the crossroads where the ruins of the old blacksmith shop lay, in which they had held their first meetings, but which had been mysteriously burned down, some thought by mischievous and envious town boys--after they had gone by this well-known spot, and sighted the scroggins farm beyond, every fellow had actually forgotten such a thing as fatigue. they held themselves up straight, and walked with a springy step that would go far toward indicating that a hundred miles in four days was only play for such seasoned veterans. and now the outlying houses of the home town began to loom up. why, to several of the boys it really seemed as though they must have been away for weeks. they eagerly pointed out various objects that were familiar in their eyes, just as if they had feared the whole map of the town might have been altered since they marched away on their little four day tramp. seth in particular was greatly amused by hearing this kind of talk. he had been away from home so much that the novelty of the sensation of coming back did not appeal to him, as it may have done to eben and jotham for instance. "you fellers," said seth, chuckling while he spoke, "make me think of the little kid that took a notion to run away from home, and wandered around all day. when night came along he just couldn't stand it any longer, and crept home. his folks knew what was up, and they settled on punishing him by not noticing him, or saying a thing about his being gone. the kid tried to ketch the attention of maw, but she was sewing, and kept right along, just like he'd been around all day. then he tried dad; but he read his paper, and smoked his pipe, and never paid the least attention. that boy just couldn't understand it. there he'd been away from home a whole year it seemed to him, since morning, and yet nobody seemed to bother the least bit, or make a fuss over him. and when he couldn't get a rise from anybody, he saw the family pussy sittin' by the fire. 'oh!' he says, says he, 'i see you've still got the same old cat you had when i went away!'" even eben and noodles laughed at that. they knew the joke was on them; but just at that moment both were feeling too happy to take offense at anything. "there's the church steeple!" cried babe. "yes, you're so tall you c'n see things long before the rest of us do," declared jotham, not maliciously, but with the utmost good humor, for he knew that in a very short time now he would see his dear little mother, proudly watching him march past; and perhaps also discover a tiny web of a handkerchief waving from the pretty hand of a certain little girl he knew; and the thought made jotham very happy. "listen! ain't that boys shouting?" demanded seth. "just what it is now," replied andy. "they've got scouts at the bend of the road, and know we're coming." "we've done what we set out to do, fellers!" cried seth, gloatingly. "and the trophy belongs to us; for right now we're in beverly town, and there's the blessed old sun still half an hour high," fritz observed with pardonable pride in his voice. "and think of us getting that balloon man safe out of the black water swamps; yes, and going to the middle of the patch, something that they say nobody ever did before! that's going to be a big feather in our caps, believe me," seth went on to say, as he took a glance down at his stained khaki trousers and leggins. paul gave his little command one last look over, for they were now at the bend, and in another minute would come under the eyes of the dense crowd which, from all the signs that came to his ears, he felt sure had gathered to welcome the marching patrol home again after their long hike. then the curve in the road was reached; a dozen more steps and they turned it, to see the green fairly black with people, who waved their hats and handkerchiefs, and shouted, until it seemed to the proud scouts that the very foundations of the heavens must tremble under the roaring sound. chief henshall was there, together with several of his men, keeping an avenue open along which the khaki-clad boys were to march, to a spot in front of the grand stand, where the generous donor of the trophy, together with a committee of prominent citizens of beverly, waited to receive them. it was perhaps the proudest moment in the lives of those eight boys when paul, replying to the little speech which accompanied the passing of the silver cup, thanked mr. sargeant and the committee for the great interest taken in the formation of beverly troop; and in a few words explained just why he and his comrades came so near being unable to fulfill the obligations governing the hike. when mr. sargeant read aloud the message which the wrecked balloonist was wiring to st. louis, in which he declared that he owed his very life to the daring of the boy scouts, who had penetrated to the very center of the black water swamps in order to rescue him, such a din of cheering as broke out had never been heard in beverly since that never-to-be-forgotten day when the baseball nine came up from behind in the ninth inning, and clinched the victory that gave them the high school championship of the county for that year. but the boys now began to realize that they were, as seth expressed it, "some tired," and they only too willingly allowed their folks to carry them off home, to get washed up, and partake of a good meal. but no matter what each scout may have secretly thought when he sat down to a white tablecloth, with silver, and china, and polished glass around him, he stoutly avowed that nothing could equal the delight of a camp-fire, tin cups and platters, and simple camp fare, flanked by an appetite that was keener than anything ever known at home. this work of four days was likely to long remain the banner achievement of the beaver patrol lads; but the vacation period still held out a few weeks further enjoyment, and it may be readily understood that such wide-awake fellows would be sure to hatch up more or less excitement before the call came to go back to school duties. that this proved to be the case can be understood from the fact that another volume follows this story, bearing the significant title of "the boy scouts' woodcraft lesson; or, proving their mettle in the field." and the young reader who has become interested in the various doings of the scouts belonging to the beaver patrol can find in the pages of that book further accounts of what acting scoutmaster paul prentice and his seven valorous chums started out to accomplish, in order to prove that the education of a boy scout brings out the best there is in him, under any and all conditions. the end ------------------------------------------------------------------------ boys' copyrighted books the most attractive and highest class list of copyrighted books for boys ever printed. in this list will be found the works of w. bert foster, capt. ralph bonehill, arthur m. winfield, etc. printed from large clear type, illustrated, bound in a superior quality of cloth. the clint webb series by w. bert foster .--swept out to sea; 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"samee" to "same" ("but all the same, i want") p. "sup-up" to "sun-up" ("since sun-up") p. "fresk" to "fresh" ("hankering after fresh milk") p. "superflous" to "superfluous" ("superfluous burdens") p. "promises" to "promised" ("promised to be a most fortunate thing") p. "mortagge" to "mortgage" ("meant to pay off my mortgage") p. "befel" to "befell" ("seldom if ever befell ordinary lads") p. "alway" to "always" ("as the papers always make out") p. "trememduous" to "tremendous" ("tremendous cheer") p. "or" to "of" ("habit of relying") p. "susprised" to "surprised" ("not very much surprised") p. "commisseration" to "commiseration" ("glance of commiseration") p. "jersualem" to "jerusalem" ("well-known jerusalem pike") p. "price" to "pride" ("with pardonable pride in his voice") first advertising page ("boys copyrighted books"): "tayne" to "jayne" ("lieut. r. h. jayne.") fourth advertising page ("donohue's plays"): "eveything" to "everything" ("everything that is fresh") [illustration: mr. coon insisted on gadding about. (page )] aaron in the wildwoods by joel chandler harris author of "uncle remus," etc. _illustrated by oliver herford_ [illustration] boston and new york houghton, mifflin and company the riverside press, cambridge copyright, by joel chandler harris and houghton, mifflin and co. all rights reserved contents. page prelude i. the little master ii. the secrets of the swamp iii. what chunky riley saw and heard iv. between midnight and dawn v. the hunt begins vi. the hunt ends vii. aaron sees the signal viii. the happenings of a night ix. the upsetting of mr. gossett x. chunky riley sees a queer sight xi. the problem that timoleon presented xii. what the patrollers saw and heard xiii. the apparition the fox hunters saw xiv. the little master says good night list of illustrations page mr. coon insisted on gadding about _frontispiece_. it was a swamp that's randall's song mr. red fox meets mr. gray fox a-straddle of the grunter's back the horses were right at his heels the goblin pain the spring of cool refreshing water brindle and aaron in the swamp rambler's fight with the moccasin he stood as still as a statue it was the white-haired master they tore him all to flinders the excited horse plunged along he edged away as far as he could aaron and little crotchet behind a tree stood george gossett the black stallion it was fine for mr. fox the phantom horseman aaron and timoleon big sal holds the little master the death of the little master aaron in the wildwoods. prelude. i. once upon a time there lived on a large plantation in middle georgia a boy who was known as little crotchet. it was a very queer name, to be sure, but it seemed to fit the lad to a t. when he was a wee bit of a chap he fell seriously ill, and when, many weeks afterwards, the doctors said the worst was over, it was found that he had lost the use of his legs, and that he would never be able to run about and play as other children do. when he was told about this he laughed, and said he had known all along that he would never be able to run about on his feet again; but he had plans of his own, and he told his father that he wanted a pair of crutches made. "but you can't use them, my son," said his father. "anyhow, i can try," insisted the lad. the doctors were told of his desire, and these wise men put their heads together. "it is a crotchet," they declared, "but it will be no harm for him to try." "it is a little crotchet," said his mother, "and he shall have the crutches." thus it came about that the lad got both his name and his crutches, for his father insisted on calling him little crotchet after that, and he also insisted on sending all the way to philadelphia for the crutches. they seemed to be a long time in coming, for in those days they had to be brought to charleston in a sailing vessel, and then sent by way of augusta in a stage-coach; but when they came they were very welcome, for little crotchet had been inquiring for them every day in the week, and sunday too. and yet when they came, strange to say, he seemed to have lost his interest in them. his mother brought them in joyously, but there was not even a glad smile on the lad's face. he looked at them gravely, weighed them in his hands, laid them across the foot of the bed, and then turned his head on his pillow, as if he wanted to go to sleep. his mother was surprised, and not a little hurt, as mothers will be when they do not understand their children; but she respected his wishes, darkened the room, kissed her boy, and closed the door gently. when everything was still, little crotchet sat up in bed, seized his crutches, and proceeded to try them. he did this every day for a week, and at the end of that time surprised everybody in the house, and on the place as well, by marching out on his crutches, and going from room to room without so much as touching his feet to the floor. it seemed to be a most wonderful feat to perform, and so it was; but providence, in depriving the lad of the use of his legs, had correspondingly strengthened the muscles of his chest and arms, so that within a month he could use his crutches almost as nimbly and quite as safely as other boys use their feet. he could go upstairs and downstairs and walk about the place with as much ease, apparently, as those not afflicted, and it was not strange that the negroes regarded the performance with wonder akin to awe, declaring among themselves that their young master was upheld and supported by "de sperits." and indeed it was a queer sight to see the frail lad going boldly about on crutches, his feet not touching the ground. the sight seemed to make the pet name of little crotchet more appropriate than ever. so his name stuck to him, even after he got his gray pony, and became a familiar figure in town and in country, as he went galloping about, his crutches strapped to the saddle, and dangling as gayly as the sword of some fine general. thus it came to pass that no one was surprised when little crotchet went cantering along, his gray pony snorting fiercely, and seeming never to tire. early or late, whenever the neighbors heard the short, sharp snort of the gray pony and the rattling of the crutches, they would turn to one another and say, "little crotchet!" and that would be explanation enough. there seemed to be some sort of understanding between him and his gray pony. anybody could ride the gray pony in the pasture or in the grove around the house, but when it came to going out by the big gate, that was another matter. he could neither be led nor driven beyond that boundary by any one except little crotchet. it was the same when it came to crossing water. the gray pony would not cross over the smallest running brook for any one but little crotchet; but with the lad on his back he would plunge into the deepest stream, and, if need be, swim across it. all this deepened and confirmed in the minds of the negroes the idea that little crotchet was upheld and protected by "de sperits." they had heard him talking to the gray pony, and they had heard the gray pony whinny in reply. they had seen the gray pony with their little master on his back go gladly out at the big gate and rush with a snort through the plantation creek,--a bold and at times a dangerous stream. seeing these things, and knowing the temper of the pony, they had no trouble in coming to the conclusion that something supernatural was behind it all. ii. thus it happened that little crotchet and his gray pony were pretty well known through all the country-side, for it seemed that he was never tired of riding, and that the pony was never tired of going. what was the rider's errand? nobody knew. why should he go skimming along the red road at day dawn? and why should he come whirling back at dusk,--a red cloud of dust rising beneath the gray pony's feet? nobody could tell. this was almost as much of a puzzle to some of the whites as it was to the negroes; but this mystery, if it could be called such, was soon eclipsed by a phenomenon that worried some of the wisest dwellers in that region. this phenomenon, apparently very simple, began to manifest itself in early fall, and continued all through that season and during the winter and on through the spring, until warm weather set in. it was in the shape of a thin column of blue smoke that could be seen on any clear morning or late afternoon rising from the centre of spivey's canebrake. this place was called a canebrake because a thick, almost impenetrable, growth of canes fringed the edge of a mile-wide basin lying between the bluffs of the oconee river and the uplands beyond. instead of being a canebrake it was a vast swamp, the site of cool but apparently stagnant ponds and of treacherous quagmires, in which cows, and even horses, had been known to disappear and perish. the cowitch grew there, and the yellow plumes of the poison-oak vine glittered like small torches. there, too, the thunder-wood tree exuded its poisonous milk, and long serpent-like vines wound themselves around and through the trees, and helped to shut out the sunlight. it was a swamp, and a very dismal one. the night birds gathered there to sleep during the day, and all sorts of creatures that shunned the sunlight or hated man found a refuge there. if the negroes had made paths through its recesses to enable them to avoid the patrol, nobody knew it but themselves. why, then, should a thin but steady stream of blue smoke be constantly rising upwards from the centre of spivey's canebrake? it was a mystery to those who first discovered it, and it soon grew to be a neighborhood mystery. during the summer the smoke could not be seen, but in the fall and winter its small thin volume went curling upward continually. little crotchet often watched it from the brow of turner's hill, the highest part of the uplands. early in the morning or late in the afternoon the vapor would rise from the oconee; but the vapor was white and heavy, and was blown about by the wind, while the smoke in the swamp was blue and thin, and rose straight in the air above the tops of the trees in spite of the wayward winds. once when little crotchet was sitting on his pony watching the blue smoke rise from the swamp he saw two of the neighbor farmers coming along the highway. they stopped and shook hands with the lad, and then turned to watch the thin stream of blue smoke. the morning was clear and still, and the smoke rose straight in the air, until it seemed to mingle with the upper blue. the two farmers were father and son,--jonathan gadsby and his son ben. they were both very well acquainted with little crotchet,--as, indeed, everybody in the county was,--and he was so bright and queer that they stood somewhat in awe of him. "i reckin if i had a pony that wasn't afeard of nothin' i'd go right straight and find out where that fire is, and what it is," remarked ben gadsby. this stirred his father's ire apparently. "why, benjamin! why, what on the face of the earth do you mean? ride into that swamp! why, you must have lost what little sense you had when you was born! i remember, jest as well as if it was day before yesterday, when uncle jimmy cosby's red steer got in that swamp, and we couldn't git him out. git him out, did i say? we couldn't even git nigh him. we could hear him beller, but we never got where we could see ha'r nor hide of him. if i was thirty year younger i'd take my foot in my hand and wade in there and see where the smoke comes from." [illustration: it was a swamp] little crotchet laughed. "if i had two good legs," said he, "i'd soon see what the trouble is." this awoke ben gadsby's ambition. "i believe i'll go in there and see where the fire is." "fire!" exclaimed old mr. gadsby, with some irritation. "who said anything about fire? what living and moving creetur could build a fire in that thicket? i'd like mighty well to lay my eyes on him." "well," said ben gadsby, "where you see smoke there's obliged to be fire. i've heard you say that yourself." "me?" exclaimed mr. jonathan gadsby, with a show of alarm in the midst of his indignation. "did i say that? well, it was when i wasn't so much as thinking that my two eyes were my own. what about foxfire? suppose that some quagmire or other in that there swamp has gone and got up a ruction on its own hook? smoke without fire? why, i've seed it many a time. and maybe that smoke comes from an eruption in the ground. what then? who's going to know where the fire is?" little crotchet laughed, but ben gadsby put on a very bold front. "well," said he, "i can find bee-trees, and i'll find where that fire is." "well, sir," remarked mr. jonathan gadsby, looking at his son with an air of pride, "find out where the smoke comes from, and we'll not expect you to see the fire." "i wish i could go with you," said little crotchet. "i don't need any company," replied ben gadsby. "i've done made up my mind, and i a-going to show the folks around here that where there's so much smoke there's obliged to be some fire." the young man, knowing that he had some warm work before him, pulled off his coat, and tied the sleeves over his shoulder, sash fashion. then he waved his hand to his father and to little crotchet, and went rapidly down the hill. he had undertaken the adventure in a spirit of bravado. he knew that a number of the neighbors had tried to solve the mystery of the smoke in the swamp and had failed. he thought, too, that he would fail; and yet he was urged on by the belief that if he should happen to succeed, all the boys and all the girls in the neighborhood would regard him as a wonderful young man. he had the same ambition that animated the knight of old, but on a smaller scale. iii. now it chanced that little crotchet himself was on his way to the smoke in the swamp. he had been watching it, and wondering whether he should go to it by the path he knew, or whether he should go by the road that aaron, the runaway, had told him of. ben gadsby interfered with his plans somewhat; for quite by accident, young gadsby as he went down the hill struck into the path that little crotchet knew. there was a chance to gallop along the brow of the hill, turn to the left, plunge through a shallow lagoon, and strike into the path ahead of gadsby, and this chance little crotchet took. he waved his hand to mr. jonathan gadsby, gave the gray pony the rein, and went galloping through the underbrush, his crutches rattling, and the rings of the bridle-bit jingling. to mr. jonathan gadsby it seemed that the lad was riding recklessly, and he groaned and shook his head as he turned and went on his way. but little crotchet rode on. turning sharply to the left as soon as he got out of sight, he went plunging through the lagoon, and was soon going along the blind path a quarter of a mile ahead of ben gadsby. this is why young gadsby was so much disturbed that he lost his way. he was bold enough when he started out, but by the time he had descended the hill and struck into what he thought was a cattle-path his courage began to fail him. the tall canes seemed to bend above him in a threatening manner. the silence oppressed him. everything was so still that the echo of his own movements as he brushed along the narrow path seemed to develop into ominous whispers, as if all the goblins he had ever heard of had congregated in front of him to bar his way. the silence, with its strange echoes, was bad enough, but when he heard the snorting of little crotchet's gray pony as it plunged through the lagoon, the rattle of the crutches and the jingling of the bridle-bit, he fell into a panic. what great beast could it be that went helter-skelter through this dark and silent swamp, swimming through the water and tearing through the quagmires? and yet, when ben gadsby would have turned back, the rank undergrowth and the trailing vines had quite obscured the track. the fear that impelled him to retrace his steps was equally powerful in impelling him to go forward. and this seemed the easiest plan. he felt that it would be just as safe to go on, having once made the venture, as to turn back. he had a presentiment that he would never find his way out anyhow, and the panic he was in nerved him to the point of desperation. so on he went, not always trying to follow the path, but plunging forward aimlessly. in half an hour he was calmer, and pretty soon he found the ground firm under his feet. his instincts as a bee-hunter came back to him. he had started in from the east side, and he paused to take his bearings. but it was hard to see the sun, and in the recesses of the swamp the mosses grew on all sides of the trees. and yet there was a difference, which ben gadsby did not fail to discover and take account of. they grew thicker and larger on the north side, and remembering this, he went forward with more confidence. he found that the middle of the swamp was comparatively dry. huge poplar-trees stood ranged about, the largest he had ever seen. in the midst of a group of trees he found one that was hollow, and in this hollow he found the smouldering embers of a fire. but for the strange silence that surrounded him he would have given a whoop of triumph; but he restrained himself. bee-hunter that he was, he took his coat from his shoulders and tied it around a small slim sapling standing near the big poplar where he had found the fire. it was his way when he found a bee-tree. it was a sort of guide. in returning he would take the general direction, and then hunt about until he found his coat; and it was much easier to find a tree tagged with a coat than it was to find one not similarly marked. thus, instead of whooping triumphantly, ben gadsby simply tied his coat about the nearest sapling, nodding his head significantly as he did so. he had unearthed the secret and unraveled the mystery, and now he would go and call in such of the neighbors as were near at hand and show them what a simple thing the great mystery was. he knew that he had found the hiding-place of aaron, the runaway. so he fixed his "landmark," and started out of the swamp with a lighter heart than he had when he came in. to make sure of his latitude and longitude, he turned in his tracks when he had gone a little distance and looked for the tree on which he had tied his coat. but it was not to be seen. he re-traced his steps, trying to find his coat. looking about him cautiously, he saw the garment after a while, but it was in an entirely different direction from what he supposed it would be. it was tied to a sapling, and the sapling was near a big poplar. to satisfy himself, he returned to make a closer examination. sure enough, there was the coat, but the poplar close by was not a hollow poplar, nor was it as large as the tree in which ben gadsby had found the smouldering embers of a fire. he sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and scratched his head, and discussed the matter in his mind the best he could. finally he concluded that it would be a very easy matter, after he found his coat again, to find the hollow poplar. so he started home again. but he had not gone far when he turned around to take another view of his coat. it had disappeared. ben gadsby looked carefully around, and then a feeling of terror crept over his whole body--a feeling that nearly paralyzed his limbs. he tried to overcome this feeling, and did so to a certain degree. he plucked up sufficient courage to return and try to find his coat; but the task was indeed bewildering. he thought he had never seen so many large poplars with small slim saplings standing near them, and then he began to wander around almost aimlessly. iv. suddenly he heard a scream that almost paralyzed him--a scream that was followed by the sound of a struggle going on in the thick undergrowth close at hand. he could see the muddy water splash above the bushes, and he could hear fierce growlings and gruntings. before he could make up his mind what to do, a gigantic mulatto, with torn clothes and staring eyes, rushed out of the swamp and came rushing by, closely pursued by a big white boar with open mouth and fierce cries. the white boar was right at the mulatto's heels, and his yellow tusks gleamed viciously as he ran with open mouth. pursuer and pursued disappeared in the bushes with a splash and a crash, and then all was as still as before. in fact, the silence seemed profounder for this uncanny and appalling disturbance. it was so unnatural that half a minute after it happened ben gadsby was not certain whether it had occurred at all. he was a pretty bold youth, having been used to the woods and fields all his life, but he had now beheld a spectacle so out of the ordinary, and of so startling a character, that he made haste to get out of the swamp as fast as his legs, weakened by fear, would carry him. more than once, as he made his way out of the swamp, he paused to listen; and it seemed that each time he paused an owl, or some other bird of noiseless wing, made a sudden swoop at his head. beyond the exclamation he made when this happened the silence was unbroken. this experience was unusual enough to hasten his steps, even if he had had no other motive for haste. when nearly out of the swamp, he came upon a large poplar, by the side of which a small slim sapling was growing. tied around this sapling was his coat, which he thought he had left in the middle of the swamp. the sight almost took his breath away. he examined the coat carefully, and found that the sleeves were tied around the tree just as he had tied them. he felt in the pockets. everything was just as he had left it. he examined the poplar; it was hollow, and in the hollow was a pile of ashes. "well!" exclaimed ben gadsby. "i'm the biggest fool that ever walked the earth. if i ain't been asleep and dreamed all this, i'm crazy; and if i've been asleep, i'm a fool." his experience had been so queer and so confusing that he promised himself he'd never tell it where any of the older people could hear it, for he knew that they would not only treat his tale with scorn and contempt, but would make him the butt of ridicule among the younger folks. "i know exactly what they'd say," he remarked to himself. "they'd declare that a skeer'd hog run across my path, and that i was skeer'der than the hog." so ben gadsby took his coat from the sapling, and went trudging along his way toward the big road. when he reached that point he turned and looked toward the swamp. much to his surprise, the stream of blue smoke was still flowing upward. he rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there was the smoke. his surprise was still greater when he saw little crotchet and the gray pony come ambling up the hill in the path he had just come over. "what did you find?" asked little crotchet, as he reined in the gray pony. "nothing--nothing at all," replied ben gadsby, determined not to commit himself. "nothing?" cried little crotchet. "well, you ought to have been with me! why, i saw sights! the birds flew in my face, and when i got in the middle of the swamp a big white hog came rushing out, and if this gray pony hadn't been the nimblest of his kind, you'd never have seen me any more." "is that so?" asked ben gadsby, in a dazed way. "well, i declare! 'twas all quiet with me. i just went in and come out again, and that's all there is to it." "i wish i'd been with you," said little crotchet, with a curious laugh. "good-by!" with that he wheeled the gray pony and rode off home. ben gadsby watched little crotchet out of sight, and then, with a gesture of despair, surprise, or indignation, flung his coat on the ground, crying, "well, by jing!" v. that night there was so much laughter in the top story of the abercrombie house that the colonel himself came to the foot of the stairs and called out to know what the matter was. "it's nobody but me," replied little crotchet. "i was just laughing." colonel abercrombie paused, as if waiting for some further explanation, but hearing none, said, "good-night, my son, and god bless you!" "good-night, father dear," exclaimed the lad, flinging a kiss at the shadow his father's candle flung on the wall. then he turned again into his own room, where aaron the arab (son of ben ali) sat leaning against the wall, as silent and as impassive as a block of tawny marble. little crotchet lay back in his bed, and the two were silent for a time. finally aaron said:-- "the white grunter carried his play too far. he nipped a piece from my leg." "i never saw anything like it," remarked little crotchet. "i thought the white pig was angry. you did that to frighten ben gadsby." "yes, little master," responded aaron, "and i'm thinking the young man will never hunt for the smoke in the swamp any more." little crotchet laughed again, as he remembered how ben gadsby looked as aaron and the white pig went careening across the dry place in the swamp. there was a silence again, and then aaron said he must be going. "and when are you going home to your master?" little crotchet asked. "never!" replied aaron the runaway, with emphasis. "never! he is no master of mine. he is a bad man." then he undressed little crotchet, tucked the cover about him,--for the nights were growing chill,--whispered good-night, and slipped from the window, letting down the sash gently as he went out. if any one had been watching, he would have seen the tall arab steal along the roof until he came to the limb of an oak that touched the eaves. along this he went nimbly, glided down the trunk to the ground, and disappeared in the darkness. i. the little master. if you imagine that the book called "the story of aaron (so-named), the son of ben ali" tells all the adventures of the arab while he was a fugitive in the wildwoods, you are very much mistaken. if you will go back to that book you will see that timoleon the black stallion, grunter the white pig, gristle the gray pony, and rambler the track dog, told only what they were asked to tell. and they were not anxious to tell even that. they would much rather have been left alone. what they did tell they told without any flourishes whatever, for they wanted to get through and be done with it. story-telling was not in their line, and they knew it very well; so they said what they had to say and that was the end of it so far as they were concerned: setting a worthy example to men and women, and to children, too. it is natural, therefore, that a man such as aaron was, full of courage and valuable to the man who had bought him from the speculator, should have many adventures that the animals knew nothing of, or, if they knew, had no occasion to relate. in the book you will find that buster john and sweetest susan asked only about such things as they heard of incidentally. but some of the most interesting things were never mentioned by aaron at all; consequently the children never asked about them. little crotchet, it will be remembered, who knew more about the matter than anybody except aaron, was dead, and so there was nobody to give the children any hint or cue as to the questions they were to ask. you will say they had aaron close at hand. that is true, but aaron was busy, and besides that he was not fond of talking, especially about himself. and yet, the most of the adventures aaron had in the wildwoods were no secret. they were well known to the people in the neighborhood, and for miles around. in fact, they were made the subject of a great deal of talk in little crotchet's day, and many men (and women too) who were old enough to be wise shook their heads over some of the events and declared that they had never heard of anything more mysterious. and it so happened that this idea of mystery deepened and grew until it made a very romantic figure of aaron, and was a great help to him, not only when he was a fugitive in the wildwoods, but afterwards when he "settled down," as the saying is, and turned his attention to looking after affairs on the abercrombie plantation. all this happened before buster john and sweetest susan were born, while their mother was a girl in her teens. when little crotchet was alive things on the abercrombie plantation were very different from what they were before or afterward. it is true the lad was a cripple and had to go on crutches, except when he was riding gristle, the gray pony. but he was very active and nimble, and very restless, too, for he was here, there, and everywhere. more than that, he was always in a good humor, always cheerful, and most of the time laughing at his own thoughts or at something he had heard. for it was well understood on that plantation, and, indeed, wherever little crotchet was familiarly known, that, as he was something of an invalid, and such a little bit of a fellow to boot, nothing unpleasant was to come to his ears. if he found out about trouble anywhere he was to find it out for himself, and without help from anybody else. but although little crotchet was small and crippled, he had a very wise head on his shoulders. one of the first things he found out was that everybody was in a conspiracy to prevent unpleasant things from coming to his ears, and the idea that he was to be humbugged in this way made him laugh, it was so funny. he said to himself that if he could have troubles while everybody was trying to help him along and make life pleasant for him, surely other people who had nobody to look out for them must have much larger troubles. and he found it to be true, although he never said much about it. the truth is that while people thought they were humbugging little crotchet, he was humbugging everybody except a few who knew what a shrewd little chap he was. these few had found out that little crotchet knew a great deal more about the troubles that visit the unfortunate in this world than anybody knew about his troubles--and he had many. it was very peculiar. he would go galloping about the plantation on the gray pony, and no matter where he stopped there was always a negro ready to let down the bars or the fence. how could this be? why, it was the simplest matter in the world. it made no difference where the field hands were working, nor what they were doing, they were always watching for their little master, as they called him. they were sure to know when he was coming--sure to see him; and no matter how high the fence was, down it would come whenever the gray pony was brought to a standstill. it was a sight to see the hoe hands or the plow hands when their little master went riding among them. it was hats off and "howdy, honey," with all, and that was something the white-haired master never saw unless he was riding with little crotchet, which sometimes happened. once the white-haired master said to little crotchet, "they all love you because you are good, my son." but little crotchet was quick to reply:-- "oh, no, father; it isn't that. it's because i am fond of them!" now, wasn't he wise for his age? he had stumbled upon the great secret that makes all the happiness there is in this world. the negroes loved him because he was fond of them. he used to sit on the gray pony and watch the hands hoeing and plowing; and although they did their best when he was around, he never failed to find out the tired ones and send them on little errands that would rest them. to one it was "get me a keen switch." to another, "see if you can find me any flowers." one of the worst negroes on the plantation was big sal, a mulatto woman. she had a tongue and a temper that nothing could conquer. once little crotchet, sitting on the gray pony, saw her hoeing away with a rag tied around her forehead under her head handkerchief. so he called her out of the gang, and she came with no very good grace, and only then because some of the other negroes shamed her into it. no doubt little crotchet heard her disputing with them, but he paid no attention to it. when big sal came up, he simply said:-- "help me off the horse. i have a headache sometimes, and i feel it coming on now. i want you to sit here and rub my head for me if you are not too tired." "what wid?" cried big sal. "my han's too dirty." "you get the headache out, and i'll get the dirt off," said little crotchet, laughing. big sal laughed too, cleaned her hands the best she could, and rubbed the youngster's head for him, while the gray pony nibbled the crabgrass growing near. but presently, when little crotchet opened his eyes, he found that big sal was crying. she was making no fuss about it, but as she sat with the child's head in her lap the tears were streaming down her face like water. "what are you crying about?" little crotchet asked. "god a'mighty knows, honey. i'm des a-cryin', an' ef de angels fum heav'm wuz ter come down an' ax me, i couldn't tell um no mo' dan dat." this was true enough. the lonely heart had been touched without knowing why. but little crotchet knew. "i reckon it's because you had the headache," he said. "i speck so," answered big sal. "it looked like my head'd bust when you hollered at me, but de pain all done gone now." "i'm glad," replied little crotchet. "i hope my head will quit aching presently. sometimes it aches all night long." "well, suh!" exclaimed big sal. it was all she could say. finally, when she had lifted little crotchet to his saddle (which was easy enough to do, he was so small and frail) and returned, uncle turin, foreman of the hoe hands, remarked:-- "you'll be feelin' mighty biggity now, i speck." "who? me?" cried big sal. "god knows, i feel so little an' mean i could t'ar my ha'r out by de han'ful." uncle turin, simple and kindly old soul, never knew then nor later what big sal meant, but ever afterwards, whenever the woman had one of her tantrums, she went straight to her little master, and if she sometimes came away from him crying it was not his fault. if she was crying it was because she was comforted, and it all seemed so simple and natural to her that she never failed to express a deep desire to tear her hair out if anybody asked her where she had been or where she was going. it was not such an easy matter to reach the plow hands. the fields were wide and the furrows were long on that plantation, and some of the mules were nimbler than the others, and some of the hands were quicker. so that it rarely happened that they all came down the furrows abreast. but what difference did that make? let them come one by one, or two by two, or twenty abreast, it was all the same when the little master was in sight. it was hats off and "howdy," with "gee, beck!" and "haw, rhody!" and "whar you been, little marster, dat we ain't seed you sence day 'fo' yistiddy?" and so until they had all saluted the child on the gray pony. and why did susy's sam hang back and want to turn his mule around before he had finished the furrow? it was easy to see. susy's sam, though he was the most expert plowman in the gang, had only one good hand, the other being a mere stump, and he disliked to be singled out from the rest on that account. but it was useless for him to hang back. little crotchet always called for susy's sam. sometimes sam would say that his mule was frisky and wouldn't stand. but the word would come, "well, drive the mule out in the bushes," and then susy's sam would have a long resting spell that did him good, and there would be nobody to complain. and so it was with the rest. whoever was sick or tired was sure to catch the little master's eye. how did he know? well, don't ask too many questions about that. you might ask how the gray pony knew the poison vines and grasses. it was a case of just knowing, without knowing where the knowledge came from. but it was not only the plow hands and the hoe hands that little crotchet knew about. at the close of summer there were the cotton pickers and the reapers to be looked after. in fact, this was little crotchet's busiest time, for many of the negro children were set to picking cotton, and the lad felt called on to look after these more carefully than he looked after the grown hands. many a time he had half a dozen holding the gray pony at once. this made the older negroes shake their heads, and say that the little master was spoiling the children, but you may be sure that they thought none the less of him on that account. [illustration: that's randall's song] and then there were the reapers, the men who cut the oats and the wheat, and the binders that followed after. at the head of the reapers was randall, tall, black, and powerful. it was fun to see the blade of his cradle flashing in the sun, and hear it swing with a swish through the golden grain. he led the reapers always by many yards, but when he was making the pace too hot for them he had a way of stopping to sharpen his scythe and starting up a song which spread from mouth to mouth until it could be heard for miles. aaron, hiding in the wildwoods, could hear it, and at such times he would turn to one of his companions--the white pig, or rambler, or that gay joker, the fox squirrel--and say: "that's randall's song. he sees the little master coming." the white pig would grunt, and rambler would say he'd rather hear a horn; but the red squirrel would chatter like mad and declare that he lost one of his ears by sitting on a limb of the live oak and singing when he saw a man coming. but the reapers knew nothing about the experience of the fox squirrel, and so they went on singing whenever randall gave the word. and little crotchet was glad to hear them, for he used to sit on the gray pony and listen, sometimes feeling happy, and at other times feeling lonely indeed. it may have been the quaint melody that gave him a lonely feeling, or it may have been his sympathy for those who suffer the pains of disease or the pangs of trouble. the negroes used to watch him as they sang and worked, and say in the pauses of their song:-- "little marster mighty funny!" that was the word,--"funny,"--and yet it had a deeper meaning for the negroes than the white people ever gave it. funny!--when the lad leaned his pale cheek on the frail hand, and allowed his thoughts (were they thoughts or fleeting aspirations or momentary longings?) to follow the swift, sweet echoes of the song. for the echoes had a thousand nimble feet, and with these they fled away, away,--away beyond the river and its bordering hills; for the echoes had twangling wings, like those of a turtle-dove, and on these they lifted themselves heavenward, and floated above the world, and above the toil and trouble and sorrow and pain that dwell therein. funny!--when the voice of some singer, sweeter and more powerful than the rest, rose suddenly from the pauses of the song, and gave words, as it seemed, to all the suffering that the little master had ever known. aye! so funny that at such times little crotchet would suddenly wave his hand to the singing reapers, and turn the gray pony's head toward the river. was he following the rolling echoes? he could never hope to overtake them. once when this happened uncle fountain stopped singing to say:-- "i wish i wuz a runaway nigger!" "no, you don't!" exclaimed randall. "yes, i does," uncle fountain insisted. "how come?" "kaze den i'd have little marster runnin' atter me ev'y chance he got." "go 'way, nigger man! you'd have jim simmons's nigger dogs atter you, an' den what'd you do?" "dat ar aaron had um atter 'im, an' what'd he do?" "de lord, he knows,--i don't! but don't you git de consate in yo' min' dat you kin do what aaron done done, kaze you'll fool yo'se'f, sho!" "what aaron done done?" fountain was persistent. "he done fool dem ar nigger dogs; dat what he done done." "den how come i can't fool dem ar dogs?" "how come? well, you des try um one time, mo' speshully dat ar col'-nose dog, which he name soun'." "well, i ain't bleege ter try it when de white folks treat me right," remarked uncle fountain, after thinking the matter over. "dat what make i say what i does," asserted randall. "when you know 'zactly what you got, an' when you got mighty nigh what you want, dat's de time ter lay low an' say nothin'. hit's some trouble ter git de corn off'n de cob, but spozen dey want no corn on de cob, what den?" "honey, ain't it de trufe?" exclaimed uncle fountain. thus the negroes talked. they knew a great deal more about aaron than the white people did, but even the negroes didn't know as much as the little master, and for a very good reason. they had no time to find out things, except at night, and at night--well, you may believe it or not, just as you please, but at night the door of the swamp was closed and locked--locked hard and fast. the owls, the night hawks, the whippoorwills, and the chuck-will's widows could fly over. yes, and the willis whistlers could creep through or crawl under when they returned home from their wild serenades. but everything else--even that red joker, the fox squirrel--must have a key. aaron had one, and the white grunter, and rambler, and all the four-footed creatures that walk on horn sandals or in velvet slippers each had a key. the little master might have had one for the asking, but always when night came he was glad to lie on his sofa and read, or, better still, go to bed and sleep, so that he never had the need of a key to open the door of the swamp after it was closed and locked at night. ii. the secrets of the swamp. however hard and fast the door of the swamp may be locked at night, however tightly it may be shut, it opens quickly enough to whomsoever carries the key. there is no creaking of its vast and heavy hinges; there is not the faintest flutter of a leaf, nor the softest whisper of a blade of grass. that is the bargain the bearer of the key must make:-- _that which sleeps, disturb not its slumber. that which moves, let it swiftly pass._ else the swamp will never reveal itself. the sound of one alien footfall is enough. it is the signal for each secret to hide itself, and for all the mysteries to vanish into mystery. the swamp calls them all in, covers them as with a mantle, and puts on its every-day disguise,--the disguise that the eyes of few mortals have ever penetrated. but those who stand by the bargain that all key-bearers must make--whether they go on two legs or on four, whether they fly or crawl or creep or swim--find the swamp more friendly. there is no disguise anywhere. the secrets come swarming forth from all possible or impossible places; and the mysteries, led by their torch-bearer jack-o'-the-lantern, glide through the tall canes and move about among the tall trees. the unfathomable blackness of night never sets foot here. it is an alien and is shut out. and this is one of the mysteries. if, when the door of the swamp is opened to a key-bearer the black night seems to have crept in, wait a moment,--have patience. it is a delusion. underneath this leafy covering, in the midst of this dense growth of vines and saw-grass and reeds and canes, there is always a wonderful hint of dawn--a shadowy, shimmering hint, elusive and indescribable, but yet sufficient to give dim shape to that which is near at hand. not far away the frightened squeak of some small bird breaks sharply on the ear of the swamp. this is no alien note, and jack-o'-the-lantern dances up and down, and all the mysteries whisper in concert:-- "we wish you well, mr. fox. don't choke yourself with the feathers. good-night, mr. fox, good-night!" two minute globules of incandescent light come into sight and disappear, and the mysteries whisper:-- "too late, mr. mink, too late! better luck next time. good-night!" a rippling sound is heard in the lagoon as the leander of the swamp slips into the water. jack-o'-the-lantern flits to the level shore of the pool, and the mysteries come sweeping after, sighing:-- "farewell, mr. muskrat! good luck and good-night!" surely there is an alien sound on the knoll yonder,--snapping, growling, and fighting. have stray dogs crept under the door? oh, no! the swamp smiles, and all the mysteries go trooping thither to see the fun. it is a wonderful frolic! mr. red fox has met mr. gray fox face to face. something tells mr. red fox "here's your father's enemy." something whispers to mr. gray, "here's your mother's murderer." and so they fall to, screaming and gnawing and panting and snarling. mr. gray fox is the strongest, but his heart is the weakest. without warning he turns tail and flies, with mr. red fox after him, and with all the mysteries keeping them company. they run until they are past the boundary line,--the place where the trumpet flower tried to marry the black-jack tree,--and then, of course, the swamp has no further concern with them. and the mysteries and their torch-bearers come trooping home. [illustration: mr. red fox meets mr. gray fox] it is fun when mr. red fox and mr. gray fox meet on the knoll, but the swamp will never have such a frolic as it had one night when a strange bird came flying in over the door. it is known that the birds that sleep while the swamp is awake have been taught to hide their heads under their wings. it is not intended that they should see what is going on. even the buzzard, that sleeps in the loblolly pine, and the wild turkey, that sleeps in the live oak, conform to this custom. they are only on the edge of the swamp, but they feel that it would be rude not to put their heads under their wings while the swamp is awake. but this strange bird--of a family of night birds not hitherto known to that region--was amazed when he beheld the spectacle. "oho!" he cried; "what queer country is this, where all the birds are headless? if i'm to live here in peace, i must do as the brethren do." so he went off in search of advice. as he went along he saw the bull-frog near the lagoon. "queerer still," exclaimed the stranger. "here is a bird that has no head, and he can sing." this satisfied him, and he went farther until he saw mr. wildcat trying to catch little mr. flying-squirrel. "good-evening, sir," said the stranger. "i see that the birds in this country have no heads." mr. wildcat smiled and bowed and licked his mouth. "i presume, sir, that i ought to get rid of my head if i am to stay here, and i have nowhere else to go. how am i to do it?" "easy enough," responded mr. wildcat, smiling and bowing and licking his mouth. "birds that are so unfortunate as to have heads frequently come to me for relief. may i examine your neck to see what can be done?" the strange bird fully intended to say, "why, certainly, sir!" he had the words all made up, but his head was off before he could speak. being a large bird, he fluttered and shook his wings and jumped about a good deal. as the noise was not alien, the swamp and all its mysteries came forth to investigate, and oh, what a frolic there was when mr. wildcat related the facts! the torch-bearers danced up and down with glee, and the mysteries waltzed to the quick piping of the willis-whistlers. although the swamp was not a day older when aaron, the son of ben ali, became a key-bearer, the frolic over the headless bird was far back of aaron's time. older! the swamp was even younger, for it was not a swamp until old age had overtaken it--until centuries had made it fresh and green and strong. the indians had camped round about, had tried to run its mysteries down, and had failed. then came a band of wandering spaniards, with ragged clothes, and tarnished helmets, and rusty shields, and neighing horses--the first the swamp had ever seen. the spaniards floundered in at one side--where the trumpet vine tried to marry the black-jack tree--and floundered out on the other side more bedraggled than ever. this was a great victory for the swamp, and about that time it came to know and understand itself. for centuries it had been "organizing," and when it pulled de soto's company of spaniards in at one side and flung them out at the other, considerably the worse for wear, it felt that the "organization" was complete. and so it was and had been for years and years, and so it remained thereafter--a quiet place when the sun was above the trees, but wonderfully alert and alive when night had fallen. the swamp that aaron knew was the same that the indians and spaniards had known. the loblolly pine had grown, and the big poplars on the knoll had expanded a trifle with the passing centuries, but otherwise the swamp was the same. and yet how different! the indians had not found it friendly, and the spaniards regarded it as an enemy; but to aaron it gave shelter, and sometimes food, and its mysteries were his companions. jack-o'-the-lantern showed him the hidden paths when the mists of night fell darker than usual. he became as much a part of the swamp as the mysteries were, entering into its life, and becoming native to all its moods and conditions. and his presence there seemed to give the swamp new responsibilities. its thousand eyes were always watching for his enemies, and its thousand tongues were always ready to whisper the news of the coming of an alien. the turkey buzzard, soaring thousands of feet above the top of the great pine, the blue falcon, suspended in the air a mile away, the crow, flapping lazily across the fields, stood sentinel during the day, and the swamp understood the messages they sent. at night the willis-whistlers were on guard, and their lines extended for miles in all directions, and the swamp itself was awake, and needed no warning message. sometimes at night the sound of randall's trumpet fell on the ear of the swamp, or the voice of uncle fountain was heard lifted up in song, as he went over the hills to his fish-baskets in the river; and these were restful and pleasing sounds. sometimes the trailing cry of hounds was heard. if in the day, rambler, the track dog, would listen until he knew whether the cry came from jim simmons's "nigger dogs," from the gossett hounds, or from some other pack. if at night, the swamp cared little about it, for it was used to these things after the sun went down. mr. coon insisted on gadding about, and it served him right, the swamp insisted, when the hounds picked up his drag--as the huntsmen say--and brought him home with a whirl. he was safe when he got there, for let the hounds bay at the door of his house as long as they might, no hunter with torch and axe would venture into the swamp. they had tried it--oh, many times. _but the door was locked, and the key was safely kid in a hollow tree._ if it was merely cousin coon who lived up the river, well and good. it would teach the incurable vagrant a lesson, and the swamp enjoyed the fun. the willis-whistlers stopped to listen, the mysteries hid behind the trees, and jack-o'-the-lantern extinguished his torch as the hounds came nearer with their quavering cries. was it mr. coon or cousin coon? why, cousin coon, of course. how did the swamp know? it was the simplest thing in the world. wasn't there a splash and a splutter as he ran into the quagmire? wasn't there a snap and a snarl when the partridge-pea vine caught his foot? did he know the paths? didn't he double and turn and go back the way he came, to be caught and killed on dry land? would mr. coon of the swamp ever be caught on dry land? don't you believe it! if cut off from home, he would run to the nearest pond and plunge in. once there, was there a hound that would venture to take a bath with him? the swamp laughed at the thought of such a thing. aaron smiled, the white pig grunted, and rambler grinned. cousin coon is no more, but mr. coon is safe at home and the swamp knows it. _good luck to all who know the way, by crooked path and clinging vine! for them night's messengers shall stay, for them the laggard moon shall shine._ but it was not always that aliens and strangers were unwelcome. occasionally in the still hours between midnight and dawn the swamp would open its doors to gossett's riley. he had no key and he had never come to know and feel that the swamp was something more than a mixture of mud and water, trees, canes, vines, and all manner of flying, creeping, and crawling things. to him the swamp was merely a place and not a thing, but this was ignorance, and the swamp forgave it for various reasons, forgave it and pitied him as he deserved to be pitied. and yet he had qualities out of the common, and for these the swamp admired him. he was little more than a dwarf, being "bow-legged and chuckle-headed," as susy's sam used to say, and was called chunky riley, but he was very much of a man for all that. at a log-rolling there was not a negro for miles around who could pull him down with the handstick. aaron could do it, but aaron was not a negro, but an arab, and that is different. chunky riley was even stronger in limb and body than aaron, but aaron used his head, as well as body and limb--and that also is different. riley was not swift of foot, but he could run far, as gossett's hounds well knew. more than that, he could go on all-fours almost as fast as he could run on two legs, and that was something difficult to do. the swamp found chunky riley out in a very curious way. the first time he came to bring a message to aaron he waited for no introduction whatever. the willis-whistlers warned him, but he paid no attention to their warning; the mysteries whispered to him, but his ears were closed. he searched for no path, and was blind to all the signals. he blundered into the swamp and floundered toward the knoll as the spaniards did. he floundered out of the quagmire near where the white pig lay. he had the scent and all the signs of an alien, and the white grunter rushed at him with open mouth. the swamp was now angry from centre to circumference, and poor chunky riley's ending would have been swift and sudden but for the fact that he bore some undeveloped kinship to the elements that surrounded him. [illustration: a-straddle of the grunter's back] as the white pig rushed forward with open mouth, chunky riley caught a vague glimpse of him in the darkness, gave one wild yell, leaped into the air, and came down a-straddle of the grunter's back. this was more than the white pig had bargained for. he answered riley's yell with a loud squeal, and went tearing through the swamp to the place where aaron dwelt. the big owl hooted, rambler howled, and jack-o'-the-lantern threw down his torch and fled. the swamp that had been angry was amazed and frightened. what demon was this that had seized the white grunter and was carrying him off? what could the rest hope for if so fierce a creature as the white pig could be disposed of in this fashion? even aaron was alarmed at the uproar, for chunky riley continued to yell, and the white pig kept up its squealing. it was well that the grunter, when he came to aaron's place, ran close enough to a tree to rub chunky riley off his back, otherwise there is no telling what would have happened. it was well, too, that chunky riley called loudly for aaron when he fell, otherwise he would have been made mincemeat of; for as soon as the white pig was relieved of his strange burden, his anger rose fiercer than ever, and he came charging at chunky riley, who was lying prone on the ground, too frightened to do anything more than try to run to a tree on all-fours. aaron spoke sharply to the white pig. "shall i use a club on you, white grunter? shall i make bacon of you? you heard him call my name." the white pig paused. his small eyes glittered in the dark, and chunky riley heard his tusks grate ominously. he knew the creature was foaming with rage. "ooft! your name, son of ben ali?" said the white pig in language that chunky riley thought was merely a series of angry grunts and snorts. "ooft! i heard him call for aaron, and how long has it been since i heard you say to the red chatterer in the hickory-tree that there were a thousand aarons, but only one son of ben ali? ooft-gooft! am i a horse to be ridden? humph! no man could ride me--it is what you call a thing. umph! let it ride you and then talk about clubs. ooft!" "is dat aaron?" chunky riley ventured to inquire. "ef 't is, i wish you'd be good enough ter run dat ar creetur 'way fum here, kaze i ain't got no knack fer bein' chaw'd up an' spit out, an' trompled on, an' teetotally ruint right 'fo' my own face." "what's your name?" inquired aaron. "you ought ter know me, but i dunner whedder you does er not. i'm name riley--dey calls me chunky riley fer short." aaron was silent for a moment, as if trying to remember the name. presently he laughed and said: "why, yes; i know you pretty well. come, we'll kindle a fire." "no suh--not me! not less'n you'll run dat ar wil' hog off. he mo' servigrous dan a pant'er. ef i hadn't er straddled 'im des now he'd 'a' e't me bodaciously up an' dey wouldn't 'a' been nothin' lef' but de buttons on my cloze, an' nobody in de roun' worl' would 'a' know'd dey wuz buttons." aaron laughed while speaking to the white pig: "get to bed, grunter. it is the lifter--the man that is as strong in the back as a horse." "gooft-ooft! let him ride you out as he rode me in--ooft! he's no man! gooft! no bed for me. when a horse is ridden, he must eat, as i've heard you say, son of ben ali. gooft-ooft!" the white pig, still grinding his tusks together, turned and trotted off into the darkness, and presently aaron and chunky riley heard him crashing through the canes and reeds. then aaron kindled his fire. "why did you come?" inquired the son of ben ali when the two had made themselves comfortable. "des ter fetch word dat marster wuz layin' off ter git atter you wid simmons's nigger-dogs 'fo' long." "all the way through the dark for that? when did you come to like me so well?" "oh, 't ain't 'zackly dat," replied chunky riley frankly. "i hear um talkin' 'bout it when marster an' dat ar mr. simmons wuz walkin' out in de hoss lot. i wuz in de corn crib, an' dey didn't know it, an' i des sot dar an' lis'n at um. an' den dis mornin' i seed dat ar little marse abercrombie, an' he say, 'go tell aaron quick ez you kin.'" "the child with the crutches?" queried aaron. "de ve'y same," replied chunky riley. he paused awhile and then added: "i'd walk many a long mile fer dat white chil', day er night, rain er shine." he gazed in the flickering fire a long time, waiting for aaron to make some comment. hearing none, he finally turned his eyes on his companion. aaron was looking skyward, where one small star could be seen twinkling through the ascending smoke from the fire, and his lips were moving, though they framed no words that chunky riley could hear. something in the attitude of the son of ben ali disturbed the negro. "well, i done what i come ter do," he said, making a pretense of stretching himself and yawning, "an' i speck i'd better be gwine." the son of ben ali still kept his eye fixed on the twinkling star. "what pesters me," chunky riley went on, "is de idee dat dat ar wil' hog went 'zackly de way i got ter go. i don't want ter hatter ride 'im no mo' less'n i got a saddle an' bridle." "come!" exclaimed aaron suddenly, "i'll go with you. i want to see the little master." "de dogs'll fin' yo' track sho, ef dey start out to-morrer," suggested chunky riley. the only response the son of ben ali made to this suggestion was to say: "take the end of my cane in your hand and follow it. we'll take a short cut." chunky riley had queer thoughts as he followed his tall conductor, being led as if he were a blind man; but he said nothing. presently (it seemed but a few minutes to chunky riley) they stood on the top of a hill. "look yonder!" said aaron. away to the left a red light glimmered faintly. "what dat?" asked the superstitious negro. "the light in the little master's window." "how came it so red, den?" inquired chunky riley. "red curtain," replied aaron curtly. "well, de lord he'p us! is we dat close?" cried chunky riley. "your way is there," said the son of ben ali; "this is mine." the negro stood watching aaron until his tall form was lost in the darkness. iii. what chunky riley saw and heard left alone, chunky riley stood still and tried to trace in his mind the route he and aaron had followed in coming from the swamp. but he could make no mental map--and he knew every "nigh-cut" and by-path for miles around--that would fit in with the time it had taken them to reach the spot where he now stood. he looked back toward the swamp, but the night covered it, and he could see nothing. then he looked around him, to see if he knew his present whereabouts. oh, yes, that was easy; every foot of ground was familiar. the hill on which he had stood had been given over to scrub pines. the hill itself sloped away to the turner old fields. but still he was puzzled, and still he scratched his head, for he knew that the swamp was a good four miles away--nearly five--and it seemed to him that he and aaron had been only a few minutes in making the journey. so he scratched his head and wondered to himself whether aaron was really a "conjur' man." it was perhaps very lucky for chunky riley that he stopped when he did. if he had kept on he would have run into the arms of three men who were going along the plantation path that led from gossett's negro quarters to the abercrombie place. the delay that chunky riley made prevented him from meeting them, but it did not prevent him from hearing the murmur of their voices as he struck into the path. they were too far off for chunky riley to know whether they were white or black, but just as he turned into the path to go to gossett's the scent of a cigar floated to his nostrils. he paused and scratched his head again. he knew by the scent of the cigar that the voices he heard belonged to white men: but who were they? if they were the "patterollers" they'd catch aaron beyond all question; it would be impossible for him to escape. so thought chunky riley, and so thinking, he turned and followed the path towards the abercrombie place. he moved rapidly but cautiously. the scent of the cigar grew stronger, the sound of men's voices fell more distinctly on his ear. chunky riley left the path and skirted through the low pines until he came to the fence that inclosed the spring lot. he knew that if he was heard, the men would think he was a calf, or, mayhap, a mule; for the hill on which aaron had left him was now a part of a great pasture, in which the calves and dry cattle and (between seasons) the mules were allowed to roam at will. coming to the fence, chunky riley would have crossed it, but the voices were louder now, and he caught a glimpse of the red sparks of lighted cigars. creeping closer and closer, but ever ready to drop on the ground and run away on all-fours, chunky riley was soon able to hear what the men were saying. he knew the voices of his master and young master, mr. gossett--old grizzle, as he was called--and george, and he rightly judged that the strange voice mingling with theirs belonged to mr. jim simmons, who, with a trained pack of hounds,--"nigger dogs" they were called,--held himself at the service of owners of runaway negroes. mr. simmons's average fee was $ --that is to say when he was "called in time." but in special cases his charge was $ . when chunky riley arrived within earshot of the group, mr. gossett was just concluding a protest that he had made against the charge of $ , which he had reluctantly agreed to pay for the capture of aaron. "you stayed at my house to-day, you'll stay there to-night, and maybe you'll come back to dinner to-morrow. there's the feeding of you and your dogs. you don't take any account of that at all." mr. gossett's voice was sharp and emphatic. his stinginess was notorious in that region, and gave rise to the saying that gossett loved a dollar better than he did his wife. but he was no more ashamed of his stinginess than he was of the shabbiness of his hat. "but, colonel," remonstrated mr. jim simmons, "didn't you send for me? didn't you say, 'glad to see you, simmons; walk right in and make yourself at home'? you did, fer a fact." he spoke with a drawl that irritated the snappy and emphatic mr. gossett. "why, certainly, simmons; certainly i did. i mentioned the matter to show you that your charges are out of all reason in this case. all you have to do is to come here with your dogs in the morning, skirt around the place, pick up his trail, and there you are." "but, colonel!" insisted mr. jim simmons with his careless, irritating drawl, "ain't it a plum' fact that this nigger's been in the woods a month or sech a matter? ain't it a plum' fact that you've tracked him and trailed him with your own dogs?--and good dogs they are, and i'll tell anybody so. now what do you pay me fer? fer catching the nigger? no, sirree! the nigger's as good as caught now--when it comes to that. you pay me fer knowing how to catch him--that's what you pay me fer. you send fer the doctor. he comes and fumbles around a little, and you have to pay the bill whether he kills or cures. you don't pay him fer killing or curing; you pay him fer knowing how to fumble around. it's some different with me. if i don't catch your nigger, you button up your pocket. if i do catch him you pay me $ down, not fer catching him, but fer knowing how to fumble around and catch him." the logic of this argument, which was altogether lost on chunky riley, silenced mr. gossett, but did not convince him. there was a long pause, as if all three of the men were wrestling with peculiar thoughts. finally mr. gossett spoke:-- "it ain't so much the nigger i'm after, but i want to show abercrombie that i can't be outdone. he's laughing in his sleeve because i can't keep the nigger at home, and i'll be blamed"--here his voice sank to a confidential tone--"i'll be blamed if i don't believe that, between him and that son of his, they are harboring the nigger. yes, sir, harboring is the word." mr. jim simmons threw down his lighted cigar with such energy as to cause the sparks to fly in all directions. a cigar was an unfamiliar luxury to mr. simmons, and he had had enough of it. "addison abercrombie harboring a nigger!" exclaimed mr. simmons. "why, colonel, if every man, woman, and child in the united states was to tell me that i wouldn't believe it. addison abercrombie! why, colonel, though you're his next-door neighbor, as you may say, you don't know him half as well as i do. you ought to get acquainted with that man." "humph! i know him well enough, i reckon," responded mr. gossett. "i went to school with him. folks get to know one another at school. he was always stuck up, trying to hold his head higher than anybody else because his daddy had money and a big plantation. i made my prop'ty myself; i earned every dollar; and i know how it came." "but, colonel!" mr. jim simmons insisted, "addison abercrombie would hold his head high if he never seen a dollar, and he'd have the right to do it. him harbor niggers? shucks, colonel! you might as well tell me that the moon ain't nothing but a tater pudding." "what do you see in the man?" mr. gossett asked with some irritation in the tones of his voice. there was a pause, as though mr. simmons was engaged in getting his thoughts together. finally he said:-- "well, colonel, i don't reckon i can make it plain to you, because when i come to talk about it i can't grab the identical idee that would fit what i've got in my mind. but i'll tell you what's the honest truth, in my opinion--and i'm not by myself, by a long shot--addison abercrombie is as fine a man as ever trod shoe leather. that's what." "humph!" grunted mr. gossett. "yes, sirree!" persisted mr. simmons, warming up a little. "it makes no difference where you see him, nor when you see him, nor how you see him, you can up and say: 'the lord has made many men of many minds, and many men of many kinds, but not sence adam has he made a better man than addison abercrombie.' that's the way i look at it, colonel. i may be wrong, but if i am i'll never find it out in this world." plainly, mr. gossett was not prepared to hear such a tribute as this paid to addison abercrombie, and he winced under it. he hemmed and hawed, as the saying is, and changed his position on the fence. he was thoroughly disgusted. now there was no disagreement between mr. gossett and mr. abercrombie,--no quarrel, that is to say,--but gossett knew that abercrombie regarded him with a feeling akin to contempt. he treasured in his mind a remark that abercrombie had made about him the day he bought aaron from the negro speculator. he never forgot nor forgave it, for it was an insinuation that mr. gossett, in spite of his money and his thrifty ways, was not much of a gentleman. on this particular subject mr. gossett was somewhat sensitive, as men are who have doubts in their own minds as to their standing. mr. gossett had an idea that money and "prop'ty," as he called it, made a gentleman; but it was a very vague idea, and queer doubts sometimes pestered him. it was these doubts that made him "touchy" on this subject. "what has this great man ever done for you, simmons?" mr. gossett asked, with a contemptuous snort. "not anything, colonel, on the top of the green globe. i went to him once to borrow some money, and he wanted to lend it to me without taking my note and without charging me any interest. i says to him, says i, 'you'll have to excuse me.'" "that was right; you did perfectly right, simmons. the man was trying to insult you." "but, colonel, he didn't go about it that way. don't you reckon you could tell when anybody was trying to insult you? that was the time i come to you." "i charged you interest, didn't i, simmons?" "you did, colonel, fer a fact." "i'm this kind of a man, simmons," remarked mr. gossett, with a touch of sincere pride and gratification in his voice. "when i do business with a man i do business. when i do him a favor it must be outside of business. it's mixing the two things up that keeps so many people poor." "what two things, colonel?" gravely inquired simmons. "why the doing of business and--er--the doing of favors." "oh, i see," said mr. simmons, as if a great light had been turned on the matter. then he laughed and continued: "yes, colonel, i borrowed the money from you and just about that time the fever taken me down, and if it hadn't 'a' been fer addison abercrombie the note i give you would have swallowed my house and land." "is that so?" inquired mr. gossett. "ask my wife," replied mr. simmons. "one day while i was out of my head with the fever, addison abercrombie, he rid by and saw my wife setting on the front steps, jest a-boohooing,--you know how wimmen will do, colonel; if they ain't a-jawing they're a-cryin'. so addison abercrombie, he ups and asks her what's the matter, and jennie, she tells him. he got right off his hoss and come in, and set by my bed the better part of the morning. and all that time there i was a-running on about notes and a-firing off my troubles in the air. so the upshot of the business was that addison abercrombie left the money there to pay the note and left word for me to pay him back when i got good and ready; and jennie hadn't hardly dried her eyes before here come a nigger on horseback with a basket on his arm, and in the basket was four bottles of wine. wine! why, colonel, it was worse 'n wine. jennie says that if arry one of the bottles had 'a' had a load of buckshot in it, the roof would 'a' been blow'd off when the stopper flew out. and, colonel! if ever you feel like taking a right smart of exercise, jest pass my house some day and stick your head over the palings and tell jennie that addison abercrombie's got a streak of meanness in him." "have you ever paid abercrombie?" mr. gossett inquired. his voice was harsh and businesslike. "i was laying off to catch this nigger of yours and pay him some on account," replied mr. simmons. "why, it has been three years since you paid me," suggested mr. gossett. "two years or sech a matter," remarked mr. simmons complacently. "then that's the reason you think abercrombie ain't harboring my nigger?" inquired mr. gossett scornfully. "but, colonel," drawled mr. simmons, "what under the sun ever got the idee in your head that addison abercrombie _is_ harboring your nigger?" "it's as simple as a-b ab," mr. gossett replied with energy. "he tried to buy the nigger off the block and couldn't, and now he thinks i'll sell if the nigger'll stay in the woods long enough. that's the reason he's harboring the nigger. and more than that: don't i know from my own niggers that the yaller rapscallion comes here every chance he gets? he comes, but he don't go in the nigger quarters. now, where does he go?" "yes, where?" said mr. gossett's son george, who up to that moment had taken no part in the conversation. "three times this month i've dealt out an extra rasher of bacon to two of our hands, and they tell the same tale." "it looks quare," mr. simmons admitted, "but as sure as you're born addison abercrombie ain't the man to harbor a runaway nigger. if he's ever had a nigger in the woods, it's more'n i know, and when that's the case you may set it down fer a fact that he don't believe in runaway niggers." this was a lame argument, but it was the best that mr. simmons could muster at the moment. "no," remarked mr. gossett sarcastically, "his niggers don't take to the woods because they do as they blamed please at home. it sets my teeth on edge to see the way things are run on this plantation. why, i could take the stuff that's flung away here and get rich on it in five years. it's a scandal." "i believe you!" assented his son george dutifully. chunky riley heard this conversation by snatches, but he caught the drift of it. what he remembered of it was that some of his fellow servants were ready to tell all they knew for an extra "rasher" of meat, and that the hunt for aaron would begin the next morning,--and it was now getting along toward dawn. he wanted to warn aaron again. he wanted especially to tell aaron that three men were sitting on the fence waiting for him. but this was impossible. the hour was approaching when chunky riley must be in his cabin on the gossett plantation ready to go to work with the rest of the hands. he had slept soundly the first half of the night, and he would be as fresh in the field when the sun rose as those who had slept the night through. as he turned away from the fence a dog in the path leading from the spring to the stile suddenly began to bay. the men tried to drive him away, and one of them threw a stick at him, but the dog refused to be intimidated. he bayed them more fiercely, but finally retreated toward the spring, stopping occasionally to bark at the men on the fence. "if i'm not mistaken," remarked mr. gossett, "that's my dog rambler. i know his voice, and he's been missing ever since that nigger went to the woods. i wonder if he's taken up over here? george, i wish you'd make it convenient to come over here as soon as you can, and find out whether rambler is here. now, there's a dog, simmons, that's away ahead of anything you've got in the shape of a nigger dog,--nose as cold as ice, and as much sense as the common run of folks." "he ain't doing you much good," responded mr. simmons. "that's a fact," said mr. gossett. "till i heard that dog barking i thought rambler had been killed by that nigger." chunky riley struck into the plantation path leading to gossett's, at the point where the three men had tied their horses. they had ridden as far as they thought prudent, considering the errand they were on, and then they dismounted and made their horses fast to the overhanging limbs of a clump of oaks, which, for some reason or other, had been left standing in the field. one of the horses whinnied when chunky riley came near, and the negro paused. aaron would have known that the horse said, "please take me home, and be quick about it; i'm hungry;" but chunky riley could only guess. and as he guessed a thought struck him--a thought that made him scratch his head and chuckle. he turned in his tracks, went back along the path a little way, and listened. then he returned, and the horse whinnied again. the creature was growing impatient. once more chunky riley indulged in a hearty laugh, slapping himself softly on the leg. then he went to the horses one by one, pulled down the swinging limbs to which their bridle reins were fastened, and untied them. this done, he proceeded to make himself "mighty skace," as he expressed it. he started toward home at a rapid trot, without pausing to listen. but even without listening, he could hear the horses coming after him, mr. simmons's horse with the others. the faster he trotted the faster the horses trotted; and when chunky riley began to run the horses broke into a gallop, and came clattering along the path after him, their stirrups flying wildly about and making a clamor that chunky riley had not bargained for. the faster he ran the faster the horses galloped, until at last it seemed to him that the creatures were trying to run him down. this idea took possession of his mind, and at once his fears magnified the situation. he imagined the horses were right at his heels. he could feel the hot breath of one of them on the back of his neck. fortunately for chunky riley there was a fence at the point where the path developed into a lane. over this he climbed and fell exhausted, fully expecting the horses to climb over or break through and trample him under their feet. but his expectations were not realized; the horses galloped along the lane, and presently he could hear them clattering along the big road toward gossett's. chunky riley was exhausted as well as terror-stricken. the perspiration rolled from his face, and he could hear his heart beat. he lay in the soft grass in the fence corner until he had recovered somewhat from his exertions and his fright. finally he rose, looked back along the way he had come, then toward the big road, and shook his head. [illustration: the horses were right at his heels] "is anybody ever see de beat er dat?" he exclaimed. whereupon he went through the woods instead of going by the road, and was soon in his cabin frying his ration of bacon. iv. between midnight and dawn. when aaron parted from chunky riley on the hill after they had come from the swamp, he went along the path to the spring, stooped on his hands and knees and took a long draught of the cool water. then he went to the rear of the negro quarters, crossed the orchard fence, and passed thence to the flower garden in front of the great house. at one corner of the house a large oak reared its head above the second story. some of its limbs when swayed by the wind swept the dormer window that jutted out from little crotchet's room. behind the red curtain of this dormer window a light shone, although it was now past midnight. it shone there at night whenever little crotchet was restless and sleepless and wanted to see aaron. and this was often, for the youngster, with all his activity, rarely knew what it was to be free from pain. but for his journeys hither and yonder on the gray pony he would have been very unhappy indeed. all day long he could make some excuse for putting his aches aside; he could even forget them. but at night when everything was quiet, pain would rap at the door and insist on coming in and getting in bed with him. little crotchet had many quaint thoughts and queer imaginings, and one of these was that pain was a sure-enough something or other that could come in at the door and go out when it chose--a little goblin dressed in red flannel, with a green hat running to a sharp peak at the top, and a yellow tassel dangling from the peak--a red flannel goblin always smelling of camphor and spirits of turpentine. sometimes--and those were rare nights--the red goblin remained away, and then little crotchet could sleep and dream the most beautiful dreams. but usually, as soon as night had fallen on the plantation and there was no longer any noise in the house, the little red goblin, with his peaked green hat, would open the door gently and peep in to see whether the lad was asleep--and he knew at a glance whether little crotchet was sleeping or only feigning sleep. sometimes the youngster would shut his eyes ever so tight, and lie as still as a mouse, hoping that the red goblin would go away. but the trick never succeeded. the red goblin was too smart for that. if there was a blaze in the fireplace he would wink at it very solemnly; if not, he'd wink at the candle. and he never was in any hurry. he'd sit squat on the floor for many long moments. sometimes he'd run and jump in the bed with little crotchet and then jump out again. sometimes he'd pretend he was going to jump in the bed, when suddenly another notion would strike him, and he'd turn and run out at the door, and not come back again for days. but this was unusual. night in and night out, the year round, the red goblin rarely failed to show himself in little crotchet's room, and crawl under the cover with the lad. there was but one person in all that region whom the red goblin was afraid of, and that was aaron. but he was an obstinate goblin. frequently he'd stay after aaron came, and try his best to fight it out with the son of ben ali; but in the end he would have to go. there were times, however, when aaron could not respond to little crotchet's signal of distress,--the light in the dormer window,--and at such times the red goblin would have everything his own way. he would stay till all the world was awake, and then sneak off to his hiding-place, leaving little crotchet weak and exhausted. [illustration: the goblin pain] thus it happened that, while chunky riley was taking an unexpected ride on the white pig, and afterward while the three men were sitting on the pasture fence beyond the spring, the red goblin was giving little crotchet a good deal of trouble. no matter which way he turned in bed, the red goblin was there. he was there when aaron came into the flower garden. he was there when aaron stood at the foot of the great oak at the corner of the house. he was there when aaron put forth his hand, felt for and found one of the iron spikes that had been driven into the body of the oak. the red goblin was in bed with little crotchet and tugging at his back and legs when aaron pulled himself upward by means of the iron spike; when he found another iron spike; when, standing on and holding to these spikes, he walked up the trunk of the tree as if it were a ladder; and when he went into little crotchet's room by way of the dormer window. the real name of the red goblin with the green hat was pain, as we know, and he was very busy with little crotchet this night; and though the lad had fallen into a doze, he was moving restlessly about when aaron entered the room. the son of ben ali stepped to the low bed, and knelt by it, placing his hand that the night winds had cooled on little crotchet's brow, touching it with firm but gentle strokes. the lad awoke with a start, saw that aaron was near, and then closed his eyes again. "it's a long way for you to come," he said. "there's a lot of things for you in the basket there." "if twice as long, it would be short for me," replied aaron. then, still stroking little crotchet's brow with one hand, and gently rubbing his body with the other, the son of ben ali told of chunky riley's ride on the white pig. with his eyes closed, the lad could see the whole performance, and he laughed with so much heartiness that aaron laughed in sympathy. this was such a rare event that little crotchet opened his eyes to see it, but soon closed them again, for now he felt that the red goblin was preparing to go. "i sent chunky riley," said little crotchet, after a while. "they're after you to-morrow--jim simmons and his hounds. and he has his catch-dog with him. i saw the dog to-day. he's named pluto. he's big and black, and bob-tailed, and his ears have been cropped. oh, i'm afraid they'll get you this time, aaron. why not stay here with me to-morrow, and the next day?" "here?" there was a note of surprise in aaron's voice. "yes. what's to hinder you? i can keep everybody out of the room, except"-- "except somebody," said aaron, smiling. "no, no! the white-haired master is a good man. good to all. he'd shake his head and say, 'runaway hiding in my house! that's bad, bad!' no, little master, they'll not get aaron. you sleep. to-morrow night i'll come. my clothes will be ripped and snagged. have me a big needle and some coarse thread. i'll mend 'em here and while i'm mending i may tell a tale. i don't know. maybe. you sleep." aaron was no mesmerist, but somehow, the red goblin being gone, little crotchet was soon in the land of dreams. aaron remained by the bed to make sure the sleep was sound, then he rose, tucked the cover about the lad's shoulders (for the morning air was cool), blew out the candle, went out on the roof, closing the window sash after him, and in a moment was standing in the flower garden. there he found rambler, the track dog, awaiting him, and together they passed out into the lot and went by the spring, where aaron stooped and took another draught of the cool, refreshing water. all this time the three men had been sitting on the pasture fence at the point where it intersected the path leading from the spring, and they were sitting there still. as aaron started along this path, after leaving the spring, rambler trotted on before, and his keen nose soon detected the presence of strangers. with a whine that was more than half a whistle, rambler gave aaron the signal to stop, and then went toward the fence. the situation became clear to him at once, and it was then that chunky riley and the three men had heard him bark. they called it barking, but it was a message to aaron saying:-- "lookout! lookout! son of ben ali, look sharp! i see three--grizzlies two, and another." [illustration: the spring of cool refreshing water] there was nothing alarming in the situation. in fact, aaron might have gone within hailing distance of the three men without discovery, for the spring lot was well wooded. if mr. addison abercrombie had any peculiarity it was his fondness for trees. he could find something to admire in the crookedest scrub oak and in the scraggiest elm. he not only allowed the trees in the spring lot to stand, but planted others. where aaron stood a clump of black-jacks, covering a quarter of an acre, had sprung up some years before. they were now well-grown saplings and stood as close together, according to the saying of the negroes, as hairs on a hog's back. through these aaron slowly edged his way, moving very carefully, until he reached a point close enough to the three men to see and hear what was going on. standing in the black shadow of these saplings he made an important discovery. chunky riley, it will be remembered, suspected that the two gossetts and mr. simmons were intent on capturing aaron; but this was far from their purpose. they had no such idea. while aaron stood listening, watching, he saw a tall shadow steal along the path. he heard the swish of a dress and knew it was a woman. the shadow stole along the path until it came to the three men on the fence and then it stopped. "well?" said mr. gossett sharply. "what did you see? where did the nigger go? don't stand there like you are deaf and dumb. talk out!" "i seed him come fum de spring, marster, an' go up by de nigger cabins. but atter dat i ain't lay eyes on 'im." "did he go into the cabins?" "i lis'n at eve'y one, marster, an' i ain't hear no talkin' in but one." "was he in that one?" "ef he wuz, marster, he wa'n't sayin' nothin'. big sal was talkin' wid randall, suh." "what were they talking about?" "all de words i hear um say wuz 'bout der little marster--how good he is an' how he all de time thinkin' mo' 'bout yuther folks dan he do 'bout his own se'f." "humph!" snorted mr. gossett. mr. simmons moved about uneasily. "whyn't you go in an' see whether aaron was in there?" asked george gossett. "bekaze, marse george, dey'd 'a' know'd right pine-blank what i come fer. 'sides dat, big sal is a mighty bad nigger 'oman when she git mad." "you're as big as she is," suggested mr. gossett. "yes, suh; but i ain't got de ambition what big sal got," replied the woman humbly. "i'll tell you, simmons, that runaway nigger is the imp of satan," remarked mr. gossett. "but, colonel, if he's that, what do you want him caught for?" inquired mr. simmons humorously. "why, so much the more need for catching him. i want to get my hands on him. if i don't convert him, why, then you may go about among your friends and say that gossett is a poor missionary. you may say that and welcome." "i believe you!" echoed george. "you may go home now," said mr. gossett to the woman. "thanky, marster." she paused a moment to wipe her face with her apron, and then climbed over the fence and went toward the gossett plantation. aaron slipped away from the neighborhood of the three men, crossed the fence near where chunky riley had been standing, went swiftly through the pasture for half a mile, struck into the plantation path some distance ahead of the woman, and then came back along the path to meet her. when he saw her coming he stopped, turned his back to her and stood motionless in the path. the woman was talking to herself as she came up; but when she saw aaron she hesitated, advanced a step, and then stood still, breathing hard. all her superstitious fears were aroused. "who is you? who is dat? name er de lord! can't you talk? don't be foolin' wid me! man, who is you?" "one!" replied aaron. the sound of a human voice reassured her somewhat, but her knees shook so she could hardly stand. "what yo' name?" she asked again. "too long a name to tell you." "what you doin'?" "watching a child--looking hard at it." "wuz you, sho nuff?" she came a step nearer. "how come any chil' out dis time er night?" "a black child," aaron went on. "its dress was afire. it went up and down the path here. it went across the hill. crying and calling--calling and crying, 'aaron! aaron! mammy's hunting for you! aaron! aaron! mammy's telling on you.'" "my lord fum heaven!" moaned the woman; "dat wuz my chil'--de one what got burnt up kaze i wuz off in de fiel'." she threw her apron over her head, fell on her knees, and moaned and shuddered. "well, i'm aaron. you hunted for me in the nigger cabins; you slipped to the fence yonder; you told three men you couldn't find me." "o lord! i wuz bleege ter do it. it wuz dat er take ter de woods, an' dey ain't no place fer me in de woods. what'd i do out dar by myse'f at night? i know'd dey couldn't ketch you. oh, dat wuz my chil'!" "stand up!" aaron commanded. "what you gwine ter do?" the woman asked, slowly rising to her feet, and holding herself ready to dodge an expected blow--for, as she herself said, she was not at all "ambitious." "your breakfast is ready, and i've been waiting here to give it to you. hold your apron." the woman did as she was told, and aaron took from the basket which little crotchet had given him four biscuits and as many slices of ham. "i'll take um, an' thanky, too," said the woman; "but hongry as i is, i don't b'lieve i kin eat a mou'ful un um atter what i done. i'm too mean to live!" "get home! get home and forget it," aaron replied. "oh, i can't go thoo dem woods atter what you tol' me!" cried the woman. "i'll go with you," said aaron. "come!" "you!" the woman lifted her voice until it sounded shrill on the moist air of the morning. "you gwine dar to gossett's? don't you know dey er gwine ter hunt you in de mornin'? don't you know dey got de dogs dar? don't you know some er de niggers'll see you--an' maybe de overseer? don't you know you can't git away fum dem dogs fer ter save yo' life?" "come!" said aaron sharply. "it's late." "min', now! ef dey ketch you, 't ain't me dat done it," the woman insisted. "come!--i must be getting along," was aaron's reply. he went forward along the path, and though he seemed to be walking easily, the woman had as much as she could do to keep near him. though his body swayed slightly from side to side, he seemed to be gliding along rather than walking. ahead of him, sometimes near, sometimes far, and frequently out of sight, a dark shadow moved and flitted. it was rambler going in a canter. a hare jumped from behind a tussock and went skipping away. it was a tempting challenge. but rambler hardly glanced at him. "good-by, mr. rabbit! i'll see you another day!" thus aaron, the woman, and rambler went to gossett's. "man, ain't you tired?" the woman asked when they came in sight of the negro quarters. "me? i'll go twenty miles before sun-up," replied aaron. "i'll never tell on you no mo'," said the woman; "not ef dey kills me." she turned to go to her cabin, when aaron touched her on the shoulder. "wait!" he whispered. "if it brings more meat for your young ones, tell! fetch the men here; show 'em where i stood,--if it brings you more meat for your babies." "sho nuff?" asked the woman, amazed. aaron nodded his head. "what kind er folks is you?" she cried. "you ain't no nigger. dey ain't no nigger on top er de groun' dat'd stan' up dar an' talk dat away. will dey ketch you ef i tell?" the woman was thinking about the meat. aaron lifted his right hand in the air, turned, and disappeared in the darkness, which was now changing to the gray of dawn. the woman remained where she was standing for some moments as if considering some serious problem. then she shook her head. "i'd git de meat--but dey mout ketch 'im, an' den what'd i look like?" this remark seemed to please her, for she repeated it more than once before moving out of her tracks. when she did move, she went to her cabin, kindled a fire, cooked something for her children,--she had three,--placed a biscuit and a piece of ham for each, and, although she had not slept a wink, prepared to go to the field. it was almost time, too, for she heard the hog feeder in the horse lot talking angrily to the mules, as he parceled out their corn and forage. presently she heard him calling the hogs to get a bite of corn,--the fattening hogs that were running about in the horse lot. soon, too, she heard the sharp voice of mr. gossett, her master, calling to the hog feeder. and you may be sure the man went as fast as his legs could carry him. get out of the way, dogs, chickens, wheelbarrows, woodpile, everything, and let the negro run to his master! had he seen the horses? oh, yes, marster, that he had! they were standing at the lot gate, and they whickered and whinnied so that he was obliged to go and see what the trouble was. and there were the horses, mr. simmons's among the rest. yes, marster, and the hog feeder was just on the point of alarming the neighborhood, thinking something serious had happened, when the thought came to his mind that the horses had grown tired of waiting and had broken loose from their fastenings. oh, yes, marster, they would do that way sometimes, because horses have a heap of sense, especially marster's horses. when one broke loose the others wanted to follow him, and then they broke loose too. and they were fed,--eating right now, and all fixed up. saddle 'em by sun-up? yes, marster, and before that if you want 'em, for they've already had a right smart snack of corn and good clean fodder. as for aaron, he had far to go. he had no fear of mr. gossett's hounds, but he knew that he would have some difficulty in getting away from those that mr. simmons had trained. if he could outmanoeuvre them, that would be the best plan. if not,--well, he would make a stand in the swamp. but there was the crop-eared, bob-tailed cur--the catch dog--that was the trouble. aaron knew, too, that mr. simmons was a professional negro hunter, and that he naturally took some degree of pride in it. being a professional, with a keen desire to be regarded as an expert, it was to be supposed that mr. simmons had made a study of the tactics of fugitive negroes. as a matter of fact, mr. simmons was a very shrewd man; he was also, in spite of his calling, a very kind-hearted man. in his soul he despised mr. gossett, whose negroes were constantly in the woods, and loved and admired addison abercrombie, whose negroes never ran away, and who, if every slave on his plantation were a fugitive, would never call on mr. simmons to catch them. aaron was far afield when, as the sun rose, mr. gossett's hog feeder called the house girl and asked her to tell mr. gossett that the horses were saddled and ready at the front gate. then mr. simmons's dogs, which had been shut up in the carriage house, were turned out and fed. the hounds were given half-cooked corn meal, but the catch dog, pluto, must needs have a piece of raw meat, which he swallowed at one gulp. this done, mr. simmons blew one short, sharp note on his horn, and the hunt for aaron began. v. the hunt begins. when aaron left the negro woman at gossett's he went rapidly through the woods until he came to the old fields that had once been cultivated, but were now neglected for newer and better soil. these deserted fields had been dismally naked of vegetation for years, and where they undulated into hills the storms had cut deep red gashes. but these wounds were now gradually healing. a few years before a company of travelers had camped out one night at curtwright's factory, not many miles away, and where they fed their horses a grass new to that region--new, in fact, to this country--made its appearance. it grew and spread for miles around and covered the red hills with the most beautiful mantle that the southern summers had ever seen. it refused to wither and parch under the hot sun, but flourished instead. it had crept from curtwright's factory, and had already begun to carpet the discarded lands through which aaron was now passing, and the turf felt as soft as velvet under his feet. the touch of it seemed to inspire his movements, for he began to trot; and he trotted until, at the end of half an hour, he struck into the plantation road leading to the oconee. aaron was making for the river. having received fair warning, and guessing something of the character of mr. simmons, he had made up his mind that the best plan would be to get away from the dogs if possible. he hoped to find one of the ward negroes at the river landing, and in this he was not disappointed. old uncle andy, who was almost on the retired list, on account of his age and faithfulness, although he was still strong and vigorous, was just preparing to visit his set-hooks which were down the river. he was about to shove the boat into deep water and jump in when aaron called him. "ah-yi," he answered in a tone almost gay, for he had a good master, and he had no troubles except the few that old age had brought on him. "up or down?" inquired aaron. "down, honey; down. all de time down. den i'll lef' um down dar an' let rowan ward" (this was his master whom he talked about so familiarly) "sen' one er his triflin' no 'count nigners atter um wid de waggin'." "i want to go up," said aaron. "i ain't henderin' you," replied old uncle andy. "whar yo' huffs? walk. i ain't gwine pull you in dis boat. no. i won't pull rowan ward yit, en he know it. i won't pull nobody up stream in his boat less'n it's sally ward" (his mistress), "en she'd do ez much fer me. what yo' name, honey?" "aaron, i'm called." "ah-yi!" exclaimed old uncle andy, under his breath. "dey are atter you. oh, yes! en what's mo' dey'll git you. en mo' dan dat, dey oughter git you! dem gossetts is rank pizen, en der niggers is pizen. a nigger what ain't got no better sense dan ter b'long ter po' white trash ain't got no business ter git good treatment. look at me! dey ain't nobody dast ter lay de weight er der han' on me. ef dey do, dey got ter whip sally ward en rowan ward. you ain't bad ez dem yuther gossett niggers, kaze you been in de woods en you er dar yit. kensecontly you got one chance, en it's de onliest chance. cross dis river en go up dar ter de house, en wake up sally ward en tell 'er dat ole andy say she mus' buy you. ef she hum en haw, des put yo' foot down en tell her dat ole andy say she des got ter buy you. she'll do it! she'll know better'n not ter do it. ah-h-h-h!" aaron would have laughed at this display of self-importance, but he knew that to laugh would be to defeat the object he had in view. so his reply was very serious. "she's good!" cried old uncle andy. "dey's er heap er good wimmen, but dey ain't no 'oman like sally ward,--i don't keer ef she is got a temper. ef folks is made out'n dus' dey wuz des nuff er de kin' she wuz made out'n fer ter make her. dey wuz de greates' plenty fer ter make her, but dey wan't a pinch lef' over. how come you got ter go up de river?" "wait a little while, and simmons's dog'll tell you," replied aaron. "jim simmons? i wish i had rowan ward here ter do my cussin'!" exclaimed old uncle andy, striking the edge of the bateau viciously. "kin you handle dish yer paddle? git in dis boat, den! jim simmons! much he look like ketchin' anybody. git in dis boat, i tell you! en take dis paddle en he'p me pull ef you want to go up de river." aaron lost no time in getting in the bateau. instead of sitting down he remained standing, and braced himself by placing one foot in advance of the other. in this position he leaned first on one side and then on the other as he swept the long, wide oar through the water. a few strokes carried him into the middle of the oconee and nearly across. then, out of the current and in the still water, aaron headed the boat up stream. it was a long, heavy, unwieldy affair, built for carrying the field hands and the fruits of the harvest across the river, for the ward plantation lay on both sides of the oconee. the bateau was unwieldy, but propelled by aaron's strong arms it moved swiftly and steadily up the stream. old uncle andy had intended to help row the boat, but when he saw how easily aaron managed it he made himself comfortable by holding his oar across his lap and talking. "i done year tell er you," he said. "some folks say you er nigger, en some say you ain't no nigger. i'm wid dem what say you ain't no nigger, kaze you don't do like a nigger, en dey ain't no nigger in de roun' worl' what kin stan' up in dis boat an' shove it 'long like you doin'. dey all weak-kneed en wobbly when dey git on de water. i wish sally ward could see you now. she'd buy you terreckly. don't you want ter b'long ter sally ward?" "no,--abercrombie," replied aaron. "yo' sho fly high," remarked old uncle andy. "dey er good folks, dem abercrombies. ef dey's anybody anywheres 'roun' dat's mos' ez good ez sally ward en rowan ward it's de abercrombies. i'll say dat much an' not begrudge it. speshally dat ar cripple boy. dey tells me dat dat chil' don't never git tired er doin' good. en dat's a mighty bad sign; it's de wust kinder sign. you watch. de lord done put his han' on dat chil', en he gwine take 'im back up dar whar he b'longs at. when folks git good like dey say dat chil' is, dey are done ripe." to this aaron made no reply. he had had the same or similar thoughts for some time. he simply gave the waters of the river a stronger backward sweep with the oar. the shadows were still heavy on the water, and the overhanging trees helped to make them heavier, but the reflection of dawn caught and became entangled in the ripples made by the boat, and far away in the east the red signal lights of the morning gave forth a dull glow. the fact that aaron made no comment on his remarks had no effect on uncle andy. he continued to talk incessantly, and when he paused for a moment it was to take breath and not to hear what his companion had to say. "jim simmons. huh. i wish sally ward could git de chance fer ter lay de law down ter dat man." (uncle andy had his wish later in the day). "she'd tell 'im de news. she'd make 'im 'shamed er hisse'f--gwine trollopin' roun' de country huntin' niggers en dem what ain't niggers, en all b'longin' ter gossett. how come dey ain't no niggers but de gossett niggers in de woods? tell me dat. you may go all 'roun' here for forty mile, en holler at eve'y plantation gate en ax 'em how many niggers dey got in de woods, en dey'll tell you na'er one. dey'll tell you ids twel you holler at de gossett gate an' dar dey'll holler back: forty-'leven in de woods an' spectin' mo' ter foller. now, how come dat? when you stoop in de road fer ter git a drink er water you kin allers tell when dey's sump'n dead up de creek." still aaron swept the water back with his oar, and still the bateau went up stream. one mile--two miles--two miles and a half. at last aaron headed the boat toward the shore. "what you gwine ter lan' on the same side wid jim simmons fer?" uncle andy inquired indignantly. "ain't you got no sense? don't you know he'll ketch you ef you do dat? you reckon he gwine ter foller you ter de landin' en den turn right 'roun' in his tracks en go back?" "i'll hide in the big swamp," replied aaron. "hide!" exclaimed uncle andy. "don't you know dey done foun' out whar you stays at? a'er one er dem gossett niggers'll swap der soul's salvation fer a bellyful er vittles. ef dey wuz ter ketch you des dry so, i'd be sorry fer you, but ef you gwine ter run right in de trap, you'll hatter fin' some un else fer ter cry atter you. you put me in min' er de rabbit. man come 'long wid his dogs, en jump de rabbit out er his warm bed, en he done gone. dogs take atter him, but dey ain't nowhar. he done out er sight. den dey trail 'im en trail 'im, but dat ain't do no good. rabbit done gone. de man, he let de dogs trail. he take his stan' right at de place whar rabbit jump fum. he prime he gun, en wink he eye. de dogs trail, en trail, en trail, en it seem like dey gwine out er hearin'. man stan' right still en wink de t'er eye. en, bless gracious! 'fo' you know it, _bang_ go de gun en down drap de rabbit. stidder gwine on 'bout his business, he done come back en de man bag 'im. dat 'zackly de way you gwine do--but go on, go on! de speckled pullet hollered shoo ter hawk, but what good did dat do?" by this time the bateau had floated under a tree that leaned from the river bank over the water. aaron laid his oar in the boat and steadied it by holding to a limb. then he turned to uncle andy. "maybe some day i can help you. so long!" he lifted himself into the tree. as he did so a dog ran down the bank whining. "wait!" cried uncle andy. "wait, en look out! i hear a dog in de bushes dar. ef it's a simmons dog drap back in de boat en i'll take you right straight to sally ward." "it's my dog," said aaron. "he's been waiting for me." it was rambler. "desso! i wish you mighty well, honey." with that uncle andy backed the boat out into the river, headed it down stream, and aided the current by an occasional stroke of his oar, which he knew well how to use. standing on the hill above the river, aaron saw that the red signal lights in the east had been put out, and it was now broad day. in the top of a pine a quarter of a mile away a faint shimmer of sunlight glowed a moment and then disappeared. again it appeared and this time to stay. he stood listening, and it seemed to him that he could hear in the far-off distance the faint musical cry of hounds. perhaps he was mistaken; perhaps it was a fox-hunting pack, or, perhaps-- he turned and moved rapidly to the swamp, which he found wide awake and ready to receive him. so vigorous was the swamp, and so jealous of its possessions, that it rarely permitted the summer sun to shine upon its secrets. if a stray beam came through, very well, but the swamp never had a fair glimpse of the sun except in winter, when the glare was shorn of its heat, all the shadows pointing to the north, where the cold winds come from. at midday, in the season when the swamp was ready for business, the shade was dense--dense enough to give the effect of twilight. at sunrise dawn had hardly made its way to the places where the mysteries wandered back and forth, led by jack-o'-the-lantern. but the willis-whistlers knew when dawn came in the outer world, and they hid their shrill pipes in the canes and disappeared; but the mysteries still had an hour to frolic--an hour in which they might dispense with the services of jack-o'-the-lantern. so aaron found them there--all his old friends and a new one, the old brindle steer to whom he sometimes gave a handful of salt. the brindle steer was supposed to be superannuated, but he was not. he had the hollow horn, as the negroes called it, and this had made him thin and weak for a time, but he was now in fair trim, the swamp proving to be a well-conducted hospital, stocked with an abundance of pleasant medicine. he was not of the swamp, but he had been taken in out of charity, and he was the more welcome on that account. moreover, he had introduced himself to the white pig in a sugarcane patch, and they got on famously together--one making luscious cuds of the green blades and the other smacking his mouth over the sweets to be found in the stalks. aaron was glad to see the brindle steer, and brindle was so glad to see aaron that he must needs hoist his tail in the air and lower his horns, which were remarkably long and sharp, and pretend that he was on the point of charging, pawing the ground and making a noise with his mouth that was something between a bleat and a bellow. it was such a queer sound that aaron laughed, seeing which brindle shook his head and capered around the son of ben ali as if trying to find some vulnerable point in his body that would offer small resistance to the long horns. "you are well, brindle," said aaron. "no, son of ben ali, not well--only a great deal better," replied brindle. "that is something, brindle; be glad, as i am," remarked aaron. "you may have work to do to-day--with your horns." brindle drew a long breath that sounded like a tremendous sigh. "it is well you say with my horns, son of ben ali. no cart for me. when the time comes for the cart i shall have--what do you call it?" "the hollow horn," suggested aaron. "yes, two hollow horns, son of ben ali. no cart for me. though there is nothing the matter with my horns, the people shall believe that both are hollow. when i was sick, son of ben ali, something was the matter with all nine of my stomachs." "nine! you have but three, brindle," said aaron. "only three, son of ben ali? well, when i was sick i thought there were nine of them. what am i to do to-day?" "go not too far, brindle. when you hear hounds running through the fields from the river come to the big poplar. there you will find me and the white grunter." "i'm here, son of ben ali, and here i stay. all night i have fed on the sprouts of the young cane, and once i waded too far in the quagmire. i'm tired. i'll lie here and chew my cud. but no yoke, son of ben ali, and no cart." whereupon old brindle made himself comfortable by lying down and chewing his cud between short pauses. [illustration: brindle and aaron] * * * * * meanwhile mr. jim simmons, accompanied only by george gossett (the father had turned back in disgust soon after the chase began), was galloping across the country in a somewhat puzzled frame of mind. when mr. simmons had given one short blast on his horn to warn his dogs that a hunt was on the programme, the three men rode along the plantation path toward the abercrombie place. "now, colonel," remarked mr. simmons as they started out, "i want you to keep your eyes on that red dog. it'll be worth your while." "is that sound?" george gossett asked. "well, sometimes i call him sound on account of his voice, and sometimes i call him sandy on account of his color, but just you watch his motions." pride was in the tone of mr. simmons's voice. the dog was trotting in the path ahead of the horse. suddenly he put his nose to the ground and seemed to be so delighted at what he found there that his tail began to wag. he lifted his head, and ran along the path for fifty yards or more. then he put his nose to the ground again, and kept it there as he cantered along the narrow trail. then he began to trot, and finally, with something of a snort, turned and ran back the way he had come. he had not given voice to so much as a whimper. "don't he open on track?" asked george gossett. "he'll cry loud enough and long enough when he gets down to business," mr. simmons explained. "just you keep your eyes on him." "fiddlesticks. he's tracking us," exclaimed mr. gossett contemptuously. "but, colonel, if he is, i'm willing to take him out and kill him, and, as he stands, i would take no man's hundred dollars for him. i'll see what he's up to." suiting the action to the word, mr. simmons turned his horse's head and galloped after sound, who was now moving rapidly, followed by all the expectant dogs. nothing was left for the two gossetts to do but to follow mr. simmons, though the elder plainly showed his indignation, not only by his actions, but by the use of a few words that are either too choice or too emphatic to be found in a school dictionary. sound ran to the point where aaron and the woman had stopped. he followed the woman's scent to her cabin; but this not proving satisfactory, he turned and came back to where the two had stood. there he picked up aaron's scent, ran around in a small circle, and then, with a loud, wailing cry, as if he had been hit with a cudgel, he was off, the rest of the dogs joining in, their cries making a musical chorus that fell on the ear with a lusty, pleasant twang as it echoed through the woods. "wait," said mr. gossett, as mr. simmons made a movement to follow the dogs. "this is a fool's errand you are starting on. the nigger we're after wouldn't come in a mile of this place. it's one of the spivey niggers the dogs are tracking. or one of the ward niggers. i'm too old to go galloping about the country just to see the dogs run. george, you can go if you want to, but i'd advise you to go in the house and go to bed. that's what i'll do. simmons, if you catch the right nigger, well and good. if i thought the dogs were on his track, i'd ride behind them the balance of the week. but it's out of reason. we know where the nigger goes, and the dogs haven't been there." "i'll risk all that, colonel. if we don't come up with the nigger, why, it costs nobody nothing," remarked mr. simmons. "i'll go along and see the fun, pap," said george. "well, be back by dinner time. i want you to do something for me." mr. gossett called a negro and had his horse taken, while george and mr. simmons galloped after the hounds, which were now going out of the woods into the old, worn-out fields beyond. as mr. simmons put it, they were "running pretty smooth." they were not going as swiftly as the modern hounds go, but they were going rapidly enough to give the horses as much work as they wanted to do. the hounds were really after aaron. mr. simmons suspected it, but he didn't know it. he was simply taking the chances. but his hopes fell as the dogs struck into the plantation road leading to the river. "if they were after the runaway, what on earth did he mean by going in this direction?" mr. simmons asked himself. he knew the dogs were following the scent of a negro, and he knew the negro had been to the abercrombie place, but more than this he did not know. then it occurred to him that a runaway with some sense and judgment might be expected to go to the river, steal a bateau, and float down stream to avoid the hounds. he had heard of such tricks in his day and time, and his hopes began to rise. but they fell again, for he suddenly remembered that the negro who left the scent which the hounds were following could not possibly have known that he was to be hunted with dogs, consequently he would not be going to the river to steal a boat. but wait! another thought struck mr. simmons. didn't the colonel send one of his nigger women to the quarters on the abercrombie plantation? he surely did. didn't the woman say she had seen the runaway? of course she did. weren't the chances ten to one that when she saw him she told him that simmons would be after him in the morning? exactly so! the result of this rapid summing up of the situation was so satisfactory to mr. simmons that he slapped the pommel of his saddle and cried:-- "by jing, i've got him!" "got who?" inquired george gossett, who was riding close up. "wait and see!" replied mr. simmons. "oh, i'll wait," said young gossett, "and so will you." vi. the hunt ends. it will be seen that mr. jim simmons, in his crude way, was a very shrewd reasoner. he didn't "guess;" he "reckoned," and it cannot be denied that he came very near the truth. you will remember that when we children play hide-the-switch the one that hides it guides those who are hunting for it by making certain remarks. when they are near where the switch is hid, the hider says, "you burn; you are afire," but when they get further away from the hiding-place the word is, "you are cold; you are freezing." in hunting for aaron, mr. jim simmons was burning, for he had come very close to solving the problem that the fugitive had set for him. mr. simmons was so sure he was right in his reasoning that he cheered his dogs on lustily and touched up his horse. george gossett did the same, and dogs, horses, and men went careering along the plantation road to the river landing. the sun was now above the treetops, and the chill air of the morning was beginning to surrender to its influence. the course of the river was marked out in mid-air by a thin line of white mist that hung wavering above the stream. the dogs ran crying to the landing, and there they stopped. one of the younger hounds was for wading across; but sound, the leader, knew better than that. he ran down the river bank a hundred yards and then circled back across the field until he reached a point some distance above the landing. then he returned, his keen nose always to the ground. at the landing he looked across the river and whined eagerly. mr. simmons seemed to be very lucky that morning, for just as he and george gossett galloped to the landing a boatload of field hands started across from the other side, old uncle andy coming with it to row it back. on the other side, too, mr. simmons saw a lady standing,--a trim figure dressed in black,--and near her a negro boy was holding a horse that she had evidently ridden to the landing. this was the lady to whom uncle andy sometimes referred as sally ward, and for whom he had a sincere affection. the river was not wide at the landing, and the boatload of field hands, propelled by four muscular arms, was not long in crossing. as the negroes jumped ashore sound went among them and examined each one with his nose, but he returned to the landing and looked across and whined. they saluted mr. simmons and george gossett politely, and then went on their way, whistling, singing, and cracking jokes, and laughing loudly. "was a bateau missing from this side this morning?" mr. simmons asked uncle andy. "suh?" uncle andy put his hand to his ear, affecting to be very anxious to hear what mr. simmons had said. the question was repeated, whereat uncle andy laughed loudly. "you sho is a witch fer guessin', suh! how come you ter know 'bout de missin' boat?" mr. simmons smiled under this flattery. "i thought maybe a boat would be missing from this side this morning," he said. "dey sho wuz, suh; but i dunner how de name er goodness you come ter know 'bout it, kaze i wuz on de bank cross dar 'fo' 't wuz light, en i ain't see you on dis side. yes, suh! de boat wuz gone. dey foun' it 'bout a mile down de river, en on account er de shoals down dar, dey had ter take it out'n de water en fetch it back yer in de waggin. yes, suh! dish yer de very boat." "where's the ford?" mr. simmons inquired. "i used to know, but i've forgotten." "right below yer, suh!" replied uncle andy. "you'll see de paff whar de stock cross at. b'ar down stream, suh, twel you halfway cross, den b'ar up. ef you do dat you won't git yo' stirrup wet." the ford was easily found, but the crossing was not at all comfortable. in fact, uncle andy had maliciously given mr. simmons the wrong directions. the two men rode into the water, bore down the stream, and their horses were soon floundering in deep water. they soon touched bottom again, and in a few moments they were safe on the opposite bank,--safe, but dripping wet and in no very good humor. mr. simmons's dogs, obedient to his call, followed his horse into the water and swam across. sound clambered out, shook himself, and ran back to the landing where the lady was waiting for the boat to return. it had been mr. simmons's intention to proceed at once down the river to the point where the boat had been found, and where he was sure the dogs would pick up the scent of the runaway; but he found that the way was impossible for horses. he must needs go to the landing and inquire the way. uncle andy had just made the middle seat in the bateau more comfortable for his mistress by placing his coat, neatly folded, on the hard plank, and mrs. ward was preparing to accept the old negro's invitation to "git aboard, mistiss," when mr. simmons and george gossett rode up. both raised their hats as the lady glanced toward them. they were hardly in a condition to present themselves, mr. simmons explained, and then he inquired, with as much politeness as he could command, how to reach the place where the missing boat had been found. "the missing boat? why, i never heard of it till now. was one of the bateaux missing this morning?" the lady asked uncle andy. "yessum. when de fishin' good en de niggers put out der set-hooks, dey ain't many mornin's in de week dat one er de yuther er deze boats ain't missin'!" "i never heard of it before." "no, mistiss; de boys 'low you wouldn't keer nohow. dey runs um over de shoals, en dar dey leaves um." "but both bateaux are here." "yessum. we fetches um back 'roun' by de road in de waggin." "who carried the bateau over the shoals this morning?" "me, ma'am. nobody ain't know nuttin' 'bout it but de two elliks, en when dat ar gemmun dar ax me des now if dey wa'n't a boat missin' fum 'roun' yer dis mornin' hit sorter flung me back on myse'f. i 'low 'yes, suh,' but he sho flung me back on myse'f." uncle andy began to chuckle so heartily that his mistress asked him what he was laughing at, though she well knew. "i hit myse'f on de funny bone, mistiss, en when dat's de case i bleege ter laugh." at this the lady laughed, and it was a genial, merry, and musical laugh. mr. simmons smiled, but so grimly that it had the appearance of a threat. "and so this is mr. simmons, the famous negro hunter?" said mrs. ward. "well, mr. simmons, i'm glad to see you. i've long had something to say to you. whenever you are sent for to catch one of my negroes i want you to come straight to the house on the hill yonder and set your dogs on me. when one of my negroes goes to the woods, you may know it's my fault." "trufe, too!" remarked uncle andy, under his breath, but loud enough for all to hear. "that may be so, ma'am," replied mr. simmons; "but among a passel of niggers you'll find some bad ones. what little pleasure i get out of this business is in seeing and hearing my dogs run. somebody's got to catch the runaways, and it might as well be me as anybody." "why, certainly, mr. simmons. you have become celebrated. your name is trumpeted about in all the counties round. you are better known than a great many of our rising young politicians." the lady's manner was very gracious, but there was a gleam of humor in her eye. mr. simmons didn't know whether she was laughing at him or paying him a compliment; but he thought it would be safe to change the subject. "may i ask the old man there a few questions?" he inquired. "why, certainly," mrs. ward responded. "cross-examine him to your heart's content. but be careful about it, mr. simmons. he's old and feeble, and his mind is not as good as it used to be. i heard him telling the house girl last night that he was losing his senses." "de lawsy massy, mistiss! you know i wuz des projickin' wid dat gal. dey ain't any na'er nigger in de country got any mo' sense dan what i got. you know dat yo'se'f." "was anybody with you in the bateau when you went down the river this morning?" "yes, suh, dey wuz," replied uncle andy solemnly. "who was it?" "well, suh"-- "don't get excited, now, andrew," his mistress interrupted. "tell mr. simmons the truth. you know your weakness." if uncle andy's skin had been white or even brown, mr. simmons would have seen him blushing violently. he knew his mistress was making fun of him, but he was not less embarrassed on that account. he looked at mrs. ward and laughed. "speak right out," said the lady. "who was with you in the bateau?" "little essek, ma'm,--my gran-chil'. i'm bleedge ter have some un long fer ter hol' de boat steady when i go ter look at my set-hooks. little essek wuz de fust one i see, en i holler'd at 'im." "did anybody cross from the other side this morning?" asked mr. simmons. "not dat i knows un, less'n it wuz criddle's jerry. he's got a wife at de abercrombie place. he fotch marse criddle's buggy to be worked on at our blacksmif shop, en he rid de mule home dis mornin'. little essek had 'er down yer 'bout daylight waitin' fer jerry, kaze he say he got ter be home soon ef not befo'." uncle andy had an imagination. jerry had brought the buggy and had ridden the mule home. he also had a wife at the abercrombie place, but his master had given him no "pass" to visit her, thinking it might delay his return. for that reason jerry did not cross the river the night before. "and here we've been chasing criddle's jerry all the morning," remarked george gossett to mr. simmons. "pap was right." "but what was the nigger doing at your place?" mr. simmons was still arguing the matter in his mind. "don't ask me," replied george gossett. "dey ain't no 'countin' fer a nigger, suh," remarked uncle andy affably. "dey ain't no 'countin' fer 'em when dey ol' ez i is, much less when dey young en soople like criddle's jerry." under the circumstances there was nothing for mr. simmons and young gossett to do but to turn short about and recross the river. it was fortunate for them that a negro boy was waiting to take mrs. ward's horse across the river. they followed him into the ford, and made the crossing without difficulty. then the two men held a council of war. uncle andy had another name for it. "i wish you'd look at um jugglin'," he said to his mistress, as he helped her from the bateau. george gossett was wet, tired, and disgusted, and he would not hear to mr. simmons's proposition to "beat about the bushes" in the hope that the dogs would strike aaron's trail. "we started wrong," he said. "let's go home, and when we try for the nigger again, let's start right." "well, tell your father i'll be back the day after to-morrow if i don't catch his nigger. i'm obliged to go home now and change my duds if i don't strike a trail. it's a true saying that there's more mud than water in the oconee. i'll take a short cut. i'll go up the river a mile or such a matter and ride across to dawson's old mill road. that will take me home by dinner time." as it happened, mr. simmons didn't take dinner at home that day, nor did he return to gossett's at the time he appointed. he called his dogs and turned his horse's head up stream. he followed the course of the river for a mile or more, and then bore away from it. while he was riding along, lost in his reflections, he suddenly heard sound giving tongue far ahead. that sagacious dog had unexpectedly hit on aaron's trail, and he lost no time in announcing the fact as loudly as he could. mr. simmons was very much surprised. "if that blamed dog is fooling me this time i'll feel like killing him," he remarked to himself. the rest of the dogs joined in, and they were all soon footing it merrily in the direction of the big swamp. the blue falcon, circling high in the air, suddenly closed her wings and dropped into the leafy bosom of the swamp. this was the first messenger. that red joker, the fox squirrel, had heard the wailing cry of the hounds, and scampered down the big pine. halfway down he made a flying leap into the live oak, and then from tree to tree he went running, scrambling, jumping. but let him go never so fast, the blue falcon was before him, and let the blue falcon swoop never so swiftly, the message was before her. for the white grunter had ears. ooft! he had heard the same wailing sound when the hounds were after him before he was old enough to know what his tusks were for. and rambler had ears. in fact, the swamp itself had ears, and for a few moments it held its breath (as the saying is) and listened. listened intently,--and then quietly, cautiously, and serenely began to dispose of its forces. near the big poplar aaron had a pile of stones. they had been selected to fit his hand; they were not too large nor too small; they were not too light nor too heavy. this pile of stones was aaron's ammunition, and he took his stand by it. the white pig rose slowly from his bed of mud, where he had been wallowing, and shook himself. then he scratched himself by rubbing his side against a beech-tree. the brindle steer slowly dragged himself through the canes and tall grass, and came to aaron's tree, where he paused with such a loud sigh that rambler jumped away. "it is the track dogs," he said. "yes; i'm sorry," replied aaron. "when the big black dog comes stand aside and leave him to me." "gooft! not if it's the one that chewed my ear," remarked the white pig. "i came this morning by the thunder-wood tree," said aaron. "hide in the grass near there, and when they pass come charging after them." the dogs came nearer and nearer, and the swamp could hear mr. simmons cheering them on. as for mr. simmons, he was sure of one thing--the dogs were trailing either a wildcat or a runaway. he had never trained them not to follow the scent of a wildcat, and he now regretted it; for his keen ear, alive to differences that would not attract the attention of those who had never made a study of the temperament of dogs, detected a more savage note in their cry than he was accustomed to hear. nor did his ear deceive him. sound was following the scent of aaron, but his companions were trailing rambler, who had accompanied aaron, and this fact gave a fiercer twang to their cry. when aaron was going from gossett's to the river landing, rambler was not trotting at his heels, but scenting ahead, sometimes far to the right and at other times far to the left. but in going from the river to the swamp it was otherwise. rambler had to hold his head high to prevent aaron's heel from striking him on the under jaw. his scent lay with that of the son of ben ali. for that reason mr. simmons was puzzled by the peculiar cry of the dogs. he had trained them not to follow the scent of hares, coons, and foxes, and if they were not trailing a runaway he knew, or thought he knew, that they must be chasing a wildcat. pluto, the crop-eared catch dog, galloped by his master's horse. he was a fierce-looking brute, but mr. simmons knew that he would be no match for a wildcat. [illustration: in the swamp] when the dogs entered the swamp mr. simmons tried to follow, but he soon found his way barred by the undergrowth, by the trailing vines, the bending trees, the rank canes. he must needs leave his horse or lead it when he entered the swamp. he chose to do neither, but sat in his saddle and waited, pluto waiting with him, ready to go in when the word was given. when the hounds entered the swamp they were in full cry. they struggled through the vines, the briers, and the canes, and splashed through the spreading arms of the lagoon. suddenly they ceased to cry. then mr. simmons heard a strange snarling and snapping, an ominous crashing, fierce snorting, and then howls and screams of pain from his hounds. "a cat, by jing!" he exclaimed aloud. intent on saving his hounds if possible, he gave pluto the word, and that savage brute plunged into the swamp with gleaming red jaws and eager eyes. mr. simmons never really knew what happened to his hounds, but the swamp knew. when they splashed past the white pig that fierce guardian of the swamp sprang from his lair and rushed after them. they tried hard to escape, but the hindmost was caught. the white pig ran by his side for the space of three full seconds, then, lowering his head, he raised it again with a toss sidewise, and the hound was done for--ripped from flank to backbone as neatly as a butcher could have done it. another was caught on the horn of the red steer and flung sheer into the lagoon. sound, the leader, fell into rambler's jaws, and some old scores were settled there and then. pluto came charging blindly in. he saw the white pig and made for him, experience telling him that a hog will run when a dog is after it; but experience did him small service here. the white pig charged to meet him, seeing which pluto swerved to one side, but he was not nimble enough. with a downward swoop and an upward sweep of his snout the white pig caught pluto under the shoulder with his tusk and gave him a taste of warfare in the swamp. another dog would have left the field, but pluto had a temper. he turned and rushed at the white pig, and the swamp prepared to witness a battle royal. but just then there was a whizzing, zooning sound in the air, a thud, and pluto tumbled over and fell in a heap. aaron had ended the cur's career as suddenly as if he had been blown to pieces by a cannon. there was one stone missing from the store of ammunition at the foot of the big poplar. meanwhile, rambler was worrying sound, and the white pig, seeing no other enemy in sight, went running to the scene of that fray. his onslaught was so furious that rambler thought it good manners to get out of grunter's way. so he loosed his hold on sound, and jumped aside. sound was still able to do some jumping on his own account, and he turned tail and ran, just as the white pig was about to trample him under foot. but he was not quick enough to escape with a whole skin. the tusk of the white pig touched him on the hind leg, and where it touched it tore. mr. simmons had five dogs when he came to the swamp. sound came out to him after the morning's adventure, but had to be carried home across the saddle bow. two days later another of the dogs went limping home. three dogs were left in the swamp. mr. simmons blew his horn, and called for some time, and then he slowly went his way. he had a great tale to tell when he got home. his dogs had jumped a wildcat at the river, chased him to the swamp, and there they found a den of wildcats. there was a great fight, but three of the dogs were killed, and the cats were so fierce that it was as much as mr. simmons could do to escape with his life. indeed, according to his tale, the biggest cat followed him to the edge of the swamp. and he told this moving tale so often that he really believed it, and felt that he was a sort of hero. as for the swamp, it had a rare frolic that night. all the mysteries came forth and danced, and the willis-whistlers piped as they had never piped before, and old mr. bullfrog joined in with his fine bass voice. and the next morning mr. buzzard, who roosted in the loblolly pine, called his sanitary committee together, and soon there was nothing left of pluto and his companions to pester the swamp. vii. aaron sees the signal. the swamp had a fine frolic on the night of the day that it routed mr. simmons's dogs, but aaron was not there to see it. he knew that, for some days at least, he would be free from active pursuit. the only danger he would have to encounter would come from the patrollers,--the negroes called them "patterollers,"--who visited the various plantations at uncertain intervals. if he began to go about with too much confidence it was entirely possible he would run into the arms of the patrollers, and he would have small opportunity to escape. therefore, while he knew that he would not be hunted by dogs for some time to come, he also knew he must be constantly on the alert to guard against surprises. the most active member of the patrol was george gossett himself; and after he and his companions had visited mr. fullalove's distillery, which they never failed to do when they went patrolling, they were not in a condition to be entirely responsible for their actions. they had nothing to restrain them on such occasions except the knowledge that some of the owners of the negroes would jump at an excuse to hold them to personal account. and this was not a pleasant result to contemplate, especially after a night's spree. for these reasons aaron was much more anxious to elude george gossett and the patrollers than he was to escape from mr. jim simmons's hounds. he knew he must avoid the negro cabins, which were traps for the unwary when the patrollers were around, and he knew he must keep off the public road--the "big road," as it was called--and not venture too often on the frequently traveled plantation paths. young gossett and his companions had a way of dismounting from their horses out of sight and hearing of the negro quarters on the plantations that lay on their "beat." leaving the animals in charge of one man, they would cautiously post themselves at the various fence crossings and paths frequented by the negroes, and in this way capture all who were going to the negro quarters or coming away. if a negro had a "pass" or a permit from his master, well and good. if he had none--well, it would be a sorry night's frolic for him. but aaron had one great advantage over all the slaves who went to and fro between the plantations after nightfall. he had rambler to warn him; and yet, after an experience that he had on one occasion, he felt that he must be more cautious than ever. it happened not many weeks before he was hunted by mr. simmons's hounds. in trying to kill a moccasin, rambler had the misfortune to be bitten by the serpent. the wound was on his jowl, and in spite of all that aaron could do the poor dog's head and neck swelled fearfully. when night came the son of ben ali made rambler as comfortable as possible, bruising herbs and barks and binding them to the wound, and making him a soft bed. on that particular night aaron felt that he ought to visit the little master, and yet he was doubtful about it. he finally concluded to wait until late, and then go to the hill where, a few weeks later, he parted from chunky riley. if a light was shining behind the little master's curtain he would go and drive the red goblin, pain, from the room. he went to the hill, and the light was shining. the little red goblin was up to his old tricks. as he went along aaron fell to thinking about the little master, and wondering why the child should be constantly given over to suffering. he forgot all about himself in trying to solve this problem, forgot to be cautious, forgot that he was a fugitive, and went blindly along the path to the fence above the spring lot. there, without warning, he found himself face to face with george gossett. the rest of the patrollers were posted about at various points. perhaps george gossett was as much surprised as aaron. at any rate, he said nothing. he took a half-consumed cigar from his lips, and flipped the ashes from it. no doubt he intended to say something, yet he was in no hurry. his pistol was in his coat pocket, his hand grasped the handle, and his finger was on the trigger. he felt that he was prepared for any emergency--and so he was, except for the particular emergency that aaron then and there invented. [illustration: rambler's fight with the moccasin] the son of ben ali took off his hat, to show how polite he was in the dark, advanced a step, and then suddenly plunged at young gossett headforemost. struck fairly in the pit of the stomach by this battering ram, the young man, who was not too sober to begin with, went down like a log, and aaron ran away like a deer. the worst of it was that when george gossett recovered consciousness and was able to call his nearest companion to his assistance, that individual simply laughed at the amazing story. "why, it don't stand to reason," he said. "there ain't a living nigger that'd dast to do sech a thing, and the dead ones couldn't." "didn't you hear him when he butted me?" inquired young gossett feebly. "i heard you when you fell off the fence," replied the other. "i allowed that you had jumped down to let the blood git in your feet." "i tell you," insisted the young man, "he come up so close i could 'a' put my hand on him. he took off his hat as polite as you please, and the next thing i know'd i didn't know nothing." "shucks!" exclaimed his companion as loudly as he dared to talk; "you jest about set up on the fence there and went to sleep, and fell off. i told you about them low-wines at the still; i told you when you was a-swilling 'em, same as a fattening hog, that if you didn't look out you'd have to be toted home. and here you are!" young gossett had to go home, and as he was the leading spirit the rest had to go with him. he managed to sit his horse after a fashion, but it was as much as he could do. once in the big road, his companions made many rough jokes at his expense, and they advised him never to tell such another tale as that if he didn't want the public at large to "hoot at him." the adventure taught aaron a new lesson in caution; and even now, after mr. simmons's famous pack of "nigger-dogs" had been all but destroyed, he felt that it was necessary to be more cautious than ever, even when rambler accompanied him. he had no idea that mr. simmons thought his dogs had been attacked by wildcats. in fact, he thought that mr. simmons had full knowledge of his movements, and he was prepared any day to see mr. gossett gather his neighbors together, especially the young men, surround the swamp armed with shotguns, and try in that way to capture him. but when night fell on the day of his experience with mr. simmons's dogs, he resolved to visit little crotchet. he was tired; he had traveled many miles, and had had little sleep, but sleep could be called at any time, and would come at the call. only at night could he visit the little master. in the daytime he could stretch himself on a bed of fragrant pine-needles, with odorous heart-leaves for his pillow, and take his ease. so now, after all the turmoil and confusion he had experienced in field and wood, he went to the hill from which he could see the light in little crotchet's window. usually it was late before aaron would venture to climb to the window, but there was one signal that made it urgent for him to go. when the light was suddenly extinguished and as suddenly relit, it was a signal that aaron must come as soon as he could. this was little crotchet's invention and he thought a great deal of it. and it must be admitted that it was very simple and complete. sitting on the hill, aaron saw the light shining through the red curtain. then it disappeared and the window remained dark for a minute. then the light suddenly shone out again. the arab glanced at the two stars that revolve around the north star, and judged it was not more than nine o'clock. what could the little master want at this early hour? no need to ask that question; little crotchet had a great deal of business on hand. in the first place, while mr. simmons's hounds were hunting aaron, timoleon, the black stallion, had escaped from his stable, and he created a great uproar on the place. when the negro who usually fed and groomed him went into the lot to catch the horse, he found that the catcher is sometimes caught. for timoleon, made furious by his freedom from the confinement of the halter and the four walls of the stable, seized the man by the shoulder and came near inflicting a fatal injury. nothing saved the unfortunate negro but the fact that randall, who chanced to be walking about the lot, made a pretense of attacking the horse with a wagon whip. timoleon dropped the negro and made a furious rush at randall; but randall was in reach of the fence, and so made his escape, while the wounded negro took advantage of the opportunity to stagger, stumble, and crawl to a place of safety. this done, he lay as one dead. he was carried to his cabin, and a messenger was sent, hot-foot, for the doctor, who lived in the neighborhood not far away. little crotchet witnessed a part of the scene, and, oh! he was angry. it was outrageous, wicked, horrible, that a horse should be so cruel. he sat on the gray pony and shook his fist impotently at the black stallion. "oh, if i had you where i could put the lash on you, i'd make you pay for this, you mean, cruel creature!" singular to say, timoleon whinnied when he heard the little master's voice, and came galloping to the fence where the gray pony stood, and put his head over the top rail. "blest ef i don't b'lieve he know you, honey," said randall. this somewhat mollified little crotchet, but he was still angry. "why are you so mean and cruel! oh, i'll make somebody lash you well for this!" the black stallion whinnied again in the friendliest way. "is anybody ever see de beat er dat!" exclaimed randall. nothing could be done, and so the black stallion roamed about the lot at will, and that night when the mules came in from the field they had to be fed and housed under the ginhouse shelter. the white-haired master was away from home on business, but the whole plantation knew that he prized timoleon above all the other horses on the place, and so neither turin nor randall would take harsh measures to recapture the horse. they were careful enough, however, to have the high fence strengthened where they found it weak. this was one of the reasons why little crotchet wanted to see aaron. but there was also another reason. the lad wanted to introduce the runaway to a new friend of his, mr. richard hudspeth, his tutor, who had been employed to come all the way from massachusetts to take charge of the lad's education, which was already fair for his age. in fact, what little crotchet knew about books was astonishing when it is remembered that he never went to school. he had been taught to read and write and cipher by his mother, and this opened the door of his father's library, which was as large as it was well selected. mr. hudspeth had been recommended by an old friend who had served two years in congress with mr. abercrombie, and there was no trouble in coming to an agreement, for mr. hudspeth had reasons of his own for desiring to visit the south. he belonged to the anti-slavery society, and was an aggressive abolitionist. he was a fair-skinned young man, with a silk-like yellow beard, active in his movements, and had a voice singularly sweet and well modulated. he talked with great nicety of expression, and had a certain daintiness of manner which, in so far as it suggested femininity, was calculated to give the casual observer a wrong idea of mr. hudspeth's disposition and temperament. he had been installed as little crotchet's tutor for more than a week. the lad did not like him at first. his preciseness seemed to smack too much of method and discipline,--the terror of childhood and youth. and there was a queer inflection to his sentences, and his pronunciation had a strange and an unfamiliar twang. but these things soon became familiar to the lad, as mr. hudspeth, little by little, won his attention and commanded his interest. the teacher (for he was emphatically a teacher in the best sense, and not a tutor in any sense) saw at the beginning that the dull routine of the text-books would be disastrous here, both to health and spirits. and so he fell back on his own experience, and became himself the mouthpiece of all good books he had ever read, and of all great thoughts that had ever planted themselves in his mind. and he entered with real enthusiasm into all little crotchet's thoughts, and drew him out until the soul of the lad would have been no more clearly defined had every detail been painted on canvas and hung on the wall before the teacher's eyes. it was this teacher that little crotchet wanted aaron to see, a fact which, taken by itself, was sufficient evidence that the lad had grown fond of mr. hudspeth. little crotchet was very cunning about it, too. he invited the teacher to come to his room after tea, and when mr. hudspeth came the lad, lying upon his bed, put the question plumply:-- "do you want to see my runaway?" "your runaway? i don't understand you." "don't you know what a runaway is? why, of course you do. a runaway negro." "ah! a fugitive slave. yes; i have seen a few." "but you've never seen my runaway at all. he isn't a negro. he's an arab. i'll let you see him if you promise never to tell. it's a great secret. i'm so small, and--and so crippled, you know, nobody would ever think i had a runaway?" "never fear me. do you keep him in a box and permit only your best friends to peep at him occasionally?" "oh, no," said little crotchet, laughing at the idea. "he's a sure-enough runaway. he's been advertised in the newspapers. and they had the funniest picture of him you ever saw. they made him look like all the rest of the runaways that have their pictures in the milledgeville papers,--a little bit of a man, bare-headed and stooped over, carrying a cane on his shoulder with a bundle hanging on the end of it. sister cut it out for me. i'll show it to you to-morrow." mr. hudspeth was very much interested in the runaway, and said he would be glad to see him. "well, you must do as i tell you. if i could jump up and jump about i wouldn't ask you, you know. take the candle in your hand, go out on the stair landing, close the door after you, and stand there until you hear me call." mr. hudspeth couldn't understand what all this meant, but he concluded to humor the joke. so he did as he was bid. he carried the candle from the room, closed the door, and stood on the landing until he heard little crotchet calling. when he reëntered the room he held the candle above his head and looked about him. he evidently expected to see the runaway. "this is equal to joining a secret society," he said. "where is your runaway? has he escaped?" "i just wanted to make the window dark a moment and then bright again. that is my signal. if he sees it, he'll come. don't you think it's cunning?" "i shall certainly think so if the runaway comes," replied mr. hudspeth somewhat doubtfully. "he has never failed yet," said little crotchet. "if he fails now, it will be because jim simmons's hounds have caught him, or else he is too tired to come out on the hill and watch for the signal." "were the bloodhounds after him?" inquired mr. hudspeth, with a frown. "bloodhounds!" exclaimed little crotchet. "i never saw a bloodhound, and i never heard of one around here. if my runaway is caught, the dog that did it could be put in the pocket of that big overcoat you had strapped on your trunk." the lad paused and held up his finger. his ear had caught the sound of aaron's feet on the shingles. there was a faint grating sound, as the window sash was softly raised and lowered, and then the son of ben ali stepped from behind the curtain. he stood still as a statue when his eye fell on the stranger, and his attitude was one of simple dignity when he turned to the little master. he saw the lad laughing and he smiled in sympathy. "he's one of us," said little crotchet, "and i wanted him to see you. he's my teacher. mr. hudspeth, this is aaron." mr. hudspeth grasped aaron's hand and shook it warmly, and they talked for some time, the son of ben ali sitting on the side of little crotchet's bed, holding the lad's hand in one of his. aaron told of his day's experiences, and his description of the affair in the swamp was so vivid and realistic that mr. hudspeth exclaimed:-- "if that were put in print, the world would declare it to be pure fiction." "fiction," said little crotchet to aaron, with an air of great solemnity, "fiction is a story put in a book. a story is sometimes called a fib, but when it is printed it is called fiction." mr. hudspeth laughed and so did aaron, but aaron's laugh had a good deal of pride in it. "he's crippled here," remarked aaron, touching little crotchet's legs, "but not here,"--touching the boy's head. "but all this is not what i called you for," said little crotchet after a while. "timoleon tore his stable door down to-day and came near killing one of the hands. he is out now. father will be angry when he comes home and hears about it. can't you put him in his stable?" "me? i can lead the grandson of abdallah all around the plantation by a yarn string," aaron declared. [illustration: he stood as still as a statue] "well, if you had been here to-day you'd have found out different. you don't know that horse," little crotchet insisted. "he is certainly as vicious a creature as i ever saw," remarked the teacher, who had been an amazed witness of the horse's performances. "i'll show you," aaron declared. "oh, no!" protested little crotchet. "don't try any tricks on that horse. he's too mean and cruel. if you can get him in his stable, and fasten him in, i'll be glad. but don't go near him; he'll bite your head off." aaron laughed and then he seemed to be considering something. "i wish"--he paused and looked at little crotchet. "you wish what?" asked the lad. "i wish you might go with me. but it is dark. the moon is a day moon. i could tote you to the fence." "and then what?" asked little crotchet. "you could see a tame horse--the grandson of abdallah." "i'll go to the fence if you'll carry me," said little crotchet. "the air is not cold--no wind is blowing." "shall i go too?" asked mr. hudspeth. "i'd be glad," said aaron. so, although the night was not cold, aaron took a shawl from the bed and wrapped it about little crotchet, lifted the lad in his arms, and went softly down the stairway, mr. hudspeth following. the night was not so dark after all. once away from the light, various familiar objects began to materialize. the oaks ceased to be huge shadows. there was a thin, milk-white haze in the sky that seemed to shed a reflection of light on the earth below. a negro passed along the beaten way leading to the cabins, whistling a tune. it was randall. he heard the others and paused. "it's your turn to tote," said aaron. "who?" exclaimed randall. "the little master," replied aaron. randall laughed. who talked of turns where the little master was concerned? when it came to carrying that kind of burden, randall was the man to do it, and it was "don't le' me hurt you, honey. ef i squeeze too tight, des say de word;" and then, "whar we gwine, honey? a'on gwine in dar en put dat ar hoss up? well, 'fo' he go in dar less all shake han's wid 'im, kaze when we nex' lay eyes on 'im he won't hear us, not ef we stoop down and holler good-by in his year." but following aaron, they went toward the lot where the black stallion had shown his savage temper during the day. viii. the happenings of a night. when aaron and those who were with him reached the lot fence, which had been made high and strong to keep old jule, the jumping mule, within bounds, not a sound was heard on the other side. "you er takin' yo' life in yo' han', mon," said randall in a warning tone, as aaron placed one foot on the third rail and vaulted over. the warning would have come too late in any event, for by the time the words were off randall's tongue aaron was over the fence. those who were left behind waited in breathless suspense for some sound--some movement--from timoleon, or some word from the arab, to guide them. but for a little while (and it seemed to be a long, long while to little crotchet) nothing could be heard. then suddenly there fell on their strained ears the noise that is made by a rushing horse, followed by a sharp exclamation from aaron. "what a pity if he is hurt!" exclaimed the teacher. before anything else could be said, there came a whinnying sound from timoleon, such as horses make when they greet those they are fond of, or when they are hungry and see some one bringing their food. but timoleon's whinnying was more prolonged, and in the midst of it they could hear aaron talking. "ef horses could talk," remarked randall, "i'd up 'n' say dey wuz ca'n on a big confab in dar." little crotchet said nothing. he had often heard aaron say that he knew the language of animals, but the matter had never been pressed on the lad's attention as it was years afterwards on the attention of buster john and sweetest susan. finally aaron came to the fence, closely followed by the black stallion. "man, what you think?" said the son of ben ali to randall; "no water, no corn, no fodder since night before last." "de lord 'a' mercy!" exclaimed randall. "is anybody ever hear de beat er dat? no wonder he kotch dat ar nigger an' bit 'im! when de rascal git well i'm gwine ter ax marster ter le' me take 'im out an' gi' 'im a paddlin'--an' i'll do it right, mon." mr. hudspeth made a mental note of this speech, and resolved to find out if randall meant what he said, or was merely joking. "man, give me the little master," said aaron from the top of the fence, "and run and fetch two buckets of water from the spring." "dey's water in de lot dar," randall explained. "it is dirty," replied aaron. "the grandson of abdallah would die before he would drink it." he leaned down and took little crotchet in his arms. the muzzle of timoleon was so near that the lad could feel the hot breath from his nostrils. involuntarily the little master shuddered and shrank closer to aaron. "he'll not hurt you," said aaron. he made a queer sound with his lips, and the horse whinnied. "now you may put your hand on him--so." the arab took the little master's hand and placed it gently on the smooth, sensitive muzzle of the horse. the lad could feel the nervous working of timoleon's strong upper lip. then he stroked the horse's head and rubbed the velvety ears, and in less time than it takes to write it down he felt very much at home with the black stallion, and had no fear of him then or afterwards. randall soon returned with cool, fresh water from the spring. the black stallion drank all that was brought and wanted more, but aaron said no. he had placed the little master on randall's shoulder, and timoleon, when he finished drinking, was taken to his stable and fed, and the broken door propped in such a manner that it could not be forced open from the inside. this done, aaron returned to the others, relieved randall of little crotchet, though the frail body was not much of a burden, and the three started back to the big house. "you are still anxious to punish the poor man who was hurt by the horse?" asked the teacher, as randall bade them good-night. "i is dat, suh. i'm des ez sho ter raise welks on his hide ez de sun is ter shine--leas'ways ef breff stay in his body. ef i'd 'a' been dat ar hoss an' he'd done me dat away, i'd 'a' trompled de gizzard out 'n 'im. ef dey's anything dat i do 'spise, suh, it's a low-down, triflin', good-fer-nothin' nigger." mr. hudspeth knew enough about human nature to be able to catch the tone of downright sincerity in the negro's voice, and the fact not only amazed him at the time, but worried him no little when he recalled it afterward; for his memory seized upon it and made it more important than it really was. and he saw and noted other things on that plantation that puzzled him no little, and destroyed in his own mind the efficiency of some of his strongest anti-slavery arguments; but it did not, for it could not, reach the essence of the matter as he had conceived it, that human slavery, let it be national or sectional, or paternal and patriarchal, was an infliction on the master as well as an injustice to the negro. so far so good. but mr. hudspeth could not see then what he saw and acknowledged when american slavery was happily a thing of the past, namely: that in the beginning, the slaves who were brought here were redeemed from a slavery in their own country worse than the bondage of death; that though they came here as savages, they were brought in close and stimulating contact with christian civilization, and so lifted up that in two centuries they were able to bear the promotion to citizenship which awaited them; and that, although this end was reached in the midst of confusion and doubt, tumult and bloodshed, it was given to human intelligence to perceive in slavery, as well as in the freedom of the slaves, the hand of an all-wise providence, and to behold in their bondage here the scheme of a vast university in which they were prepared to enjoy the full benefits of all the blessings which have been conferred on them, and which, though they seem to have been long delayed, have come to them earlier than to any other branch of the human race. the teacher who played his little part in the adventures of aaron played a large part in national affairs at a later day. he saw slavery pass away, and he lived long enough after that event to put on record this declaration: "looking back on the history of the human race, let us hasten to acknowledge, while the acknowledgment may be worth making, that two hundred and odd years of slavery, as it existed in the american republic, is a small price to pay for participation in the inestimable blessings and benefits of american freedom and american citizenship." and as he spoke, the great audience he was addressing seemed to fade before his eyes, and he found himself wandering again on the old plantation with little crotchet, or walking under the starlit skies talking to aaron. and he heard again the genial voice of the gentleman whose guest he was, and lived again through the pleasures and perils of that wonderful year on the abercrombie place. but all this was twenty-five years in the future, and mr. hudspeth had not even a dream of what that future was to bring forth. indeed, as he followed aaron and little crotchet from the horse lot to the house he was less interested in what the years might hold for him than he was in one incident that occurred while aaron was preparing to take the black stallion back to his stall. he was puzzled and wanted information. how did aaron know that the horse had gone without water and food? he observed that neither little crotchet nor randall questioned the statement when it was made, but treated it as a declaration beyond dispute. and yet the runaway had been in the woods, and a part of the time was pursued by hounds. he had no means of knowing whether or not the black stallion had been attended to. the matter weighed on the teacher's mind to such an extent that when he and his companions were safe in little crotchet's room he put a question to aaron. "by what means did you know that the horse had been left without food and water?" aaron glanced at little crotchet and smiled. "well, sir, to tell you would be not to tell you. you wouldn't believe me." "oh, you go too far,--indeed you do. why should i doubt your word?" "it don't fit in with things you know." "try me." "the grandson of abdallah told me," replied aaron simply. the teacher looked from aaron to little crotchet. "you must be joking," he remarked. "oh, no, he isn't," protested little crotchet. "i know he can talk with the animals. he has promised to teach me, but i always forget it when i go to the swamp; there are so many other things to think about." "would you teach me?" mr. hudspeth asked. his face was solemn, and yet there was doubt in the tone of his voice. aaron shook his head. "too old," he explained. "too old, and know too much." "it's another case of having a child's faith," suggested the teacher. "most, but not quite," answered aaron. "it is like this: the why must be very big, or you must be touched." the teacher pondered over this reply for some moments, and then said: "there must be some real reason why i should desire to learn the language of animals. is that it?" "most, but not quite," aaron responded. "you must have the sure-enough feeling." "i see. but what is it to be touched? what does that mean?" "you must be touched by the people who live next door to the world." the teacher shook his head slowly and stroked his beard thoughtfully. he tried to treat the whole matter with due solemnity, so as to keep his footing, and he succeeded. "where is this country that is next door to the world?" he asked, turning to little crotchet. "under the spring," the lad replied promptly. "have you ever visited that country?" the teacher asked. his tone was serious enough now. "no," replied little crotchet, with a wistful sigh. "i'm crippled, you know, and walk only on my crutches. it is far to go, and i can't take my pony. but aaron has told me about it, and i have seen little mr. thimblefinger--once--and he told me about mrs. meadows and the rest and brought me a message from old mr. rabbit. they all live in the country next door to the world." for several minutes the teacher sat and gazed into the pale flame of the candle. the wax or tallow had run down on one side, and formed a figure in the semblance of a wee man hanging to the brass mouth of the candlestick with both hands. glazing thus, queer thoughts came to the teacher's mind. he tugged at his beard to see whether he was awake or dreaming. could it be that by some noiseless shifting of the scenery he was even now in the country next door to the world? he rose suddenly, shook hands with aaron, and, swayed by some sudden impulse, stooped and pressed his lips to the pale brow of the patient lad. then he went to his room, threw open the window, and sat for an hour, wondering what influence his strange experiences would have on his life. and his reflections were not amiss, for years afterwards his experiences of this night were responsible for his intimacy with the greatest american of our time,--abraham lincoln. it was in the early part of the war that mr. hudspeth, one of a group of congressmen in consultation with the president, let fall some chance remarks about the country next door to the world. mr. lincoln had been telling a humorous story, and was on the point of telling another, when mr. hudspeth's chance remark struck his ear. "whereabouts is that country?" he asked. "not far from georgia," replied mr. hudspeth. "who lives there?" "little crotchet, aaron the arab, little mr. thimblefinger, mrs. meadows, and old mr. rabbit." mr. hudspeth counted them off on his fingers in a humorous manner. mr. lincoln, who had been laughing before, suddenly grew serious--melancholy, indeed. he talked with the congressmen awhile longer, but they knew by his manner that they were dismissed. as they were leaving, the president remarked:-- "wait till your hurry's over, hudspeth; i want to talk to you." and sitting before the fire in his private office, mr. lincoln recalled mr. hudspeth's chance remark, and questioned him with great particularity about aaron and little crotchet and all the rest. "of course you believed in the country next door to the world?" mr. lincoln suggested. "to tell you the truth, mr. president, i felt queerly that night. it seemed as real to me as anything i ever heard of and never saw." "get the feeling back, hudspeth; get it back. i can believe everything you told me about it." and after that, when mr. hudspeth called on the president, and found him in a mood between extreme mirth and downright melancholy, he would say: "i was with aaron last night," or "i'm just from the country next door to the world," or "i hope sherman won't get lost in the country that is next door to the world." but all this was in the future, and, as we all know, mr. hudspeth, sitting at his window and gazing at the stars that hung sparkling over the abercrombie place, could not read the future. if it was too late for him to learn the language of the animals, how could he hope to interpret the prophecies of the constellations? aaron sat with little crotchet until there was no danger that the red goblin, pain, would put in an appearance, and then he slipped through the window, and was soon at the foot of the oak, where rambler was taking a nap. he gave the dog some of the food that little crotchet had put by for him, ate heartily himself, and then went toward the swamp. on the hill he turned and looked back in the direction of little crotchet's window. as he paused he heard a voice cry "hello!" aaron was not startled, for the sound came from a distance, and fell but faintly on his ears. he listened and heard it again:-- [illustration: it was the white-haired master] "hello! hello!" it seemed to come from the road, half a mile away, and aaron knew that there was no house in that direction for a traveler or a passer-by to hail. there was something in the tone that suggested distress. without waiting to listen again, the arab started for the road in a rapid trot. he thought he heard it again as he ran, and this caused him to run the faster. he climbed the fence that marked the line of the road, and sat there a moment; but all was silence, save the soft clamor of insects and frogs that is a feature of the first half of the night. aaron had now come to a point from which he could reach the swamp more conveniently by following the road for half a mile, though he would have another hill to climb. as he jumped from the fence into the road the cry came to his ears again, and this time with startling distinctness: "hello! hello! oh, isn't there some one to hear me?" it was so plainly the call of some one in distress that aaron shouted an answer of encouragement, and ran as fast as he could in the direction from which the sound came. the situation was so new to rambler that, instead of making ahead to investigate and report, he stuck to aaron, whining uneasily. as the son of ben ali ran he saw dimly outlined at the foot of the hill a short distance beyond him a huge something that refused to take a recognizable shape until he stood beside it, and even then it was startling enough. it was the gray mare, timoleon's sister, lying at full length by the side of the road, and underneath her the son of ben ali knew he would find the white-haired master. but it was not as bad as it might have been. "hurt much, master?" said aaron, leaning over mr. abercrombie and touching him on the shoulder. "not seriously," replied the white-haired master. "but the leg that is under the mare is numb." the gray mare, after falling, had done nothing more than whinny. if she had struggled to rise, the white-haired master's leg would have needed a doctor: and if she had risen to her feet and started home the doctor would have been unnecessary, for the imprisoned foot was caught in the stirrup. well for mr. abercrombie that aaron knew the gray mare, and that the gray mare knew aaron. she whinnied when the runaway spoke to her. she raised her head and gathered her forefeet under her, and then suddenly, at a word from aaron, lifted her weight from the leg, while the foot was taken from the stirrup. again the word was given and the gray mare rose easily to her feet and shook herself. "can you walk, master?" aaron asked. "i think so--certainly." yet it was not an easy thing to do. though the limb was not broken, owing to the fact that the ground was damp and soft where the gray mare fell, yet it had been imprisoned for some time, and it was both numb and bruised. the numbness was in evidence now, as the white-haired master rose to his feet and tried to walk; the bruises would speak for themselves to-morrow. "what is your name?" mr. abercrombie asked. "i am called aaron, master." "i thought so, and i'm glad of it. some day i'll thank you; but now--pins and needles!" the blood was beginning to circulate in the numb leg, and this was not by any means a pleasant experience. aaron shortened it somewhat by rubbing the limb vigorously. "are you still in the woods, aaron?" "yes, master." "well, i'm sorry. i wish you belonged to me." "i'm wishing harder than you, master." "what a pity--what a pity!" "don't get too sorry, master." "no; it would do no good." "and don't blame the gray mare for stumbling, master. the saddle too high on her shoulders, the belly-band too tight, and her shoes nailed on in the dark." aaron helped mr. abercrombie to mount. "good-night, master!" "good-night, aaron!" the arab watched the gray mare and her rider until the darkness hid them from view. and no wonder! he was the only man, living or dead, that the son of ben ali had ever called "master." why? aaron tried to make the matter clear to his own mind, and while he was doing his best to unravel the problem he heard buggy wheels rattle on the hilltop. the horse must have shied at something just then, for a harsh voice cried out, followed by the sound of a whip falling cruelly on the creature's back. the wheels rattled louder as the creature leaped frantically from under the whip. the harsh voice cried "whoa!" three times, twice in anger, and the third time in mortal fear. and then aaron knew that he had another adventure on his hands. ix. the upsetting of mr. gossett. if aaron had known it was mr. gossett's voice he heard and mr. gossett's hand that brought the buggy whip down on the poor horse's back with such cruel energy, the probability is that he would have taken to his heels; and yet it is impossible to say with certainty. the son of ben ali was such a curious compound that his actions depended entirely on the mood he chanced to be in. he was full of courage, and yet was terribly afraid at times. he was dignified and proud, and yet no stranger to humility. his whole nature resented the idea of serving as a slave, yet he would have asked nothing better than to be little crotchet's slave: and he was glad to call mr. abercrombie master. so that, after all, it may be that he would have stood his ground, knowing that the voice and hand were mr. gossett's when his ears told him, as they now did, that the horse, made furious by the cruel stroke of the whip, was running away, coming down the hill at breakneck speed. mr. gossett had been on a fruitless errand. when his son george reached home that morning and told him that mr. jim simmons's dogs had followed the trail to the river and there lost it, mr. gossett remarked that he was glad he did not go on a fool's errand, and he made various statements about mr. simmons and his dogs that were not at all polite. later in the day, however (though the hour was still early), when mr. gossett was making the customary round of his plantation, he fell in with a negro who had been hunting for some stray sheep. the negro, after giving an account of his movements, made this further remark:-- "i sholy 'spected you'd be over yander wid mr. jim simmons, marster. his dogs done struck a track leadin' inter de swamp, an' dey sho went a callyhootin'." "when was that?" mr. gossett inquired. "not mo' dan two hours ago, ef dat," responded the negro. "i lis'n at um, i did, an' dey went right spang tor'ds de swamp. i know'd de dogs, kaze i done hear um soon' dis mornin'." giving the negro some instructions that would keep him busy the rest of the day if he carried them out, mr. gossett turned his horse's head in the direction of the swamp, and rode slowly thither. the blue falcon soared high in the air and paid no attention to mr. gossett. for various reasons that the swamp knew about the turkey buzzard was not in sight. the swamp itself was full of the reposeful silence that daylight usually brought to it. mr. gossett rode about and listened; but if all the dogs in the world had suddenly disappeared, the region round about could not have been freer of their barking and baying than it was at that moment. all that mr. gossett could do was to turn about and ride back home. but he was very much puzzled. if mr. simmons had trailed a runaway into the swamp and caught him, or if he had made two failures in one morning, mr. gossett would like very much to know it. in point of fact, he was such a practical business man that he felt it was mr. simmons's duty to make some sort of report to him. in matters of this kind mr. gossett was very precise. but after dinner he felt in a more jocular mood. he informed his son george that he thought he would go over and worry mr. simmons a little over his failure to catch aaron, and he had his horse put to the buggy, and rode six or seven miles to mr. simmons's home, smiling grimly as he went along. mr. simmons was at home, but was not feeling very well, as his wife informed mr. gossett. mrs. simmons herself was in no very amiable mood, as mr. gossett very soon observed. but she asked him in politely enough, and said she'd go and tell jimmy that company had come. she went to the garden gate not very far from the house and called out to her husband in a shrill voice:-- "jimmy! oh, jimmy! that old buzzard of a gossett is in the house. come see what he wants. and do put on your coat before you come in the house. and wash your hands. they're dirtier than sin. and hit that shock of yours one lick with the comb and brush. come right on now. if i have to sit in there and talk to the old rascal long i'll have a fit. ain't you coming? i'll run back before he ransacks the whole house." mr. simmons came sauntering in after a while, and his wife made that the excuse for disappearing, though she went no further than the other side of the door, where she listened with all her ears, being filled with a consuming curiosity to know what business brought mr. gossett to that house. she had not long to wait, for the visitor plunged into the subject at once. "you may know i was anxious about you, simmons, or i wouldn't be here." ("the old hypocrite!" remarked mrs. simmons, on the other side of the door.) "you didn't come by when your hunt ended, and i allowed maybe that you had caught the nigger and either killed or crippled him, and--ahem!--felt a sort of backwardness in telling me about it. so i thought i would come over and see you, if only to say that whether you caught the nigger or killed him, he's responsible for it and not you." "no, colonel, i'm not in the practice of killing niggers nor crippling 'em. i've caught a many of 'em, but i've never hurt one yet. but, colonel! if you'd 'a' gone through with what i've been through this day, you'd 'a' done exactly what i done. you'd 'a' went right straight home without stopping to ask questions or to answer 'em--much less tell tales." thereupon mr. simmons told the story of his adventure in the swamp, varnishing up the facts as he thought he knew them, and adding some details calculated to make the episode much more interesting from his point of view. it will be remembered that mr. simmons was in total ignorance of what really happened in the swamp. he had conceived the theory that his dogs had hit upon the trail of a wildcat going from the river to its den in the swamp, and that, when the dogs had followed it there, they had been attacked, not by one wildcat, but by the whole "caboodle" of wildcats, to use mr. simmons's expression. having conceived this theory, mr. simmons not only stuck to it, but added various incidents that did credit to his imagination. for instance, he made this statement in reply to a question from mr. gossett:-- "what did i think when i heard all the racket and saw sound come out mangled? well, i'll tell you, colonel, i didn't know what to think. i never heard such a terrible racket in all my born days. i says to myself, 'i'll just ride in and see what the trouble is, and if there ain't but one wildcat, why, i'll soon put an end to him.' so i spurred my hoss up, and started in; but before we went anyways, hardly, the hoss give a snort and tried to whirl around and run out. "it made me mad at the time," mr. simmons went on, his inventive faculty rising to the emergency, "but, colonel, it's a mighty good thing that hoss had more sense than i did, because if he hadn't i'd 'a' never been setting here telling you about it. i tried to make the hoss stand, but he wouldn't, and, just then, what should i see but two great big wildcats trying to sneak up on me? and all the time, colonel, the racket in the swamp was getting louder and louder. pluto was in there somewheres, and i know'd he was attending to his business, so i just give the hoss the reins and he went like he was shot out of a gun. "i pulled him in, and turned him around, and then i saw pluto trying to come out. now, colonel, you may know if it was too hot for him it was lots too warm for me. pluto tried to come, and he was a-fighting like fury; but it was no go. the two cats that had been sneaking up on me lit on him, and right then and there they tore him all to flinders! colonel, they didn't leave a piece of that dog's hide big enough to make a woman's glove if it had been tanned. and as if that wouldn't do 'em, they made another sally and come at me, tush and claw. and i just clapped spurs to the hoss and cleaned up from there. do you blame me, colonel?" [illustration: they tore him all to flinders] "as i understand it, simmons," remarked mr. gossett, after pulling his beard and reflecting a while, "you didn't catch the nigger." ("the nasty old buzzard!" remarked mrs. simmons, on the other side of the door. "if i was jimmy i'd hit him with a cheer.") "do you think you'd 'a' caught him, colonel, taking into account all the circumstances and things?" inquired mr. simmons, with his irritating drawl. "i didn't say i was going to catch him, did i?" replied mr. gossett. "i didn't say he couldn't get away from my dogs, did i?" "supposing you had," suggested mr. simmons, "would you 'a' done it? i ain't never heard of you walking in amongst a drove of wildcats to catch a nigger." "and so you didn't catch him; and your fine dogs are finer now than they ever were?" mr. gossett remarked. ("my goodness! if jimmy don't hit him, i'll go in and do it myself," said mrs. simmons, on the other side of the door.) "well, colonel, it's just like i tell you." mr. simmons would have said something else, but just then the door opened and mrs. simmons walked in, fire in her eye. "you've saved your $ , hain't you?" she said to mr. gossett. "why--er--yes'm--but"-- "no buts about it," she snapped. "if you ain't changed mightily, you think a heap more of $ in your pocket than you do of a nigger in the bushes. jimmy don't owe you nothin', does he?" "well--er--no'm." mr. gossett had been taken completely by surprise. "no, he don't, and if he did i'd quit him right now--this very minute," mrs. simmons declared, gesticulating ominously with her forefinger. "and what jimmy wants to go trolloping about the country trying to catch the niggers you drive to the woods is more'n i can tell to save my life. why, if he was to catch your runaway niggers they wouldn't stay at home no longer than the minute you took the ropes off 'em." mr. simmons cleared his throat, as if to say something, but his wife anticipated him. "oh, hush up, jimmy!" she cried. "you know i'm telling nothing but the truth. there ain't a living soul in this country that don't know a gossett nigger as far as they can see him." "what are the ear-marks, ma'am?" inquired mr. gossett, trying hard to be jocular. in a moment he was heartily sorry he had asked the question. "ear-marks? ear-marks? hide-marks, you better say. why, they've been abused and half fed till they are ashamed to look folks in the face, and i don't blame 'em. they go sneaking and shambling along and look meaner than sin. and 't ain't their own meanness that shows in 'em. no! not by a long sight. i'll say that much for the poor creeturs." there was something of a pause here, and mr. gossett promptly took advantage of it. he rose, bowed to mrs. simmons, who turned her back on him, and started for the door, saying:-- "well, simmons, i just called to see what luck you'd had this morning. my time's up. i must be going." mr. simmons followed him to the door and out to the gate. before mr. gossett got in his buggy he turned and looked toward the house, remarking to mr. simmons in a confidential tone:-- "i say, simmons! she's a scorcher, ain't she?" "a right warm one, colonel, if i do say it myself," replied mr. simmons, with a touch of pride. "but, colonel, before you get clean away, let's have a kind of understanding about this matter." "about what matter?" mr. gossett stood with one foot on his buggy step, ready to get in. "about this talk of jenny's," said mr. simmons, nodding his head toward the house. "i'll go this far--i'll say that i'm mighty sorry it wasn't somebody else that done the talkin', and in somebody else's house. but sence it was jenny, it can't be holp. if what she said makes you feel tired--sort of weary like--when you begin to think about it, jest bear in mind, colonel, that i hold myself both personally and individually responsible for everything jenny has said to-day, and everything she may say hereafter." mr. gossett lowered his eyebrows and looked through them at mr. simmons. "why, of course, simmons," he said a little stiffly, "we all have to stand by the women folks. i understand that. but blamed if i'd like to be in your shoes." "well, colonel, they fit me like a glove." mr. gossett seated himself in his buggy and drove away. mrs. simmons was standing in the door, her arms akimbo, when her husband returned to the house. "jimmy, you didn't go and apologize to that old buzzard for what i said, did you?" mr. simmons laughed heartily at the idea, and when he repeated what he had said to mr. gossett his wife jumped at him, and kissed him, and then ran into the next room and cried a little. it's the one way that all women have of "cooling down," as mr. simmons would have expressed it. but it need not be supposed that mr. gossett was in a good humor. he felt that mrs. simmons, in speaking as she did, was merely the mouthpiece of public opinion, and the idea galled him. he called on a neighbor, on his way back home, to discuss a business matter; and he was in such a bad humor, so entirely out of sorts, as he described it, that the neighbor hastened to get a jug of dram out of the cupboard, and, soothed and stimulated by the contents of the jug, mr. gossett thawed out. by degrees his good humor, such as it was, returned, and by degrees he took more of the dram than was good for him. so that when he started home, which was not until after sundown, his toddies had begun to tell on him. his eyes informed him that his horse had two heads, and he realized that he was not in a condition to present himself at home, where his son george could see him. the example would be too much for george, who had already on various occasions shown a fondness for the bottle. what, then, was to be done? a very brilliant idea struck mr. gossett. he would not drive straight home; that would never do in the world. he'd go up the road that led to town until he came to wesley chapel, and there he'd take the other road that led by the aikin plantation. this was a drive of about ten miles, and by that time the effects of the dram would be worn off. mr. gossett carried out this programme faithfully, and that was why the buggy was coming over the hill as aaron was going along the road on his way to the swamp. contrary to mr. gossett's expectations the dram did not exhaust itself. he still felt its influences, but he was no longer good-humored. instead, he was nervous and irritable. he began to brood over the unexpected tongue-lashing that mrs. simmons had given him, and succeeded in working himself into a very ugly frame of mind. when his horse came to the top of the hill, something the animal saw--a stray pig, or maybe a cow lying in the fence corner--caused it to swerve to one side. this was entirely too much for mr. gossett's unstrung nerves. he seized the whip and brought it down upon the animal's back with all his might. maddened by the sudden and undeserved blow, the horse made a terrific lunge forward, causing mr. gossett to drop the reins and nearly throwing him from the buggy. finding itself free, the excited horse plunged along the road. the grade of the hill was so heavy that the animal could not run at top speed, but made long jumps, flirting the buggy about as though it had been made of cork. the swinging and lurching of the buggy added to the animal's excitement, and the climax of its terror was reached when aaron loomed up in the dark before it. the horse made one wild swerve to the side of the road, but failed to elude aaron. the sudden swerve, however, threw mr. gossett out. he fell on the soft earth, and lay there limp, stunned, and frightened. aaron, holding to the horse, ran by its side a little way, and soon had the animal under control. he soothed it a moment, talked to it until it whinnied, fastened the lines to a fence corner, and then went back to see about the man who had fallen from the buggy, little dreaming that it was his owner, mr. gossett. but just as he leaned over the man, rambler told him the news; the keen nose of the dog had discovered it, though he stood some distance away. this caused aaron to straighten himself again, and as he did so he saw something gleam in the starlight. it was mr. gossett's pistol, which had fallen from his pocket as he fell. aaron picked up the weapon, handling it very gingerly, for he was unused to firearms, and placed it under the buggy seat. then he returned with an easier mind and gave his attention to mr. gossett. [illustration: the excited horse plunged along] "hurt much?" he asked curtly, shaking the prostrate man by the shoulder. "more scared than hurt, i reckon," replied mr. gossett. "what was that dog barking at just now?" "he ain't used to seeing white folks in the dirt," aaron explained. "who are you?" mr. gossett inquired. "one," answered aaron. "well, if i'd seen you a half hour ago i'd 'a' sworn you were two." mr. gossett made this joke at his own expense, but aaron did not understand it, and therefore could not appreciate it. so he said nothing. "put your hand under my shoulder here, and help me to sit up. i want to see if any bones are broken." aided by aaron mr. gossett assumed a sitting posture. while he was feeling of himself, searching for wounds and broken bones, he heard his horse snort. this reminded him (for he was still somewhat dazed) that he had started out with a horse and buggy. "that's your horse, i reckon. mine's at home by this time with two buggy shafts swinging to him. lord! what a fool a man can be!" "that's your horse," said aaron. "mine? who stopped him?" "me," aaron answered. "you? why, as near as i can remember, he was coming down this hill like the dogs were after him. who are you, anyhow?" "one." "well, you are worth a dozen common men. give me your hand." mr. gossett slowly raised himself to his feet, shook first one leg and then the other, and appeared to be much relieved to find that his body and all of its members were intact. he walked about a little, and then went close to aaron and peered in his face. "blamed if i don't believe you are my runaway nigger!" mr. gossett exclaimed. "i smell whiskey," said aaron. "confound the stuff! i never will get rid of it." mr. gossett put his hands in his pocket and walked around again. "your name is aaron," he suggested. receiving no reply, he said: "if your name is aaron you belong to me; if you belong to me get in the buggy and let's go home. you've been in the woods long enough." "too long," replied aaron. "that's a fact," mr. gossett assented. "come on and go home with me. if you're afeard of me you can put that idea out of your mind. i swear you shan't be hit a lick. you are the only nigger i ever had any respect for, and i'll be blamed if i know how i came to have any for you after the way you've treated me. but if you'll promise not to run off any more i'll treat you right. you're a good hand and a good man." mr. gossett paused and felt in his pockets, evidently searching for something. "have you seen a pistol lying loose anywhere around here?" he asked. "it's all safe," replied aaron. "you've got it. very well. i was just going to pull it out and hand it to you. come on; it's getting late." seeing that aaron made no movement, mr. gossett tried another scheme. "well, if you won't go home," he said, "and i think i can promise that you'll be sorry if you don't, get in the buggy and drive part of the way for me. i'm afraid of that horse after his caper to-night." "well, i'll do that," remarked aaron. he helped mr. gossett into the buggy, untied the lines, took his seat by his owner, and the two were soon on their way home. x. chunky riley sees a queer sight. there is no doubt that mr. gossett was sincere in what he said to aaron. there is no doubt that he fully intended to carry out the promises he had made in the hope of inducing the runaway to return home with him. nor can it be doubted that he had some sort of respect for a slave who, although a fugitive with a reward offered for his capture, was willing to go to the rescue of his owner at a very critical moment. mr. gossett was indeed a harsh, hard, calculating man, whose whole mind was bent on accumulating "prop'ty," as he called it, to the end that he might be looked up to as addison abercrombie and other planters were. but after all, he was a human being, and he admired strength, courage, audacity, and the suggestion of craftiness that he thought he discovered in aaron. moreover, he was not without a lurking fear of the runaway, for, at bottom, mr. gossett's was essentially a weak nature. this weakness constantly displayed itself in his hectoring, blustering, overbearing manner toward those over whom he had any authority. it was natural, therefore, that mr. gossett should have a secret dread of aaron, as well as a lively desire to conciliate him up to a certain point. more than this, mr. gossett had been impressed by the neighborhood talk about the queer runaway. as long as such talk was confined to the negroes he paid no attention to it; but when such a sage as mr. jonathan gadsby, a man of large experience and likewise a justice of the peace, was ready to agree to some of the most marvelous tales told about the agencies that aaron was able to call to his aid, the superstitious fears of mr. gossett began to give him an uneasy feeling. the first proposition that mr. gadsby laid down was that aaron was "not by no means a nigger, as anybody with eyes in their head could see." that fact was first to be considered. admit it, and everything else that was said would follow as a matter of course. mr. gadsby's argument, judicially delivered to whomsoever wanted to hear it, was this: it was plain to be seen that the runaway was no more like a nigger than a donkey is like a race-horse. now, if he wasn't a nigger what was he trying to play nigger for? what was he up to? why couldn't the track dogs catch him? when some one said mr. simmons's dogs hadn't tried, mr. gadsby would answer that when mr. simmons's dogs did try they'd make a worse muddle of it than ever. why? because the runaway had on him the marks of the men that called the elements to help them. mr. gadsby knew it, because he had seen their pictures in the books, and the runaway looked just like them. mr. gadsby's memory was exact. the pictures he had seen were in a book called the "arabian nights." mr. gossett thought of what mr. gadsby had said, as he sat with aaron in the buggy, and cold chills began to creep up his spine. he edged away as far as he could, but aaron paid no attention to his movement. once the horse turned its head sidewise and whinnied. aaron made some sort of reply that was unintelligible to mr. gossett. the horse stopped still, aaron jumped from the buggy, went to the animal's head, and presently came back with a part of the harness in his hand, which he threw on the bottom of the buggy. "what's that?" mr. gossett asked. "bridle. bit hurt horse's mouth." he then coolly pulled the reins in and placed them with the bridle. "why, confound it, don't you know this horse is as wild as a buck? are you fixing to have me killed? what are you doing now?" aaron had taken the whip from its thimble, laid the lash gently on the horse's back, and held it there. in response to his chirrup the horse whinnied gratefully and shook its head playfully. when mr. gossett saw that the horse was going easily and that it seemed to be completely under aaron's control, he remembered again what mr. gadsby had said about people who were able to call the elements to their aid, and it caused a big lump to rise in his throat. what was this going on right before his eyes? a runaway sitting by his side and driving a fractious and easily frightened horse without bit or bridle? and then another thought crossed mr. gossett's mind--a thought so direful that it caused a cold sweat to stand on his forehead. was it the runaway's intention to jump suddenly from the buggy and strike the horse with the whip? but aaron showed no such purpose or desire. once he leaned forward, peering into the darkness, and said something to the horse. [illustration: he edged away as far as he could] "what is it?" mr. gossett asked nervously. "some buggies coming along," replied aaron. "can you pass them here?" "if they give your wheels one inch to spare," replied aaron. "tell 'em to bear to the right." "hello, there!" cried mr. gossett. "hello, yourself!" answered a voice. "that you, terrell?" "yes, ain't that gossett?" "the same. bear to the right. where've you been?" "been to the lodge at harmony." the attic of the schoolhouse at harmony was used as a masonic lodge. "who's behind you?" mr. gossett inquired. "denham, aiken, griffin, and gatewood." there were, in fact, four buggies, mr. griffin being on horseback, and they were all close together. mr. gossett had but to seize aaron, yell for help, and his neighbors would soon have the runaway tied hard and fast with the reins in the bottom of the buggy. that is, if aaron couldn't call the elements to his aid--but suppose he could? what then? these thoughts passed through mr. gossett's mind, and he was strongly tempted to try the experiment; but he refrained. he said good-night, but mr. aiken hailed him. "you know that new school teacher at abercrombie's?" "i haven't seen him," said mr. gossett. "well, he's there. keep an eye on him. he's a rank abolitionist." "is that so?" exclaimed mr. gossett in a tone of amazement. "so i've heard. he'll bear watching." "well, well, well!" mr. gossett ejaculated. "what's that?" aaron asked in a low tone, as they passed the last of the four buggies. "what's what?" "abolitioner." "oh, that's one of these blamed new-fangled parties. you wouldn't know if i were to tell you." in a little while they began to draw near mr. gossett's home, and he renewed his efforts to prevail on aaron to go to the cabin that had been assigned to him, and to remain as one of the hands. finally as they came within hailing distance of the house, mr. gossett said:-- "if you've made up your mind to stay, you may take the horse and put it up. if you won't stay, don't let the other niggers see you. stop the horse if you can." aaron pressed the whip on the horse's flank, and instantly the buggy came to a standstill. the runaway jumped from the buggy, placed the whip in its thimble, and stood a moment as if reflecting. then he raised his right arm in the air--a gesture that mr. gossett could not see, however--and said good-night. "wait!" exclaimed mr. gossett. "where's my pistol?" "inside the buggy seat," replied aaron, and disappeared in the darkness. mr. gossett called a negro to take the horse, and it seemed as if one sprang from the ground to answer the call, with "yes, marster!" on the end of his tongue. it was chunky riley. "how long have you been standing here?" asked mr. gossett suspiciously. "no time, marster. des come a-runnin' when i hear de buggy wheels scrunchin' on de gravel. i hear you talkin' to de hoss whiles i comin' froo de big gate down yander by de barn." "you're a mighty swift runner, then," remarked mr. gossett doubtfully. "yasser, i'm a right peart nigger. i'm short, but soon." thereupon chunky riley pretended to laugh. then he made a discovery, and became very serious. "marster, dey ain't no sign er no bridle on dish yer hoss. an' whar de lines? is anybody ever see de beat er dat? marster, how in de name er goodness kin you drive dish yer hoss widout bridle er lines?" "it's easy enough when you know how," replied mr. gossett complacently. he was flattered and soothed by the idea that chunky riley would believe him to be a greater man than ever. "give the horse a good feed," commanded mr. gossett. "he has traveled far to-night, and he and i have seen some queer sights." "well, suh!" exclaimed chunky riley, with well-affected amazement. he caught the horse by the forelock and led it carefully through the gate into the lot, thence to the buggy-shelter, where he proceeded to take off the harness. he shook his head and muttered to himself all the while, for he was wrestling with the most mysterious problem that had ever been presented to his mind. he had seen aaron in the buggy with his master; he had heard his master begging aaron not to stay in the woods; he had seen and heard these things with his own eyes and ears, and they were too mysterious for his simple mind to explain. didn't aaron belong to chunky riley's master? wasn't he a runaway? didn't his master try to catch him? didn't he have the simmons nigger-dogs after him that very day? well, then, why didn't his master keep aaron while he had him in the buggy? why did he sit still and allow the runaway to go back to the woods? this was much more mysterious to chunky riley than anything he had ever heard of. he could make neither head nor tail of it. he knew that aaron had some mysterious influence over the animals, both wild and tame. that could be accounted for on grounds that were entirely plausible and satisfactory to the suggestions of chunky riley's superstition. but did aaron have the same power over his own master? it certainly seemed so, for he rode in the buggy with him, and went off into the woods again right before mr. gossett's eyes. but wait a minute! if aaron really had any influence over his own master, why didn't he stay at home instead of going into the woods? this was a problem too complicated for chunky riley to work out. but it worried him so that he whispered it among the other negroes on the place, and so it spread through all that region. a fortnight afterwards it was nothing uncommon for negroes to come at night from plantations miles away so that they might hear from chunky riley's own lips what he had seen. the tale that chunky riley told was beyond belief, but it was all the more impressive on that account. and it was very fortunate for aaron, too, in one respect. after the story that chunky riley told became bruited about, there was not a negro to be found who could be bribed or frightened into spying on aaron's movements, or who could be induced to say that he had seen him. it was observed, too, by all the negroes, as well as by many of the white people, that mr. gossett seemed to lose interest in his fugitive slave. he made no more efforts to capture aaron, and, when twitted about it by some of his near neighbors, his invariable remark was, "oh, the nigger'll come home soon enough when cold weather sets in. a nigger can stand everything except cold weather." yet mr. gossett's neighbors all knew that nothing was easier than for a runaway to make a fire in the woods and keep himself fairly comfortable. they wondered, therefore, why the well-known energy of mr. gossett in capturing his runaway negroes--and he had a remarkable experience in the matter of runaways--should suddenly cool down with respect to aaron. but it must not be supposed that this made any real difference. on the contrary, as soon as george gossett found that his father was willing to allow matters to take their course as far as aaron was concerned, he took upon himself the task of capturing the fugitive, and in this business he was able to enlist the interest of the young men of the neighborhood, who, without asking anybody's advice, constituted themselves the patrol. george gossett's explanation to his companions, in engaging their assistance, was, "pap is getting old, and he ain't got time to be setting up late at night and galloping about all day trying to catch a runaway nigger." these young fellows were quite willing to pledge themselves to george gossett's plans. they had arrived at the age when the vigor of youth seeks an outlet, and it was merely in the nature of a frolic for them to ride half the night patrolling, and sit out the other half watching for aaron. but there was one peculiarity about the vigils that were kept on account of aaron. they were carried on, for the most part, within tasting distance of the stillhouse run by mr. fullalove, which was on a small watercourse not far from the abercrombie place. mr. fullalove was employed simply to superintend the distilling of peach and apple brandy and corn whiskey; and although it was his duty to taste of the low wines as they trickled from the spout of the "worm," he could truthfully boast, as he frequently did, that not a drop of liquor had gone down his throat for "forty year." being a temperance man, and feeling himself responsible for the "stuff" at the still, he was inclined to resent the freedom with which the young men conducted themselves. sometimes they paid for what they drank, but more often they didn't, and at such times mr. fullalove would limp about attending to his business (he had what he called a "game leg") with tight-shut lips, refusing to respond to the most civil question. but usually the young men were very good company, and, occasionally, when mr. fullalove was suffering from pains in his "game leg," they would keep up his fires for him. and that was no light task, for the still was of large capacity. take it all in all, however, one night with another, mr. fullalove was perfectly willing to dispense with both the services and the presence of the roystering young men. but one night when they came the old man had something interesting to tell them. "you fellers ought to 'a' been here awhile ago," he said. "i reckon you'd 'a' seed somethin' that'd 'a' made you open your eyes. i was settin' in my cheer over thar, some'rs betwixt a nod an' a dream, when it seems like i heard a dog a-whinin' in the bushes. then i heard a stick crack, an' when i opened my eyes who should i see but the biggest, strappin'est buck nigger that ever trod shoe leather. i say 'nigger,'" mr. fullalove explained, "bekaze i dunner what else to say, but ef that man's a nigger i'm mighty much mistaken. he's dark enough for to be a nigger, but he ain't got the right color, an' he ain't got the right countenance, an' he ain't got the right kind of ha'r, an' he ain't got the right king of twang to his tongue." mr. fullalove paused a moment to see what effect this would have on the young men. then he went on:-- "i heard a dog whinin' out thar in the bushes, but i didn't pay no attention to it. then i stoops down for to git a splinter for to light my pipe, an' when i look up thar was this big, tall--well, you can call him 'nigger' ef you want to. i come mighty nigh jumpin' out'n my skin. i drapt splinter, pipe, hat, an' eve'ything else you can think of, an' ef the man hadn't 'a' retched down an' picked 'em up i dunno as i'd 'a' found 'em by now. i ain't had sech a turn,--well, not sence that night when the 'worm' got chugged up an' the cap of the still blow'd off. "'hello,' says i, 'when did you git in? you might 'a' knocked at the door,' says i. i tried for to make out i wern't skeer'd, but 't wa'n't no go. the man--nigger or ha'nt, whichsomever it might 'a' been--know'd e'en about as well as i did that he'd skeered me. says he, 'will you please, sir, give me as much as a spoonful of low-wines for to rub on my legs?' says he. 'i've been on my feet so long that my limbs are sore,' says he. "'why, tooby shore i will,' says i, 'ef you'll make affydavy that you'll not creep up on me an' skeer me out'n two years' growth,' says i. you may not believe me," mr. fullalove continued solemnly, "but that man stood up thar an' never cracked a smile. i got one of them half-pint ticklers an' let the low-wines run in it hot from the worm. he taken it an' set right on that log thar an' poured it in his han' an' rubbed it on his legs. now, ef that'd 'a' been one of you boys, you'd 'a' swaller'd the low-wines an' rubbed your legs wi' the bottle." george gossett knew that the man mr. fullalove had seen was no other than aaron, the runaway. "which way did he go, uncle jake?" george inquired. "make inquirements of the wind, child! the wind knows lot more about it than me. the man bowed, raised his right han' in the a'r, taken a couple of steps, an'--_fwiff_--he was gone! whether he floated or flew, i'll never tell you, but he done uther one er t' other, maybe both." "i'd give a twenty-dollar bill if i could have been here!" exclaimed george gossett. "on what bank, gossett?" asked one of his companions. "on a sandbank," remarked mr. fullalove sarcastically. "and i'll give a five-dollar bill to know which way he went," said young gossett, paying no attention to gibe or sarcasm. "plank down your money!" exclaimed mr. fullalove. the young man pulled a bill from his pocket, unrolled it, and held it in his hand. "he went the way the wind blow'd! gi' me the money," said mr. fullalove solemnly. whereat the young men laughed loudly, but not louder than mr. fullalove. "some of your low-wines must have slipped down your goozle," remarked george gossett somewhat resentfully. later, when the young men were patrolling the plantations in a vain search for aaron, their leader remarked:-- "the nigger that old fullalove saw was pap's runaway." "but," said one, "the old man says he wasn't a nigger." "shucks! fallalove's so old he couldn't tell a mulatto from a white man at night. you needn't tell me; that nigger hangs around the abercrombie place, and if we'll hang around there we'll catch him." so they agreed then and there to lay siege, at it were, to the abercrombie place every night, until they succeeded either in capturing aaron or in finding out something definite about his movements. this siege was to go on in all sorts of weather and under all sorts of conditions. xi. the problem that timoleon presented. when mr. abercrombie heard of the capers of the black stallion, he determined to place the horse in quarters that were more secure. but where? there was but one building on the place that could be regarded as perfectly secure--the crib in the five-acre lot. this crib was built of logs hewn square and mortised together at the ends. it had been built to hold corn and other grain, and logs were used instead of planks because the nearest sawmill was some distance away, and the logs were cheaper and handier. moreover, as they were hewn from the hearts of the pines they would last longer than sawn lumber. this building was therefore selected as the black stallion's stable, and it was made ready. a trough was fitted up and the edges trimmed with hoop iron to prevent the horse from gnawing it to pieces. the floor was taken away and a new door made, a thick, heavy affair. to guard against all accidents a hole, which could be opened or closed from the outside, was cut through the logs over the trough, so that when the black stallion was in one of his tantrums he could be fed and watered without risk to life or limb. when everything was ready, the question arose, how was the horse to be removed to his new quarters? mr. abercrombie considered the matter an entire afternoon, and then decided to postpone it until the next day. he said something about it at supper, and this caused mrs. abercrombie to remark that she hoped he would get rid of such a savage creature. she said she should never feel safe while the horse remained on the place. but mr. abercrombie laughed at this excess of fear, and so did little crotchet, who made bold to say that if his father would permit him, he would have timoleon put in his stable that very night, and it would be done so quietly that nobody on the place would know how or when it happened. mr. abercrombie regarded his son with tender and smiling eyes. "and what wonderful person will do this for you, my boy?" "a friend of mine," replied little crotchet seriously. "well, you have so many friends that i'll never guess the name," remarked his father. "oh, but this is one of the most particular, particularest of my friends," the lad explained. "i suppose you know he is getting up a great reputation among the servants," said mrs. abercrombie to her husband, half in jest and half in earnest. "i know they are all very fond of him, my dear." "of course they are--how can they help themselves?" the lad's mother cried. "but this is 'a most particular, particularest' reputation." she quizzically quoted little crotchet's phrase, and he laughed when he heard it fall from her lips. "it is something quite wonderful. since the time that he issued orders for no one to bother him after nine o'clock at night, the servants say that he talks with 'ha'nts.' they say he has become so familiar with bogies and such things that he can be heard talking with them at all hours of the night." "your mother has been counting the candles on you, my boy" remarked mr. abercrombie jokingly. "why, father! how can you put such an idea in the child's mind?" protested mrs. abercrombie. "he's only teasing you, mama," said little crotchet. "i heard him talking to a bogie the other night," remarked mr. hudspeth, the teacher. "oh, i don't think you're a bogie," cried little crotchet. "you would have been one, though, if you had kept me in those awful books." the teacher had mischievously thrown out this hint about aaron to see what effect it would have. he was amazed at the lad's self-possession, and at the deft manner in which he had turned the hint aside. "oh, have you been admitted to the sanctum?" inquired the lad's mother, laughing. "i paused at the door to say good-night and remained until i learned a lesson i never shall forget," said mr. hudspeth. "ah, you're finding our boy out, eh?" exclaimed mr. abercrombie with a show of pride. "he possesses already the highest culture the mind of man is capable of," mr. hudspeth declared. his tone was so solemn and his manner so earnest that little crotchet blushed. "he is cultured in the humanities. that is apart from scholarship," the teacher explained, "but without it all knowledge is cold and dark and unfruitful." "i know he is very humane," suggested mr. abercrombie. "oh, it is more than that," said mr. hudspeth; "far more than that. all sensitive people are tender-hearted. one may read a book and yet not catch the message it conveys. but this lad"--he paused and suddenly changed the subject. "he said he could have timoleon carried to the new stable, and you are inclined to be doubtful. but he can do more than that: he can have the horse removed without bridle or halter." "then you know our boy better than we do!" mrs. abercrombie's tone was almost reproachful. "i found him out quite by accident," replied mr. hudspeth. little crotchet in his quaint way called attention to the fact that he was blushing again. "you've made me blush twice," he said, "and i can't stay after that." at a sign, jemimy, the house girl, who was waiting on the table--the same jemimy who afterward had a daughter named drusilla--turned the lad's chair about. he balanced himself on his crutches, and without touching his feet to the floor walked across the room to the hall, and so up the stairway. on the landing he paused. "shall i have timoleon put in the new stable to-night?" he asked. "by all means, my boy--if you can," answered mr. abercrombie. "if you succeed i'll give you a handsome present." little crotchet always paused on the stair landing to say something, but never to say good-night. after a while his mother would go up and sit with him a few minutes, by way of kissing him good-night, and, later, his father would make the same little journey for the same purpose. on this particular night, those whom little crotchet had left at the table remained conversing longer than usual. mr. hudspeth had something more to say about humanity-culture; and although he employed "the concord dialect," as mr. abercrombie called it, his discourse was both interesting and stimulating. in the midst of it jemimy dropped a plate and broke it. the crash of the piece of china put a temporary end to the conversation, and the silence that ensued had its humorous side. jemimy's eyes, big as saucers and as white, were turned toward a door that led to the sitting-room. the door softly opened, and a portly negro woman, with a bunch of keys hanging at her waist, came into the dining-room. this was mammy lucy, the housekeeper. she never once glanced toward her master and mistress. "white er blue?" she inquired in a low voice. "blue," replied jemimy. "dat counts fer two," mammy lucy remarked. "you've done broke five. one mo', en you'll go whar you b'long. i done say mo' dan once you ain't got no business in dis house. de fiel' 's whar you b'long at." jemimy couldn't help that. she couldn't help anything. she knew how the little master would have the black stallion moved from one stable to the other. she knew, and she never would tell. they might send her to the field, they might drown her or strangle her, they might cut off her ears or gouge her eyes out, they might send her to town to the calaboose, they might do anything they pleased, but she never would tell. not while her name was jemimy, and she'd be named that until after she was put under the ground and covered up; and even then she wouldn't tell. later when mr. abercrombie went upstairs to say good-night to little crotchet, the lad asked if he might have timoleon trained. he had heard his father talking of getting a trainer from mobile, and so he made the suggestion that, instead of going to that expense, it might be well to have the horse trained by his "friend," as he called aaron. mr. abercrombie guessed who little crotchet's friend was, but, to please the lad, feigned ignorance. he told his son that the training of such a horse as timoleon was a very delicate piece of business, and should be undertaken by no one but an expert. now, if little crotchet's "friend" was an expert, which was not likely, well and good; if not, he might ruin a good horse. still, if little crotchet was sure that everything would be all right, why, there would be no objection. at any rate, the horse was now old enough to be broken to the saddle, and little crotchet's "friend" could do that if no more. so it was settled, and the lad was very happy. he made his signal for aaron early and often, but, somehow, the son of ben ali was long in coming that night. the reason was plain enough when he did come, but little crotchet was very impatient. the moon was shining, and as george gossett and his companions had refused to raise the siege a single night since mr. fullalove had seen the runaway at the stillhouse, aaron found it difficult to respond promptly when the little master signaled him to come. it is not an easy matter to pass a picket line of patrollers when the moon is shining as it shines in georgia at the beginning of autumn, and as it shone on the abercrombie place the night that little crotchet was so anxious to see aaron. rambler was very busy that night trying to find a place where aaron might pass the patrollers without attracting attention, but he had to give it up for a time. at last, however, three of them, george gossett among the number, concluded to pay another visit to mr. fullalove, and this left the way clear. aaron was prompt to take advantage of it. going half bent, he kept in the shadow of the fence, slipped through the small jungle of black-jacks, ran swiftly across an open space to the negro cabins, flitted to the garden fence, and in the shadow of that fled to the front yard, and so up the friendly oak. oh, but little crotchet was impatient! he was almost ready to frown when aaron made his appearance; but when the runaway told him of the big moon and the patrollers, he grew uneasy; and after telling aaron about the black stallion, how the horse must be removed to the new stable, and how he must be broken to saddle and bridle, little crotchet declared that he was sorry he had signaled to aaron. "they'll catch you to-night, sure," he said. but aaron shook his head. "no, little master, not to-night. not while i'm with the grandson of abdallah." "oh, i see!" laughed little crotchet; "you'll stay in his stable. good! i'll bring you your breakfast in the morning." aaron smiled, shaking his head and looking at the basket of victuals that little crotchet always had ready for him when he came. "no, little master! this will do. i'll not take the basket to-night. i'll put the victuals in my wallet." this was a bag suspended from his shoulder by a strap, being made after the manner of the satchels in which the children used to carry their books to school. aaron had another idea in his head, but he gave no hint of it to little crotchet, for he didn't know how it would succeed. so he sat by the lad's bedside and drove away the red goblin, pain, and waited until george gossett and his companions had time to make another visit to the stillhouse. then he took the big key of the new stable from the mantel, slipped it on his belt,--a leathern thong that he always wore around his body,--placed in his wallet the substantial lunch that the little master had saved for him, and prepared to take his leave. this time he did not snuff out the light, but placed the candlestick on the hearth. when aaron went out at the window, little crotchet was sound asleep, and seemed to be smiling. the son of ben ali was smiling too, and continued to smile even as he descended the oak. [illustration: aaron and little crotchet] rambler was waiting for him, and, instead of being asleep, was wide awake and very much disturbed. one of the patrollers, no less a person than george gossett,--young grizzly, as rambler named him,--had been to the spring for water. this was what disturbed the dog, and it was somewhat disturbing to aaron; for the high wines or low wines, or whatever it was that was dealt out to them at the stillhouse, might make young gossett and his companions bold enough to search the premises, even though mr. abercrombie had warned them that he could take care of his own place and wanted none of their interference in any way, shape, or form. if aaron could get to the stable, where the black stallion had his temporary quarters, all would be well. he could then proceed to carry out the idea he had in his mind, which was a very bold one, so bold that it might be said to depend on accident for its success. the moon was shining brightly, even brilliantly, as aaron stood at the corner of the great house and looked toward the horse lot. he could easily reach the negro quarters, he could even reach the black-jack thicket beyond, but he would be farther from the lot than ever, and still have an acre of moonlight to wade through. what he did was both bold and simple, and its very boldness made it successful. he stepped back to the garden gate, threw it wide open, and slammed it to again. the noise was loud enough to be heard all over the place. george gossett heard it and was sure the noise was made by mr. abercrombie. aaron walked from the house straight toward the horse lot, whistling loudly and melodiously some catchy air he had heard the negroes sing. rambler was whistling too, but the sound came through his nose, and it was not a tune, but a complaint and a warning. aaron paid no heed to the warning and cared nothing for the complaint. he went through the moonlight, whistling, and there was a swagger about his gait such as the negroes assume when they are feeling particularly happy. behind a tree, not twenty-five yards away, george gossett stood. rambler caught his scent in the air and announced the fact by a low growl. but this announcement only made aaron whistle the louder. there was no need for him to whistle, if he had but known it; for when young gossett heard the garden gate slammed to and saw what seemed to be a negro come away from the house whistling, he at once decided that some one of the hands had been receiving his orders from mr. abercrombie. thus deciding, george gossett paid no further attention to aaron, but kept himself more closely concealed behind the tree that sheltered him. he looked at aaron, and that more than once; but though the moonlight was brilliant, it was only moonlight after all. aaron disappeared in the deep shadows that fell about the horse lot, and george gossett forgot in a few minutes that any one had waded through the pond of moonlight that lay shimmering between the garden gate and the lot where timoleon held sway. indeed, there was nothing about the incident to attract attention. as he stood leaning against the tree, young gossett could see the negroes constantly passing to and fro about their cabins. there was no lack of movement. some of the negroes carried torches of "fat" pine in spite of the fact that the moon was shining, and so made themselves more conspicuous. but this peculiarity was so familiar to the young man's experience that it never occurred to him to remark it. he could even hear parts of their conversation, for they made not the slightest effort to suppress their voices or subdue their laughter, which was loud and long and frequent. it was especially vociferous when turin came to the door of one of the cabins and cried to uncle fountain, who had just gone out:-- "nigger man! you better not try to slip off to spivey's dis night." "how come, i like ter know?" said uncle fountain. "patterollers on de hill yander," replied turin. "how you know?" uncle fountain asked. "i done seed um." "what dey doin' out dar?" "ketchin' grasshoppers, i speck!" from every cabin came a roar of laughter, and the whole plantation seemed to enjoy the joke. the calves in the ginhouse lot bleated, the dogs barked, the geese cackled, and the guinea hens shrieked "potrack! run here! go back!" as loud as they could, and a peafowl, roosting on the pinnacle of the roof of the great house, joined in with a wailing cry that could be heard for miles. [illustration: behind a tree stood george gossett] the lack of respect shown by the abercrombie negroes for the patrollers irritated george gossett, but it was a relief to him to know that if the negroes on his "pap's" place were to make any reference to the patrollers they would bow their heads and speak in subdued whispers. from one of the cabins came the sound of "patting" and dancing, and the noise made by the feet of the dancer was so responsive to that made by the hands of the man who was patting that only an expert ear could distinguish the difference. the dance was followed by a friendly tussle, and a negro suddenly ran out at the door, pursued by another. the pursuer halted, however, and cried out:-- "ef you fool wid me, nigger, i'll make marster sen' you in de lot dar an' move dat ar' wil' hoss to his new stable." "marster was made 'fo' you wuz de maker," answered the pursued, who had now stopped running. "ding 'em!" said young gossett in a low tone to himself, "they're always and eternally frolicking on this place. no wonder they ain't able to do no more work in the daytime!" fretting inwardly, the young man changed his position, and continued to watch for the runaway. how long he stood there young gossett could not say. whether the spirits he had swallowed at the stillhouse benumbed his faculties so that he fell into a doze, he did not know. he could only remember that he was aroused from apparent unconsciousness by a tremendous clamor that seemed to come from the hill where he had left the most of his companions. it was a noise of rushing and running, squealing horses, and the exclamations of frightened men. young gossett did not pause to interpret the clamor that came to his ears, but ran back toward the hill as hard as he could go. xii. what the patrollers saw and heard. the scheme which aaron had conceived, and which he proposed to carry out without delay, was bold, and yet very simple,--simple, that is to say, from his point of view. it came into his mind while he was in little crotchet's room, and fashioned itself as he went whistling to the horse lot in full view of george gossett. he swung himself over the fence, and made directly for timoleon's stable. the black stallion heard some one fumbling about the door, and breathed hard through his nostrils, making a low, fluttering sound, as high-spirited horses do when they are suspicious or angry. it was a fair warning to any and all who might dare to open the door and enter that stable. "so!" said aaron; "that is the welcome you give to all who may come to make you comfortable." at the sound of that voice, timoleon snorted cheerfully and whinnied, saying: "change places with me, son of ben ali, and then see who will warn all comers. why, the ox has better treatment, and the plow mule is pampered. what am i that my food should be thrown at me through the cracks? the man that fed me comes no more." "he is where your teeth and your temper put him, grandson of abdallah. but there is to be a change. this night you go to your new house, where everything is fresh and clean and comfortable. and you are to learn to hold a bit in your mouth and a man on your back, as abdallah before you did." "that is nothing, son of ben ali. then i can gallop, and smell the fresh air from the fields. what man am i to carry, son of ben ali?" "let the white-haired master settle that, grandson of abdallah. this night, before you go to your new house, you are to have a run with me." timoleon snorted with delight. he was ready, and more than ready. he was stiff and sore from standing in the stable. "but before we start, grandson of abdallah, this must be said: no noise before i give the word; none of the loud screaming that men call whickering. you know my hand. you are to have a frolic, and a fine one, but before you begin it, wait for the word. now, then, we will go." with his hand on the horse's withers, aaron guided timoleon to the gate. they went through the lot in which the black stallion's new stable stood, out at the gate through which buster john and sweetest susan rode years afterward, and into the lane that led to the public road. but instead of going toward the road, they followed the lane back into the plantation, until they came to what was called "the double gates." going through these, they found themselves in the pasture that sloped gradually upward to the hill from which aaron was in the habit of watching the light in little crotchet's window. the hoofs of the black stallion hardly made a sound on the soft turf. guided by aaron, he ascended the hill until they were on a level with and not far from the fence on which mr. gossett, his son george, and jim simmons had carried on their controversy about addison abercrombie. here aaron brought timoleon to a halt, while rambler went forward to see what discovery he could make. he soon found where the horses of the patrollers were stationed. there were five. three had evidently been trained to "stand without tying," as the saying is, while one of the patrollers was sitting against a tree, holding the other two. all this rambler knew, for he went so near that the patroller saw him, and hurled a pine burr at him. it was a harmless enough missile, but it had not left rambler in a good humor. then it was that aaron spoke to the horse, and gave him the word. "grandson of abdallah, the horses and the man are yonder. give them a taste of your playfulness. show them what a frolic is, but cover your teeth with your lips,--no blood to-night. spare the horses. they have gone hungry for hours, but they must obey the bit. spare the man, too, but if you can strip him of his coat as he flees, well and good. you will see other men come running. they will be filled with fear. give them also a taste of your playfulness. let them see the grandson of abdallah when he is frolicsome. but mind! no blood to-night,--no broken bones!" the situation promised to be so exciting that timoleon snorted loudly and fiercely, whereupon one of the horses held by the patroller answered with a questioning neigh, which was cut short by a cruel jerk of the bridle rein by the man who held it. the man was dozing under the influence of mr. fullalove's low-wines, and the sudden neighing of the horse startled and irritated him. but in the twinkling of an eye terror took the place of irritation, for the black stallion, pretending to himself that the neigh was a challenge, screamed fiercely in reply and went charging upon the group with open mouth and eyes that glowed in the dark. the horses knew well what that scream meant. those that were not held by the patroller ran away panic-stricken, snorting, and whickering. the two that were held by the patroller cared nothing for bits now, but broke away from the man, after dragging him several yards (for he had the reins wrapped about his wrist) and joined the others. they dragged the man right in the black stallion's path, and there left him straggling to his hands and knees, with his right arm so severely wrenched that he could hardly use it. but, fortunately for the patroller, timoleon's eyes were keen, and he saw the man in time to leap over him, screaming wildly as he did so. the man fell over on his side at that instant. glancing upward he saw the huge hulk of the horse flying over him, and his reason nearly left him. was it really a horse, or was it that arch-fiend beelzebub that he had read about in the books, and whose name he had heard thundered from the pulpit at the camp meeting? "beelzebub is abroad in the land to-day!" the preacher had cried. was it indeed true? the black stallion drove the crazed horses before him hither and yonder, but always turning them back to the point where they had been standing. the stampede was presently joined by three or four mules that had been turned in the pasture. the patrollers, who had been watching and guarding the approaches to the abercrombie place, came running to see what the trouble was. george gossett, being farther away from the pasture than the rest, was the last to reach the scene, but he arrived soon enough to see the black stallion seize one of his companions by the coat-tails and literally strip him of the garment. [illustration: the black stallion] the terror-stricken horses, when they found an opportunity, ran toward the double gates where they had entered the pasture. aaron, expecting this, had opened the gates, and the five horses, crowding on one another's heels, went through like a whirlwind, having left the mules far behind. aaron closed the gates again, and went running to where he heard the black stallion still plunging about. by this time the mules were huddled together in a far corner of the field; but timoleon had paid no attention to them. he could have caught and killed them over and over again. he was now in pursuit of the patrollers. george gossett, running toward the fence, tripped and fell, and narrowly escaped the black stallion's hoofs. he was not far from the fence when he fell, and he rolled and scrambled and crawled fast enough to elude timoleon, who turned and ran at him again. in one way and another all the patrollers escaped with their lives, and, once the fence was between them and the snorting demon, they made haste to visit mr. fullalove's stillhouse, and relate to him the story of their marvelous adventure, consoling themselves, meanwhile, with copious draughts of the warm low-wines. "i believe the thing had wings," said one of the patrollers, "and if i didn't see smoke coming out of his mouth when he ran at me, i'm mighty much mistaken. i never shall believe it wasn't beelzebub." this was the man who had been set upon so suddenly while watching the horses and dozing. some of the others were inclined to agree with this view of the case; but george gossett was sure it was a horse. "i was right at him," he said, "when he pulled off monk's coat, and it was a horse, even to the mane and tail. i was looking at him when he turned and made for me. then i tripped and fell, and just did get to the fence in time to save my neck." "you hear that, don't you, mr. fullalove?" remarked the man who had been holding the horses. "it pulled monk's coat off, and then gossett just had time to get to the fence to save his neck! why, it's as natchul as pig-tracks. every hoss you meet tries to pull your coat off, and you have to run for a fence if you want to save your neck. that's gossett's idee. if that thing was a hoss, i don't want to see no more hosses. i'll tell you that." "well," said mr. fullalove, "there are times and occasions-more espeshually occasions, as you may say--when a hoss mought take a notion for to cut up some such rippit as that. you take that black hoss of colonel abercrombie's--not a fortnight ago he got out of his pen and ketched a nigger and like to 'a' killed him." "maybe it's that same hoss in the field yonder," suggested george gossett. "no," replied mr. fullalove. "that hoss is penned up so he can't git out of his stable--much less the lot--if so be some un ain't took and gone and turned him out and led him to the field. and if that had 'a' been done you could 'a' heard him squealin' every foot of the way." "if anybody wants to call the old boy a hoss," said the man who had been first attacked, "they are more than welcome." "boys," remarked mr. fullalove, "if any of you have got the idee that the old boy was after you, you'd better stay as fur from this stillhouse as you can, and try to act as if you had souls for to save. what have you done with your hosses?" "we couldn't tote 'em, and so we had to leave 'em," gossett answered, making a poor effort to laugh. "what i hate about it is that i took a fool notion and rode pap's horse to-night. he'll be hot as pepper." "ain't you going for to make some sorter effort to git your hosses out of the field?" inquired mr. fullalove. "he can have my hoss and welcome," said the man who insisted on the beelzebub theory. "i wouldn't go in that field, not for forty horses," another patroller protested. "i might go there for forty horses," said george gossett, "but i'll not go back for one, even though it's pap's." "well, it's mighty quiet and serene up there now," suggested mr. fullalove, listening with his hand to his ear. "he's caught 'em and now he's skinning 'em," said the man who believed beelzebub was abroad that night. the patrollers stayed at the stillhouse until the low-wines gave them courage, and then they went home with george gossett. they were bold enough to go by the double gates, to see if they had been opened, but the gates were closed tight. they listened a few moments, but not a sound could be heard, save the loud, wailing cry of the peafowl that rested on the abercrombie house. as they went along the road they found and caught four of the horses. the horse that george gossett had ridden was safe at home. the young men agreed on one thing, namely: that they would give the abercrombie place the go-by for some time to come; while the man that thought he had seen beelzebub said that he was sick of the whole business and would have no more of it, being more firmly convinced than ever that the scenes they had witnessed were supernatural. even george gossett declared that he intended to advise "pap" to sell the runaway, "if he could find anybody fool enough to buy him." it must not be forgotten that though gossett and his companions were the only ones that witnessed the terrifying spectacle presented by the black stallion as he ran screaming about the pasture, they were not the only ones that heard the uproar that accompanied it. the negroes heard it, and every ear was bent to listen. randall had his hand raised over his head and held it there, as he paused to catch the drift and meaning of the fuss. big sal was reaching in a corner for her frying-pan. she paused, half bent, her arm reaching out, while she listened. turin was singing, but the song was suddenly cut short. mr. abercrombie heard it, but his thoughts were far afield, and so he paid little attention to it. the geese, the guinea hens, and the peafowl heard it and joined heartily in with a loud and lusty chorus. mammy lucy heard it and came noiselessly to the library door and looked in inquiringly. "what is the noise about, lucy?" inquired mr. abercrombie. "dat what i wanter know, marster. it soun' ter me like dat ar hoss done got loose agin." then the white-haired master, remembering that he had consented for little crotchet's "friend" to remove the black stallion to his new quarters, regretted that he had been so heedless. it was all his own fault, he thought, as he rose hastily and went out into the moonlight bare-headed. he called randall and turin, and both came running. "go out to the pasture there, and see what the trouble is." "yasser, yasser!" they cried, and both went rapidly toward the field. they ran until they got out of sight of their master, and then they paused to listen. they started again, but not so swiftly as before. "i know mighty well dat marster don't want us ter run up dar where we might git hurted," said turin. "dat he don't!" exclaimed randall. consoled by this view of the case, which was indeed the correct one, they moved slower and slower as they came close to the pasture fence. there they stopped and listened, and while they listened the uproar came to a sudden end--to such a sudden end that randall remarked under his breath that it was like putting out a candle. for a few brief seconds not a sound fell on the ears of the two negroes. then they heard a faint noise of some one running through the bushes in the direction of the stillhouse. "ef i could git de notion in my head dat marster don't keer whedder we gits hurted er no," suggested turin, "i'd mount dis fence an' go in dar an' see who been kilt an' who done got away." "i speck we better not go," remarked randall, "kaze ef we wuz ter rush in dar an' git mangled, marster'd sholy feel mighty bad, an' fer one, i don't want ter be de 'casion er makin' 'im feel bad." by this time mr. abercrombie had become impatient, and concluded to find out the cause of the uproar for himself. randall and turin heard him coming, and they could see that he was accompanied by some of the negroes. the two cautiously climbed the fence and went over into the field, moving slowly and holding themselves in readiness for instant flight. a cow bug, flying blindly, struck turin on the head. he jumped as if he had heard the report of a gun, and cried out in a tone of alarm:-- "who flung dat rock? you better watch out. marster comin', an' he got his hoss pistol 'long wid 'im." "'twa'n't nothing but a bug," said randall. "it de fust bug what ever raised a knot on my head," turin declared. "what was the trouble, randall?" inquired mr. abercrombie from the fence. his cool, decisive voice restored the courage of the negroes at once. "we des tryin' fer ter fin' out, suh. whatsomever de racket wuz, it stop, suh, time we got here--an' it seem like we kin hear sump'n er somebody runnin' to'rds de branch over yander," replied randall heartily. "some of the mules were in the pasture to-day. see if they are safe." "yasser!" responded randall, but his tone was not so hearty. nevertheless, he and turin cautiously followed the line of the fence until they found the mules in the corner in which they had taken refuge. and the mules showed they were very glad to see the negroes, following them back to the point where the path crossed the fence. "de mules all safe an' soun', suh," explained randall when they came to where the master was. "dey er safe an' soun', but dey er swyeatin' mightily, suh." "what do you suppose the trouble was?" inquired mr. abercrombie. turin and randall had not the least idea, but susy's sam declared that he heard "dat ar hoss a-squealin'!" "what horse?" inquired mr. abercrombie. "dat ar sir moleon hoss, suh," replied susy's sam. "that's what lucy said," remarked mr. abercrombie. "marster, ef dat ar hoss had er been in dar, me an' turin wouldn't er stayed in dar long, an' dese yer mules wouldn't er been stan'in' in de fence corner up yander." but mr. abercrombie shook his head. he remembered that he had given little crotchet permission to have the horse removed to his new quarters. "some of you boys see if he is in his stable," he said. they all went running, and before mr. abercrombie could get there, though he walked fast, he met them all coming back. "he ain't dar, marster!" they exclaimed in chorus. "see if he is in his new stable," said mr. abercrombie. again they all went running, mr. abercrombie following more leisurely, but somewhat disturbed, nevertheless. and again they came running to meet him, crying out, "yasser! yasser! he in dar, marster; he sho is. he in dar an' eatin' away same like he been dar dis long time." "see if the key is in the lock," said mr. abercrombie to randall. randall ran back to the stable and presently called out:-- "dey ain't no key in de lock, marster." mr. abercrombie paused as if to consider the matter, and during that pause he and randall and turin and susy's sam heard a voice saying: "look on the little master's mantelpiece!" the voice sounded faint and far away, but every word was clear and distinct. "where did the voice come from?" asked mr. abercrombie. the negroes shook their heads. they didn't know. it might have come from the air above, or the earth beneath, or from any point of the compass. "ask where the key is," said mr. abercrombie to turin. his curiosity was aroused. turin cried out: "heyo, dar! whar you say de key is?" but no reply came, not even so much as a whisper. the negroes looked at one another, and shook their heads. when mr. abercrombie went back to the house he put on his slippers and crept to little crotchet's room. shading the candle he carried, the father saw that his son was fast asleep. and on the mantel was the key of the stable. xiii. the apparition the fox hunters saw. as the fall came on, the young men (and some of the older ones, too) began to indulge in the sport of fox hunting. they used no guns, but pursued reynard with horse and hound in the english fashion. the foxes in that region were mostly gray, but the red ones had begun to come in, and as they came the grays began to pack up their belongings (as the saying is) and seek homes elsewhere. the turner old fields, not far from the abercrombie place, and still closer to the swamp, were famous for their foxes--first for the grays and afterward for the reds. there seemed to be some attraction for them in these old fields. the scrub pines, growing thickly together, and not higher than a man's waist, and the brier patches scattered about, afforded a fine covert for mr. fox, gray or red, being shady and cool in summer time, and sheltered from the cold winter winds. and if it was fine for mr. fox, it was finer for the birds; for here mrs. partridge could lead her brood in safety out of sight of man, and here the sparrows and smaller birds were safe from the blue falcon, she of the keen eye and swift wing. and mr. fox was as cunning as his nose was sharp. he knew that the bird that made its home in the turner old fields must roost low; and what could be more convenient for mr. fox than that--especially at the dead hours of night when he went creeping around as noiselessly as a shadow, pretending that he wanted to whisper a secret in their ears? indeed, that was the main reason why mr. fox lived in the turner old fields, or went there at night, for he was no tree climber. and so it came to pass that when those who were fond of fox hunting wanted to indulge in that sport, they rose before dawn and went straight to the turner old fields. now, when george gossett and his patrolling companions ceased for a time to go frolicking about the country at night, on the plea that they were looking after the safety of the plantations, they concluded that it would be good for their health and spirits to go fox hunting occasionally. each had two or three hounds to brag on, so that when all the dogs were brought together they made a pack of more than respectable size. [illustration: it was fine for mr. fox] one sunday, when the fall was fairly advanced, the air being crisp and bracing and the mornings frosty, these young men met at a church and arranged to inaugurate the fox hunting season the next morning. they were to go home, get their dogs, and meet at gossett's, his plantation lying nearest to the turner old fields. this programme was duly carried out. the young men stayed all night with george gossett, ate breakfast before daybreak, and started for the turner old fields. as they set out, a question arose whether they should go through the abercrombie place--the nearest way--or whether they should go around by the road. the darkness of night was still over wood and field, but there was a suggestion of gray in the east. if the hunting party had been composed only of those who had been in the habit of patrolling with george gossett, prompt choice would have been made of the public road; but young gossett had invited an acquaintance from another settlement to join them--a gentleman who had reached the years of maturity, but who was vigorous enough to enjoy a cross-country ride to hounds. this gentleman had been told of the strange experience of the patrollers in mr. abercrombie's pasture lot. some of the details had been suppressed. for one thing, the young men had not confessed to him how badly they had been frightened. they simply told him enough to arouse his curiosity. when, therefore, the choice of routes lay between the public road and the short cut through the abercrombie pasture, the gentleman was eager to go by way of the pasture where his young friends had beheld the wonderful vision that had already been described. when they displayed some hesitation in the matter, he rallied them smartly on their lack of nerve, and in this way shamed them into going the nearest way. george gossett, who had no lack of mere physical courage, consented to lead the way if the others would "keep close behind him." but none of them except the gentleman who was moved by curiosity, and who attributed the mystery of the affair to frequent visits to mr. fullalove's still house, had any stomach for the journey through the pasture, for not even george gossett desired to invite a repetition of the paralyzing scenes through which they had passed on that memorable night. as they came to the double gates, the young man who had insisted that timoleon was beelzebub concluded to leave an avenue by which to escape if the necessity arose. so he rode forward, dismounted, and opened the gates. then he made a great pretense of shutting them, but allowed them to remain open instead. this operation left him somewhat behind his companions, as he intended it should, for he had made up his mind to wheel his horse and run for it if he heard any commotion ahead of him. in that event the delay he purposely made would leave him nearest the gates. seeing that the young man did not come up as quickly as he should have done, george gossett, in whom the spirit of mischief had no long periods of repose, suggested that they touch up their horses and give their companion a scare. this suggestion was promptly acted on. the commotion his companions made caused the young man to pause a moment before putting spur to his horses to rejoin them. this delay placed several hundred yards between him and the party with gossett. he realized this as he rode after them, but was consoled by the fact that, in the event of any trouble, he had a better opportunity to escape than they did. but he had hardly gone fifty yards from the double gates before he heard some sort of noise in that direction. he half turned in his saddle and looked behind him. the vague gray of the morning had become so inextricably mixed and mingled with the darkness of the night that such light as there was seemed to blur the vision rather than aid it. but when the young man turned in his saddle he saw enough to convince him that he was likely to have company in his ride after his companions. he hesitated a moment before urging his horse into a more rapid gait. he wanted to see what it might be that was now so vaguely outlined. he strained his eyes, but could see nothing but a black and shapeless mass, which seemed to be following him. he could see that it was moving rapidly, whatever it was, but the gray light was so dim, and gave such shadowy shape even to objects close at hand, that he found it impossible either to gratify his curiosity or satisfy his fears. so he settled himself firmly in the saddle, clapped spurs to his horse, and rode headlong after his companions. he looked around occasionally, but the black mass was always nearer. the faster his horse went, the faster came the thing. [illustration: the phantom horseman] each time he looked back his alarm rose higher, for the thing was closer whenever he looked. at last his alarm grew to such proportions that he ceased to look back, but addressed himself entirely to the work of urging his horse to higher speed. presently he heard quick, fierce snorts on his right, and his eye caught sight of the thing. its course was parallel with his own, and it was not more than twenty yards away. he saw enough for his alarm to rise to the height of terror. he saw something that had the head and feet of a black horse, but the body was wanting. no! there was a body, and a rider, but the rider wore a long, pale gray robe, and he was headless! if this was the black demon that the young man had seen in this pasture on a former occasion, he was now more terrible than ever, for he was guided by a headless rider! the young man would have checked his horse, but the effort was in vain. the horse had eyes. he also had seen the thing, and had swerved away from it, but he was too frightened to pay any attention to bit or rein. the black thing was going faster than the frightened horse, and it soon drew away, the pale gray robe of the rider fluttering about like a fierce signal of warning. the young man's horse was soon under control, and in a few minutes he came up with his companions. he found them huddled together like so many sheep, this manoeuvre having been instinctively made by the horses. the dogs, too, were acting queerly. the men appeared to be somewhat surprised to see their companion come galloping up to them. after riding away from the young man who had taken it upon himself to leave the double gates open, the huntsmen had concluded to wait for him when they came to the bars that opened on the public road. but the gallop of their horses had subsided into a walk when they were still some distance from that point. they were conversing about the merits of their favorite dogs when suddenly they heard from behind them the sound of a galloping horse. they saw, as the young man had seen, a dark, moving mass gradually assume the shape of a black horse, with a headless rider wearing a long, pale gray robe. the apparition was somewhat farther from them when it passed than it had been from their companion, whom, in a spirit of mischief, they had deserted; but the black thing threatened to come closer, for when it had gone beyond them it changed its course, described a half circle, and vanished from sight on the side of the pasture opposite to that on which it had first appeared. "what do you think now?" said george gossett, speaking in a low tone to the gentleman who had been inclined to grow merry when the former experience of the patrollers was mentioned. "what do i think? why, i think it's right queer if the chap we left at the double gates isn't trying to get even with us by riding around like a wild indian and waving his saddle blanket," replied the doubting gentleman. "why, man, he's riding a gray horse!" one of the others explained. this put another face on the matter, and the gentleman made no further remark. in fact, before anything else could be said, the young man in question came galloping up. "did you fellows see it?" he inquired. but he had no need to inquire. their attitude and the uneasy movements of their horses showed unmistakably that they had seen it. "which way did it go?" was the next question. there was no need to make reply. the direction in which the huntsmen glanced every second showed unmistakably which way it went. "let's get out of here," said the young man in the next breath. and there was no need to make even this simple proposition, for by common consent, and as by one impulse, horses and men started for the bars at a rapid trot. when the bars were taken down they were not left down. each one was put carefully back in its proper place, for though this was but a slight barrier to interpose between themselves and the terrible black thing, yet it was something. once in the road they felt more at ease--not because they were safer there, but because it seemed that the night had suddenly trailed its dark mantle westward. "did you notice," said the young man who was first to see the apparition, "that the thing that was riding the thing had no head?" "it certainly had that appearance," replied the doubtful gentleman, "but"-- "no 'buts' nor 'ifs' about it," insisted the young man. "it came so close to me that i could 'a' put my hand on it, and i noticed particular that the thing on the back of the thing didn't have no sign of head, no more than my big toe has got a head." the exaggeration of the young man was unblushing. if the thing had come within ten yards of him he would have fallen from his horse in a fit. "and what was you doing all that time?" george gossett inquired. his tone implied a grave doubt. "trying to get away from that part of the country," replied the other frankly. "it was the same hoss that got after us that night," the young man continued. "i knowed it by the blaze in his eyes and the red on the inside of his nose. why, it looked to me like you could 'a' lit a cigar by holding it close to his eyes." "i know how skeery you are," said george gossett disdainfully, "and i don't believe you took time to notice all these things." "skeer'd!" exclaimed the other; "why, that ain't no name for it--no name at all. but it was my mind that was skeered and not my eyes. you can't help seeing what's right at you, can you?" this frankness took the edge off any criticism that george gossett might have made, seeing which the young man gave loose reins to his invention, which was happy enough in this instance to fit the suggestions that fear had made a place for in the minds of his companions. but it was all the simplest thing in the world. the apparition the fox hunters saw was aaron and the black stallion. the son of ben ali had decided that the interval between the first faint glimpse of dawn and daylight was the most convenient time to give timoleon his exercise, and to fit him in some sort for the vigorous work he was expected to do some day on the race track. aaron had hit upon that particular morning to begin the training of the black stallion, and had selected the pasture as the training-ground. it was purely a coincidence that he rode in at the double gates behind the fox hunters, but it was such a queer one that little crotchet laughed until the tears came into his eyes when he heard about it. aaron's version of the incident was so entirely different from that of the fox hunters that those who heard both would be unable to recognize in them an account of the same affair from different points of view. as aaron saw it and knew it, the incident was as simple as it could be. as he was riding the horse along the lane leading to the double gates (having left rambler behind at the stable), timoleon gave a snort and lifted his head higher than usual. "son of ben ali," he said, "i smell strange men and strange horses. their scent is hot on the air. some of them are the men that went tumbling about the pasture the night you bade me play with them." "not at this hour, grandson of abdallah," replied aaron. "i am not smelling the hour, son of ben ali, but the men. if we find them, shall i use my teeth?" "we'll not see the men, grandson of abdallah. this is not their hour." "but if we find them, son of ben ali?" persisted the black stallion. "save your teeth for your corn, grandson of abdallah," was the response. as they entered the double gates, which aaron was surprised to find open, timoleon gave a series of fierce snorts, which was the same as saying, "what did i tell you, son of ben ali? look yonder! there is one; the others are galloping farther on." "i am wrong and you are right, grandson of abdallah." as much for the horse's comfort as his own, aaron had folded a large blanket he found hanging in the stable, and was using it in place of a saddle. he lifted himself back toward timoleon's croup, seized the blanket with his left hand, and, holding it by one corner, shook out the folds. he had no intention whatever of frightening any one, his sole idea being to use the blanket to screen himself from observation. he would have turned back, but in the event of pursuit he would be compelled to lead his pursuers into the abercrombie place, or along the public road, and either course would have been embarrassing. if he was to be pursued at all, he preferred to take the risk of capture in the wide pasture. as a last resort he could slip from timoleon's back and give the horse the word to use both teeth and heels. [illustration: aaron and timoleon] and this was why the fox hunters saw the apparition of a black horse and a headless rider. "shall i ride him down, son of ben ali?" snorted the black stallion. "bear to the right, bear to the right, grandson of abdallah," was the reply. and so the apparition flitted past the young man who had left the double-gates open, and past his companions who were waiting for him near the bars that opened on the big road; flitted past them and disappeared. finding that there was no effort made to pursue him, aaron checked the black stallion and listened. he heard the men let down the bars and put them up again, and by that sign he knew they were not patrollers. later on in the day, the doubting gentleman, returning from the fox hunt, called by the abercrombie place and stopped long enough to tell the white-haired master of the queer sight he saw in the pasture at dawn. "the boys were badly scared," he explained to mr. abercrombie, "and i tell you it gave me a strange feeling--a feeling that i can best describe by saying that if the earth had opened at my feet and a red flame shot up, it wouldn't have added one whit to my amazement. that's the honest truth." mr. abercrombie could give him no satisfaction, though he might have made a shrewd guess, and little crotchet, who could have solved the mystery, had to make an excuse to get out of the way, so that he might have a hearty laugh. and aaron, when he came to see the little master that night, knew for the first time that he had scared the fox hunters nearly out of their wits. xiv. the little master says good-night. after george gossett's two experiences in the pasture, he came to the conclusion that it would not be profitable to do any more patrolling on the abercrombie place, but this did not add to his good humor. he had his father's surly temper, and, with it, a vindictive spirit that was entirely lacking in the elder gossett. moreover, age had not moderated nor impaired his energies, as it had his father's. the fact that he had failed to capture aaron struck him as a personal affront. he was stung by it. he felt that he and his father had been wronged by some one, he couldn't say who, but not by the runaway, for what was a "nigger," anyhow? after a while the idea was borne in upon him that somehow he and his family had been "insulted" by the abercrombies. he arrived at this conclusion by a very circuitous route. the abercrombies were harboring a yankee in their house; and if they had the stomach to do that, why wasn't it just as easy for them to harbor "pap's" runaway nigger, especially when they were so keen to buy him? another thing that stung him, though he never mentioned it, was the sudden and unexplainable attitude of his father toward aaron. young gossett had observed that his father appeared to lose interest in the runaway after mr. jim simmons failed to catch him, but the fact was not impressed upon the young man's mind until the day he told the elder gossett about the queer sight he saw in abercrombie's pasture. "were you hunting the runaway?" his father asked, with some impatience. "why, no, pap. we weren't doing a thing in the world, but crossing the pasture on our way to the turner old fields." "very well, then. do as i do; let him alone. if you don't you'll get hurt. i know what i'm talking about." this fairly took george's breath away. "why, pap!" he cried; "ain't he your nigger? didn't you buy him and pay your money down for him? don't you want him out of the woods? and who's going to hurt me, pap?" "you mind what i tell you," snapped the elder gossett. "i'm older than you, and when i know a thing i know it. let the runaway alone." "if i'm going to be hurt," responded george doggedly, "i'd like to know who'll do it." it would have been better for both if mr. gossett had told his son of his experience with aaron. as it was, george was in danger of losing the little respect he had for his father. when he was warned that he would be hurt if he kept on trying to capture aaron, he suspected at once that the warning related to mr. abercrombie. who else would dare to hurt him, or even threaten to hurt him? certainly not the runaway. who, then, but abercrombie? the suggestion was enough. it made george gossett so furious that he never thought to reflect that he himself had invented it. once invented, however, every circumstance seemed to fit it. his father had suddenly lost interest in the runaway, though he had paid out money for him, and had hardly received a week's work in return. why? because mr. abercrombie had overawed his father in a crowd, just as he did the day aaron was sold from the block. the young man had not forgotten that episode, and his resentment was rekindled and grew hotter than ever, for it was now reinforced by inward shame and disgust at the way his father had allowed himself to be overcome--and that, too, in regard to his own property. the first result of george gossett's resentment was his nearly successful effort to make the teacher, richard hudspeth, the victim of the violent and natural prejudice that existed at that time against abolitionists; an event that has been related in "the story of aaron." the rescue of the teacher by mr. abercrombie, and the fact that george gossett was knocked flat by the black stallion, caused his resentment to rise to a white heat. he brooded over the matter until, at last, a desire to injure mr. abercrombie became an uncontrollable mania, and it went so far that one night, inflamed by whiskey, he set fire to the dwelling-house of the man he believed to be his father's enemy. then it was that aaron rescued little crotchet and free polly, and fell fainting to the ground. and then it was that mr. gossett seized the first plausible opportunity that had presented itself to sell aaron to mr. abercrombie. it is true, he drove a sharp bargain, suspecting that the runaway had seriously injured himself; but he would have sold aaron in any event, being anxious to get rid of him. george gossett disappeared that night and was seen no more in that region. years afterward, a homesick georgian returning from texas brought word that george gossett had made a name for himself in that state, being known as a tough and a terror. it's an ill wind that blows no good to any one. george gossett little knew, when he applied the torch to the abercrombie dwelling, that the light of it would call aaron from the wildwoods and show him the way to a home where he was to live, happy in the love of little crotchet and of children as yet unborn, and happy in the respect and confidence of those whose interest he served. perhaps if george gossett could have looked into the future, the blaze that produced these results would never have been kindled, and in that event the story of aaron in the wildwoods could have been spun out at greater length, but the conclusion would not have been different. richard hudspeth remained long enough to see aaron duly installed in his new home, for the abercrombie mansion was at once rebuilt on a larger scale than ever, and to see him serve as the major-domo of the establishment. but the departure of the teacher was not delayed for many months after his experience with the reckless and irresponsible young men who had placed themselves under the leadership of george gossett. duties more pressing and more important than those he had assumed in georgia called him to his northern home, where a larger career awaited him--a career that made him famous. he became the most intimate adviser of abraham lincoln, and that great man found in him what, at the outset, he found in few new england men, the deepest sympathy and highest appreciation. it was characteristic of richard hudspeth that the treatment he received at the hands of george gossett and his night riders bred no resentment against the southern people, and the trait of character that shut the door of his mind against all petty prejudices and rancorous judgments was precisely the trait that attracted first the notice and finally the friendship of mr. lincoln. aaron was as much of a mystery to the negroes on the abercrombie place when he came to move about among them as he was when he roamed in the wildwoods. he was as much of a mystery to them years afterwards, when buster john and sweetest susan came upon the scene, as he was when he first made his appearance on the place, but by that time the mystery he presented was a familiar one. the negroes had not solved it, but they were used to it. at first it seemed that they would never cease to wonder. they watched his every movement, and always with increasing awe and respect. he went about among them freely, but not familiarly. he was not of them, and they knew it. he was kind and considerate, especially where the women and children were concerned, but always reserved, always dignified, always serious. yet he never lost his temper, never frowned, and was never known to utter an angry word or make a gesture of irritation. he had the remarkable gift of patience, that seemed to be so highly developed in some animals. it was uncle fountain who drew the parallel between the patience displayed by aaron and that of the animals, and added this, after turning the matter over in his mind: "mo' speshually de creeturs what kin see in de dark." on rare occasions aaron would go into one of the cabins where the negroes were enjoying themselves, and there would be a mighty hustling around in that cabin until he had the most comfortable chair, or stool, or bench, or tub turned bottom-side up. at such times he would say, "sing!" and then, after some display of shyness, randall or turin would strike into a quaint plantation melody, and carry it along; and as their voices died away the powerful and thrilling tenor of susy's sam, and jemimy's quavering soprano would take up the refrain, all the singers joining in at the close. no matter what melody was sung, or what words were employed, the instinct and emotions of the negroes gave to their performance the form and essence of true balladry,--the burden, the refrain, the culmination, and the farewell; or, as the writers of pretty verse now call it, the envoi. often on such occasions aaron would enter the negro cabin bearing the little master in his arms. and then the negroes were better pleased, for the little master somehow seemed to stand between them and the awesome being they knew as aaron. at such times the arms of big sal ached to hold little crotchet, the lad seemed to be so pale and frail. once she made bold to say to aaron:-- "i kin hol' 'im some ef you tired." "i won't be tired of that till i'm dead," responded aaron. "i know mighty well how dat is," responded big sal humbly. "i des wanted ter hol' 'im. i _has_ helt him." "she wants to hold you," said aaron to the little master. and the reply was, "well, why not?" whereupon big sal took the lad in her arms, and when the rest began to sing she swayed her strong body back and forth, and joined in the song with a voice so low and soft and sweet that it seemed to be the undertone of melody itself; and the effect of it was so soothing that when the song was ended the little master was fast asleep and smiling, and big sal leaned over him with such a yearning at her heart that only a word or a look would have been necessary to set her to weeping. neither then nor ever afterwards did she know the reason why or seek to discover it. enough for her that it was so. something in her attitude told the rest of the negroes that the little master was asleep, and so when they sang another song they pitched their voices low,--so low that the melody seemed to come drifting through the air and in at the door from far away. when it was ended nothing would do but each negro must come forward on tiptoe and take a look at the little master, who was still asleep and smiling. when aaron rose to go big sal was somewhat embarrassed. she didn't want the little master awakened, and yet she didn't know how he could be transferred to aaron's arms without arousing him. but the son of ben ali solved that problem. he nodded to big sal and motioned toward the door, and she, carrying the little master in her strong arms, went out into the dark. aaron paused at the threshold, raised his right hand above his head, and followed big sal. this gesture he always made by way of salutation and farewell on the threshold of every door he entered or went out of, whether the room was full of people or empty. whether it was the door of his master's house or of timoleon's stable, he paused and raised his right hand. [illustration: big sal holds the little master] the negroes noted it, and, simple as it was, it served to deepen the mystery in which aaron seemed to be enveloped; and among themselves they shook their heads and whispered that he must be a "cunjur" man. but aaron was not troubled by whisperings that never reached his ears, nor by the strange imaginings of the negroes. he had other things to think of--one thing in particular that seemed to him to be most serious. he could see that little crotchet was gradually growing weaker and weaker. it was some time before he discovered this. we know that the trunks of trees slowly expand, but we do not see the process going on. little crotchet seemed to be growing weaker day by day, and yet the process was so gradual that only the most careful observation could detect it. the burning of the house was something of a shock to him. he was not frightened by that event, and never for a moment lost his self-possession; but the spectacle of the fierce red flames mounting high in the air, their red tongues darting out and lapping about in space, and then, having found nothing to feed on, curling back and devouring the house, roaring and growling, and snapping and hissing,--this spectacle was so unexpected and so impossible in that place that the energy little crotchet lost in trying to fit the awful affair to his experience never came back to him. he never lost the feeling of numbness that came over him as he saw the house disappear in smoke and flame. but it was weeks--months--after that before aaron made his discovery, a discovery that could only be confirmed by the keenest and most patient watchfulness. for little crotchet was never more cheerful. and he was restless, too; always eager to be going. but aaron soon saw that if the lad went galloping about on the gray pony as often as before, he did not go so far. nor did he use his crutches so freely,--the crutches on which he had displayed such marvelous nimbleness. and so from day to day aaron saw that the little master was slowly failing. the lad found the nights longer, and aaron had great trouble to drive away the red goblin, pain. thus the days slipped by, and the weeks ran into months, and the months counted up a year lacking a fortnight. this fortnight found the little master in bed both day and night, still happy and cheerful, but weak and pale. always at night aaron was sitting by the bed, and sometimes the lad would send for big sal. he was so cheerful that he deceived everybody except the doctor and aaron as to his condition. but one day the doctor came and sat by the little master's bedside longer than usual. the lad was cheerful as ever, but the doctor knew. as he was going away he gave some information to the father and mother that caused them to turn pale. the mother, indeed, would have rushed weeping to her son. was it for this,--for this,--her darling child had been born? the doctor stayed her. it was indeed for this her darling child had been born. would she hasten it? why not let the mystery come to him as a friend and comforter,--as the friend of friends,--as a messenger from our dear lord, the prince of peace and joy? and so the poor mother dried her eyes as best she could and took her place by the little master's bedside. the lad was cheerful and his eyes were as bright as a bird's. doctors do not know everything, the mother thought, and, taking heart of hope, smiled as little crotchet prattled away. nothing would do but he must have a look at the toys that used to amuse him when he was a little bit of a boy; and in getting out the old toys the mother found a shoe he had worn when he first began to walk,--a little shoe out at the toe and worn at the heel. this interested the lad more than all the toys. he held it in his hand and measured it with his thumb. and was it truly true that he had ever worn a shoe as small as that? the shoe reminded him of something else he had been thinking of. he had dreamed that when he got well he would need his crutches no more, and he wondered how it would feel to walk with his feet on the ground. and there was the old popgun, too, still smelling of chinaberries. if aaron only but knew it, that popgun had been a wonderful gun. yes, siree! the bird that didn't want to get hurt when that popgun was in working order had to run mighty fast or fly mighty high. but, heigh-ho! he was too old and too large for popguns now, and when he got well, which would be pretty soon, he would have a sure-enough gun, and then he would get a powder flask and a shot bag and mount the gray pony and shoot--well, let's see what he would shoot: not the gray squirrels, they were too pretty; not the shy partridges, they might have nests or young ones somewhere; not the rabbits--they were too funny with their pop eyes and big ears. well, he could shoot at a mark, and that's just what he would do. and when night fell, the little master wanted to hear the negroes sing. and he wanted mother and father and sister to hear them too--not the loud songs, but the soft and sweet ones. but the negroes wouldn't feel like singing at all if everybody was in the room with them, and mother and father and sister could sit in the next room and pretend they were not listening. and so it was arranged. when the negroes arrived and were ushered into the room by mammy lucy, they were so embarrassed and felt so much out of place they hardly knew what to do, or say, or how to begin. aaron was carrying the little master in his arms, walking up and down, up and down, and his long strides and supple knees gave a swinging motion to his body that was infinitely soothing and restful to the little master. swinging back and forth, up and down, the son of ben ali paid no attention to the negroes, and they stood confused for a moment, but only for a moment. suddenly there came streaming into the room the strain of a heart-breaking melody, rising and falling, falling and rising, as the leaves of a weeping willow are blown by the wind; drifting away and floating back, as the foam of the wave is swayed by the sea. little crotchet lay still in aaron's arms for ever so long. was he listening? who knows? he was almost within hearing of the songs of the angels. suddenly he raised his head in the pause of the song-- "tell them all good-night. tell mother"-- aaron stopped his swinging walk and placed the little master on the bed and stood beside it, his right hand raised above his head. it might have been a benediction, it might have been a prayer. the negroes interpreted it as a signal of dismissal. one by one they went softly to the bedside and gazed on the little master. he might have been asleep, for he was smiling. each negro looked inquiringly at aaron, and to each he nodded, his right hand still lifted above his head. [illustration: the death of the little master] big sal had waited till the last, and she was the only one that said a word. "he look des like he did when he drapt asleep in deze arms," she cried, sobbing as though her heart would break, "an' i thank my god fer dat much! but oh, man, what a pity! what a pity!" and she went out of the house into the yard, and through the yard into the lot, and through the lot to the negro cabins, crying, "_oh, what a pity! what a pity!_" not for the little master, for he was smiling at the glorious vision of peace and rest that he saw when he said good-night. not pity for the lad, but for those he had left behind him, for all who loved him; for all who had depended on his thoughtfulness; for all the weary and sorrowful ones. _oh, what a pity!_ over and over again, _what a pity!_ and the wind flowing softly about the world took up the poor negro's wailing cry and sent it over the hill and beyond, and the outlying messengers of the swamp took it up--_what a pity!_ and the willis-whistlers piped low, and the mysteries, swaying and slipping through the canes and tall grass, heard the whispered echo and sighed, _oh, what a pity!_ * * * * * transcriber's notes italic text is denoted by _underscores_. a number of words in this book had both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants; for those words the variant more frequently used was retained. this book also contains dialect and vernacular conversation. obvious punctuation errors were fixed. other printing errors, which were not detected during the revision of the printing process of the original book, have been corrected. it was unclear if in the expression "simple as a-b ab", in page , the second "ab" should be hyphenated. it was decided to keep the text unchanged. through swamp and glade [illustration: a great sheet of flame leaped from the roadside.] through swamp and glade _a tale of the seminole war_ by kirk munroe author of "the white conquerors," "at war with pontiac," etc., etc. _illustrated by victor perard_ new york charles scribner's sons copyright, , by charles scribner's sons norwood press j.s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith. norwood mass. u.s.a. to my readers the principal incidents in the story of coacoochee, as related in the following pages, are historically true. the seminole war, the most protracted struggle with indians in which the united states ever engaged, lasted from to . at its conclusion, though most of the tribe had been removed to the indian territory in the far west, there still remained three hundred and one souls uncaptured and unsubdued. this remnant had fled to the almost inaccessible islands of the big cypress swamp, in the extreme southern part of florida. rather than undertake the task of hunting them out, general worth made a _verbal_ treaty with them, by which it was agreed that they should retain that section of country unmolested, so long as they committed no aggressions. from that time they have kept their part of that agreement to the letter, living industrious, peaceful lives, and avoiding all unnecessary contact with the whites. they now number something over five hundred souls, but the tide of white immigration is already lapping over the ill-defined boundaries of their reservation, while white land-grabbers, penetrating the swamps, are seizing their fertile islands and bidding them begone. they stand aghast at this brutal order. where can they go? what is to become of them? is there nothing left but to fight and die? it would seem not. kirk munroe. biscayne bay, florida, . table of contents chapter page i. a bit of the florida wilderness ii. mr. troup jeffers plots mischief iii. the slave-catchers at work iv. capture and escape of nita pacheco v. a forest betrothal vi. cruel death of ul-we, the staghound vii. coacoochee in the clutches of white ruffians viii. ralph boyd the englishman ix. mysterious disappearance of a sentinel x. fontaine salano's treachery and its reward xi. "the seminole must go" xii. chen-o-wah is stolen by the slave-catchers xiii. "wiley thompson, where is my wife?" xiv. osceola signs the treaty xv. louis pacheco bides his time xvi. osceola's revenge xvii. on the verge of the wahoo swamp xviii. coacoochee's first battle xix. ralph boyd and the slave-catcher xx. an alligator and his mysterious assailant xxi. battle of the withlacoochee xxii. the young chief makes a timely discovery xxiii. shakespeare in the forest xxiv. bogus indians and the real article xxv. a swamp stronghold of the seminoles xxvi. two spies and their fate xxvii. anstice saves the life of a captive xxviii. the mark of the wildcat xxix. treacherous capture of coacoochee and osceola xxx. in the dungeons of the ancient fortress xxxi. a daring escape xxxii. nita hears that coacoochee is dead xxxiii. told by the magnolia spring xxxiv. following a mysterious trail xxxv. fate of the slave-catchers xxxvi. peace is again proposed xxvii. coacoochee is again made prisoner xxxviii. douglass fulfils his mission xxxix. the bravest girl in florida xl. a double wedding and the setting sun list of illustrations facing page a great sheet of flame leaped from the roadside _frontispiece_ then with a vicious hiss the raw-hide swept down with the full force of the arm that wielded it it sunk deep into the wood of the table and stood quivering as though with rage "to leab behine de onliest fedderbed she done got" the girl stepped close to the young chief and spoke a few words hadjo lost his hold of the rope and came tumbling down the whole distance nita sat by her favorite spring "all is lost and the war is about to break forth with greater fury than ever" through swamp and glade chapter i a bit of the florida wilderness the scene is laid in florida, that beautiful land of the far south, in which ponce de leon located the fabled spring of eternal youth. it is a land of song and story, of poetry and romance; but one also of bitter memories and shameful deeds. its very attractiveness has proved its greatest curse, and for weary years its native dwellers, who loved its soil as dearly as they loved their own lives, fought desperately to repel the invaders who sought to drive them from its sunny shores. although winter is hardly known in florida, still there, as elsewhere, spring is the fairest and most joyous season of the year, and it is with the evening of a perfect april day that this story opens. the warm air was pleasantly stirred by a breeze that whispered of the boundless sea, and the glowing sun would shortly sink to rest in the placid bosom of the mexican gulf. from the forest came sweet scents of yellow jasmine, wild grape, and flowering plumes of the palmetto mingled with richer perfumes from orange blossoms, magnolias, and sweet bays. gorgeous butterflies hovered on the edge of the hammock and sought resting-places for the night amid the orange leaves. humming-birds, like living jewels, darted from flower to flower; bees golden with pollen and freighted with honey winged their flight to distant combs. from a ti-ti thicket came the joyous notes of a mocking-bird, who thus unwittingly disclosed the secret of his hidden nest. a bevy of parakeets in green and gold flashed from branch to branch and chattered of their own affairs; while far overhead, flocks of snowy ibis and white curlew streamed along like fleecy clouds from feeding-grounds on the salt marshes of the distant coast to rookeries in the cypress swamps of the crooked ocklawaha. some of these drifting bird-clouds were tinted or edged with an exquisite pink, denoting the presence of roseate spoonbills, and the effect of their rapid movement against the deep blue of the heavens, in the flash of the setting sun was indescribably beautiful. amid this lavish display of nature's daintiest handiwork and in all the widespread landscape of hammock and savanna, trackless pine forest that had never known the woodman's axe, and dimpled lakes of which a score might be counted from a slight elevation, but one human being was visible. a youth just emerged from boyhood stood alone on the edge of a forest where the ground sloped abruptly down to a lakelet of crystal water. he was clad in a loose-fitting tunic or hunting-frock of doeskin girded about the waist by a sash of crimson silk. in this was thrust a knife with a silver-mounted buckhorn handle and encased in a sheath of snakeskin. his hair, black and glossy as the wing of a raven, was bound by a silken kerchief of the same rich color as his sash. the snow-white plume of an egret twined in his hair denoted him to be of rank among his own people. he wore fringed leggings of smoke-tanned deerskin, and moccasins of the same material. the lad's features were handsome and clear cut, but his expression was gentle and thoughtful as might become a student rather than a mere forest rover. and so the lad was a student, though of nature, and a dreamer not yet awakened to the stern realities of life; but that the mysteries of books were unknown to him might be inferred from a glance at his skin. it was of a clear copper color, resembling new bronze; for coacoochee (little wild cat) belonged to the most southern tribe of north american indians, the seminoles of florida. indian though he was, he was of noble birth and descended from a long line of chieftains; for he was the eldest son of philip emathla (philip the leader), or "king philip," as the whites termed him, and would some day be a leader of his tribe. now, as the lad stood leaning on a light rifle and gazing abstractedly at the glistening clouds of home-returning birds that flecked the glowing sky, his face bore a far-away look as though his thoughts had outstripped his vision. this was not surprising; for to all men coacoochee was known as a dreamer who beguiled the hours of many an evening by the camp-fire with the telling of his dreams or of the folklore tales of his people. not only was he a dreamer of dreams and a narrator of strange tales; but he was a seer of visions, as had been proved very recently when death robbed him of his dearly loved twin sister allala. at the time coacoochee was many miles away from his father's village, on a hunting-trip with his younger brother otulke. one night as they slept the elder brother started from his bed of palmetto leaves with the voice of allala ringing in his ears. all was silent about him, and otulke lay undisturbed by his side. as the lad wondered and was about to again lie down, his own name was uttered softly but plainly, and in the voice of allala, while at the same moment her actual presence seemed to be beside him. it was a summons that he dared not disobey; so, without rousing otulke, the young hunter sprang on the back of his pony and sped away through the moonlight. at sunrise he stood beside the dead form of the dear sister whose fleeting spirit had called him. since then he had often heard allala's voice in the winds whispering through tall grasses of the glades, or among nodding flags on the river banks; in waters that sang and rippled on the lake shore; from shadowy depths of the hammocks, and amid the soft sighings of cypress swamps. fus-chatte the red-bird sang of her, and pet-che the wood dove mourned that she was gone. to coacoochee, she seemed ever near him, and he longed for the time when he might join her. but he knew that he must be patient and await the presence of the great spirit, for he believed that the hour of his own death had been named at that of his birth. he also knew that until the appointed time he would escape all dangers unharmed. he felt certain that allala watched over him and would warn him of either death or great danger. being thus convinced, the lad was absolutely without fear of dangers visible or unseen; and, dreamer that he was, often amazed his companions by deeds of what seemed to them the most reckless daring. at the moment of his introduction to the reader coacoochee, bathed in the full glory of the setting sun, wondered if the place to which allala had gone could be fairer or more beautiful than that in which he lingered. although he was without human companionship he was not alone; for beside him lay ul-we (the tall one), a great shaggy staghound that the young indian had rescued three years before from the wreck of an english ship that was cast away on the lonely coast more than one hundred miles from the nearest settlement. coacoochee with several companions was searching for turtle-eggs on the beach, and when they boarded the stranded vessel, a wretched puppy very nearly dead from starvation was the only living creature they found. the indian boy took the little animal for his own, restored it to life through persistent effort, nursed it through the ills of puppyhood, and was finally rewarded by having the waif thus rescued develop into the superb hound that now lay beside him, and whose equal for strength and intelligence had never been known in florida. the love of the great dog for his young master was touching to behold, while the affection of coacoochee for him was only excelled by that felt for his dearest human friend. this friend was a lad of his own age named louis pacheco, who was neither an indian nor wholly a paleface. he was the son of a spanish indigo planter and a beautiful octoroon who had been given her freedom before the birth of her boy. the señor pacheco, whose plantation lay near the village of king philip, had always maintained the most friendly relations with his indian neighbors; and, louis having one sister, as had coacoochee, these four were united in closest intimacy from their childhood. at the death of the indigo planter his family removed to a small estate owned by the mother, on the tomoka river, some fifty miles from their old home; but this removal in nowise weakened their friendship with the red-skinned dwellers by the lake. frequent visits were exchanged between the younger members of the two families, and when allala was taken to the spirit land, none mourned her loss longer or more sincerely than louis and nita pacheco. louis, being well educated by his father, taught coacoochee to speak fluently both english and spanish in exchange for lessons in forest lore and woodcraft. the young creole was as proud of his lineage as was the son of philip emathla, and bore himself as became one born to a position of freedom and independence. it was some months since he and coacoochee had last met, and at the moment of his introduction to us the latter was thinking of his friend and meditating a visit to him. it would seem as though these thoughts must have been induced by some subtle indication of a near-by presence; for the youth was hardly conscious of them ere ul-we sprang to his feet with an ominous growl and dashed into the thicket behind them. at the same moment the young indian heard his own name pronounced in a faint voice, and wheeling quickly, caught sight of a white, wild-eyed face that he instantly recognized. ul-we had but time to utter one joyful bark before his young master stood beside him and was supporting the fainting form of nita pacheco in his arms. chapter ii mr. troup jeffers plots mischief for a full understanding of this startling interruption of the young indian's meditations it is necessary to make a brief excursion among the dark shadows of a history which, though now ancient and well-nigh forgotten, was then fresh and of vital interest to those whose fortunes we are about to follow. florida had only recently been purchased by the united states from spain for five millions of dollars, and its vast territory thrown open to settlement. being the most nearly tropical of our possessions, it offered possibilities found in no other part of the country, and settlers flocked to it from all directions. as the spaniards had only occupied a few places near the coast, the interior had been left to the undisturbed possession of the seminoles and their negro allies. the ancestors of these negroes escaping from slavery had sought and found a safe refuge in this beautiful wilderness. by spanish law they became free at the moment of crossing the frontier boundary line, and here their descendants dwelt for generations in peace and happiness. with the change of owners came a sad change of fortunes to the native inhabitants of this sunny land. the swarming settlers cast envious glances at the fertile fields of the seminoles, and determined to possess them. they longed also to enslave the negro friends and allies of the indians, whom they discovered to be enjoying a degree of freedom and prosperity entirely contrary to their notions of what was right and fitting. slavery was a legally recognized institution of the country. the incoming settlers had been taught and believed that men of black skins were created to be slaves and laborers for the benefit of the whites. therefore to see these little communities of black men dwelling in a state of freedom and working only for themselves, their wives, and children was intolerable. slaves were wanted to clear forests and cultivate fields, and here were hundreds, possibly thousands, of them to be had for the taking. the villages of these negroes and those of their indian allies were also affording places of refuge for other blacks who were constantly escaping from the plantations of neighboring states, and seeking that liberty guaranteed by the constitution of the united states to all men. this condition of affairs could not be borne. both the indians and the free negroes of florida must be taught a lesson. general andrew jackson was the man chosen to teach this lesson, and he entered upon the congenial task with a hearty relish. marching an army into florida, he killed all the indians whom he encountered, killed or captured all the negroes whom he could find, burned villages, destroyed crops, and finally retired from the devastated country with a vast quantity of plunder, consisting principally of slaves and cattle. to impress this lesson more fully upon the indians, general jackson compelled an american vessel lying in appalachicola bay to hoist british colors in the hope of enticing some of them on board. two seminole chiefs, deceived by this cowardly ruse, did venture to visit the supposed british ship. when they were safely on board, his majesty's ensign was hauled down, that of the united states was run up, and beneath its folds the too confiding visitors were hanged to the yard-arms without trial or delay. after this general jackson summoned the indians to come in and make a treaty; but they were fearful of further treachery, and hesitated. finally some thirty warriors out of the entire tribe were bribed to lay aside their fears and meet the commissioners. these signed a treaty by which the seminoles were required to abandon their homes, villages, fields, and hunting-grounds, in the northern part of the territory, and retire to the distant southern wilderness, where they would be at liberty to clear new lands and make new homes. the tribe was also bound by the treaty to prevent the passage, through their country, of any fugitive slave, and to deliver all such seeking refuge among them to any persons claiming to be their owners. the united states on its part promised to compensate the indians for such improvements as they were compelled to abandon, to allow them five thousand dollars annually in goods and money for twenty years, to feed them for one year, and to furnish them with schools. with the signing of this alleged treaty the trials and sufferings of the seminoles began in earnest. they were literally driven from their old homes, so eager were the whites to possess their fertile lands. most of their promised rations of food was withheld, that they might be induced by starvation the more speedily to clear and cultivate new fields in the south. the goods issued to them were of such wretched quality that they were contemptuously rejected or thrown away; and on one pretext or another nearly the whole of their cash annuity was declared forfeited. the most common excuse for thus defrauding the indians was that they did not display sufficient activity in capturing the negroes who had sought refuge in their country. any white man desirous of procuring a slave had but to describe some negro whom he knew to be living among the seminoles and file a claim to him with the indian agent. the latter then notified the indians that they were expected to capture and deliver up the person thus described, or else forfeit his value from their annuity. thus these liberty-loving savages soon discovered that, under the white man's interpretation of their treaty, they had bound themselves to deliver into slavery every man, woman, and child found within their territory, in whose veins flowed one drop of negro blood, including in some cases their own wives and children, which crime they very naturally refused to commit. although philip emathla had thus far avoided an open rupture with the whites, an event of recent occurrence caused him grave anxiety. on the occasion of his last expedition to st. augustine to receive that portion of the annuity due his band he had been persuaded by coacoochee and louis pacheco, who happened to be visiting his friend at that time, to allow them to accompany him. the indians camped at some distance from the town, but were permitted to wander freely about its streets during the daytime--a permission of which the two lads took fullest advantage. thus on the very day of their arrival they set forth on their exploration of the ancient city, and louis, who had been there before with his father, kindly explained its many wonders to his less travelled companion. the massive gray walls of fort san marco, with their lofty watch towers, and black cannon grinning from the deep embrasures, possessed a peculiar fascination for coacoochee, and it seemed as though he would never tire of gazing on them. from the gloomy interior, however, he shrank with horror, refusing even to glance into the cells and dungeons, to which louis desired to direct his attention. "no," he cried. "in these i could not breathe. they hold the air of a prison, and to a son of the forest that is the air of death. let us then hasten from this place of ill omen, lest they close the gates, and we be forced to leap from the walls for our freedom." so the wildcat hastily dragged his friend from that grim place, nor did he draw a full breath until they were once more in the sunny fields outside. he was infinitely more pleased with the interior of the equally ancient cathedral, and lingered long before the mystic paintings of its decoration. its music and the glowing candles of its richly decked altar affected him so strangely, that even after they had emerged from the building and stood in the open plaza, listening to its chiming bells, he was for a long time silent. louis, too, was occupied with his own thoughts; and as the lads stood thus, they failed to notice the curiosity with which they were regarded by two men who passed and repassed them several times. one of these men, troup jeffers by name, was a slave-trader, who was keenly alive to the possibility of making a good thing out of the present embarrassment of the seminoles. the other man, who was known as ross ruffin, though that was not supposed to be his real name, was one of those depraved characters found on every frontier, who are always ready to perform a dirty job for pay, and who so closely resembled the filthiest beasts of prey that they are generally spoken of as "human jackals." with this particular jackal mr. troup jeffers had already dealt on more than one occasion, and found him peculiarly well adapted to the requirements of his despicable trade. "likely looking youngsters," remarked the slave-dealer, nodding towards the two lads upon first noticing them. "pity they're injuns. more pity that injuns don't come under the head of property. can't see any difference myself between them and niggers. now them two in the right market ought to fetch--" here the trader paused to inspect the lads more closely that he might make a careful estimate of their probable money value. "by gad!" he exclaimed under his breath, "i'm dashed if i believe one of 'em is an injun!" "no," replied his companion; "one of 'em is a nigger. leastways, his mother is." "you don't say so?" remarked mr. troup jeffers, his eye lighting with the gleam of a man-hunter on catching sight of his prey. "who owns him?" "no one just now. leastways, he claims to be free. he lives with his mother and sister in the injun country. i've been calculating chances on 'em myself for some time." "tell me all you know about 'em," commanded the trader, in a voice husky with excitement, while the evil gleam in his eyes grew more pronounced. when ross ruffin had related the history and present circumstances of the pachecos to the best of his knowledge, the other exclaimed: "i'll go yer! and we couldn't want a better thing. agent's in town now. i'll make out a description and file a claim this very evening. we'll claim all three. jump this young buck before he has a chance to get away. it'll make the other job more simple too. get all three up the coast, easy as rolling off a log. 'quick sales and big profits'--that's my motto. i'll divvy with you. on the square. is it a go? shake." thus within five minutes, and while the unsuspecting lads still listened in silence to the tinkling chimes of the old cathedral bells, there was hatched against them a plot more villainous than either of them had ever conceived possible. not only that, but the first link was forged of a chain of circumstances that was to alter the whole course of their lives and entwine them in its cruel coils for many bitter years to come. chapter iii the slave-catchers at work the following day was also passed by coacoochee and louis in pleasant wanderings about the quaint little city whose every sight and sound was to them so full of novel interest. at length in the early dusk of evening they set forth on their return to philip emathla's camp, conversing eagerly as they walked concerning what they had seen. so occupied were they that they paid little heed to their immediate surroundings, and as they gained the outskirts of the town were startled at being commanded to halt by a man who had approached them unobserved. it was troup jeffers, the slave-catcher, who had been watching the lads for some time and awaiting just such an opportunity as the present for carrying out his evil designs. "what's your name?" he demanded, placing himself squarely in front of the young creole. "louis pacheco." "just so. son of old pacheco and a nigger woman. nigger yourself. my nigger, sold to me by your dad just afore he died. hain't wanted you up to this time. now want you to come along with me." "i'll do nothing of the kind!" cried the lad, hotly. "when you say that i am your slave, or the slave of any one else, _you lie_. my mother was a free woman, and i was born free. to that i can take my oath, and so can my friend here. so stand aside, sir, and let me pass." "ho, ho! my black fighting cock," answered the trader, savagely; "you'll pay sweetly for those words afore i'm through with ye. and you'll set up a nigger's oath and an injun's oath agin that of a white man, will ye? why, you crumbly piece of yellar gingerbread, don't you know that when a white man swears to a thing, his word will be taken agin that of all the niggers and injuns in the country? cattle of that kind can't testify in united states courts, as you'll find out in a hurry if you ever try it on. now you're my property, and the sooner you realize it, the better it will be for you. i've filed my sworn claim with the agent, and it's been allowed. here's his order for the injuns to deliver you up. so i'd advise you to go along peaceably with me if you don't want to get yourself into a heap of trouble. grab him, ross!" mr. troup jeffers had only talked to detain the lads until the arrival of his burly confederate, who was following at a short distance behind him. as the moment for action arrived, he seized louis by one arm, while ross ruffin grasped the other. coacoochee, knowing little of the ways of the whites, had not realized what was taking place until this moment; but with the seizure of his friend the horrid truth was made clear to him. he was called a dreamer, but no one witnessing the promptness of his action at this crisis would have supposed him to be such. ross ruffin was nearest him, and at the very moment of his laying hands on louis there came a flash of steel. the next instant coacoochee's keen-bladed hunting-knife was sunk deep into the man's arm just below the shoulder. with a yell of pain and terror, the "jackal" let go his hold. louis tore himself free from the grasp of his other assailant, and in a twinkling the two lads were running with the speed of startled deer in the direction of their own camp, while an ineffective pistol shot rang out spitefully behind them. a few minutes later they had gained the camp, secured their rifles, told king philip of what had just taken place, crossed the san sebastian, and were lost to sight in the dark shadows of the forest on its further side. they had hardly disappeared before st. augustine was in an uproar. an indian had dared draw his knife on a white man who was only exercising his legal rights and claiming his lawful property. an indian had actually aided in the escape of a slave, when by solemn treaty he was bound to use every effort to deliver such persons to their masters. the act was an intolerable outrage and must be promptly punished. within an hour, therefore, an angry mob of armed citizens headed by troup jeffers had surrounded philip emathla's encampment. they were confronted by his handful of sturdy warriors, ready to fight with the fury of tigers brought to bay, and but for the determined interference of the indian agent, who had hastened to the scene of disturbance, a bloody battle would have ensued then and there. this officer begged the whites to leave the affair with him, assuring them that the indians should be made to afford ample satisfaction for the outrage, and taught a lesson that would prevent its repetition. at first the citizens would not listen to him; but the cupidity of the slave-catcher being aroused by the promise of a handsome pecuniary compensation for his loss, he joined his voice to that of the agent, and finally succeeded in persuading the mob to retire. two thousand dollars of government money due king philip's band was in that agent's hands and should have been paid over on the following day. now that official gave the aged chieftain his choice of delivering coacoochee up for punishment, and louis pacheco to the man who claimed him as his property, or of relinquishing this money and signing for it a receipt in full. the alternative thus presented was a bitter one. the loss of their money would involve philip emathla and his band in new difficulties with the whites, to whom they were in debt for goods that were to be paid for on the receipt of their annuity. the old man knew that his creditors would have no mercy upon him, but would seize whatever of his possessions they could attach. nor could mercy be expected for his son and louis pacheco should they be delivered into the hands of their enemies. long did the perplexed chieftain sit silent and with bowed head, considering the situation. his warriors, grouped at a short distance, watched him with respectful curiosity. at length he submitted the case to them and asked their advice. with one accord, and without hesitation, they answered: "let the iste-hatke (white man) keep his money. we can live without it; but if one hair of coacoochee's head should be harmed, our hearts would be heavy with a sadness that could never be lifted." so philip emathla affixed his mark to the paper that the agent had prepared for him, and was allowed to depart in peace the next day. of the money thus obtained from the indians two hundred dollars served to salve the wound in ross ruffin's arm, and eight hundred satisfied for the time being the claim of mr. troup jeffers, the slave-trader. what became of the balance is unknown, for the agent's books contain no record of the transaction. coacoochee and louis had halted within friendly shadows on the edge of the forest, and there held themselves in readiness to fly to the assistance of their friends, should sounds of strife proclaim an attack upon the encampment. here they remained during the night, and only rejoined philip emathla on his homeward march the following day. when they learned from him the particulars of the transaction by which their liberty had been assured, both of them were bitterly indignant at the injustice thus perpetrated. the indignation of the young creole was supplemented by a profound gratitude, and he swore that if the time ever came when it should lie in his power to repay the debt thus incurred, he would do so with interest many times compounded. now, feeling secure in the freedom for which so great a price had been paid, he returned to his home on the tomoka, where for several months he devoted himself assiduously to labor on the little plantation that afforded the sole support of his mother, his sister, and himself. during this time of diligent toil, though he found no opportunity for communicating with his indian friends of the lake region, they were often in his thoughts, and his heart warmed toward them with an ever-increasing gratitude as he reflected upon the awful fate from which they had saved him. while the busy home life of the family on the tomoka flowed on thus peacefully and happily, there came one evening a timid knock at the closed door of their house, and a weak voice, speaking in negro dialect, begged for admittance. louis, holding a candle, opened the door, and as he did so, was struck a blow on the head that stretched him senseless across the threshold. as nita, who was the only other occupant of the house at that moment, witnessed this dastardly act, she uttered a piercing scream and was about to fling herself on her brother's body, but was roughly pushed back by two white men, who entered the room, and dragging louis back from the door, closed it behind them. one of the men, who were those precious villains troup jeffers and ross ruffin, bound the wrists of the unconscious youth behind him, while the other ordered nita to bring them food, threatening to kill her brother before her eyes in case she refused. the terrified girl hastened to obey; but, as with trembling hands she prepared the table with all that the house afforded in the way of provisions, her mind was filled with wild schemes of escape and rescue. her mother was absent, having gone to sit with the dying child of their only near neighbors, a negro family living a short distance down the river. while the girl thus planned, and strove to conceal her agony of thought beneath an appearance of bustling activity, the slave-catchers dashed water in her brother's face and used other means to restore him to consciousness. in this they were finally successful. the moment that he was sufficiently recovered to realize his situation and recognize the men who had treated him so shamefully, he demanded to be set at liberty, claiming that he was free by birth, and that even if he were not, the price of his freedom had been paid several times over by the annuity that philip emathla had relinquished on his account. "oh no, you're not free, my lad, as you'll soon discover," replied mr. troup jeffers, with a grin. "you're property, you are. you was born property, and you'll always be property. just now you're my property, and will be till i can get you to a market where your value will be appreciated. as for the cash handed over by that old fool of an injun, it warn't more than enough to pay for the cut that young catamount give my friend here, and for my injured feelings. it warn't never intended to pay for you. so shut your mouth and come along quietly with us, or we'll make it mighty oncomfortable for ye. d'ye hear?" "but my father was a white man, my mother was a free woman, and i was born--" "shut up! i tell ye!" shouted the trader, angrily. determined to be heard, the youth again opened his mouth to speak, when, with a snarl of rage, the brute sprang forward and dealt him several savage kicks with a heavy cowhide boot that proved effective in procuring the required silence. while the attention of both men was thus engaged, nita managed to slip unobserved from a back door of the house. with the swiftness of despair she fled along the shadowy forest trail that led to the neighbor's cabin, a quarter of a mile away. there she hoped to obtain help for her brother's rescue. when she reached it, she found to her dismay that it was dark and empty. its door stood wide open, and the poor girl received no answer to her terrified callings. chapter iv capture and escape of nita pacheco for a minute nita, trembling with excitement and terror, stood irresolute. then, noticing that a few embers still smouldered on the hearth, she found a sliver of fat pine and thrust it among them. as it flared up with a bright blaze, its light disclosed a scene that filled the girl with despair and told the whole sad story--the child with whom her mother was to watch that night lay dead on the only bed in the room. the rest of the scanty furniture was overturned and broken; while the whole appearance of the place denoted that it had been the scene of a fierce struggle. in vain did nita seek for any trace of her mother. it was only too evident that the slave-catchers had been here, made captives of all the living inmates, and removed them to a place of safe keeping before visiting the pacheco house. sick at heart and undecided as to her course of action, the poor girl left the cabin. as she emerged from its shattered doorway, she was rudely clasped in a pair of strong arms, and with a hoarse chuckle of satisfaction a voice, that she recognized as belonging to one of the men she had left with louis, exclaimed: "so, gal, ye thought ye was gwine to give us the slip, eh? and maybe bring help to your brother? we uns is up to them games though, and ye've got to be oncommon spry to git ahead of us. i suspicioned whar ye'd gone the minit i found ye'd lit out without so much as saying by your leave, and i was on to yer trail in less'n no time. now ye might as well give in and go along quiet with us. we'll find ye a nice easy place whar ye won't hev much to do, and whar ye kin live happier than ye ever could in this here forsaken wilderness." while thus talking, the man, with a firm grasp of the girl's arm, was leading her back along the trail they had come. she had not spoken since uttering a cry of terror when he first seized her, and she now walked beside him so quietly and unresistingly that he imagined her spirit to be broken beyond further thought of escape. the darkness of the hammock was intense, and being unaccustomed to the narrow path, ruffin found difficulty in following it. all at once, as he swerved slightly from the trail, his foot caught in a loose root, and he pitched headlong to the ground, releasing the girl's arm as he fell. in an instant she was gone. her light footfall gave back no sound to indicate the direction she had taken, and only the mocking forest echoes answered the man's bitter curses which were coupled with commands that she return to him. time was precious with the slave-catchers, and to pursue the girl would be a hopeless task. ross ruffin realized this, and so, baffled and raging, he made his way to that point on the river where, in a small boat, with louis still bound and helpless, troup jeffers impatiently awaited his coming. the latter upbraided his confederate in unmeasured terms for allowing the girl to escape, and so fierce was their quarrel that it seemed about to result in bloodshed. finally their interests, rather than their inclinations, led them to control their anger and to reflect that with the captives already secured, including louis, his mother, and the family of their negro neighbors, the venture promised to be very profitable, after all. so they pulled down the dark river and out to a small schooner that, in charge of two other white men, lay off its mouth, awaiting them. louis had listened eagerly to ruffin's report of his sister's flight, and thus assured of her escape, he became more reconciled to the fate in store for himself. as the boat in which he lay glided from the river's mouth, there came to him the sound of a dear voice that in all probability he would never hear again. it was a passionate cry of farewell from the sister whom he loved better than all the world beside. with a mighty effort the captive raised himself to a sitting posture. "good-bye, nita!" he shouted; "god bless--" then he was silenced and struck down by a blow in the face. at the same instant a flash of fire leaped from the boat, and a rifle bullet sped angrily through the forest in the direction from which nita's voice had come. it did not harm her, but she dared not call again. nor did she dare remain longer in that vicinity. returning to her deserted home, the poor girl hastily gathered a slender store of provisions and then set forth, fearfully and with a breaking heart, to thread the shadowy trails leading to the only place of refuge that she knew,--the village of philip emathla the seminole. for two days she travelled, guided by instinct rather than by a knowledge of the way, and at the end of the second she came to the place where coacoochee was standing. as her presence was betrayed by ul-we, and the young indian sprang to her side, the girl sank into his arms, faint and speechless from exhaustion. her dress hung in rags, her feet were bare and bleeding, and her tender skin was torn by innumerable thorns. filled with wonder and a premonition of evil tidings by this appearance of his friend's sister so far from her home and in so sad a plight, coacoochee bore her to the open space in which he had stood, and laid her gently down at the base of a great oak. then, realizing that all his strength would not suffice to carry her over the mile or more lying between that place and his father's village, he bade the great staghound stand guard over the fainting girl, and started off at a speed that he alone of all his tribe possessed, to seek assistance. the peaceful village was startled by his appearance as he dashed breathlessly into it a few minutes later, and some of the men instinctively grasped their weapons. with a few words, coacoochee assured them that there was no immediate cause for alarm, and then ordering three stalwart young warriors to follow him, he again entered the forest and hastened back to where he had left the exhausted girl. a little later nita pacheco was borne into the village and given over to the skilful ministrations of the women belonging to king philip's household. under their kindly care the strength of the fugitive was so restored that within an hour after her arrival she was able to relate her sad story to the aged chief, who bent over her and listened to her words with breathless attention. when she finished, and philip emathla was possessed of all the facts she had to communicate, he drew himself to his full height and stood for a moment silent, while his whole frame trembled with anger. at length he said: "it is well, my daughter. i have heard thy words, and they have caused my heart to bleed. from this hour thou shalt be to philip emathla as the child of his old age, and thy sorrows shall be his. sleep now and regain thy strength while he takes counsel concerning this matter with his wise men, and in the morning he will speak further with thee." when the old chief repeated nita pacheco's story to his warriors assembled about the council fire that night, his words were received in silence, but with fierce scowls; clinched hands, and twitching fingers. at its conclusion the silence was only broken by angry mutterings, but none knew what to advise. at length king philip addressed coacoochee, who, youngest of all present, had been allowed a seat at this council for the first time. calling him by name, the old chief said: "my son, on account of thy friendship with louis pacheco, thy interest in this matter is greater than that of any other among my councillors. what, then, is thy opinion concerning this tale of wrong and outrage?" standing bravely forth in the full glow of firelight, with his athletic form and proud profile clearly outlined against it, the lad spoke vehemently and from a full heart as he replied: "the words of my father have made the hearts of his children heavy. they tell us of the wickedness of the white man. that is nothing new. we have heard of it many times before. so many that we are weary with listening. but now this wickedness has fallen on those who have the right to call upon us for vengeance. they are not of our blood, but they lived among us and trusted us to protect them. louis pacheco is my friend and brother. this maiden is as a daughter to my father. they were not born slaves. the great spirit created them free as the birds of the air or the deer of the forest. of this freedom, the gift of the great spirit, the white man seeks to rob them. are we dogs that we should suffer this thing? no; the seminoles are men and warriors. let the chief send a message to the white man, demanding that these our friends be set free and restored to us. let him also send out those who will discover whither they have been taken. if they be dead or carried away so far that he cannot find them, then let him lead his warriors to battle with the pale-faced dogs, that the fate of our friends may be avenged. coacoochee has spoken, and to philip emathla has he made answer." this brave speech, delivered with all the fire and enthusiasm of youth as well as with the eloquent gestures that coacoochee knew so well how to use, was received with murmurs of satisfaction by the younger warriors, whose eyes gleamed with a fierce joy at the thought of battle. the breast of the young orator swelled with pride as, reseating himself in his appointed place, he glanced about him and noted the effect of his maiden effort at public speech-making. his whole soul was enlisted in the cause of those oppressed ones for whom he had just pleaded so earnestly, and he longed with the earnestness of honorable, high-strung, and fearless youth to strike a telling blow in their behalf. while he with the younger members of the band were thus animated by a spirit of resistance to injustice at any cost, the older warriors shook their heads. they could not but reflect upon their own weakness when they considered the power of the white man and the number of his soldiers. the old chief who had called forth this manifestation of feeling noted shrewdly the varied expressions of those about him and then dismissed the council, saying that after sleeping he would announce his decision. chapter v a forest betrothal philip emathla was an old man and a wise one. he had visited the great white father at washington, and had thus gained a very different idea of the power and number of the palefaces from that generally held by his tribe. he loved his land and his people. he was determined not to submit to injustice if he could help it, but he shrank from plunging the seminoles into a war with the powerful and arrogant invaders of their country. he knew that such a war could only result in the utter defeat of the red man, no matter how long or how bravely he might fight. thus coacoochee's fiery speech at the council was a source of great anxiety to the old man and caused him to pass a sleepless night. by morning, however, he had decided upon a course of action, and again summoning his councillors, he unfolded it to them. as the money value of louis pacheco and his mother had already been doubly paid by the indians through the relinquishment of their annuity, philip emathla would himself go to the agent at fort king, claim them as his slaves, and demand their return to him as such. at the same time he would send scouts to st. augustine to discover if the captives were in that city and what chance there was of rescuing them in case the agent should refuse to recognize his claim. until these things were done there must be no thought or mention of war. it could only be considered after all else had failed. as coacoochee listened to these words, his face assumed a look of resolve, and he eagerly awaited an opportunity to speak. he was no longer content to be considered a dreamer, but was anxious to prove himself the worthy son of a great chief and entitled to the proud rank of warrior. when, therefore, his father finished what he had to say and signified that any who chose might speak, the lad, after waiting for a few minutes out of deference to his elders, rose with a modest but manly bearing and requested that two favors might be granted him. one was that he might be allowed to go alone on the scout to st. augustine and there learn the fate of his friend. the other, asked with that confusion of manner which all youths, savage as well as civilized, manifest on such occasions, was that he might have his father's permission to make nita pacheco a daughter of the tribe, in fact as well as in name, by taking her to be his wife. after regarding the lad fixedly and in silence for nearly a minute, the old chief made reply as follows: "my son, although thou hast attained the stature of a man, and it has been permitted thee to speak in council, thou art still but a boy in knowledge as well as in years. that thou may speedily prove thyself worthy the name of warrior is my hope and desire. therefore that thou may not lack opportunity for gaining distinction, i hereby grant the first of thy requests on condition that six of my well-tried braves shall go with thee. they may be left in concealment outside the city, and thou may enter it alone; but it is well to have friends at hand in case of need. it is also well that a young warrior should be guided by the counsel of those who are older and wiser. "thy second request will i also grant upon conditions. gladly will i accept the maiden whom thou hast named, as a daughter in truth as well as in name; but it seems to have escaped thy mind that no son of the seminoles may take to himself a wife until he has won the title of warrior and proved himself capable of her support. again, there is but one time for the taking of wives, which may only be done at the great green corn dance of thy people. if it pleases the maiden to plight thee her troth, to that i will give consent, provided the ceremony shall take place ere the setting of this day's sun. then when thou art gone on thy mission to discover the fate of her mother and her brother, she will be doubly entitled to the love and protection of thy people. let, then, a solemn betrothal satisfy thee for the present, and at some future time will the question of thy marriage be considered. thus speaks philip emathla." coacoochee had loved the sister of his friend longer than he could remember, and believed that nita entertained a similar feeling toward him, though no words of love had ever passed between them. now they were to exchange a promise of marriage! the mere thought gave him a more manly and dignified bearing. and then he was to be immediately separated from her. how hard it would be to leave her! doubly hard, now that she was in sorrow, and suffering the keenest anxiety. still, if he could only bring back tidings of the safety of her dear ones, or perhaps even return them to her, how happy it would make her! how proud she would be of him! to nita the proposition that she should participate in a ceremony of betrothal to coacoochee, which among the seminoles is even more solemn and important than that of marriage itself, was startling but not unwelcome. she loved the handsome youth. in her own mind that had long ago been settled. now she was homeless and alone. where could she find a braver or more gallant protector than coacoochee? besides, was he not going into danger for her sake, and the sake of those most dear to her? yes, she would give him her promise in the presence of all his people freely and gladly. again the sun was near his setting, and all nature was flooded with the golden glory that waited on his departure. the cluster of palmetto-thatched huts nestled beneath tall trees on the shore of blue ahpopka lake wore an expectant air, and their dusky inhabitants, gathered in little groups, seemed to anticipate some event of importance. at length there came the sound of singing from a leafy bower on the outskirts of the village, and then appeared a bevy of young girls wreathed and garlanded with flowers. in their midst walked one whose face, fairer than theirs, still bore traces of recent suffering. she was clad in a robe of fawnskin, creamy white and soft as velvet. exquisitely embroidered, it was fit for the wear of a princess, and had indeed been prepared for the gentle allala, king philip's only daughter, shortly before her death. now, worn for the first time, it formed the betrothal dress of nita pacheco. in the tresses of her rippling hair was twined a slender spray of snow-white star jasmine. she wore no other ornament, but none was needed for a beauty so radiant as hers. so, at least, thought coacoochee, as, escorted by a picked body of young warriors, gaudy in paint and feathers, he entered the village at this moment, but from its opposite side, and caught a glimpse of her. both groups advanced to the centre of the village and halted, facing each other, before the chief's lodge. there for some moments they stood amid an impressive silence that was only broken by the glad songs of birds in the leafy coverts above them. at length the curtain screening the entrance was drawn aside, and philip emathla, followed by two of his most trusted councillors, stepped forth. the head of the aged chieftain was unadorned save by a single roseate feather plucked from the wing of a flamingo. this from time immemorial had been the badge of highest authority among the indians of florida, and was adopted as such by the latest native occupants of the flowery land. the chief's massive form was set off to fine advantage by a simple tunic and leggings of buckskin. depending from his neck by a slender chain was a large gold medallion of washington, while across his breast he wore several other decorations in gold and silver. standing in the presence of his people, and facing the setting sun, the chieftain called upon the group of flower-decked maidens to deliver up their sister, and as nita stepped shyly forth, he took her by the hand. next he called upon the group of young warriors to deliver up their brother, whereupon their ranks opened, and coacoochee walked proudly to where his father stood. taking him also by the hand, the old chief asked of his son, in a voice that all could plainly hear, if he had carefully considered the obligation he was about to assume. "do you promise for the sake of this maiden to strive with all your powers to attain the rank of a warrior? do you promise, when that time comes, to take her to your lodge to be your squaw? to protect her with your life from harm? to hunt game for her? to see that she suffers not from hunger? to love her and bear with her until the great spirit shall call you to dwell with him in the happy hunting-grounds?" "un-cah (yes)," answered coacoochee so clearly as to be heard of all. "i do promise." turning to nita, the chieftain asked: "my daughter, are you also willing to make promise to this youth that when the time comes for him to call thee to his lodge, you will go to him? are you willing to promise that from then until the sun shall no longer shine for thee, till thine eyes are closed in the long sleep, and till the music of birds no longer fill thy ears, coacoochee shall be thy man, and thou shall know no other? are you willing to promise that from that time his lodge shall be thy lodge, his friends thy friends, and his enemies thy enemies? are you willing to promise that from the day you enter his lodge you will love him and care for him, make his word thy law, and follow him even to captivity and death? consider well, my daughter, before answering; for thy pledged word may not be lightly broken." lifting her head, and smiling as she looked the old man full in the face, nita answered, in low but distinct tones: "un-cah. i am willing to promise." with this the chieftain placed the girl's hand in that of coacoochee, and turning to the spectators, who stood silent and attentive, said: "in thy sight, and in hearing of all men, this my son and this my daughter have given to each other the promise that may not be broken. therefore i, philip emathla, make it known that whenever coacoochee, after gaining a warrior's rank, shall call this maiden to his lodge, she shall go to him. from that time forth he shall be her warrior, and she shall be his squaw. it is spoken; let it be remembered." with these words the ceremony of betrothal was concluded, and at once the spectators broke forth in a tumult of rejoicing. guns were discharged, drums were beaten, great fires were lighted, there was dancing and feasting, and in every way they could devise did these simple-minded dwellers in the forest express their joy over the event that promised so much of happiness to the well-loved son of their chief. in these rejoicings coacoochee did not take part, glad as he would have been to do so. he had a duty to perform that might no longer be delayed. the fate of his friend, who was now become almost his brother, must be learned, and it rested with him to discover it. so on conclusion of the betrothal ceremony he led nita into his father's lodge, bade her a tender farewell, and promising a speedy return, slipped away almost unobserved. followed only by ul-we, the great staghound, he entered the dark shadows of the forest behind the village, and was immediately lost to view. chapter vi cruel death of ul-we the staghound when coacoochee left the indian village on the night of his betrothal and set forth on his journey to st. augustine, he fully realized that the act marked a crisis in his life, and that from this hour his irresponsible boyhood was a thing of the past. for a moment he was staggered by the thought of what he was undertaking, together with an overpowering sense of his own weakness and lack of worldly knowledge. how could he, a mere lad, educated in nothing save forest craft, hope to compete with the strength, wisdom, and subtlety of the all-powerful white man? his heart sank at the prospect, there came a faltering in his springy stride, he feared to advance, and dreaded to retreat. as he wavered he became conscious of a presence beside him, and to his ear came the voice of allala. in tender but reproachful accents it said: "my brother, to thee are the eyes of our people turning. philip emathla is chief of a band; through long strife, bitter trial, and deepest sorrow, coacoochee shall become leader of a nation. remember, my brother, that to strive and succeed is glorious; to strive and yield is still honorable; but to yield without striving is contemptible." the voice ceased, and the young indian felt that he was again alone, but he was no longer undecided. his veins thrilled with a new life, and his heart was filled with a courage ready to dare anything. in an instant his determination was taken. he would strive for victories, he would learn to bear defeat, but it should never be said of coacoochee that he was contemptible. filled with such thoughts, the youth sprang forward and again urged his way along the dim forest trail. he had gone but a short distance when he came to a group of dark figures evidently awaiting him. they were the six warriors chosen by his father to accompany him on his dangerous mission. as he joined them, a few words of greeting were exchanged, and one of them handed him his rifle, powder-horn, and bullet-pouch. here he took the lead, with ul-we close at his heels. the others followed in single file and with long, gliding strides that maintained with slight apparent effort yet bore them over the ground with surprising rapidity. the night was lighted by a young moon, and such of its rays as were sifted down through the leafy canopy served to guide their steps as truly as though it had been day. when the moon set, the little band halted on the edge of an open glade, and each man cut a few great leaves of the cabbage palmetto, which he thrust stem first into the ground to serve as protection against the drenching night dew. then, flinging themselves down in the long grass, they almost instantly fell asleep, leaving only ul-we to stand guard. a brace of wild turkey, shot at daylight a short distance from where they slept, furnished a breakfast, and at sunrise they were once more on their way. that morning they crossed the st. john's river in a canoe that had been skilfully concealed beneath a bank from all but them, and soon after sunset they made their second camp within a few miles of st. augustine. up to this time they had seen no white man, but now they might expect to see many; for they were near a travelled road recently opened for the government westward into the far interior, by a man named bellamy; thus it was called the "bellamy road,"--a name that it bears to this day. over it coacoochee, accompanied only by ul-we, walked boldly the next morning until he came to the city. he did not carry his rifle with him, as he knew that indians off their reservation were apt to have all firearms seized and taken from them. moreover, he anticipated no danger. these were times of peace, in which indians as well as whites were protected by treaty. so, cautioning his warriors to remain concealed until his return, the young leader went in search of the information he had been detailed to obtain. during his journey he had carefully considered the steps to be taken when he should reach its end. he might easily have slipped into the town under cover of darkness, and, with little chance of being observed, communicated with certain negroes of the place, who would have told him what he desired to know. he might have remained concealed in the outskirts until some of them passed that way. several other plans suggested themselves, but all were rejected in favor of the one now adopted. honest and straightforward himself, coacoochee was disinclined to use methods that might lie open to suspicion. he knew of no reason why he, a free man, should not visit any portion of the land that his people still claimed as their own, and consequently he entered the town boldly and in broad daylight. the sight of an indian in the streets of st. augustine was at that time too common to attract unusual attention. still, the bearing of the young chief was so noble, and his appearance so striking, that more than one person turned to gaze after him as he passed. the great dog that followed close at his heels also excited universal admiration, and several men offered to buy him from the youth as he passed them. to these he deigned no reply, for it was part of the indian policy at that time, as it is now, to feign an ignorance of any language but their own. within a few hours coacoochee had learned all that was to be known concerning the recent expedition of jeffers and ruffin. if they were successful in their undertaking, they were to proceed directly to charleston, south carolina, and there dispose of their captives. as they had now been absent from st. augustine for more than a week, this is what they were supposed to have done. once during his hurried interviews with those who were able to give him information, but were fearful of being discovered in his company, the young indian was vaguely warned that some new laws relating to his people had just been passed, and that if he were not careful, he might get into trouble through them. several times during the morning one or more of the street dogs of the town ran snarling after ul-we; but, in each case, one of his deep growls and a display of his formidable teeth caused them to slink away and leave him unmolested. having finished his business, coacoochee set out on a return to the camp where his warriors awaited him. his heart was heavy with the news that he had just received, and as he walked, he thought bitterly of the fate of the friend who had been dragged into slavery far beyond his reach or power of rescue. thus thinking, and paying but slight attention to his surroundings, he reached the edge of the town. he was passing its last building, a low groggery, on the porch of which were collected a group of men, most of them more or less under the influence of liquor. one of the group was a swarthy-faced fellow named salano, who had for some unknown reason conceived a bitter hatred against all indians, and often boasted that he would no more hesitate to shoot one than he would a wolf or a rattlesnake. beside this man lay his dog, a mongrel cur with a sneaking expression, that had gained some notoriety as a fighter. as coacoochee passed this group, though without paying any attention to them, salano called out to him in an insulting tone: "hello, injun! whar did you steal that dog?" if the young chief heard this question, he did not indicate by any sign that he had done so; but continued calmly on his way. again salano shouted after him. "i say whar did you steal that dog, injun?" then, with an oath, he added: "bring him here; i want to look at him." still there was no reply. in the meantime the cur at salano's feet was growling and showing his teeth as he gazed after the retreating form of ul-we. at this juncture his master stopped, and pointing in the direction of the staghound, said, "go, bite him, sir!" the cur darted forward, and made a vicious snap at ul-we's hind legs, inflicting a painful wound. the temper of the big dog was tried beyond endurance. he turned, and with a couple of leaps overtook the cur, already in yelping retreat. ul-we seized him by the back in his powerful jaws. there was a wild yell, a momentary struggle, a crunching of bones, and the cur lay lifeless in the dust. at the same moment the report of a rifle rang out, and the superb staghound sank slowly across the body of his late enemy, shot through the heart. all this happened in so short a space of time that the double tragedy was complete almost before coacoochee realized what was taking place. the moment he did so, he sprang to his faithful companion, and kneeling in the dust beside him, raised the creature's head in his arms. the great, loving eyes opened slowly and gazed pleadingly into the face of the young indian; with a last effort the dog feebly licked his hand, and then all was over. ul-we, the tall one, the noblest dog ever owned and loved by a seminole, was dead. over this pathetic scene the group about the groggery made merry with shouts of laughter and taunting remarks. as coacoochee, satisfied that his dog was really dead, slowly rose to his feet, salano jeeringly called out, "what'll you take for your pup now, injun?" the next moment the man staggered back with an exclamation of terror as the young indian sprang to where he stood, and with a face distorted by rage hissed between his teeth: "from thy body shall thy heart be torn for this act! coacoochee has sworn it." even as he spoke, a pistol held in salano's hand was levelled at his head, and his face was burned by the explosion that instantly followed, though the bullet intended for him whistled harmlessly over his head. a young man who had but that moment appeared on the scene had struck up the murderer's arm at the instant of pulling the trigger, exclaiming as he did so: "are you mad, salano!" then to coacoochee he said: "go now before further mischief is done. the man is crazy with drink, and not responsible for his actions. i will see that no further harm comes to you." without a word, but with one penetrating look at the face of the speaker, as though to fix it indelibly on his memory, the young indian turned and walked rapidly away. he had not gone more than a mile from town, and was walking slowly with downcast head and filled with bitter thoughts, when he was roused from his unhappy reverie by the sound of galloping hoofs behind him. turning, he saw two horsemen rapidly approaching the place where he stood. at the same time he became aware that two others, who had made a wide circuit under cover of the dense palmetto scrub on either side of the road, and thus obtained a position in front of him, were closing in so as to prevent his escape in that direction. he could have darted into the scrub, and thus have eluded his pursuers for a few minutes; and had he been possessed of his trusty rifle, he would certainly have done so. but unarmed as he was, and as his enemies knew him to be, they could easily hunt him out and shoot him down without taking any risk themselves, if they were so inclined. so coacoochee walked steadily forward as though unconscious of being the object toward which the four horsemen were directing their course. he wished he were near enough to the hiding-place of his warriors to call them to him, but they were still a couple of miles away, and even his voice could not be heard at that distance. so, apparently unaware of, or indifferent to, the danger closing in on him, the young indian resolutely pursued his way until he was almost run down by the horsemen who were approaching him from behind. as they reined sharply up, one of them ordered him to halt. coacoochee did as commanded, and turning, found himself again face to face with fontaine salano, the man who but a short time before had attempted to take his life. chapter vii coacoochee in the clutches of white ruffians as the young chief, obeying the stern command to halt, faced about, he found himself covered by a rifle in the hands of his most vindictive enemy. he knew in a moment that a crisis in their intercourse had been reached, and almost expected to be shot down where he stood, so malignant was the expression of the white man's face. still, with the wonderful self-control in times of danger that forms part of the indian character, he betrayed no emotion nor trace of fear. he only asked: "why should coacoochee halt at the command of a white man?" "because, coacoochee, if such is your outlandish name, the white man chooses to make you do so, and because he wants to see your pass," replied salano, sneeringly. in the meantime the other riders had come up, and two of them, dismounting, now stood on either side of the young indian. in obedience to an almost imperceptible nod from their leader, these two seized him, and in a moment had pinioned his arms behind him. coacoochee could have flung them from him and made a dash for liberty even now. he did make one convulsive movement in that direction; but like a flash the thought came to him that this was precisely what his enemies desired him to do, that they might thus have an excuse for killing him. so he remained motionless, and quietly allowed himself to be bound. at this a shade of disappointment swept over salano's face, and he muttered an oath. the truth was that, terrified by coacoochee's recent threat to have his life in exchange for that of ul-we, which he had so cruelly taken, the bully had determined to get rid of this dangerous youth without delay, and had hit upon the present plan for so doing. he had calculated that his victim would attempt to escape, or at least offer some resistance. in either case he would have shot him down without compunction, and afterwards if called to account for the act, would justify himself on the ground that the indian was transgressing a law recently passed by the legislature of florida, which he, in his character of justice of the peace, was attempting to enforce. still, his plan had not wholly failed, and he now proceeded to carry it to an extremity. "so you acknowledge that you hain't got no pass, do you, injun? and are roaming about the country, threatening white folks' lives, and doing lord knows what other deviltry on your own responsibility," he said. "now, then, listen to this." drawing a paper from his pocket as he spoke, the man read as follows: "_an act to prevent indians from roaming at large throughout the territory_: be it enacted by the governor and legislative council of the territory, that from and after the passing of this act, if any indian, of the years of discretion, venture to roam or ramble beyond the boundary lines of the reservations which have been assigned to the tribe or nation to which said indian belongs, it shall and may be lawful for any person or persons to apprehend, seize, and take said indian, and carry him before some justice of the peace, who is hereby authorized, empowered, and required to direct (if said indian have not a written permission from the agent to do some specific act) that there shall be inflicted not exceeding thirty-nine ( ) stripes, at the discretion of the justice, on the bare back of said indian, and, moreover, to cause the gun of said indian, if he have any, to be taken away from him and deposited with the colonel of the county or captain of the district in which said indian may be taken, subject to the order of the superintendent of indian affairs." "now, mr. injun, what have you got to say to that?" demanded salano, as he folded the paper and restored it to his pocket. although coacoochee had not understood all that had just been read to him, he comprehended that by a white man's law, an indian might be whipped like a slave or a dog, and his blood boiled hotly at the mere thought of such an outrage. still he replied to salano's last question with dignity and a forced composure. "the iste-chatte has not been told of this law. it is a new one to him, and he has had no time to learn it. it was not put into the treaty. coacoochee is the son of a chief. if you lift a hand against him, you lift it against the whole seminole nation. if you strike him, the land will run red with white men's blood. if you kill him, his spirit will cry for vengeance, and no place can hide you from the fury of his warriors. they will not eat nor drink nor sleep till they have found you out, and torn the cowardly heart from your body." "oh come!" interrupted salano, with an oath, "that will do. we don't want to hear any more from you. this injun is evidently a dangerous character, gentlemen, and as a justice of the peace i shall deal with him according to the law. we'll whip him first, and if that isn't enough, we'll hang him afterwards." the three men who accompanied salano were his boon companions, and were equally ready with himself to perform any deed of cruelty or wickedness. they regarded an indian as fair game, to be hunted and even killed wherever found. nothing would please them better than a declaration of war against the seminoles, and they were determined to leave nothing undone to hasten so desirable an event. to whip an indian under cover of the law was rare sport, and the prospect of hanging him afterwards filled them with a brutal joy. so they readily obeyed the commands of their leader, and after fastening their horses by the roadside, they threw a slip-noose over coacoochee's head, and drawing it close about his neck, led him a short distance within a grove of trees, to one of which they made fast the loose end of the rope. he was thus allowed to step a couple of paces in each direction. ripping his tunic from the neck downward with a knife, they stripped it from his back, and all was in readiness for their devilish deed. their rifles had been left hanging to their saddles, but each man had brought a raw-hide riding-whip with him, and these they now proposed to apply to the bare back of their silent and unresisting victim. "ten cuts apiece, gentlemen!" cried salano, with a ferocious laugh. "that'll make the thirty-nine allowed by law, and one over for good measure. i take great credit to myself for the idea of making the prisoner fast by the neck only, and that with a slip-noose. he's got plenty of room to dance, and if he looses his footing and hangs himself, why, that'll be his lookout and not ours. at any rate, it will be a good riddance of the varmint, and will relieve us from further responsibility in the matter. i claim the first cut at him; so stand back and give me room." as the others moved back a few paces, the chief ruffian stepped up to the young indian, and laying the raw hide across the bared shoulders as though to measure the width of the blow he was about to inflict, he lifted it high above his head, saying as he did so: "you'll cut my heart out, will you, injun? we'll see now who is going to do the cutting." then with a vicious hiss, the raw hide swept down with the full force of the arm that wielded it. there was no outcry and no movement on the part of the indian, only his flesh shrunk and quivered beneath the cruel blow, which left a livid stripe across his shoulders. that blow was to be paid for with hundreds of innocent lives, and millions of dollars. it was to be felt throughout the length and breadth of the land, and was to be atoned by rivers of blood. in a single instant its fearful magic transformed the young indian who received it, from a quiet, peace-loving youth, with a generous, affectionate nature, into a savage warrior, relentless and pitiless. it gave to the seminoles a leader whose very name should become a terror to their enemies, and it precipitated one of the cruellest and most stubbornly contested indian wars ever waged on american soil. again was the whip uplifted, but before it could descend for a second blow, the wretch who wielded it was dashed to the ground, and a white man with blazing eyes stood over his prostrate figure. the newcomer presented a cocked rifle at the startled spectators of the proceedings, who had been too intent upon the perpetration of their crime to take notice of his approach. "cowards!" he cried, in ringing tones. "does it take four of you to whip one indian? is this the way you continue a private quarrel and gratify your devilish instincts? bah! such wretches as you are a disgrace to manhood! you make me ashamed of my color, since it is the same as your own. did you not hear me give my word to this youth that he should go in safety? how dared you then even contemplate this outrage? perhaps you thought that the word of an englishman might be defied with impunity. from this moment you will know better; for if any one of you ever dares cross my path again, i will shoot him in his tracks as i would any other noxious beast that curses the earth. now get you gone from this spot ere my forbearance is tempted beyond its strength. go back to the town, and there proclaim your iniquity, if you dare. you will find few sympathizers in your attempt to precipitate an indian war, and deluge this fair land with blood. go, and go on foot. your horses have already taken the road. go, and if you even dare to look back until out of my sight, a bullet from this rifle shall spur your lagging pace. and you, fontaine salano, you brute of brutes, you pariah dog, do you go with them. away out of my sight, i say, lest i cause this indian to flay your bare back with the lashes you intended for him." [illustration: then with a vicious hiss the rawhide swept down with the full force of the arm that wielded it.] whether the four men imagined that they were confronted by one bereft of his senses, or whether they were indeed the cowards he called them, it is impossible to say. certain it is that they received the young man's scathing words in silence, and, when ordered to leave, they took their departure with a precipitate haste that would have been comical under less tragic circumstances. the stranger followed them to the edge of the wood, and watched them until they disappeared in the direction of the town. then he returned to where coacoochee, who had not yet seen the face of his deliverer, still remained bound to the tree. as with a keen-edged knife he cut the thongs confining the young indian's arms, and the rope about his neck, thus allowing the latter to face him, coacoochee gave a start of surprise. his new friend was the same who, but an hour or so before, had saved him from fontaine salano's pistol in the streets of st. augustine. chapter viii ralph boyd the englishman the man who had thus so opportunely come to the rescue of coacoochee twice in one day was a remarkable character even in that land of adventurers. descended from a wealthy english family, well educated and accomplished, he had sought a life of adventure, and after spending some years in out-of-the-way corners of the world, had finally settled down on a large plantation in florida left to him by an uncle whom he had never seen. here he now lived with his only sister anstice, who had recently come out to join him. filled with a love for freedom and always ready to quarrel with injustice in any form, he had, before even seeing his property, freed his slaves and ordered his attorneys to discharge an oppressive overseer who had mismanaged the plantation for some years. this man, whom ralph boyd did not even know by sight, was no other than our slave-catching acquaintance mr. troup jeffers. in that slave-holding community a man who chose to work his plantation with free labor became immediately unpopular, and some of his neighbors sought quarrels with him, in the hope of driving him from the country. but they had reckoned without their host. ralph boyd was not to be driven, as the result of several duels into which they forced him plainly proved. he was a good shot, an expert swordsman, a capital horseman, and was apparently without fear. therefore it was quickly discovered that to meddle with the young englishman was to meddle with danger, and that his friendship was infinitely preferable to his enmity. he was of such a sunny disposition that it was difficult to rouse him to anger on his own behalf, but he never permitted a wrong to be perpetrated on the weak or helpless that lay within his powers of redress. thus a case of cowardly brutality like the present, and one of which the possible consequences were so terrible to contemplate, filled him with a righteous and well-nigh uncontrollable rage. the boyd plantation lay some forty miles from st. augustine, and boyd had ridden into town that day on a matter of business. he had reached it just in time to witness salano's shooting of ul-we. filled with indignation at the deed, and admiring the manner with which coacoochee confronted his tormentors, boyd at once took the young indian's part and probably saved his life. then he went about his own business. some time afterwards he learned by the merest accident of the departure of salano and his evil associates on the track of the young chief. fearing that they meditated mischief toward one to whom he had given the promise of his protection, he procured a fresh horse and started in hot pursuit. finding the four horses hitched by the roadside, and noting that each man had left his rifle hanging to the saddle, boyd took the precaution of putting these safely out of the way, by the simple expedient of cutting the horses loose and starting them on the back track before entering the grove. then, following the sound of voices, he made his way noiselessly among the trees to the disgraceful scene of the whipping. he had not anticipated anything so bad as this, and the sight filled him with an instant fury. springing forward, rifle in hand, he stretched salano on the ground with a single blow, and then confronted the others. they all knew him, and would rather have encountered any other two men. his very presence, in moments of wrath, inspired terror, and when he gave them permission to go, they slunk from him like whipped curs. if coacoochee was startled at sight of his deliverer, boyd was no less so at the frightful change in the face of the young indian. it was no longer that into which he had gazed an hour before. that was the mobile face of a youth reflecting each passing emotion, and though it was even then clouded by sorrow and anger, a little time would have restored its sunshine. now its features were rigid, and stamped with a look that expressed at once intolerable shame and undying hate. the eyes were those of a wild beast brought to bay and prepared for a death struggle. the once fearless gaze now fell before that of the white man. coacoochee, proudest of seminoles, hung his head. this man had witnessed his shame and had at the same time placed him under an obligation. the young indian could not face him, and could not kill him, so he stood motionless and silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. ralph boyd appreciated the situation, and understood the other's feelings as though they were his own, as in a way they were. they would be the feelings of any free-born, high-spirited youth under similar circumstances. "my poor fellow," said boyd, holding out his hand as he spoke, "i think i know how you feel, and i sympathize with you from the bottom of my heart. you will surely allow me to be your friend, though, seeing that i have just made four enemies on your account. won't you shake hands with me in token of friendship?" "i cannot," answered coacoochee, in a choked voice. "you are a white man. i have been whipped by a white man. not until the mark of his blow has been washed away with his blood can i take the hand of any white man in friendship." "well, i don't know but what i should feel just as you do," replied boyd, musingly. "i have never before met any of your people, but have been told that you were a treacherous race, without any notions of honor or true bravery. now it seems to me that your feelings in this matter are very much what mine would be if i were in your place. still, i hope you are not going to lay up any bitterness against me on account of what was done by another, even though we are, unfortunately, both of the same color. i am curious to know something of you indians, and would much rather have you for a friend than an enemy." "coacoochee will always be your friend," answered the other, earnestly. "some day he will shake hands with you. not now. with his life will he serve you. a seminole never forgives an injury, and he never forgets a kindness. now i must go." "hold on, coacoochee; you must not go half naked and with that mark on your back," exclaimed boyd. "here, i have on two shirts, and i insist that you take one of them. with your permission i will take in exchange this buckskin affair of yours that those villains cut so recklessly, and will keep it as a souvenir of this occasion." as he spoke, the young englishman divested himself of his outer garment, a tastefully made hunting-tunic of dark green cloth, and handed it to coacoochee. without hesitation the indian accepted this gift, and put on the garment, which fitted him perfectly. then the two young men left the little grove in which events of such grave import to both had just taken place, and walked to where boyd had left his horse. upon coacoochee saying that he should go but a little further on the road, the other declared an intention to accompany him, and so, leading his horse, walked on beside the shame-faced indian. the more boyd talked with coacoochee, the more he was pleased with him. he found him to be intelligent and modest, but high-spirited and imbued to an exaggerated degree with savage notions of right and wrong, honor and dishonor. to avenge a wrong and repay a kindness, to deal honorably with the honorable and treacherously with the treacherous, to serve a friend and injure an enemy, was his creed, and by it was his life moulded. at length they came to the place where the young indian said he must leave the road. as they paused to exchange farewells, the querulous note of a hawk sounded from the palmetto scrub close beside them. coacoochee raised his hand, and as though by magic six stalwart warriors leaped into the road and surrounded them. boyd made an instinctive movement toward his rifle, but it was checked by the sight of a faint smile on his companion's face. at the same time the latter said quietly: "fear nothing; they are my friends, and my friends are thy friends." to the indians he said in their own tongue, "note well this man. he is my friend and that of all seminoles. from them no harm must ever come to him." then he waved his hand, and the six warriors disappeared so instantly and so utterly that the white man rubbed his eyes and looked about him in amazement. turning, to express his surprise to coacoochee, he discovered that the young chief had also disappeared, and that he alone occupied the road. chapter ix mysterious disappearance of a sentinel for a full minute ralph boyd stood bewildered in the middle of the road. in vain did he look for some sign and listen for some sound that would betray the whereabouts of those who, but a moment before, had stood with him. the tall grasses waved and the flowers nodded before a gentle breeze, but it was not strong enough to move the stiff leaves of the palmetto scrub, nor was there any motion that might be traced to the passing of human beings among their hidden stalks. from the feathery tips of the cabbage palms came a steady fluttering that rose or fell with the breathings of the wind, and in far-away thickets could be heard the cooing of wood doves, and the occasional cheery note of a quail, but no other sound broke the all-pervading silence. all at once from a hammock growing at a considerable distance from where the young man stood there came to his ears the thrilling sound of a seminole war-cry: "yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-che!" it was followed by another and another, until the listener counted seven of the ominous cries in as many distinct voices, and knew that they were uttered by the seven indians who had stood with him in the road. unaccustomed to the ways of red men, boyd could not understand how they had glided so noiselessly and swiftly away from him. "it is like magic," he muttered, "and gives one a creepy feeling. what a terrible thing a war with such as they would be in this country, where everything is so favorable to them and so unfavorable to the movements of troops. and yet war is the very thing toward which the reckless course of politicians, slave-hunters, and land-grabbers is hurrying the government. well, i shan't take part in it, that's certain, though my present duty as a white man is plainly to ride back to st. augustine and give the colonel information of this present band of indians. i wouldn't think of doing so, only for fear that, smarting under the insult to that fine young fellow coacoochee, they will seek revenge and visit the sins of the guilty upon innocent heads. if coacoochee has only followed my advice and gone directly back to the reservation, and to his own place, there won't be any trouble; but if he is going to hang around here, trying to lift a few scalps, as i am afraid he is, he may get himself into a fix from which i can't help him." it must not be supposed that ralph boyd had been standing in the middle of the road all this time. he was in the saddle even before the sound of the indian war-cries informed him of the direction they had taken and where they were. directly afterwards he put spurs to his horse, and during the latter part of his soliloquy was galloping rapidly back over the road he had just come. although boyd knew salano to be a bitter and unscrupulous enemy, he had no hesitation in returning to st. augustine on his account, or for fear of the others with whose cruel sport he had so summarily interfered. he did not believe they would dare publish what they had done, or care to acknowledge that they had been driven off and compelled to forego their intentions by a single man. to satisfy himself on this point, he made a few inquiries on reaching the city, and finding that nothing was known of the recent adventure, he went to the colonel commanding the small garrison stationed in the city and informed him of the presence near it of an armed band of seven indian warriors. he also expressed his fear that they intended mischief to some of the plantations along the st. john's. the colonel listened attentively to all that he had to say and thanked him for the information. darkness had fallen by this time, and it was too late to do anything that night, but the officer promised to send out a scouting party of twenty troopers at daylight. in the meantime he begged that boyd would remain as his guest over night, and in the morning consent to guide the troops to the place where he had seen the indians, which the latter readily agreed to do. he did this the more willingly because he had learned that the scouting party was to be commanded by irwin douglass, a young lieutenant with whom he had formed a pleasant acquaintance, and who had already visited him at the plantation. when, after an early and hurried cup of coffee with the colonel and douglass the following morning, boyd joined the soldiers, to whom for a short distance he was to act as guide, he was amazed to find that fontaine salano had applied for and received permission to accompany them. he wondered at this as the troop clattered noisily with jingling sabres and bit-chains out of the quiet old town. was salano's hatred of the young indian whom he had so cruelly wronged so bitter that he was determined to seize every opportunity for killing him? boyd could think of no other reason why the man, naturally so indolent, should undertake this forced march with all the discomforts that must necessarily attend it. the spring morning was just cool enough to be exhilarating. the fresh air was laden with the perfume of orange groves, and from their green coverts innumerable birds poured forth their choicest melody. the cavalry horses, in high spirits from long idleness, pranced gaily along the narrow streets and were with difficulty reined to a decorous trot. once free from the town and out in the broad plain of sand and chaparral that lay beyond, the pace was quickened, and for several miles the troop swung cheerily along at a hand gallop, with polished weapons and accoutrements flashing brightly in the rays of the newly risen sun. a halt was called at the place where boyd had encountered the indians, and scouts were sent in search of signs. these easily found the camp from which coacoochee had started on his visit to town the morning before, and finally discovered a fresh trail leading to the west or toward the st. john's. it was not easy for the troops, inexperienced in indian warfare, to follow this on horseback, and they soon lost it completely. this did not greatly disturb lieutenant douglass; for, being satisfied that the plantations along the river were the objective points of those whom he was pursuing, he determined to push on toward them without losing any time in attempting to rediscover the trail. that evening they reached the great river and encamped near it without having discovered any further indian sign, or finding that the few widely scattered settlers had been given any cause to suspect the presence of an enemy. during that night, however, two startling incidents occurred. the first of these was the complete and mysterious disappearance of one of the sentinels who guarded the camp. he had been stationed not far from the edge of the forest, but within easy hail of his sleeping comrades. the sergeant had given him particular cautions regarding the dangers of his post, and warned him to be keenly alert to every sound, even the slightest. he had answered with a laugh, that his ears were too long to permit anything human to get within a rod of him without giving him warning, and he declared his intention of firing in the direction of any suspicious sound. so they left him, and an hour later the corporal of the guard, visiting the post, found it vacant. in the darkness it was useless to hunt for the missing sentry, and so, without giving a general alarm, the corporal detailed another sentinel to the place of the missing man, and remained with him on the post until morning. they neither saw nor heard anything to arouse their suspicions, but as soon as daylight revealed surrounding objects, they could readily note signs of a struggle at one end of the beat paced by their unfortunate predecessor. there were no traces of blood, nor in the trail of moccasined feet leading away from the spot could any imprint of the heavy cavalry boots worn by the missing soldier be found. the trail led to a small creek that emptied into the river just above the camp, but there it ended. both banks of this creek were carefully examined for a mile up and down, but they revealed no sign to denote that they had ever been trodden by human feet. there was nothing more to be done. the man was reported as missing, and a riderless horse was led by one of the troopers on that day's march,--but this mysterious disappearance and unknown fate of their comrade served to open the eyes of the soldiers to the dreadful possibilities of indian warfare. chapter x fontaine salano's treachery and its reward another mysterious happening of that first night out was well calculated to exercise a depressing effect on the men and to transform the contempt they had hitherto felt for indians into a profound respect not unmixed with fear. fontaine salano slept rolled in his blanket not far from the lieutenant in command of the party, and within the full light of a camp-fire. toward morning, however, this fire had burned so low that it shed but little light, and the place where salano lay was buried in shadow. when he awoke at the first peep of dawn, he was puzzled by the appearance of a number of strange objects that rose from the ground close by his head. he examined them curiously, but his curiosity was in an instant changed to horror when he discovered them to be seven blood-stained indian arrows thrust into the ground, three on each side of where his head had lain and one at the upper end of his couch. this one bore impaled on its shaft the bloody heart of a recently killed deer, the significance of which was so plain that no one could fail to understand it. the mere fact that the indians had thus been able to penetrate undetected to the very centre of a guarded camp invested them in the eyes of the men with supernatural powers. the effect on salano was precisely what coacoochee had intended it should be. to feel that he had been completely within the power of one who had sworn to have his life and had only been spared as a cat spares a mouse, that she may prolong its torture for her own pleasure, filled the wretch with a terror pitiful to behold. he begged lieutenant douglass to return at once to st. augustine or at least to send him back under escort. the officer politely regretted his inability to comply with either of these requests, saying that it would be contrary to his duty to retire from that part of the country until satisfied that the indians had left it, and that he dared not weaken his little force by detailing any men for escort duty. the man displayed such abject cowardice that finally, more out of disgust than pity, ralph boyd offered to accompany him back to the city, and to his surprise, salano accepted the offer eagerly. as they were both volunteers, douglass had no authority for detaining them, though he protested against the undertaking, and tried to persuade them of its dangers. ralph boyd only laughed, and even salano intimated a belief that the indians would devote themselves to watching the movements of the scouting party, so that to remain with them would be to remain in the vicinity of greatest danger. the lieutenant said that he should remove his command only a short distance, to a better and more secure camping-ground that he knew of not very far from boyd's plantation, over which he promised to keep especial watch. he intended to remain at that place until he learned something definite regarding the movements of the indians, and there boyd promised to rejoin him on the following day. camp was broken, and the clear bugle notes of "boots and saddles" were ringing on the still morning air as boyd and salano rode away from the camp on the return trail to st. augustine. they rode in silence; for one entertained too great a contempt for the other to care to talk with him, and salano was perfecting a plan for obtaining one portion of the revenge upon which his mind was intent. they had not proceeded thus more than two miles, when they came to a narrow gully through which they were obliged to ride in single file, and here salano, with an exaggerated show of politeness, dropped behind, allowing boyd to take the lead. the latter rode unsuspectingly ahead for a few rods, and then, not hearing the sound of the other's horse behind him, turned to see if he were not coming. the sight that met his eyes was so unexpected and terrible that for an instant it rendered him incapable of thought or action. salano, dismounted from his horse, was slowly raising a rifle and taking deliberate aim at him. he could see the cruelly triumphant expression on the swarthy face. in that instant of time he also saw a flashing figure with uplifted arm leap from the underbrush behind salano. then all became a blank. when next ralph boyd was able to take an interest in the affairs of this world, he was lying in the shade of a tree, two horses were cropping the grass near him, and a strange, wild-looking figure was dashing water in his face. "what does this mean? what has happened?" boyd inquired faintly. "wal, cap'n," answered the stranger, in unmistakable english, pausing in his occupation and drawing a long breath. "i'm almighty glad you ain't dead. the injun said you warn't, but i wouldn't be sure of it myself till this very minute. as to what's happened, i'm a leetle mixed myself, but it's something like this: some red villians was about to do for me when you come along and stopped 'em. then a white villian was about to do for you, when one of the red villians stopped him, or at any rate he stopped the worst of it; then the red villian did for the white villian, and did it almighty thorough too." at this juncture boyd again closed his eyes and seemed about to lapse once more into unconsciousness, whereupon the stranger began again to dash water vigorously in his face. there was a stinging sensation and a loud buzzing in the young man's head. salano's murderous aim had been slightly disconcerted, at the moment of firing, by a fierce yell in his very ear. at the instant of pulling the trigger coacoochee's terrible knife had been buried to the hilt in his body. the would-be murderer sank dead without a groan, while his intended victim escaped with a scalp wound which, though not dangerous, was sufficient to deprive him of his senses for some time. when he had sufficiently recovered his strength to be able to sit up, and after he had listened to these details of his own narrow escape, he looked curiously at his companion and asked him who he was. it is no wonder that he did not recognize the strange figure; for though the man wore a pair of army trousers, he had indian moccasins on his feet, was bare-headed, and naked to the waist. half his face as well as half of his body was painted red and the other half black. in this manner did the seminoles prepare their bodies for death, and to those who understood its meaning, this combination of the two colors had a very grim significance. fortunately for the man's peace of mind, he had not understood why this form of decoration was applied to him, though his fears that his life was in danger had been very fully aroused. in answer to ralph boyd's questions, he told his story as follows: "i'm not surprised that you don't recognize me, cap'n; for i'm not quite sure that i'd recognize myself. still, whatever i may be to-day, yesterday i was private hugh belcher of company b, second regiment united states dragoons." "what!" exclaimed boyd, "are you the sentry who disappeared last night?" "that's who i am, sir," replied the other, "much as my present appearance would seem to point again its being true. how the reds crept upon me without me hearing a sound of their coming is more than i can tell, for i've always bragged that my ears were as sharp as the next man's. however, they did it, and the first i knew of their presence was when a blanket was flung over my head and i was tripped up. i don't know how many of 'em had me, but there was enough, anyway, to hold me fast, and tie me and get a gag into my mouth, so that i couldn't make a sound. then they pulled off my boots, put moccasins on my feet, and made me go along with them. "after awhile we came to this place, and here, as soon as it got light, they stripped me and painted me and tied me to a tree, and was just getting ready to give me a thrashing with a lot of switches they'd cut, though lord knows i hadn't done nothing to rile 'em, when all of a sudden you and mr. salano hove in sight. "i was faced that way and see mr. salano when he dropped off his horse and drawed a bead on you. i'd a hollered, but the gag was still in my mouth, so i couldn't. when the head injun see what was taking place though, he gave one spring out of the brush, and landed on mr. salano's back like a wildcat. at the same time he let loose a yell fit to raise the dead. the gun went off just as he yelled, and you tumbled out of the saddle like you was killed. "when the head injun saw that, he run up to you first and dragged you to this place. then he run back to mr. salano and stooped over him like he was feeling of his heart to see if he was dead. when he riz up again, he fetched another yell and called out something in his own lingo about ul-we. then the rest crowded around him, and he talked to them for about a minute. "after that they come back and cut me loose, and the head injun, pointing to you, said in english, 'you are free. care for him. he is not dead. tell him coacoochee's heart is no longer heavy. he will go to his own people. if the soldiers want him, let them seek him in the swamps of the okeefenokee.' then, without another word, they all disappeared, and i set to work to bring you to." thus was the death of ul-we, the tall one, atoned for in heart's blood, and thus was the stripe on coacoochee's back washed out with the blood of him who had so wantonly inflicted it. thus, also, did coacoochee save the life of his friend and punish the would-be assassin who had so planned his cowardly revenge upon ralph boyd that the act would be credited to the indians. with the accomplishment of this deed of just retribution, coacoochee and his warriors disappeared from that part of the country, nor were they again seen there for many months. chapter xi the seminole must go the seminoles must be removed. the clamor of the land-speculator, the slave-hunter, and a host of others interested in driving the indian from his home had at length been listened to at washington, and the fiat had gone forth. the seminoles must be removed to the distant west--peaceably if possible, but forcibly if they will not go otherwise. a new treaty had been made by which the indians agreed to remove to the new home selected for them, provided a delegation of chiefs appointed to visit the western land reported favorably concerning it. these went, saw the place, and upon their return reported it to be a cold country where seminoles would be very unhappy. upon hearing this, the indians said that they would prefer to remain where they were. thereupon the united states government said through its commissioners that it made no difference whether they wanted to go or not; they must go. in the meantime, outrages of every kind were perpetrated upon the indians. the whipping of those discovered off the reservation, that was begun with coacoochee, was continued. several indians were thus whipped to death by the white brutes into whose cowardly hands they fell. the system of withholding annuities and supplies was continued, and the helpless indians were recklessly plundered right and left. general andrew jackson, who was now president, had no love for indians. he had in former years wronged them too cruelly for that, while teaching them lessons of the white man's power. he therefore appointed general wiley thompson of georgia, as the seminole agent, and ordered him to compel their removal to the far west without further delay. he also sent troops to florida, and these began to gather at fort brooke and tampa bay under command of general clinch. it was evident that the seminoles must either submit to leave the sunny land of their birth, their homes, and the graves of their fathers, or they must fight in its defence, and for their rights as free men. if they consented to go west to the land that those chiefs who had seen it described as cold and unproductive, they would find already established there their old and powerful enemies, the creeks, who were eagerly awaiting their coming, with a view to seizing their negro allies and selling them into slavery. it was evident that a fight for his very existence was to be forced upon the seminole in either case, and it only remained for him to choose whether he would fight in his own land, of which he knew every swamp, hammock, and glade, and of which his enemy was ignorant, or whether he should go to a distant country, of which he knew nothing, and fight against an enemy already well acquainted with it. this was the alternative presented to the warriors of philip emathla's village assembled about their council fire on a summer's evening a few weeks after that with which this history opens. on coacoochee, now sitting in the place of honor at the right hand of the chief his father and earnestly regarding the speaker who laid this state of affairs before them, the weeks just passed had borne with the weight of so many years. during their short space he had passed from youth to manhood. having directed the search for himself that followed the death of salano, toward the okeefenokee, while his village lay in exactly the opposite direction, he had escaped all intercourse with the whites from that time to the present. but from that experience he had returned so much wiser and graver that his advice was now sought by warriors much older than he, while by those of his own age and younger he was regarded as a leader. thus, though still a youth in years, and though he still reverenced and obeyed his father, he was to all intents the chief of philip emathla's powerful band. it was in this capacity that the speaker, to hear whom this council was gathered, evidently regarded him, and it was to coacoochee that his remarks were especially directed. this speaker was a member of a band of seminoles known as the baton rouge or red sticks, who occupied a territory at some distance from that of king philip. his father, whom he had never known, was a white man, but his mother was the daughter of a native chieftain, and though he spoke english fluently, he had passed all of his twenty-eight years among the seminoles, and they were his people. although not a chief, nor yet regarded as a prominent leader, he was possessed of such force of character and such a commanding presence that he had acquired a great influence over all the indians with whom he was thrown in contact. his name was ah-ha-se-ho-la (black drink), generally pronounced osceola by the whites, who also called him by his father's name of powell. this dauntless warrior was bitterly opposed to the emigration of his tribe, and was anxious to declare war against the whites rather than submit to it. he believed that the seminoles, roaming over a vast extent of territory abounding in natural hiding-places, might defend themselves against any army of white soldiers that should undertake to subdue them for at least three years. could the conflict be sustained for that length of time without the whites gaining any decided advantages, he declared they would then give up the struggle and allow the indians to retain their present lands unmolested. osceola was now visiting the different bands of the tribe, preaching this crusade of resistance to tyranny. as he stood before philip emathla and his warriors, with his noble figure and fine face fully displayed in the bright firelight, they were thrilled by his eloquence. with bated breath they listened to his summing up of their grievances, and when he declared that he would rather die fighting for this land than live in any other, they greeted his words with a murmur of approving assent. never had coacoochee been so powerfully affected. the sting of the white man's whip across his shoulders was still felt, and he was choked with the sense of outrage and injustice inflicted upon his people. his fingers clutched nervously at the hilt of his knife and he longed for the time to come when he might fight madly for all that a man holds most dear. as his gaze wandered for a moment from the face of the speaker, it fell on a group just visible within the circle of firelight. there sat the beautiful girl to whom he had so recently plighted his troth, and beside her chen-o-wah, the daughter of a creek chief and his quadroon squaw. she was the wife of osceola, and the one being in all the world whom the fierce forest warrior loved. for a moment coacoochee's determination wavered as he reflected what these and others equally helpless would suffer in a time of war. there came a memory of the manner in which nita's mother and brother had been consigned to slavery by the white man. no word had come from them, but he could imagine their fate. might not the same fate overtake her most dear to him and hundreds of others with her? would it not be better for them to incur the dangers and sufferings of war rather than those of slavery? yes, a thousand times yes. and then, perhaps the whites were not so very powerful, after all. their soldiers, so far as he had seen them, were but few in number, and moved slowly from place to place. he and his warriors could travel twenty miles to their five. besides, there were the vast watery fastnesses of the everglades and the big cypress in the far south, to which the indians could always retreat and into which no white man would ever dare follow them. yes, his voice should be raised for war, no matter how long it might last, nor how bloody it might be, and the sooner it could be begun, the better. but he must listen, for philip emathla was about to speak. chapter xii chen-o-wah is stolen by the slave-catchers the aged chieftain rose slowly and for a moment gazed lovingly and in silence at those gathered about him; then he said: "my children, we have listened to the words of ah-ha-se-ho-la, and we know them to be true. but he has spoken with the voice of a young man. he sees with young eyes. my eyes are old, but they can look back over many seasons that a young man cannot see. they can also look forward further than his, and see many things. i have seen the great council of the white man, and his warriors. i have seen his villages. his lodges are more numerous than the trees of the forest, and his numbers are those of the leaves of countless trees. to fight with him would be like fighting the waves of the great salt waters that reach to the sky. if we should kill one, ten would spring up to take his place. for a hundred who may fall, a thousand will stand. he is strong, and we are weak. let us then live at peace with him while we may. let us meet him in council and tell him how little it is that we ask. there is a land beyond okeechobee, the great sweet water, that the white man can never want, but where the red man could dwell in peace and plenty. let him leave this to us, and we will ask no more. "if he will not do this, then let us fight. never will philip emathla consent to go to the strange and distant land of the setting sun. if it is a better land than this, as the white man tells us, why does he not go there himself and leave us alone? it is a cold country. my people would die there. it is better to die here and die fighting. "the white chief at fort king calls us together for one more talk with him. philip is old. he cannot travel so far, but coacoochee shall go in his place. he will speak wisely, and if peace can be had, he will find it. if there is no peace, if the seminole must fight, then who will fight harder or more bravely than coacoochee? at his name the white man will tremble, and his squaws will hide their faces in fear. the enemies of coacoochee will fall before him as ripe fruit falls before the breath of hu-la-lah (the wind). he will kill till he is weary of killing. his footsteps will be marked with blood. rivers of blood shall flow where he passes. i am old and feeble, but coacoochee is young and strong. from this day shall he be a war-chief of the seminoles. philip emathla has spoken." at this announcement there came a great shout of rejoicing, and as the council broke up, the warriors crowded about coacoochee to tell him how proud they would be to have him lead them in battle. after the tumult had somewhat subsided, osceola, who had not hitherto spoken directly to coacoochee, stepped up to him. the two young men grasped each other's hands, and gazed earnestly in each other's face. finally osceola, apparently satisfied with what he saw, broke the silence, and said: "we are brothers?" "we are brothers," answered the young war-chief, and thus was made a compact between the two that was only to be broken by death. the following morning, coacoochee, with a small escort of warriors, set forth, in company with osceola and chen-o-wah, to travel to the village of micanopy, head chief of the seminoles, there to hold another council before going to fort king for a talk with the agent. in micanopy's village they found assembled a large number of seminole warriors, and many of the sub-chiefs of the tribe. this council was a grave and momentous affair. it was to decide the fate of a nation, and its deliberations were prolonged over two days. micanopy, the head chief, was old, corpulent, and fond of his ease. he loved his land and hated the thought of war. he was greatly disinclined to remove to the west, but it was not until urged and almost compelled by the younger men, especially coacoochee and osceola, that he finally declared positively that he would not do so. his utterance decided the majority of the council. they would fight before submitting to removal, but on one pretext and another they would gain all possible time in which to prepare for war. it was also announced at this council that any seminole who should openly advocate removal, and should make preparations for emigrating, should be put to death. in all the council there was but one dissenting voice. it was that of a sub-chief named charlo, who had been raised to the head of a small band by the agent, in place of an able warrior who was an uncompromising enemy of the whites. this petty chief spoke in favor of removal, and ridiculed the suggestion that the tribe could hold out for any length of time against the overwhelming power of the white man. he was listened to with impatience, and many dark glances were cast at him as he resumed his seat. three days later some fourteen chiefs, accompanied by a large number of their people, were encamped near fort king, and active preparations were going forward for the great talk that was to be held that afternoon. on the morning of that day, a thick-set, evil-looking man, whom the reader would at once recognize as his old acquaintance mr. troup jeffers the slave-trader, sat in the agent's office engaged in earnest conversation with general wiley thompson. "thar ain't no doubt about it, gineral," he was saying. "she's easy enough identified, and i'll take my affidavy right here that she's the gal jess who run away from old miss cooke's place two year ago. you've got a list of all them niggers and their description, as well as the order from washington for their capture and deliverin' up. you know you have, and when i tell you what this gal looks like, you see if she don't answer the description exactly." "yes, sir, i've no doubt," answered the agent, wearily, for of the many trials of his difficult position, the importunities of the slave-hunters who besieged him at all hours were the greatest. "i don't doubt what you say, and i'll give you an order for the girl which you can present to the chiefs. if they give her up, well and good; but if they won't, why they won't, that's all, and matters are too critical just now for us to attempt to force them." "all right, gineral," replied mr. jeffers, with a triumphant glitter in his cruel little eyes. "the order is all i want, and i'll get the gal without putting you or anybody else to a mite of trouble." thus saying, the trader took the slip of paper handed him by the agent, and left the office. like a vulture scenting the carnage from afar, the slave-trader hearing that the seminoles and their negro allies were about to be removed, had hastened to the scene of action, determined in some way to secure a share of the peculiar property in which he dealt, before it should be placed beyond his reach. in the indian camp he had seen several good-looking young women in whose veins he was convinced flowed negro blood, and he decided that his purpose would be served by securing one or more of these. going to the agent with the trumped-up story of having thus discovered a runaway slave girl, he obtained the coveted order for her restoration to her lawful owner. armed with this, he proceeded to carry out his wicked design. his plan was very simple, and to put it into operation, he repaired to the store of the post trader. it was located in a grove of live oaks, some distance beyond the stockade, and was hidden from view of those in or near the fort. to it, groups of indians, men, women, and children, found their way at all times for the purchase of such supplies as they needed and could afford. rogers, the storekeeper, whose conscience from a long dealing with and cheating of indians was as calloused and hardened as that of mr. jeffers himself, was not above turning what he called an honest penny by any means that came in his way. therefore when the slave-trader explained his business, showed the agent's order, and offered rogers ten dollars to assist him in recapturing his alleged property, the latter readily consented to do so. troup jeffers was almost certain that one or more of the young women whom he had noticed in the indian camp would visit the store at some time during the day, and so he waited patiently the advent of a victim. at length, late in the afternoon, when most of the indians were attracted to the scene of the council, then in session, a squaw was seen to approach the store. she was one of those whom mr. jeffers had selected as suitable for the slave market, and the instant he observed her he exclaimed to the storekeeper: "here comes the very gal i'm after--old miss cooke's jess. i'll just step into the back room, and if you can persuade her to come in there to look at something or other, we'll have her as slick as a whistle." "all right," responded rogers, who a minute later was waiting on his customer with infinitely more politeness than he usually vouchsafed to an indian. she desired to purchase some coffee and sugar with which to surprise and please her husband when he returned to his lodge after the council should be ended, and the storekeeper easily persuaded her to enter the other room, where he said his best goods were kept. as the unsuspecting woman bent over a sugar barrel, she was seized from behind, and her head was enveloped in a shawl, by which her cries were completely stifled. a few minutes later, bound and helpless, she was lifted into a light wagon and driven rapidly away. half an hour afterwards, a boy who worked for the storekeeper remarked to his employer: "i should think you would be afraid of powell." "what for?" asked rogers. "why, for letting that man carry off his wife," was the reply. thus did the storekeeper receive his first intimation that the alleged runaway slave girl was chen-o-wah, the adored wife of osceola. chapter xiii "wiley thompson, where is my wife?" while the wife of osceola was thus being kidnapped and consigned to slavery, he, ignorant of the blow in store for him, was participating in a far different scene. just outside the gateway of the fort, in an open space of level sward, the great council upon which so much depended was assembled. at one side of a long table sat general clinch, commanding the army in florida, with the officers of his staff standing behind him. beside him sat general wiley thompson, the agent, red-faced and pompous, lieutenant harris, the united states disbursing agent, who was to conduct the indians to their western homes, and several commissioners. all the officers were in full uniform, and presented a brave appearance. behind them were two companies of infantry, resting at ease on their loaded muskets, but ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. just inside the gateway of the fort the guns of its light battery were charged to the muzzle with grape and canister, ready for instant service. this was one side of the picture. on the opposite side of the table from the whites sat or stood a group of indian chiefs, sullen, determined, and watchful. too many times already had the white man cheated them. they would take care that he should not do so again. they had learned by bitter experience how lightly he regarded such treaties as conflicted with his interests. they knew the value of his false promises and fair words. a little in front of the others sat micanopy, head chief of the tribe, and close behind him, so that they could whisper in his ear, stood coacoochee and osceola. grouped about them were otee the jumper, tiger tail, allapatta tustenugge, the fighting alligator, arpeika, or sam jones, black dirt, ya ha hadjo, the mad wolf, coa hadjo, halatoochee, abram, the negro chief, passac micco, and many others. behind them stood one hundred warriors, tall, clean-built fellows, lithe and sinewy, their bare legs as hard and smooth as those of bronze statues. concealed in a hammock, but a short distance away, was another body of warriors held in reserve by coacoochee, who had thought it best not to display the full strength of his force at once. the old men, women, and children had been left in camp not far from the trader's store. here everything was prepared for instant flight in case the council should terminate in an outbreak. the proceedings were opened by general thompson, who stated that he had thus called the indians together that they might decide upon a day when they would fulfil their promise contained in the treaty of payne's landing, and set forth for their new home in the west. he had prepared a paper setting forth the conditions of removal, which he now wished all the chiefs to sign. then otee the jumper, who was one of the most fluent speakers of the tribe, arose and calmly but firmly stated that his people did not consider themselves as bound by that treaty to remove from their country, and had decided in solemn council not to do so. at this point the seminole speaker was rudely interrupted by general thompson, who, flushed and furious, sprang to his feet and demanded by what right the indians interpreted the treaty differently from the whites by whom it was drawn up. he accused them of treachery and double-dealing, and ended by declaring that it made no difference whether they were willing to remove or not, for they would be made to go, alive or dead, and he for one did not care which. this speech drew forth angry replies from the chiefs, and to these the agent retorted with such bitterness that general clinch was finally obliged to interpose his authority to calm both sides. he told the indians how useless it would be for them to struggle against the power of the united states, and how greatly he would prefer that they should remove peaceably rather than oblige him to remove them by force. at this the indians smiled grimly and exchanged contemptuous glances. they knew that there were only seven hundred soldiers in all florida, and the idea of compelling them to do anything they did not choose, with a little army like that, was too absurd. it almost made them laugh, but their native dignity prevented such a breach of decorum. general clinch talked long and earnestly and was listened to with respect and close attention. the agent regarded his arguments as so unanswerable that at their conclusion he called on the chiefs by name to step forward and sign the paper he had prepared. "micanopy, you are head chief. come up and sign first at the head of the list." "no, micanopy will never sign." "then coacoochee may sign first. he comes, i believe, as representative of the wise and brave king philip." "no, coacoochee will not sign either for his father or himself." "jumper, then; and when he signs, i will make him head chief." "no." "alligator?" "no." "sam jones?" "no." "abram?" "by golly. no." at these repeated refusals to comply with his request, and the evident contempt with which his offers of promotion were regarded, the fat agent became so angry as to entirely lose his self-control. "if you will not sign," he shouted, "you are no longer fit to hold your positions. i therefore declare that micanopy, coacoochee, jumper, alligator, sam jones, and abram, shall cease from this minute to be chiefs of the seminole nation, and their names shall be struck from the roll of chiefs." at this an angry murmur ran through the ranks of the indians, who considered that a grievous insult had thus been offered them. those chiefs who had been sitting sprang to their feet and fell back a few paces. the warriors behind them moved up closer, and coacoochee, slipping unnoticed through the throng, hurried back to the hammock to direct the flight of the women and children, and bring up his reserve force of warriors. in the meantime an indian who had come from the camp was talking with low, hurried words to osceola, who listened to him like one in a dream or who does not fully comprehend what he hears. suddenly he sprang forward, his face livid with passion, and crying in a loud voice, "i will sign! i, osceola the baton rouge, will sign this paper of the white man." [illustration: it sunk deep into the wood of the table and stood quivering as though with rage.] then stepping up to the table, while both whites and indians watched him with breathless interest, the fierce warrior plucked the scalping-knife from his girdle and drove it with furious energy through the outspread paper. it sunk deep into the wood of the table, and stood quivering as though with rage. "there is my signature, general wiley thompson," he cried in a voice that trembled with the intensity of his emotion. "there is the signature of osceola, and i would that it were inscribed on your cowardly heart. where is my wife? what have you done with her? give her back to me, i say, and as safe as when i left her in yonder grove. if you do not, i swear by the white man's god, and by the great spirit of my people, that not only your own vile life, but that of every white man who comes within reach of osceola's vengeance, shall be forfeited. as you have shown no mercy, so shall you receive none. the word shall be unknown to the seminole tongue. you taunt me with being a half-blood. i am one; but i am yet a man, and not a slave. with my white blood i defy you, and with my indian blood i despise you. wiley thompson, where is my wife?" chapter xiv osceola signs the treaty the group of white men on the opposite side of the table had left their seats before osceola stepped toward it. general clinch exchanged a few words with the agent and gave an order to the officer in command of the troops. these were moved forward a few paces, though, blinded by the intensity of his feelings, the half-breed failed to notice their change of position. now, in obedience to a signal from the agent, they sprang forward with fixed bayonets, and in an instant osceola, cut off from his friends, was hedged in by a wall of glittering steel. at the same moment a sharp rattle of drums was heard within the fort, and the light battery, dashing out from the gateway in a cloud of dust, was wheeled into position with its murderous muzzles trained full on the startled indians. with one forward movement the pitiless storm of death would have swept through their crowded ranks. they knew this and stepped backward instead. within two minutes after the council was so summarily dissolved, not an indian was to be seen. within five minutes osceola, heavily ironed, was thrust into the strongest cell of the guard-house and the door locked behind him. by this time, also, the troops had retired, and general thompson was inquiring in every direction what the crazy half-breed meant by demanding a wife from him. he knew nothing about the fellow's wife. did not even know he had a wife, and was inclined to think that osceola was drunk, or else had trumped up this demand for the purpose of exciting the indians to resistance. finally, however, through rogers, the trader, he discovered the real facts of the case. then he realized the awkward position in which his careless giving of an order for the recovery of a runaway slave had placed not only himself, but all the whites in that part of the country. he visited the prisoner in his cell, and tried to quiet him by explaining that it was all a mistake, and by assuring him that every effort should be made to recover chen-o-wah and bring her back; but all to no purpose. osceola replied that his wife alone had been seized of all those who visited the trader's store. moreover, she had been seized upon a written order from himself, for the paper had been read aloud in the presence of several persons. no, there was no mistake, and as for the agent's promise to restore chen-o-wah to him, he would believe it when he saw her, but not before. for six days the forest warrior who had been struck this deadly blow paced hopelessly up and down his narrow cell, dragging his clanking chains behind him. during this time he hardly touched food nor would he speak to a human being. no one save himself knew the bitterness of his heart, or the terrible thoughts that seethed in his mind during those six days. he appeared like one consumed by an inward fire, and it even seemed as though his haughty spirit was about to escape from the imprisoned body. at length he sent for general thompson, and expressed a willingness to sign the paper that should commit him to emigration. "my spirit is broken," he said; "your irons have entered my soul. i can hold out no longer. by these chains i am disgraced in the eyes of my people, and my influence over them is gone. it is better that i should go away and die in a strange land. bring me your paper; i will sign it." but that was not sufficient. the paper must be signed in the presence of other seminoles, that they might be witnesses to the act, and spread the great news abroad throughout the nation. even to this humiliation osceola consented, and a messenger was despatched to bring in the first band of indians he should meet. this messenger was given a token by osceola, and thus provided, he had no difficulty in persuading coacoochee and some forty warriors, thirty of whom belonged to the captive's own band, to again visit the fort. although they came to the fort, coacoochee's caution would not allow them to pass within its gates, and so the ceremony of signing was of necessity performed outside. general clinch and his staff had returned to tampa, but there still remained enough of officers at fort king to escort the agent and lend an imposing effect to the ceremony. osceola was led to the place of signing, under guard and with the irons still upon his ankles. he approached the table with downcast eyes, apparently unmindful of the presence of either friends or foes. as he took the pen preparatory to signing, the agent asked: "powell, do you acknowledge in the presence of these witnesses, that you are about to sign this paper of your own free will, without fear or compulsion?" the half-breed regarded his questioner with a curious expression for a moment, and then answered: "i have no fear. no one could compel me. i sign because it pleases me to do so." thus saying, he affixed his signature to the hated paper, with a steady hand. immediately afterwards his irons were struck off, and he was once more a free man. the agent now asked coacoochee if he would not also sign, but that wily young indian refused to do so at that time. "when i have spoken with ah-ha-se-ho-la, and learned his reasons for signing, perhaps i may also touch the white man's talking stick," he said. when osceola had retired with his friends to their camp, general thompson turned to one of his companions, and rubbing his hands complacently, remarked: "that is a capital stroke of business. i have been all along regretting the unfortunate affair of that fellow's wife. now, though, i begin to think it was one of the best things that could have happened for us. it has brought him to terms as i don't believe anything else would, and though he is not a chief, his influence is the most powerful in the tribe." "you may be right," replied lieutenant smith, the young army officer to whom this remark was addressed, "but it was an outrageous thing, all the same, to steal the poor chap's wife. it makes me feel ashamed to be mixed up in this wretched business, and if i were not dependent on my profession for a living, and so forced to obey the orders of my superiors who have sent me here, i'd have nothing more to do with it. the idea of stealing a man's wife and selling her into slavery! i don't wonder it drove him so nearly crazy that he was willing to sign or do anything else. under the circumstances i wouldn't give a fig for his signature." "nonsense!" replied the agent; "you don't know these people as i do. he is only an indian in spite of his mixture of white blood, and they don't feel about such things as we do. i'll guarantee that in less than a month he will have forgotten all about this wife and will have taken another or maybe two of them, in her place." at this same time coacoochee and osceola were walking apart from the other indians and talking earnestly. "was there no way for my brother to save his life but by signing the white man's paper?" inquired the former. at this osceola broke into a hard and bitter laugh. "does my brother regard me so meanly as to think that to save my life alone, or to save a thousand lives such as mine, i would have signed?" he asked. "no. it was not to save life that osceola put pen to paper, but to take it. it was that he might be revenged on those who have wronged him far deeper than by killing him, that he did it. when his vengeance is accomplished, then will he gladly die; but he will never go to the western land." "listen," he continued, noting the other's look of bewilderment at these words: "once the indian fought with bows and arrows, while the white man fought with guns. did he continue to do this when he found that his weapons were no match for those of the white man? no; he threw away his bows and arrows, and got guns in their place. once osceola was honest, his tongue was straight, he would not tell a lie. are the white men so? no, their tongues are crooked; they say one thing and mean another; they have cheated the indian and lied to him from the first day that they set foot on his land. they have laughed at his honesty and said, 'the indian is a fool who knows no better.' now ah-ha-se-ho-la is fighting them with their own weapons. for them his tongue is no longer straight. it is as crooked as their own. does my brother now understand why i signed?" this style of reasoning was new to coacoochee, and he pondered over it for a minute before replying. "it is true," he thought, "that the white man gains many advantages over the indian by cheating and lying to him. if they do those things, why should not the indian do them as well? in the present instance how could osceola have gained his liberty by any other means? yes, it must be right to fight the white man with his own weapons." so coacoochee acknowledged that osceola was justified in the course he had pursued, and congratulated him on his escape from the white man's prison. he was also rejoiced to learn that his friend was to remain and aid them in the coming war rather than to leave them and go to the far-off western land. thus answered coacoochee. at the same time deep down in his heart the young war-chief hoped that he might never find it necessary to fight any enemy with so dangerous a weapon as a crooked tongue. now the two young men laid their plans for the future. they agreed that as much time as possible should be gained before open hostilities were declared, in order that the indians might make all possible preparations for war. with this end in view, osceola was to remain near the fort, and while still expressing a willingness to emigrate whenever the others of his tribe should come in, was to procure such supplies as he could, especially ammunition, that might be stored for the coming struggle. coacoochee was to visit the scattered bands and induce them to provide safe hiding-places for their women and children, that the warriors might be free to fight. while confined in the fort, osceola had learned that the chief charlo, who styled himself "charlo emathla," was disposing of his cattle preparatory to emigrating, and now the young men agreed that in his case it was necessary to show both whites and indians the earnestness of their purpose by carrying out the decisions of the chiefs and putting him to death. this, osceola undertook to do, and coacoochee was glad to be relieved of the unpleasant duty. thus matters being arranged, the friends separated; and while coacoochee with his ten warriors took their departure, osceola with his thirty followers remained near the fort, to carry out his plan for averting war as long as possible, and to watch for the revenge against those who had robbed him of his wife, that had now become the object of his most intense desire. thus matters stood for several months. at the end of that time, the agent becoming suspicious of the indians on account of their purchasing such quantities of powder, peremptorily forbade the further sale of ammunition to them. thereupon osceola sent out runners to carry the news to every seminole band from the okeefenokee to the everglades, and from the atlantic to the gulf, that the time for action had arrived, and that the first blow of the war was about to be struck. chapter xv louis pacheco bides his time tampa bay was filled with transports waiting to carry the seminoles to new orleans on their way to the indian territory. on shore, the soldiers' encampment beneath the grand old live-oaks of fort brooke swarmed with troops, newly arrived from the north, and hoping that the indians would at least make a show of resistance. of course, no one wanted a prolonged war; but a brisk campaign with plenty of fighting, that would last through the winter, would be a most pleasing diversion from the ordinary monotony of military life. it was not supposed, however, that the seminoles would fight. major francis dade was so certain of this, that he volunteered to march across the indian country with only a corporal's guard at his back. among those who prayed most earnestly for a taste of fighting, in which they might prove the metal of which they were made, were several lieutenants recently emancipated from west point and ordered to duty on this far southern frontier. a few days before christmas, , a jovial party of three young officers was assembled in the hospitable house of a planter, a few miles from fort brooke. they were to dine there, and at the dinner table the sole topic of conversation was the impending war. the indians had been given until the end of december to make their preparations for emigration, and to assemble at the appointed places of rendezvous. on the first day of january, , their reservation was to be thrown open to the throngs of speculators already on hand, and with difficulty restrained from rushing in and seizing the coveted lands without waiting for the indians to vacate them. general clinch had decided to send major dade, not, indeed, with a corporal's guard, but with two companies of troops, to reinforce the garrison at fort king. from that post, which was well within the reservation, he was to move against the indians and compel them to move promptly on january , if they showed a disinclination to do so of their own accord. several of the young officers assembled about the planter's dinner table were to accompany this expedition, and their anticipations of the pleasures of the campaign were only equalled by the regrets of those who were to be left behind. some one suggested that there might be some fighting before the troops returned, and that their march might be attended with a certain amount of danger. "danger?" cried lieutenant mudge, the gayest spirit of the party, and the most popular man at the post. "let us hope there will be some danger. what would a soldier's life be without it? a weary round of drill. hurrah, then, for danger! say i. louis, fill the glasses. now, gentlemen, i give you the toast of 'a short campaign and a merry one, with plenty of hard fighting, plenty of danger, and speedy promotion to all good fellows.'" the toast was hailed with acclamation and drunk with a cheer; while after it the calls for louis grew louder, more frequent, and more peremptory than ever. it was "here, louis!" "here, you nigger!" "step lively now!" from all sides, and the bewildering orders were so promptly obeyed by the deft-handed, intelligent-appearing young mulatto, who answered to the name of louis, that he was unanimously declared to be a treasure. those of the officers who were to remain at fort brooke, envied the planter such a capital servant, and those who were to accompany the expedition to fort king, wished they might take him with them to wait on their mess. "well, i don't know but that can be arranged," remarked the planter, thoughtfully. "major dade was asking me to-day where he could obtain a reliable guide, and louis, who overheard him, has since told me that he is intimately acquainted with the country between here and fort king. isn't that so, boy?" "yes, sir," replied the mulatto; "i was born and brought up in this country, and i know every foot of the way from here to fort king like i know the do-yard of my ole mammy's cabin." this answer was delivered so quietly, and with such an apparent air of indifference, that no one looking at the man would have suspected the wild tumult of thought seething within his breast at that moment. for months he had waited, planned, hoped, and endured, for such an opportunity as this. at last it had come. he was almost unnerved by conflicting emotions, and to conceal them, he flew about the table more actively than ever, anticipating every want of his master's guests, and waiting on them with an assiduity that went far to confirm the good impression already formed of him. once, lieutenant mudge, happening to glance up at an instant when louis was intently regarding him, was startled by a fleeting expression that swept across the man's face. for a second his eyes glared like those of a famished tiger, and his lips seemed to be slightly drawn back from the clinched white teeth. although the devilish look vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only the respectful expression of a well-trained servant in its place, it gave the young soldier a shock, and filled him with a vague uneasiness that he found hard to shake off. he spoke of it afterwards to his host, but the latter only laughed and said: "nonsense, my dear boy! it must have been the champagne. i have had that nigger for nearly a year now, and a more honest, faithful, intelligent, and thoroughly reliable servant i never owned. if dade will pay a fair price for him, i will let him go for a few months, and thus you will secure a reliable guide and a capital table servant, both in one." in answer to some further inquiries concerning louis, he said: "i'd no idea he was born in this part of the country or knew anything about it, but as he says he does, it must be so, for i have never known him to tell a lie. he knows it would not be safe to lie to me. i got him from a trader in charleston last spring, and only brought him down here a couple of months ago, when i came to look after this plantation. but you can depend on louis. he don't dare deceive me, for he knows if he did i'd kill him. i make it a rule to have none but thoroughly honest servants about me, and they all know it." the reader has doubtless surmised ere this that the servant whom his master praised so highly was no other than louis pacheco, friend of coacoochee, the free dweller beside the tomoka, whom the slave-catchers had kidnapped and carried off. inheriting the refinement of his spanish father, well educated, and accomplished, louis would have killed himself rather than submit to the degradation of the lot imposed upon him, but for one thing--the same spirit that actuated osceola during his imprisonment restrained louis from any act against his own life. he lived that he might obtain revenge. so bitter was his hatred of the whole white race, that at times he could scarcely restrain its open expression. he managed, however, to control himself and devoted his entire energies to winning the confidence, not only of the man who had bought him, but of all the other whites with whom he was thrown in contact. thus did he prepare the more readily to carry out his plans when the time came. he saw his aged mother die from overwork in the cotton-fields, without betraying the added bitterness of his feelings, and was even laughingly chided by his master for not displaying greater filial affection. he planned a negro insurrection, but could not carry it out. then he conceived the project of inducing a great number of negroes to run away with him, and join his friends the seminoles, but this scheme also came to naught. he was planning to escape alone and make his way to florida, where he hoped to find some trace of the dearly loved sister from whom he had been so cruelly separated, when chance favored him, and his master brought him to the very place where he most desired to be. in tampa, he quickly learned of the condition of affairs between the indians and whites, and he looked eagerly about for some means of aiding his friends in their approaching struggle. the proposed expedition of major dade, for the relief and reinforcement of fort king, was kept a secret so far as possible, for fear lest it should delay the coming in of numbers of indians, who were supposed to be on their way to the several designated points of assembly. it was, however, freely discussed in the presence of louis pacheco, for he was supposed to be so well content with his present position, and to have so little knowledge of indian affairs, that it could make no difference whether he knew of it or not. so louis listened, and treasured all the stray bits of information thus obtained, and put them together until he was possessed of a very clear idea of the existing state of affairs, and of what the whites intended doing. through the field hands of the plantation he opened communication with the free negroes who dwelt among the indians. thus he soon learned that his friend coacoochee was now a war-chief and an influential leader among the seminoles. now the hour of his triumph, the time of his revenge, had surely come. if he could only obtain the position of guide to major dade's little army, what would be easier than to deliver them into the hands of coacoochee? what a bitter blow that would be to the whites, and how it would strengthen the seminole cause! how far it would go toward repaying him for the death of his mother, the loss of his beautiful sister, his own weary slavery, and the destruction of their happy home on the tomoka! yes, it must be done. the day after that of the dinner party his master concluded arrangements with major dade, by which louis was engaged as guide to the expedition and steward of the officers' mess. so the slave was ordered to hold himself in readiness to start on christmas day. chapter xvi osceola's revenge in the meantime, osceola had carried out his part of the arrangement with coacoochee in regard to the traitor, charlo emathla. although warned of the fate in store for him in case he persisted in disregarding the wishes of his people and the commands of the other chiefs, this indian, dazzled by sight of the white man's gold, flattered by his praise, and assured of his protection, persisted in his course. osceola waited until certain that he had accepted a considerable sum of money from the agent, and then prepared an ambush beside a trail along which the doomed man must return to his camp. it was completely successful; the victim fell at the first fire, and covering his face with his hands, received the fatal blow without a word. tied up in his handkerchief was a quantity of gold and silver. this, osceola declared was the price of red men's blood, and, sternly forbidding his followers to touch it, he flung it broadcast in every direction. when news of this summary punishment of a renegade was received at fort king, it created a serious feeling of anxiety and alarm for the future. this was shared by all except the agent, who declared, in his pompous manner, that he knew the indians too well to fear them. they might murder one of their own kind here and there, but they would never muster up courage to attack a white man. oh no! the rascals were too well aware of the consequences of such an act. another report that reached the fort about the same time increased the uneasiness of its inmates. it was of six indians who had been brutally and wantonly set upon by a party of white land-grabbers. the indians were in camp, quietly engaged in cooking their supper, when the whites rode up, made them prisoners, took away their rifles, and examined their packs, appropriating to their own use whatever they fancied, and destroying the rest. then they tied the indians to trees and began whipping them. while they were thus engaged, four other indians appeared on the scene and opened an ineffective fire upon the aggressors. the whites answered with a volley from their rifles that killed one indian and wounded another. both parties then withdrew from the field, the whites carrying with them the rifles and baggage that they had stolen. this outrage was termed an indian encroachment, and a company of militia was at once ordered out to chastise the indians and protect citizens. by such acts as these the land-grabbers hoped to hasten the movements of the seminoles and compel them to evacuate the coveted territory the more rapidly. it was with gloomy forebodings that the little garrison of fort king, who, from long experience, had gained some knowledge of the indian character, heard of these and similar brutalities. they knew that such things would drive the savage warriors to acts of retaliation, and precipitate the crisis that now appeared so imminent. their fears were heightened by the fact that early in december the indians ceased visiting the fort, and it was reported that all their villages in that part of the country were abandoned. so the month dragged slowly away. christmas day was passed quietly and without the usual festivities of the season. the anxiety of the garrison would have been still further increased had they known that on that very day osceola and a band of picked warriors took up a position in a dense hammock from which they could watch every movement in and about the fort. osceola's object was the killing of the agent, whom he believed to be directly implicated in the abduction of chen-o-wah. so determined was he to accomplish this, that he had decided if no better opportunity offered to venture an attack against the fort itself, desperate as he knew this measure to be. coacoochee at this time was gathering the warriors of the tribe and preparing them for battle in the depths of the great wahoo swamp, the hidden mysteries of which no white man had ever explored. it lay a day's journey from fort king, and to it were hastening many chiefs with their followers. on the morning of christmas day a negro runner, well-nigh exhausted with the speed at which he had travelled, reached the swamp encampment and asked to be led at once to coacoochee, the war-chief. the moment he had delivered his message the young warrior, trembling with excitement, sought the other chiefs and made known to them the wonderful news he had just received. "this very day," he said, "the white soldiers have left tampa to march through the seminole country. at the end of four days they hope to reach fort king. they are guided by one whom i thought dead, but who sends word that he is alive. he is my friend and may be trusted. he will bring them by this road. shall we allow them to pass by us and join their friends? or shall we meet them in battle and prove to them that our words were not empty boastings, when we said the seminole would fight for his land? the white man laughs at us and whips us as though we were dogs. he takes from us that which pleases him, and gives us nothing but blows in return. the indian and the wolf together are marks for his rifle. let us show him that we are men and warriors. let us strike a blow that he will never forget. it may be that when he finds the seminole ready to fight, he will let us alone to dwell peaceably in our own land. are the words of coacoochee good in the ears of the tribe? are his warriors glad when they hear them?" a long discussion followed; but when it was ended, the counsel of the young war-chief had been accepted. then through the dim forest aisles echoed the hollow booming of the kasi-lalki, or great war-drum. fleet runners were despatched in all directions, some to hasten the incoming bands, and some to watch the movements of the advancing troops. one was sent to bear the great news to osceola, and bid him hasten if he would take part in the first battle of the war. when this messenger reached those secreted in the hammock near fort king, and delivered his tidings, osceola bade him return and tell coacoochee that if at the end of one more day his purpose had not been accomplished, he would abandon it for the present and hasten to join him. on the following afternoon two figures were seen by the eager watchers to leave the fort and stroll toward the trader's store a mile away. osceola's keen eye was the first to recognize them, and he knew that the hour of his vengeance had arrived. the two who strolled thus carelessly, apparently unconscious of danger, were the agent, general wiley thompson, and his friend, lieutenant constantine smith. they were smoking their after-dinner cigars and talking earnestly. their subject was the rights and wrongs of the indian. as they reached the crest of a slight eminence, these words, uttered in wiley thompson's most emphatic tone, reached the ears of osceola, who, with flashing eyes and compressed lips, peered at the speaker from a thicket not ten yards away. "i tell you, sir, the indian is no better than any other savage beast, and deserves no better treatment at our hands." they were the last words he ever spoke; for at that instant there burst from the thicket a blinding flash and the crashing report of thirty rifles, discharged simultaneously. both men were instantly killed, and with yells of triumph the indians rushed from their hiding-place, each intent upon procuring a scalp or some other trophy of the first event of the contest so long anticipated and now so sadly begun. but osceola's vengeance did not rest here. there were others within reach who had aided in the stealing of his wife, and he bade his warriors follow him to the store of the trader. a few minutes later rogers and his two clerks had been added to the list of victims. after helping themselves to all the goods they could carry, the indians set fire to the store and started toward the wahoo swamp, where they hoped to join coacoochee in time to participate in the battle of which he had sent them notice. the little garrison of fifty men at fort king heard the firing and the war-cries, and saw the smoke from the blazing store rise above the hammock. they knew only too well what these things meant; but supposing the indians to be in force and about to attack the post, they dared not venture beyond its limits. they waited anxiously for the coming of the promised reinforcements from tampa, but weary days passed, and no word came from them. chapter xvii on the verge of the wahoo swamp on the afternoon of christmas day, major dade's little command of two companies of troops, numbering one hundred and ten souls, marched gaily out from fort brooke on tampa bay and started for fort king, one hundred miles away, near where the city of ocala now stands. both officers and men were in the highest spirits, and regarded their present expedition as a pleasant relief from the monotony of garrison life. it was not at all likely they would be called upon to do any fighting; for, although the indians had been acting suspiciously for some time, nobody believed they would dare come into open conflict with the whites. and what if they did! was not one white man equal to five indians at any time? to be sure, the soldiers were unfamiliar with the country, but then they had a guide who knew every foot of it. louis pacheco was one of the most popular members of the expedition. he was not only a good guide, but he was polite, obliging, and attentive to the wants of the officers. he certainly was a treasure, and they were fortunate to have secured his services. so the lieutenants said to one another. for two days the command moved steadily forward, its one piece of light artillery and its one baggage wagon bumping heavily over the log-like roots of the saw-palmetto, and threatening to break down with each mile, but never doing so. they experienced no difficulty in crossing the dark, forest-shaded withlacoochee; for louis led them to the best ford on the whole river, and the officers agreed that they were making much better progress than could have been expected. on the third night they had skirted the great wahoo swamp and were camped near its northern end. as this place was known to be a favorite indian resort, the sentinels of that night were cautioned to be unusually vigilant. the corporal of the guard was instructed to inspect every post at least once an hour, and oftener than that towards morning, when an attack was supposed to be most imminent. as the officer of the day was equally on the alert, and visited the sentries many times during the night, the camp was deemed securely guarded. all that day louis, the guide, had been unusually silent. more than once he was observed to direct long, penetrating glances toward the dense forest growth of the great swamp, as though it held some peculiar fascination for him. it seemed as though he were conscious of the keen eyes, that, peering from its dark depths, watched so exultingly the march of the troops. it seemed as though he must see the lithe figures that, gliding silently from thicket to thicket, or from one mossy covert to another, so easily kept pace with the slow-moving column. in waiting on the officers' mess that evening, louis was so absent-minded that he made innumerable blunders, and drew forth more than one angry rebuke from those whom he served. at last one of these remarked that, if the nigger was not more attentive to his duties, he would be apt to make an acquaintance with the whipping-post before long. then there flashed into the man's face for an instant the same look that lieutenant mudge had detected once before, and from that moment his demeanor changed. he was no longer absent-minded. he was no longer undecided. the time of his irresolution was passed. that night he slept apart from any other occupant of the camp, beyond the line of tents and on the side nearest the swamp hammock. for hours after rolling himself in his blanket the man lay open-eyed and thinking. this was either the last night of his life or the last of his slavery, he knew not which. on the morrow he would be either dead or free. on the morrow, if he lived, he would learn the fate of the dear sister from whom he had heard no word since that terrible night on the tomoka. on the morrow would be struck a blow for liberty that should be felt throughout the length and breadth of the land, and on the morrow his score against the white man would be wiped out. the account would be settled. louis had expected the attack to be made that day, and from each hammock or clump of timber they passed, had dreaded, and hoped to hear, the shrill war-whoop mingled with the crack of rifles. now, he thought it might be made during the night or just at dawn. at all events, it must be made, if made at all, before the following sunset, for at that hour the command expected to reach fort king. as he lay thinking of these things, the querulous cry of a hawk suddenly broke the stillness of the night. it came from the swamp. again it sounded, and this time with a slight difference of tone. the weary sentinels wondered for a moment at the strangeness of such a cry at that hour, and then dismissed it from their minds. not so with louis pacheco. the second cry had confirmed the suspicion aroused by the first. it was long since he had heard the signal of coacoochee; but he recognized and answered it. the gentle, quavering cry of a little screech owl, though coming from the camp, alarmed no one. it went straight to the ears of coacoochee, however, as he lay hidden in the saw-palmettoes, only a few rods beyond the tents, and he was content to wait patiently, knowing that his friend had heard and understood his signal. all the old forest instincts, long suppressed and almost forgotten, were instantly aroused in louis. no indian could have crept more cautiously or silently toward the line of sentries than he, and none could have slipped past them more deftly. a few minutes later the owl's note was sounded at the edge of the hammock and immediately answered from a spot but a short distance away. then there came a rustle beside the motionless figure and a whispered: "louis, my brother?" "coacoochee, is it you?" for a few minutes they whispered only of their own affairs, and louis learned of nita's escape from the slave-catchers, of her flight to philip emathla's village, and of her betrothal to coacoochee, all in a breath. he longed to fly to her at that very moment; but a weary journey lay between them, and before he could undertake it a stern and terrible duty remained to be performed. he must return to the camp of soldiers and remain with them to the bitter end. otherwise the plan for their destruction might yet miscarry. coacoochee told him the reason why the attack had not already been made was that the indians had awaited the arrival of osceola and micanopy. the latter had come in that evening, and it was decided to wait no longer, but to begin the fight at daylight. louis opposed this plan, saying that major dade expected an attack to be made at daylight, if made at all, and would be particularly on guard at that time. he also seemed to feel that if he were attacked, it would be from that swamp. therefore, the mulatto advised that the attack be made at a point some miles beyond the swamp, where nothing of the kind would be anticipated. coacoochee acknowledged the soundness of this advice, and agreeing to follow it, the two separated, one to lead his warriors to the appointed place and prepare them for battle, the other to work his way with infinite caution back into the camp of sleeping soldiers. fortunately for him the night was intensely dark, and though at one time a sentry passed so close that he could have touched him, by lying flat and almost holding his breath he escaped discovery. he had barely reached his sleeping-place and rolled himself again in his blanket, when an officer came along, and stumbling over his prostrate form, exclaimed: "hello, louis! is that you?" upon receiving an affirmative answer, he continued: "well, i must confess that it is a great relief to find you. i missed you, and have been searching for you. i really began to think you had deserted and left us to find our own way out of this wilderness. where have you been?" "the major's horse got loose, sir, and came very near stepping on me," replied louis. "and i just took him over to the cart, where i tied him up again. sorry to have caused you any anxiety, sir." "oh, that's all right," answered the officer. "i'm glad your excuse is such a good one, for these are times when we can't be too careful, you know." with this he walked away to visit the line of sentries, while louis, bathed in a profuse perspiration in spite of the chill of the night, shuddered as he realized the narrowness of his escape. chapter xviii coacoochee's first battle the next morning's sun ushered in one of the fairest of floridian days; the air was clear, cool, and bracing. it was filled with the aromatic odors of pines and vibrant with the songs of birds. all was life and activity in the camp of soldiers, who were preparing for an early start on the long day's march that they hoped would bring them to their destination that same evening. "we are past all the bad places now, boys," cried major dade, cheerily, as he rode to the head of the column. "this swamp is our last danger point, and beyond this there is nothing to apprehend. the cowardly redskins have let a good chance slip by, and it will be long before they will be given another." then the bugles sounded merrily, and with light hearts the command resumed its march. but the indians had moved earlier than they. at daylight that morning one hundred and eighty warriors glided like shadows out from the dark recesses of the swamp, and, following the lead of coacoochee, advanced some four miles beyond it. where they finally halted in the open pine woods there was a thick growth of scrub or saw-palmetto. a pond bounded the road on the east at this point, and the entire body of indians took positions on the opposite or western side. each warrior selected his own tree or clump of palmetto, and sank out of sight behind it. three minutes after their arrival nothing was to be seen nor heard save the solemn pines and the sighing of the wind through their branches. there was so little to arouse suspicion that a small herd of deer fleeing before the advancing troops and coming down the wind dashed in among the indians before discovering their presence. even then the hidden warriors made no sign, and the terrified animals pursued their flight unmolested. besides coacoochee, the chiefs in command of the seminole force were micanopy, jumper, and alligator. it had been determined that micanopy, as head chief, should fire the first shot of the contest, and as the old man was timid and undecided, coacoochee stood beside him to strengthen his courage. at length about nine o'clock the troops appeared in view. they marched easily in open order, the bright sunlight glinted bravely on their polished weapons, and many were the shouts of light-hearted merriment that rose from their ranks. louis, the guide, was not to be seen, as on some trifling pretext he had dropped behind the column. the advanced guard reached the pond and passed it unmolested. it was not until the main body was directly abreast the indian centre that the wild war-whoop of otee the jumper rang through the forest. the next instant micanopy's trembling fingers, guided by coacoochee's unflinching hand, pulled the trigger of the first rifle. with its flash a great sheet of flame leaped from the roadside, and half of major dade's command lay dead, without having known from where or by whom the fatal blow was struck. the survivors, confused and demoralized by the suddenness and unexpectedness of this attack from an unseen foe, still made a brave effort to rally and return the pitiless fire that seemed to leap from every tree of the forest. their one field-piece, a six-pounder, was brought up and discharged several times, but its gunners presented an attractive target to the hidden riflemen, and it was speedily silenced. a small company of soldiers managed to fell a few trees in the form of a triangular barricade. behind this they took shelter, and from it maintained a stout fire for some hours; but early in the afternoon their last gun was silenced, and only the shadows of death brooded over the terrible scene. during the fight the indians had kept up an incessant yelling, but now they appeared stunned at the completeness of their success and contemplated their victory in silence. with louis pacheco, who had joined the indians immediately after the first fire, coacoochee walked slowly and thoughtfully over the battle-field. he sternly forbade his warriors to mutilate or rob the dead, and speedily withdrew them to their encampment in the great swamp, from which they had emerged with such mingled hopes and apprehensions that morning. soon after their departure a band of fifty negroes, who had been summoned from a distance to take part in the battle, rode up to the scene of slaughter. disappointed at having arrived too late to participate in it, they made an eager search among the heaps of slain, for any who should still show signs of life. if such were discovered, they were immediately put to death, while even the dead bodies were mutilated and stripped. after thus gratifying their bloodthirsty instincts, these, too, laden with scalps and plunder of every description, followed their indian allies to the swamp, and on the blood-soaked field an awful stillness succeeded the wild tumult of battle. as darkness shrouded the pitiful scene, two human figures, the only living survivors of "dade's massacre," slowly disengaged themselves from the dead bodies by which they were surrounded. they were wounded, and faint from the loss of blood, but they dragged themselves painfully away and were lost in the night shadows of the forest. five days later they reached fort brooke and there gave the first notice of the terrible blow by which the despised seminole had defied the power of the united states. the indian loss in this battle was three killed and five wounded. that same night, osceola and his warriors, laden with trophies and plunder, reached the encampment in the wahoo swamp. they had much to tell as well as much to hear, and the whole night was devoted to feasting, dancing, drinking, and every species of savage rejoicing over their successes. coacoochee, though filled with a sense of exultation, took no part in these excesses. he preferred talking with louis and several of the graver chiefs regarding the future conduct of the war, and the chances for its speedy termination. all were agreed that there would be no further fighting for some time, and as both the young men were most anxious to visit philip emathla's village, they determined to do so at once. at daylight, therefore, they left the swamp and started on their journey. by noon they were threading an open forest many miles from their point of departure. they were proceeding in silence, with louis following coacoochee, and stepping exactly in his tracks. this precaution was taken as a matter of habit, rather than from any idea that there was an enemy within many miles of them. suddenly coacoochee stopped, held up his hand in warning, and listened intently, with his head inclined slightly forward. "does my brother hear anything?" he asked. no; louis heard nothing save the sound of wind among the tree-tops. his ears were not so sharp as those of coacoochee, nor, for the matter of that, was any other pair in the whole seminole nation. so marvellously keen was the young war-chief's sense of hearing, that his companions deemed it unsafe to utter a word not intended for his ears within sight of where he stood. they believed him to be able to hear ordinary conversation as far as he could see. although this was undoubtedly an exaggeration, his powers in this respect were certainly remarkable, and excited astonishment in all who were acquainted with them. now, after standing and listening for a moment with bent head, he threw himself to the ground, and placing one ear in direct contact with the earth, covered the other with his hand. he also closed his eyes, the better to concentrate all his powers into the one effort of hearing. he lay thus for several minutes, and then slowly regained his feet. there was now an anxious expression on his face. louis could no longer restrain his curiosity. "what is it, coacoochee? what do you think you hear?" the asking of this question would have at once betrayed louis to be of other than indian blood; for no seminole would have exhibited the slightest curiosity until the other was ready to disclose his secret of his own accord. so coacoochee smiled slightly at his comrade's impatience as he answered: "i hear more white men coming from that way"--here he pointed to the north; "they are many. some of them are soldiers, and some are not. they travel slowly, for they have much baggage. they fear no danger and are careless. they have no cannon, but they have many horses. they know nothing of yesterday's battle. let us go and look at them, where my brother will see that coacoochee has heard truly." louis gazed at his companion, in amazement. "how is it possible for you to hear these things when i can hear nothing at all?" he asked. "i am not deaf. my ears are as good as those of most men, but they detect no sound. you must be making game of me. is it not so?" for answer coacoochee persuaded him to lay his ear to the ground and listen as he had done a moment before. when louis rose, he said: "i do indeed hear something in the ground, but it is only a confused murmur. i cannot tell what it is or where it comes from." coacoochee smiled, and said: "my brother's ears are good. he has heard more than would most men; but coacoochee's are better. no sound is withheld from them. he can hear the grass grow and the flowers unfold. the murmur that my brother hears is the sound of an army marching. they are white men because they tread so heavily. some of them are soldiers because they blow bugles and because they keep step in their marching. more of them are not, for they walk as they please, and many of them ride on horses. they have much baggage, for i hear the sound of many wagons. they fear no danger and are careless, for they run races with their horses and fire pistols. they have not learned of yesterday's battle, or they would be sorrowful and quiet. now they laugh and are merry." half an hour later, as coacoochee and louis occupied positions among the spreading, moss-enveloped limbs of a large tree, the eyesight of the latter confirmed all that his comrade's marvellous hearing had already told them. from their perch they could overlook a broad savanna, across which slowly moved a small army of white men. they counted nearly one thousand, two hundred of whom were regular troops; the rest were ununiformed militia, many of them mounted and exhibiting but little discipline. these rode hither and thither, as they pleased, ran races, fired their pistols at stray birds, and shouted loudly. they were a cruel, rough set, and the heart of coacoochee grew heavy with the thought of such a powerful and merciless invasion of the seminole country. chapter xix ralph boyd and the slave-catcher the army so unexpectedly discovered by coacoochee was under the immediate command of general clinch, and was largely composed of florida volunteers. most of these were land-hunters, slave-hunters, or other reckless adventurers, who had taken advantage of this opportunity for gaining a safe entrance into the indian country and examining its best lands before it should be thrown open to general occupation. the majority of them had no idea that the indians would dare resist this occupation by the whites, or that they would be called upon to do any fighting. at the same time they expressed a cheerful willingness to kill any number of redskins, and loudly declared their belief in the policy of extermination. this motley throng of freebooters, together with four companies of regular troops, having been collected at fort drane, some twenty-five miles from fort king, general clinch decided to march them into and through the indian country for the purpose of hastening the movements of the seminoles, and show them how powerful a force he could bring against them. even he had no idea that any armed resistance would be offered to his progress. while coacoochee and louis watched in breathless silence the passing of this army of invaders, whose openly declared object was to rob them of their homes, they were startled by the sound of voices immediately beneath their tree. looking down, they saw two men who had straggled from the main body and sought relief from the noontide heat of the sun, in the tempting shade. at first our friends did not recognize the newcomers; but all at once a familiar tone came to the ears of louis pacheco; then he knew that the man whom he hated most on earth, the man who had sold him and his mother into slavery, the dealer, troup jeffers, had once more crossed his path. the two men had not ridden up to the tree in company, but had approached it from different divisions of the passing column, though evidently animated by a common impulse. it was quickly apparent that they did not even know each other; for mr. troup jeffers, who reached the tree first, greeted the other with: "good-day, stranger. light down and enjoy the shade. hit's powerful refreshing after the heat out yonder." as the other dismounted from his horse, and, still retaining a hold on the bridle, flung himself at full length on the scanty grass at the foot of the tree, jeffers continued: "this appears to be a fine bit of country." "yes." "but they tell me it ain't a circumstance to the injun lands on the far side of the withlacoochee." "no?" "no. them is said to be the best lands in floridy. i reckin you're land-hunting. ain't ye, now?" "no." "must be niggers, then?" "no sir. i am after neither land nor negroes; i have come merely to see the country." "wal, that seems kinder curious," remarked jeffers, reflectively. "strange that a man like you should take all this trouble and risk his life--not that i suppose there's a mite of danger--just to look at a country that he don't kalkilate to make nothing out of." "yet some people have the poor taste to enjoy travel for travel's sake," replied the other. "but i suppose you have come on business?" "you bet i have," answered mr. jeffers. "i've come after niggers, and i don't care who knows it. hit's a lawful business, and as good as another, if i do say it. you see, thar's lots of 'em among the injuns, and they're all described and claimed. now i've bought a lot of these claims cheap, and the gineral has promised that jest as soon as the injuns is corralled for emigration, all the claimed niggers shall be sorted out, and restored to their lawful owners. owing to my claims, i'm the biggest lawful owner there is. so i thought i'd jest come along with the first crowd, and be on hand early to see that i wasn't cheated." "a most wise precaution," remarked the stranger, sarcastically. "yes," continued jeffers, unmindful of his companion's tone; "you see there is niggers and niggers. while some of them is worth their weight in silver as property, i wouldn't have some of the others as a gift. there's injun niggers, for instance--half-bloods, you know; they're so wild that you have to kill 'em to tame 'em. why, i lost more'n a hundred dollars in cash, besides what i reckoned to make, on a half-blood that i got up to fort king a few months ago. she was wild as a hawk, and fretted, and wouldn't eat nothing, and finally died on my hands afore i got a chance to sell her." "certainly a most inconsiderate thing to do," remarked the stranger. "wasn't it, now? the only kind i want to deal with is the full bloods or them as is mixed with white. the best haul i ever made from the injuns was about a year ago over on the east coast. he was wild and ugly as they make 'em when i first got him, but i soon tamed him down and sold him for one thousand dollars. i've heard that he hain't never showed a mite of spirit since i broke him in, and he makes one of the best all-round servants you ever see. louis is his name, and i'd like to get hold of a dozen more just like him. what! you ain't going to start along so soon, be ye?" from the moment that louis recognized this man and realized that his cruellest enemy was at last completely within his power, it had been difficult to refrain from sending a rifle bullet through the brute's cowardly heart. it is doubtful if he could have withheld his hand had it not been for a warning look from coacoochee and a gentle pressure of his hand. the young indian himself was visibly affected as he listened to the cold-blooded tone with which the ruffian told of the death of chen-o-wah, the beautiful wife of osceola, and his hand twitched nervously as he fingered the handle of his scalping-knife; but he was able to restrain his own inclinations, even as he had restrained those of his companion. he knew that he had a duty to perform vastly more important than the punishment of the slave-catcher, and that for its sake even this enemy must be allowed to escape for the present. in reply to mr. jeffers' exclamation of surprise at his sudden departure from the cool shade in which they rested, the stranger answered: "yes, mr. slave-catcher, i am going; for i have no desire to cultivate the further acquaintance of a scoundrel. you are therefore warned to keep your distance from me so long as we both accompany this expedition." with this, the speaker sprang into his saddle, and as his horse started, he took off his hat with a profound bow of mock courtesy, saying: "i am very sorry to have met you, sir, and i hope i may never have the misfortune to do so again." as the young man dashed away, the slave-trader gazed after him in open-mouthed amazement. then he muttered, loud enough for coacoochee to hear: "wal, if that don't beat all! you're a nice, respectable, chummy sort of a chap, ain't you, now? jest a leetle too nice to live, and i shouldn't be surprised if you was to get hurt by some one besides injuns, if ever we have the luck to get into a scrimmage with the red cusses." these remarks were particularly interesting to coacoochee; for, as the stranger removed his hat on riding away, the mystery of his voice, which had haunted the young chief with a familiar sound, was explained. the face, as revealed by the lifting of the drooping sombrero, was that of his acquaintance and preserver, ralph boyd the englishman. it is more than likely that coacoochee would have seized the present opportunity for rendering mr. troup jeffers forever powerless to injure any man, white, red, or black, but for an interruption that came just as he was contemplating a sudden descent from the tree. it appeared in the form of a lieutenant of regulars, who commanded the rear guard of the little army, and whose duty it was to drive in all stragglers. so mr. troup jeffers rode away, utterly unconscious of the imminent danger he had just escaped. he was, however, full of an ugly hate against the man who a few minutes before had treated him with such scorn, and was determined to discover his identity at the first opportunity. as the rear guard of the army disappeared from the view of the two watchers, they slipped to the ground from their hiding-place, more than glad of an opportunity to stretch their cramped limbs. coacoochee was the first to speak, and he said: "they go to the withlacoochee, and will seek to cross at haney's ferry. they must be delayed until our warriors can be brought to meet them. we are two. one must return to the wahoo swamp, tell osceola of this thing, and bid him hasten with all his fighting men to the ford that is by the itto micco [magnolia tree]. this shall be your errand, louis my brother, and i pray you make what speed you may, for our time is short. i will hasten to reach the ferry before the soldiers, and in some way prevent their using the boat. then must they go to the ford, for there is no other place to cross." chapter xx an alligator and his mysterious assailant late that same evening the watchers of osceola's camp in the great swamp were startled by the sudden appearance of a human form almost within their lines. he was instantly surrounded and led to the camp-fire in front of the chieftain's lodge, that his character might be determined. the surprise of the indians upon discovering him to be louis pacheco, whom they supposed to be a long day's journey from that place, was forgotten in that caused by his tidings. it seemed incredible that, while they had just destroyed one army of white men, another should already be on the confines of their country and about to invade it. but louis had seen and counted them. coacoochee's plan was a wise one, and they would follow it. so the bustle of preparation was immediately begun. the fight of the day before had nearly exhausted their ammunition. bullets must be moulded, and powder-horns refilled from a keg brought from a distant, carefully hidden magazine, a supply of provisions must be prepared, for on the war-trail no fires could be lighted and no game could be hunted. when all was ready, osceola caused his men to take a few hours' sleep; but with the first flush of daylight they were on the march, swiftly but silently threading the dim and oftentimes submerged pathways of the swamp. there were two hundred and fifty in all, of whom the greater number were warriors under osceola, and the balance were negroes led by alligator. on the following morning they reached the appointed place, and concealed themselves in the forest growth lining the bank on the south side of the ford. as this was the only point along that part of the river at which it was possible to cross without boats, they were satisfied that the attempt to enter the indian country would be made here, and that here the expected battle must take place. still, the troops should have arrived by this time, and as yet there was no sign of them. neither had coacoochee appeared, though this was where he had promised to meet them. osceola had just decided to send a scouting party to the ferry to make sure that coacoochee had completed his self-imposed task, when a remarkable incident arrested his attention and caused him to withhold the order. a green bush was floating slowly down the river toward the ford, and several of the indians were commenting on a peculiarity of its motion. instead of floating straight down with the current of the stream, it was unmistakably moving diagonally across the river toward them. when first noticed it had been in the middle of the channel, but now it was decidedly nearer their side. the withlacoochee abounded in alligators that grew to immense size, and just at this time one of the largest of these seemed strangely attracted toward the floating bush. his black snout, and the protruding eyes, set back so far from it as to give proof of his great length, were all that he showed above the surface. these, however, were observed to be moving cautiously nearer and nearer to the bush, until finally they almost touched it. all at once the monster sprang convulsively forward, throwing half his length from the water. for a moment his huge tail lashed the waves into a foam that appeared tinged with red. at the same time, a hideous bellowing roar of mingled rage and pain woke the forest echoes. then, with a sullen plunge, the brute sank and was seen no more. the strangest thing of this whole remarkable performance was not the disappearance of the great reptile, but the sudden appearance close beside it, at the very height of the flurry, of a round black object that looked extremely like a human head. it was only seen for a second; then the sharp report of a rifle rang out from across the river, and the object instantly disappeared. with this, a white man, tall, gaunt, and clad in the uniform of a united states dragoon, stepped from the thick growth, and scanned intently the surface of the water as he carefully reloaded his rifle. he stood thus for several minutes, and then, apparently satisfied that his shot had been effective, he turned and vanished among the trees. it would have been an easy matter for the concealed warriors to kill him while he stood in plain view, and several guns were raised for the purpose, but osceola forbade the firing of a shot. the appearance of that one soldier satisfied him that the others would soon arrive, and he did not wish to give them the slightest intimation of his presence until they should begin crossing the river. suddenly he and those with him were startled by the cry of a hawk twice repeated in their immediate vicinity. they recognized it as the signal of coacoochee; but where was he? as they gazed inquiringly about them, there was a rustling among the flags and lily-pads growing at the river's edge. then, so quickly that he was exposed to view but a single instant, coacoochee, naked except for a thong of buckskin about his waist, sprang from the water to the shelter of the bushes on the bank and stood among them. the young war-chief had taken a long circuit around general clinch's army, and reached the ferry toward which they were evidently marching, well in advance of them, the evening before. he already knew that the ferryman, alarmed by the impending indian troubles, had abandoned his post and removed with his family to a place of safety. what he did not know, however, was that the great scow used as a ferryboat lay high and dry on the bank, where a recent fall in the waters of the river had left it. he had expected to find it afloat and to either set it adrift, or sink it in the middle of the stream. now he was at a loss what to do. he could not move the clumsy craft from its muddy resting-place. his time was limited, and he had no tools, not even a hatchet, with which to destroy it. there was but one thing left, and that was fire. as he looked at the massive, water-soaked timbers of the scow, coacoochee realized that to destroy it by fire would be a tedious undertaking. however, he set resolutely to work, and within an hour flames were leaping merrily about the stranded boat. he had torn all the dry woodwork that would yield to his efforts from the ferryman's log cabin which stood at some distance back from the river. he had gathered a quantity of lightwood from dead pine trees, and had built three great fires, one at each end of the scow and one in the middle. when all this was accomplished to his satisfaction, the youth became conscious that he was faint and weak from hunger, as he had eaten nothing that day. visiting the ferryman's deserted cabin, he finally discovered half a barrel of hard bread and a small quantity of uncooked provisions secreted in a dark corner of the little loft that had served the family as a storeroom. as he was selecting a few articles of food to carry away and eat at his leisure in some snug hiding-place from which he might also watch the operations of the expected troops, the young chief was alarmed by the sound of voices. the next moment several soldiers entered the cabin, calling loudly upon its supposed occupants, of whose recent departure they were evidently unaware. receiving no reply to their shouts, they ransacked the two lower rooms. one even climbed the rude ladder leading to the little loft and peered curiously about him. crouched in its darkest corner and hardly breathing, coacoochee escaped observation, and the trooper descended to report that no one was up there. "it's clear enough that the folks have lit out," he added. "there must be somebody around to start that smoke down by the river," said another voice. "well, i reckon we'd best go and see what's burning as well as who's there," was the reply. with this they left the house, and coacoochee heard some one order two of them to stay and look after the horses; while the others went to ascertain the cause of the fire. he determined to make a bold dash for liberty, and risk the shots that the two men would certainly fire at him; but when he was half-way down the ladder, the sound of fresh voices caused him hurriedly to regain his hiding-place. now there was much talking, and he knew that the main body of troops had arrived. as it was nearly sunset, the soldiers went into camp between the house and the river, and a number of them took possession of the house itself. fortunately the hot, stuffy little loft did not offer sufficient attractions to tempt any of them to occupy it, though several peered into its gloom from the ladder. as they did not discern the crouching form in the corner, the young indian began to fancy that he might remain there in safety so long as he chose. he was rejoiced to learn, from fragments of conversation that his fires had rendered the scow useless. he also learned to his dismay that an old canoe had been discovered, and was even then being patched up so that it would float. in it the troops would cross the river, a few at a time, on the following morning. coacoochee passed a weary night, not daring to sleep, lest he should make some movement that would betray his presence to those in the rooms below. occasionally he was forced by the pains in his cramped limbs to change his position, but he did this as seldom as possible and with the utmost caution. at length, just as daylight was breaking, and certain sounds indicated that the camp was waking up, one of these cautious movements dislodged a hard biscuit that lay on the floor beside him. slipping through a crevice in the rude flooring, it fell plump on the face of one of the sleepers below. the man thus suddenly wakened sprang up with a cry of alarm. he laughed when he discovered the cause of his fright, and exclaimed in ralph boyd's well-remembered voice: "hello! there's hard bread up-stairs, boys, and the rats are at work on it. i'm going to stop their fun, and secure my share." with this he started toward the ladder, and coacoochee nerved himself for the discovery that he knew was now unavoidable. chapter xxi battle of the withlacoochee the man who had been so rudely roused from his sleep slowly climbed the ladder leading to the loft, and began cautiously to feel his way across the uneven flooring. the place in which the indian crouched and awaited his coming was still shrouded in utter darkness; but by the uncertain light coming up from below, the approaching figure was faintly outlined. this man had proved himself coacoochee's friend, and the young chief had no intention of harming him. still, he could not allow himself to be captured, even by ralph boyd. he dared not trust himself in the hands of the whites after what had so recently happened. besides, it was now more than ever necessary that he should be at liberty to communicate with osceola and inform him of the proposed movements of the troops. these thoughts flashed through his mind during the few seconds occupied by boyd in groping his way toward the dark corner. suddenly from out of it a dim figure sprang upon the white man, with such irresistible force that he was hurled breathless to the floor. with one bound it reached the aperture through which the ladder protruded, and slid to the room below. the half-awakened men who occupied this, startled by the crash above them, were scrambling to their feet, and, as coacoochee dashed through them toward the open door, several hands were stretched forth to seize him. they failed to check his progress, and in another moment he was gone. with the swiftness of a bird he darted across the open space behind the house, and disappeared in the forest beyond. so sudden and unexpected was this entire performance that not a shot was fired after him, and the young indian could hardly realize the completeness of his escape as he found himself unharmed amid the friendly shadows of the trees. had he chosen to continue his flight directly away from the river, it would have been an easy matter to gain a position of absolute safety, so far as any pursuit was concerned. but he must reach the ford and those whom he supposed to be there awaiting him. therefore, after making a long detour through the forest, he again approached the withlacoochee, at a point several miles above where he had left it. in the meantime, the presence of an indian in the very heart of their camp had occasioned the greatest excitement throughout general clinch's army. he was the first they had encountered, and his boldness, together with the manner in which he had eluded them, invested him with an alarming air of mystery. it was the general opinion that there must be others on that side of the river in the immediate vicinity, and scouts were sent out in all directions to ascertain their whereabouts. at the same time the crossing of the withlacoochee by means of the single canoe was begun and prosecuted with all possible rapidity. coacoochee was greatly embarrassed in his attempt to gain the ford by the presence of the scouting parties, and was more than once on the eve of being discovered by them. even though he might reach the river without attracting their notice, he feared they would detect him in the act of crossing it. finally he hit upon an expedient that he believed might prove successful. cautiously gaining the bank at some distance above the ford, he hastily bound together four bits of dry wood in the form of a square by means of slender withes of the wild grape. for this purpose he choose green vines that were covered with leaves. he also cut a number of leafy twigs, and inserting their ends beneath the lashing of vines produced a fair imitation of a green bush. the deception was heightened as he carefully placed his rude structure in the water, where it floated most naturally. then concealing his rifle and clothing, and thrusting the trusty knife, which was now to be his only weapon, into the snakeskin sheath that depended from a buckskin thong about his waist, the youth slipped gently into the water and sank beneath its surface. when he rose, his head was inside the little square of sticks and completely screened from view by its leafy canopy. thus floating, and paddling gently with his hands, he caused the mass of foliage to move almost imperceptibly out from the shore, while at the same time he and it were borne downward with the sluggish current. coacoochee had no fear of alligators. he had been familiar with them ever since he could remember anything, and was well acquainted with their cowardly nature. thus when he had successfully passed the middle of the river, and was gently working his way toward its opposite bank, the near approach of one of these monsters did not cause him any uneasiness. he knew that he could frighten the great reptile away, or even kill it, though he feared that by so doing he might expose himself to a shot from those who still scouted along the bank he had so recently left. finally the monster approached so close that he was sickened by its musky breath, and it became evident that he was about to be attacked. drawing his long knife, the young indian allowed himself to sink without making a sound or a movement. a single stroke carried him directly beneath the huge beast, and a powerful upward thrust plunged the keen blade deep into its most vulnerable spot through the soft skin under one of the fore-shoulders. in spite of the danger from the creature's death flurry, coacoochee was compelled to rise for breath close beside it. this was the moment waited for by a white scout on the further bank, who had for some time been directing keenly suspicious glances at the mysterious movements of the floating bush. more than once his rifle had been raised for the purpose of sending an inquiring leaden messenger into the centre of that clump of foliage, but each time it had been lowered as its owner determined to watch and wait a little longer. now the bullet was sped, and only the great commotion of the water caused it to miss its mark by an inch. as the head at which he had fired immediately disappeared, and was seen no more, the rifleman fancied that his shot had taken effect, and that there was one indian less to be removed from the country. swimming under water with the desperation of one conscious that his life depends upon his efforts, coacoochee did not again come to the surface until he touched the stems of the great "bonnets," or leaves of the yellow cow-lily on the further side of the river, and could rise for a breath of the blessed air beneath their friendly screen. here he lay motionless for several minutes, recovering from his exhaustion. at length he ventured to give the hawk's call as a warning to his friends of his presence. then, gathering all his strength, he made the quiet rush for safety that carried him among them. it did not take many seconds to inform them that the enemy for whom they were watching so anxiously was even then crossing the river, unconscious of danger, a mile below that point. the report had hardly been made before the eager warriors who crowded about the speaker were in motion. coacoochee was quickly provided with clothing, a rifle, and ammunition, and fifteen minutes later the entire indian force was within hearing of the sounds made by the soldiers as they crossed the river. here a halt was made while osceola himself crept forward with the noiseless movement of a serpent to discover the enemy's exact location and disposition. to his dismay, he found that a force equal in number to his own had already crossed the river, with others constantly coming. there must not be a minute's delay if he would fight with the faintest hope of checking their advance. hastily the forest warriors chose their positions, and a crashing volley from their rifles was the first announcement given the soldiers of their presence. although staggered for a moment, the regulars quickly recovered, fixed their gleaming bayonets, and with a wild yell charged into the cloud of smoke. the indians fell back; but only long enough to reload their guns, when they advanced in turn, pouring such a deadly fire into the white ranks that their formation was broken, and the soldiers were driven back to the river's bank. here they were reformed by the general himself, and led to a second charge with results similar to the first. this time the indians did not give way so readily, nor fall back so far. under the frenzied leadership of alligator and osceola, who urged them with wild cries and frantic gestures to stand firm, they contested with knives, hatchets, and clubbed rifles each step of the way over which they were slowly forced. in order to shelter themselves against the indian fire, the soldiers adopted their plan of fighting, and each, selecting a tree, took his position behind it. here an exposure of the smallest portion of a body was certain to draw a shot, and the whites were soon made aware by their rapidly increasing number of wounded, that at this game they were no match for the indian marksmen. coacoochee and half a dozen warriors had concealed themselves on the river bank above the ferry, so that their rifles commanded it, and their fire so effectually dampened the ardor of the five hundred volunteers remaining on the other side that not one of them crossed or took part in the battle, except by firing a few scattering shots from their own side of the river. for more than an hour the battle raged. osceola was wounded, and the indian ammunition was giving out. they were becoming discouraged and were about to retire. all at once coacoochee, who, on hearing of osceola's wound, had left his little band of sharpshooters to guard the crossing, appeared among them. the effect of his presence and inspiring words was magical. loud and fierce rang out his battle cry: "yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-chee!" with the last grains of powder in their rifles and led by their dauntless young chief, the entire body of warriors, yelling like demons, dashed madly through the forest toward the line of troops. "they must have been heavily reinforced," shouted the bewildered soldiers to each other. "there are thousands of them!" from every bunch of palmetto, from every tuft of grass, and from behind every tree, a yelling, half-naked, and death-dealing indian seemed to spring forth. a heavy but ill-aimed fire did not check them in the slightest. the soldiers began to fall back from one tree to another. some of them ran. the wounded were hurriedly removed to the river bank. perhaps some were overlooked. there was no time to search for those who were not in plain view. the dead were left where they had fallen. with the first sign of this yielding, the frenzied yelling of the indians increased, until the whole forest seemed alive with them. the retreat of the soldiers became a flight. a scattering volley from behind hastened their steps. the battle of the withlacoochee was ended. chapter xxii the young chief makes a timely discovery without ammunition the warriors of coacoochee could not be persuaded to remain on the field of battle, and the frightened soldiers had hardly reached the river bank before the indians were also in full retreat toward their strongholds in the great swamp. of this the soldiers knew nothing, nor did they stop to inquire why they were not pursued. they were thankful enough to be allowed to re-embark, a dozen at a time, in their one canoe and recross the river without molestation. they imagined the forest behind them to be swarming with indians, and they trembled beneath the supposed gaze of hundreds of gleaming eyes with which their fancy filled every thicket. late that afternoon general clinch and his terrified army were in full retreat toward fort drane, with their eyes widely opened to the danger and difficulty of invading an enemy's country, even though that enemy was but a band of despised indians. they carried with them fifty wounded men and left four dead behind them, besides several others reported as missing. they had killed three of the enemy and wounded five. when they reached the safe shelter of the fort, they reported that they had gained an important victory. upon the retreat of the seminoles, coacoochee and louis, who had rejoined him that day, remained behind to watch the troops and discover what they might of their plans for the future. they supposed, of course, that with the cessation of the indian fire, the soldiers would again advance, and finding no further opposition offered, would proceed with their invasion of the country. they could hardly believe their own eyes, therefore, when they saw that the troops were actually recrossing the river, as evidently in full retreat as were the seminole warriors in the opposite direction at that very moment. upon beholding this marvellous sight, louis was in favor of hastening after their friends and bringing them back to follow and harass general clinch's retreating army; but coacoochee said that without ammunition they could do nothing, and that it was better, under the circumstances, to let affairs remain as they were. at the same time, he desired louis to hasten up to the ford, cross the river at that point, and, coming cautiously down on the other side, discover if the soldiers were really in retreat, or if they still had their position near the ferryman's house. while the mulatto was thus engaged, he himself would remain where they were, to follow the troops, should they recover from their panic, and decide, after all, to continue their invasion of the indian country. after louis had been despatched on this mission, coacoochee, satisfied that the soldiers were too intent upon recrossing the river and gaining a place of safety to disturb him, ventured to revisit the battle-field, in the hope of finding a stray powder-flask or pouch of bullets. so successful was his search, that he not only found a number of these, but several rifles that had been flung away by the soldiers in their hurried flight. while busy collecting these prizes, the young chief was startled by hearing a faint groan. he looked about him. there was nobody in sight; but again he heard a groan. this time he located it as proceeding from a clump of palmettoes a few paces distant. approaching these, and cautiously parting their broad leaves, he discovered the body of a white man lying face downward. the man was evidently severely wounded, for he lay motionless in a pool of blood, but that he was also alive was shown by his occasional feeble groans. coacoochee's first impulse was to leave him where he lay. he would soon die there. at any rate, the wolves would make short work of him that night. it was contrary to the policy of the indians to take prisoners, and he certainly could not be burdened with one,--a wounded one, at that. his second impulse, which was urged by pity, of which even an indian's breast is not wholly void, was to put the wretch out of his misery by means of a mercifully aimed bullet. he knew that his savage companions would ridicule such an act. they would either leave the man to his fate, after making sure that he could not possibly recover, or they would revive him sufficiently to comprehend their purpose and then kill him. they would never be so weak as to kill an unconscious man merely to save him from suffering. still this was what coacoochee was about to do, and he felt a kindly warming of the heart, as one does who is about to perform a generous deed. slowly he raised his rifle and took a careful aim at the head of the motionless figure before him. his finger was on the trigger. an instant more and the deed would have been accomplished. but there is no report. the brown rifle is slowly lowered, and the young indian's gaze rests as though fascinated upon something that caught his eye as it sighted along the deadly tube. it is only a peculiar seam in the white man's buckskin hunting-tunic, but it runs down the middle of the back from collar to the bottom of the shirt. there are other noticeable features about that hunting-shirt. the little bunches of fringe at the shoulders are of a peculiar cut, and all of its stitching is in yellow silk. with a low cry of mingled horror and anticipation, coacoochee dropped his rifle, and springing forward, turned the unconscious man over so that his face was exposed. it was that of ralph boyd, the man who had twice saved his life; the man to whose noble scorn of one of the cruellest enemies of an oppressed race he had listened with such pleasure only two days before. indian and stern warrior though he was, coacoochee turned faint at the thought of how nearly he had taken this precious life, for the saving of which he would willingly risk his own. the hunting-shirt worn by boyd was the very one in which coacoochee had paid his last memorable visit to st. augustine. it was the one that had been slit from top to bottom by fontaine salano's knife, and stripped from him, in preparation for the whipping the brute proposed to administer. the thought of that shameful moment caused coacoochee's blood to boil again with rage. at the same time the sight of this noble-hearted stranger who had saved him from that bitter indignity moved him to greatest pity. kneeling beside the unconscious man, the young indian sought to discover the nature of his wound. to his amazement, it was caused by a bullet that had been fired from _behind_. how could such a thing be? none but white men were behind boyd during the battle. suddenly the muttered words of troup jeffers flashed into his mind. now all was clear. to gratify his own petty revenge the slave-catcher had committed this cowardly act. the young chief was busily engaged in stanching the flow of blood, and binding a poultice of healing leaves, mixed with the glutinous juice of a cabbage palm, on the wound, when louis returned and stood beside him. the whites were in full retreat from the scene of their recent discomfiture, and louis had returned in the very canoe they had used and abandoned. now he and coacoochee bore the wounded man tenderly to it, crossed the river, and carried him to the ferryman's cabin, where both he and the young chief had passed the previous night, unconscious of each other's presence. here they made him as comfortable as possible, and here for awhile we must leave them. chapter xxiii shakespeare in the forest like a fire sped by strong winds across a prairie of brown and sun-dried grasses, so did the flames of war sweep across the entire breadth of florida. for a year had the indians been preparing for it. now they were ready to gather in numbers, and fight armies, or scatter in small bands, to spread death and destruction in every direction. the seminole was about to make a desperate defence of his country, and to teach its invaders that they might not steal it from him with impunity. express riders carried news of the war in every direction. everywhere cabins, farms, and plantations were abandoned, while their owners flocked into forts and settlements for mutual protection and safety. one day, some two weeks after the events narrated in the preceding chapter, a novel procession was to be seen wending its slow, dusty way along one of the few roads of those times that led from the st. john's river to st. augustine. the procession presented a confused medley of horsemen, pedestrians, wheeled vehicles, and cattle, and might have reminded one of the migration of a band of asiatic nomads. it was indeed a migration, though one directed rather by force of circumstances than by choice. it was a white household, with its servants, cattle, and readily portable effects, fleeing from an abandoned plantation towards st. augustine for safety against the indians. none of the party had seen an indian as yet, but they were reported to be ravaging both banks of the river from mandarin to picolata. at first the young mistress of this particular estate had discredited the reports, for it was only rumored as yet that the seminoles had really declared war. her brother being absent from home, she for some time resolutely declined to abandon the house in which he had left her. the neighboring places on either side had been deserted for several days, and their occupants had entreated her to fly with them, but without avail. "no," she replied; "here ralph left me, and here i shall stay until he comes again, or until i am driven away by something more real than mere rumors." at length that "something" came. all night the southern sky was reddened by a dull glow occasionally heightened by jets of flame and columns of sparks. at daylight a frightened negro brought word that the indians were but a few miles away, and had burned the deserted buildings on three plantations during the night. now was indeed time to seek safety in flight, and "missy" anstice, as the servants called her, ordered a hurried departure. her own preparations were very simple. a small trunk of clothing and a few precious souvenirs were all that she proposed to take. with only herself, letty her maid, and these few things in the carriage that old primus would drive, and the servants in carts or on muleback, they ought to travel so speedily as to reach st. augustine some time that same night. but while anstice was quite ready to start, she found to her dismay that no one else was. confusion reigned in the quarters; there was a wild running hither and thither, a piling on the carts of rickety household furniture, bedding, and goods of every description; a loud squawking of fowls tied by the legs, and hung in mournful festoons from every projecting point, and a confused lowing, bleating, and grunting from flocks and herds. in vain did the young mistress command and plead. all the servants on that plantation were free. many of them owned the carts they were loading, and nothing short of the appearance of indians on the spot could have induced them to relinquish their precious household treasures. "lor, missy anstice!" one would say reproachfully, "yo wouldn' tink ob astin' a ole ooman to leab behine de onliest fedder bed she done got?" "but i am going to leave all mine, aunty." "yah, honey; but yo'se got a heap ob 'em, while i've ony got jes' dis one." and so it went. useless articles taken from overloaded carts, at anstice's earnest solicitation, were slyly added to others when she was not looking. her brother acted as his own overseer, so there were no whites on the plantation to aid her. she alone must order this exodus, and beneath its responsibilities she found herself well-nigh helpless. at length, in despair, and having wasted most of the morning in useless expostulations, she entered the heavy, old-fashioned coach, with letty the maid, and gave primus the order to set forth. as the carriage passed the quarters, there was a great cry of: "don' yo leab us, missy anstice! don' yo gway an' leab us to de injins! we'se a comin'." so primus was ordered to drive slowly, and under other circumstances the english girl would have been vastly amused at the motley procession that began to straggle along behind her; but the danger was too imminent and too great to admit of any thoughts save those of anxiety and fear. [illustration: "to leab behine de onliest fedder bed she done got."] an hour or more passed without incident. the sun beat down fiercely from an unclouded sky, and the shadows of the tall pines seemed to nestle close to the brown trunks in an effort to escape his scorching rays. a sound of locusts filled the air. the grateful sea-breeze that would steal inland an hour later was still afar off, and but for the urgency of their flight, the slow-moving cavalcade would have rested until it came. the tongues of the cattle hung from their mouths, and a cloud of dust enveloped them. the heads of horses and mules were stretched straight out, and their ears drooped. old primus nodded on the carriage seat. letty was fast asleep, and even her young mistress started from an occasional doze. unobserved by a single eye in all that weary throng, another cloud of dust, similar to that hanging above and about them, rose in their rear. it approached rapidly, until it was so close that the clouds mingled. then from out the gray canopy burst a whirlwind of yells, shots, galloping horses, and human forms with wildly waving arms. in an instant the fugitives were roused from their drowsiness to a state of bewildered terror. men shouted and beat their animals, women screamed, horses plunged, mules kicked, and carts were upset. the first intimation of this onset that reached the occupants of the carriage, was in the form of madly galloping cattle that, with loud bellowings, wild eyes, and streaming tails, began to dash past on either side. then their own horses took fright, and urged on by old primus, tore away down the road. all at once the terrified occupants of the flying vehicle looked up at the sound of a triumphant yell, only to behold fierce eyes glaring at them from hideously painted faces at either door. the muzzle of a rifle was thrust in at one of the open windows, and at sight of it anstice boyd hid her face in her hands, believing that her last moment had come. when she recovered from her terror sufficiently to look about her once more, letty was sobbing hysterically on the floor, but there was no motion to the carriage, and all was silent around them. primus was no longer on the box, and the carriage was not in the road. determined to discover their exact situation, anstice opened one of the doors, with a view to stepping out. at that moment a loud and significant "ugh!" coming from beneath the carriage, caused her to change her mind and hastily reclose the door, as though it were in some way a protection. a few moments later two mounted indians rode up to the carriage, and each leading one of its horses, it began to move slowly through the trackless pine forest. as it started, the indian who had been left to guard it sprang to the seat lately occupied by old primus. for hours the strange journey was continued, and it was after sunset when it finally ended near the great river at a place some miles below the plantation they had left that morning. now the wearied prisoners were allowed to leave their carriage, and were led to where several negro women were cooking supper over a small fire. anstice was provided with food, but she could not eat. terror and anxiety had robbed her of all appetite, and she could only sit and gaze at the strange scene about her, as it was disclosed by the fitful firelight. piles of plunder were scattered on all sides. a lowing of cattle, grunting of hogs, cackling and crowing of fowls, the spoils of many a ravaged barnyard, rose on the night air. there was much laughing and talking, both in a strange indian language that still seemed to contain a number of english words, and in the homely negro dialect. as the bewildered girl crouched at the foot of a tree, and recalling tale after tale of savage atrocities, trembled at the fate she believed to be in store for her, she started at the sound of a heavy footfall close at hand. "bress yo heart, honey! hit's ony me!" exclaimed the well-known voice of old primus, who, after a long search, had just discovered his young mistress. "hyar's a jug o' milk an' a hot pone, an' i'se come to 'splain dere hain't no reason fo' being scairt ob dese yeah red injuns. ole primus done fix it so's dey hain't gwine hut yo. dey's mighty frienly to de cullud folks, and say ef we gwine long wif 'em, we stay free same like we allers bin; but ef we go ter augustine, de white folks cotch us an' sell us fo pay in de oxpenses ob de wah. "same time i bin makin' 'rangement wif 'em dat ef we'se gwine long er dem, dey is boun ter let yo go safe to augustine, whar marse boyd'll be looking fer yo. yes'm, i'se bin councillin' wif 'em an' settle all dat ar." "but, primus, i thought you were scared to death of the indians, and didn't understand a word of their language," interrupted anstice. "who? me! sho, missy anstice, yo suttenly don't reckin i was scairt. no'm, i hain't scairt ob no red injin, now dat i onerstan'in deir langwidge an' deir 'tenshuns. why, missy, deir talk's mighty nigh de same as ourn when yo gits de hang ob hit. so, honey, yo want to chirk up and quit yo mo'nin', an' eat a bit, and den come to de theayter, foh it sholy will be fine." "what do you mean by the theatre?" asked the bewildered girl; whereupon primus explained that at one of the plantations raided by the indians a company of actors on their way to st. augustine had been discovered, captured, and brought along with all their properties. these people were at first informed that they were to be burned to death at the stake. afterwards it was decided that they should be given their lives and freedom if they would entertain their captors with an exhibition of their art that very evening. this contract stipulated that the performance should be as complete and detailed as though given before a white audience, and that any member of the company failing to act his part in a satisfactory manner would render himself liable to become a target for bullets and arrows. under the circumstances it is doubtful if a play was ever presented under more extraordinary conditions, greater difficulties, or by actors more anxious to perform creditably their respective parts, than was this one given in the depths of a florida wilderness. the stage was an open space, roofed by arching trees, and lighted by great fires of pine knots constantly replenished. the wings were two wagons drawn up on either side. the play selected for this important occasion was hamlet, and for awhile everything proceeded smoothly. then the audience began to grow impatient of the long soliloquies, and to the intense surprise of the captives, a gruff voice called out: "oh, cut it short an' git to fightin'!" "no, give us a dance," shouted another, "an' hyar's a chune to dance by." with this a pistol shot rang out, and a ball struck the ground close to horatio's feet. the frightened actor bounded into the air, and as he alighted, another shot, coupled with a fierce order to _dance_, assured him that his tormentors were in deadly earnest. so he danced, and the others were compelled to join him. to an accompaniment of roars of laughter from the delighted savages, the terrified actors, clad in all the bravery of tinsel armor and nodding plumes, were thus compelled to cut capers and perform strange antics until some of them fell to the ground from sheer exhaustion. the humor of the savages now took another turn, and with fierce oaths, mingled with threats of instant death if the players were ever seen in that country again, they drove them from camp and bade them make their way to st. augustine. as these fugitives disappeared in the surrounding darkness, a big, hideously painted savage who wore on his face the uncommon adornment of a bristling beard, advanced to anstice boyd, and in a jargon of broken english bade her follow them if she valued her life. as the frightened girl started to obey this mandate, old primus interfered and began to remonstrate with the savage, whereupon he was struck to the ground with so cruel a blow that blood gushed from his mouth. filled with horror at these happenings, and believing her life to be in peril if she lingered another minute, the fair english girl sprang away, and was quickly lost to sight in the black forest shadows. chapter xxiv bogus indians and the real article as anstice boyd fled blindly from the presence of the savage who had just struck down her faithful servant, she had no idea of the direction she was taking, nor of what haven she might hope to reach. she knew only that she was once more free to make her way to friends, if she could, and her greatest present fear was that the savages might repent their generosity, and seek to recapture her. so, as she ran, she listened fearfully for sounds of pursuit, and several times fancied that she heard soft footfalls close at hand, though hasty glances over her shoulder disclosed no cause for apprehension. at length, she came to the end of her strength, and sank wearily to the ground at the foot of a giant magnolia. almost as she did so, a low cry of despair came from her lips, for with noiseless step the slender form of a young indian stood like an apparition beside her. she had not then escaped, after all, but was still at the mercy of the savages whose cruelty she had so recently witnessed. this one had doubtless been sent to kill her. thus thinking, the trembling girl covered her face with her hands, and, praying that the fatal blow might be swift and sure, dumbly awaited its delivery. seconds passed, and it did not fall. the agony of suspense was intolerable. she was about to spring up as though in an effort to escape, and thus precipitate her fate, when, to her amazement, she became aware that the indian was speaking in a low tone, and in her own tongue. "my white sister must not be afraid," he said. "coacoochee has come far to find her and take her to a place of safety. ralph boyd is his friend, his only friend among all the millions of white men. he is wounded, and lies in a seminole lodge. after a little we will go to him. there is no time now to tell more. i have that to do which must be done quickly. let my sister rest here, and in one hour i will come again." as he concluded these words, which had been uttered hurriedly, and in a voice but little above a whisper, the indian turned and disappeared as noiselessly as he had come, seeming to melt away among the woodland shadows. the bewildered girl, thus again left alone, tried to collect her dazed senses and fix upon some plan of action. should she still attempt to escape, or should she trust the youth who had just announced himself to be coacoochee, the friend of her brother? of course, he must belong to the band that had recently held her captive, though she had not seen him among them. what should she do? which way should she turn? in her terror, anstice was unconsciously asking these questions aloud, though her only answers were the night sounds of the forest. suddenly there came to her ears the crash of rifles, accompanied by the blood-chilling seminole war-cry, and followed by fierce yells, shrieks of mortal agony, and the other horrid sounds of a death-struggle between man and man, that was evidently taking place but a short distance from her. the girl sprang to her feet, but, bound to the spot by the horror of those sounds, she listened breathlessly and with strained ears. had the savages been attacked by a party of whites? it might be. she knew that troops of both regulars and militia were abroad in every direction. had not she and her brother entertained one of these small war-parties hastening from st. augustine to join the western army only a short time before? it had been commanded by their friend, lieutenant irwin douglass, who had easily persuaded ralph boyd to accompany him as far as fort king, that he might learn for himself the true state of affairs in the indian country. might it not be that one of these detachments, even, possibly, that of douglass himself, had tracked this band of savages to their hiding-place, and were visiting upon them a terrible but well-merited punishment? in that case, to fly would be folly; for, with the indians defeated, as of course they must be, she would find safety among the victors. thus thinking, and filled with an eager desire to learn more of the tragedy being enacted so near her, the girl began to advance, fearfully and cautiously, in the direction of those appalling sounds. as she approached the scene of conflict, its noise gradually died away, until an occasional shout and a confused murmur of voices were borne to her on the night air. the short battle was ended, and one side or the other was victorious; which one, she must discover at all hazards. a gleam of firelight directed her steps, and she continued her cautious advance to a point of river bank, from which, though still concealed by dark shadows, she could command a full view of the beach below. there, by the light of the rising moon, aided by that of the fires, she beheld a scene so strange that for some minutes she could make nothing of it. two large flat-boats, such as were used by planters along the river for the transportation of produce to waiting vessels at its mouth, lay moored to the bank. one of them seemed to be piled high with plunder, while the other was filled with a dark mass of humanity, from which came a medley of voices speaking with the unmistakable accent of negroes. anstice could see that these had been captives, as, two at a time, they stepped ashore, where the ropes confining them were severed by flashing knives in the hands of dusky figures, apparently indians. a number of motionless forms lay on the beach, and some of the others seemed to be examining these, going from one to another, and spending but a few moments with each one. the girl gazed anxiously, but full of bewilderment and with a heavy heart, at these things. where were the whites she had so confidently expected to see? she could not discover one. all of those on the beach, dead as well as living, appeared to be either indians or negroes. what could it mean? did indian fight with indian? she had never heard of such a thing in florida. as she looked and wondered with ever-sinking heart, and filled with despairing thoughts, she was attracted by the voice of an indian who, near one of the fires, was evidently issuing an order to the others. she imagined him to be the one who had appeared to her a short time before, and called himself "coacoochee," but she could not be certain. in striving to obtain a better view of his face, she incautiously stepped forward to a projecting point of the bank. in another moment the treacherous soil had loosened beneath her weight, and with frantic but ineffective efforts to save herself, she slid down the sandy face of the bluff to its bottom. at her first appearance, the startled savages seized their guns, and nerved themselves for an attack; but, on discovering how little cause there was for alarm, they remained motionless, though staring with amazement at the unexpected intruder. poor anstice was not only filled with fresh terrors, but was covered with confusion at the absurdity of her situation. ere she could regain her feet, the indian who seemed to be in command sprang forward and assisted her to rise. "my white sister came too quickly," he said gravely; "she should have stayed in the shadow of the itto micco [magnolia] till the time for coming. it is not good for her to see such things." here the speaker swept his arm over the battle-ground. "since she has come," he continued, "coacoochee will deliver the words of ralph boyd--" at this moment he was interrupted by a joyful cry, a rush of footsteps, and letty, the maid, sobbing and laughing in a breath, came flying up the beach, to fling her arms about the neck of her beloved young mistress. she was followed by old primus, hobbling stiffly, and uttering pious ejaculations of thankfulness. behind him crowded the entire force of the plantation, men, women, and children, all shouting with joy at the sight of "missy anstice." the stern-faced warriors watched this scene with indulgent smiles, for they knew that the sunny-haired girl, looking all the fairer in contrast with the sable-hued throng about her, was the sister of the white man who had so befriended their young war-chief. "what does it all mean?" cried anstice, at length disengaging herself from letty's hysterical embrace. "what was the cause of the firing i heard but a short while since? who are those yonder?" here she pointed with a shudder at the motionless forms lying prone on the sands. "surely they must be indians, and yet, i knew not that the hand of the red man was lifted against his fellows." "they are not of the iste-chatte [red man], but belong to the iste-hatke [white man]," answered coacoochee, gravely. "dey's white debbils painted wif blackness," muttered old primus. "they are white men, miss anstice, disguised like injuns," explained letty, whose style of conversation, from long service as lady's maid, was superior to her station. "and oh, miss anstice! they were going to take us down the river to sell us into slavery. we wouldn't believe they could be white men, but the paint has been washed from the faces of some of them, and now we know it is so." gradually, by listening to one and another who volunteered information, anstice boyd learned that the supposed savages, whose prisoner she had been, were indeed a party of white slave-catchers, disguised in paint and feathers, so that their deeds of rascality might be laid to the seminoles. coacoochee, to relieve the anxiety of ralph boyd, who lay wounded and helpless in an indian village, had set forth with a small band of warriors to escort his friend's sister to a place of safety, among people of her own race. he found the plantation deserted, and, coming across the trail of the marauders who had captured its occupants, quickly discovered their true character by many unmistakable signs. when they encamped for the night, the vengeful eyes of his warriors were upon them; and when, for their own safety, they freed their white prisoners and drove them away to spread the report of this fresh _indian_ outrage, these were allowed to pass through the seminole line without molestation. coacoochee alone followed anstice boyd beyond ear-shot of the camp, to assure her of friendly aid and safety; then he returned to deal out to the white ruffians their well-deserved punishment. he would not fire on them while they and the blacks whom they proposed to turn into property were mingled together; but when the latter were bound and driven into the boats, he gave the terrible signal. more than half the painted band fell at the first fire; the remainder, with the exception of the leader and two others, who escaped in a canoe, were quickly despatched, and the deed of vengeance was completed. in view of these occurrences, and with the certainty that troops would be sent in pursuit of coacoochee's band, to which all the recent aggressions would of course be credited, the young chief no longer deemed it prudent to attempt to escort his friend's sister to the vicinity of any white settlement. he proposed instead to carry her to her brother. the girl accepted this plan, provided she might be accompanied by her maid letty, a condition to which the young indian readily agreed. during the few hours that remained of the night, anstice and her maid slept the sleep of utter weariness in the carriage that had brought them to that place, and with the earliest dawn were prepared to start toward the seminole stronghold, deep hidden among withlacoochee swamps. chapter xxv a swamp stronghold of the seminoles on the morning following that midnight tragedy of the wilderness, the indians made haste to retreat to that portion of the country which they still called their own. the flat-boats were used to carry themselves, their negro allies, and such of the plunder as could be readily transported to the opposite side of the river; the cattle and horses were made to swim across. such of the plunder collected by the white renegades as must be left behind was burned. among all the property thus acquired by the indians, none was more highly prized than the gorgeous costumes of the theatrical company. the unfortunate actors had been forced to abandon these in their hurried flight, and now coacoochee's grim-faced warriors wore them with startling effect. anstice boyd could not help smiling at the fantastic appearance thus presented by her escort, though feeling that the circumstances in which she was placed warranted anything rather than smiles or light-heartedness. was her brother really wounded, and was she being taken to him, or were those only plausible tales to lure her away beyond chance of rescue? "can we trust him, letty? has he told us the truth?" she asked of her maid, indicating coacoochee with a slight nod. "law, yes, miss anstice! you can always trust an injun to tell you the truth, for they hasn't learned how to lie; that is, them as has kept away from white folks hasn't. as for that young man, he has an honest face, and i believe every word he says. he'll take us straight to marse ralph, i know he will." comforted by this assurance, anstice crossed the river with a lighter heart than she had known for days. when, on the other side, and mounted on a spirited pony she was allowed to dash on in advance of the strange cavalcade that followed her, she began to experience an hitherto unknown thrill of delight in the wild freedom of the forest life unfolding before her. soon after leaving the river, the indians began to divide into small parties, each of which took a different direction, thus making a number of divergent trails well calculated to baffle pursuit. the negroes also separated into little companies, all of which were to be guided to a common rendezvous, where, under the leadership of old primus, they promised to remain until "marse" boyd should again return to the plantation and send for them. thus anstice and her maid finally found themselves escorted only by coacoochee and two other warriors. pushing forward with all speed, this little party reached, at noon of the second day, the bank of a dark stream that flowed sluggishly through an almost impenetrable cypress swamp. one of the indians remained here with the horses, while the rest of the party embarked in one of several canoes that had been carefully hidden at this point. urged on by the lusty paddles of coacoochee and his companion, this craft proceeded swiftly for nearly a mile up the shadowy stream. not even the noonday sun could penetrate the dense foliage that arched above them. festoons of vines depended like huge serpents from interlacing branches, and funereal streamers of gray moss hung motionless in the stagnant air. the black waters swarmed with great alligators, that showed little fear of the canoe, and gave it reluctant passage. strange birds, water-turkeys with snake-like necks, red-billed cormorants, purple galinules, and long-legged herons, startled from their meditations by the dip of paddles, flapped heavily up stream in advance of the oncoming craft, with discordant cries. upon such slender threads hang the fate of nations and communities as well as that of individuals, that, but for these brainless water-fowl, flying stupidly up the quiet river and spreading with harsh voices the news that something had frightened them, the whole course of the seminole war might have been changed. as it was, a single indian, who was cautiously making his way down stream in a small canoe, hugging the darkest shadows, and casting furtive glances on all sides, was quick to make use of the information thus furnished. as the squawking birds redoubled their cries at sight of him, he turned his canoe quickly and drove it deep in among the cypresses at one side, so that it was completely hidden from the view of any who might pass up or down the river. this indian, who was known as chitta-lustee (the black snake), had hardly gained the hiding-place from which he peered out with eager eyes, before the craft containing coacoochee and his little party swept into view around a bend, and slipped swiftly past him. the keen eye of the young war-chief did not fail to note the floating bubbles left by the paddle of the spy, but attributed them to an alligator, or to some of the innumerable turtles that were constantly plumping into the water from half-submerged logs as the canoe approached. so he paid no attention to them, but a minute later guided his slender craft across the river, and into an opening so concealed by low-hanging branches, that one unfamiliar with its location might have searched for it in vain. this was what chitta-lustee had been doing, and for the discovery, made now by accident, he had been promised a fabulous reward in _whiskey_. there were renegades among the seminoles as well as among the whites, and of these the black snake was one. seduced from his allegiance to those of his own blood by an unquenchable thirst for the white man's fire-water, he had sold himself, body and soul, to the enemies of his race. general scott, who had succeeded to the command of the army in florida, was bending all his energies toward breaking up the indian strongholds amid the swampy labyrinths of the withlacoochee. of these, the most important was that of osceola. no white man had ever seen it, and but few seminoles outside of the band occupying it had penetrated its mysteries. therefore the entire force of renegades, _friendly indians_ the whites called them, some seventy in number, drawn from the band of that traitor chief who had been bribed to agree to removal, were now engaged in a search for these secluded camps, while liberal rewards had been promised for the discovery of any one of them. goods to the amount of one hundred dollars, and one of the chiefships from which general wiley thompson had deposed the rightful holders, would be given to him who should lead the troops to the stronghold of osceola. chitta-lustee cared little for the honor of chiefship, but dazzled by a vision of one hundred dollars' worth of fire-water, which was the only class of white man's goods for which he longed, he made up his mind to discover the hidden retreat of the baton rouge, or perish in the attempt. for many days had he skulked in the swamps, repeatedly passing the concealed entrance to which coacoochee had now unwittingly guided him, without seeing it. as he noted the marks by which it might be identified, he gloated over the prize that seemed at length within his grasp and awaited impatiently the evening shadows that should enable him to make further explorations. in the meantime, the canoe from which anstice boyd was casting shuddering glances at the sombre scenes about her, continued for a short distance up a serpentine creek, so narrow as to barely afford it passage, and was finally halted beside a huge, moss-grown log. this, half-buried in the ooze of the swamp, afforded a landing-place, at which the party disembarked. as they did so, coacoochee turned to the english girl, and said: "the eye of the iste-hatke has never looked upon this place. ralph boyd knows it not, for he was brought here in darkness. will my sister keep its secret hidden deep in her own bosom, where no enemy of the iste-chatte shall ever find it?" to this query anstice replied: "coacoochee, as you deal with me, so will i deal by you. take me in safety to my brother, and your secret shall be safe with me forever." "un-cah! it is good," replied the young indian. "now let us go. step only where i step, and let the black girl step only where you step, for the trail is narrow." and narrow it proved. other logs, felled at right angles to the first, and sunk so deep in treacherous mud that their upper surface was often under water, formed a precarious pathway to a strip of firmer land. this natural causeway, to step from which was to be plunged in mud as black and soft as tar, besides being almost as tenacious, led for nearly half a mile to an island that rose abruptly from the surrounding swamp. this island was apparently completely covered with an impenetrable growth of timber and underbrush laced together by a myriad of thorny vines. the only trail by which the formidable barricade might be penetrated was not opposite the end of the causeway, but lay at some distance, to one side, where it was carefully concealed from all but those who would die rather than reveal its secret. even when it was once entered, its windings were not easy to trace. but its perplexities were short, and after a few rods the pathway ended abruptly in a scene so foreign to that from which it started, that it seemed to belong to another world. instead of the funereal gloom, the slime, the rank growth, and crowding horrors of the great swamp, here was a cleared space, acres in extent, bathed in sunlight, and alive with cheerful human activity. on the highest point of land, beneath a clump of stately trees, stood a cluster of palmetto-thatched huts, some open on all sides, and others enclosed; but all raised a foot or two from the ground, so as to allow of a free circulation of air beneath them. in and about these swarmed a happy, busy population. warriors, whose naked limbs exhibited the firm outlines of bronze statues, cleaned or mended their weapons. groups of laughing women, cleanly in person, attractive to look upon, and modestly clad, prepared food or engaged in other domestic duties; while rollicking bands of chubby children shouted shrilly over games that differed little from those of other children all over the world. stretching away from the village were broad fields of corn and cane, amid which yams, pumpkins, and melons grew with wonderful luxuriance. these fields were cared for by negroes, who dwelt in their own quarters, and worked the productive land on shares, that frequently brought larger returns to them than to the red-skinned proprietors of the soil. this was the swamp stronghold of osceola, to which coacoochee and louis had retreated after the battle of the withlacoochee, bringing with them the unconscious form of ralph boyd, the englishman friend of the enslaved and champion of the oppressed. in common with most of the whites, this young man had underrated both the numbers and courage of the seminoles, and had not believed they would dare fight, even for their homes, against united states troops. it was only upon penetrating their country with general clinch's army that ralph boyd realized how bitter was to be the struggle and that it was already begun. he had been shot down quite early in the battle at the river-crossing and lay on the field unnoticed until found by the one indian who was inclined to save his life rather than take it. when the wounded man next opened his eyes, he found himself lying on a couch of softest skins, amid surroundings so foreign to anything he had ever known that for awhile he was confident he was dreaming. then as the well-remembered form of coacoochee bent anxiously over him, a memory of recent events flashed into his mind. he realized that an indian war with all its attendant horrors was sweeping over the land, and recalled the fact that his sister anstice was alone and unprotected on the plantation by the st. john's. weakly he strove to rise, but fell back with a groan. "my brother must rest," said coacoochee, chidingly. "he is among friends, and there is no cause for uneasiness. here there is no white man to shoot him from behind." "i care not for myself," murmured the sufferer. "it is my sister, left without one to protect her or guide her to a place of safety. i must go to her." again he attempted to rise, but was gently restrained by the young indian, who said: "let not my brother be troubled. coacoochee will go in his place and guide the white maiden to a safe shelter." "will you, coacoochee? will you do this thing for me?" exclaimed boyd, a faint color flushing his pale cheeks. "un-cah," answered the young war-chief. "this very hour will i go, and when i come again i will bring a token from the white maiden who dwells by the great river." chapter xxvi two spies and their fate coacoochee had fulfilled his promise, and conducted the sister of his friend to a place of safety. as he entered the village followed closely by the first white girl that many of its inmates had ever seen, they gazed wonderingly and in silence at the unaccustomed spectacle. even the voices of the children were so suddenly hushed that ralph boyd, tossing wearily on his narrow couch in one of the enclosed huts, noted the quick cessation of sounds to which he had become wonted, and awaited its explanation with nervous impatience. the old indian woman who acted as his nurse stepped outside, and for the moment he was alone. filled with an intense desire to know what was taking place, the wounded man strove to rise, with the intention of crawling to the door of the hut; but ere he could carry out his design, the curtain of deerskins that closed it was thrust aside, and coacoochee stood before him. with a feeble shout of joy at sight of his friend, the sufferer exclaimed tremulously: "is she safe? have you brought a token from her?" "the white maiden is safe, and i have brought a token," answered the young indian, proudly. as he spoke, he moved aside, and in another moment anstice boyd, sobbing for joy, was kneeling beside her brother, with her arms about his neck. from that moment ralph boyd's recovery was sure and rapid, for there are no more certain cures for any wound than careful nursing and a relief from anxiety. within a week he was not only able to sit up, but to take short walks about the village, the strange life of which he studied with never-failing interest. so well ordered and peaceful was it, so filled with cheerful industry, that it was difficult to believe it a dwelling-place of those who were even then engaged in fighting for their homes and rights. but evidences that such was the case were visible on all sides. war-parties were constantly going and coming. osceola, now head chief of this particular band, and one of the leading spirits of the war, was away most of the time, hovering about the flanks of some army, cutting off their supplies, killing, burning, and destroying; here to-day, and far away to-morrow, spreading everywhere the terror of his name. coacoochee would fain have been engaged in similar service; but his own band of warriors under the temporary leadership of louis pacheco, was operating far to the eastward, between the st. john's and the coast, while he felt pledged to remain with his white friends until ralph boyd could be removed to a place of greater safety. he feared to leave them; for among the inmates of the camp were certain vindictive spirits who so hungered for white scalps that they made frequent threats of what would happen to the brother and sister, whom they regarded as captives, in case they had their way with them. so the young war-chief restrained his longings for more active service, and devoted himself to collecting great quantities of corn and other supplies, which he stored in this swamp stronghold for future use. when not waiting on her brother, anstice amused herself by observing the domestic life of the village and in cultivating an acquaintance among its women and children. the former were so shy that she made but little headway with them. in fact, her maid letty was far more popular among the indian women than she. with the children, however, anstice became an object for adoration almost from the moment of her appearance among them. so devoted were they to her that she could not walk abroad without an attendant throng of sturdy urchins or naked toddlers. one drowsy afternoon, leaving her brother asleep in a hammock woven of tough swamp grasses, anstice, accompanied by her usual escort of children and with a slim little maiden clinging to each hand, visited a dense thicket near the pathway leading out to the great swamp, in search of bead-like palmetto berries, which she proposed to string into necklaces. seating herself on the edge of the forest growth, she despatched several of the children in search of the coveted berries. diving under the bushes and threading their tangled mazes like so many quail, these quickly disappeared from view, though shouts of laughter plainly indicated their movements. suddenly a scream of childish terror was uttered close at hand, and a little lad, trembling with fright, came running back to where anstice was sitting. filled with a dread of wild beasts or deadly serpents, the girl sprang to her feet, and making use of the few seminole words she had acquired while in the village, called loudly: "at-tess-cha, che-paw-ne! at-tess-cha, mas-tchay!" (come here, boys! come here quickly!) the quality of terror in her voice rather than the words themselves must have attracted attention, for while there came no answer, the children's shouts were suddenly hushed. each embryo warrior dropped to the ground where he was, and like hunted rabbits, lay motionless, but keenly alert, until they should learn from which direction danger might be expected. those who had remained with anstice clung to her skirts, and the urchin who had given the alarm glanced fearfully behind him. as the girl stood irresolute, there came a movement in the bushes close at hand. then to her amazement, her name was called softly, but in a voice whose accents she would have recognized anywhere and under all circumstances. it needed not the parting of the leafy screen and a glimpse of the anxious face behind it, to tell her that irwin douglass, the lieutenant of dragoons, who had so often shared the hospitality of her brother's table, had, by some inconceivable means, penetrated the secrets of this indian stronghold and ventured within its deadly confines. "oh, mr. douglass!" she cried, in a voice trembling with apprehension. "how came you here? do you not realize your awful peril? you will be killed if you stay a minute longer! fly, then! fly, i beg of you, while there is yet time." "but, miss boyd! anstice! why are you here instead of safe in augustine as we thought? are you not in equal, or even in greater, peril? come with me, and i will gladly beat a retreat, but i cannot leave you to the mercy of the savages. this place is infested by an overwhelming force of troops, who only await my return to make an attack. the indians will surely kill you rather than allow you to be rescued." "no! no! i am in no peril!" replied the agitated girl. "i am here of my own free will, and shall be safe in any event. but you! if you value your life! if you love--" just then two grim warriors appeared as though they had dropped from the sky, one on either side of douglass, and in spite of a mighty struggle for freedom, made him their prisoner. one of the children had sped to the village. coacoochee, with several followers, had taken the trail, and closed in from two sides on anstice and the lieutenant, while they were too full of amazement at each other's presence in that place to note the stealthy approach. as two of the indians seized the young officer, the others sprang after a retreating form they had just discovered skulking through the forest. it was that of chitta-lustee, the spy, who had carried the news of his finding of this stronghold to fort king. from there he had guided a body of troops back to the log landing, whence he had been sent, in company with lieutenant douglass, to note the exact state of affairs in the village before an attack should be ordered. together they had crept undetected to a place from which they could command a fair view of the village, and estimate the force of its defenders, which at that moment did not number more than a dozen warriors. the spies were about to retire from their dangerous position when prevented by the approach of anstice and her retinue of children. one of these had chanced upon their hiding-place, and while douglass pleaded with the english girl to seize this opportunity for escape from what he imagined to be a terrible captivity, his companion was trying to secure his own safety by slowly and noiselessly creeping away. he had gained a fair distance, and was beginning to move more rapidly, when discovered by coacoochee, who, followed by the other warriors, immediately sprang in pursuit. down to the edge of the swamp and out on the narrow causeway fled the spy, and after him, like hound in full view of his quarry, leaped the avenger. it was a terrible race along that slender path, slippery with slime and water. chitta-lustee flung away his rifle, and, with breath coming in panting gasps, ran for his life. a few rods more, and he would be safe. coacoochee, reckless of consequences, and filled with a fierce determination to destroy, at all hazards, this most dangerous enemy of his people, only clenched his teeth more tightly, and leaped forward with an increase of speed, as he detected a glint of weapons directly ahead, and realized that the farther end of the causeway was already occupied by troops. he bore only a light spear that he had snatched up at the first alarm, and, with all his skill, he must be at least within twenty yards of a mark ere he could hurl it effectively. he was still one hundred yards away, and now he could distinguish the uniforms of those who were advancing to meet the panting fugitive. those who followed the young chief were halting doubtfully. to them it seemed that he was rushing toward certain destruction. they could not restrain him. to follow his example and throw their lives away uselessly would be worse than folly. so they stayed their steps, and watched the fearful race with fascinated gaze. only for a moment, and then all was over. chitta-lustee slipped and stumbled on one of the water-soaked logs at the end of the causeway. as he recovered himself, there came a flash of darting steel, and the keen blade of a hurtling spear, flung with the utmost of coacoochee's nervous strength, sunk deep between his shoulders. with a choking cry, and out-flung arms, the traitor pitched headlong into the black waters, and disappeared forever, while cries of horror came from the advancing soldiers whose protection he had so nearly gained. even as the young war-chief delivered his deadly blow, and without waiting to note its effect, he turned and fled toward his own people. a dozen angry rifles rang out behind him, and the whole swamp echoed with fierce yells from the enraged soldiers, but no bullet struck him, and no taunt served to stay his steps. the three indians fled swiftly as hunted deer, back along the treacherous trail, while the troops followed with what speed they might. it was so difficult a path, and so dangerous, and the heavy-booted soldiers slipped from its narrow verge so often, that those whom they pursued reached the island and disappeared among its thickets ere they had more than started. then back through the heavy air came mockingly and defiantly the seminole war-cry: "yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-chee!" thus they knew that a surprise of the stronghold they had so labored to gain was no longer possible. still with a courage worthy of a nobler cause the troops pushed forward, unguided save by instinct and a burning desire to avenge the death of their well-loved lieutenant, whom they supposed the savages had already killed. with all their efforts it was a full half-hour ere the advance drew near to the wooded island that rose silent and mysterious before them, and they began to feel firmer ground beneath their feet. before they reached its encircling forest wall, flashes of flame began to leap from the dark thickets, and before the deadly fire of an unseen foe the advance was staggered and halted. it was only for a moment, and then they sprang forward with a cheer to charge the fatal barricade. a dozen troopers had fallen ere the indian fire was silenced, and as yet the soldiers had not caught a glimpse of their foe. in the thick-set undergrowth they were tripped and flung to the ground by snake-like roots, encircled and held fast by tough vines, clutched and drawn backward by stout thorns curved and sharp as a tiger's claws. no human being save a naked indian could thread that forest maze, and as the soldiers could discover no opening through it, they decided to make one. swords, axes, and knives were called into requisition. every now and then a rifle shot from the unseen foe proved the indians to be still watchful and defiant. it was not until another half-hour had been expended in this exhausting effort at road-cutting that the trail lying well to one side was discovered. wearied by their futile efforts, made furious by opposition, and galled by the fire from unseen rifles that had been steadily thinning their numbers ever since they reached the island, the troops rushed with fierce shouts to the opening, streamed through it, and gained the central, cleared space in which stood the seminole village. here, for a moment, the tumultuous advance was checked, and each man clutched his weapon with a closer grip, in expectation of an attack. but none was made. the peaceful village, all aglow with the light of a setting sun, was silent and deserted. no voices came from it, nor from the broad fields that lay clothed in luxuriant verdure beyond. there was no sound of busy workers, no laughter of children. a raven with glossy plumage, iridescent in the sunlight, croaked a hoarse challenge from a lofty tree-top, and a solitary buzzard circled overhead on motionless pinions, but no other signs of life were to be detected. after a minute of irresolution captain chase, the officer in command of the expedition, deployed his men as skirmishers, and was about to give the order "forward!" when this strange thing happened: from one of the thatched huts of the village three human beings emerged and advanced slowly toward the motionless line of soldiers. two were men, evidently white men, and one of these wore a uniform. between them walked a young girl whose shapely head was crowned with a mass of gold-red hair. as she drew near, a murmur of admiration at her beauty passed along the stern line of blue-coated troops. then an irrepressible tumult of cheers rent the air, for in one of the girl's companions the soldiers recognized their own beloved lieutenant, irwin douglass. but curiosity got the better of enthusiasm, and as the noise subsided, each trooper waited in breathless silence for an explanation of this strange encounter. chapter xxvii anstice boyd saves the life of a captive while coacoochee was engaged in his fierce pursuit of the traitor seminole across the black causeway, irwin douglass was led to the village, where he was securely bound to one of the great trees by which it was shaded. here his captors left him, and seizing their rifles hastened back to the edge of the swamp. the moment anstice realized that the young soldier, though a captive, was not doomed to instant death, she flew back to the hut occupied by her brother, whom she found still quietly sleeping in his grass-woven hammock. roused into a startled wakefulness by her abrupt entrance, the convalescent was for some moments at a loss to comprehend what she was saying or what had caused her excitement. "who do you say is captured? and what has happened, dear, to frighten you?" he asked, in a bewildered tone. "irwin douglass, and they are going to kill him, and the village is about to be attacked, and we shall all be murdered!" cried the terrified girl. "douglass captured and about to be killed? impossible!" exclaimed boyd, rising and starting toward the doorway. "but i will go and see. surely coacoochee would never murder a prisoner in cold blood. as for ourselves, you know we are safe so long as we are his guests. wait here, sister, and i will bring douglass back with me, if, as you say, he is in the village." but the frightened girl clung to him and would not be left. so they set forth together, and had hardly gained the outer air before a sound of firing from the causeway warned them that fighting of some sort was begun. the same sounds created vast excitement among the inmates of the village, and the crowd of negroes, who, at the first note of alarm, had come swarming up from the fields. these so occupied the entire foreground that the brother and sister could get no sight of him whom they sought. neither was their friend the young war-chief to be seen. they attempted to make way through the throng, but were impatiently pushed back, the crowd scowling and muttering at them angrily. one huge, coal-black negro even advanced upon them with a drawn knife and so ugly an expression, that ralph boyd instinctively thrust his sister behind him, and nerved himself to receive an attack. unarmed and weakened by illness as he was, the outcome of such a struggle could readily be foreseen, and the white man cast a despairing glance about him in search of some weapon. there was none, and the gleaming knife was already uplifted for a deadly stroke, when, with a shrill cry, a black woman sprang betwixt the two, snatched the knife from the negro's hand, and flourishing it in his face, poured out such a furious torrent of angry, scornful, and threatening words, that the brute slunk away from her, completely cowed. now, turning and almost pushing boyd and his sister before her, letty--for the black amazon was no other than anstice's own maid--succeeded in getting them back inside the hut before their assailant had time to rally from his discomfiture. then, still clutching the knife she had so adroitly captured, the black girl stood guard before the entrance, deaf alike to those of her own color, who taunted her with being a traitor to her race, and to the entreaties of her young mistress, that she should attempt a rescue of the prisoner about whom the crowd of indian women and negroes still swarmed. "cayn't do it, miss anstice," replied the black girl, firmly, but without turning her head. "i'se powerful sorry for marse douglass, but when it's him or you, i know which one i'se bound to look after." "but, letty, they will murder him!" "no, miss anstice, not till coacoochee says so. they das'n't kill him, not till the chief gives the word." "but supposing coacoochee does not come? he may be killed or captured himself, you know." "there ain't no use speculating on that, miss anstice, because he's come already. i can see him out there now, talking to the crowd. looks like he's in a powerful hurry, too, and i spec's the end of time has come for poor marse douglass. oh lord, miss anstice! stop up your ears, quick!" at these ominous words, the brave english girl, instead of complying, darted from the hut so swiftly, that ere letty could interfere to prevent her, she had gained the centre of the village. there she came upon a scene well calculated to freeze the blood in her veins. irwin douglass, bound to a tree, with his pale, resolute face turned toward the setting sun, gazed with unflinching calmness into the black muzzles of four levelled rifles, that in another moment would pour their deadly contents into his body. the pitiless warriors who held them, and only awaited a signal from their young chief to press the fatal triggers, scanned the face of their victim in vain for the faintest trace of fear. there was none; and they were filled with regrets that so brave a man could not be reserved for a more lingering and trying form of death. but there was no time to spare. the soldiers were even now upon them, and whatever was to be done must be done quickly. already murmurs of impatience could be heard among the spectators. as coacoochee was about to give the dread command, there came a quick rush, and the girlish figure of anstice boyd stood full in front of the cruel rifles, between them and their human mark. her wonderful hair, half loosed from its coil, glinted like spun gold in the red sunlight. her eyes were big with terror, and her face was bloodless, but her voice rang out clear and strong, as she cried: "coacoochee, you must not do this thing! you dare not!" "he is an enemy," answered the young chief, calmly; and without betraying his annoyance at this interruption. "if we should not kill him, he would kill us." "he might in battle or in fair fight, but he would never shoot down a helpless prisoner," replied the girl, in scornful tones. "set him free, place a weapon in his hands, and fight him man to man, if you dare." "gladly would i," answered the young seminole, "if there was time, but there is not. thy people have hunted us like wolves to our den, and even now are upon us. in another minute must we fly for our lives. our friends we can leave to their friends. our captive we cannot take, and dare not release. he is a spy. the white man puts a spy to death; why should not the indian? coacoochee has spoken. the spy must die. let my white sister stand aside." very stern was the young war-chief, and very determined. a murmur of approbation rose from the dusky throng about him as his words fell upon their ears. a wave of despair surged over anstice boyd. her face flushed, then became deadly pale. her voice was well-nigh choked as she answered: "then, oh, coacoochee, if you will not yield to the dictates of humanity, still listen to me. in the name of allala, thy spirit sister, in the name of her who still lives, and is most dear to thee, in the name of ralph boyd, who, by his deeds, has proved himself thy friend, i plead for this man's life. if this is not enough, i demand it for yet another reason." here, with face crimsoned like the rising sun, the girl stepped close to the young chief, and spoke a few words in a tone so low that none but he could catch their import. his stern face softened, and for a moment he looked curiously at her. then drawing his own silver-mounted knife from its sheath, he handed it to her, saying: "the words of the white maiden have sunk deep into the heart of coacoochee. let her lead him whom she has saved to the lodge of her brother. keep him there, close hidden from my people, so long as a voice is heard in this place. then, and not till then, will it be safe for the iste-hatke to venture forth. farewell, my sister! thank not the wild cat that his claws are sheathed. thank rather allala, nita, and ralph boyd. _hi-e-pas! hi-e-pas!_" [illustration: the girl stepped close to the young chief and spoke a few words.] the last two words were uttered in ringing tones of command to his own people, and, supplemented as they were by a crashing volley of musketry from the edge of the swamp, they produced an instant effect. although many glances of hate were flashed at the white girl and the prisoner, whom she freed from his bonds with two strokes of coacoochee's keen knife, they were allowed to pass unharmed to the hut occupied by ralph boyd. he walked with them; for, without his sister's knowledge, he had stood close by her side while she pleaded for the life of irwin douglass, ready to strike a blow in her defence, or to share her fate. the three entered the hut together, and as its curtain of deerskin was drawn so as to exclude all prying eyes, the overwrought girl fell into her brother's arms, weeping hysterically. the young soldier, who but a moment before stood within the shadow of death, gazed curiously and awkwardly for a second on this scene, and then turning away, sat down with his face buried in his hands. ralph boyd sought to calm his brave sister with loving words. so filled was each of the three with crowding emotions that they took no note of time nor of outside sounds, until at length the girl ceased her sobbing and gazed with a smile into her brother's face. then, with a weight lifted from his heart, he began to talk to her in a cheerful strain. "it was nobly done, sister mine," he said, "and as a special pleader i will name you before any barrister in the land. what argument, though, was it you used at the last? i failed to catch the words, but they must have been of powerful force." again a tide of crimson mantled the girl's fair cheeks, as she replied: "coacoochee knows, and i know; but let it suffice you, brother, that they were effective; for more than that i can never tell." at this juncture, the young soldier, looking as guilty as though he had been caught at eavesdropping, rose, drew aside the curtain at the entrance, and stepped outside. as he did so, he uttered an exclamation that quickly brought the others to his side. the village, recently so populous and filled with busy life, was deserted. not a soul was to be seen. even the pigs and chickens had disappeared. an unbroken silence, as of an impending doom, brooded over the place, and, as the three who were now its sole occupants walked among the vacant habitations, they felt impelled to lower their voices, as though in presence of the dead. they had gone but a short distance when their attention was attracted by the sound of many voices and the tramp of armed men. turning in that direction, they beheld a body of troops pouring from the pathway leading to the swamp, and toward these they at once directed their steps. as the three whose recent experiences had been so thrilling walked slowly down the grassy slope, douglass strove to find words with which to thank anstice boyd for the gift of his life; but the girl interrupted him at the outset, and begged him never to mention the subject again. "very well," he replied, "since that is your desire, i will strive to obey. i do so the more readily that mere words fail to express my feelings; but i shall live in hope of the time when by some service i may be able to indicate my gratitude." whatever else the grateful young soldier might have said was interrupted by cheers from the troops, who at that moment recognized the comrade whom they had mourned as lost to them forever. as quiet was restored, his brother officers crowded about him with a hearty welcome and an avalanche of questions. "that will do for the present, gentlemen," interposed captain chase. "excuse a soldier's abruptness, madam," he added, bowing to anstice, "but in this stern business of war, duty must precede even the ordinary courtesies of life. now, mr. douglass, since you are so happily restored to us, please tell me what to expect in yonder den of swamp devils? are we to be attacked? shall we charge. what force opposes us? what is the meaning of this ominous silence?" "i hardly know how to answer you, sir," replied the lieutenant, "for i am as ignorant concerning the enemy's movements as yourself. so far as i know, there is not a soul in yonder village, though but a few minutes ago it was swarming with life." "what has become of them, then?" demanded the officer, impatiently. "i do not know, sir." "you can at least tell in which direction they went." "no, sir, i cannot even do that; for i did not see them go, nor do i know when they departed." "upon my soul, this is a most extraordinary state of affairs!" exclaimed the officer, flushing angrily. "i must confess that i had not heretofore credited you with blindness. perhaps, sir, you can give us the desired information?" he added, turning to ralph boyd. upon the young englishman claiming an equal ignorance with the lieutenant, the irate captain said in a tone of suppressed anger: "this matter shall be investigated at a more convenient time, but at present it seems that we must make discoveries for ourselves. to your places, gentlemen. forward! double quick! march!" with this the line of blue-coated troops advanced swiftly up the slope and charged the empty huts of the deserted village. chapter xxviii the mark of the wildcat in vain did the soldiers ransack the empty huts of the village, and scour the island from end to end. not a single human being or evidence of life did they discover, nor were they fired upon from the belt of timber surrounding the cleared fields. the hundreds of men, women, and children, indians and negroes, who had been at home in this place less than an hour before, had vanished as mysteriously and completely as though the earth had opened and swallowed them. even the secret place of exit through the swamp, provided for just such an emergency as the present, had not been discovered when darkness put an end to the search, and the troops camped in and about the indian village for the night. the officer commanding the expedition was furious. he had expected to destroy or capture the entire force of the enemy gathered at this point. instead of so doing, he had not only failed to capture a single prisoner, but could not discover that his fire had resulted in the killing or even wounding of a single warrior. on the other hand, the dead of his own command numbered seven, while a score of others were more or less severely wounded. his anger was in nowise diminished by what he was pleased to term the culpable ignorance of lieutenant douglass concerning the strength and movements of the indians. when questioned on these points, the young officer, with a delicacy that forbade the part taken by anstice boyd in his rescue becoming common talk of the camp, would only say that, having been confined in a closed hut, he had no opportunity of knowing what was taking place outside. "were you bound, blind-folded, or in any other way deprived of the use of your faculties?" demanded the commander. "no, sir, i was not." "in that case it is incredible that you could not have found some opportunity for making observations of what was taking place about you; and that you failed to do so, must be regarded as a grave neglect of duty. the very fact that the savages, having you in their power, presented you with both life and liberty, would seem to argue a closer sympathy between you and them than is permissible between an officer of the united states army and the enemies of his government. therefore, sir, i shall take it upon myself to suspend you from duty, and shall prefer charges against you which you will be allowed to meet before a court martial. that is all, sir. you may go." "very good, sir," replied the younger officer, bowing, and retiring with a pale face, and a mind filled with bitter thoughts. that night the island seemed a very abode of malicious spirits. low-hanging clouds covered it with a veil of darkness so intense as to be oppressive. a strong wind moaned among the forest trees, and borne on it from the surrounding swamp came blood-chilling shrieks and yells, weird and foreboding, but whether produced by wild beasts or wild men, the shuddering listeners, gathered closely about flaring camp-fires, could not determine. so terrible were some of these wind-borne cries, that certain among those who listened declared them to be the despairing accents of lost souls; for which sentiment they were derided by the bolder of their comrades. but when the midnight relief went its round of the outposts, and found four of them guarded only by corpses, even the scoffers were willing to admit that in the rush of the night wind they had heard the wings of the angel of death. as, one after another, the dead sentinels were brought in to the firelight, they were found to be without wounds, unless a scratch of five fine lines on each pallid forehead could be called such. in each case the cause of death was a broken neck. from this and the scratches, that looked as though they might have been made by the brushing of a mighty paw, it was at first thought that the unfortunate soldiers might have been done to death by one of the more powerful beasts of the forest. this belief was, however, quickly upset by an old frontiersman who accompanied the troops as a scout. pointing out that all the scratches were located in the same place, and all had been made with equal lightness of touch, he declared them to be the mark of coacoochee the wildcat. already the terror of this name had spread so far, that when ralph boyd asserted that coacoochee was indeed leader of the band just driven from that stronghold, a great fear fell upon the soldiers, and to a man they refused to perform outpost duty beyond the limit of firelight. to enlarge this lighted circle, one hut after another was set on fire, until the whole village, including the great storehouses full of provisions and the granaries of corn, was one roaring, leaping mass of flame. the leafy crowns of the giant oaks that had shaded it, shrivelled, crackled, and burst into a myriad tongues of fire; while to render the destruction of the forest monarchs more certain, some of the soldiers seized axes and girdled their trunks. so bright was the circle of light in which the troops foolishly sought for safety, that had coacoochee been leader of one hundred warriors at that moment, he could have wiped out the entire force of invaders; but he was alone, and from the black recesses of a thicket he gazed upon the scene of destruction in impotent wrath. having seen the band intrusted to his care safely across the great swamp, and well on their way to another place of refuge, he had returned alone to watch the invasion of osceola's stronghold. with the noiseless movements of a gliding shadow he had skirted the camp of the soldiers, and four times had he left silent but terrible witnesses of his presence. with a heavy heart he now watched the burning of the great stores of food that he had gathered for the support of his people during months of fighting; for he knew that with this destruction a heavy blow had been dealt against the seminole cause. with the earliest coming of daylight, the troops, impatient to finish their task and leave that place of terror, began to destroy the growing crops beyond the village. safe hidden among the spreading branches of a live-oak, where he was screened by great clusters of pale-green mistletoe, coacoochee watched them tear up acres of tasselled corn, and laden vines, cut down scores of trees heavy with ripening fruit, and burn broad areas of waving cane. at length, the work of destruction was completed, all stragglers were called in by a blast of bugles, a parting volley was fired over the single long grave, in which a dozen dead soldiers lay buried; and, taking their wounded with them, the blue-coated column marched gladly away from the place they had so little reason to love. descending from his post of observation, the young indian followed them, until he had seen the last trooper disappear along the narrow causeway, amid the sombre cypresses of the great swamp. then slowly and thoughtfully he retraced his steps, walking now in the full glare of sunlight, until he stood again beneath the clump of dying trees that, but a few hours before, had shaded the peaceful village. as he gazed about him on charred embers, and smoking ruins, deserted fields, and prostrate orchards, the bold heart of the young war-chief sank like a leaden weight within him. "thus must it be to the end," he said half aloud, as though his brimming thoughts were struggling for expression. "ruin and destruction follow ever the tread of the iste-hatke. he is strong, and we are weak. he is many, and we are few. we may kill his hundreds, and he brings thousands to devour us. we may plant, but he will gather the fruit. the seminole may starve, and at the cry of his children for food the white man will make merry. my father was right when he said that to fight the white man was like fighting the waves of the great salt waters. what now shall be done? shall we continue to fight, and die fighting in our own land, or shall we again trust to the lying tongue of the iste-hatke, and go to the place in which he says we may dwell at peace with him? oh, allala! my sister, hear me, and come to me with thy words of wisdom." at that moment, as though in answer to his prayer, coacoochee caught sight of a figure advancing hesitatingly towards where he stood. it was that of a warrior, whom he recognized even at a distance as belonging to his own band. the newcomer cast troubled glances over the pitiful scene of ruin outspread on all sides. until now he had not noted the presence of his chief; but, when the latter uttered the cry of a hawk, which was the familiar signal of his band, the warrior quickened his steps, and came to where the young man stood. he proved to be a runner, sent out by louis pacheco, to notify coacoochee that philip emathla with all the people of his village had been captured and conveyed to st. augustine, whence it was proposed to remove them to the unknown land of the far west. the old chief had begged so earnestly for an interview with his eldest son, that the general in command had sent out a written safe-conduct for the latter to come and go again in safety. this the runner now delivered to coacoochee, assuring him at the same time that louis pacheco had looked at it and pronounced it good. the young chief took the paper, regarded it curiously, and thrust it into his girdle, then without delay, he set forth on his long journey to the eastern coast. the runner was able to inform him of the present location of osceola, and accordingly he first directed his steps to the camp of that fiery young chieftain to apprise him of the destruction of his swamp stronghold. here he found a delegation of cherokees, bearing an address from john ross, their head chief, to coacoochee and osceola, who were regarded as the most important leaders of the florida indians. this address prayed the seminoles to end their fruitless struggle against the all-powerful whites. it assured them that should they consent to removal, the promises made by the latter would be kept, and that the cherokees, as their nearest neighbors in the western land, would ever be their firm allies in resistance to further oppression. the conference was long and earnest. osceola, discouraged by the loss of his stronghold, and by the destruction of its great store of provisions, which he foresaw would entail much suffering among his people during the coming winter, was inclined to make peace, though still resolutely opposed to removal. coacoochee, filled with thoughts of his aged father and nita pacheco held captives by the whites, was even more anxious to make an honorable peace than was his brother chieftain. so it was finally decided that he should take advantage of his safe-conduct, to visit st. augustine, advise with philip emathla, talk with the general in command, so as to ascertain the exact views of the whites, and return to osceola with his report. thus, three days later the young war-chief, clad as befitted his rank, and bearing a superb calumet as a present from osceola, presented himself boldly before the gates of st. augustine, exhibited his safe-conduct, and demanded to be taken to the general. the manly beauty of his features, his haughty bearing, and gorgeous costume attracted universal admiration, as he strode proudly through the narrow streets of the quaint old city. before he reached the house in which the commandant was lodged, he was surrounded by a curious throng of citizens, through which the corporal's guard escorting him found some difficulty in clearing a passage. the general greeted the son of philip emathla with honeyed words, and caused him to be treated with the consideration due his rank and importance. his father was brought to welcome him, and the two were allowed to depart together to the encampment of the captives, which was in the plaza, or central square of the city, where it was surrounded by a cordon of soldiers. here, after a separation of many months, the young chief met her to whom he had plighted his troth by the blue ahpopka lake. in his eyes she appeared more lovely than ever, and he longed ardently for the time of peace that should enable him to make for her a home in which they might dwell together in safety. so much was there to tell and to hear, and so many grave questions to be discussed, that the night was spent in talking, and the dawn of another day found them still seated about the cold embers of a small fire in front of king philip's lodge. the old man advised earnestly for peace, even at the cost of removal, though at the same time declaring that with leaving his own land his heart would break, so that he should never live to reach the strange place set apart for his people. nita, happily content to sit close beside her lover, only leaving him now and then to replenish the fire, refill the pipes, or to bring from the lodge some dainty morsel of food, had little to say; but such words as she uttered were in favor of peace. thus was the mind of coacoochee the wildcat turned from thoughts of fighting and vengeance, to those of peace and happiness for his loved ones, his oppressed people, and himself. so convinced was he that the war must be ended, that he readily consented to go again to osceola, and persuade him to come in, with such other chiefs as could be gathered, to attend a solemn council, with a view to the speedy settlement of all existing troubles. on leaving the city, he was laden with presents, both for himself and osceola, and promising to return in ten days, he set forth with a lighter heart than he had known for more than a year. alas for human nature, that they who trust most should be most often deceived! by the swift turning of affairs that gave the army in florida a new commanding general every few months during the seminole war, general scott had been succeeded by general jesup. from him the commandant at st. augustine had recently received a despatch which, could coacoochee have known its contents, would have filled the young chief's heart with renewed bitterness, and turned his peaceful longings into a fierce resolve for a fight to the death. chapter xxix treacherous capture of coacoochee and osceola to the great satisfaction of the general of militia commanding at st. augustine, coacoochee, unsuspicious of evil, and intent only upon carrying out his avowed purpose of arranging for a new treaty of peace, returned to the city on the exact date he had named. with an honest pride at the success of his negotiations he announced that osceola, coa hadjo, talmus hadjo, and others would come in on the following day, and, camping a short distance outside the city, would there await the white commissioners. he also brought information that the cherokee peace delegation had gone to the westward for a conference with micanopy and other chiefs. the general, still treating the young chief with a lofty consideration, thanked him profusely for his services, and asked as a favor that he would guide a wagon-load of provisions, intended as a present for osceola and his people, to the place selected for their encampment. this, he said, was a small portion of the supply he was collecting for his indian friends; and, when he went to meet them on the morrow, he should take with him several other wagons laden with provisions, that they might have plenty to eat in case the negotiations were extended over a number of days. much pleased by this proof of the white man's thoughtful kindness, coacoochee willingly consented to act as guide to the first wagon, and then asked that he might visit philip emathla's camp while it was being got ready,--a request that was granted, though with evident reluctance. as the young indian turned away from the general's quarters, he almost ran into the arms of ralph boyd, who had come to st. augustine with his sister but two days before, intending to remain there until the end of the war should render it safe for them to return to their plantation. while coacoochee was delighted to thus encounter the only white man whom he could call friend, the young englishman was more than amazed to meet him amid such surroundings. "coacoochee!" he exclaimed. "how is this? why are you here? is it as a prisoner? or have you decided to join the winning side, and become an ally of the americans?" "i am here neither as a prisoner or a traitor," answered the other, proudly, "but to help in making a peace for my people while they are yet strong enough to insist upon honorable terms." "and do you trust the man whom you have just left?" asked boyd, indicating by a gesture the quarters of the general. "yes," replied coacoochee, slowly. "i trust him, for i must trust him. without trust on both sides there could be no treaty. without a treaty the seminole must be wiped out. my father and others of my people are even now held here as captives, and only through a treaty can their liberty be restored. i go now to see them. will my white brother go with me?" "with pleasure. i knew there were indian prisoners here, but had no idea that your father was among them, or i would have visited him ere this, to congratulate him on having so fine a son. ah! here is their camp now; but i say, coacoochee, who is that white girl sitting among the indian women? by jove! she is the most beautiful creature i ever saw." "her name is nita pacheco," answered the young chief, gazing fondly at the girl, who, intent on a bit of sewing, was as yet unaware of his presence. "not your nita! not the one that you-- why, confound it, man! you never told me she was white. you said she was a--" "so she is," admitted coacoochee, very quietly. "she is one of the iste-lustee, as you were about to say. her mother was an octoroon, and of every sixteen drops in nita's veins, one is black. although she was born free as you or i, she has been claimed as a slave; and philip emathla was obliged to pay a large sum of money to establish her freedom. with the ending of this war she will become my chee-hi-wah, or what you would call wife." "in which case i don't wonder that you are so keen for peace. if i were in your place, i would have it at any price, and i only hope i may speedily have the pleasure of dancing at your wedding. won't anstice be pleased, though? ever since she discovered that you had a sweetheart, she has wished to meet her." "would the white maiden take the hand of her who is of the iste-lustee?" asked coacoochee, abruptly. "oh bother your iste-lustees! of course she would," cried boyd. "not only that, but she would love her dearly. why, the girl is as white as anstice herself, and even if she were not, do you suppose that would make any difference? don't you know that any one precious to you must also be dear to us, who owe you everything, including our lives. don't you know the meaning of the word 'gratitude'? and don't you suppose we know it, too, you confoundedly proud seminole, you?" ere he finished this speech the englishman was left alone; for, at the sound of his raised voice, nita looked up, and flushed so rosily at sight of her lover, that he was drawn to her side as irresistibly as needle to magnet. then, forgetful of all save each other, they strolled among the lodges of the little encampment. suddenly while they walked, coacoochee started as though he had been shot. in a whisper he bade the girl at his side return to her companions, and as without comment she obeyed him, he stood motionless, his face black with rage, and his whole frame quivering with excitement. the cause of this emotion was a voice coming from the opposite side of a tent that had been appropriated to the especial use of philip emathla. the voice was saying: "they tell me, old man, that you don't savey american; but i reckin you can understand enough to know what i mean when i say that if you've got any niggers to sell, i'm the man that'll buy them of you, of co'se at a reasonable figger. as things stand now, your travelling expenses are likely to be heavy, and there's two or three wenches in your camp that i'd be willing to stake you something handsome for. there ain't no drop of injun blood in ary one of them, and they are certain to be took from you, anyway. so you, might as well make something out of 'em while you've got the chance. one of 'em, that pacheco gal, is mine by rights, anyhow; but if--" at this point the speaker uttered a yell of terror, and instinctively reached for his pistol, as with a bound like that of a panther and blazing eyes, coacoochee leaped upon him. mr. troup jeffers was hurled, to the ground with such force that for a moment he lay stunned and motionless. as the wildcat glared about him for some weapon with which to complete his task, two of the guards rushed in and dragged the slave-trader beyond the lines of the camp. at the same time, boyd, who had witnessed the scene from a distance, came hurrying up from an opposite direction. "for heaven's sake coacoochee! what does this mean?" he cried; "you'll have a war on your hands right here if you don't look out." without answering him, the young indian turned to philip emathla, who was sitting before the tent, and uttered a few hurried words in his own tongue, the purport of which was, "look well on this man, my father; for he is my friend, whom you can trust as you would me. if he comes to thee for nita, let her go with him." then he and ralph boyd hurried away in the direction from which they had come. as they passed the group of women, coacoochee stopped to whisper in the ear of nita pacheco, who was also bidden to trust the white man now before her, and then they passed on. "that dog, whom i would i had killed," said the young indian, when they were safely beyond the camp, "is a catcher of slaves, who seeks to steal my promised wife. for this night, i cannot protect her, for i must meet ah-ha-se-ho-la. if i do not, he will not stay, and there will be no peace. before the setting of to-morrow's sun coacoochee will be free to protect his own. for this night, then, i would have you and the white maiden, thy sister, give to nita the shelter of thy lodge; or, if that be not possible, watch over her and see that she is not stolen away." "certainly, my dear fellow! of course we will look out for her as long as you like, and glad of the chance to thus repay some portion of our indebtedness," interrupted ralph boyd, heartily. "but who is the rascally beggar?" "his name i know not," replied the other; "but certain things concerning him i do know. he, more than any other, caused this war between the iste-chatte and the white man. he broke up the home of the pachecos and sold the mother and brother of nita into slavery, as he would now sell her. he stole and sold into slavery the wife of osceola." "the scoundrel!" exclaimed boyd. "when my white brother was shot down at the battle of the withlacoochee, the bullet came from behind, and from the rifle of this man." "what!" "when the home of my white brother was attacked by white men, painted to look like the iste-chatte, this man was leader of the band. he it was who took the white maiden, thy sister, captive and left her to perish in the forest." "good heavens, man! do you know what you are talking about? can all this be true?" "the tongue of coacoochee is straight. he would not lie to his white brother." "yes, but may you not be mistaken? i did not know i had an enemy in the world, who would thus injure me. who can it be?" "what i have said is true. does my brother remember talking with a man under a tree the day before the white soldiers reached the ferry of the withlacoochee, and speaking scornful words to him?" "yes, though i don't see how you could know of that. i inquired about him and found out his name, which proved to be the same as that of the last overseer on my plantation. i had heard bad accounts of the man, and had him discharged before taking possession." "this man is the same who talked with my brother under the tree." "well, whoever he is, you may be very certain that i shall look into this thing thoroughly, and if i find him to be guilty of half of these things, i will make him suffer sweetly. meantime, my lad, do you rest easy about your sweetheart. anstice shall go to her, and for your sake, if not for her own, her safety shall be guarded with our lives." by this time they had reached again the general's quarters, and the wagon that coacoochee was to guide stood in readiness. so, with a warm handclasp, the friends parted, one to go on a mission that he fondly hoped would bring a lasting peace to his people, and the other to take measures for the safety of nita pacheco. according to promise osceola, escorted by some seventy warriors, all mounted, and preceded by a white flag, in token of the peaceful nature of their mission, arrived promptly at the appointed place of encampment. there they were met by coacoochee with a welcome supply of provisions. long and earnestly did the two young chieftains talk together that night, in planning for the morrow, on which they believed the fate of their nation would be decided. on one point they were fully agreed. the negro allies, who had fought so bravely with them, and who were as free as themselves, must be considered as equal with them, and must, in any negotiations, be granted the same terms as themselves. if this should not be allowed, they would refuse to make peace, and would return under protection of their white flag, whence they came. at ten o'clock on the following morning a blare of trumpets announced the coming of the general. he was accompanied by a staff of uncommon gorgeousness, and escorted by one hundred mounted militiamen, all armed to the teeth. behind these rumbled several large, covered wagons similar in appearance to the one that had brought provisions the evening before. these were halted a short distance away, where they were partially hidden in the palmetto scrub. coacoochee, osceola, coa hadjo, and talmus, arrayed in such finery as befitted the occasion, stood forth to meet the newcomers, while their handful of warriors clustered close behind them. above their heads fluttered the white flag of truce. approaching to within a few yards of them, and utterly ignoring the formalities usual at such a time, and so dear to the heart of an indian, the general began abruptly to read a list of questions from a paper that he held in his hand. the first of these struck like a blow: "are you prepared to deliver up at once all negroes taken from citizens? "why have you not done this already? "where are the other chiefs, and why have they not surrendered?" there were other questions of a similar nature, and realizing from these, as well as from the tone of the speaker's voice, that the whites had not come there with any thought of discussing a treaty, osceola, with a quick glance about him, like a stag brought to bay, attempted to speak, but his voice choked and failed him. he looked appealingly at coacoochee, as though requesting him to frame an answer; but the son of philip emathla stood like one who is stunned. "you, powell," continued the general, harshly, "having signed the treaty of fort king, shall be made to abide by it. "as for you, wildcat, i have learned of your recent outrages in the withlacoochee swamp. never again shall you have a chance to murder white men, like the cowardly beast whose name you bear." thus saying, the speaker waved his arm, a loud command rang out, there came a rush through the palmettoes, a clash of weapons, and the too trusting seminoles found themselves hemmed in on all sides by a hedge of glittering bayonets. a strong body of infantry, brought in the supposed provision wagons, had gathered in a circle about the unsuspecting indians. thus, within ten minutes after the arrival of the troops, under the very shadow of a truce flag, was this most shameful deed of treachery accomplished. disarmed and bound like so many slaves, and guarded by double ranks of soldiers, the forest warriors were driven, like sheep, to the city and through the massive gateway of its frowning fortress. here coacoochee was separated forever from osceola, who was soon afterwards taken to fort moultrie in charleston harbor. there, a few weeks later, he died of a broken heart, far away from his friends and from the dear land for which he had fought so bravely. with only talmus hadjo for a companion, the wildcat was roughly thrust into one of those narrow dungeons from the deadly gloom of which he had shrunk with such horror on the occasion of his long-ago visit to the fort in company with louis pacheco. chapter xxx in the dungeons of the ancient fortress the capture of coacoochee and osceola created an extraordinary degree of excitement in st. augustine, where the news of this most important event was hailed with extravagant joy and openly expressed sorrow. those who rejoiced were of that class who wanted the war ended, and the seminoles removed by any means, fair or foul, they cared not which. to such persons an indian was only a species of noxious animal, for the trapping of which any deception was justifiable. on the other hand were many honorable men and women whose indignation, at the deed of treachery by which the fair name of the government had been smirched, knew no bounds. of all these, none was so filled with righteous wrath as were ralph and anstice boyd. "i was not wholly unprepared for some such rascality," said the former, "and i tried to convey my suspicions to coacoochee yesterday; though, knowing nothing definite, i dared not speak plainly. he, poor fellow, is so entirely honest and incapable of such a cowardly act himself, that he failed to comprehend what i was driving at. to his simple mind, a great chief must be an honorable man; otherwise he would not be a great chief, or, indeed, a chief of any degree. rather different from the idea prevailing in most white communities, is it not?" "i should say so, judging from what we have seen lately," cried anstice. "but i am too furious to talk about it. i am almost ashamed of being white. i only wish i were a man!" "what would you do in that case?" inquired her brother curiously. "do? i would fight, and devote my life to fighting just such outrageous wrongs as this. that's what i would do." "i don't doubt you would, you precious little spitfire, and a mighty plucky fight you'd put up. you'd lose, though, every time; for, besides pluck and pugnacity, it takes coolness and infinite patience to fight the battle of right against might. but, to return to practical matters, what is to become of our guest, now that coacoochee is no longer in a position to elope with her, or afford her other protection than that of his prayers?" "she is to stay with us, of course, for just as long as we can keep her. in the meantime, we must manage in some way to get him out of that terrible prison. poor fellow! how he must be suffering at this minute. i only hope he remembers that he still has some friends, and that there are still a few faint sparks of honor and gratitude glowing in the bosoms of the 'iste-hatke,' as he calls us. we must get irwin douglass to help us, and i only hope he will call to-day, so that we can begin to plan at once." "hold hard, sister! remember that the awkward situation douglass is already in is largely owing to us. if you take my advice, you will not mention to him our desire that coacoochee should escape, or disclose to him the identity of our guest. i agree with you, that we are bound to do whatever we can to aid our indian friend, and that the forest maiden shall make her home with us so long as she chooses to do so; but, for the present, i beg that no one else, not even irwin douglass, be admitted to our secret." "very well, mr. wise man, i will let you have your own way for a time; but don't try my patience too far, lest i do something desperate. red-headed girls aren't expected to be cool-headed as well, you know, and so when i have once set my heart on having a thing done, i want it done without delay." thus it happened that, when lieutenant douglass called on the boyds that evening, and was formally presented to a miss annette felipe, he did not, for a moment, doubt that she belonged to one of the old spanish-american families of the territory. she had a darkly beautiful face, was quietly but stylishly dressed, and was demurely silent. that she spoke so little was explained by anstice on the ground that spanish was her native tongue, and that she was visiting her in order to improve her english. as the lieutenant did not speak nor understand spanish, he was more than content to devote himself to miss anstice, leaving the stranger to be entertained by ralph boyd. douglass and the english girl discussed his present prospects, and wondered how long he would be obliged to wait in idleness before a court-martial could be convened to hear his case, and of course dismiss the absurd charges preferred against him. they talked of their recent exciting experiences, and finally anstice said: "by the way, mr. douglass, i wish you would take us to visit the prisoners in the old fort. i am so anxious to see that splendid osceola. besides, we want to do everything we can to make annette's visit pleasant, and there is so little to amuse one in this stupid place. i am sure she would be so interested in those indians. won't you please arrange it, like a dear man?" "certainly, i will if i can," replied the young officer. "at the same time, i am not at all sure that the general will regard with favor an application for a permit from one in my peculiar position." "oh, i fancy he will. at any rate, you manage it for us somehow, and make as early a date as possible; for annette may be compelled to leave us at any time, and i wouldn't have her miss seeing the interior of the fort. she has never seen anything like it, you know. we are going to take a walk to-morrow morning just to show her the outside of it, and you may come with us if you choose." so douglass promised to do what he could, and when he joined the walking party on the morrow, he announced that he had thought of a plan which he believed would work. "you see," he said, "mrs. canby, wife of canby of the rifles, has just arrived from the north, and as she has never seen any indians, of course she will be anxious to visit the fort. so i will get canby to secure the permit, and invite us all to join his party." while discussing this plan and deciding that it would be the very thing, they reached the ancient fortress, and as they skirted its frowning walls, miss felipe, who had hardly spoken since starting, and then only to anstice, became so visibly affected, that the english girl threw an arm protectingly about her, exclaiming, "annette is so tender-hearted that she can't bear the thought of captives being shut up in that gloomy place." "it is tough luck," agreed the young officer. "and there is not the slightest chance of their escaping either, for the only openings into the cells are those small embrasures through which even a boy would find it difficult to squeeze. they are some eighteen feet above the floor, too, so that it would be impossible to reach them without a ladder." a few days later, a permit for a party of six to visit the fort having been secured, mrs. canby, the boyds, their guest, and douglass set forth, mr. canby being detained by urgent duty, and excusing himself at the last moment. after passing the strong guard stationed at the gateway, the sightseers found themselves in a large, open space, where many of the captives were lounging or walking about. in these, the spanish girl showed not the slightest interest, but seemed inclined to hasten on. she carried a light shawl thrown over her arm, of which slight burden douglass had politely but in vain attempted to relieve her. "your friend seems very odd, and not at all like other girls," he confided to anstice boyd. "yes. isn't she?" replied the english girl, readily. "but then you must remember her bringing up. i wonder if osceola is among these indians?" "oh no, miss," answered the sergeant who had been detailed to act as guide. "the chiefs are only allowed out, one at a time, under guard, after the others have gone in. they are in their cells now." "well, take us to them, then," said anstice, "for they are the ones we care most to see. don't you think so, mrs. canby?" "yes, indeed," agreed that lady; "only i hope they will prove better looking and more interesting than these creatures out here." so the party was guided to the cell occupied by osceola, in front of which paced a sentry, and its massive door was swung back on creaking hinges. the haughty chieftain, still clad in his most splendid costume, was seated on a stool, gazing blankly at the opposite wall. he roused slightly as the sergeant said: "here's some ladies come to visit you, powell," and when mrs. canby and anstice expressed a wish to shake hands with him, he extended his hand to them mechanically. when, however, the lieutenant also offered to shake hands, a fierce flash of anger leaped into the eyes of the forest warrior, and he drew back haughtily, exclaiming as he did so: "no, sir! never again shall the hand of ah-ha-se-ho-la meet in friendship that of one wearing the disgraced livery of a united states officer." "horrid thing!" cried mrs. canby, as the party hurriedly withdrew from the cell. "the idea of a mere savage daring to speak so to an army officer! you did well, miss felipe, not to go near the wretch, and i only wish i hadn't. i certainly don't want to see any more of them." as the speaker absolutely refused to visit the remaining prisoners, which the others were still desirous of doing, douglass remained with her, leaving but three of the party to inspect the cell occupied by coacoochee and talmus hadjo. it, like the other, was guarded by a sentry, with whom the guide, after throwing open the door, stepped aside to speak. although the spanish girl had remained outside the other cell, she pushed eagerly forward into this one, while anstice and her brother stood in the doorway. talmus hadjo lay on a pile of forage-bags that served as a bed, while coacoochee, the very picture of despair, stood leaning, with folded arms, against one of the walls. he hardly noticed his visitor, until in a low, thrilling tone she pronounced his name. then, as though moved by an electric shock, he sprang forward, gasped the single word "nita!" and clasped the girl to his breast. a few murmured words passed between the two; then he released her, and, stooping, she slipped something from her shawl beneath one of the forage-bags lying on the floor. when the sergeant reappeared at the doorway a second later, the spanish girl, looking perfectly composed, was standing quietly at one side, talmus hadjo was regarding her with undisguised amazement, while coacoochee, with a new light shining in his face, was silently exchanging hand-clasps with ralph and anstice boyd. "rather a more decent and civil sort of a chap than the other," remarked the sergeant as he again locked the door, and the visitors turned away. "now there's only one more cell, and--" "i don't think we care to inspect any more cells to-day," interposed anstice, hastily; and so a few minutes later the reunited party were breathing once more the outer air of freedom, while mrs. canby expressed very freely her opinion of indians in general and of those whom they had just seen in particular. while the transformation of philip emathla's adopted daughter into miss annette felipe, clad in the costume of civilization, and guest of anstice boyd, may appear as surprising to the reader as it did to the captive war-chief whom she had just left filled with a new hope, it was all brought about very simply. on the evening that coacoochee confided her to the protection of ralph boyd, that gentleman, accompanied by his sister, strolled down to the indian encampment. first they received permission to speak with the aged chieftain, who was summoned to the lines for that purpose. a few minutes later their strolling carried them past the darkest corner of the camp, where they were joined by a slender figure that had slipped through the lines without attracting the attention of a guard. over this figure anstice threw a long cloak that she had carried on her arm, and thus disguised, nita pacheco accompanied her new friends to their home. her absence from the indian camp was not discovered until two days later, when mr. troup jeffers, claiming her as his escaped slave, and armed with an authority from the general for her recapture, visited the indian camp in search of her. the slave-catcher made a great outcry when he found that his prey had again eluded him, but he was speedily silenced by a very unexpected meeting with ralph boyd, who had been watching for the man who should make that very claim. at sight of him whom he had every reason to believe was long since dead, the scoundrel's face turned livid, and he staggered back like one who has received a knife-thrust. "drop this business, and leave town inside of an hour if you value your wretched life!" hissed boyd in his ear, and an hour later st. augustine was well rid of mr. troup jeffers. chapter xxxi a daring escape not until his prison door was again closed, and the footsteps of his visitors had died away in the distance, did coacoochee turn from listening, and stoop to see what it was that nita had brought him. from under the forage-bag he first drew a spanish hunting-knife, beautifully balanced, and with the keen edge of a razor. it was of dull blue toledo steel, and its shapely haft was exquisitely silver-mounted. at sight of it the young indian uttered an exclamation of joy, for it was his own well-tried weapon, endeared by long association, and his unfailing friend in many a combat with man and beast. it had been his father's before him, and with it anstice boyd had severed the bonds confining irwin douglass, when his life hung by a thread, in the swamp stronghold of osceola. she had kept it ever since, awaiting an opportunity to restore it to its owner, and had now done so, by the hand of nita pacheco. while coacoochee gloated over this treasure, his comrade in captivity pulled aside the bag beneath which it had been concealed, and disclosed another object of equal value with the precious knife. it was a coil of rope, slender and finely twisted, but of a proved strength, capable of supporting the weight of two men. "now, talmeco," cried coacoochee, in the indian tongue, "we have something to live for. already do i breathe again the free air of the forest, for want of which i had died ere many days. now will we show these dogs of the iste-hatke that their cunning is no match for that of the wildcat. again shall the war-cry of coacoochee ring through hammock and swamp, glade and savanna, and the iste-hatke shall tremble at its sound." "but," said talmus, "was it not one of the iste-hatke who brought us these things? has my brother won the heart of a pale-faced maiden?" "ho, ho!" laughed the young chief. "are the eyes of talmeco grown so dim from long gazing at stone walls that he did not see, through the dress of the white squaw, the form of nita pacheco, daughter of philip emathla, and the beloved of coacoochee? she it was, and no other, who found a way to this hole of rats, and brought the means of escape. let us hasten, then, to make use of them, that she may not be disappointed." "how can we?" queried talmus. "there is but one opening, and it is too small for the passage of a warrior. a boy could hardly make his way through it. besides, it is too high for us to reach, and, even if we got outside, would we not fall again into the hands of the soldiers?" "ho-le-wau-gus, talmeco!" exclaimed the other. "is thy man's heart turned by thy captivity into that of cho-fee [the rabbit], and art thou become one who trembles at the sight of his own shadow? listen, that thy heart may again become strong. the wildcat will climb to yonder opening, and show his brother the way. it is small, but we will make ourselves smaller. we will go when the great spirit has drawn his blanket over the face of the sky, so that no light may shine from it, and no man can see us. is it well?" "it is well, my brother. let coacoochee lead, and talmus hadjo will follow in his steps." for long hours during the weary days of captivity, had the young chief lain on his bed of bags, and gazed hopelessly at the single narrow opening in the wall far above him. he had believed that, if he could only reach it, he could so reduce his body as to pass through the aperture. now he saw a way to reach it. standing on his comrade's shoulders, and using his knife, he soon worked its point into a little crevice between the stones, just above his head. as talmus could not support his weight very long at a time, and as there came days of such frequent interruptions that they dared not work, it was several weeks before the crevice was so enlarged that it would receive the knife up to its hilt. then, by drawing himself up on it, coacoochee found to his delight that he could gain the narrow slit piercing the thick wall. to his dismay, it was barely wide enough to permit his head to pass through, but not his body. the prisoners at once decided to starve themselves, and reduce their flesh by taking medicine. this they did, until they became mere skeletons, and their keeper began to fear that they would die on his hands. in the meantime they cut up many of the bags on which they slept, into short lengths, which they bound closely, at intervals, about their slender rope, so as to afford a grasp for their hands. when all was in readiness, they were obliged to wait many days longer for a cloudless and moonless night. at length it came as dark as erebus, with squalls of rain, and a fierce wind that howled mournfully about the bastions and through the embrasures of the old fort. much to the disgust of the captives, one of the prison keepers was in an unusually sociable mood that night, and made repeated visits to their cell, talking and singing, until they feared they would be compelled to kill him, in order to get rid of his presence. finally they pretended to be asleep when he entered, and upon this he left them for good. the time for action had arrived; and, taking one end of the rope with him, coacoochee, stripped to the skin, save for a breech-cloth, mounted on his comrade's shoulders, felt for the deeply cut crevice, thrust his knife into it, and, in another minute, had gained the embrasure. here, after first regaining and securing his precious knife, he made the rope fast, by passing a loop about a projecting ledge, and leaving only enough inside for his comrade to climb up by, he passed the remainder through the opening, and let it drop, hoping that it might be long enough to reach ground at the bottom of the moat. with great difficulty, the young indian thrust his head through the narrow slit. then, with the sharp stones tearing the skin from his breast and back, he slowly and painfully forced his body through, being obliged to go down the rope head foremost, until his feet were clear of the opening. with each minute of this desperate struggle, it seemed as though his weakened powers of endurance must yield to the terrible strain, and that his grasp on the slender rope must relax; in which case he would have pitched headlong into the yawning depths below. but the indomitable will that had already aided him so often finally triumphed over physical weakness, and after a half-hour of struggle, the young war-chief slid in safety down the line that led to freedom, and lay panting on the ground, twenty-five feet below the aperture that had so nearly proved fatal. fortunately he lay in the deep angle of a bastion, where the shadows were blackest, for just then two men, evidently officers, passed close to him engaged in earnest conversation. he overheard one of them say that arrangements were perfected for removing all the prisoners on the morrow to charleston, south carolina, where they would be beyond a possibility of rescue or escape. so overjoyed was coacoochee at thus learning of the timeliness of his venture for liberty that he became filled with fresh vigor, and feeling a movement of the rope, that he still held in one hand, he instantly gave the signal that all was well, and the way clear for his comrade to descend. as he waited in breathless anxiety, he could plainly hear the struggle that was taking place far above him. at length it ceased, and in a low, despairing voice talmus informed him that having forced his head through the embrasure, he could get no further, nor could he even draw it back. "throw out thy breath, talmeco, and try again! throw out thy heart and soul, if needs be, and tear the flesh from thy body," urged the young chief, in a voice little above a whisper, but thrilling in its intensity. thus adjured, talmus hadjo made one last desperate effort, with such success that he not only forced his bleeding body through the aperture, but lost his hold of the rope and came tumbling down the whole distance. [illustration: hadjo lost his hold of the rope and came tumbling down the whole distance.] with a smothered cry of horror, coacoochee sprang to his side, and, feeling a faint heart-beat in the stunned and motionless form, dragged it to a near-by pool of water. this he dashed over the injured man with such effect that, in a few minutes, his consciousness returned. he was, however, so injured by his fall as to be unable to walk, and feebly begged coacoochee to save himself and leave him to his fate. for answer the young chief, with an astonishing display of strength, considering his condition, picked up his helpless friend, slung him across his back, and thus bore him nearly half a mile, to where the palmetto scrub afforded temporary concealment. daylight was now breaking, and some means must be devised for moving rapidly. so, depositing his burden on the ground, coacoochee turned back to an open field in which he had seen several mules. hastily twisting some shredded palmetto leaves into a rude bridle, he had the good fortune to capture one of the animals, on which he mounted both himself and his comrade. for several hours they rode through the trackless pine forest, and at length reached a travelled road, which it was necessary they should cross. before doing so coacoochee slipped from the mule to assure himself that no enemy was in sight. he had gone but a few paces, when the animal, with a loud bray, dashed into the open, and galloped madly towards a small party of mounted volunteers, who happened to be making their way towards the city. the sight of a single naked indian dashing toward them was too great a temptation to be resisted. a dozen rifles poured forth their deadly contents, both the mule and his helpless rider pitched headlong, and in the death struggle of the animal, the dead face of talmus hadjo was crushed beyond recognition. one of the white men, coolly and as neatly as though well accustomed to the operation, took the scalp of the fallen warrior. then the party rode merrily forward, exchanging coarse jests concerning the handsome manner in which the redskin had been potted. filled with rage and grief at this loss of his companion, coacoochee also hastened from the scene, plunging deep into the recesses of a near-by hammock and vowing a future but terrible vengeance upon the cowardly perpetrators of this cold-blooded murder. living on berries, roots, and the succulent buds of cabbage palmettoes, sleeping naked on the bare ground, and slinking from hammock to hammock like a wild beast who is hunted, the fugitive worked his way southward for three days. on the evening of the third day he walked into the camp of his own band on the headwaters of the tomoka river. by louis pacheco and his warriors the young chief was greeted as one raised from the dead. when, after they had fed and clothed him, they listened to his wonderful tale of treacherous capture, long imprisonment, timely escape, and the cruel death of talmus hadjo, they vowed themselves to a fiercer resistance than ever of the white oppressors. within an hour runners were despatched to several bands who were known to be contemplating surrender, urging them to abandon their intention and continue the fight to its bitter end. thus was the conflict which general jesup had just declared ended, renewed with a greater fury than ever, and coacoochee the wildcat became the acknowledged leader of his people. chapter xxxii nita hears that coacoochee is dead long and anxiously had the friends of coacoochee in st. augustine awaited the result of their effort to aid him in regaining his freedom. they dared not attempt to visit him again, lest by so doing they should arouse suspicion and injure his cause; for the two principal chiefs were so closely guarded that visitors were only admitted to them at long intervals and as a great favor. so nita was forced to endure a weary period of suspense and feverish anxiety, that caused her to droop like a transplanted forest lily. although ralph boyd sought daily for information concerning the prisoners, he could gain little, save that of a depressing nature, much of which he and anstice dared not share with their guest. he heard that coacoochee's strength was so weakened on confinement that it was believed he could not live much longer, and there was a rumor that he and osceola were to be hanged for their perversity in continuing the war. in the meantime, the number of indians held captive in st. augustine had been greatly increased by the bands of micanopy, cloud, tuskogee, and nocoosee, all of whom, urged to do so by the cherokee delegation, had accepted general jesup's invitation to meet him for a peace talk. again was the flag of truce violated, again was treachery substituted for honest fighting, and again were the too trusting savages seized, disarmed, and sent to st. augustine as prisoners of war. so many captives were now crowded into the ancient city, that, in order to secure them beyond all hope of escape, as well as to make room for others who, it was hoped, might be enticed to _make peace_ in a similar manner, it was deemed advisable to transfer them to charleston. there they could be detained in safety until the time came for their final removal to the west. preparations for this movement were made with great secrecy, that the indians might not learn of it until the last moment. transports were secured, and finally it was made known to the officers of the post only that an embarkation would be effected on the following day. rumors of the contemplated removal had reached the boyds, and had, of course, been communicated to nita. she declared that, if coacoochee did not succeed in escaping before it took place, she should resume her position as the adopted daughter of philip emathla, and so follow her lover into exile. in this determination, anstice warmly upheld her friend, but begged her to wait until the latest possible moment, before exchanging her present security for the uncertain fate of a captive. one evening, lieutenant douglass, who, having safely passed the ordeal of a court-martial, and, honorably acquitted, had been restored to duty, called on the boyds. in course of conversation with anstice he casually remarked, that the morrow would probably offer the last chance they would ever have of seeing their friend coacoochee. "what do you mean?" asked the startled girl. "i mean that the indians in st. augustine are to be embarked for charleston to-morrow morning; and coacoochee, poor fellow, is reported to be in such wretched health that it is not probable he can live long, especially in a climate so much colder than this." nita, who sat in another part of the room, listlessly engaged in a bit of fancy-work, glanced up quickly as she caught the name of her captive lover. she did not hear what else the young officer said, and waited eagerly for his going, that she might question her friend. anstice, on her part, was so impatient to communicate to nita the news she had just learned, and became so absent-minded in her conversation with douglass, that he suspected something had gone wrong, and so took his departure earlier than usual. long and earnestly did the two girls, who had grown to love each other like sisters, talk together that night. very early the next morning, escorted by ralph boyd, they left the house and turned in the direction of philip emathla's encampment. nita had resumed her indian dress, but over it she wore the same long cloak that had served to disguise her on a former occasion. its hood was drawn over her head and about her face, so that but little of her features could be distinguished. as they hastened through the narrow streets of the quaintly built city, their attention was attracted by a clatter of iron-shod hoofs, and a mounted officer in service uniform came dashing toward them. it was irwin douglass, and he reined up sharply at sight of his friends. as he lifted his cap to the ladies, he exclaimed: "well, you are early birds this morning! i suppose you have heard the great news and are come out to verify it?" "no, we haven't heard any news; what is it?" asked boyd. "coacoochee has escaped from the fort! got out somehow during the storm last night, and made off. the general is in a terrible temper over it. i am ordered out with a scouting party to see if we can pick up the trail. so i must hurry on. good-bye." in another minute the bearer of this startling bit of news was clattering away down the street, while the three who were left stood staring blankly at one another. nita was saying over and over to herself, "coacoochee has escaped, has escaped, and is free. oh! how happy i am! and that soldier is going to try and recapture him. oh, how i hate him! but he cannot. coacoochee is free, and will never let them take him again. oh, how happy i am!" as anstice boyd reflected upon the full meaning of what she had just heard, her heart was crying out: "coacoochee has escaped, and i aided him. now irwin has gone to find him. they will meet and kill each other. i know they will! oh! why did i do it? why did i do it?" ralph boyd expressed his feelings aloud by exclaiming: "that is one of the best bits of news i have heard in many a day. it will continue the war, no doubt, but i don't care if it does. serve the sneaks right who thought to end it by treachery. they will get some greatly needed lessons in honest fighting now." "you don't mean mr. douglass, brother?" "douglass? no! bless his honest soul! he's no sneak, but only an unfortunate victim of circumstances. but never you fear, sister. douglass won't catch coacoochee, even if he has to ride half around the territory to avoid him. he is too honorable a fellow to do a mean thing, or forget a debt of gratitude. if douglass is the only one sent after him, coacoochee is all right. i am afraid, though, there are others. i'll find out as soon as i get you two back to the house. what! not going back?" "not just yet, brother. nita wants to be the first to tell the great news to coacoochee's father, so as to give the old man courage to bear his exile and his sad journey. she wants to bid him good-bye too, for of course she will not go with him now." "of course not, and i suppose we must let her do as she wishes," agreed boyd, reluctantly. "i hope, though, she will be very careful not to be recognized." "i will see that she is careful, brother." so the three continued their way to the indian camp, which they found in a state of dire confusion on account of the order for removal just received. there were already many white persons in the camp; soldiers who were hastening the preparations, and mere curiosity-seekers who were retarding them by their useless presence. all of these, as well as the indians themselves, gazed curiously at the two ladies and the stalwart young englishman, who walked directly to the tent of philip emathla. the old man, who was sitting in a sort of a daze just outside, recognized ralph boyd at once, and when nita stooped and whispered in his ear, he immediately rose and followed her inside the canvas shelter. anstice also went inside, and the flap curtaining the entrance was dropped, leaving boyd outside on guard. as he gazed curiously on the novel scene about him, and even walked a few steps to one side the better to observe it, a white man of sinister aspect passed him twice, each time regarding him furtively but keenly. suddenly he darted to the tent, pulled aside the flap, and thrust his head inside. a startled cry from the interior attracted boyd's attention, and, ere the man had time for more than a glimpse, he was seized by the collar, and jerked violently backward. "what do you mean, scoundrel! by your rascally intrusion into other folk's privacy?" demanded the young englishman, hotly. "i've a mind to give you the kicking you deserve." "i didn't mean nothin', cap'n," whined the man, squirming in the other's fierce clutch. "i didn't know thar was any privacy in thar. i'm thought 'twas only injuns; and i'm got orders to take that tent down immejiate." "well, you won't take it down, not yet awhile; and you'll vanish from here as quick as possible. so get!" with the utterance of this expressive americanism the speaker released the man, and at the same time administered a hearty kick that caused its recipient to howl with anguish. ere he disappeared he turned a look of venomous hate at his assailant and muttered: "i'll git even with you for this, curse you! anyway, i saw what i wanted to see, and i know whar the gal's to be found." he was ross ruffin, mr. troup jeffers' human jackal, who, at the bidding of his master, had been hanging about the indian camp for weeks, watching for the reappearance of nita pacheco. his suspicions had just been aroused by the disappearance, into philip emathla's tent, of two ladies, and in the single glimpse caught by his bold manoeuvre they had been confirmed. he had seen nita, whose cloak having fallen to the ground, was fully revealed in her indian costume, standing with her hands on the old chieftain's shoulders and imparting to him the glorious news of coacoochee's escape from captivity. now all that he had to do was to discover whether the girl accompanied the indians to charleston or remained behind, and this information he had acquired ere nightfall. nita had not seen him, and it was anstice who uttered the cry that attracted her brother's attention. of course neither of them recognized the man, nor when, a little later, they returned to the house that nita had believed on leaving she should never see again, did they notice that he was stealthily following them at a distance. after that he watched the embarkation of the captives, to assure himself that nita pacheco did not accompany them. as the transports sailed, ross ruffin also left the city, and that night he held a conference with mr. troup jeffers. the inmates of the boyd house experienced mingled feelings of satisfaction at coacoochee's escape, apprehension lest he should be recaptured, and anxiety in behalf of their friend douglass. only nita was confident and light hearted. "he will not be caught," she said, "nor will he harm your friend; we shall hear from him very soon by some means." she was right; they did hear very soon, and when the news came, it was of such a terrible nature that the others would gladly have kept it from her. lieutenant douglass, returning at nightfall from his scout, went directly to the boyds' house; and, in answer to the eager queries that greeted his entrance, said: "yes; i found him, poor fellow! about a dozen miles from the city we met a squad of volunteer cavalry. in reply to my question if they had seen any sign of coacoochee, who had just escaped from the fort, one of them said: 'you bet we have, cap'n, and here's his scalp.' with that--" here the speaker was interrupted by a stifled cry and a heavy fall. nita pacheco lay unconscious on the floor. the two men bore her to a bed in an adjoining room, where they left her to the gentle care of anstice. when they returned to the outer room, douglass asked curiously: "what does it mean, boyd? what possible interest can your guest have in coacoochee?" "my dear fellow, i see now that we ought to have told you sooner, and so saved her this cruel blow. she is nita pacheco, spanish by descent, but indian by association and bringing up. she is the adopted daughter of philip emathla, and the betrothed of coacoochee." "good heavens!" cried douglass. "no wonder she fell when struck such a blow. what a brute she must think me." "don't blame yourself, old man," said boyd, soothingly; "the fault lies entirely with us. but are you certain that coacoochee is dead?" "the man who scalped him said he knew him well, and could swear to his identity. we went on to examine and bury the body, and it answered fully the description of coacoochee. oh yes, there is no doubt that he is dead, though his companion has thus far eluded all search. in one way, i suppose his death will be a good thing for the country; but i must confess, that for the sake of that poor girl, i would gladly restore him to life if i could, and take the consequences. well, good night. make the best apologies you can for me to miss anstice." chapter xxxiii told by the magnolia spring the reported death of coacoochee, which was generally believed, gave great satisfaction to the people of florida, and to the troops who had been for so long engaged in the thankless task of trying to subdue the seminoles. with many of their leading chiefs removed beyond hope of return, and with their most daring spirit dead, the indians must, of course, relinquish all hopes of successfully continuing the struggle. so the war was supposed to be ended, and many families of refugees now returned to their abandoned homes. among these were the boyds, who had no longer any reason for remaining in st. augustine, and who were particularly anxious to remove nita from the sorrowful associations surrounding her there. she was slow to recover from the shock caused by the news of her lover's death, but as soon as she was able to bear the journey, they took her with them to the plantation, which they begged her to consider her own home. ralph boyd began at once the energetic restoration of his property. a few of the old servants had already found their way back, and others, tired of dwelling amid the constant alarms of indian camps, began to arrive in small bands, as soon as they heard that the proprietor had returned, until nearly the whole of the original force of the plantation was restored to it. aided by these free and willing workmen, the young planter repaired the great house and numerous outbuildings, cleared and replanted the weed-grown fields, trimmed the luxuriant growth of climbing vines and shrubbery, and, within a few months, could gaze with honest pride over an estate unexcelled for beauty by any in florida. in these undertakings nita tried, for the sake of her friends, to exhibit an interest, and in their presence to appear cheerfully content. with all her efforts, however, she could not conceal the fact that she was pining for her old forest life, and would gladly exchange the luxuries of civilization for the rude camp of her warrior lover, could he but be restored to her. she spent much time, clad in her indian costume, and roaming the wilder portions of the plantation, mounted on one of those fleet-footed ponies for which florida was famous, and which were descendants of the old andalusian stock brought over by de soto. one of the girl's favorite haunts was the bank of a spring that boiled from a bed of snow-white sand, amid a clump of stately magnolias, about a mile from the great house. here she would sit for hours, plaiting sweet-scented grasses into graceful shapes, as she had learned to do among the maidens of king philip's village; but always thinking such sad thoughts that her work was often wet with scalding tears. at such times ko-ee, as she called her pony, circled about her in unrestrained liberty, nibbling at grasses or leaves, here and there, but always quick to come at her call, and behaving much like a well-trained watch-dog, fully aware of the responsibility of his position. one mild and hazy afternoon early in the new year, when the weather was of that degree of perfection that it so often attains just before the coming of a "norther," nita sat by her favorite spring, and ko-ee browsed near at hand. all at once the pony uttered a snort, pricked up his delicate ears, and began to move uneasily toward his mistress. as she glanced up from her work, she was filled with terror at the sight of a man standing but a few paces away, and regarding her earnestly. her first impulse was to fly, and her next was to fling herself into his arms; for in that instant she recognized the brother whom she had not seen since that night of cruel separation nearly four years before. "louis!" she cried. "louis, my brother! is it you? are you really alive? i thought you were dead, together with all whom i have ever loved. i knew you had escaped and joined our friends in fighting for their rights and our rights; but they told me you were killed, and i thought i was alone in the world." [illustration: nita sat by her favorite spring.] "even if i had been killed, dear, you would not be alone, so long as coacoochee is left; for he--" "louis! how dare you? he is dead!" "dead, sister! coacoochee dead, when he but now sent me here to find you; when but four days ago i fought by his side in the fiercest and most splendid battle of this war? he was wounded, to be sure, though not seriously; but as for his being dead, he is no more dead than you or i. what could have put such a belief into your mind?" for a moment the girl stared at her brother with unbelieving eyes and colorless face. "is it true?" she whispered at length. "can it be true? tell me, louis, that you are not saying this thing to tease me, as you used when we were children. tell me quick, brother, for i can bear the suspense no longer." as louis assured her that he had spoken only the truth, and that her lover still lived, the girl's over-strained feelings gave way, and she sank to the ground, sobbing, and panting for breath. louis pacheco, clad in the costume of a seminole warrior, battle worn, and travel stained, sat by his sister's side and soothed her into quietness. then he told her the story of the great fight on the shore of lake okeechobee. he told how coacoochee and three other chiefs, with less than five hundred warriors, fought for three hours in the saw-grass and tangled hammock growth, against eleven hundred white troops under general zachary taylor, and finally retired for want of ammunition, taking with them their thirteen dead and nineteen wounded. "the white soldiers were killed until they lay on the ground in heaps, and their wounded could not be counted. if we had only had plenty of powder, and as good guns as they, we would not have left one of them alive," concluded the narrator, fiercely. "oh, louis, it is awful!" cried the girl, with a shudder. "what is awful? that we left so many of them alive? yes; so it is, but--" "i do not mean that. i mean this terrible fighting." "yes, sister, the fighting is terrible, and so is the suffering; but neither is so terrible as tamely submitting to slavery, and injustice, and oppression, and the loss of everything you hold most dear on earth. those are the terrible things that the whites are trying to force upon us. but we will never submit. we will fight, and cheerfully die, if needs be, as free men, rather than live as slaves. as for the white man's word, i will never trust it. coacoochee trusted it, and it led him to a prison. osceola trusted it, and it led him to death. micanopy trusted it, and it led him into exile." "but, louis, some of the whites are honorable. the boyds have treated me like an own sister, and, but for them, coacoochee would not now be free." "yes," admitted louis, with softened voice. "coacoochee has told me of them, and with my life would i repay their kindness to you and to him. with them you are safe, and with them will i gladly leave my sister until such time as i can make a free home for her." "oh, louis! haven't you come for me? can't i go with you?" "not now, ista-chee [little one]. here is greatest safety for you; for to all the iste-chatte has word been sent that none may harm this place, nor come near it. the suffering of the women and children with us is very great, and i would not have you share it. now i must go; for i am sent to notify the northern bands of our victory, and bid them follow it up with fierce blows from all sides. in two days will i come to this place again, when, if you have any token or message for coacoochee, i will take it to him. soon he hopes to come for you himself, and until that time you must wait patiently." so saying, and after one more fond embrace of his sister, louis disappeared in the undergrowth, leaving nita radiant and filled with a new life. her brother had bound her to secrecy concerning his visit, at least until he had come and gone again, but she could not restrain the unwonted ring of happiness in her voice, nor banish the light from her face. both of these things were noted by anstice, as she met the girl on her return to the house. "why, nita! what has happened?" she exclaimed. "never have i seen you look so happy. one would think you had heard some glorious news. what is it, dear?" "please, anstice, don't ask me; for, much as i am longing to tell you, i can't; that is, not for a few days. then i will tell you everything. but i am happy. oh, i am so happy!" with this, the girl darted away to her own room, leaving anstice in a state of bewilderment not unmixed with vexation. "i'm sure she might have told me," she said to herself. "it can't be anything so very important, for there is no possible way of receiving news at this out-of-the-world place, unless it is brought by special messenger, and none could arrive without my knowledge. i do believe, though, that one is coming now." anstice was standing on the broad front verandah, over which was trained a superb lamarque rose, so as to form a complete screen from the evening sun. her ear had caught the sound of hoof-beats, and, as she parted the vines before her, she saw two horsemen coming up the long oleander avenue. both were in uniform, and it needed but a glance for the blushing girl to discover the identity of the foremost rider. it was irwin douglass, hot, dusty, and weary with long travel. he dismounted, tossed his bridle to the orderly, who rode back toward the stables with both horses, and slowly ascended the steps. as he gained the verandah, his bronzed face flushed with pleasure at sight of the daintily clad girl who was stepping forward with outstretched hand to greet him. "oh, miss anstice! if you could only realize how like a bit of heaven this seems!" he exclaimed. "you must indeed have undergone hardships to find your ideal of heaven in this stupid place," laughed the girl, at the same time gently disengaging her hand, which the young man seemed inclined to hold. "now sit down, and don't speak another word until i have ordered some refreshments, for you look too utterly weary to talk." "but i have so much to tell, and so short a time to tell it in," remonstrated the lieutenant. "i must be off again in an hour." "never mind; i won't listen to such a woe-begone individual. besides, ralph will want to hear your news as well." with this, anstice disappeared in the house, and douglass sank wearily into a great easy-chair. directly afterward ralph boyd appeared with a hearty greeting, and a demand to hear all the news at once. before his desire could be gratified, his sister returned with a basket of oranges, and followed by a maid bearing a tray of decanters, glasses, and a jug of cool spring water. "these will save you from immediate collapse," said the fair hostess, "and something more substantial will follow very shortly. now, sir, unfold your budget of news, for i am dying to hear it." "well," began douglass, "there has been the biggest fight of the war, away down south on the shore of lake okeechobee, and i was in it." "oh!" exclaimed anstice. "that, of course, is nothing wonderful," continued the young soldier, "but it is surprising that i came out of it without a scratch, for there were plenty who did not. on our side we left twenty-six dead on the field, and brought away one hundred and twenty severely wounded, besides a few score more suffering from minor injuries." "whew!" ejaculated ralph boyd. "who was in command?" "general taylor, on our side. and now for my most surprising bit of news." here the speaker hesitated and looked carefully about him. "i want to be cautious this time," he said. "but it was confidently asserted by scouts and prisoners that the indian commander was no other than our late lamented friend, the wildcat." "coacoochee! so that was nita's secret!" cried anstice. "i might have known that nothing else would make her look so radiant. oh! i am so glad!" "what do you mean?" demanded the astonished lieutenant. "how could she have heard anything about the battle, when i have just come from the field with despatches for st. augustine, and have ridden almost without stopping?" "i don't know, for she wouldn't tell me; but i am certain she did hear some time this afternoon. but oh! mr. douglass, we are so thankful that you escaped so splendidly. it must have been awful. of course you gained the victory, though?" "i don't quite know about that," replied the lieutenant, doubtfully. "we silenced their fire, and drove them from the field after a three-hours fight; but it is said that they had less than half our number of men, and we are in full retreat. officially, of course, we have won a victory; but it wouldn't take more than two or three such victories to use up the whole florida army." they discussed the exciting event for an hour longer, and then douglass was reluctantly forced to continue his journey. when he left, he promised to be back in three days' time, as his orders were to proceed from st. augustine to tampa. this promise was fulfilled; but when the lieutenant again drew rein before the hospitable plantation house, that seemed so much like a home to him, he found its inmates filled with anxiety and alarm. nita pacheco had disappeared under very mysterious circumstances the evening before, and no trace of her whereabouts or fate could be discovered. chapter xxxiv following a mysterious trail nita had not appeared during the lieutenant's former brief visit to the plantation, and when, on his departure, anstice sought her to charge her with having already learned that coacoochee still lived, the happy girl made no denial of her knowledge. at the same time she would not reveal the source of her information, though when anstice declared her belief that nita had seen the young chief himself, the latter denied that such was the case. "he is wounded," she added, "and could not come. besides," she continued proudly, "he is now head chief of the seminole nation, and has much to think of. but he remembered me, and sent me a message." "remembered you, indeed!" cried anstice. "i should think he ought to; but i am sorry to hear that he is wounded, for he is a splendid fellow. isn't it wonderful, though, that lieutenant douglass went through that same awful battle, and came out without injury. i can't understand it." "in a battle where coacoochee commands, no friend of ralph boyd can be struck, save by accident," replied nita, simply. "do you believe that? if i thought it were true, i should love your indian hero almost as much as you do, dear. i wonder, though, if that can be the secret of irwin's escape?" so the two girls talked and became drawn more closely to each other with their exchange of innocent confidences. on the following day, nita rode ko-ee as usual, though not in the direction of the magnolia spring; but on the one after, she haunted its banks for hours. she went to it in the morning, reluctantly returning to the house for lunch and to have ko-ee fed at noon, and made her way back to the place appointed for meeting her brother, as soon afterwards as she could frame a decent excuse for so doing. she was in the gayest of spirits as she rode away, and she laughingly called back to anstice, "to-morrow, dear, i am going to spend the whole day with you." "isn't it a pleasure to see her so happy?" asked anstice of her brother, as they watched the girl ride away. "and did you ever see such a change in so short a time? a few days ago she was listless and apparently indifferent whether she lived or not. now she is full of life, and interested in everything. then, i did not consider her even good-looking; while at this minute, she seems to me one of the most beautiful girls i ever saw." "yes," replied boyd, "i have noticed the change; but i wish, anstice, you would persuade her to give up these lonely rambles; though she has promised me not to go beyond the limits of the plantation, i can't help feeling uneasy. if i weren't so awfully busy, i would ride with her myself, since she insists on riding." "no you wouldn't, brother," laughed anstice. "i couldn't afford to have the jealousy of the savage lover aroused in that way. besides, it is absurd to regard nita as though she were a daughter of civilization, needing to have every step carefully guarded. in spite of her sweetness, and the readiness with which she has fallen into our ways, she is still so much of an indian as to be more at home in the trackless forest, than in the _chaco_ of the _iste-hatke_, as she is pleased to term the house of the white man. so let her alone, brother; for, if she is to be the wife of an indian, the more she retains of her indian habits, the better it will be for her." thus nita was allowed to go her own way. and when, at sunset, she had not returned, but little uneasiness was felt in the great house on her account, though anstice did sit with her gaze fixed on the long avenue up which she expected each moment to see the truant appear. a few minutes later her uneasiness was exchanged for alarm, as one of the stable boys came running to the house to report that ko-ee, the pony, had shortly before appeared at the stables, riderless and alone, though still saddled and bridled, and that miss nita was nowhere to be seen. filled with dismay at this report, ralph boyd and his sister hastened to the stables, and there were greeted by the further news that four of the best horses belonging to the plantation were missing. this had only been discovered when one of the stable boys went to the field into which all the horses not in use were turned during the daytime, to drive them up for the night. by this time a group of excited negroes was collected, and it seemed as though it had only needed the starting of disquieting reports to cause others to come pouring in. it now appeared that saddles and bridles had been stolen, that provisions had disappeared, that a boat was missing from the river bank, that unaccountable noises had been heard, and mysterious forms had been seen at night, in various parts of the plantation. when boyd sternly demanded why he had not been informed of these things before, the negroes replied that they had not dared offend their indian friends, whom they believed to be at the bottom of all the trouble. "if indians are prowling about here, the sooner we locate them and discover their intentions, the better," announced the proprietor, "and if miss nita has come to any grief from which we can extricate her, the sooner we do that, the better also." with this, he armed himself and a dozen or so of the more trusted negroes, provided a dozen more with torches, for the night had not grown very dark, let loose all the dogs of the place, wondering at the time why they had not given an alarm long before, and thus accompanied made a thorough examination of all nita's known haunts within the limits of the plantation. midnight had passed ere the fruitless search was ended, and the young man returned wearily to the great house. "it is my honest conviction," he declared to anstice, as she hovered about him with things to eat and to drink, "that nita has met some band of indians and gone off with them. i shouldn't be surprised to learn that coacoochee had sent for her, or even come for her himself." "i don't believe any such thing," said anstice, decidedly. "she would never have gone off without bidding us good-bye. nor do i believe that coacoochee would take, or allow to be taken, one pin's worth of property belonging to you. whatever has happened to nita, and i am afraid it is something dreadful, she has not left us in this state of suspense of her own free will." "well," replied the other, "i am too tired to discuss the question further to-night, and perhaps daylight will aid us in solving it." soon after sunrise the next morning, according to his promise of returning on the third day, lieutenant douglass, heading an escort of troopers, and accompanied by one of the most experienced scouts in florida, reached the plantation. while at breakfast he gathered all the known details of what had happened on the previous evening. then he asked which of nita's usual haunts she would have been most likely to visit the afternoon before. "the magnolia spring," replied anstice, without hesitation. "she was going in that direction when last seen." "let us take a look at the magnolia spring, then, and see if redmond, my scout, can discover any signs of her having been there." so they four, the boyds, douglass, and the scout, visited the bubbling spring beside which nita was known to have passed so much of her time. within two minutes the scout pointed out a place in a thicket but a short distance from the spring, where a struggle had taken place, and from which a plainly marked trail led through the undergrowth toward the river. "there were only two men," he said, "and they warn't injuns, for no redskin ever left such a trail as that. besides, injuns don't wear boots, which them as was here yesterday did. it's my belief that them men has made off with the girl. leastways, one of 'em carried something heavy; but they've been mighty careful not to let her make any footprints." the trail was followed to a place on the riverbank where a boat had been concealed, and from signs undistinguishable to untrained eyes, the scout described the craft so minutely, that ralph boyd knew it to be the one missing from his own little fleet. "but what have white men got to do with this business?" the latter asked, in perplexity, and unwilling to drop his indian theory. "dunno, cap'n," replied the scout; "but you can take my word for it, that white men have been, and injuns hasn't. yes, they have too!" he cried, as at that instant his eye lighted on another, almost illegible print, near where the boat had grounded. "here's a moccasin track, and it ain't that of any woman either. what i want now is to have a look on the other side." in compliance with this desire, a boat was procured, and the whole party crossed the river. then a short search located the point where the other boat had landed. it also disclosed a most puzzling trail, for here were the prints of _four_ pairs of booted feet instead of two, while no trace of moccasins was to be found. the trail led from the water's edge to a grove in which four horses had been tied to trees, and from there it bore away to the southwest. "they're headed for the tampa road," remarked the scout; "and i reckon tampa's where they're bound for." "then we'll have a chance to find out something more about them," said douglass; "for i must be a long way toward tampa before another nightfall." "by jove, old man! i'm going with you," declared ralph boyd; "i want to know something more of this affair myself." "if you go, ralph, i shall go too," announced anstice, firmly. "i'm not going to be left here alone again. besides, i am as anxious to find out what has become of poor nita as you are, and i have always wanted to visit tampa." as douglass assured his friends that nothing would afford him greater pleasure than to have them accompany him, and joined with anstice in her plea, ralph boyd reluctantly gave consent for his sister to form one of the party. thus, before they regained their own side of the river, all details of the proposed trip were arranged. while anstice was making her preparations for departure, her brother summoned the entire working force of the plantation, and telling them that he had reason to believe the recent thefts to have been committed by white men, asked if any of them could remember having seen any strange white man about the place within a week. all denied having done so, save one of the old field hands, who hesitatingly admitted that he had seen the ghost of a white man, on the night of the "norther." "where did you see it?" demanded boyd. "at de do' ob de chickun house." "what were you doing there?" "jes' projeckin' roun'." "how do you know it was a ghost, and not a live man?" "kase i seen him by de light ob de moon, an kase i uster know him when he war alive." "whose ghost do you think it was?" "marse troup jeffers, de ole oberseer." "the very man i ought to have thought of at first!" exclaimed the proprietor, turning to douglass. "he is not only so familiar with the place that he knows where to lay his hands on such things as he needs, and is friendly with the dogs, but he is so bitter against me for turning him off, that he has already attempted to take my life, as well as that of anstice. he is now a slave-trader, and, in company with other ruffians like himself, disguised as indians, he very nearly succeeded in running off all the hands on the plantation. he has already made several attempts to capture nita, for the purpose of selling her into slavery, and now i fear he has succeeded. i swear, douglass, if i ever get within striking distance of that scoundrel again, his death or mine will follow inside of two seconds. now, let us hasten to pick up the trail, and may god help nita pacheco, if she has fallen into the clutches of that human devil." the plantation being left in charge of old primus, the travellers set forth, and, a number of boats having been provided, they were speedily ferried across the river, towing their swimming horses behind them. on the farther side they resaddled and mounted, anstice riding nita's fleet-footed ko-ee. by hard riding they struck the tampa road before noon, and redmond immediately pointed out the trail of four shod horses, which he affirmed had been ridden at full speed, late the evening before. soon afterward, the scout discovered the place where the outlaws had camped. he declared that they had reached it long after dark, and had left it before sunrise that morning. "mighty little hope of our overtaking them this side of tampa, then," growled douglass. for two days longer did the pursuing party follow that trail. they found two other camping-places; but study the signs as they would, they could discover nothing to indicate the presence of a woman, nor of any save booted white men. "which is what beats me more than anything ever i run up against," remarked the puzzled scout. on the third day, by nightfall of which they expected to reach fort brooke on tampa bay, the plainly marked trail came to a sudden ending, amid a confusion of signs that redmond quickly interpreted. "they were jumped here by a war-party of reds," he said, "were captured without making a show of fight, and have been toted off to the northward. would you mind, sir, if i followed this new trail a few miles, not to exceed five? i might learn something of importance from it." "no," replied douglass. "we can afford to rest the horses here for an hour or two, and i will go with you." "so will i, if you have no objection," said boyd. the three went on foot swiftly and in silence for about three miles, then the guide suddenly stopped and held up his hand for caution. creeping noiselessly to his side, the others peered in the direction he was pointing, and there beheld a scene of horror that neither of them forgot so long as he lived. chapter xxxv fate of the slave-catchers for some time, boyd, douglass, and the scout had been aware of an odor, pungent and sickening; but neither of the two former had been able to determine its character. now, as they gazed into an opening in the pine forest, beside a small pond, its hideous cause was instantly apparent. although there was no sign of human life, there was ample evidence that human beings, engaged in the perpetration of an awful tragedy, had occupied the place but a few hours before. chiefest of this evidence were the charred remains of two human bodies, fastened and supported by chains to the blackened trunks of two young pine trees. at the foot of each tree a heap of ashes, and a few embers that still smouldered, told their story in language so plain that even the civilian and the soldier had no need of the scout's interpretation to enable them to comprehend instantly what had taken place. for a few minutes they remained in hiding while he cautiously circled about the recent encampment to discover if any of the indians still lurked in its vicinity. at length he reappeared on the opposite side of the opening, and entering it disturbed a number of buzzards that were only awaiting the cooling of the embers to begin their horrid feast. these rose on heavy wings, and lighting on neighboring branches, watched the intruders with dull eyes. "the injuns have gone," said the scout as he met his companions in the middle of the opening, "and taken the four horses with them. it was a small war-party, all on foot and without women or children; but what beats me is that there ain't no tracks of white men along with theirs. here are two accounted for, but what has become of the other two? they might have rid horseback, it's true; but then, it ain't injun way to let prisoners ride when they are afoot themselves." "is there any way of finding out who these poor devils were?" asked douglass, indicating the pitiful remnants of humanity before them. "no, sir, i can't say as there is," replied the scout, doubtfully. "all i know for certain is that they was human, most likely men, and more than likely white men. they must have done something to make the reds uncommon mad, too; for even injuns don't burn prisoners without some special reason, and never, in my experience of 'em, have i run across a case where they did it in such a hurry. generally when they've laid out to have a burning, they save it till they get back to their village, so as to let all hands share in the festivities. no, sir; this case is peculiar, and you can bet there was some mighty good reason for it." as it would have been useless to follow the indian trail any further, the scouting party turned back from this point. "if i could only be sure that one of those wretches was jeffers," said boyd to douglass as they made their way among the solemn pines, "i should feel that he had met with his just deserts. certainly no man ever earned a punishment of that kind more thoroughly than he. as the matter stands, i fear it will be long before this mystery is cleared, if, indeed, it ever is. under the circumstances, don't you think it will be just as well not to tell anstice what we have seen?" "certainly," replied douglass, "and i will instruct redmond not to mention our discovery to any one. of course, i shall be obliged to report it to the general, but beyond that it need not be known." so anstice was only told that the scouts had followed the indian trail as far as they deemed advisable, without discovering a living being, and she rode on toward tampa, happily unconscious of the hideous forest tragedy that had been enacted so near her. although she was still anxious concerning nita, she was not without hope that the girl had fallen into friendly hands, who would ultimately restore her to coacoochee. at tampa, which presented at that time a scene of the most interesting activity, the boyds formed many friends. a large military force was stationed here in fort brooke, a post charmingly located on a point of land projecting into the bay, and shaded by rows of live-oaks, vast in size, and draped in the cool green-gray of spanish moss. beneath these were the officers' quarters, and long lines of snowy tents. one of the married officers, whose wife had gone north, tendered the boyds the use of his rudely but comfortably furnished cottage until they should find an opportunity for returning safely to their own home. they gladly accepted this offer, and their cottage quickly became a centre of all the gayety and fun of the fort. just back of the post was a large encampment of indians, who had surrendered or been made prisoners at different points, and were now collected for shipment to new orleans, on their way to the distant west. although anstice, in her pity for these unfortunates about to be torn from the land of their birth, often visited them, and made friends with the mothers through the children, she did not realize their sorrow so keenly as she would had any of her own friends or acquaintances been among them. on the day before that fixed for their embarkation, colonel worth, of the th infantry, came in from a long and finally successful scout after halec tustenugge's band of indians. although the leader of this band, together with a few of his warriors, succeeded in eluding capture, a large number, including many women and children, had been brought in. these it was decided to start for new orleans in the morning with the captives already on hand. the colonel who had just concluded this arduous campaign was a fine specimen of the american soldier, as honest as he was brave; and a cordial friendship already existed between him and the boyds. as was natural, therefore, the morning following his arrival at fort brooke saw him seated at their cheerful breakfast table, where, of course, the conversation turned upon the existing war. "there is just one man in florida to-day, with whom i wish i had a personal acquaintance," remarked the colonel. "he alone could put a stop to this infernal business of hiding and sneaking and destroying cornfields, and running down women and children, if he only would. his name is coacoochee." "yes, i know him well, and believe what you say of him is true," responded boyd. "you know him! then you are just the man to aid me in meeting him. i am to be sent into his country in a few days, and am extremely anxious to have a talk with him. will you go with me, and exert your influence to induce him to come in?" "i am afraid my influence would prove of small avail, colonel. you see, coacoochee has been already caught by chaff and made to suffer dearly for his credulity." "yes, i know, and it was one of the most outrageous--but i have no business criticising my superior officers, so i can only say that--" just here came an interruption in shape of a lieutenant, who wished the colonel's instructions concerning an awkward situation. "you see, sir," he began, "we had just got the prisoners, whom you brought in yesterday, nicely started for the boats, when one of them, and a mighty good-looking one for a squaw, darted out from among the rest and ran like a deer towards the woods. two of the guards started after her, and several men ran so as to head her off. at this, and seeing no other chance of escape, she sprang to a small tree and climbed it like a kitten. once up, she drew a knife from some part of her clothing and declared in excellent english that she would kill any man who dared come after her and then kill herself. i have been talking to her and trying to persuade her of her foolishness. she only answers that she will never be taken from florida, and will do exactly what she threatens, in case we attempt her capture. she is terribly in earnest about it, and i am afraid means just what she says. now all the boats have left, save one that is only waiting for her, and i am in a quandary. i dare not order any man to go up after her. i can't have her shot. i can't shake her down, nor can i persuade her to come down, and the transports will have sailed long before she is weary or starved into submission." "it certainly is a most embarrassing situation," laughed the colonel, rising from the table as he spoke, "and one that would seem to demand my official presence. will you come with us, boyd?" "can't i go too, colonel?" broke in anstice. "perhaps i can persuade the poor thing to come down after all you men have failed." "certainly, miss anstice; we shall be delighted to have both your company and assistance." they found the situation to be precisely as described, except that, by this time, quite a crowd of soldiers, all laughing and shouting at the indian girl, were collected about the tree. these were silenced by the coming of their officers, and drew aside to make way for them. "this is a decidedly novel experience," began the colonel, as he caught sight of a slender figure perched up in the tree, and staring down with great, frightened eyes. at that moment, anstice boyd, who had just caught a glimpse of the girl's face, sprang forward with a little scream of recognition. "it is nita! my own darling nita!" she cried. "colonel, order these horrid men to go away at once, and you and the others please go away, too. she is my friend, and will come to me as soon as you are all out of sight. i will be responsible for her, and shall take her directly to the house, where you can see her after awhile, if you choose." two minutes later the men had disappeared, and the poor, brave girl, who had determined to die rather than leave the land in which her lover still fought for liberty, was sobbing as though her heart would break in anstice boyd's arms. the latter soothed and petted her as though she had been a little lost child, and finally led her away to her own temporary home. here she clad her in one of the two extra gowns she had managed to bring from the plantation, and so transformed her in appearance, that when, an hour later, the colonel called to inquire after his captive, he was more amazed than ever in his eventful career, to find her a very beautiful, shy, and stylishly dressed young lady, to whom it was necessary that he be formally presented. he had, in the meantime, learned her history from boyd; and, when made aware of the tender ties existing between her and the redoubtable young war-chief of the seminoles, had exclaimed: "ralph boyd, your coming here with your sister was a special leading of divine providence, as was the act of that brave girl in refusing to embark for new orleans this morning. now, with her aid, we will end this bloody war." proceeding to headquarters, he briefly explained the situation to general armistead, who had just succeeded general taylor in command of the army in florida, and obtained his permission for the transports to depart, leaving nita pacheco behind. upon meeting nita in anstice boyd's tiny sitting-room, the colonel chided her gently for not making herself known to him at the time of her capture with the others of halec tustenugge's village. to this she replied that she and her people had suffered so much at the hands of white men, and been so often deceived, that they no longer dared trust them. "that is so sadly true, my dear girl, that it seems incredible that a seminole should ever trust one of us again. still, i am going to ask you to do that very thing. i am going to ask you to trust me, and believe in the truth of every word i say to you as you would in that of coacoochee himself. if i deceive you in one word or in any particular, may that god who is ruler of us all repay me a thousand fold for my infamy." here followed a long conversation, in which the colonel outlined his plan for obtaining an interview with coacoochee, through the influence of nita, who he proposed should accompany his forthcoming expedition to the southern interior. at its conclusion, nita gave him a searching look that seemed to read his very soul. then, placing a small hand in his, she said: "i will go with you, i will do what i can, and i will trust you." "spoken like a brave girl, and one well worthy the bravest lover in all florida!" cried the colonel. "now can i see the end of this war. boyd, i of course count on you to go with us?" "and me?" interposed anstice. "don't you count on me too, colonel? because if you don't, neither of these people shall stir a single step with your old expedition." "my dear young lady," rejoined the colonel, gallantly, "the entire fate of the proposed expedition rests with you, and i made so certain that you would accompany us, that i have selected as my adjutant lieutenant irwin--" "that will do, sir. not another word," interrupted the blushing girl. "if you get into the habit of talking such nonsense i, for one, will never believe a word you say. i don't care, though, so long as it is settled that i am to go. now i want you both to listen while i tell you what nita has just told me of all that has happened to her since she disappeared so mysteriously from the plantation. nita dear, i am sure you don't want to hear it, so run up to my room, and have a good rest. i will come just as soon as i have got rid of these men." chapter xxxvi peace is again proposed after nita had left the room, anstice began her story as follows: "on the afternoon before that cold 'norther' we had about a month ago, nita was sitting, as she often did, by the magnolia spring. you must remember the place, colonel. there she received a most unexpected visit from her brother louis, whom she had not seen for years. he had been sent by coacoochee to carry the news of the battle of okeechobee to the northern bands, and also to bring a message to nita. after they had talked for awhile, he had to go on his way, but promised to be back in two days' time and take any message or token she might wish to send to her lover." "that's who it was then!" broke in ralph boyd. "well, i am glad to have that part of the mystery cleared up." "yes," continued anstice; "and of course, nita was awfully excited. when the second day came, she spent nearly the whole of it at the spring. finally, late in the afternoon, as before, she heard a voice calling to her by name, very softly. thinking, of course, that it was louis, who feared, for some reason, to advance into the open, she followed the direction of the voice unhesitatingly. then the first thing she knew, a cloth was flung over her head, she was seized in a pair of strong arms, and borne struggling away. "when, to save her from suffocating, the cloth was removed, she found herself in a boat, with two white men and her brother louis. the poor fellow's head was cut and bleeding, as though from a cruel blow, and he lay bound in the bottom of the boat. one of the white men was rowing, and the other sat watching them, with a pistol in his hand." "did she recognize the white men?" inquired ralph boyd. "yes, she says they were the very two who stole her mother, and afterwards stole the wife of osceola." "the scoundrels!" cried colonel worth. "in that case they were the prime instigators of this war, and ought to have been hanged long ago." "yes," answered boyd, "and one of them stole my sister, colonel, and turned her adrift in the forest, where but for coacoochee she must have perished. the same gentleman also shot me in the back at the battle of withlacoochee, and supposed he had killed me." "hanging would be altogether too good for the brute," declared the colonel, excitedly. "he deserves to be burned at the stake." "that is what the indians thought," replied boyd, significantly. "but go on, sister. did nita find out the name of the other man?" "yes, she learned while with them that it was ruffin,--ross ruffin." "i have heard of him, too, as being as great a scoundrel as jeffers himself, only more of a coward," muttered boyd. "they made both nita and louis put on boots before leaving the boat," continued the narrator, "and that accounts for our finding what we supposed were the footprints of four white men. when they reached the place where the horses were waiting, both the captives had their wrists bound together, and a rope was passed from each to the saddle of one of the white men. so they rode for two days, and nita says it was simply awful." "i should imagine it might have been," said the colonel. "just at dusk of the second day, a lot of ambushed indians surprised and captured them all without firing a shot. nita says, in spite of her fright, she thinks that was one of the happiest moments of her life. the indians knew louis, and, of course, released him and her at once, tying up the white men instead. that night they camped some miles from the road, and when louis told who the prisoners were, and of the many outrages they had committed, especially the stealing of poor chen-o-wah, the indians declared they should live no longer, and began at once to make preparations for killing them. nita says she isn't certain how they were killed, as she made louis take her a long way off, where she could neither see nor hear what was going on; but she thinks they were _burned_ to death." "and i know it," said ralph boyd, grimly. "douglass and i saw their charred remains the next day, and not knowing who they were, i expended a certain amount of sympathy on them, that i now feel to have been wholly wasted." "oh brother! and you never told me! i'm glad you didn't, though, for it is too horrible to even think of. well, when nita got to the indian village, they treated her just as nicely as they knew how, and promised to join coacoochee, of course taking her with them, as soon as their crops were planted. then you came along, colonel, and captured poor nita with the others, and brought her in here, and the rest you know. oh, i forgot! nita is feeling very badly about her brother louis, who was captured with her and brought here. she says he was taken off in one of the first boats this morning, and she is afraid she will never see him again." "he must have given an assumed name," remarked the colonel, thoughtfully. "under the circumstances, though, i am very glad that he did, and that he is well out of the country. i am afraid if it had been known a few hours sooner that major dade's guide was in the prisoners' camp, he would never have left it alive. in that case my course with coacoochee, which now appears so plain, would have been beset with serious, if not insurmountable, difficulties. as it is, i congratulate you, miss anstice, on having nita pacheco for a friend, and look forward to the happiest result arising from that friendship. within a week we shall be ready to start for the country of coacoochee, and i can assure you that i have never anticipated any expedition with greater pleasure than i do this one." the first of march, that loveliest month of the entire floridian year, found colonel worth's command camped in fort gardiner hammock, on the western bank of the kissimmee river. here, they were more than one hundred miles beyond the nearest white settlers, and in a country so abounding with game of all kinds, including deer and turkey, besides fish and turtles in wonderful abundance, that the troops were fed on these, until they begged for a return to bacon and hardtack as a pleasing change of diet. the heavily timbered bottom lands were in their fullest glory of spring green, fragrant with a wealth of yellow jasmine, and the glowing swamp azalea, as well as vocal with the notes of innumerable song birds. it was one of the most charming bits of the beautiful land that the seminole loved so well and fought so fiercely to retain. it was a typical home of the indian, and one from which the soldiers of the united states had thus far been unable to drive him. in the camp a large double tent, pitched next that of the commander, was set apart for the use of the boyds and nita. here anstice held regal court; for she was not only the first white woman to penetrate that wild region, but the first who had ever accompanied a command of the florida army on one of its "swamp campaigns." in her efforts at entertaining the officers who flocked about her, anstice was ably seconded by nita, who, though demure and shy, was not lacking in quick wit and a cheery mirth that had been wonderfully developed during this expedition into the haunts of her lover. from its outset she had refused to wear the garb of civilization, and appeared always dressed in the simple costume of an indian maiden such as the young seminole war-chief might recognize at a glance, and now he might be expected at any moment. the day on which he had promised to come in had arrived, and already was ralph boyd gone forth to meet him. oh, how slowly the time passed, and yet again, how swiftly! finally, unable to conceal her agitation, nita returned to the innermost recess of the tent, while anstice entertained several officers with gay talk and laughter outside. friendly indians, sent out long before with a white flag, on which were painted two clasped hands, in token of friendship, and with numerous presents, had found coacoochee, and informed him of colonel worth's desire for a talk; upon which the fierce young chief had laughed them to scorn. "tell the white chief," he said, "to come alone to the camp of coacoochee if he wishes to talk." "thy friend ralph boyd is in the camp of the soldiers, and sends word that the white chief is to be trusted." "tell my friend that i am through with trusting white chiefs. i have had a sadder experience with them than he." "nita pacheco is in the camp of the soldiers, and, being restrained from coming to thee, bids thee come to her. she also sends word that the white chief is to be trusted even as she is to be trusted." for a long time coacoochee sat silent, while the little smoke clouds from his calumet floated in blue spirals above his head; then he spoke again, saying: "tell the white chief that in five days coacoochee will come to him. tell ralph boyd that on the fifth day from now, two hours before the sleeping of the sun, if he comes alone, i will meet him at the palmetto hammock, one mile this side of the soldiers' camp. if he comes not, then shall i return to my own people, and the white chief shall never meet me save in battle. tell nita pacheco that at her bidding only, of all the world, do i trust myself again within the power of the iste-hatke. now go, and bear to her this token from coacoochee." with this the young chief detached from his turban a superb cluster of egret plumes fastened with a golden clasp, and handed it to the messenger. this token had been promptly delivered to nita, together with her lover's message, and now she awaited his coming. ralph boyd, riding out alone to meet his indian friend, felt almost depressed at the utter loneliness of his surroundings, in which no signs of human presence or animal life were to be discovered. he wondered curiously, as he rode, whether that fair country would ever be filled with the homes and tilled acres of civilization. as he approached the cluster of cabbage palms named as the place of meeting, he scanned it closely, but without detecting aught save an unbroken solitude. even as he pondered on how long he should wait for coacoochee to fulfil his engagement, he was startled by a low laugh, and the young chief, with outstretched hand, stood by his side. springing from his saddle, the englishman grasped the hand of his friend, and after a warm greeting confessed his amazement that any human being could have approached him so closely without warning. "i remembered the magic by which your warriors were made to appear and disappear on that former occasion long ago," he said, "and have watched so keenly this time that i did not believe even you could come within many yards of me without detection. even now i know not from where you came." for answer coacoochee uttered his own signal, the cry of a hawk. instantly, to boyd's infinite amazement, the two were surrounded by a cordon of warriors, all armed with rifles, and the furthest not more than three rods away. coacoochee smiled at the blank expression on his friend's face, and said: "from the camp of the soldiers to this place have my braves kept pace with thee; for, while i trust ralph boyd, i was not yet prepared to fully trust the war-chief of the iste-hatke nor place myself entirely in his power. now am i satisfied, and will go with you." thus saying, coacoochee waved his hand, and the indians, who had stood motionless about them, disappeared within the shadows of the hammock. at the same moment there came from it seven mounted warriors, one of whom led a superb horse fully equipped for the road. the young chief vaulted lightly into the saddle of this steed, and boyd mounting at the same time, the two friends, followed by their picturesque escort, dashed away toward the camp by the kissimmee. a few minutes later a blare of trumpets and a roll of drums heralded their arrival, and colonel worth, escorted by a group of officers in full uniform, stepped forward to greet the distinguished guest, from whose coming so much was hoped. as the two war-chiefs of different races, and yet both natives of one country, held each other's hand, and gazed into each other's face, each was impressed with the belief that he had met an honest man, a worthy foe, and one who might become a stanch friend. after the formalities of the occasion had been exchanged, and just as coacoochee's eyes were beginning to rove restlessly down the camp, anstice boyd stepped to his side, gave him the greeting of an old friend, and leading him to her own tent, bade him enter alone. thus there was no witness to the meeting of the forest lovers; but when, a few minutes later, they came from the tent together, there was a happiness in their faces that had not been there since that long-ago evening of betrothal in the village of philip emathla. chapter xxxvii coacoochee is again made prisoner although the seminoles had generally been victorious in their battles with the whites, they were struggling against a power so infinitely greater than theirs that the four years of war already elapsed had made very serious inroads upon both their strength and their resources. their entire force was in the field, and they had no reserves from which to draw fresh warriors. they must raise their own food supplies even while they fought. they could not manufacture powder nor arms, and could only gain infrequent supplies of these by successful battles or forays. the fresh, well-armed, and well-fed troops, operating against them, outnumbered them ten to one. their entire country was dotted with stockaded posts, called by courtesy "forts," garrisoned by troops who were continually driving the indians from hammock to hammock, destroying their fields, and burning their villages. one line of these posts extended across the territory, from fort brooke on tampa bay to st. augustine, cutting off the northern bands from those who had sought refuge amid the vast swamps of the south. another line extended down the west coast, and up the caloosahatchie to lake okeechobee; while a third line commanded the atlantic coast from st. augustine to the mouth of the miami river, where it empties into far-distant biscayne bay. of this last chain the principal posts were fort pierce, on the indian river opposite the inlet, fort jupiter at the mouth of the locohatchie, fort lauderdale on new river, and fort dallas on biscayne bay. the last named was most important of all, because of its size, its strength, nearly all of its buildings being so solidly constructed of stone that some of them are in a good state of preservation to this day, and on account of its situation, which commanded the everglades and the system of waterways connecting them with the coast. under these circumstances, it is no wonder that the indians were weary of the hopeless struggle against such overwhelming odds, and that colonel worth found coacoochee willing to talk peace. the two war-chiefs seemed drawn to each other, and to understand each other from the first. during the four days that coacoochee remained in the camp of the soldiers, they held many informal talks concerning the subject of greatest importance to them both. for a long time, coacoochee argued stoutly against the removal of his people to a distant country, and pleaded hard for a reservation in their own land. to this colonel worth replied that more than half the tribe were already removed, and could never be brought back. also that, with the great tide of white immigration setting steadily southward, no reservation in florida, worth the having, could be secured to the indians for more than a few years; at the end of which time the existing troubles would rise again with exaggerated violence. these arguments finally prevailed, and with a heavy heart the young chief admitted the necessity of leaving the land of his birth. he, however, made one stipulation. "there are among us," he said, "those of a darker skin than ours, but who are yet our brothers. many of them were born to freedom in the land of the iste-chatte. they have fought with us for our liberty, and have died by our side. they are with us as one people, and where we go they must also go. if coacoochee surrenders, and exerts his influence for the removal of his people, it is only on condition that those of the iste-lustee now dwelling with the seminoles shall go with them, and that no one of them shall ever be claimed by a white man as his slave. are the words of coacoochee good in the ears of the white war-chief?" "they are good," replied colonel worth, "and, were i in full command, your condition should be granted unhesitatingly. but there is another war-chief more powerful than i, who must be consulted. i believe he will gladly accept your terms. he is now at fort brooke. will you go with me and see him? if you will, no matter whether you come to an agreement or not, i pledge my sacred word, as a man and a soldier, that you shall return to your own people, free and without harm." for some minutes coacoochee meditated this proposition in silence. then he said slowly: "micco-hatke [white chief], in the hope of ending this war, and saving the lives of my people, i will do what i have said i never would do. i will trust myself again within the walls of a white man's fort. i will go with you to talk with this great white chief. first, i must return to my warriors, and tell them where i am going, that there may be no fighting while i am gone. i give you these ten sticks. with the rising of each sun throw one away. when all are gone, coacoochee will come again, and go with his white brother to the place of the great white chief." so the wildcat left the camp of the soldiers as free as he had entered it, journeyed far among the scattered bands of his people, and in ten days returned, prepared to accompany his white friends to the place from which they had set forth in search of him. at tampa, general armistead expressed himself as greatly impressed with the manliness and evident sincerity of the young chief. he readily consented to the condition imposed, and bade him bring in his people at once, that they might be embarked for emigration. to this coacoochee replied that, while he had become convinced of the necessity for removal to the west, it would take time to convince his followers, especially as the soldiers had so driven them that they were scattered in small bands all over the country. they would not be gathered together until at their great annual festival or green corn dance, which would be held in june. before that time he doubted if he should be able to accomplish very much. understanding this state of affairs perfectly, general armistead still desired coacoochee to go and collect his people as speedily as possible, designating fort pierce on the indian river as the place at which they should assemble. so the young war-chief having renewed his confidence in the words of the white man, departed cheerfully, and filled with a new hope for the future. he had received every mark of friendship and distinction from officers and soldiers, and had been given no cause to doubt for a moment the sincerity of these expressions. as colonel worth was about to leave for palatka, and the boyds were taking advantage of his escort to return to their own home, coacoochee decided to accompany them as far as the plantation on the st. john's, where nita was still to be left until his return from the great enterprise he had now undertaken. about this return much was said; for it would mean the beginning of the young chief's long journey to the west, and of course on that journey, from which there was to be no return, nita pacheco was to accompany him. anstice had set her heart on having what she termed the "royal wedding" take place at the plantation, and had so nearly gained coacoochee's consent to being married according to the way of the iste-hatke, that she already considered her pet scheme as good as adopted. the only officer accompanying the colonel to palatka was lieutenant douglass; and, on the evening of their arrival at the plantation, as he and anstice sat together on the verandah, while coacoochee was strolling with nita beneath the oaks, and ralph boyd was entertaining colonel worth inside the house, he startled the english girl by asking: "wouldn't it be just as easy, miss boyd, to have two weddings as one when coacoochee returns?" "why, yes. i suppose so. if there was any one else who wanted to get married just at that time." "well, there is. i do, for one." "and who is the other, pray?" "can't you guess, anstice? don't you know? won't you--?" here the young officer caught one of the girl's hands in both of his, and though he was obliged to release it a moment later, as the other men appeared on the verandah, the mere fact that she had not snatched it away filled him with unspeakable joy. it was a sufficient answer to his question, and he knew as well as though told in words, that he had won something better and sweeter far than rank, or honors, or position, or whatever else besides love the world holds most dear. during the weeks that followed this happy evening at the plantation, while colonel worth, with irwin douglass as his hard-worked adjutant was always in the field, giving the indians to understand that the vigilance of the troops was in no way to be relaxed, by the prospects of peace, coacoochee, in the far south, was using every effort to redeem his pledged word, and persuade his people to come in for removal. he often visited fort pierce, the appointed rendezvous, which was commanded by major chase, the same who as a captain had destroyed the swamp stronghold of osceola. this officer had long been conducting similar operations in the south, despatching small bodies of troops in all directions from his post, on the soldierly tasks of destroying fields, capturing women and children, and burning the rude roofs that had sheltered them. upon receipt of orders to stay his hand, and hold his troops in check, that coacoochee might be given an opportunity to collect his scattered warriors, major chase became impatient at the loss of his favorite occupation. so he sent word to the general commanding, that coacoochee was so dilatory in fulfilling his promises, that it was believed he meditated treachery. at this, general armistead, who was on the point of being relieved of his command, and ordered to washington, consummated his official career in florida by an act calculated to bring a blush of shame to the cheek of every american soldier. it was nothing more nor less than an issue of instructions to major chase to seize coacoochee, together with any who might accompany him, the very next time the young chief visited fort pierce, and hold them as prisoners of war. upon the retirement of this general, the man appointed to succeed him to the command in florida, was colonel worth, then at palatka, on the st. john's, which was headquarters of his regiment. the distance between that point and the boyds' plantation was so short, that the colonel, together with his adjutant, was in the habit of frequently visiting it and sharing its bountiful hospitality. here were often held discussions of the war, and of the efforts then being made by coacoochee toward securing peace. during these conversations, the colonel was apt to sigh for an extension of his powers, that he might be enabled to put some of his pet theories into practice. in these aspirations the plantation household heartily sympathized. it was only natural, then, that, on receiving his unexpected appointment as commander-in-chief, the honest soldier should hasten to impart the glad intelligence to his friends and bid them share his satisfaction. thus it came about that, a few evenings later, ralph boyd gave a dinner in celebration of the event, at which, among other guests present, were "general" worth, as he must now be called, and lieutenant douglass. the occasion was one of unrestrained happiness, for all believed that the tedious war must now come to a speedy close. frequent blushes were brought to the cheeks of both anstice and nita, by sly allusions to the rapid approach of a certain double wedding that now appeared among the probabilities of the immediate future. when the festivities were at their height, and all were in the gayest of spirits, there came a clatter of horses' hoofs, and a rattle of arms, from outside. the next moment a travel-stained courier entered, saluted, and handed the general a despatch marked "urgent." the commander tore it open, glanced with paling cheeks at its contents, and sprang to his feet, exclaiming: [illustration: "all is lost and the war is about to break forth with greater fury than ever."] "my god, gentlemen! all is lost, and the war is about to break forth with greater fury than ever! in violation of our plighted word, coacoochee and fifteen of his followers have been treacherously seized at fort pierce, sent in irons to tampa, and despatched in cruel haste to the west. a transport even now bears them toward new orleans. in this emergency there is, to my mind, but one thing to be done. coacoochee must be brought back. without his aid to end it, this wretched war will continue indefinitely. lieutenant douglass, within fifteen minutes i shall want you to start on an overland ride to new orleans. intercept coacoochee and bring him back to tampa. for so doing you shall have my written authority. boyd, pen and paper, if you please, and quickly." less than a quarter of an hour later, douglass, splendidly mounted, armed with all requisite authority, and followed by but two troopers, dashed away down the long avenue, fairly started on his momentous mission. as anstice bade him farewell, she whispered in his ear: "remember, irwin, a double wedding, or none." chapter xxxviii douglass fulfils his mission in spite of the undisguised treachery by which coacoochee had been made a prisoner and hurried from the country, the act was hailed with joy by unthinking people all over the territory. these cared not how their enemy was got rid of, so long as they were at liberty to seize his lands and enslave the negroes among his followers. there were many others who were making too good a thing out of the war to care to have it end. from these classes, therefore, arose a mighty clamor, when it became known that general worth was determined to bring back the young war-chief; and for a time there was no man in the country so bitterly abused and reviled as he. to the fearless soldier, strong in the rectitude of his convictions, and planning far ahead of the present, this storm of words, prompted by ignorance, malice, and selfish interests, was but as the idle whispering of a passing breeze. he cared not for it; and if he had, his attention was too immediately and fully occupied by matters of pressing importance to permit him to notice it. as the general had foreseen, the outrage perpetrated upon their most beloved chieftain caused the seminole warriors to spring to their arms with redoubled fury. even as a smouldering brush-heap is fanned into leaping flames by a sudden fitful gust, so the spirit of revenge, burning deep in indian hearts, was now allowed to blaze forth without restraint. small war-parties sallied forth from every swamp and hammock, burning and killing in all directions. nimbly eluding pursuit, these could neither be destroyed nor captured; and through their fierce acts of vengeance, the citizens of florida were given bitter cause to regret the taking away of coacoochee. such chiefs as remained, bound themselves by a solemn covenant to hold no further intercourse with the treacherous white man, but to fight him to the bitter end, and to put to death any messenger, red, black, or white, whom he might send to them under pretence of desiring peace. it was now summer, the season of heat, rain, fevers, and sickness. heretofore, during the summer months, the indians had rested quietly in their villages, and cultivated the crops that should furnish food for the campaign of the succeeding winter. heretofore, at this season, the soldiers had been withdrawn from the deadly interior, and allowed to recuperate in the health-giving sea-breezes of the coast. now all this was changed. while sympathizing with the wronged and outraged indians, general worth's loyalty to his government was too strong to permit his feelings to interfere in the slightest with the full performance of his duty. the time for an active summer campaign had arrived, and the new commander was the very man to conduct such a one with the utmost vigor. the indians who had taken to the war-path quickly found, to their sorrow, that the whites had done the same thing. from every post in florida detachments of troops scoured the neighboring territory, carrying desolation and dismay into every part of the country known, or supposed, to be occupied by the enemy. no hammock was so dense, and no swamp so trackless, that the white soldier did not penetrate it. during the month of june thirty-two cornfields of from five to twenty acres each were despoiled of their growing crops, and as many indian villages were destroyed. even the watery fastnesses of the widespread everglades were invaded by a boat expedition from fort dallas, which destroyed crops and orchards on many a fertile island that the indians had fondly believed no white man would ever discover. during this same month of june, more than three thousand men, stricken by fevers and kindred disease encountered in the swamps, were enrolled on the sick list of general worth's little army. by the end of the month nearly every indian in florida had been driven into the impenetrable recesses of the big cypress, a vast swamp bordering on the southwest coast, and most of the troops were recalled to their respective posts. now, if douglass had been successful in his mission, it was time for coacoochee to be expected at tampa, and the commander moved his headquarters from palatka to fort brooke, that he might be on hand to receive the exiled chief. with him went the boyds; for they had become too deeply interested in this game of war to remain at a distance from its most important moves. of course, nita accompanied them, alternately hopeful and despairing, longing for news from her lover, and yet fearing to receive it. their old cottage being again placed at their disposal, the boyds were at once as comfortably established as though they had never left it. on the third of july, a strange sail was reported beating slowly up the bay, and that same evening lieutenant irwin douglass, in speckless uniform, walked into the boyds' cottage, as quietly as though he had left it but an hour before. as he entered, anstice was the first to discover him, and sprang to his side. "irwin douglass!" she cried. "have you brought coacoochee back with you? tell me quick!" close behind her stood nita, silent and motionless, but with shining eyes that gained the coveted information from the young officer's face long before he could give it in words. "didn't you say it must be a double wedding or none?" he asked, laughingly. "yes. tell us quick!" "well, i didn't know of any one besides yourself who wished to get married, except nita." "you horrid man! why don't you tell us?" "and as i didn't suppose she would accept any other indian--" "you brought coacoochee back with you?" "i didn't say so." "but you have! you know you have; for you would never have dared come here if you hadn't." "well then, i have, and he is aboard the transport out there in the bay, alive, hearty, and filled with happiness at once more breathing his native air." "irwin douglass, you are a dear fellow, and i love you! which is more than i ever admitted before, except to coacoochee," cried anstice, throwing her arms about nita and hugging her in her excitement. "but why didn't you bring him ashore? didn't you suppose we wanted to see him? and didn't you know that poor nita was wearing her heart out with suspense?" "i feared so, but i couldn't help it. you see, when a man in the military business runs up against orders, he finds them mighty stubborn facts, and not lightly to be turned aside. so as i had orders to leave our friend under guard aboard ship, until he had been visited by the commanding general, i thought it better to obey them." "never mind, dear," said anstice, turning consolingly to nita. "we will have him ashore to-morrow, and his coming will be a fitting celebration of the fourth of july that the americans make so much fuss over." on the morrow, the general, accompanied by his staff, together with douglass and boyd, visited coacoochee on board the transport. as these gained the deck, they beheld the distinguished prisoner thin and haggard, with manacles on both wrists and ankles, but still standing straight and undaunted, with eyes gazing beyond them and fixed on the dear land that he had thought never to see again. stepping directly to him, general worth grasped his hand, saying: "coacoochee, i take you by the hand as a warrior and a brave man, who has fought long and with a strong heart for his country. you were not captured and sent away by my orders, but by the orders of the great chief who was then in command. now i am in command, and by my order have you been brought back to your own land that you may give it the peace you promised me. for nearly five years has there been war between the white man and the red man. now that war must end, and you are the man who must end it. you will not be allowed to go free until your whole band has come in, ready for removal to the west. you may send a talk to them by three, or even five, of your young men. you shall state the number of days required for your people to come in. if they are all here within the limit of time fixed, you shall be set at liberty, and allowed to go on shore to them. if they are not here by the last day appointed, then shall its setting sun see you, and those with you, hanging from the yards of this vessel with the irons still on your hands and feet. i do not tell you this to frighten you. you are too brave a man for that. i say it because i mean it, and shall do as i say. this war must end, and you must end it." for some minutes there was a dead silence, as the company reflected on the terrible words they had just heard, and coacoochee's breast heaved with emotion he struggled to control. at length he said: "micco-hatke, you are a great chief, and i believe you are an honest man. other white men have lied to me and cheated me. they could not overcome coacoochee in battle, so they captured him by their lying words. with you it is not so. i will trust you. let my young men go. if in thirty days the warriors of coacoochee have not obeyed his voice and come to him, then let him die. he will not care longer to live." after a conversation with his companions, to whom all this had been interpreted, coacoochee selected five of them, and with the earnest words of one placing his life and honor in their hands, charged them with a message to his people. then the irons were stricken from the limbs of those five, and they were allowed to pass over the side of the ship into a waiting boat. coacoochee shook hands with each one, and to the last he said: "if thou meet with her whom i love, tell her--no, tell her naught. already does she know the words that the heart of coacoochee would utter. give her this, and bid her wear it until i once more stand beside her or have gone from her life forever." with this he handed the messenger a silken kerchief of creamy white, that, in honor of the occasion, had been knotted about his head. among those who thronged the shore to witness the return of the boats, none watched them with such straining eyes and eager impatience as nita pacheco. she stood with anstice, a little apart from the rest, clad in the forest costume that she knew would be most pleasing to her lover. general worth had told no one of his plans, and so the girl did not doubt for a moment that coacoochee would be allowed to come ashore that day. she was the first to make certain that one of the boats contained a number of indians; and from that moment her eyes did not leave it. as it drew near to the shore, the happy light gradually faded from her face, and in its place there came a look of puzzled anxiety. "he is not there," she finally said to anstice, in a tone that betrayed the keenness of her disappointment. "let us go; there is nothing now to stay for." "no," objected anstice, "there must be a message from him. let us wait and learn what has happened." boyd and douglass came directly to where the girls awaited them; but ere either of them could enter into explanations, nita darted away toward the warriors, who had just landed. with these she engaged in rapid conversation for the next five minutes, during which she learned of all that had passed aboard the ship, and of her lover's imminent peril. when the girl rejoined her friends, her jetty hair was bound with the kerchief of creamy silk. she walked with a resolute step, and her eyes flashed with determination. speaking to anstice alone, without regard to those who stood near her, she said: "the micco-hatke will kill him if every member of his band is not here, ready to emigrate, within thirty days. the seminole chiefs have sworn to receive no proposals for peace. they will even shoot the messengers of coacoochee before they can be heard; but they will not kill a woman. it is for me, therefore, to go with those who bear the talk of coacoochee. if, at the end of the allotted time, every member of the band is not here, then i, too, shall be far away; but, as the sun sinks into the sea on that day, the spirit of nita pacheco will be forever joined with that of him to whom she plighted her troth. come, let us go and make ready." no persuasions nor suggestions of danger or hardship could alter the girl's determination, or cause her to waver from her fixed purpose. so she was allowed to have her way, and at daylight of the following morning she set forth, in company with the five warriors, on her perilous and fateful mission. they were amply provided with horses, provisions, and everything that could add to the success of their undertaking, and, as they rode away from the fort, every soul in it, from the general down, wished them a heart-felt "god speed." chapter xxxix the bravest girl in florida during the month that followed nita's departure there was in fort brooke but one all-absorbing topic of conversation and speculation. would the brave girl succeed in saving the life of her lover? or must he die like a dog, without ever again treading the soil of his native land? except for being kept a prisoner, the young war-chief was treated with distinguished consideration, and every want that he made known was gratified, so far as was consistent with safety. at the same time, he was still manacled, and his irons, together with those of his comrades, were carefully examined by a blacksmith, under supervision of an officer, every morning and evening. the guard on the transport was doubled, and at night a chain of sentinels was posted along such portions of the shore as lay adjacent to the ship. no boats were allowed to approach or leave the floating prison between sunset and sunrise, and no other precaution that human ingenuity could devise for the safe-keeping of the captives was neglected. ralph boyd, often accompanied by some officer from the post, made daily visits to cheer coacoochee with his belief that all was going well, and to carry him the very latest news. on the occasion of his first visit he took anstice, who claimed the privilege of telling the young chief what his sweetheart had undertaken in his behalf. as the stern warrior listened to the simple recital, his face became very tender, and a tear, hastily brushed away, glistened for an instant on his cheek. then he said: "now do i know that all will go well," and from that moment he was cheerfully confident of the final result. no word was received from the messengers for a week, at the end of which time one of them returned, bringing with him ten warriors and a number of women and children. the messenger reported that, but for nita, their mission, so far at least as this particular band was concerned, would have been fruitless. upon their approach, the warriors had sternly ordered them away, covering them with their rifles, and threatening to shoot if they dared speak of peace. upon that, nita, who had until then remained in the background, boldly advanced to the very muzzles of the brown rifles, resolutely pushed them aside, and then pleaded so effectively with the warriors who held them that, ere she finished, their hearts were softened, and they announced themselves as not only ready to surrender, but willing to follow their young chief wherever he might lead them. coacoochee had given general worth a bundle of small sticks which, by their number, represented the entire strength of his band. upon the arrival at the fort of these forerunners, the general counted them, and returned to coacoochee an equal number of his sticks. from day to day after this, other small parties of coacoochee's followers straggled in, and for every new arrival a stick was sent to the young chief, who gloated over his increasing pile as a miser over his hoard, or a politician over the incoming votes that promise to save him from defeat. in the meantime nita, with an incredible exhibition of endurance, was scouring the distant country lying about the headwaters of the st. john's and kissimmee. here in little groups, the widely scattered members of coacoochee's once numerous and formidable band had sought refuge amid the vast swamps and overflowed lands, which constitute that portion of florida. here, from swamp to swamp, from one tiny wooded island to another, or from hammock to hammock, the dauntless girl followed them. sometimes she was accompanied by a small escort; but more often she was alone. there were days on which she had food, but many others on which she went hungry. the howl of the wolf became her familiar lullaby, while the scaly alligator and venomous water-moccasin regarded her invasion of their haunts with angry eyes. she travelled on horseback, by canoe, and on foot, scorched by noontide suns, and drenched by heavy night-dews that fell like rain, but always the image of coacoochee was in her heart, as she bore his _talk_ from band to band of his scattered followers. as fast as they could be persuaded to go, she sent them to the far-away fort by the salt waters of the west, and bade them hasten or they would be too late. she, too, knew the number of coacoochee's warriors, and kept a close count of those who had gone, as well as of those who still remained to be persuaded. with jealous care she noted the passage of each day, and murmured that they should fly the more swiftly as the fatal date drew near. at length the last hiding-place was found, and the last sullen group of eight warriors, with their women and children, was persuaded to go in with her who was beloved of their young chief. by hard riding they could reach the fort on the twenty-ninth day, leaving but one to spare for safety. the brave girl, who had borne up so wonderfully during this month of suspense, was filled with joy at the success of her mission. at the same time, she was so utterly wearied that she often slept, even as she rode, and but for the quick support of willing hands, would have fallen from her saddle. but she would not pause. there would be plenty of time for resting afterwards. now, they must push on. on the evening of the last day but one of the month, the fort was only a score of miles away. they would keep on and reach it that night. so said nita pacheco. but there were enemies on whom she had not counted. halec tustenugge, with the fourteen miccosouky warriors who had escaped with him from their ravaged village, roamed that part of the country and infested that particular road like ravening beasts. they had sworn never to surrender themselves, nor allow others to do so if they could prevent them. now they confronted the little party from the eastern swamps, and bade them turn back or suffer the consequences. there was a moment of hesitation and consultation. then nita pacheco sprang to the front. "are the warriors trained by coacoochee to be told what they shall do, and what they shall not do, by a pack of miccosouky dogs?" she cried. "no! it cannot be! let them get out of our way, or we will trample them in the dust! yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-chee!" as this war-cry of the wildcat rang out on the evening air, and nita's horse sprang from under the stinging lash, in the direction of those who blocked the road, the warriors of coacoochee, echoing madly the cry of their leader, plied whip and spur in an effort to charge by her side. the miccosoukies, though numbering nearly two to one, were on foot, while nita's followers were mounted. the former fired one point blank volley, and then fled precipitately from before the on-rushing horses. the battle had been fought and won, and the enemy dispersed in less than a single minute; but it was the victors who suffered the heaviest loss. one warrior killed outright, two more wounded, one horse so severely wounded that he had to be killed; and, what no one noticed at first, not even nita herself, a stream of blood spurting from an arm of the girl who had led the charge. so delayed was the little party by this fierce interruption, that the sun had climbed high above the eastern horizon, on the last day of the thirty allotted to coacoochee, ere the last of his followers, travel worn, staggering from wounds and weariness, but filled with pride at the feat they had just accomplished, and fully conscious of their own importance, filed slowly into fort brooke. for days their coming had been eagerly awaited. for hours they had been watched for with feverish anxiety. now the tale of sticks in general worth's possession was complete, for nita had insisted upon the living warriors bringing in him who was dead, that he might be counted with them. the soldiers of the garrison uttered cheer upon cheer at sight of these last comers. the friends who had preceded them thronged about them with eager questions and congratulations; and the news that coacoochee was saved, repeated from lip to lip, spread like wildfire throughout the post. ralph and anstice boyd, seated at a late breakfast, heard the glad shouting, and ran to the porch of their cottage to discover its cause. they were just in time to greet nita as she rode up, and to catch her as she slipped wearily from her saddle. her clothing was torn and stained, and her unbound hair streamed wildly about her head. her eyes were bright and shining, but her cheeks were hollow, and glowed with spots of dull red. coacoochee's silken kerchief that had confined her hair, was now bound tightly about her arm, and its whiteness was changed to the crimson of blood. "he still lives? i am in time?" she whispered huskily as anstice met her with a mingled cry of joy and terror. "yes, you dear, splendid, brave girl. he still lives, and you are in plenty of time. but, oh nita! if you have killed yourself, what will it all amount to? ralph, you must carry her in. she isn't able to walk." very tenderly they bore her into the house, and laid her on the tiny bed in her own room. then boyd hastened to find the surgeon, while anstice bathed the girl's face with cool water, and talked lovingly to her. ere an hour was past, the deadly fever of the swamps, that she had defied so long and so bravely, held her in its fierce clutches, and the girl, who by her own exertions had brought the war to a close, lay with staring eyes, but unconscious of her surroundings. to irwin douglass was assigned the congenial task of notifying coacoochee that he was free, and bringing him ashore. he hastened to execute it, and, on reaching the ship, at once ordered the hated irons to be struck from the limbs of the captive leader. as they fell clanging to the deck, the whole appearance of the young chief changed. he again lifted his head proudly, his form expanded, and he paced the deck with the stride of a free man. his first query was for nita, and when told of her triumphant return, leading the last remnant of his band, he smiled proudly, and said that she was indeed fitted to be the wife of a warrior. at that time douglass did not know of the girl's wound, nor of the illness that was even then developing its true character. consequently, coacoochee was allowed to go ashore filled with happy anticipations of meeting her whom he loved and to whom he owed so much. he arrayed himself in a striking costume for the occasion, and one that well became his rank. from his turban drooped three black ostrich plumes. his frock was of scarlet and yellow, exquisitely made. across his breast glittered many medals. in his silken sash was thrust the silver-hilted hunting-knife, by aid of which he had escaped from the fortress prison of st. augustine. his leggings were of scarlet cloth, elaborately fringed, and on his feet he wore beaded moccasins. a great throng of people, including every indian at the post, was assembled to greet him; and as the boat neared land, these raised a mighty shout of welcome. as he leaped ashore and trod again his native sands, the throng drew back. then with outstretched arms, and his form extended to its fullest height, coacoochee gave utterance to the ringing war-cry that had so often carried dismay to his foes, and thrilled his warriors to desperate deeds. "yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-chee yo-ho-ee!" it was answered by a sound of hearty cheers from the assembled troops. then the throng parted to make way for him, and up the living lane the young war-chief walked proudly to headquarters, where he exchanged greetings with general worth as one with whom he was in every respect an equal. this formality concluded, he turned to the crowd of indians who had followed him, and addressed them briefly, but in ringing tones: "warriors: coacoochee stands before you a free man. he sent for you, and you have come. by that coming you have saved his life, and for it, he thanks you. the great spirit has spoken in our councils, and said: 'let there be no more war between my children.' the hatchet is buried so that there may be friendship between the iste-chatte and his white brother. i have given my word for you that you will not try to escape. for that i am free. see to it that the word of coacoochee is kept strong and true. i have spoken. by our council fire i will say more. now, away to your camp." as the throng melted away in obedience to this command, coacoochee turned to lieutenant douglass, and asked to be taken to nita. at the cottage in which she lay, he was met by the boyds, from whom he learned what she had undergone on his behalf; of her wound incurred in fighting his battle, and of her present dangerous illness. he insisted on seeing her; and, on being led to where she lay tossing and moaning in the delirium of fever, the proud warrior knelt by her side, and, hiding his face, wept like a little child. chapter xl a double wedding and the setting sun for days nita pacheco hovered between life and death. during this time, almost hourly bulletins of her condition were demanded, not only from the indian encampment, but from the garrison, every man of which had been won to admiration of the gentle girl by her recent heroism. as for coacoochee, he was as one who is bereft of reason. he would sit for hours on the porch of the boyd cottage, heedless of any who might speak to him, motionless and unconscious of his surroundings. then he would spring on his waiting horse and dash away to scour madly through miles of forest, before his return, which was generally made late at night or with the dawning of a new day. when food was offered him, he took it and ate mechanically; when it was withheld, he seemed unconscious of hunger. the mental condition of the young chief so alarmed his friends that, one morning when he returned from a night spent in the forest, in a cheerful frame of mind, gentle and perfectly rational, they were greatly relieved, and welcomed him as one who had come back from a long journey. "take me to her," he said. "she is watching for me. from this moment she will get well. i have seen allala, and she has said it." they had not noted any sign of a change for the better in the sick girl, and so it was with misgivings as to the result that they complied with his request. nita lay as they had left her; but, upon the entrance of her lover into the room, her eyes unclosed. she smiled at him, and feebly held his hand for a single moment. from that hour her improvement was steady and rapid, and from that time forth coacoochee was again the leader of his people, the firm ally of the whites, and unwearying in his efforts to persuade those of the seminoles who still remained out, to come in and submit to removal. during the two following months he spent his time as nita had done, in visiting distant bands of indians and explaining to them the folly of a further resistance. he possessed two great advantages over all others who had labored in the same direction. he had fought by their side, no one more bravely, and they trusted him. he had also crossed the salt waters and returned again in safety, so that, of his own experience, he could refute the assertion made by their prophet, that every indian taken to sea by the whites was thrown overboard and drowned. in this service the young chief often found himself in desperate situations, and he made frequent hair-breadth escapes from death at the hands of those indians who were either jealous of his power or distrustful for his honesty of purpose. in spite of discouragements and dangers, he persisted, and as the result of his convincing talks beside the red council fires of many a wild swamp retreat, band after band under well-known leaders and renowned fighters came into fort brooke, until only a scanty remnant still defied pursuit amid the impenetrable labyrinths of the big cypress. the indian encampment at tampa occupied a space two miles square, and the task of guarding this large area was so great that, early in october, general worth concluded to embark those already collected before they should become dissatisfied or rebellious and without waiting for more to come in. accordingly the transports were made ready and the day for departure was fixed. now ensued most active preparations. for three days and nights the monotonous sound of the great wooden pestles cracking corn for the journey was heard from all parts of the camp. vast quantities of fat pine knots were collected by the women, for they had heard that the country in which they were to live was destitute of wood. the entire area of the camp was illuminated at night by huge fires, so that there might be no cessation of the work. the crowning event of all, or, as the general termed it, "the peace contract that ended the seminole war," was the double wedding that took place in the open air, under the great live-oaks in front of headquarters, on the evening before the day of sailing. the scene was as remarkable as it was picturesque. on one side were gathered the hundreds of forest dwellers who acknowledged one of the bridegrooms as their leader. among these were proud chiefs, conspicuous in feathers and gaudy finery, stern warriors who had never known defeat in battle, plump matrons wearing many rows of beads and silver ornaments, slender maidens, and chubby children. on the other side were ranks of troops as motionless as though on parade, and groups of officers in glittering uniforms. a superb military band rendered its choicest selections of music, and the simple ceremony was performed by the post chaplain. nita, fully recovered from her illness, and having emerged from it more lovely than ever, like gold that is purified by fire, was clad in the fawnskin dress of a forest maid, though about her neck lay a chain of great pearls, presented by the commander and his officers in token of their devoted admiration of her who had ended the war. beside her stood the young war-chief who had fought so bravely, and accepted defeat so manfully, and with whose fate hers had been so closely entwined during all the long years of fighting. these two were married first, and after them came the beautiful english girl, whose heart had passed into keeping of the dashing american trooper, standing so proudly beside her. ralph boyd, after giving away both brides, declared that he could now appreciate the feelings of a parent bereft of his children. the moment the double ceremony was concluded, the band played its most brilliant march, the troops raised a mighty cheer, there came a salvo of artillery from a light battery stationed on the parade-ground, and the assembled indians gazed on the whole affair with curious interest. all that evening there was music and feasting and dancing; but on the morrow came the sorrowful partings, and, for hundreds of those about to become exiles forever, the heart-breaking departure from their native land. as coacoochee and nita stood together on the after-deck of the steamer that was bearing them down the bay, straining their eyes for a last glimpse of the stately pines that they loved so dearly, she murmured in his ear: "without your brave presence, my warrior, i could not bear it." and he answered: "without you, ista-chee, i would never have come." across the blue mexican gulf they steamed, and for one hundred miles up the tawny flood of the great river to new orleans. there the followers of coacoochee were so impressed by the numbers and evident strength of the white man, that they were filled with pride at having successfully resisted his soldiers so long as they had. at new orleans the exiles were transferred to one of the great river packets, that, with its glowing furnaces, and the hoarse coughing of its high-pressure exhaust, seemed to them by far the most wonderful creation of the all-powerful iste-hatke. being embarked in this mighty pith-lo-loot-ka (boat of fire), no stop was made until they came within a few miles of baton rouge, where, by special request of coacoochee, the packet was swung in toward the eastern bank. guided by one familiar with that country, the entire body of indians followed coacoochee to the land. he bore a great basket, very heavy, and covered with palmetto leaves. none save himself knew what it contained. a few rods from the shore the guide halted, and pointed to a lowly mound that was evidently a grave. standing silently beside this, and waiting until all his people were gathered about him, the young chief said, with a voice that trembled, but so clearly that all might hear: "under this grass lies a great chief of the seminole nation; one whom you knew and loved. he was an old man when the soldiers tore him from his home. his heart broke with its weight of sorrow, and he died on his way to that new land to which we are now going. he lies cold in this strange earth; but i have brought that which will warm him. with this soil from the land of his fathers, i now cover the grave of philip emathla." thus saying, coacoochee emptied the contents of his basket over the mound at his feet. at mention of philip emathla's name, a great cry of grief and loving reverence went up from the dusky throng, and they pressed tumultuously forward. they struggled to see, to feel, and even to taste the earth that now covered his grave. it was only coarse gray sand; but it was sand from florida, from the dear land they would never more see. through the magic of its shining particles they could hear again the whispering pines, the rustling palms, and the singing birds of florida. they could see its shadowy woodlands and white beaches. its myriad lakes and tortuous waterways lay outspread before them. the fragrance of its jasmine and palmetto was wafted to them. its glinting clouds of white-winged ibis circled before their eyes. the countless details mirrored indelibly on their hearts rose before them in all their alluring beauty. the warriors stood stern and silent; but the women tore their hair, with piteous cries. after a while coacoochee succeeded in restoring quiet, and, with many a backward, lingering glance at the lonely grave of philip emathla, the company was re-embarked, and the steamer continued on its way up the mighty river. turning from it into the arkansas, they continued up the muddy volume of that great tributary, across the whole state to which it gives a name, and on into that territory that the united states government had recently set apart for the occupation of its indian wards. here, at fort gibson, the journey by water ended, though they had still to traverse the country of their old-time neighbors and enemies, the creeks, ere they could reach the narrow tract reserved for them, in which they were to make their new homes. at fort gibson a joyful surprise awaited nita and coacoochee; for louis pacheco, long since established in the west, and previously notified of their coming, had travelled that far to meet them. for them he had brought saddle-horses, while for the others a long train of wagons had been provided. it was late on the day after their arrival before all was in readiness for the last stage of their journey; but they were now so anxious to press forward that coacoochee gave the order for a start. then, vaulting into his own saddle, and with nita and louis riding beside him, the young war-chief dashed away in the direction of the setting sun. as they gained a crest of the rolling prairie, he waved his rifle toward the infinite glories of the western sky, and, turning his face to those who followed him, thrilled their hearts with the ringing war-cry that had so often led the seminole to victory: "yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-chee!"